Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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The Death o' Trade:
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
The Death o' Trade:
A DIRGE.
Sons o' the thin and sallow cheek,
Wha scarce can fen frae week to week,
Or, at the maist, your credit keep,
By labour sair, and want o' sleep;
Whase duds o' claise threadbare are worn,
Or, aiblins, tatter'd sair and torn;
In whase shoon-soles sic leaks ye spy
As do the souter's skill defy:
To you, wha breathe unwholesome air,
And tread the fitstaps o' despair,
I dedicate my waefu' lay,
And for your weelfare humbly pray;
So, whilst to you my tale I tell,
Remind, I'm o' your craft mysel'.
Wha scarce can fen frae week to week,
Or, at the maist, your credit keep,
By labour sair, and want o' sleep;
Whase duds o' claise threadbare are worn,
Or, aiblins, tatter'd sair and torn;
In whase shoon-soles sic leaks ye spy
As do the souter's skill defy:
To you, wha breathe unwholesome air,
And tread the fitstaps o' despair,
I dedicate my waefu' lay,
And for your weelfare humbly pray;
So, whilst to you my tale I tell,
Remind, I'm o' your craft mysel'.
Poor Trade, lang gane in deep consumption,
Grew tired o' a' their pills and gumption,
And, having paid the doctor's fee,
Lay down contentedly to dee.
She fand her feeble constitution
Wad shortly meet its dissolution;
Her feckless pulse beat weak and slow,
Her een roll'd wildly to and fro;
Her pallid cheek, o' yirdy hue,
And quiverin' lip, were drear to view;
But, ere she closed her een in death,
She thus spak wi' her dyin' breath—
While round her bed, wi' tear-clad face,
Her vassals wail'd her hapless case:—
Grew tired o' a' their pills and gumption,
And, having paid the doctor's fee,
Lay down contentedly to dee.
She fand her feeble constitution
Wad shortly meet its dissolution;
Her feckless pulse beat weak and slow,
Her een roll'd wildly to and fro;
230
And quiverin' lip, were drear to view;
But, ere she closed her een in death,
She thus spak wi' her dyin' breath—
While round her bed, wi' tear-clad face,
Her vassals wail'd her hapless case:—
“Oh, sirs! for me nae langer grieve,
For I solicit nae reprieve;
I'm gaun the way o' a' the yirth,
Whilk to you should be cause o' mirth:
I've wi' misfortune warsled lang,
And stood her mony a fearfu' bang,
But now she's laid me on my back,
And robb'd me o' my hindmost plack;
Yet the vile unrelentin' hag
Doth o' her victory brag.
Alake a-day! ye'll see my en',
Wha kept ye canty butt-an'-ben;
In days o' yore I was respeckit,
But now I'm coungeir'd and negleckit,
And, like some tinkler's jaded ass,
I've landed at my hindmost pass—
E'en murder'd by thae ruffians fell
Wha gat my favours a' theirsel:
Sae thus do benefactors fare—
O' base ingratitude beware.
For I solicit nae reprieve;
I'm gaun the way o' a' the yirth,
Whilk to you should be cause o' mirth:
I've wi' misfortune warsled lang,
And stood her mony a fearfu' bang,
But now she's laid me on my back,
And robb'd me o' my hindmost plack;
Yet the vile unrelentin' hag
Doth o' her victory brag.
Alake a-day! ye'll see my en',
Wha kept ye canty butt-an'-ben;
In days o' yore I was respeckit,
But now I'm coungeir'd and negleckit,
And, like some tinkler's jaded ass,
I've landed at my hindmost pass—
E'en murder'd by thae ruffians fell
Wha gat my favours a' theirsel:
Sae thus do benefactors fare—
O' base ingratitude beware.
“Yet, though I enter death's dark portal,
Ye ken by nature I'm immortal,
For, like the phœnix burn'd in fire,
I dinna dee, but just transpire;
Sae, when I leave this rugged isle,
And seem as if extinct the while,
New plumed, and, like the peacock braw,
Ye'll find me in America.
Whare then will Albion's glory be,
That dazzled ilka gazin' e'e?
Whare then the navy's matchless pride,
That awed the nations far and wide?
