Oor Johnnie Poem by Alexander Anderson

What lauchs o'love we hae at nicht wi' Johnnie, our wee wean,
As he wamples aff his mither's knee to row on the hearth-stane;
An' there he spurles wi' wee fat legs, an' mum'les in his glee,
Sweet gems frae his ain authors—Greek an' Hebrew unto me.


Then at anither thocht he crawls to grup me by the tae,
But when he tries to pu' me doon the bauchle comes away;
An' owre he rows upon his back, while in his sweet blue een
The shadow o' a tear comes up, half frichten'd to be seen.


Then, if I tak' him on my knee, he's no a moment there
Until he pooks my beard, an' rows his fingers in my hair;
Pu's at the paper that I read, his wee lips shaped to spell,
Then rives a column off, an' starts an' goo-goos on himsel'.


I whiles think, as I watch his pranks through a' the hale forenicht,
That he'll turn out some great man yet, to fill us wi' delicht;
For big things only tak' his e'e, and soothes his every whim;
What pleases ither weans at ance, gets thraws an' glooms frae him.


He cares na for the string o' pirns we hing aboot his neck;
The ase-hole gets his rattle, an' his yellow Jumpin'-Jeck;
He knocks his horse's head in twa, and pu's away the tail,
Then flings the rest, to hear a splash, richt in the water pail.


But lay the tangs across his legs, or sic unhandy tool,
Or let him grup the poker, or the kettle by the bool,
Then hoo he gurrs an' kicks until he raises sic a drouth,
That for ae hoor he fechts to get the fender in his mouth.


A stick's a michty prize to him, if twice as lang's himsel';
A wood sword gars him brichten up, an' try to cut an' fell;
Gude keep him frae the fife an' drum, when he grows braid an' stark—
I wadna like tae see him list tae dae sic bluidy wark.


But far afore thae things, an' what can please him best ava,
Is breakin' ae auld bottle wi' anither perfect sma'.
This wark's an unco treat to him, an' mak's him hotch wi' glee,
An' aye at every smash he mak's he lauchs an' looks at me.


I think frae this that he'll turn oot some great teetotal han',
An' wear a gowd-bespangled bib, and head the Templar van—
Break a' the bottles labell'd Bass, the gill stoups bash and clour;
Pu' doon an' split the signs, an' mak the big-wamed landlords sour.


But while I'm biggin' up my dreams the 'san' man' comes at last,
An' gars him glow'r an' rub his een, then steek them firm an' fast;
He tottles ow'r sae deep an' soun' that mak' what noise ye can
It canna steer or wauken up oor sairly tired wee man.


The poker tum'les frae his han' an' fa's upon my taes,
His wee head wabbles up an' doon as he gets aff his claes—
There, noo, a mither's kiss has seal'd the saft sleep on his e'e,
But mornin' licht 'ill bring again wee Johnnie back to me.