 | Annie Weir and Other Poems |  |
188
THE CHIELD OOT O' WARK.
Some tell hoo the turtle-doo mourns for its mate,
Some tell hoo puir Peggy laments faithless Pate,
Some muses mak' wan hopeless widows their mark;
But wha cares a snuff for the chield oot o' wark?
We hear o' the sodgers in battle that fa',
We hear o' the sailors that waves wash awa',
In ballads they'll sing o' their lost bonny bark;
But wha mak's a sang o' the chield oot o' wark?
Some tell hoo puir Peggy laments faithless Pate,
Some muses mak' wan hopeless widows their mark;
But wha cares a snuff for the chield oot o' wark?
We hear o' the sodgers in battle that fa',
We hear o' the sailors that waves wash awa',
In ballads they'll sing o' their lost bonny bark;
But wha mak's a sang o' the chield oot o' wark?
The chield oot o' wark disappointment maun bear,
Maun suffer wealth's frown and its cauld heartless sneer;
Ilk sumph o' a gaffer may mak' a wit-mark—
A butt for his scorn o' the chield oot o' wark.
He wanders aboot frae dull morn to grey e'en;
Where'er Hope invites him, he's sure to be seen;
But aften Hope's star dwindles doon to a spark,
And hides frae the e'e o' the chield oot o' wark.
Maun suffer wealth's frown and its cauld heartless sneer;
Ilk sumph o' a gaffer may mak' a wit-mark—
A butt for his scorn o' the chield oot o' wark.
He wanders aboot frae dull morn to grey e'en;
Where'er Hope invites him, he's sure to be seen;
189
And hides frae the e'e o' the chield oot o' wark.
The chield oot o' wark, see! his guttas are dune,
His breeks are threadbare, an' his coat's wearin' thin;
And though he can brag yet o' mair than ae sark,
How long will't be sae wi' the chield oot o' wark?
His wardrobe maun gang to the sharks o' the pawn,
For backs maun be bared at the belly's commaun':
He'll soon hae sma' need to be learned like a clark,
Wha values the gear o' the chield oot o' wark.
His breeks are threadbare, an' his coat's wearin' thin;
And though he can brag yet o' mair than ae sark,
How long will't be sae wi' the chield oot o' wark?
His wardrobe maun gang to the sharks o' the pawn,
For backs maun be bared at the belly's commaun':
He'll soon hae sma' need to be learned like a clark,
Wha values the gear o' the chield oot o' wark.
His wee things at hame—but o' them speir nae mair—
Their weal is his comfort, their misery his care;
Their wants wauken thochts unco sinfu' an' dark,
That whisper relief to the chield oot o' wark.
Nae honour for him, let him tramp as he may—
He mauna aspire to the laurel or bay;
And nae smiling Queen prins a bright hero-mark,
To shine on the breast o' the chield oot o' wark.
Their weal is his comfort, their misery his care;
Their wants wauken thochts unco sinfu' an' dark,
That whisper relief to the chield oot o' wark.
Nae honour for him, let him tramp as he may—
He mauna aspire to the laurel or bay;
And nae smiling Queen prins a bright hero-mark,
To shine on the breast o' the chield oot o' wark.
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The chield oot o' wark mauna beg—daurna steal,
An' pride bids him struggle his grief to conceal:
Believe me, my friends, since the days o' the Ark
The dreif wretch on earth was the chield oot o' wark.
Ye wealthy, on whom wit and wisdom descend,
Oh! be it your care him frae want to defend;
On Fame's deathless page he may scribble his mark,
Wha plans a relief for the chield oot o' wark.
An' pride bids him struggle his grief to conceal:
Believe me, my friends, since the days o' the Ark
The dreif wretch on earth was the chield oot o' wark.
Ye wealthy, on whom wit and wisdom descend,
Oh! be it your care him frae want to defend;
On Fame's deathless page he may scribble his mark,
Wha plans a relief for the chield oot o' wark.
| Annie Weir and Other Poems | |