University of Virginia Library

THE CHANGE O' THE TIMES;

An Ingle Crack.

Robin.
Hech, Sirs! but things are sairly alter'd now,
Ye'd think the warl' maist turn'd upside down.
As I cam' yont the loan by Arthur Gawt's
It was, wi' gossip's tongues, baith wives an' men,
Bummin' like ony barn on bridal nights,
Or bee-skep at the castin'.

Saunders.
E'en sae, man!
Truth, little better can come o' the gear
His umquhile gutcher wan; gin tales be true,
It cam' nae honest way. He was a body
Wha wadna lea a stane unturn'd, whare he
Could think his greedy clutches would come speed.
It matter'd na' by what way 'twas obtain'd,
Saebeins he gat it; now the kintra's clatter
Is—“Sin' it cam' by win', 'twill gang by water.”
But what need ane say aught o' Arthur Gawt?
The maist feck o' the warl' is gaun as fast
Into the clutches o' the glede as he!

Robin.
I kenna how they manage to keep up
Sic dear garivishin; certes, were I
To try, about my buird, sic costly pranks,
I'd soon be tethert by fell poortith's branks.
But sair, I dread, the upshot o' sic wark
Will gar some rue the day when they began
To ape the manners o' the rich an' great.

Janet.
'Twill soon be seen whar a' their grandeur lies,
Poor, thochtless fools! wha ha'e nae fear o' Guid,
Nor loove to mense ava', but rin in debt,
Withouten either will or power to pay:
They ken the warst is but to be a dyvour—
A thing nae ferlie now-a-days.

Saunders.
Were laws as strict as I wad ha'e them made,
I trow for beagles there wad be less trade,
Or mair for hangmen; I'd gar the woody
Haud mair respeck for honesty amang us,
Than a' that ministers can say or do!

Robin.
Soon wen ye on the bench! for trugs, I'm rede,
Sax hunder mark laird Barehips gat frae me,
A towmond byegane at auld Hallowe'en,
Will be like butter in the black dog's hause.
For, when I stappit down ae night at e'en
To lift the int'rest, soon I fan', I trow,
To my nae sma' vexation, nae great rowth
Within his coffer. Wealth o' show they ha'e;
Braw carpet floors, and gowd rimm'd China cups,
Bottles and glasses rife, and frank and fair—
But what sairt that to me, when a' I gat
Was twa-three dish o' tea; for bread, waesocks!
'Twas thin as ony wafer. That was a'
I thumb'd for my kin' aid in time o's need.
He promised fair, nae doubt, that he wad sen't,
An' spak' as it were but to him a trifle;
But whare is't yet?

Janet.
My trowth it's in their wames,
Like muckle mair guid gear o' ither folks!
Bare, braggin' beggars, whase hale study is
To twine ger thrifty folk out o' their gear,
An' rant about like lords an' ladies a'!
While we maun toil to bear their howtie heads.

Saunders.

Janet.
Few brides were blither than was I, atweel,
When our guidman cam' laughin' ben the floor,
Sayin'—“It is na a' tint that's in hazard.”—
An' now it's whare there is but little skaith,
As lang's the nation mans to keep her feet—
In B---n and C---ck's bank.

Robin.
Guid sen' that mine were in as sicker han's!
But, leezance! it's past redemption now,
I muckle dread, or in great jeopardy.
But should I loss't, 'tis but ae lesson mae
To a' the kintra, to tak' tent in time
O' billies wham they see unkeen o' wark
And fond o' finery.

Saunders.
Were siccan airs confined
'Mang folk wha claim nae orra holiness,
'Twere less; but now we see our priests as vain
And howtie, as they were na' sent to preach
Humility, but a' the pride o' Nick.

Robin.
Sax towmonds past at Lammas 'tis sin we
Were favoured wi' a visit o' Mass John;
And had it no been for some selfish en',
I ferlie muckle gif we'd seen him then.
He cam' to gi'e us notice that niest year
Our stent was to be raised.

Janet.
And batin' ance, when he our Meg did kipple,
He hasna' cross'd our hallan sin' he cam'—
Na, na, they downa speak to hamely folk:
Ye'll get but little o' their company
Unless ye keep a buird might sair a king.
I'm rede, gif they had lived in former days,
They had bestowed on Martha a' the praise.

