Epistle To Davie, A Brother Poet.
January.
While winds frae aff
Ben-Lomond blaw,
An’ bar the doors
wi’ driving snaw,
An’ hing
us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass
the time,
An’ spin a verse
or twa o’ rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw
in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,
I grudge a wee the great-folk’s
gift,
That live sae bien
an’ snug:
I tent less, and want
less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed
pride.
It’s hardly in
a body’s pow’r
To keep, at times, frae
being sour,
To see how things are
shar’d;
How best o’ chiels
are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless
thousands rant,
And ken na how
to wair’t;
But, Davie, lad, ne’er
fash your head,
Tho’ we hae little
gear;
We’re fit to win
our daily bread,
As lang’s we’re
hale and fier:
“Mair spier na,
nor fear na,"^
Auld age ne’er
mind a feg;
The last o’t,
the warst o’t
Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and
barns at e’en,
When banes are craz’d,
and bluid is thin,
Is doubtless, great
distress!
Yet then content could
make us blest;
Ev’n then, sometimes,
we’d snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
The honest heart that’s
free frae a’
Intended fraud or guile,
However Fortune kick
the ba’,
Has aye some cause to
smile;
An’ mind still,
you’ll find still,
A comfort this nae sma’;
Nae mair then we’ll
care then,
Nae farther can we fa’.
What tho’, like
commoners of air,
We wander out, we know
not where,
But either house or
hal’,
Yet nature’s charms,
the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales,
and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.
In days when daisies
deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle
clear,
With honest joy our
hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:
On braes when we please,
then,
We’ll sit an’
sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till’t
we’ll time till’t,
An’ sing’t
when we hae done.
It’s no in titles
nor in rank;
It’s no in wealth
like Lon’on bank,
To purchase peace and
rest:
It’s no in makin’
muckle, mair;
It’s no in books,
it’s no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not
her seat
An’ centre in
the breast,
We may be wise, or rich,
or great,
But never can be blest;
Nae treasures, nor pleasures
Could make us happy
lang;
The heart aye’s
the part aye
That makes us right
or wrang.
Think ye, that sic as
you and I,
Wha drudge an’
drive thro’ wet and dry,
Wi’ never-ceasing
toil;
Think ye, are we less
blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us
in their way,
As hardly worth their
while?
Alas! how aft in haughty
mood,
God’s creatures
they oppress!
Or else, neglecting
a’ that’s guid,
They riot in excess!
Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or
hell;
Esteeming and deeming
It’s a’
an idle tale!
Then let us cheerfu’
acquiesce,
Nor make our scanty
pleasures less,
By pining at our state:
And, even should misfortunes
come,
I, here wha sit, hae
met wi’ some
An’s thankfu’
for them yet.
They gie the wit of
age to youth;
They let us ken oursel’;
They make us see the
naked truth,
The real guid and ill:
Tho’ losses an’
crosses
Be lessons right severe,
There’s wit there,
ye’ll get there,
Ye’ll find nae
other where.
But tent me, Davie,
ace o’ hearts!
(To say aught less wad
wrang the cartes,
And flatt’ry I
detest)
This life has joys for
you and I;
An’ joys that
riches ne’er could buy,
An’ joys the very
best.
There’s a’
the pleasures o’ the heart,
The lover an’
the frien’;
Ye hae your Meg, your
dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!
It warms me, it charms
me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets
me,
An’ sets me a’
on flame!
O all ye Pow’rs
who rule above!
O Thou whose very self
art love!
Thou know’st my
words sincere!
The life-blood streaming
thro’ my heart,
Or my more dear immortal
part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding
care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings
relief,
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray’r;
Still take her, and
make her
Thy most peculiar care!
All hail! ye tender
feelings dear!
The smile of love, the
friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since, this world’s
thorny ways
Had number’d out
my weary days,
Had it not been for
you!
Fate still has blest
me with a friend,
In ev’ry care
and ill;
And oft a more endearing
band
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet
with
My Davie, or my Jean!
O, how that name inspires
my style!
The words come skelpin,
rank an’ file,
Amaist before I ken!
The ready measure rins
as fine,
As Phoebus an’
the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my
pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will
limp,
Till ance he’s
fairly het;
And then he’ll
hilch, and stilt, an’ jimp,
And rin an unco fit:
But least then the beast
then
Should rue this hasty
ride,
I’ll light now,
and dight now
His sweaty, wizen’d
hide.
Holy Willie’s Prayer.
“And send the
godly in a pet to pray.” Pope.
Argument.
Holy Willie was a rather oldish bachelor
elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly
famed for that polemical chattering, which ends in
tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualized bawdry
which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional
process with a gentleman in Mauchline a
Mr. Gavin Hamilton Holy Willie and his
priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery
of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to
the oratorical powers of Mr. Robert Aiken, Mr. Hamilton’s
counsel; but chiefly to Mr. Hamilton’s being
one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable
characters in the county. On losing the process,
the muse overheard him [Holy Willie] at his devotions,
as follows:
O Thou, who in the heavens
does dwell,
Who, as it pleases best
Thysel’,
Sends ane to heaven
an’ ten to hell,
A’ for Thy glory,
And no for ony gude
or ill
They’ve done afore
Thee!
I bless and praise Thy
matchless might,
When thousands Thou
hast left in night,
That I am here afore
Thy sight,
For gifts an’
grace
A burning and a shining
light
To a’ this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic
exaltation,
I wha deserve most just
damnation
For broken laws,
Five thousand years
ere my creation,
Thro’ Adam’s
cause?
When frae my mither’s
womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged
me in hell,
To gnash my gums, to
weep and wail,
In burnin lakes,
Where damned devils
roar and yell,
Chain’d to their
stakes.
Yet I am here a chosen
sample,
To show thy grace is
great and ample;
I’m here a pillar
o’ Thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler,
and example,
To a’ Thy flock.
O Lord, Thou kens what
zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink,
an’ swearers swear,
An’ singin there,
an’ dancin here,
Wi’ great and
sma’;
For I am keepit by Thy
fear
Free frae them a’.
But yet, O Lord! confess
I must,
At times I’m fash’d
wi’ fleshly lust:
An’ sometimes,
too, in wardly trust,
Vile self gets in:
But Thou remembers we
are dust,
Defil’d wi’
sin.
O Lord! yestreen, Thou
kens, wi’ Meg
Thy pardon I sincerely
beg,
O! may’t ne’er
be a livin plague
To my dishonour,
An’ I’ll
ne’er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I farther maun
allow,
Wi’ Leezie’s
lass, three times I trow
But Lord, that Friday
I was fou,
When I cam near her;
Or else, Thou kens,
Thy servant true
Wad never steer her.
Maybe Thou lets this
fleshly thorn
Buffet Thy servant e’en
and morn,
Lest he owre proud and
high shou’d turn,
That he’s sae
gifted:
If sae, Thy han’
maun e’en be borne,
Until Thou lift it.
Lord, bless Thy chosen
in this place,
For here Thou hast a
chosen race:
But God confound their
stubborn face,
An’ blast their
name,
Wha bring Thy elders
to disgrace
An’ public shame.
Lord, mind Gaw’n
Hamilton’s deserts;
He drinks, an’
swears, an’ plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin
arts,
Wi’ great and
sma’,
Frae God’s ain
priest the people’s hearts
He steals awa.
An’ when we chasten’d
him therefor,
Thou kens how he bred
sic a splore,
An’ set the warld
in a roar
O’ laughing at
us;
Curse Thou his basket
and his store,
Kail an’ potatoes.
Lord, hear my earnest
cry and pray’r,
Against that Presbyt’ry
o’ Ayr;
Thy strong right hand,
Lord, make it bare
Upo’ their heads;
Lord visit them, an’
dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O Lord, my God! that
glib-tongu’d Aiken,
My vera heart and
flesh are quakin,
To think how we stood
sweatin’, shakin,
An’ p-’d
wi’ dread,
While he, wi’
hingin lip an’ snakin,
Held up his head.
Lord, in Thy day o’
vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha
did employ him,
And pass not in Thy
mercy by ’em,
Nor hear their pray’r,
But for Thy people’s
sake, destroy ’em,
An’ dinna spare.
But, Lord, remember
me an’ mine
Wi’ mercies temp’ral
an’ divine,
That I for grace an’
gear may shine,
Excell’d by nane,
And a’ the glory
shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!
Epitaph On Holy Willie.
Here Holy Willie’s
sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saul has ta’en
some other way,
I fear, the left-hand
road.
Stop! there he is, as
sure’s a gun,
Poor, silly body, see
him;
Nae wonder he’s
as black’s the grün,
Observe wha’s
standing wi’ him.
Your brunstane devilship,
I see,
Has got him there before
ye;
But haud your nine-tail
cat a wee,
Till ance you’ve
heard my story.
Your pity I will not
implore,
For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas! has gi’en
him o’er,
And mercy’s day
is gane.
But hear me, Sir, deil
as ye are,
Look something to your
credit;
A coof like him wad
stain your name,
If it were kent ye did
it.
Death and Doctor Hornbook.
A True Story.
Some books are lies
frae end to end,
And some great lies
were never penn’d:
Ev’n ministers
they hae been kenn’d,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at times
to vend,
And nail’t wi’
Scripture.
But this that I am gaun
to tell,
Which lately on a night
befell,
Is just as true’s
the Deil’s in hell
Or Dublin city:
That e’er he nearer
comes oursel’
’S a muckle pity.
The clachan yill had
made me canty,
I was na fou,
but just had plenty;
I stacher’d whiles,
but yet too tent aye
To free the ditches;
An’ hillocks,
stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d eye
Frae ghaists an’
witches.
The rising moon began
to glowre
The distant Cumnock
hills out-owre:
To count her horns,
wi’ a my pow’r,
I set mysel’;
But whether she had
three or four,
I cou’d na
tell.
I was come round about
the hill,
An’ todlin down
on Willie’s mill,
Setting my staff wi’
a’ my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Tho’ leeward whiles,
against my will,
I took a bicker.
I there wi’ Something
did forgather,
That pat me in an eerie
swither;
An’ awfu’
scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-tae’d
leister on the ither
Lay, large an’
lang.
Its stature seem’d
lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that
e’er I saw,
For fient a wame it
had ava;
And then its shanks,
They were as thin, as
sharp an’ sma’
As cheeks o’ branks.
“Guid-een,”
quo’ I; “Friend! hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are
busy sawin!"^
I seem’d to make
a kind o’ stan’
But naething spak;
At length, says I, “Friend!
whare ye gaun?
Will ye go back?”
It spak right howe, “My
name is Death,
But be na fley’d.” Quoth
I, “Guid faith,
Ye’re maybe come
to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care
o’ skaith
See, there’s a
gully!”
“Gudeman,”
quo’ he, “put up your whittle,
I’m no designed
to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad
be kittle
To be mislear’d;
I wad na mind it,
no that spittle
Out-owre my beard.”
“Weel, weel!”
says I, “a bargain be’t;
Come, gie’s your
hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;
We’ll ease our
shanks an tak a seat
Come, gie’s your
news;
This while ye hae been
mony a gate,
At mony a house."^2
“Ay, ay!”
quo’ he, an’ shook his head,
“It’s e’en
a lang, lang time indeed
Sin’ I began to
nick the thread,
An’ choke the
breath:
Folk maun do something
for their bread,
An’ sae maun Death.
