Poetry Archives

A barefoot boy I went to school
          To save a cobbler’s fee,
For though the porridge pot was full
          A frugal folk were we;
We baked our bannocks, spun our wool,
          And counted each bawbee.

We reft our living from the soil,
          And I was shieling bred;
My father’s hands were warped with toil,
          And crooked with grace he said.
My mother made the kettle boil
          As spinning wheel she fed.

My granny smoked a pipe of clay,
          And yammered of her youth;
The hairs upon her chin were grey,
          She had a single tooth;
Her mutch was grimed, I grieve to say,
          For I would speak the truth.

You of your ancestry may boast,—
          Well, here I brag of mine;
For if there is a heaven host
          I hope they’ll be in line:
My dad with collie at his heel
          In plaid of tartan stripe;
My mammie with her spinning wheel,
          My granny with her pipe.