University of Virginia Library

The Life and Acts of, or an Elegy on PATIE BIRNIE.

In soonet flee, the man I sing,
His rare engine in rhyme shall ring;
Who slaid the stick out o'er the string,
With sic an art;
Wha sang sae sweetly to the spring,
And rais'd the heart.
Kinghorn may rue the ruefu' day,
That lighted Patie to his clay,
Wha gart the hearty billies stay,
And spend their cash,
To see his snout, to hear him play,
And gab sae gash.
When strangers landed, wow sae thrang,
Fuffing and peghing he wad gang,
And crave their pardon that sae lang
He'd been a coming;
Syne his bread-winner out he'd bang,
And fa' to bumming.
Your honour's father dead and gane,
For him he first wad make his mane,
But soon his face cou'd make you fain,
When he did sough,
O wiltu, wiltu do't again!
And grain'd and leugh.
This sang he made frae his ain head,
And eke the auld man's mare she's dead,
The peats and turfs and a's to lead;
O fy upon her!
A bonny auld thing this indeed,
An't like your honour.
After ilk tune he took a soup,
And bann'd wi' vir the corky coup,
That to the Papists country scoup.
To lear ha' ha's!
Frae chiels that sing, hap, stap and loup,
Wanting the b---s.
That beardless capons are na men,
We by their fozie springs might ken!
But ours, he said, cou'd vigour len
To men o'weir,
And gar them stout to battle sten'
Withoutten fear.
How first he practis'd, ye shall hear;
The harn pan of an umquhile mare
He strung, and strack sounds fast and clear
Out o'the pow,
Which fir'd the saul, and gar'd the ear,
With gladness glow,
Sae some auld-gabbed poets tell,
Jove's nimble son and lackey snell,
Made the first fiddle of a shell;
On which Apollo,
With meikle pleasure play'd himsel,
Baith jig and solo.
O Johnny Stocks! What comes of thee?
I'm sure thoul't break thy heart and die,
Thy Birnie gane, thoul't never be
Nor blyth, nor able
To shake thy short houghs merrily,
Upon a table.
How pleasant was't to see thee diddle,
And dance sae finely to his fiddle,
With nose forgainst the lass's middle;
And briskly brag,
With cutty steps to ding their striddle,
And gar them fag?
He catch'd a crieshy webster lown,
At runkling of his deary's gown,
And wi' a rung came o'er his crown,
For being there;
But Starker's thrumbs got Patie down,
And knoos'd him sair.
Wae worth the dog, he maist ha' fell'd him,
Revengfu' Pate aft green'd to geld him,
He aw'd amends, and that he tell'd him,
And bann'd to do't,
He took the tid, and fairly fell'd him,
For a recruit.
Pate was a carle of canny sense;
And wanted ne'er a right bein spence,
But laid up dollars in defence
'Gainst eild and gout;
Well judging gear in future tense,
Cou'd stand for wit.
Yet prudent fowk may tak the pet;
Anes thrawart porter wad na let
Him in, while latter meat was het:
He gaw'd fu' sair,
Flang in his fiddle o'er the yate,
Whilk ne'er did mare.
But profit may arise frae loss,
Sae Pate gat comfort by his cross;
Soon as he wan within the close,
He dously drew in,
Mair gear frae ilka gentle goss,
Than bought a new ane.
When lying bedfast sick and sair,
To parish priest he promis'd fair,
He ne'er wad drink fu' ony mair;
But hale and tight,
He prov'd the auld man to a hair,
Strut ilka night.
The haly dad with care essays,
To wile him frae his wanton ways,
And tell'd him of his promise twice:
Pate answer'd clever,
“Wha tents what people raving says,
When in a fever?”
At Bothwell-brig he gaed to fight,
But being wise as he was wight,
He thought it shaw'd a saul but slight,
Daftly to stand,
And let gun powder wrang his sight,
Or fiddle hand.
Right paukily he left the plain,
Nor o'er his shoulder look'd again,
But scour'd o'er moss and muir amain,
To Reeky straight,
And tauld how mony Whigs were slain,
Before they faught.
Sae I've lamented Patie's end;
But lest your grief o'er far extend,
Come dight your cheeks, your brows unbend,
And lift your head:
For to a' Britain be it kend,
He is not dead.