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