TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN

(Whan the dear doctor, dear to a',
Was still amang us bere 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 Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees

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 your name, they ken your tyke,
They ken the honey from your byke;
But mebbe after a' your fyke,

(The truth to tell)

It's just your honest Rab they like,
An' no yoursel'.

As at the gowff, some canny play'r
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:

Sae in the game we writers play,
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.

Ye scarce deserved it, I'm afraid -
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'.

Your e'e was gleg, your fingers dink;
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!

Sinsyne, whaure'er your fortune lay
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.

TO DR. JOHN BROWN

O sir, the gods are kind indeed,
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.

For though, whaure'er yoursel' may be,
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!

And as the auld-farrand hero sees
In Hell a bogle Hercules,

Pit there the lesser deid to please,
While he himsel'

Dwalls wi' the muckle gods at ease
Far raised frae hell:

Sae the true Rabbie far has gane
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.

XVI

T's an owercome sooth for age an' youth
And it brooks wi' nae denial,

That the dearest friends are the auldest friends
And the young are just on trial.

There's a rival bauld wi' young an' auld
And it's him that has bereft me;

For the sürest friends are the auldest friends
And the maist o' mines hae left me.

There are kind hearts still, for friends to fill
And fools to take and break them;

But the nearest friends are the auldest friends
And the grave's the place to seek them.

BOOK III

BEING

SONGS OF TRAVEL AND OTHER VERSES

Written principally in the South Seas, 1888-1894