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Robert Louis Stevenson
A Childs Garden of Verses and Underwoods
> I. The Maker to Posterity
Stevenson, Robert Louis
A Childs Garden of Verses and Underwoods.
The Maker to Posterity
yont amang the years to be
When a we think, an a we see,
An a we luve, s been dung ajee
By times rouch shouther,
An what was richt and wrang for me
Lies mangled throuther,
Its possibleits hardly mair
That some ane, ripin after lear
Some auld professor or young heir,
If still theres either
May find an read me, an be sair
Perplexed, puir brither!
What tongue does your auld bookie speak?
Hell spier; an I, his mou to steik:
No bein fit to write in Greek,
I wrote in Lallan,
Dear to my heart as the peat reek,
Auld as Tantallon.
Few spak it then, an noo theres nane.
My puir auld sangs lie a their lane,
Their sense, that aince was braw an plain,
Like runes upon a standin stane
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,
Yere nane sae lucky;
An things are mebbe waur than weel
For you, my buckie.
The hale concern (baith hens an eggs,
Baith books an writers, stars an clegs
Noo stachers upon lowsent legs,
An wears awa;
The tack o mankind, near the dregs,
Rins unco law.
Your book, that in some braw new tongue,
Ye wrote or prentit, preached or sung,
Will still be just a bairn, an young
In fame an years,
Whan the hale planets guts are dung
About your ears;
An you, sair gruppin to a spar
Or whammled wi some bleezing star,
Cryin to ken whaur deil ye are,
Hame, France, or Flanders
Whang sindry like a railway car
An flie in danders.
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