Again I ha'e ta'en to the clinkin' o' rhymes-
It's no on the signs, it's the deeds o' the times
O' whilk I wad speak; about what is gaun on
Aroun' us, amang us, an' farther beyon'.
Ye renegade churchmen, O ill be yer speed!
Ye've murdered auld Luther, an' stickit the creed;
Wi' Pusey for leader, ye'r marchin' on Rome,
Is 'the wee bit endoomintie' yours whan ye come?
O spirit of Calvin! O shade of John Knox!
The Kirk is in danger, her faith orthodox;
In Moses, the God-given commandments an' law,
There are mony that say are worth naething ava.
Tho' whiles in the dark, this is clear at the least,
Oor rulers are giein' their power to the Beast;
I red them tak' tent, they may hear by-an'-by,
Frae millions o' men the 'No Popery' cry.
Whan famishin' Tories, owre benches and stools,
Cam' loupin' an' yellin', the Whigamore fools
Left a' in their han's, an' took aff to the hill,
In the 'Cave o' Adullam' was buried the bill.
Then Dizzy he stripp'd to the breeks an' the sark
To cleck a new Bill, it was unco warm wark,
Noo the puir thing's cleckit, an' oot o' the shell,
Belyve we sall see if it picks for itsel'.
O Sov'reign Victoria! bless'd and belov'd,
On the deck of the Albert thy mission was proved;
Thy han' grac'd the Sultan wi' garter and star,
And opened for freedom a pathway afar.
We're at peace wi' the warl', an' lang may it be,
In tradin' and fechtin' we're lords o' the sea;
But herry't wi' taxes, and rackit wi' toil,
By the lords o' the State, the mine, an' the soil.
O heavy the bluid o' the innocent hings
On the skirts o' vile hizzies: my auld heart it wrings
To hear that sae mony puir babies fin' death
At the mither's ain han', as sune's they draw breath.
Self-murder, an' a' kin' o' murders are rife,
Wife-beatin', garottin', and usin' the knife;
Abuses in unions are proved by the books,
The tin bombs an' bullets o' Broadhead an' Crookes.
The warst o' the ills that beset us, we think,
Is that curse o' the lan' the plague sore o' drink.
It poisons the sources an' streams o' oor life,
In youth an' in manhood, in mither an' wife.
We hae muckle that's ill, but mair that is gude;
Oor place 'mang the nations is weel understude-
Improvement in knowledge, in science, an' art-
The van of progression, oor post, an' oor part.