The Philosophy Of The Ditch

A poem by Violet Jacob

Aweel, I'm couped. But wha' could tell
The road wad rin sae sair?
I couldna gang yon pace mysel',
An' I winna try nae mair!

There's them wad coonsel me to stan',
But this is what I say:
When Natur's forces fecht wi' man,
Dod, he maun just give way!

If man's nae framed to lift his fit
Agin' a nat'ral law,
I winna' lift my heid, for it
Wad dae nae guid ava'.

Puir worms are we; the poo'pit rings
Ilk Sawbath wi' the same,
Gin airth's the place for sic-like things,
I'm no sae far frae hame!

Yon's guid plain raes'nin'; an' forby,
This pairish has nae sense,
There's mony traiv'lin wad deny
Natur and Providence;

For loud an' bauld the leears wage
On men like me their war,
Elected saints to thole their rage
Is what they're seekin' for.

But tho' a man wha's drink's his tea
Their malice maun despise,
It's no for naething, div ye see,
That I'm sae sweir to rise!

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