Kitt Craffet Poem by Robert Anderson

Isaac Crosset, o' Shawk, a feyne heed--sten hes cutten
And just setten't up owr anent the kurk en;
A chubby--feac'd angel o'top on't they've putten,
And varses, as gud as e'er com frae a pen:
It's for auld Kit Craffet, our wordy wise neybor,
God rest him! a better man ne'er wore a head;
He's nit left his fellow thro' aw the heale county,
And monie peer fwok are in want, now he's dead.

I meynd when at schuil, a reet top scholar was he;
Of lakin or rampin nae nwotion had he,
But nar the auld thworn he wad sit and keep mwosin,
And caw'd it a sin just to kill a peer flee:
A penny he never let rest in his pocket,
But gev't to the furst beggar body he met;
Then at kurk he cud follow the priest thro' the sarvice,
And as for a tribble he niver was bet.

Tho' he wan seebem belts lang afwore he was twenty,
And in Scealeby meedow oft tuik off the baw,
Yet he kent aw the beyble, algebra, Josephus,
And capp'd the priest, maister, exciseman and aw.
He cud talk about battles, balloons, burnin mountains,
And wars, till baith young and auld trimmel'd for fear,
Then he'd tell how they us'd the ``peer West Indie negers.''
And stamp wid his fit, aye, and drop monie a tear.


When he read about parliments, pleaces, and changes,
He flang by the paper, and cried, ``Silly stuff!
The Outs wad be in, and the Ins rob their country,
They're nit aw together worth ae pinch o' snuff!''
His creed was--Be statesmen but just, Britons loyal,
And lang as our shippen reyde maisters at sea,
We'll laugh at the puffin o' vain Bonnyparty,
As suin may he conquer the deevil as we.

Then when onie neybor was fash'd by the turnies,
Oh, it meade him happy if he cud be bail!
Twea--thurds of his income he gev away yearly,
And actually tuik peer Tom Linton frae jail.
He was yence cross'd in luive by a guid--for--nought hussey,
But if onie lass by her sweetheart was wrang'd,
He wad give her guid counsel, and lecture the fellow,
And oft did he wish aw sec skeybels were hang'd.

He cud mek pills and plaisters as weel as our doctor,
And cure cholic, aga, and jaunice forby;
As for greece, or the glanders, red watter, or fellen,
Nin o' them was leyke him, amang naigs or kye:
What, he talk'd to the bishop about agriculture,
And yence went to Plymouth to see the grand fleet;
As for the brave sailors trail'd off by the press--gangs,
``Od die them!'' he said, ``that can never be reet!''

He ne'er was a drinker, a swearer, a feghter,
A cocker, a gamler, a fop, or a fuil;
But left this sad warl just at threescwore and seebem,
I' the clay house his granfadder built wi' the schuil.
Oh! monie a saut tear will be shed ev'ry Sunday,
In readin the varses they've stuck on his steane;
'Till watters run up bank, and trees they grow
down bank,
We never can luik on his marrow agean!