His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk,
For the Deil’s forhooit his ain.
The Deil he tuik his stick and his hat,
And his yallow gluves on he drew:
‘The coal’s sae dear, and the preachin sae flat.
And I canna be aye wi’ you!’
The Deil’s, &c.
‘But I’ll gie ye my blessin afore I gang,
Wi’ jist ae word o’ advice;
And gien onything efter that gaes wrang
It’ll be yer ain wull and ch’ice!
‘Noo hark: There’s diseases gaein aboot,
Whiles are, and whiles a’ thegither!
Ane’s ca’d Repentance-haith, hand it oot!
It comes wi’ a change o’ weather.
‘For that, see aye ‘at ye’re gude at the spune
And tak yer fair share o’ the drink;
Gien ye dinna, I wadna won’er but sune
Ye micht ‘maist begin to think!
‘Neist, luik efter yer liver; that’s the place
Whaur Conscience gars ye fin’!
Some fowk has mair o’ ‘t, and some has less-
It comes o’ breedin in.
‘But there’s waur nor diseases gaein aboot,
There’s a heap o’ fair-spoken lees;
And there’s naething i’ natur, in or oot,
‘At waur with the health agrees.
‘There’s what they ca’ Faith, ‘at wad aye be fain;
And Houp that glowers, and tynes a’;
And Love, that never yet faund its ain,
But aye turnt its face to the wa’.
‘And Trouth-the sough o’ a sickly win’;
And Richt-what needna be;
And Beauty-nae deeper nor the skin;
And Blude-that’s naething but bree.
‘But there’s ae gran’ doctor for a’ and mair-
For diseases and lees in a breath:-
My bairns, I lea’ ye wi’oot a care
To yer best freen, Doctor Death.
‘He’ll no distress ye: as quaiet’s a cat
He grips ye, and a’thing’s ower;
There’s naething mair ‘at ye wad be at,
There’s never a sweet nor sour!
‘They ca’ ‘t a sleep, but it’s better bliss,
For ye wauken up no more;
They ca’ ‘t a mansion-and sae it is,
And the coffin-lid’s the door!
‘Jist ae word mair–and it’s
verbum sat
–
I hae preacht it mony’s the year:
Whaur there’s naething ava to be frictit at
There’s naething ava to fear.
‘I dinna say ‘at there isna a hell-
To lee wad be a disgrace!
I bide there whan I’m at hame mysel,
And it’s no sic a byous ill place!
‘Ye see yon blue thing they ca’ the lift?
It’s but hell turnt upside doun,
A whummilt bossie, whiles fou o’ drift,
And whiles o’ a rumlin soun!
‘Lat auld wives tell their tales i’ the reek,
Men hae to du wi’ fac’s:
There’s naebody there to watch, and keek
Intil yer wee mistaks.
‘But nor ben there’s naebody there
Frae the yird to the farthest spark;
Ye’ll rub the knees o’ yer breeks to the bare
Afore ye’ll pray ye a sark!
‘Sae fare ye weel, my bonny men,
And weel may ye thrive and the!
Gien I dinna see ye some time again
It’ll be ‘at ye’re no to see.’
He cockit his hat ower ane o’ his cheeks,
And awa wi’ a halt and a spang-
For his tail was doun ae leg o’ his breeks,
And his butes war a half ower lang.
The Deil’s forhooit his ain, his ain!
The Deil’s forhooit his ain!
His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk,
For the Deil’s forhooit his ain.