Classic Poem

THE TALE OF THE MANTING LAD.

M Y Easy friends, since ye think fit,
This night to lucubrate on wit;
And since ye judge that I compose
My thoughts in rhyme better than prose,
I 'll give my judgment in a sang;
And here it comes, be 't right or wrang.
But first of a' I 'll tell a tale,
That with my case runs parallel.

There was a manting lad in Fife,
Wha cou'd-na' for his very life,
Speak without stammering very lang,
Yet never manted when he sang.
His father's kiln he anes saw burning,
Which gart the lad run breathless mourning;
Hameward with cliver strides he lap,
To tell his daddy his mishap.
At distance, ere he reach'd the door,
He stood and rais'd a hideous roar.
His father, when he heard his voice,
Stept out and said, " Why a' this noise? "
The calland gap'd and glowr'd about,
But no ae word cou'd he lug out.
His dad cry'd, kenning his defect,
" Sing, sing, or I shall break your neck: "
Then soon he gratify'd his sire,
And sang aloud, " Your kiln 's a-fire. "

Now ye 'll allow there 's wit in that,
To tell a tale sae very pat.
Bright wit appears in mony a shape,
Which some invent, and others ape.
Some shaw their wit in wearing claiths,
And some in coining of new aiths;
There 's crambo wit in making rhyme,
And dancing wit in beating time;
There 's mettled wit in story-telling,
In writing grammar, and right spelling;
Wit shines in knowledge of politics,
And, wow, what wit 's amang the critics!

So far, my mates, excuse me while I play
In strains ironic with that heav'nly ray,
Rays which the human intellect refine,
And makes the man with brilliant lustre shine,
Marking him sprung from origin divine.
Yet may a well-rigg'd ship be full of flaws,
So may loose wits regard no sacred laws:
That ship the waves will soon to pieces shake,
So 'midst his vices sinks the witty rake.
But when on first-rate virtues wit attends,
It both itself and virtue recommends,
And challenges respect where'er its blaze extends.