Classic Poem

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON .

RICHY .

What gars thee look sae dowf, dear Sandy say?
Cheer up, dull fellow, take thy reed and play
" My apron deary, " or some wanton tune:
Be merry, lad, and keep thy heart aboon.

SANDY .

Na, na, it winna do; leave me to mane:
This aught days twice o'er tell'd I 'll whistle nane.

RICHY .

Wow, man, that 's unco' sad! — Is 't that ye'r jo
Has ta'en the strunt? Or has some bogle-bo,
Glowrin frae 'mang auld waws, gi'en ye a sleg?
Or has some dauted wedder broke his leg?

SANDY .

Naithing like that, sic troubles eith were borne:
What 's bogles, wedders, or what Mausy's scorn?
Our loss is meikle mair, and past remead:
Adie, that play'd and sang sae sweet, is dead.

RICHY .

Dead! say'st thou? — Oh, had up my heart, O Pan!
Ye gods, what laids ye lay on feckless man!
Alake therefore! I canna wyt ye'r wae;
I 'll bear ye company for year and day.
A better lad ne'er lean'd out o'er a kent,
Or hounded coly o'er the mossy bent:
Blyth at the bught how aft ha' we three been,
Heartsome on hills, and gay upon the green.

SANDY .

That 's true indeed; but now thae days are gane,
And, with him, a' that 's pleasant on the plain.
A summer day I never thought it lang,
To hear him make a roundel or a sang.
How sweet he sung where vines and myrtles grow,
Of wimbling waters which in Latium flow.
Titry the Mantuan herd, wha lang sinsyne,
Best sung on aeten reed the lover's pine,
Had he been to the fore now in our days,
Wi' Adie he had frankly dealt his bays.
As lang 's the warld shall Amaryllis ken,
His Rosamond shall echo thro' the glen:
While on burn banks the yellow gowan grows,
Or wand'ring lambs rin bleating after ewes,
His fame shall last: last shall his sang of weirs,
While British bairns brag of their bauld forbeairs.
We 'll meikle miss his blyth and witty jest,
At spaining time, or at our Lambmass feast.
O, Richy! but 'tis hard that death ay reaves
Away the best fowk, and the ill anes leaves.
Hing down ye'r heads, ye hills, greet out ye springs,
Upon ye'r edge na mair the shepherd sings.

RICHY .

Then he had ay a good advice to gie,
And kend my thoughts amaist as well as me:
Had I been thowless, vext, or oughtlins sour,
He wad have made me blyth in haff an hour:
Had Rosie ta'en the dorts, or had the tod
Worry'd my lambs, or were my feet ill shod,
Kindly he 'd laugh when sae he saw me dwine,
And tauk of happiness like a divine.
Of ilka thing he had an unco' skill;
He kend be moon-light how tides ebb and fill;
He kend (what kend he no?) e'en to a hair
He'd tell or night gin neist day wad be fair.
Blind John, ye mind, wha sang in kittle phrase,
How the ill sp'rit did the first mischief raise;
Mony a time, beneath the auld birk-tree,
What 's bonny in that sang he loot me see.
The lasses aft flung down their rakes and pails,
And held their tongues, O strange! to hear his tales.

SANDY .

Sound be his sleep, and saft his wak'ning be;
He 's in a better case than thee or me:
He was o'er good for us; the gods hae ta'en
Their ain but back — he was a borrow'd len:
Let us be good, gin virtue be our drift,
Then we may yet forgether 'boon the lift.
But see the sheep are wysing to the cleugh;
Thomas has loos'd his ousen frae the pleugh;
Maggy by this has bewk the supper-scones;
And muckle kye stand rowting in the loans:
Come, Richy, let us truse and hame o'er bend,
And make the best of what we canna mend.