Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle ::

Weel, Saunders, thou has made a seizure,
The Gauger's now thy siccar treasure;
O what a smile o' fiendish pleasure
Lurks in that leer,
While he, poor saul, beyond a' measure,
Seems struck wi' fear:

His mouth, hands, nostrils, een, and hair,
What terror is depicted there!
What agonies o' fell despair
Contort his face!
He'll ne'er seize cask nor caldron mair:
O hopeless case!

I trow thou hast him tightly graspit,
Thy barbed tail about him claspit;
Firm as a bolt securely haspit,
There is he fixt;
Ne'er to get loose, till down thy ash-pit
The wretch thou kick'st.

140

My sang, thou art nae lazy lurdane,
In takin' on thee sic a burden,
Boa-Constrictor-like, a girdin'
His worthless waist;
But, Clootie, let me put a word in,—
What's a' thy haste?

Wad'st thou not let him aff again?
Thou ken'st he'll yet be a' thine ain;
Then, wherefore gie him needless pain
Before his time?
He yet might yield thee meikle gain,
By future crime.

Fair fa' the Artist—clever chiel,
For truly he's portrayed thee weel:
Frae snout to tail, frae horn to heel,
‘The foul thief loon;’
The veritable, true Scotch deil,
The ‘auld Mahoun.’

Could Burns himsel' but rise and see
The pawkie glint o' hellish glee
That plays about thy mouth and e'e,
As aff thou hies,
Wi' welcome hand he'd wish to thee
‘Luck o' thy prize.’

But, ah! 'twas hardly fair to trace
His Dukeship's beak upon thy face;

141

Had Bailie P—l's but ta'en its place,
Or Chartist R—s's,
Such wad hae gi'en a coup de grace
To thy proboscis.

Or had the visage a' thegither,
Been lent thee o' the ane or ither,
Those wha ance saw thee ne'er could swither,
About thee mair;
For like thou should'st be as a brither,
To that choice pair.

O had'st thou never done mair ill
Than seized the seizer o' a still,
Mankind, in mony a Highland gill,
Had toasted thee;
And drank thy health wi' right good will,
In barley bree.

But O, thou auld malignant thief!
Fell origin of a' mischief;
Thou art the author o' our grief,
Our toil and pain,
And never shall we get relief
Till thou art gane.

But though thou art the vera fiend,
Thou'rt still the Clergy's dearest freend,
By thy vast influence unscreen'd,
They might shut shop,
For, wanting thee, baith tythe and tiend,
I trow would stop.

142

Hence, I'd propose a vote o' thanks
Frae them to thee, for thy d—d pranks:
'Tis thou wha keep'st them on their shanks,
And gi'est them bread,
Their weel-filled aumries soon were blanks,
Gin thou wert dead.

Therefore, just carry on thy calling,
To keep their Reverences frae falling,
For O they'd raise a hideous bawling,
Wert thou to stop;
As in the mud they lay a-sprawling,
'Reft o' their prop.

Improve thy time, then, while thou'rt here,
The ‘Thousand Years’ will soon draw near,
When closed will be thy curst career
For that lang season;
Man winna then be fool'd by fear,
But ruled by reason.

But, Nick—gin I might ca' thee such—
I've ae request, if not too much:
I carena though thou sametimes clutch
A greedy Gauger;
But O, I pray thee, dinna touch
The Auld Egg-Cadger.

University of Virginia Library

VERSES,

SUGGESTED ON VIEWING MR ANDERSON'S COMIC GROUP OF FIGURES IN STONE, ‘THE DEIL'S AWA' WI' THE EXCISEMAN.’