| LATE in the nicht in bed I lay, | |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea, | |
| Itsel’ wad cowpit; | |
| An’ for auld airn, the smashed debris | |
| By God be rowpit. | |
| |
| Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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? | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| In unco places. | |
| “Whaur’s God?” I cry, an’ “Whae is me | |
| To hae sic graces?” | |
| |
| I mind the fecht the sailors keep, | |
| But fire or can’le, rest or sleep, | 50 |
| 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— | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| 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 | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| Up wi’ your aixe! | |
| And let the puir enjoy their play— | |
| I’ll thole my paiks. | |
