He's a deil o' a wean—what ava can he mean?
Lod, he'll ow'r-gang us a' yet, an' that'll be seen;
Here's his spleet-new bit pony left on the door stane,
The heid chow'd away, an' twa legs o' it gane;
An' a' just because it got into his heid
He'd hae ane like the baker's that comes wi' the breid.
Sic a wasterfu' callan'—I firmly believe
That the bump 'hint his lug is as big as my neive.
He first got a barrow to whurl up an' doon,
An' for days after that he was through the hale toon;
He push'd it wheel first up the steps o' the stairs,
He whurl'd it alang a' the taps o' the chairs,
He squeez'd it through a' the strait neuks he could get,
An' when it stuck fast he flew into a pet.
Na, when a' roun' the fire when the forenichts were snell,
He aye made a place for't alang wi' himsel'.
But ae afternoon, an' a gude laugh I had,
He grat to hae't through 'tween the legs o' his dad;
An' his faither, the sulks like a clud on his broo,
Had to striddle an' let the wee sorra whirl't through.
An' lang did he lauch ow'r the trick he had dune,
But an hour after that he was changin' his tune,
For the barrow—an' anxious an' lang did he try—
Wadna break, sae he flung't on the coal-knowe oot-bye.
He next got a hammer, but that was faur waur,
For the first day he knockit a knob aff the draw'r;
The second, he crackit my auld favourite jug,
An' for that, when I gied him a dawd on the lug,
He up wi' the hammer, but sic was his speed,
That in tryin' to hit me he struck his ain heid,
Sae he sat doon, an' after he'd grat his desire,
Flung the hammer to burn at the back o' the fire.
But yesterday, juist, when some faut he could help
Gar't me turn up his hurdies and gie them a skelp,
The dour look cam' down, while he keepit his place,
An', 'Dang ye,' he said, lookin' up in my face;
Losh! my heart gied a loup, for fu' weel did I ken
What he ettled to say had nae 'g' at the en';
Still, I dinna ken hoo he could come by sic word,
For his faither's nae swearer that ever I heard.
I never said wrang was the word he had sain,
For I ken'd it wad just make him say't ow'r again,
But that nicht when he bedded, an' lay like a tap,
An' I sat by the fire wi' his claes in my lap,
I whisper'd tae John in a lown kind o' way,
'Dae ye ken what wee Willie cam' oot wi' the day?'
Sae I tell'd him, but a' that I got was juist 'Tat,
Aulder anes than oor bairn hae a fashion o' that.'
He's a droll wean ava, though, an speaks wi' a twang,
An' like some muirlan' herd has a swag wi' his gang;
Then sae sleeky an' slid when he lays oot his traps
For bawbees to buy candie, aiples, an' snaps;
An' sae sweet wi' the tongue, here's the way he comes on—
'Eh, but mither, you're bonnie, gie's some curran' scone.'
Fegs, when ance he grows up he'll mak' some lassie's e'e
Brichten up like my ain when John pookit at me.
But whiles when I'm sittin' an' thinkin' my lane
I fin' that we're far waur to blame than the wean;
For ye see, when the neebors at nicht daun'er in,
We canna but tell what the callan' has dune;
An' they lauch an' we lauch, while the rogue a' the while
(Though the dirt on his face micht weel cover his smile)
Keeks roun' him sae bardy, then turns his bit back,
Prood, nae doot, at his bein' the hale o' oor crack.
He'll men' though, when ance he grows up an' has mense,
For ye canna expect him to hae muckle sense,
An' weel-behaved weans, wi' their mim, solemn looks,
Are naewhere fa'n in wi' save in bits o' books;
But wha kens, when he comes to be buirdly an' douce,
Wi' his wage comin' in every week to the hoose,
That we'll say to the neebors, wha speak in his praise,
Quate? 'Dear me, the callan was that a' his days.'