This little exercise started out with the aim of being a sonnet.

 However, as usual, it did not appear to be working out too well, so I thought I would abandon the strict iambic pentameter and give it a bit of the Habbie Simpson to cheer it up somewhat.

However, as Burns so aptly stated “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men Gang aft agley”

So having admitted defeat on the sonnet, and now given up on any idea of imitating either Fergusson or Burns’ undoubted mastery of the Habbie Simpson format.

It now appears as though it has developed into something approaching that of a delating narrative.

If my somewhat limited time permits, I may give it a rethink, with possibly more of the Doric and perhaps less o’ the Morningside Scots.

Aye cauld! whit sibylic seers’ yer rain aboon.

Tae wipe sambraidean smile frae this auld toon.

An rin like purging torrents o’ needs relieve

Tae empty intae turgid waters o’ the Leith.

An’ swans tae their ain desideratum.

Tae curse last grimace o’ thae sun

that deems he too, his day’s wirks done.

An’ leaves arboreal’s fall frae grace;

that Borean wind seeks tae displace.

An’ nature too, nae thought tae defer.

Its bare-boned nakedness.

I dacker doon auld reekie’s Royal Mile,

A cauld frasachd has stopt

Tae let again Craigleith’s grey stane,

an’ Locharbriggs’ permian

in symmetrical approbations

its ruddiness delight me.

I wander passed thae Kirk on Cannongate.

An’ see a fine bronze figure stridin’,

Oor Fergusson; he’s nae aged a bit!

Nae fer him, wearied bones a findin

Or he misluk thae elder.

A’ winder where he is aft tae sae late?

Withoot a tam or aye a gravat fit,

though seems, I might aboot be richt

he may have had -a wee bit o’

thae palliative an’ tipple...

Aye dour Samhain yer nicht be drawin’ in

an’ winter’s hand, not yet cauld given.

Bleak sodium lichts up mony a landed sin

dark closes nae scared o’ livin’.

Whilst gas still warms aw’ thae within,

thae richer concinnities o’ Ramsey Gardens.

Dùn Èideann’s statues stand supreme.

Their ain testament tae greatness.

Tae tell thae tales o’ Academe,

its mony spots o’ ephelis,

in Scotia’s history an’ remembrance.

Doon bye strath’s basal green array;

There shows some braw fine gildin’.

has come tae claim its place

Fer there I knew: by sight and sound,

There wid be a fair assemblage

thae frae yon clamjamfry clan.

an' walkin trammie –labbie,

about oor ain hirpling camions;

“ an’ even mair aboot their expatriation “

Within sic mephitic evanesce

or steamy moschate savouries.

great tryst o’ breweries,

an’ ain superior coadunation.

Auld Walter sits above them aw’

minded by his deerhund Maida

Wi’ outlook ow’er his penned reign

tae see maist o’ thae drama

frae his high tower o’ Binny’s stane.

He dress’d in finest white Carrera;

High up; his book folk sit apairt

far from thae city’s clatter.

Shame they’ve gone sae smoky black;

In need o’ soap, an’ lots o’

dabble-dachies guid Leith watter.

Ten thousand mair stand oot this nicht

tae watch last trams gan bye.

Nae mair fer them a thruppenny ride

Or hear yon crabbit clippie cry

“Fit ye mean ye only hae a ten bob note

fer a tanner ride tae Dalry;

This is nae a bloody taxi.”

Stage tickets sell at fast a pace.

Wi’ clippies takin lots o’ sillar,

an’ mair than a few o’ nickel; though

sic peregrination-gainin’ nae a grace;

Nae fun in riding tae Shrubhill depot!

Unless ye were quite paluvious.

Fer we aw’ knew, fit tae agree

 Thae shugglin trams last trip was on that nicht.

Ahint, a newly painted white chameleon.

madder an’ cadaverous variegation.

Nae mair we’d ever likely see

Its trolley sparks frae poles o’ fricht

or wheels that shriek like patties in a jig.

frae oor slow coach built immurement.

Where we’d aw’ sit as quiet as courtroom clerks.

o’ gurdies shuggled truckle.

And thought oor silver piece well spent

When we got oot, tae stretch our legs

Or on those few rare an’ sunny days

We wid aw’ travel oot tae Joppa.

An’ look fer Portobello's pier.

Thae auld tram tracks were parlous tae,

if yer bike got caught up in yin.

Thae cobble stanes stood nae forgivin’.

An’ mony a buckled wheel went hame

Tae land up in thae scaffies bin.