“Sax thousand
years are near-hand fled
Sin’ I was to
the butching bred,
An’ mony a scheme
in vain’s been laid,
To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook’s^3
ta’en up the trade,
And faith! he’ll
waur me.
“Ye ken Hornbook
i’ the clachan,
Deil mak his king’s-hood
in spleuchan!
He’s grown sae
weel acquaint wi’ Buchan^
And ither chaps,
The weans haud
out their fingers laughin,
An’ pouk my hips.
“See, here’s
a scythe, an’ there’s dart,
They hae pierc’d
mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook,
wi’ his art
An’ cursed skill,
Has made them baith
no worth a f-t,
Damn’d haet they’ll
kill!
“’Twas but
yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw
at ane;
Wi’ less, I’m
sure, I’ve hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,
It just play’d
dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.
“Hornbook was
by, wi’ ready art,
An’ had sae fortify’d
the part,
That when I looked to
my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o’t
wad hae pierc’d the heart
Of a kail-runt.
“I drew my scythe
in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi’
my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae
tried a quarry
O’ hard whin rock.
“Ev’n them
he canna get attended,
Altho’ their face
he ne’er had kend it,
Just in a
kail-blade, an’ sent it,
As soon’s he smells
’t,
Baith their disease,
and what will mend it,
At once he tells ’t.
“And then, a’ doctor’s
saws an’ whittles, Of a’ dimensions,
shapes, an’ mettles, A’ kind o’
boxes, mugs, an’ bottles, He’s sure
to hae; Their Latin names as fast he rattles
as A B C.
“Calces o’
fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum
o’ the seas;
The farina of beans
an’ pease,
He has’t in plenty;
Aqua-fontis,
what you please,
He can content ye.
“Forbye some new,
uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus of capóns;
Or mite-horn shavings,
filings, scrapings,
Distill’d per
se;
Sal-alkali o’
midge-tail clippings,
And mony mae.”
“Waes me for Johnie
Ged’s^5 Hole now,”
Quoth I, “if that
thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare
gowans grew,
Sae white and bonie,
Nae doubt they’ll
rive it wi’ the plew;
They’ll ruin Johnie!”
The creature grain’d
an eldritch laugh,
And says “Ye needna
yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon
be till’d eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
They’ll be trench’d
wi’ mony a sheugh,
In twa-three year.
“Whare I kill’d
ane, a fair strae-death,
By loss o’ blood
or want of breath
This night I’m
free to tak my aith,
That Hornbook’s
skill
Has clad a score i’
their last claith,
By drap an’
pill.
“An honest wabster
to his trade,
Whase wife’s twa
nieves were scarce weel-bred
Gat tippence-worth to
mend her head,
When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie
to her bed,
But ne’er spak
mair.
“A country laird
had ta’en the batts,
Or some curmurring in
his guts,
His only son for Hornbook
sets,
An’ pays him well:
The lad, for twa guid
gimmer-pets,
Was laird himsel’.
“A bonie lass ye
kend her name
Some ill-brewn drink
had hov’d her wame;
She trusts hersel’,
to hide the shame,
In Hornbook’s
care;
Horn sent her aff to
her lang hame,
To hide it there.
“That’s
just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;
Thus goes he on from
day to day,
Thus does he poison,
kill, an’ slay,
An’s weel
paid for’t;
Yet stops me o’
my lawfu’ prey,
Wi’ his damn’d
dirt:
“But, hark!
I’ll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinna ye
be speakin o’t;
I’ll nail the
self-conceited sot,
As dead’s a herrín;
Neist time we meet,
I’ll wad a groat,
He gets his fairin!”
But just as he began
to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer
strak the bell
Some wee short hour
ayont the twal’,
Which rais’d us
baith:
I took the way that
pleas’d mysel’,
And sae did Death.
Epistle To J. Lapraik, An Old Scottish Bard.
April 1, 1785.
While briers an’
woodbines budding green,
An’ paitricks
scraichin loud at e’en,
An’ morning poussie
whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom, in an
unknown frien’,
I pray excuse.
On Fasten e’en
we had a rockin,
To ca’ the
crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle
fun and jokin,
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty
yokin
At sang about.
There was ae sang, amang
the rest,
Aboon them a’
it pleas’d me best,
That some kind husband
had addrest
To some sweet wife;
It thirl’d the
heart-strings thro’ the breast,
A’ to the life.
I’ve scarce heard
ought describ’d sae weel,
What gen’rous,
manly bosoms feel;
Thought I “Can
this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie’s wark?”
They tauld me ’twas
an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.
It pat me fidgin-fain
to hear’t,
An’ sae about
him there I speir’t;
Then a’ that kent
him round declar’d
He had ingine;
That nane excell’d
it, few cam near’t,
It was sae fine:
That, set him to a pint
of ale,
An’ either douce
or merry tale,
Or rhymes an’
sangs he’d made himsel,
Or witty catches
‘Tween Inverness
an’ Teviotdale,
He had few matches.
Then up I gat, an’
swoor an aith,
Tho’ I should
pawn my pleugh an’ graith,
Or die a cadger pownie’s
death,
At some dyke-back,
A pint an’ gill
I’d gie them baith,
To hear your crack.
But, first an’
foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I
could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle
fell;
Tho’ rude an’
rough
Yet crooning to a body’s
sel’
Does weel eneugh.
I am nae poet, in a
sense;
But just a rhymer like
by chance,
An’ hae to learning
nae pretence;
Yet, what the matter?
Whene’er my muse
does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may
cock their nose,
And say, “How
can you e’er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse
frae prose,
To mak a sang?”
But, by your leaves,
my learned foes,
Ye’re maybe wrang.
What’s a’
your jargon o’ your schools
Your Latin names for
horns an’ stools?
If honest Nature made
you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye’d better taen
up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.
A set o’ dull,
conceited hashes
Confuse their brains
in college classes!
They gang in stirks,
and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An’ syne they
think to climb Parnassus
By dint o’ Greek!
Gie me ae spark o’
nature’s fire,
That’s a’
the learning I desire;
Then tho’ I drudge
thro’ dub an’ mire
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, tho’
hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk o’
Allan’s glee,
Or Fergusson’s
the bauld an’ slee,
Or bright Lapraik’s,
my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh
for me,
If I could get it.
Now, sir, if ye hae
friends enow,
Tho’ real friends,
I b’lieve, are few;
Yet, if your catalogue
be fu’,
I’se no insist:
But, gif ye want ae
friend that’s true,
I’m on your list.
I winna blaw about mysel,
As ill I like my fauts
to tell;
But friends, an’
folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose
me;
Tho’ I maun own,
as mony still
As far abuse me.
There’s ae wee
faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses Gude
forgie me!
For mony a plack they
wheedle frae me
At dance or fair;
Maybe some ither thing
they gie me,
They weel can spare.
But Mauchline Race,
or Mauchline Fair,
I should be proud to
meet you there;
We’se gie ae night’s
discharge to care,
If we forgather;
An’ hae a swap
o’ rhymin-ware
Wi’ ane anither.
The four-gill chap,
we’se gar him clatter,
An’ kirsen him
wi’ reekin water;
Syne we’ll sit
down an’ tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;
An’ faith, we’se
be acquainted better
Before we part.
Awa ye selfish, war’ly
race,
Wha think that havins,
sense, an’ grace,
Ev’n love an’
friendship should give place
To catch the plack!
I dinna like to see
your face,
Nor hear your crack.
But ye whom social pleasure
charms
Whose hearts the tide
of kindness warms,
Who hold your being
on the terms,
“Each aid the
others,”
Come to my bowl, come
to my arms,
My friends, my brothers!
But, to conclude my
lang epistle,
As my auld pen’s
worn to the gristle,
Twa lines frae you wad
gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing
or whistle,
Your friend and servant.
Second Epistle To J. Lapraik.
April 21, 1785.
While new-ca’d
kye rowte at the stake
An’ pownies reek
in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e’enin’s
edge I take,
To own I’m debtor
To honest-hearted, auld
Lapraik,
For his kind letter.
Forjesket sair, with
weary legs,
Rattlin the corn out-owre
the rigs,
Or dealing thro’
amang the naigs
Their ten-hours’
bite,
My awkart Muse sair
pleads and begs
I would na write.
The tapetless, ramfeezl’d
hizzie,
She’s saft at
best an’ something lazy:
Quo’ she, “Ye
ken we’ve been sae busy
This month an’
mair,
That trowth, my head
is grown right dizzie,
An’ something
sair.”
Her dowff excuses pat
me mad;
“Conscience,”
says I, “ye thowless jade!
I’ll write, an’
that a hearty blaud,
This vera night;
So dinna ye affront
your trade,
But rhyme it right.
“Shall bauld Lapraik,
the king o’ hearts,
Tho’ mankind were
a pack o’ cartes,
Roose you sae weel for
your deserts,
In terms sae friendly;
Yet ye’ll neglect
to shaw your parts
An’ thank him
kindly?”
Sae I gat paper in a
blink,
An’ down gaed
stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I, “Before
I sleep a wink,
I vow I’ll close
it;
An’ if ye winna
mak it clink,
By Jove, I’ll
prose it!”
Sae I’ve begun
to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose,
or baith thegither;
Or some hotch-potch
that’s rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;
But I shall scribble
down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.
My worthy friend, ne’er
grudge an’ carp,
Tho’ fortune use
you hard an’ sharp;
Come, kittle up your
moorland harp
Wi’ gleesome touch!
Ne’er mind how
Fortune waft and warp;
She’s but a bitch.
She ‘s gien me
mony a jirt an’ fleg,
Sin’ I could striddle
owre a rig;
But, by the Lord, tho’
I should beg
Wi’ lyart pow,
I’ll laugh an’
sing, an’ shake my leg,
As lang’s I dow!
Now comes the sax-an’-twentieth
simmer
I’ve seen the
bud upon the timmer,
Still persecuted by
the limmer
Frae year to year;
But yet, despite the
kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.
Do ye envy the city
gent,
Behint a kist to lie
an’ sklent;
Or pursue-proud, big
wi’ cent. per cent.
An’ muckle wame,
In some bit brugh to
represent
A bailie’s name?
Or is’t the paughty,
feudal thane,
Wi’ ruffl’d
sark an’ glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae
sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks;
While caps and bonnets
aff are taen,
As by he walks?
“O Thou wha gies
us each guid gift!
Gie me o’ wit
an’ sense a lift,
Then turn me, if thou
please, adrift,
Thro’ Scotland
wide;
Wi’ cits nor lairds
I wadna shift,
In a’ their pride!”
Were this the charter
of our state,
“On pain o’
hell be rich an’ great,”
Damnation then would
be our fate,
Beyond remead;
But, thanks to heaven,
that’s no the gate
We learn our creed.
For thus the royal mandate
ran,
When first the human
race began;
“The social, friendly,
honest man,
Whate’er he be
’Tis he fulfils
great Nature’s plan,
And none but he.”
O mandate glorious and
divine!
The ragged followers
o’ the Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils!
yet may shine
In glorious light,
While sordid sons o’
Mammon’s line
Are dark as night!
Tho’ here they
scrape, an’ squeeze, an’ growl,
Their worthless nievefu’
of a soul
May in some future carcase
howl,
The forest’s fright;
Or in some day-detesting
owl
May shun the light.
