Poems and Songs By Robert Gilfillan. Fourth edition. With memoir of the author, and appendix of his latest pieces |
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THE TAX-GATHERER. |
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 | Poems and Songs |  |
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THE TAX-GATHERER.
O! do ye ken P--- the taxman an' vriter?
Ye're weel aff wha ken naething 'bout him ava:
They ca' him Inspector, or Poor's Rates Collector—
My faith! he's weel kent in L---, P--- M'C---.
He ca's, and he comes again—haws, and he hums again;
He's only ae hand, but it's as gude as twa;
He pu's 't out an' raxes, an' draws in the taxes,
An' pouches the siller—shame! P--- M'C---.
Ye're weel aff wha ken naething 'bout him ava:
They ca' him Inspector, or Poor's Rates Collector—
My faith! he's weel kent in L---, P--- M'C---.
He ca's, and he comes again—haws, and he hums again;
He's only ae hand, but it's as gude as twa;
He pu's 't out an' raxes, an' draws in the taxes,
An' pouches the siller—shame! P--- M'C---.
He'll be at your door by daylight on a Monday,
On Tyesday ye're favour'd again wi' a ca';
E'en a slee look he gied me at kirk the last Sunday,
Whilk meant—“Mind the preachin' an' P--- M'C---.
He glowers at my auld door as if he had made it,
He keeks through the keyhole when I am awa';
He'll syne read the auld stane, that tells a' wha read it
To “Blisse God for a' giftes,”—but P--- M'C---.
On Tyesday ye're favour'd again wi' a ca';
E'en a slee look he gied me at kirk the last Sunday,
Whilk meant—“Mind the preachin' an' P--- M'C---.
91
He keeks through the keyhole when I am awa';
He'll syne read the auld stane, that tells a' wha read it
To “Blisse God for a' giftes,”—but P--- M'C---.
His sma' papers neatly are 'ranged a' completely,
That yours, for a wonder, 's the first on the raw!
There's nae jinkin' P---, nae antelope's fleeter—
Nae cuttin' acquantance wi' P--- M'C---.
'Twas just Friday e'enin', Auld Reekie I'd been in,
I'd gatten a shillin'—I maybe gat twa;
I thought to be happy wi' friends ower a drappie,
When wha suld come pap in—but P--- M'C---.
That yours, for a wonder, 's the first on the raw!
There's nae jinkin' P---, nae antelope's fleeter—
Nae cuttin' acquantance wi' P--- M'C---.
'Twas just Friday e'enin', Auld Reekie I'd been in,
I'd gatten a shillin'—I maybe gat twa;
I thought to be happy wi' friends ower a drappie,
When wha suld come pap in—but P--- M'C---.
I'm auld, now, an' donner't, though yince I was honour'd,
Oh P--- tak pity, and some mercy shaw!
I yince had a hunder o' notes—do ye wonder?—
Hae ye made as mony yet? P--- M'C---!
My yill stands nae mair in yon auld girded barrel,
The rattans sit squeakin' in nooks o' the wa';
Nae bonnie lass now bakes for me scon or farle—
Ye've made a toom house to me! P--- M'C---.
Oh P--- tak pity, and some mercy shaw!
I yince had a hunder o' notes—do ye wonder?—
Hae ye made as mony yet? P--- M'C---!
My yill stands nae mair in yon auld girded barrel,
The rattans sit squeakin' in nooks o' the wa';
Nae bonnie lass now bakes for me scon or farle—
Ye've made a toom house to me! P--- M'C---.
92
There's houp o' a ship though she's sair pressed wi' dangers,
An' roun' her frail timmers the angry winds blaw;
I've aften gat kindness unlook'd for frae strangers,
But wha need houp kindness frae P--- M'C---?
I've kent a man pardon'd when just at the gallows,
I've kent a chiel honest whase trade was the law!
I've even kent fortune's smile fa' on gude fallows,
But I ne'er kent exceptions wi' P--- M'C---!
An' roun' her frail timmers the angry winds blaw;
I've aften gat kindness unlook'd for frae strangers,
But wha need houp kindness frae P--- M'C---?
I've kent a man pardon'd when just at the gallows,
I've kent a chiel honest whase trade was the law!
I've even kent fortune's smile fa' on gude fallows,
But I ne'er kent exceptions wi' P--- M'C---!
Our toun, yince sae cheery, is dowie an' eerie,
Our shippies hae left us, our trade is awa';
There's nae fair maids strayin', nae wee bairnies playin',
Ye've muckle to answer for! P--- M'C---.
But what gude o' grievin' as lang's we are leevin',
My banes I'll sune lay within yon kirk-yard wa';
There nae care shall press me, nae taxes distress me,
For there I'll be free frae thee,—P--- M'C---.
Our shippies hae left us, our trade is awa';
There's nae fair maids strayin', nae wee bairnies playin',
Ye've muckle to answer for! P--- M'C---.
But what gude o' grievin' as lang's we are leevin',
My banes I'll sune lay within yon kirk-yard wa';
There nae care shall press me, nae taxes distress me,
For there I'll be free frae thee,—P--- M'C---.
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