Daylicht Has Mony Een.

O! can'le licht's baith braw and bricht
At e'en when bars are drawn,
But can'le licht's a dowie sicht
When dwinin' i' the dawn.
Yet dawn can bring nae wearier day
Than I hae dree'd yestre'en,
An' comin' day may licht my way-
Daylicht has mony een.

Noo, daylicht's fairly creepin' in,
I hear the auld cock craw;
Fu' aft I've banned him for his din,
An' wauk'nin' o' us a'!
But welcome noo's his lichtsome cry
Sin' bed-fast I ha'e been,
It tells anither nicht's gane by-
Daylicht has mony een.

O! bed-fast men are weary men,
Laid by frae a' their wark;
Hoo thocht can kill ye ne'er will ken
Till tholin' 't in the dark.
But ere nicht fa's I'll maybe see
What yet I hinna seen,
A land whaur mirk can never be-
Daylicht has mony een.

David Rorie

David Rorie was a Scottish poet and physician born on October 14, 1867, in Aberdeen, Scotland. He combined his profession as a doctor with his love for Scots language poetry, focusing much of his work on the people and country life of Scotland. Rorie’s work is considered an important contribution to Scottish literature. He passed away on August 18, 1946.

David Rorie

The Crambo-Clink.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

The Cynic.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

The Wee Drap.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Brithers.

'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen
I keppit a tinkler chiel,
The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through,
He was waesomely doon at the heel;
But he made me free o' his company,
For he kent that I wished him weel.

He lookit me fairly 'tween the een,
He cam' o' an auncient clan;
He gae me gude-day in a freendly way,
While he spak me man to man,
Though my gibbles were a' for the human frame
An' his for kettle an' pan.

"Ye're oot i' the warst that the weather can dae,
Ye're free o' the road, like me,
I palmer aboot for kettles to cloot,
Wi' an orra-like weird to dree;
An' oor job's to men' whativer'll men',
Wi' luck to fix oor fee!

Brithers baith o' the auld high road-
Yet the Deil hae General Wade
For learnin's ...

David Rorie

The Nicht That The Bairnie Cam' Hame.

I was gaun to my supper richt hungert an' tired,
A' day I'd been hard at the pleugh;
The snaw wi' the dark'nin' was fast dingin' on,
An' the win' had a coorse kin' o' sough.
'Twas a cheery like sicht as the bonny fire-licht
Gar't the winnock play flicker wi' flame;
But my supper was "Aff for the doctor at aince!"
That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

Noo, I kent there was somethin' o' that sort to be,
An' I'd had my ain thochts, tae, aboot it;
Sae when my gude-mither had tel't me to flee,
Fegs, it wisna my pairt for to doot it.
Wi' a new pair o' buits that was pinchin' like sin,
In a mile I was hirplin' deid lame;
'Twas the warst nicht o' a' that I ever pit in,
That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

I'd a gude seeven mile o' a fecht wi' the snaw,<...

David Rorie

The Crambo-Clink.

Afore there was law to fleg us a',
An' schedule richt frae wrang,
The man o' the cave had got the crave
For the lichtsome lilt o' sang.
Wife an' strife an' the pride o' life,
Woman an' war an' drink;
He sang o' them a' at e'enin's fa'
By aid o' the crambo-clink.

When the sharpest flint made the deepest dint,
An' the strongest worked his will,
He drew his tune frae the burnie's croon
An' the whistlin' win' o' the hill.
At the mou' o's cave to pleesure the lave,
He was singin' afore he could think,
An' the wife in bye hush'd the bairnie's cry
Wi' a swatch o' the crambo-clink.

Nae creetic was there wi' superior air
For the singer wha daur decry
When they saw the sheen o' the makar's een,
An' his han' on his axe forbye?
But the nich...

David Rorie

Here Aboots.

Doon in the placie I hae my hame
We're an ill-daein' pack o' deils,
For ilk ane gangs a gait o' his ain
An the lave play yap at his heels.
It's argy-bargy-awfu' wark!
An' whiles we come to blows
Till a man's ill-natur' lappers his sark
As it sypes awa' frae his nose.

The rizzon o't's no' far to seek,
I'll tell ye plump an' plain,
We ken oor neebours' business best-
The Deil may hae oor ain!
The wricht's a billy for settin' banes,
The meenister deals in pills,
The doctor thinks his gift's to preach
An' the pollisman mak's oor wills!

There's whiles I think we're waur than maist,
There's whiles I dinna ken,
A raw o' neeps is no' a' like
An' why look for't in men?
Sae gin ye get your birse set up
By some dour cankert carle,

David Rorie

To William Simpson, Ochiltree.

May, 1785.


    I gat your letter, winsome Willie;
    Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
    Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
        An' unco vain,
    Should I believe, my coaxin' billie,
        Your flatterin' strain.

    But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,
    I sud be laith to think ye hinted
    Ironic satire, sidelins sklented
        On my poor Musie;
    Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it,
        I scarce excuse ye.

    My senses wad be in a creel,
    Should I but dare a hope to speel,
    Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,
        The braes o' fame;
    Or Fergusson, the writer chiel,
        A deathless name.

    (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
    Ill suited law's dry, musty...

Robert Burns

Human Natur'.

As I gang roon' the kintra-side
Amang the young an' auld,
I marvel at the things I see
An' a' the lees I'm tauld.
There's Mistress-weel, I winna say:
I wadna hurt her pride,-
But speerits hae a guff, gude-wife,
Nae peppermints can hide.

Then there's the carle I said maun bide
In bed or I cam' back,
An' frae the road I saw him fine
Gang dodgin' roond a stack;
I heard him pechin' up the stair
As I cam' in the door-
But Faith! My lad was in his bed
An' ettlin' for to snore.

An' here's a chap that needs a peel,
He chaws it roon' an' roon',
He's narra' i' the swalla', an'
He canna get it doon.
Yet whiles his swalla's wide eneuch,
The muckle ne'er-dae-weel,
Gin it had aye been narra'er
He hadna nott the peel.

David Rorie