Four men digging peats on the moor
Iain, Hamilton, Findlay, Neil
Cutting them neat with their flauchter spades
Pushing and lifting, hand and heel
Iain will die by a stranger’s car
(Oh how narrow the roads, and bent)
Under a sky of stars and rain
And a sickle moon in the firmament
Hamilton, he’ll have a living death
Dottled and rambling, thoughts awry
Pity the man of sense bereft
Like a grey scarecrow hung out to dry
Findlay, he’ll take a walk with drink
Down, down, down, into beggar’s lane
One more thing for the skip to shift
Dead in a night of snow and pain
Neil will die by a surgeon’s knife
Quick and easy he’ll quit his place
With three grown strapping sons behind
To fill his space in the human race
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem