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Late in the nicht

by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1885

Late in the nicht in bed I lay,
The winds were at their weary play,
An' tirlin' wa's an' skirlin' wae
      Through Heev'n they battered;—
On-ding o' hail, on-blaff o' spray,
      The tempest blattered.

The masoned house it dinled through;
It dung the ship, it cowped the coo';
The rankit aiks it overthrew,
      Had braved a' weathers;
The strang sea-gleds it took an' blew
      Awa' like feathers.

The thrawes o' fear on a' were shed,
An' the hair rose, an' slumber fled,
An' lichts were lit an' prayers were said
      Through a' the kintry;
An' the cauld terror clum in bed
      Wi' a' an' sindry.

To hear in the pit-mirk on hie
The brangled collieshangie flie,
The warl', they thocht, wi' land an' sea,
      Itsel' wad cowpit;
An' for auld airn, the smashed debris
      By God be rowpit.

Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran,
To folks wi' talescopes in han',
O' ships that cowpit, winds that ran,
      Nae sign was seen,
But the wee warl' in sunshine span
      As bricht's a preen.

I, tae, by God's especial grace,
Dwall denty in a bieldy place,
Wi' hosened feet, wi' shaven face,
      Wi' dacent mainners:
A grand example to the race
      O' tautit sinners!

The wind may blaw, the heathen rage,
The deil may start on the rampage;—
The sick in bed, the thief in cage—
      What's a' to me?
Cosh in my house, a sober sage,
      I sit an' see.

An' whiles the bluid spangs to my bree,
To lie sae saft, to live sae free,
While better men maun do an' die
      In unco places.
"Whaur's God?" I cry, an' "Whae is me
      To hae sic graces?"

I mind the fecht the sailors keep,
But fire or can'le, rest or sleep,
In darkness an' the muckle deep;
      An' mind beside
The herd that on the hills o' sheep
      Has wandered wide.

I mind me on the hoastin' weans—
The penny joes on causey stanes—
The auld folk wi' the crazy banes,
      Baith auld an' puir,
That aye maun thole the winds an' rains,
      An' labour sair.

An' whiles I'm kind o' pleased a blink,
An' kind o' fleyed forby, to think,
For a' my rowth o' meat an' drink
      An' waste o' crumb,
I'll mebbe have to thole wi' skink
      In Kingdom Come.

For God whan jowes the Judgment bell,
Wi' His ain Hand, His Leevin' Sel',
Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell)
      Frae them that had it;
And in the reamin' pat o' Hell,
      The rich be scaddit.

O Lord, if this indeed be sae,
Let daw that sair an' happy day!
Again' the warl', grawn auld an' gray,
      Up wi' your aixe!
And let the puir enjoy their play—
      I'll thole my paiks.

Published in A Child's Garden of Verses

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