Then may Lapraik and
Burns arise,
To reach their native,
kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures,
hopes an’ joys,
In some mild sphere;
Still closer knit in
friendship’s ties,
Each passing year!
Epistle To William Simson.
Schoolmaster, Ochiltree. May,
1785
I gat your letter, winsome
Willie;
Wi’ gratefu’
heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho’ I maun say’t,
I wad be silly,
And unco vain,
Should I believe, my
coaxin billie
Your flatterin strain.
But I’se believe
ye kindly meant it:
I sud be laith
to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins
sklented
On my poor Musie;
Tho’ in sic phraisin
terms ye’ve penn’d it,
I scarce excuse ye.
My senses wad be in
a creel,
Should I but dare a
hope to speel
Wi’ Allan, or
wi’ Gilbertfield,
The braes o’ fame;
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
A deathless name.
(O Fergusson! thy glorious
parts
Ill suited law’s
dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane
hearts,
Ye E’nbrugh gentry!
The tithe o’ what
ye waste at cartes
Wad stow’d his
pantry!)
Yet when a tale comes
i’ my head,
Or lassies gie my heart
a screed
As whiles they’re
like to be my dead,
(O sad disease!)
I kittle up my rustic
reed;
It gies me ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge
fu’ fain,
She’s gotten poets
o’ her ain;
Chiels wha their chanters
winna hain,
But tune their lays,
Till echoes a’
resound again
Her weel-sung praise.
Nae poet thought her
worth his while,
To set her name in measur’d
style;
She lay like some unkenn’d-of-isle
Beside New Holland,
Or whare wild-meeting
oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.
Ramsay an’ famous
Fergusson
Gied Forth an’
Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an’ Tweed,
to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings;
While Irwin, Lugar,
Ayr, an’ Doon
Naebody sings.
Th’ Illissus,
Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,
Glide sweet in monie
a tunefu’ line:
But Willie, set your
fit to mine,
An’ cock your
crest;
We’ll gar our
streams an’ burnies shine
Up wi’ the best!
We’ll sing auld
Coila’s plains an’ fells,
Her moors red-brown
wi’ heather bells,
Her banks an’
braes, her dens and dells,
Whare glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree,
as story tells,
Frae Suthron billies.
At Wallace’ name,
what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide
flood!
Oft have our fearless
fathers strode
By Wallace’ side,
Still pressing onward,
red-wat-shod,
Or glorious died!
O, sweet are Coila’s
haughs an’ woods,
When lintwhites chant
amang the buds,
And jinkin hares, in
amorous whids,
Their loves enjoy;
While thro’ the
braes the cushat croods
With wailfu’ cry!
Ev’n winter bleak
has charms to me,
When winds rave thro’
the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of
Ochiltree
Are hoary gray;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious
flee,
Dark’ning the
day!
O Nature! a’ thy
shews an’ forms
To feeling, pensive
hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly
warms,
Wi’ life an light;
Or winter howls, in
gusty storms,
The lang, dark
night!
The muse, nae poet ever
fand her,
Till by himsel he learn’d
to wander,
Adown some trottin
burn’s meander,
An’ no think lang:
O sweet to stray, an’
pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!
The war’ly race
may drudge an’ drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie,
stretch, an’ strive;
Let me fair Nature’s
face descrive,
And I, wi’ pleasure,
Shall let the busy,
grumbling hive
Bum owre their treasure.
Fareweel, “my
rhyme-composing” brither!
We’ve been owre
lang unkenn’d to ither:
Now let us lay our heads
thegither,
In love fraternal:
May envy wallop in a
tether,
Black fiend, infernal!
While Highlandmen hate
tools an’ taxes;
While moorlan’s
herds like guid, fat braxies;
While terra firma,
on her axis,
Diurnal turns;
Count on a friend, in
faith an’ practice,
In Robert Burns.
Postcript.
My memory’s no
worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten
clean,
Ye bade me write you
what they mean
By this “new-light,”
’Bout which our
herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.
In days when mankind
were but callans
At grammar, logic, an’
sic talents,
They took nae pains
their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie;
But spak their thoughts
in plain, braid lallans,
Like you or me.
In thae auld times,
they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or
pair o’ shoon,
Wore by degrees, till
her last roon
Gaed past their viewin;
An’ shortly after
she was done
They gat a new ane.
This passed for certain,
undisputed;
It ne’er cam i’
their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an’
wad confute it,
An’ ca’d
it wrang;
An’ muckle din
there was about it,
Baith loud an’
lang.
Some herds, weel learn’d
upo’ the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk
the thing misteuk;
For ’twas the
auld moon turn’d a neuk
An’ out of’
sight,
An’ backlins-comin
to the leuk
She grew mair bright.
This was deny’d,
it was affirm’d;
The herds and hissels
were alarm’d
The rev’rend gray-beards
rav’d an’ storm’d,
That beardless laddies
Should think they better
wer inform’d,
Than their auld daddies.
Frae less to mair, it
gaed to sticks;
Frae words an’
aiths to clours an’ nicks;
An monie a fallow gat
his licks,
Wi’ hearty crunt;
An’ some, to learn
them for their tricks,
Were hang’d an’
brunt.
This game was play’d
in mony lands,
An’ auld-light
caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters
took the sands
Wi’ nimble shanks;
Till lairds forbad,
by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.
But new-light herds
gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin’d
stick-an-stowe;
Till now, amaist on
ev’ry knowe
Ye’ll find ane
plac’d;
An’ some their
new-light fair avow,
Just quite barefac’d.
Nae doubt the auld-light
flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds
are vex’d an’ sweatin;
Mysel’, I’ve
even seen them greetin
Wi’ girnin spite,
To hear the moon sae
sadly lied on
By word an’ write.
But shortly they will
cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds
in neebor touns
Are mind’t, in
things they ca’ balloons,
To tak a flight;
An’ stay ae month
amang the moons
An’ see them right.
Guid observation they
will gie them;
An’ when the auld
moon’s gaun to lea’e them,
The hindmaist shaird,
they’ll fetch it wi’ them
Just i’ their
pouch;
An’ when the new-light
billies see them,
I think they’ll
crouch!
Sae, ye observe that
a’ this clatter
Is naething but a “moonshine
matter”;
But tho’ dull
prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulyie,
I hope we bardies ken
some better
Than mind sic brulyie.
One Night As I Did Wander.
Tune “John
Anderson, my jo.”
One night as I did wander, When
corn begins to shoot, I sat me down to ponder
Upon an auld tree root; Auld Ayr ran by
before me, And bicker’d to the seas; A
cushat crooded o’er me, That echoed through
the braes . . . . . . .
Tho’ Cruel Fate Should Bid Us Part.
Tune “The
Northern Lass.”
Tho’ cruel fate should bid us
part, Far as the pole and line, Her dear
idea round my heart, Should tenderly entwine.
Tho’ mountains, rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between; Yet, dearer than
my deathless soul, I still would love my Jean.
. . . . . . .
Song Rantin’, Rovin’ Robin^1.
Tune “Daintie
Davie.”
There was a lad was
born in Kyle,
But whatna day o’
whatna style,
I doubt it’s hardly
worth the while
To be sae nice wi’
Robin.
Chor. Robin
was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’, rovin’,
rantin’, rovin’,
Robin was a rovin’
boy,
Rantin’, rovin’,
Robin!
Our monarch’s
hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty
days begun^2,
‘Twas then a blast
o’ Janwar’ win’
Blew hansel in on Robin.
Robin was, &c.
The gossip keekit in
his loof,
Quo’ scho, “Wha
lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be
nae coof:
I think we’ll
ca’ him Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“He’ll hae
misfortunes great an’ sma’,
But aye a heart aboon
them a’,
He’ll be a credit
till us a’
We’ll a’
be proud o’ Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“But sure as three
times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score
and line,
This chap will dearly
like our kin’,
So leeze me on thee!
Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
“Guid faith,”
quo’, scho, “I doubt you gar
The bonie lasses lie
aspar;
But twenty fauts ye
may hae waur
So blessins on thee!
Robin.”
Robin was, &c.
Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux^1.
Now Robin lies in his
last lair,
He’ll gabble rhyme,
nor sing nae mair;
Cauld poverty, wi’
hungry stare,
Nae mair shall fear
him;
Nor anxious fear, nor
cankert care,
E’er mair come
near him.
To tell the truth, they
seldom fash’d him,
Except the moment that
they crush’d him;
For sune as chance or
fate had hush’d ’em
Tho’ e’er
sae short.
Then wi’ a rhyme
or sang he lash’d ’em,
And thought it sport.
Tho’he was bred
to kintra-wark,
And counted was baith
wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin’s
mark
To mak a man;
But tell him, he was
learn’d and clark,
Ye roos’d him
then!
Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock.
Author Of The Gospel
Recovered. August, 1785
O Gowdie, terror o’
the whigs,
Dread o’ blackcoats
and rev’rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her
last legs,
Girns an’ looks
back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian
plagues
May seize you quick.
Poor gapin’, glowrin’
Superstition!
Wae’s me, she’s
in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black
Jock,^1 her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas, there’s
ground for great suspicion
She’ll ne’er
get better.
Enthusiasm’s past
redemption,
Gane in a gallopin’
consumption:
Not a’ her quacks,
wi’ a’ their gumption,
Can ever mend her;
Her feeble pulse gies
strong presumption,
She’ll soon surrender.
Auld Orthodoxy lang
did grapple,
For every hole to get
a stapple;
But now she fetches
at the thrapple,
An’ fights for
breath;
Haste, gie her name
up in the chapel,^
Near unto death.
It’s you an’
Taylor^3 are the chief
To blame for a’
this black mischief;
But, could the Lord’s
ain folk get leave,
A toom tar barrel
An’ twa red peats
wad bring relief,
And end the quarrel.
For me, my skill’s
but very sma’,
An’ skill in prose
I’ve nane ava’;
But quietlins-wise,
between us twa,
Weel may you speed!
And tho’ they
sud your sair misca’,
Ne’er fash your
head.
E’en swinge the
dogs, and thresh them sicker!
The mair they squeel
aye chap the thicker;
And still ’mang
hands a hearty bicker
O’ something stout;
It gars an owthor’s
pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
There’s naething
like the honest nappy;
Whare’ll ye e’er
see men sae happy,
Or women sonsie, saft
an’ sappy,
’Tween morn and
morn,
As them wha like to
taste the drappie,
In glass or horn?
I’ve seen me dazed
upon a time,
I scarce could wink
or see a styme;
Just ae half-mutchkin
does me prime,
Ought less is little
Then back I rattle on
the rhyme,
As gleg’s a whittle.
The Holy Fair^1.
A robe of seeming truth
and trust
Hid crafty Observation;
And secret hung, with
poison’d crust,
The dirk of Defamation:
A mask that like the
gorget show’d,
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large
and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.
Hypocrisy A-La-Mode
Upon a simmer Sunday
morn
When Nature’s
face is fair,
I walked forth to view
the corn,
An’ snuff the
caller air.
The rising sun owre
Galston muirs
Wi’ glorious light
was glintin;
The hares were hirplin
down the furrs,
The lav’rocks
they were chantin
Fu’ sweet that
day.
As lightsomely I glowr’d
abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early
at the road,
Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o’
dolefu’ black,
But ane wi’ lyart
lining;
The third, that gaed
a wee a-back,
Was in the fashion shining
Fu’ gay that day.
