Whe’ all is meditations above th’ foamy,
horizon tae horizon
A month o’ days since th’ sight o’ lan’ befo’ th’ mast,
an’ taken by th’ whispering wake,
beneath th’ stellar glimmerings,
o’ beneath th’ lunar orb,
an’ below th’ blist’ring rays o’ Sol’s eternal day,
th’ conundrums ne’er please,
An’ this, th’ day, will have its feast.
Home is th’ splintery planks
a’neath their weathered feet,
an their chosen place tae nest.
Th’ night win’s howl and chills their bones
an spares not one o’ rest.
They speak san sound.
They work th’ sheets.
They scrub th’ spotted deck.
They dare nah raise raise
their eyes unto th’ sky.
They speak, but are their voices heard?
Mark this well,
and remember to thy bones.
tis flesh, tis dust an’ never yourn.
Th’ soun’ yee dunnah wish tae hear:
“Thine soul will be required o’ yee.
This day, will have its feast.”
This day, will have its feast.