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Underwoods by Robert Louis Stevenson
page 67 of 83 (80%)

My lads, an' what am I to say?
Ye shurely ken the Muse's way:
Yestreen, as gleg's a tyke - the day,
Thrawn like a cuddy:
Her conduc', that to her's a play,
Deith to a body.

Aft whan I sat an' made my mane,
Aft whan I laboured burd-alane
Fishin' for rhymes an' findin' nane,
Or nane were fit for ye -
Ye judged me cauld's a chucky stane -
No car'n' a bit for ye!

But saw ye ne'er some pingein' bairn
As weak as a pitaty-par'n' -
Less used wi' guidin' horse-shoe airn
Than steerin' crowdie -
Packed aff his lane, by moss an' cairn,
To ca' the howdie.

Wae's me, for the puir callant than!
He wambles like a poke o' bran,
An' the lowse rein, as hard's he can,
Pu's, trem'lin' handit;
Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan'
Behauld him landit.

Sic-like - I awn the weary fac' -
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