Classic Poem

To the Poet

Maist fowk, I think, 'll think wi' me
That sin' Jacques Cartier sailed the sea
Lang syne frae auld Saint Malo
(Weel bent to gie his friens frae France
I' this new lan' a siccar stance),
Fu' mony a mensefu' fallow
Has focht wi' tree, an' stump, an' stane,
To gar the yirth yield routh o' grain.

An' mony (gowd an' siller gowkit)
Hae deep doun i' her hurdies howkit;
A wheen, forbye, wi' timmer dealins
Hae won themsels weel-stockit mailins.
Some mair, wi' gab an' cutty harns,
Seem'd whalpit 'neath gey canny starns;
For ane an' a' hae hain'd bawbees,
Or gawsie pooches tell big lees.

Abune a' sic (owre douce an' blate)
Some twa'r 'hree chiels held heicher state,
Wha scriev'd an' sang, an' sang an' scriev'd,
That dreichsome dargs micht be reliev'd
Wha wrocht to see the bonnie day
Whan ilka law wad mean fair play
To rich and puir, to big an' wee,
That a', i' fac', micht brithers be.

But they've ne'er been wi' siller fash'd,
Their screeds hae aft been sairly snash'd
Tho' aye they scrieve an' tug awa
To saften Faither Aidam's fa'.
Sic like are ye — McLachlan, frien' —
A poet pawky, canty, keen;
We're prood to see ye here the nicht,
Fameeliar speerit o' the licht.

Lieve lang; gie's dawds an' whangs o' rime
That winna de wi' lapse o' time —
Humanity's great creed haud fast:
" We're a' John Tamson's bairns at last. "