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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Saturday in Glasgow.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
Saturday in Glasgow.
Wide through the cloudless lift o' blue
The twilight bright advances,
Till owre the Shotts knowes, wet wi' dew,
The sun effulgent glances:
The mountains' streams, gilt wi' his beams,
Like silver, twinkle clear;
The birds o' sang, the woods amang,
Salute the tunefu' ear
Fu' sweet this morn.
The twilight bright advances,
Till owre the Shotts knowes, wet wi' dew,
The sun effulgent glances:
The mountains' streams, gilt wi' his beams,
Like silver, twinkle clear;
The birds o' sang, the woods amang,
Salute the tunefu' ear
Fu' sweet this morn.
On this fair scene the Muse, in pain,
Throws back an e'e o' pity,
As down the brae I bouncin' ga'e
To view famed Glasgow city;
Whare mist and reek, wi' darksome smeek,
Defy the solar blaze;
Whase inmates pale may sair bewail
The absence o' his rays
Sae aft by day.
Throws back an e'e o' pity,
As down the brae I bouncin' ga'e
To view famed Glasgow city;
Whare mist and reek, wi' darksome smeek,
Defy the solar blaze;
Whase inmates pale may sair bewail
The absence o' his rays
Sae aft by day.
Frae a' the airts the sour milk carts,
Bot custom or embargo,
Reel fast and thrang the roads alang,
Fraught wi' their sinfu' cargo;
While mony a mouth, sair parch'd wi' drouth,
Is waitin' their arrival,
That late yestreen had whisky'd been,
And's needin' a revival
O' health this day.
Bot custom or embargo,
Reel fast and thrang the roads alang,
Fraught wi' their sinfu' cargo;
While mony a mouth, sair parch'd wi' drouth,
Is waitin' their arrival,
That late yestreen had whisky'd been,
And's needin' a revival
O' health this day.
330
Now mony a stiff and spavet horse
Toils 'neath the great coal-waggon,
Urged to exert its utmost force,
Through terror o' a flaggin';
While some, mair skeich, wi' head fu' heich,
Are prancin' trim and trig,
As at their heels bright glancin' reels
The coach, landau, or gig,
Superb this day.
Toils 'neath the great coal-waggon,
Urged to exert its utmost force,
Through terror o' a flaggin';
While some, mair skeich, wi' head fu' heich,
Are prancin' trim and trig,
As at their heels bright glancin' reels
The coach, landau, or gig,
Superb this day.
The barracks' drum, wi' thund'rin' din,
Swells through her echoin' regions,
And to parade, rude, swearin', rin
Her boist'rous vassal legions:
Now down the street, to music sweet,
Straucht for the Green they're airtin',
While schule-weans, keen to please their een,
Are frae their beuks desertin'
In droves this day:
Swells through her echoin' regions,
And to parade, rude, swearin', rin
Her boist'rous vassal legions:
Now down the street, to music sweet,
Straucht for the Green they're airtin',
While schule-weans, keen to please their een,
Are frae their beuks desertin'
In droves this day:
Wi' gleamin' steel, wide owre the fiel',
The weel-train'd ranks are spreadin';
While awkward squads, without cockades,
Wi' ill-timed pace are treadin':
Here, washerwives, wi' ban'less tongues,
'Mang freathin' graith are splashin';
There, servant lasses, stark and young,
The stour frae carpets dashin',
Like reek, this day.
The weel-train'd ranks are spreadin';
While awkward squads, without cockades,
Wi' ill-timed pace are treadin':
Here, washerwives, wi' ban'less tongues,
'Mang freathin' graith are splashin';
There, servant lasses, stark and young,
The stour frae carpets dashin',
Like reek, this day.
Mark yon black gang, that daily thrang
Beside the jail, their hame,
Wi' visage din, japann'd wi' sin,
And void o' fear and shame!
While owre ilk motion, gleg as fire,
The police lads are watchin',
And, as light-finger'd deeds transpire,
Most dext'rously they're catchin'
Ilk blade this day.
Beside the jail, their hame,
Wi' visage din, japann'd wi' sin,
And void o' fear and shame!
While owre ilk motion, gleg as fire,
The police lads are watchin',
And, as light-finger'd deeds transpire,
Most dext'rously they're catchin'
Ilk blade this day.
