Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Aye, mon, it's true
AYE, MON, IT'S TRUE—1885
In a letter written from Bonallie Towers, Bournemouth, in February, 1885, to John Addington Symonds, Stevenson tells of "two thundering influenzas" that he had caught in the previous August and November. He had recovered with difficulty from the latter attack. His ill health had "painfully upset" Mrs. Stevenson, and he himself confesses to feeling "a little old and fagged." Yet, as always, his courage and his philosophical humor stood him in good stead; and even as he lay very ill on his sick bed he could write such a bright little poem as the following lines in the Scots dialect.
AYE, MON, IT'S TRUE
Aye mon, it's true; I'm no that weel.
Close prisoner to my lord the de'il,
As weak 's a bit o' aipple peel,
Or ingan parin',
Packed like a codfish in a creel,
I lie disparin'.
Mon, it's a cur-ous thing to think
How bodies sleep and eat and drink;
I'm no that weel, but micht be waur
An' doubt na mony bodies are.