Poems and Songs Humorous, Serious and Satirical By Alexander Rodger; Edited, with Introduction and Notes by Robert Ford; New and Complete Edition |
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OUR AULD UNCLE JOHN. |
 | Poems and Songs Humorous, Serious and Satirical |  |
OUR AULD UNCLE JOHN.
Our auld Uncle John is an odd sort o' chiel',
As prim as the priest, an' as deep as the deil,
He's proud o' his person, his parts, and his pelf,
But sae closely encased in the mail-coat o' self,
That if saving frae skaith wad but cost a bawbee,
Even that for his mither he scarcely wad gi'e.
As prim as the priest, an' as deep as the deil,
He's proud o' his person, his parts, and his pelf,
But sae closely encased in the mail-coat o' self,
That if saving frae skaith wad but cost a bawbee,
Even that for his mither he scarcely wad gi'e.
Though now near the fifty-third milestane o' life,
He ne'er could be tempted to think on a wife.
“They're fashious,” quo' John, “and they're costly beside,
Wi' their muffs, ruffs, and ruffles, their pinks and their pride;
Na, na,” quo' our uncle, “nae woman for me,
The clack o' her clapper I never could dree.”
He ne'er could be tempted to think on a wife.
“They're fashious,” quo' John, “and they're costly beside,
Wi' their muffs, ruffs, and ruffles, their pinks and their pride;
Na, na,” quo' our uncle, “nae woman for me,
The clack o' her clapper I never could dree.”
Our auld Uncle John keeps a house by himsel',
But few, very few, ever tinkle his bell,
Except some poor victim to borrow or pay,
And wae on the debtor wha keeps na his day.
“Ye'll mind, Sir,” quo' John, “that the rule is wi' me,
When due, ye maun pay me down plack an' bawbee.”
But few, very few, ever tinkle his bell,
Except some poor victim to borrow or pay,
And wae on the debtor wha keeps na his day.
“Ye'll mind, Sir,” quo' John, “that the rule is wi' me,
When due, ye maun pay me down plack an' bawbee.”
Yet auld Uncle's biggin' is cosie and bein,
Where a' things are polish'd like ony new preen,
In ilk scouring dish you may view your ain face,
Ilk stool and ilk chair keeps its ain proper place,
Gin the carpet be crumpled, or hearth-rug ajee,
The moment it's noticed it righted maun be.
Where a' things are polish'd like ony new preen,
In ilk scouring dish you may view your ain face,
Ilk stool and ilk chair keeps its ain proper place,
Gin the carpet be crumpled, or hearth-rug ajee,
The moment it's noticed it righted maun be.
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Gin the least puff o' reek down the vent chance to come,
He's up wi' the besom an' bannin' the lum;
Should a flee just but light on his winnock or wa',
He's up wi' the dishclout to daud it awa,'—
“Get out o' my house, ye vile vermin,” cries he,
“Though I've meat for mysel', I ha'e nane for the flee.”
He's up wi' the besom an' bannin' the lum;
Should a flee just but light on his winnock or wa',
He's up wi' the dishclout to daud it awa,'—
“Get out o' my house, ye vile vermin,” cries he,
“Though I've meat for mysel', I ha'e nane for the flee.”
Nae poor beggar bodies e'er darken his door,
The print o' their bauchels would sully his floor;
The toon collies daurna snoke in as they pass,
E'en baudrons maun dight her saft feet on the bass.
“Ay, pussy! ye'll no quat your raking,” quo' he,
“But just clean your feet ere you venture to me.”
The print o' their bauchels would sully his floor;
The toon collies daurna snoke in as they pass,
E'en baudrons maun dight her saft feet on the bass.
“Ay, pussy! ye'll no quat your raking,” quo' he,
“But just clean your feet ere you venture to me.”
Our youngsters wad visit him last new-year's day,—
He ne'er bade them welcome, nor wish'd them to stay,
But dealt them a crust frae a hard penny brick,
Saying, “Now, weans, our cheese, ye see, winna cut thick;
Rin hame to yer mither, and tell her frae me,
I wantna your visits,—I've naething to gie.”
He ne'er bade them welcome, nor wish'd them to stay,
But dealt them a crust frae a hard penny brick,
Saying, “Now, weans, our cheese, ye see, winna cut thick;
Rin hame to yer mither, and tell her frae me,
I wantna your visits,—I've naething to gie.”
Our auld Uncle John, when he sleeps his last sleep,
What friend will lament him — what kinsman will weep?
Poor pussy may miss him, but that will be a',
And her he just keeps to fricht mousie awa';
Weel—e'en lat him gang, never mair here to be,
A tear for his loss ne'er shall moisten an e'e.
What friend will lament him — what kinsman will weep?
Poor pussy may miss him, but that will be a',
And her he just keeps to fricht mousie awa';
Weel—e'en lat him gang, never mair here to be,
A tear for his loss ne'er shall moisten an e'e.
| Poems and Songs Humorous, Serious and Satirical | |