Now troopin' to the warehouse, thrang
The wabsters skeichly bicker,
Some hopin' tap-room mirth ere lang,
While some are far mair sicker;
The men, victorious, on the van,
'Neath national burdens groanin';
The wives are tempted maist to ban,
While dearth o' tea bemoanin'
Right sair are they.
The wabsters skeichly bicker,
Some hopin' tap-room mirth ere lang,
While some are far mair sicker;
331
'Neath national burdens groanin';
The wives are tempted maist to ban,
While dearth o' tea bemoanin'
Right sair are they.
Hech! what a het'rogeneous scene,
Wi' business and wi' folly;
Some 'neath misfortune's burden grain,
While ithers rant fu' jolly.
Here skulks a chiel o' noble soul,
Wi' empty pouches pinin',
There struts a weel-clad jobbernowl,
Wha is on sirloins dinin'
Profuse ilk day.
Wi' business and wi' folly;
Some 'neath misfortune's burden grain,
While ithers rant fu' jolly.
Here skulks a chiel o' noble soul,
Wi' empty pouches pinin',
There struts a weel-clad jobbernowl,
Wha is on sirloins dinin'
Profuse ilk day.
Wi' bloomin' cheek, and manners meek,
Now lovely maids are seen
Neist tawdry bawds, the glaikit jades,
Wi' drumlie lustfu' een.
'Neath pond'rous burdens porters grain,
And sweat through stark oppression,
While stout gigantic tailors vain
Dose at their slim profession,
In ease, this day.
Now lovely maids are seen
Neist tawdry bawds, the glaikit jades,
Wi' drumlie lustfu' een.
'Neath pond'rous burdens porters grain,
And sweat through stark oppression,
While stout gigantic tailors vain
Dose at their slim profession,
In ease, this day.
Now scavengers, wi' clawts and brooms,
The streets are trimmin' tightly,
Whare sights less fair than fiel'-pea blooms
Are there deposed nightly.
The barbers glib, wi' razors keen,
Are beards and whiskers mawin';
And fill their fabs wi' cash fu' bien,
Though blood they're aften drawin'
Frae plouks this day.
The streets are trimmin' tightly,
Whare sights less fair than fiel'-pea blooms
Are there deposed nightly.
The barbers glib, wi' razors keen,
Are beards and whiskers mawin';
And fill their fabs wi' cash fu' bien,
Though blood they're aften drawin'
Frae plouks this day.
Hark! the wild skraich o' fishwives' snell
Rings echoin' up the closses;
And auctioneers, wi' wit right fell,
Joke owre the dyvours' losses.
Here fiddlers strike the dulcet strings,
By gapin' crowds surrounded,
And there a sair-maim'd sailor sings
How he in war was wounded,
Right loud, this day.
Rings echoin' up the closses;
And auctioneers, wi' wit right fell,
Joke owre the dyvours' losses.
Here fiddlers strike the dulcet strings,
By gapin' crowds surrounded,
And there a sair-maim'd sailor sings
How he in war was wounded,
Right loud, this day.
332
On this han' moves the solemn hearse
And sable-clad procession,
Whare gloom, beyond the power o' verse
To paint, hold full possession;
On that a chaise like lightning flies,
Scarce frae tap-gallop stoppin',
Whase inmates, bound in love's soft ties,
To Gretna-Green elopin'
Are, fast, this day.
And sable-clad procession,
Whare gloom, beyond the power o' verse
To paint, hold full possession;
On that a chaise like lightning flies,
Scarce frae tap-gallop stoppin',
Whase inmates, bound in love's soft ties,
To Gretna-Green elopin'
Are, fast, this day.
Wi' weavers and tambourers, thrang
The warehouse lobby's fillin',
Wha shore to leave the Corks ere lang,
Wi' scarce a single shillin'.
Some ware their mite wi' muckle mense,
'Gaint neist week's wants providin';
While ithers, void o' savin' sense,
Are State affairs decidin'
Owre th' ale this day.
The warehouse lobby's fillin',
Wha shore to leave the Corks ere lang,
Wi' scarce a single shillin'.
Some ware their mite wi' muckle mense,
'Gaint neist week's wants providin';
While ithers, void o' savin' sense,
Are State affairs decidin'
Owre th' ale this day.
