Jeemsie Miller

There's some that mak' themsels a name     Wi' preachin', business, or a game,     There's some wi' drink hae gotten fame         And some wi' siller:     I kent a man got glory cheap,     For nane frae him their een could keep,     Losh! he was shapit like a neep,         Was Jeemsie Miller!     When he gaed drivin' doon the street     Wi' cairt an' sheltie, a' complete,     The plankie whaur he had his seat         Was bent near double;     And gin yon wood had na been strang     It hadna held oor Jeemsie lang,     He had been landit wi' a bang,         And there'd been trouble.     Ye could but mind, to see his face,     The reid mune glowerin' on the place,     Nae man had e'er sic muckle space         To haud his bonnet:     An owre yon bonnet on his brow,     Set cockit up owre Jeemsie's pow,     There waggit, reid as lichtit tow,         The toorie on it.     And Jeemsie's poke was brawly lined,     There wasna mony couldna' find     His cantie hoosie i' the wynd,         "The Salutation":     For there ye'd get, wi' sang and clink,     What some ca'd comfort, wi' a wink,     And some that didna care for drink         Wad ca' damnation!     But dinna think, altho' he made     Sae grand a profit o' his trade,     An' muckle i' the bank had laid,         He wadna spare o't,     For, happit whaur it wasna seen,     He'd aye a dram in his machine,     An' never did he meet a freen'         But got a share o't.     Ae day he let the sheltie fa'     (Whisht, sirs! he wasna' fou - na, na!     A wee thing pleasant - that was a',         An' drivin' canny)     Fegs! he cam' hurlin' owre the front     An' struck the road wi' sic a dunt,     Ye'd thocht the causey got the brunt         And no the mannie!     Aweel, it was his hin'most drive,     Aifter yon clour he couldna thrive,     For twa pairts deid, an' ane alive,         His billies foond him:     And, bedded then, puir Jeemsie lay,     And a' the nicht and a' the day     Relations cam' to greet an' pray         An' gaither roond him.     Said Jeemsie, "Cousins, gie's a pen,     Awa' an' bring the writer ben,     What I hae spent wi' sinfu' men         I weel regret it;     In daith I'm sweir to be disgrac't,     I've plenty left forby my waste,     An them that I've negleckit maist         It's them'll get it."     It was a sicht to see them rin     To save him frae the sense o' sin,     Fu' sune they got the writer in         His mind to settle;     And O their loss! sae sair they felt it     To a' the toon wi' tears they tell't it,     Their dule for Jeemsie wad hae meltit         A he'rt o' metal!     Puir Jeemsie dee'd. In a' their braws     The faim'ly cam' as black as craws,     Men, wifes, an' weans wi' their mamas         That scarce could toddle!     They grat - an' they had cause to greet;     The wull was read that garred them meet -     The U. P. Kirk, just up the street,         Got ilka bodle!