Plague tak' his auld grannie, wha brocht frae the toon
That whussle, an' gie'd him't to deave us wi' soun';
For frae mornin' till nicht it's a wheeple an' skirl,
Till my lugs at sic music dae naething but dirl.
But he wheedled her ow'r—'od, he kens, the wee limb,
She wad bring, at his beck, a hale hoosefu' to him—
He's ca'd for her ain man, noo in his lang hame,
Sae nae wunner she tak's to the bairn an' his name.
That nicht when she brocht it, his heart gie'd a loup,
An' though in his first sleep he sat up on his dowp,
Took it into his han', an' he blew wi' sic micht,
That she sat by his bedside an' skreigh'd wi' delicht.
An' aye as he tootled, a prood sleekit smile
Lay on his bit face, her ain safter the while,
An' she half-turn'd her heid as she hearken'd to me—
'Jean, that bairn has the same cheerie twirl o' his e'e.'
But since thaun, whaten wark he's had oot in the street,
Tootlin' roun' a' the carts that he happen's to meet,
Or stan'in' for hoors wi' the pigman, big Jock,
As if hired to gie music to draw oot the folk;
But Jock, kindly body, for daein' the same,
Gie'd him that jug ye see hingin' there wi' his name;
An' richt prood was he when he cam' hame to tell,
Haudin' 't oot in his glee an airm's length frae himsel'.
But ae Sabbath day, an' my cheek still will burn,
In bounced Mrs Rae, wi' her quick kin' o' turn,
An' she says, 'Dae ye ken that your bairn—what a sin!—
Is oot-by wi' his whussle?—ye should keep him in.'
But I thocht for awee, an' says I, 'Mrs Rae,
The wean's but a wean, an' ye've naething to say;
For we a' ken your Tam, wha's sae sleekit an' sly,
Was seen ance at the bools when the kirk folk gaed by.'
I was mad at the time, but I gaed my ways oot,
In time just to hear his last flourish an' toot;
I never loot on, though, but waved wi' my han',
An' cried, 'Willie, come in to your dinner, my man.'
Sae he cam' slippin' in; ay, an' wad ye believe?
The brat had the whussle stuck up his coat-sleeve.
But I sune took it doun, an', for siccan mishap,
Made his hurdies grow closer acqwaunt wi' the strap.
His faither, wha scarce can ken Bonnie Dundee
Frae the solemn Auld Hunner, says aften to me—
'Jean, that bairn 'ill turn oot a musicianer yet,
For ye see weel eneuch that his mooth has the set
For playin' the whussle, the bugle, an' a'
Thae ither twirl'd things that they finger an' blaw;
Faith! wha kens but his name 'ill yet spread far and wide,
While we'll no can conceal frae the neebors oor pride?'
I aye shake my heid, though I think sae mysel',
For though steerin' he's gleg i' th' uptak' an' fell;
An' for music—d'ye ken that he even maun keep
His whussle in min', an' blaw on't in his sleep?
An' whiles when I wauken an' catch him at this,
'Od, I cuddle him closer, an' gie him a kiss;
While my heart swalls within me, an' grows unco fain,
To think that I hae sic a musical wean.
They may talk o' their great Paganini, an' sing
Aboot what he could dae just on ae fiddle string,
But for me, when I see my ain bairnie oot-by
Gaun sidy for sidy wi' ane just as sly,
Keeping time on an auld roosted tray to his toots,
Like twa Lilliput sergeants sent oot for recruits,
Losh, I fin' that his wheeples are dearer to me
Than a' their fine twirls that they fetch ow'r the sea.