Sketch New Year’s Day .
To Mrs. Dunlop.
This day, Time winds
th’ exhausted chain;
To run the twelvemonth’s
length again:
I see, the old bald-pated
fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion
sallow,
Adjust the unimpair’d
machine,
To wheel the equal,
dull routine.
The absent lover, minor
heir,
In vain assail him with
their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he
sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one
moment less,
Will you (the Major’s
with the hounds,
The happy tenants share
his rounds;
Coila’s fair Rachel’s
care to-day,
And blooming Keith’s
engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares
a minute borrow,
(That grandchild’s
cap will do to-morrow,)
And join with me a-moralizing;
This day’s propitious
to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight
deliver?
“Another year
has gone for ever.”
And what is this day’s
strong suggestion?
“The passing moment’s
all we rest on!”
Rest on for
what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing
year?
Will Time, amus’d
with proverb’d lore,
Add to our date one
minute more?
A few days may a
few years must
Repose us in the silent
dust.
Then, is it wise to
damp our bliss?
Yes all such
reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature
loudly cries,
And many a message from
the skies,
That something in us
never dies:
That on his frail, uncertain
state,
Hang matters of eternal
weight:
That future life in
worlds unknown
Must take its hue from
this alone;
Whether as heavenly
glory bright,
Or dark as Misery’s
woeful night.
Since then, my honour’d
first of friends,
On this poor being all
depends,
Let us th’ important
now employ,
And live as those who
never die.
Tho’ you, with
days and honours crown’d,
Witness that filial
circle round,
(A sight life’s
sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale Envy to
convulse),
Others now claim your
chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your
bright reward.
Scots’ Prologue For Mr. Sutherland.
On his Benefit-Night,
at the Theatre, Dumfries.
What needs this din
about the town o’ Lon’on,
How this new play an’
that new sang is comin?
Why is outlandish stuff
sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend,
like brandy, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning
keen for fame,
Will try to gie us
sangs and plays at hame?
For Comedy abroad he
need to toil,
A fool and knave are
plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as
far as Rome or Greece,
To gather matter for
a serious piece;
There’s themes
enow in Caledonian story,
Would shew the Tragic
Muse in a’ her glory.
Is there no daring Bard
will rise and tell
How glorious Wallace
stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses
fled that could produce
A drama worthy o’
the name o’ Bruce?
How here, even here,
he first unsheath’d the sword
’Gainst mighty
England and her guilty Lord;
And after mony a bloody,
deathless doing,
Wrench’d his dear
country from the jaws of Ruin!
O for a Shakespeare,
or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely,
hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th’ omnipotence
of female charms
’Gainst headlong,
ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms:
She fell, but fell with
spirit truly Roman,
To glut that direst
foe a vengeful woman;
A woman, (tho’
the phrase may seem uncivil,)
As able and as wicked
as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in
Home’s immortal page,
But Douglasses were
heroes every age:
And tho’ your
fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas followed to
the martial strife,
Perhaps, if bowls row
right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where
a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done,
if a’ the land
Would take the Muses’
servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize,
befriend them,
And where he justly
can commend, commend them;
And aiblins when they
winna stand the test,
Wink hard, and say The
folks hae done their best!
Would a’ the land
do this, then I’ll be caition,
Ye’ll soon hae
Poets o’ the Scottish nation
Will gar Fame blaw until
her trumpet crack,
And warsle Time, an’
lay him on his back!
For us and for our Stage,
should ony spier,
“Whase aught thae
chiels maks a’ this bustle here?”
My best leg foremost,
I’ll set up my brow
We have the honour to
belong to you!
We’re your ain
bairns, e’en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers
shore before ye strike;
And gratefu’ still,
I trust ye’ll ever find us,
For gen’rous patronage,
and meikle kindness
We’ve got frae
a’ professions, sets and ranks:
God help us! we’re
but poor ye’se get but thanks.
Lines To A Gentleman,
Who had sent the Poet
a Newspaper, and offered
to continue it free
of Expense.
Kind Sir, I’ve
read your paper through,
And faith, to me, ’twas
really new!
