 | A Song of Labour and Other Poems |  |
OOR RAB.
Oor Rab's in his bed, an' he's sleepin' sae soun'
That afore he wad wauken the hoose micht fa' doon.
Sae I'll juist steer the fire up an' mak' some repair
On his troosers, an' cover his hurdies ance mair;
For, as fack as I'm leevin', I thocht perfect shame,
When an' auld neebor lass cam' to see my snug hame,
When he bang'd in amang us, demandin' a piece,
His rags hingin' down like a half-cuisten fleece.
That afore he wad wauken the hoose micht fa' doon.
Sae I'll juist steer the fire up an' mak' some repair
On his troosers, an' cover his hurdies ance mair;
For, as fack as I'm leevin', I thocht perfect shame,
When an' auld neebor lass cam' to see my snug hame,
When he bang'd in amang us, demandin' a piece,
His rags hingin' down like a half-cuisten fleece.
But ane needna think ony shame o' their ain,
Though nae mither wi' han's could keep claes on sic wean,
For frae mornin' till nicht there's nae rest for his feet,
But a constant rin on till I'm weary tae see't.
Na, when suppin' his parritch at nicht I declare
He keeps thumpin' on wi' his heels on the fluir.
It's a wunner to me that I hae wi' hale banes
This wee wan'rin' Jew o' a' ill-steerin' weans.
Though nae mither wi' han's could keep claes on sic wean,
For frae mornin' till nicht there's nae rest for his feet,
But a constant rin on till I'm weary tae see't.
Na, when suppin' his parritch at nicht I declare
He keeps thumpin' on wi' his heels on the fluir.
It's a wunner to me that I hae wi' hale banes
This wee wan'rin' Jew o' a' ill-steerin' weans.
Then what wark he has makin' wee boats that maun soom,
Though the last ane he made he near sniggit his thoom;
An' braw paper mills to whirl roun' wi' the wun',
When set oot on the knowe wi' their shanks in the grun',
Forbye ither things I micht coont by the score
That he mak's oot o' sticks that lie bing'd at the door.
'Deed, his faither himsel' wunners hoo he can mak'
Siccan things—he's a perfect mechanic, in fack.
Though the last ane he made he near sniggit his thoom;
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When set oot on the knowe wi' their shanks in the grun',
Forbye ither things I micht coont by the score
That he mak's oot o' sticks that lie bing'd at the door.
'Deed, his faither himsel' wunners hoo he can mak'
Siccan things—he's a perfect mechanic, in fack.
But wae tae that day when the sodgers cam' roun',
An' gaed fifin' an' prancin' like mad through the toon;
For months after that a' the auld broken boards
That his hands got a haud o' he turn'd into swords,
An' gaed stoggin' aboot in his sodger-like pride,
Wi' ane near as lang as himsel' at ilk side.
Losh, I laucht, till I scarce could draw yairn through a sock,
At the way he could mimic the red-coated folk.
An' gaed fifin' an' prancin' like mad through the toon;
For months after that a' the auld broken boards
That his hands got a haud o' he turn'd into swords,
An' gaed stoggin' aboot in his sodger-like pride,
Wi' ane near as lang as himsel' at ilk side.
Losh, I laucht, till I scarce could draw yairn through a sock,
At the way he could mimic the red-coated folk.
But it cam' tae an en' wi' the wee warlike fule,
For ridin' ae day on the lang-leggit stule,
The big, braid-croon'd bonnet o' braw tartan claith,
That his faither got made when the chaps play'd Macbeth,
Gaed clean ow'r his een, and it blin'd him sae sair,
That he fell wi' his heid 'gainst the edge o' a chair.
But I thocht as I cuddled the wee sabbin' limb,
A' wha gie wark for sodgers should tum'le like him.
For ridin' ae day on the lang-leggit stule,
The big, braid-croon'd bonnet o' braw tartan claith,
That his faither got made when the chaps play'd Macbeth,
Gaed clean ow'r his een, and it blin'd him sae sair,
That he fell wi' his heid 'gainst the edge o' a chair.
But I thocht as I cuddled the wee sabbin' limb,
A' wha gie wark for sodgers should tum'le like him.
Yet he's no ill ava', though at times, dae ye see,
He raises curmurs 'tween his faither an' me,
For he cries when he happens to hear o' his tricks,
“Wi', as fack as ocht, Jean, ye should gi'e him his licks.”
But I say to him, “John, what's the use o' this rage,
The bairn's nae wheet waur than the rest at his age;”
An' the rogue (for he kens that he's dear to my heart)
Pu's my goon a' the while that I'm takin' his pairt.
He raises curmurs 'tween his faither an' me,
For he cries when he happens to hear o' his tricks,
“Wi', as fack as ocht, Jean, ye should gi'e him his licks.”
But I say to him, “John, what's the use o' this rage,
The bairn's nae wheet waur than the rest at his age;”
An' the rogue (for he kens that he's dear to my heart)
Pu's my goon a' the while that I'm takin' his pairt.
I like my bit bairnie, an' whiles as I shoo,
I big up air-castles tae please my ain view;
Then I see him grown up buirdly, sonsie, an' braw,
The prop o' oor age, an' the pride o' us a';
Nae draighlin' wi' horses, and stannin' the brash
O' the cauld winter day, but a job wi' some cash,
An' aye a guid coat that he buttons, instead
O' flingin't clean aff him tae win his bit bread.
I big up air-castles tae please my ain view;
Then I see him grown up buirdly, sonsie, an' braw,
The prop o' oor age, an' the pride o' us a';
Nae draighlin' wi' horses, and stannin' the brash
O' the cauld winter day, but a job wi' some cash,
An' aye a guid coat that he buttons, instead
O' flingin't clean aff him tae win his bit bread.
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Nae doot but I'm wrang tae look ow'r far afore,
Though somehow I think that a' this is in store,
An' aften my heart gi'es a loup as I think
Hoo the neebors will say, “Fegs, her lad's nae sma' drink.”
I say this tae John, but he turns unco snell,
Though I ken a' the time that he thinks sae himsel'.
Lod, wha kens but some heiress may think him a grab,
When we ca' him oor Robert, instead o' oor Rab.
Though somehow I think that a' this is in store,
An' aften my heart gi'es a loup as I think
Hoo the neebors will say, “Fegs, her lad's nae sma' drink.”
I say this tae John, but he turns unco snell,
Though I ken a' the time that he thinks sae himsel'.
Lod, wha kens but some heiress may think him a grab,
When we ca' him oor Robert, instead o' oor Rab.
| A Song of Labour and Other Poems | |