Thrang, thrang the taproom boxes grow;
Ilk core for news is ca'in';
Some greedily a speldin' chow,
Some cut-and-dry are blawin';
On argument some enter keen,
And mark state errors primely;
And some, to physic aff the spleen,
Swill down the drink, sublimely,
In pints this day.
Ilk core for news is ca'in';
Some greedily a speldin' chow,
Some cut-and-dry are blawin';
On argument some enter keen,
And mark state errors primely;
And some, to physic aff the spleen,
Swill down the drink, sublimely,
In pints this day.
Hence starved and ragged wives and weans,
In want's drear hovels pinin',
While husbands are, wi' frantic brains,
In alehouse senates shinin':
Whare, spendin' cash, they drink and clash,
And Britain's weelfare plan;
Till speechless gabs and empty fabs
Break up the doilt divan,
When drunk are they.
In want's drear hovels pinin',
While husbands are, wi' frantic brains,
In alehouse senates shinin':
Whare, spendin' cash, they drink and clash,
And Britain's weelfare plan;
Till speechless gabs and empty fabs
Break up the doilt divan,
When drunk are they.
Waesucks! for Britain's frail state bark,
That aft to leeward veers,
Were she to ride the tempest dark
Mann'd by sic timoniers:
Though wi' misconduct aft her crew
Ha'e been severely branded,
Yet han's like thir, fu' weel I trow,
Had her completely stranded
Lang ere this day.
That aft to leeward veers,
Were she to ride the tempest dark
Mann'd by sic timoniers:
333
Ha'e been severely branded,
Yet han's like thir, fu' weel I trow,
Had her completely stranded
Lang ere this day.
The New Street like a beeskep bungs
In riot-like condition,
Whare butchers, wi' unhallow'd tongues,
For profit risk perdition:
Here ladies, wi' mercantile air,
Amang the stands are clav'rin',
While servants' faces plain declare,
They inly curse their hav'rin',
Sae vain, this day.
In riot-like condition,
Whare butchers, wi' unhallow'd tongues,
For profit risk perdition:
Here ladies, wi' mercantile air,
Amang the stands are clav'rin',
While servants' faces plain declare,
They inly curse their hav'rin',
Sae vain, this day.
Here struts a flunky, liv'ry-clad,
Fraught wi' a noble roast;
There flytes a souter's wife, half mad,
Anent a sheep's pluck's cost:
Some wauchle hame wi' sirloins fat
In baskets on their hainches,
While ithers cater for the pat
Guid fresh cow-heel, or painches
Fu' clean, this day.
Fraught wi' a noble roast;
There flytes a souter's wife, half mad,
Anent a sheep's pluck's cost:
Some wauchle hame wi' sirloins fat
In baskets on their hainches,
While ithers cater for the pat
Guid fresh cow-heel, or painches
Fu' clean, this day.
This day the Briggate hand-me-downs
Cleed mony strange riffrandies;
Poor, naked, scawt Hibernian louns
Come forth equipp'd like dandies;
Wi' backs to braid-claith strangers quite,
And hurdies to hale trews,
Nae wonder that they feel delight
When struttin in surtouts,
Right spree, this day.
Cleed mony strange riffrandies;
Poor, naked, scawt Hibernian louns
Come forth equipp'd like dandies;
Wi' backs to braid-claith strangers quite,
And hurdies to hale trews,
Nae wonder that they feel delight
When struttin in surtouts,
Right spree, this day.
Here too the kail-pat shops, sae bien,
Are in a perfect bustle,
Whare lab'rin' chaps, wi' stomachs keen,
For service strive and justle;
For soup and kail, and beef and ale,
A' airts at ance they're cryin',
While lasses rin, amidst the din,
To stop their mouths, a' fryin'
Wi' heat this day.
Are in a perfect bustle,
Whare lab'rin' chaps, wi' stomachs keen,
For service strive and justle;
For soup and kail, and beef and ale,
A' airts at ance they're cryin',
While lasses rin, amidst the din,
To stop their mouths, a' fryin'
Wi' heat this day.
334
Wersh waefu' gear he gets, wha here
Dines when the pats are eekit;
Sma' toil will he ha'e pith to dree—
Experience weel can speak it:
Half-hunger'd drabs, wi' tasteless gabs,
Amang sic graith may slabber;
To me a treat, before sic meat,
Beer-scones and bonny-clabber
Would be ilk day.
