Classic Poem

W ILLIE FULTON leev'd up 'mang the Gleniffer braes,
In a wee flow'ry spot o' his ain;
Peculiar he was in his words and his ways,
Yet surely he leev'd not in vain.

His stature was sma', but his heart was real big,
And upright the race that he ran;
And tho' for long years he'd to delve and to dig,
Yet he leev'd the true life o' a man.

His look had the real apostolical grace,
That's pleasant e'en now to recall;
And maist o' folk said, when they look'd in his face,
That they couldna help thinkin' o' Paul.

The same kind o' spirit that dwelt in John Knox —
The true martyr spirit — was there,
That wad hae gaen oot to the deserts and rocks
For freedom to dae an' to dare.

I couldna tell a' that was writ in that face;
'Twas a volume to study and scan —
A guide to oor incomprehensible race
On a new and original plan;

A kind o' judicial, synoptical face,
Closely written and a' underlined —
A living comment on the haill human race,
By Faith, Love, and Hope countersigned

A face unco far frae the common, I ween;
Nae doot ev'ry word o't was true;
And a' lichted up by the fathomless e'en
O' calm, deeply beautiful blue.

His garments were russet, braid Scots was his talk,
Wi' pith in each word as it fell;
His air and his manner, aye, even his walk,
Were as guid as a sermon itsel'.

His words had the real gowden ring o' the richt —
The thing that he thocht he wad say;
Ilk word bolted oot, no' afeart o' the licht,
And into a' hearts found a way.

And he had a heart tae, as weel as a heid,
That wi' kindness o'erflow'd to the brim;
And somehoo his ilka word, action, and deed
Had a living resemblance o' him.

For nae sentimental bit body was he,
Wi' little else in him than talk,
Nor was he forever ambitious to be
The big " Bubbly Jock o' the walk. "

He focht wi' misfortune for mony a day,
But triumph'd wi' courage and skill;
He put a stout heart to a stey staney brae,
For michty was wee Willie's will.

He was nane o' the kin' that wad sit doun and greet
When a stumbling-block cam' in the way;
" That gart me, " said Willie, " but spring to ma feet
An' meet e'en the deevil hauf way. "

When fortune at last foun' oot Willie's abode
His struggles he still bore in min',
And thocht the best way to be gratefu' to God
Was to lessen the woes o' mankin'.

And sic a big heart as the wee body had!
Its sympathies never gaed dune —
A fountain o' mercy to guid and to bad,
Like the Faither o' mercy abune.

The truth for its ain sake to Willie was dear,
And by it he'd stan' or he'd fa';
What he said or she said, in jest or in jeer,
He simply cared naething ava.

Nae bigot was he aboot things o' the past,
He cheerfully welcom'd the new:
" If this thing is true it will triumph at last
Despite a' this hullabaloo. "

Whate'er was the matter, whate'er the dispute,
He saw the true point o' the thing;
And straucht to the centre his arrows he'd shoot,
That kilt mony lees on the wing.

And oh! what a pith in the Doric he threw
When he spak' o' the serfs o' the lan'!
Wi' the Genius o' Manhood enthroned on his brow,
He look'd like ane born to comman'.

That he had his fauts, and his failings, nae doot,
For ocht that I ken, may be true;
But yet while he liv'd, I could ne'er find them oot,
Sae I'm no gaun to look for them noo.

He had his ain crotchets, as maist o' folk hae,
But little the waur was for that;
For instance, when titled folk cam' in his way,
He sturdily kept on his hat.

Willie didna believe that the hauf o' oor race
Ready saddled and bridled were born;
The ither hauf, booted and spurr'd, by God's grace,
To ride them and lauch them to scorn.

But was he religious? Decidedly so!
For rev'rence was writ on his face —
For ev'rything sacred abune or below,
For God and the haill human race.

Religion wi' him was a thing o' the heart,
Whaur a' living virtues combine;
His God was nae being frae nature apart,
But Love, which alone is divine.

Sae thus he was truly religious indeed,
And when a' religions he'd scan,
He placed that ane aye awa' up at the heid
That had maist love to God and to man.