FOOTNOTES:
[3] Mummers who go from door to door.
[4] Cabbage-stalks.
ADAM
Ye’re richt weel buskit, yer poke is fu’,
Ye ride i’ yer ain machine;
’Twould tak a fule to hae words wi’ you
An’ no ken the gowk he’s been.
At rowp or preachin’ the best ye’ll hae,
This warld or the neist ane’s gear,
The breist[5] o’ the laft on a Sawbath day,
Or a seat by the auctioneer.
Ye’re no jist auld an’ ye arena young,
But it doesna affec’ the case,
For I’m aye that fear’d o’ a wumman’s tongue
That I’m like to forget her face.
An’ fowk says “Donal’, ye’re forty past,
I doot she’ll be fifty-three,
But ye maun settle yersel’ at last
That hasna a spare bawbee.
Oh, youth’s a ploy, but it winna bide
And a body’s gettin’ on—
What ails ye, man, at a thrifty bride
Wi’ a dandy bit hoose like yon?”
Them’s wise-like bodies I hae to thank
And mebbe they’re no far wrang;
But whiles ye’ll step frae a creakin’ plank
An’ doon i’ the glaur[6] ye’ll gang!
It’s warm, thae nichts, i’ the auld King’s Heid;
What better can ye desire
Than a lass to bring ye the dram ye need
An’ yer billies aroond the fire?
An’ wha is’t redes me to tak’ a wife?
A puckle o’ single men!
No ane, I’m thinkin’, wad risk his life
Wi’ a jaud that he disna ken!
I’ll wish ye luck an’ a braw guidman,
And weel may ye baith agree,
But I’m no seekin’ ye, Maggie-Ann,
And I doot that he’ll no be me!
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The front seat in the gallery.
[6] Mud.
THE DAFT BIRD
When day is past an’ peace comes doon wi’ gloamin’
An’ twa by twa the young fowk pass the yett,
Auld stocks like me maun let their thochts content them,
Mindin’ o’ coortin’s that they’ll no forget.
Ye’re no sae far awa the nicht, my Marget,
Tho’ on the brae-heid, past the dyke ye lie,
Whaur ae daft bird is singin’ i’ the kirkyaird
And ae star watches i’ the evenin’ sky.
Late bird, daft bird, the likes o’ you are bedded,
The daylicht’s deid, it’s hame that ye should be,
Yer voice is naucht to them that canna hear ye;
But sing you on, it isna naucht to me.
Dod, like yersel’, it’s time that I was sleepin’,
Sae lang it is since Marget laid her doon,
And ilka year treids up ahint anither
Like evenin’s ghaist ahint the aifternoon.
For rest comes slaw to you an’ me, I’m thinkin’,
Oor day’s wark’s surely lang o’ wearin’ through,
The gloamin’s had been wearier an’ langer,
Thae nichts o’ June, late warker, wantin’ you.
I maun hae patience yet, I’ll no be grievin’,
There’s them that disna fail tho’ day be spent,
An’ yon daft bird’s aye singing i’ the kirkyaird—
Lord, I will bide my time, an’ bide content.