A ROUTH O KILLIN ©

I’ll aye hae mynd o France,
He said, tear bricht in ae guide ee,
An’ 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 that’s meant for you.

For fower lang years I focht,
Ilk daith I gert a beilin scaur,
Aye wunnerin whit I’d 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 sodger’s plicht.

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

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