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Bygane times, and late come changes

or, a Bridge street dialogue, in Scottish verse. By the author of Will and Jean [i.e. Hector MacNeill]
 

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1

BYGANE TIMES, AND LATE COME CHANGES.

A.
Weel! ance mair, neibours we are met,
And in our auld howf social set,
To hae an E'ening's sober crack,
And talk o' former things—lang back,
That sometimes cheer, and sometimes pain,
Whan we reflect that Youth is gane!—

2

Its now good nine and twenty year
Since first we four forgather'd here,
And mony a time hae I since syne
Thought o' the days we used to dine,
And soup in ane anither's houses,
Wi' a' our bairns and canty spouses,
As pleas'd, and wi' as happy faces
In thae wee, scrimpit, darksome places,
As folk are now; tho' God kens! then
Trade was but sma' wi' little gain;
And as for Pleasures—unco' few!
Compar'd wi' what a's tasting now.

B.
If Trade was sma', let's tak this wi' us,
We had na then high Rents to flee us;
If Gain was little, aye confess
Expences then ware Saxtimes less;—

3

We had na then, as we hae now,
Fine things to find for back and mou,
Nor markets rais'd, nor ten-fauld Taxes,
Wi' fifty ither things to vex us.
If ye compare a' things thegither,
I'm apt to think, my sober brither,
That what wi' back, and what wi' belly,
And what wi' mair than I need tell ye,
Ye'll find, in spite o' vain folk's clatter,
That present Times hae no grown better.

A.
Hoot! hoot!—ye're wrang!—a' now agree
That Times hae thriven michtilie!
And that tho' taxt, we're mair than able
To busk ilk back and deck ilk table,
And spite o' high rents clear our way
Far diff'rent than in our past day!—

4

Witness our Shops, and New Town houses,
Our fine clad dochters and buskt spouses,
Our twa course Feasts, wi' walth o' wine,
As aft as Shop folk's ask'd to dine!—
Will ye compare a modern Supper
Wi' ancient anes, whar brander'd Kipper,
And rizzer'd Haddies, (groats the dizzen,)
Gade down wi' tippenny a' bizzin,
And pleas'd ilk gab (for lack o' better,)
Whan at our howfs we had our clatter
In Luckenbooths, whar aftime reekit,
We met at e'en whan shops ware steekit,
Chewing our cuds owre Whisky toddy
On Speldins or a Penny-widdie?—
I see ye sneer at this review
As gin ye didna think it true;

5

But tell me, for I fain wad ken,
How cam this change, if no frae Gain?
What's brought about in a short space
Sic whigmaleeries in this place,
If walth, or profit (whilk ye will)
Uphads na Shows that ne'er stand still,
And maks some birkies round about
Gie now a Feast, and now a Rout?—
Cou'd we do sae some years bygane,
Albiet o' high rents we had nane?—
What war we then?—war we no bare?
Had we a bodle then to spare?
How fared we too, I fain wad ask?

B.
To tell is nae unpleasant task.
And gif I dinna mak it plain
To every sober thinking brain,

6

That we had mair than we hae now,
If no for back, at least for mou,
I'se gie ye leave to score me down
In this night's lawin half a crown!
What war we? ask ye?—I will tell ye
A plain auld fashioned tale, my billy!—
Pleas'd wi' our lov, in calm content
We lived, and paid our sma' shop rent;
Pleas'd wi' our profits, tho' but scanty,
We felt nae dread, but ay war canty;
Because we kent, while gains war sma'
Expence ne'er drave us to the wa'!—
Plain folk war prudent—poor folk humble,
Nae upstart Pride made vain fools tumble;
Ilk wife was thrifty, and nae dochter
Spent mair than what Industry brought her.

