Classic Poem

I ' M weary, weary houkin', in the cauld, weet, clorty clay,
But this will be the deepest in the yaird;
It 's nae a four fit dibble for a common man the day—
Ilk bane I 'm layin' by is o' a laird.
Whaever slips the timmers; lippens me to mak' his bed,
For lairds maun just be happit like the lave;
An' kistit corps are lucky, for when a'thing 's deen an' said,
There 's lythe, save for the livin', in a grave.

Up on the watch-tower riggin' there 's a draggled hoodie craw.
That hasna missed a funeral the year;
He kens as weel 's anither this will fairly ding them a,
Nae tenant on the land but will be here.
Sae up an' doon the tablin' wi' a gloatin' roupy hoast,
He haps, wi' twistit neck an' greedy e'e,
As if some deil rejoicin' that anither sowl was lost
An' waitin' for his share o' the dregie.

There 's sorrow in the mansion, an' the Lady that tak's on
Is young to hae sae muckle on her han',
Wi' the haugh lands to excamb where the marches cross the Don,
An' factors aye hame-drauchted when they can.
Come spring, we 'll a' be readin', when the kirk is latten oot,
‘Displenish’ tackit up upon the yett;
For hame-fairm, cairts an' cattle, will be roupit up, I doot,
The policies a' pailined aff an' set.

Twa lairds afore I 've happit, an' this noo will mak' the third,
An' tho' they spak' o' him as bein' auld,
It seerly seemed unlikely I would see him in the yird,
For lang ere he was beardit I was bald.
It 's three year by the saxty, come the week o' Hallow Fair,
Since first I laid a divot on a grave;
The Hairst o' the Almighty I hae gathered late an' ear',
An' coont the sheaves I 've stookit, by the thrave.

I hae kent grief at Marti'mas would neither haud nor bin'—
It was sair for even unco folk to see;
Yet ere the muir was yellow wi' the blossom on the whin,
The tears were dry, the headstane a' ajee.
Nae bairns, nae wife, will sorrow, when at last I 'm laid awa',
Nae oes will plant their daisies at my head;
A' gane, but I will follow soon, an' weel content for a'
There 's nane but fremt to lay me in my bed,

Earth to earth, an' dust to dust, an' the sowl gangs back to God:
An' few there be wha think their day is lang;
Yet here I 'm weary waitin', till the Master gies the nod,
To tak' the gait I 've seen sae mony gang.
I fear whiles He 's forgotten on his eildit gard'ner here,
But ae day He 'll remember me, an' then
My birn o' sins afore Him I 'll spread on the Judgment fleer,
Syne wait until the angel says ‘Come ben.’

There noo, the ill bird 's flaffin' on the very riggin' stane,
He sees them, an' could tell ye, did ye speer,
The order they will come in, ay, an' name them ilka ane,
An' lang afore the funeral is here.
The feathers will be noddin' as the hearse crawls past the Toll,
As soon 's they tap the knowe they 'll be in sicht;
The driver on the dickey knappin' sadly on his mull,
Syne raxin' doon to pass it to the vricht.

The factor in the carriage will be next, an' ridin' close
The doctor, ruggin' hard upon his grey;
The farmers syne, an' feuars speakin' laich aboot their loss,
Yet thankfu' for the dram on sic a day.
Ay, there at last they 're comin', I maun haste an' lowse the tow
An' ring the lang procession doon the brae;
I 've heard the bell sae aften, I ken weel its weary jow,
The tale o' weird it tries sae hard to say.

Bring them alang, the young, the strang,
The weary an' the auld;
Feed as they will on haugh or hill,
This is the only fauld.

Dibble them doon, the laird, the loon,
King an' the cadgin' caird,
The lady fine beside the queyn,
A' in the same kirkyaird.

The warst, the best, they a' get rest;
Ane 'neath a headstane braw,
Wi' deep-cut text; while ower the next
The wavin' grass is a'.

Mighty o' name, unknown to fame
Slippit aneth the sod;
Greatest an' least alike face east,
Waitin' the trump o' God.