Classic Poem

When winter comes to bridge the flood,
 And, wi' his icy nieve,
Tak's kings and cobblers by the beard,
 And never asks their leave;
Yet while sae bauld, wi' grip sae cauld,
 He fills their hearts wi' gloom,
He brings a joy without alloy
 To Brothers o' the Broom.

Chorus :

 While daidlin' bodies stay at hame,
  On ills o' life to think,
 Be ours to join the merry game
  Upon the roaring rink.

Then loud or lowne may winter blaw!
 For in the jovial strife
Its sic a pleasure but to draw
 The very breath o' life:
When, like a flood, the bounding blood
 Through eve'ry vein doth pour;
And keen and tense is ev'ry sense
 Amid the wild uproar.

For in this strife the wave o' life
 Mounts to its heichest score,
And vim and nerve that never swerve
 A' mankind maun adore.
And there and then a' meet as men,
 To prove what each is worth,
And this the test that sets at rest
 The cant o' blood and birth.

For on the rink distinctions sink,
 An' caste aside is laid;
Whate'er ye be, the stane and tee
 Will test what stuff ye're made.
And this the school to teach the fool
 That only nerve and mind,
Acquirèd skill, and stubborn will,
 Are leaders o' mankind.

Not in the arm resides the charm—
 Your very weight o' brain,
Your ev'ry bit o' native grit,
 Maun a' gang wi' the stane:
Wha crowns the tee shall bear the gree,
 As in life's roaring game.

And, while contending for the prize,
 Tho' rous'd as by the fife,
Somehow we learn to humanize
 The battles o' oor life.
Sae time that's pass'd upon the rink,
 In this delightful strife,
I often think the happy blink,
 Worth a' the rest o' life.