He spat on the siller an' pooched it syne,
An' quately winked an e'e;
"The road's a bond that we canna deny,
An' its linkit you an' me
In the kindly yoke o' the gaun-about folk,
Whauriver they chance to be!"
On the bowl o's cutty he scartit a spunk,
An' he leggit it doon the wind;
Gin his claes would hae fleggit a bubbly-jock,
Guid Lord! he'd an easy mind!
An' oor forebears maybe were near-hand freen's
For a' that I can find.
THE CYNIC.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast wi' a smirr o' snaw,
An' it took the doctor's guid lum hat
Richt owre the kirk-yaird wa'.
When he sichtit it he dichtit it,
An' he glowred wi' an angry e'e-
For says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Ye've a gey gude crap," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast baith snell an' keen,
An' the washin' o' the clarty wife
Sailed aff the washin' green,
An' it landit on the midden-heid,
Whaur nae washin' ought to be-
An' says auld jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Weel, hame's aye hame," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An' it gart the deid leaves loup,
An' it set the shoothers heicher yet
O' the gaithrin' at the roup;
An' stour filled the een o' the unctioneer,
Till the cratur' couldna see;
An' says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Turn aboot's fair play," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An' the rein catched the grey mear's tail,
An' her heels to save her hin'er en'
Gaed lashin' like a flail.
An' the haill apotheck lay in spails,
As the grey mear warsled free;
An' when auld Jock Smairt saw the fashion o' his cairt:
"Wha's seekin' ony spunks?" says he.
THE NICHT THAT THE BAIRNIE CAM' HAME.
I was gaun to my supper richt hungert an' tired,
A' day I'd been hard at the pleugh;
The snaw wi' the dark'nin' was fast dingin' on,
An' the win' had a coorse kin' o' sough.
'Twas a cheery like sicht as the bonny fire-licht
Gar't the winnock play flicker wi' flame;
But my supper was "Aff for the doctor at aince!"
That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.
Noo, I kent there was somethin' o' that sort to be,
An' I'd had my ain thochts, tae, aboot it;
Sae when my gude-mither had tel't me to flee,
Fegs, it wisna my pairt for to doot it.
Wi' a new pair o' buits that was pinchin' like sin,
In a mile I was hirplin' deid lame;
'Twas the warst nicht o' a' that I ever pit in,
That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.