Classic Poem

Wha, like true Brethren o' the Thumle,
Sav'd aye a remnant as his due;
And ne'er was heard to grudge or grum'le,
As lang's he fan' his belly fu'.

O sirs! he's e'en awa' indeed,
Nae mair to shape or draw a thread,
Or spin a crack, or crump his bread,
An' hotch, an' gigle;
Or wave the elwan owre his head
To sight the Beagle.

In mornings soon, ere sax o'clock,
Whan blankets hap a' sober fouk,
Whan fires are out, an' shoon, an' troke
Confuse the floor,
Nae mair we'll start to hear his knock,
An' roaring stoor.

Whan days war caul, near, bit by bit,
Close at the glowan ribs he'd sit,
An' ilka wee the eldin hit,
An' gab fu' trimly;
An' aye the tither mouthfu' spit
Alangst the chimly.

Ye creepin' beasts, that hotch an' wheel
Through neuks o' breeks, an' ye that speel,
Swallt, gray and fat, now lift ilk heel
Wi' gleefu' speed;
An' up the seams in hun'ers reel,
Since R ABBY'S dead.

Assemble a' yer swarmin' legions,
Baith jumpin' black an' creeshy sage anes,
An', rank an' file, parade your cage ance,
Nor needles dread,
But loud proclaim through a' yer regions,
That R ABBY'S dead.

Nae mair his thum's to death shall post ye;
Nae mair his needle-points shall toast ye;
Nor shall his horrid goose e'er roast ye,
For hear't o' Lice!
Death's made yer foe as caul' an' frosty
As ony ice.

Wi' won'er aft I've seen him worry
Up cogs o' kail, in hungry hurry;
Grip up the cheese, in gapin' fury,
An' hew down slices,
Syne punds o't in his entrails bury,
In lumps an' pieces.

Twa pints o' weel-boilt solid sowins,
Wi' whauks o' gude ait-far'le cowins,
Synt down wi' whey, or whisky lowins,
Before he'd want,
Wad scarce ha'e ser't the wretch to chew ance,
Or choke a gant.

Yet R ABBY aye was dousely dautet;
For soon as ilka dish was clautet,
He'd lift his looves an' een, an' fa' to't,
Owre plates an' banes,
An' lengthen out a grace weel sautet
Wi' haly granes.

Aft ha'e I heard him tell o' frights,
Sad waefu' soun's, and dreary sights,
He's aften got frae warlock wights,
An' Spunkie's bleeze,
Gaun hame thro' muirs, and eerie heights
O' black fir-trees.

Ae night aul' B ESSIE B AIRD him keepet,
Thrang cloutin' claes till twall was chappet;
But soon's he got his kyte weel stappet
Wi' something stout;
An' goose in's nieve, right snugly happet,
He daunert out.

Maist hame, he met a lang black chiel,
Wi' huggers, stilts, an' pocks o' meal,
Wha drew a durk o' glancin steel
To rob an' maul him!
R AB rais't his brod wi' desp'rate wheel,
An' left him sprawlin'.

Tho' aft by fiends, and witches chas't,
An' mony a dead man's glowrin' ghaist;
Yet on his knees he ae time fac't
The De'il himsel';
An' sent him aff in dreadfu' haste,
Roarin' to H — ll.

But, oh! ae night prov'd his mishap!
Curse on the wide-moutht whisky-cap;
Beware, beware o sic fell sap,
Ye Taylor chiels!
For R ABBY drank owre deep a drap
O' J ANET S TEEL'S .

Mirk was the night — out R ABBY doitet,
Whiles owre big stanes, his shins he knoitet,
Alangst the Dam the Bodie stoitet,
Wi' staucherin' flounge,
Till, hale-sale, in the Lade he cloitet,
Wi' dreadfu' plunge.

Loud tho' he roart, nane was asteer,
His yells, an' fearfu' granes to hear;
The current suckt him, near an' near,
Till, wi' a whirl,
The big wheel crusht his guts an' gear,
Like ony Burrel.

Next morning, gin the peep o' day,
Alang the stanes, caul' dead he lay!
Crouds ran to hear the fatal fray,
Wives, weans an' men
Lamentin', while they saw his clay,
Poor R ABBY'S en'.