AGAIN I ha'e ta'en to the clinkin' o' rhymes— It's no on the signs, it's the deeds o' the times O' whilk I wad speak; about what is gaun on Aroun' us, amang us, an' farther beyon'. Ye renegade churchmen—oh, ill be yer speed! Ye've murdered auld Luther, an' stickit the creed; Wi' Pusey for leader, ye're marchin' on Rome, Is "the wee bit endoomintie" yours whan ye come? O spirit of Calvin! O shade of John Knox! The Kirk is in danger, her faith orthodox; In Moses, the God-given commandments an' law, There are mony that say are worth naething ava. Tho' whiles in the dark, this is clear at the least, Oor rulers are giein' their power to the Beast; I red them tak' tent, they may hear by-an'-by Frae millions o' men the "No Popery" cry. Whan famishin' Tories, owre benches an' stools, Cam' loupin' an' yellin', the Whigamore fools Left a' in their han's, an' took aff to the hill, In the "Cave o' Adullam" was buried the bill. Then Dizzy he stripp'd to the breeks an' the sark To cleck a new Bill—it was unco warm wark; Noo the puir thing is cleckit, an' oot o' the shell, Belyve we s'all see if it picks for itsel'. O Sov'reign Victoria! bless'd and belov'd, On the deck of the Albert thy mission was proved; Thy han' grac'd the Sultan wi' garter an' star, And opened for freedom a pathway afar. We're at peace wi' the warl', an' lang may it be, In tradin' an' fechtin' we're lords o' the sea; But herry't wi' taxes, an' rackit wi' toil, By the lords o' the State, the mine, an' the soil. Oh, heavy the bluid o' the innocent hings On the skirts o' vile hizzies; my auld heart it wrings To hear that sae mony puir babies fin' death At the mither's ain han', as sune's they draw breath. Self-murder, an' a kin' o' murders are rife, Wife-beatin', garottin', an' usin' the knife; Abuses in unions are proved by the books, The tin bombs an' bullets o' Broadhead an' Crookes. The warst o' the ills that beset us, we think, Is that curse o' the lan', the plague-sore o' drink; It poisons the sources an' streams o' oor life, In youth an' in manhood, in mither an' wife. We hae muckle that's ill, but mair that is gude; Oor place 'mang the nations is weel unnerstude— Improvement in knowledge, in science an' art— The van of progression, oor post, an' oor part. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SCHOOLS OF LITTLE FISH by MARVIN BELL SPRINGTIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE PET NAME by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD: SONG by OLIVER GOLDSMITH TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC by BEN JONSON THE COMING OF SPRING by NORA PERRY SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 8. THEE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |