Classic Poem

Attend , ye rev'rend gentlemen,
O' a' denominations,
For, as ye are sae guid yoursel's
At giein' exhortations,
Ye'll surely hear me for a wee
While I ca' your attention
To twa 'r rhee things nane but a frien'
Would ever think to mention.

I wad be unco loath indeed
To vilify or wrong you,
For there are heich heroic souls
And Christian men among you.
I micht speak pleasant words, nae doot—
The knave's aye geyan ceevil—
But gie's the man who speaks the truth
And shames the very deevil.

I'll tell you, without makin' mou's,
The things that hae incens'd me,
And ye wha find the bonnet fit
Will first cry out against me.
Now, if the kirk we've lov'd so long
Is falling into ruin,
Then let me whisper in your lug:
“You're not the right pursuin'.”

Just let me tell you, as a frien',
Ye mak' an awfu' blunder
Whene'er ye lend yoursels as tools
To help the rich to plunder;
Ye lose the love o' honest men,
And ope the mouths o' scorners,
Ye mak' your faithfu' brethren greet
Like Zion's waefu' mourners.

The deevil's taken noo-a-days
To selling and to buying,
And drives a thrifty, thriving trade
In little legal lying.
He's pleading noo in a' oor courts,
He's in amang the jury,
And even 'neath the judge's wig
He's no' afraid to courie.

Lang, lang in councils o' the state
He's dodged and he's dissembled,
And absent neither night nor day
Frae Parliament assembled.
He's even in the pulpit, too,
And turns the flatt'ring sentence,
And hauds your tongues when ye should ca'
Fat sinners to repentance.

He mak's you turn in twenty ways,
Yet aye stick to the strongest,
And mince your Bibles to suit them
Whose purses are the longest;
To heap the thunders o' your wrath
Upon the poor transgressor,
But daurna for your souls attack
His wicked, proud oppressor.

Ye needna preach to weary toil
About the Christian graces,
As lang's ye wink at wickedness
When seated in high places.
Ye canna get us to believe
That poverty's nae evil,
And so ye say it's sent by God
To keep us frae the deevil.

O' heathens and their horrid works
Why gie us sic like doses,
And nae word o' the heathendom
Beneath your very noses?
Why prose about the slaves abroad,
Bought, sell't and scourged to labor,
And ne'er a word o' sympathy
About the slave—your neighbor?

O' evils that are far awa'
We canna bide your prattle,
Unless ye'll help our home-bred slaves
To fecht their weary battle.
I wadna hae you fill your veins
Wi' bluid like that o' Howard's,
But that's nae reason why ye should
Be arrant moral cowards.

Awake! if ye wad longer be
The pilots that would steer us;
Attack the vices o' the age,
Be up, be moral heroes!
Tell Sutherland's heich mighty duke,
Tell Athol, without fearing,
The deevil keeps a black account
Against them for their clearing.

And dinna let Breadalbane slip;
Loch and his tribe, beset them;
We've nae use for a deil ava
If that he disna get them.
By fire and famine they have done
The work o' extirpation,
And hounded out a noble race,
The bulwark o' the nation.

Sadly they left their mountains blue,
To go they knew not whither,
Or, far amid Canadian wilds,
Sigh for their hills o' heather.
Tell county lairds ye'll tolerate
Their bothies black nae longer,
Try whether Christianity
Or Mammon is the stronger.

Explore the dreary vaults o' toil,
Where fashion never centres—
The Saxon slaves in sweating caves
Where daylight never enters;
Tell tyrants ye are watching them;
Tho' ere so deaf they'll hear you,
And a' the lazy vampire crew
Will baith respect and fear you.

And if ye canna humanize
The heartless, purse-proud reavers,
Ye'll cheer at least the drooping hearts
O' hungry, starving weavers.
Wherever there is Nicht and Woe,
Bring tidin's o' the morrow;
Oh! let the kirk be, as o' auld,
“The sanctuary o' sorrow.”

Leave forms to flunkeys and to fools,
They never made a true man;
Preach Christianity as it is,
A thing intensely human.
Be as your Lord and Maister was,
The shield o' the forsaken,
And dying Faith will spread her wings,
And into life awaken.