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Peter Cornclips

A Tale of Real Life; With Other Poems & Songs, By Alexander Rodger

Rodger, Alexander (1784-1846)

[dedication]

[section]

PETER CORNCLIPS,

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

SONGS.

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PETER CORNCLIPS,

A Tale.

'Twas New'rday, aughteen-twenty-four,
I think about the breakfast hour,—
At least, 'twas early in the day,—
That Peter Cornclips took his way
Frae auld St. Mungo's town sae smeeky,
To venerable gude Auld Reekie,
To view the ferlies, and so forth,
O' that famed Mistress o' the North;
Which self-conceited christian heathens
Hae lately baptiz'd Modern Athens.
Her Castle grey, her ancient Palace,
Her biggings high, on hills—in valleys,
Her spacious streets, her mound and bridges;
Where citizens, as thick as midges,

A varied, motley, countless thrang,
Mix, move and bustle still alang.
Her venerable auld St. Giles,
The pride o' ancient Gothic piles,
Surmounted by the imperial crown,
Which mony a stormy blast has seen,
And yet has ne'er been tumbled down,
As some imperial crowns hae been;
For not a few hae kiss'd the ground,
Since honest auld St. Giles was crowned:
But stop—sic thoughts are out o' season,
Besides, they strongly smell o' treason,
And that, ye ken, will never do,
While royal Reekie's in our view,
That seat o' ancient Scottish glory,
Ere there was either Whig or Tory.—
But, leaving politics to those,
Wha gulp down kingdoms at a dose,
We'll just proceed, as heretofore,
Auld Reekie's beauties to run o'er,—
Her Arthur's Seat and Calton Hill,
Where the charmed eye may rove at will,

Alang the varied scenes around,
As far as the horizon's bound.
Her Herriot's Wark and stately college,
Famed seats o' solid useful knowledge,
Whence many a genius has come forth,
And shone the day-star o' the north.
And her braw daughter, the new town,
Sae stately, straight and strapping grown,
Wi' her fine crescents, streets and squares,
And ither modern modish airs,
That, search a' Europe through and through,
Her equal you will hardly view.

Reader, perhaps, ye'll think it queer,
That at this season o' the year,
A man should tak a pleasure tramp,
When roads are just a perfect swamp;
When days are short, nights lang and dreary,
And Nature hangs her head fu' eerie,
Mourning the absence o' the sun,
Which far to southern climes has run,

Leaving her here to mak' her mane,
To sigh, shed tears and pine alane;
Mourning her summer bloom decayed,
Like some auld solitary maid,
Lamenting o'er her furrowed brow,
Torn up by time's relentless plough,
And wailing o'er her roses fled,
Her single state and lanely bed.—
Reader, I say, ye'll think it queer,
That ane should tak' a pleasure tramp,
At this dull season o' the year,
Sae bleak, sae comfortless and damp;
But stop your strictures on my story,
Till ance I've laid it a' before ye,
Then ye may criticise your fill,
I dinna care this half-worn quill.

But these digressions I rin into,
I fear, are rather near a kin to
Friend Tristram Shandy's turns and jinks,
His outs and ins, his whirls and links,

That mak' our memories tine the thread,
O' what we had begun to read:
Weel, to resume, as truth's imperative,
Here goeth Peter Cornclips' narrative.

It wasna pleasure a'thegither,
But partly business sent him thither,
For be it ken'd he there had freen's,
Possest o' very decent means;
Of course, could boast some influence,
Wi' folks o' rank and consequence,
Wha whiles hae places in their grant,
To gie for something else they want,
Maybe some lowly, cringing service,
Voting, or ---—Gude preserve us!
Now Peter took it in his head,
That he might earn a bit o' bread,
Much easier than he yet had done,
If he could but prevail upon
His freens, to mak' some intercession
For him, wi' folks o' lofty station;

Just to be plain, which aye is best,
And set the matter quite at rest,
Peter a snug bit birth did want,
And hence the reason o' his jaunt.

As forward on his way he set,
He wi' an auld acquaintance met
About Tolcross, and as 'twas new'rday,
Forby a very cauld and dour day,
The twa agreed that naething less
Should part them, than a hearty glass;
For aft had they thegither drank,
Ere trade made difference in their rank;
But mony a day had o'er them pass'd,
Since they had drank thegither last.
For in this land o' trade and stir,
A thousand things ilk day occur,
To mak' near neighbours change their stations,
Their habits, hames and occupations;

And move in new and separate spheres,
So that they'll scarcely meet for years.
Not that they quite forget ilk ither,
But just, they chance not to forgether,
As some new object, or pursuit,
A different path to each chalks out.
While some, devoid of means or aim,
Plod on from year to year the same,
And, like a tree fix'd to the spot,
Just grow up, wither, die, and rot.
And aft, while striving to mak' rich,
Some wade, some jump hard fortune's ditch,
And some, while jumping, tumble in,
And out again can never win,
But deep and deeper still they sink,
The mair they strive to reach the brink,
Till fairly in the mud stuck fast,
They struggle till they breathe their last.
Thus, Commerce, frae her lottery box,
Draws different lots to different folks—
To some gives gall, feeds some wi' honey—
The case wi' Peter and his cronie,

For trade had his condition mended;
While Peter, poor man, daily bended
Beneath hard toil's unpleasant burden,
Yet ne'er could save a single fardin'.
A proof, that if you strip your coat,
Ye'll never mak' a fortune o't;
But, get it ance kept on your back,
'Tis very like you'll something mak'.
But, though the chiel had risen thus,
He didna mak' an unco fuss
About his elevated state,
Like thousands o' our mushroom great,
Wha, when they meet an auld acquaintance,
Forget the face they brawly kent ance,
And consequentially strut past,
Wi' head ajee, and een up-cast;—
No; though this be the case wi' some,
It ne'er was sae wi' Peter's chum—
For, wheresoe'er auld frien's he met,
He ne'er “remember'd to forget,”
But, friendly-like, aye kept in min'
Their social joys o' auld langsyne.

Weel, they into the Black Bull stappit,
And for the best half-mutchkin rappit.—
'Twas brought; and then, their gabs to please,
The wife set down her bread and cheese,
And, wi' a kind and takin' smile,
Addrest them in her ain frank style,—
“Come, sirs, fa' to, and no be blate;
Sic cheese ye'll no fin' ilka gate,
It's saxteen month since it was caft,
And that's its neebour in the laft,
Baith gude Du'lap,—come, eat your fill;
It's a bit dainty kebbock still.
What think ye o' our aitmeal cakes?
Thae's aye the kind our Kirsty bakes,—
As smart a kimmer as ye'll see,
Although she war nae kin to me.—
But troth, I'll lose her soon I fear,
Sae mony chiels come wooing here:
Yet, wha she's for, or wha she'll get,
She's keeping that a secret yet;—
It maks nae odds—I'll find it out
Ere this day twalmonth comes about.

Hout! mak' nae ceremonies here,
New'rday comes round but ance a-year.”
Weel pleased, the cronies heard her crack,
(For she had aye an unco knack
At pleasing customers,)—and then,
'Twas “Come, gudewife, fill this again.”—
Nae sooner said than it was done,
And then her gaucy curran'-bun
Was niest produced, wi'—“Come, sirs, see,
Here's something yet for you to pree:
It's braw and rich—Hout, tak' a slice o't,
Ne'er fash your heads about the price o't.
I gat it free just as you see't;
And as I gat it sae I gie't.
What are ye fear'd for?—tak' a whang:
Ye'll maybe hae a bit to gang.”
Peter, whase heart wi' joy did loup,
Cried, “Lucky! fill again that stoup;
For sickin kindness, I declare,
I never witness'd onywhere.”

Thus, did they crack, and eat, and drink,
Till ance they baith began to wink;
The gudewife trotting butt and ben,
Filled up the stoup aye now and then,
Drank baith their healths, and crack'd her joke;
While loud they laugh'd, and took their smoke.

