Classic Poem

A REAL enthusiast indeed,
His heart is apt to tak' the lead,
And get the better o' his heid,
E'en for a myth,
To ruin beyond a' remede
Rins a' his pith.

Doure as a door-nail he's indeed;
To change an item o' his creed
Is tearing hair oot o' his heid—
He winna budge,
Nor will he either drive or lead,
But juist cry, “Fudge!”

And in his bonnet apt is he
To hae some great big bummin' bee,
Such as his Stuart loyalty,
When hope is past;
Despite their stupid tyranny,
True to the last.

He's gi'en owre muckle to debating,
And theologic speculating:
On far-aff things he's contemplating,
Lost in a trance;
To be, as said, watching, waiting
For the main chance.

If he'd but had the cunning gift,
And kent the way to dodge and shift,
And could tak' time to weigh and sift
Ilk pile o' grain,
Nae ither nation 'neath the lift
Could haud its ain.

A man o' passionate convictions,
A mixture queer o' contradictions,
Big, liberal, but wi' stern restrictions;
Yet, at the core,
To a' mankind wi' benedictions
His heart rins o'er.

Instead o' cunning, deep and slee,
An open-hearted chiel is he;
Excepting aye the barley bree,
His fauts are few,
And they are such as, a' may see,
Springs frae what's true.

And wheresoe'er ye find the Scot,
In stately ha' or humble cot,
Be sure the company he's got
Are spirits rare—
Ye may depend that Burns and Scott
Are always there.

A lover o' the minstrel's lays,
The very breath o' early days,
And young love's hived-up memories
Nae hert can tine,
Are concentrated in his phrase
O' auld lang syne.

Nae dearer thing the Muse has brought
Frae out the wondrous realms of thought,
Wi' a' the heart's young feelings fraught,
Than that one line,
That to its heart the world has caught
And ca'd divine.

'Twas by nae deep and double art,
Nae mere pretence or playing a part,
That ever could to being start
That living line;
'Twas from a loving people's heart
Leapt “auld lang syne!”