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A ROUTH O KILLIN ©

Sam Gilliland
Stranraer, Scotland
2007

Iíll aye hae mynd o France,
He said, tear bricht in ae guide ee,
Aní the skaith I wrocht by chance,
Fechtin for King and country,
Mony a bullet sang shair and true,
But the yin ye culdnae hear or see,
Wis the yin thatís meant for you.

For fower lang years I focht,
Ilk daith I gert a beilin scaur,
Aye wunnerin whit Iíd socht,
Tae insnorl me intae war.
Ye daurnae swither yince ye had
Croass-haired a target in yer sicht,
But officers, for me, my lad,
Kythed the ordnar sodgerís plicht.

I killt a wheen, son or sire,
Whyles at gloamin, whyles at daw,
Whyles girned up in cruel wire,
Aní whyles happed in chittírin snaw,
Simmer, Autumn, Winter, Spring,
I wrocht each rank season throu,
A deidly sniperís gurlie ring,
Whase efterstang I nichtly grue.

I cursed the Kaiser, lang and sair,
But cursed his kizzen even mair!



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