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George MacDonald - The Deil`s Forhooit His Ain
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The Deil`s forhooit his ain, his ain!
The Deil`s forhooit his ain!
His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk,
For the Deil`s forhooit his ain.

The Deil he tuik his stick and his hat,
And his yallow gluves on he drew:
"The coal`s sae dear, and the preachin sae flat.
And I canna be aye wi` you!"

The Deil`s, &c.

"But I`ll gie ye my blessin afore I gang,
Wi` jist ae word o` advice;
And gien onything efter that gaes wrang
It`ll be yer ain wull and ch`ice!

"Noo hark: There`s diseases gaein aboot,
Whiles are, and whiles a` thegither!
Ane`s ca`d Repentance—haith, hand it oot!
It comes wi` a change o` weather.

"For that, see aye `at ye`re gude at the spune
And tak yer fair share o` the drink;
Gien ye dinna, I wadna won`er but sune
Ye micht `maist begin to think!

"Neist, luik efter yer liver; that`s the place
Whaur Conscience gars ye fin`!
Some fowk has mair o` `t, and some has less—
It comes o` breedin in.

"But there`s waur nor diseases gaein aboot,
There`s a heap o` fair-spoken lees;
And there`s naething i` natur, in or oot,
`At waur with the health agrees.

"There`s what they ca` Faith, `at wad aye be fain;
And Houp that glowers, and tynes a`;
And Love, that never yet faund its ain,
But aye turnt its face to the wa`.

"And Trouth—the sough o` a sickly win`;
And Richt—what needna be;
And Beauty—nae deeper nor the skin;
And Blude—that`s naething but bree.

"But there`s ae gran` doctor for a` and mair—
For diseases and lees in a breath:—
My bairns, I lea` ye wi`oot a care
To yer best freen, Doctor Death.

"He`ll no distress ye: as quaiet`s a cat
He grips ye, and a`thing`s ower;
There`s naething mair `at ye wad be at,
There`s never a sweet nor sour!

"They ca` `t a sleep, but it`s better bliss,
For ye wauken up no more;
They ca` `t a mansion—and sae it is,
And the coffin-lid`s the door!

"Jist ae word mair—-and it`s verbum sat—
I hae preacht it mony`s the year:
Whaur there`s naething ava to be frictit at
There`s naething ava to fear.

"I dinna say `at there isna a hell—
To lee wad be a disgrace!
I bide there whan I`m at hame mysel,
And it`s no sic a byous ill place!

"Ye see yon blue thing they ca` the lift?
It`s but hell turnt upside doun,
A whummilt bossie, whiles fou o` drift,
And whiles o` a rumlin soun!

"Lat auld wives tell their tales i` the reek,
Men hae to du wi` fac`s:
There`s naebody there to watch, and keek
Intil yer wee mistaks.

"But nor ben there`s naebody there
Frae the yird to the farthest spark;
Ye`ll rub the knees o` yer breeks to the bare
Afore ye`ll pray ye a sark!

"Sae fare ye weel, my bonny men,
And weel may ye thrive and the!
Gien I dinna see ye some time again
It`ll be `at ye`re no to see."

He cockit his hat ower ane o` his cheeks,
And awa wi` a halt and a spang—
For his tail was doun ae leg o` his breeks,
And his butes war a half ower lang.

The Deil`s forhooit his ain, his ain!
The Deil`s forhooit his ain!
His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk,
For the Deil`s forhooit his ain.
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