Classic Poem

O Thou wha 'midst lang yellow ranks
O' gowans, on sweet Cartha's banks,
?Row't in a skinklan plaid,
Soun's loud the Scottish Muse's horn,
Aneath some spreadan eldren thorn,
?An maks the herdies glad;
While lads an' laughin' lasses free
?Chirt in to hear thy sang,
Will E BEN let a chiel like me
?Join wi' the chearfu' thrang?
??A wee while, in auld stile,
???On Pegasus I'll scrive,
??Sae tent me, an' canty
???I soon sal tak my leave.
This ha'f a year yer funny tales,
Owre mosses, mountains, seas an' dales
?I've carried i' my lingle;
An' scores o' times, in kintra tafts,
They've gart the fouk maist rive their chafts,
?Whan owre a bra' peat ingle,
I loot them hear droll Symon's crack,
?Wi' Hodge, twa curious cronies,
How the queer carles sae camsheugh spake
?'Bout pouther't cokernonies.
??Young Jenny an' Nannie,
???An Meg wad laught thegither,
??Sly sneeran an' swearan,
???“Od, that's just like our father.”
Whan Aul' Joanna i' the Brae ,
Or Bonny Beil , and mony mae
?They hear me try to tout;
Or when poor Brownie tells his tale,
How he was maist kidnapped hale,
?Blude drappan frae his snout:
When Yon Spat's fearfu' fa' ye mourn,
?In simple hammart croon,
Nae mair to get a needfu' turn
?Aneath its biggin' doon:
??L—d help me! they yelp me,
???Wi' laughin' near han' deaf,
??While sweatin' an' greetin'
???I turn the tither leaf.
“Preserves!” says Jean, an' stops her wheel,
“An' do ye really ken the chiel!
?An' whar-a'wa's his dwallin?”
“I'd gang,” quo' Meg, “a simmer day
To get ae glint o'm in my way,
?Tho' I soud spen a shilling.”
Out granes aul Grannie frae the neuk,
?Whare, at the rock she's rivan,
“Vow Sirs! an' did he mak the beuk
?Just out his ain contrivin!
??Whare-e'er he's I'm sure he's
???A minister, or mair;
??Sic stories, sae curious,
???Wad tak a man o' lear.”
But, E BEN , thinkna' this but clatter,
An' that I tell't, for fau't o' matter,
?To lengthen out a crack,
Its what I've heard a hun'er times
The fouk exclaim, wha read your rhymes,
?Or may I burn my Pack.
Wi' chiels o'taste, an' genius baith,
?I aften hae forgather't;
An war I to relate their breath
?O' you, ye'd say I blether't.
??Wi' leisure, an pleasure,
???I've seen them aft read owre,
While strokes o'wit, wi' ready hit,
???Gart aft the reader glowre.
For me, when I begin to read
About aul' honest Harry dead;
?Beneath the yird laid stieve in,
Or the bauld brooze o' wasps an bees,
Whilk had set Allan in a bleeze,
?Had the auld Bard been livin';
Or that, which scorns the bounds o'rhyme,
?Fate, sung in lofty strains,
Owre whulk I've grutten mony a time
?An' blest ye for yer pains.
??Whan these, an' a thousan'
???Mae beauties strike my e'e,
??Inspired, I'm fired
???Wi' won'rous thoughts o' thee.
Let senseless critics roun' ye squeel,
[text illegible]like any empron eel,
?Wi' want o' taste, or spite;
Nane e'er gat fame in's native spat,
The vera haly Beuk says that,
?But let them girn an' flyte.
While I can douk in ink a quill
?An' blether rhyme or prose;
While spoons an' ladles help to fill
?My kyte, wi' kail or brofe,
??Believe it, while I'm fit
???The right frae left to know it,
??I'll reverence, while blest wi' sense,
???The Poems and the Poet.
If ever Fortune, thrawart b—h!
Soud kick me in misfortune's ditch,
?A while to lie an warsle;
Gif I yer sangs hae in my fab,
An' whyles a glass to heet my gab,
?An' snuff to smart my girssle;
Tho' Beagles, Hornings, an'sic graith,
?Glowre roun' they ne'er sal dread me:
I'll canty chant aul Harry's death,
?While up the stair they lead me,
??I'll roar than, I ll soar than,
???Out thro' the vera cluds,
??Tho' hung roun, an' clung roun',
???Wi stenchers an' wi' duds.
Owre highlan hills I've rov'd this whyle,
Far to the north, whare mony a mile
?Ye'll naething see but heather;
An' now-an'-than a wee bit Cot,
Bare, hunkerin' on some lanely spot,
?Whare ither words they blether.
Last owk there on a winnock-sole,
?I fan some aul newspaper,
An tho' 'twas riv'n in mony a hole,
?Yet, fegs, it made me caper,
??Wen scanin't, I fan in't
???Some rhyine I ne'er had seen,
?How nature ilk creature
???Maks canty, blyth, an' bien.
Ha, E BEN ! hae I catcht ye here,
Quo' I, in unco glee an' chear,
?While their nainsels a' gapet,
An' speer't right droll, gin she was mine,
An' whareabouts me did her tine?
?(While aff the sang I clippet)
Some bawbies bury't a' the plea,
?Tho' they afore war sweer o't,
Sae aff I came, in clever key,
?Resolv'd to let you hear o't;
??Now farewel, my braw chiel,
???Lang tune the reed wi' spirit;
??Let asses spit clashes,
???Fools canker aye at merit.