1733 Poem, Anon., ‘An Elegy on Sawney Sinkler’

An Elegy on Sawney Sinkler

AN ELEGY ON THE Late Revd Mess Sawney Sinkler, Teacher of Plunket-Street Meeting-House, Dublin, wha departed out o’ this Warld the first o’ April, the Year o’ our Lord 1722.

Their Harts mun be as hard as Stean,

That wonnot rift and greet and grean,

For Revd Sawney deed and gean:

He was a gracious Godly Preecher,

Alias, A Convent-tickle Teecher,

Yet had (unless the Synod lees)

As gud a Right to keep the Kees,

As ony Priest beneath the Lift,

Fre Pope o’ Roome till Parson Sw—ft;

Or fre ald Father Lin — de — ye — see,

To foolish flogging Pun—sibee.

Besides the Kees to stick and open,

He was equipp’d, the mere betoken,

Wee Peter’s Slaby in his Belt,

Wha’s Rankor mony a Wretch has felt;

For he therewith would slash a Sinner,

As Cooks do Collops for yer dinner;

And stub’ron Mortals wad se mumble,

Until they’d truckle very humble,

Nor dar’d to yowl, or growl or grumble.

Then like a skilfoo Sall Physician,

For Offerings sma — but large Contrition,

With Spiritual Portions, Pills and Plasters,

Would purge and heal their ald Disasters.

He a Successor! he a Priest!

It gars me lagh — It’s sick a Jeest!

He was ne more like yen o’ these,

Or in his Carcass or his Clease,

Than Heeland Runt’s like Lincholln-Heffer,

Or wrinkled Boyse like rosey Trevor.

Had he a true Successor been,

Whar was his spreeding double Chin?

Or Belly till his Thrapple foo?

Or Riggin thick’d wee finest Woo?

A Coach to loll in — at his Eeas?

Or Fook before him, on their Knees?

Or sooth o’ Walth, or warldly Geer?

Besides some thousand Pounds a Year:

What Proofs like their cou’d Sawny show,

That he was Orthodox or no?

Had he been lineally descended,

Fre Paul or Peter, as pretended,

He’d been right sleek, and fat withall,

As any Ox or Hogg in Stall?

His Nose and Gills a crimson Hue;

His Cheeks between a Red and Blue?

But ne sick Signs of his true Mission

Appear’d; een by his Friends Confession.

Yet there are money, weel I wot,

That fancy he held forth by Rote,

As weel as they that do’t by Note:

It mun be own’d, when a is doon,

His Hadding forth was to some Tune;

But he ne’er sang his Pray’rs I trow,

As merry Sinners use to do;

He was ne gud at that ava,

Nor learn’d t’ beg wee, Fa, lal, la.

He was ne dumb Dog; de ye mark;

For he cou’d snarrle, bite and bark;

And watch’d his Flock, as mony say,

Right weel fre Thieves and Beests o’ Prey,

Restoring sick as ged astray;

Was weel content we what they gave him,

But never sought to fleece or flay them.

He pray’d as lang as he was able,

The Doonfa’ o’ the Whore o’ Babel,

And aw that Antichristian Rabble.

Wee Mahomet, that vile Imposter,

And aw that say their Pater Noster

In Language that they dinny ken,

And worship Deels and wicked Men.

But wish’d lang Life and Consolation,

To aw true Sons o’ Reformation;

But mest o’ aw, ( if I remember)

To the Kirk; o’ whilk he was a Member.

And nene could blame him, I protest,

Since he believ’d it was the best,

But that’s what I shall not contest.

Be’t wright or wrang, he tuke great Pains,

And labour’d hard for little Gains;

A Thing een rare in this our Day

When the first Motive is the PAY,

As canting Presbyterians say.

But ’tis now Time here to perclose

And leave the Deed to his Repose;

Wishing we Mortals wha survive,

May watch and pray while we’er alive,

Because it’s past aw human Power,

To ken, or to prolong Death’s fatal Hour.

The EPITAPH.

UNderneath this Yerd and Stenes,

Ligs Revd. Sawney Sinkler’s Benes:

Wha little thought that be wad lie,

Among the Antichristian Fry.

And yet, alass! near James’s Kirk,

He’s staw’d among them in the Mirk.

But when at Doomsday they revive,

’Tis mere than odds, by ten till five,

As quiet now as either lies,

They’ll hea a Scuffle when they rise.