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Updated: May 28, 2025
And it should be easy for all of us to enter into a conspiracy amang ourselves to hide the shock of surprise we canna help feeling, whiles, and do nothing that can make a lad-die wha's fresh frae the hospital grow bitter over the thocht that he's nae like ither men the noo. Yon's a bit o' a sermon I've been preaching, I'm afraid.
For the cuckoo sings till the greenwood rings, And it is the month of May!" Then the men at the table all waved their pewter pots, and thumped upon the board, roaring, "Hey, trolly-lolly! oh, to live is to be jolly!" until the rafters rang. Hey! lad-die, hark, to the mer-ry, mer-ry lark, How high he sing-eth clear.
What can there be joyous in this: he comes drunk, poses, makes sport of you, wants to pretend there's something in him only nothing comes of it all. Wha-at a lad-die, to be sure! The scummiest of the scum, dirty, beaten-up, stinking, his whole body in scars, there's only one glory about him: the silk shirt which Tamarka will embroider for him.
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