Ay, I’m a ranter, so at least fowks say;
Happen they’d tell t’ same tale o’ t’ postle Paul.
I’ve ranted fifty yeer, coom first o’ May,
An’ niver changed my gospil through ’em all.
There’s nowt like t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb an’ t’ Fire o’ Hell
To bring a hardened taistril[1] to his knees;
If fowks want more nor that, then thou can tell
’Em straight, I’ve got no cure for their disease.
I willent thole this New Theology
That blends up Hell wi’ Heaven, sinners wi’ saints
For black was black when I turned Methody,
An’ white was white, i’ souls as weel as paints.
That’s awlus t’ warp an’ t’ weft o’ my discourse,
An’ awlus will be, lang as I can teach;
If fowks won’t harken tul it, then, of course,
They go to church and hear t’ owd parson preach.
His sarmon’s like his baccy, sweet an’ mild;
Fowk’s ommost hauf asleep at t’ second word.
By t’ Mass! they’re wick as lops,[2] ay, man an’ child,
When I stan’ up an’ wrastle wi’ the Lord.
Nay, I’m not blamin’ parson, I’ll awant[3];
Preachin’s his trade, same way as millin’s mine.
I’ trade you’ve got to gie fowks what they want,
An’ that is mostly sawcum[4] meshed reet fine.
Tak squire theer; he don’t want no talk o’ Hell,
He likes to hark to t’ parable o’ t’ teares ;
He reckons church is wheat that’s gooid to sell,
But chapil’s nobbut kexes,[5] thorns, an’ brears.
Squire’s lasses, they can’t do wi’ t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb
They’re all for t’ blooid o’ t’ foxes, like our Bob.
The Lord Hissen will have to save or damn
Church fowks wid out me mellin’ on[6] His job.
But gie me chapil lasses gone astray,
Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet,
An’ I’ll raise Cain afore I go away,
If I don’t gie ’em t’ glent o’ t’ Gospil leet.
I’ll mak ’em sit on t’ penitential stooils,
An’ roar as loud as t’ buzzer down at t’ mill;
I’ll mak ’em own that they’ve bin despert fooils,
Wi’ all their pride o’ life a bitter pill.
I’ve mony texts, but all to one point keep,
Same as all t’ becks flow down to one saut sea:
Damnation an’ salvation, goats an’ sheep—
That’s t’ Bible gospil that thou’ll get thro’ me.
