The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill ... A New Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. In Two Volumes |
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![]() | II. | VOL. II. |
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![]() | The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill | ![]() |
II. VOL. II.
SCOTLAND'S SCAITH;
OR, THE HISTORY OF WILL AND JEAN: OWRE TRUE A TALE!
—Prov.
I. PART I.
Wha in neighbouring town or farm?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm!
Throw the sledge, or toss the bar?
Hap what would, he stood a castle,
Or for safety, or for war:
With the bauld he bauld could be;
But to friends wha had their handfu',
Purse and service aye ware free.
Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?—
Thousands had mair braws and siller,
But ware ony half sae fair?
Glinting o'er Demait's brow:
Sweet! wi' opening charms adorning
Strevlin's lovely plains below!
At ilk place she bore the bell;—
Sic a bloom, and shape, and stature!
But her look nae tongue can tell!
Spied her on a thraward beast;
Flew like fire, and just whan fa'ing
Kept her on his manly breast.
Cross the meadow, fragrant, green!
Placed her on the new-mawn rashes,
Watching sad her opening een.
Drapt into a lover's arms;
Wakened to his saft lamenting;
Sighed, and blushed a thousand charms.
Nane took time to think and rue.—
Youth and worth and beauty cuppled;
Love had never less to do.
Jean and Will thought them but ane;
Ilka day brought joy and plenty,
Ilka year a dainty wean;
Jean, the hale day, spun and sang;
Will and weans, her constant treasure,
Blest with them, nae day seemed lang;
Ilk sweet bairn was a' her pride!—
But at this time news and whisky
Sprang nae up at ilk road-side.
Hame returning frae the fair,
O'er-took Tam, a neighbour billie,
Sax miles frae their hame and mair;
Calmly smiled the sober e'en;
Lasses on the bleachfield hurry
Skelping barefoot o'er the green;
Canty hairst was just begun,
And on mountain, tree, and water,
Glinted saft the setting sun.
Marked the hale, but could nae bide;
Far frae hame, nae time for stopping,
Baith wished for their ain fire-side:
Cracking o'er the news in town;
The mair they cracked, the mair ilk youthy
Prayed for drink to wash news down.
To poor merit's modest prayer,
And on fools heaps needless blessins,
Harkened to our drouthy pair;
Whimperin rowed its crystal flood,
Near the road, whar trav'lers turn aye,
Neat and bield a cot-house stood;
Window broads just painted red;
Lown 'mang trees and braes it reekit,
Haflins seen and haflins hid;
Crap the clasping ivy green,
Back owre, firs the high craigs cleading,
Raised a'round a cozey screen;
Joined the burnie's rambling line;—
Here it was, that Howe, the widow,
This same day set up her sign.
Bottom, Will first marv'ling sees
‘Porter, Ale, and British Spirits,’
Painted bright between twa trees.
(Wha can this new comer be?’)
‘Hoot! quo Tam, there's drouth in thinking—
Let's in, Will, and syne we'll see.’
Think of ought but reaming jugs;
Till three times in humming liquor
Ilk lad deeply laid his lugs.
In cam Meg (weel skilled to please)
‘Sirs! ye're surely tired wi' walking;—
Ye maun taste my bread and cheese.’
Pick mirk night is setting in,
Jean, poor thing's! her lane, and eery—
I maun to the road and rin.’
Hame's now scarce a mile o'gate—
Come! sit down—Jean winna wearie:
Lord! I'm sure it's no sae late!’
Baith fell to, and ate their fill—
‘Tam,’ quo' Will, ‘in meer discretion,
We maun hae the widow's gill.’
Meg sat cracking 'tween them twa,
Bang! cam in Mat Smith and's brither,
Geordie Brown and Sandie Shaw.
Now sat down wi' double glee,
Ilka gill grew sweet and sweeter!—
Will got hame 'tween twa and three.
Will, next morning, blamed Tam Lowes,
But ere lang, a weekly meetin
Was set up at Maggie Howe's.
One of the Ochil hills, near Stirling. Dun-ma-chit (Gaelic), the hill of the good prospect. It is pronounced Demyit.
PART II.
But wha kens how things will end?
Weekly clubs are nae great sinning,
If folk hae enough to spend.
E'er will say that things can thrive,
If there's spent in weekly drinking
What keeps wife and weans alive.
Ilka social soul allows;
But, in this reforming nation,
Wha can speak without the news?
Deeply skilled in courtly drugs;
Now, whan a'are politicians,
Just to set folks by the lugs.—
On some things that should be clear,
Found ere lang the fault, and ae night
Clubbed, and got the Gazetteer .
Swift! by post the papers fled!
Thoughts spring up like plants in hot-house,
Every time the news are read.
‘Things are no ga'en right,’ quo' Tam,
‘Let us aftener meet thegither;
Twice a week's no worth a d---n.’
To mak a'things ‘square and even;’
Or at least wi' firm intention
To drink sax nights out o'seven.
Gathering a'the news that fell;
Will, wha was nae yet past thinking,
Had some battles wi' himsell.
Bare ilk firm resolve awa;
On the ither, Jean's condition
Rave his very heart in twa.
Weel he saw her bleaching cheek!
Marked the smile she strave to borrow,
When, poor thing, she could nae speak!
Weekly clubs mang three or four,
Thought, kind soul! that Will had need o'
Heartsome hours whan wark was owre.
Sat and drank frae sax till twa;
Whan she faund that hard-earned gettings
Now on drink ware thrown awa;
Raise ilk morning wi' the lark,
Now grown mauchless, dowf and sweer aye
To look near his farm or wark;
Healthy bloom, and sprightly ee;
And o'love and hame grown wearit,
Nightly frae his family flee;—
Wha condemn her sorrows meek?
Or the tears that now ilk e'ening
Bleached her lately crimsoned cheek!—
(Aye ashamed o'past disgrace)
Marked the roses as they withered
Fast on Jeanie's lovely face!
A'the wyte lay wi' himsel,—
Swore next night he'd mak a breaking,—
D---d the club and news to hell!
Few hae pith the root to pu';
Will's resolves were aye nonsuited,
Promised aye, but aye got fou;
Moralized on what was right,—
Yet o'er clavers entertaining
Dozed and drank till brade day-light.
Cash runs out; Jean, quite unhappy,
Sees that Will is now past mending,
Tynes a'heart, and taks a—drappy !
Port maks men rude, claret civil;
Beer maks Britons stout and rosy,
Whisky maks ilk wife—a devil.
Wi' sae meek and mild an air,
Schooled by whisky, learns new tricks soon,
Flytes, and storms, and rugs Will's hair.
Fond of ilk dear dauted wean!
Now, heart-hardened a'thegither,
Skelps them round frae morn till e'en.
In her hame-spun, thrifty wark;
Now sells a'her braws for whisky,
To her last gown, coat, and sark!
Loudly sings in whisky's praise;
Sweet his sang!—the mair's the pity
E'er on it he wared sic lays.
E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste,
Brewed in hell's black Pandemonia,
Whisky's ill will scaith her maist!—
Wha in neighbouring town or farm?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm!
Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?
Thousands had mair braws and siller,
But were ony half sae fair?’
A'their youthfu' beauty gane!—
Davered, doited, daized and blinking,
Worn to perfect skin and bane!
(Claise, and cash, and credit out)
Cowring o'er a dying ember,
Wi' ilk face as white's a clout;
Ilka sheaf selt on the bent;
Cattle beds, and blankets rouped,
Now to pay the laird his rent;
No a friend their cause to plead!
He ta'en on to be a sodger,
She, wi' weans, to beg her bread!
E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste,
Brewed in hell's black Pandemonia,
Whisky's ill will scaith her maist!!
The author cannot refrain from seizing the last opportunity he may ever have, to caution his female readers against the vice, here intentionally introduced. Women are not sufficiently aware of the danger annexed to the smallest indulgence in spirituous liquors. A delicate frame, or a susceptible mind, experiencing a temporary relief from a pernicious stimulus, has recourse to it at a time when the best cordials are fortitude and resignation. Hence the deplorable habit of dram-drinking—a habit the most disgusting! —the most degrading to the female character!
THE WAES O'WAR:
OR, THE UPSHOT OF THE HISTORY OF WILL AND JEAN.
IN FOUR PARTS.
Quos adversa docet Sors sapientiam.
Boeth.
Wha wit frae luckless Fortune lear!
PART I.
What it is to tyne a—name,
What this warld is a'thegither,
If bereft of honest fame!
Hardships ne'er breed sorrow's smart,
If bright conscience taks upon her
To shed sunshine round the heart:
Guilty shame will aye look down;
What maun then shame, want, and sorrow,
Wandering sad frae town to town!
Ance sae happy, good, and fair,
Left by Will, next morning drearie,
Taks the road o'black despair!
Pouch and purse without a plack!
In ilk hand a bairnie greeting,
And the third tied on her back.
Ance sae sonsy! ance sae sweet!
What a change!—unhoused and beggared,
Starving, without claise or meat!
Skulking like a guilty thief;
Here and there, uncertain, daundered,
Stupified wi' shame and grief:
Fled owre fast for ee to trace,
When grim death, wi' a'his terrors,
Cam o'er ilk sweet bairnie's face!
Baith down drapt! and down Jean sat!
‘Daised and doited’ now nae langer;
Thought—and felt—and bursting grat.
Crap o'er distant hill and plain;
Darkened wood, and glen, and meadow,
Adding fearfu' thoughts to pain!
Jeanie turned her tearfu' ee!
Round and round for some protection!—
Face nor house she could na see!
Loud and sair the cauld winds thud!
Jean now spied a sma bit lightie
Blinking through a distant wood:
Cauld, nor fear, she felt nae mair;
Hope, for ae bright moment, darted
Through the gloom of dark despair!
Deep she wade through bog and burn;
Sair wi' steep and craig she battled,
Till she reached the hoped sojourn.
Stately auld, a mansion stood
On a bank, whase sylvan feature
Smiled out-o'er the roaring flood:
Late her flowery mantle spread,
Where auld chesnut, ake, and yew-tree,
Mingling, lent their friendly shade:
A'their gaudy livery cast;
Wood and glen, in wailings savage,
Howl and murmur to the blast!
Mountains moved, and castle rocked!
Jean, half dead wi' toil and horror,
Reached the door, and loudly knocked.
Cried a voice wi' angry grane;
‘Help! oh help!’ quo Jeanie, weeping,
‘Help my infants, or they're gane!
Baith lie speechless on the lea!
Help!’ quo Jeanie, loud lamenting,
‘Help my lammies! or they'll die!’
Wi' young bairns sae late at e'en?
Beggars!’ cried the voice, mair angry,
‘Beggars! wi' their brats, I ween.’
Helpt the beggar and the poor!’
‘Fye! gudeman! cried ane discreetly,
‘Taunt nae poortith at our door.
Plead for mair than anger's din:—
Rise, Jock!’ cried the pitying mither,
‘Rise! and let the wretched in.’
Helpt the beggar and the poor!’
‘Enter!’ quo' the youth fu' sweetly,
While up flew the open door.
Enter without fear or dread;
Here, thank God! there's aye a corner
To defend the houseless head!
If in life, ye'll see them soon.’—
Aff he flew; and brightly shining
Through the dark clouds brak the moon.
PART II.
Leave we Jean and weans a while;
Tracing Will in ilk direction,
Far frae Britain's fostering isle!
Love's delights and beauty's charms!
Far frae friends and social leisure,—
Plunged in murdering War's alarms!
Or ambition's feverish brain,
That so oft wi' melancholy
Turns, sweet Peace! thy joys to pain!
(Emblems of thy spotless life)
And in War's grim look alarming,
Arms thee with the murd'rer's knife!
Hate, revenge, and rage uprears!
And for hope and joy—(twin marrows),
Leaves the mourner drowned in tears!
Credit, claise, or ought beside,
Leaves his ance-loved Jeanie Miller,
And sweet bairns, to warld wide!
Sheltered haughs, and birken braes;
Greenswaird hows, and dainty mealing,
Ance his profit, pride and praise!
Drunk wi' dreams as fause as vain;
Fleeched and flattered, roosed and buskit,
Wow! but Will was wond'rous fain!
How could thought her station keep?
Drams and drumming (faes to thinking)
Dozed reflection fast asleep.
Wi' the cauld ground for his bed,
Compassed round with faes and strangers,
Soon Will's dreams o'fancy fled.
Waving to the widow's moan!
Will saw glory's boasted honours
End in life's expiring groan!
Thick o'er Dunkirk's fatal plain,
Will (tho' dauntless) saw wi' pity
Britain's valiant sons lie slain!
Gallia struck death's slaughtering knell;
Frae the Scheld to Rhine's deep river,
Britons fought—but Britons fell!
By the faith of friendship's laws;
Fell unpity'd—unlamented!
Bleeding in a thankless cause !
Fighting foremost o'them a';
Swift! fate's winged ball cam fleeing,
And took Willie's leg awa:
Thrice to stand he strave in vain;
Thrice, as fainting strength departed,
Sighed—and sank 'mang hundreds slain.—
Stiff wi' gore, and cauld as clay;
Without cover, bed or bedding,
Five lang nights Will Gairlace lay!
(Left behint wi' mony mair)
See Will next, in pain and sorrow,
Wasting on a bed of care.
Doctors cured wi' healing art;—
Cured! alas!—but never! never!
Cooled the fever at his heart!
Still and on, baith ear and late,
Will in briny grief lay steeping,
Mourning o'er his hapless fate!
A'his dreams o'warlike fame!—
A'his glittering phantoms banished!
Will could think o'nought but—hame!
Rural labour! rural ploys!
Far frae carnage, blood, and riot,
War, and a'its murd'ring joys.
PART III.
Will's returned (exchanged for faes),
Wi' ae leg, and no ae farden,
Friend, or credit, meat, or claise.
Crippling on a wooden leg,
Gathering alms frae melting pity;
See! poor Gairlace forced to beg!
