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>Date: Fri, 06 Jun 1997 19:10:22 -0700 >From: Rachel Loden <[log in to unmask]> >MIME-Version: 1.0 >To: [log in to unmask] >Subject: thole > >Hey David, here's thole in Joyce, Burns, Neill. For brit-list, if you >like... > >Rachel > >http://www.bibliomania.com/Fiction/joyce/ulysses/oxen.html > >Of that house A. Horne is lord. Seventy beds keeps he there teeming >mothers are wont that they lie for to thole and bring forth bairns >hale so God's angel to Mary quoth. Watchers they there walk, white >sisters in ward sleepless. Smarts they still sickness soothing: in >twelve moons thrice an hundred. Truest bedthanes they twain are, for >Horne holding wariest ward. > >------------------------------------------------------------------------ > >To a Mouse > >On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785 > >Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, >O, what a panic's in thy breastie! >Thou need na start awa sae hasty, > Wi' bickering brattle! >I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 5 > Wi' murd'ring pattle! > >I'm truly sorry man's dominion >Has broken Nature's social union, >An' justifies that ill opinion > Which makes thee startle 10 >At me, thy poor earth-born companion, > An' fellow-mortal! > >I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; >What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! >A daimen icker in a thrave 15 > 'S a sma' request; >I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, > And never miss't! > >Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! >Its silly wa's the win's are strewin! 20 >An' naething, now, to big a new ane, > O' foggage green! >An' bleak December's winds ensuin, > Baith snell an' keen! > >Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, 25 >An' weary winter comin fast, >An' cozie here, beneath the blast, > Thou thought to dwell, >Till crash! the cruel coulter past > Out thro' thy cell. 30 > >That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble >Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! >Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, > But house or hald, >To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 35 > An' cranreuch cauld! > >But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, >In proving foresight may be vain: >The best laid schemes o' mice an' men > Gang aft a-gley. 40 >An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain > For promised joy. > >Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! >The present only toucheth thee: >But och! I backward cast my e'e 45 > On prospects drear! >An' forward, tho' I canna see, > I guess an' fear! > >------------------------------------------------------------------------ > >William Neill - Lament for Alba Moroon > >Yirdins are no for me, I was never ane >tae wear a tile hat and a claw-hemmer coat; >I was never ane >tae staund aboot a cauld and clartie grave >wi een like a wannert stot. >For I canna equate a timmer kist like the lave >wi ane that was dear tae me. > >I canna staund greetin and girning. > >But I wad gang tae the yirdin o Alba Moroon >wad thole the souchin o hypocrites and the blether o fules; >the kistit deid ablo, and the ee-dichtin corbies abune; >begrutten, gey fashed wi the loss but dreamin o wills... >for the muckle warld's aye birlin. > >She maun be an auld wumman nou. > >Och, I canna mind hou auld, but auld and dear tae the herts >O her last wooers... lang deid the jo's o her youth. >There's juist us few; the rest hae skailt tae foreign pairts. >There's juist us few that can see wi the een o truth... >nou, when we're greetin fou. > >O she was thrawn, thrawn. > >Mony the gentry tha cam a coortin she waadna hae; >gentry frae ither airts, no her kind at aa... >she wasna ane tae be woo't wi siller, prood ye micht say >in her young days; she gaed doun a wee when her hair was touched wi >snaw. > >But no in the days o her youth, afore she was mairrit. %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%