Classic Poem

ON PATIE BIRNIE,

I N sonnet slee the man I sing,
His rare engine in rhyme shall ring,
Wha slaid the stick out o'er the string
With sic an art;
Wha sang sae sweetly to the spring,
And rais'd the heart.

Kinghorn may rue the ruefou day
That lighted Patie to his clay,
Wha gart the hearty billies stay,
And spend their cash,
To see his snowt, to hear him play,
And gab sae gash.

When strangers landed, wow sae thrang,
Fuffin and peghing, he wad gang,
And crave their pardon that sae lang
He 'd been a-coming;
Syne his bread-winner out he 'd bang,
And fa' to buming.

Your honour's father, dead and gane,
For him he first wa'd mak' his mane,
But soon his face could mak' ye fain,
When he did sough,
" O wiltu, wiltu do 't again! "
And grain'd and leugh.

This sang he made frae his ain head,
And eke " The auld man's mare she 's dead,
" Tho' peets and turfs and a 's to lead: "
O fye upon her!
A bonny auld thing this indeed,
An 't like your honour.

After ilk tune he took a sowp,
And bann'd wi birr the corky cowp
That to the Papists' country scowp,
To lear ha, ha's,
Frae chiels that sing hap, stap, and lowp,
Wantin the b — s.

That beardless capons are na men,
We by their fozie springs might ken,
But ours, he said, could vigour len'
To men o' weir,
And gar them stout to battle sten'
Withoutten fear.

How first he practis'd ye shall hear: —
The harn pan of an umquhile mare
He strung, and strak sounds saft and clear
Out o' the pow,
Which fir'd his saul, and gart his ear,
With gladness glow.

Sae some auld-gabbet poets tell,
Jove's nimble son and leckie snell
Made the first fiddle of a shell,
On which Apollo
With meikle pleasure play'd himsel.
Baith jig and solo.

O Johny Stocks, what 's come o' thee?
I 'm sure thou 'lt break thy heart and die;
Thy Birnie gane, thou 'lt never be
Nor blyth, nor able
To shake thy short houghs merrily
Upon a table.

How pleasant was 't to see thee diddle
And dance sae finely to his fiddle,
With nose forgainst a lass's middle,
And briskly brag,
With cutty steps to ding their striddle,
And gar them fag.

He catch'd a crishy webster loun
At runkling o' his deary's gown,
And wi' a rung came o'er his crown,
For being there;
But starker Thrums got Patie down,
And knoost him sair.

Wae worth the dog! he maist had fell'd him,
Revengefu' Pate aft green'd to geld him,
He aw'd amends, and that he tell'd him,
And bann'd to do 't;
He took the tid, and fairly sell'd him
For a recruit.

Pate was a carle of canny sense,
And wanted ne'er a right bein spence,
And laid up dollars in defence
'Gainst eild and gout;
Well judging gear in future tense
Could stand for wit.

Yet prudent fouk may tak' the pet:
Anes thrawart porter wad na let
Him in while latter meat was hett,
He gaw'd fou sair,
Flang in his fiddle o'er the yett,
Whilk ne'er did mair.

But profit may arise frae loss,
Sae Pate got comfort by his cross:
Soon as he wan within the close,
He dously drew in
Mair gear frae ilka gentle goss
Than bought a new ane.

When lying bed-fast sick and sair,
To parish priest he promis'd fair,
He ne'er wad drink fou any mair:
But hale and tight,
He prov'd the auld man to a hair,
Strute ilka night.

The haly dad with care essays
To wile him frae his wanton ways,
And tell'd him of his promise twice:
Pate answer'd cliver,
" Wha tents what people raving says
" When in a fever? "

At Bothwell Brig he gade to fight;
But being wise as he was wight,
He thought it shaw'd a saul but slight,
Daftly to stand,
And let gunpowder wrang his sight,
Or fiddle hand:

Right pawkily he left the plain,
Nor o'er his shoulder look'd again,
But scour'd o'er moss and moor amain,
To Rieky straight,
And tald how mony whigs were slain,
Before they faught.

Sae I've lamented Patie's end;
But lest your grief o'er far extend,
Come dight your cheeks, ye'r brows unbend,
And lift ye'r head,
For to a' Briton be it ken'd,
He is not dead.