The Beadle O' Drumlee

A poem by Violet Jacob

Them that's as highly placed as me
(Wha am the beadle o' Drumlee)
Should na be prood, nor yet owre free.

Me an' the meenister, ye ken,
Are no the same as a' thae men
We hae for neebours i' the glen.

The Lord gie'd him some lairnin' sma'
An me guid sense abune them a',
An them nae wuts to ken wha's wha.

Ye'd think, to hear the lees they tell,
The Sawbath day could mind itsel'
Withoot a hand to rug the bell,

Ye'd think the Reverend Paitrick Broun
Could ca' the Bible up an' doon
An' loup his lane in till his goon.

Whiles, gin he didna get frae me
The wicelike wird I weel can gie,
Whaur wad the puir bit callant be?

The elders, Ross an' Weellum Aird,
An' fowk like Alexander Caird,
That think they're cocks o' ilka yaird,

Fegs aye! they'd na be sweir to rule
A lad sae newly frae the schule
Gin my auld bonnet crooned a fule!

But oh! Jehovah's unco' kind!
Whaur wad this doited pairish find
A man wi' sic a powerfu' mind?

Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht
Blind wi' the elders' shinin' licht,
Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt.

It's what they canna understan'
That brains hae ruled since time began,
An' that the beadle is the man!

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