Classic Poem

TO

A BROTHER PEDLAR.

Thou curious, droll, auld-farran chiel,
 Some rhyme I'se now ha'e wi' thee,
May I gang hurlin' to the De'il,
 But I'd be blythe to see thee.
'Mang a' the chiels wha bear a pack,
 Thro' kintra, town, or claughan,
The fint a ane can tell a crack,
 Whilk sets us aye a laughin',
Like thee, this day.

A snawy winter's now maist owre,
 Since we frae ither parted;
Like ony ghaist I than did glowre,
 Wi' sickness broken hearted.
But, by my sang! now gin we meet,
 We'll ha'e a tramp right clever,
Since I'm now stively on my feet,
 An' hale an' weel as ever,
This blessed day.

Whiles whan I think upo' our tramp,
 It sets me aft a sneering,
Though 'deed our conscience it shou'd damp,
 Whan we ca' to a clearing,
How whiles, amang the lasses smocks,
 We rais'd an unco splutter;
On Sundays speel't owre awfu' rocks,
 Or ramt auld Grannie's butter,
I' the plate, yon day.

I'll ne'er forget yon dreadfu' morn,
 That maist had prov'd our ruin,
Whan ye sat on a sack forlorn,
 Ha'f dead wi' fright and spewin'.
Waves dashing down wi' blatt'rin' skyle,
 Win's roarin'—Sailors flyting;
Poor wretches bockin', rank an' file,
 An' some (God knows) maist sh—ing
Their breeks, that day.

Though Conscience gab, we try to steek,
 It gi'es ane whiles a tassle;
I'm cheated gin it didna speak,
 Right smartly at Fa's Castle.
Poor Jute, she'd curse our ilka step,
 When she tauld owre her siller;
But, faith! she got an honest kepp ,
 Might ser't a decent Miller.
Sax year an' mair.

Lang may thou, aye right snug an' dry,
 Frae Barns be kept aback,
Whare Tinkler Wives, an' Beggars ly,
 An' rain seeps thro' the thack.
Aft may some canty kintra wife,
 Whan hunger wrings thy painches,
Draw through her cheese the muckle knife,
 An' stap thy pouch wi' lunches
O' scons, that day.