There’s nae sic men a-makin’ noo
As ane I kent near Robslaw quarries;
His een are closed, cauld, cauld his broo,
He’s deen wi’ a’ life’s cares and sharries:
Daavit Drain o’ Hirpletillim,
Drink never yet was brewed wad fill him;
Stout an’ swack, broad breist, straucht back,
Gied strength and swing to Hirpletillim.
At kirk and market, Daavit Drain
Ower elder, factor, got a hearin’;
On dootfu’ pints to mak’ things plain
He exerceesed the gift o’ swearin’:
Daavit Drain o’ Hirpletillim,
Storm and stour ne’er dang could kill him;
Up wi’ the lark—fae morn to dark
Was heard the soun’ o’ Hirpletillim.
He held things gaun in barn and byre,
At judgin’ stock he own’d nae marrow;
’Nent horse and nowt he’d never tire,
His skill confoonit Farrier Harrow:
Daavit Drain o’ Hirpletillim,
Wi’ fear nae soul micht try instil him;
Even Ury’s laird, wi’ feint and gaird,
Was scarce a match for Hirpletillim.
Bauld Daavit was an unctioneer,
At plenishin’s he flourish’t bravely;
His “ Going, gone ” rang firm and clear,
Slow higglers he admonished gravely:
Daavit Drain o’ Hirpletillim,
What mortal born could e’er ill-will him?
But noo he’s gane—and ’neath yon stane
Nae bode can wauken Hirpletillim.