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Classic and Contemporary Poetry


UNDERWOODS: BOOK 2: 10. THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Poet Analysis

First Line: DEAR THAMSON CLASS, WHAURE'ER I GANG
Last Line: HAE! THERE'S YOUR SONNET!

Dear Thamson class, whaure'er I gang
It aye comes ower me wi' a spang:
@3'Lordsake! they Thamson lads -- (deil hang
Or else Lord mend them!) --
An' that wanchancy annual sang
I ne'er can send them!'@1

Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,
My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;
Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke
To find a rhyme t' ye;
Pleased -- although mebbe no pleased-like --
To gie my time t'ye.

@3'Weel@1,' an' says you, wi' heavin' breist,
@3'Sae far, sae guid, but what's the neist?
Yearly we gaither to the feast,
A' hopefu' men --
Yearly we skelloch "Hang the beast --
Nae sang again!" '@1

My lads, an' what am I to say?
Ye shuurely ken the Muse's way:
Yestreen, as gleg's a tyke -- the day,
Thrawn like a cuddy:
Her conduc', that to her's a play,
Deith to a body.

Aft whan I sat an' made my mane,
Aft whan I laboured burd-alane
Fishin' for rhymes an' finding' nane,
Or nane were fit for ye --
Ye judged me cauld's a chucky stane --
No car'n' a bit for ye!

But saw ye ne'er some pingein' bairn
As weak as a pitaty-par'n' --
Less used wi' guidin' horse-shoe airn
Than steerin' crowdie --
Packed aff his lane, by moss an' cairn,
To ca' the howdie.

Wae's me, for the puir callant than!
He wambles like a poke o' bran,
An' the lowse rein, as hard's he can,
Pu's, trem'lin' handit;
Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan'
Behauld him landit.

Sick-like -- I awn the weary fac' --
Whan on my Muse the gate I tak,
An' see her gleed e'e raxin' back
To keek ahint her; --
To me, the brig o' Heev'n gangs black
As blackest winter.
@3'Lordsake! we're aff,'@1 thinks I, @3'but whaur?
On what abhorred an' whinny scaur,
Or whammled in what sea o' glaur,
Will she desert me?
An' will she just disgrace? or waur --
Will she no hurt me?'@1

Kittle the quaere! But at least
The day I've backed the fashious beast,
While she, wi' mony a spang an' reist,
Flang heels ower bonnet;
An' a' triumphant -- for your feast,
Hae! there's your sonnet!



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