My Whittle's lost! Yet, I dinna ken:
Lat's ripe — lat's ripe my pouch again.
Na! I ha'e turn'd ower a' that's in'd,
But ne'er a Whittle can I find: —
A bit cauk, and a bit red keel —
The clamp I twisted aff my heel —
A bit auld shoe, to mak' a sling —
A peerie, and a peerie-string —
The big auld button that I faund
When crossin' through the fallow land —
A bit lead, and a pickle thrums —
And, last of a', some ait-cake crumbs.

Yet aye I turn them o'er and o'er,
Thinkin' I'd been mista'en before;
And aye my hand, wi' instinctive ettle,
Gangs to my pouch to seek my Whittle.

I doot it's lost! — how, whar, and whan,
Is mair than I can understan': —
Whether it jamp out o' my pouch
That time I loupit ower the ditch, —
Or whether I didna tak' it up
When I cut a handle for my whup, —
Or put it in at the wrang slit,
And it fell through, doon at my fit
But mony a gate I've been since then,
Ower hill and hallow, muir and fen, —
Outside, inside, butt and ben:
I doot I'll never see'd again!

Made o' the very best o' metal,
I thocht richt muckle o' my Whittle!
It aye cam' in to be o' use,
Whether out-by or in the hoose, —
For slicin' neeps, or whangs o' cheese,
Or cuttin' out my name on trees;
To whyte a stick, or cut a string,
To mak' windmills, or onything —
Wi' it , I was richt whare'er I gaed,
And a' was wrang when I didna hae'd
I ken na how I'll do withoot it;
And, faith, I'm michty ill aboot it!
I micht as weel live wantin' vittle
As try to live withoot my Whittle.

Yon birkies scamperin' doon the road, —
I'd like to join the joysome crowd;
The very air rings wi' their daffin',
Their rollickin', hallooin', laughin'!
Flee on, my lads, I'll bide my lane;
My heart hings heavy as a stane;
My feet seem tied to ane-anither;
I'm clean dung doited a' thegither.
Hear, how they rant, and roar, and rattle!
Like me, they hinna lost a Whittle.

It was the only thing o' worth
That I could ca' my ain on earth:
And aft I wad admeerin' stand,
Haudin' the Whittle in my hand;
Breathin' upon its sheenin' blade,
To see how quick the breath wad fade;
And weel I kent it wad reveal
The blade to be o' richt guid steel.

Puir Whittle! whar will ye be now?
In wood? on lea? on hill? in howe?
Lyin a' cover'd ower wi' grass?
Or sinkin' doon in some morass?
Or may ye be already fund,
And in some ither body's hand?
Or will ye lie till, ruisted o'er,
Ye look like dug-up dirks of yore? —
When we're a' dead, and sound eneuch,
Ye may be turn'd up by the pleuch!
Or fund i' the middle o' a peat,
And sent to Edinbruch in state!
There to be shown — a won'drous sicht —
The Jocteleg o' Wallace Wicht!

Thus, a' the comfort I can bring
Frae thee, thou lost, lamented thing!
Is to believe that, on a board,
Wi' broken spear, and dirk, and sword,
And shield, and helm; and ancient kettle,
May some day lie my ruisty Whittle!