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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An Address to the Kirktoun Pharisees.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
342
An Address to the Kirktoun Pharisees.
Hech, sirs! how lang will discord rule ye?
And Satan, wi' his wiles, befool ye?
Wha keeps ye in malignant broolyie
O' girnin' ire;
And, whan he does your comfort spoolyie,
Legs aff like fire.
And Satan, wi' his wiles, befool ye?
Wha keeps ye in malignant broolyie
O' girnin' ire;
And, whan he does your comfort spoolyie,
Legs aff like fire.
“Was e'er in Scotlan' heard or seen,”
'Twixt Johnnie Groats and Gretna Green,
Sic hatred fell, and bitin' spleen,
In ony flock?
The tear stan's in religion's een
At sic a shock.
'Twixt Johnnie Groats and Gretna Green,
Sic hatred fell, and bitin' spleen,
In ony flock?
The tear stan's in religion's een
At sic a shock.
Ne'er, since the days o' Johnnie Knox,
Wha rear'd our temple orthodox,
Were sic unchristian jeers and mocks
Gi'en ane anither;
Some swear “their zeal is a' a hoax
O' pride thegither.”
Wha rear'd our temple orthodox,
Were sic unchristian jeers and mocks
Gi'en ane anither;
Some swear “their zeal is a' a hoax
O' pride thegither.”
Ilk sheep that feeds by glen or hill,
'Tween Logoch-moor and Nerston-mill,
Lament that death, wi' dagger chill,
Your herd has slain!
Wha fed you aye wi' care and skill;
But now he's gane!
'Tween Logoch-moor and Nerston-mill,
Lament that death, wi' dagger chill,
Your herd has slain!
Wha fed you aye wi' care and skill;
But now he's gane!
For never wad he let you stray
Amang the mires o' heresy,
Whare some Socinian sharp craw-tae
Might lie unseen;
But aye on Calvin's sunny brae
O' pasture green.
Amang the mires o' heresy,
Whare some Socinian sharp craw-tae
Might lie unseen;
But aye on Calvin's sunny brae
O' pasture green.
Nae tod nor corbie e'er durst venture
Within your bught or fauld to enter;
Ilk silly ewe he'd cannie tent her,
For fear o' skaith,
Or snugly in some out-house pent her,
To draw her breath.
Within your bught or fauld to enter;
Ilk silly ewe he'd cannie tent her,
For fear o' skaith,
Or snugly in some out-house pent her,
To draw her breath.
343
But now, alake! on ilka brae
We hear scaith'd ewies sairly mae,
Wha've fawn to lawless tups a prey—
Brutes void o' conscience;
Sair will they rue the luckless day
They wroucht sic nonsense.
We hear scaith'd ewies sairly mae,
Wha've fawn to lawless tups a prey—
Brutes void o' conscience;
Sair will they rue the luckless day
They wroucht sic nonsense.
Your neist new herd your kail will cool,
Because ye thus ha'e play'd the fool;
He'll perch ye on the creepie-stool,
That seat o' fame,
To whinge and sab, and cry, oh dool!
And sweat wi' shame.
Because ye thus ha'e play'd the fool;
He'll perch ye on the creepie-stool,
That seat o' fame,
To whinge and sab, and cry, oh dool!
And sweat wi' shame.
And waesocks! now, for M---e L---ke,
How will she stan' this fatal shock?
Ye've torn the rowan aff her rock,
Wi' stainchless greed;
Ye've gi'en her trade a deadly stroke,
And spoil'd her bread.
How will she stan' this fatal shock?
Ye've torn the rowan aff her rock,
Wi' stainchless greed;
Ye've gi'en her trade a deadly stroke,
And spoil'd her bread.
I doubt, my frien's, your clishmaclaver
'Bout extra zeal is a' a haver,
For mony a rude and drunken shaver
Has join'd your clan;
A slower pace and visage graver
Ne'er saint a man.
'Bout extra zeal is a' a haver,
For mony a rude and drunken shaver
Has join'd your clan;
A slower pace and visage graver
Ne'er saint a man.
Whaever thinks a lengthen'd face
Is a ne'er-failin' sign o' grace,
Will some day sairly turn the chase
Upon their creed;
'Tis fools that do this test embrace—
Ay! fools indeed.
Is a ne'er-failin' sign o' grace,
Will some day sairly turn the chase
Upon their creed;
'Tis fools that do this test embrace—
Ay! fools indeed.
Nae mair, in warmth o' holy zeal,
Ye fervent pray for ithers' weal,
Or Charity's thick mantle sweel
About their failin's;
But trumpet, loud as ye can squeel,
Their knavish dealin's.
Ye fervent pray for ithers' weal,
Or Charity's thick mantle sweel
About their failin's;
But trumpet, loud as ye can squeel,
Their knavish dealin's.
