The Shepherd's Dream on the Eve of a Tup Sale

O'er Scotland's far-flung hills and dales,
Stocksmen frae famed sheep grazin' shires
Meet yearly at the great tup sales
To see the show and choose their sires.

Wi' speanins by and hay secure
Imbued wi' sheeps' fresh showyard lore,
The judgin', aye the magic lure,
That brings them there the nicht before.

So to a famous coonty toon
There hurried in by road and rail
Frae mornin' on through afternoon
Consignments for next mornin's sale.

The herds wi' optimistic pride
Kept dressin' for the crowd to see,
Wi' a' their wits on edge to hide
Defects that catch the public's e'e.

Among there ranks a leadin' light,
The welfare of his stock at heart,
The last to leave the pens at night,
Had planned an early mornin' start.

And so wi' this resolve in view
He quietly slipped off to his nest,
But whether t'was the bed was new
He rowed and trowed and couldna' rest.

At last, aroon the midnicht 'oor,
A dread misfortune did befa',
And sair the shock he'd to endure
For this is what he heard and saw.

His favourite shearlin's face turned broon,
His perfect coat had turned to hair,
Enormous horns had met his croon,
His breest and spauls were peeled and bare. (An animal's shoulder or leg [CSD])

It vexed him sair, sae plain to hear,
While dozin' in his troubled sleep,
His favourite's voice so plain and clear
Conversin' wi' some heeland sheep.

Bewildered at the weird affair
Bewitched in this mysterious bed,
He listened, and his heart was sair,
And this is what the shearlin' said.

Shearin':
I represent a famous stock
About the best that's ever been,
As different frae you heeland trock (Worthless or rubbishy goods [CSD])
As I'm frae you---or oucht ye've seen.

My sire's descent was a' his pride
The purest and the best o' bluid,
My dam's forebears famed far and wide
Explains how I'm sae awfu' guid.

Ye seem tae hae some hankerin' doots
And look in wonder and surprise,
But yince they lowse me oot my cloots
I'll dress oot maist tae twice my size.

The morn when I gae through the ring
And jauntily gae skippin' roon,
Three-figure bids I'm sure to bring
In lood applause they'll knock me doon

But something's wrang that shouldna' be,
Your pen alloted next to mine,
The like o' you put next to me
Insults baith me and a' my kine.

Puir brute, ye hae an ugly face
Your horns come whurlin' roon your e'en,
There's no a tup in a' the place
Would cafe to own ye as a freen.

Highlander:
Well, well, you've got the noble cheek,
But stop you---some are chust as clever,
And now the turn is mine to speak,
The truth you'll get from me, whatever.

I've sought for no exa,ted fame
Nor boast of my extr'ord'nar worth,
But proud to bear a Gaelic name,
The symbol of my Highland birth.

I own I've led the simple life
And ate but little cake or corn,
And milk and cabbage are'na rife
Among the hills where I was born.

But you---you're gorged wi' corn and cake
Cod liver oil and barley stew,
What cabbages you're fit to take
And reekin' milk straucht frae the coo.

Put you on to a Heeland hill
When bleak December blizzards blaw
Your yowes I doot would fare but ill
And might as weel be weedows a'.

But me upon my native heath,
I'd roam o'er strath and mossy flowe,
No duty unfulfilled I'd leave
And never miss a single yowe.

When work gets slack o' yowes bereft
I'd screenge through heather, rocks and mist (Hunt about [CSD])
And search through every neebour heft (Sheep pasture [CSD])
Baith fit and willin' to assist.

Frae 'mong the strae ye scarce can shift
Swaithed up in sheets and padded cowl
Ye lie and spue your cabbage rift
Tae a' the air aroon is foul.

Shearlin':
Enough, enough, I'll let ye ken
I'll thole nae mair frae trash like you,
If I could but get oot my pen
This nicht, I swear, I'd gar ye rue.

Highlander:
Agreed---and you'll be first to ken
Thatin my clan it's understood
Insults to Highland chentlemen
Can only be wiped oot in blood.

And so you may dispense wi' doot
And get ye ready to begin,
And since it beats ye to get oot
I'll let you see that I'll get in.

They backed and scraped and warlike posed
And soon the pen in splinters flew,
Again they chairged, and clinched and closed,
And hammered shooders, ribs and oo.

They warselled lang and panted lood,
While tongues hung oot in clouds o' steam,
Resoundin' whacks and splinterin' wood
Awaked the herd-----'twas a' a dream.

He heaved a sigh o' glad relief
And brushed the cauld sweat frae his broo,
As slowly dawned the prood belief
That dreams were after a' untrue.

For lang he lay and pondered deep
The vision he'd so plainly seen,
While less he fancied his ain sheep
The Highlander grew mair a freen.

Straucht frae the hills where he was bred
And wintered oot among the snaw,
And at Dame Nature's table fed
Yet proved the abler o' the twa.

He wondered was it a' worth while
This cabbage, milk and barley stew,
That serves the public to beguile
Wi' profit only for the few.

He pictured bygone famous swells
That shone among the highest grade
At shows and sales less like themsel's
Than for that certain purpose made.

It's said sheep shouldna be hoose fed
And such, the public should ignore them,
But nature's products miss the trade
And buyers care but little for them.

They come from far to make their choice
Where biddin' in the ring is free,
And only will they pay the price
For what looks braw and fills the e'e.

But whether it be richt or wrang
That sheep be winter hoosed and fed,
The breeders only wink at slang
And bloom their stock to suit their trade.

And spite the ink sae freely spilt
To air the grumblin' critics' taunts,
Their business has been kept and built
By studyin' the buyers wants.

But here must end this langsome tale
Although an interestin' theme,
The hoose-fed sheep and hardy gael
That figured in the shepherd's dream.

The moral of this lang harangue
Is that, whatever be our lot,
Respect is due our brother man
Although he wear a ragged coat.