A SONG OF LABOUR AND OTHER POEMS
Anderson, Alexander
Published 1873
THE DEIL'S IN THAT BIT BAIRN
' HE deil's in that bit bairn o' mine, for every noo and than
He gies me siccan frichts, that whiles for fear I scarce can stan' ;
What pits sic mischief in his heid 'twad puzzle me to tell,
Unless to gar me start an' rin, that he may lauch himsel'.
Just noo in comin' frae the well, I heard a clash an' rair,
An' here he's wi' his heid richt through the ban's o' his wee chair ;
I didna ken richt where I stood until I had him free,
An' kissin' a' his rumpled pow as he sat on my knee.
But ' tweel since ever he could crawl, an' hirstle roun' an' roun',
He aye made for that chair o' his, nod-noddin' wi' his croon ;
An' through the ban's he'd pit his heid, then start to craw an' sing,
As if he wanted me to ken he'd dune some michty thing.
He had some notion o' his ain' I pit nae doot in that,
Some queer dim thocht that, though a wean, he wanted to be at ;
But what he mean'd by't, than or noo, ' twad tak' the seven wise men
Wha flourished braid langsyne in Greece, to rise and let us ken.
But aye as up the laddie grew, his heid was growin' tae,
An' aye the chair ban's stood the same as ony ban's should dae ;
Until at last when he boo'd dae his muckle- thocht- o ' trick,
His heid stuck fast, an' there he'd lie, tae spurl an' greet an' kick.
Gude kens what fash I've had since than, an' a' to little en' ,
For though I free his heid for him, it winna mak' him men' ;
I wuss when he grows up an' tries his ain han' shift to mak',
He maunna pit his heid through things that winna let it back.
I ken but little o' this life, it's unco ill to learn,
Yet what I hae o't gars me think the mair o' my bit bairn ;
For mony a muckle man I see , if I but turn aboot,
Wha has his heid atween the ban's, an' canna get it oot.
OOR JOHNNIE
HAT lauchs o'love we hae at nicht wi' Johnnie, our wee wean,
As he wamples aff his mither's knee to row on the hearth- stane ;
An' there he spurles wi' wee fat legs, an' mum'les in his glee,
Sweet gems frae his ain authors - Greek an' Hebrew unto me.
Then at anither thocht he crawls to grup me by the tae,
But when he tries to pu' me doon the bauchle comes away ;
An' owre he rows upon his back, while in his sweet, blue een
The shadow o' a tear comes up, half frichten'd to be seen.
Then, if I tak' him on my knee, he's no a moment there
Until he pooks my beard, an' rows his fingers in my hair ;
Pu's at the paper that I read, his wee lips shaped to spell,
Then rives a column off, an' starts an' goo-goos on himsel'.
I whiles think, as I watch his pranks through a' the hale forenicht,
That he'll turn out some great man yet, to fill us wi' delicht ;
For big things only tak' his e'e, and soothes his every whim ;
What pleases ither weans at ance, gets thraws an' glooms frae him.
He cares na for the string o' pirns we hing aboot his neck ;
The ase-hole gets his rattle, an' his yellow Jumpin'- Jeck ;
He knocks his horse's head in twa, and pu's away the tail,
Then flings the rest, to hear a splash, richt in the water pail,
But lay the tangs across his legs, or sic unhandy tool,
Or let him grup the poker, or the kettle by the bool,
Then hoo he gurrs an ' kicks until he raises sic a drouth,
That for ae hoor he fechts to get the fender in his mouth.
A stick's a michty prize to him, if twice as lang's himsel' ;
A wood sword gars him brichten up, an' try to cut an' fell ;
Gude keep him frae the fife an' drum, when he grows braid an'
starkI wadna like tae see him list tae dae sic bluidy wark.
But far afore thae things, an' what can please him best ava,
Is breakin' ae auld bottle wi' anither perfect sma'.
This wark's an unco treat to him, an' mak's him hotch wi' glee,
An' aye at every smash he mak's he lauchs an' looks at me.
I think frae this that he'll turn oot some great teetotal han' ,
An' wear a gowd- bespangled bib, and head the Templar van
Break a' the bottles labell'd Bass, the gill stoups bash and clour ;
Pu' doon an' split the signs, an' mak the big- wamed landlords sour.
But while I'm biggin' up my dreams the " san' man" comes at last,
An' gars him glow'r an' rub his een, then steek them firm an' fast ;
He tottles ow'r sae deep an' soun' that mak' what noise ye can
It canna steer or wauken up oor sairly tired wee man.
The poker tum❜les frae his han' an' fa's upon my taes,
His wee head wabbles up an' doon as he gets aff his claes
There, noo, a mither's kiss has seal'd the saft sleep on his e'e,
But mornin' licht ' ill bring again wee Johnnie back to me.
