The Beadle O Drumlee Poem by Violet Jacob

THEM that's as highly placed as me
(Wha am the beadle o Drumlee)
Should na be prood, nor yet ower free.
Me an the meenister, ye ken,
Are no the same as a' thae men
We hae for neebors i' the glen.
The Lord gied him some lairnin sma'
An me guid sense abuin 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 lowp 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 schuil
Gin my auld bunnet crooned a fuil!
But oh! Jehovah's unco kind!
Whaur wad this doited pairish finnd
A man wi sic a pouerfu mind?
Sae, let the pairish sleep at nicht
Blinnd wi the elders' shinin licht,
Nor ken wha's hand keeps a' things richt.
It's what they canna understaun
That brains hae ruled since time began,
An that the beadle is the man!