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 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. VIII—THE COUNTERBLAST—1886 MY bonny man, the warld, it’s true, Was made for neither me nor you; It’s just a place to warstle through, As job confessed o’t; And aye the best that we’ll can do Is mak the best o’t. There’s rowth o’ wrang, I’m free to say: The simmer brunt, the winter blae, The face of earth a’ fyled wi’ clay An’ dour wi’ chuckies, An’ life a rough an’ land’art play For country buckies. An’ food’s anither name for clart; An’ beasts an’ brambles bite an’ scart; An’ what would WE be like, my heart! If bared o’ claethin’? —Aweel, I cannae mend your cart: It’s that or naethin’. A feck o’ folk frae first to last Have through this queer experience passed; Twa-three, I ken, just damn an’ blast The hale transaction; But twa-three ithers, east an’ wast, Fand satisfaction, Whaur braid the briery muirs expand, A waefü’ an’ a weary land, The bumblebees, a gowden band, Are blithely hingin’; An’ there the canty wanderer fand The laverock singin’. Trout in the burn grow great as herr’n, The simple sheep can find their fair’n’; The wind blaws clean about the cairn Wi’ caller air; The muircock an’ the barefit bairn Are happy there. 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.