The Whin Whippers

As I gaed ower the whinny knowes

Ae windy afternin,

I saw a very dacent man

Sair angered at a whin.

A’ roon an’ doon the whins he glow’rt,

Soliloqueezin on;

When suddenly he yirkt his erm,

And gied a lang deep groan.

Noo, by him stood a donnered loon

Aboot the age o’ six,

Wha in his oxter bore a load

O’ lang an’ curious sticks.

Frae whilk the man, hauf-greetin’, pu’d

A stick wi’ an iron tae,

An’ thrashed that wee bit whinny buss

Hoo lang I couldna say.

Slow up ahint his shouther, and

Swift doon wi’ fiercesome gleam,

The bonnie stickie ca’d awa

As if it gaed by steam.

’Twas eerie on the lanely links,

Tae hear the constant thud,

An’ see that very dacent man,

Without a doot gane wud.

At orra times, wi’ troubled broo,

The daftie keekit in

To see the havoc he had made

On the puir, hermless whin.

And up again the stickie went,

And doon again it cam’;

An’ ever as he whipt the whin

He gied the ither “Damn”.

Syne frae a wee bit whitey ba’

That lay upon the green,

A gey conceited sort o' man

Stapt up tae see his freen’.

Ahint him was a donnered loon

Aboot the age o’ six,

Wha in his oxter bore a load

O’ lang an’ curious sticks.

Thinks I, this seems a kind o’ game

Ma man’s no’ daft ava;

He’s spilin’ whins; but his intent

Is just to hit a ba’.

“Hard lines!” the blythe newcomer cried,

As if wi’ peety seized;

“Hard lines!” says he, but yet I thocht

He lookit unco pleased.

“Ye’ve a wheen o’ niblock shots,

What’s like yer score?” says he;

The ither, wipin’ aff the sweet,

Says, “Forty frae the tee.”

“Fifteen for the sand an’ that, an’ then,

As sure as I’m alive,

Jist here, in this infernal whin

I’ve played my twenty-five.”

“Hard lines, man, that ye didna ken

Ye could uplift yer ba’

An’ drap it ower yer big saft heid

For just a fine o’ twa.”

“I’m lyin’ there for forty-three;

It’s ticht, upon my soul;

Tak’ oot yer ba’ an’ play awa’,

Ye’ll maybe hauve the hole.”