p. 90¶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 neukAn' out o' sight,An' backlins-comin to the leukShe grew mair bright.
¶This was deny'd, it was affirm'd;The herds and hissels were alarm'dThe rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd,That beardless laddiesShould think they better were 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 burc sic hands,That faith, the youngsters took the sandsWi' nimble shanks;Till lairds forbad, by strict commands,Sic bluidy pranks.[91]But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an-stowe;Till now, amaist on ev'ry knoweYe'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 greetinWi' girnin spite,To hear the moon sae sadly lied onBy word an' write.
¶But shortly they will cowe the louns!Some auld-light herds in neebor tounsAre mind't, in things they ca' balloons,To tak a flight;An* stay ae month amang the moonsAn' 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' themJust i' their pouch;An' when the new-light billies see them,I think they'll crouch!
¶Sae, ye observe that a' this clatterIs naething but a "moonshine matter";But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatterIn logic tulyie,I hope we bardies ken some betterThan 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 ponderUpon an auld tree root;[92]Auld Ayr ran by before me,And bicker'd to the seas;A cushat crooded o'er me,That echoed through the braes
Tho'c Rue L 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 ', Ro VI N'rob in '
¶Tune—"Daintie Davie."THERE was a lad was born in Kyle,But whatna day o' whatna style,I doubt it's hardly worth the whileTo 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 aneWas five-and-twenty days begun, 1'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win'Blew hansel in on Robin.Robin was, &c.•Not published by Burns. 'January 25, 1759, the date of my hardship'svital existence.—R. B.[93]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.
¶"Hell 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 garThe bonie lasses lie aspar;But twenty fauts ye may hae waurSo blessins on thee! Robin."Robin was, &c.
¶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 'emTho' e'er sae short,Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash'd 'em.And thought it sport.[94]Tho' he was bred to kintra-wark,And counted was baith wight and stark,Yet that was never Robin's markTo mak a man;But tell him, he was learn'd and dark,Ye roos'd him then!
Epistle to John Gold Ie, in KilmarnockAuthor 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 plaguesMay seize you quick.
¶Poor gapin", glowrin' Superstition!Wae's me, she's in a sad condition:Fye: bring Blacky Joc\, 1 her state physician,To see her water;Alas, there's ground for great suspicionShe'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, 1Near unto death.
¶It's you an' Taylor 3 are the chiefTo blame for a' this black mischief;The Rev. J. Russell. Kilmarnock.—R. B. 1 Mr. Russell's Kirk.—R.Dr. Taylor of Norwich.—R. B.[95]But, could the Lord's ain folk get leave,A toom tar barrelAn' 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 quiedins-wise, between us twa,Weel may you speed!And tho' they sud you sair misca',Ne'er fash your head.
¶E'en swinge the do<js, and thresh them sicker!The mair they squeel aye chap the thicker;And still 'mang hands a hearty bickerO' 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 whitde.
The Holy Fair 1
¶A robe of seeming truth and trustHid crafty Observation;And secret hung, with poison'd crust.The dirk of Defamation:
¶1 "Holy Fair" is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramentaloccasion.—R. B.[96]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 mornWhen Nature's face is fair,I walked forth to view the corn,An' snuff the caller air.The rising sun owre Galston muirsWi' glorious light was glintin;The hares were hirplin down the furrs,The lav'rocks they were chantinFu' 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 shiningFu' 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 ony slaes:The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-Iowp,As light as ony Iambic,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 faceBut yet I canna name ye."[97]Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,An' taks me by the han's,"Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feckOf a' the ten comman'sA 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 laughinAt 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 bodyIn 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.[98]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'rinRight loud that day.
¶Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,An' screen our countra gentry;There Racer Jess,* 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 clacs;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 lassesTo 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'erIs silent expectation;For Moodie' speels the holy door,Wi' tidings o' damnation:[99]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 himWi' fright that day.
p. 99¶Hear how he clears the point o' faithWi' rattlin and wi' thumpin!Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,He's stampin, an' he's jumpin!His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout,His eldritch squeel an' gestures,O how they fire the heart devout,Like cantharidian plaistersOn sic a day!
