The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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| VERSES,
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
46
VERSES,
OCCASIONED BY SEEING TWO MEN SAWING TIMBER IN THE OPEN FIELD, IN DEFIANCE OF A FURIOUS STORM.
My friends, for God sake! quat yer wark,
Nor think to war a wind sae stark;
Your saw-pit stoops, like wans are shaking,
The vera planks and deals are quaking;
Ye're tempin' Providence, I swear,
To raise your graith sae madly here.
Now, now ye're gone!—Anither blast
Like that, an' a' yer sawing's past!
Come down, ye sinner!—grip the saw
Like death, or trouth, ye'll be awa'.
Na, na, ye'll saw tho' hail an' sleet
Wreathe owre your breast, an' freeze yer feet.
Hear how it roars, an' rings the bells;
The carts are tum'lin' round themsels;
The tile an' thack, an' turf up whirls;
See yon brick lum!—down, down it hurls:—
But wha's yon staggering owre the brae,
Beneath a lade o' buttl't strae;
Be wha he will, poor luckless bitch,
His strae an' him's baith in the ditch.
Nor think to war a wind sae stark;
Your saw-pit stoops, like wans are shaking,
The vera planks and deals are quaking;
Ye're tempin' Providence, I swear,
To raise your graith sae madly here.
Now, now ye're gone!—Anither blast
Like that, an' a' yer sawing's past!
Come down, ye sinner!—grip the saw
Like death, or trouth, ye'll be awa'.
Na, na, ye'll saw tho' hail an' sleet
Wreathe owre your breast, an' freeze yer feet.
Hear how it roars, an' rings the bells;
The carts are tum'lin' round themsels;
The tile an' thack, an' turf up whirls;
See yon brick lum!—down, down it hurls:—
But wha's yon staggering owre the brae,
Beneath a lade o' buttl't strae;
Be wha he will, poor luckless bitch,
His strae an' him's baith in the ditch.
The sclates are hurling down in hun'res,
The dading door an' winnock thun'ers.—
But, ho! my hat, my hat's awa'!
Lord help's! the saw-pit's down an' a'!
Rax me your hand—hech! how he granes,—
I fear your legs are broken banes.
I tauld you this; but deil-mak-matter,
Ye thought it a' but idle clatter;
Now see, ye misbelieving sinners,
Your bloody shins—your saw in flinners;
An' roun' about your lugs the ruin,
That your demented folly drew on.
Experience ne'er sae sicker tells us,
The dading door an' winnock thun'ers.—
But, ho! my hat, my hat's awa'!
Lord help's! the saw-pit's down an' a'!
Rax me your hand—hech! how he granes,—
I fear your legs are broken banes.
I tauld you this; but deil-mak-matter,
Ye thought it a' but idle clatter;
Now see, ye misbelieving sinners,
Your bloody shins—your saw in flinners;
47
That your demented folly drew on.
As when she lifts her rung an' fells us.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |