T HAT'S Hawkie as he look'd lang syne!—
In ev'ry feature to the Nine—
The stilt, the staff, the crookit spine,
An' creeshy claes;
The hat, a sair forfochten plug,
Aye shining like a pewter mug
On dreepin' days.

Ah, well I mind that e'e o' blue!
The restless spirit keekin' thro';
Oh! when it fasten'd on to you
It held you fast,
As by some cantrip fascination,
As if some lang'd-for revelation
Were come at last.

And then his voice—'twas something rare!
By lang exposure to the air,
It rispit maybe rather sair,
But didna' skirl;
For it was manly, tho' 'twas hoarse,
And with a kind o' bullet force
Gart a' hearts dirl.

You see he's in a deep debate;
That whisker'd fop wi' empty pate
He hammers hard, wi' words like fate,
Yet slee and pawky;
While all aroun' the gaping crowd,
In roars o' lauchter lang and loud,
Cry, “Weel done, Hawkie!”

For rich and puir would gather roun'
To hear him lay the gospel doun',
Or lash some wicked, graceless loun,
In some high station,
Wha ground the faces o' the poor,
And obstinately, dowff and dour,
Misruled the nation.

He placed the culprit in your sicht,
And gart you lauch wi' a' your micht—
Nae wee bit snicker, but ootricht,
Wi' sides a' shakin';
Or made your heart heave like a sea,
For oh, an orator was he
O' Nature's makin'!

Whiles like a fountain, gently gushin',
Whiles like a mighty torrent rushin',
The words cam' oot, ilk ither pushin'
Wi' thund'ring pow'r;
For 'twasna by mere clever chaffin'
He gart folk greet, or kept them lauchin'
Hour after hour.

Oh, he was great on burning wutches,
Oor grannies in their flannen mutches!
Wi' some inimitable touches
Upon the kirk;
But bless'd the Lord religion true
Looks back wi' shame and sorrow noo
On things sae mirk.

Some thocht him but a raucle deil;
And tho' perchance “nae quiet chiel,”
Yet Hawkie had a heart to feel,
And hated wrang;
And his queer stories, dreams, and jokes
Serv'd but to licht the fearfu' rocks
He'd got amang.

He'd lauchin' say: “This life's a muddle;
To me it's a' a perfect puddle;
Exceptin' when I'm on the fuddle
A' 's dull and wae;
But whiskey hides me frae masel',
And a' the deevils oot o' hell,
An' them in 't tae.

“Oh, it's the cure o' a' distress,
The shortest cut to happiness,
The last remainin' well o' bliss
Left since the Fa',
Whaur a' the wretched, ere they sink
'Mang God's forgotten, come to drink
Their waes awa'.

“I'm fautit aft for gettin' fu',
But let faut-finders sail my crew,
The very thocht wad mak' them grue
O' bein' sober;
It's the maist dreadfu' thocht I hae,
Be 't in the merry month o' May,
June, or October.”

For a' sic jokes, ae winter day,
When bluid was thin, an' cheeks were blae,
Full solemnly I heard him say:
“Oh, it's infernal—
This fechtin' against wind an' tide,
Wi' passion, poverty, an' pride,
An' drouth eternal!

“Is this the promise o' my prime?
A wreck amang the shoals o' time,
Whiles stickin' 'mang the sand an' slime,
An' then, O Lord!
The rudder gane—the compass, too—
An' oh, sic a rebellious crew
I've got aboard!

“The maist o' them are bleart an' blin',
A' drench'd an' stupefied wi' gin,
An' then they keep up sic a din,
Fechtin' thro' ither—
I'm tempted whiles to leave the ship,
To scuttle her, an' end the trip
Noo an' forever!

“It's easy on a simmer sea
To navigate—but oh, waes me!
Whan rocks are lyin' on the lee,
The ballast gane,
Encompassed roun' wi fogs and shoals,
An' like a log the vessel rolls,
A' steerin's vain.”

We saw in him a soul misplaced,
For, ne'er a doubt, he would hae graced
A parliament o' sages chaste,
Despite the cup.
We saw his genius run to waste,
And not a single soul made haste
To help him up.

Hard was his battle to the last,
And tho' he was at times douncast,
He's managed noo to jink the blast,
Sae let it rave!
For a' his frailties, at this hour
There's few wha wadna cast a flow'r
On Hawkie's grave.