Blythe Willie Stewart Poem by Alexander Anderson

I'm growin' auld, an' no' sae yauld,
Nor yet sae gleg as I ha'e been;
But whiles, when I am a' my lane,
I licht my pipe an' steek my een.


Then in a crack auld things come back—
Auld things I canna weel forget;
An' in my ear at ance I hear
Blithe Willie Stewart's fiddle yet.


O, weel could Willie Stewart play,
An' jig his elbow gleg an' fell—
The best bow han' in a' Scotlan',
He aften tauld me sae himsel'.


An' wha like him could start a reel,
Or country dance in barn or ha'?
It weel was kent through a' the toon
That Willie Stewart beat them a'.


What nichts we had in Willie's hoose
When by the fire we gathered roun',
When he spak' oot fu' sharp an' croose—
'Nellie, come rax the fiddle doon.'


An' he would gi'e the bow a screw,
An' then, wi' mony a jink an' sweep,
Play till we daun'ered to oor beds
To hear him playin' in' our sleep.


He learnt us a', forbye, to dance,
For nane could teach like him ava';
His gleg blue een would gi'e a glance
Alang the couples in a raw.


An' 'Move away,' he cried, an' laid
The bow upon the fiddle strings;
An, though I ha'e to say't mysel',
We did some maist surprisin' things.


I min' a waddin' I was at,
A dozen guid Scotch miles away;
I danced until they a' did glowre,
An' whisper—'Whaur does he come frae?'


I think they thocht that I had come
Across the seas frae foreign lan's,
Till ane came up and said—'I see
Ye've been through Willie Stewart's han's.'


He hasna left his like ahin',
An' wha are they that tak' his place?
Ane wan'ered half a mile frae hame,
Anither lost his fiddle-case.


They can do nocht but scart an' scrape
Among the strings like ony hen;
To hear them at it is eneuch
To pit what hair ane has on en'.


I carena for your foreign airs
Wi' names that break your jaws to speak;
Wi' a' their quavers an' their slides,
They turn my heart to hear their squeak.


But gi'e me Willie at his best,
His brain clear wi' a glass or twa;
An' I wad wager half a croon
That he wad fairly ding them a'.


I'm growin' auld, an' no' sae yauld,
An' gettin' stiff aboot the knee;
An' whiles I think a foursome reel
Wad be the very death o' me.


But if blithe Willie could come back
To life the bow and play the reel—
Say 'Lady Mary Ramsay'—fegs!
I think I yet could shake my heel.


Auld Willie's gane wi' a' his fun,
The fate o' men an' human things;
His fiddle's hingin' on the wa',
An' wha is left to touch its strings?


The best bow han' in a' the lan'
Is kirkyaird dust, as we maun be;
But still we'll min' the sweet langsyne,
An' Willie wi' his gleg blue ce.