The Maker to Posterity  6487

Far ‘yont amang the years to be,
When a’ we think, an’ a’ we see,
An’ a’ we luve, ‘s been dung ajee
[tab][tab]By time’s rouch shouther,
An’ what was richt and wrang for me
[tab][tab]Lies mangled throu’ther,

It’s possible—it’s hardly mair—
That some ane, ripin’ after lear—
Some auld professor or young heir,
[tab][tab]If still there’s either—
May find an’ read me, an’ be sair
[tab][tab]Perplexed, puir brither!

“What tongue does your auld bookie speak?”
He’ll speir; an I, his mou’ to steik:
“No bein’ fit to write in Greek,
[tab][tab]I wrote in Lallan,
Dear to my heart as the peat-reek,
[tab][tab]Auld as Tantallon.

“Few spak it then, an’ noo there’s nane.
My puir auld sangs lie a’ their lane,
Their sense, that aince was braw an’ plain,
[tab][tab]Tint a’thegither,
Like runes upon a standin’ stane,
[tab][tab]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,
[tab][tab]Ye’re nane sae lucky;
An’ things are mebbe waur than weel
[tab][tab]For you, my buckie.

“The hale concern (baith hens an’ eggs,
Baith books an’ writers, stars an’ clegs)
Noo stachers upon lowsent legs,
[tab][tab]An’ wears awa’;
The tack o’ mankind, near the dregs,
[tab][tab]Rins unco law.

“Your book, that in some braw new tongue
Ye wrote or prentit, preached or sung,
Will still be just a bair, an’ young
[tab][tab]In fame an’ years,
Whan the hale planet’s guts are dung
[tab][tab]About your ears;

“An’ you, sair gruppin’ to a spar
Or whammled wi’ some bleezin’ star,
Cryin’ to ken whaur deil ye are,
[tab][tab]Hame, France, or Flanders—
Whang sindry like a railway car
[tab][tab]An’ flie in danders.”

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