At last, as frae a dream awaking,
Peter, his drumly twinklers raking,
Gat up and cried, “I'm waur than wud!
I should been half-way on my road.
Come, rise; for I maun tak' the gate:
And troth it will be braw and late
Ere I get to my journey's end.—
Was e'er sic stupid nonsense ken'd!
For Whitburn I should reach ere night;
And I hae tint three hours o' light.
Deil tak' that drink! as I should ban!
It mak's an idiot o' a man.”
“Weel, just ae glass then,” quo' his cronie;
“And here's my tap-coat, put it on ye,

'Twill keep you cozie, dry and warm,
Amidst this cauld and biting storm.”
Peter got on the meikle coat,
Shook hands, and took the road like shot,
But, had ye seen the body in't,
Ye'd fairly thought he wad been tint;
The size o't very nearly drown'd him,
It wad hae button'd three times round him,
For, made to fit its owner's carcase,
Which, being a better meat than wark case,
Had grown till nearly hogshead thick:
Peter's, a perfect walking stick;
A chanter, wanting bag and drones;
A moving “vision of dry bones.”
Nae wonder, then, ye'd thought him tint,
For ye could scarce hae seen him in't.
Deil cares—he trudg'd through thick and thin,
Nor e'er took time to look behin',
But kept a quick, half-running pace;
Whiles moralizing on his case;
Whiles grumbling at the heavy road,
And hapless feet, but poorly shod;

Whiles cursing that infernal whisky,
Fell cause o' mony a luckless plisky;
Whiles thinking, if he wad succeed,
He'd be a happy man indeed;
But doubting whiles, his mean condition
Might baulk him in his present mission:
For great folks maistly shower their gifts
On them wha are nae favours needing,
And leave the poor man to his shifts,
As something scarcely worth the heeding:
Peter kent this, but yet he thought
A place was aye worth being sought;
Thus trudg'd he on, 'tween doubt and hope,
And scarcely ever made a stop,
Except, when to an inn he cam',
He had to halt to tak' a dram,
To keep his sinking spirits up,
And help him forward on his trip.

But, waesucks! night cam' on at last,
And fiercely rag'd the furious blast;

And, what made waur his piteous case,
The storm blew keenly in his face;
By turns, the rain, the sleet, the hail,
Did Peter's feeble frame assail;
Clouds gather'd round him, black as ink,
He couldna see a single blink
Of moon, or star, or candle light;—
Oh, but it was an awfu' night,
For ony houseless, wandering wight.
He flounder'd on, he kent nae whar,
Knee-deep amang the mud and glaur;
Whiles owre some big whin-stane he stumbled;
Whiles into some deep ditch he tumbled;
Whiles like a goat owre hillocks leaping;
Whiles like a crab on all-fours creeping;
Whiles driven forward by the blast;
And whiles knock'd back again as fast.
The covering o' his “judgment-seat”
Got so be-drench'd wi' rain and sleet,
That the slouch'd rim o't, tempest-batter'd,
Against his chafts incessant blatter'd.

The big tap-coat a cumb'rance grew,
For it got soak'd wi' water through;
While Peter 'neath it graned and growled,
Cursing the storm, that heedless howled;
The half-worn shoon upon his feet,
Grew saft as dishclouts wi' the weet;
Bewildered, and half-dead wi' fear,
Nae kindly house for shelter near,
Nae gleam to light him on his way,
Peter at length began to pray;—
But, oh, the prayer he then did mutter
Was such as raving madmen utter,
A mixture of ejaculations,
Blessings and horrid imprecations:
What else could he have uttered then?—
The drink still bizzing in his brain,
That a' the ills he had come through,
Had not been able to subdue.
Now, with a desperate courage flushed,
Wi' a' his might he forward rushed,
Through dub and mire sublimely dashing,
Resembling just a steam-boat plashing;

Nor stopt he in his frantic rage,
Till souse, he pitched into a hedge;
And there he struggled like a fish
Caught in the net's entangling mesh.
How he got free 'twere hard to tell,—
But on the ither side he fell;
His hand let go his trusty staff,
And, waur than a', his hat flew aff,
Leaving his poor bewilder'd pate
In a most lamentable state,
Exposed to a' the furious blast,
That mercilessly on him lash'd.
Lang, lang he sought, but sought in vain,
Nor staff nor hat could he regain,
Which truly was a sad affair;
For, wha e'er liked, wi' noddle bare,
To bide the battering o' a shower,
Such as did then on Peter pour?
Except, indeed, the great Sam Johnson,
Wha let a shower fa' his bare sconce on,
For ae lang hour, by way of penance
For some bad action he had done ance.—

His crime, if I can recollect,
Was some gross piece of disrespect,
Or stubborn disobedience rather,
Which he, when young, had shown his father:
A very serious crime, nae doubt,
Which youngsters tak' sma' thought about;
But, when they ance come up to years,
How vastly different it appears.
'Twas thus Sam Johnson viewed his crime,
After a distant lapse o' time;
And hence his standing for an hour
Bare-powed beneath a heavy shower:—
A stupid piece o' superstition,
Or waur, a mockery o' contrition,
As if a heavy shower o' rain,
Washing the thatch-wark o' the brain,
Could cleanse or cure the gangrened part,
That festered foully at the heart.

But Peter felt nae sic compunction,
While smarting 'neath this heavenly unction,

Which fell in such a bitter torrent,
As made it to his skull abhorrent;
But viewed his case in similar light,
As those who suffer for the right:
Whether it was, his heart was hardened,
Or that he deemed his sins were pardoned,
I know not; but, without remorse,
At fate he threw out mony a curse,
For playing him sae vile a plisky,—
When really 'twas not fate, but whisky,
That had involved him in the scrape,
From which he kentna how to 'scape:—
Ergo, himsel' had a' the faut,
By laying in owre meikle maut.

Now, Peter's conduct in this case
Was just what every day tak's place;
At least, we very often see
That ither folks, as weel as he,
When through imprudence, or neglect
Of being somewhat circumspect,

Some dire mischance upon them fa's,
Ascribe it to some other cause,
Trying, (such is their sense of shame)
To shift from off themselves, the blame.

Poor Peter, wi' his droukit pow,
Was so completely wilder'd now,
That in this dismal swampy place,
He kentna whar to turn his face;
But groped about now here, now there,
In darkness, terror and despair,
Like some dumfounder'd, wandering ghaist,
Lost 'mid the howling Stygian waste;
Or if this simile winna do,
As some may doubt o't being true,
Like some great sumph, whase father's gains
Are clearer than his ain dull brains;
Wha to the college straight is sent,
And for some learned profession meant,
Gropes, wades, and flounders thro' the classics,
Dreaming the while o' gowns and cassocs,

O' tithes or stipends, briefs or fees,
D.D.s and ither learned degrees;
Tries Law—finds Law will never do;
Tries Physic next—sticks Physic too;
Then, pertinaciously grown stupit,
Attempts to mount into a pu'pit;
But finding the ascent too steep,
The stance too high, for him, to keep;—
His balance lost, he staggers—reels,
And backward, fairly coups the creels,
Greets wi' a soss, his mother earth,
From which he'd better ne'er cam' forth.

I think I hear you, gentle reader,
Demanding what's become o' Peter?
Troth, sir, 'twere hard for me to tell,
When Peter didna ken himsel';
However, if you wait, I'll try
To find him for you by and bye,
I think I left him in a bog,
Quarter'd of course, on Monsieur Frog,

But nae mair relishing his quarters,
Than horses do the whips o' carters;
He therefore made a hard exertion,
To save himsel' frae fresh immersion,
And get his carcase extricated,
Frae lodgings he so truly hated.
At last he to a planting got,
And then began to bless his lot,
For there, he might some shelter find,
Frae the fell storm o' rain and wind;
But then, the rain might overflow
The place, it lay so very low,
And should he stretch him on the ground,
He ran the risk of being drowned;
What shift remained? for heavy sleep,
O'er his tired frame began to creep,
And fain wad he his een hae closed,
But busy fear here interposed,
And whisper'd, if he shut an e'e,
He very soon a corpse might be.
Necessity! resistless power,
How oft in the most trying hour,

When feeble man, by thee opprest,
Almost gives up the hard contest,
That crushes him down to the earth,
Dost Thou give bright invention birth;
Though stern thou art, how much do we,
Poor helpless mortals owe to thee,
For many grand discoveries made
In every science, art and trade.

