Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ADDRESS TO THE PLEBIANS, SELECTION, by JOHN LEARMONT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ADDRESS TO THE PLEBIANS, SELECTION, by                    
First Line: Poor crawlin' bodies, sair neglectit
Last Line: An' safest shield.
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Death; Freedom; Graves; War; Royal Court Life; Royalty; Kings; Queens; Dead, The; Liberty; Tombs; Tombstones


POOR crawlin' bodies, sair neglectit,
Trampled on an' disrespeckit,
Seem born for greater fock to geck at,
To toil an' slave,
An' rest o' body hae nae feck o't
Till i' the grave.
Your raggit claies an' ghastly features
Mak ye be lookit on by betters
As some outlandish half'lin creatures
Nae o' God's mak;
An' born to thole their buffs an' blatters
Upo' your back.

Though Liberty may shaw her face
An' a' ye're betters roun' embrace,
Ye still maun bend wi' hum'le face
Beneath her wand;
An' scarcely get an hour's solace
In ony land.

There maun subordination be;
But O! it maks ane wae to see
The grit fock jamph an' jeer at ye,
Wha bake their bread;
An' scarce'll lat ye taste their brie
Whan ye're i' need.

They gang by ye wi' sic a huff,
An' pridfu' caper, snirt an' snuff,
As gif Death ne'er meant them a cuff
Upo' the head,
To let them ken they're the same stuff
O' which ye're made.

Ye're sair the wyte, ye stupit bodies!
Ye have nae mair sense i' your nodies
Than serves to work amang the clodies,
An' do na see
Man's dignity, whilk his ain God has
Him buskit wi'.

Ye still micht delve i' kailyards green,
Or maw down grass upo' the fen,
Yet mak your reason shaw ye men
Ful bauld an' slee;
An' lat them see ye brawlie ken
Man's dignity....

A king cries war! but for what end
Ye never speer, but to it stend,
An' at the cannon's mou' ye bend
I' mony a thrave,
Syne laurels dipped wi' bluid do send
Ye to the grave.

Yet ye're the sceptre o' the land,
Wha put kings, lairds, unto a stand;
Gif ye but gather on the strand
Unto a head,
Ye'll either hae yeu're boon i' hand,
Or ding them dead.

An' some o' you are nae that ill,
An' hae enough o' ruth at will
For ony ane wham Fortune's wheel
Has crushed wi' wae;
An' will gie pity, or him fill
Wi' what ye hae.

Arouse ye up then ane an' a',
An' busk yoursels wi' wisdom braw;
An' though ye wade owr hills o' snaw,
Or plew the field,
Mak ay true honesty your law
An' safest shield.





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