Classic Poem

Sanny soon saw the sutor slain,
He was his ain hawf-brither;
I wat right well he was fu' brain,
And fu' could he be ither?
He heez'd in ire a puttin-stane,
Twa fell on him thegither,
Wi' a firm gowff he fell'd the tane,
But wi' a gowff the tither
Fell'd him that day.

In came the insett Dominie,
Just riftin frae his dinner,
A young mess John, as ane cou'd see,
Was neither saint nor sinner.
A brattlin band, unhappily,
Drave by him wi' a binner,
And heels-o'er-goudie coupit he,
And rave his guid horn penner
In bits that day.

Leitch lent the ba' a loundrin lick,
She flew fast like a flain;
Syne lighted whare faes were maist thick,
Gart ae gruff Grunsie grain.
He whippit up a rotten stick,
I wat he was na fain,
Leitch wi's fit gae 'im sic a kick,
Till they a' thought him slain,
That very day.

There was nane there could Cowlie byde,
The gryte guidman, nor nane,
He stenn'd bawk-height at ilka stride,
And rampag'd o'er the green:
For the kirk-yard was braid and wide,
And o'er a knablick stane,
He rumbl'd down a rammage glyde,
And peel'd the gardy-bane
O' him that day.

His cousin was a bierly swank,
A derf young man, hecht Rob;
To mell wi' twa he wad na mank
At staffy nevel-job:
I wat na fu' but on a bank,
Whare gadder'd was the mob,
The cousins bicker'd wi' a clank,
Gart ane anither sob,
And gasp that day.

Tho' Rob was stout, his cousin dang
Him down wi' a gryte shudder;
Syne a' the drochlin hempy thrang
Gat o'er him wi' a fudder;
Gin he should rise, and hame o'ergang,
Lang was he in a swidder;
For bleed frae's mou' and niz did bang,
And in gryte burns did bludder
His face that day.

But, waes my heart, for Petrie Gib,
The carlie's head 'twas seaw't,
Upo' the crown he got a skib,
That gart him yowll and elaw't.
Sae he wad slip his wa' to Tib,
And spy at hame some fawt;
I thought he might hae gott'n a snib,
Sae thought ilk ane that saw't,
O' th' green that day.

But taylor Hutchin met him there,
A curst unhappy spark,
Saw Pate had caught a camshack cair
At this uncanny wark.
He bade na lang to seek his lare,
But, wi' a yawfu' yark,
Whare Pate's right spawl, by hap, was bare,
He derfly dang the bark
Frae's shins that day.

Poor Petrie gae a weary winch,
He could na do but bann;
The taylor baith his sides did pinch,
Wi' laughing out o' hand;
He jee'd na out o' that an inch,
Afore a menseless man,
Came a' at anes athort his hinch
A sowff, and gart him prann
His bum that day.

The Priest's hireman, a chiel as stark
As ony giant cou'd be,
He kent afore o' this day's wark,
For certain that it wou'd be,
He ween'd to drive in o'er the park,
And ilk ane thought it shou'd be;
Whether his foot had mist its mark,
I canna tell, but fou't be,
He fell that day.