Jock Buchan Poem by Alexander Anderson

I still min' Jock Buchan, the lang gawkie fule,
He was nearly man muckle though still at the schule,
While I was a laddie the penny book in,
Just trying for knowledge, though sweer to begin.


I see him the noo, lang, ungainly, uncouth,
Wi' red flabby cheeks an' a slaverin' mooth,
Runnin' through the schule green wi' a hap, step, and jump,
His bare waukit heels on the stanes playin' dump.


He was sent to the schule by his weel-meanin' fowk,
Wha thocht that their puir silly innocent gowk
Wad be far better there, gettin' sense in his croon,
Than rinnin' stravaigin' through a' the hale toon.


He read in the Testament a' by himsel',
An O what a treat when he started to spell;
For he whurr'd, an' the 'r's' in his throat wad dispute,
As if fechtin' for wha wad be first to get oot.


When he started to spell he wad gie a bit hoast,
Then the laighmost clear button his waiskit could boast
He wad grup, an' unbutton, an' button, an' spell,
Makin' words o' six letters as lang as himsel'.


I hae often inspeckit wi' roun' glow'rin' e'en,
That aul' button-hole where nae thread could be seen;
Tryin', bairn-like, to fin' oot, but aye a' in vain,
Some link atween it an' his ain silly brain.


When the schule scail'd at nicht Jock was aye the first oot,
For this was a hobby he carried aboot;
But, in justice to him an' his hobby, we ken
That mony a dafter's amang wiser men.


When the simmer time cam', bringin' bools o' a' hues—
The piggies, the sprecklies, the blue waterloos—
Tam's fancy was aye for a piggie weel burn'd
(He aye ca'd them glaizies), a' ithers he spurn'd.


He wad question me aft, in his ain thowless way,
'Sand-y hif ye ony gul-azies the day?'
An' if I had ane that attrackit his e'e,
He wad make for a barter, an' offer me three.


Three aul' common piggies, o' dull, dirty white,
Nae wunner he wanted them oot o' his sight;
A' was gowd that to him had a glitter, an' fain,
At that time, I maun own, his belief was my ain.


There was ae thing 'bout Jock I ne'er could understan';
He wad come to me whiles, haudin' oot his lang han',
Then kick up his heels wi' a flourish, an' say,
'Ah, ye didna, ye miss'd it,' an' then rin away.


What his 'en was for this was a riddle to me,
An' will be, I doubt, till the day that I dee;
But if ony aul' schulemate could solve me the same,
I wad sen' him an autograph letter to frame.


When Jock ran an erran', wi' some easy task,
He wad knock at the door, an' then solemnly ask—
'Mistress, d'ye keep ony cats in the hoose?'
If the answer was 'No,' he wad enter fu' croose.


To explain this odd question: When he was a wean
He chackit his big tae wi' some muckle stane,
An', sittin' ae nicht at the fire wi't a' bare,
Save a slice o' fat bacon for healin' the sair,


The cat, that was purrin' upon the cheekstane,
Thocht into hersel' that a feast was her ain,
Made a spring, took the bacon, but left the big tae,
An' alang wi't a hate for her kin' to this day.


I hae seen Jock but ance since I left that aul' schule,
An' he still was the same fozie, lang-leggit fule,
That I, half-forgettin', stood waitin' to hear
A deman' for gul-azies, or ithers as queer.


When I raise to come oot, for the sake o' langsyne,
I gie'd him some bawbees to keep me in min';
He drawl'd oot his thanks wi' his aul' usual spell,
Push'd me back from the chair, an' sat doon in't himsel'.


Weel, to come to an end, as I scribbled this rhyme,
Came a langin' to see him just ae ither time;
So I think, ere the trees tak' their vesture o' broon,
I maun gang an' see Jock in his ain native toon.