Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894). A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods. 1913.
XIV. My Conscience!
O
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.
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!
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?
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’?
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.
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.