"The Roving Gardener" by John Petticrew (1886)

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The Roving Gardener Glasgow John Petticrew 1886 Aye Dip your Braid In your ‘ain Hail Oh, Weel dae I ken, the wee hoose on the mound, Within it’s anld wa’s I’ve spent many a pound. Twas’ yin Lucky Millar wha kept the bitim, And wheezled ye on till your siller was dune. Thae drank in that hoose till I hadna a sark, Syne dazed, and half doited gaed back to my wark. I lang will remember the last time I sat Within the auld kitchen- I hadna a rap. For days I had tippled, and ne’er thocht O’ment. And noo owre’ my brow cam a cauld clammy sweat. A sm’ bit O’ braid, and a morsel O’ cheese, Wad not doot that queer kind O’ hunger appease; But then for to ask it was sot O’ my pooer, For Lucky was turning baith crabbit and sour. Sae there I sat helpless, despair wis my lot; At last in my pouch a bit banmock I got. I then tried to eat, but it wadna gang doon, My heid it kept bipping I thocht I wad swoon, The cauld whisky hunger wis biting me sair, But here stood a guid pat O’pat O’howl on the flair, And fondly I thocht if I jist had a dook Amang the fat kail, then the bree I micht sook. I plunged in the braid and thocht naebody eyed, But Lucky had seen me and wildly she cried- “Ye low drucken scoundrel, gang hame oot O that- And aye dip your braid in your ain Hail pat.” I spoke na’a word, but I slowly got up, And as I gaed oot, said: “Farewell to the cup; If merciful Heaven, my health once restore, Sae lang as I leeve I’ll ne’er darken your door.” Sae I kept to my vow, and ‘frae marnin’ till nicht, I steadily toiled till I made things a richt, Wi’ rowth O’fine claes, an’ guid furninture roon, I met with respect baith in kintrae an ‘toon; For though that a chied gant to poverty’s brink, He sune may redeem if he keeps frae the drink. Ae nicht I wis daundering doon by the street, When auld Lucky Millar I happed to meet She suddenly stopp’d as it gied her a stown To see sic a change in a ne’er-do-well loon; My certie, said she, but you’re lookin race snod. I’ve missed you this while, he’e ye been fair abroad? Ye shairly hae gotten a braw gouden gift, Or some yin’s departed an gien ye a lift. Na Lucky, said I , your conjecters are vain, The advice that ye gi’en me I’ve cheerfully ta’en, And the way I ha’e got the braw claes an fine hat Was by dipping my braid in my ain kail pat. John Petticrew The Roving Gardener Glasgow 1886