by Peter Matheson
Whit a trauchle, whit a struggle
Tae haud fast tae God’s truith
In oor clishmaclaverin times
O’ Twitter, Instagram, YouTube!
Boorachs spreidin an iverie side,
Whill twitterin’ heids o’ state,
Gysin’ themsels as upricht men,
Gie honest fowks the glaicks.
Who’ll heave us out the mirk
Whan fause truith cries its wares?
Whose handclasp staund the test
O’ strecht integritie?
Let’s lay oor lugs thegither
An’ hear some hamely truiths
Mibby some dacent Scottish fowk
Can steer us thru’ this filth.
“Gut nae fish till ye get them”.
Twa hundert years ahent an mair
Allan Ramsay’s proverbs appeart;
There’s muckle tae larn frae there.
Tak tent, they say, o’ the smooth brigade,
Wha cannae lauch at thirsels,
Wha niver seem tae lose the plot;
Dinnae swear, get soused, dispare.
An’ gie nae trust tae feckless loons,
Gibble-gabblers, knaw-all pedders,
Trimmers wi’ aa’ the answers pat
Afore they hear the question.
Quick trigger tungs be fine an weil
For the fitba’ field and the tavern scene;
But it’s the canny mind, the frienly hairt
Will steer us safe through stour an streen.
For God’s truith wends its hirplin wey
Betwixt and between oor lofty hopes.
We seldom grasp whit’s afore oor een
(Though wains blurt it oot fer shuir).
“Dinnae creep in his arse for a week of fair weather.”
Och, childern and rhymesters ken fu’ weil:
If ye haud fast tae truithfulness,
Ye’ll keep the grip on yer inmost saul.
Rabbie ca’s oot tae honest hairts:
“A man’s a man for aa’ that”,
Nae fancy gear nor clever speech;
Just “a wurd’s a wurd for aa’ that!”