Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver :: :: University of Virginia Library

I'm sick o' this Babel, sae heartless an' cauld,
It's din winna suit wi' my nature ava'—
We canna graff branches when wither'd an' auld—
It's time, gentle friends, I were toddling awa'.
I fain would be hame, I would fain be alane,
In my cottar-house, tramping my treddles again.

I'm no made for mingling in fashion's gay thrang,
I'm oot o' my element acting the part,

101

Far better I lo'e to be crooning a sang
By the blythe chimley-cheek wi' the friends o' my heart;
Whiles blawing a cloud, and whiles blawing a note,
As my cutty or flute comes first in my thought.

I'll no be a lion for ermined rank,
I winna be trotted or roar any more;
I scorn Mr. Pelf as he rolls to his bank—
The weaver is sterling and proud at the core.
My thoughts are my ain, I can beck not nor boo,
Duke Supple may cringe, but the weaver is true.

I ne'er see the sun in this dull foggy toon,
Though I whiles get a glimpse o' the calm leddy meen—
Bless, bless her sweet face, blinking couthily doon
On my ain canny, ain bonnie, dear Aberdeen!
O when shall I greet thee, again shall I see
Thy soft light reflected in clear-flowing Dee?

Farewell to thee, Caudle, an' weel may ye thrive,
Who raised me to fame with a dash o' thy pen;
A better mate to thee when next thou shalt wive—
A blessing be aye on thy but an' thy ben.
Frae auld Aristarchus to Jeffrey the 'cute,
Come show me the critic can stand in thy boot!

Success to thee, Caudle! success to the crew
Round Punch's guffawing but sovereign board,
Determined that all shall have fairly their due—
Now raising a weaver—now roasting a lord—

102

Now snubbing a Jenkins—now higher they go,
To clatter a steenie at Albert's chapeau.

And farewell, Knockespock, my patron and chief—
Maccenas, Glencairn, and father to me!
My heart-string may crack, but I'll nae get relief
Till the tears fa' in showers on the banks o' the Dee.
What pillow sae saft that can lull to repose
As the green velvet banks where my dear river flows?

Then hyhe o'er the water, for now I'm awa'
To breathe caller air by my Ury again;
Though Jeanie nae langer can answer my ca',
I pant for my hame, I am weary and fain.
Come, rouse ye, my merry men, bind ye the sail,
An' let us awa on the wings o' the gale!