Classic Poem

I' VE hearkened to mony a lang-lippit chiel,
Frae wee birkie Roebuck to slee Robbie Peel,
But I've heard only ane wha could instantly start
Ony tone that he lik'd frae the strange human heart.
Tho' but an auld beggar, wi' sair rauckle tongue,
Yet oh! he enchanted the auld and the young.

I min' when a laddie hoo anxious I ran
To hearken wi' awe to that wonderful man.
'Twas no' what he said, nor the way that he said it,
But a strange nameless soul that each sentence pervadit.
The past and the present were standing before you,
Or hung like the web of immensity o'er you.

He had a strange e'e, in a far stranger heid,
O' wonderfu' meaning, and ill, ill to read.
When you'd fixed on its meaning beyond a' dispute,
Some new ane was sure to flash instantly oot.
Now clear as a sunbeam, now dark as despair,
Anon it was flashing wi' lightning's wild glare;
And fouk look'd and listen'd, and never grew tired,
For Hawkie aye spoke like a being inspired.
Without a set form of strict logical plan,
He aye threw some new licht on nature and man.
How he'd swing on his crutch as a big thought was born,
While words, like the Scots Greys, cam' gallopin' on!
At corners and crossings he'd take up his stan',
And test and try those wha bore rule in the lan';
And woe to the great anes wha waken'd his wrath,
For a torrent o' tongue he let loose on their path;
The tombs o' their fathers he'd houk and ransack,
And, laden wi' crime, come triumphantly back.
His was not a roar, nor an Indian yell—
'Twas the laugh o' a demon tormenting in hell.
He had the haill annals summ'd up in his face,
O' the wand'ring, unsettled, improvident race.
In the Pauper Republic he ruled the haill time,
For his great love o' freedom approach'd the sublime.
He ruled undisputed o'er legions o' rags,
Commanded haill regiments o' auld mealy bags;
His word was as law 'mang the gangrel folk,
Wi' the lame and the lazy he aye had his joke.
E'en schule-weans ne'er tried to pelt Hawkie at a'—
He was nae common beggar, they understood a'—
And when he was drunk an' he couldna weel gang,
They would carry his bachles and help him alang.

I min' ae dark nicht, when I helpit him hame,
Mair drunk than was usual. His tongue wasna lame,
And, aye as he swagger'd, he spoke against drink,
And aye he said, “Laddie, behold me and think—
Had my heart no' been harden'd 'gainst a' things divine,
With my auld mither's tears 'twad hae melted lang syne.

“I see hoo the land lies, my laddie, wi' thee;
There's something I like in your bonnie blue e'e.
Ye may be a man yet, gin ye'll aye keep frae drink,
But I doot, my wee laddie, ye'll soar but to sink;
I see something in you that's owre like mysel',
Sae it needs nae auld spaewife your fortune to tell.

“I canna weel bless you, that's no in my line—
I was better at cursin' since e'er I can min'—
But mark what I tell you, auld rake tho' I be,
May ye lang cheat the deevil, the gill-stoup, and me!
I ken that your heart hates the worldling's cold creed,
But virtues turn vices when heart maisters heid.
If ance ye let reason gie up the comman',
Ye may rin to the deil wi' your heart in your han'!
And this I wad hae ye to bear aye in min'—
For I'm thinkin' ye fain 'mang your fellows would shine—
That talent's a curse if it wiles us awa'
Frae the God o' salvation, wha reigns abune a'.
“My pride and my passion ance spurn'd at His yoke;
Noo they hang roon' my neck in the waefu' meal-pock.
I'm a wreck! I'm a ruin! but ance in this breast
E'en love had a corner where she built her nest!
Could Jeannie hae thocht this, ah, ance in a day!
When oor prospects were heich, and oor young hearts were gay,
Oh! could she noo see me, what, what wad she think?
An auld gaberlunzie deleerit wi' drink,
And a wee raggit laddie conveying him hame,
Wha, if it were daylicht, wad maybe think shame.
Ah, ance I was big wi' ambition for fame,
And noo its a' ended in naething but shame.
I still hae a hanker for virtue and truth,
But they ill, ill agree wi' this damnable drooth.
I've done nocht but show, in the Auld Hawkie way,
How little true sense a real genius may hae.

“It's still at your option, my laddie, to be
A man, or an auld drucken beggar like me.
Decide while ye may, or your end will be mine.
And ‘chief o' the beggars’ is far frae divine.”