Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894). A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods. 1913.
XV. To Doctor John Brown
(Whan the dear doctor, dear to a’,
Was still amang us here belaw,
I set my pipes his praise to blaw
Wi’ a’ my speerit;
But noo, Dear Doctor! he’s awa’,
An’ ne’er can hear it.)
By a’ the various river-Dee’s,
In Mars and Manors ’yont the seas
Or here at hame,
Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,
They ken your name.
They ken the honey from your byke;
But mebbe after a’ your fyke,
(The trüth to tell)
It’s just your honest Rab they like,
An’ no yoursel’.
Should tee a common ba’ wi’ care—
Should flourish and deleever fair
His souple shintie—
An’ the ba’ rise into the air,
A leevin’ lintie:
There comes to some a bonny day,
When a dear ferlie shall repay
Their years o’ strife,
An’ like you Rab, their things o’ clay
Spreid wings o’ life.
You that had never learned the trade,
But just some idle mornin’ strayed
Into the schüle,
An’ picked the fiddle up an’ played
Like Neil himsel’.
Ye didnae fash yoursel’ to think,
But wove, as fast as puss can link,
Your denty wab:—
Ye stapped your pen into the ink,
An’ there was Rab!
By dowie den, by canty brae,
Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day,
Rab was aye wi’ ye;
An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way
Were blithe to see ye.
An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid,
That for a wee bit clarkit screed
Sae weel reward ye,
An’ lend—puir Rabbie bein’ deid—
His ghaist to guard ye.
We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee,
An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to see
Wi’ gladsome caper:
The bogle of a bogle, he—
A ghaist o’ paper!
In Hell a bogle Hercules,
Pit there the lessen deid to please,
While he himsel’
Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at ease
Far raised frae hell:
On kindlier business o’ his ain
Wi’ aulder frien’s; an’ his breist-bane
An’ stumpie tailie,
He birstles at a new hearth stane
By James and Ailie.