Underwoods by Robert Louis Stevenson
page 81 of 83 (97%)
page 81 of 83 (97%)
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Should tee a common ba' wi' care -
Should flourish and deleever fair His souple shintie - An' the ba' rise into the air, A leevin' lintie: Sae in the game we writers play, There comes to some a bonny day, When a dear ferlie shall repay Their years o' strife, An' like your Rab, their things o' clay, Spreid wings o' life. Ye scarce deserved it, I'm afraid - You that had never learned the trade, But just some idle mornin' strayed Into the schule, An' picked the fiddle up an' played Like Neil himsel'. Your e'e was gleg, your fingers dink; Ye didnae fash yoursel' to think, But wove, as fast as puss can link, Your denty wab:- Ye stapped your pen into the ink, An' there was Rab! Sinsyne, whaure'er your fortune lay By dowie den, by canty brae, Simmer an' winter, nicht an' day, |
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