Now to langer beg thinks shame,
Dreams ance mair o'smiling plenty;—
Dreams o'former joys, and hame!
Fast to Will's warm bosom flee;
While the thoughts o'dear connexions
Swell his heart, and blind his ee.—
Three sma' infants and a wife,
Naked—starving—unprotected!—
Them, too, dearer ance than life!
Ruined her he ought to save!—
Changed her joys to melancholy,
Beggary, and,—perhaps, a grave!”
Crushed wi' grief's increasing load,
Up he banged; and, sair afflicted,
Sad and silent took the road!
Sometimes helpit, Will got forth;
On a cart, or in a waggon,
Hirpling ay towards the north.
Pondering on his thraward fate,
In the bonny month o'July,
Willie, heedless, tint his gate.
Sweetly sughed the green ake wood!
Loud the din o'streams fast fa'ing,
Strak the ear wi' thundering thud;
Linties chirped on ilka tree;
Frae the wast, the sun, near setting,
Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie!
Craigs and water, woods and glen!
Roslin's banks! unpeered by ony,
Save the muses' Hawthornden !
Will (tho' hardly fit to gang)
Wandered on through scenes inviting,
List'ning to the mavis' sang.
On a fragrant strawberry steep,
Esk's sweet stream to rest composing,
Wearied nature drapt asleep.
Gathering fa', wi' deadly scaith!—
Wounded soldier! if complaining,
Sleep nae here and catch your death.
Cleads wi' grey the neighbouring hill!
Lambs nae mair on knows are dancing—
A'the woods are mute and still!”
“What hae I frae night to dree?—
Morn, through clouds in splendour breaking,
Lights nae bright'ning hope to me!
Wife nor bairns hae I to see!
House, nor hame! nor bed, nor bedding—
What hae I frae night to dree?”
Are the ills poor mortals share!—
Yet, tho' hame nor bed ye hae nae,
Yield nae, soldier, to despair!
If Hope's bright'ning beams should fail!—
See!—tho' night comes dark and eerie,
Yon sma' cot-light cheers the dale!
Humbler joys their comforts shed,
Labour—health—content and quiet!
Mourner! there ye'll find a bed.
There, alas! ye needna seek—
Yet there bairns, ilk wae beguiling,
Paint wi' smiles a mother's cheek!
Left to cheer her widowed lot!
A'her warldly wealth and treasure
To adorn her lanely cot!
Bright'ning joys will aften shine;
Virtue aye claims Heaven's protection—
Trust to Providence divine!”
PART IV.
Cool whan simmer's sunbeams dart,
Came ilk word, and cooled the fever
That lang burned at Willie's heart.
Listening to his guide before,
O'er green know, and flowery hallow,
Till they reached the cot-house door.
Deckt wi' honeysuckle round;
Clear below, Esk's waters rumble,
Deep glens murmuring back the sound.
Dim by gloamin glint to view;
Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly
Skies sae red, and lift sae blue!
Mother fond, and happy wean,
Smiling round a canty ingle,
Bleazing on a clean hearth-stane.
Here ye'se rest, and tak your bed—
Faint,—waes me! ye seem, and weary,
Pale's your cheek, sae lately red!”
“Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be!
Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller
Nought o'Willie Gairlace see!”
Glittering in the sunny ray,
Quickly fa', when, without warning,
Rough blasts came, and shook the spray?
Drap, whan pierced by death mair fleet?
Then, see Jean, wi' colour deeing,
Senseless drap at Willie's feet!
(A'their waes now hushed to rest,)
Jean ance mair, in fond affection,
Clasps her Willie to her breast.
How she wandered, starving, poor,
Gleaning pity's scanty offerings
Wi' three bairns frae door to door!
Lost her health, and syne her bread;
How that grief, whan scarce recovered,
Took her brain, and turned her head!
Many a live-lang night her lane!
Till at last an angel's bounty
Brought her senses back again:
Gae her bairnies wark and lear;
Lastly, gae this cot-house till her,
Wi' four sterling pounds a-year!
“Oh! what sins hae I to rue!
But say, wha's this angel, Jeanie?”
“Wha,” quo Jeanie, “but Buccleugh !”
Nine blest months, I've lived, and mair;
Seen these infants clad and nourished;
Dried my tears; and tint despair;
Light the lanesome hours gae round;
Lightly, too, ilk quarter rinning
Brings yon angel's helping pound!
“Eight pounds mair will do nae harm!
And, O Jean! gin friends were kindly,
Twall pounds soon might stock a farm.
Freed frae a'that peace destroys,
Idle waste and druken ruin!
War, and a'its murdering joys!”
Thrice ilk bairn; but cou'dna speak:
Tears of love, and hope, and pleasure
Streamed in silence down his cheek!
To C. L. Esq.
WITH A PRESENT OF A LARGE BOTTLE OF OLD JAMAICA RUM.
To wham I'd trust baith late and earlie;
Accept, in token o'regard,
Frae rhyming Mac, your friend and bard,
A gift to raise, on Sunday's even,
Your mind frae earthly thoughts to heaven;
Or what's far mair, to keep frae quaking
Thy graceless saul for Sunday-breaking,
As reckless ay o'prayer or kirk
Ye ply your sinfu' wark till mirk,
In Session Courts and Admirality;
Till tired o'horning and memorial,
Ye turn frae tricks to things corporeal;
For lang law-draughts, tak ane that's shorter,
(I mean a draught o'Skae's good porter;)
For desperate debts and pleas unlucky,
Sit down, and carve your roasted chucky,
And helping round ilk friend and cousin
That mak, at least, a round half dozen,
Wi' crack—and joke—and steeve rum toddy,
Lord! but ye turn a dainty body!
Wi' a'your want o'Sunday's dressing;
And slip-shod bachles, auld, and torn;
Coat, that nae decent man wad put on,
And waistcoat aft without a button,
And breeks (let sans culottes defend them)
I hope in God, ye'll change, or—mend them.
I say, wi' a'these black transgressions,
(The fruits o'your curst courts and sessions)
There's yet sic sparks o'grace about you;
Sic radiant truth that shines throughout you;
Sic friendship firm;—sic qualms o'honour
Whan sneaking rascals mak you sconner,
That ('pon my faith! I canna help it,
Though for't ilk time I should be skelpit)
I find a secret, inward greeting
O'peace at ilka Sunday meeting;
For your attractions like a loadstone;
That warm the heart wi' glows diviner
Than e'er I find for chiels that's finer.
When niest we a'convene thegither
To crack and joke in converse happy,
I'faith! we'se hae a hearty drappy;
And though I dinna like to buckle
Wi' hours owre late, or drink owre muckle,
Nor think it a'thegither right
To keep folk up on Sunday night,
I am resolved, be't right or sinfu',
To hae at least—‘a decent skinfu';’
And trust to heaven for Sunday-breaking.
And sure, if bounteous heaven tak pleasure
In harmless mirth, and social leisure,
And grant us ay the power to borrow
Some thoughtless hours to banish sorrow,
To crack and laugh, and drink, nae sin is
Wi' modest worth and Jamie I---s;
After a Sunday's feast—or pascal,
Wi' you, ye kirkless, canty rascal.