The twa appear’d
like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an’
claes;
Their visage wither’d,
lang an’ thin,
An’ sour as only
slaes:
The third cam up, hap-stap-an’-lowp,
As light as ony lambie,
An’ wi’a
curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e’er
she saw me,
Fu’ kind that
day.
Wi’ bonnet aff,
quoth I, “Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken
me;
I’m sure I’ve
seen that bonie face
But yet I canna name
ye.”
Quo’ she, an’
laughin as she spak,
An’ taks me by
the han’s,
“Ye, for my sake,
hae gien the feck
Of a’ the ten
comman’s
A screed some day.”
“My name is Fun your
cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye
hae;
An’ this is Superstitution
here,
An’ that’s
Hypocrisy.
I’m gaun to Mauchline
Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in
daffin:
Gin ye’ll go there,
yon runkl’d pair,
We will get famous laughin
At them this day.”
Quoth I, “Wi’
a’ my heart, I’ll do’t;
I’ll get my Sunday’s
sark on,
An’ meet you on
the holy spot;
Faith, we’se hae
fine remarkin!”
Then I gaed hame at
crowdie-time,
An’ soon I made
me ready;
For roads were clad,
frae side to side,
Wi’ mony a weary
body
In droves that day.
Here farmers gash, in
ridin graith,
Gaed hoddin by their
cotters;
There swankies young,
in braw braid-claith,
Are springing owre the
gutters.
The lasses, skelpin
barefit, thrang,
In silks an’ scarlets
glitter;
Wi’ sweet-milk
cheese, in mony a whang,
An’ farls, bak’d
wi’ butter,
Fu’ crump that
day.
When by the plate we
set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi’
ha’pence,
A greedy glowr black-bonnet
throws,
An’ we maun draw
our tippence.
Then in we go to see
the show:
On ev’ry side
they’re gath’rin;
Some carrying dails,
some chairs an’ stools,
An’ some are busy
bleth’rin
Right loud that day.
Here stands a shed to
fend the show’rs,
An’ screen our
countra gentry;
There Racer Jess,^2
an’ twa-three whores,
Are blinkin at the entry.
Here sits a raw o’
tittlin jads,
Wi’ heaving breast
an’ bare neck;
An’ there a batch
o’ wabster lads,
Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock,
For fun this day.
Here, some are thinkin
on their sins,
An’ some upo’
their claes;
Ane curses feet that
fyl’d his shins,
Anither sighs an’
prays:
On this hand sits a
chosen swatch,
Wi’ screwed-up,
grace-proud faces;
On that a set o’
chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin on the
lasses
To chairs that day.
O happy is that man,
an’ blest!
Nae wonder that it pride
him!
Whase ain dear lass,
that he likes best,
Comes clinkin down beside
him!
Wi’ arms repos’d
on the chair back,
He sweetly does compose
him;
Which, by degrees, slips
round her neck,
An’s loof
upon her bosom,
Unkend that day.
Now a’ the congregation
o’er
Is silent expectation;
For Moodie^3 speels
the holy door,
Wi’ tidings o’
damnation:
Should Hornie, as in
ancient days,
‘Mang sons o’
God present him,
The vera sight
o’ Moodie’s face,
To ’s ain het
hame had sent him
Wi’ fright that
day.
Hear how he clears the
point o’ faith
Wi’ rattlin and
wi’ thumpin!
Now meekly calm, now
wild in wrath,
He’s stampin,
an’ he’s jumpin!
His lengthen’d
chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeel
an’ gestures,
O how they fire the
heart devout,
Like cantharidian plaisters
On sic a day!
But hark! the tent has
chang’d its voice,
There’s peace
an’ rest nae länger;
For a’ the real
judges rise,
They canna sit for anger,
Smith^4 opens out his
cauld harangues,
On practice and on morals;
An’ aff the godly
pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an’
barrels
A lift that day.
What signifies his barren
shine,
Of moral powers an’
reason?
His English style, an’
gesture fine
Are a’ clean out
o’ season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,
Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does
define,
But ne’er a word
o’ faith in
That’s right that
day.
In guid time comes an
antidote
Against sic poison’d
nostrum;
For Peebles,^5 frae
the water-fit,
Ascends the holy rostrum:
See, up he’s got,
the word o’ God,
An’ meek an’
mim has view’d it,
While Common-sense has
taen the road,
An’ aff, an’
up the Cowgate^
Fast, fast that day.
Wee Miller^7 neist the
guard relieves,
An’ Orthodoxy
raíbles,
Tho’ in his heart
he weel believes,
An’ thinks it
auld wives’ fables:
But faith! the birkie
wants a manse,
So, cannilie he hums
them;
Altho’ his carnal
wit an’ sense
Like hafflins-wise o’ercomes
him
At times that day.
Now, butt an’
ben, the change-house fills,
Wi’ yill-caup
commentators;
Here ’s cryin
out for bakes and gills,
An’ there the
pint-stowp clatters;
While thick an’
thrang, an’ loud an’ lang,
Wi’ logic an’
wi’ scripture,
They raise a din, that
in the end
Is like to breed a rupture
O’ wrath that
day.
Leeze me on drink! it
gies us mair
Than either school or
college;
It kindles wit, it waukens
lear,
It pangs us fou o’
knowledge:
Be’t whisky-gill
or penny wheep,
Or ony stronger potion,
It never fails, or drinkin
deep,
To kittle up our notion,
By night or day.
The lads an’ lasses,
blythely bent
To mind baith saul an’
body,
Sit round the table,
weel content,
An’ steer about
the toddy:
On this âne’s
dress, an’ that âne’s leuk,
They’re makin
observations;
While some are cozie
i’ the neuk,
An’ forming assignations
To meet some day.
But now the Lord’s
ain trumpet touts,
Till a’ the hills
are rairin,
And echoes back return
the shouts;
Black Russell is na
sparin:
His piercin words, like
Highlan’ swords,
Divide the joints an’
marrow;
His talk o’ Hell,
whare devils dwell,
Our vera “sauls
does harrow”
Wi’ fright that
day!
A vast, unbottom’d,
boundless pit,
Fill’d fou o’
lowin brunstane,
Whase raging flame,
an’ scorching heat,
Wad melt the hardest
whun-stane!
The half-asleep start
up wi’ fear,
An’ think they
hear it roarin;
When presently it does
appear,
’Twas but some
neibor snorin
Asleep that day.
’Twad be owre
lang a tale to tell,
How mony stories past;
An’ how they crouded
to the yill,
When they were a’
dismist;
How drink gaed round,
in cogs an’ caups,
Amang the furms an’
benches;
An’ cheese an’
bread, frae women’s laps,
Was dealt about in lunches
An’ dawds that
day.
In comes a gawsie, gash
guidwife,
An’ sits down
by the fire,
Syne draws her kebbuck
an’ her knife;
The lasses they are
shyer:
The auld guidmen, about
the grace
Frae side to side they
bother;
Till some ane by his
bonnet lays,
An’ gies them’t
like a tether,
Fu’ lang
that day.
Waesucks! for him that
gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething!
Sma’ need has
he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!
O wives, be mindfu’
ance yoursel’
How bonie lads ye wanted;
An’ dinna for
a kebbuck-heel
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!
Now Clinkumbell, wi’
rattlin tow,
Begins to jow an’
croon;
Some swagger hame the
best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.
At slaps the billies
halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their
shoon:
Wi’ faith an’
hope, an’ love an’ drink,
They’re a’
in famous tune
For crack that day.
How mony hearts this
day converts
O’ sinners and
o’ lasses!
Their hearts o’
stane, gin night, are gane
As saft as ony flesh
is:
There’s some are
fou o’ love divine;
There’s some are
fou o’ brandy;
An’ mony jobs
that day begin,
May end in houghmagandie
Some ither day.
Third Epistle To J. Lapraik.
Guid speed and furder
to you, Johnie,
Guid health, hale han’s,
an’ weather bonie;
Now, when ye’re
nickin down fu’ cannie
The staff o’ bread,
May ye ne’er want
a stoup o’ bran’y
To clear your head.
May Boreas never thresh
your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles
aff their legs,
Sendin the stuff o’er
muirs an’ haggs
Like drivin wrack;
But may the tapmost
grain that wags
Come to the sack.
I’m bizzie, too,
an’ skelpin at it,
But bitter, daudin showers
hae wat it;
Sae my auld stumpie
pen I gat it
Wi’ muckle wark,
An’ took my jocteleg
an whatt it,
Like ony clark.
It’s now twa month
that I’m your debtor,
For your braw, nameless,
dateless letter,
Abusin me for harsh
ill-nature
On holy men,
While deil a hair yoursel’
ye’re better,
But mair profane.
But let the kirk-folk
ring their bells,
Let’s sing about
our noble sel’s:
We’ll cry nae
jads frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us;
But browster wives an’
whisky stills,
They are the muses.
Your friendship, Sir,
I winna quat it,
An’ if ye mak’
objections at it,
Then hand in neive some
day we’ll knot it,
An’ witness take,
An’ when wi’
usquabae we’ve wat it
It winna break.
But if the beast an’
branks be spar’d
Till kye be gaun without
the herd,
And a’ the vittel
in the yard,
An’ theekit right,
I mean your ingle-side
to guard
Ae winter night.
Then muse-inspirin’
aqua-vitae
Shall make us baith
sae blythe and witty,
Till ye forget ye’re
auld an’ gatty,
An’ be as canty
As ye were nine years
less than thretty
Sweet ane an’
twenty!
But stooks are cowpit
wi’ the blast,
And now the sinn keeks
in the west,
Then I maun rin amang
the rest,
An’ quat my chanter;
Sae I subscribe myself’
in haste,
Yours, Rab the Ranter.
Epistle To The Rev. John M’math.
Sep, 1785.
Inclosing A Copy Of
“Holy Willie’s Prayer,”
Which He Had Requested,
Sep, 1785
While at the stook the
shearers cow’r
To shun the bitter blaudin’
show’r,
Or in gulravage rinnin
scowr
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the
hour
In idle rhyme.
My musie, tir’d
wi’ mony a sonnet
On gown, an’ ban’,
an’ douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie
now she’s done it,
Lest they should blame
her,
An’ rouse their
holy thunder on it
An anathem her.
I own ‘twas rash,
an’ rather hardy,
That I, a simple, country
bardie,
Should meddle wi’
a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi’
a single wordie,
Lowse hell upon me.
But I gae mad at their
grimaces,
Their sighin, cantin,
grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers,
an’ half-mile graces,
Their raxin conscience,
Whase greed, revenge,
an’ pride disgraces
Waur nor their nonsense.
There’s Gaw’n,
misca’d waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour
in his breast
Than mony scores as
guid’s the priest
Wha sae abus’d
him:
And may a bard no crack
his jest
What way they’ve
us’d him?
See him, the poor man’s
friend in need,
The gentleman in word
an’ deed
An’ shall his
fame an’ honour bleed
By worthless, skellums,
An’ not a muse
erect her head
To cowe the blellums?
O Pope, had I thy satire’s
darts
To gie the rascals their
deserts,
I’d rip their
rotten, hollow hearts,
An’ tell aloud
Their jugglin hocus-pocus
arts
To cheat the crowd.
God knows, I’m
no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing
I could be,
But twenty times I rather
would be
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours
hid be
Just for a screen.