How guessed ye, Sir,
what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I’ve
grain’d and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief
was brewin;
Or what the drumlie
Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper,
Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got
his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie
works
Atween the Russians
and the Turks,
Or if the Swede, before
he halt,
Would play anither Charles
the twalt;
If Denmark, any body
spak o’t;
Or Poland, wha had now
the tack o’t:
How cut-throat Prussian
blades were hingin;
How libbet Italy was
singin;
If Spaniard, Portuguese,
or Swiss,
Were sayin’ or
takin’ aught amiss;
Or how our merry lads
at hame,
In Britain’s court
kept up the game;
How royal George, the
Lord leuk o’er him!
Was managing St. Stephen’s
quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will
was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got
his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the
plea was cookin,
If Warren Hasting’s
neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents,
and fees were rax’d.
Or if bare arses yet
were tax’d;
The news o’ princes,
dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds,
and opera-girls;
If that daft buckie,
Geordie Wales,
Was threshing still
at hizzies’ tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins
douser,
And no a perfect kintra
cooser:
A’ this and mair
I never heard of;
And, but for you, I
might despair’d of.
So, gratefu’,
back your news I send you,
And pray a’ gude
things may attend you.
Ellisland, Monday Morning,
1790.
Elegy On Willie Nicol’s Mare.
Peg Nicholson was a
good bay mare,
As ever trod on airn;
But now she’s
floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o’
Cairn.
Peg Nicholson was a
good bay mare,
An’ rode thro’
thick and thin;
But now she’s
floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the
skin.
Peg Nicholson was a
good bay mare,
And ance she bore
a priest;
But now she’s
floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.
Peg Nicholson was a
good bay mare,
An’ the priest
he rode her sair;
And much oppress’d
and bruis’d she was,
As priest-rid cattle
are, &c. &c.
The Gowden Locks Of Anna.
Yestreen I had a pint
o’ wine,
A place where body saw
na;
Yestreen lay on this
breast o’ mine
The gowden locks of
Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness,
Rejoicing o’er
his manna,
Was naething to my hinny
bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.
Ye monarchs, take the
East and West
Frae Indus to Savannah;
Gie me, within my straining
grasp,
The melting form of
Anna:
There I’ll despise
Imperial charms,
An Empress or Sultana,
While dying raptures
in her arms
I give and take wi’
Anna!
Awa, thou flaunting
God of Day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!
Ilk Star, gae hide thy
twinkling ray,
When I’m to meet
my Anna!
Come, in thy raven plumage,
Night,
(Sun, Moon, and Stars,
withdrawn a’;)
And bring an angel-pen
to write
My transports with my
Anna!
Postscript.
The Kirk an’ State
may join an’ tell,
To do sic things I maunna:
The Kirk an’ State
may gae to hell,
And I’ll gae to
my Anna.
She is the sunshine
o’ my e’e,
To live but her I canna;
Had I on earth but wishes
three,
The first should be
my Anna.
Song I Murder Hate.
I murder hate by flood
or field,
Tho’ glory’s
name may screen us;
In wars at home I’ll
spend my blood
Life-giving wars of
Venus.
The deities that I adore
Are social Peace and
Plenty;
I’m better pleas’d
to make one more,
Than be the death of
twenty.
I would not die like
Socrates,
For all the fuss of
Plato;
Nor would I with Leonidas,
Nor yet would I with
Cato:
The zealots of the Church
and State
Shall ne’er my
mortal foes be;
But let me have bold
Zimri’s fate,
Within the arms of Cozbi!
Gudewife, Count The Lawin.
Gane is the day, and
mirk’s the night,
But we’ll ne’er
stray for faut o’ light;
Gude ale and bratdy’s
stars and moon,
And blue-red wine’s
the risin’ sun.
Chorus. Then
gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then gudewife, count
the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.
There’s wealth
and ease for gentlemen,
And simple folk maun
fecht and fen’;
But here we’re
a’ in ae accord,
For ilka man that’s
drunk’s a lord.
Then gudewife, &c.
My coggie is a haly
pool
That heals the wounds
o’ care and dool;
And Pleasure is a wanton
trout,
An ye drink it a’,
ye’ll find him out.