THE PAIDLIN' WEAN
COME in the hoose this moment, paidlin ' oot there in the rain,
An', losh me ! but ae buitie on, ye limmer o' a wean ;
Come in an' tell me, if ye can, what great delicht ye tak'
In paidlin' in the siver till your face is perfect black ?
I canna turn my back, atweel, to airn your faither's sark,
But if the door be left agee, ye slip oot to your wark,
An' stamp in a' the puddles, lauchin' as they jaup an' jow,
While a' the time the careless rain pelts doon upon your pow.
See what an awfu' mess ye've made o' a' your bonnie claes,
The peenie, tae, that I pat on this mornin' when ye raise ;
'Twas white then as the new-fa'en sua' , but noo as black's the lum,
An' what wi' treacly pieces, stickin' here an' there like gum.
An' noo ye maun be wash'd, nae doot, but hoo will I begin ?
I think I'll get the muckle tub, an' dook ye tae the chin ;
Dook ye ow'r the heid , ye rogue, an' skelp your hurdies tae,
An' see if that 'll mak ye ony better for the day.
Noo, dinna shake your curly heid, an' shape your mooth for no,
An' row yoursel' within my goon, an' lisp oot " keeky bo ;"
For sic a steerin' plague ye've turn'd, an' grown sae fierce an' croose,
That I maun try some ither plan to keep ye in the hoose.
But, losh me ! even as I speak, my anger's quaten'd doon,
An' so I kiss the rosy mou' that peeps oot frae my goon ;
Straik an' clap the curly heid, an' a' to fairly prove
That the anger o' a mither ' s just anither name for love.
THE STEERIN' WEE LADDIE.
HE winna sup his poshie, the buffy, curly loon,
But spurs and spurtles on my knee, an' quarrels for the spoon,
Rubbin' till his een grow red, and than anither yell ;
Oh, an awfu' plague's that laddie wha wants to sup himsel'.
See hoo he dauds the spoon away, as wud as wud can be,
Scalin' a' the sowp, an' lebbrin' baith himsel' an' me ;
Pushin' against the table wi' his wee shanks firm an' stieve,
Tryin' to sup wi' perfect spite his parritch wi' his nieve !
Weel, weel, be quate, for ony sake, I'll draw your wee chair in,
An' tie ye to the back, an' pit a cloot aneath your chin,
Gie ye the spoon into your han'-ye thrawn, ill-natured tyke !-
An ye can try an' sup them, or dae wi' them what ye like. '
Noo, since he's suppin' a' his lane, as quate as ony mouse,
I'll turn my back an' redd the floor, an' tidy up the house ;
For when he toddles up an' doon, he's sic a steerin' lim',
I canna get a han's wark dune for lookin' after him.
Losh me, what awfu' screigh is that ? I'll turn me roun' an' see :
He's cowpit ow'r the bowl, an' ramm'd the spoon- shank in his e'e ;
Then what a cry for mammy comes, that I maun let alane
What wark I had to dae, an' tak' him on my knee again.
Noo, whisht, my wee, wee mannie, ye've got an awfu' scaur,
But, gin your face an' han's were washed, ye're no a preen the waur ;
Noo, whisht, an' kiss your mammy, ye're no sae much to blame,
For mony an aulder ane than you has dune the very same.
Ay, mony a bearded man, atweel, has gane sae far ajee,
That ever after hung his head, nor cared to lift an e'e,
But slunk aboot, an' a' for what I brawly weel can tell :
He grew ow'r croose, an' far ow'r sune began to sup himsel'.
MAGGIE'S WEAN
I KEN'D Maggie weel ere she grew to a wife,
An' smiled in the sunshine o' a' its sweet life ;
But, wae's me, a twalmonth had scarce gane to rest
Ere the green kirkyard sod was laid ow'r her young breast,
Leavin' to this cauld warld, to warsle its lane,
A wee feeble lifie they ca'd Maggie's wean.
But it took root, and grew, for the angels abune
Water a' the buds left by their stems far ow'r sune,
Wi' their sweetest o' tears, that fa' saft as the dew,
While the mither looks on wi' a smile on her broo,
An' a fond half- hid yearning, that tells aye hoo fain
She wad come back ance mair to her mitherless wean.
But it thrived like a breckan fu' bonnie to see,
A canty bit thing fu' o' lauchin' an' glee ;
An' prood were they a' ow'r this waif frae the strife,
When the cauld wave o' death wreck'd a mither's sweet life ;
So ae afternoon a thocht enter'd my brain,
To gang up ance erran' an' see Maggie's wean.
