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Parsons are sent to watch our souls, while we are hard at labour: [4:2]
This world needs help to get along, for men feed one another, 66 [4:3]
And what do we pay parsons for,—if not to manage ’t other? [4:4]
TIMOTHY.
You’re right! No man as grumbles so with this here world has thriven; [5:1]
Mutton won’t drop into our mouths, although we gape at heaven. [5:2]
Why, Tommie was a ruddy lad, as rosy as an apple, [5:3]
Till Methodism filled his head, and he was seen at chapel,
Found out that he’d received a call, grew dismal, dull, and surly,
Read tracts when working in the fields, went praying late and early, [5:6]
And by-and-bye began himself to argue with the doubting, [5:7]
And though he’d scarcely been to school, began his public spouting.
And soon I found—I wasn’t blind—how he let matters go here,— [5:9]
While he was at his heavenly work, things suffered down below here: [5:10]
The hens dropped off through want of feed, horses grew sick and useless, 67 [5:11]
For lack o’ milking presently the cows grew dry and juiceless; [5:12]
And when I sought him out, and swore in rage and consternation,
I’m hanged if Tommy didn’t cry and talk about salvation! [5:14]
‘Salvation’s mighty well,’ says I, right mad with my disaster,
‘But since I want my farm-stock saved, you find another master!’ [5:16]
And I was firm, and sent him off, though he seemed broken-hearted: [5:17]
He slipt a tract into my fist the morning he departed; [5:18]
Ay, got a place next day with Bourne, who knew the lad was clever, [5:19]
But dawdled still about his work, and preached as much as ever. [5:20]
JACOB.
TIMOTHY.
He got another master, though, but soon began to tire him;
His wages sank, and by-and-bye no farmer here would hire him; [7:2]
And soon between this world and that, poor Tommie grew more mournful, [7:3]
His strength and cleverness went off—the country folk looked scornful— [7:4]
And soon the blessed Methodists grew tired, and would not hear him, [7:5]
And bolted when he tried to speak, and shrank from sitting near him. [7:6]
JACOB.
TIMOTHY.
‘Why don’t you be a man?’ said they, ‘keep clean, and do your labour?’
And what d’ye think that Tommie said?—‘I don’t play shilly-shally; [9:2]
If I’m to serve the LORD at all, ’twill be continuálly: 69 [9:3]
You think that you can grub and cheat from Sunday on to Sunday, [9:4]
And put the LORD ALMIGHTY off by howling out on one day;
But if you want to get to heaven, your feelings must be stronger.’ [9:6]
And Holy Tommie would not go to chapel any longer. [9:7]
Learned sense? No, no! Reformed? Not he! But moped and fretted blindly, [9:8]
Because the blessed Methodists had used him so unkindly. [9:9]
His life grew hard, his back grew bare, his brain grew dreadful airy, [9:10]
He thought of t’other world the more ’cause this seemed so contrary;
Went wandering on the river-side, and in the woods lay lurking,
Gaped at the sky in summer-time when other men were working, [9:13]
And once was spied a-looking up where a wild lark was winging, [9:14]
And tears a-shining in his eyes,—because the lark was singing! [9:15]
Last harvest-time he came to me, and begged for work so sadly, 70 [9:16]
And vowed he had reformed so much, and looked so sick and badly, [9:17]
I had not heart to send him off, but put him out a-reaping, [9:18]
But, LORD! the same tale o’er again—he worked like one half-sleeping.
‘Be off!’ says I, ‘you’re good for nought;’ and all the rest stood sneering. [9:20]
‘Master, you may be right,’ says he,—‘the LORD seems hard o’ hearing! [9:21]
I thought I could fulfil below the call that I had gotten, [9:22]
But here’s the harvest come again, and all my life seems rotten. [9:23]
The Methodists are little good, the High Church folk are lazy, [9:24]
And even when I pray alone, the ways o’ Heaven seem hazy. [9:25]
Religion don’t appear to keep an honest lad from sad things, [9:26]
And though the world is fine to see, ’tis full of cruel bad things.
Why, I can’t walk in fields and lanes, and see the flowers a-growing, 71 [9:28]
And look upon the bright blue sky, or watch the river flowing, [9:29]
But even there, where things look fine, out creeps the speckled adder, [9:30]
Or silver snakes crawl by, and all at once the world looks sadder. [9:31]
The better I have seemed to grow, the worse all things have gone with me.
It’s all a great blank mystery! I wish the LORD was done with me!’ [9:33]
And slowly, ever after that, Tommie grew paler, stiller, [9:34]
And soon he could not work at all, and quickly he grew iller: [9:35]
And when the early new-year rains were yellowing pool and river, [9:36]
He closed his eyes, and slept, and gave the puzzle up for ever. [9:37]
JACOB.
TIMOTHY.
