Wee stuffy, stumpy, dumpy laddie,
Thou urchin-elfin, bare an' duddy,
Thy plumpit kite, an' cheek sae ruddy
Are fairly baggit,
Although the breekums on thy bodie
Are e'en right raggit.
Thy wee roun' pate, — sae black and curly,
Thy twa bare feet, — sae stieve an' burly,
The biting frost, though snell an' surly,
An' sair to bide,
Is scorned by thee, thou hardy wurlie,
Wi' sturdy pride.
Come frost, come snaw, come wind, come weet,
Ower frozen dubs, through slush an' sleet,
Thou patters wi' thy wee red feet,
Right bauld an' sicker,
An' ne'er was kenned to whinge or greet,
But for thy bicker.
Thy grannie's paiks, thy maister's whippin',
Could never mend thy gait o' kippin',
I've seen the hail schule bairnies trippin'
A' after thee,
An' thou aff like a young colt skippin',
Far ower the lea.
'Mang Hallowfair's wild noisy brattle,
Thou'st foughten mony a weary battle,
Stridin' ower horse, an' yerkin' cattle
Wi' noisy glee;
Nae jockey's whup, nor drover's wattle,
Can frighten thee.
When showmen clad in wild beast skins,
Roar, drum and fife, an' mak sic dins,
Or Merry Andrew loups an' grins,
While daft fools glower,
Thou slips thy rung atween their shins,
And yerks them ower.
When sodgers at the Links are shootin',
Wi' ruffin' drums, an' trumpets toutin',
Though sentries gi'e thee whiles a cloutin',
An' whiles a kickin',
Ae half-toom cartridge thou dost look on
Worth a' the lickin'.
On Queen's birth-days, thy squibs and pluffs
Slappit in face o' drucken scuffs,
Or bizzin' amang lassies' ruffs,
Or auld wives' fires, —
In spite o' angry scolds an' cuffs,
Thou never tires.
At bools thou nicks, at paips thou praps,
Thou birls bawbees, thou dozes taps,
Thou herries nests, thou sets slee traps
To catch auld sparrows,
Or riddles them wi' cauld lead-draps,
An' tin-shod arrows.
Dibblin' in ditches, speelin' rocks,
Smeekin' wasps' binks, or huntin' brocks,
Houndin' on dogs, or fechtin' cocks,
Frae dawn till dark,
Or breakin' shins wi' shinty knocks,
Is a' thy wark.
Thy pow wins mony dimpled laurels,
'Mang berry-stands an' sugar-barrels;
Nor grocers' fists, or greenwives' snarls,
Can stop thy takin';
While half the street is filled wi' quarrels
A' o' thy makin'.
Ilk kiltit Celt, ilk raggit Paddy,
Ilk sooty sweep, ilk creeshy caddie,
Ilk tree-legg'd man, ilk club-taed laddie,
Ilk oily leary,
Ilk midden mavis, wee black jaudie,
A' dread an' fear ye.
Ilk struttin' swad, ilk reelin' sailor,
Ilk rosin't snab, ilk barkin't nailer,
Ilk flunky bauld, ilk coomy collier,
Ilk dusty batchy,
Ilk muckle grab, ilk little tailor,
A' strive to catch ye.
Ilk thimblin' thievin' gamblin' diddler,
Ilk bellows-mendin' tinkler driddler,
Ilk haltin' hirplin' blindit fiddler,
Ilk wee speech-crier,
Ilk lazy ballant singin' idler,
Chase thee like fire.
Ilk waly-draiglin' dribblin' wight,
Wha sleeps a' day, and drinks a' night,
And staggers hame in braid daylight,
Bleerit an' scaur,
Thou dauds him up, a movin' fright,
Wi' dunts o' glaur.
Ilk auld wife stoyterin' wi' her drappie,
In teapat, bottle, stoup, or cappie,
Fu' snugly fauldit in her lappie,
Wi' couthy care,
Thou gaur'st the hidden treasure jaup hie,
An' scent the air.
At e'en when weary warkmen house,
Their sair forfoughen spunks to rouse,
An' ower the sang-inspirin' bouse,
Croon mony a ditty,
Thou sits amang them bauld and crouse,
Whiffin' thy cutty.
O, why should age, wi' cankered ee,
Condemn thy pranks o' rattlin' glee?
We a' were callants ance like thee,
An' happier then,
Than, after clamberin' up life's tree,
We think us men.