Then gudewife, &c.
Election Ballad.
At the close of the contest for representing the Dumfries
Burghs, 1790.
Addressed to R. Graham,
Esq. of Fintry.
Fintry, my stay in wordly
strife,
Friend o’ my muse,
friend o’ my life,
Are ye as idle’s
I am?
Come then, wi’
uncouth kintra fleg,
O’er Pegasus I’ll
fling my leg,
And ye shall see me
try him.
But where shall I go
rin a ride,
That I may splatter
nane beside?
I wad na be uncivil:
In manhood’s various
paths and ways
There’s aye some
doytin’ body strays,
And I ride like the
devil.
Thus I break aff wi’
a’ my birr,
And down yon dark, deep
alley spur,
Where Theologics daunder:
Alas! curst wi’
eternal fogs,
And damn’d in
everlasting bogs,
As sure’s the
creed I’ll blunder!
I’ll stain a band,
or jaup a gown,
Or rin my reckless,
guilty crown
Against the haly door:
Sair do I rue my luckless
fate,
When, as the Muse an’
Deil wad hae’t,
I rade that road
before.
Suppose I take a spurt,
and mix
Amang the wilds o’
Politics
Electors and elected,
Where dogs at Court
(sad sons of bitches!)
Septennially a madness
touches,
Till all the land’s
infected.
All hail! Drumlanrig’s
haughty Grace,
Discarded remnant of
a race
Once godlike great
in story;
Thy forbears’
virtues all contrasted,
The very name of Douglas
blasted,
Thine that inverted
glory!
Hate, envy, oft the
Douglas bore,
But thou hast superadded
more,
And sunk them in contempt;
Follies and crimes have
stain’d the name,
But, Queensberry, thine
the virgin claim,
From aught that’s
good exempt!
I’ll sing the
zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Who left the all-important
cares
Of princes, and their
darlings:
And, bent on winning
borough touns,
Came shaking hands wi’
wabster-loons,
And kissing barefit
carlins.
Combustion thro’
our boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring
pack abroad
Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry blue
and buff unfurl’d,
And Westerha’
and Hopetoun hurled
To every Whig defiance.
But cautious Queensberry
left the war,
Th’ unmanner’d
dust might soil his star,
Besides, he hated bleeding:
But left behind him
heroes bright,
Heroes in Caesarean
fight,
Or Ciceronian pleading.
O for a throat like
huge Mons-Meg,
To muster o’er
each ardent Whig
Beneath Drumlanrig’s
banners;
Heroes and heroines
commix,
All in the field of
politics,
To win immortal honours.
M’Murdo and his
lovely spouse,
(Th’ enamour’d
laurels kiss her brows!)
Led on the Loves and
Graces:
She won each gaping
burgess’ heart,
While he, sub rosa,
played his part
Amang their wives and
lasses.
Craigdarroch led a light-arm’d
core,
Tropes, metaphors,
and figures pour,
Like Hecla streaming
thunder:
Glenriddel, skill’d
in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory’s
dark designs,
And bared the treason
under.
In either wing two champions
fought;
Redoubted Staig, who
set at nought
The wildest savage Tory;
And Welsh who ne’er
yet flinch’d his ground,
High-wav’d his
magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopeian fury.
Miller brought up th’
artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of
the Banks,
Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton, that
baron bold,
’Mid Lawson’s
port entrench’d his hold,
And threaten’d
worse damnation.
To these what Tory hosts
oppos’d
With these what Tory
warriors clos’d
Surpasses my descriving;
Squadrons, extended
long and large,
With furious speed rush
to the charge,
Like furious devils
driving.
What verse can sing,
what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of
bloody Fate,
Amid this mighty tulyie!
Grim Horror girn’d,
pale Terror roar’d,
As Murder at his thrapple
shor’d,
And Hell mix’d
in the brulyie.
As Highland craigs by
thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire
the stormy lift,
Hurl down with crashing
rattle;
As flames among a hundred
woods,
As headlong foam from
a hundred floods,
Such is the rage of
Battle.
