THE SPAEWIFE

O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry. An’ siller, that’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e. —It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me. O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— Hoo a’ things come to be whaur we find them when we try. The lassies in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea. —It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me. O’ I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— Why lads are a’ to sell an’ lasses a’ to buy; An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three. —It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me. O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— Gin death’s as shüre to men as killin’ is to kye, Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things to pree. —It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me. O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why, Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e. —It’s gey an’ easy speirin’, says the beggar-wife to me.
VII

THE BLAST—1875

It’s rainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod, Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod— A maist unceevil thing o’ God In mid July— If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod! An’ sae wull I! He’s a braw place in Heev’n, ye ken, An’ lea’s us puir, forjaskit men Clamjamfried in the but and ben He ca’s the earth— A wee bit inconvenient den No muckle worth; An’ whiles, at orra times, keeks out, Sees what puir mankind are about; An’ if He can, I’ve little doubt, Upsets their plans; He hates a’ mankind, brainch and root, An’ a’ that’s man’s. An’ whiles, whan they tak’ heart again, An’ life i’ the sun looks braw an’ plain, Doun comes a jaw o’ droukin’ rain Upon their honours— God sends a spate out ower the plain, Or mebbe thun’ers. Lord safe us, life’s an unco thing! Simmer and Winter, Yule an’ Spring, The damned, dour-heartit seasons bring A feck o’ trouble. I wadna try ’t to be a king— No, nor for double. But since we’re in it, willy-nilly, We maun be watchfü’, wise an’ skilly, An’ no’ mind ony ither billy, Lassie nor God. But drink—that’s my best counsel till ’e; Sae tak’ the nod.

VIII

THE COUNTERBLAST—1886

My bonny man, the warld, it’s true, Was made for neither me nor you; It’s just a place to warstle through, As Job confessed o’t; And aye the best that we’ll can do Is mak’ the best o’t. There’s rowth o’ wrang, I’m free to say: The simmer brunt, the winter blae, The face of earth a’ fyled wi’ clay An’ dour wi’ chuckies, An’ life a rough an’ land’art play For country buckies. An’ food’s anither name for clart; An’ beasts an’ brambles bite an’ scart; An’ what would WE be like, my heart! If bared o’ claethin’? —Aweel, I canna mend your cart: It’s that or naethin’. A feck o’ folk frae first to last Have through this queer experience passed; Twa-three, I ken, just damn an’ blast The hale transaction; But twa-three ithers, east an’ wast, Fand satisfaction. Whaur braid the briery muirs expand, A waefü’ an’ a weary land, The bumble-bees, a gowden band, Are blithely hingin’; An’ there the canty wanderer fand The laverock singin’. Trout in the burn grow great as herr’n’; The simple sheep can find their fair’n’; The winds blaws clean about the cairn Wi’ caller air; The muircock an’ the barefit bairn Are happy there. Sic-like the howes o’ life to some: Green loans whaur they ne’er fash their thumb, But mark the muckle winds that come, Soopin’ an’ cool, Or hear the powrin’ burnie drum In the shilfa’s pool. The evil wi’ the guid they tak’; They ca’ a grey thing grey, no’ black; To a steigh brae a stubborn back Addressin’ daily; An’ up the rude, unbieldy track O’ life, gang gaily. What you would like’s a palace ha’, Or Sinday parlour dink an’ braw Wi’ a’ things ordered in a raw By denty leddies. Weel, then, ye canna hae’t: that’s a’ That to be said is. An’ since at life ye’ve ta’en the grue, An’ winna blithely hirsle through, Ye’ve fund the very thing to do— That’s to drink speerit; An’ shüne we’ll hear the last o’ you— An’ blithe to hear it! The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead, Ithers will heir when aince ye’re deid; They’ll heir your tasteless bite o’ breid, An’ find it sappy; They’ll to your dulefü’ house succeed, An’ there be happy. As whan a glum an’ fractious wean Has sat an’ sullened by his lane Till, wi’ a rowstin’ skelp, he’s ta’en An’ shoo’d to bed—— The ither bairns a’ fa’ to play’n’, As gleg’s a gled.
IX