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 outower the plain,
Or mebbe thun’ers.
Lord safe us, life’s an unco thing!
Simmer an’ Winter, Yule an’ Spring,
The damned, dour—heartit seasons bring
A feck o’ trouble.
I wadnae try’t to be a king —
No, nor for double.
But since we’re in it, willy—nilly,
We maun be watchfu’, 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.
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