Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RHYMES FOR THE TIMES: 1, by JANET HAMILTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RHYMES FOR THE TIMES: 1, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I've juist been thinkin', neebour johnnie
Last Line: She bids you guard—o mithers! Mithers!
Alternate Author Name(s): Hamilton, Janet Thompson
Subject(s): Rhyme


I'VE juist been thinkin', neebour Johnnie,
Gif that the warl had mendit ony—
Since, for the wurkin' man's disasters,
We've got sae mony sa's and plaisters.
I've leukit laigh—I've leukit heigh—
The gude time comin's unco dreigh;
There's routh o' teachers, schules, an' beuks,
Chapels an' kirks in a' the neuks,
Academies an' institutions,
Wi' scientific contributions,
On whilk ye may put a' reliance,
An' muckle tauk on social science,
Mechanics, engineerin', minin',
The gate o' cleanin' an' refinin'
Our hooses, streets, oor coorts an' closes,
An' a' that hurts oor health an' noses;
'Bout chemistry, steam, gas, an' win',
The vera lichtnin's luggit in,
An' music, paintin', architecture,
A' weel rede up in mony a lecture,
We meet to argue what we think,
We meet to cow that horrid drink,
We meet to read, recite, an' sing,
An' mony a queer conceitie thing.
Noo, wurkin' men yersel's respec',
Nor leeve in ignorance an' neglec';
Ye've means, but want the wull to use them,
Ye whiles neglec', an' whiles abuse them;
Ye hae nae time for e'enin' classes;
Ye've time to drink, an' see the lasses—
Staun at hoose-en', or change-hoose door,
An' smoke an' swear, an' raise a splore,
An' play at cards, or fecht wi' dougs,
An' whiles to clout ilk ither's lugs;
O wad ye no be muckle better
To read a book, or write a letter?
Had ye the wull, wi' book an' pen
Ye'd fin' the way to mak' ye men,
An' mithers, dae ye ken the poo'rs,
The strength for gude or ill, that's yours,
An' that the gabbin' todlin' things,
That's hingin' be yer apron strings,
Wull be a millstane roun' yer neck
To droon yer sauls, if ye neglec'
To win their hearts, an' train their min',
In a' that's virtuous, gude, an' kin'?
Yer lassocks, that ye tak' sic pride in,
Hae muckle need o' carefu' guidin';
Mislippent sair they've been, I ween—
They gang ower muckle oot at e'en;
An' fallows are grown sae misleart,
The glaikit things micht weel be feart,
For aften dule and burnin' shame
Comes poisonin' mony a puir man's hame,
An' gars ye greet, an' rage, an' flyte,
An' the puir faither maist gang gyte;
An' puir aul' Scotlan' hings her heid
An' bids ye leuk to this wi' speed;
Her bonnie lassocks, 'bune a' ithers,
She bids you guard—O mithers! mithers!





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