Classic Poem

I T'S but a fortnight since we laid him doon,
An' cut the sods to hap his narrow lair—
On Sunday still the grass was dry an' broon;
An' noo they 're up again the kist is bare,
For Bell this day we e'en maun lay aboon,
An' face in fun'ral blacks the drift ance mair.

Twa Fiersdays back she seem'd baith swak an' strang,
A' day her clogs were clankin' roon' the closs;
An' tho' an income she 'd complained o' lang
It never kept her yet fae kirk or moss.
Wha would hae thocht she 'd be the next to gang
That never grieved a grain at Jeames's loss?

It seem'd richt unco—faith, 'twas hardly fair,
Just when he thocht to slip awa' at last
An' drap for aye the trams o' wardly care—
The muckle gates aboon were barely fast
Ere she was pechin' up the gowden stair,
An' fleechin' Peter till he let her past.

When Jeames—I 'se warrant ye, wi' tremblin' shins—
Stands forrit, an' they tak' the muckle beuk
To reckon up his shortcomes, slips. an' sins,
She 'll check the tally fae some canny neuk,
An' prod his memory when he begins
Should there be ony he would fain o'erleuk.

That Scuttrie Market when he was the waur—
He thocht the better—o' a drop o' yill,
An' fell at Muggart's door amo' the glaur,
Forgot the shaltie ower the hindmost gill,
Syne stoitered aff alane, he kent nae whaur,
An' sleepit wi' the sheep on Baadin's hill.

That Fast-day when he cawed an early load,
When craps were late an' weather byous saft,
Instead o' daund'rin to the Hoose o' God
An' noddin' thro' ‘fourteenthly’ in the laft;
Or how he banned the Laird upon the road—
His bawds an' birds that connached sae the craft.

Nae chance for him to discount or excuse
The wee'est bit, wi' her there keen to tell
How a' was true; but yet, gin he should choose
To bid them look the credit side as well—
Ae conter claim they canna weel refuse—
The mony patient years he bore wi' Bell.