Ower Blate

The gangrel kittlin's feart tae raxx an purr
In perfect warmth afore the forkit flame
An sae bides ootlinned-neuked, bedraiggled fur,
Nur winna steer the reid hearth-heat tae claim.

The table's laden — yet I daurna dine.
I am the tod wha's niver tasted bluid;
He is the breid o plenty, winted wine.
Tho I be famishin, I mauna feed.

Oh gin he war a lintie, I the cloud,
I wad enfold him an nae think it sin!
War he a stane I'd brook him lang an loud,
Braver nur ony linn.

Gin he war bracken I wad be the snake,
His ilkie road my glimmerin coils wad gang.
For, as the meen is nocht wi'oot the nicht,
There's nae the woman born bit covets man.

I keep my wheesht, a tongue o jyled pearl
Snibbed in a shell, far frae the licht o day.
A frostit snawdrop, teetin ower the warld,
A Norlan' Spring that Winter's keepit blae.

Nae hinney in my hairt — a herriet byke
I wish I hadna felt, nur thocht, nur seen.
I wish the corbies, crawin ben the dyke
Hid pyked his verra image frae ma een!

I am a silent sang wha's tint its tune;
I am the burn that whummles derk an quate;
I am the bud that niver braks in bloom,
An ay the skirlin curlew mocks, “Ower blate.”

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