| (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’, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| (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— | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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:— | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| Rab was aye wi’ ye; | |
| An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way | |
| Were blithe to see ye. | |
| |
| O sir, the gods are kind indeed, | |
| An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid, | 50 |
| 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 yousel’ may be, | 55 |
| 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! | 60 |
| |
| And as the auld-farrand hero sees | |
| In Hell a bogle Hercules, | |
| Pit there the lessen deid to please, | |
| While he himsel’ | |
| Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at ease | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| He birstles at a new hearth stane | |
| By James and Ailie. | |
