Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
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| II. |
THE AULD BEGGAR MAN. |
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| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
THE AULD BEGGAR MAN.
The Auld Beggar Man is a hearty auld cock;—
Wi' his sair-tatter'd rags an his meikle meal-pock,
He lives like a king in the midst o' the lan',—
He's a slee pawkie bodie the Auld Beggar Man.
Wi' his sair-tatter'd rags an his meikle meal-pock,
He lives like a king in the midst o' the lan',—
He's a slee pawkie bodie the Auld Beggar Man.
He has a white pow and a fresh ruddy cheek,
For there's Sabbath to him ilka day o' the week;
An' he daunders aye onward the best way he can:
He's a cantie bit carle the Auld Beggar Man.
For there's Sabbath to him ilka day o' the week;
An' he daunders aye onward the best way he can:
He's a cantie bit carle the Auld Beggar Man.
79
The gudewife sets his chair by the clear ingle-side,
Where his feet may grow warm an' his claes may be dried;
Syne the hale kintra's clashes he screeds them aff han':
He's a gash, gabbin' birkie, the Auld Beggar Man.
Where his feet may grow warm an' his claes may be dried;
Syne the hale kintra's clashes he screeds them aff han':
He's a gash, gabbin' birkie, the Auld Beggar Man.
Wi' the gudeman he cracks about cattle an' corn,—
Whether this rig or that ane the best crap has borne;
How aits up ha'e risen an owsen ha'e fa'n:
Like a beuk he can argue, the Auld Beggar Man.
Whether this rig or that ane the best crap has borne;
How aits up ha'e risen an owsen ha'e fa'n:
Like a beuk he can argue, the Auld Beggar Man.
The bairnies crowd round him his stories to hear,
While maistly the wee things are swarfin' wi' fear;
An' he tells them how witches wi' Auld Clootie ban,
Till they creep to the knee o' the Auld Beggar Man.
While maistly the wee things are swarfin' wi' fear;
An' he tells them how witches wi' Auld Clootie ban,
Till they creep to the knee o' the Auld Beggar Man.
“He's ane o' our ain folk,” the lasses aye say,
When their wooers drap in at the close o' the day;
Sae he hears them mak' up ilka lovin' bit plan,—
He's an auld-farrant bodie, the Auld Beggar Man.
When their wooers drap in at the close o' the day;
Sae he hears them mak' up ilka lovin' bit plan,—
He's an auld-farrant bodie, the Auld Beggar Man.
When the supper is done, an' the grace has been said,
'Mang the strae in the barn is the auld bodie's bed;
There he sleeps like a tap till the brak' o' the dawn,—
He's hale at the heart yet, the Auld Beggar Man.
'Mang the strae in the barn is the auld bodie's bed;
There he sleeps like a tap till the brak' o' the dawn,—
He's hale at the heart yet, the Auld Beggar Man.
Wi' his staff in his hand, and his pock on his back,
He stoiters through life on a rough staney track;
His days whiles are dowie, but sin' they began
He has trusted in Heaven, the Auld Beggar Man.
He stoiters through life on a rough staney track;
His days whiles are dowie, but sin' they began
He has trusted in Heaven, the Auld Beggar Man.
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |