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The Boy's September
Walter Wingate

Click here to listen to this in Real Audio read by Marilyn Wright

Whase wheat was the ripest he brawly could tell,
And lang ere a heuk had been laid to the crap;
He sampled the neeps, wi' the best for himsel',
And the warst for his butty, kee-vee at the slap.
The black-stackit, weel teuched bean was his joy,
To pouch at the dark'nin', and scoor for the yett;
It wasna the beans but the risk o' the ploy,
And the nearer to catchin' the sweeter they e't.
He kent whaur the thistle had hoddin his cheese
When his weel-huakit gully had strippit the jags;
He speer't na what skep was expeckin' the bees
That he eased o' the burden that wechtit their bags.
For the blaeberry law, and the rasp in the den,
He never mislippen't the time o' the year;
And ye kent when he gaed to the hazelwood glen,
Frae his new-cuttit staff and his scarts frae the brier.
The hemlock's toom shank was a gun to his haun'
To pock Willie's nose wi' a btt'ry of haws;
And he slang tattie plooms frae the end o' a whaun,
To fricht the bit rabbits, and bother the craws.
He learned the red rowan the dervish's skip
On his faither's auld pipe, wi' a preen for a leg;
And he keepit the kittly wee seeds o' the hip
To pap 'tween the shouthers o' Leezie and Meg.
And his fechts in the stooks, wi' his cheek and his brow
War-paintit wi' bram'le! - But there let me en', -
It's aften I won'er if laddies enoo
Ken hauf o' the fun that September was then!  

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