A Wet Day : Hughie’s Pity for the Tinklers

The mist lies like a plaid on plain,
The dyke-taps a’ are black wi’ rain,
A soakit head the clover hings,
On ilka puddle rise the rings.

Sair dings the rain upon the road,—
It dings, an’ nae devallin’ o’d;
Adoun the gutter rins a rill
Micht halflins ca’ a country mill.

The very roadman’s left the road:
The only kind o’ beas’ abroad
Are dyucks, rejoicin’ i’ the flood,
An’ pyots, clatterin’ i’ the wud.

On sic a day wha tak’s the gate?
The cadger? maybe; but he’s late.
The carrier? na! he doesna flit
Unless, D.V., the pooers permit.

On sic a day wha tak’s the gate?
The tinkler, an’ his tousie mate;
He foremost, wi’ a nose o’ flint,
She sour an’ sulky, yards ahint.

A blanket, fra her shouthers doun,
Wraps her an’ a’ her bundles roun’;
A second rain rins aff the skirt;
She skelps alang through dub an’ dirt.

Her cheeks are red, her een are sma’,
Her head wi’ rain-draps beadit a’;
The yellow hair, like wires o’ bress,
Springs, thrivin’ in the rain, like gress.

Her man an’ maister stalks in front,
Silent mair than a tinkler’s wont;
His wife an’ warkshop there ahint him,—
This day he caresna if he tint them.

His hands are in his pouches deep,
He snooves alang like ane in sleep,
His only movement’s o’ his legs,
He carries a’ aboon like eggs.

Sma’ wecht! his skeleton an’ skin,
And a dour heavy thocht within.
His claes, sae weel wi’ weet they suit him,
They’re like a second skin aboot him.

They’re doun the road, they’re oot o’ sicht;
They’ll reach the howff by fa’ o’ nicht,
In Poussie Nancy’s cowp the horn,
An’ tak’ the wanderin’ gate the morn.

They’ll gie their weasands there a weet,
Wi’ kindred bodies there they’ll meet,
Wi’ drookit gangerels o’ the clan,
The surgeons o’ the pat an’ pan.

Already on the rain-washed wa’
A darker gloom begins to fa’:
Sooms fra the sicht the soakin’ plain,—
It’s closin’ for a nicht o’ rain.