Scots Songs and Ballads: Godly Ballants I. This Side An' That

I.--THIS SIDE AN' THAT                                    THIS SIDE AND THAT

The rich man sat in his father's seat --
   Purple and linen, and every excess (all things fine)!
The poor man lay at his gate in the street--
  In pain and rags and weary distress!

To the rich man's table every dainty comes,
   Many a morsel went from it, or fell;
The poor man would gladly have dined on the crumbs,
   But whether he got them I cannot tell.

Proud servants, softly shod, and stout,
   Stand by the rich man's curtained doors;
Wild dogs that ran about
   Came to the beggar and licked his sores.

The rich man died, and they buried him grand,
  In fine linen his body they wrapped;
But the angels took up the beggar man
   And laid him down in Abraham's lap.

The good upon this side, the evil upon that--
   Such was the rich man's sorrowful fall!
But his brothers they eat, and they drink, and they chat,
   And care not a straw for their Father's hall!

The truth's the truth, think what you will;
  And some they know not what they'd be at,
But the beggar man thought he didn't do so ill (badly),
   With the dogs on this side, and the angels on that!
 

The rich man sat in his father's seat--
   Purple an' linen, an' a'thing fine!
The puir man lay at his yett i' the street-
   Sairs an' tatters, an' weary pine!

To the rich man's table ilk dainty comes,
   Mony a morsel gaed frae't, or fell;
The puir man fain wud hae dined on the crumbs,
   But whether he got them I canna tell.

Servants prood, saft-fittit, an' stoot,
   Stan by the rich man's curtained doors;
Maisterless dogs 'at rin aboot
   Cam to the puir man an' lickit his sores.

The rich man deeit, an' they buried him gran',
   In linen fine his body they wrap;
But the angels tuik up the beggar man,
   An' layit him doun in Abraham's lap.

The guid upo' this side, the ill upo' that-
   Sic was the rich man's waesome fa'!
But his brithers they eat, an' they drink, an' they chat,
   An' carena a strae for their Father's ha'!

The trowth's the trowth, think what ye will;
   An' some they kenna what they wad be at;
But the beggar man thoucht he did no that ill,
   Wi' the dogs o' this side, the angels o' that!