To Shibli Bagarag.

In our May issue, Shibli Bagarag, who dwells “Among the Books,” made some cheerful comments on New Zealand's West Coast eighty-one year-old Scots poet, Hughie Smith. Here is Hughie's answer—in braid Scots.

Dear Bagarag, I'd like to lay
My belt across yer back some day,
For dootfu' praise—sae weel express'd—
Of hoo I was sae nicely dress'd
Wi' “haggis,” “sporran,” pipes an' kilt,
“Set aff” wi' heilan' fling an' lilt.
It's easy seen by ane like me
That ye were hatch'd across the sea,
Where a' yer forbears ran aboot
Wi naething but a wee bit “cloot,”
An' had, instead o' “pipes,” a “drum”
Tae rattle up when ye were “glum.”
But “Shibli,” see the trick ye play'd
An' what a mess o' things ye've made;
See what ye've been an' gone an' done,
By telling that I'm eighty-one.
Demolished a' my plans an' schemes,
An' shatter'd a' my sweetest dreams.
Where is the lass that loves the truth
Will noo believe my word o' mouth,
An' a' my young “admiring” dears
Will surely ha'e their doots an' fears;
An' some may lay their plans indeed
Tae ha'e revenge upon my heid.
Already, Mrs. Sandy Broon,
When passin' by looks up or doon,
An' Donal's dachter looks sae queer,
She never says to me—my dear.
Yer frightfu' tale of “eighty-one”
Will be my “daith”—as sure's a gun.
To be sae petted an' sae praised,
Then shun'd by a' has got me dazed;
Wee “Katie Craig” noo said tae me—
“I thocht ye were juist fifty-three.”
“Oh, weel,” I said, “I micht be mair,”
But Katie left me stan'in' there.
An' Jenny Jackson said to me—
“I hate a man that tells a lee.
I'm no sae silly or sae saft
As fash my held wi' ane that's ‘daft,’
Ye'll no dae me—why man-alive
Ye said ye were juist fifty-five.”
“Oh, dinna mind a year or twa,”
I said; but Jenny slipp'd awa'.
So, noo ye see—yer bleth'rin tricks
Has put me in fearful fix.
But, “Bagarag” man, here's my han',
For weel I ken—an' un'erstan',
The forces that compel a pen
Tae sing the praise o' mice or men.
To tell a tale that cheers a he'rt,
An' plays a noble, glorious pairt.
I would be pleased to shake the han'
That spread the tale ower a the lan';
So till we meet—an' till I dee,
My dearest hopes will be for thee;
My fondest wishes gang herewith.
Yours—young as ever—
Inangahua Junction, West Coast, S.I.

Hughie Smith.