Wi' my haun on my haffit I sit by the fire, An' think that for nocht I ha'e sic a desire As to gang my auld gates, and see my auld places, To hear the auld voices, and see the auld faces. When a gilpy o' nine, I was set doon to wark At the auld spinnin' wheel, an' frae morning till dark I spun, for my mither was thrifty an' snell, An' wadna alloo me to jauk or rebel. O licht was my heart, an' licht were my heels, Whan, dune wi' the birrin' an' bummin' o' wheels, I skelpit aff, barefit, the hie road alang, Wi' a hap, stap, an' loup, an' a lilt o' a sang. There was Willie the wabster, an' Tammy the douce, At Merryston Brig they ilk ane had a hoose; An' there wasna anither 'twixt that an' Coatbrig, But twa theekit dwallin's, laigh, cosy, an' trig. And syne ower the brig to auld Jamie's we cam', At the sign o' twa Hielanders takin' a dram; Then auld cadger Johnnie's (we ca'd him Saut Jock), Four mae bits o' dwallin's, an' no mony fo'k. Noo, min' what I tell ye, its sixty years lang Since Coatbrig was juist what I said in my sang; On the south o' the road wasna biggit a stane, An' the hooses I speak o' they stood a' alane. Then up the aul' road I gaed scamperin' awa'; Weel kent I the gate o' John Jamieson's raw, Whaur in at the winnock the roses were keekin', An' four bonnie lassies were needlin' and steekin'. An' the looms they war rattlin' an' blatterin' awa', For in that wee shoppie the wabsters war twa— Jock Tamson an' Jamie, a son o' the house, An' wow but thae callans were cantie and crouse. It was there my young fancy first took to the wing; It was there I first tasted the Helicon spring; It was there wi' the poets I wad revel and dream, For Milton an' Ramsay lay on the breast beam. At auld auntie's winnock, whaur the hour glass aye stood, I aft keekit in e'er I dared to intrude— For a woman both gracious an' godly was she, An' the Bible ye seldom wad miss aff her knee. Puir crummie the coo had yae half o' the smiddy, In the ither auld John had his bellows an' studdy, Sae the cow chow't her cud while she glower't ower the hallan At John, who was rosy an' fresh as a callan. Ilk mornin' an' e'enin' was heard the sweet psalm In that laigh hamely dwallin', an' saftly an' calm Fell the dew o' the Sabbath on labour an' strife, An' their souls war refreshed at the fountains o' life. Noo they're a' in the mools, an' there isna a stane Left o' the auld biggin'—son Jamie's his lane; Wi' a tear in my e'e, an' a pow like the snaw, I mourn for the days an' the folk that's awa. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POETS ARE BORN NOT MADE by ROBERT FROST OLD MEN ON THE COURTHOUSE LAWN, MURRAY, KENTUCKY by JAMES GALVIN EPITAPH: FOR A LADY I KNOW by COUNTEE CULLEN THE ANGELUS; HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES IN SAN FRANCISCO, 1868 by FRANCIS BRET HARTE ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON [APRIL 6, 1862] by KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD |