Margaret Dods
Late Vinter in St. Ronan’s
Nae mair the sign aboon the door
Wi’ passin’ winds is flappin’;
Fish Nellie comes nae as afore
Wi’ nervous chappin’.
The Captain ’s followed Francie Tyrell—
Mind ance he gaed to seek him,
An’ felt your besom shaft play dirl
Doon-by at Cleikum.
Wi’ thrift as great as made you build
To save the window taxin’,
Death closed your e’en when greedy Eild
Cam’ schedule raxin’.
How gladly would we lea’ the Clubs,
“Wildfire” or “Helter Skelter,”
Dicht fae our feet a’ earthly dubs,
Had ye a shelter
Whaur trauchled chiels—“an’ what for no?”
Gin sae it pleased the gods—
Could rest an’ fish a week or so
At Marget Dods’.
’Twould hearten strangers gin they saw
Across some caller loanin’
A wavin’ sign whaur crook an’ a’
Hung auld St. Ronan.
Then haudin’ hard to new-won grace,
Rejectin’ aucht ‘at’s evil,
Ye wouldna thole in sic a place
Dick Tinto’s Deevil,
But send him sornin’ doon the howe
To some tamteen or hottle,
Whaur birselt vratches fain, I trow,
Wad dreep a bottle.
An’ since you’re bye wi’ anger noo,
Send wi’ him something caller—
As muckle’s slock the gizzened mou’
O’ ae damned “Waller.”