a heap o fresh yird,
earth
new broke and turnt,
the quiet
of the steid
place
belyin'
if not
for that, i could have trewed
believed
(forby the leafy souch an sighin)
besides sough
it was just birds and banes;
bones
and of course a thrawn thrang
stubborn crowd
of grey stanes,
stones
this little auld
old
place populatin.
an aiblins (div ye maybe think)
perhaps do
the orra shade hidin - waitin?
odd
it's ages been since onyane's wrate
anyone's written
upon my story's pages
a new word or name,
it's sae lang the same
so long
i thought folk'd all stinted dyin'
stopped
an i ferly to see how there's still any room
marvel
for any poor body to big up a tomb
build
an the grass, lang uncuttit,
uncut
the wrought iron, all rustit,
the yett that won't sneck
gate latch
an the stanes, cracked an bustit -
fy!
all used up is this grund - it's no ay
ground not still
fit for yirdin;
burying
still, perhaps e'en tonight
we'll raise up a dirdum
commotion
and kindle a bonfire of bones
atop an old slab of gravestone
and when it gets bleezin,
blazing
an the smoke spews up, heezin
lifting up
we'll groan a doleful dirlin death-moan
resounding
'mang eerie hoolets,
(a)'mong owls
we'll dance and we'll birl
spin
we'll raise us some hell, aye
we'll skraik an we'll skirl
shriek holler
an all through the cauld nighten air
cold
of this ill-loved and auld deaden lair
we'll yelloch an skelloch and whirl a death-twirl
yell scream
round and round our bonfire o banes
an make us fast friends
OF ANY PUIR BODIES
poor persons
THAT SHOULD BE WALKIN
HAME BY THEIR LANES
home selves
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