I fear your sanctimonious faces,
Your whinings grave, at burial graces,
Your wild, devotional grimaces,
And eldritch gesture,
Were but the quirks o' hell's sly preses,
Your lang-served maister.
Your whinings grave, at burial graces,
344
And eldritch gesture,
Were but the quirks o' hell's sly preses,
Your lang-served maister.
Hypocrisy! thou arrant rogue,
Why thus molest our synagogue?
Why, serpent-like, thus lie incog.
Your frien's to slay?
Avaunt! thou impious demagogue,
Fast! fast away!
Why thus molest our synagogue?
Why, serpent-like, thus lie incog.
Your frien's to slay?
Avaunt! thou impious demagogue,
Fast! fast away!
O Justice, man! come back amang us,
And clout the loons wha sairly wrang us;
For grim extortion will o'ergang us—
Sae will ambition;
And waukit conscience tint its stang has,
And's near perdition.
And clout the loons wha sairly wrang us;
For grim extortion will o'ergang us—
Sae will ambition;
And waukit conscience tint its stang has,
And's near perdition.
Ye auld bell-wathers, grave and sage,
Sworn faes, till death, 'gainst patronage,
Be hoolie! lest your holy rage
Create a split;
Your conduct something doth presage
That's extra yet.
Sworn faes, till death, 'gainst patronage,
Be hoolie! lest your holy rage
Create a split;
Your conduct something doth presage
That's extra yet.
And if ye disunite the core,
Fareweel to freedom evermore!
Ye'll sweat, in wrath, at every pore,
And curse the day
That frae your guid auld mither's door
Ye went astray.
Fareweel to freedom evermore!
Ye'll sweat, in wrath, at every pore,
And curse the day
That frae your guid auld mither's door
Ye went astray.
Fu' weel I ken ye'd ne'er rebel,
Nor, girnin', shaw your rancour fell
'Gainst patronage; gif ye yoursel'
But ruled the roast,
Ye'd turn the spate, baith snack and snell,
At ithers' cost.
Nor, girnin', shaw your rancour fell
'Gainst patronage; gif ye yoursel'
But ruled the roast,
Ye'd turn the spate, baith snack and snell,
At ithers' cost.
O conscience, had ye but a hearin',
Ye'd gi'e thae pawkie loons a clearin',
Wha murgon us wi' gibin', jeerin',
And gar us greet;
Their Janus-faces wad appear then
A vile black leet.
Ye'd gi'e thae pawkie loons a clearin',
Wha murgon us wi' gibin', jeerin',
And gar us greet;
Their Janus-faces wad appear then
A vile black leet.
345
Syne wad we ken what wiles and quirks,
What queer intrigues, and faulds and lirks,
Are used by them wha rule the kirks,
To raise their fame;
And how they wield black scandal's dirks,
And vice declaim.
What queer intrigues, and faulds and lirks,
Are used by them wha rule the kirks,
To raise their fame;
And how they wield black scandal's dirks,
And vice declaim.
For a' your fervent clubs o' prayer,
At whilk ye aft did rout and rair,
The soun' is hush'd for evermair
Out o' this place;
Oh, worthy frien's, I doubt it sair,
Your fawn frae grace.
At whilk ye aft did rout and rair,
The soun' is hush'd for evermair
Out o' this place;
Oh, worthy frien's, I doubt it sair,
Your fawn frae grace.
Sin' Robin Aiton's worthy head
Was laid amang the silent dead,
The tempter, wi' malignant feid,
Has won amang ye,
And garr'd ye rive in rags your creed—
And, trugs, he'll bang ye!
Was laid amang the silent dead,
The tempter, wi' malignant feid,
Has won amang ye,
And garr'd ye rive in rags your creed—
And, trugs, he'll bang ye!
Nae mair the tailor's zealous face
Presides within the holy place;
The change is great—alase! alase!
We see him now,
In drunken meetings, next the brace,
Aft spewin' fu'.
Presides within the holy place;
The change is great—alase! alase!
We see him now,
In drunken meetings, next the brace,
Aft spewin' fu'.
And mony ithers, I am tauld,
Wha o' their gifts were crouse and bauld,
Hae turn'd out, now, luke-warm—yea, cauld
As boards o' ice;
Sae fares our nei'bour gospel fauld,
By Nick's device.
Wha o' their gifts were crouse and bauld,
Hae turn'd out, now, luke-warm—yea, cauld
As boards o' ice;
Sae fares our nei'bour gospel fauld,
By Nick's device.
But, guidsake, sirs! repair this skaith,
Before that ye resign your breath;
For, gin stern fate ance gi'e his aith,
He'll no draw back;
Repentance that's delay'd till death
'S no worth a plack.
Before that ye resign your breath;
For, gin stern fate ance gi'e his aith,
He'll no draw back;
Repentance that's delay'd till death
'S no worth a plack.
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