The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Come, Martin, don't stand stiffly there;
Be seated now, and draw the chair
A little closer to the fire;
It's winter weather, see, without;
And I would talk with you about
Old days, before our day expire.

What will you take, now? Nothing! nay,
I know what you are about to say;
You know your place: but that is pride—
You think you are quite as good as I;
And so you are; there, don't be shy:
Your place is here, man, at my side.

Look, Martin; we are growing old:
Why should you be so stiff and cold,
And look as if you hated all—
The wine, the table, and the seat,
The Turkey carpet 'neath your feet,
The very pictures on the wall?

I stopt you on the high street once,
But you—you gave me not a chance
To tell you what was in my heart;
Though I was Provost at the time,
You looked at me as if a crime
Might bring me soon to the hangman's cart.

And Bailie Webbe was at my side,
And vowed for such contempt and pride
He would have had you in the dock;
Of course, I did not dream of that,
But yet you might have raised your hat,
And done for once like other folk.

Nay, Martin, do not turn away;
Our day is short, our hairs are grey,
It's time to grease our boots for going;
Why should we fall out, when we meet,
Like strange dogs snarling on the street?
We have small space for quarrels growing.

324

I mind me, we were boys together;
In summer's sun and winter weather
We padded, barefoot, to the school;
Boys were not nice and dainty then
With shoes and hats like little men;
They bred us on the Spartan rule.

As lads too we were seldom parted,
True friends and loving and one-hearted,
Though now and then we had our jars;
Each night I would convoy you home,
Then back with me you needs must come,
Talking of poetry and the stars,

Or of the sermon we had heard
On Sabbath from the Holy Word,
Or of the minister, good and true,
Who christened us, and made us sit
Together, when the time was fit,
Down at the holy table too.

Ay, ay! It's good to think of these
Old days and high solemnities,
That linked us close when we were youths:
Why should we not have many a walk
Together still, and cheerful talk
About these everlasting truths?

Well, yes; I grant the blame was mine
At first, yet lately it was thine
Who would not help to heal the breach:
And, man, it does not mend one's song
To know that one was in the wrong,
When friends went drifting out of reach.

It could not well be helped, besides;
This man must walk, while that one rides:
And even the holy prophet says
That in this race of life, of course,
The footman runs not with the horse,
And so we took our several ways;

And I grew rich, and you were poor;
Yet you've the best of it, I'm sure,
My money, man, it's like a curse:
I wish you had it—no, I don't;
For sure there is no blessing on't,
And it would only make you worse.

Yes, Martin, houses, lands, and gold
Bring little comfort when you're old,
Or honours which the world can give:
But you've had love to sweeten life,
A happy home, and faithful wife,
Though that wild laddie made her grieve.

Now, do not sniff and sneer at me;
Folk call me Lord by courtesy,
But not in scorn, nor yet in sport;
Remember I've been Provost twice,
And given the government advice,
And was presented too at Court.

You should respect my office, even
If to the man may not be given
The honour which he thinks his due;—
And for your son, no doubt, it's sad,
Although he was a worthless lad,
If all accounts of him be true.

They say he broke his mother's heart;
They say that he was art and part
With them that robbed the County Bank—
Well, well; it's natural for you
To say that's false; they say it's true;
And sure enough he swore and drank.

Only a thoughtless boy!—more shame
To bring dishonour on your name,
And vex a mother fond and true!
And she was all that, I am told—
Indeed, I know—as good as gold;
And such a comely woman too!

325

Ah! Martin, you were fortunate
To find so excellent a mate;
Though she is gone now, is she not?
Gone to a better, happier land—
Give me a grip, man, of your hand;
But death is our appointed lot.

Ay, ay! this world is full of change;
A tangled hank it is, and strange,
With ups and downs, and loss and gain,
And here to-day, and there to-morrow,
And nothing certain here but sorrow:—
Enough to puzzle heart and brain.

Nay, nay; don't go yet, Martin, stay;
You've heard about your son, you say?
I'm glad of it for your sake, man:
But for this trumped-up story now,
It's quite absurd, you must allow,
And you must stop him, for you can.

He'll get into worse trouble yet
Unless he holds his peace on it,
I warn you fairly while it's time;
They say that from his earliest youth
He ne'er was known to speak the truth,
And was convicted once of crime.

That may be false, or may be true;
But, Martin, I appeal to you:
You are a man of sense: just think!
To charge those men who represent
Order and law and government,
That they at any crime could wink!

The Provost, Bailies, City Clerk,
The men of highest rank and mark,
The rulers of your native town,
And men of Quality, beside,
Who shall be nameless, but are tried
And faithful servants of the Crown,

Was ever judge or jury yet
Could be persuaded these had set
Common and Statute law at nought?
They're liker, man, to hold that he
Is guilty of lese-majesty—
And that's a grave crime even in thought.

It's true there were some gutter boys—
Rogues, always bent on thievish ploys—
Who, for the town's good and their own,
Were 'prenticed to some honest men
In the plantations, now and then—
Good riddance too as can be shown.

And if you'll read them I will lend
The grateful letters that they send
About their happy life abroad,
With plenty wage, and plenty food,
And pious ministers and good
Who guide them on the better road.

'Twould do your heart, man, good to read
What wholesome, useful lives they lead,
Instead of prowling in the street,
Now begging bits, now stealing bits,
And living badly on their wits,
With ill-clad backs and ill-shod feet.

And for the Indians, now, they say
These hardly ever come their way,
And when they do, it is to truck
Powder and guns for beavers' skins,
And drops of drink for moccasins,
Or horns of buffalo or buck.

A better country theirs than ours
Where cadgers claim their rights and powers,
And tinkers will have law on you!
I sometimes wish that I were there,
Free from the burden and the care
Of thankless work I have to do.

