 | Scotch Poetry |  |
The Twa Weavers.
When war and taxation had fleeced us right sair,
And made us like scare-crows a' ragged an bare,
Twa poor weaver-bodies ae day chanced to meet,
Wi' scarcely a shoe on their stockingless feet;
Their skins through their auld tatter'd cleeding did shine,
And their beards might hae pass'd for a bishop's lang syne.
And made us like scare-crows a' ragged an bare,
Twa poor weaver-bodies ae day chanced to meet,
Wi' scarcely a shoe on their stockingless feet;
Their skins through their auld tatter'd cleeding did shine,
And their beards might hae pass'd for a bishop's lang syne.
“Weel Robin,” quo' Thomas, “what way do ye fend?
And do ye aye live yet out bye at Wood-end?”
“Live—faith I live nae-where, I starve at Tollcross—”
“Gude troth I'm o'er like you, and that is my loss,
For ilka thing now does against us combine,
Which gars us look back wi' regret on lang syne.”
And do ye aye live yet out bye at Wood-end?”
“Live—faith I live nae-where, I starve at Tollcross—”
“Gude troth I'm o'er like you, and that is my loss,
For ilka thing now does against us combine,
Which gars us look back wi' regret on lang syne.”
21
“Thir three weeks a' rinnin, I've risen at three,
And wrought just as lang as a body could see,
And a' that I've made o't in that time, I trow,
Would scare get potatoes, an' draff for a sow;
What then—we are counted a parcel o' swine,
And laugh'd at, whenever we speak o' lang syne.”
And wrought just as lang as a body could see,
And a' that I've made o't in that time, I trow,
Would scare get potatoes, an' draff for a sow;
What then—we are counted a parcel o' swine,
And laugh'd at, whenever we speak o' lang syne.”
“But what is the cause, man o' a' this distress?
And is there nae method to get it made less?”
“The cause—by my sang, there are causes enow,
And causes that lang may gar poor Britain rue,
Unless she return (as I humbly opine)
To the good hamely fashions in days o' lang syne.
And is there nae method to get it made less?”
“The cause—by my sang, there are causes enow,
And causes that lang may gar poor Britain rue,
Unless she return (as I humbly opine)
To the good hamely fashions in days o' lang syne.
That lang bloody war entered into by Pitt,
Has heap'd on her back sic a burden o' debt,
That it crushes her energies, dries up her sap,
And drives her poor bairns from her fostering lap;
And under that burden she ever must pine
Unless she just do as she whiles did lang syne.
Has heap'd on her back sic a burden o' debt,
That it crushes her energies, dries up her sap,
And drives her poor bairns from her fostering lap;
And under that burden she ever must pine
Unless she just do as she whiles did lang syne.
And that paper swindle—Oh curse the Bank notes!
I wish they were cramm'd down the bankers' ane throats;
For had it not been for their auld clappit rags
JOHN BULL might hae still had some wind in his bags;
But now he's bereft o' his good yellow coin
That clinked so sweetly in days o' lang syne.
I wish they were cramm'd down the bankers' ane throats;
For had it not been for their auld clappit rags
JOHN BULL might hae still had some wind in his bags;
But now he's bereft o' his good yellow coin
That clinked so sweetly in days o' lang syne.
But volumes on volumes could scarce tell the skaith
Which that paper bubble, that engine o' death,
Has wrought to the world by its fause gilded show,
While a' has been hollow and rotten below;
Soon, soon may it burst! like a powder-sprung mine,
And then we may hope for good days, like lang syne.
Which that paper bubble, that engine o' death,
Has wrought to the world by its fause gilded show,
While a' has been hollow and rotten below;
Soon, soon may it burst! like a powder-sprung mine,
And then we may hope for good days, like lang syne.
But see! we submit, like a parcel o' slaves,
To be tax'd and oppress'd by a junta o' knaves,
Wha buy themselves seats in our house up-the-gate,
There bark at each other, and ca' it debate,
While at our expence their ain pouches they line;
Lord send them a Cromwell like Cromwell lang syne!
To be tax'd and oppress'd by a junta o' knaves,
Wha buy themselves seats in our house up-the-gate,
There bark at each other, and ca' it debate,
While at our expence their ain pouches they line;
Lord send them a Cromwell like Cromwell lang syne!
22
And mark what an army o' sinecure trash,
Devouring by wholesale unmerited cash,
Which from our industry is wrung every day,
To feed and to fatten such reptiles as they;
Whilst they on saft couches supinely recline,
Unlike the auld barons, the pride o' lang syne.
Devouring by wholesale unmerited cash,
Which from our industry is wrung every day,
To feed and to fatten such reptiles as they;
Whilst they on saft couches supinely recline,
Unlike the auld barons, the pride o' lang syne.
But look nearer hame and ye'll see how we're crush'd,
How toss'd about, trampled on, driven and push'd,
And see how the working man's substance is shared
Between manufacturer, grocer, an' laird,
Who by screwing, and squeezing, and pinching, combine
To mak' him the ghost o' what he was lang syne.
How toss'd about, trampled on, driven and push'd,
And see how the working man's substance is shared
Between manufacturer, grocer, an' laird,
Who by screwing, and squeezing, and pinching, combine
To mak' him the ghost o' what he was lang syne.
An' look at machinery, the bane of our trade,
What thousands by it hae been reft o' their bread;
Yet where is the man who would wish it destroy'd
If it for the general good were employ'd,
Instead of upholding establishments fine
O' chiels wha were scarcely worth two-pence lang syne?
What thousands by it hae been reft o' their bread;
Yet where is the man who would wish it destroy'd
If it for the general good were employ'd,
Instead of upholding establishments fine
O' chiels wha were scarcely worth two-pence lang syne?
And some o' our priesthood (Gude bless the hale pack),
How glibly ilk Sunday they lay aff their crack,
And tell their gull'd hearers that these trying times
Are solely brought on by the poor people's crimes;
And then wi' their sanctified cant, and their whine,
Preach passive obedience, like hirelings lang syne.
How glibly ilk Sunday they lay aff their crack,
And tell their gull'd hearers that these trying times
Are solely brought on by the poor people's crimes;
And then wi' their sanctified cant, and their whine,
Preach passive obedience, like hirelings lang syne.
But true to their order, their interest, and coat,
Wi' their triple taed fork in the Kirk and State pot,
They wale for themselves the best bit o' the beast,
On which they are sure, aye, to guttle an' feast;
Whilst we and our families on sighs often dine,
And silently wish for the days o' lang syne.”
Wi' their triple taed fork in the Kirk and State pot,
They wale for themselves the best bit o' the beast,
On which they are sure, aye, to guttle an' feast;
Whilst we and our families on sighs often dine,
And silently wish for the days o' lang syne.”
“Heck man! if your statements be founded in fact,
Our prospects, indeed, are most gloomy an' black,
But do ye not think they may yet brighten up?”
“Indeed, to be candid, I've nae siccan hope,
Unless the black book to the flames we consign,
And begin a new score, like our fathers lang sine.”
Our prospects, indeed, are most gloomy an' black,
But do ye not think they may yet brighten up?”
“Indeed, to be candid, I've nae siccan hope,
Unless the black book to the flames we consign,
And begin a new score, like our fathers lang sine.”
END OF SCOTCH POETRY.
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