Thou urchin-elfin, bare an' duddy,
Thy plumpit kite, an' cheek sae ruddy
Are fairly baggit,
Although the breekums on thy bodie
Are e'en right raggit.
Thy wee roun' pate, — sae black and curly,
Thy twa bare feet, — sae stieve an' burly,
The biting frost, though snell an' surly,
An' sair to bide,
Is scorned by thee, thou hardy wurlie,
Wi' sturdy pride.
Come frost, come snaw, come wind, come weet,
Ower frozen dubs, through slush an' sleet,
Thou patters wi' thy wee red feet,
Right bauld an' sicker,
An' ne'er was kenned to whinge or greet,
But for thy bicker.
Thy grannie's paiks, thy maister's whippin',
Could never mend thy gait o' kippin',
I've seen the hail schule bairnies trippin'
A' after thee,
An' thou aff like a young colt skippin',
Far ower the lea.
'Mang Hallowfair's wild noisy brattle,
Thou'st foughten mony a weary battle,
Stridin' ower horse, an' yerkin' cattle
Wi' noisy glee;
Nae jockey's whup, nor drover's wattle,
Can frighten thee.
When showmen clad in wild beast skins,
Roar, drum and fife, an' mak sic dins,
Or Merry Andrew loups an' grins,
While daft fools glower,
Thou slips thy rung atween their shins,
And yerks them ower.
When sodgers at the Links are shootin',
Wi' ruffin' drums, an' trumpets toutin',
Though sentries gi'e thee whiles a cloutin',
An' whiles a kickin',
Ae half-toom cartridge thou dost look on
Worth a' the lickin'.
On Queen's birth-days, thy squibs and pluffs
Slappit in face o' drucken scuffs,
Or bizzin' amang lassies' ruffs,
Or auld wives' fires, —
In spite o' angry scolds an' cuffs,
Thou never tires.
At bools thou nicks, at paips thou praps,
Thou birls bawbees, thou dozes taps,
Thou herries nests, thou sets slee traps
To catch auld sparrows,
Or riddles them wi' cauld lead-draps,
An' tin-shod arrows.
Dibblin' in ditches, speelin' rocks,
Smeekin' wasps' binks, or huntin' brocks,
Houndin' on dogs, or fechtin' cocks,
Frae dawn till dark,
Or breakin' shins wi' shinty knocks,
Is a' thy wark.
Thy pow wins mony dimpled laurels,
'Mang berry-stands an' sugar-barrels;
Nor grocers' fists, or greenwives' snarls,
Can stop thy takin';
While half the street is filled wi' quarrels
A' o' thy makin'.
Ilk kiltit Celt, ilk raggit Paddy,
Ilk sooty sweep, ilk creeshy caddie,
Ilk tree-legg'd man, ilk club-taed laddie,
Ilk oily leary,
Ilk midden mavis, wee black jaudie,
A' dread an' fear ye.
Ilk struttin' swad, ilk reelin' sailor,
Ilk rosin't snab, ilk barkin't nailer,
Ilk flunky bauld, ilk coomy collier,
Ilk dusty batchy,
Ilk muckle grab, ilk little tailor,
A' strive to catch ye.
Ilk thimblin' thievin' gamblin' diddler,
Ilk bellows-mendin' tinkler driddler,
Ilk haltin' hirplin' blindit fiddler,
Ilk wee speech-crier,
Ilk lazy ballant singin' idler,
Chase thee like fire.
Ilk waly-draiglin' dribblin' wight,
Wha sleeps a' day, and drinks a' night,
And staggers hame in braid daylight,
Bleerit an' scaur,
Thou dauds him up, a movin' fright,
Wi' dunts o' glaur.
Ilk auld wife stoyterin' wi' her drappie,
In teapat, bottle, stoup, or cappie,
Fu' snugly fauldit in her lappie,
Wi' couthy care,
Thou gaur'st the hidden treasure jaup hie,
An' scent the air.
At e'en when weary warkmen house,
Their sair forfoughen spunks to rouse,
An' ower the sang-inspirin' bouse,
Croon mony a ditty,
Thou sits amang them bauld and crouse,
Whiffin' thy cutty.
O, why should age, wi' cankered ee,
Condemn thy pranks o' rattlin' glee?
We a' were callants ance like thee,
An' happier then,
Than, after clamberin' up life's tree,
We think us men.