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George MacDonald - Time
Work rating: Low

A lang-backit, spilgie, fuistit auld carl
Gangs a` nicht rakin athort the warl
Wi` a pock on his back, luikin hungry an` lean,
His crook-fingert han` aye followin his e`en:
He gathers up a`thing that canna but fa`—
Intil his bag wi` `t, an` on, an` awa!
Soot an` snaw! soot an` snaw!—
Intil his bag wi` `t, an` on, an` awa!

But whan he comes to the wa` o` the warl,
Spangs up it, like lang-leggit spidder, the carl;
Up gangs his pock wi` him, humpit ahin,
For naething fa`s oot `at ance he pat in;
Syne he warstles doon ootside the flamin wa`,
His bag `maist the deith o` him, pangt like a ba`;
Soot an` snaw! soot an` snaw!
His bag `maist throttlin him, pangt like a ba`!

Doon he draps weary upon a laigh rock,
Flingin aside him his muckle-mou`d pock:
An` there he sits, his heid in his han`,
Like a broken-hertit, despairin man;
Him air his pock no bonny, na, na!
Him an` his pock an ugsome twa!
Soot an` snaw! soot an` snaw!
Him an` his pock an ugsome twa!

But sune `s the first ray o` the sunshine bare
Lichts on the carl, what see ye there?
An angel set on eternity`s brink,
Wi` e`en to gar the sun himsel blink;
By his side a glintin, glimmerin urn,
Furth frae wha`s mou rins a liltin burn:—
Soot an` snaw! soot an` snaw!
The dirt o` the warl rins in glory awa!
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