The Cynic.

A poem by David Rorie

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast wi' a smirr o' snaw,
An' it took the doctor's guid lum hat
Richt owre the kirk-yaird wa'.
When he sichtit it he dichtit it,
An' he glowred wi' an angry e'e-
For says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Ye've a gey gude crap," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast baith snell an' keen,
An' the washin' o' the clarty wife
Sailed aff the washin' green,
An' it landit on the midden-heid,
Whaur nae washin' ought to be-
An' says auld jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Weel, hame's aye hame," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An' it gart the deid leaves loup,
An' it set the shoothers heicher yet
O' the gaithrin' at the roup;
An' stour filled the een o' the unctioneer,
Till the cratur' couldna see;
An' says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Turn aboot's fair play," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An' the rein catched the grey mear's tail,
An' her heels to save her hin'er en'
Gaed lashin' like a flail.
An' the haill apotheck lay in spails,
As the grey mear warsled free;
An' when auld Jock Smairt saw the fashion o' his cairt:
"Wha's seekin' ony spunks?" says he.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'The Cynic.' by David Rorie

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy