Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894). A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods. 1913.
I. The Maker to Posterity
F
When a’ we think, an’ a’ we see,
An’ a’ we luve, ’s been dung ajee
By time’s rouch shouther,
An’ what was richt and wrang for me
Lies mangled throu’ther,
It’s possible—it’s hardly mair—
That some ane, ripin’ after lear—
Some auld professor or young heir,
If still there’s either—
May find an’ read me, an’ be sair
Perplexed, puir brither!
He’ll spier; an’ I, his mou to steik:
“No bein’ fit to write in Greek,
I wrote in Lallan,
Dear to my heart as the peat reek,
Auld as Tantallon.
My puir auld sangs lie a’ their lane,
Their sense, that aince was braw an’ plain,
Tint a’thegether,
Like runes upon a standin’ stane
Amang the heather.
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.
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.
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;
Or whammled wi’ some bleezing’ star,
Cryin’ to ken whaur deil ye are,
Hame, France, or Flanders—
Whang sindry like a railway car
An’ flie in danders.”