The Bard's Offering : A Collection of Miscellaneous Poems
Sloan, Edward L.
Published 1854
ELIZA.
'Twas late last nicht I was a place
A place where there were nane me saw,
Wi' my Eliza, lovely dear,
The sweetest far amang them a'.
The weary traveller through the waste,
Wha finds the soul- reviving spring,
Drinks less o' joy than I when round
Her snaw white neck my arms I fling.
What dying raptures ! - bliss divine !.
I found upon her heaving breast,
While she sae fondly clung tae mine
Like wee birds cowering in their nest.
Oh, heavens ! could I but half describe
The bliss untold I there enjoyed
But no; I'm dumb till death's keen dart
The fragile fabric has destroyed.
Let grasping wretches clutch their pelf,
Let tyrants rule with iron hand;
Ambitious monarchs seize the world,
From India to Colombia's land ;
But what care I for a' their deeds
Gi'e me my ain Eliza dear :
Life would a day of sunshine be,
Had I but her my path to cheer.
THE WEAVER'S TRIUMPH.
It was but yestreen I had oot my bit claith, man,
Tuk it under my arm, doun tae Balford I went,
Untae the Braid Square, tae wee cockit Rab's warehoose
For a trifle o' cash, man, it was my intent .
My noddle bein' reeming wi' stoups o' guid liquor,
I marched in fu' stately and throwed the dud doun,
Whan a cock- o ' - the-north o' a foreman, ca'd Hudson,
Whispered tae his employer-" We'll gi'e him a croon. "
My wee bit o' labour bein ' thrown on the counter,
Wi' butterfly's een tae examine't he goes ;
He hemmed and he ha'd, and he swore it was shameless ,
Syne oot wi' his snoot-cloot and dighted his nose.
He swore that the warp would been better by double
For their penny collars ' twas nae use ava;
Though the price o' my labour was just half- a-guinea,
He would gi'e me a shilling and let me awa.
I glowered at the ape wi' twa een like red cinders ,
While wee cockit Rab at his knavery did wink ;
Quo' I, " Honest foreman, ye ha'e turned a barber,
Tae shave simple weavers sae neatly, I think;
But haud ye, a jiffey, my potstick- legged callan
For my nine-and- sixpence I'll gi'e ye some fun:
I'll ca' doun your betters tae think on your capers,
And see if you'll rob me, you half- stocked gun.
Noo, twa honest neebours together convened,
And examined it weel, frae beginning tae end;
And the verdict they gi'en was, " Return him his money,
Or before Parson Wilkins* you'll ha’e tae attend. ”
My money I pouched wi' a rollickin' smirk
Oh ! what was the look that his foremanship gi'en !
Quo' I, " Honest foreman, act somewhat mair justly :
You see arbitration's but seldom your frien'."
Noo, some o' my neebours mayna ken this same foreman,
But I'll draw you his portrait as weel as I can,
Though it's nae easy job for a puir, simple weaver,
As I would wrang him greatly tae ca' him a man:
His face it's the texture and shape o' a monkey's ;
Each cheek would hold neatly a shilling o' pence;
A' the wit that he has in his weel-theekit noddle's
What oor neebour Tam ca's a "guid griping sense. '
He's like but why need I attempt tae describe him—
The pen o' a Buffon would soon be tae blame;
Some day, whan auld Nature has been busy working,
She has tossed by the gruns-made him oot o' the same.
Fareweel tae you, Robin; adieu tae your foreman
A pair o' sweet rascals you are, I declare ;
It's a pity tae waste pen and ink on sic creatures—
Guid-bye tae you, neebours, I'll noo say nae mair.
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