Poor Peter, to his last shift driven,
Beset alike by earth and heaven,
An angry sky aboon him frowning,
On earth below the risk o' drowning,
If he but stretched him down to sleep,—
Langer awake he could not keep,
For, jaded nature worn out quite,
Demanded quickly some respite,—
What's to be done?—a happy thought!
O gude be praised! the meikle coat,
The meikle coat!—weel, what of it?
Ye'll shortly hear, but rest a bit.

Plunging in water to the knees,
Peter searched through amang the trees,
For ane, aneath which he might stand,
Securely, upon solid land.
At length a stately pine he found,
And then the big-coat button'd round
Himsel' and it—and thus made fast,
Poor Peter got a nap, at last.

But busy Fancy now began,
To picture things ne'er seen by man,
In ither words, he dreamt a dream,—
He thought that coming to a stream,
Swell'd by the rains, by whirlwinds tost,
And that it must by him be crossed,
The only brig a single plank,
That lay across frae bank to bank;
With trembling steps he ventured o'er,
But ere he reached the farthest shore,
With horrid crash down broke the plank,
And to the bottom Peter sank.

The furious waves enclosed him round,
He struggled long and hard for breath,
But no relief poor Peter found,
At last he closed his eyes in death.
But, ah! what scenes now met his view!—
Scenes altogether strange and new;
For Fancy, as she wildly sported,
Had him to the next world transported.
By some resistless Power unseen,
He rapidly through space was whirl'd;
And, looking back where he had been,
Descried far off this nether world,
At first like a small taper blinking,
And less and less each moment shrinking,
Till, by degrees, receding fast,
The glimmering thing went out at last.
Now, upwards as he cast his eyes,
He saw new suns, new stars, new skies,
Whose boundless glories filled him quite
With inexpressible delight.
Fain, fain would he have lingered there,
Among those planets bright and fair,

Those golden isles of heaven that lay,
Scatter'd along the milky way.
For as he drew those islands nigh,
That gem the ocean of the sky,
And there, in living brilliance glow,
A heavenly archipelago,
Whose dazzling lustre far outshines,
The brightest gems of earthly mines;
He deemed they were the blest abodes,
Of beings of celestial birth,
Or those who had thrown off the loads,
Of mortal clay they bore on earth;
And as he near and nearer drew,
Still more expanded waxed the view,
So that his eye, where'er it strayed,
Ten thousand worlds at once surveyed;
For now upon his vision shower'd,
The glories of ten thousand spheres,
Such as would wholly have o'erpower'd,
Frail man in this dark world of tears,
Whose weak and mortal eyes must shun,
The blaze of one far distant sun.

And now he saw the happy race,
Blest tenants of that glorious place,
With beauteous forms divinely fair,
Array'd in robes of purest white,
Moving majestic through the air,
Up-borne on golden sun-beams bright;
Or walking in unclouded day,
Along the emerald-paved way;
Or bathing their celestial limbs,
In heaven's pure translucent streams;
Or hymning forth their grateful songs,
Fit only for celestial tongues;
While every face, and every eye,
Beam'd with the purest ecstacy.
For now all earthly grossness gone,
They, pure etherial beings, shone,
In all the vigour, bloom and joy,
Of youthful immortality.
No wrinkl'd forehead, stamped with care,
No sadden'd countenance was there,
No squalid cheek, no tearful eye,
No breast that heav'd the woe-fraught sigh,

No guilt, no pain, no wretchedness,
No virtue struggling with distress,
No frame bowed down with toil or age,
No secret hate, no party rage,
No servile slave, no haughty lord,
No red depopulating sword;
Nothing to hurt, or to destroy,
Was known in all those realms of joy;
But beauty, youth and innocence,
Smiled sweetly on each countenance,
And love benign, and freedom bland,
Made every gladen'd heart expand,
And peace serene, and purest pleasure,
And rapture without end or measure,
Enliven'd all those haunts of bliss,
Those worlds of endless happiness.

Though longing greatly to alight,
And dwell among those isles so bright,
Yet still a conscious worthlessness,
Rose up 'tween Peter and such bliss,

Proclaiming he was no fit guest
For those pure “Islands of the blest.”

So, by the Power unseen urged on,
He left those islands one by one,
Far on his right, with deep regret,
And soon each orb to him was set.
Now, as he cast his eyes below,
He thought he saw the shades of woe,
Far on his left, where a dark cloud,
Of sulphur, did the place enshroud;
Pushed onward with resistless force,
He stopt not in his downward course,
But whirl'd along, o'erwhelmed with dread,
Till light and giddy grew his head.
Losing his recollection quite,
He knew not further what befel,
Till waked with horror and affright,
Upon the black confines of hell;
He found himself bound to a stake,
Upon the borders of a lake,

From whose foul surface, noxious steams,
And here, and there, sulphureous gleams
Arose, and mounting to the air,
With poison filled the atmosphere.
No sun shone there, diffusing light,
But all was dark and drear as night,
Save, where a flame of livid hue,
A pale and sickly glimmer threw
Around this dreadful place, which light,
Was worse by far than tenfold night.
No shrub, nor blade of grass grew near,
The weary wakeful eye to cheer,
No music of the grove was there,
But piercing yells of deep despair,
And sickening groans, and rending sighs,
And wailings loud, and deafening cries,
And murmurs deep, were heard around,
From many a heaving smould'ring mound,
Where heaps of tortured wretches lay,
Banished the blissful realms of day,
And bound in everlasting chains,
A prey to hell's acutest pains.

Beyond the lake was dimly seen,
Through the blue flames that roll'd between,
A Being of tremendous size,
Seated upon a fiery throne,
Whose prideful brow and wrathful eyes,
Bespoke the mighty fallen One;
Whose boundless pride made him rebel,
And who, by madly mounting,—fell.
Though dark despair sat on his face,
Yet still his looks bore many a trace
Of heavenly birth; for even there,
Linger'd the bright archangel's air;
The glory of whose former state,
Even hell could not obliterate.
For, notwithstanding his offence,
His loss of perfect innocence,
Of heaven, of happiness, and all,
He still looked noble in his fall.
Around his throne a numerous crowd,
Of dark inferior beings bowed,
Involved alike in his sad fate,
Upon whose faces, deadly hate,

And stern defiance were portrayed;
For heaven had no impression made
Upon their stubborn hearts, which still
Rejoiced to thwart th' Almighty will.
But yet, all malignant, they promptly obeyed,
Their terrible chieftian's word or nod,
Fulfilling each plan of mischief laid,
Against the broken Image of God,
The poor degraded human race,
To drag them to that dismal place,
Incessantly to undergo
Their long, long quarantine of woe.

As Peter view'd those awful scenes,
A chilling fear ran through his veins,
His knees together smote with dread,
The hair stood bristling on his head,
His teeth were chattering, lips were quivering,
His frame all o'er was seized with shivering,
A cold, cold sweat bedew'd his skin,
While hot the fever raged within.

His burning tongue and parched mouth,
Already felt the quenchless drouth,
Which plagues the miserable race,
For ever in that dismal place.
While trembling he stood looking on,
The awful chief, upon the throne,
With voice as loud as tenfold thunder,
That seemed to rend all hell asunder,
Cried, guards! go fetch yon culprit here,
Yon shrivel'd ghost, who shakes with fear,
Go quick, and loose him from the stake,
Then plunge him in the sulphury lake,
And there baptize him in our name,
O'er head and ears in liquid flame;
For by such rites, 'tis our intent,
To mimic the Omnipotent,—
That done, present him here before us,
He'll help to swell th' infernal chorus.
The guards no sooner orders got,
Then quick they flew toward the spot,
Where Peter stood, and loosing him,
In franctic horror with a scream,
He woke—when lo!—'twas all a dream.

