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Stagger ower the riggs
Beneath the cauld win’s lash.
Tak up yir gless
I urge again an’ come,
Soun’ oot yir latest ditty
In guid aul’ Ayrshire brogue gie tongue
Tho’ it be wise or witty.
Relax aul’ frein’ enjoy yirsel’
Mah bonny rhymin’ Billie,
Ah, ye needna keek in
black brou’d glance
For fear o’ Holy Wullie.
He’s gan awa a wee ah hear
Tae face his Aul’ Licht Goad
Nae mair he’ll tramp,
A green- kneed spy,
The cauld Barskimmin’ road.
Nae mair he’ll push his dreepin’ neb
Intae the deals o’ ithers
An’ girnin’ gan tae spill his gree
Amang his Holy Brithers.
Nae mair s’all blushin’ dearies
Afore yon pious fool
Mount up wi’ trimlin herts an lips
The cursed cutty-stool.
Sae let us pray that frae this day
It’s known b’ ev’ry man an’ woman
‘Tho’ aw may gang a kennin’ wrang
Tae step aside is human.’
Aye Rab, an’ sae ye wrote yirsel’
Lang years ago it’s true
We hope an’ pray this verra day
That’s the least o’ whit we do.
Aye Rab, a hunnert years an mair
Hae passed below dear Alba’s sky
But every year mid Janwar win’
Soun’s oot that glorious cry,
Come yin, cam aw tak up yir gless,
Soun’ oot a sang an’ reel
Tae Scotia’s poet raise a toast
In memory o’
Rab Mossgeil.
George
McEwan
Glasgow
October 19, 2006
For W.F. Davidson
Frein’ an’ brither Poet
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