Sainless

I hae stuid an hour o the lown midsimmer nicht
til twal o the knock i the leelang glamarie-licht
by the cherry-tree at the midden, luikan aa round.
There’s never a steer owreby at the ferm-toun,
the reek gangs straucht i the luift, that’s lither and gray,
wi an auntran gair o gowd i the North by the Tay.
The whyte muin owre Drumcarro, the Lomond shawan
purpie i the West, and a lane whaup caaan.

The ither birds are duin, but thon whaup’s aye busy,
wi the dirlan bubble-note that maks ye dizzy,
the daft cratur’s in luve, tho it’s late i the year,
aa round Lucklaw he’s fleean wi an unco steer.
There’s a wheen stots owre i the park by the mansion-hous,
skemblan about whiles, dozent and douce,
and a rabbit nibbles amang our raspberry canes
for aa our wire and our traps and the lave o our pains.

But the feck o the hour I hae gowpit owre the dyke,
taen up wi a sicht thonder that I dinna like,
a day-auld cowt liggan doun i the gress
and the Clydesdale mear standan there motionless.
The hale hour she has made never a steer,
but stuid wi her heid forrit, rigid wi fear,
it’s a wonder onie beast can haud sae still.
The fermer douts the cowt has the joint-ill,
that canna be sained. Ye’d speir gin his mither kens?
Ay, beasts hae their tragedies as sair as men’s.