I

THE MAKER TO POSTERITY

Far ’yont amang the years to be, When a’ we think, an’ a’ we see, An’ a’ we luve, ’s been dung ajee By time’s rouch shouther, An’ what was richt and wrang for me Lies mangled throu’ther, It’s possible—it’s hardly mair— That some ane, ripin’ after lear— Some auld professor or young heir, If still there’s either— May find an’ read me, an’ be sair Perplexed, puir brither! “What tongue does your auld bookie speak?” He’ll speir; an’ I, his mou’ to steik: “No’ bein’ fit to write in Greek, I wrote in Lallan, Dear to my heart as the peat-reek, Auld as Tantallon. “Few spak it than, an’ noo there’s nane. My puir auld sangs lie a’ their lane, Their sense, that aince was braw an’ plain, Tint a’thegither, Like runes upon a standin’ stane Amang the heather. “But think not you the brae to speel; You, tae, maun chow the bitter peel; For a’ your lear, for a’ your skeel, Ye’re nane sae lucky; An’ things are mebbe waur than weel For you, my buckie. “The hale concern (baith hens an’ eggs, Baith books an’ writers, stars an’ clegs) Noo stachers upon lowsent legs An’ wears awa’; The tack o’ mankind, near the dregs, Rins unco law. “Your book, that in some braw new tongue Ye wrote or prentit, preached or sung, Will still be just a bairn, an’ young In fame an’ years, Whan the hale planet’s guts are dung About your ears; “An’ you, sair gruppin’ to a spar Or whammled wi’ some bleezin’ star, Cryin’ to ken whaur deil ye are, Hame, France, or Flanders— Whang sindry like a railway car An’ flie in danders.”
II

ILLE TERRARUM

Frae nirly, nippin’, Eas’lan’ breeze, Frae Norlan’ snaw, an’ haar o’ seas, Weel happit in your gairden trees, A bonny bit, Atween the muckle Pentland’s knees, Secure ye sit. Beeches an’ aiks entwine their theek, An’ firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique. A simmer day, your chimleys reek, Couthy and bien; An’ here an’ there your windies keek Amang the green. A pickle plats an’ paths an’ posies, A wheen auld gillyflowers an’ roses: A ring o’ wa’s the hale encloses Frae sheep or men: An’ there the auld housie beeks an’ dozes, A’ by her lane. The gairdner crooks his weary back A’ day in the pitaty-track, Or mebbe stops a while to crack Wi’ Jane the cook, Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black, To gie a look. Frae the high hills the curlew ca’s; The sheep gang baaing by the wa’s; Or whiles a clan o’ roosty craws Cangle thegither; The wild bees seek the gairden raws, Weariet wi’ heather. Or in the gloamin’ douce an’ grey The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay; The herd comes linkin’ doun the brae; An’ by degrees The muckle siller müne maks way Amang the trees. Here aft hae I, wi’ sober heart, For meditation sat apairt, When orra loves or kittle art Perplexed my mind; Here socht a balm for ilka smart O’ humankind. Here aft, weel neukit by my lane, Wi’ Horace, or perhaps Montaigne, The mornin’ hours hae come an’ gane Abüne my heid— I wadna gi’en a chucky-stane For a’ I’d read. But noo the auld city, street by street, An’ winter fu’ o’ snaw an’ sleet, A while shut in my gangrel feet An’ goavin’ mettle; Noo is the soopit ingle sweet, An’ liltin’ kettle. An’ noo the winter winds complain; Cauld lies the glaur in ilka lane; On draigled hizzie, tautit wean An’ drucken lads, In the mirk nicht, the winter rain Dribbles an’ blads. Whan bugles frae the Castle rock, An’ beaten drums wi’ dowie shock, Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o’clock, My chitterin’ frame, I mind me on the kintry cock, The kintry hame. I mind me on yon bonny bield; An’ Fancy traivels far afield To gaither a’ that gairdens yield O’ sun an’ Simmer: To hearten up a dowie chield, Fancy’s the limmer!
III
When aince Aprile has fairly come, An’ birds may bigg in winter’s lum, An’ pleesure’s spreid for a’ and some O’ whatna state, Love, wi’ her auld recruitin’ drum, Than taks the gate. The heart plays dunt wi’ main an’ micht; The lasses’ een are a’ sae bricht, Their dresses are sae braw an’ ticht, The bonny birdies!— Puir winter virtue at the sicht Gangs heels ower hurdies. An’ aye as love frae land to land Tirls the drum wi’ eident hand, A’ men collect at her command, Toun-bred or land’art, An’ follow in a denty band Her gaucy standart. An’ I, wha sang o’ rain an’ snaw, An’ weary winter weel awa’, Noo busk me in a jacket braw, An’ tak my place I’ the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw, Wi’ smilin’ face.