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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GROANS FROM THE LOOM.
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
GROANS FROM THE LOOM.
A SONG, IN IMITATION OF COLIN'S COMPLAINT.
Deploring beside an old loom,
A weaver perplexèd was laid;
And, while a bad web was his theme,
The breast-beam supported his head;
The walls, that for ages had stood,
In sympathy, wept for his pain;
And the roof, though of old rotten wood,
Remurmur'd his groans back again.
A weaver perplexèd was laid;
And, while a bad web was his theme,
The breast-beam supported his head;
The walls, that for ages had stood,
In sympathy, wept for his pain;
And the roof, though of old rotten wood,
Remurmur'd his groans back again.
‘Alas! simple fool that I was!’
(These words he roar'd out with a grin,)
‘When I saw thee, I sure was an ass,
Else I'd dy'd ere I handl'd the pin.
Thou glanc'd, and transported I seem'd;
When I held thee, how panted my breast!
In raptures I gaz'd while thou beam'd,
And exclaim'd, ‘Was e'er mortal so blest!’
(These words he roar'd out with a grin,)
‘When I saw thee, I sure was an ass,
Else I'd dy'd ere I handl'd the pin.
Thou glanc'd, and transported I seem'd;
When I held thee, how panted my breast!
In raptures I gaz'd while thou beam'd,
And exclaim'd, ‘Was e'er mortal so blest!’
What a blockhead was I to aver,
It would work thro' a mounting so fine;
Or, that such phantom of hair,
Would in a gay hankerchief shine?
Good gods! shall a mortal with legs,
So slow, uncomplaining, be brought!
Go, hung, like a scarecrow in rags,
And live o'er a seat-tree—on nought!
It would work thro' a mounting so fine;
Or, that such phantom of hair,
Would in a gay hankerchief shine?
Good gods! shall a mortal with legs,
So slow, uncomplaining, be brought!
Go, hung, like a scarecrow in rags,
And live o'er a seat-tree—on nought!
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What though I had patience to tie,
Till their numbers my temples o'erspread;
Whene'er the smooth tread I apply,
My shopmates deplore how I've sped.
Ah! Sandy, thy hopes are in vain;
Thy web and thy mounting resign;
Perhaps they may fall to a swain,
Whose patience is greater than thine.
Till their numbers my temples o'erspread;
Whene'er the smooth tread I apply,
My shopmates deplore how I've sped.
Ah! Sandy, thy hopes are in vain;
Thy web and thy mounting resign;
Perhaps they may fall to a swain,
Whose patience is greater than thine.
And you my proud masters so stern,
Who smile o'er the wretch ye torment;
Forbear to import us such yarn,
Or, by Jove, you'll have cause to repent.
Though through the wide warehouse ye foam,
In vain shall ye threaten or mourn;
'Twas yours to distress my poor dome,
Now 'tis mine, and triumphant I'll burn.
Who smile o'er the wretch ye torment;
Forbear to import us such yarn,
Or, by Jove, you'll have cause to repent.
Though through the wide warehouse ye foam,
In vain shall ye threaten or mourn;
'Twas yours to distress my poor dome,
Now 'tis mine, and triumphant I'll burn.
If, while the poor trash I pull down,
They expect to regain my esteem;
Let them come with the crouds of the town,
And see how it flames from the beam.
And then the last boon I'll implore,
Is to bless us with China so tight;
And when the pure piece you look o'er,
You will own my petition was right.
They expect to regain my esteem;
Let them come with the crouds of the town,
And see how it flames from the beam.
And then the last boon I'll implore,
Is to bless us with China so tight;
And when the pure piece you look o'er,
You will own my petition was right.
Then to London nymphs let it go,
And deck them in dazzling array;
Be fairest at ev'ry fine show,
And bring us the heart-cheering pay;
Then Nova's dead bell we will toll,
No more to be heard of or seen,
Unless, when beside a full bowl,
We laugh at how wretched we've been.’
And deck them in dazzling array;
Be fairest at ev'ry fine show,
And bring us the heart-cheering pay;
Then Nova's dead bell we will toll,
No more to be heard of or seen,
Unless, when beside a full bowl,
We laugh at how wretched we've been.’
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |