Lang John on a Deid Man's Chest

Lang John on a Deid Man’s Chest

The starnies up abune leave weel alane
I reenge the  Muckle Furth in search o gowd
I skelp aff ithers’ heids wi ma swack blade
Gie ilkie bluidy corp a wattery shroud

Foo is it that ma blaik hairt lowps an stoons
At clink o siller, glisk o gems an pearls
An gars me hunt until the warld’s eyn
Aa treisur? At its touch, each finger dirls

Fa kens? Some fowk contentit, bide at hame
Bake breid, clip claith. I hae a derker goal
Ma weird’s tae sail aneth a reiver’s flag
For I hae fire an brimsteen in ma soul

Sae here I staun, the bairnie’s bogieman

Lang John, wi parrot an a cripple’s stick
Castin a shadda derk as puddock bree

Wi bling an scars, hale pirate’s rickmatick

An wis I bred tae be Auld Clootie’s fier?
Or wis’t a soorness in ma mither’s wyme?

Wis’t Chaunce or Fate, or Natur grew me coorse?

I neither ken nor care, I’m thirled tae crime!

Sheena Blackhall