But for your son, you'll stop his plea;
Of course, it's nothing, man, to me,
Although it's hard, when one is old,

326

To have been Provost once, and then
Be charged with stealing boys and men,
And selling them for lust of gold.

I'm glad for your sake that the lad
Turns up again, though he was bad
Before, and seems no better now;
But if he will persist to blame
His betters, there's against his name
Enough to hang him yet, I trow.

Just tell him, if he'll hold his peace,
And bid that lawyer's “clavers” cease,
Who says whate'er he's paid to say,
The town wants someone to engage
For little work and plenty wage,
And I might put it in his way—

A bribe! no, no; it is not fit
That you should look that way at it;
Martin, you pull me up too short:
I only meant, if he should want
A job of work—and work is scant—
It's well to have a friend at Court.

And he must choose between this chance
And being led a bonny dance,
Through courts of Law, for crimes and debts,—
Hame-sucken, stouthrief, common theft,
Smuggling, and heavy claims he left
For gambling and horse-racing bets.

Or man or boy, it matters not;
These pleas against him will be brought,
And there's a long purse too behind;
Think ye that Provost, Bailies, Clerk
Will let a messan-dog come bark
Right at their heels, and never mind?

It is not reason, man: be sure
They'll play their game, and find a cure
For their hurt honour at any cost;
They'll plea it in the inner court,
They'll plea it to the last resort
Before they let the game be lost.

Law is the hardest mill to grind,
Nor is it water, man, or wind,
But gold that makes its wheels to go,
And ere the Inner House we're through,
I doubt it will be hard for you
A plack or penny more to show.

But you can stop it if you will;
And maybe manage even to fill
The purse which it would empty soon:
Now, do not play the fool, and rob
Your age for such an idle job,
Which is like reaching for the moon.

I do not say the thing was right
Exactly, now I have more light,
Though no one blamed it at the time;
The very ministers would say,
Each time the laddies went away,
It saved them from a life of crime.

We gave them clothes, we gave them meat,
And shoes and stockings for their feet,
Which seldom they had known before:
We saw too their indentures writ,
And signed and sealed as sure as wit
Of man could do. What could we more?

And when the ship would sail away,
We had a minister to pray
With the poor laddies, as was right.
And oh, how earnest they would plead
That waifs and prodigals, the seed
Of righteous men, might yet get light!

And now to charge us with offence,
Because we made, perhaps, some pence—
It was a trifle at the most—

327

Clearing our streets of rogues and thieves
Who grew there thick as Autumn leaves
That from November woods are tossed!

Think, Martin; to be charged with crime,
I who have lived here all my time,
Respected in my native town!
And, maybe, see my little gear,
Gathered through many a busy year,
Escheated some day to the Crown!

That's hard, you surely must allow:
And all for what? Just tell me how
Was I to know these Chippeways—
Incarnate fiends!—would hack and hew,
And burn and torture, as they do:
That is, if all is true he says?

Nay, Martin, do not look like that,
And knit your brows, and grip your hat;
Well; yes, it's true that I did make
Some statement once about your child—
For I with rage and fear was wild—
And maybe it was a mistake.

I wronged him? yes; he may have been
All that you say; for I am clean
Distraught and maddened now about
This business; will you not have pity?
'Twill bring shame on your native city:
And you could easily pull us out.

Give me some drink, then, if you'll not
Take it yourself: it's some I got
To toast our friendship once again;
But that, it seems, is not to be—
My hand is shaking: let me see,
What was I saying?—Yes, it's plain:

You mean to plea this case, and I
Will fight it, till the day I die,
Through Outer House and Inner House,
And House of Lords, though there should be
No more of all my property
Than might give house-room to a mouse.

It's war—and all is fair in war:
Things can't be worse than now they are;
And you and yours what should I heed?
I'm to be once more Provost soon,
And we'll all sing the self-same tune,
For all the Council are agreed.

We will not brook this scaith and shame,
We will not lose our own good name,
For vagabonds and gutter bairns,
The town is better far without;
And he is like the rest, no doubt,
Of no more use than bracken ferns.

Ay! leave me now: I tell you true,
It shames me to have bowed to you,
A fellow poor as any rat,
Who thinks to fight the Clerk and me,
The Bailies, too, and Quality,
With such a trumpery tale as that!

I thought at first you had some heart,
Some sense, at least to play the part
Which any man of judgment would:
But there: I'm done with you: away!
You'd better make friends while you may,
You'll need them, for our names are good.

There's Little-mills and Chokit-burn,
Woodside and Tarvet, Drums and Durn
And Beeswood, too, and Otterslack,
And Bailie Webbe, and Bailie Sym,
And the Town Clerk—take note of him—
He has the bank, too, at his back.

328

And you would mell with all of these!
Man, saw ye ever a skep of bees
O'erturned, and how they buzz and sting:
I pity you, with such a crew
Upon you, and the lawyers too,
And all the heavy costs they bring.

Take thought, e'en yet, while it is time:
It's a grave thing to charge a crime
On honest men and Magistrates:
Better your son had never come
Than bring such ruin on your home,
And also waste our braw estates.

Remember all our early days,
Remember all our kindly ways,
Remember that bit post of profit,
With little work and plenty wage:
I think I almost might engage
That you should have refusal of it.

You will not? Nay, then, off with you!
And do the worst that you can do;
I've been too humble to you, sir.

(Solus.)

Woe's me! the house and land and gear,
And Provost's chain and badge next year!
And oh, 'twill make an awful stir!

The story of Peter Williamson revealed, in the last century, a strange tale of the kidnapping of boys in our towns by the magistrates and leading citizens, and sending them to the Plantations virtually as slaves. That is the origin of this poem.