Sir Walter Scott
Fain wud ah hae pentit ye in a roch licht, scunnert at aa yer on-cairry, that biggin up o tartan lore, sic a fause freen tae Scotland’s story, the fantoush moniments erected in yer nem a muckle gryte Tory aa yer days – an whit were ye thinkin, pittin the keeng intae pink hose? But ach, Wattie Scott, 1st Baronet, ah canna fin it in ma hert tae tak a richt ull-wull at ye. Ah see ye jist a loonickie, hyterin roon Edinburgh’s wynds, causey-stanes jarrin that withered shank contermit tae waak lik onie ither laddie – an waak ye did, full o that guid Borders’ air whaur ye sookit up sic glamourie, sic tales o Reiver derring-do, lamgamachies o hert-sairs, richteous fecht, thrang wi aathing ye held dear. Ye gied us scrievin the lik the warld hud never seen peyin heed tae ordinar fowk, as weel as keengs an prences. Aye an bairns kittle up yet at Rob Roy Macgregor hale an fere, loupin mischancy athort his Perthshire heather, at Wilfred of Ivanhoe, mairryin his richtfu bride, Rowena. An yer first luve aye yer poesie, bricht wirds, their green sap niver gizzent; vyce aye the chunner o a tumblin burn. Yer wirds vrutten noo in stane on Holyrood’s wa. I’m gled o that. Gled ye’re there.
