Classic Poem

There's Wee Tammie Twenty, the auld tinkler bodie,
Comes here twice a-year wi' his creels and his cuddy,
Wi' Nanny his wifie, sae gudgy an' duddy,
It's hard to say whilk is the queerest auld bodie.

He works brass an' copper, an' a' siclike mettles,
Walds broken brass pans, southers auld copper kettles;
Wi' ilka auld wifie he gossips and tattles,
An' ilka young lassie he coaxes an' pettles.

Fou stievely he clouts up auld broken-wind bellows,
Or mends, wi' brass clasps, broken-ribbit umbrellas;
Sic sangs he can sing, an' sic stories can tell us,
I trow but Wee Tammie's the king o' guid fellows.

Auld Nan's second-sighted, she sees far and clearly,
Foretells ilka waddin' a towmond or nearly,
Can tell ilka lad the bit lass he lo'es dearly,
An' gin the bit lassie lo'es him as sincerely.

She tells ilka auld maid she yet may recover;
She tells ilka gillflirt some slee chield will move her;
Ilk dark black-e'ed beauty she spaes a wild rover,
An' ilka blue-e'ed ane, a true-hearted lover.

Ilk wanton young widow she spaes a brave sodger,
Ilk thrifty landlady her best-payin' lodger,
Ilk fat-leggit henwife an auld dodgin' cadger,
An' ilka yillhouse-wife an auld half-pay gauger.

At night they haud furth in auld Watty Macfluster's,
Whaur a' the young belles sparkle round them like lustres,
An' a' the young beaux gather round them in clusters,
An' mony braw waddin 's made up at their musters.

Their humph-backit laddie—they ne'er had anither—
Could coax like the faither, an' spae like the mither,
He'd the craft o' the tane, an' the wit o' the tither,
There ne'er was sic mettle e'er souther'd thegither.

He spouted last speeches, and liltit new ballants,
He mimick't a' tongues, frae the Hielants or Lawlants,
Grew grit wi' the lasses, an' great wi' the callants,
An' a' bodie laugh'd at the wee deilie's talents.

But what did the gillie do here the last simmer?
He ran aff wi' Maggy, the young glaikit limmer,
Syne stole a bit pursie to deck out the kimmer,
An' was sent ower the seas to the fellin' o' timmer.

Nae mair the puir bodies look hearty and cheerie,
For the loss o' their callant they're dowie and eerie;
They canna last lang, for their hearts are sae weary
An' their lang day o' life closes darksome and dreary.