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The Weaver's Triumph

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-sixpcnce 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.

By Edward L. Sloan, the Bard of Conlig

From The Bard’s Offering: A Collection of Miscellaneous Poems [1854]

Categories:

Language - Miscellany


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