Sang till the Unborn Bairn
Ye slippit aneth ma breist,
Murmerin thrum o life,
Soomin in secret watter
Kittle an blythe.

I maun cairry an keep ye,
Bairn i' the bane,
Trimmlin sap i' the leaf,
Wecht i' the wame.

Ye are the lichtenin faa,
Stag-bolt deep i' the derk;
The lowe that ma laddie gaed me,
The reid man-sperk.

Ye are a lichtsome creel,
The pledge he canna brak,
A brierin seed i' the dreel,
He'll nae win back!


Daith's Frien
Daith lowsed the snib on a baillie's yett,
Stap-fu wi a rowth o gear;
It's easy kent, b' the braisse name-plate,
Adversity's ill-liked here.

He'd puckles o calls tae mak yon day,
Bit damned, wid the baillie dee!
Did Daith nae ken he wis due at ten,
Fur gowf, wi the commattee?

“Ye'll dee as yer telt fur aince,” quo Daith
Like a dentist pullin teeth.
At ilkie rug in his lang black lug
The baillie screiched oot “Thief!

I've ten years owin me yet,” he cried,
“I've friens at the verra tap!”
“An ye'll be needin them aa,” quo Daith,
An swallaed him, neck an crap.

Daith dimmed the stair o a gangrel chiel
On neebourly terms wi wint,
Wha's life wis bare as a tinker's pooch
Wi the cauldrife win ahint.

“Yer welcome man, fur I've waited lang
This day, an the hale year roon.”
An Daith an the gangrel, linkin airms,
Gaed whusslin through the toun.