Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
 |
 |
|
CHANTS FOR CHURLS. |
 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
CHANTS FOR CHURLS.
Ken ye carls howkin' out,
Wha darena howk within,
Holy wark gies your sark,
Yer siller, an' yer sheen.
Gae mak' a fyke to feed the kirk,
Although ye starve yer kin,
An' ye'll be lauchin' lairdies yet,
Youplin in yer yardies yet,
Heich ayont the moon.
Wha darena howk within,
Holy wark gies your sark,
Yer siller, an' yer sheen.
99
Although ye starve yer kin,
An' ye'll be lauchin' lairdies yet,
Youplin in yer yardies yet,
Heich ayont the moon.
We've kirks in ilka corner,
An' wow but we can preach;
Timmer tap, little sap,
Onything for bread.
Their sermons in the draw well,
Drink till ye stretch.
We're clean sairt sookin' at it,
The deil's dazed lookin' at it:
Daud him on the head.
An' wow but we can preach;
Timmer tap, little sap,
Onything for bread.
Their sermons in the draw well,
Drink till ye stretch.
We're clean sairt sookin' at it,
The deil's dazed lookin' at it:
Daud him on the head.
Sawtan said to Sin, “Bairn,
Whither shall we flee,
Wi' your pit, an' my net,
An' a' our little deils?
Sic musterin' o' ministers,
They'll droon us in the sea;
Wi' their auld taurds whippin' at us,
New brooms sweepin' at us:
Hunted to the heels.”
Whither shall we flee,
Wi' your pit, an' my net,
An' a' our little deils?
Sic musterin' o' ministers,
They'll droon us in the sea;
Wi' their auld taurds whippin' at us,
New brooms sweepin' at us:
Hunted to the heels.”
“Sit siccar on yer seat, Sawtan,
Binna feart o' wark;
In but or ben, heicht or glen,
Ye'll get a deevil nurst;
For priests hae crusht the crousie out,
They're fechtin' in the dark,
An' gouks a' tearin' ither,
Shorin' ither, shearin' ither,
Bannin' like to burst.
Binna feart o' wark;
In but or ben, heicht or glen,
Ye'll get a deevil nurst;
100
They're fechtin' in the dark,
An' gouks a' tearin' ither,
Shorin' ither, shearin' ither,
Bannin' like to burst.
“While the black breed's breedin' aye,
Like weel corned beasts,
Out or in sic a din,
Moderate or high,
I'll big a house wi' beadles yet,
An' thack it wi' orra priests;
For they're aye blythe bodies to me,
Aye make roadies to me,
Unco few gae by.”
Like weel corned beasts,
Out or in sic a din,
Moderate or high,
I'll big a house wi' beadles yet,
An' thack it wi' orra priests;
For they're aye blythe bodies to me,
Aye make roadies to me,
Unco few gae by.”
| Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver | |