The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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HOLLANDER, OR LIGHT WEIGHT. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
HOLLANDER, OR LIGHT WEIGHT.
“------ Unheard of tortures
Must be reserved for such, these herd together;
The common damned shun their society,
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.”
—Blair.
Must be reserved for such, these herd together;
The common damned shun their society,
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.”
—Blair.
Attend a' ye, wha on the loom,
Survey the shuttle jinking,
Whase purse has aft been sucket toom,
While Willie's scales war clinkin';
A' ye that for some luckless hole
Ha'e paid (though right unwillin')
To satisfy his hungry soul,
A saxpence or a shillin'
For fine some day.
Survey the shuttle jinking,
Whase purse has aft been sucket toom,
While Willie's scales war clinkin';
A' ye that for some luckless hole
Ha'e paid (though right unwillin')
To satisfy his hungry soul,
A saxpence or a shillin'
For fine some day.
Shall black Injustice lift its head,
And cheat us like the devil,
Without a man to stop its speed,
Or crush the growin' evil?
No;—here am I, wi' vengeance big,
Resolved to calm his clashin';
Nor shall his cheeps nor powdered wig,
Protect him frae a lashin'
Right keen this day.
And cheat us like the devil,
Without a man to stop its speed,
Or crush the growin' evil?
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Resolved to calm his clashin';
Nor shall his cheeps nor powdered wig,
Protect him frae a lashin'
Right keen this day.
See! cross his nose he lays the specks,
And o'er the claith he glimmers;
Ilk wee bit triflin' fau't detects,
And cheeps, and to him yaummers,
“Dear man!—that wark 'ill never do;
See that: ye'll no tak' tellin';”
Syne knavish chirts his fingers through,
And libels down a shilling
For holes that day.
And o'er the claith he glimmers;
Ilk wee bit triflin' fau't detects,
And cheeps, and to him yaummers,
“Dear man!—that wark 'ill never do;
See that: ye'll no tak' tellin';”
Syne knavish chirts his fingers through,
And libels down a shilling
For holes that day.
Perhaps the fellow's needin' clink,
To calm some threatnin' beagle,
Whilk mak's him at sic baseness wink,
And for some siller wheedle.
In greetin', herse, ungracious croon,
Aul' Willy granes, “I hear ye,
But weel a wat! our siller's done,
We really canna spare ye
Ae doyt this day.”
To calm some threatnin' beagle,
Whilk mak's him at sic baseness wink,
And for some siller wheedle.
In greetin', herse, ungracious croon,
Aul' Willy granes, “I hear ye,
But weel a wat! our siller's done,
We really canna spare ye
Ae doyt this day.”
Health to the brave Hibernian boy,
Who when by Willie cheated,
Cocked up his hat, without annoy,
And spoke with passion heated;
“Upon my sowl I have a mind,
Ye old deceiving devil,
To toss your wig up to the wind,
And teach you to be civil,
To me this day.”
Who when by Willie cheated,
Cocked up his hat, without annoy,
And spoke with passion heated;
“Upon my sowl I have a mind,
Ye old deceiving devil,
To toss your wig up to the wind,
And teach you to be civil,
To me this day.”
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But see! anither curtain's drawn,
Some chiel his web has finish't,
And Willy on the tither han',
The price o't has diminish't.
But brought before the awfu' Judge,
To pay the regulation;
Will lifts his arm without a grudge,
And swears by his salvation—
He's right that day.
Some chiel his web has finish't,
And Willy on the tither han',
The price o't has diminish't.
But brought before the awfu' Judge,
To pay the regulation;
Will lifts his arm without a grudge,
And swears by his salvation—
He's right that day.
Anither's been upo' the push,
To get his keel in claith,
In certain hopes to be sure flush,
O' notes and siller baith.
Returnin' for his count at night,
The poor imposed-on mortal,
Maun pay for punds o' clean light weight,
Though he's maist at the portal,
O' want that day.
To get his keel in claith,
In certain hopes to be sure flush,
O' notes and siller baith.
Returnin' for his count at night,
The poor imposed-on mortal,
Maun pay for punds o' clean light weight,
Though he's maist at the portal,
O' want that day.
In vain he pleads—appeals to God,
That scarce he lost an ounce;
The holy watcher o' the broad,
Cheeps out that he's a dunce.
Out frae the door he e'en maun come,
Right thankfu' gin he get
Some counterfeits, a scanty sum
Brought frae the aul' kirk yate,
Yon preachin' day.
That scarce he lost an ounce;
The holy watcher o' the broad,
Cheeps out that he's a dunce.
Out frae the door he e'en maun come,
Right thankfu' gin he get
Some counterfeits, a scanty sum
Brought frae the aul' kirk yate,
Yon preachin' day.
O sirs! what conscience he contains,
What curse maun he be dreein';
Whase every day is marked wi' stains
O' cheatin' and o' leein'!
M'K---l, H---b, or trowther O---r,
May swear and seem to fash us,
But justice dignifies their door,
And gen'rously, they clash us
The clink each day.
What curse maun he be dreein';
Whase every day is marked wi' stains
O' cheatin' and o' leein'!
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May swear and seem to fash us,
But justice dignifies their door,
And gen'rously, they clash us
The clink each day.
Our Hollander, (gude help his soul)
Kens better ways o' workin',
For Jock and him has aft a spraul,
Wha'll bring the biggest dark in.
“Weel, Jock, what hast thou skrewt the day?”
“Deed father I'se no crack o't;
Nine holes, sax ounce, or there away,
Is a' that I cou'd mak o't
This live lang day.”
Kens better ways o' workin',
For Jock and him has aft a spraul,
Wha'll bring the biggest dark in.
“Weel, Jock, what hast thou skrewt the day?”
“Deed father I'se no crack o't;
Nine holes, sax ounce, or there away,
Is a' that I cou'd mak o't
This live lang day.”
Sic conversation aft takes place,
When darkness hides their logic;
Like Milton's Deil and Sin, they trace
For some new winning project:
Daft though they be, and unco gloits,
Yet they can count like scholars,
How farthings, multiplied by doits,
Grow up to pounds and dollars,
Some after day.
When darkness hides their logic;
Like Milton's Deil and Sin, they trace
For some new winning project:
Daft though they be, and unco gloits,
Yet they can count like scholars,
How farthings, multiplied by doits,
Grow up to pounds and dollars,
Some after day.
Forbye, to gie the deil his due,
I own, wi' biggest won'er,
That nane can sell their goods like you,
Or swear them up a hun'er.
Lang hacknied in the paths of vice,
Thy conscience nought can fear her;
And tens and twals can, in a trice,
Jump up twa hun'er far'er,
On ony day.
I own, wi' biggest won'er,
That nane can sell their goods like you,
Or swear them up a hun'er.
Lang hacknied in the paths of vice,
Thy conscience nought can fear her;
And tens and twals can, in a trice,
Jump up twa hun'er far'er,
On ony day.
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What town can thrive wi' sic a crew
Within its entrails crawlin',
Muck-worms, that must provoke a spew
To see or hear them squallin'!
Down on your knees, man, wife, and wean—
For ance implore the deevil,
To haurl to himself his ain;
And free us frae sic evil,
This vera day.
Within its entrails crawlin',
Muck-worms, that must provoke a spew
To see or hear them squallin'!
Down on your knees, man, wife, and wean—
For ance implore the deevil,
To haurl to himself his ain;
And free us frae sic evil,
This vera day.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |