Classic Poem

A LITTLE mannie, nae ower five feet three,
Sae bent wi' eild he lookit less than that,
His cleadin' fashioned wi' his tastes to 'gree,
Fae hose an' cuitikins to plaid an' hat.

His cot stob-thackit, wi' twa timmer lums,
A box-bed closet 'tween the but an' ben,
A low peat fire, where bauldrins span her thrums,
Wat dried his beets, an' smoked, an' read his lane.

The horn-en' fu' o' craggins, quaichs, an' caups,
Mulls, whorls, an' cruisies left bare room to stir
Wi' routh o' swourds an' dirks a' nicks an' slaps,
An' peer-men, used langsyne for haudin' fir.

He'd skulls in cases, lest the mouldy guff
Should scunner frien's, or gather muckle flees;
He 'd querns for grindin' either meal or snuff,
An' flints an' fleerishes to raise a bleeze.

Rowed in a cloutie, to preserve the glint,
He had a saxpence that had shot a witch,
Sae stark, she hadna left her like ahint
For killin' kye or giein' fouk the itch.

He kent auld spells, could trail the rape an' spae,
He 'd wallets fu' o' queer oonchancie leems,
Could dress a mart, prob hoven nowt, an' flay;
Fell spavined horse, an' deftly use the fleems.

He lived till ninety, an' this deein' wiss
He whispered, jist afore his spirit flew—
‘Gweed grant that even in the land o' bliss
I'll get a bield whaur some things arena new.’