Scotch Poetry Consisting of Songs, Odes, Anthems, and Epigrams. By Alexander Rodger |
 |
Advice to the Priest-ridden.
|
 | Scotch Poetry |  |
1
Advice to the Priest-ridden.
A SONG.
Ye poor, silly Priest-ridden bodies, attend
To ane that would caution you now as a friend,
Against black coats, and gravats so white;
For greater impostors need hardly exist,
Than some wha are dubbed wi' the title of priest,
For their plan is the poor human mind to mislead,
And barter their mystical jargon for bread,
Wi' their black coats and gravats so white.
To ane that would caution you now as a friend,
Against black coats, and gravats so white;
For greater impostors need hardly exist,
Than some wha are dubbed wi' the title of priest,
For their plan is the poor human mind to mislead,
And barter their mystical jargon for bread,
Wi' their black coats and gravats so white.
Pretending to solve what they care not about,
And damning the sceptic who dares but to doubt;
They tell you fine stories, about this and that,
But would starve you on husks, while they gorge upon fat,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
So wrapt up in spirit, so heavenly are they,
So dead to the world and its vanities gay,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
And damning the sceptic who dares but to doubt;
They tell you fine stories, about this and that,
But would starve you on husks, while they gorge upon fat,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
So wrapt up in spirit, so heavenly are they,
So dead to the world and its vanities gay,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
That a young blooming doxy, wi' cheeks plump and red,
Can only convince them they're still flesh and blood,
When sungly unseen, a sweet kiss and a squeeze,
Wi' lively devotion, bring them to their knees,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
When Man, led by Reason, demands what's his right,
“The Kirk is in danger,” they bawl a' their might,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
Can only convince them they're still flesh and blood,
When sungly unseen, a sweet kiss and a squeeze,
Wi' lively devotion, bring them to their knees,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
When Man, led by Reason, demands what's his right,
“The Kirk is in danger,” they bawl a' their might,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
2
When they cry out the Kirk, 'tis the Tiends, they've in view,
For they watch o'er their flocks, just for sake o' the woo';
Wi' Oppression's big shears to their hurdies applied,
They fleece them so bare, that they scarce leave the hide,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
O rare to behold! how demurely they look,
When placed in the rostrum, they handle the book,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
For they watch o'er their flocks, just for sake o' the woo';
Wi' Oppression's big shears to their hurdies applied,
They fleece them so bare, that they scarce leave the hide,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
O rare to behold! how demurely they look,
When placed in the rostrum, they handle the book,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
There's glib-gabbit Tammy, that star frae the east,
When he speaks, “a' the world wonders after the beast,”
Wi' the black coat, &c.
He wrote a fine book wi' a high-sounding name,
But what do you think is the hale o' its theme?—
Just burden on burden, and tax upon tax,
To learn the base “rabble” the use of their backs,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
When he speaks, “a' the world wonders after the beast,”
Wi' the black coat, &c.
He wrote a fine book wi' a high-sounding name,
But what do you think is the hale o' its theme?—
Just burden on burden, and tax upon tax,
To learn the base “rabble” the use of their backs,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Davy Tartan grunts out that your sins are the cause
O' your skin-cutting ribs and your clay-coloured jaws,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
What double-milled sinners the poor fo'k must be,
Since they, not the gentry, sic punishments dree,
Nay, search the hale globe, and my lug for't ye'll fin',
That Priests never suffer, of course never sin,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
O' your skin-cutting ribs and your clay-coloured jaws,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
What double-milled sinners the poor fo'k must be,
Since they, not the gentry, sic punishments dree,
Nay, search the hale globe, and my lug for't ye'll fin',
That Priests never suffer, of course never sin,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
There's pensioner Jamie, Corruption's chief tool,
Whase tears flow as freely as whiskey at yule,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
So keenly he feels for the suffering poor,
That he'd willingly do what he did for Tom Muir;
To get them sent off to a far better state,
By starving or hanging them out o' the gate,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Whase tears flow as freely as whiskey at yule,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
So keenly he feels for the suffering poor,
That he'd willingly do what he did for Tom Muir;
To get them sent off to a far better state,
By starving or hanging them out o' the gate,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
And grave Willy Grovel, o' true loyal crouch,
Wi' three herring-tails sticking out o' his pouch,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Against smuggled whiskey he piously rails,
And with blue damnation its drinkers assails;
Yet see the gude man at a wie highland stell,
Thrang trysting sax gallons, or aught for himsel',
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Wi' three herring-tails sticking out o' his pouch,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Against smuggled whiskey he piously rails,
And with blue damnation its drinkers assails;
Yet see the gude man at a wie highland stell,
Thrang trysting sax gallons, or aught for himsel',
Wi' his black coat, &c.
3
There's thundering Willy, besouth o' the Clyde,
Wha'd skin a starv'd louse for the sake o' its hide,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
So liberal his hand is, his heart so humane,
That he deals out to comfort, all those who complain,
A dish of content, o'er a bit o' brown crust,
Yet laughs at them slily, and pockets their dust,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Wha'd skin a starv'd louse for the sake o' its hide,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
So liberal his hand is, his heart so humane,
That he deals out to comfort, all those who complain,
A dish of content, o'er a bit o' brown crust,
Yet laughs at them slily, and pockets their dust,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
And Johnny M'Greed, how he lashes at them
Wha gang the grey gate that brings lasses to shame,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
For into temptation himsel' is ne'er led,
But willingly enters her net when 'tis spread;
And when he is caught in her strait kittle mesh,
He greets and cries out, “O! how weak is the flesh,”
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Wha gang the grey gate that brings lasses to shame,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
For into temptation himsel' is ne'er led,
But willingly enters her net when 'tis spread;
And when he is caught in her strait kittle mesh,
He greets and cries out, “O! how weak is the flesh,”
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Johnny Bishop, the kind, the humane, the beloved,
Wi' the cries o' the starving is now so much moved,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
That when they look up to him, asking for bread,
He gives not a stone, but provides for them—lead;
If they ask for a fish, not a serpent he'll grant,
While a three-edged steel can relieve every want,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Wi' the cries o' the starving is now so much moved,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
That when they look up to him, asking for bread,
He gives not a stone, but provides for them—lead;
If they ask for a fish, not a serpent he'll grant,
While a three-edged steel can relieve every want,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
There's Johnny M`Roarin, wi' his raree-show
Of elegant metaphors, all in a row,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
He swears that reform is so heinous a sin,
That none who pursue it to heaven will get in;
That swine will be seen flying thick through the air,
And singing like laverocks ere black-nebs get there,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Of elegant metaphors, all in a row,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
He swears that reform is so heinous a sin,
That none who pursue it to heaven will get in;
That swine will be seen flying thick through the air,
And singing like laverocks ere black-nebs get there,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
And Matthew the Cyclops, o' Vulcan's ain hue,
Bellows out that wi' meetings you've nothing to do,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Stay at hame, mind your business, nor politics heed,
Nor groan though hard press'd by the millstane o' need;
While you've five shillings weekly, you've nothing to say,
But be sure you give him fifteen shillings per day,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Bellows out that wi' meetings you've nothing to do,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
Stay at hame, mind your business, nor politics heed,
Nor groan though hard press'd by the millstane o' need;
While you've five shillings weekly, you've nothing to say,
But be sure you give him fifteen shillings per day,
Wi' his black coat, &c.
4
Now that's but a sample of maist o' the crew,
Wha laugh in their sleeve while they're hoodwinking you,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
The gospel they preach is the gospel of Pitt,
Which teaches that mankind are born to submit,
And patiently bend to the haughty behests
Of legalized robbers, and humbugging priests,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
Wha laugh in their sleeve while they're hoodwinking you,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
The gospel they preach is the gospel of Pitt,
Which teaches that mankind are born to submit,
And patiently bend to the haughty behests
Of legalized robbers, and humbugging priests,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
But as among chaff there are pickles o' wheat,
So there are exceptions ilk ane will admit,
Among black coats, &c.
But, oh, these exceptions, how trifling, how few,
Compared wi' the mass who have interest in view,
For were not a well-baken bannock their aim,
Religion might gang to the Devil for them,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
So there are exceptions ilk ane will admit,
Among black coats, &c.
But, oh, these exceptions, how trifling, how few,
Compared wi' the mass who have interest in view,
For were not a well-baken bannock their aim,
Religion might gang to the Devil for them,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
Now if you would just take this counsel frae me,
Sae many fat drones you would soon cease to see,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
Nae longer support such a time-serving set,
Go study the book where true wisdom you'll get,
Instruct one another, practise what is right,
And let each pious swindler go feel his own weight,
Wi' his black coat and gravat so white.
Sae many fat drones you would soon cease to see,
Wi' their black coats, &c.
Nae longer support such a time-serving set,
Go study the book where true wisdom you'll get,
Instruct one another, practise what is right,
And let each pious swindler go feel his own weight,
Wi' his black coat and gravat so white.
| Scotch Poetry | |