The Aged Scot

[Note – The subject of the following poem is a kind of old Scotchman, who lives by himself in a dingy basement store and gains a scanty living by selling coal and wood by the basket. His only comfort is his pipe, pen and “Jacky”, – a small dog. The writer stopped one day to pass a few remarks with him, and the poem was drawn mostly from imagination, but which on further acquaintance was found to be correct. Evidently Mr. Johnson has been an able man in both business and literature, but circumstances have brought about a change in fortune.]

He’s bending o’er his fading fire,

     Methinks he’s sadly musing;

His pen, all dried, is put aside,

     While o’er the past perusing.

But fires within have ne’er grown dim

     Tho’ age his form is wearing.

His silv’ry hair, as he sit there,

     Commands respectful bearing.

Too sad to write, he pulls his pipe,

     His only sympathizer,

While “Jackie” lies with half closed eyes

     No sadder and no wiser.

What scenes arise before his eyes?

     Whose voices is he hearing?

Let’s not disturb the silent mood

     Of thought that grows endearing.

At other times he’s forming rhymes

     Of pleasing truth and wisdom;

Or selling wood for clothes and food,

     And chatting with the children.

What caused this man to leave his land

     And settle here in solitude?

His speech and ways show better days

     Than does this drear abode.

‘Tis sad to see one such as he

     Brought thus beneath his station,

When pen and brain should win him fame

     And fortune in his nation.

He loves his land, this lonely man,

     And oft describes her far-famed scene;

I ween there’s not a truer Scot

     Than Johnson, from Aberdeen.

Nov. 1, 1890

Pub. in “Ct. Advertiser”,

“Camb. Press” and

“Aberdeen Free Press”, Scot.