Classic Poem

H E'S a lang-heidit laddie, that Sannock o' mine,
And sometime or ither that laddie maun shine;
It needs nae auld spaewife his fortune to ken,
He'll be seen and heard tell o' amang muckle men.
But bairns are no' noticed by big folk, ye see,
That belang to a puir widow woman like me.
But he'll gar them notice, ere mony years go,
And listen to him, be they willin' or no;
And to his decision he'll mak' them a' boo—
He's a lang-heidit laddie, and like him are few.

Alane by the burn-sides he reenges for hours,
And he kens a' aboot the wee birdies and flow'rs;
He's aff ere the cock craws, awa' to the braes,
And he stays oot amang them for haill simmer days,
To talk wi' the peesweep and lane cusha-doo—
He's a won'erfu' laddie, and like him are few.

There's no' an auld castle that too'rs on the steep,
Nor a field whaur oor auld fechtin' forefaithers sleep,
Nor a bonnie wee burnie that wimples alang,
In the licht o' its gladness immortal in sang;
There's no' an auld kirk whaur the grey hoolets cry
To the deid congregations around them that lie;
There's no' an auld abbey that sits in the rain,
In widow's weeds sighing owre glory that's gane,
But he kens mair aboot them than antiquars do—
He's a lang-heidit laddie, and like him are few.

Auld Birsie, the bodie that lives by his craft,
Ance hinted to me that my laddie was daft;
I bang'd up, and tauld him that he or his weans
Wadna likely gang daft by the wecht o' their brains,
Or their honesty either; I gied him my min',
And the body can hardly endure me since syne.
The spite o' the crattur was easy seen thro'.
Mine's a lang-heidit laddie, and like him are few.

It's lang been my notion, and prood wad I be,
My wee freen'less laddie a preacher to see;
I'd sheer for the siller, I'd dae ony wark,
To see my wee laddie a licht in the kirk;
But he lauchs in my face, when he sees me sae fain,
And he says that he'll preach in a way o' his ain.
“There are preachers,” he says, “ne'er ordaint by the kirk,
Wha dae a far greater, a far better work.”
I whiles think his doctrines are really no soun',
But he lays them sae like oor auld minister doun,
It's a perfect delicht juist to hear him gang thro'—
He's a lang-heidit laddie, and like him are few!

He'll talk o' ane Plato, a great man, nae doot,
And heathens that folk here ken naething aboot;
When but a wee tot he would sit by himsel'
And speer at me quastions 'boot heaven and hell.
And oh! but it was a great quastion, he said,
To ken hoo this yirth oot o' naething was made;
Hoo three could be ane, and ane could be three,
Was a thing he insisted that never could be;
Or why should we suffer for auld Adam's fa'?
Or for what God had made ony deevil ava?
I was fairly dumbfoun'er'd, and puzzled to learn
Hoo sic thochts could get into the heid o' a bairn.
But I haena a doot they cam' into his heid
Like the mumps, or the measles, or grew like a weed,
That's sune rooted oot by the Gard'ner o' Grace,
And flow'rs a' the fairer spring up in their place.
I aye haud the hope that I'll yet leeve to see
Him waggin' his pow in a poopit sae hie:
I haena a doot but that won'erfu' pow
Will set the haill country-side a' in a lowe.