The Flail

When winter firmly taks a houl’,

And days are dreary, drab and coul’,

Wi’ bitter sleet and drivin’ hail,

Then Wullie Boyd taks up his flail.

There’s growin’ stirks and milkin’ kye

That need fresh fother by and by,

So Wullie’s flail gets intae gear

And flings its echo far and near.

You’ll hear him in the early morn,

Wi’ steady thud he flails the corn.

He sees his beasts and horses fed

Afore his neighbours lea’ their bed.

I’ve often watched wi’ boyish glee

How Wullie made the barley flee.

I’ve heard the aged rafters croak

Beneath his steady, measured stroke.

See how the neat begirdled sheaf

Sae pink o’ stem, wi’ glossy leaf,

Succumbs tae Wullie’s practised skill,

A sturdy human threshin’ mill.

A swish, a thud, the flail descends,

The tortured sheaf in agony bends.

The seed is scattered roun’ like hail

Neath Wullie’s unrepentant flail.

Doon in the byre the drowsy kye

Are lyin’ warm and snug and dry.

Unmindfu’ o’ the steady thud,

They doze content, or chew the cud.

At last the flail is cast aside,

The wooden hatch is opened wide,

The eager beasts soon understan’

That breakfast time is noo at han’.

And Wullie sees each gets its share,

A liberal feed wi’ some tae spare.

And then the kitchen’s temptin’ smell

Incites him forth tae feed himsel’.

There’s two big rashers, side by side,

A blue duck egg in gravy fried,

And fadge that tae your innards cling —

A breakfast fit for ony king.

Thus fortified, nae man can fail

Tae match the torture o’ the flail,

For only sinews made o’ steel

Can swing a flail - and swing it weel.

There’s something noble, grand and rare

Tae see a flail swish through the air.

There’s mystic music in each stroke

As though some tribal drum had spoke.

So nivermore will I complain

If through my bedroom window pane

The thud o’ Wullie’s flail should seep,

And spoil my early mornin’ sleep.

Instead — I’ll maybe breathe a prayer,

And think o’ Wullie toilin’ there.

But nivermore I’ll be annoyed

Tae hear the flail o’ Wullie Boyd.