Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
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JUSTICE—A REVERIE. |
 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
JUSTICE—A REVERIE.
Ance wild in woods wi' brither brute,
Man hunted day by day;
An' reive, wi' fell and fierce dispute,
The wolf's half-worried prey.
Then roughest niggers ruled the fray,
Fouk awn'd nae ither micht;
An' Justice daur'd nocht word to say,
But noo an' than “Guid nicht!”
An' sleepit syne.
Man hunted day by day;
An' reive, wi' fell and fierce dispute,
The wolf's half-worried prey.
94
Fouk awn'd nae ither micht;
An' Justice daur'd nocht word to say,
But noo an' than “Guid nicht!”
An' sleepit syne.
Bauld man grew bigger and got breeks,
An' haul'd their huts thegither;
Syne cultivated kail an' leeks,
An' ate nae ane anither.
The heart leant brither-like to brither—
Love ruled wi' little fyke;
An' lasses, lauchin', tauld their mither
That they “be't do the like.”
An' buckled syne.
An' haul'd their huts thegither;
Syne cultivated kail an' leeks,
An' ate nae ane anither.
The heart leant brither-like to brither—
Love ruled wi' little fyke;
An' lasses, lauchin', tauld their mither
That they “be't do the like.”
An' buckled syne.
Aye, lighter aye—ilk glimmer threw
A brichter gleam lay on it;
Frae holes to huts, huts houses grew,
Man shaved an' wore a bonnet!
The gudewife wi' sic power enthronat
An' bairnie on her knee;
Whilk she could either scaul or scone it,
Just as the case micht be.
An' daut it syne.
A brichter gleam lay on it;
Frae holes to huts, huts houses grew,
Man shaved an' wore a bonnet!
The gudewife wi' sic power enthronat
An' bairnie on her knee;
Whilk she could either scaul or scone it,
Just as the case micht be.
An' daut it syne.
Ane hunder years, an' mair than that,
Had drousy Justice snor'd;
Till fouk in very peace grew fat,
In very easedom smor'd;
At last an' lang, wi' ae accord,
Upon a summer night,
They loudly on the lady roar'd,
Wha wauken'd in a fright,
An' wonnert syne.
Had drousy Justice snor'd;
Till fouk in very peace grew fat,
In very easedom smor'd;
95
Upon a summer night,
They loudly on the lady roar'd,
Wha wauken'd in a fright,
An' wonnert syne.
The dozen'd goddess e'ed the fouk,
An' fairlied at their fury;
Glour'd wi' a face as braid's our clock
At bonnie Inverury.
“What would ye noo, ye sons o' muck—
Wha reive me o' my sleepin'?
May ha'f the warl's unholy luck
Fast haud ye in its keepin;
An' rot ye syne!”
An' fairlied at their fury;
Glour'd wi' a face as braid's our clock
At bonnie Inverury.
“What would ye noo, ye sons o' muck—
Wha reive me o' my sleepin'?
May ha'f the warl's unholy luck
Fast haud ye in its keepin;
An' rot ye syne!”
A stark auld man, toom, dour an' thin,
Stood talesman by the “rote',”
His banes stared 'neath his withered skin,
An' time had bared his coat.
“Our kirk,” quoth he, “endures a spot
Upon her fair repute,
An' water winna wash the blot,
Nor Gospel wring it out.
It's sickar syne.
Stood talesman by the “rote',”
His banes stared 'neath his withered skin,
An' time had bared his coat.
“Our kirk,” quoth he, “endures a spot
Upon her fair repute,
An' water winna wash the blot,
Nor Gospel wring it out.
It's sickar syne.
Our fa'en guides hae racht an' wrung
An' pouch'd the slave-won plack;
In very kernal conscience flung,
An' wail'd, ‘Fie! send it back!’
We'll gie on earth our wealth—our wrack,
We'll gar our bairns gang duddy;
Ere we connive wi' heathen Black,
God send ilk wight a wuddy!
An' hang 'im syne.”
An' pouch'd the slave-won plack;
In very kernal conscience flung,
An' wail'd, ‘Fie! send it back!’
96
We'll gar our bairns gang duddy;
Ere we connive wi' heathen Black,
God send ilk wight a wuddy!
An' hang 'im syne.”
Now merry Justice held her sides
To keep her ribs frae rackin';
She leuch until her e'en ran tides,
Her very saul was shakin'.
Sae funny were the thoughts that wauken
To hear the duddy crew—
“What slave” quo' she, “tholes ha'f sic whackin'
As whacks dealt down on you,
Aye silent syne?
To keep her ribs frae rackin';
She leuch until her e'en ran tides,
Her very saul was shakin'.
Sae funny were the thoughts that wauken
To hear the duddy crew—
“What slave” quo' she, “tholes ha'f sic whackin'
As whacks dealt down on you,
Aye silent syne?
“O seek nae mair for siller's birth,
Aye pouch—but binna speerin';
There's nae a bodle tracks the earth
That has na brought a tear in—
Think ye yon holy house ye're rearin'
Will spotless pennies pay it?
When some are sawin'—some are shearin'—
Some are makin' hay yet
To sell it syne!”
Aye pouch—but binna speerin';
There's nae a bodle tracks the earth
That has na brought a tear in—
Think ye yon holy house ye're rearin'
Will spotless pennies pay it?
When some are sawin'—some are shearin'—
Some are makin' hay yet
To sell it syne!”
| Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver | |