The Auld Beggar Poem by Robert Anderson

The Auld Beggar



I met the auld man, wid his starv'd grey cur near him,
The blast owre the mountain blew cauld i' the vale;
Nae heame to receive him, few strange fwok to hear him,
And thin wer his patch'd duds, he mickle did ail:
A tear dimm'd his e'e, his feace furrow'd by sorrow,
Seem'd to say, he frae whope nit ae comfort cud borrow,
And sad was the beggarman's teale.

`Behold,' he cried, seeghing, `the spwort of false fortune!
`The peer wretched outcast, the beggar you see,
`Yence boasted o' wealth, but the warl is uncertain,
`And friens o' my youth smeyle nae langer on me:
`I's the last o' the flock, my weyfe Ann for Heaven left me,
`Of my only lad, Tim, accurst war neist bereft me;
`My yage's suppwort lang was he!

`Yence in the proud city, I smeyl'd amang plenty,
`Frae east and frae west, monie a vessel then bore
`To me the rich cargo, to me the feyne dainty,
`And the peer hungry bodies still shar'd of my store;
`A storm sunk my shippen, by false friens surrounded,
`The laugh o' the girt fwok, this meade me confounded,
`Ilk prospec for iver was o'er!

`I creep owre the mountains, but meast in the vallies,
`And wi' my fond dog share a crust at the duir;
`I shun the girt fwok, and ilk house leyke a palace,
`For sweetest to me is the meyte frae the puir:
`At neet, when on strae wi' my faithfu' dog lyin,
`I thank him that meade me, for what I's enjoying;
`His promise I whope to secure.''

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