"_Few spak it than, an' noo there's nane. My puir auld sangs lie a' their lane, Their sense, that aince was braw an' plain, Tint a'thegither, Like runes upon a standin' stane Amang the heather._ "_But think not you the brae to speel; You, tae, maun chow the bitter peel; For a' your lear, for a' your skeel, Ye're nane sae lucky; An' things are mebbe waur than weel For you, my buckie._ "_The hale concern (baith hens an' eggs, Baith books an' writers, stars an' clegs) Noo stachers upon lowsent legs An' wears awa'; The tack o' mankind, near the dregs, Rins unco law._ "_Your book, that in some braw new tongue Ye wrote or prentit, preached or sung, Will still be just a bairn, an' young In fame an' years, Whan the hale planet's guts are dung About your ears;_ "_An' you, sair gruppin' to a spar Or whammled wi' some bleezin' star, Cryin' to ken whaur deil ye are, Hame, France, or Flanders-- Whang sindry like a railway car An' flie in danders._" II ILLE TERRARUM Frae nirly, nippin', Eas'lan' breeze, Frae Norlan' snaw, an' haar o' seas, Weel happit in your gairden trees, A bonny bit, Atween the muckle Pentland's knees, Secure ye sit. Beeches an' aiks entwine their theek, An' firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique. A simmer day, your chimleys reek, Couthy and bien; An' here an' there your windies keek Amang the green. A pickle plats an' paths an' posies, A wheen auld gillyflowers an' roses: A ring o' wa's the hale encloses Frae sheep or men: An' there the auld housie beeks an' dozes, A' by her lane. The gairdner crooks his weary back A' day in the pitaty-track, Or mebbe stops a while to crack Wi' Jane the cook, Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black, To gie a look. Frae the high hills the curlew ca's; The sheep gang baaing by the wa's; Or whiles a clan o' roosty craws Cangle thegither; The wild bees seek the gairden raws, Weariet wi' heather. Or in the gloamin' douce an' grey The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay; The herd comes linkin' doun the brae; An' by degrees The muckle siller muene maks way Amang the trees. Here aft hae I, wi' sober heart, For meditation sat apairt, When orra loves or kittle art Perplexed my mind; Here socht a balm for ilka smart O' humankind. Here aft, weel neukit by my lane, Wi' Horace, or perhaps Montaigne, The mornin' hours hae come an' gane Abuene my heid-- I wadna gi'en a chucky-stane For a' I'd read. But noo the auld city, street by street, An' winter fu' o' snaw an' sleet, A while shut in my gangrel feet An' goavin' mettle; Noo is the soopit ingle sweet, An' liltin' kettle.