Short Poems

We cam' na here to view your warks,
In hopes to be mair wise,
But only, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise:
But whan we tirl'd at your door,
Your porter dought na bear us;
Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come,
Your billy Satan sair us!

Farewel D . .r Friend! may Guid-luck hit you,
And 'mang her favorites admit you!
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you,
May nane believe him!
And ony deil that thinks to get you,
Good Lord deceive him!!!

Hic jacet wee Johnie

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know,
That Death has murder'd Johnie;
An' here his body lies fu' low —
For saul he ne'er had ony.

One night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Aire ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;
A cushat crouded o'er me,
That echoed thro' the braes.

The Kyoto Buddhist monk Unchiku drew a priest with his face turning the other way, probably a portrait of himself, and asked for words in praise of it. He is about sixty, and I'm already near fifty. We are both in dreams, appearing in dream forms. I add words spoken in sleep:
Turn this way; I'm lonely too, this autumn evening

Toward the end of the second month in the fifth year of Jokyo [1688], I went to Ise. This was the fifth time I trod the ground in front of the sanctuary. As I had grown old by still another year, I felt its awesome light and venerableness all the more strongly. Recalling fondly that it was the place where Saigyo shed tears and wrote of his " gratitude, " I spread my fan on the ground and put my forehead on it:
From the blossoms of what tree I don't know — but this fragrance!

How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high
Her way pursuing among scattered clouds,
Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds
Hidden from view in dense obscurity.
But look, and to the watchful eye
A brightening edge will indicate that soon
We shall behold the struggling Moon
Break forth, — again to walk the clear blue sky.

What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine,
Through my very heart they shine;
And, if my brow gives back their light,
Do thou look gladly on the sight;
As the clear Moon with modest pride
Beholds her own bright beams
Reflected from the mountain's side
And from the headlong streams.

The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love,
Glories of evening, as ye there are seen
With but a span of sky between —
Speak one of you, my doubts remove,
Which is the attendant Page and which the Queen?

If this great world of joy and pain
Revolve in one sure track;
If freedom, set, will rise again,
And virtue, flown, come back;
Woe to the purblind crew who fill
The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill
To bear, and to forbear!