Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
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 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
The sun is glinting on hill and knowe,
An' saft the pillow to the fat man's pow—
Sae fleecy an' warm the guid “hame-made,”
The feast o' yestreen how it oozes through,
In bell an' blab on his burly brow,
Nought recks he o' drum an' bell
The girnal's fou an' sure the “sale;”
The laird an' he can crap an keep
Weel, weel may he laugh in his gowden sleep.
His dream abounds in stots, or full
Of cow an' corn, calf and bull;
Of cattle shows, of dinner speaks—
Toom, torn, and patch'd like weavers' breeks;
An' sic like meaning hae, I trow,
As rubadub, rubadub, row-dow-dow.
Hark, how he waukens the Weavers now!
Wha lie belair'd in a dreamy steep—
A mental swither 'tween death an' sleep—
Wi' hungry wame and hopeless breast,
Their food no feeding, their sleep no rest.
Arouse ye, ye sunken, unravel your rags,
No coin in your coffers, no meal in your bags;
Yet cart, barge, and waggon, with load after load,
Creak mockfully, passing your breadless abode.
The stately stalk of Ceres bears,
But not for you, the bursting ears;
In vain to you the lark's lov'd note,
For you no summer breezes float,
Dull, din, and healthless vapour yours.
The nobler Spider weaves alone,
And feels the little web his own,
His hame, his fortress, foul or fair,
Nor factory whipper swaggers there.
Should ruffian wasp, or flaunting fly
Touch his lov'd lair, 'tis touch and die!
Supreme in rags, ye weave, in tears,
The shining robe your murderer wears;
Till worn, at last, to very “waste,”
A hole to die in, at the best;
And, dead, the session saints begrudge ye
The twa-three deals in death to lodge ye;
They grudge the grave wherein to drap ye,
An' grudge the very muck to hap ye.
Had Heaven intended corn to be the property of one class only, corn would grow in one land only, and only on one stem. But corn is the child of every soil; its grains and its stems are numberless as the tears of the hungry. The widespread bounty of God was never willed to be a widespread sorrow to man.
It was at Inverury, after losing seven battles against the English, that Robert Bruce, lying ill in his bed, marked a spider, which was endeavouring to mount to the ceiling, fall down seven times, but on the eighth attempt succeed. The Scotch and English army were just preparing for battle, when Bruce, inspired by this omen, rose, and heading his dispirited troops, after a desperate struggle succeeded in routing the enemy, and laid the foundation of a series of successes against the usurping invader, which secured the glory and independence of the kingdom of Scotland. The welcome he received at Inverury, in his dark hour of distress, induced him to bestow on it the privileges of a royal burgh.
Nor is this the only time that the spider has influenced the destiny of kingdoms. In our own times the careful investigation of their habits in different weather, by a prisoner in his dungeon, afforded the indices upon which Dumourier invaded and overran Holland in 1797.
| Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver | |