Classic Poem

“Come, callants, quit sic cruel sport; for shame, for shame, gi'e ower!
That poor half-witted creatur ye've been fechtin' wi' this hour,
What pleasure hae ye seeing him thus lay his bosom bare?—
Ye maunna scaith the feckless! they're God's peculiar care.

“The sma'est things in nature may be feckless as they're sma',
But oh, they tak up little space—there's room eneugh for a';
And this poor witless wanderer, I'm sure ye'd miss him sair—
Ye maunna scaith the feckless! they're God's peculiar care.

“There's some o' ye may likely hae, at hame, a brither dear,
Whose wee bit helpless mournfu' greet, ye canna thole to hear;
And is there ane amang ye but your best wi' him would share?
Ye maunna scaith the feckless! they're God's peculiar care.”

The callants' een were glist wi' tears, they gazed on ane anither,
They felt what they ne'er felt before, “the feckless was their brither!”
They set him on a sunny seat, and straik'd his gowden hair—
The bairnies felt the feckless was God's peculiar care.