13
THRO' Winter's cold and Summer's beat, I earn my scanty fare; From morn till night, along the street I cry my earthen ware. Then, 0 let pity sway your souls! And mock not that decrepitude Which draws me from my solitude To cry my plates and bowls! From thoughtless youth, I often brook The trick and taunt of scorn, And, though indiff’rence marks my look, My heart with grief is torn. Then, 0 let pity sway your souls! Nor sneer contempt in passing by; Nor mock derisive while I cry -- "Come, buy my plates and bowls." The potter moulds the passive clay To all the forms you see, And that same Pow'r that formed you Hath likewise fashion'd me. Then, 0 let pity sway your souls! -- Though needy, poor as poor can be, I stoop not to your charity, But cry my plates and bowls. [1]
[1] The bowlman referred to by the feeling Tannahill was Johnnie Flint, who lived in the old building, No. 36 High Street, Paisley, where Barney Keir, the sweep, resided -- and sold beat sand, and went about the streets with a one-wheeled barrow containing his stock in trade, crying plates and bowls for old rags. From his dwarfish appearance, uncouth look, wriggling walk, and difficulty of utterance, he was frequently teased by thoughtless boys imitating his cries.
© Copyright Len Nicholson, 1996, 1997, 1998