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Poem by Robert Nicoll


The Smith


OUR Burn-the-wind was stout and strang,
    His stature mounted ellwands twa,
His grip was like a smiddy vice,
    And he could gi'e a fearfu' thraw.
At hammerin' airn he was gude,
    A' kinds o' tacklepot or pan
Or gun, or swordbe't make or mend
    Clink, clinkour smith he was the man.

A' things o' airn kind he made
    As weel as hand o' man could do;
And he could court a bonnie lass,
    And drink a reaming coggie too.
Frae side to side, the clachan o'er
    Ilk gudewife's bottle he had pree'd,
And ilka lass had touzled weel:
    The smith at wooin' aye can speed!

Be't late or soonor auld or new
    The smith the feck o' a' things kend,
And if a story wasna right,
    A story he could mak or mend!
He was a perfect knowledge-box
    An oracle to great and sma'
And fifty law-pleas he had lost,
    He was sae weel acquaint wi' law!

He naigs could shoe, and sangs could sing,
    And say a grace upon a pinch;
Could lick a loon at tryst or fair
    A man was trusty every inch!
He ruled the roastour Burn-the-wind
    Be he at home, be he a-field
In love, or drink, or lear, or wark,
    Vow! but he was a famous chield!



Robert Nicoll


Robert Nicoll's other poems:
  1. We'll A' Go Pu' the Heather
  2. The Provost
  3. Bonnie Bessie Lee
  4. Fiddler Johnnie
  5. The Ha' Bible


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