This while I've been ettlin' to string a wheen rhymes,
Being unco sair fash'd at the signs o' the times—
The mony dark omens aroun' an' abune,
The upshot o' whilk will be seen on us sune.
The cholera's wan'ering roun' us this while,
An' I watna hoo sune it may come to our isle,
Whan, on Sabbath, instead o' a ride on the rail,
We may follow the deid-cart wi' greeting an' wail.
The pest 'mang oor bestial is spreading like fire,
The sta's are a' toom noo in mony a byre,
The hirsels are dwinin' on hillside an' lea,
An' the grief an' the losses are waesome to dree.
We've lost our gude Premier: I houp he's at rest
In the lan' o' the leal, wi' the gude an' the blest;
God bless oor wee Johnnie! he'll dae what he can
For our gude—a true Briton, an' leal heartit man.
We're a' to be chawed up by big cousin Sam,
Wha brags he has brocht the dark children o' Ham
Out the hoose o' their bondage, an' set them a' free;
May they use weel the blessin'!—belyve we sall see.
A plague's rife amang us that bears aye the bell:
It's the plague o' intemperance—what mortal may tell
How fearfu' the curse an' the plague-sairs how foul,
That poison the body and ruin the soul!
Why Wallace Stevens’ Poetry is the Ultimate Guide to Mindful Living and the Antidote to the AI Era
Although he appeared as a poet relatively late in his career, the author left...