¶But hark! the tent has chang'd its voice,There's peace an' rest nae langer;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' barrelsA lift that day.
¶What signifies his barren shine,Of moral powers an' reason?His English style, an' gesture fineAre 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 inThat's right that day.
¶In guid time comes an antidoteAgainst sic poison'd nostrum;For Peebles,' frae the water-fit,Ascends the holy rostrum:* Rev. George Smith of Galston. 5 Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-upon-Ayr.[100]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' neist the guard relieves,An' Orthodoxy raibles,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' senseLike hafflins-wise o'ercomes himAt 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 endIs like to breed a ruptureO' wrath that day.
¶Leeze me on drink! it gies us mairThan either school or college;It kindles wit, it waukcns lear,It pangs us fou o' knowledge:Be't whisky-gill or penny wheep,Or ony stronger potion,It never fails, on drinkin deep,To kittle up our notion,By night or day.
¶The lads an' lasses, blythely bentTo mind baith saul an' body,Sit round the table, weel content,An' steer about the toddy:street so called which faces the tent in Mauchline.—P.7 Rev. Alex. Miller, afterward of Kilmaurs.[101]On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,They're makin observations;While some are cozie i' the neuk,An' forming assignationsTo 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 snorinAsleep 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 lunchesAn' 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:[102]The auld guidmen, about the graceFrae 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-heelLet lasses be affrontedOn sic a day I
¶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 tuneFor crack that day.
¶How mony hearts this day convertsO' sinners and o' lasses!Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are ganeAs 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 houghmagandieSome ither day.
Third Epistle to J. Lapraik
¶GUID speed and furder to you, Johnie,Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bonie;[103]Now, when ye're nickin down fu' cannieThe staff o' bread,May ye ne'er want a stoup o* bran'yTo clear your head.
¶May Boreas never thresh your rigs,Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' haggsLike drivin wrack;But may the tapmost grain that wagsCome 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 itWi' muckle wark,An' took my jocteleg an whatt it,Like ony dark.
¶It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,Abusin me for harsh ill-natureOn 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 hillsTo 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 itIt winna break.[104]But if the beast an' branks be spar'dTill kye be gaun without the herd,And a' the vittel in the yard,An' theckit right,I mean your ingle-side to guardAe winter night.
¶Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitzShall make us baith sae blythe and witty,Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,An' be as cantyAs ye were nine years less than thretty—Sweet ane an' twenty I
¶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 mysel' in haste,Yours, Rab the Ranter.Sept. 13, 1785.
Epistle to There V. John M'm at HInclosing a Copy of " Holy Will Ie's Prayer," Which He HadRequested, Sept. 17, 1785
¶WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'rTo shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,Or in gulravage rinnin scowrTo pass the time,To you I dedicate the hourIn idle rhyme.
¶My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnetOn 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 itAnd anathcm her.[105]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 disgracesWaur nor their nonsense.
¶There's Gaw'n, misca'd waur than a beast,Wha has mair honour in his breastThan mony scores as guid's the priestWha sae abus'd him:And may a bard no crack his jestWhat 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 bleedBy worthless skellums.An' not a muse erect her headTo cowe the blcllums?
¶O Pope, had I thy satire's dartsTo gie the rascals their deserts,I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,An' tell aloudTheir jugglin hocus-pocus artsTo 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 beAn atheist clean,Than under gospel colours hid beJust for a screen.[106]An honest man may like a glass,An honest man may like a lass,But mean revenge, an' malice fauseHe'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 skouthOn 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 lineThus daurs to name thee;To stigmatise false friends of thineCan 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 thoseWho boldly dare thy cause maintainIn spite of foes:
¶In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,In spite o' undermining jobs,In spite o' dark banditti stabsAt worth an' merit,By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,But hellish spirit.
¶O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,Within thy presbyterial boundA candid liberal band is foundOf public teachers,As men, as Christians too, renown'd,An' manly preachers.[107]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 aneWhase heart ne'er wrang'd ye,But to his utmost would befriendOught that belang'd ye.
