This poem is taken from PN Review 14, Volume 6 Number 6, July - August 1980.
Greed (translated by Robert Garioch)When I see aa the fowk that bide intill
this warld, growin fouthie and mair rank
and aye mair yaup fir gear, wad fill a stank
like Ocean, we nae boddom, nivver fuill,
I say: blin hird, stowe siller in the bank,
pu wires, fash throu the day, loss sleep, faa ill.
Maister Auld-faither, syne, snooves owre yer sill
wi's muckle heuk, and whangs clein throu yer hank.
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 286 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 286 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?