Stevenson, Robert Louis (1850–1894). A Child’s Garden of Verses and Underwoods. 1913.
XIII. “Late in the nicht”
L
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,
The tempest blattered.
It dung the ship, it cowped the coo’;
The rankit aiks it overthrew,
Had braved a’ weathers;
The strang sea-gleds it took an’ blew
Awa’ like feathers.
An’ the hair rose, an’ slumber fled,
An’ lichts were lit an’ prayers were said
Through a’ the kintry;
An’ the cauld terror clum in bed
Wi’ a’ an’ sindry.
The brangled collieshangie flie,
The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea,
Itsel’ wad cowpit;
An’ for auld airn, the smashed debris
By God be rowpit.
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.
Dwall denty in a bieldy place,
Wi’ hosened feet, wi’ shaven face,
Wi’ dacent mainners:
A grand example to the race
O’ tautit sinners!
The deil may start on the rampage;—
The sick in bed, the thief in cage—
What’s a’ to me?
Cosh in my house, a sober sage,
I sit an’ see.
To lie sae saft, to live sae free,
While better men maun do an’ die
In unco places.
“Whaur’s God?” I cry, an’ “Whae is me
To hae sic graces?”
But fire or can’le, rest or sleep,
In darkness an’ the muckle deep;
An’ mind beside
The herd that on the hills o’ sheep
Has wandered wide.
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.
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
In Kingdom Come.
Wi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’,
Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell)
Frae them that had it;
And in the reamin’ pat o’ Hell,
The rich be scaddit.
Let daw that sair an’ happy day!
Again’ the warl’, grawn auld an’ gray,
Up wi’ your aixe!
And let the puir enjoy their play—
I’ll thole my paiks.