Four

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