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!
ponder ance again Fitzhugh
Wha clarifies poetic brew,
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;
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.
frae that seed should we surmise
Hab Simson’s dead?
Somewhaur that piper’s still alive,
But won’t concede?
William Davidson June