Classic Poem

I saw a truant schoolboy chalk his name
Upon the Temple door; then with a shout
Run off; that night a weary beggar came,
Leant there his ragged back and rubbed it out.

Dry-lipped she stands an' casts her glance afar,
Ae hand across her brows to shield her een,
Her horn flung careless on the tapmost scaur,
Where names deep chiselled in the rocks are seen.
An' far below, on ilka ridge an' knowe,
A warslin' thrang o' mortals still she spies,
Wha strive an' fecht an' spurn the grassy howe—
Thro' whins an' heather ettlin' aye to rise.
Ane whiles she sees, wha, perched upon a stane,
Proclaims that he at least the goal has won,
But shortly finds he 's shiverin' there his lane
Wi' scores aboon, between him an' the sun.
Another, sair forfochen wi' the braes,
Enjoys the view while he has strength to see;
‘Weel 's better aye than waur,’ content, he says,
Thus far is far an' far aneuch for me.’
Some wise, or lazy, never quit the glen.
But stretched at easedom watch the hill aboon,
Glad whiles to see ane gettin' up they ken,
But aft'ner pleased to see him rumblin' doon.
Ane, better shod or stronger than the lave,
Gets near aneuch to grip her skirts at last;
She lifts her horn an' o'er a new-made grave
Awakes the echoes wi' a fun'ral blast.