(Aboon a'praise in prose or metre)
Removes ilk dish, whar late, fu' dainty,
Stood roasted hen, and collops plenty;
And mussels pickled nice wi' broo;
And haddies caller at last carting,
Or rizzered sweet by Mrs Martin!
—Wi' kipper (branded het and broun)
A present sent frae Stirling town,—
I say, whan Pate, wi' solemn face,
Removes ilk thing wi' steddy pace,
And brings the reeking burn and bowl
To cheer ilk presbyterian soul ;
Whan ance that ye, a'fidging fain,
Draw the first cork wi' mony a grane;
And sometimes girning, sometimes blawin,
Examine gin its rightly drawn;
And ilka friend has drank three glasses;
Nae langer grane, nor fyke, nor daidle,
But brandish ye the—lang-shanked ladle,
That magic wand that has the knack ay
To mak us a'sae pleased and cracky;
That Moses' rod that weets ilk mouthie,
And maks streams gush for hearts that's drowthie,
And has the double power, sae curious!
To mak chiels pleased and sometimes furious.
Growl whan your chappin bottle's empty ,
And roar, and swear, wi' aiths that's sinfu',
For what's ay ca'd—‘anither spoonfu';’
I herewi' send, o'size capacious,
A bottle, primed, my dainty callan,
Wi' somewhat mair than half a gallon
O'precious gear, I've lang been huntin,
Till caught at last frae Wattie Br---n.
Fill, then!—and drink!—and banish dread
O'after sair wame, or sair head;
There's naithing here, our harns to daver,
But rare auld stuff to mak us claver;
For here, I swear in rhyming letter,
D---n me! if e'er ye tasted better!
TO THE MEMBERS OF THE SOBER SOCIETY;
SENT WITH AN ENGRAVING .
Behold your goddess—wife, or lass,
De'il hae me gin I ken;
But weel I wat, gin a'be true,
That here she speaks, ye select few
Are unco kind o'men!
The ither night the jillet spak
Right cheery owre a glass,)
Though hid frae unpoetic brain,
These hieroglyphics speak as plain
As e'er did Balaam's ass.
The moon and seven stars at e'en
Glittering in spangled heaven;
What mean then sax?—the meaning's clear.—
Through a'your meetings in the year
Ye're fou sax times in seven.
Its clear ye're a'horn-mad as soon
As clocks Beate six ;
Sweet! sweet the sounding warning comes!
And, sitting down on stubborn bums,
Ye a'turn—lunatics.
A writer chiel ca'd Livingston,
Wi' crack and snuff grows cheery;
And dealing round strong punch and joke,
Good-humoured mad, near twa o'clock
Turns a'things tapsilteery!
Into thae soberings ilka week,
And hide what I'm no able;
But yon d---d fingers—up and down,
Proclaim whan some are in the moon,
Some lie aneth the table.
Whan virtue's blamed, and vice gets praise,
And folk wi' words are sae bit,
Nae wonder sober stands for fou,
And drinkers roar out, while they spew,
‘Virtus tandem Vigebat.’
This engraving had been at some period thrown off for the use of a literary society in London, likewise called the Sober Society. The representation was a female figure, with the finger of one hand pointing to the moon (horned) and six stars overhead; and the finger of the other hand pointing to the ground, with this motto —Virtus tandem Vigebat.
One of the rules of the Sober Club was, that the bill should be called for and paid at eleven o'clock; after which hour every one might do as he inclined; i. e. retire, or remain as long as he chose; and as this last liberty was generally productive of sober happiness, it was called the Beate.
These lines were written during the commencement of Robespierre's reign of justice, virtue, and humanity.
THE ROSE O'KIRTLE.
A BALLAD.
On Yarrow's banks they're mony;
Whar Kirtle flows ance stately rose
The sweetest flower o'ony!
I've travelled east, I've travelled west,
I've been 'mang groves o'myrtle;
Tho' flowers bloomed fair, nane could compare
Wi' the sweet Rose o'Kirtle.
And fair its leaves spread blooming!
And as they spread, they fragrance shed
A'Kirtle's banks perfuming!
Lured by its fame, the young anes came,
(Some came frae west the Shannon)
And ilk ane swore, nae flower before
Bloomed like the rose o'Annan.—
Deep at its roots consuming;
And while they sighed, they mournfu' cried,
‘The rose will fade that's blooming!’
'Twas then Fate said, ‘frae native glade
We'll pu' the pride o'Kirtle;
In warmer bower we'll plant the flower,
And skreen it round wi' myrtle.’
Where Mersey's stream rows flowing;
There, skreened frae harm, they plant it warm,
For there Love's beams were glowing!
Fair, fair it spread! and gratefu' shed
Its healing balms, sweet smelling!
And as they flew, Affliction knew
Blest Health was near his dwelling.
This rose 'mang myrtles blooming,
Ye wad hae sworn nae canker worm
Was fast its roots consuming:—
But, welladay! looks will betray!
And Death love's joys will sever!—
Ere midnight hour, Death nipt the flower!—
Its sweets are—gone for ever!
While Health's warm sun shines beamy,
Learn, that the flower o'Mersey's bower
Was Lucy's peerless Jeamie;
And ye wha mourn at Currie's urn ,
Or weep by Mersey's river,
Learn, that the rose that virtue blows,
Though dead, will—bloom for ever!
SONGS.
THE LAMMIE.
Whar hae ye been a'day, my boy Tammy?’
‘I've been by burn and flowery brae,
Meadow green, and mountain grey,
Courting o'this young thing,
Just come frae her mammy.’
My boy Tammy?’
‘I gat her down in yonder how,
Smiling on a broomy know,
Herding ae wee lamb and ewe
For her poor mammy.’
My boy Tammy?’
‘I praised her een, sae lovely blue,
Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou;—
I pree'd it aft as ye may true!—
She said, she'd tell her mammy.
My young, my smiling lammie!
‘I hae a house, it cost me dear,
I've walth o'plenishen and geer;
Ye'se get it a'war't ten times mair,
Gin ye will leave your mammy.’
‘I maun nae leave my mammy;
She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claise,
She's been my comfort a'my days:—
My father's death brought mony waes!—
I canna leave my mammy.’
My ain kind-hearted lammie!
We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise,
We'll be her comfort a'her days.’
The wee thing gie's her hand, and says,—
‘There! gang, and ask my mammy.’
My boy Tammy?’
‘She has been to kirk wi' me,
And the tear was in her ee,—
But O! she's but a young thing
Just come frae her mammy.’
I LOO'D NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.
He loo'd ne'er a lassie but me;
He's willing to mak me his ain,
And his ain I am willing to be.
He has coft me a rocklay o'blue,
And a pair o'mittens o'green;
The price was a kiss o'my mou',
And I paid him the debt yestreen.
Their land, and their lordly degree;
I carena for ought but my dear,
For he's ilka thing lordlie to me;
His words are sae sugared, sae sweet!
