Classic Poem

Between Dundee and Invergowrie kirk,
There is a lonely spot owergrown wi' brier,
Some scranky twigs of ash, and some o' birk,
Whar maistly aye the sun is shinin' clear.

And, scatter'd found, gray rocks, like ruins, lie —
They ha'e a grandeur in their very gloom;
Lang wither'd grass shoots upwards, rank and high,
Through bristly whins that aften are in bloom.

Ah, 'tis a bonnie spot! I aft gaed there,
When Sabbath stillness hung ower all aroun',
And no a voice disturb'd the hallow'd air,
Except the birdie warblin' ower its tune.

There, leanin' on a rock, the hail half day,
I eagerly a list'ning ear wad keep,
To hear the hollow gurglin' o' the Tay,
As 'tween the rocks at intervals she'd creep.

Last nicht I wander'd to that lonely scene;
Though 'twas the dead o' nicht, the sky was clear;
But nicht grew day — the orb o' day did sheene —
And never did a day mair bricht appear!

There was the rock — I almost ca'd it mine,
Because it was the rock I used to choose —
And there I sat me doon for auld-lang-syne,
A while upon the by-gane days to muse.

A' things around me here reflections bring:
Here lie the big gray stanes, owergrown wi' fog:
There lies the wither'd ash — puir broken thing —
The very tree whareon I used to shog!

And there's the figured stane — dim to the sicht —
I thocht a relic o' some ither days,
And pu'd, and pu'd, and pu'd wi' a' my micht,
And did, at last, succeed that stane to raise.

Beneath, the sod was damp — white roots o' grass —
Wirms in their holes were drawing in their tails —
Across and slantways glary streaks did pass,
That lookit like the slimy marks o' snails.

There, stane, just as I left you still ye stand;
And there's the mark o' whar ye lay before:
Maybe some grannie, dead, could gi'en, aff hand,
Lang screeds 'bout you o' legendary lore

But what's the meanin' o' sae mony birds?
There ne'er was half sae mony on thir braes!
And hark! I think I hear some whisperin' wirds: —
" Come let us bear him up, " a blackie says.

This was the biggest blackie e'er I saw:
Had his neb but been black, as it was red,
I'd taen him for some muckle hoodie-craw, —
He'd funds o' mither-wit in yon big head!

Then did he gi'e his neck a gracefu' bend,
And, haupin', came in-ower, no ony shy: —
" I'll shortly tell, " says he, " what we intend;
Auld friend, we're gaun to lift ye to the sky!

" There will ye get a cloud whereon to rest —
There will ye get a lyre whereon to play —
There, on your head, ye'll get a flowery crest,
And float about the air the lee-lang day.

" And should ye wish to get into the mune,
Or ony ither orb, a while to bide;
Sune as the wish comes in your head, as sune
Towards the place desired ye'll saftly glide.

" And dinna think, because ye canna see,
That in the clouds nae earthly beauties are;
There, plenty of our kind, woods, burnies be —
Than earthly beauties they are bonnier far!

" If ye to wander through the woods incline —
If rocky dingles should be your desire —
There's mony a place whereat the twa combine,
And send a thousand echoes to the lyre! "

Thus spak' the blackie, and he ended here;
Then maikently and gracefully turn'd round,
And noddit to the whins and to the brier,
And then I heard a chirpin' kind o' sound.

Of ilka singin' bird in Scotia's land,
Around about the blackie cam' a pair;
And ilka pair between them had a wand,
Whereon they bore me lichtly through the air.

But how we landed at our journey's end
Is what I winna tak' in hand to say;
For here a darkness round us did extend,
And nicht was nicht, and was nae langer day!