Second Epistle to DavieA Brother PoetAuld 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 clatterSome less maun sair.
¶Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,To cheer you thro' the weary widdleO' war'ly cares;Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddleYour 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 be lickitUntil 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;[108]Whiles dazed wi' love, whiles dazed wi' drink,Wi' jads or masons;An' whiles, but aye owre late, I thinkBraw sober lessons.
¶Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,Commen' to me the bardie clan;Except it be some idle planO' 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 spavieFrae door tae door.
Song — Young Peggy Blooms
¶Time—"Loch Eroch-sidc."YOUNC Peggy blooms our boniest lass,Her blush is like the morning,The rosy dawn, the springing grass,With early gems adorning.[109]Her eyes outshine the radiant beamsThat 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 browOf surly, savage Winter.Detraction's eye no aim can gain,Her winning pow'rs to lessen;And fretful Envy grins in vainThe poison'd tooth to fasten.
¶Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth,From ev'ry ill defend her!Inspire the highly-favour'd youthThe destinies intend her:Still fan the sweet connubial flameResponsive in each bosom;And bless the dear parental nameWith many a filial blossom.
Song — Farewell to Ballochmyle
¶Tune—"Miss Forbes'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;[110]And aye the wild-wood echoes 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 mairShall 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'IHer cheeks a mair celestial hue,A crimson still diviner!
Halloween '
¶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 arc 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 sec the remains of it among the more unenlightened in our own.—R. B.
¶Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
¶The simple pleasures of the lowly train;
¶To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
¶One native charm, than all the gloss of art.—GOLDSMITH.
¶1 Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, arc said on that night to hold a grand anniversary.—R. B.
p. 111¶UPON that night, when fairies lightOn 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, 5 to stray an' rove,Amang the rocks and streamsTo sport that night;
¶Amang the bonie winding banks,Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear;Where Bruce* ance rul'd the martial ranks,An' shook his Carrick spear;Some merry, friendly, countra-folksTogether did convene,To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks,An' haud their HalloweenFu' 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-babsWeel-knotted on their garten;Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabsGar lasses' hearts gang startinWhiles fast at night.
¶Then, first an' foremost, thro' the kail,Their stocks 5 maun a' be sought ance;'Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancientseat of the Earls of Cassilis.—R. B.1 A noted cavern near Colean house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as wellas Cassilis Downans, is famed, in country story, for being a favorite haunt offairies.—R. B.4 The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer ofhis country, were Earls of Carrick.—R. B.[112]They steek their een, and grape an' waleFor muckle anes, an' straught anes.Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift,An' wandered thro' the bow-kail,An' pou't for want o' better shiftA runt was like a sow-tailSae bow't that night.
p. 112¶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' joctclegs they taste them;Syne coziely, aboon the door,Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd themTo 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 kiudin in the fause-house 7Wi' him that night.
¶The auld guid-wife's weel-hoordit nits*Are round an' round divided,root, that is "tocher." or fortune; and the taste of the "custock," that is, the heartof the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems,or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the "runts," are placed somewhere abovethe head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance bringsinto the house are, according to the priority of placing the "runts," the names inquestion.—R. B.* They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats.If the third stalk wants the "top-pickle," that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, thepartv in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.—R. B.[113]An' mony lads an' lasses' fatesAre 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 chimlieFu' high that night.
p. 113¶Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e;Wha 'twas, she wadna tell;But this is joc^, 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 heartTo 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 wantedTo 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;[114]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 talkinTo spier that night.
¶Wee Jenny to her graunie says,"Will ye go wi' me, graunie?I'll eat the apple at the glass, 1 0I 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 bruntHer braw, new, worset apronOut 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:
¶•Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions:Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the "pot" a clue of blueyarn; wind it in a new clue off the old one; and, toward the latter end, somethingwill hold the thread: demand, "Wha hauds?" i. c, who holds? and answer will bereturned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your futurespouse.—R. B.1 0 Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; cat an apple before it, and sometraditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugalcompanion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.—R. B.[115]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 delecrit,On sic a night.
