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Robert Louis Stevenson - To Charles Baxter
Work rating: Low

OUR Johnie`s deid.  The mair`s the pity!
He`s deid, an` deid o` Aqua-vitae.
O Embro`, you`re a shrunken city,
Noo Johnie`s deid!
Tak hands, an` sing a burial ditty
Ower Johnie`s heid.

To see him was baith drink an` meat,
Gaun linkin` glegly up the street.
He but to rin or tak a seat,
The wee bit body!
Bein` aye unsicken on his feet
Wi` whusky toddy.

To be aye tosh was Johnie`s whim,
There`s nane was better teut than him,
Though whiles his gravit-knot wad clim`
Ahint his ear,
An` whiles he`d buttons oot or in
The less ae mair.

His hair a` lang about his bree,
His tap-lip lang by inches three -
A slockened sort `mon,` to pree
A` sensuality -
A droutly glint was in his e`e
An` personality.

An` day an` nicht, frae daw to daw,
Dink an` perjink an` doucely braw,
Wi` a kind o` Gospel ower a`,
May or October,
Like Peden, followin` the Law
An` no that sober.

Whusky an` he were pack thegether.
Whate`er the hour, whate`er the weather,
John kept himsel` wi` mistened leather
An` kindled spunk.
Wi` him, there was nae askin` whether - 
John was aye drunk.

The auncient heroes gash an` bauld
In the uncanny days of auld,
The task ance fo(u)nd to which th`were called,
Stack stenchly to it.
His life sic noble lives recalled,
Little`s he knew it.

Single an` straucht, he went his way.
He kept the faith an` played the play.
Whusky an` he were man an` may
Whate`er betided.
Bonny in life - in death - this twae
Were no` divided.

An` wow! but John was unco sport.
Whiles he wad smile about the Court
Malvolio-like - whiles snore an` snort
Was heard afar.
The idle winter lads` resort
Was aye John`s bar.

What`s merely humorous or bonny
The Worl` regairds wi` cauld astony.
Drunk men tak` aye mair place than ony;
An` sae, ye see,
The gate was aye ower thrang for Johnie -
Or you an` me.

John micht hae jingled cap an` bells,
Been a braw fule in silks an` pells,
In ane o` the auld worl`s canty hells
Paris or Sodom.
I wadnae had him naething else
But Johnie Adam.

He suffered - as have a` that wan
Eternal memory frae man,
Since e`er the weary worl` began -
Mister or Madam,
Keats or Scots Burns, the Spanish Don
Or Johnie Adam.

We leuch, an` Johnie deid.  An` fegs!
Hoo he had keept his stoiterin` legs
Sae lang`s he did`s a fact that begs
An explanation.
He stachers fifty years - syne plegs
To`s destination.
Source
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