The March wun whusel’t ower the hills,
Wae loud determent souch,
While claddin’ snaw-showers fil’t the fills
That lead tae mony a shouch.
The auld Pun burn, fou tae the brim,
By Jenny Whyie’s rummelt,
Then creepin’ on ‘neath hazels dim,
Inte the Maine in tummelt,
Fou dark that day.

The clouds in darkest ragments flung
Kept singin’ as they went,
But whether Psalm or Hymn they sung
I didna then tack tent.
The squavin’ pine, wae dancin’ plume,
Kept noddin’ tae the rushes.
That sheltered grew beneath the broom,
An’ ither weer bushes,
Unkent that day.

The craw in tattered garb o’ black,
Ferce struggled wae the wun,
Until beneath some shelterin’ stack,
He drappet tae the grun.
There croaking forth its hymn o’ praise,
For food and shelter’s proffer.
Wha kens but Him o’ Ancient Days.
Wus well pleased wae its offer
O’thanks that day.

But birds are no like giant-man
Wun roon wae towering sense,
Nor may they gage the mystic plan
That lift their brain sae dence;
Yet true tae nature, strecht they aim,
Nor cavil at hir teachin’
Whar is the man may say the same,
In spite o’ a his prachin’
An’ praise this day.

Wha ever heard the lark tae rile
Or argue wae the thrush,
Because he’d keep his ancient stile
O’ singing in a bush.
Man is the yin exception here,
In spite o’ Nature’s rulin’;
He disna seem her pad tae steer,
Nor yet accept her schoolin’
Ava this day.

They tell me now oor godly sons
Maun be for ever still,
For fear yon stars aboon the whuns
Shad sing ower glen or hill;
And thus some big Hosanna raise,
Whur nae Hosanna’s wanted;
Whune’er we see the need for praise,
Its psalms we’ll then hae ranted
By nicht or day.

O’ late Auld Hornie’s been aboot,
Wae a’ his wiles uncommon,
But principally we see his snoot
In new an’ preachin’ woman.
To haud hir doon within the flock,
We’ll keep oor heads thegither,
Nor lecture spare nor double knock,
Nor even hempin’ tether,
On any day.

We ken we may be criticised
In words both thick and fast,
Nor yet be o’er the least surprised,
Should poets swell the blast.
But if such carnal deeds go on,
In spite o’ a’ oor tryin’.
We’ll blaw ilk ravellin’ mother’s son
Frae oor restricted Zion,
Like chaff some day.

Cullybackey Auld Nummer, March 1896

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