I mind me on the hoastin’ weans—
The penny joes on causey stanes—
The auld folk wi’ the crazy banes,
Baith auld an’ puir,
That aye maun thole the winds an’ rains
An’ labour sair.
An’ whiles I’m kind o’ pleased a blink,
An’ kind o’ fleyed forby, to think,
For a’ my rowth o’ meat an’ drink
An’ waste o’ crumb,
I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skink
In Kingdom Come.
For God whan jowes the Judgment bell,
Wi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’,
Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell)
Frae them that had it;
And in the reamin’ pat o’ Hell,
The rich be scaddit.
O Lord, if this indeed be sae,
Let daw that sair an’ happy day!
Again’ the warl’, grawn auld an’ gray,
Up wi’ your aixe!
An’ let the puir enjoy their play—
I’ll thole my paiks.
XIV—MY CONSCIENCE!
Of a’ the ills that flesh can fear,
The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ gear,
A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear,
A lassie’s nonsense—
There’s just ae thing I cannae bear,
An’ that’s my conscience.
Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has gane,
An’ wark is düne, and duty’s plain,
An’ to my chalmer a’ my lane
I creep apairt,
My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ pain
Stends to my heart!
A’ day wi’ various ends in view
The hairsts o’ time I had to pu’,
An’ made a hash wad staw a soo,
Let be a man!—
My conscience! whan my han’s were fu’,
Whaur were ye than?
An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life,
There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife,
There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife
Ground shairp in Hell—
My conscience!—you that’s like a wife!—
Whaur was yoursel’?
I ken it fine: just waitin’ here,
To gar the evil waur appear,
To clart the guid, confüse the clear,
Mis-ca’ the great,
My conscience! an’ to raise a steer
Whan a’s ower late.