It’s sair to see, when ilka lad
Is dreamin’ o’ his joe,
The bonnie mear that leads yer team
Is a’ ye’re thinkin’ o’.
Like fire upon her satin coat
Ye gar the harness shine,
But, lad, there is a safter licht
In thae twa een o’ mine!
Aye—wark yer best—but youth
An’ shorter ilka year—
There’s ane wad gar ye sune forget
Yon limmer o’ a mear!
There’s some that mak’ themsels a name
Wi’ preachin’, business, or a game,
There’s some wi’ drink hae gotten fame
And some wi’ siller:
I kent a man got glory cheap,
For nane frae him their een could keep,
Losh! he was shapit like a neep,
Was Jeemsie Miller!
When he gaed drivin’ doon the street
Wi’ cairt an’ sheltie, a’ complete,
The plankie whaur he had his seat
Was bent near double;
And gin yon wood had na been strang
It hadna held oor Jeemsie lang,
He had been landit wi’ a bang,
And there’d been trouble.
Ye could but mind, to see his face,
The reid mune glowerin’ on the place,
Nae man had e’er sic muckle space
To haud his bonnet:
An owre yon bonnet on his brow,
Set cockit up owre Jeemsie’s pow,
There waggit, reid as lichtit tow,
The toorie on it.
And Jeemsie’s poke was brawly lined,
There wasna mony couldna’ find
His cantie hoosie i’ the wynd,
For there ye’d get, wi’ sang and clink,
What some ca’d comfort, wi’ a wink,
And some that didna care for drink
Wad ca’ damnation!
But dinna think, altho’ he made
Sae grand a profit o’ his trade,
An’ muckle i’ the bank had laid,
He wadna spare o’t,
For, happit whaur it wasna seen,
He’d aye a dram in his machine,
An’ never did he meet a freen’
But got a share o’t.
Ae day he let the sheltie fa’
(Whisht, sirs! he wasna’ fou—na, na!
A wee thing pleasant—that was a’,
An’ drivin’ canny)
Fegs! he cam’ hurlin’ owre the front
An’ struck the road wi’ sic a dunt,
Ye’d thocht the causey got the brunt
And no the mannie!
Aweel, it was his hin’most drive,
Aifter yon clour he couldna thrive,
For twa pairts deid, an’ ane alive,
His billies foond him:
And, bedded then, puir Jeemsie lay,
And a’ the nicht and a’ the day
Relations cam’ to greet an’ pray
An’ gaither roond him.
Said Jeemsie, “Cousins, gie’s a pen,
Awa’ an’ bring the writer ben,
What I hae spent wi’ sinfu’ men
I weel regret it;
In daith I’m sweir to be disgrac’t,
I’ve plenty left forby my waste,
An them that I’ve negleckit maist
It’s them’ll get it.”
It was a sicht to see them rin
To save him frae the sense o’ sin,
Fu’ sune they got the writer in
His mind to settle;
And O their loss! sae sair they felt it
To a’ the toon wi’ tears they tell’t it,
Their dule for Jeemsie wad hae meltit
A he’rt o’ metal!