QUIET an' cozie, but an' ben, Sittin' at my ain fire-en', On the twa-leaved volume porin', News baith hame an' foreign storin', Owre them thinkin', wonnerin', grievin', Hech, sirs! what a warl' we leeve in! There's that restless ghaist Reform, Like a chronic thunner-storm Roun' the sky politic rummlin', Gloomin', flashin', ever grummlin'— Ever mair the auld, auld story, Nocht worth while frae Whig or Tory. Shaftesbury! thee oor hearts are thankin', Noo when slavery's chains are clankin', No on niggers in the south, But on gangs o' English youth— Serfs wha suffer, sin, an' toil, On free Englan's happy soil; In their cause thou lead'st the van, Christian! true, brave Englishman! Oh! the horrors, crimes, an' pain, That our social system stain! Drink's amaist the source o' a' The countless ills that life befa'; Murders, suicides, an' death To the saul an' body baith; Frae this burnin' scourge we shrink, Britain's shame, accursèd drink! Say, has England's kirk become Mither nurse to Papal Rome? For her nursery she caters Fledgelin's frae their "Alma Maters." Kirks they get—oh, sad reflection!— Sune there's Romish genuflexion— Altar, can'les, bowin', crossin', Papistry wi' little glossin'— Nocht but Romanisèd mummery. Ah, this ritualistic flummery! Renegades—I'd gar them 'lop Hame to Rome an' faither Pope. Lang there's been a great ado— Muckle cry an' little woo'— 'Bout the Union o' the Free Wi' that thrivin' sect U.P. Shou'd they join, amalgamation Shou'd be written conflagration. Head, an' heart, an' e'en are sair, Else I micht say muckle mair— Speak o' Bismarck's famous needle, Tell hoo Nap the Russ can wheedle. He likesna Teuton Will ava; Nae luve's lost atween the twa. Will is auld, maun sune decease, Sae it's best to keep the peace— Die aggression and ambition At the Paris Exhibition. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TRANSPOSITIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOWNFALL OF POLAND [FALL OF WARSAW, 1794] by THOMAS CAMPBELL PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR by JAMES DAVID CORROTHERS MY LOVE COULD WALK by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE by BEN JONSON FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE by ALFRED TENNYSON |