The stubborn Tories
dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks
would fly
Before th’ approaching
fellers:
The Whigs come on like
Ocean’s roar,
When all his wintry
billows pour
Against the Buchan Bullers.
Lo, from the shades
of Death’s deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy
the fight,
And think on former
daring:
The muffled murtherer
of Charles
The Magna Charter flag
unfurls,
All deadly gules its
bearing.
Nor wanting ghosts of
Tory fame;
Bold Scrimgeour follows
gallant Graham;
Auld Covenanters shiver
Forgive! forgive! much-wrong’d
Montrose!
Now Death and Hell engulph
thy foes,
Thou liv’st on
high for ever.
Still o’er the
field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give
way by turns;
But Fate the word has
spoken:
For woman’s wit
and strength o’man,
Alas! can do but what
they can;
The Tory ranks are broken.
O that my een were flowing
burns!
My voice, a lioness
that mourns
Her darling cubs’
undoing!
That I might greet,
that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while
Tories fly,
And furious Whigs pursuing!
What Whig but melts
for good Sir James,
Dear to his country,
by the names,
Friend, Patron, Benefactor!
Not Pulteney’s
wealth can Pulteney save;
And Hopetoun falls,
the generous, brave;
And Stewart, bold as
Hector.
Thou, Pitt, shalt rue
this overthrow,
And Thurlow growl a
curse of woe,
And Melville melt in
wailing:
Now Fox and Sheridan
rejoice,
And Burke shall sing,
“O Prince, arise!
Thy power is all-prevailing!”
For your poor friend,
the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees
the war,
A cool spectator purely!
So, when the storm the
forest rends,
The robin in the hedge
descends,
And sober chirps securely.
Now, for my friends’
and brethren’s sakes,
And for my dear-lov’d
Land o’ Cakes,
I pray with holy fire:
Lord, send a rough-shod
troop o’ Hell
O’er a’
wad Scotland buy or sell,
To grind them in the
mire!
Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson.
A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately
from
Almighty God.
Should the poor be flattered? Shakespeare.
O Death! thou tyrant
fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi’
a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his
black smiddie,
O’er hurcheon
hides,
And like stock-fish
come o’er his studdie
Wi’ thy auld sides!
He’s gane, he’s
gane! he’s frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e’er
was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature’s
sel’ shall mourn,
By wood and wild,
Where haply, Pity strays
forlorn,
Frae man exil’d.
Ye hills, near neighbours
o’ the starns,
That proudly cock your
cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs, the haunts
of sailing earns,
Where Echo slumbers!
Come join, ye Nature’s
sturdiest bairns,
My wailing numbers!
Mourn, ilka grove the
cushat kens!
Ye haz’ly shaws
and briery dens!
Ye burnies, wimplin’
down your glens,
Wi’ toddlin din,
Or foaming, strang,
wi’ hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.
Mourn, little harebells
o’er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves,
fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging
bonilie,
In scented bow’rs;
Ye roses on your thorny
tree,
The first o’ flow’rs.
At dawn, when ev’ry
grassy blade
Droops with a diamond
at his head,
At ev’n, when
beans their fragrance shed,
I’ th’ rustling
gale,
Ye maukins, whiddin
thro’ the glade,
Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters
o’ the wood;
Ye grouse that crap
the heather bud;
Ye curlews, calling
thro’ a clud;
Ye whistling plover;
And mourn, we whirring
paitrick brood;
He’s gane for
ever!
Mourn, sooty coots,
and speckled teals;
Ye fisher herons, watching
eels;
Ye duck and drake, wi’
airy wheels
Circling the lake;
Ye bitterns, till the
quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.
Mourn, clam’ring
craiks at close o’ day,
‘Mang fields o’
flow’ring clover gay;
And when ye wing your
annual way
Frae our claud shore,
Tell thae far warlds
wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae your
ivy bow’r
In some auld tree, or
eldritch tow’r,
What time the moon,
wi’ silent glow’r,
Sets up her horn,
Wail thro’ the
dreary midnight hour,
Till waukrife morn!
O rivers, forests, hills,
and plains!
