RE: It won’t be Business as Usual and my September 15th LPUD

"Ahh can make a true sang aboot meyself,
Teel mah travels, haw Ahh aft endured days o’ struggle,
Trooblesome times, Ahh hav suffered greem sorraw at heart,
hav knoon in th' ship many worries,
the terrible tossin' o’ th' waves,
whaur th' anxioos night watch often took me at th' ship's praw,
when it tossed near th' cliffs.
Fettered by braw waur mah feit,
boond by frost in icey clasps,
whaur 'en cares seethed hot aboot mah heart -- a hunger tears froms within the sea-weary sool.
This th' cheil disnae know fur whom oan land it turns oot most favoorably,
Haw Ahh, wretched an' sorrowful,
on th' ice-cauld brine dwelt fur a winter in th' paths o’ exile,
bereft o’ coothie kinsmen, hung aboot wi' icicles;
Hail flew in showers. Thaur Ahh heard naethin' but th' roarin' brine,
the ice-cauld wav.
At times th' swan's song Ahh took tae myself as pleasure,
The gannet's stooshie ain th' voice o’ th' curlew insteid o’ th' laughter o’ men,
the singin' gull insteid o’ th' skitin' o’ meid.
Storms thaur beat th' stony cliffs,
whaur th' tern spoke, icy-feaithered;
always th' eagle cried at it,
dewy-feaithered;
No cheerful kinsmen can comfort the puir sool.
Indeed he credits it wee, the one who has th' joys o’ life,
dwells in th' city, far froms terrible joorney,
prood an' wanton wi' bucky,
Haw- Ahh, weary, aft hav had tae thole in th' sea-paths.
The shadows o’ night darkened, it snowed froms th' north,
frost boond th' ground, hail feel oan th' earth, coldest o’ grains.
Indeed, noo they ur troobled, the thooghts o’ mah heart,
that Ahh myself shoods strife wi' the high streams,
the tossin' o’ salt waves -- the wish o’ mah heart urges aw th' time
my spirit tae gang forth, that Ahh, far froms haur,
shoods seek th' homeland of a foreign fowk –
indeed thaur isnae sae prood-spirited a cheil in th' warld,
nur sae generoos o’ gifts,
nur sae bauld in his yooth,
nur sae brav in his deeds,
nur sae hen tae his laird,
that he ne'er in his seafaring has a worry,
as tae whit his laird will dae tae heem.
Not fur heem is th' soond o’ th' harp nur th' givin' o’ rings nur pleasure in hen nur worldly glory
-- nur anythin' at aw unless th' tossin' o’ waves;
but he has a longin', he who strives oan th' waves.
Groves tak' oan blossoms, the cities grow fair, the fields ur comely,
the warld seems new: Aye these things urge oan the eager o’ spirit,
the mind tae travel, in one who sae thinks tae travel far on th' paths o’ th' brine!"
Amen.

"The Seafarer"