There'd ha'e to be nae warnin'. Times ha'e changed
And Noahs are owre numerous nooadays,
(And them the vera folk to benefit maist!)
Knock the feet frae under them, O Lord, wha praise
Your unsearchable ways sae muckle and yet hope
To keep within knowledgeable scope!
Ding a' their trumpery show to blauds again. strike/pieces
Their measure is the thimblfu' o' Esk in spate.
Like whicsky the tittlin' craturs mete oot your poo'ers prattling
Aince a week for bawbees in the kirk-door plate, coppers
- And pit their umbrellas up when they come oot
If mair than a pulpitfu' o' You's aboot!
O arselins wi' them! Whummle them again! turn head over heels
Coup then heels-owre-gowdy in a storm sae gundy overturn/wild
That mony a lang fog-theekit face I ken moss-grown
'll be sooked richt doon under through a cundy grating
In the High Street, afore you get weel-sterted
And are still hauf-herted!
Then flush the world in earnest. Let yoursel' gang, go
Scour't to the bones, and mak' its marrow holes
Toom as a whistle as they used to be empty
In days I mind ere men fidged wi' souls, bothered
But naething had forgotten you as yet,
Nor you forgotten it.
Up then and at them, ye Gairds o' Heaven.
The Divine Retreat is owre. Like a tidal bore
Boil in among them; let the lang lugs nourished ears
On the milk o' the word at last hear the roar
O' human shingles; and replenish the salt o' the earth
In the place o' their birth.