Classic Poem

K ILBARCHAN now may say, alas!
For she hath lost her Game and Grace,
Both Trixie, and the Maiden Trace:
  but what remead?
For no man can supply his place,
   Hab Simson 's dead.

Now who shall play, the day it daws?
Or hunt up, when the Cock he craws?
Or who can for our Kirk-town-cause,
  stand us in stead?
On Bagpipes (now) no Body blaws,
  sen Habbie 's dead.

Or wha will cause our Shearers shear?
Wha will bend up the Brags of Weir,
Bring in the Bells, or good play meir,
  in time of need?
Hab Simson cou'd, what needs you speer?
  but (now) he's dead.

So kindly to his Neighbours neast,
At Beltan and Saint Barchan 's feast,
He blew, and then held up his Breast,
  as he were weid;
But now we need not him arrest,
  for Habbie 's dead.

At Fairs he play'd before the Spear-men,
All gaily graithed in their Gear, Men.
Steel Bonnets, Jacks, and Swords so clear then
  like any Bead.
Now wha shall play before such Weir-men,
  sen Habbie 's dead?

At Clark-plays when he wont to come;
His Pipe play'd trimly to the Drum,
Like Bikes of Bees he gart it Bum,
  and tun'd his Reed.
Now all our Pipers may sing dumb,
  sen Habbie 's dead.

And at Horse Races many a day,
Before the Black, the Brown, the Gray,
He gart his Pipe when he did play,
  baith Skirl and Skreed,
Now all such Pastimes quite away,
  sen Habbie 's dead.

He counted was a weil'd Wight-man,
And fiercely at Foot-ball he ran:
At every Game the Gree he wan,
  for Pith and Speed.
The like of Habbie was na than,
  but now he's dead.

And than, besides his valiant Acts,
At Bridals he wan many Placks,
He bobbed ay behind Fo'ks Backs,
  and shook his Head.
Now we want many merry Cracks,
  sen Habbie 's dead.

He was Convoyer of the Bride
With Kittock hinging at his side:
About the Kirk he thought a Pride
  the Ring to lead.
But now we may gae but a Guide
  for Habbie 's dead.

So well's he keeped his Decorum ,
And all the Stots of Whip-meg-morum ,
He slew a Man, and wae's me for him,
  and bure the Fead!
But yet the Man wan hame before him,
  and was not dead!

Ay whan he play'd, the Lasses Leugh,
To see him Teethless, Auld and teugh.
He wan his Pipes beside Barcleugh ,
  withoutten dread:
Which after wan him Gear eneugh,
  but now he's dead.

Ay whan he play'd, the Gaitlings gedder'd,
And whan he spake, the Carl bledder'd:
On Sabbath days his Cap was fedder'd,
  a seemly Weid.
In the Kirk-yeard, his Mare stood tedder'd,
  where he lies dead.

Alas! for him my Heart is sair,
For of his Springs I gat a skair,
At every Play, Race, Feast and Fair,
  but Guile or Greed.
We need not look for Pyping mair,
  sen Habbie 's dead.