I sit transfixed this summer eve

While listening tae the houlet grieve;

Just then, the mavis taks her leave,

          She’s such a toff;

The far horizon finds reprieve

          As day nods off!

I ponder ance again Fitzhugh

Wha clarifies poetic brew,

He gies the Habbie auld and new

          Its rightfu’ place,

And still it sits high on the pew

          Wi’ style and grace!

Some nichts my muse can hardly blink

And my auld pen is leakin’ ink,

Then Ramsay’s verse just gies a clink

          A subtle sneck;

As Hamilton taks me tae the brink

          Wi’ Bonnie Heck!

Young Fergusson is bold and couth

‘Leith Races’ is a work o’ youth,

His form is fresh, endowed wi’ truth

          O’ daily life!

That verse it gies me sic a drouth

          I feel the strife.

But Rantin’ Rabbie lights the way

And a’ that scribe, are in dismay,

For maist—it’s owre steep a brae

          And sae like death;

His rhyme and measure in array

          Wad stap your breath.

Still, R.L.S. leads quite a charge

And mony-a-ane is still at large,

McEwan and Goodall baith can forge

          A verse or twae;

And when Dave Purdie maks a surge

          He’ll save the day.

Fitzhugh explains its pedigree

Which a’ began at Sempill’s tree

And since that day we’re on a spree

          Tae grow that seed;

The Piper O’ Kilbarchan’s free

          But is he dead?

Since Sempill’s birth in ninety-five

Four centuries o’ Habbie thrive.

So frae that seed should we surmise

          Hab Simson’s dead?

Somewhaur that piper’s still alive,

          But won’t concede?

William Davidson         June 21, 2010