Monday, August 20, 2007

Mirk Throu a Keekin-Gless

Whit we, whan breest tae breest we see
The Faither o oor sauls, will be,
John tells us, isna nominate;
We ken-na whit or whan oor fate.

Ingine for thocht tae pass intil;
A hert for luvers' fain guidwill;
Five senses deprehends things near:
Is this the hale that we ar here?

Wand stymies natur - natur's wuid,
Wice men is ill - an fuils the guid,
Howps pauchtie seems, tho aye sae dear;
We canna ken forwhy we'r here.

Och grant that for persuasion's cause
Some solemn juidgment hap-nap faws
That we can at the last declere
For whit plain ettle we ar here.

Or is it richt, whit recks it nou,
Tae trail the black confusion throu
An say: - It isna nominate
Whit we will be, an whit oor fate?

An yit, in fouth o thocht an deed,
The hert aye still owergangs the heid;
But whit we howp we maun believe,
An whit is gien us blyth receive;

Maun yit believe, for aye we'v socht
That, in a warld o faurder raucht,
Whit here wi aefauld hert's begoud
Micht be perfurnisht as it soud.

Bit bairn, we aye maun think, us twa:
Whan life perpetual comes tae daw,
Some true result will yit compear
O whit we ar, thegither, here.

Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-61)

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