Classic Poem

Old Adam was a character,
Old Adam was a sage;
Ye'll hardly find his marrow noo
In this degen'rate age.
He wore abune his raven locks
A braid Kilmarnock bonnet,
A ham'art coat upon his back,
Wi' big horn-buttons on it.

A plaid out owre his shoothers hung,
The en' fell owre his sleeve;
A crookit, knotit hazel rung
Was in his wally nieve.
His breeks were side, sae were his shoon,
His legs they were nae rashes,
And button'd upward to the knee
Wi' great drab splatter-dashes.

A ringing laugh, a hearty shake,
A bright eye beaming o'er you,
Ahint him Towser wags his tail,
And there he stands afore you.
And yet the inner man was form'd
On Nature's model plan;
The dress but hid a heart that lov'd
A' Nature, God, and Man.

He was nae thing that stood apairt
Frae universal nature,
But had a corner in his hairt
For ev'ry leevin' creature,
And after him, owre a' the toon,
The dogs delichted ran;
The very kittens kent fu' weel
He was nae common man.

His hairt was just a leevin' spring,
With sympathy owreflowin',
And roon' its brim the sweetest floo'rs
O' Love and Hope were blowin'.
To see him, and to hear him speak,
To look but in his face,
It made you fa' in love somehoo
Wi' a' the human race.

A secret chairm, a hidden spell,
A mystery, had boon' him;
An atmosphere o' calm delicht
Was always hinging roon' him.
'Twas even in the dress he wore,
For tho' his coat was clootit
Ye never saw't, or, if ye saw,
Ye thocht nae mair aboot it.

I ne'er could solve the mystery;
By words that drappit frae him
I felt, but couldna fin' the way,
He carried conquest wi' him.
And weel I liked to sit and read
The language o' his e'e;
And try to sound the hidden deeps
O' that untroubled sea.

The maist o' folk wha would be guid,
And keep frae doing evil,
Maun aft hae battles wi' themsel's,
As weel as wi' the deevil:
For some are guid by grace o' God,
And some hae to be skelpit;
But he was good and just because
He really couldna help it.

His joy was in the woods to rove,
To loiter by the burn;
He lov'd wild Nature, and she loved
Her lover in return.
He socht her green retired bit nooks,
And nae ane better knew
The secret haunts, the fairy howes,
Where a' the wild-flowers grew.

Aft would he follow in the track
Whaur spring had newly been,
To see the primrose peepin' forth
And blewarts ope their e'en.
The gowan didna better lo'e,
Nor did the foxglove ken,
The hazel howes, the fairy knowes,
O' bonnie Calder glen.

Ilk strange wee bird o' wood and wild,
By learned men disputit—
Its name, its nature, and its sang—
Weel kent he a' aboot it.
And when the wee grey lintie cam'
Aroon' his cot to sing,
He wouldna let the vagrant touch
A feather o' her wing.

And oh! how he would sing the sangs
O' lang syne's happy days,
'Till we were wafted back again
Amang the bonnie braes.
We felt the magic o' the wood
As we were wont to do
When we would hush our hearts to hear
The voice o' the cuckoo.

Ance mair the flow'rs were leevin' things
That round about us sprung;
It wasna dew, but siller drops
That round their bosoms hung.
The sky again was bonnie blue,
Where no' a speck was seen;
And oh! the grass was green again—
I canna tell how green.

We felt the breath o' meadows sweet,
Ere yet the dews depairt;
And oh, ance mair the gowans fair
Had crept into our hairt.
And tho' he's lain him down to rest
Frae a' earth's guid or ill,
His memory is fragrant yet—
He's singing to us still!