Robin.
Ay, ay! they're a' fu' ready at a snoist;
Few o' them wad, I trow, reprove a cook
For losin' time, gin they were to be guests:
It's but to sic like howffs they loove to tramp.
To haud examines in a cauld, bare barn,
Is what our pastors now-a-days contemn,
They're a' sae skeigh an' gentle 'mang their flocks.
Our kirk, I fear, wad on her hunkers sit,
Were the dark days o' persecution back,
Which tried their creed wha wonn'd in thae grim times:
Few o' our cozie lads wad tak' the hills,
Ere they'd subscribe the whore o' Bab'lon's creed,
Like Peden, Welsh, Cargill, an' mony mae.

Saunders.
'Deed they were men who seem'd to ha'e at heart
The cause o' Him wham they profess'd to serve;
And, rather than mak' shipwreck o' their faith,
Suffer'd the fate o' martyrs—countin't gain
To lea' the sinfu' warl', wi' a' its pomp,
And dwell where want and pain are never known.
But, waesocks! it's owre true that ye ha'e said,
Our priests ha'e tint the spirit o' their function;
They tend the flock in houp to get the fleece,
And fallow na their Master's great comman'—
“To feed the poor”—for, certes, now we see
They a' their care bestow upon the rich,
And downa keek within a poor thing's door,
To drap the balm o' comfort on a saul
Pinin' beneath a lade o' want an' trouble.

Robin.
Fu' weel I mind, ere I was in my teens,
Our umquhile pastor yearly through us cam'
To tairge us in our caritches, fu' fell,
Whilk pat us in a fizz o' fervour a'
To get oursel's weel versed in holy things,
That we might stan' wi' mense when he cam' roun',
And be a credit to oursel's and him:
Forbye, a visit he ilk towmond gied
To ilka family within his parish,
To pray, exhort, an' talk o' things divine.
But now we scarce can weekly see the face
O' our instructor, he's sae pinch'd to come
Before us on the Lord's ain holy day;
And e'en, when he appears, he canna speak
Ae word till ance he has his sermon spread,
Drawn out on black-an'-white, before his face,
Whilk gars him snoove aboon't wi' hingin' head,
That I can scarce hear ae word o' a score;
And sae come hame as wise as I gaed there,
For ought I get frae him.

Janet.
An' sae it fares
Wi' mony mae than you; our younkers a'
Will be nae mense to him, fu' weel I wat.

Saunders.
Howe'er it fare wi' them beneath their care,
The stipend and the glebe are sure to them
While government can gar us pay the tithes;
And that they'll do, unless their greater need
Rax out a paw an' haurlet to themsel's.

Robin.
A trick like that wad gar the billies think,
And shaw their pow'rs o' skill themsel's to raise
By merit, wha by patronage before
Securely sat, and shuffled by the time.
That government is needfu' is nae doubt—
How can it happen else? when plain we see
Them sawin't frae them, 'mang the nations 'roun',
Supportin' wars by their ain pride raised up;
Syne tax on tax comes out, till haith, I'm rede,
They'll wi' their greed us dyvour a' thegither.

Saunders.

Janet.
Poor beast, he's been our help whan little else
We had frae frien' or fremit—he shanna want
His mouthfu' while we ha'e a bite to gi'e 'im,
And that without a grudge, though trowth the tax
Is no' that light to thole.

Robin.
I drown'd our “Help,” though sair against my will,
But he was doilt and useless grown wi' eild,
Though in his younger days he was fu' fleet.
And could (ere licence had to be procured
By lairds to hunt a hare on their ain lan'),
Ha'e ta'en the bauldest maukin ever ran;
Whilk loot us aften dine on venison,—
Wha now daur nae mair think on sic a snoist,
Than dought a Jew upon a grumphy's griskin.
Scarce had I heaved the poor tyke in the pool,
When something in my breast condemn'd the deed,
And waukint in my min' the voice o' pity,
Scauldin' me sairly for the miser greed
O' this warl's gear, that I amaist lap in
To bring him ance mair to the licht o' day:
I curst the king and a' his ministers,
Wha forced me to a deed that cost sic pain;
Syne hameward cam', wi' dowie heart and wae,
Wi' tears o' grief an' anger in my e'e.

Saunders.