Now, this is how I look at it, although I have no learning: [11:1]
In this here world, to do like him is nothing but self-slaughter,—
He went close to the edge o’ life, and heard a roar like water, [11:3]
His head went round, his face grew pale, his blood lost life and motion,— [11:4]
’Twas just as vi’lets lose their scent when set beside the ocean. [11:5]
But there’s the parson riding up, with Doctor Barth, his crony; [11:6]
Some of these days the parson’s weight will kill that blessed pony! [11:7]
Ah, he’s the man to settle things that make the wits unsteady! [11:8]
Wife, here’s the parson! Draw some ale, and set the table ready. [11:9]
[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’:
Beneath the title is added the following quote from the revised version of the poem:
‘He crept close to Creation’s brim, and heard a roar like water.’
v. 1, l. 2: Down on the duck-pond in the lane the white-weed is a-blowing,
v. 1, l. 4: The lady-smocks are blowing bold, the primroses nigh over,
v. 1, l. 5: On field and fold all things look fair, and lambkins white are leaping,
v. 1, l. 6: The speckled snakes crawl here and there, —but Holy Tommie’s sleeping.
v. 2, l. 1: Ah, him that used to work with Crewe! Crewe told me how he blundered.
(Note: The selection of names here is interesting since it’s one of the few occasions when Buchanan’s Staffordshire roots are exposed. Bourne was probably chosen in memory of Hugh Bourne (1772-1852), the founder of Primitive Methodism who was born in Stoke, perhaps in order to highlight the theme of the poem. This does create a possible confusion in the verse and that is probably why Buchanan changed the name in the revised version. Choosing Crewe as the replacement may have no significance at all, but I like to think he chose it for the railway town’s proximity to his birthplace.)
v. 2, l. 2: He used to preach. I heard him too. LORD! how he groaned and thundered!
v. 2, l. 3: The women shrieked like sucking-swine, the men roared out like cattle,
v. 2, l. 4: But seem’d to think it mighty fine!
v. 3, l. 1: All trash and stuff and tattle!
v. 3, l. 3: When questioning too close we go, ’tis little GOD will learn us;
v. 3, l. 4: To squeeze the crops ’tis hard enough from His dry ground about us,
v. 3, l. 5: But sowing t’other world is stuff,—it gets its crops without us!
v. 3, l. 6: omitted
v. 3, l. 7: omitted
v. 4, l. 1: That’s where it lies! We get no good by asking questions, neighbour:
v. 4, l. 2: ’Tis Parsons cook our Sunday food, while we are hard at labour:
v. 4, l. 3: This world needs help upon its way, for men feed one another,
v. 4, l. 4: And why do we give Parsons pay?—if not to manage t’other?
v. 5, l. 1: You’re right! No man as grunts and grides at this here world has thriven;
v. 5, l. 2: Mutton won’t drop in our insides though we do gape at heaven!
v. 5, l. 3: Why, Tommie’s cheek was ruddy red, as rosy as an apple,
v. 5, l. 6: Read tracts at work, big tracts and small, went praying late and early,
v. 5, l. 7: And by and by began, poor fool, to argue with the doubting,
v. 5, l. 9: I wasn’t blind—and soon I found how he let matters go here,—
v. 5, l. 10: While he was tilling heavenly ground things suffered down below here:
v. 5, l. 11: Through want of feed, the hens did die, the horses next grew useless,
v. 5, l. 12: For lack o’ milking by and by the very cows grew juiceless;
v. 5, l. 14: Why, Tommie sigh’d, and snivell’d sore, and talk’d about salvation!
v. 5, l. 16: ‘I want to save my property; so find another master!’
v. 5, l. 17: He didn’t grumble or resist, though he seemed broken-hearted,
v. 5, l. 18: But slipped a tract into my fist the morning he departed;
v. 5, l. 19: Ay, got a place next day with Crewe, who knew the lad was clever,
v. 5, l. 20: But dawdled as he used to do, and preached as much as ever.
v. 6, l. 1: But Crewe soon sent him packing too—he’s just the sort of fellow;
v. 6, l. 2: Why, ev’n when Parson calls, old Crewe grunts, grumbles, and looks yellow!
v. 7, l. 2: His wages sank and sank, and so no farmer here would hire him;
v. 7, l. 3: And soon, between that world and this, poor Tommie grew more mournful,
v. 7, l. 4: His worldly ways went all amiss—the country folk looked scornful—
v. 7, l. 5: And last the blessed Methodists grew tired, and would not hear him,
v. 7, l. 6: And wouldn’t heed his talk inspired, and shrank from sitting near him.
v. 8, l. 1: With Methodists ’tis just the way. Give me the High Church, neighbour.
