The works of Alexander Pennecuik of New-Hall, M.D.; containing the description of Tweeddale, and miscellaneous poems. A new edition, with copious notes, forming a complete history of the county to the present time. To which are prefixed, memoirs of Dr Pennecuik, and a map of the shire of Peebles, or Tweeddale |
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| TO HIS HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF ORANGE,
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 | The works of Alexander Pennecuik |  |
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TO HIS HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF ORANGE,
THE HUMBLE ADDRESS AND SUPPLICATION OF THE PORTIONERS AND INHABITANTS OF THE FAMOUS TOWN OF LINTOUN, SUB-METROPOLITAN OF TWEEDDALE.
PROLOGUE.
Victorious Sir, still faithful to thy word,Who conquers more by kindness than by sword.
As thy ancestors brave, with matchless vigour,
Made Hogen Mogen make so great a figure:
So thou that art Great Britain's only Moses,
To guard our marshal thistle, with the roses;
The discords of the harp in tune to bring,
And curb the pride of lilies in the spring,
Permit, great Sir, poor us among the press,
In humble terms, to make this blunt Address,
In Lintoun verse, for as your Highness knows,
You have good store of nonsense else in prose.
Sir, first of all, that it may please,
Your Highness to give us an ease,
Of our oppressions more or less,
Especially that knave the Cess;
And poverty for pity cries,
To modify our dear Excise.
If you'll not trust us when we say it,
Faith, Sir, we are not able to pay it,
Which makes us sigh when we should sleep,
And fast when we should go to meat:
Yea, scarce can get it for to borrow,
Yet drink we must to slocken sorrow;
For this our grief, Sir, makes us now,
Sleep seldom sound, till we be fow.
Sir, let no needless forces stand,
To plague this poor, but valiant land;
And let no rhetoric procure,
Pensions, but only to the poor.
That spendthrift courtiers get no share,
To make the king's exchequer bare.
Then, valiant Sir, we beg at large,
You will free quarters quite discharge;
We live upon the king's highstreet,
And scarce a day we miss some cheat;
For horse and foot as they come by,
Sir, be they hungry, cold, or dry,
They eat and drink, and burn our peits,
With fient a farthing in their breiks;
Destroy our hay, and press our horse,
Whiles break our heads, and that is worse.
Consume baith men and horses' meat,
And make both wives and bairns to greit.
Your Highness to give us an ease,
Of our oppressions more or less,
Especially that knave the Cess;
And poverty for pity cries,
To modify our dear Excise.
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Faith, Sir, we are not able to pay it,
Which makes us sigh when we should sleep,
And fast when we should go to meat:
Yea, scarce can get it for to borrow,
Yet drink we must to slocken sorrow;
For this our grief, Sir, makes us now,
Sleep seldom sound, till we be fow.
Sir, let no needless forces stand,
To plague this poor, but valiant land;
And let no rhetoric procure,
Pensions, but only to the poor.
That spendthrift courtiers get no share,
To make the king's exchequer bare.
Then, valiant Sir, we beg at large,
You will free quarters quite discharge;
We live upon the king's highstreet,
And scarce a day we miss some cheat;
For horse and foot as they come by,
Sir, be they hungry, cold, or dry,
They eat and drink, and burn our peits,
With fient a farthing in their breiks;
Destroy our hay, and press our horse,
Whiles break our heads, and that is worse.
Consume baith men and horses' meat,
And make both wives and bairns to greit.
By what is said your Highness may
Judge if two stipends we can pay;
And therefore, if you wish us well,
You must with all speed reconcile,
Two jangling sons of the same mother,
Elliot and Hay, with one another.
Pardon us, Sir, for all your wit,
We fear that prove a kittle putt;
Which though the wiser sort condole,
Our Linton wives still blaw the coal;
And women here, as well we ken,
Would have us all John Thomson's men.
Sir, it was said ere we were born,
Who blaws best bears away the horn:
So he that lives and preacheth best
Should win the pulpit from the rest.
Judge if two stipends we can pay;
And therefore, if you wish us well,
You must with all speed reconcile,
Two jangling sons of the same mother,
Elliot and Hay, with one another.
