JOHN TAMSON'S ADDRESS TO THE CLERGY

IN SCOTLAND.

Attend ye reverend gentlemen,

Of a' denominations,
For as ye are so guid yoursels,

At gien exhortations ;
Ye'll surely hear me for a wee,

While I ca' your attention,
To twa three things nane but a frien

Would ever think to mention.

I would be very loath indeed,

To vilify or wrong you,
For there are high heroic souls,

And christian men among you;
I might speak pleasant words no doubt,

The knave is always civil,
But he's the man who speaks the truth,

And shames the very Devil.

I'll tell you without mincing much,

The things which have incensed me, And

ye

wha' fin the bonnet fit, Will first cry out against me ; Now if the church we've loved so long,

Is falling into ruin,
Then let me whisper in your ear,

'Tis mostly your own doing.

Just let me tell ye as a frien,

Ye make 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, And make your faithful brethren weep

Like Zion's waefu' mourners.

a

The Devil's taken now-a-days,

To selling and to buying,
And drives a thrifty thriving trade,

In little legal lying ;
He's pleading now in a' our 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 never absent night nor day,

Frae Parliament assembled ; He's even in the pulpit too,

And turns the flattering sentence, And hauds your tongues when

ye

should ca' Fat sinners to repentance.

He makes you turn in twenty ways,
Yet
aye

stick to the strongest, And mince the Bible to suit them

Whase 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 Devil.

There witty Will, he slyly asks,

And thinks it is a rare joke, How God's afflictions always fall

Upon the heads o' puir folk? Will may be pious, tho' he'll no

Be plucked like ony pigeon, He may abhor a cringing priest,

And yet hae some religion.

Of heathens and their horrid works,

Why gie us siclike doses,
And nae word o' the heathendom

Beneath your very noces ;
Why prose about the slaves abroad,

Bought, sold, and scourged to labour, And ne'er a word o' sympathy,

About the slave-your neighbour.

'Bout evils that are far awa,

We canna bide your prattle,

Unless ye'll help our home-bred slaves,

To fight their weary battle;
I wadna hae

you
fill
your

veins
Wi' the blood o' the Howards,
But that's nae reason why ye should

Be arrant, moral cowards.

Awake, if ye would longer be

The pilots that would steer us,
Attack the vices o' the age,

Be up, be moral heroes !
Tell Sutherland's high mighty Duke,

Tell Atholl without fearing,
The Devil keeps a black account,

Against them for their clearing.

And dinna let Breadalbane slip,

Loch and his tribe beset them,

• The cruelties inflicted by the Duke of Sutherland, Atholl, and Breadalbane on their poor clansmen were so revolting, that the mas. sacre of Glencoe appears merciful in comparison. For a full account of these barbarities, perpetrated under the eye of the British Government, in the 19th century, see Gloomy Memories, by Donald M'Leod a book without literary pretension, but which reveals a tale of horror, at which Scotchmen may well blush.