Classic Poem

W HAN gloming grey out o'er the welkin keeks,
Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre,
Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-dore steeks,
And lusty lasses at the dighting tire:
What bangs fu' leal the e'enings coming cauld,
And gars snaw-tapit winter freeze in vain;
Gars dowie mortals look baith blythe and bauld,
Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain;
Begin, my Muse, and chant in hamely strain.

Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divets theekit frae the weet and drift,
Sods, peats, and heath'ry trufs the chimley fill,
And gar their thick'ning smeek salute the lift;
The gudeman, new come hame, is blythe to find,
Whan he out o'er the the halland flings his ean
That ilka turn is handled to his mind,
That a' his housie looks sae cosh and clean:
For cleanly house loes he, tho' e'er sae mean.

Weel kens the gudewife that the pleughs require
A heartsome meltith, and refreshing synd
O' nappy liquor, o'er a bleezing fire:
Sair wark and poortith douna weel be join'd.
Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks:
I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams;
The readied kail stands by the chimley cheeks,
And had the riggin het wi' welcome streams;
Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer seems.

Frae this lat gentler gabs a lesson lear;
Wad they to labouring lend an eident hand,
They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare,
Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand.
Fu' hale and healthy wad they pass the day,
At night in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound,
Nor doctor need their weery life to spae,
Nor drugs their noddle and their sense confound,
Till death slip sleely on, and gie the hindmost wound.

On sicken food has mony a doughty deed
By Caledonia's ancestors been done;
By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed
In brulzies frae the dawn to set o' sun;
'Twas this that brac'd their gardies, stiff an' strang,
That bent the deidly yew in ancient days,
Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang,
Gar'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays:
For near our crest their heads they doughtna raise.

The couthy cracks begin whan supper's o'er,
The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash
O' simmer's showery blinks and winter's sour,
Whase floods did erst their mailin's produce hash.
'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on,
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride,
And there how Marion, for a bastart son,
Upo' the cutty-stool was forc'd to ride,
The waefu' scald o' our Mess John to bide.

The fient a chiep's amang the bairnies now,
For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane:
Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou',
Grumble and greet, and make an unco mane.
In rangels round before the ingle's low,
Frae Gudame's mouth auld warld tale they hear,
O' warlocks louping round the wirrikow,
O' gaists that win in glen and kirk-yard drear,
Whilk touzles a' their tap, and gars them shak wi' fear.

For weel she trows that fiends and fairies be
Sent frae the de'il to fleetch us to our ill;
That ky hae tint their milk wi' evil eie,
And corn been scowder'd on the glowing kill.
O mock nae this, my friends! but rather mourn,
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear,
Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return,
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear;
The mind's ay cradled when the grave is near.

Yet thrift, industrious, bides her latest days,
Tho' age her sair dow'd front wi' runkles wave,
Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays,
Her e'ening stent reels she as weel's the lave.
On some feast-day, the wee-things buskit braw
Shall heeze her heart up wi' a silent joy,
Fu' cadgie that her head was up and saw
Her ain spun cleething on a darling oy,
Careless tho' death shou'd mak the feast her foy.

In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains,
Whare the gudeman aft streeks him at his ease,
A warm and canny lean for weary banes
O' lab'rers doil'd upon the wintry leas:
Round him will badrins and the colly come,
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' eie
To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum
O' kebbock whang'd, and dainty fadge to prie;
This a' the boon they crave, and a' the fee.

Frae him the lads their morning council tak,
What stacks he wants to thrash, what rigs to till;
How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back,
For meal and multure to the thirling mill.
Neist the gudewife her hireling damsels bids
Glour thro' the byre, and see the hawkies bound,
Tak tent case crummy tak her wonted tids,
And ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground,
Whilk spills a kebbock nice, or yellow pound.

Then a' the house for sleep begins to grien,
Their joints to slack frae industry a while;
The leaden god fa's heavy on their ein,
And hafflin steeks them frae their daily toil:
The cruizy too can only blink and bleer,
The restit ingle's done the maist it dow;
Tacksman and cottar eke to bed maun steer,
Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow,
Till waken'd by the dawning's ruddy glow.

Peace to the husbandman and a' his tribe,
Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year!
Lang may his sock and couter turn the glybe!
And bauks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear!
May Scotia's simmers ay look gay and green,
Her yellow har'st frae scowry blasts decreed!
May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bein,
Frae the hard grips o' ails and poortith freed,
And a lang lasting train o' peaceful hours succeed!