Son of the Mountain Muse

At Eighty-Six

2009-06-28T01:11:00.000-07:00

This poem, written by Thomas Robertson was published in the newspaper - there is a rather old and tattered cut out in my possession.

At Eighty Six

I've had a long and healthy life
And had my share of care and strife
Tho' fate has played me scurvy tricks
Yet still I'm gay at eighty-six.

Our lives consist of strange contrasts
Bright sunny blinks and wintery blasts
For joy and sorrow mingling mix
Still, life is sweet at eighty six.

A lightsome heart gives zest to things,
And often consolation brings,
To soothe the wounds that time inflicts
And savour gives at eighty-six.

In truth, methinks it is but meet
We should with smile our troubles greet
And every laugh and joke annex,
And cheerful be at eighty-six.

The rosy dawn of each new day
Shall light and guide us on our way
So stoutly kick against the pricks
In bold resolve at eighty-six.

Away with pessimistic moods;
My ban on he who sullen broods,
On hope's bright star your vision fix
And stand elate at eighty-six.

L'en voi-
Charon may wait with ready oar,
To waft me to the farther shore,
But I'm too young to think of Styx
For life is joy at eighty-six.

Dougal's Deid

2008-11-30T16:03:00.000-08:00

Like his father William, Thomas appears to have had a great fondness for his dog. Dougal's Deid was published in the local paper.

Dougal's Deid

Come a' ye bards, an' mourn wi' me,
An' dicht the saut tear frae your e'e,
For I've a weary weird tae dree,
An nae reinead;
My he'rt's as sair as sair can be-
Auld Dougal's deid.

In troth he was a noble beast,
Wi' curly coat as black's a preist,
A gallant he'rt beat in his breist,
Noo cauld as leed,
A champion aye at fecht or feast,
But noo he's deid.

He was nane o' thae rampin' tykes
That worry cats or loup ower dykes,
An' at his meat he had nae fykes
Be't kai or bried,
Nae petty, peevish, sma' dislikes-
Alas! he's deid.

In honest truth I sing his praise,
He had sae mony takin' ways,
He aye made freens and ne'er made faes,
Whare'er he gaed,
Sae slee and pawky a' his days-
But noo he's deid.

Auld Dougal's happit in the clay,
For dogs, like men, will ha'e their day,
That sumons we maun a' obey
In awesome dreid,
For death will neither bind nor stay -
Sae Dougal's deid.

Sin' a' life has a common end,
Tae nature's law we a' maun bend
Whan cruel death will ruthless rend
The slender thread,
Sae I maun mourn a trusty friend
In Dougal dead.

Gin there be ony truth in this,
That there's a reward for faithfulness,
I wad auld Dougal winna miss
Tae wag his heid
'Mong sanctly dogs in perfect bliss,
Although he's deid.

------
According to family history, Thomas actually put the dog to sleep himself, not trusting the vet to do it.

Thomas Robertson

2008-11-28T00:52:00.000-08:00

I have started a separate blog to record the details of Thomas Robertson - my great grandfather and son of William Robertson - a minor scottish poet who self published two books of poetry - The Mountain Muse and Echoes of the Mountain Muse.

Thomas wrote poetry also and had some poems published in the local papers. He was also a gardener like his father. One of his poems was turned into a popular song of the times - called the Lass I Love. There are a number of poems which have been typed up on loose leaf paper which I will transpose over here for literary history.

More soon!