Dines when the pats are eekit;
Sma' toil will he ha'e pith to dree—
Experience weel can speak it:
Half-hunger'd drabs, wi' tasteless gabs,
Amang sic graith may slabber;
To me a treat, before sic meat,
Beer-scones and bonny-clabber
Would be ilk day.
Mark poverty, in countless forms,
Frae door to door slow creepin';
Sae toss'd by bitter fortune's storms,
Nae wonder that she's weepin'.
Some listen to her waefu' tale,
And cheer her abject face;
Some, haughty and unfeelin', rail,
Unmindfu' o' her case,
Sae sad, this day.
Frae door to door slow creepin';
Sae toss'd by bitter fortune's storms,
Nae wonder that she's weepin'.
Some listen to her waefu' tale,
And cheer her abject face;
Some, haughty and unfeelin', rail,
Unmindfu' o' her case,
Sae sad, this day.
Around the Poors' House, age and want
United, thrang are must'rin';
Their bodies frail, and faces gaunt,
Might quell youth's vogie blust'rin':
Hail! ye, o' heaven-expanded heart,
Wha plann'd this institution,
And sae judiciously impart,
Wi' weekly distribution,
Supply this day.
United, thrang are must'rin';
Their bodies frail, and faces gaunt,
Might quell youth's vogie blust'rin':
Hail! ye, o' heaven-expanded heart,
Wha plann'd this institution,
And sae judiciously impart,
Wi' weekly distribution,
Supply this day.
Fast frae his heicht the sultry sun
Down western skies is slidin',
While some for health, and some for fun,
On Clyde steam-boats are glidin':
Here tars, wi' faces black as sweeps',
Toil at the block and tackle;
And there the sharp tidewaiter keeps
Accounts o' rum and treacle,
Fu' sly, this day.
Down western skies is slidin',
While some for health, and some for fun,
On Clyde steam-boats are glidin':
Here tars, wi' faces black as sweeps',
Toil at the block and tackle;
And there the sharp tidewaiter keeps
Accounts o' rum and treacle,
Fu' sly, this day.
Blithe commerce here hauds a' a-steer,
To beet the back and wame,
And lets us pree the gusty bree
O' foreign lands at hame;
Here moors, weel stow'd, the herrin' yawl,
Graced wi' a guid sprit cable,
'Langside o' whilk the fishwives brawl
As a' the tongues o' Babel
Were lowsed this day.
To beet the back and wame,
And lets us pree the gusty bree
O' foreign lands at hame;
335
Graced wi' a guid sprit cable,
'Langside o' whilk the fishwives brawl
As a' the tongues o' Babel
Were lowsed this day.
Fu' mony a bing o' cod and ling
Lies here for sale right handy;
And barrels big, to let us swig
Dutch gin and fell French brandy:
A' kinds o' food, and drink, and drugs,
To fatten and to clean ye,
Ye'll get, that grow—I'll lay my lugs—
'Tween Ailsa Craig and China,
In rowth, ilk day.
Lies here for sale right handy;
And barrels big, to let us swig
Dutch gin and fell French brandy:
A' kinds o' food, and drink, and drugs,
To fatten and to clean ye,
Ye'll get, that grow—I'll lay my lugs—
'Tween Ailsa Craig and China,
In rowth, ilk day.
Now nicht throws east her dusky wing,
To rouse the thievish varlets,
And thrang frae a' the closses spring
Great troops o' lustfu' harlots;
Some, late enlisted in the trade,
Show beauty's fadin' roses;
While ithers, lang in lech'ry bred,
Display sair flatten'd noses,
At the lamps, this nicht.
To rouse the thievish varlets,
And thrang frae a' the closses spring
Great troops o' lustfu' harlots;
Some, late enlisted in the trade,
Show beauty's fadin' roses;
While ithers, lang in lech'ry bred,
Display sair flatten'd noses,
At the lamps, this nicht.
But here the Muse maun draw the screen,
For she recoils wi' scunner:
To paint the brothel's scenes obscene
Would gar e'en Pagans won'er!
Here, revelling till morning dawn
In odious dissipation,
They break the fetters o' comman',
And laugh at stark damnation
Baith nicht and day.
For she recoils wi' scunner:
To paint the brothel's scenes obscene
Would gar e'en Pagans won'er!
Here, revelling till morning dawn
In odious dissipation,
They break the fetters o' comman',
And laugh at stark damnation
Baith nicht and day.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |