Classic Poem

Daft Jamie dwelt in a cot-house
Beside a wimplin burn,
Which, like a snake, crept thro' the glen
Wi' mony a crook and turn.

Upon its banks some hazels hung;
A foxglove flow'r sae tall
Was looking thro' the rents time made
In an auld ruin'd wall.

The truant school-boy shunn'd the spot,
And there no trav'ler came,
For oh! it was a dreary place,
And had an ill, ill name.

A lang, dreigh muir on the ae han',
Wi' no a hoose in sicht;
A settled gloom hung owre the place,
Tho' by the sun alicht.

Close by, a breaker-beaten coast,
White wi' the saut sea-faem,
Whar mony a vessel had been lost,
And never reach'd its hame.

Yet there a lonely woman dwalt
Wi' her puir silly son,—
They'd soucht a quiet hermitage
The jeering world to shun.

And there for mony years they lived,
Forgotten by mankin',
Yet He wha doth the sparrows feed
Had borne them still in min'.

To gather burdens o' auld sticks
Puir Jamie likit weel;
Heat was, he thocht, the greatest bliss
A mortal man could feel.

For hours he'd sit and watch the lowe,
And mutter to himsel',
Then lauch and croon, tho' what he meant
Nae mortal man could tell.

But ae dark, dreary winter nicht
This thocht cam' in his heid:
To place a beacon on the heicht
Wad be a manly deed.

Sae Jamie started frae his seat,
And clapt his han's wi' glee:
Oh, 'twas a blink o' sunshine on
A dark and dismal sea!

“Ye've often tauld me Christ's a licht
The wanderer to save;
He's needed up upon yon heicht
That's ca'd the sailor's grave.”

That very nicht he clamb the steep,
Ken'lt a beacon-fire,
And twirl'd his han's in wild delicht
To see the flames rise higher.

And thro' long years this wark o' love
He carried on wi' joy,
And mony a lonely mariner
Had bless'd the idiot boy.

Yes, there upon the lonely rock,
Tho' winds their voices raised,
And waves rush'd headlong to the shock,
The beacon-fire still blazed.

They saw, who journey'd on the deep,
At the deid hour o' nicht,
His form, increas'd to stature vast,
Watching the beacon-licht.

While great men toil'd on flood and field,
A selfish joy to reap,
I turn'd from all to that humane
Puir idiot on the steep,

And sigh'd to think how many strive
But to increase dark nicht,
And hide in everlasting gloom
Each mental beacon-licht.

Crounless Napoleon on his rock
Can only make us weep;
Humanity, whose hert is Hope,
Crouns Jamie on the steep.