by: Buchan, Peter
Some folk get the win’ in their face
A’ their mortal days,
Fine div they ken the desert place
Wi’ its dreich an’ craggy braes.
Theirs is the world o’ trauchlin’ thro’;
Theirs is a dour grey sky.
For the sunny spell an’ the gentle dew
Seem aye to pass them by.
Some folk get the win’ at their backs;
Theirs is a lichtsome birn,
Wi’ nivver a flaw in the fine-spun flax
They draw fae the birlin’ pirn.
Theirs is the world o’ fill-an’-fess-ben,
Theirs is a bricht blue sky,
For the caul’ roch shooer that weets ither men
Seems aye to leave them dry.
Some can smile in their weary lot
Altho’ the fecht be sair;
Some hae aye the greet in their throat
Tho’ they’ve neither cark nor care.
Keep ‘ee the chiel fae the sheltered place
Wi’s hert as caul’ as a steen,
I’ll tak’ the lad wi’ the win’ in ‘is face
An’ I’ll hae a better freen.
The Estate of Peter Buchan 1992
Peter Buchan’s Collected Poems and Short Stories are available from Steve Savage Publishers Ltd.