Classic Poem

Dear Thamson class, whaure'er I gang
It aye comes ower me wi' a spang:
" Lordsake! thae Thamson lads — (deil hang
Or else Lord mend them!) —
An' that wanchancy annual sang
I ne'er can send them! "

Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,
My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;
Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke
To find a rhyme t' ye;
Pleased — although mebbe no' pleased-like —
To gie my time t' ye.

" Weel, " an' says you, wi' heavin' breist,
" Sae far, sae guid, but what's the neist?
Yearly we gaither to the feast,
A' hopefü' men —
Yearly we skelloch " Hang the beast —
Nae sang again!" "

My lads, an' what am I to say?
Ye shürely ken the Muse's way:
Yestreen, as gleg's a tyke — the day,
Thrawn like a cuddy:
Her conduc', that to her's a play,
Deith to a body.

Aft whan I sat an' made my mane,
Aft whan I laboured burd-alane,
Fishin' for rhymes an' findin' nane,
Or nane were fit for ye —
Ye judged me cauld's a chucky-stane —
No car'n' a bit for ye!

But saw ye ne'er some pingein' bairn
As weak as a pitaty-par'n' —
Less üsed wi' guidin' horse-shoe airn
Than steerin' crowdie —
Packed aff his lane, by moss an' cairn,
To ca' the howdie.

Wae's me, for the puir callant than!
He wambles like a poke o' bran,
An' the lowse rein, as hard's he can,
Pu's, trem'lin' handit;
Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan'
Behauld him landit.

Sic-like — I awn the weary fac' —
Whan on my muse the gate I tak',
An' see her gleed e'e raxin' back
To keek ahint her; —
To me, the brig o' Heev'n gangs black
As blackest winter.

" Lordsake! we're aff, " thinks I, " but whaur?
On what abhorred an' whinny scaur,
Or whammled in what sea o' glaur,
Will she desert me?
An' will she just disgrace? or waur —
Will she no' hurt me? "

Kittle the quaere! But at least
The day I've backed the fashious beast,
While she, wi' mony a spang an' reist,
Flang heels ower bonnet;
An' a' triumphant — for your feast,
Hae! there's your sonnet!