¶"Ae hairst afore the Shcrra-moor,I mind't as weel's yestreen—I was a gilpey then, I'm sureI was na past fyfteen:The simmer had been cauld an' wat,An' stuff was unco green;An' aye a rantin kirn we gat,An' just on HalloweenIt 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," I mind it weel,An' he made unco light o't;But mony a day was by himsel',He was sae sairly frightedThat 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.1 1 Steal out, unperccived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it withanything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then: "Hemp-seed,I saw thee, hemp-sced, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, comeafter me and pou thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearanceof the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, "Comeafter me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case, it simply appears.Others omit the harrowing, and say: "Come after me and harrow thee."—R. B,[116]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 lassCome after me, an' draw theeAs fast this night."
¶He whisd'd up Lord Lennox' MarchTo keep his courage cheery;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 wintleOut-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 grumphieAstecr that night!
¶Meg fain wad to the barn gaen,To winn three wcchts o' naething;"But for to meet the deil her lane,She pat but little faith in:1 1 This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to thebarn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is dangerthat the being about to ap|x-ar may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Thentake that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect wecall a "wecht," and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against thewind. Repeat it three times, and the third time an apparition will pass through thebarn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in question,and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.—R. B.[117]She gies the herd a pickle nits,An* twa red checkit apples,To watch, while for the barn she sets,In hopes to see Tam KipplesThat 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 chane'd the stack he faddom't thrice 1 3Was timmer-propt for thrawin:He taks a swirlie auld moss-oakFor some black, grousome carlin;An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke,Till skin in blypes cam haurlinAff'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, 1 4To dip her left sark-sleeve in,Was bent that night.1 3 Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a "bear-stack," and fathom it threetimes round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms theappearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.—R. B.1 4 You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to a south running spring,or rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bedin sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and, sometime near midnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object inquestion, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.—R. B.[118]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 underneath the braes,Below the spreading hazelUnseen that night.
¶Amang the brachcns, 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 poolOut-owre the lugs she plumpit,Wi' a plunge that night.
¶In order, on the clean hearth-stane,The Iuggies 1 5 three are ranged;An' ev'ry time great care is ta'enTo see them duly changed:Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joysSin' 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' funnic jokes—Their sports were cheap an' cheery:Till butter'd sowens," wi' fragrant lunt,1 5 Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave thethird empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes areranged; he (or she) dips the left hand; if by chance in the clean water, the future(husband or) wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, awidow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. Itis repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.—R. B." Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper.—R. B.[119]Set a' their gabs a-steerin;Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,They parted afF careerinFu' 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 startleAt 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 pastOut thro' thy cell.[120]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 cauldl
¶But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,In proving foresight may be vain;The best-laid schemes o'. mice an' menGang aft agley,An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,For promis'd joy!
¶Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' meThe 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 bowlWas the saving his soul,And port was celestial glory.
Epitaph for James Smith
¶LAMENT him, Mauchline husbands a',He aften did assist ye;[121]For had ye staid hale weeks awa,Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye.
¶Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pressTo school in bands thegither,O tread ye lightly on his grass,—Perhaps he was your father!
Adam Arm Our'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-whitde,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 splcuchan;For whilk we daurna show our faceWithin the clachan.
¶An' now we're dern'd in dens and hollows,And hunted, as was William Wallace,Wi' constables—thac blackguard fallows,An' sodgers baith;But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,That shamefu' death!
¶Auld grim black-bearded Geordie's seT—O shake him owre the mouth o' hell!There let him hing, an' roar, an' yellWi' 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,[122]May Sautan gie her doup a clinkWithin 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 wherryStraught through the lake,An' gie their hides a noble curryWi' oil of aik!
¶As for the jurr—puir worthless body!She's got mischief enough already;Wi' stang6d hips, and buttocks bluidyShe's suffer'd sair;But, may she wintle in a woody,If she wh—e mair!
