Classic Poem

There was a couthy Packman, I kent him weel aneuch,
The simmer he was quartered within the Howe o' Tough;
He sleepit in the barn end amo' the barley strae
But lang afore the milkers he was up at skreek o' day,
An' furth upon the cheese stane set his reekin' brose to queel
While in the caller strype he gied his barkit face a sweel;
Syne wi' the ell-wan' in his neive to haud the tykes awa'
He humpit roon' the country side to clachan, craft an' ha'.

Upon the flaggit kitchen fleer he dumpit doon his pack,
Fu' keen to turn the penny ower, but itchin' aye to crack;
The ploomen gaithered fae the fur, the millert fae the mill,
The herd just gied his kye a turn an' skirtit doon the hill,
The smith cam' sweatin' fae the fire, the weaver left his leem,
The lass forgot her comin' kirn an' connached a' the ream,
The cauper left his turnin' lay, the sooter wasna slaw
To fling his lapstane in the neuk, the elshin, birse an' a'.

The Packman spread his ferlies oot, an' ilka maid an' man
Cam' soon on something sairly nott, but never missed till than;
He'd specs for peer auld granny when her sicht begood to fail,
An' thummles, needles, preens an' tape for whip-the-cat to wale,
He'd chanter reeds an' fiddle strings, an' trumps wi' double stang,
A dream beuk 'at the weeda wife had hankered after lang,
He 'd worsit for the samplers, an' the bonniest valentines,
An' brooches were in great request wi' a' kirk-gangin' queyns.

He 'd sheafs o' rare auld ballants, an' an antrin swatch he sang
Fae ‘Mill o' Tiftie's Annie,’ or o' ‘Johnnie More the Lang,’
He would lilt you ‘Hielan' Hairry’ till the tears ran doon his nose,
Syne dicht them wi' a doonward sleeve an' into ‘James the Rose’;
The birn that rowed his shou'ders tho' sae panged wi' things to sell
Held little to the claik he kent, an' wasna laith to tell,—
A waucht o' ale to slock his drooth, a pinch to clear his head,
An' the news cam' fae the Packman like the water doon the lade.

He kent wha got the bledder, when the sooter killed his soo,
An' wha it was 'at threw the stane 'at crippled Geordie's coo,
He kent afore the term cam' roon' what flittin's we would see,
An' wha'd be cried on Sunday neist, an' wha would like to be,
He kent wha kissed the sweetie wife the nicht o' Dancie's ball,
An' what ill-trickit nickum catched the troot in Betty's wall,
He was at the feein' market, an' he kent a' wha were fou,
An' he never spoiled a story by consid'rin' gin 'twas true.

Nae plisky ever yet was played but he could place the blame,
An' tell you a' the story o 't, wi' chapter, verse an' name,
He 'd redd you up your kith an' kin atween the Dee an' Don,
Your forbears wha were hanged or jiled fae auld Culloden on,
Altho' he saw your face get red he wouldna haud his tongue,
An' only leuch when threatened wi' a reemish fae a rung;
But a' the time the trade gaed on, an' notes were rankit oot
Had lang been hod in lockit kists aneth the Sunday suit.

An' faith the ablach threeve upon 't, he never cried a halt
Until he bocht fae Shou'der-win' a hardy cleekit shalt,
An' syne a spring-cairt at the roup when cadger Willie broke,
That held aneth the cannas a' that he could sell or troke;
He bocht your eggs an' butter, an' awat he wasna sweer
To lift the poacher's birds an' bawds when keepers werna near;
Twa sizzens wi' the cairt an' then—his boolie rowed sae fine—
He took a roadside shoppie an' put ‘Merchant’ on the sign.

An' still he threevean' better threeve, sae fast his trade it grew
That he thirled a cripple tailor an' took in a queyn to shue,
An' when he got a stoot guidwife he didna get her bare,
She brocht him siller o' her ain 'at made his puckle mair,
An' he lent it oot sae wisely—deil kens at what per cent—
That farmers fan' the int'rest near as ill to pay's the rent;
An' when the bank set up a branch, the wily boddies saw
They beet to mak' him Agent to hae ony chance ava'.

Tho' noo he wore a grauvit an' a dicky thro' the week
There never was a bargain gaun 'at he was far to seek,
He bocht the crafter's stirks an' caur, an' when the girse was set
He aye took on a park or twa, an' never rued it yet;
Till when a handy tack ran oot his offer was the best
An' he dreeve his gig to kirk an' fair as canty as the rest,
An' when they made him Elder, wi' the ladle it was gran'
To see him work the waster laft an' never miss a man.

He sent his sons to college, an' the auldest o' the three—
Tho' wi' a tyauve—got Greek aneuch to warsle thro 's degree,
An' noo aneth the soundin' box he wags a godly pow;
The second loon took up the law, an' better fit there 's fyou
At chargin' sax an' auchtpence, or at keepin' on a plea,
An' stirrin' strife 'mang decent fouk wha left alane would 'gree;
The youngest ane 's a doctor wi' a practice in the sooth,
A clever couthy cowshus chiel some hampered wi' a drooth.

The dother—he had only ane—gaed hine awa' to France
To learn to sing an' thoom the harp, to parley-voo an' dance;
It cost a protty penny but 'twas siller wisely wared
For the lass made oot to marry on a strappin' Deeside laird;
She wasna just a beauty, but he didna swither lang,
For he had to get her tocher or his timmer had to gang;
Sae noo she sits ‘My Lady’ an' nae langer than the streen
I saw her wi' her carriage comin' postin ower Culblean.

But tho' his bairns are sattled noo, he still can cast the coat
An' work as hard as ever to mak' saxpence o' a groat;
He plans as keen for years to come as when he first began,
Forgettin' he 's on borrowed days an' past the Bible span.
See, yon 's his hoose, an' there he sits; supposin' we cry in,
It's cheaper drinkin' toddy there than payin' at the Inn,
You 'll find we 'll hae a shortsome nicht an' baith be bidden back,
But—in your lug—ye maunna say a word aboot the Pack.