A band of tinklers passing by,
And hearing Peter's dolefu' cry,
Humanely thought it was their duty,
To help a creature in distress,
For though their looks were grim and sooty,
Their hearts felt not a whit the less.
So, by the assistance of a light,
They soon found out the hapless wight,
But oh! how great was their surprise,
They scarcely could believe their eyes,
To see him button'd to a tree,
And vainly struggling to get free.
They questioned him how he got there,
His only answer was a stare
Of hopeless grief, for though awake,
His thoughts, still ran upon the stake,
The burning lake, and heaving mounds,
The dreadful sights and dismal sounds,
Which he had lately seen and heard;
For, when the swarthy band appear'd,
Their sable looks could ill dispel
His fears, of being still in hell.

By soothing words and treatment kind,
They calm'd at length his troubl'd mind;
Heard him his piteous tale relate,
How he had wander'd aff his gate;
How he had lost baith staff and hat;
How he had neither lain, nor sat,
But stood lash'd to a tree that night;
And lastly, what an awfu' fright,
He got, by dreaming o' a dream,
Which almost true, even yet did seem.

The tinklers, pitying Peter's case,
Had him conducted to a place,
Where he his weary frame might rest,
Wi' cauld and hunger sair distrest;
An auld untenanted abode,
That lay twa gun-shot aff the road,
Weel shelter'd by a clump o' trees,
That sugh'd and whistl'd in the breeze:
This auld deserted lanely biggin,
Sair riddl'd, baith in wa's and riggin,

The tinklers had, wi' nae sma' pains,
Made proof against the winds and rains,
And there, amid their vagrant trudgings,
Ta'en up their temporary lodgings.
Thence, aft in bands they issued out,
And roam'd the country round about,
Mending auld kettles, pats and pans,
Cheese toasters, heaters, jugs and cans,
Makin' horn spoons, repairing bellows,
Clasping or splicing auld umbrellas;
Cementing china, glueing fiddles;
Or vamping up auld sieves and riddles;
And sometimes 'mid their various jobbing,
If need required, a hen-roost robbing;
Or nabbing, sly, a pig or sheep,
To help a holiday to keep.
But, to gie fair play to the deevil,
If country-folks to them were civil,
And paid them freely for their wark,
Or shelter'd them when nights were dark,
They paid a sort o' just regard,
To a' about their barn-yard,

And wadna harm a single haet,
Although their needs were e'er sae great.
But stingy churls, that dared to differ
Wi' them, were always sure to suffer
In worldly substance, for their pains,
By loss o' pigs, sheep, ducks or hens:—
For tinklers didna care a button,
Whether 'twas poultry, pork or mutton,
With which they did themselves supply,
Frae niggard's hen-house, bught, or sty;
And never stuck, to let their ass,
Feed on his hay, his oats or grass;
Nor in cauld weather, were they slack,
To help him down wi' his peat stack.
Back to their haunt, again returning,
A' rules o' sober prudence spurning,
They spent hale days and nights, carousing,
In feasting, fiddling, singing, boosing,
Till, prest by want, they trudged again,
To scour the country, hill and plain.

'Twas when a party coming back,
Frae an excursion round the country,
Wi' routh in ilk ane's haversack,
To stow, for ance, their sair-run pantry—
And drawing near their auld houff-door,
Rejoicing o'er their ample store,
And, in anticipation, tasting,
The joys, ance mair, o' fun and feasting:
'Twas at this very nick of time,
When sadness would have been a crime,
That Peter, wi' the dreadfu' scream,
Awoke from out his fearfu' dream.
A shriek so wild, so loud, so near,
Chilled the hale hardy gang wi' fear,
Who made a simultaneous pause,
Listening wi' open ears and jaws.
But soon recovering frae their fright,
They quickly ran, procured a light,
And to the wood their footsteps bent,
Some dreadfu' mischief to prevent:—
Where luckily, they Peter found,
Whom with amazement they unbound,

And to their dwelling straight convey'd him,
Stript him, and in a warm bed laid him,
And tried what means was in their power,
The exhausted creature to restore:—
Rejoicing, that, as things then stood,
They could afford rest, warmth and food,
To their benum'd, benighted guest,
Who needed food and warmth and rest.

Peter, recovering by degrees,
Looks round, and with amazement sees,
A motley group, wi' queer-like faces,
Not overstock'd wi' smiles and graces
Such as on Ladies' faces play,
And o'er their lovely features stray,
Like streamers bright in northern skies,
Darting from cheeks, to lips—to eyes,
Where oft, from 'neath each silken lid
Young Love peeps out, half-seen, half-hid,
Or sporting o'er the neck's soft white,
Or round the sweetly-dimpled chin,

Or 'mong luxuriant ringlets bright,
Fluttering about—now out—now in;
Like butterflies, 'mong beds of flowers,
Or blooming honey-suckle bowers,
Revelling on every luscious sweet,
And sporting in the noon-day's heat;
No, no!—the faces Peter saw,
Had nae sic loveliness at a';
But waggish winks and merry grins,
Scarred cheeks, wide mouths, hard bristly chins,
And shaggy brows, a' soil'd and sweaty,
Supplied the place o' fair and pretty.
Yet, maugre these forbidding features,
They seemed a set o' happy creatures,
Exempt, for ance, frae care and sorrow,
And quite regardless of to-morrow;—
Determined to enjoy their hour
Of pleasure, while 'twas in their power.
And therefore, to begin aright,
The pleasure-business o' the night,
A hearty supper, piping het,
Upon the board was quickly set;

Nor was there wanting, nappy brown,
Nor blue, to synde the supper down.
When placed around the rustic table,
Good-humoured, warm and hospitable,
Remembering still the hapless stranger,
Whom they had lately saved from danger;
They vowed, they wadna taste a bit,
Till he, too, wad participate;—
So, frae the bed they gat him raised,
And in the snuggest corner placed,
While the auld Patriarch o' the gang,
A rackle carle, stark, stiff and strang,
Placed in the corner opposite,
Wi' greasy locks o' black and white,
A swarthy visage, gaunt and lean,
A hook'd proboscis, sharp grey e'en,
A lengthy chin protruding out,
As if in mockery o' the snout,
A hoarse rough voice, and grave grimace,
Mumbled owre something, like a grace.

Peter, whase brain was yet affected,
His wits, at least, scarce quite collected,
With eager looks the group surveying,
While the auld carle the grace was saying,
Wondered, if what he saw was real,
Or if it only was ideal:
And, as his nose inhaled the steam,
Of ilka reeking savoury dish,
Thinks he, if this be a' a dream,
To wake again I ne'er wad wish;
And then, he mutters to himsel',
“Faith! this is no that ill a hell,
“And as for thae black deils around,
“I've met wi' waur aboon the ground.”
But helpit by a guid horn spoon,
Wi' knife and fork, he gather'd soon
His wandering scattered wits again,
That for a while had slipt the rein,
And into wild disorder run,
Like the hot coursers o' the sun,
That day when Phaeton, stuffed wi' pride,
Presumed to undertake to guide

The car of light—which, when he got,
He made a pretty business o't.
And thus, with man, 'tis still the case,
When passion sits in reason's place,
That a' things to confusion rin,
As weel without him, as within,
So, that his every thought, and act,
Is guided mair by whim than fact.
But sage experience tells us a'
That something solid in the maw,
Helps to dispel the fumes and vapours,
That mak' the passions cut their capers,
At sic a wild unruly rate,
As ding the senses aff their gate,
And set them jostling 'gainst ilk ither,
Till ance they're a' confused thegither.
Such was the case wi' Peter here,
Whase intellect was pretty clear
In general, except when he
Took rather meikle barley bree;
A practice, which I'm wae to say,
Prevails owre meikle in our day,

Amang the high as well as low,
Which aften ends in want and woe;—
But then—it helps the revenue,
A good excuse for getting fou,
Expecially for loyal folks,
Or those whase siller's i' the stocks.
But I had 'maist forgotten Peter,
Weel;—as he was a right guid eater,
Takin' a hearty belly-full,
And eke o' swats a noble pull,
He was sae far again brought round,
As ken he was aboon the ground;
And not in that sad place below,
To where, 'tis said, the wicked go;
But placed amang a set o' folks,
That relished weel his funny jokes:—
For Peter had a chosen store,
Of tales, sly jokes, and such like lore;
And then, the way he set them aff,
He'd mak' the very gravest laugh,
Forbye, ye couldna tak' him wrang,
To ask him for a merry sang.