Oft have ye heard my
canty strains;
But now, what else for
me remains
But tales of woe;
And frae my een the
drapping rains
Maun ever flow.
Mourn, Spring, thou
darling of the year!
Ilk cowslip cup shall
kep a tear:
Thou, Simmer, while
each corny spear
Shoots up its head,
Thy gay, green, flow’ry
tresses shear,
For him that’s
dead!
Thou, Autumn, wi’
thy yellow hair,
In grief thy sallow
mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling
thro’ the air
The roaring blast,
Wide o’er the
naked world declare
The worth we’ve
lost!
Mourn him, thou Sun,
great source of light!
Mourn, Empress of the
silent night!
And you, ye twinkling
starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!
For through your orbs
he’s ta’en his flight,
Ne’er to return.
O Henderson! the man!
the brother!
And art thou gone, and
gone for ever!
And hast thou crost
that unknown river,
Life’s dreary
bound!
Like thee, where shall
I find another,
The world around!
Go to your sculptur’d
tombs, ye Great,
In a’ the tinsel
trash o’ state!
But by thy honest turf
I’ll wait,
Thou man of worth!
And weep the ae best
fellow’s fate
E’er lay in earth.
The Epitaph.
Stop, passenger! my
story’s brief,
And truth I shall relate,
man;
I tell nae common tale
o’ grief,
For Matthew was a great
man.
If thou uncommon merit
hast,
Yet spurn’d at
Fortune’s door, man;
A look of pity hither
cast,
For Matthew was a poor
man.
If thou a noble sodger
art,
That passest by this
grave, man;
There moulders here
a gallant heart,
For Matthew was a brave
man.
If thou on men, their
works and ways,
Canst throw uncommon
light, man;
Here lies wha weel had
won thy praise,
For Matthew was a bright
man.
If thou, at Friendship’s
sacred ca’,
Wad life itself resign,
man:
Thy sympathetic tear
maun fa’,
For Matthew was a kind
man.
If thou art staunch,
without a stain,
Like the unchanging
blue, man;
This was a kinsman o’
thy ain,
For Matthew was a true
man.
If thou hast wit, and
fun, and fire,
And ne’er guid
wine did fear, man;
This was thy billie,
dam, and sire,
For Matthew was a queer
man.
If ony whiggish, whingin’
sot,
To blame poor Matthew
dare, man;
May dool and sorrow
be his lot,
For Matthew was a rare
man.
But now, his radiant
course is run,
For Matthew’s
was a bright one!
His soul was like the
glorious sun,
A matchless, Heavenly
light, man.
Verses On Captain Grose.
Written on an Envelope,
enclosing a Letter to Him.
Ken ye aught o’
Captain Grose? Igo, and ago,
If he’s amang
his friends or foes? Iram, coram, dago.
Is he to Abra’m’s
bosom gane? Igo, and ago,
Or haudin Sarah by the
wame? Iram, coram dago.
Is he south or is he
north? Igo, and ago,
Or drowned in the river
Forth? Iram, coram dago.
Is he slain by Hielan’
bodies? Igo, and ago,
And eaten like a wether
haggis? Iram, coram, dago.
Where’er he be,
the Lord be near him! Igo, and ago,
As for the deil, he
daur na steer him. Iram, coram,
dago.
But please transmit
th’ enclosed letter, Igo, and ago,
Which will oblige your
humble debtor. Iram, coram, dago.
So may ye hae auld stanes
in store, Igo, and ago,
The very stanes that
Adam bore. Iram, coram, dago,
So may ye get in glad
possession, Igo, and ago,
The coins o’ Satan’s
coronation! Iram coram dago.
Tam O’ Shanter.
A Tale.
“Of Brownyis and
of Bogillis full is this Buke.”
Gawin Douglas.
When chapman billies
leave the street,
And drouthy neibors,
neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing
late,
And folk begin to tak
the gate,
While we sit bousing
at the nappy,
An’ getting fou
and unco happy,
We think na on
the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters,
slaps and stiles,
That lie between us
and our hame,
Where sits our sulky,
sullen dame,
Gathering her brows
like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to
keep it warm.
