This day begins twa-fifty-ane,
An’ in thae years nae rhymer’s spun
Sic poignant verse an’ comic fun
          As rhyme epistle;
An’ you remain auld Scotia’s son,
          Langside the thistle!

Anither birthday rolls aroun’
An’ a’ the warld shines up its shoon,
While ithers doff their cap and goon
          For their address;
The muse and I are fair worn doun,
          An’ I confess:         

I’ve cut an’ pasted, snecked an’ snippit,
I’ve tried new forms that grasp an’ grippit;
But in the meantime should hae suppit,
          Mair o’ your bree;
Because oor modern verse has slippit,
          South o’ the Cree!

 We’ll never see your like again
Aroun’ the Nith or ither glen,
You are the rarest o’ the men
          Frae this profession,   
That joined the heartstrings tae the pen,
          Without transgression!

Nae doubt dear Rab you’re dust an’ banes
And owre your head are fancy stanes,
But still your legacy remains
          As like nane ither;      
An’ on this day we’re a’ your weans,
          Dear frien’ an’ brither.

William Davidson         January 25, 2010