Noo East, noo West, amang the kye,
An smell o' whins the wind 'll bring;
Aye, lad, it blaws a thocht to mock
The licht o' day on ilka thing--
For you, that went yon road last spring,
Are lying deid in Flanders, Jock.

[3] Lapwings.




KIRSTY'S OPINION


Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,
That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie;
There's them that disna' seem to understan' it,
I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!

Maybe ye'll mind her man--a fine wee cratur,
Owre blate to speak (puir thing, he didna' daur);
What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur';
Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.

But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her,
He isna' feared to contradic' her flat;
He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner,
(I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!)