When I gaed ben the room the wee lassie was there,
An' I scarce had got richt settled doon in the chair
Till she toddled up to me, and frankly and kin'
Put her wee han' sae trustfu' and saft into mine
Lookin' up as if tryin' some thocht to explain,
Ken'd to nae ither body but Maggie's wee wean.
Then she lauch'd when we lauch'd, till in very delicht
Her pawkie blue een creepit fair oot o' sicht ;
Tum'led ow'r the least thing that took haud o ' her tae,
Put a froon on her broo, then wi' smiles chase't away ;
Play'd her queerist o' tricks at a word ow'r again—
Nae winner her fowk's prood ow'r Maggie's wee wean.
Then she row'd wi' the dog on the rug a' her lane,
Her wee dumpy nose close to that o' his ain ;
An' aye as his braid sonsie lugs got a pu' ,
Or his rough sides a dunch frae her han' or her broo,
He look'd proodly roun' , as if tellin ' us plain
That nane got sic freedom but Maggie's wee wean.
What a changfu' bit creature, for aye noo an' than,
When she took to the dumps, an' her mou' got half-thrawn,
Losh me ! in a moment, afore ye could speak,
A sunny smile brichten'd her broo an' her cheek,
An' her blue een cam' oot like the skies after rain ;
She's the April o' mitherless tots-Maggie's wean.
An' I couldna but think, as we join'd in her glee,
If the mither had been but amang us to see
A' the turns an' the flichts o' her wee dawtie's mirth,
What a joy wad been hers, far abune a' on earth,
As she clappit an' cuddled, prood, smirkin' , an ' fain,
Her Lilliput sel' in her ain bonnie wean.
But I thocht, an' I think, that she still lookit doon
Frae her ain happy hame wi' the angels abune,
Whisperin' words to her bairnie we couldna hear said,
Layin' han's that we couldna see on her wee head,
While the bricht, happy smiles were but types o' her ain,
Fa'in' saft as her love on the broo o' her wean.
Ay me ! this auld warl' moves on wi' sic stride,
That the best o' oor thochts are flung a' to the side,
An' we think, as the soun' fills the braid toilin' day,
That alang wi't God draws Himsel' farrer away ;
But He speaks oot amang us at times unco plain,
When we look on a wee smilin' mitherless wean.
OOR RAB
OOR Rab's in his bed, an' he's sleepin' sae soun'
That afore he wad wauken the hoose micht fa' doon.
Sae I'll juist steer the fire up an' mak' some repair
On his troosers , an' cover his hurdies ance mair ;
For, as fack as I'm leevin' , I thocht perfect shame,
When an' auld neebor lass cam' to see my snug hame,
When he bang'd in amang us, demandin' a piece,
His rags hingin' down like a half-cuisten fleece.
But ane needna think ony shame o' their ain,
Though nae mither wi' han's could keep claes on sic wean,
For frae mornin' till nicht there's nae rest for his feet,
But a constant rin on till I'm weary tae see't.
Na, when suppin' his parritch at nicht I declare
He keeps thumpin' on wi' his heels on the fluir.
It's a wunner to me that I hae wi' hale banes
This wee wan'rin' Jew o' a' ill-steerin' weans.
Then what wark he has makin' wee boats that maun soom,
Though the last ane he made he near sniggit his thoom ;
An' braw paper mills to whirl roun' wi' the wun',
When set oot on the knowe wi' their shanks in the grun' ,
Forbye ither things I micht coont by the score
That he mak's oot o ' sticks that lie bing'd at the door.
'Deed, his faither himsel' wunners hoo he can mak'
Siccan things- he's a perfect, mechanic, in fack .
But wae tae that day when the sodgers cam' roun' ,
An' gaed fifin' an' prancin' like mad through the toon ;
For months after that a' the auld broken boards
That his hands got a haud o' he turn'd into swords,
An' gaed stoggin' aboot in his sodger-like pride,
Wi' ane near as lang as himsel' at ilk side.
Losh, I laucht, till I scarce could draw yairn through a sock,
At the way he could mimic the red-coated folk.
But it cam' tae an en' wi' the wee warlike fule,
For ridin' ae day on the lang-leggit stule,
The big, braid-croon'd bonnet o' braw tartan claith,
That his faither got made when the chaps play'd Macbeth,
Gaed clean ow'r his een, and it blin'd him sae sair,
That he fell wi' his heid 'gainst the edge o' a chair.
But I thocht as I cuddled the wee sabbin' limb,
A' wha gie wark for sodgers should tum'le like him.