This truth fand
honest Tam o’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night
did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er
a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie
lasses).
O Tam! had’st
thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife
Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel
thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering,
drunken blellum;
That frae November till
October,
Ae market-day thou was
na sober;
That ilka melder wi’
the Miller,
Thou sat as lang
as thou had siller;
That ev’ry naig
was ca’d a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat
roarin’ fou on;
That at the Lord’s
house, ev’n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’
Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that
late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep
drown’d in Doon,
Or catch’d wi’
warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld,
haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames!
it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels
sweet,
How mony lengthen’d,
sage advices,
The husband frae the
wife despises!
But to our tale:
Ae market night,
Tam had got planted
unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing
finely,
Wi reaming saats, that
drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter
Johnie,
His ancient, trusty,
drougthy crony:
Tam lo’ed him
like a very brither;
They had been fou for
weeks thegither.
The night drave
on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;
And aye the ale was
growing better:
The Landlady and Tam
grew gracious,
Wi’ favours secret,
sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his
queerest stories;
The Landlord’s
laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might
rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind
the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man
sae happy,
E’en drown’d
himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi’
lades o’ treasure,
The minutes wing’d
their way wi’ pleasure:
Kings may be blest,
but Tam was glorious,
O’er a’
the ills o’ life victorious!
But pleasures are like
poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r,
its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls
in the river,
A moment white then
melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis
race,
That flit ere you can
point their place;
Or like the Rainbow’s
lovely form
Evanishing amid the
storm.
Nae man can tether Time
nor Tide,
The hour approaches
Tam maun ride;
That hour, o’
night’s black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he
mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks
the road in,
As ne’er poor
sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as ’twad
blawn its last;
The rattling showers
rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the
darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep, and lang,
the thunder bellow’d:
That night, a child
might understand,
The deil had business
on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his
grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted
leg,
Tam skelpit on thro’
dub and mire,
Despising wind, and
rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast
his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o’er
some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow’rin
round wi’ prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him
unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing
nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets
nightly cry.
By this time he was
cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the
chapman smoor’d;
And past the birks and
meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie
brak’s neck-bane;
And thro’ the
whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand
the murder’d bairn;
And near the thorn,
aboon the well,
Where Mungo’s
mither hang’d hersel’.
Before him Doon pours
all his floods,
The doubling storm roars
thro’ the woods,
The lightnings flash
from pole to pole,
Near and more near the
thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro’
the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem’d
in a bleeze,
Thro’ ilka bore
the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth
and dancing.
Inspiring bold John
Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst
make us scorn!
Wi’ tippenny,
we fear nae evil;
Wi’ usquabae,
we’ll face the devil!
The swats sae ream’d
in Tammie’s noddle,
Fair play, he car’d
na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right
sair astonish’d,
Till, by the heel and
hand admonish’d,
She ventur’d forward
on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw
an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches
in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent
new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs,
strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle
in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in
the east,
There sat auld Nick,
in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black,
grim, and large,
To gie them music was
his charge:
He screw’d the
pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters
a’ did dirl.
Coffins stood round,
like open presses,
That shaw’d the
Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish
cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand
held a light.
By which heroic Tam
was able
To note upon the haly
table,
A murderer’s banes,
in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang,
wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted
frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp
his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’
blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi’
murder crusted;
A garter which a babe
had strangled:
A knife, a father’s
throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of
life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack
to the heft;
Wi’ mair of horrible
and awfu’,
Which even to name wad
be unlawfu’.
As Tammie glowr’d,
amaz’d, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew
fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder
blew,
The dancers quick and
quicker flew,
The reel’d, they
set, they cross’d, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat
and reekit,
And coost her duddies
to the wark,
And linkit at it in
her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had
they been queans,
A’ plump and strapping
in their teens!
Their sarks, instead
o’ creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen
hunder linen!
Thir breeks o’
mine, my only pair,
That ance were
plush o’ guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them
off my hurdies,
For ae blink o’
the bonie burdies!
But wither’d beldams,
auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean
a foal,
Louping an’ flinging
on a crummock.
