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Updated: June 10, 2025
"Is't no won'erfu', minister, the law o' compensation that oor Creator gies us, to reach a' through oor lives? "Pain has its ither side, ye ken. An' when we say as hoo it's an ill wind that blaws naebody guid, we're acknowledgin' the love o' the Almichty.
But d'ye think the wundy's big enough to let ye through?" "Oo ay," returned Black with a faint smile. "I was ower stoot for't ance, but it's an ill wund that blaws nae guid. Stervation has made me thin enough noo."
In one of Burns's own poems, The Cotter's Saturday Night, we get some idea of the simple home life these kindly God- fearing peasants led "November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;* The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry bests retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; The toil-worn Cotter Frae his labour goes,
He was standing up behind the parapet, his head thrown back and the bottle to his mouth. As he put it down, he saw and recognised us with a toss of one hand fleeringly above his head. "Has he been drinking?" shouted I to Rorie. "He will aye be drunk when the wind blaws," returned Rorie in the same high key, and it was all that I could do to hear him. "Then was he so in February?" I inquired.
It takes me a' my time to keep warm as it is. There's a perfect gale blaws in, onyhoo, at the chinks. Jist pit yer hand at the windy, an' ye'll see. Gladys glanced pitifully round the place, and then fixed her lovely, compassionate eyes on the figure of the little seamstress, as she took up her position again on the stool by the fire and lifted her work.
On the other hand, while Annie was depressed, and forced to seek relief in solitary musings in her bower by the loch, it is just as true that "it is an ill wind that blaws naebody gude;" nay, the truth of the saying was verified in Richard Templeton, a fellow-student of Menelaws, and a rival, too, in the affections of Annie; who, being a Charlieite as well as an Annieite, rejoiced that his companion was in the meantime foiled and disappointed.
Having some gift in imitating the Scotch dialect, I read: "November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortening winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend."
Some of the biscuit was so bad that it had to be thrown away, and the remainder eaten, as Moses said, with closed eyes! "It's an ill wind that blaws naebody guid," said Macleod to Moses Pyne, as he came on deck to enjoy a pipe after their first dinner on board. "What d'ee think that queer cratur Flynn is doin' doon below?" "Nothing very useful, I daresay," said Moses. "Ye're wrang for ance.
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