Doun comes a jaw o' droukin' rain God sends a spate outower the plain, 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, Lassie nor God. But drink that's my best counsel till 'e Sae tak the nod. MY Y bonny man, the warld, it's true, And aye the best that we'll can do There's rowth o' wrang, I'm free to say: An' life a rough an' land'art play An' food's anither name for clart; Aweel, I cannae mend your cart: A feck o' folk frae first to last Have through this queer experience passed; Twa-three, I ken, just damn an' blast But twa-three ithers, east an' wast, Whaur braid the briery muirs expand, The bumblebees, a gowden band, An' there the canty wanderer fand Trout in the burn grow great as herr'n; The muircock an' the barefit bairn 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; Addressin' daily; An' up the rude, unbieldy track THE COUNTERBLAST-1886 What you would like's a palace ha', Weel, than, ye cannae hae't: that's a' An' since at life ye've ta'en the grue, An' shüne we'll hear the last o' you— 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 The ither bairns a' fa' to play'n', IX THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL T'S strange that God should fash to frame should The yearth and lift sae hie, An' clean forget to explain the same To a gentleman like me. They gutsy, donnered ither folk, Their weird they weel may dree; But why present a pig in a poke They ither folk their parritch eat But the mind is no to be wyled wi' meat They ither folk, they court their joes At gloamin' on the lea; But they're made of a commoner clay, I suppose, Than a gentleman like me. They ither folk, for richt or wrang, They suffer, bleed, or dee; But a' thir things are an emp'y sang |