Yet he's no ill ava' , though at times, dae ye see,
He raises curmurs ' tween his faither an' me,
For he cries when he happens to hear o' his tricks,
66 Wi', as fack as ocht, Jean, ye should gi'e him his licks. "
But I say to him, " John, what's the use o' this rage,
The bairn's nae wheet waur than the rest at his age ;"
An' the rogue (for he kens that he's dear to my heart)
Pu's my goon a' the while that I'm takin' his pairt.
I like my bit bairnie, an' whiles as I shoo ,
I big up air-castles tae please my ain view ;
Then I see him grown up buirdly, sonsie, an' braw,
The prop o' oor age, an' the pride o' us a' ;
Nae draighlin' wi' horses, and stannin' the brash
O' the cauld winter day, but a job wi' some cash,
An' aye a guid coat that he buttons, instead
O' flingin't clean aff him tae win his bit bread.
Nae doot but I'm wrang tae look ow'r far afore,
Though somehow I think that a' this is in store ,
An' aften my heart gi'es a loup as I think
Hoo the neebors will say, " Fegs, her lad's nae sma' drink. "
I say this tae John, but he turns unco snell,
Though I ken a' the time that he thinks sae himsel' .
Lod, wha kens but some heiress may think him a grab,
When we ca' him oor Robert, instead o' oor Rab.
WILLIE .
HE'S a deil o' a wean-what ava can he mean ?
Lod, he'll ow'r-gang us a' yet, an' that'll be seen ;
Here's his spleet-new bit pony left on the door stane,
The heid chow'd away, an' twa legs o' it gane ;
An' a' just because it got into his heid
He'd hae ane like the baker's that comes wi' the breid.
Sic a wasterfu' callan'-I firmly believe
That the bump ' hint his lug is as big as my neive.
He first got a barrow to whurl up an' doon,
An' for days after that he was through the hale toon ;
He push'd it wheel first up the steps o' the stairs,
He whurl'd it alang a' the taps o' the chairs,
He squeez'd it through a' the strait neuks he could get,
An' when it stuck fast he flew into a pet.
Na, when a' roun' the fire when the forenichts were snell,
He aye made a place for't alang wi' himsel' .
But ae afternoon, an' a gude laugh I had,
He grat to hae't through ' tween the legs o' his dad ;
An' his faither, the sulks like a clud on his broo,
Had to striddle an' let the wee sorra whirl't through.
An' lang did he lauch ow'r the trick he had dune,
But an hour after that he was changin' his tune,
For the barrow-an ' anxious an' lang did he try—
Wadna break, sae he flung't on the coal-knowe oot-bye.
He next got a hammer, but that was faur waur,
For the first day he knockit a knob aff the draw'r ;
The second, he crackit my auld favourite jug,
An' for that, when I gied him a dawd on the lug,
He up wi' the hammer, but sic was his speed,
That in tryin' to hit me he struck his ain heid,
Sae he sat doon, an' after he'd grat his desire ,
Flung the hammer to burn at the back o' the fire.
But yesterday, juist, when some faut he could help
Gar't me turn up his hurdies and gie them a skelp,
The dour look cam' down, while he keepit his place,
An' , " Dang ye," he said, lookin ' up in my face;
Losh my heart gied a loup, for fu' weel did I ken
What he ettled to say had nae " g" at the en' ;
Still, I dinna ken hoo he could come by sic word,
For his faither's nae swearer that ever I heard.
I never said wrang was the word he had sain,
For I ken'd it wad just make him say't ow'r again,
But that nicht when he bedded, an' lay like a tap,
An' I sat by the fire wi' his claes in my lap,
I whisper'd tae John in a lown kind o' way,
"Dae ye ken what wee Willie cam' oot wi' the day ?"
Sae I tell'd him, but a' that I got was juist " Tat,
Aulder anes than oor bairn hae a fashion o' that."
He's a droll wean ava, though, an speaks wi' a twang,
An' like some muirlan' herd has a swag wi' his gang ;
Then sae sleeky an' slid when he lays oot his traps
For bawbees to buy candie, aiples, an' snaps ;
An' sae sweet wi' the tongue, here's the way he comes on-
"Eh, but mither, you're bonnie, gie's some curran' scone. "
Fegs, when ance he grows up he'll mak' some lassie's e'e
Brichten up like my ain when John pookit at me.
But whiles when I'm sittin' an' thinkin' my lane
I fin' that we're far waur to blame than the wean ;
For ye see, when the neebors at nicht daun'er in,
We canna but tell what the callan' has dune ;
An' they lauch an' we lauch, while the rogue a' the while
(Though the dirt on his face micht weel cover his smile)
Keeks roun' him sae bardy, then turns his bit back,
Prood, nae doot, at his bein' the hale o' oor crack.
