Tit For Tat; or The Rater Rated - Anonymous

This latest poem TIT for TAT; or the Rater rated was published in The Ulster Miscellany in 1753 ie before Robert Burns was even born. Nine of the poems were entitled Scotch poems. They are all anonymous, but were written in the Laggan area of East Donegal. In this one, a Laggan farmer is infuriated at the local Church of Ireland rector's attempts to gather tithes (which were taken regardless of your denomination) and his wife gives the rector's wife a piece of her mind.

TIT for TAT; or the Rater rated
A new song, in Way of Dialogue, between a Laggan farmer and his Wife

HE
Ye’re welcome hame, my Marg’y,
Frae the grim craving clergy;
How deeply did they charge ye,
Wi’ fair oppresive tythe?
While some are chous’d, and cheated;
Some rattled are, and rated;
Ye hae been better treated,
I trow, ye luick sae blythe.

SHE
I hae been wi’ the rector;
His wife did scould and hector;
Instead o’ a guid lecture –
Quo’ she, ‘Ye go too fine,
‘With scarlet cloaks and bedgowns,
‘With velvet puggs and plaid-gowns,
‘With ruffled sleeves and headrounds,
‘More rich and gay than mine.’

‘Forbear, proud madam Persian,
‘Take back ye’r ain aspersian,
‘Wi’ tea, ye’r chief diversion,
‘Ye waste ye’r time awa;
‘While dressing ye’r and pinning,
‘I’ll spin, and bleach my linnen,
‘And wear my ain hands winning,
‘Ye rector’s lazy daw.

‘I rise e’er the cocks craw day;
‘My hands I spare not a’ day,
‘And wi’ my farmer laddie
‘At night I take my ease;
‘My husband plows and harrows,
‘He sows and reaps the farrows,
‘Shame fa’ them wad change marrows,
‘For rector’s gown and chaise.

‘Sure some kind deed has brought us
‘Yon yellow chiel, that taught us
‘To cleek the tythe potatoes
‘Frae ilk a greedy gown!
‘Nae bishop, dean, or rector,
‘Nae vicar, curate, proctor,
‘Dare ettle now to doctor
‘Our skeedyines under ground.

HE
Dear Madgie, e’en fairfaw ye!
I’m blest that e’er I saw ye!
A braid-claith coat I aw ye,
Fac’d wi a velvet cape:
May milk and meal ne’er fail ye,
May loss of yews ne’er ail ye,
But geer grow on ye daily,
For birking madam Crape.

Address To A Cricket - by Sarah Leech

This latest posting is a poem entitled Address To A Cricket by East Donegal poetess, Sarah Leech, the Bard of Lettergull.

Sarah, who was the daughter of a linen weaver, had a short but interesting life. She was a fervent supporter of the Protestant Anti-Repeal cause (which opposed The Catholic Association’s campaign for the repeal of The Act of Union) addressed the Brunswick Club on this issue, and dedicated her one volume of 25 poems, published in 1828, to the President and officers of the club.

Address To A Cricket

At gloamin' when the twilight fa',
And songsters to their nests withdrawn,
A cricket, snugh behind the wa',
Supplies their place,
And in corner sings fu' braw,
Wi' unco grace.

When younkers scamper, ane by aye,
And dowie I am left alane,
You cheer my heart wi'hamely strain,
Or shrill toned chirple,
As cozie roun' the warm hearth-stane,
You nightly hirple.

May wae befa' them, that would gie
A fiddler penny or bawbee,
When they can have sic music free,
Withouten stent-
Much fitter they should keep the fee,
To help their rent.

What tho' your note be aye the same,
In grateful strain I sing your name,
Weel might my muse blush deep wi' shame,
Should she neglect,
To greet you in her humble hame,
Wi' due respect.

And when the nipping frosty win',
Blaws frae the North with whistling din,
Or wintry floods roar o'er the linn,
In foam and spray,
I shall wi' crumbs, when night sets in,
Requite your lay.