Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/158

134 They ken your name, they ken your tyke,

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'.

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 your Rab, their things o' clay,

Spreid wings o' life.