Pardon us, Sir, for all your wit,
We fear that prove a kittle putt;
Which though the wiser sort condole,
Our Linton wives still blaw the coal;
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Would have us all John Thomson's men.
Sir, it was said ere we were born,
Who blaws best bears away the horn:
So he that lives and preacheth best
Should win the pulpit from the rest.
The next petition that we make,
Is that for brave Earl Tiviot's sake,
Who had great kindness for this place,
You'll move the Duke our masters grace,
To put a clock upon our steeple,
To show the hours to country people;
For we that live within this town,
Our sight grows dim by sun go down.
And charge him, Sir, our street to mend,
And causey it from end to end,
Pay but the workmen for their pains,
And we shall jointly lead the stanes.
In case your Highness put him to it
The market customs well may do it;
For of himself he is not rash,
Because he wants the ready cash:
For if your Highness, for some reasons,
Should honour Lintoun with your presence,
Your milk white palfrey would turn brown
Ere ye rid half out through our town;
And that would put upon our name,
A blot of everlasting shame,
Who are reputed honest fellows,
And stout as ever William Wallace.
Is that for brave Earl Tiviot's sake,
Who had great kindness for this place,
You'll move the Duke our masters grace,
To put a clock upon our steeple,
To show the hours to country people;
For we that live within this town,
Our sight grows dim by sun go down.
And charge him, Sir, our street to mend,
And causey it from end to end,
Pay but the workmen for their pains,
And we shall jointly lead the stanes.
In case your Highness put him to it
The market customs well may do it;
For of himself he is not rash,
Because he wants the ready cash:
For if your Highness, for some reasons,
Should honour Lintoun with your presence,
Your milk white palfrey would turn brown
Ere ye rid half out through our town;
And that would put upon our name,
A blot of everlasting shame,
Who are reputed honest fellows,
And stout as ever William Wallace.
Lastly, great Sir, discharge us all
To go to court without a call;
Discharge Laird Isaac, and Hog-yards,
James Giffart and the Lintoun lairds,
Old William Younger, Geordy Purdie,
James Douglas, Scroggs, and Little Swordie;
And English Andrew, who hath skill,
To knap at every word so well:
Let Kingside stay for the Townhead,
Till that old peevish wife be dead;
And that they go, on no pretence,
To put this place to great expence;
Nor yet shall contribute a share,
To any who are going there,
To strive to be the greatest minion,
And plead for this or that opinion;
If we have any thing to spare,
Poor widows, they should be our care,
The fatherless, the blind, the lame,
Who starve, yet for to beg think shame.
So farewell, Sir, here is no treason,
But wealth of rhyme, and part of reason;
And for to save some needles cost,
We send this, our Address, by post.
To go to court without a call;
Discharge Laird Isaac, and Hog-yards,
James Giffart and the Lintoun lairds,
Old William Younger, Geordy Purdie,
James Douglas, Scroggs, and Little Swordie;
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To knap at every word so well:
Let Kingside stay for the Townhead,
Till that old peevish wife be dead;
And that they go, on no pretence,
To put this place to great expence;
Nor yet shall contribute a share,
To any who are going there,
To strive to be the greatest minion,
And plead for this or that opinion;
If we have any thing to spare,
Poor widows, they should be our care,
The fatherless, the blind, the lame,
Who starve, yet for to beg think shame.
So farewell, Sir, here is no treason,
But wealth of rhyme, and part of reason;
And for to save some needles cost,
We send this, our Address, by post.
EPILOGUE.
Thrice Noble Orange, blessed be the timeSuch fair fruit prospered in our Northern clime,
Whose sweet and cordial juice affords us matter,
And sauce, to make our capons eat the better;
Long may thou thrive, and still thy arms advance,
Till England send an Orange unto France,
Well guarded through proud Neptune's waves, and then,
What's sweet to us, may prove sour sauce to them;
As England doth, so Caledonia boasts,
She'll fight with Orange for the Lord of Hosts;
And though the tyrant hath unsheath'd his sword,
Fy, fear him not, he never kept his word.
Sic Subscribitur William Younger of Hog-Yards,
In name of all the Lintoun Lairds.
| The works of Alexander Pennecuik | |