The Jolly BeggarsA Cantata1
¶RecitativoWHEN 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 coreO' 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 brae'd wi' mealy bags,[123]And knapsack a' in order;His doxy lay within his arm;Wi' usquebae an' blankets warmShe blinkit on her sodger;An' aye he gies the tozie drabThe 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' swaggeringHe roar'd this ditty up—
p. 123¶AirTune—"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.Lai 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.[124]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—"Sodgcr 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, 6cc.
¶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 sodgcr 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 my old boy in a Cunningham fair,His rags regimental, they flutter'd so gaudy,My heart it rejoic'd at a sodger laddie.[125]And now 1 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.
¶RecitativoPoor 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 expectOf 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 CourtA tumbler ca'd the Premier.[126]Observ'd ye yon reverend ladMak 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 beganTo 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.[127]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, 8cc.
¶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 mournThe pleasures that will ne'er return:No 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 ApolloSet off wi' allegretto gleeHis 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' fearMay 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 CareSing whisde owre the lave o't.I am, 8cc.
¶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 kitde hair on thairms,Hunger, cauld, an' a' sic harms,May whisde 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 plivcr,[129]Unless he would from that time forthRelinquish her for ever.
¶Wi' ghasdy e'e, poor tweedle-deeUpon his hunkers bended,An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,An' so the quarrel ended.But tho' his little heart did grieveWhen 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 groundIn this my occupation;I've taen the gold, an' been enrolledIn many a noble squadron;But vain they search'd when off I march'dTo 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 bearThe budget and the apron!And by that stowp! my faith an' houp,And by that dear Kilbaigie,1If 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 fairIn his embraces sunk;Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,[130]An' partly she was drunk:Sir Violino, with an airThat show'd a man o' spunk,Wish'd unison between the pair,An' made the bottle clunkTo their health that night.
p. 130¶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 bladeAs 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 lie sad,An' thus the muse suggestedHis sang that night.
¶AirTune—"For a' that, an' a' that."I am a Bard of no regard,Wi' gende folks an' a' that;But Homer-like, the glowrin byke,Frae town to town I draw that.
¶ChorusFor 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.'Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record.—R. B.[131]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, &x.
¶Great love I bear to a' the fair,Their humble slave an' a' that;But lordly will, I hold it stillA 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, 6cc
¶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.
¶RecitativoSo sang the bard—and Nansie's wa'sShook 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 thrangThe poet did requestTo lowse his pack an' wale a sang,[132]A ballad o' the best;He rising, rejoicing,Between his twa Deborahs,Looks round him, an' found themImpatient for the chorus.
¶AirTune—"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—
¶ChorusA fig for those by law protected 1Liberty's a glorious feast!Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.
¶What is tide, what is treasure,What is reputation's care?If we lead a life of pleasure,'Tis no matter how or where!A fig for, Jcc.
¶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 carriageThro' the country lighter rove?Does the sober bed of marriageWitness brighter scenes of love?A fig for, &c.
¶Life is all a variorum,We regard not how it goes;Let them cant about decorum,Who have character to lose.A fig for, 8tc.[133]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!
¶ChorusA fig for those by law protected!Liberty's a glorious (east!Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.
Song — for A'th at *
¶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.
¶ChorusFor a* that, an' a' that,And twice as meikle's a' that;The bonie lass that I loe bestShe'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 stillA 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,'A later version of "I am a bard of no regard" in "The Jolly Beggars.**[134]But for how lang the flie may stang,Let inclination law that.For a' that, 8cc.
¶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 TEETH IN A HECKLE
¶Tune—"The bob o' Dumblanc."
¶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 dool I lickit my winninsO' 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 Cot Ter'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;[135]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 throughTo 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 rinA 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, unnotie'd fleet:[136]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's 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 bame.The wily mother sees the conscious flameSparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek;With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,While Jenny hafHins 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 spyWhat 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,[137]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 pairIn other's arms, breathe out the tender tale,Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening
¶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 wine, garrulous, will tellHow 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;[138]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 wageWith Amalek's ungracious progeny;Or how the royal bard did groaning lieBeneath 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 guildess 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'scommand.
¶Then, kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,The saint, the father, and the husband prays:Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"1That 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[139]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.
p. 139¶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 toilBe blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!And O! may Heaven their simple lives preventFrom luxury's contagion, weak and vile!Then, howe'cr 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.[140]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-bardIn bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
Address to the Deil
Milton.
¶O THOU! whatever tide 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-wing'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;[141]Or where auld ruin'd castles greyNod to the moon,Ye fright the nighdy 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, rusdin, 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 bristl'd hair stood like a stake,When wi' an eldritch, stoor "quaick, quaick,"Amang the springs,Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,On whisdin' 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'enBy witchin' skill;An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's ganeAs yell's the bill.[142]Thence mystic knots mak great abuseOn 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 travllers are allur'dTo their destruction.
¶And aft your moss-traversin SpunkiesDecoy the wight that late an' drunk is:The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkiesDelude his eyes,Till in some miry slough he sunk is,Ne'er mair to rise.
¶When masons' mystic word an' gripIn storms an' tempests raise you up,Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,Or, strange to tell IThe youngest brither ye wad whipAff straught to hell.
¶Lang syne in Eden'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
¶' The verse originally ran:"Lang syne, in Eden's happy sceneWhen strappin Adam's days were green.And Eve was like my bonie Jean,My dearest part,A dancin, sweet, young handsome quean,O' guileless heart."[143]An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,(Black be your fa'!)An' gied the infant warld a shog,'Maist ruin'd a'.
¶D'ye mind that day when in a bizzWi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,Ye did present your smoutie phiz'Mang better folk,An' sklented on the man of UzzYour 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 tongue, 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 linkinTo 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—Still hae a stake:I'm wae to think upo' yon den,Ev'n for your sake!* Vide Milton, Book vi.—R. B.
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, xxxi. 6, 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 namel
¶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' grainl
¶On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,In souple scones, the wale o' food!Or tumblin in the boiling floodWi' 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,[145]When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;But, oil'd by thee,The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,Wi' ratdin glee.
¶Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,At's weary toil;Thou even brightens dark DespairWi' gloomy smile.
¶Aft, clad in massy siller weed,Wi' gendes thou erects thy head;Yet, humbly kind in time o' need,The poor man's wine;His wee 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 morninIn 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 freathI' th' luggit caup!Then Burnewin comes on like deathAt every chap.[146]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,Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,How fumblin' cuifs 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 brieCement 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 weasonWi' 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 cashTo her warst faes.
¶Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well IYe chief, to you my tale I tell,Poor, plackless devils like mysel'!It sets you ill,Wi' bitter, dearthru* wines to mell,Or foreign gill.[147]May gravels round his blather wrench,An' gouts torment him, inch by inch,Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunchO' sour disdain,Out owre a glass o' whisky-punchWi' honest men!
¶O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks!Accept a bardie's gratfu' thanks!When wanting thee, what tuneless cranksAre my poor verses!Thou comes—they ratde in their ranks,At ither's a—s!
¶Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!Scotland lament frae coast to coast!Now colic grips, an' barkin hoastMay kill us a';For loyal Forbes' charter'd boastIs 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 piesFor poor damn'd drinkers.
¶Fortune! if thou'll but gie me stillHale brceks, a scone, an' whisky gill,An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,Tak a' the rest,An' deal't about as thy blind skillDirects thee best.
The Auld Far Me R's New - Year - MorningSalutation to His Auld M Are, Maggie
¶On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year.
¶A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie!Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie,I've seen the day[148]Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,Out-owre the lay.
¶Tho* now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,A bonie gray:He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,Ance in a day.
¶Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank;An' set weel down a shapely shank,As e'er tread yird;An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,Like ony bird.
¶It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,Sin' thou was my guid-father's mear;He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,An' fifty mark;Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,An' thou was stark.
¶When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,Ye then was trotting wi' your minnie:Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,Ye ne'er was donsie;But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,An' unco sonsie.
¶That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,When ye bure hame my bonie bride:An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,Wi' maiden air!Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wideFor sic a pair.
¶Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,An' wintle like a saumont coble,[149]That day, ye was a jinker noble,For heels an' win'lAn' ran them till they a' did wauble,Far, far, behin'l
¶When thou an' I were young an' skeigh,An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,How thou wad prance, and snore, an' skreighAn' tak the road!Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,An' ca't thee mad.
¶When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,We took the road aye like a swallow:At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,For pith an' speed;But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,Whare'er thou gaed.
¶The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattleMight aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;But sax Scotch mile, thou try't their metde,An' gar't them whaizle:Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattleO' saugh or hazel.
¶Thou was a noble fittie-lan',As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gaun,In guid March-weather,Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',For days thegither.
¶Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' flisk.it;But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,Wi' pith an' power;Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' riskitAn' slypet owre.
¶When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,An' threaten'd labour back to keep,[150]I gied thy cog a wee bit heapA boon the timmer:I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep,For that, or simmer.
¶In cart or car thou never reestit;The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit,Then stood to blaw;But just thy step a wee thing hastit,Thou snoov't awa.
¶My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a',Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa,That thou hast nurst:They drew me thretteen pund an' twa.The vera warst.
¶Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,An' wi' the weary warl' fought!An' mony an anxious day, I thoughtWe wad be beat!Yet here to crazy age we're brought,Wi' something yet.
¶An' think na', my auld trusty servan',That now perhaps thou's less deservin.An' thy auld days may end in starvin;For my last fow,A heapit srimpart, I'll reserve aneLaid by for you.
¶We've worn to crazy years thegither;We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tetherTo some hain'd rig,Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,Wi' sma' fatigue.
The Twa Dogs 'A Talb
¶T WAS in that place o' Scotland's isle,That bears the name o' auld King Coil,Upon a bonie day in June,When wearin' thro' the afternoon,Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,Forgather'd ance upon a time.The first 111 name, they ca'd him Cassar,Was keepit for His Honor's pleasure:His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;But whalpit some place far abroad,Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.His locked, letter'd, braw brass collarShew'd him the gentleman an' scholar;But though he was o' high degree,The fient a pride, nae pride had he;But wad hae spent an hour caressin,Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin:At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.The tither was a ploughman's collie—A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,After some dog in Highland sang,*Was made lang syne,—Lord knows how lang.He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.His honest, sonsie, baws'nt faceAye gat him friends in ilka place;His breast was white, his touzie backWeel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl,Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl.
¶Luath was Burns's own dog.Luath. Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's "Fingal."—R. B.[152]Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,And unco pack an' thick thegither;Wi' social nose whiles snuff'd an' snowkit;Whiles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;Whiles scour'd awa' in lang excursion,An' worry'd ither in diversion;Until wi' daffin' weary grownUpon a knowe they set them down.An' there began a lang digression.About the "lords o' the creation."
CiESAR
¶I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;An' when the gentry's life I saw,What way poor bodies liv'd ava.Our laird gets in his racked rents,His coals, his kane, an' a' his stents:He rises when he likes himsel';His flunkies answer at the bell;He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse;He draws a bonie silken purse,As lang's my tail, where, thro' the steeks,The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toilingAt baking, roasting, frying, boiling;An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechanWi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie,That's little short o' downright wastrie.Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonncr,Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner,Better than ony tenant-manHis Honour has in a' the !an':An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,I own it's past my comprehension.
Luath
¶Trowth, Carsar, whiles they're fash't eneujA cottar howkin in a sheugh,Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,[153]Baring a quarry, an' sic like;Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains,A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,An' nought but his han'-daurk, to keepThem right an' tight in thack an' rape.An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,Like loss o' health or want o' masters,Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger:But how it comes, I never kent yet,They're maisdy wonderfu' contented;An* buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,Are bred in sic a way as this is.
Cjesar
¶But then to see how ye're negleckit,How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit!Lord man, our gentry care as littleFor delvers, ditchers, an' sic catde;They gang as saucy by poor folk,As I wad by a stinkin brock.I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day,—An' mony a time my heart's been wae,—Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,How they maun thole a factor's snash;He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swearHe'll apprehend them, poind their gear;While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!I see how folk live that hae riches;But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!
Luath
¶They're no sae wretched's ane wad think.Tho' constantly on poortith's brink,They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,The view o't gives them little fright.Then chance and fortune are sae guided,They're aye in less or mair provided:An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment,[154]A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.The dearest comfort o' their lives,Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;The pratding things are just their pride,That sweetens a' their fire-side.An' whiles twalpennie worth o' nappyCan mak the bodies unco happy:They lay aside their private cares,To mind the Kirk and State affairs;They'll talk o' patronage an' priests,Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts,Or tell what new taxation's comin,An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns,They get the jovial, rantin kirns,When rural life, of ev'ry station,Unite in common recreation;Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social MirthForgets there's Care upo' the earth.That merry day the year begins,They bar the door on frosty win's;The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,Are handed round wi' right guid will;The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,The young anes rantin thro' the house—My heart has been sae fain to see them,That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.Still it's owre true that ye hae said,Sic game is now owre aften play'd;There's mony a creditable stockO' decent, honest, fawsont folk,Are riven out baith root an' branch,Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,Wha thinks to knit himsel the fasterIn favour wi' some gentle master,Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,For Britain's guid his saul indentin—
C*sAR
¶Haith, lad, ye little ken about it:For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him:An' saying ay or no's they bid him:At operas an' plays parading,Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:Or maybe, in a frolic daft,To Hague or Calais takes a waft,To mak a tour an' tak a whirl,To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'.There, at Vienna, or Versailles,He rives his father's auld entails;Or by Madrid he takes the rout,To thrum guitars an' fecht wi' nowt;Or down Italian vista stardes,Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtlesThen bowses drumlie German-water,To mak himsel look fair an' fatter,An' clear the consequential sorrows,Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.For Britain's guid! for her destruction!Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
Luath
¶Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gateThey waste sae mony a braw estate!Are we sae foughten an' harass'dFor gear to gang that gate at last?O would they stay aback frae courts,An' please themsels wi' country sports,It wad for ev'ry ane be better,The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter!For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,Feint haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;Except for breakin o' their timmer,Or speakin lightly o' their limmer.Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk,[156]But will ye tell me, Master Cxsar,Sure great folk's life 's a life o' pleasure?Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,The very thought o't need na fear them.
C t SAR
¶Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am,The gendes, ye wad ne'er envy them!It's true, they need na starve or sweat,Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat:They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes:But human bodies are sic fools,For a' their colleges an' schools,That when nae real ills perplex them,They mak enow themsel's to vex them;An' aye the less they hae to sturt them,In like proportion, less will hurt them.A country fellow at the pleugh,His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh;A country girl at her wheel,Her dizzen's dune, she's unco weel;But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,Wi' ev'n-down want o' wark are curst.They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy;Tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy;Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless;Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless.An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races,Their galloping through public places,There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,The joy can scarcely reach the heart.The men cast out in party-matches,Then sowther a' in deep debauches.Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' whoring,Niest day their life is past enduring.The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,As great an' gracious a' as sisters;But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,They're a' run-deils an' jads thegither.[157]Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,They sip the scandal-potion pretty;Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuksPore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,An' cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.There's some exceptions, man an' woman;But this is gentry's life in common.
¶By this, the sun was out of sight,An' darker gloamin brought the night;The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;The kye stood rowtin i' the loan;When up they gat an' shook their lugs,Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs;An' each took aff his several way,Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
The Au Tho R's Earnest Cry and Prayer
¶To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the
¶House of Commons. 1
Parody on Milton.
¶YE Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,Wha represent our brughs an' shires,An' doucely manage our affairsIn parliament,To you a simple poet's pray'rsAre humbly sent.
¶Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,To see her sittin on her arseLow i' the dust,And scriechin out prosaic verse,An' like to brust!
¶•This was written before the Act ancnt the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.—R. B.