The toom Meal pock.
[Written by John Robertson of Paisley about the year 1793. It is to be lamented that the distress of that period, which is here half jocularly depicted, has been succeeded in recent days by a much deeper and more universal state of privation.]
Preserve us a'! what shall we do,
Thir dark unhallowed times?
We're surely dreeing penance now,
For some most awfu' crimes.
Sedition daurna now appear,
In reality or joke,
For ilka chiel maim mourn wi' me,
O' a hinging toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
When lasses braw gaed out at e'en,
For sport and pastime free,
I seem'd like ane in paradise,
The moments quick did flee.
Like Venuses they a' appeared,
Weel pouthered was their locks,
'Twas easy dune, when at their hame,
Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.
And sing, Oh waes me!
How happy past my former days,
Wi' merry heartsome glee,
When smiling fortune held the cup,
And peace sat on my knee;
Nae wants had I but were supplied,
My heart wi' joy did knock,
When in the neuk I smiling saw
A gaucie weel fill'd pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
Speak no ae word about reform,
Nor petition Parliament,
A wiser scheme I'll now propose,
I'm sure ye'll gi'e consent—
Send up a chiel or twa like me,
As a sample o' the flock,
Whase hollow cheeks will be sure proof,
O' a hinging toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
And should a sicht sae ghastly like,
Wi' rags, and banes, and skin,
Ha'e nae impression on yon folks,
But tell ye'll stand ahin:
O what a contrast will ye shaw,
To the glowrin' Lunnun folk,
When in St. James' ye tak' your stand,
Wi' a hinging toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
Then rear your hand, and glowr, and stare,
Before yon hills o' beef,
Tell them ye are frae Scotland come,
For Scotia's relief;
Tell them ye are the vera best,
Wal'd frae the fattest flock,
Then raise your arms, and Oh! display
A hinging toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
Tell them ye're wearied o' the chain
That hauds the state thegither,
For Scotland wishes just to tak'
Gude nicht wi' ane anither.
We canna thole, we canna bide,
This hard unwieldy yoke,
For wark and want but ill agree,
Wi' a hinging toom meal pock.
And sing, Oh waes me!
The Poor Man.
[James Hogg.]
Loose the yett, an let me in,
Lady wi' the glistening e'e,
Dinna let your menial train
Drive an auld man out to dee.
Cauldrife is the winter even,
See, the rime hangs at my chin;
Lady, for the sake of Heaven,
Loose the yett, an' let me in!
Ye shall gain a virgin hue,
Lady, for your courtesye,
Ever beaming, ever new,
Aye to bloom an' ne'er to dee.
Lady, there's a lovely plain
Lies beyond yon setting sun,
There we soon may meet again—
Short the race we ha'e to run.
'Tis a land of love an' light;
Rank or title is not there,
High an' low maun there unite,
