Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/102

78 What tongue does your auld bookie speak?"

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.

Few spak it than, a' noo there's nane.

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.

But think not you the brae to speel;

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.