His sense drives ilk fear far awa!
I listen—poor fool! and I greet,
Yet O! sweet are the tears as they fa'!
‘Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say;
Though we've little to brag o'—ne'er fear,
What's gowd to a heart that is wae?
Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
Yet see how he's dwining wi' care;
Are canty and leil evermair.
Has something mair costly than gear,
Ilk e'en it has naithing to rue;
Ilk morn it has naithing to fear.
Ye warldlings! gae, hoard up your store,
And tremble for fear ought ye tyne:
Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door,
While here in my arms I lock mine!’
Waes me! can I tak it amiss?
My laddie's unpractised in guile,
He's free ay to daut and to kiss!
Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife,
Play your pranks—I hae gi'en my consent,
And this night I am Jamie's for life.
O TELL ME HOW FOR TO WOO.
Oh tell me how for to woo!
Oh tell me, bonie sweet lassie!
Oh tell me how for to woo!
Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning?
Lips like the roses fresh moistened wi' dew!
Say, I maun I roose your een's pawkie scorning?—
Oh! tell me how for to woo!
Far hae I ventured across the saut sea!
Far hae I travelled owre moorland and mountain,
Houseless, and weary, sleep'd cauld on the lea!
Ne'er hae I tried yet to mak luve to onie;
For ne'er loo'd I onie till ance I loo'd you;
Now we're alane in the green-wood sae bonie,
—Oh! tell me how for to woo!’
What care I for your crossing the sea?
It was na for naithing ye left poor young Peggy;—
It was for my tocher ye cam to court me;—
Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gawdie?
Ribbans, and perlins, and breast-knots enew?
A house that is canty, wi' walth in't, my laddie?
Without this ye never need try for to woo.’
I canna buy ribbans and perlins enew;
I've naithing to brag o'house, or o'plenty!
I've little to gie but a heart that is true.—
I cam na for tocher—I ne'er heard o'onie;
I never loo'd Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow.—
I've wandered, poor fool! for a face fause as bonie!
—I little thought this was the way for to woo!’
He's youthfu', he's blooming, and comely to see!
The leddies are a'ga'en wood for the wooer,
And yet, ilka e'ening, he leaves them for me!—
O! saft in the gloaming his luve he discloses!
And saftly yestreen, as I milked my cow,
He swore that my breath it was sweeter than roses,
And a'the gait hame he did naithing but woo.’
His houses, his lands, and his lordly degree;
His speeches for true luve may drap sweet as honey,
But, trust me, dear Jenny! he ne'er loed like me.—
The wooing o'gentry are fine words o'fashion;
The faster they fa' as the heart is least true!—
The dumb look o'luve's aft the best proof o'passion;
—The heart that feels maist is the least fit to woo!’
Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou!
Hae na ye come owre sea, moor, and mountain,
What mair, Johnie, need ye to woo?
Far hae ye wandered, I ken, my dear laddie!
Now, that ye've found me, there's nae cause to rue;
Wi' health we'll hae plenty—I'll never gang gawdie,—
I ne'er wished for mair than a heart that is true.’
The saft tear o'transport filled ilk lover's ee;
The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit,
And sweet sang the mavis aboon on the tree.—
He clasped her, he pressed her, and ca'd her his hinny,
And aften he tasted her hinny-sweet mou;
And aye 'tween ilk kiss she sighed to her Johnie—
‘Oh! laddie! weel can ye woo!’
TAK TENT, AND BE WARY
Wow! but your een look pauky and roguie!
What war ye doing, Kate, down in yon bogie,
Up in the morning sae airy and grey?’
‘I've been wi' somebody!—what need ye to speer?
I've been wi' young Jamie!—I've been wi' my dear!
—God save me! my mither will miss me, I fear!—
D'ye ken, lass! he's courting me a'the lang day!’
Jamie's a sad ane!—he never will marry;
Think o'poor Tibby;—he's left her to carry
Black burning shame till the day that she'll die!’
Her gaits wi' the fallows we a'ken lang syne!—
The heart o' my laddie, I never can tyne!
He promised to marry me down on yon lea!
Yes! yes! he means for to marry!
Wi' mony sweet kisses he ca'd me his deary,
And swore he wad tak me afore Beltan day.’
‘O Kate! Kate! he'll deceive ye!
(The de'el tak the chiel! he does naithing but grieve me!)
He's fou o'deceit!—gin ye like to believe me,
The fause loon last night tald the same tale to me.’
Ye'll ne'er let a bodie trou ever they'll marry!—
Ye've now gi'en me something that's no light to carry,
'Twill lie at my heart till the day that I die!’
She gaed awa sighing! she gaed awa wae;
Her mither flet sair for her byding away!
She sat down to spin!—ne'er a word could she say,
But drew out a thread wi' the tear in her ee.
Jamie's a sad ane!—he ne'er means to marry!
He may rise in the morning, and wait till he's wearie!
He's no see my face for this year and a day!’
Sat down by her leglin, and 'gan for to rue:—
Young Jamie cam by—her heart lap to her mou!
And she trou'd ilka word that the fause loon did say!
—Hech! sirs! how lasses will vary!
Sometimes they're doubtfu'—'tis then they are wary;
But whan luve comes louping, they ay think we'll marry,
And trust, like poor Kate, to what fause loons will say.
MALLY AIKEN.
AN OLD SONG REVIVED.
How this fair maid's played her part:—
First she vowed and promised to me,
Now she strives to break my heart!’
Eirin O! Mally Aiken,
Eirin O s'dhu ma roon.
And sleeve-knots for your tartan gown;
I coft you a green necklace, Mally,
To busk you whan you gade to town:
You gae me kisses sweet as hinny!
You gae me words mair sweeet than true;
You swore you loo'd me best o'ony;
—Ah! why than, Mally, break your vow!
Eirin O! Mally Aiken,
Eirin O s'dhu ma roon.
He bragged o'land and walth o'gear;
He promised braws mair fine than Johnie
To busk ye for the kirk and fair;
Your mother sighed and thought o'me;
But Mally wished to be a lady,
And changed true luve for—high degree!
Eirin O! Mally Aiken,
Eirin O s'dhu ma roon.
He's busked you for the kirk and fair;
But you had better ta'en your laddie,
For happiness you'll ne'er see mair!
You may gang to kirk and fair, my Mally;
Your face and braws catch ilka ee,—
But happiness you'll ne'er see, Mally,
For breaking o'your vows to me!
Eirin O! Mally Aiken,
Eirin O s'dhu ma roon.
This verse is all the author ever heard of the original.— The meaning of the Gaelic chorus is, O Mally Aiken, thou art my love.
TO GET A MAN.
There are prizes for women as weel as for men:
But as far as my faither and mither can see,
Though the're prizes for some, there are aye blanks for me!
Odd! I'm sure they're far better than een that are grey?
Yet the lads they court Katey as fast as they can,
While my father aye tells me—I'll ne'er get a man.
May claise ay unsnod, and my face seldom clean!
How the sorrow! on me can our lads ever look,
Whan I gang aye sae thief-like, as black as the crook
(Lord! I wish I was busked like our queans in the town!)