An honest man may like
a glass,
An honest man may like
a lass,
But mean revenge, an’
malice fause
He’ll still disdain,
An’ then cry zeal
for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.
They take religion in
their mouth;
They talk o’ mercy,
grace, an’ truth,
For what? to
gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,
An’ hunt him down,
owre right and ruth,
To ruin straight.
All hail, Religion!
maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean
as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect
line
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatise false
friends of thine
Can ne’er defame
thee.
Tho’ blotch’t
and foul wi’ mony a stain,
An’ far unworthy
of thy train,
With trembling voice
I tune my strain,
To join with those
Who boldly dare thy
cause maintain
In spite of foes:
In spite o’ crowds,
in spite o’ mobs,
In spite o’ undermining
jobs,
In spite o’ dark
banditti stabs
At worth an’ merit,
By scoundrels, even
wi’ holy robes,
But hellish spirit.
O Ayr! my dear, my native
ground,
Within thy presbyterial
bound
A candid liberal band
is found
Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians
too, renown’d,
An’ manly preachers.
Sir, in that circle
you are nam’d;
Sir, in that circle
you are fam’d;
An’ some, by whom
your doctrine’s blam’d
(Which gies you honour)
Even, sir, by them your
heart’s esteem’d,
An’ winning manner.
Pardon this freedom
I have ta’en,
An’ if impertinent
I’ve been,
Impute it not, good
Sir, in ane
Whase heart ne’er
wrang’d ye,
But to his utmost would
befriend
Ought that belang’d
ye.
Second Epistle to Davie.
A Brother Poet.
Auld Neibour,
I’m three times
doubly o’er your debtor,
For your auld-farrant,
frien’ly letter;
Tho’ I maun say’t
I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;
For my puir, silly,
rhymin clatter
Some less maun sair.
Hale be your heart,
hale be your fiddle,
Lang may your elbuck
jink diddle,
To cheer you thro’
the weary widdle
O’ war’ly
cares;
Till barins’ barins
kindly cuddle
Your auld grey hairs.
But Davie, lad, I’m
red ye’re glaikit;
I’m tauld the
muse ye hae negleckit;
An, gif it’s sae,
ye sud by lickit
Until ye fyke;
Sic haun’s as
you sud ne’er be faikit,
Be hain’t wha
like.
For me, I’m on
Parnassus’ brink,
Rivin the words to gar
them clink;
Whiles dazed wi’
love, whiles dazed wi’ drink,
Wi’ jads or masons;
An’ whiles, but
aye owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.
Of a’ the thoughtless
sons o’ man,
Commen’ to me
the bardie clan;
Except it be some idle
plan
O’ rhymin clink,
The devil haet, that
I sud ban
They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view,
nae scheme o’ livin,
Nae cares to gie us
joy or grievin,
But just the pouchie
put the neive in,
An’ while ought’s
there,
Then, hiltie, skiltie,
we gae scrievin’,
An’ fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme! it’s
aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my
only pleasure;
At hame, a-fiel’,
at wark, or leisure,
The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho’ rough an’
raploch be her measure,
She’s seldom lazy.
Haud to the Muse,
my daintie Davie:
The warl’ may
play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she’ll
never leave ye,
Tho’ e’er
sae puir,
Na, even tho’
limpin wi’ the spavie
Frae door tae door.
Song Young Peggy Blooms.
Tune “Loch
Eroch-side.”
Young Peggy blooms our
boniest lass,
Her blush is like the
morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing
grass,
With early gems adorning.
Her eyes outshine the
radiant beams
That gild the passing
shower,
And glitter o’er
the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh’ning
flower.
Her lips, more than
the cherries bright,
A richer dye has graced
them;
They charm th’
admiring gazer’s sight,
And sweetly tempt to
taste them;
Her smile is as the
evening mild,
When feather’d
pairs are courting,
And little lambkins
wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.
Were Fortune lovely
Peggy’s foe,
Such sweetness would
relent her;
As blooming spring unbends
the brow
Of surly, savage Winter.
Detraction’s eye
no aim can gain,
Her winning pow’rs
to lessen;
And fretful Envy grins
in vain
The poison’d tooth
to fasten.
Ye Pow’rs of Honour,
Love, and Truth,
From ev’ry ill
defend her!
Inspire the highly-favour’d
youth
The destinies intend
her:
Still fan the sweet
connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom;
And bless the dear parental
name
With many a filial blossom.
Song Farewell To Ballochmyle.
Tune “Miss
Forbe’s farewell to Banff.”
The Catrine woods were
yellow seen,
The flowers decay’d
on Catrine lee,
Nae lav’rock sang
on hillock green,
But nature sicken’d
on the e’e.
Thro’ faded groves
Maria sang,
Hersel’ in beauty’s
bloom the while;
And aye the wild-wood
ehoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o’
Ballochmyle!
Low in your wintry beds,
ye flowers,
Again ye’ll flourish
fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in
with’ring bowers,
Again ye’ll charm
the vocal air.
But here, alas! for
me nae mair
Shall birdie charm,
or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonie banks
of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel!
sweet Ballochmyle!
Fragment Her Flowing Locks.
Her flowing locks, the
raven’s wing,
Adown her neck and bosom
hing;
How sweet unto that
breast to cling,
And round that neck
entwine her!
Her lips are roses wat
wi’ dew,
O’ what a feast
her bonie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial
hue,
A crimson still diviner!
Halloween^1.
The following poem will, by many readers,
be well enough understood; but for the sake of those
who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions
of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added
to give some account of the principal charms and spells
of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry
in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying
into futurity makes a striking part of the history
of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and
nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic
mind, if any such honour the author with a perusal,
to see the remains of it among the more unenlightened
in our own. R.B.
Yes! let the rich deride,
the proud disdain,
The simple pleasure
of the lowly train;
To me more dear, congenial
to my heart,
One native charm, than
all the gloss of art. Goldsmith.
Upon that night, when
fairies light
On Cassilis Downans^2
dance,
Or owre the lays, in
splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers
prance;
Or for Colean the rout
is ta’en,
Beneath the moon’s
pale beams;
There, up the Cove,^3
to stray an’ rove,
Amang the rocks and
streams
To sport that night;
Amang the bonie winding
banks,
Where Doon rins, wimplin,
clear;
Where Bruce^4 ance
rul’d the martial ranks,
An’ shook his
Carrick spear;
Some merry, friendly,
countra-folks
Together did convene,
To burn their nits,
an’ pou their stocks,
An’ haud
their Halloween
Fu’ blythe that
night.
The lasses feat, an’
cleanly neat,
Mair braw than when
they’re fine;
Their faces blythe,
fu’ sweetly kythe,
Hearts leal, an’
warm, an’ kin’:
The lads sae trig, wi’
wooer-babs
Weel-knotted on their
garten;
Some unco blate, an’
some wi’ gabs
Gar lasses’ hearts
gang startin
Whiles fast at night.
Then, first an’
foremost, thro’ the kail,
Their stocks^5 maun
a’ be sought ance;
They steek their een,
and grape an’ wale
For muckle ânes,
an’ straught ânes.
Poor hav’rel Will
fell aff the drift,
An’ wandered thro’
the bow-kail,
An’ pou’t
for want o’ better shift
A runt was like a sow-tail
Sae bow’t that
night.
Then, straught or crooked,
yird or nane,
They roar an’
cry a’ throu’ther;
The vera wee-things,
toddlin, rin,
Wi’ stocks out
owre their shouther:
An’ gif the custock’s
sweet or sour,
Wi’ joctelegs
they taste them;
Syne coziely, aboon
the door,
Wi’ cannie care,
they’ve plac’d them
To lie that night.
The lassies staw frae
‘mang them a’,
To pou their stalks
o’ corn;^
But Rab slips out, an’
jinks about,
Behint the muckle thorn:
He grippit Nelly hard
and fast:
Loud skirl’d a’
the lasses;
But her tap-pickle maist
was lost,
Whan kiutlin in the
fause-house^
Wi’ him that night.
The auld guid-wife’s
weel-hoordit nits^
Are round an’
round dividend,
An’ mony lads
an’ lasses’ fates
Are there that night
decided:
Some kindle couthie
side by side,
And burn thegither trimly;
Some start awa wi’
saucy pride,
An’ jump out owre
the chimlie
Fu’ high that
night.
Jean slips in twa, wi’
tentie e’e;
Wha ’twas, she
wadna tell;
But this is Jock, an’
this is me,
She says in to hersel’:
He bleez’d owre
her, an’ she owre him,
As they wad never mair
part:
Till fuff! he started
up the lum,
An’ Jean had e’en
a sair heart
To see’t that
night.
Poor Willie, wi’
his bow-kail runt,
Was brunt wi’
primsie Mallie;
An’ Mary, nae
doubt, took the drunt,
To be compar’d
to Willie:
Mall’s nit lap
out, wi’ pridefu’ fling,
An’ her ain fit,
it brunt it;
While Willie lap, and
swore by jing,
’Twas just the
way he wanted
To be that night.
Nell had the fause-house
in her min’,
She pits hersel an’
Rob in;
In loving bleeze they
sweetly join,
Till white in ase they’re
sobbin:
Nell’s heart was
dancin at the view;
She whisper’d
Rob to leuk for’t:
Rob, stownlins, prie’d
her bonie mou’,
Fu’ cozie in the
neuk for’t,
Unseen that night.
But Merran sat behint
their backs,
Her thoughts on Andrew
Bell:
She lea’es them
gashin at their cracks,
An’ slips out by
hersel’;
She thro’ the
yard the nearest taks,
An’ for the kiln
she goes then,
An’ darklins grapit
for the bauks,
And in the blue-clue^9
throws then,
Right fear’t that
night.
An’ ay she win’t,
an’ ay she swat
I wat she made nae jaukin;
Till something held
within the pat,
Good Lord! but she was
quaukin!
But whether ’twas
the deil himsel,
Or whether ‘twas
a bauk-en’,
Or whether it was Andrew
Bell,
She did na wait
on talkin
To spier that night.
Wee Jenny to her graunie
says,
“Will ye go wi’
me, graunie?
I’ll eat the apple
at the glass,^
I gat frae uncle Johnie:”
She fuff’t her
pipe wi’ sic a lunt,
In wrath she was sae
vap’rin,
She notic’t na
an aizle brunt
Her braw, new, worset
apron
Out thro’ that
night.
“Ye little skelpie-limmer’s
face!
I daur you try sic sportin,
As seek the foul thief
ony place,
For him to spae your
fortune:
Nae doubt but ye may
get a sight!
Great cause ye hae to
fear it;
For mony a ane has gotten
a fright,
An’ liv’d
an’ died deleerit,
On sic a night.
“Ae hairst afore
the Sherra-moor,
I mind’t as weel’s
yestreen
I was a gilpey then,
I’m sure
I was na past fyfteen:
The simmer had been
cauld an’ wat,
An’ stuff was
unco green;
An’ eye a rantin
kirn we gat,
An’ just on Halloween
It fell that night.
“Our stibble-rig
was Rab M’Graen,
A clever, sturdy fallow;
His sin gat Eppie Sim
wi’ wean,
That lived in Achmacalla:
He gat hemp-seed,^11
I mind it weel,
An’he made unco
light o’t;
But mony a day was by
himsel’,
He was sae sairly frighted
That vera night.”