These qualities which he possest,
Soon made him a most welcome guest,
Amang this merry careless core
Wha gloried in a hearty splore,
An' wadna gien a night o' fun,
For a' the grandeur 'neath the sun.
The supper being now discussed,
The twa-pint bottle was produced,
Which, circulating for a wee,
Drew forth loud bursts o' mirth and glee,
And made the jest, the laugh, the sang,
Be keepit up the hale night lang.
Peter was ca'd on for a verse,
At first, his voice was somewhat hearse
(And little wonder, when it's kent
How he that night had partly spent,
But helpit to a wee drap blue,
As he got on it clearer grew,
And then he gied them sic a lilt,
And made sic funny gestures till't,
That when he ended—an encore
Was ca'd for, by a general roar.

Which sang, we here set down in print,
Tho', trowth, ye'll find but little in't.

PETER'S SANG.
[_]

Air, “The Cornclips.”

My mither men't my auld breeks,
An' wow! but they war duddy,
An' sent me, to get shod our mare,
At Robin Tamson's smiddy;
The smiddy stands beside the burn
That wimples thro' the clachan,
I never, yet, gae by the door,
But aye I fa' a laughin'.

For Robin was a walthy carle,
An' had ae bonnie dochter,
Yet ne'er wad let her tak a man,
Tho' mony lads had sought her;
But what think ye o' my exploit?—
The time our mare was shoeing,
I slippit up beside the lass,
An' briskly fell a-wooing.

An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks,
The time that we sat crackin.'
Quo' I, my lass, ne'er mind the clouts,
I've new anes for the makin';
But gin ye'll just come hame wi' me
An' lea' the carle—your father,
Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim,
Mysel', an' a 'thegither.

'Deed, lad quo' she, your offer's fair,
I really think I'll tak' it,
Sae, gang awa', get out the mare,
We'll baith slip on the back o't;
For gin I wait my father's time,
I'll wait till I be fifty,
But na;—I'll marry in my prime,
An' mak' a wife most thrifty.

Wow! Robin was an angry man,
At losing o' his dochter:—
Thro' a' the kintra-side he ran,
An' far an' near he sought her;
But when he cam' to our fire-end,
An' fand us baith thegither,

Quo' I gudeman, I've taen your bairn
An' ye may tak' my mither.

Auld Robin girn'd an' sheuk his pow,
Guid sooth! quo' he you're merry,
But I'll just tak' ye at your word,
An' end this hurry-burry;
So Robin an' our auld wife,
Agreed to creep thegither;
Now, I hae Robin Tamson's pet,
An' Robin has my mither.

Sae soon as Peter's sang was sung,
Frae every neive, and throat, and tongue,
There cam' sic vollies of applause,
As almost shook the very wa's;
And even made the soot, to come,
In sable showers, down the lum.
The glass again was sent about,
And ilk ane had to drink it out,
For, to his health, it was a bumper,
That he might richer grow—and plumper,

And aye be able to rehearse,
A merry tale, or sing a verse.
A sturdy member o' the gang,
Was neist requested for a sang,
Wha, after hemming twice or thrice,
In order to mak clear his voice,
He pitched upon the proper key,
And then began wi' life and glee,
Quite in the true bravura style,
But wi' a pipe so strong and rough,
That though you had been off a mile,
You might hae heard him weel enough.

THE TINKLER'S SONG.
[_]

“Air, Allan-'a-Dale.”

O who are so hearty,—so happy and free,
Or who for the proud care so little as we?
No tyrants control us, no slaves we command,
Like free birds of passage we cross sea and land;
And still, to the comfort of all, we attend,
By calling out, “chaldrons or kettles to mend.”

Each climate—each soil, is to us still the same,
No fixed local spot, for our country we claim,
Yon lordly domain, with its castles and towers,
We care not a pin for—the world, it is ours;
Superiors we know not—on none we depend,
While our business is, caldrons or kettles to mend.

The law says we're vagrants—the law tells a lie,
The green earth's our dwelling, our roof the blue sky,
Then tho', through the earth, for employment we roam,
How can we be vagrants, who ne'er are from home?
Our neighbours are mankind, whom oft we befriend,
While trudging about, pots or kettles to mend.

No rent, tythes, nor taxes, we're called on to pay,
We take up our lodgings wherever we may,
If people are kind, we show kindness to them,
If people are churlish, why, we are the same;
But those who are friendly, fare best in the end,
While their pots, bellows, caldrons or kettles we mend.

Not even the Parson, the Squire, nor my Lord,
A daintier supper than we, can afford,
For nature profusely each blessing doth grant,
Then why should her children be ever in want?—

Let them share with each other whate'er she may send,
Like us—while we've caldrons or kettles to mend.

Then, fill to the stranger a cup of the best,
And when he is wearied conduct him to rest,
For the poor lonely wanderer, homeless and bare,
Should ever the wanderers' sympathy share;
Now we've one consolation—whate'er be our end,
While the world remains wicked—we daily do mend.

The tinkler's ditty being finished,
The bottle, too, right sair diminished,
Not in dimensions—but contents,
Like purses, after paying rents;
Anither jar was ordered out,
To serve the company about,
Wha still were bent upon the splore,
While they could drink, or sing, or roar.

But I had 'maist forgotten fairly,
Something, I should ha'e min't mair early,

Namely, the group o' tinkleresses,
(I kenna whether wives or misses,)
That still accompanied this gang,
Through a' their journeyings alang.
For each male veteran o' the squad,
A sort o' tack-to partner had,
Forbye a bunch o' duddy brats,
Brought up, amang auld pans and pats.
But to portray aright, this gang,
Wad tak' my time up rather lang,
The reader's, too, it wad be wasting,
On subjects little interesting:—
However, I may here assert,
That each was just the counterpart—
The second self—the rib—the Eve,
Of him, to whom she then did cleave;
And was his like in a' respects
With ae slight difference—the sex.—
But there was ane, I must not pass,
A truly interesting lass,
The only daughter o' the man,
Wha seemed the Patriarch o' the clan;

And such a contrast to the rest,
Was she, as is the east to west,
Or as to swarthy night is day,
So lovely she—unlovely they.
This little sprightly black-e'ed creature,
A deeper interest felt for Peter,
And tended him since he cam' thither,
Far mair than a' the rest thegither;
And though her tongue was not so loud,
As ither tongues amang the crowd,
Her eye a great deal more exprest,
Than a' the tongues of a' the rest;
For often had that eye been filled,
With drops, from Pity's urn distilled;
Oft on her cheek those drops had glistened,
The while she sat and meekly listened,
To Peter's tragi-comic story;—
While round was heard “dear me!—I'm sorry”
“O what a pity”—“well”—I vow,”
“But bless me! how did you get through?”
And though he ne'er before had seen her,
Her mild and affable demeanour,

Her loveliness o' form and feature,
Completely captivated Peter.
She was as lively as a lintie,
Her years might border upon twenty,
And though her dress was rather odd,
Made after some outlandish mode,
As fair a form it covered o'er,
As ever silks or satins wore,
And sure, a lovelier tapered waist,
The arm of lover ne'er embraced.
Her sweet complexion—light brunette,
O'erhung with curls of darkest jet,
At times, was brightened by a smile,
That would a saint from heaven wile;
And then, the expression of her eye,
Might charm a seraph from the sky.
This lovely contrast to the rest,
So great a power o'er them possest,
That with one disapproving frown,
She'd make the boldest front look down.
Not that they worshipped her through fear,
(That passion was a stranger here,)