The army, that did conquest wield,
And still were masters o' the field?
Whare now the glitterin' princely show,
That foil'd a' grandeur here below?
A' fled now, like an airy dream,
Or like the lichtning's short lived gleam!
Thus pride is humbled at the last
By fate's fell all-devouring blast;
Thus fades the grandeur o' the world,
Which once its matchless flags unfurl'd,
And sinks thus meanly, wildly low,
Beneath corruption's cureless blow!”
Ye ken by nature I'm immortal,
For, like the phœnix burn'd in fire,
I dinna dee, but just transpire;
Sae, when I leave this rugged isle,
And seem as if extinct the while,
New plumed, and, like the peacock braw,
Ye'll find me in America.
Whare then will Albion's glory be,
That dazzled ilka gazin' e'e?
Whare then the navy's matchless pride,
That awed the nations far and wide?
The army, that did conquest wield,
And still were masters o' the field?
Whare now the glitterin' princely show,
That foil'd a' grandeur here below?
231
Or like the lichtning's short lived gleam!
Thus pride is humbled at the last
By fate's fell all-devouring blast;
Thus fades the grandeur o' the world,
Which once its matchless flags unfurl'd,
And sinks thus meanly, wildly low,
Beneath corruption's cureless blow!”
Nae mair she spak, but, wi' a groan,
She faulter'd out, “Ohone! ohone!”
Syne turn'd her face round to the wa',
And in a faint she wore awa'.
The news soon flew through a' the town,
And “Trade is dead” was a' the soun',
And at the corner o' ilk street
Great groups o' weavers ye wad meet,
Wi' sabbin' breasts and tear-stain'd face,
Lamentin' sair their hapless case;
And big-waim'd manufacturers aft
Hang strangled to the warehouse laft,
Or, haply, in some corner groanin',
Wi' nickit craig ye'd hear them moanin';
And, floatin' in the River Clyde,
Lay many a loathsome suicide.
Smiths, wrights, shoemakers, grocers, tailors,
Swall'd-kyted vintners, swearin' sailors,
Were loungin' through the streets, clean doitit,
Wi' want and grief grown capernoited;
Gaugers, wha erst a smuggler 'd fell,
Now beg a mouthfu' frae his stell;
And folk wha could drink noucht but tea
Wad brose or parritch gladly pree.
Sic alterations great to meet
Doth fill my heart and gar me greet,
For now our kintra's purse, we find,
Will scarcely cast against the wind;
They've roopit her o' a' kin coin
Wi' their eclat—kept-m---s' wine;
And, though puir folk got mony a deevil,
We'll soon a' be upon a level.
Then, hail! bless'd day, when rank or station
Are things unknown o'er a' the nation—
The thing design'd at our creation!
She faulter'd out, “Ohone! ohone!”
Syne turn'd her face round to the wa',
And in a faint she wore awa'.
The news soon flew through a' the town,
And “Trade is dead” was a' the soun',
And at the corner o' ilk street
Great groups o' weavers ye wad meet,
Wi' sabbin' breasts and tear-stain'd face,
Lamentin' sair their hapless case;
And big-waim'd manufacturers aft
Hang strangled to the warehouse laft,
Or, haply, in some corner groanin',
Wi' nickit craig ye'd hear them moanin';
And, floatin' in the River Clyde,
Lay many a loathsome suicide.
Smiths, wrights, shoemakers, grocers, tailors,
Swall'd-kyted vintners, swearin' sailors,
Were loungin' through the streets, clean doitit,
Wi' want and grief grown capernoited;
Gaugers, wha erst a smuggler 'd fell,
Now beg a mouthfu' frae his stell;
And folk wha could drink noucht but tea
Wad brose or parritch gladly pree.
Sic alterations great to meet
Doth fill my heart and gar me greet,
For now our kintra's purse, we find,
Will scarcely cast against the wind;
They've roopit her o' a' kin coin
Wi' their eclat—kept-m---s' wine;
And, though puir folk got mony a deevil,
We'll soon a' be upon a level.
Then, hail! bless'd day, when rank or station
Are things unknown o'er a' the nation—
The thing design'd at our creation!
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |