He cam tae us in the lockdoon,
A dreich, drear March day,
The win snell an scoorin fae the East.
Black-nebbit, black as Auld Nick’s soul,
Bit no murderin! Jist a bit craw,
Sair trauchelt, hirplin,
His left leg hauden heich;
A puir thing, jist wantin a chance, a bield.
We gied him meat,
Brose, mince,
Weel awa fae aw the ithers.
We cried him Cheesie,
An he thruive,
Each an evry day a bit mair strang.
An each an evry day, we cry "Crawlad!"
An whiles, he answers us:
A contact caw, ye micht say!
Oor gairden, his howff,
Oor birch, his ruist.
He trusts us noo,
Waitin on the grass fir his bit meat.
Oan bricht days, wi the sun in the lift
He likes tae strut an preen;
In the dark days, he hunkers doon,
Humphie-backit, his puir leg grievin him sair.
An we think he’s a bit like us,
Sair trauchelt, hirplin,
Ae day blythe,
Ae day dulesome an dowie;
An we preen oor feathers,
An we thole the pain.
We howp fir a ruist, an luve, an trust,
We caw awa, wi a wee bit meat;
An howp that, ae day, we’ll aw flee,
Free.