Johnny

Fowk squattit in doorwyes —
Shifty-eed, reid-biddy earls,
Watchin the seamen scalin aff the docks,
Scraunin the streets for a hard-faced quine,
Buyin an 'oor o warmth
Far the screichin seagulls dine.

He bedd in a single room —
Fower waas an little mair.
His gear, as auld an dane's himself—
In the rochest side o toun
A deid-end, doon-cast lair:
Ye widna turn a hair,
Tae see him pass, snod-bonnetted,
Claes a bittie the waur o' weir.

Bit fin he sang
Man, it wisna a room ava,
For he sang frae the hairt
Auld, hauntin lays
O roads he'd tramped an seen
In his waulkin' days.

Syne the dreich, bare waas dinged doon,
For far an wide his music tellt
O' the clean, cauld muirs
O' the tinkler loon.

Gin I'd his smeddum, airt, an' inward sicht —
I'd shak life bi the lugs
An' set it richt!

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