Yet whane'er I stay late—how my father he'll ban,
Wi' a—‘Divil confound ye! ye'll ne'er get a man!’
Whan the sogers gae by, war I felled, I maun rin;
Then she roars, and she flytes (though the sam's done by Kate)
Wi' a—‘Sorrow be on ye! ye'll gang a grey gate!’
And I'd e'en tak lean Patie, tho' just skin and bane;
But my faither and mither tauld baith him and Dan,
That I'm three years owre young yet to hae a gudeman!
—Odd! they'll drive me to madness wi' perfect despair!
If I canna get Jamie, nor yet Dan nor Pate,
Faith! I'll e'en tak the first chiel that comes in my gate.
He roosed first my black hair, and syne my black een!
While he dawted and kissed, though I ken he's a fool,
Lord! I thought that my heart wad hae loupt out o'hool.
I hae house and plenty, for wife and for wean,
And whan my auld daddy staps aff to the grave,
Faith! we'll then had our head up as high as the lave.’
But then he's the first's talked o'marriage to me;
And whan folk are ill used they maun do what they can,
Sae I'll mak them a'liars, and tak a gudeman.
LASSIE WI' THE GOWDEN HAIR.
Silken snood, and face sae fair;
Lassie wi' the yellow hair,
Think nae to deceive me!
Lassie wi' the gowden hair,
Flattering smile, and face sae fair;
Fare ye weel! for never mair
Johnie will believe ye!
O no! Mary bawn, Mary bawn, Mary bawn ,
O no! Mary bawn, ye'll nae mair deceive me!
Twice—(poor fool!) I turned to woo;
Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow,
Now I've sworn to leave ye!
Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow,
Twice, poor fool! I've learned to rue!—
Come ye yet to mak me troo?
Thrice ye'll ne'er deceive me!
No! no! Mary bawn, Mary bawn, Mary bawn!
O no! Mary bawn! thrice ye'll ne'er deceive me.’
Deep his words sank in her heart;
Soon the tears began to start—
‘Johnie, will ye leave me!’
Grit and gritter grew his heart!—
‘Yet ae word befort we part,
Luve cou'd ne'er deceive ye!
O no! Johnie dow, Johnie dow, Johnie dow ,
O no! Johnie dow—luve cou'd ne'er deceive ye.’
Saw the tears hap owre her cheek!
Pale she stood, but coudna speak!—
Mary's cured o'smiling.
Johnie, took anither keek—
‘Beauty's rose has left her cheek!—
This is nae beguiling.
O no! Mary bawn, Mary bawn, dear Mary bawn,
No, no! Mary bawn—Luve has nae beguiling.
JEANIE'S BLACK EE;
OR, THA MI'N AM CHODAL, 'SNA DUISGIBH MI.
Light sprang the lavroc and mounted sae hie;
When true to the tryst o'blythe May's dewy morning
My Jeanie cam linking out owre the green lea.
To mark her impatience, I crap 'mang the brakens,
Aft, aft to the kent gate she turned her black ee;
Then lying down dowylie, sighed by the willow tree,
‘Ha me mohátel na dousku me .
Streik'd on spring's carpet aneath the saugh tree!
‘Think na, dear lassie, thy Willie's been cruel,’—
‘Ha me mohátel na dousku me.’
‘Wi' luve's warm sensations I've marked your impatience,
Lang hid 'mang the brakens I watched your black ee.—
You're no sleeping, pawkie Jean! open thae lovely een!’—
‘Ha me mohátel na dousku me.’
Sweet is the primrose bespangled wi' dew!
Yonder comes Peggy to welcome May morning!
Dark wave her haffet locks owre her white brow!
Barefit, and kilted half up to the knee!
While Jeanie is sleeping still, I'll rin and sport my fill,’—
‘I was asleep, and ye've wakened me!’
Kiss her, and clasp her fast; nae ane can see!
Sweet! sweet's her hinny mou!’—‘Will, I'm no sleeping now,
I was asleep, but ye wakened me.’
Laughing, till like to drap, swith to my Jean I lap,
Kissed her ripe roses, and blest her black ee!
And ay since, whane'er we meet, sing, for the sound is sweet,
‘Ha me mohátel na dousku me.’
THE PLAID AMANG THE HETHER.
And dark and stormy grew the weather;
The rain rained sair; nae shelter near,
But my luve's plaid amang the hether:
My winsome, weel-far'd, Highland laddie!
Wha wad mind the wind and weit
Sae weel row'd in his tartan plaidie?
Sae cozy, warm, we lay thegither!
Nae simmer heat was half sae sweet
As my luve's plaid amang the hether!
My lightsome heart grew like a feather;
It lap sae quick I coudna speak,
But silent sighed amang the hether!
I hameward ran, and tald my mither;
The bowls rowed right amang the hether!
Whar Will and I fresh flowers will gather;
Nae storms I fear, I've got my dear
Kind-hearted lad amang the hether!
My winsome, weel-far'd, Highland laddie!
Should storms appear, my Will's ay near
To row me in his tartan plaidie.
COME UNDER MY PLAIDY;
OR, MODERN MARRIAGE DELINEATED.
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift and the snaw;
Come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me;
There's room in't, dear lassie! believe me, for twa.
Come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me,
I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw:
O come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me,
There's room in't, dear lassie! believe me, for twa.’
I fear na the cauld blast, the drift nor the snaw;
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidy! I'll no sit beside ye;
Ye may be my gutcher:—auld Donald, gae wa'.
I'm gau'n to meet Johnie, he's young and he's bonie;
He's been at Meg's bridal, sae trig and sae braw!
O nane dances sae lightly! sae gracefu'! sae tightly!
His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw!’
Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naithing ava;
The hale o' his pack he has now on his back,
He's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa.
Be frank now and kindly; I'll busk you aye finely;
To kirk or to market they'll few gang sae braw;
A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in,
And flunkies to tend ye as aft as ye ca.’
Ye'd make a gude husband, and keep me ay braw;
It's true I loo Johnie, he's gude and he's bonie,
But, waes me! ye ken he has naething ava!
I hae little tocher; you've made a gude offer;
I'm now mair than twenty; my time is but sma'!
Sae gi' me your plaidy, I'll creep in beside ye,
I thought ye'd been aulder than threescore and twa.’
Whar Johnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a';
The day was appointed!—his proud heart it dunted,
And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa.
He wandered hame weary, the night it was dreary!
And thowless, he tint his gate deep 'mang the snaw;
The howlet was screamin', while Johnie cried ‘Women
Wa'd marry Auld Nick, if he'd keep them ay braw.’
They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa;
The hale o'their marriage is gowd and a carriage;
Plain luve is the cauldest blast now that can blaw!
VALOUR SHIELDS THE BRAVE.
J.Warning thrice, the cannons rattle!—
Fast o'er plain and mountain brattle
Scotia's thousands brave!
A.
When freedom fought!—where valour fell!
Nor return! till death's sad knell
Toll warriors to the grave!
Freedom's cause to freemen's dear!
Valour, Annie!—valour! valour!
