PRIDE
Did iver ye see the like o’ that?
The warld’s fair fashioned to winder at!
Heuch—dinna tell me! Yon’s Fishie Pete
That cried the haddies in Ferry Street
Set up wi’ his coats an’ his grand cigars
In ane o’ they stinkin’ motor-cars!
I mind the time (an’ it’s no far past)
When he wasna for fleein’ alang sae fast
An’ doon i’ the causey his cairt wad stand
As he roared oot “Haddies!” below his hand;
Ye’d up wi’ yer windy an’ doon he’d loup
Frae the shaft o’ the cairt by the sheltie’s doup[7].
Aye, muckle cheenges an’ little sense,
A bawbee’s wut an’ a poond’s pretence!
For there’s him noo wi’ his neb to the sky
I’ yon deil’s machinery swiggit[8] by,
An’ me, that whiles gi’ed him a piece to eat,
Tramps aye to the kirk on my ain twa feet.
And, nee’bours, mind ye, the warld’s a-gley
Or we couldna see what we’ve seen the day,
Guid fortune’s blate whaur she’s weel desairv’t
The sinner fu’ an’ the godly stairv’t,
An’ fowk like me an’ my auld guidman
Jist wearied, daein’ the best we can!
I’ve kept my lips an’ my tongue frae guile
An’ kept mysel’ to mysel’ the while;
Agin a’ wastrels I’ve aye been set
And I’m no for seekin’ to thole them yet;
A grand example I’ve been through life,
A righteous liver, a thrifty wife.
But oh! the he’rt o’ a body bleeds
For favours sclarried[9] on sinfu’ heids.
Wait you a whilie! Ye needna think
They’ll no gang frae him wi’ cairds an’ drink!
They’ll bring nae blessin’, they winna bide,
For the warst sin, nee’bours, is pride, aye, pride!
FOOTNOTES:
[7] Croup.
[8] Swung, whirled.
[9] Spilt.
‘KIRRIE’
Comin’ oot frae Kirrie, when the autumn gowd an’ siller
At the hindmaist o’ September month has grips o’ tree an’ shaw,
The mune hung, deaved wi’ sunset, no a spunk o’ pride in till her,
Nae better nor a bogle, till the licht was awa;
An’ the haughs below the Grampains, i’ the evenin’ they were lyin’
Like a lang-socht Land o’ Promise that the cauld mist couldna smoor;
An’ tho’ ye didna see it, ye could hear the river cryin’
If ye stood a while to listen on the road to Kirriemuir.
There’s an auld wife bides in Kirrie—set her up! a pridefu’ crater—
And she’s crackin’ aye o’ London an’ the grand fowk ye may see;
O’ the King, an’ syne his palace, till I’m sure I’m like to hate her,
For the mairket-day in Kirrie is the sicht for me.
But ye ken I’m sweir to fash her, an’ it’s best to be agreein’,
For gin ye dinna heed her, then she’s cankered-like an’ soor,
Dod, she tells o’ muckle lairnin’—but I doot the bizzar’s[10] leein’,
For it’s fules wad bide in London when they kent o’ Kirriemuir.
O, the braw, braw toon o’ Kirrie! What a years that I hae lo’ed it!
And I winna seek to leave it tho’ I’m spared anither score;
I’d be greetin’ like a laddie for the auld reid hooses croodit
Lookin’ down upon the steadin’s and the fields o’ Strathmore.
Ye may speak o’ heavenly mansions, ye may say it wadna grieve ye
When ye quit a world sae bonnie—but I canna jist be sure,
For I’ll hae to wait, I’m thinkin’, or I see if I believe ye,
For my first braid blink o’ Heaven, an’ my last o’ Kirriemuir!
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Jade.