He'll men' though, when ance he grows up an' has mense,
For ye canna expect him to hae muckle sense,
An' weel-behaved weans, wi' their mim, solemn looks,
Are naewhere fa'n in wi' save in bits o' books ;
But wha kens, when he comes to be buirdly an' douce,
Wi' his wage comin' in every week to the hoose,
That we'll say to the neebors, wha speak in his praise,
Quate ? "Dear me, the callan was that a' his days. "
THE WHUSSLE.
PLÁGUE tak' his auld grannie, wha brocht frae the toon
That whussle, an' gie'd him't to deave us wi' soun' ;
For frae mornin' till nicht it's a wheeple an' skirl,
Till my lugs at sic music dae naething but dirl.
But he wheedled her ow'r-'od, he kens, the wee limb,
She wad bring, at his beck, a hale hoosefu' to him
He's ca'd for her ain man, noo in his lang hame,
Sae nae wunner she tak's to the bairn an' his name.
That nicht when she brocht it, his heart gie'd a loup,
An' though in his first sleep he sat up on his dowp,
Took it into his han' , an' he blew wi' sic micht,
That she sat by his bedside an' skreigh'd wi' delicht.
An' aye as he tootled , a prood sleekit smile
Lay on his bit face, her ain safter the while,
An' she half-turn'd her heid as she hearken'd to me-
"Jean, that bairn has the same cheerie twirl o' his e’e. "
But since thaun, whaten wark he's had oot in the street,
Tootlin' roun' a' the carts that he happen's to meet,
Or stan'in' for hoors wi' the pigman, big Jock,
As if hired to gie music to draw oot the folk ;
But Jock, kindly body, for daein' the same,
Gie'd him that jug ye see hingin' there wi' his name ;
An' richt prood was he when he cam' hame to tell,
Haudin' 't oot in his glee an airm's length frae himsel'.
But ae Sabbath day, an' my cheek still will burn,
In bounced Mrs Rae, wi' her quick kin' o' turn,
An' she says, " Dae ye ken that your bairn- what a sin !--
Is oot-by wi' his whussle ? - ye should keep him in."
But I thocht for awee, an' says I, " Mrs Rae,
The wean's but a wean, an' ye've naething to say ;
For we a' ken your Tam, wha's sae sleekit an' sly,
Was seen ance at the bools when the kirk folk gaed by."
I was mad at the time, but I gaed my ways oot,
In time just to hear his last flourish an' toot ;
I never loot on, though, but waved wi' my han' ,
An' cried, " Willie, come in to your dinner, my man. "
Sae he cam' slippin' in ; ay, an' wad ye believe ?
The brat had the whussle stuck up his coat- sleeve.
But I sune took it doun, an' , for siccan mishap,
Made his hurdies grow closer acqwaunt wi' the strap.
His faither, wha scarce can ken Bonnie Dundee
Frae the solemn Auld Hunner, says aften to me—
“Jean, that bairn ' ill turn oot a musicianer yet,
For ye see weel eneuch that his mooth has the set
For playin' the whussle, the bugle, an' a'
Thae ither twirl'd things that they finger an' blaw ;
Faith ! wha kens but his name 'ill yet spread far and wide,
While we'll no can conceal frae the neebors oor pride ?"
I aye shake my heid, though I think sae mysel',
For though steerin' he's gleg i' th' uptak' an' fell ;
An' for music-d'ye ken that he even maun keep
His whussle in min' , an' blaw on't in his sleep ?
An' whiles when I wauken an' catch him at this,
' Od, I cuddle him closer, an' gie him a kiss ;
While my heart swalls within me, an' grows unco fain ,
To think that I hae sic a musical wean.
They may talk o' their great Paganini, an' sing
About what he could dae just on ae fiddle string,
But for me, when I see my ain bairnie oot-by
Gaun sidy for sidy wi' ane just as sly,
Keeping time on an auld roosted tray to his toots,
Like twa Lilliput sergeants sent oot for recruits,
Losh, I fin' that his wheeples are dearer to me
Than a' their fine twirls that they fetch ow'r the sea,
THE BOWL O' SENNA LEAF
A' the ills that come to swall a wearit mither's grief,
The warst is when her laddie winna tak' his senna leaf ;
An' here I've stood this ae half-hour, the berries in the spune
An' yet he winna drink it up to get them when it's dune.
Plague tak' his faither, wha boo'd say sae thochtfu' unto me—
"Get oot the ither teapot, Bell, an' gie the wean some tea. "
The rogue heard (for he's gleg's a hawk), an' noo he tak's his han's,
An' pushes back the bowl, an' shiles, an' kicks the table ban's.
I dinna ken what plan to tak' to mak' him swallow this,
For if I tell him that he'll dee, he kensna what it is,
An' big Daft Jock, wha slings aboot an' fears the village weans,
Has nae poo'r ow'r this rogue o' mine, wha lauchs at a' my pains.