I wonder did na
turn thy stomach.
But Tam kent what was
what fu’ brawlie:
There was ae winsome
wench and waulie
That night enlisted
in the core,
Lang after ken’d
on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to
dead she shot,
And perish’d mony
a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle
corn and bear,
And kept the country-side
in fear);
Her cutty sark, o’
Paisley harn,
That while a lassie
she had worn,
In longitude tho’
sorely scanty,
It was her best, and
she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken’d
thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for
her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots (’twas
a’ her riches),
Wad ever grac’d
a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her
wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far
beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap
and flang,
(A souple jade
she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like
ane bewithc’d,
And thought his very
een enrich’d:
Even Satan glowr’d,
and fidg’d fu’ fain,
And hotch’d and
blew wi’ might and main:
Till first ae caper,
syne anither,
Tam tint his reason
a thegither,
And roars out, “Weel
done, Cutty-sark!”
And in an instant all
was dark:
And scarcely had he
Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish
legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi’
angry fyke,
When plundering herds
assail their byke;
As open pussie’s
mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts
before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When “Catch the
thief!” resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the
witches follow,
Wi’ mony an eldritch
skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam!
thou’ll get thy fairin!
In hell, they’ll
roast thee like a herrín!
In vain thy Kate awaits
thy comin!
Kate soon will be a
woefu’ woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost,
Meg,
And win the key-stone
o’ the brig;^
There, at them thou
thy tail may toss,
A running stream they
dare na cross.
But ere the keystane
she could make,
The fient a tail she
had to shake!
For Nannie, far before
the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie
prest,
And flew at Tam wi’
furious ettle;
But little wist she
Maggie’s mettle!
Ae spring brought off
her master hale,
But left behind her
ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her
by the rump,
And left poor Maggie
scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o’
truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother’s
son, take heed:
Whene’er to Drink
you are inclin’d,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in
your mind,
Think ye may buy the
joys o’er dear;
Remember Tam o’
Shanter’s mare.
On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child.
Born in peculiar circumstances
of family distress.
Sweet flow’ret,
pledge o’ meikle love,
And ward o’ mony
a prayer,
What heart o’
stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet,
and fair?
November hirples o’er
the lea,
Chil, on thy lovely
form:
And gane, alas! the
shelt’ring tree,
Should shield thee frae
the storm.
May He who gives the
rain to pour,
And wings the blast
to blaw,
Protect thee frae the
driving show’r,
The bitter frost and
snaw.
May He, the friend o’
Woe and Want,
Who heals life’s
various stounds,
Protect and guard the
mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.
But late she flourish’d,
rooted fast,
Fair in the summer morn,
Now feebly bends she
in the blast,
Unshelter’d and
forlorn.
Blest be thy bloom,
thou lovely gem,
Unscath’d by ruffian
hand!
And from thee many a
parent stem
Arise to deck our land!
Elegy On The Late Miss Burnet Of Monboddo.
Life ne’er exulted
in so rich a prize,
As Burnet, lovely from
her native skies;
Nor envious death so
triumph’d in a blow,
As that which laid th’
accomplish’d Burnet low.
Thy form and mind, sweet
maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest
jewel set!
In thee, high Heaven
above was truest shown,
As by His noblest work
the Godhead best is known.
In vain ye flaunt in
summer’s pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet
with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that
chaunt your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm; Eliza
is no more.
Ye healthy wastes, immix’d
with reedy fens;
Ye mossy streams, with
sedge and rushes stor’d:
Ye rugged cliffs, o’erhanging
dreary glens,
To you I fly ye
with my soul accord.
Princes, whose cumb’rous
pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their
pompous exit hail,
And thou, sweet Excellence!
forsake our earth,
And not a Muse with
honest grief bewail?
We saw thee shine in
youth and beauty’s pride,
And Virtue’s light,
that beams beyond the spheres;
But, like the sun eclips’d
at morning tide,
Thou left us darkling
in a world of tears.
The parent’s heart
that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk,
a prey to grief and care;
So deckt the woodbine
sweet yon aged tree;
So, from it ravish’d,
leaves it bleak and bare.