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170 WILLIAM THOM, THE WEAVER POET.
could exist at all in such a life may be considered a marvel, and it is a proof of the inherent strength of the Scottish character and its inherited virtues that these factories were not greater plague spots than they actually were, and that honest lives and human affections flourished at all. In a poem, entitled Whisperings to the Unwashed, in the fiercely declamatory style of the Corn Law Rhymer, Thorn draws a grim picture of the awakening of the weavers at the call of the town drum, used for that purpose in the smaller burghs, at six o'clock in the bleak and dark Northern mornings.
Rubadub, rubadub, row-dow-dow !
Hark how he waukens the Weavers now ;
Who lie belaired in a dreamy steep —
A mental swither, 'tween death and sleep,
Wi' hungry wame and hopeless heart,
Their food no feeding, their sleep no rest ;
Arouse ye, ye sunken, unravel your rags,
No coin in your coffers, no meal in your bags.
Yet cart, barge, and wagon, with load after load,
Creak, mockfully passing your breadless abode.
The stately stalk of Ceres bears,
But not for you the bursting ears.
In vain to you the lark's lov'd note,
For you no summer breezes float,
Grim winter through your hovel pours —
Dull, dim, and breathless vapour yours.
The nobler Spider weaves alone,
And feels the little web his own, |
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