Weel, weel, my man ; your faither comes to tak' his sowp at twae,
An' if I tell him a' the truth, what think ye will he say ?
He winna lick his bairn, I ken-he maistly tak's his pairt
But he'll tell the joiner no to heed to mak' his braw new cairt.
Losh, hae I hit the nail at last ? He turns aboot his heid,
An' raxes oot his han' in haste to dae the awfu' deed ;
Three mouthfu's tak's the senna oot, anither cleans the spoon,
Twa thraws or three o' his bit mou' , an' that sair task is dune.
I canna think but Clootie stan's the very same as me,
An' coaxes bigger weans to come and taste his hell-brewn tea ;
Wha, when they tak' a sowp, an' fin' he has them in his poo'r,
They own the tea was unco sweet, the berries awfu' soor.
WEE TOTTIE
WEE TOTTIE'S the smile that lichts up oor hearthstane
A dumpy bit thing that can scarce gang her lane ;
Yet what aul' - farrant gab comes at times frae her mou' ,
As she sits on oor knee, wi' her hair ow'r her broo.
For she tells what she'll dae wi' her wee han's abreed,
An' what she'll no dae wi' a shake o' her heid ;
Then lilts some bit sang, wi' her ain kin' o' glee,
Though nae singer, atweel, is her faither or me.
An' she gies siccan names, that we ne'er heard afore,
To the tables, the chairs, to the cupboard, an' door ;
Then lauchs, wi' a lauch sweet an' clear as a bell,
At her ain Hebrew lore, that nane kens but hersel'.
Then she thrummels the leaves o' some aul' tatter'd book,
Readin' into hersel' wi' a mak' - believe look ;
Then, seein' nae pictures to please her e'e there,
Tears a leaf oot for papers to curl up her hair.
But, O, if ye saw her, sae wife-like and droll,
When she gets her bit plaidie to carry her doll,
Hoo she whisks roun' the en's o't, then dumps through the hoose,
Like a Lilliput mither tosh, sonsie and douce.
Then, after she gies her wee baby a sook,
She rows't up sae cozy and lays't in some nook ;
Then, wearied hersel' , creeps up on to my knee,
Rubs her een, an' my dawtie's as soun' as can be.
So wee Tottie maun gang to her bed an' sleep soun' ,
While fairies through a' the still nicht hover roun'
Sleep, sleep till the mornin' , then rise a' her lane,
An' be her ain mither's Wee Tottie again.
OOR SIS
OR Sis is a mitherly sort o' a bairn,
An unco gleg thing, an' sae easy to learn,
That let her see ance hoo a thing should be dune,
An' ye've nae trouble wi' her or fash afterhin' ;
An' she does a' wi' siccan a look on her broo
Sae thochtfu' an' womanlike aye to oor view
That we wunner an' try tae fin' oot, but in vain,
Hoo sic auld-fashion'd thochts got a haud o' oor wean.
Then she speirs sic wise questions that frae her seem droll,
As she cuts oot some shapin's for goons to her doll ,
An' a' aboot weans that she wants us to tell,
As if she was some wrinkled granny hersel',
That I look on her whiles wi' a sort o' a fear,
As if something unseen or uncanny was near,
Tittlin' to her in whispers, as laigh as can be,
A' thae queer thochts o' hers that in turn puzzle me.
She's the first that fin's oot a' the holes in the breeks
O' her brithers, dear rogues, wha are sair on their steeks ;
Then she'll thraw her bit mou' , an' she'll peenge, an' she'll wheedle,
Till I get oot my thummle, a pirn, an' a needle ;
An' the rascals, to keep things in cosie hame rule,
Maun e'en lay themsel's ow'r her wee creepie stool,
While I guide her wee han' wi' the thread through an' through,
An' losh, but it's leesome hoo weel she can shoo.
Then, when washin' day comes for oor ain dirty duds,
What a wark she has after't amang the saip suds !
But first I maun row up her wee frock ahin' ,
An' get some auld cloot an' draw't through ' neath her chin ;
Then she scoors her bit duds, wrings them oot in a fyke,
An' spreads them to dry on the en' o' the dyke,
Rinnin' oot noo an' then as if fley'd for the rain—
What a wife she will mak' to somebody, oor wean !
An' just but last night I made saps to wee Jean
She's oor youngest, new spean'd, an' she's waukrife at e'en-
What does Sis dae but gang an' mak' some o' her ain,
An' fleech wi' her big billy, Jock, to be wean ;
An' Jock-he's no miss'd for a stammuck-sat doon,
His han's at his back, an' mooth wide for the spoon,
An' she fed him fu' weel, as he sat on his doup,
Scrapin' mooth, cheek, an' chin atween every sowp.
