Whaur braid the briery muirs expand,
A waefü’ an’ a weary land,
The bumblebees, 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 wind 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 gray thing gray, 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, than, ye cannae hae’t: that’s a’
That to be said is.
An’ since at life ye’ve taen the grue,
An’ winnae 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 taen
An’ shoo’d to bed—
The ither bairns a’ fa’ to play’n’,
As gleg’s a gled.
IX—THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL
It’s strange that God should fash to frame
The yearth and lift sae hie,
An’ clean forget to explain the same
To a gentleman like me.