Ochil Idylls and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Saunders, my frien'! I ken it's sair,
I ken fu' weel your basket's bare,
Your store o' savin's toom;
I'm wae to see your waefu' looks
Oot-ower the fields o' draiglit stooks,
An' fodder, fit to soom!
Wi' markets cheap and wages dear,
Ye've been at mickle cost;
An' here's the hervest o' the year,
An' a' your labour lost!
Perplexin' an' vexin'
The ways o' Nature seem;
The haste o't, the waste o't,
It's like an evil dream!

What touch o' comfort can ye feel?
It's sad, it's angersome atweel,
To think that folk like you,
Wha saw'd gude seed in gude dry laund,
An' spared nae sweat o' head or haund,
In hopes to cairry thro'—

Wha watched it fra the wee green breer
To Autumn's stately show
O' mony a gallant gowden spear
In serried rank an' row—
Maun see 't noo and dree 't noo,
Lie rottin' i' the rain!
The mense o't, the sense o't,
Nae mortal can explain!

But human reason's but a spark,
A can'le's glimmer i' the dark;
An' he's the wiser wicht
Wha doots his wisdom and his sense,
An' puts his trust in Providence
Till dawns the dear daylicht.
Saunders, my frien'! a bairn-like faith
That a'thing's for your gude
Will lead ye safe thro' life an' death,
Thro' fear o' fire an' flude.
Tho' crosses, an' losses,
Mar a' the life o' men,
They're sent till 's; their end till 's
We'll aiblins ae day ken.