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.