But love, esteem and admiration,
Still made them court her approbation,
And hang upon her every look,
Which for an oracle they took.
And, though the example she had seen
Had not the very fairest been,
She still remained as unstained water:—
Such, was the tinkler's lovely daughter.
With such a sylph, so fair, so winning,
To fa' in love were nae great sinning,
At least, our Peter thought sae then,
And so, indeed, might wiser men:—
For he who could unmoved, behold,
A being of such beauteous mould;
He, who could see the modest blush,
That would her neck and face o'erflush;
He who could mark her eyes mild beaming,
In pity's soft suffusion swimming;
That man, if such a man there be,
Who could with cold indifference see,
Such beauty clothed in smiles or tears:—
A human form perhaps he wears,

But nothing more—his heart, indeed,
Must be of flint—his brain of lead;
Unblest through life, he ne'er can know,
The purest bliss of man below.
But then, I wish to mak' it clear,
That this same love I speak of here,
Is not that groveling sensual passion,
That mak's such crowds to ruin dash on,
But love of that exalted kind,
That is by Heaven, itself, refined.
In such a place, at such a time,
To be in love were nae great crime,
Especially when a' united,
To mak' the opened heart delighted;
When heated by the genial bowl,
Each generous purpose of the soul,
Enlarged, exalted, unconfined,
Glowed with good-will to all mankind;
And ere the liquor's potent spell,
Had changed the scene frae heaven to hell.
I say, at such a place and time,
To feel pure love, was nae great crime.

But now, the liquor operating,
Upon the auld, as weel as young,
Each tinkler's heart wi' pride elating,
And loosing every tinkler tongue,
It showed a very different scene,
Frae ony thing that yet had been.
For now, they a' were getting glorious,
Or rather boisterously uproarious,
The humblest striving wi' the proudest,
Wha wad talk maist or roar the loudest.
Here—ane, was telling queer auld stories,
There—twa, were quarrelling, mad as furies;
Here—ane, a smutty verse was bawling,
And there—a female tongue was brawling;
Here—sat a chiel, that puffed and smoked,
Anither there—the table knocked;
Here—ane was boasting o' great feats,
Anither there—was muttering threats;
Here—stood a chiel, wi' clenched fist,
Anither there, his doxy kiss'd;
And here—was heard the vacant laugh,
Of blockhead, bellowing like a calf.

Amid this tumult, noise and gabble,
Resembling, much a scene at Babel,
Was heard the mingled strange hotch-potch,
Of English, Irish, Welsh and Scotch.
As things proceeded at this rate,
Nor likely, soon to terminate,
A single circumstance took place,
That quickly altered, quite, the case,
And did so great a change produce,
As made the very drunkest douse.
The thing was neither mair nor less,
Than this:—a fellow seized a glass
Brimfu' o' whisky, in his ire,
And dashed the hale o't in the fire.
The fire was brisk—up flew the low,
Quick as a kindled tap o' tow,
Which meeting wi' the soot aboon,
Set a' the lum a-bleezing soon.
Like shot stars fell the clots o' soot,
That burning flew the house about,
While ilka ane to save himsel',
By speed o' foot, in rising, fell.

And as the fire wi' fury burned,
Seats, boards and bottles were o'erturned,
Which, midst the uproar and confusion,
Dealt mony a black and sair contusion
Amang the crew;—who dais'd and foundered,
Owre ane anither sprawled and floundered;
While nought was heard, but cursing, bawling,
The screams o' wives and gettlings squalling.
Amidst this bustle and uproar,
Peter essayed to reach the door;
But stumbling o'er a heap o' strae,
That hidden in a corner lay,
And finding it baith saft and warm,
He thought there might be little harm,
In lying there, to 'bide the event,
And watch to hear how matters went;
For though he wasna fond o' fire,
He didna like to risk the mire,
And face the blast without the door,
As he had done the night before.
Meanwhile, recovering frae their fright,
A few that had escaped by flight

Returned again, and, fetching water,
Soon put an end to a' the matter:
In short, they got the fire put out,
A lucky circumstance, nae doubt,
For had the fire but put out them,
They'd found the earth a right cauld hame,
Especially on sic a morning,
For a' their vaunting, pride and scorning.

Now, every thing again set right,
And morning ushering in the light,
The sobered party a' agreed,
That they o' sleep stood maist in need;—
They therefore, a' retired to rest,
Each, wi' his mate he liket best,
While poor forgotten Peter lay,
Still snug and warm amang the strae.
Nor very lang had he reposed,
Till baith his e'en in sleep were closed,
And then his busy working brain,
Fell speedily to wark again.

The tinkler's daughter, fair and kind,
Had ne'er been absent frae his mind,
During the time he was awake,
Yet, then he could no freedom take,
To tell her she was fair and good,
And talk of—love?—no;—gratitude.
But now, set free from a' restraint,
Fancy, again, began to paint
Bright scenes of youth, a' fresh and glowing,
Love's sweets, and Beauty's roses blowing.
He dreamt, that, being young again,
And walking o'er a spacious plain,
O'erspread with summer's richest hue,
And brightly gemmed with morning dew,
And deckt with flowers, and trees, in bloom,
That lent the air a sweet perfume;
While clear the rivulet purled alang,
Sweet mingling wi' the blackbird's sang;
He thought that idly walking there,
Inhaling morning's purest air,
He saw the tinkler's lovely daughter,
Wading a brook of clearest water,

With feet unshod, and ancles bare,
Of finest shape, and hue most fair;—
That crossing o'er the daisied green,
With downcast eye and modest mien,
Her feet still bare, her ancles wet,
She saw him not, until they met;
That then, a blush of purest red,
Her lovely modest face o'erspread,
Which, gazing on, he silence broke,
And thus, with tremulous voice he spoke:
“Dear lassie! lovelier than the morn,
Sweeter than blossoms on the thorn,
Lang hae I had an anxious wish,
To meet thee in a place like this;
And tell thee a' this bosom feels,
Which every ardent sigh reveals.
O list! and hear this vow o' mine,
If thou'lt thy vagrant life resign,
Leave thy rude race, and come wi' me,
My loving mate, through life, to be;—
If thou'lt consent—lo! here, I vow,
To love thee aye, as I do now.”

Then, thus the maid, with face averted,
While from her eye the big tear started,
And o'er her check ran trickling down,
Which now was darkened with a frown;
“What! leave my Sire, forsake my clan,
To live with thee? presumptuous man!
No;—rather let me perish first,
Than with a parent's hate be curst;
Become the apostate of my race,—
And bring on all my kin disgrace?
No, never;—but if thou'lt resign,
Thy groveling race with ours to join,
I may consent to bless thine arms,
But not on any other terms.”
Then Peter thus; “Yes, I agree,
For what are all my kin to me?
To live upon thy cheering smiles,
With thee I'd trudge ten thousand miles,
And with thy race, contented, share
The hardest toil and humblest fare.”
Then beamed her face with look so kind,
While she her hand to him resigned,

That Peter, while he fondly seized it,
Between his own with rapture squeezed it.
And then with both his arms embraced,
Most ardently her gentle waist.
But ah! the ecstacy, too great,
For Peter's poor enfeebled state,
Awoke him, panting, breathless, gasping,
Just in the very act of clasping;
When lo! instead of that sweet lass,
Peter embraced the tinkler's—ASS!
Wi' downright wonderment o'er powered,
He at the Cuddy gaped and glowred,
Rubbed baith his e'en, then muttering stammered,
Gu—gu—gude L---d! I'm a' be-glamoured,
Did ever mortal get the slip sae,
As I've got frae this tinkler gipsey?
Was ever ought sae mad provoking?
O horrible! O—shocking—shocking!
To think I hugged a bonnie lass,
Then waukened hugging this auld ass.
I wadna this were kent at hame,
For a' the goud that I could name,

I'm clean bewitched, I really think,
Och hey!—my head!—a drink—a drink!
The tinklers hearing a' this clatter,
Approached, to learn what was the matter;
When lo! they saw the ass and Peter,
Baith snugly bedded 'mang the litter.
But soon as he the group espied,
He started up and wildly cried,
Avaunt! ye fiends, wi' your curst spells,
That mak' poor mortals no themsel's,
For aye, since I cam here yestreen,
Your glamour has misled my e'en,
And made me think, and say, and do,
Things that I may for ever rue:—
Avaunt! I say, ye hounds o' hell,
Or loose me frae this horrid spell;—
O were I but mysel' ance mair!
Hech! bring a drink—my head is sair.
The tinklers seeing him sae mad,
Recourse to their auld nostrum had,
Namely a hearty lunch o' meat,
Which soon as he began to eat,

A' the blue devils by degrees,
Flew frae him like a swarm o' bees;
And left him quite himsel' again,
Wi' good sound head and settled brain.
Preparing, now, to tak' the road,
He got his person made as snod,
As circumstances wad allow,
Considering what he had come through.

