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Poem by Thomas Walker
1. Ae morn the sun was rising hie An’ while he blinked bonilie, Your line came linking in to me Wi’ cooper John; Said I, up muse! here’s wark for thee, Whilk must be done. 2. This twelve month thou hast lien at rest, Get up, I beg, and do thy best, That I may get my verses drest, Sir, to your pleating; For Fisher, ye’re a fash’ous pest For criticising. 3. Gif ye were never far a fiel’, But bred aside your mither’s wheel, Wha mount Parnassus ne’er did speel, Then I’m to blame Gif e’er I kent o’ sic a chiel, Brought up at hame! 4. Ye need na plaint upon your muse, Nor come to me to beg excuse, Be thankfu’ rather, and peruse Your noble gifts, An’ pity them wha sic abuse, By wicked shifts. 5. Ye tell me I am nane o’ those, That lead the van wi’ heaven’s foes; ’Tis true, my pen does riot expose My soul in sin; But Oh, alas! no mortal knows My heart within! 6. But let me never lead astray, Poor mortals on in Satan’s way; Sic hellish houn’s that catch the prey For him sae fast, Are waiting on a dreadfu’ day, I fear, at last. 7. How pitifu’ to see the sight – The sprightly gallant, trim and tight, Whas head’s a shining lamp o’ light, Wi’ bonny face; An’ heart as dark as mirk midnight, For want o’ grace! 8. That heart is hard that never bleeds, To see the devil’s garden weeds, Wi’ learned lumber in their heads, Gaun doun the hill, To get their wages for their deeds, In torments still. 9. I shudder at the awfu’ thought! A man to sell his soul for nought! – This warld’s gear by sic is bought At countless cost, Since we can ne’er redeem by ought A soul when lost. 10. O thou, my soul, come not unto The paths wherein destroyers go! Come riot into their secret, who By wicked rhymes, Ser’ Satan, our infernal foe, To please the times! 11. Saints now a-days may weep and mourn, To think how ages yet unborn, Will fee religion turn’d to scorn By Robin’s books; And a’ the bible rest and torn By clergy fouks.
Hill of Ochiltree, March 15. 1789.
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