Classic Poem

On Sundays see his saintly look—
What grace he maun be feelin',
When stridin' slawly ben the pass,
Or to the lettrin speelin'!
What unction in his varied tones,
As aff the line he screeds us,
Syne bites the fork, an' bums the note,
Ere to the tune he leads us!

Plain paraphrase, or quirky hymn,
Come a' the same to Peter,
He has a tune for ilka psalm
Nae matter what the metre.
‘St. Paul's’ or ‘University’
Wi' equal ease is lifted;
At ‘Martyrdom’ he fair excels—
Eh! keep 's sirs, but he 's gifted!
But see him now, some workin' day
When aproned in his smiddy,
An' mark the thuds 'at shape the shoon,
An' dint the very studdy;
Or when he cocks his elbuck up
To work the muckle bellows,
An' tells the clachan's latest joke
To loud-lunged farmer fellows;
Or hear him in the forenicht lilt,
Wi' sober face nae langer,
Some sang, nae fae a Sunday book,
A tune that isna ‘Bangor’;
To recognize him then, I 'll wad,
A stranger it would baffle;
On Sabbath he 's the Lettergae,
The Smith at roup or raffle.