It being, now, about mid-day,
He was escorted on his way,
But he had ten lang miles o' trudging,
Ere he could reach his Whitburn lodging;
For, poor man, he had wandered, far
South through the muirs beyond Benhar.
Arrived, he got a good night's rest,
Which his worn carcase weel refresh'd;
Set off for Reekie, reached it too,
But mony a street and lane sought through,

And mony a brae gaed up and down,
Aft cursing sic a tiresome town,
And mony a weary round-about,
He had, ere he his friend found out.

Now let me tak' my breath awee,
And just suppose twa things or three,
Suppose a hearty welcome gien,
To Peter by his gentle frien';
Suppose him in the parlour seated,
Fu' snug and warm and kindly treated;
Suppose his frien' an interest taking,
In his new plan o' bannock-baking,
And every thing completely settled,
Just to his mind as he had ettled;
Suppose him great as ony king,
And ye will just suppose the thing,
The very thing that ne'er took place,
In hapless Peter Cornclips' case.
But on the ither hand suppose,
That Peter to the front door goes,

Surveys the place, then pulls the bell,
Thinking the laird will come himsel',
Wi' gladness beaming in his e'e,
His poor, yet honest frien' to see;
Suppose then, that a powdered flunky,
Trick'd out like ony showman's monkey,
In antique party-coloured claes,
And cheeping shoon as clear as slaes,
Ruffles and lace, and sic like gear,
As stage buffoons and flunkies wear.
Suppose that he comes to the door,
Sees Peter weary, lean and poor,
His meagre face wi' bruises scar'd,
His upper garments a' beglaur'd,
Orders him aff, wi' saucy sneer,
For beggar trash get nothing here,
D—ns him and all his lousy race,
Then slaps the big door in his face:
And through the lobby strutting back,
Wishing old Nick had all the pack,
A lousy, lazy, dirty vermin,
With which the town, for shame!—is swarming;

Suppose, but stop—we've had enough
O' suppositions and sic stuff,
Try now, and wi' the Muse prevail,
To gie a plain straight-forward tale,
Without sae mony ins and outs,
And langsome turns and round-abouts,
For wha can comprehend her meaning,
When aye to right and left she's rinning?
True;—on we'll jog then, wi' our tale,
In a straight-forward even course,
Nor tack wi' every shifting gale,
Like Hawser Trunion on his horse.
Weel then, as was supposed before,
The flunky coming to the door,
And seeing Peter's odd-like figure,
At him began to sneer and snigger,
To screw his mouth, and hem and cough,
Then scold him to get quickly off,
Wi' a' the vulgar insolence,
And self-important consequence,
With which such pamper'd slaves are puffed up,
Wha on the best are fed and stuffed up.

Peter began to tell his story,
Which put the thing quite in a flurry,
Be off, it cried, I cannot hear you,
I tell you sir, I cannot bear you,
Off, off I say! I've heard enough,
I'm not accustomed to such stuff;
Then making a most graceful wheel,
Upon its pretty weel-turned heel,
Into the house the creature rushed,
And in his face the great door pushed;
Leaving poor Peter so amazed,
That nought he did, but gaped and gazed,
Wi' sic a stupid vacant stare,
That had ye seen the body there,
Ye'd taen him for some ancient bust,
For ages hid 'mang dirt and rust;
Or warldly freen' o' Mistress Lot,
Struck dead and fixed unto the spot;
Or wooden man, for setting up,
In front o' some tobacco shop;
So set his mouth, so fixt his e'en,
His living likeness ne'er was seen.

At length recovered frae his trance,
Peter began to leave his stance,
But near the spot he still did hover,
Hoping he might his friend discover,
And be enabled face to face,
To let him ken his waefu' case.
But as his evil star, or fate—
Misluck, or some such thing wad hae't,
(For Fate, like Death, tak's nae denial,)
He had to bide a farther trial;
Not ane by fire, like godly martyrs,
But ane by mire, like drunken carters,
Wha aften when their swats are in,
Regardless o' a paiket skin,
Fa' out and fight like folk gane wud,
And row ilk ither in the mud.

As 'twas within the Police bounds,
Where stood the house o' Peter's freen',
A sergeant passing on his rounds,
On Peter fixt his corbie e'en;

For gentlemen o' his profession,
Mixing amang the low and vicious,
By their superior education,
Become confoundedly suspicious;
A fact, which to establish clear,
Just let us view this red-neck here,
Wha judging Peter might belang,
To some rapacious thieving gang,
And stationed there to act as spy,
He, like grimalkin, keen and sly,
Determined for a while to watch him,
And try, if possible—to catch him.

For twa lang hours did Peter wait,
Lingering about the great man's gate,
But not a soul was to be seen,
Could tell him aught about his freen'.
At last his patience quite worn out,
He thought he e'en might slip about

By the back door, and wait awee,
Perchance, he there might some ane see,
That wad mair kindness to him show,
Than did the powder'd flunky beau;
But maun I tell it?—here again,
Poor Peter sadly was mistaen,
For if he was ill-used before,
He now was treated ten times waur,
Not by a flunky, or sic like,
But by a surly mastiff tyke,
Whilk, wi' a loud and angry growl,
Seized Peter by the neck, poor soul;
And in the gutter laid him sprawling,
While loud for help he fell a-bawling,
But aye the louder he did roar,
The dog held faster than before;
And if a limb he dared to stir,
He was admonished by a gurr
Frae the fierce brute, to lie there quiet;
For, to get free, 'twas vain to try it.
Now red-neck, thinking a' things snug,
And that he might approach the dog,

And bear frae him his prisoner aff,
By dint o' his official staff;
Quite certain that a scarlet neck,
Wad frae the brute ensure respect;
So in on Peter straight he ran,
But, trowth, he had mistaen his man,
Or rather, had mistaen his dog,
For he was gripit by the lug,
And ere he could ca' out for aid,
Was side by side wi' Peter laid.

But now began a glorious splutter,
Amang this trio in the gutter;
For, on three sides, three mutual foes,
Alike ilk ither did oppose,
Not ane on twa, nor twa on ane,
But a' the three against ilk ither,
Like Midian's graceless host langsyne,
When every man turned on his brither.
The bipeds struggled, cuffed and swore;
The quadruped growled, bit and tore;

For, though he couldna help the quarrel
By cursing, yet he weel could snarl;
So that between the men and dog,
Ensued this pretty dialogue.

