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' tackle—pot or pan—
Or gun, or sword—be't make or mend—
    Clink, clink—our 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 soon—or 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 roast—our 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!