Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AYRSHIRE JOCK, by JOHN DAVIDSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AYRSHIRE JOCK, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I, john auld, in my garret here
Last Line: There's surely nothing very wrong %in one more glass of whisky toddy!
Subject(s): Glasgow, Scotland


I , JOHN AULD, in my garret here,
In Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow, write,
Or scribble, for my writing-gear
Is sadly worn: a dirty white
My ink is watered to; and quite
Splay-footed is my pen-the handle
Bitten into a brush; my light,
Half of a ha'penny tallow- candle.


A little fire is in the grate,
Between the dusty bars, all red
All black above: the proper state
To last until I go to bed.
I have a night-cap on my head,
And one smokes in a tumbler by me:
Since heart and brain are nearly dead,
Who would these comforters deny me?


Ghosts lurk about the glimmering room ,
And scarce-heard whispers hoarsely fall:
I fear no more the rustling gloom ,
Nor shadows moving on the wall;
For I have met at church and stall,
In streets and roads, in graveyards dreary,
The quick and dead, and know them all:
Nor sight nor sound can make me eerie.


Midnight rang out an hour ago;
Gone is the traffic in the street,
Or deadened by the cloak of snow
The gallant north casts at the feet
Of merry Christmas, as is meet;
With icicles the gutter bristles;
The wind that blows now slack, now fleet,
In every muffled chimney whistles.


I'll draw the blind and shut-alas!
No shutters here! . . ·· My waning sight
Sees through the naked window pass
A vision. Far within the night
A rough-cast cottage, creamy white,
With drooping eaves that need no gutters,
Flashes its bronze thatch in the light,
And flaps its old- style, sea-green shutters.


There I was born. . . . I'll turn my back;
I would not see my boyhood's days:
When later scenes my memories track,
Into the magic pane I'll gaze.
Hillo! the genial film of haze
Is globed and streaming on my tumbler:
It's getting cold; but this I'll praise,
Though I'm a universal grumbler.


Now, here's a health to rich and poor,
To lords and to the common flock,
To priests, and prigs, and-to be sure!-
Drink to yourself, old Ayrshire Jock;
And here's to rhyme, my stock and rock;
And though you've played me many a plisky,
And had me in the prisoners' dock,
Here's my respects t'ye, Scottish whisky!


That's good! To get this golden juice
I starve myself and go threadbare.
What matter though my life be loose?
Few know me now, and fewer care.
Like many another lad from Ayr
This is a fact, and all may know it
And many a Scotchman everywhere,
Whisky and Burns made me a poet.


Just as the penny dreadfuls make
The 'prentice rob his master's till,
Ploughboys their honest work forsake,
Inspired by Robert Burns.
They swill Whisky like him, and rhyme; but still
Success attends on imitation
Of faults alone: to drink a gill
Is easier than to stir a nation.


They drink, and write their senseless rhymes,
Tagged echoes of the lad of Kyle,
In mongrel Scotch: didactic times
In Englishing our Scottish style
Have yet but scotched it: in a while
Our bonny dialects may fade hence:
And who will dare to coin a smile
At those who grieve for their decadence?


These rhymesters end in scavenging,
Or carrying coals, or breaking stones;
But I am of a stronger wing,
And never racked my brains or bones.
I rhymed in English, catching tones
From Shelley and his great successors;
Then in reply to written groans,
There came kind letters from professors.


With these, and names of lords as well,
My patrons, I brought out my book;
And here's my secret-sold, and sell
The same from door to door. I look
My age; and yet, since I forsook
Ploughing for poetry, my income
Comes from my book, by hook or crook;
So I have found the muses winsome.


That last rhyme's bad, the pun is worse;
But still the fact remains the same:
My book puts money in my purse,
Although it never brought me fame.
I once desired to make a name,
But hawking daily an edition
Of one's own poetry would tame
The very loftiest ambition.


Ah! here's my magic looking-glass!
Against the panes night visions throng.
Lo! there again I see it pass,
My boyhood! Ugh! The kettle's song
Is pleasanter, so I'll prolong
The night an hour yet. Soul and body!
There's surely nothing very wrong
In one more glass of whisky toddy!






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