Then up gat fechtin
Jamie Fleck,
An’ he swoor by
his conscience,
That he could saw hemp-seed
a peck;
For it was a’
but nonsense:
The auld guidman raught
down the pock,
An’ out a handfu’
gied him;
Syne bad him slip frae’
mang the folk,
Sometime when nae ane
see’d him,
An’ try’t
that night.
He marches thro’
amang the stacks,
Tho’ he was something
sturtin;
The graip he for a harrow
taks,
An’ haurls at
his curpin:
And ev’ry now
an’ then, he says,
“Hemp-seed I saw
thee,
An’ her that is
to be my lass
Come after me, an’
draw thee
As fast this night.”
He wistl’d up
Lord Lennox’ March
To keep his courage
cherry;
Altho’ his hair
began to arch,
He was sae fley’d
an’ eerie:
Till presently he hears
a squeak,
An’ then a grane
an’ gruntle;
He by his shouther gae
a keek,
An’ tumbled wi’
a wintle
Out-owre that night.
He roar’d a horrid
murder-shout,
In dreadfu’ desperation!
An’ young an’
auld come rinnin out,
An’ hear the sad
narration:
He swoor ’twas
hilchin Jean M’Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie
Till stop! she trotted
thro’ them a’;
And wha was it but grumphie
Asteer that night!
Meg fain wad to the
barn gaen,
To winn three wechts
o’ naething;^
But for to meet the
deil her lane,
She pat but little faith
in:
She gies the herd a
pickle nits,
An’ twa red cheekit
apples,
To watch, while for
the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam
Kipples
That vera night.
She turns the key wi’
cannie thraw,
An’owre the threshold
ventures;
But first on Sawnie
gies a ca’,
Syne baudly in she enters:
A ratton rattl’d
up the wa’,
An’ she cry’d
Lord preserve her!
An’ ran thro’
midden-hole an’ a’,
An’ pray’d
wi’ zeal and fervour,
Fu’ fast that
night.
They hoy’t out
Will, wi’ sair advice;
They hecht him some
fine braw ane;
It chanc’d the
stack he faddom’t thrice^
Was timmer-propt for
thrawin:
He taks a swirlie auld
moss-oak
For some black, grousome
carlin;
An’ loot a winze,
an’ drew a stroke,
Till skin in blypes
cam haurlin
Aff’s nieves
that night.
A wanton widow Leezie
was,
As cantie as a kittlen;
But och! that night,
amang the shaws,
She gat a fearfu’
settlin!
She thro’ the
whins, an’ by the cairn,
An’ owre the hill
gaed scrievin;
Whare three lairds’
lan’s met at a burn,^
To dip her left sark-sleeve
in,
Was bent that night.
Whiles owre a linn the
burnie plays,
As thro’ the glen
it wimpl’t;
Whiles round a rocky
scar it strays,
Whiles in a wiel it
dimpl’t;
Whiles glitter’d
to the nightly rays,
Wi’ bickerin’,
dancin’ dazzle;
Whiles cookit undeneath
the braes,
Below the spreading
hazel
Unseen that night.
Amang the brachens,
on the brae,
Between her an’
the moon,
The deil, or else an
outler quey,
Gat up an’ ga’e
a croon:
Poor Leezie’s
heart maist lap the hool;
Near lav’rock-height
she jumpit,
But mist a fit, an’
in the pool
Out-owre the lugs she
plumpit,
Wi’ a plunge that
night.
In order, on the clean
hearth-stane,
The luggies^15 three
are ranged;
An’ ev’ry
time great care is ta’en
To see them duly changed:
Auld uncle John, wha
wedlock’s joys
Sin’ Mar’s-year
did desire,
Because he gat the toom
dish thrice,
He heav’d them
on the fire
In wrath that night.
Wi’ merry sangs,
an’ friendly cracks,
I wat they did na
weary;
And unco tales, an’
funnie jokes
Their sports were cheap
an’ cheery:
Till butter’d
sowens,^16 wi’ fragrant lunt,
Set a’ their gabs
a-steerin;
Syne, wi’ a social
glass o’ strunt,
They parted aff careerin
Fu’ blythe that
night.
To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her
Nest With The Plough, November, 1785.
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin,
tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s
in thy breastie!
Thou need na start
awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering
brattle!
I wad be laith to rin
an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring
pattle!
I’m truly sorry
man’s dominion,
Has broken nature’s
social union,
An’ justifies
that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born
companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles,
but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie,
thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a
thrave
‘S a sma’
request;
I’ll get a blessin
wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie,
too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s
the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething,
now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s
winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’
keen!
Thou saw the fields
laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter
comin fast,
An’ cozie here,
beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell
Till crash! the cruel
coulter past
Out thro’ thy
cell.
That wee bit heap o’
leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a
weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d
out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s
sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch
cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art
no thy lane,
In proving foresight
may be vain;
The best-laid schemes
o’ mice an ’men
Gang aft agley,
An’lea’e
us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Still thou art blest,
compar’d wi’ me
The present only toucheth
thee:
But, Och! I backward
cast my e’e.
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’
I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!
Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper.
Here lies Johnie Pigeon;
What was his religion?
Whae’er desires
to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnie Pigeon
had nane!
Strong ale was ablution,
Small beer persecution,
A dram was memento mori;
But a full-flowing bowl
Was the saving his soul,
And port was celestial
glory.
Epitaph For James Smith.
Lament him, Mauchline
husbands a’,
He aften did assist
ye;
For had ye staid hale
weeks awa,
Your wives they ne’er
had miss’d ye.
Ye Mauchline bairns,
as on ye press
To school in bands thegither,
O tread ye lightly on
his grass,
Perhaps he was your
father!
Adam Armour’s Prayer.
Gude pity me, because
I’m little!
For though I am an elf
o’ mettle,
An’ can, like
ony wabster’s shuttle,
Jink there or here,
Yet, scarce as lang’s
a gude kail-whittle,
I’m unco queer.
An’ now Thou kens
our waefu’ case;
For Geordie’s
jurr we’re in disgrace,
Because we stang’d
her through the place,
An’ hurt her spleuchan;
For whilk we daurna
show our face
Within the clachan.
An’ now we’re
dern’d in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William
Wallace,
Wi’ constables-thae
blackguard fallows,
An’ sodgers baith;
But Gude preserve us
frae the gallows,
That shamefu’
death!
Auld grim black-bearded
Geordie’s sel’
O shake him owre the
mouth o’ hell!
There let him hing,
an’ roar, an’ yell
Wi’ hideous din,
And if he offers to
rebel,
Then heave him in.
When Death comes in
wi’ glimmerin blink,
An’ tips auld
drucken Nanse the wink,
May Sautan gie her doup
a clink
Within his yett,
An’ fill her up
wi’ brimstone drink,
Red-reekin het.
Though Jock an’
hav’rel Jean are merry
Some devil seize them
in a hurry,
An’ waft them
in th’ infernal wherry
Straught through the
lake,
An’ gie their
hides a noble curry
Wi’ oil of aik!
As for the jurr-puir
worthless body!
She’s got mischief
enough already;
Wi’ stanged hips,
and buttocks bluidy
She’s suffer’d
sair;
But, may she wintle
in a woody,
If she wh-e mair!
The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata^1.
Recitativo.
When lyart leaves bestrow
the yird,
Or wavering like the
bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas’
blast;
When hailstanes drive
wi’ bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin
to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e’en
a merry core
O’ randie, gangrel
bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie’s
held the splore,
To drink their orra
duddies;
Wi’ quaffing an’
laughing,
They ranted an’
they sang,
Wi’ jumping an’
thumping,
The vera girdle
rang,
First, neist the fire,
in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac’d
wi’ mealy bags,
And knapsack a’
in order;
His doxy lay within
his arm;
Wi’ usquebae an’
blankets warm
She blinkit on her sodger;
An’ aye he gies
the tozie drab
The tither skelpin’
kiss,
While she held up her
greedy gab,
Just like an aumous
dish;
Ilk smack still, did
crack still,
Just like a cadger’s
whip;
Then staggering an’
swaggering
He roar’d this
ditty up
Air.
Tune “Soldier’s
Joy.”
I am a son of Mars who
have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and
scars wherever I come;
This here was for a
wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French
at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.
My ’prenticeship I past where
my leader breath’d his last, When the bloody
die was cast on the heights of Abram: and
I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d,
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the
drum.
I lastly was with Curtis
among the floating batt’ries,
And there I left for
witness an arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need
me, with Elliot to head me,
I’d clatter on
my stumps at the sound of a drum.
And now tho’ I
must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,
And many a tatter’d
rag hanging over my bum,
I’m as happy with
my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet
to follow a drum.
What tho’ with
hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and
rocks oftentimes for a home,
When the t’other
bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell,
I could meet a troop
of hell, at the sound of a drum.
Recitativo.
He ended; and the kebars
sheuk,
Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons
backward leuk,
An’ seek the benmost
bore:
A fairy fiddler frae
the neuk,
He skirl’d out,
encore!
But up arose the martial
chuck,
An’ laid the loud
uproar.
Air.
Tune “Sodger
Laddie.”
I once was a maid, tho’
I cannot tell when,
And still my delight
is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop
of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I’m
fond of a sodger laddie,
Sing, lal de lal, &c.
The first of my loves
was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering
drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight,
and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with
my sodger laddie.
But the godly old chaplain
left him in the lurch;
The sword I forsook
for the sake of the church:
He ventur’d the
soul, and I risked the body,
’Twas then I proved
false to my sodger laddie.
Full soon I grew sick
of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large
for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon
to the fife I was ready,
I asked no more but
a sodger laddie.
But the peace it reduc’d
me to beg in despair,
Till I met old boy in
a Cunningham fair,
His rags regimental,
they flutter’d so gaudy,
My heart it rejoic’d
at a sodger laddie.
And now I have liv’d I
know not how long,
And still I can join
in a cup and a song;
But whilst with both
hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here’s to thee,
my hero, my sodger laddie.
Recitativo.
Poor Merry-Andrew, in
the neuk,
Sat guzzling wi’
a tinkler-hizzie;
They mind’t na
wha the chorus teuk,
Between themselves they
were sae busy:
At length, wi’
drink an’ courting dizzy,
He stoiter’d up
an’ made a face;
Then turn’d an’
laid a smack on Grizzie,
Syne tun’d his
pipes wi’ grave grimace.
Air.
Tune “Auld
Sir Symon.”
Sir Wisdom’s a
fool when he’s fou;
Sir Knave is a fool
in a session;
He’s there but
a ’prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought
me a beuk,
An’ I held awa
to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae
of a fool?
For drink I would venture
my neck;
A hizzie’s the
half of my craft;
But what could ye other
expect
Of ane that’s
avowedly daft?
I ance was tied
up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing
and quaffin;
I ance was abus’d
i’ the kirk,
For towsing a lass i’
my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles
for sport,
Let naebody name wi’
a jeer;
There’s even,
I’m tauld, i’ the Court
A tumbler ca’d
the Premier.
Observ’d ye yon
reverend lad
Mak faces to tickle
the mob;
He rails at our mountebank
squad,
It’s rivalship
just i’ the job.
And now my conclusion
I’ll tell,
For faith I’m
confoundedly dry;
The chiel that’s
a fool for himsel’,
Guid Lord! he’s
far dafter than I.
Recitativo.
