L

XIII

ATE in the nicht in bed I lay,
The winds were at

The winds were at their weary play,

An' tirlin' wa's an' skirlin' wae

Through Heev'n they battered;

On-ding o' hail, on-blaff o' spray,
The tempest blattered.

The masoned house it dinled through;
It dung the ship, it cowped the coo';
The rankit aiks it overthrew,

Had braved a' weathers;

The strang sea-gleds it took an blew
Awa' like feathers.

The thrawes o' fear on a' were shed,
An' the hair rose, an' slumber fled,
An' lichts were lit an' prayers were said
Through a' the kintry;

An' the cauld terror clum in bed
Wi' a' an' sindry.

To hear in the pit-mirk on hie

The brangled collieshangie flie,

The warl', they thocht, wi' land an' sea,
Itsel' wad cowpit;

An' for auld airn, the smashed debris
By God be rowpit.

LATE IN THE NICHT

Meanwhile frae far Aldebaran,
To folks wi' talescopes in han',
O' ships that cowpit, winds that ran,
Nae sign was seen,

But the wee warl' in sunshine span
As bricht's a preen.

I, tae, by God's especial grace,
Dwall denty in a bieldy place,
Wi' hosened feet, wi' shaven face,
Wi' dacent mainners:

A grand example to the race

O' tautit sinners!

The wind may blaw, the heathen rage,
The deil may start on the rampage;·
The sick in bed, the thief in cage-
What's a' to me?

Cosh in my house, a sober sage,
I sit an' see.

An' whiles the bluid spangs to my bree,
To lie sae saft, to live sae free,

While better men maun do an' die
In unco places.

"Whaur's God?" I cry, an' " Whae is me To bae sic graces?

I mind the fecht the sailors keep,
But fire or can'le, rest or sleep,

In darkness an' the muckle deep;
An' mind beside

The herd that on the hills o' sheep
Has wandered wide.

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!

And let the puir enjoy their play –
I'll thole my paiks.

MY CONSCIENCE!

F a' the ills that flesh can fear,

OF

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' excuse) 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 then?

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,
Misca' the great,

My conscience! an' to raise a steer
When a's ower late.

Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind, Whan thieves brok' through the gear to p'ind, Has lain his dozened length an' grinned

At the disaster;

An' the morn's mornin', wud's the wind,
Yokes on his master.