50 STEVENSON'S POEMS
His hair a' lang about his bree, His tap-lip lang by inches three— A sleekened sort e mon/ to pree
A' sensuality— A droutly glint was in his e'e
An' day an' nicht, frae daw to daw, Dink an' perjmk an' doucely braw, Wi' a kind o' Gospel ower a',
May or October, Like Peden, followm' the Law
An' no that sober.
Whusky an5 he were pack thegether. Whate'er the hour, whate'er the weather, John kept himsel' wi} mistened leather
An' kindled spunk. Wi' him, there was nae askm3 whether—
John was aye drunk,
The auncient heroes gash an' bauld
In the uncanny days of auld,
The task ance fo(u)nd to which th'were called.
Stack stenchly to it. His life sic noble lives recalled.
Little's he knew it,