True valour shields the brave!
A.
Wha guards a wife like Annie?
Trembling here, wi' infants bonnie!
Sever'd frae the brave!
Wha smiles to banish fear?
Wha remains to stop the tear?
J.
My Annie's peace will save!
Gallia's chains for slaves are made!—
Britons, Annie!—Britons! Britons!
Free Britons scorn the slave!
A.
Slavery's ill's the warst o'ony!—
Heaven and virtue guard your Annie!—
God direct the brave!—
This warm kiss before you start!
Place this token near your heart!—
Friendship now and peace maun part,
Dear freedom's cause to save!
If freedom fa's, love's joys drap dead!
Freedom, Annie! Freedom! freedom!
Blest freedom! or—the Grave!
IV
Wi' trembling hand, and heart sair knockin,Round his neck she tied love's token;
Sighed, and cried, in words half spoken,
Heaven shield the brave!
The trumpet blew! the warrior flew;
Met Scotia's freemen, dauntless, true!
Firm their step! ranks red and blue,
Cried, Victory, or the Grave!
Bands in freedom's armour clad!—
Freedom! Tyrant!—Freedom! Freedom!
Blest Freedom! shield the brave!
Written during the prospect of an immediate invasion. The song represents the parting between a husband and wife on the first signal of the enemy's approach.
THE AULD WIFE'S LAMENT—1804.
I wonder wha bred the beginning o't?
God send us a rock, and a wee pickle tow!
And let us again to the spinning o't!
Our spinning, God help us! is no ganging right;
Our men they're for fighting; our women tak fright;
We're vap'ring a'day; and we're blind-fou at night:
—But wha yet has heard o'the winning o't?
They brag o'our mills that are spinning o't;
But, spite o'our boasting, and spite o'our pelf,
Good faith! I hear few that are winning o't.
Our wabsters are breaking, our looms they stand still!
Our lads are doing little but tending the drill!—
I doubt if e'en lairds now their pouches can fill—
—Oh, hon! for the wearie beginning o't!
And ay wad be thought to be winning o't;
We're a'ganging fine; but we ay keep abeigh,
When folk wad keek in at the spinning o't.
Our houses are glittering; our lasses gang bra'!
Our tables are costly—our pride's warst o'a'!
But gin we gae on, we shall soon get a fa'!
And then we'll hear nought but the tyning o't!
And ilka ane sang to the spinning o't!
A canty fire-side, and a cap o'good ale,
Gaed ay sweetly down wi' the winning o't!—
We're strutting!—we're blawing! morn, e'ening, and noon;
We're wishing to see our French friends unco soon!
But gif Bonaparte gangs on as he's done,
We'll neither see end nor beginning o't!
Its ay right to try a beginning o't;
Whan folk are sair put, they maun e'en ‘ride and tie;’
Its better than gi' up the spinning o't:
Then up wi' your muskets, and up wi' your might!
And up wi' your signals and fires on ilk height!
If ance we get steddy, we yet may get right,
And, ablins, ere lang prie the winning o't!
THERE'S NOUGHT I SEE, TO FEAR NOW.
The sun-beams glint sae cheerfu'!
A birdie sang in yonder bower,
And O! but is sang fearfu'!
Tell me, my bird, my mourning bird,
What is't you sing so drearie?
I sing o'danger, fire, and sword,
Fell faes are coming near ye!
His heart was bauld and cheerie;
“I fear no foe, by day or night,
While Britain's sons are near me!”
The bird ay sang upon the thorn,
And ay its sang was fearfu';
Good king! your ships maun sail the morn,
For England's faes are near you.
His look was blythe and airy!
“There's not a foe dares face the sea!
Brave England's tars are there ay.”
The birdie sang ay on the thorn,
But now its sang grew cheerfu',
Good king! we'll laugh your faes to scorn;
There's nought I see to fear now!
And O! but it sang rarely;
And ay it sang, “God bless our King!
Bauld Britons luve him dearly.”
It flew o'er hill, it flew o'er lea,
It sang o'er moor and hether,
Till it came to the north countrie,
Whar a'sang blythe thegither.
(The pride o'Scottish story)
The sang o'Edward's wars and flight,
And Bruce's radiant glory!
They laughed at Gallia's threat'ning ills—
(Their shield was Patriot-honour;)
They rushed down Freedom's heath-flowered hills,
And, rattling, joined her banner!
THE SCOTTISH MUSE.
That old and antique song we heard last night:
Methought it did relieve my passion much;
More than light airs, and recollected terms
Of these more brisk and giddy-paced times.—
Shakespeare.
In midst o'pain my lanely pleasure!
Tutored by thee, and whispering leisure,
I quit the thrang,
And, wrapt in blessed retirement, measure
Thy varied sang!
Ah, welladay! what should I be !
Whan jeered by fools wha canna see
My inward pain,
Aneath thy sheltering wing I flee,
And mak my mane.
For hours thegither wilt thou bide,
Chanting auld tales o'martial pride,
And luve's sweet smart!
Till glowing warm thy numbers glide
Streight to the heart.
Thou wavest thy magic-working wand;
And stirring up ideas grand
That fire the brain,
Aff whirlst me swift to fairy land
'Mang Fancy's train.—
Flees trembling frae her downy nest;
Starting frae horror's dreams opprest,
I see thee come
Wi' radiance mild that cheers the breast,
And lights the gloom!
Hope, luve, and pity, in thy face,
And gliding up wi' silent pace
My plaints to hear,
Whisper'st in turn thae soothing lays
Saft in my ear.
Wan suff'rer bleached wi' care and pain!
How changed, alas! since vogie vain,
Wi' spirits light,
Ye hailed me first in untaught strain
On Strevlin's height!
Ye brattled then through wind and cauld!
Reckless, by stream, by firth and fauld
Ye held your way;
By passion ruled; by love enthralled,
Ye poured the lay.
I marked you midst the rural thrang;
Ardent and keen, the hail day lang
Wi' Nature ta'en,
Slip frae the crowd, and mix amang
Her simple train.
Your future thriftless, lost career!
And while some blamed, wi' boding fear,
The tunefu' art,
Your moral pride and truth sincere
Aye wan my heart.
To ply the fleeching, fawning trade;
Nor bend the knee, nor bow the head
To walth or power!
But backward turn, wi' scornfu' speed,
Frae flatt'ry's door.
'Mid passion's sudden, wild career;
Nor try at times to tack or veer
To int'rest's gale,
But hoist the sheet, unawed by fear,
Tho' storms prevail.
Whar will he find a shelt'ring beild?
Whan poortith's blast drifts cross the field
Wi' wintry cauld,
Whar will he wone—poor feckless chield!
Whan frail and auld!
Wander he will frae clime to clime,
Sanguine wi' hope on wing sublime
Mount heigh in air!
But than—waes me! there comes a time
O'dool and care!
O'serious thought and sad debate;
Whan blighted hope and adverse fate
Owrespread their gloom,
And mirk despair, in waefu' state,
Foresees the doom!
Wi' guardian honour by his side!
