Ballant o'Ballantrae

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

[Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of Ballantrae a wrong idea of a very beautiful and charming place, with links, a river celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, on the river, a ruined castle at every turn of the stream. 'Try Ballantrae' is a word of wisdom.]

Whan suthern wunds gar spindrift flee Abune the clachan, faddums hie, Whan for the cluds I canna see The bonny lift, I'd fain indite an Ode to Thee Had I the gift!

Ken ye the coast o' wastland Ayr? Oh mon, it's unco bleak and bare! Ye daunder here, ye daunder there, And mak' your moan, They've rain and wund eneuch to tear The suthern cone!

Ye're seekin' sport! There's nane ava', Ye'll sit and glower ahint the wa' At bleesin' breakers till ye staw, If that's yer wush; 'There's aye the Stinchar.' Hoot awa', She wunna fush!

She wunna fush at ony gait, She's roarin' reid in wrathfu' spate; Maist like yer kimmer when ye're late Frae Girvan Fair! Forbye to speer for leave I'm blate For fushin' there!

O Louis, you that writes in Scots, Ye're far awa' frae stirks and stots, Wi' drookit hurdies, tails in knots, An unco way! My mirth's like thorns aneth the pots In Ballantrae!