The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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EPISTLE TO A BROTHER PEDLAR. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
EPISTLE TO A BROTHER PEDLAR.
Thou curious, droll, auld-farran chiel,
Some rhyme I'se now ha'e wi' thee;
May I gang hurlin' to the de'il,
But I'd be blythe to see thee.
'Mang a' the chiels wha bear a pack,
Thro' kintra, town, or claughan;
The fient a ane can tell a crack,
Whilk sets us aye a laughin',
Like thee, this day.
Some rhyme I'se now ha'e wi' thee;
May I gang hurlin' to the de'il,
But I'd be blythe to see thee.
'Mang a' the chiels wha bear a pack,
Thro' kintra, town, or claughan;
The fient a ane can tell a crack,
Whilk sets us aye a laughin',
Like thee, this day.
A snawy winter's now maist owre,
Since we frae other parted;
Like ony ghaist I than did glowre,
Wi' sickness broken-hearted.
But, by my sang! now gin we meet,
We'll hae a tramp right clever;
Since I'm now stively on my feet,
An' hale an' weel as ever,
This blessed day.
Since we frae other parted;
Like ony ghaist I than did glowre,
Wi' sickness broken-hearted.
90
We'll hae a tramp right clever;
Since I'm now stively on my feet,
An' hale an' weel as ever,
This blessed day.
Whiles whan I think upo' our tramp,
It sets me aft a sneering;
Though 'deed our conscience it shou'd damp,
When we ca' to a clearing;
How whiles, amang the lasses' smocks,
We rais'd an unco splutter;
On Sundays, speelt owre awfu' rocks,
Or ramt auld Grannie's butter,
I' the plate, yon day.
It sets me aft a sneering;
Though 'deed our conscience it shou'd damp,
When we ca' to a clearing;
How whiles, amang the lasses' smocks,
We rais'd an unco splutter;
On Sundays, speelt owre awfu' rocks,
Or ramt auld Grannie's butter,
I' the plate, yon day.
I'll ne'er forget yon dreadfu' morn,
That maist had prov'd our ruin;
When ye sat on a sack forlorn,
Ha'f dead wi' fright and spewin.
Waves dashing down wi' blatt'rin' skyle,
Wins roarin'—sailors flyting;
Poor wretches bockin, rank an' file,
An' some (God knows!) maist shiteing
Their breeks, that day.
That maist had prov'd our ruin;
When ye sat on a sack forlorn,
Ha'f dead wi' fright and spewin.
Waves dashing down wi' blatt'rin' skyle,
Wins roarin'—sailors flyting;
Poor wretches bockin, rank an' file,
An' some (God knows!) maist shiteing
Their breeks, that day.
Though conscience' gab we try to steek,
It gies ane whiles a tassle:
I'm cheated gin it didna speak,
Right smartly at Fa's Castle.
Poor Jute! she'd curse our ilka step,
When she tauld owre her siller;
But faith, she got an honest kepp,
Might ser't a decent miller,
Sax years an' mair.
It gies ane whiles a tassle:
I'm cheated gin it didna speak,
Right smartly at Fa's Castle.
Poor Jute! she'd curse our ilka step,
When she tauld owre her siller;
But faith, she got an honest kepp,
Might ser't a decent miller,
Sax years an' mair.
91
Lang may thou, aye right snug an' dry,
Frae barns be kept aback;
Whare tinkler wives an' beggars ly,
An' rain seeps thro' the thack.
Aft may some canty kintra wife,
Whan hunger wrings thy painches,
Draw through her cheese the muckle knife,
An' stap thy pouch wi' lunches
O' scons, that day.
Frae barns be kept aback;
Whare tinkler wives an' beggars ly,
An' rain seeps thro' the thack.
Aft may some canty kintra wife,
Whan hunger wrings thy painches,
Draw through her cheese the muckle knife,
An' stap thy pouch wi' lunches
O' scons, that day.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |