 | The Siller Gun, A Poem in Five Cantos. By John Mayne |  |
125
CANTO FIFTH.
RETURN HOME—BIRTH-DAY BANQUET IN THE TOWN'S-HALL, UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE MAGISTRATES—ASSEMBLIES AND THE PLAY— BONFIRES AND OTHER REJOICINGS CONCLUDE THE FESTIVITY.
127
I
While round the Victor and his Prize,Shouts frae applauding crowds arise—
While to Dumfries the rumour flies,
“M'Nish has won!”
And Minstrel-harps immortalize
The Siller Gun—
128
II
Our Troops, ance mair, frae Warfare free,Resolve to ground their arms a-wee;
Ilk Squadron, in their grand marquee,
To chant a chorus,
And drink, wi' heart-endearing glee,
A deochandorus!
III
Meanwhile, like midges in the sun,Frae tent to tent the wee-things run;
Lasses, to dance wi' him wha won,
Are forward pressing;
And meikle, meikle is their fun,
And fond caressing!
129
IV
But soon, to finish the campaign,“To arms! to arms!” resounds amain:
The Seven Trades, syne, a' rank'd again
In due gradation,
March frae the Craigs, a glitt'ring train—
A grand ovation!
V
The crowd, in token of applause,Threw up their hats as black as craws;
And follow'd fast, wi' loud huzzas,
Except a few
Whase hearts, owr zealous in the cause,
Were squeamish now!
130
VI
Far as the keenest ee cou'd run,The waving flags, and mony a gun,
Buskit wi' flow'rs, and yellow whun,
Sae sweetly shining,
Stream'd like a rainbow, while the sun
Was just declining!
VII
And, as the troops drew near the town,With a' the ensigns o' renown,
The Magistrates paraded down,
And a' the Gentry,
And Love and Friendship vied to crown
Their joyous entry!
131
VIII
“See, see the conq'ring Hero comes!”The Band struck up with a' their drums:
Louder the big bass-fiddle bumms,
The cymbals jingle,
And, in ten thousand thousand hums,
Glad voices mingle!
IX
Close by Convener Tamson's side,The Victor march'd wi' stately stride:
The Seven-Trades'-Flag, unfurl'd sae wide,
Was borne before;
And the lang train advanc'd wi' pride,
By corps and corps!
132
X
To Mistress Corsane's when they came,The Deacons hail'd the comely dame;
Took aff their hats; extol'd her name,
And, marching on,
Lower'd their flags to worth and fame,
Where'er they shone!
XI
Like roses on a castle-wa',The Leddies smil'd upon them a':
Frae the Auld Kirk to the Trades'-Ha',
And New Kirk-steeple,
Ye might have walk'd a mile or twa
On heads o' people!
133
XII
“O! what can keep our John sae lang?”Cries Meggy Muncy, in the thrang:
“I left him happy, hale, and strang,
“Wi' sash and sword on—
“Gude grant there may be naething wrang
“Wi' Johnny Gordon!”
XIII
Lang, lang they dander'd to and fro,Wha miss'd a kinsman or a beau:
The pomp and splendour o' the Show,
To them and their's,
Brought nought but apprehensive woe,
And fruitless cares!
134
XIV
Back to the Craigs they hie again,To seek their friends amang the slain:
By the road-sides, and on the plain,
The drucken crew,
Heart-sick, and penitent in vain,
Were unco fu'!
XV
The Muse is sorry to pourtrayThe fuddled heroes o' the day:
Nae camp, when War has reft away
Her brightest sons,
Cou'd sic a ruefu' scene display
O' men and guns!
135
XVI
Their firelocks broke, their doublets torn,And eke King Crispin a' forlorn!
Here lay, beside the bugle-horn,
A cat-gut strummer;
And there, blithe herald o' the morn,
The Parish-drummer!
XVII
Ev'n Geordy Smith, though stark and slee,Was there as fu' as fu' cou'd be:
Reviewing still, in Fancy's ee,
The martial train—
“Now, Gentlemen! tak tent—” cries he,
And snor'd again!
136
XVIII
Carts, syne, wi' sic as dughtna gae,Were pang'd till they cou'd haud nae mae:
Rob Kinnie, Clench, and sic as thae,
Now blind and lame,
Sad wights! wi' ribs baith black and blae,
Were harel'd hame!
XIX
When fowk are in a merry pin,Weel fortify'd wi' Highland gin,
They'll eithly thole a weel-peyd skin,
Or crackit crown;
And nowther care nor sorrow fin',
Though streaming down!
137
XX
Yet, soon as sober sense returns,Yestreen's debauch the Drunkard mourns:
His feckless body aft he turns,
O! dool and wae!
Sair griev'd, a fev'rish heart-ache burns
Wi' him next day!
XXI
But turn, my Muse, frae scenes debasing,To windows fill'd wi' Beauty gazing—
To streets wi' happy thousands praising
The passing Show;
And bonfires crackling loud, and blazing,
As on they go!
138
XXII
Ding, ding, ding, dang, the bells ring in,The Minstrels screw their merriest pin;
The Magistrates, wi' loyal din,
Tak aff their cau'kers;
And boys their annual pranks begin,
Wi' squibs and crackers!
XXIII
Wae's me for Deacon Ronald's jeezy,That sat sae orthodox and easy!
For, while he smil'd at his ain Leezy,
A squib cam whizzing,
Set a' its ringlets in a bleezy,
And left them bizzing!
139
XXIV
And wae's me, likewise, for the folly,That fowk, ha'f-fu', shou'd fire a volley!
As through the town they march'd sae jolly,
A feu de joie
Had nearly led to melancholy,
And great annoy!
XXV
Tat, tat, a-rat-tat, clitter, clatter,Gun after gun, play'd blitter, blatter:
A random shot, not level'd at her,
Hit Nanny Nairm—
Gart bonny Nanny's blue een water,
And hurt her arm!
140
XXVI
This, when Convener Tamson saw,He griev'd, and soon dismiss'd them a';
Syne, wi' the Deacons, scour'd awa,
By Maister Wylie's,
And took his seat at the Town's-Ha',
Amang the Bailies.
XXVII
Arriving in an unco flutter,The coffee-cups began to clutter;
But first, Mass John, grave Doctor Mutter,
Wi' pious care,
And a' the zeal that Grace cou'd utter,
Preferr'd this Pray'r:
141
XXVIII
“O Thou! by whose resistless law,“Kings, Kingdoms, Empires, stand or fa'!
“Watch owr this Realm; bless great and sma';
“Keep, keep us free!
“And fill our hearts wi' rev'rend awe
“For Truth and Thee!”
XXIX
The Town-Clerk next, a fallow fine,Wha ne'er loo'd water in his wine,
Gart bring the great big gardevine,
And fill the glasses:
Wi' thrice three cheers, in bumpers, syne,
The claret passes!
142
XXX
The King, and other loyal toasts;Health, peace, and plenty, round our coasts;
Our fleets, and a' our armed hosts,
Were drank aloud;
And names of whilk the Country boasts,
And may be proud—
XXXI
The Johnstons, Lords of Annandale,The Douglasses, and Murrays, hale,
The Maxwells,fam'd thro' Nith's sweet vale,
Kirkpatricks, too,
And him, of a' that's gude, the wale,
The great Buccleugh!
143
XXXII
Duncan's, a never-dying name!And Abercromby's, dear to Fame!
Wallace, and Bruce, Sir John the Græme,
And names like their's,
Heroesand Patriots shall proclaim
To Scotland's heirs!
XXXIII
Scotland! my ain dear native land!England, her Sister, great and grand!
Wou'd Ireland join us, heart and hand,
Without commotion,
Our Faes wou'd crumble like the sand
Before the Ocean!
144
XXXIV
The Provost spoke a speech belyve:“Wha can the valiant Scots descrive?
“Aye foremost where the bravest strive,
“And aye victorious;
“Or, hindmost, wi' the few alive,
“Retreating glorious!”
XXXV
Of early scenes the Singers sung,In days of yore, when Life was young!
When Music dwelt on ilka tongue;
And a' the Arts
To Peace their gowden harps had strung,
Wi' lightsome hearts!
145
XXXVI
The Bailies caught the welcome strain,And made the Ha' resound again:
“God save the King,” and bless his reign,
And still watch o'er us—
And “Rule, Britannia, rule the main“—
Were sung in chorus!
XXXVII
When healths were drank to friends awa,And benisons invok'd on a',
The Court-house rang wi' “Sir James Shaw,”
A pattern, bright,
Of virtue, reverential awe,
And Truth upright!
146
XXXVIII
But vain is a' the Poet's artTo paint this banquet o' the heart—
The Town's-fowk a' on the alert,
The grave, the gay,
Happy to meet, and laith to part,
On sic a day!
XXXIX
And where cou'd Love or Fealty traceA mansion like this bonny place?
Where Manliness, in a' its grace,
Protects the land—
Where Beauty's saft enchanting face
Is blithe and bland!
147
XL
Nor is it only, here and there,Ae bonny Lassy, and nae mair!
O' Beauties, gracefu' as they are
Throughout the nation,
Dumfries can boast, beyond compare,
A constellation!
XLI
For them, Assemblies and the PlayConclude the pleasures o' the day:
In Birth-day-dress, sae fine and gay,
The Belle and Beau,
In chairs and chariots, stop the way—
A splendid show!
148
XLII
A' ranks in loyal freaks agreeing,The mingled scene was weel worth seeing:
Big bonfires here—there, boys te-heeing—
Crowds on the streets—
Dead cats, and duddy doublets fleeing,
And burning peats!
XLIII
But Bailie Clark, wha seldom brooksThe pastime that like mischief looks,
Sent for John Doogan frae the Neuks,
And, at his ca',
John quench'd the fires, and fley'd, like rooks,
The boys awa!
149
XLIV
Lang had the callans, morn and noon,Look'd forward to the fourth o' June;
And sair they grudge, when now, in tune,
The joy-bells chime,
Their pleasures cropt, like flow'rs owr soon,
This happy time!
XLV
Yes, happy time, and scenes renown'd,Now only in remembrance found!
For, oh! though terms and tides come round,
The days of yore,
Like water sprinkled on the ground,
Are seen no more!
150
XLVI
Hame, as the gloaming nearer draws,Convener Tamson slips his wa's;
Where wife and weans, in a' their braws,
And best complexion,
Crown the last transports of applause
Wi' sweet affection!
XLVII
Jocosely, in the gardy chair,He tells the day's adventures there;
Syne, ere the bairns to bed repair,
For mercies given,
His gratefu' thoughts, in fervent pray'r,
Ascend to Heaven!
151
XLVIII
With his, our closing strain shall be,May Scotland, happy, brave, and free,
Aye flourish like the green bay-tree!
And may Dumfries,
In a' her revelry and glee,
Blend Love and Peace!
XLIX
And may this day, whate'er befa',The King's Birth-day, our Waponshaw!
Be hail'd wi' joy by great and sma',
And through the land,
May Concord, Liberty, and Law,
Gae hand in hand!
152
L
What tho', Dumfries, some awkward bladesCompear'd wi' muskets and cockades,
Thy Waponshaw, in a' its shades
O' praise or blame,
Shall memorize thy Seven Trades,
And gild their name!
LI
To gild thy name, may ilka GraceAdorn the annals o' thy Race,
May stedfast Justice rule the place
With equal scales,
And tender Mercy shew her face
Where doubt prevails!
153
LII
And shou'd the Fates, till death ensue,Detain me still, sweet Nith! frae you,
O! if, frae yon bright realms, anew,
The state o' bliss,
Departed spirits may review
A warld like this—
LIII
Then, when Dumfries, thy Siller Gun,In future times, is lost and won,
The spirit o' the Bard, thy son,
Shall hover near,
And flighter, till the day be done,
Round scenes sae dear!
| The Siller Gun, A Poem in Five Cantos. By John Mayne | |