v. 9, l. 2: And what d’ye think that Tommie cried?—‘I don’t play shilly-shally;
v. 9, l. 3: If I’m to serve my LORD and Guide, ’twill be continuälly:
v. 9, l. 4: You think that you can cheat and scoff from Sunday on to Sunday,
v. 9, l. 6: But if you seek salvation, know, your feelings must be stronger.’
v. 9, l. 7: And holy Tommie would not go to chapel any longer.
v. 9, l. 8: Learned sense? Not he! Reformed? Pooh, pooh! but moped and fretted blindly,
v. 9, l. 9: Because the precious praying crew had used him so unkindly.
v. 9, l. 10: His back grew bare, his life grew sore, his brain grew dreadful airy,
v. 9, l. 13: Gaped at the sky in summer-tide when other men were working,
v. 9, l. 14: And once (I saw him) watch’d the skies, where a wild lark was winging,
v. 9, l. 15: With tears a-shining in his eyes,—because the lark was singing!
v. 9, l. 16: Last harvest-time to me he came, and begged for work so sadly,
v. 9, l. 17: Show’d for his former ways such shame, and look’d so sick and badly,
v. 9, l. 18: I had not heart to give him pain, but put him out a-reaping,
v. 9, l. 20: ‘Be off!’ says I, ‘you lazy lout,’ and all the rest stood sneering.
v. 9, l. 21: ‘Master,’ says he, ‘you’re right, I doubt,—the LORD seems hard o’ hearing!
v. 9, l. 22: I thought I could fulfil full clear the call that I had gotten,
v. 9, l. 23: But here’s another harvest here, and all my life seems rotten.
v. 9, l. 24: The Methodists are dull as stone, the High Church folk are lazy,
v. 9, l. 25: And even when I pray alone, the ways of Heaven seem hazy.
v. 9, l. 26: Religion don’t appear to me to keep a lad from sad things,
v. 9, l. 28: Why, I can’t walk in woodland ways, and see the flowers a-growing,
v. 9, l. 29: And on the light green meadows gaze, or watch the river flowing,
v. 9, l. 30: But even here, where things look fine, out creeps the speckled adder,
v. 9, l. 31: Or snakes crawl in the golden shine, and all creation’s sadder.
v. 9, l. 33: It beats me out and out, and so—I wish the LORD was done with me!’
v. 9, l. 34: And after these same words were said, Tommie grew paler, stiller,
v. 9, l. 35: And by and by he took to bed, and quickly he grew iller:
v. 9, l. 36: And when the early new-year rain was yellowing pool and river,
v. 9, l. 37: He closed his eyes, and slipt his chain, and fell to sleep for ever.
v. 10, l. 1: ’Tis clear enough, he’d lost his wit—the chapel set it turning.
v. 11, l. 1: Now, this is how I look at it, although I’ve got no learning:
v. 11, l. 3: He crept close to Creation’s brim, and heard a roar like water,
v. 11, l. 4: His head went round, his limbs grew stiff, his blood lost life and motion,—
v. 11, l. 5: Like one who stands upon a cliff and sees the roaring Ocean. . . .
v. 11, l. 6: But there’s the Parson at his gate, with Doctor Barth, his crony;
v. 11, l. 7: Some of these days the old chap’s weight will kill that precious pony!
v. 11, l. 8: Ah, he’s the man whose words don’t fail to keep one sage and steady!
v. 11, l. 9: Wife, here be Parson! Draw some ale, and set the table ready. ]
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THE BATTLE OF DRUMLIEMOOR. (NORTH COAST. COVENANT PERIOD.)
BAR the door! put out the light, for it gleams across the night,
And guides the bloody motion of their feet;
Hush the bairn upon thy breast, lest it guide them in their quest,
And with water quench the blazing of the peat.
Now, wife, sit still and hark!—hold my hand amid the dark; [1:5]
O Jeanie, we are scattered e’en as sleet! [1:6] It was down on Drumliemoor, where it slopes upon the shore,
And looks upon the white surf of the bay, [2:2]
In the kirkyard of the dead, where the heather is turned red [2:3]
By the bloody clan that sleep beneath the clay; [2:4]
And the Howiesons were there, and the people of Glen Ayr, 74
And we gathered in the dark o’ night to pray. [2:6] How! Sit at home in fear, when GOD’s voice was in mine ear, [3:1]
When the priests of Baal were slaughtering His sheep?
Nay, there I took my stand, with my reap-hook in my hand, [3:3]
For bloody was the sheaf that I might reap;
And the LORD was in His skies, with a thousand dreadful eyes,
And His breathing made a trouble on the deep. [3:6] Each mortal of the band brought his weapon in his hand,
Though the chopper or the spit was all he bare;
And not a man but knew the work he had to do,
If the Fiend should fall upon us unaware.
And our looks were ghastly white, but it was not with affright, [4:5]
For we knew the LORD was hearking to our prayer. [4:6]
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