Oh, for those days that had no doubt,
When I, a simple village laddie,
Sang with much glee the rhyme about
The devil's grave in old 'Kirkcaldy!'
'Some say the de'il's dead,' thus it ran;
I thought it very nice and witty,
So sang, unwitting, when a man,
He'd rise and pay me for my ditty.
Of course, I knew not then how much
He works with men and all their actions—
How all their plans are at a touch
Split into half-a-dozen factions.
Nor had I read those books that teach
The line between the good and evil;
Nor knew I what poor Faust could preach
When in the clutches of the devil.
I sang with little thought of this,
Or any such dim speculations;
And proved that ignorance was bliss
By very candid demonstrations.
He never came to me, nor did
I bother him with my intrusions,
But followed where I wished, and hid
Myself from all his deep illusions.
At last when halfway through my 'teens,
And life became a shade impassioned,
He rose up, full of all his spleen,
Just as my various bents were fashioned.
Then found I, to my grief, that he
Had risen from his grave, to wander,
A very poodle, after me,
To act as sworn and faithful pander.
He seemed at first so very sweet,
So full of nice polite attention,
I could have kissed his very feet,
Like others whom I need not mention.
He led me into many things,
Each very simple, fresh and pleasing,
Yet leaving always after stings,
That at the first were very teasing.
But in a little while they ceased,
And left me to my own enjoyment;
Nor did they come to mar my feast,
Like Banquo at the same employment
Of pale Macbeth; but, if their sting
I felt, true to my human nature,
I bounced and blamed some other thing
In philosophic nomenclature.
Ah, well, I'm rough and bearded now,
And given less to quick impulses;
Nor can I run away and bow
To that which one swift moment dulces.
But still I yearn to have that heart
I had when, yet a simple laddie,
I sang that song with little art
About that grave in old Kirkcaldy.