“Let gae your grip sir—what d'ye want?”
“Let co my crip” (gurr) “No I sha'nt,
She's shust my prisoner.”—“What! me?”—“Yes.”
“Your (gurr) your warrant”—“look at this,”
“At that!—if that be your authority,
Here's ane disputes it wi' a—gurr at ye;”
“Here! catch him fast tog” (bow wow gurr)
“Tamfound her for an uglee cur!—
She's pit my”—(bow wow.) “Sorrow cares!
You're cheap—(gurr) mind your ain affairs.”
“Tamn'd thieving rogue! I knows your cuilt,”
“You know the!”—“Come sir, no consult,
But mind fat's tue man, to my coat,”
(Gurr) “Snarling felp! I'll cut your throat”
“Your coat! and you! confound you baith,
Here's ane as big as three o't faith,”

“Come! crip him sir!—“Ye hangman's jackall,
Vile sweep-street—nab-thief—dirty rake-hole,”
“Tiel tamn her pluit man!”—(bow wow wow)
“Weel sergeant lad! wha's prisoner now?”
“Help! murter!—O my—plastit felp!”
(Bow wow wow wow) “ho! poliesh help!
Coot Cot!—tiel tamn!”—“aye—that's it now,”
“Help! poliesh! poliesh!” (bow wow wow.)

Alarmed by this unusual din,
The whole inhabitants within,
Rush'd out to learn what was the cause,
When lo! the sturdy mastiff's paws,
Were firmly prest on Peter's breast,
While the ill-manner'd surly beast,
Regardless of the official coat,
Held the poor sergeant by the throat.
But ordered, now, he loosed his grip,
And yielding baith his prisoners up,
Stood blythely by, his tail a-wagging,
Not ostentatiously bragging,

But conscious o' his ain utility,
Begging wi' a' a dog's humility,
A kindly word, a stroke, or smile,
The full reward for a' his toil:
Like some auld veteran frae the wars,
Disabled and deformed wi' scars,
Worn out by battles and by broils,
Unhealthy climes, unceasing toils,
Deprived, perhaps, o' baith his shanks,
Thankfu' to get his sovereign's thanks.

The landlord came among the rest,
To whom the man of rule addrest
A lang harangue, complaining sair,
O' Peter and the watch-dog there;
Ta ane, no toubts, a cot tamn tief,
Wasna her face tere, 'ficient prief?
Ta other, an uncivil tog,
Treating her, as she'd treat ta rogue,
For which, py cot, she'd have her shot,
Wishout telay upon ta spot,

To teach her to pay more suspect,
In future, to ta scarlet neck;
Ta tamn, plack, uglee, pitch's ghost,
She'd hang her, at ta first lamp post.

An explanation now took place,
For recognized was Peter's face,
The honest watch-dog was carest,
The man of office was dismist,
But not without this admonition—
“Beware on whom you fix suspicion,
And fasten not your grappling hooks,
On all who may have blackguard looks.”

Peter at length an audience gained,
The purpose o' his jaunt explained,
With condescension great was heard,
While his petition he preferred,
And to enforce his argument,
To mony a deep drawn sigh gied vent;
Nay, by some folk 'tis even said,
That tears by Peter, then were shed;

But that is only a report.
Of course, I winna answer for't,
Bound, as I am, the truth to state,
In every thing that I narrate,
In good, plain, honest, hame-spun diction,
Without embellishment or fiction.

Now Peter having tald his story,
Was answered by his friend, “I'm sorry,
Extremely sorry, I must own,
To think that you have come to town,
On such an errand as you've come,—
Ho, John!—Fetch up a glass of rum,
Or brandy, to this starving creature,
Or would you fancy whisky, Peter?”
“O Sir, just ony thing you please.”
“And, John, set down some bread and cheese,
Or stop, bring rather some warm broth,
For he is cold and hungry both,
Yes, fetch some comfortable dinner—
Peter, I think you're now much thinner,

Than what you were, last time we met,
Come, John, be quick—and don't forget
A bottle of your good old beer,
To cheer the heart of Peter here.
Why Peter I am truly sorry,
To say I can do nothing for ye;
For let me tell you, you're too lean,
And your appearance rather mean,
For filling such a situation,
Which, people of a higher station,
Would be right glad of, I assure you;
And they should be preferred before you;
For those, you know, who cannot dig,
Should never be allowed to beg.
Besides, I'm told you've been imprudent,
And often done the things you should'nt;
For, if you are belied not greatly,
Your conduct has been so so lately;
Now Sir! you know, 'twould never do,
For me to involve myself with you,
While you possess a character,
That is not altogether fair.

I therefore, would advise you Peter,
To do the thing would fit you better,
And that is, to get quickly home,
Nor more upon such errands come;
But follow your own trade with diligence;
For, be assured, I get intelligence,
When any of my poor relations,
Act counter to their humble stations;
Now take your dinner, if you can,
And I will send my gentleman,
To help you to procure a bed,
Somewhere about the Cowgate-head.
And lest that you should money lack,
To help you on your journey back,
Here, take this crown, and so adieu,
I've got no more to say to you.
I hope your walk home will be pleasant,
Farewell—I'm just engaged, at present.”

So saying, quickly he withdrew,
Ending, at once, the interview,

Leaving poor Peter in a state,
Waur than when first he took the gate;
For back again he had to trudge,
Deep wading through the mire and sludge,
And little else got for his pains,
But blistered feet and wearied banes.

Reader, our tale concluded now,
We will, although we scarce know how,
Proceed some moral to deduce
From what we've said—which may produce
Good fruits, and be of vast advantage,
Both to our Sinnerage and Saintage.
(Critic, perhaps, thou'lt say we're coining
New words, but no; we're just combining,
We have our Peerage—very true,
Then why not have our Saintage too,
And Sinnerage—if these two classes,
Wore badges or distinctive dresses.)
For our part, we see no more harm in
Drawing a moral from a story,

Than in the improving of a sermon,
By Dons at pulpit oratory;
Then, by your leave, we'll just proceed,
Though, Gude kens, how we may succeed.

And in the first place we may learn,
What bitter wages drinkers earn,
When heedless of the consequences,
They sit and drink away their senses,
Impair their faculties and health,
Neglect their business, spend their wealth,
Ruin their families, hurt their morals,
And get themselves involved in quarrels;
Hence headaches, bruises, foolish whims,
Unquiet sleep and frightful dreams,
With many other nameless ills,
That daily flow from whisky stills.

And, secondly, we may observe,
That if we have some end to serve,
We ne'er should loiter on our way,
Lest haply we be led astray,

Far from our mark, we know not whither,
And lose our object altogether;
But use all diligence and speed,
Which is the best way to succeed.

And, in the third place, we may see,
Whatever our condition be,
We should upon ourselves depend,
If that condition we would mend;
Nor trust to friends, nor rich relations,
For bettering our situations,
For this world's friendship's always best,
When it is least put to the test.

And, fourthly, we may here perceive,
That if we would the calling leave
Which we've been bred to, and aspire
To modes of living somewhat higher;
The greatest care is necessary,
Else, ten to one, but we miscarry,
And meet the fate of Whang the miller,
Wha lost his mill thro' greed o' siller.

And, in the fifth place, to conclude,
We may observe what solid good,
In certain cases, may be got,
By having on, a good big-coat.

Now Reader, that thou mayest have grace,
To act in thine own proper place,
With credit to thyself, and those,
Who nightly round thy fireside close,
And that thou mayest not like an ass,
Through Peter's miry ordeal pass,
Nor get thy good name soil'd nor hurt,
By Calumny's besmearing squirt.
And, whilst thou travel'st life's rough way,
That thou like him mayest never stray,
Surrounded with affliction's gloom,
By adverse storms of fate o'ercome,
Plunging from hardship into hardship,
Is the warm prayer of our Bardship.

Herriot's Hospital.

A village three miles east of Glasgow, on the Edinburgh road.

In the West of Scotland, a currant-bun is usually a New Year's gift from the baker.

Half-way between Glasgow and Edinburgh.

Alias, Whisky.

Auld Reekie, a common appellation o' the gude town o' Edinburgh, where Peter's friend resided.

A red collar generally forms part of the official dress in Scotland, of an Officer of Police.

University of Virginia Library

PETER CORNCLIPS,

A Tale.

PETER'S SANG. [_] Air, “The Cornclips.”

THE TINKLER'S SONG. [_] “Air, Allan-'a-Dale.”

PETER'S SANG.
[_]

Air, “The Cornclips.”

THE TINKLER'S SONG.
[_]

“Air, Allan-'a-Dale.”