Classic Poem

“Ay, ay, what's this?” I ken you'll say,
“And whare comes this epistle frae?”
Forsooth, it comes frae Linshart brae,
Whare anes we twa
Us'd to be merry mony a day:
But that's awa'.

I want to crack a touchie wi' you,
Since now I've little chance to see you,
It's a' the guid that I can do you
To wiss you weel,
And pray the Lord may ever gie you,
Baith hae and heal!

Ye've ta'en a jump leuks right gigantic,
To norland hills frae gulf Atlantic;
And fowk may think ye some wee frantic,
In sic a lowp;
But tarry breeks was ay romantic,
And lykit scowp.

Better, ye'll say, be telling tales
Aneath a reef o' highland dales,
Or greeving follows at their flails,
In barns weel thackit,
Than hoize and furl at flappin' sails
Wi' droukit jacket.

I doubt na, whan ye steer'd your ship,
The bleed has aft gane frae your lip,
Now ye may lie upo' your hip,
And tak' your ease;
Or thro' the hills a huntin' skip
As far's you please.

Your hawsers and your fleeand sheets,
Ye've turn'd them into sowms and theets,
An' a' your sough o' sonsie fleets,
An' shippin' news,
Is fawin awa' to coupin breets,
An' trailin pleughs.

Yet mony a risk's in farmin'-wark,
Tho' pleugh, and purse, and a' be stark,
It's but like rinnin' i' the dark,
Whare mony ane
Has run fou sair and mist their mark,
When a' was dane.

I wadna hae ye o'er soon boast,
Or count your winnin's by your cost,
A dreel o' wind, or nip o' frost,
Or some sic flap,
Has aft the farmer's prospects crost,
And fell'd the crap.

Sae live at land's ye did at sea,
Uncertain now what neist may be,
There's naething sure to you nor me,
Aneath the meen,
But that we baith sometime maun die,
Lord kens how sein!

Nae doubt your schemes may right weel wirk,
'Mang girssy glens and braes o' birk,
Wi' mony a staig, and mony a stirk,
An' fowth o' gear;
But what comes o' ye for a Kirk,
Gin I might speir?

I've spoken to a frien' o' mine,
An 'onest aefauld soun' divine,
Gin he cou'd sometimes wi' you dine,
Ye've seen the man,
And do't he will, I ken his stryne,
As far's he can.

Be that as't may, keep true and tight,
To what ye ken to be the right,
An' whare ye hae na best o' light,
Tak' what ye hae,
But dinna turn a graceless wight,
For ony say.

Now binna sayin' I'm ill bread,
Else o' my troth, I'll no be glad,
For cadgers, ye hae heard it said,
And sic like fry,
Maun ay be harlin in their trade,
An sae maun I.

An' yet I wad on nae pretence,
Incline to gie a frien' offence,
Nor wad I had sae little mense,
As gane sae far,
Had ye not been the lad o' sense,
I'm seer ye are.

Ye ken or e'er ye got a frock,
I took you in to my sma' flock,
An' ye and I have had a trock
This forty year,
Sae what I gab in sooth or joke,
Ye e'en maun bear.

My love to a' about Midgairty ,
To Menie, Bob, and bonny Bertie,
I hope ye fin't as braw a pairtie
As mill o' Rora,
Lang may ye a' keep haill and hairtie,
An' free o' sorrow.

Now, Robie, fareweel for a time,
My muse ye see's nae way sublime,
But's rattled out a leash o' rhyme,
Sic as was in her,
An' a' to tell you just that I'm
Your frien', John S KINNER .