Classic Poem

Those stones which once had trust
Of Maro's sacred dust,
Which now of their first beautie spoylde are seene,
That they due praise not want,
Inglorious and remaine,
A Delian tree, faire nature's only plant,
Now courtes, and shadowes with her tresses greene:
Sing Io Paean, yee of Phaebus' traine,
Though enuie, auarice, time your tombes throw downe,
With maiden lawrells nature will them crowne.

While ye nod on the weaver's thronie,
Porin' wi' sharp inspection,
Or, in a freak, wi' Lasses bonny,
Skip round in supple action;
Or maybe wi' a bosom crony,
Kick up a funny faction,
Accept this as a testimony
Of my sincere affection
For you this day.

In fact, my frien', I wad hae writ,
Lang ere this time wi' pleasure,
But something touch'd aye on my fit,
An' bade me tak' my leisure.
Yon Callan's sic a pawky wit,
Gif he but mak a seizure
O' ae daft word, ye'll get a skit
Will ring your head as bees war
In't, thick this day.

Sae aft the pen I laid aside,
Wi' this bugbear reflection,
As aft my heart wad sairly chide
Me for the harsh objection;
Till just the day, within I staid,
And band wi' baul affection,
Tho' ye sud cut an' ga' my hide
Wi' critical dissection,
I'd write this day.

Sae paper, pen, an' ink I got,
An' down to wark I set me,
And soon a lengthen'd sang I wrote,
For mirth the lines did mete me.
I sey'd anes to cast off my coat,
The thoughts o't had sae het me,
But, as my brain was on the trot,
The hurry wadna let me
Tak time this day.

Aweel, whane'er I got it doon,
I took a canny view o't,
Where notes raise towrin' to the moon,
That, troth, I scarcely knew it.
'Twas set to sic a skirlin' tune,
I heartily did rue it,
And least ye sud e'en laugh owre soon,
Dash i'the fire I threw it
Wi' rage that day.

Yet still resolv'd something to sen',
I didna stan' to swither,
But duket i'the ink my pen,
An' so began anither.
Nae Poetry, but just the ken
O' Scotland, my auld mither,
In hopes I wadna you offen',
By jinglin' it thegither
In rhime this day.

Ye ken ye sang auld Harry's fate,
An' deed it was e'en curious,
Whan at the fire he hunker't late,
An' croon'd a Prayer spurious;
As, " L — d, sen' us aye garse an' meat,
Till ance thou skin an' bury us; "
Syne turn'd his fish, or sent a sklate
Out thro' the winnock, furious,
At chiels, that night.

I ne'er cou'd gab prodigious pert,
An' flatterin phrasing gi'e you,
An' laugh, an' sing, an' crack sae smart,
Syne wi' dame Fortune lea' you.
But cou'd you keek into this heart,
That jumps aye when I see you,
Ye'd sin' a saul could gladly part
Its hinmaist bannock wi' ye,
On ony day.

Blyth wad I be to shake your han',
Gif matters wad allow me,
But Fortune's ta'en a slippery stan',
An' leuks right sullen to me.
Yet astentimes the morning's dawn,
Hangs cloudy, dull and gloomy,
Till Sol dispels the misty ban',
An' shines bright, warm an' roomy,
A bonny day.

My compliments I hope ye'll gi'e
To garrulous Rab G — y;
Tell him, I trust he bears the gree,
Aye dadlin' poor an' hearty;
Altho' I fear the barley bree,
An' roving blades sae quirty,
May gar him spread his wings an' flee,
An' lea' his nest right dirty,
Like mae yon day.

Now gi'es yer hand, and fare-ye-weel,
Kind, honest-hearted Willy!
Aye whan I meet a canty chiel,
It minds me o' the billy,
Wha aften us'd, wi' heart fu' leel,
To shew his wond'rous skillie,
An' made our vera hearts to reel,
Whan owre a pint or gillie,
For joy that day.

Lang may thou weather't out-an'-in,
Without a drog or plaister,
An' may thou tune the violin,
Aye sweeter an' aye faster;
An' swell an' sink the notes sae keen,
Wi' gracefu' air an' gesture,
Till An'rew lift his hands an' een,
An' own that Will's his master,
By night or day.