a darklin lift faas ower grun o nae mair uise
pyshent noo by greed an the surly flists o waar
the rain at faas comes doon soor and sookit
ettin awa at aathin livin left ablow’t tae craal an howk
an the vile bree o’t rins in stricts tae meet a sea
faa’s ettersome waves cairry spile awa intae the deep
an nivver a heid is turnt, nae king nor lairdie bens
a mynd tae fit a sotter their gowstert cravins wrocht
© BH, 2026
I wrote this in response tae a puckle lines in Scots aboot war posted by Brian Thomson.
We're aa scunnert o this business. Mair tae the pynt, it aye seems there's nae question fan it comes tae fechtin. Then, there's plenty siller, nae bothyer aboot the mess o rick an ruin, nae even muckle thocht on aa the fowk that get killt or maim't. Fan it comes tae war, if it needs daein some o the bummers jist breing awa on't - thon orange-facet gype is by far the worst.
They're aa jist lookin tae their ain intrests, are they nae? Must be, because, if it's onythin the rest o's need, they haver an ficher aboot, an naethin o note gets deen. Ach, bugger savin the planet, daein fits richt, nah! it's mair a maitter o savin their sorry airses.
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