A Woman in the Street

Edina, 1915

O bonnie lad wi’ the kilt sae braw
     An’ tossel’t sporran swingin’ –
Wi’ dirk at the hip, an’ ribbons rid;
     Ye set my hert a-singin’.

What are ye like that’s brave an’ fine! –
     The Muir-cock or the Eagle?
Your bonnet sets just like a comb,
     Your pride is like the deevil!

Och! Sair I grudge ye to the trenches, lad:
     Few flesh an’ bane are like ye;
Your knees are hard, your e’en are clean –
     For you I’d fecht – God strike me!

Ye wanton rogue! but I love your swing,
     An’ weel I guess your fettle!
For a swatch o’ you I’d face my bit –
     Proud to beget sic metal.

But there he goes; wi’ never a glance:
     To that damned hell in Flanders.
My gift is nocht – his seed gangs waste –
     Curse on the cause that squanders!

Squanders the wealth of Scotland’s kind,
     In their high day and flower,
While we wha hae the grace to save
     Stand Kirk-denied Love’s dower.