Classic Poem

As I gaed intae toon yestreen,
I passed a rouch bit field o' green,
An' saw, what was tae ma auld een,
A bonnie sicht:
Ma fegs! it's nae in France alane
Gangs on the fecht.

The field ran steep doon tae the road,
Then brak awa tae wat red sod,
Maist hidden a' wi' a poster-brod,
Wi' mony a bill,
An' owre the gress a warrior strode
Straucht doon the hill.

The floo'er o' age—juist turned ten!
He swaggered doon tae join his men,
Whaur they were waitin' in their den
For his command:
'Twas on the banks o' Marne or Aisne
In some far land!

The winter win's aroon' him blew,
His richt han' grupt a gun bran'-new,
A pistol frae his belt he drew
Wi' fearsome wrench,
Then wi' a rinnin' loup he flew
Doon in the trench!

His airmy was a mixit force:
The laddies were the foot, of course;
The lassies were nae less nor warse
Than kiltie chiels;
A baby-carriage was the horse,
Or transport-wheels.

In ae hauf-glimpse I saw it a',
An' then the tram whirled me awa,
But in a gliff masel' I saw,
Back in the Glen;
Hech sirs, hoo lood the heart can craw
When ane's but ten!

Wha's yon wee chiel doon in the trench,
Wi' his mixed force o' lad an' wench,
Whaur the cauld winter rains will drench
Whiles tae the skin?
Wha but the Gran' Duke, Joffre, French,
A' row'd in ane?