Then niest outspak
a raucle carlin,
Wha kent fu’
weel to cleek the sterlin;
For mony a pursie she
had hooked,
An’ had in mony
a well been douked;
Her love had been a
Highland laddie,
But weary fa’
the waefu’ woodie!
Wi’ sighs an’
sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John
Highlandman.
Air.
Tune “O,
an ye were dead, Guidman.”
A Highland lad my love
was born,
The Lalland laws he
held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’
to his clan,
My gallant, braw John
Highlandman.
Chorus.
Sing hey my braw John
Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John
Highlandman!
There’s not a
lad in a’ the lan’
Was match for my John
Highlandman.
With his philibeg an’
tartan plaid,
An’ guid claymore
down by his side,
The ladies’ hearts
he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John
Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
We ranged a’ from
Tweed to Spey,
An’ liv’d
like lords an’ ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he
feared none,
My gallant, braw John
Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
They banish’d
him beyond the sea.
But ere the bud was
on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the
pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
But, och! they catch’d
him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon
fast:
My curse upon them every
one,
They’ve hang’d
my braw John Highlandman!
Sing hey, &c.
And now a widow, I must
mourn
The pleasures that will
ne’er return:
The comfort but a hearty
can,
When I think on John
Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
Recitativo.
A pigmy scraper wi’
his fiddle,
Wha us’d at trystes
an’ fairs to driddle.
Her strappin limb and
gausy middle
(He reach’d nae
higher)
Had hol’d his
heartie like a riddle,
An’ blawn’t
on fire.
Wi’ hand on hainch,
and upward e’e,
He croon’d his
gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key,
The wee Apoll
Set off wi’ allegretto
glee
His giga solo.
Air.
Tune “Whistle
owre the lave o’t.”
Let me ryke up to dight
that tear,
An’ go wi’
me an’ be my dear;
An’ then your
every care an’ fear
May whistle owre the
lave o’t.
Chorus.
I am a fiddler to my
trade,
An’ a’ the
tunes that e’er I played,
The sweetest still to
wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the
lave o’t.
At kirns an’ weddins
we’se be there,
An’ O sae nicely’s
we will fare!
We’ll bowse about
till Daddie Care
Sing whistle owre the
lave o’t.
I am, &c.
Sae merrily’s
the banes we’ll pyke,
An’ sun oursel’s
about the dyke;
An’ at our leisure,
when ye like,
We’ll whistle
owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
But bless me wi’
your heav’n o’ charms,
An’ while I kittle
hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, an’
a’ sic harms,
May whistle owre the
lave o’t.
I am, &c.
Recitativo.
Her charms had struck
a sturdy caird,
As weel as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler
by the beard,
An’ draws a roosty
rapier
He swoor, by a’
was swearing worth,
To speet him like a
pliver,
Unless he would from
that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
Wi’ ghastly e’e
poor tweedle-dee
Upon his hunkers bended,
An’ pray’d
for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,
An’ so the quarrel
ended.
But tho’ his little
heart did grieve
When round the tinkler
prest her,
He feign’d to
snirtle in his sleeve,
When thus the caird
address’d her:
Air.
Tune “Clout
the Cauldron.”
My bonie lass, I work
in brass,
A tinkler is my station:
I’ve travell’d
round all Christian ground
In this my occupation;
I’ve taen the
gold, an’ been enrolled
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search’d
when off I march’d
To go an’ clout
the cauldron.
I’ve taen the
gold, &c.
Despise that shrimp,
that wither’d imp,
With a’ his noise
an’ cap’rin;
An’ take a share
with those that bear
The budget and the apron!
And by that stowp! my
faith an’ houp,
And by that dear Kilbaigie,^
If e’er ye want,
or meet wi’ scant,
May I ne’er weet
my craigie.
And by that stowp, &c.
Recitativo.
The caird prevail’d th’
unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk;
Partly wi’ love
o’ercome sae sair,
An’ partly she
was drunk:
Sir Violino, with
an air
That show’d a
man o’ spunk,
Wish’d unison
between the pair,
An’ made the bottle
clunk
To their health that
night.
But hurchin Cupid shot
a shaft,
That play’d a
dame a shavie
The fiddler rak’d
her, fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight of
Homer’s craft,^
Tho’ limpin wi’
the spavie,
He hirpl’d up,
an’ lap like daft,
An’ shor’d
them Dainty Davie.
O’ boot that night.
He was a care-defying
blade
As ever Bacchus listed!
Tho’ Fortune sair
upon him laid,
His heart, she ever
miss’d it.
He had no wish but to
be glad,
Nor want but when
he thirsted;
He hated nought but to
be sad,
An’ thus the muse
suggested
His sang that night.
Air.
Tune “For
a’ that, an’ a’ that.”
I am a Bard of no regard,
Wi’ gentle folks
an’ a’ that;
But Homer-like, the
glowrin byke,
Frae town to town I
draw that.
Chorus.
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
An’ twice as muckle’s
a’ that;
I’ve lost but
ane, I’ve twa behin’,
I’ve wife eneugh
for a’ that.
I never drank the Muses’
stank,
Castalia’s burn,
an’ a’ that;
But there it streams
an’ richly reams,
My Helicon I ca’
that.
For a’ that, &c.
Great love Idbear to
a’ the fair,
Their humble slave an’
a’ that;
But lordly will, I hold
it still
A mortal sin to thraw
that.
For a’ that, &c.
In raptures sweet, this
hour we meet,
Wi’ mutual love
an’ a’ that;
But for how lang
the flie may stang,
Let inclination law
that.
For a’ that, &c.
Their tricks an’
craft hae put me daft,
They’ve taen me
in, an’ a’ that;
But clear your decks,
and here’s “The Sex!”
I like the jads for
a’ that.
Chorus.
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
An’ twice as muckle’s
a’ that;
My dearest bluid, to
do them guid,
They’re welcome
till’t for a’ that.
Recitativo.
So sang the bard and
Nansie’s wa’s
Shook with a thunder
of applause,
Re-echo’d from
each mouth!
They toom’d their
pocks, they pawn’d their duds,
They scarcely left to
co’er their fuds,
To quench their lowin
drouth:
Then owre again, the
jovial thrang
The poet did request
To lowse his pack an’
wale a sang,
A ballad o’ the
best;
He rising, rejoicing,
Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, an’
found them
Impatient for the chorus.
Air.
Tune “Jolly
Mortals, fill your Glasses.”
See the smoking bowl
before us,
Mark our jovial ragged
ring!
Round and round take
up the chorus,
And in raptures let
us sing
Chorus.
A fig for those by law
protected!
Liberty’s a glorious
feast!
Courts for cowards were
erected,
Churches built to please
the priest.
What is title, what
is treasure,
What is reputation’s
care?
If we lead a life of
pleasure,
’Tis no matter
how or where!
A fig for, &c.
With the ready trick
and fable,
Round we wander all
the day;
And at night in barn
or stable,
Hug our doxies on the
hay.
A fig for, &c.
Does the train-attended
carriage
Thro’ the country
lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of
marriage
Witness brighter scenes
of love?
A fig for, &c.
Life is al a variorum,
We regard not how it
goes;
Let them cant about
decorum,
Who have character to
lose.
A fig for, &c.
Here’s to budgets,
bags and wallets!
Here’s to all
the wandering train.
Here’s our ragged
brats and callets,
One and all cry out,
Amen!
Chorus.
A fig for those by law
protected!
Liberty’s a glorious
feast!
Courts for cowards were
erected,
Churches built to please
the priest.
Song For A’ That^1.
Tune “For
a’ that.”
Tho’ women’s
minds, like winter winds,
May shift, and turn,
an’ a’ that,
The noblest breast adores
them maist
A consequence I draw
that.
Chorus.
For a’ that, an’
a’ that,
And twice as meikle’s
a’ that;
The bonie lass that
I loe best
She’ll be my ain
for a’ that.
Great love I bear to
a’ the fair,
Their humble slave,
an’ a’ that;
But lordly will, I hold
it still
A mortal sin to thraw
that.
For a’ that, &c.
But there is ane aboon
the lave,
Has wit, and sense,
an’ a’ that;
A bonie lass, I like
her best,
And wha a crime
dare ca’ that?
For a’ that, &c.
In rapture sweet this
hour we meet,
Wi’ mutual love
an’ a’ that,
But for how lang
the flie may stang,
Let inclination law
that.
For a’ that, &c.
Their tricks an’
craft hae put me daft.
They’ve taen me
in, an’ a’ that;
But clear your decks,
and here’s “The Sex!”
I like the jads for
a’ that.
For a’ that, &c.
Song Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle.
Tune “The
bob O’ Dumblane.”
O Merry hae I been teethin’
a heckle,
An’ merry hae
I been shapin’ a spoon;
O merry hae I been cloutin’
a kettle,
An’ kissin’
my Katie when a’ was done.
O a’ the lang
day I ca’ at my hammer,
An’ a’ the
lang day I whistle and sing;
O a’ the lang
night I cuddle my kimmer,
An’ a’ the
lang night as happy’s a king.
Bitter in idol I lickit
my winnins
O’ marrying Bess,
to gie her a slave:
Blest be the hour she
cool’d in her linnens,
And blythe be the bird
that sings on her grave!
Come to my arms, my
Katie, my Katie;
O come to my arms and
kiss me again!
Drucken or sober,
here’s to thee, Katie!
An’ blest be the
day I did it again.
The Cotter’s Saturday Night.
Inscribed to R. Aiken,
Esq., of Ayr.
Let not Ambition mock
their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and
destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with
a disdainful smile,
The short and simple
annals of the Poor.
Gray.
My lov’d, my honour’d,
much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his
homage pays;
With honest pride, I
scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend’s
esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple
Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s
sequester’d scene,
The native feelings
strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage
would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth
unknown, far happier there I ween!
November chill blaws
loud wi’ angry sugh;
The short’ning
winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating
frae the pleugh;
The black’ning
trains o’ craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter
frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly
moil is at an end,
Collects his spades,
his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease
and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er
the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely
cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter
of an aged tree;
Th’ expectant
wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
To meet their dead,
wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin
bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane,
his thrifty wifie’s smile,
The lisping infant,
prattling on his knee,
Does a’ his weary
kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite
forget his labour and his toil.
Belyve, the elder bairns
come drapping in,
At service out, amang
the farmers roun’;
Some ca’
the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a
neibor town:
Their eldest hope, their
Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu’ bloom-love
sparkling in her e’e
Comes hame, perhaps
to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won
penny-fee,
To help her parents
dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign’d,
brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other’s
weelfare kindly speirs:
The social hours, swift-wing’d,
unnotic’d fleet:
Each tells the uncos
that he sees or hears.
The parents, partial,
eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward
points the view;
The mother, wi’
her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes
look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’
wi’ admonition due.
Their master’s
and their mistress’ command,
The younkers a’
are warned to obey;
And mind their labours
wi’ an eydent hand,
And ne’er, tho’
out o’ sight, to jauk or play;
“And O! be sure
to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty,
duly, morn and night;
Lest in temptation’s
path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel
and assisting might:
They never sought in
vain that sought the Lord aright.”
But hark! a rap comes
gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the
meaning o’ the same,
Tells how a neibor lad
came o’er the moor,
To do some errands,
and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees
the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny’s
e’e, and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious
care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins
is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleased the mother
hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.
