Oh, caurnie, whaur’s your rhymers noo?
You yince had poets quite a few,
But noo I look your paper through,
and no’a verse,
Can it be you’ve lost the breed
That jingled cot a wee bit screed?
Are they asleep or are they deid?
whit mak’s them scarce?
But maybe it’s because you’re “dry”,
And no’ a drink to them supply,
That they to ither taverns hie,
and you neglect
And there they sing O’ “Ballochmyle”,”
Or else some place in Erin’s Isle,
And you, forgotten a’ the while,
gets nae respect.
Oh, wha will rise and sing a sang,
And praise you up baith loud and lang,
For wi’ you there’s naething’ wrang-
oh, one thing, yes,
When will your honest, sober folk
Tak’ pity on your bare-faced nock?
They let it staun’ the tempest’s shock
witoot a glass.
The a’e hauf does its very best,
Fechtin’ winds frae east or west,
An tho’ at times it’s backward pressed,
will no’ gi’e in,
Meanwhile, on the sheltered side
The haunds ha’e got a smoother glide,
Waiting not for time nor tide,
aroond they spin.
The two haunds on the northern face
Ha’e found a way to set the pace,
For lockit in a fond embrace
the ‘oors flee past,
The wee yin, noo she’s got a mate,
Cars’oors flee by at sic a rate,
She’s able now tae change the date,
an’ jook the blast.
And Archie Leitch, who tols the bell,
How he kens when I canna tell,
Unless the callant’s bocht himsel’
a pocket ben.
No, Archie keep your wee watch right,
Tak’ care it’s no’ rowed up too ticht,
Or we’ll miss some ‘oors sleep some night
awaitin’ ten.
I hope I havena’ raisen your ire
By criticisin’ yor auld spire,
Whar each face ca’s the ither liar
behint their back,
For I set oot withoot intention
Ony fan’ts o’ yours tae mention,
But maybe noo some fists are clenchin’
my jaw tae smack.
So, for the present, that’s enough:
You, for the warld, I widna’ huff;
I’ll balance this wi’praisin’ stuff
when I come back
Kenneth Robertson
K. Herald 6 April 1958