She has just ae wee faut, but it's ane we can thole—
She wad ' maist gie ye ocht for an auld parasol ;
An' 1 min' when oor neebor next door gi'ed her ane
She had faun' in the press, a' moth-eaten an' dune,
She was sae ta’en up wi't that, let what weather fa' ,
She aye took it oot as a biel' frae them a' ,
Till at last, for fair shame's sake, I burn'd it, an sair
Did she greet when she kenn'd she wad get it nae mair.
But she's siccan a helpfu' bit thing, an' sae kin' ,
That what fau'ts she has canna stop lang on the min' ;
But whether she rocks wi' a prim, modest face,
The cradle , or looks in her wee tittie's face,
Or washes the laigh single step at oor door,
Or looks oot for dad when his day's wark is o'er,
Or toddles aboot on some wark o ' her ain,
She's aye oor wee Sis-my ain mitherly wean.
JOCK BUCHAN
I STILL min' Jock Buchan, the lang gawkie fule,
He was nearly man muckle though still at the schule,
While I was a laddie the penny book in,
Just trying for knowledge, though sweer to begin.
I see him the noo, lang, ungainly, uncouth,
Wi' red flabby cheeks an' a slaverin' mooth,
Runnin' through the schule green wi' a hap, step, and jump,
His bare waukit heels on the stanes playin' dump.
He was sent to the schule by his weel-meanin' fowk,
Wha thocht that their puir silly innocent gowk
Wad be far better there, gettin' sense in his croon,
Than rinnin' stravaigin' through a' the hale toon.
He read in the Testament a' by himsel' ,
An O what a treat when he started to spell ;
For he whurr'd, an' the " r's " in his throat wad dispute,
As if fechtin' for wha wad be first to get oot.
When he started to spell he wad gie a bit hoast,
Then the laighmost clear button his waiskit could boast
He wad grup, an' unbutton, an' button, an' spell,
Makin' words o' six letters as lang as himsel'.
I hae often inspeckit wi' roun' glow'rin' e'en,
That aul' button-hole where nae thread could be seen ;
Tryin' , bairn-like, to fin' oot, but aye a' in vain,
Some link atween it an' his ain silly brain.
When the schule scail'd at nicht Jock was aye the first oot,
For this was a hobby he carried aboot ;
But, in justice to him an' his hobby, we ken
That mony a dafter's amang wiser men.
When the simmer time cam', bringin' bools o' a' hues
The piggies, the sprecklies, the blue waterloos
Tam's fancy was aye for a piggie weel burn'd
(He aye ca'd them glaizies), a' ithers he spurn'd.
He wad question me aft, in his ain thowless way,
"Sand-y hif ye ony gul-azies the day ?"
An' if I had ane that attrackit his e'e,
He wad make for a barter, an' - offer me three.
Three aul' common piggies, o' dull, dirty white,
Nae wunner he wanted them oot o' his sight ;
A' was gowd that to him had a glitter, an' fain,
At that time, I maun own, his belief was my ain.
There was ae thing 'bout Jock I ne'er could understan' ;
He wad come to me whiles, haudin' oot his lang han',
Then kick up his heels wi' a flourish, an' say,
66 Ah, ye didna, ye miss'd it, " an' then rin away.
What his ' en was for this was a riddle to me,
An' will be, I doubt, till the day that I dee ;
But if ony aul' schulemate could solve me the same,
I wad sen' him an autograph letter to frame.
When Jock ran an erran' , wi' some easy task,
He wad knock at the door, an' then solemnly ask-
"Mistress, d'ye keep ony cats in the hoose ?"
If the answer was "No," he wad enter fu' croose.
To explain this odd question : When he was a wean
He chackit his big tae wi' some muckle stane,
An', sittin' ae nicht at the fire wi't a' bare,
Save a slice o' fat bacon for healin' the sair,
The cat, that was purrin' upon the cheekstane,
Thocht into hersel' that a feast was her ain,
Made a spring, took the bacon, but left the big tae,
An' alang wi't a hate for her kin' to this day.
I hae seen Jock but ance since I left that aul' schule,
An' he still was the same fozie, lang-leggit fule,
That I, half-forgettin' , stood waitin' to hear
A deman' for gul-azies, or ithers as queer.
When I raise to come oot, for the sake o' langsyne,
I gie'd him some bawbees to keep me in min' ;
He drawl'd oot his thanks wi' his aul' usual spell ,
Push'd me back from the chair, an' sat doon in't himsel'.
Weel, to come to an end, as I scribbled this rhyme,
Came a langin' to see him just ae.ither time ;
So I think, ere the trees tak' their vesture o' broon,
I maun gang an' see Jock in his ain native toon.