Wi’ kindly welcome,
Jenny brings him ben;
A strappin youth, he
takes the mother’s eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the
visit’s no ill ta’en;
The father cracks of
horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster’s
artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate an’
laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi’
a woman’s wiles, can spy
What makes the youth
sae bashfu’ and sae grave,
Weel-pleas’d to
think her bairn’s respected like the lave.
O happy love! where
love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures!
bliss beyond compare!
I’ve paced much
this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience
bids me this declare,
“If Heaven a draught
of heavenly pleasure spare
One cordial in this
melancholy vale,
’Tis when a youthful,
loving, modest pair
In other’sarms,
breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white
thorn that scents the evening gale.”
Is there, in human form,
that bears a heart,
A wretch! a villain!
lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied,
sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny’s
unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur’d
arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue,
conscience, all exil’d?
Is there no pity, no
relenting ruth,
Points to the parents
fondling o’er their child?
Then paints the ruin’d
maid, and their distraction wild?
But now the supper crowns
their simple board,
The halesome parritch,
chief of Scotia’s food;
The sowp their only
hawkie does afford,
That, ’yont the
hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth,
in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her
weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell;
And aft he’s prest,
and aft he ca’s it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous,
will tell
How t’was a towmond
auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.
The cheerfu’ supper
done, wi’ serious face,
They, round the ingle,
form a circle wide;
The sire turns o’er,
with patriarchal grace,
The big ha’bible,
ance his father’s pride:
His bonnet rev’rently
is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing
thin and bare;
Those strains that once
did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with
judicious care;
And “Let us worship
God!” he says with solemn air.
They chant their artless
notes in simple guise,
They tune their hearts,
by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee’s
wild-warbling measures rise;
Or plaintive Martyrs,
worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin beets
the heaven-ward flame;
The sweetest far of
Scotia’s holy lays:
Compar’d with
these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl’d ears
no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they
with our Creator’s praise.
The priest-like father
reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend
of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal
warfare wage
With Amalek’s
ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard
did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of
Heaven’s avenging ire;
Or Job’s pathetic
plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah’s
wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers
that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian
volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood
for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in
Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon
to lay His head:
How His first followers
and servants sped;
The precepts sage they
wrote to many a land:
How he, who lone in
Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty
angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s
doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.
Then, kneeling down
to Heaven’s Eternal King,
The saint, the father,
and the husband prays:
Hope “springs
exulting on triumphant wing,"^
That thus they all shall
meet in future days,
There, ever bask in
uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or
shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their
Creator’s praise,
In such society, yet
still more dear;
While circling Time
moves round in an eternal sphere
Compar’d with
this, how poor Religion’s pride,
In all the pomp of method,
and of art;
When men display to
congregations wide
Devotion’s ev’ry
grace, except the heart!
The Power, incens’d,
the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain,
the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage
far apart,
May hear, well-pleas’d,
the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life
the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take
off their sev’ral way;
The youngling cottagers
retire to rest:
The parent-pair their
secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven
the warm request,
That he who stills the
raven’s clam’rous nest,
And decks the lily fair
in flow’ry pride,
Would, in the way His
wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their
little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their
hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these,
old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
That makes her lov’d
at home, rever’d abroad:
Princes and lords are
but the breath of kings,
“An honest man’s
the noblest work of God;”
And certes, in fair
virtue’s heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the
palace far behind;
What is a lordling’s
pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch
of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell,
in wickedness refin’d!
O Scotia! my dear, my
native soil!
For whom my warmest
wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons
of rustic toil
Be blest with health,
and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven their
simple lives prevent
From luxury’s
contagion, weak and vile!
Then howe’er crowns
and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace
may rise the while,
And stand a wall of
fire around their much-lov’d isle.
O Thou! who pour’d
the patriotic tide,
That stream’d
thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
Who dar’d to nobly
stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second
glorious part:
(The patriot’s
God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer,
guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia’s
realm desert;
But still the patriot,
and the patriot-bard
In bright succession
raise, her ornament and guard!
Address To The Deil.
O Prince! O chief
of many throned Pow’rs
That led th’ embattl’d
Seraphim to war
Milton.
O Thou! whatever title
suit thee
Auld Hornie, Satan,
Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim
an’ sootie,
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane
cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie,
for a wee,
An’ let poor damned
bodies be;
I’m sure sma’
pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud
poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow’r
an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d an’
noted is thy name;
An’ tho’
yon lowin’ heuch’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s
neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate, nor scaur.
Whiles, ranging like
a roarin lion,
For prey, a’ holes
and corners tryin;
Whiles, on the strong-wind’d
tempest flyin,
Tirlin the kirks;
Whiles, in the human
bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I’ve heard my
rev’rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like
to stray;
Or where auld ruin’d
castles grey
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly
wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.
When twilight did my
graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs,
douse, honest woman!
Aft’yont the dyke
she’s heard you bummin,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustlin, thro’
the boortrees comin,
Wi’ heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter
night,
The stars shot down
wi’ sklentin light,
Wi’ you, mysel’
I gat a fright,
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-buss,
stood in sight,
Wi’ wavin’
sough.
The cudgel in my nieve
did shake,
Each brist’ld
hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch,
stoor “quaick, quaick,”
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d
like a drake,
On whistlin’ wings.
Let warlocks grim, an’
wither’d hags,
Tell how wi’ you,
on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs
an’ dizzy crags,
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew
their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.
Thence countra wives,
wi’ toil and pain,
May plunge an’
plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s
ta’en
By witchin’ skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint
hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the
bill.
Thence mystic knots
mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond,
keen an’ crouse,
When the best wark-lume
i’ the house,
By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth
a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve
the snawy hoord,
An’ float the
jinglin’ icy boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt
the foord,
By your direction,
And ’nighted trav’llers
are allur’d
To their destruction.
And aft your moss-traversin
Spunkies
Decoy the wight that
late an’ drunk is:
The bleezin, curst,
mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough
he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to
rise.
When masons’ mystic
word an’ grip
In storms an’
tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your
rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither
ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell.
Lang syne in Éden’s
bonie yard,
When youthfu’
lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all the soul
of love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant
flow’ry swaird,
In shady bower;^1
Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing
dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An’ play’d
on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant
warld a shog,
‘Maist rui’d
a’.
D’ye mind that
day when in a bizz
Wi’ reekit duds,
an’ reestit gizz,
Ye did present your
smoutie phiz
’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on
the man of Uzz
Your spitefu’
joke?
An’ how ye gat
him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out
o’ house an hal’,
While scabs and botches
did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw;
An’ lows’d
his ill-tongu’d wicked scaul’,
Was warst ava?
But a’ your doings
to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’
fechtin fierce,
Sin’ that day
Michael^2 did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tounge,
or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.
An’ now, auld
Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,
A certain bardie’s
rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will
send him linkin
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll
turn a corner jinkin,
An’ cheat you
yet.
But fare-you-weel, auld
Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought
an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might I
dinna ken
Stil hae a stake:
I’m wae to think
up’ yon den,
Ev’n for your
sake!
Scotch Drink.
Gie him strong drink
until he wink,
That’s sinking
in despair;
An’ liquor guid
to fire his bluid,
That’s prest wi’
grief and care:
There let him bouse,
an’ deep carouse,
Wi’ bumpers flowing
o’er,
Till he forgets his
loves or debts,
An’ minds his
griefs no more.
(Solomon’s Proverbs,
xxx, 7.)
Let other poets raise
a fracas
‘Bout vines, an’
wines, an’ drucken Bacchus,
An’ crabbit names
an’stories wrack us,
An’ grate our
lug:
I sing the juice Scotch
bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.
O thou, my muse! guid
auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro’
wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream
owre the brink,
In glorious faem,
Inspire me, till I lisp
an’ wink,
To sing thy name!
Let husky wheat the
haughs adorn,
An’ aits set up
their awnie horn,
An’ pease and
beans, at e’en or morn,
Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee, John
Barleycorn,
Thou king o’ grain!
On thee aft Scotland
chows her cood,
In souple scones,
the wale o’food!
Or tumblin in the boiling
flood
Wi’ kail an’
beef;
But when thou pours
thy strong heart’s blood,
There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame,
an’ keeps us leevin;
Tho’ life’s
a gift no worth receivin,
When heavy-dragg’d
wi’ pine an’ grievin;
But, oil’d by
thee,
The wheels o’
life gae down-hill, scrievin,
Wi’ rattlin glee.
Thou clears the head
o’doited Lear;
Thou cheers ahe heart
o’ drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves
o’ Labour sair,
At’s weary toil;
Though even brightens
dark Despair
Wi’ gloomy smile.
Aft, clad in massy siller
weed,
Wi’ gentles thou
erects thy head;
Yet, humbly kind in
time o’ need,
The poor man’s
wine;
His weep drap parritch,
or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o’
public haunts;
But thee, what were
our fairs and rants?
Ev’n godly meetings
o’ the saunts,
By thee inspired,
When gaping they besiege
the tents,
Are doubly fir’d.
That merry night we
get the corn in,
O sweetly, then, thou
reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-year
mornin
In cog or bicker,
An’ just a wee
drap sp’ritual burn in,
An’ gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his
bellows breath,
An’ ploughmen
gather wi’ their graith,
O rare! to see thee
fizz an freath
I’ th’ luggit
caup!
Then Burnewin comes
on like death
At every chap.
Nae mercy then, for
airn or steel;
The brawnie, banie,
ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip,
wi’ sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block an’
studdie ring an reel,
Wi’ dinsome clamour.
When skirling weanies
see the light,
Though maks the gossips
clatter bright,
How fumblin’ cuiffs
their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social
night,
Or plack frae them.
When neibors anger at
a plea,
An’ just as wud
as wud can be,
How easy can the barley
brie
Cement the quarrel!
It’s aye the cheapest
lawyer’s fee,
To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e’er
my muse has reason,
To wyte her countrymen
wi’ treason!
But mony daily weet
their weason
Wi’ liquors nice,
An’ hardly, in
a winter season,
E’er Spier her
price.
Wae worth that brandy,
burnin trash!
Fell source o’
mony a pain an’ brash!
Twins mony a poor, doylt,
drucken hash,
O’ half his days;
An’ sends, beside,
auld Scotland’s cash
To her warst faes.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld
Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my
tale I tell,
Poor, plackless devils
like mysel’!
It sets you ill,
Wi’ bitter, dearthfu’
wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his
blather wrench,
An’ goûts
torment him, inch by inch,
What twists his gruntle
wi’ a glunch
O’ sour disdain,
Out owre a glass o’
whisky-punch
Wi’ honest men!
O Whisky! soul o’
plays and pranks!
Accept a bardie’s
gratfu’ thanks!
When wanting thee, what
tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!
Thou comes they
rattle in their ranks,
At ither’s a-s!
Thee, Ferintosh!
O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae
coast to coast!
Now colic grips, an’
barkin hoast
May kill us a’;
For loyal Forbes’
charter’d boast
Is ta’en awa?
Thae curst horse-leeches
o’ the’ Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells
their prize!
Haud up thy han’,
Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An’ bake them
up in brunstane pies
For poor damn’d
drinkers.
Fortune! if thou’ll
but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone,
an’ whisky gill,
An’ rowth o’
rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a’ the rest,
An’ deal’t
about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.