Shall fortune frown on guiltless pride,
And straits owrtake him!
—Weel! blame wha like—whate'er betide
I'se ne'er forsake him!
Ye hailed me smiling; youthfu' gay
On Aichil's whin-flowered fragrant brae
I strave to cheer ye!
Frae morn's first dawn to e'en's last ray
I ay was near ye.
To India's shore and sultry soil;
'Mid tumult, battle, care, and toil,
I following flew;
Ay smoothed the past, and wak'd the smile
To prospects new.
To Elephanta's far-famed shore
I led ye, ardent to explore,
Wi' panting heart,
Her idol monuments o'yore,
And sculptured art.
On smiling Salsett's cave-wrought coast:—
Though hope was tint—tho' a'was crossed ,
Nae dread alarms
Ye felt—fond fool!—in wonder lost
And nature's charms!
To Carib's shores returned again;
In sickness, trial, hardship, pain,
Ye ken yoursell,
Drapt frae the muse's melting strain
Peace balmy fell.
Hope lent her heaven-refreshing dew;
Fair virtue close, and closer drew
To join the lay;
While conscience bright, and brighter grew,
And cheered the way!—
(Or flushed wi' joy, or wae-forlorn)
Ye hailed the fragrant breath o'morn
Frae orange flower,
Or cassia bud, or logwood thorn,
Or Guava bower:
Inhaled the spicy gales that flew,
Rich frae Pimento's groves that grew
In deep'ning green,
Crowned wi' their flowers o'milk-white hue
In dazzling sheen!
Ye woo'd coy zephyr's transient aid
Under the Banyan's pillared shade,
On plain or hill,
Or plantain green, that rustling played
Across the rill:
Drank coolness wafted in perfume,
Fresh frae the shaddack's golden bloom,
As flutt'ring gay
Hummed saft the bird o'peerless plume,
Frae spray to spray!
The shelving palm-girt beach ye prest,
And ee'd, entranced, the purpling west
Bepictured o'er,
As ocean murm'ring gently kissed
The whitening shore:
Ye held your solemn musing way,
Whar through the gloom in myriad ray
The fire-flies gleam;
And 'thwart the grove, in harmless play,
The light'nings stream!
Roamed late the Guinea-verdured glade ,
Where towered the giant Ceiba's shade;
And, loftier still,
The Cabbage rears its regal head
Owre palm-crowned hill.
The muse aye caught your list'ning ear;
'Mid tempest's rage and thunder's rair
Aye cheering sang:—
Touched by her hand (unchilled by fear)
The Harp-strings rang .
Whar youth and hope lang tint their time,
Ance mair to the Strevlin's height sublime
We winged our way;
Ance mair attuned the rural rhime
On Aichil brae.
For passion spake while fancy cheered;
A while wi' flaunting airs ye flared
And thought to shine;
But Nature—judging nature sneered,
And ca'd it—fine!
Pensive ye mused; I marked, and smiled;
Daund'ring depressed 'mang knows flowered wild,
My aten reed
Ye faund ae bonny morning mild
'Tween Ayr and Tweed.
Whar unbusked nature blooms sae fair!
And mony a wild note saft and clear
Sings sweet by turns,
Tuned by my winsome Allan's ear
And fav'rite Burns.
Doubtfu' ye sighed, and hang your head;
Fearfu' ye sang till some agreed
The notes war true;
Whan grown mair bauld, ye gae a screed
That pleased nae few .
By Clyde's clear stream and beechen bowers ;
Heartsome and healthfu' flew the hours
In simple sang,
While Lossit's braes and Eden's towers
The notes prolang!
For health has flown wi' spirits gay;
Youth, too, has fled! and cauld decay
Comes creeping on:
October's sun cheers na like May
That brightly shone!
Has joys, gin folk calm joys wad seek;
Friendship and Worth then social cleek
And twine thegither,
And gree and crack by ingle cheek
Just like twin-brither.
That please a while, but fash at last)
Serious, our ee we backward cast
On bygane frays,
And, marvelling, mourn the thriftless waste
O'former days!
And moral reas'ning for our guide,
Calmly we view the restless tide
O'warldly care,
And cull, wi' academic pride,
The flow'rs o' lare.
Coy science' secret paths we trace,
And catch fair Nature's beauteous face
In varied view,
Ardent, though auld, we join the chace,
And pleased pursue.—
The seasons change, and, changing, cheer;
Journeying we jog, unawed by fear:
Hope plays her part!
Forward we look, though in the rear
Death shakes the dart.
Hope's dream's the sweetest balm o'pain:
Heaven's unseen joys may yet remain,
And yet draw near ye:
Meanwhile, ye see, I hear your mane,
And flee to cheer ye.
Frae Britain's cauld, frae misery's bed;
Owre seas tempestuous shivering sped
To Friendship's flame;
Whar kindling warm, in sun-beams clad,
She hails her Graham .
Ance mair ye'll greet fair Albion's isle!
In some calm nook life's cares beguile
Atween us twa:
Feed the faint lamp wi' friendship's oil—
Then—slip awa!
Just waved her hand, and mild withdrew!
Cheered wi' the picture (fause or true)
I checked despair,
And frae that moment made a vow
To—mourn nae mair.
The sigh will burst;—the tear will start;
Friendship-woven ties will snap and part,
Nae mair to twine!
And death, relentless, flings the dart,
And severs mine!
Year after year life's pleasures die;
To-day we smile; to-morrow sigh;—
In vain we moan!
Yet still I mourn, and, moaning, cry,
“My Currie's gone!”
That waked sae late admiring praise,
Its parting beam's reflected rays
In colours rise,
Bright as warm summer's sun displays
In evening' skies!
Their charms to sooth the Scottish Muse;
And while she sheds affection's dews
At Friendship's shrine,
A heaven-shot gleam in bright'ning hues
Through clouds will shine.
The author's complaints were such, that, unable either to read or to write above a few minutes without distress, his only amusement was to compose by the help of memory alone. It may, perhaps, be worth mentioning, that Will and Jean, the Waes o'War, the Links o'Forth, and the present poem, were all composed by memory, previously to the commitment of a single line to paper.
See the author's account of the caves of Elephanta, Canary, and Ambola, published in the eighth volume of the Archæologia.
The palmeto royal, or mountain cabbage, from 150 to 200 feet in height; a tree, says Mr Edwards, which, without doubt, is among the most graceful of all the vegetable creation.
The author's first attempts in Scottish poetry were the composing of words to some of our most simple pastoral and Gaelic airs.
Alluding to the uncommon sale of ‘Will and Jean,’ which, in less than seven weeks after publication, went through five editions of 1500 copies each. Fourteen editions were thrown off before the expiration of a twelvemonth.
Lossit, in Cantyre, Argyleshire, where some of the songs, from their resemblance to the Gaelic, were particularly relished. They were afterwards set to music, and published in Edinburgh.
Lossit, in Cantyre, Argyleshire, where some of the songs, from their resemblance to the Gaelic, were particularly relished. They were afterwards set to music, and published in Edinburgh.
![]() | The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill | ![]() |