Bauld Robin Ford, frae Glasgow toon,
Cam' here an' spent a nicht wi' me;
An' wow, he is an unco chield,
An' fu' o' meikle fun an' glee.
He tauld us stories till the tears
Cam' rinnin' owre oor cheeks fu' clear;
But aye I wussed atween each lauch,
That Sandy Murdoch had been here.
He sang his ain bit cantie sangs,
The lilts that tak' your heart alang,
An' what wi' ither things, I wat,
Oor lungs were keepit unco thrang.
We sat an' smokit, knee to knee,
An' meikle we had baith to speir;
But aye I wussed, atween each puff,
That Sandy Murdoch had been here.
We crackit on until the nicht
Took thochts on giein' twal' a ca';
But what cared we aboot the clocks—
Let clocks, I say, gang to the wa'—
Come, Robin, crack anither joke,
Or spin some story, auld an' queer;
But, losh, I tell ye ance again,
I wish that Murdoch had been here.
O, Sandy is a sturdy chield,
Wi' honest face an' swarthy broo,
An' weel he woos the Nine that sit
Upon the hill that poets view.
I wuss him health an' strength to sing
Till he be fourscore years an' mair,
Wi' wreaths aboot his heid to hide
Time's fingers when they wan'er there.
So, Robin, let us fill oor pipes,
An' tak' anither hearty blaw,
But first let Sandy Murdoch ken
The wuss that's shared between us twa.
May aye his heart be hale an' green,
An' aye the Muse beside him gang,
To touch him when he lifts his heid
To strike the strings o' sturdy sang.
An', Robin, when ye gang awa',
To toil within the busy toon,
If, when your heart begins to loup,
An' cry oot, 'Robin start an' croon,'
Then think upon the simmer licht
That lies in Crawick's bonnie glen,
An' gie's a hame-spun, couthie lilt,
For weel it's worthy o't, ye ken.
Fareweel—an' maun we say fareweel?
I doot it—time, an' tide, an' trains,
They winna wait, do what ye may—
They only lauch at a' your pains.
Fareweel, but min' that saxty miles
Is nocht to gi'e ye ony fear;
An' so you'll surely come again,
But first send Sandy Murdoch here.