I MISS MY BONNIE BAIRN
MISS my bonnie bairn,
I miss him unco sair,
I miss him stan'in' at the door,
I miss him up the stair,
I miss the patter o' his feet
That toddled out an' in,
But O, I miss him warst ava'
When the day's wark is dune.
Then John sits by the fire,
An' , though he disna speak,
I ken fu' weel his thocht,
For the tears are on his cheek.
The tears grow big upon his cheek,
An' my ain begin to fa',
As my heart still murmurs on
Your twa years' bairn's awa'.
An' just yestreen I chanced,
When townin' through the drawer,
To come upon his plaiks laid by,
Their sicht but made me waur.
For there the wee toy-horsie lay
I had tae let him see
An' hour afore death cam' an' took
The licht frae oot his e'e.
Weel, weel, I min' that nicht
His faither brocht it in,
I took it to his wee bedside
An' touch'd him on the chin-
"Come, look up, Jamie, my big man,
An' see this bonnie sicht. "
He raise, an' took it frae my han' ,
An' O, his e'e was bricht !
Prood was I when I saw that look,
An' John was unco fain ;
I keekit in his face, an' speer'd,
What think ye o' the wean ?
He'll live an' bless us a' , if ance
This tout he warstles through ;
For I like the glegness o' his look,
An' the smile aboot his mou'.
But waes me, or an hour gaed by,
Death hush'd him safe an' soun ;
An' a' oor hopes fell ow'r his face,
As winter leaves fa' doon.
But they'll a' grow fresh an' green again,
Tho' noo I've this to learn,
The earth has to me ae dear spot
The wee grave o' my bairn.
THE UNCO BIT WEAN.
HER faither says aften fu' plainly to me,
'The wean, woman, ' s juist like oor neebors, we see ,
`An' naething ava to mak siccan a sang
As ye dae aboot her a' the leevy day lang. "
But I say to him, "Na, she's my ain wee bit tot,
An' has ways o' her ain that nae ithers hae got ;"
An' as for himsel', losh, I'm gey far mistaen
If he disna think her just an unco bit wean.
For ye see when she first noticed things an' grew croose,
She wad follow him glegly through a' the hale hoose ;
An' at nicht, when he cam' frae his wark, I declare,
Ye'd hae thocht that she ken'd his first step on the stair.
An' then when he half put his heid into sicht,
Cryin' " Keeky-bo, where's my wee Maggie the nicht ?"
The wee thing could scarce keep her seat on my knee,
As he ran up like daft to kiss baith her an' me.
But noo when she's gotten the fit an' can rin ,
What a flutter at times she can pit us baith in,
For she toddles a' gates, though her favourite feat
Is to climb up on chairs and look oot on the street ;
An' if a big horse or a dog comes in sicht,
She jumps in sic glee that we rin, in oor fricht,
An' grup baith her legs, while her faither declares
That this same trick o' hers 'ill bring on his grey hairs.
Then, the taste that she has puzzles me warst ava,
An' yet her bit mou' never gie's the least thraw,
Though a waught o' saip suds an' a mouthfu' o' ink
She took ance unawares when in search o' a drink.
I hae seen her mysel' lyin' cantie an' droll
At a pic-nic o' cinders, drawn frae the ase-hole.
Bless the wean ! what a lesson for fat epicures
Wha gang smackin' their lips through this warl' o' oors.
Then, in flooers I maun say that she tak's little pride ;
For a big bunch o' grass, growin' by the roadside,
A lang dandelion, or docken fu' braid
Can pit a' your fine hot-house gems in the shade.
I whiles say, "Dear me, what an' odd kind o' wean,
Sae chock-fu' o' things that we canna explain ;"
But her faither hauds out, in his ain joky way,
She's the maist original wean o' her day.
Then at nicht when she rows aboot in her nicht claes,
She maun hae half an hour to get countin' her taes,
Or rinnin' aboot wi' sic bursts o' pure glee,
That her faither looks up half in wonner at me ;
But whenever I rise frae my chair to gie chase
She comes to my arms, an' sic laughin' tak's place,
That I'm thankfu' when Sleep comes to weave his mute spell,
An' tak' a' her thochts an' sweet dreams to himsel'.
She's oor tae ee, the wean, an' the licht in oor hame,
Through which, when we look, this life's no like the same,
But glows as if seen through the shadow of God,
Till again we hae Paradise in oor abode ;
An' we fill up wi' joy ow'r this wee bud o' oors
That, springlike, has put a' oor ain into flooers,
An' the bliss we hae in her can never depart,
For we lie doon at nicht wi' her lauch in oor heart.
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