Classic Poem

Now mourn, ye college masters a'!
An' frae your ein a tear let fa',
Fam'd Gregory death has ta'en awa'
Without remeid;
The skaith ye've met wi's nae that sma',
Sin' Gregory's dead.

The students too will miss him sair,
To school them weel his eident care,
Now they may mourn for ever mair,
They hae great need;
They'll hip the maist feck o' their lear,
Sin' Gregory's dead.

He could, by Euclid, prove lang syne
A ganging point compos'd a line;
By numbers too, he could divine,
Whan he did read,
That three times three just made up nine;
But now he's dead.

In Algebra weel skill'd he was,
An' kent fu' weel proportion's laws;
He could mak clear baith B's and A's
Wi' his lang head;
RiNowr surd roots but cracks or flaws;
But now he's dead.

Weel vers'd was he in architecture,
An' kent the nature of the sector,
Upo' baith globes he weel cou'd lecture,
An' gar's tak heed;
O' Geometry he was the Hector;
But now he's dead.

Sae weel's he'd fley the students a',
When they were skelpin' at the ba',
They took leg-bail, an' ran awa'
Wi' pith an' speed;
We winna get a sport sae bra',
Sin' Gregory's dead.

Great 'casion hae we a' to weep,
An' cleed our skins in mournin' deep,
For Gregory death will fairly keep
To tak his nap;
He'll till the resurrection sleep
As sound's a tap.