Jeemsie Miller Poem by Violet Jacob

THERE'S some that mak themsels a name
Wi preachin, business, or a gemme,
There's some wi drink hae gotten fame
An 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 haed his sate
Was bent near dooble;
An gin yon wud haed na been strang
It haedna held oor Jeemsie lang,
He haed been landit wi a bang,
An there'd been trouble.
Ye could but mind, to see his face,
The reid muin glowerin on the place,
Nae man haed e'er sic muckle space
To haud his bunnet:
An ower yon bunnet on his brou,
Set cockit up ower Jeemsie's pow,
There waggit, reid as lichtit tow,
The toorie on it.
An Jeemsie's poke was brawly lined,
There wisna mony couldna finnd
His cantie hoosie i' the wynd,
'The Salutation':
For there ye'd get, wi sang an clink,
What some ca'd comfort, wi a wink,
An 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 haed laid,
He wadna spare o't,
For, happit whaur it wisna 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 wisna fou-na, na!
A wee thing pleasant-that was a',
An drivin canny)
Fegs! he cam hurlin ower the front
An struck the road wi sic a dunt,
Ye'd thocht the causey got the brunt
An no the mannie!
Aweel, it was his hin'maist drive,
Aifter yon clour he couldna thrive,
For twa pairts deid, an ane alive,
His billies foond him:
An, bedded then, puir Jeemsie lays
An a' the nicht an 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 disgraced,
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,
Fou suin they got the writer in
His mind to settle;
An O their loss! sae sair they felt it
To a' the toon wi tears they telt it,
Their duil for Jeemsie wad hae meltit
A hert o metal!
Puir Jeemsie dee'd. In a' their braws
The faimly cam as black as craws,
Men, wifes, an weans wi their maws
That scarce could toddle!
They grat-an they haed cause to greet;
The wull was read that garred them meet-
The U. P. Kirk, juist up the street,
Got ilka bodle!