7

—How fared we then?—hae ye forgot
What cheer'd ilk plain man's humble lot,
Whan market prices moderate ran
To suit the purse o' every man;
And what is mair, gat better meat
For three times less, than now we get,
Since our new-fashion'd bankrupt sinners
Gie just what's askt for unpaid dinners.
Whan Yule cam in, had we no plenty
O' good fat Geese and Turkies dainty
To taste our gabs?—whan now, (God help us!)
If thae we buy, the cost wad skelp us
At sic a rate, sax months and mair
Wad scarce the thriftless skaith repair:
As for our ance good, cheap lamb-legs
At Eight pence price, our wives, ifegs!

8

Had best no green at lambtime killing,
Since ilka penny's grown a shilling.—
Wi' a' your sneering, hae ye clean
Forgot our feasts ilk Sunday's e'en?
Whan wi' our families social set,
On nice howtowdies, piping het,
And drapit eggs, ilk fill'd his wame,
And wi' rum punch gaed toddlin hame,
Unscar'd, I trow, like thae wha shine
Wi' unpaid feasts and ta'en on wine.
Nor was our fare, for a' your jeers,
At our night howfs for days and years,
Sic as would shame our beaus and belles,
War it ser'd up in fine Hotels;
Whar ilk ane now pays treble price
For cauld things het, and thinks them nice.


9

A.
I see, for a' your observation,
Ye've hipt owre coin's depreciation,
Which might hae taught you, this same skaithing
O' treble cost amounts to naithing.
Thro' a' your hail mercantil life
Hae goods no fa'en as they gat rife?
The sam's wi' siller, ance sae scanty,
It's tint its worth, its now sae plenty.—

B.
Aye!—say ye sae?—

A.
Its past a' doubt!

B.
I wish, my lad, you'd mak that out!

A.
Mind Bauldy then!—a' now agree
Ae pound lang syne was worth our three;
It fallows then that we can ware
On warldy comforts, three times mair:—

B.
How fallows that!—

A.
Lord man! I tell ye
That coin has now tint thrice its value!


10

B.
But does it fallow, my wise preacher,
That this maks ilka ane thrice richer!

A.
I'll no say that; but this at least
I'll say, whan shopmen gie a feast,
Without a thought, ilk ane flings down
A hale Bank note for every Crown
Folk gae lang syne—na, mair my chappy!
Cost what things will, they're pleas'd and happy,
When vogie set at their fu' board,
They see a feast, fit for a Lord.—
This proves I think that siller's rife,
And sae thinks too ilk shopman's wife,
Wha, set on fine things, rare, and denty,
Thinks na o' Cost, but dishes plenty,
Nor e'er priggs down; and sae she'll tell ye,
This proves too, Coin has tint its value.


11

B.
Troth! Sandy ye're a rare logician!
And yet I doubt if your position
Be clear made out, or can defend
Vain fools thought rich because they spend;
Or prove, that folk hae walth to spare
Because they buy dear things that's rare!—
Our Feasts, I own, are mair than proof
That mony a poor man's a vain coof.
But can ye prove, or clearly state,
That fools wha feast are free o' debt;
And that thae Feasts are no a trick
On honest folk, when a's on tick?—
For me, as far as I can see,
This sound o' walth, is glamourie
Cast owre folk's een to mar sound sense,
And lead gowks blindlins to expense;

12

And for this same Depreciation,
That now sounds ringing thro' the nation,
It's but a fause deceitfu' vapour
Floating on mountains o' Bank Paper!
Witness what's lately come to light,
And gien some sober minds a fright,
Whan Stock jobs, Omnium, and Bank cheats,
Are little better than conceits,
And prove how weel some things can gull ane
Whan Paper's fairly weigh'd wi' Bullion. —
Hae na we seen, whan facts come ance out,
That folk thought rich hae blawn their brains out;
No for fa'en coin, ye maun confess,
But want o' Coin, whan stock distress

13

Cam swift upon them ere they wist
Wi' feint a guinea in their kist!
A fact I think that plainly teaches,
That dreams are aftimes ta'en for Riches.—
Now Sandy, ere ye dashing sail
Afore the wind wi' a stive gale,
First prove that a this new come flaunting,
This feasting—busking—vapouring—vaunting,
This dream that leads to Speculation
Has something firm for a foundation;
In ither words, that while a's driving
Afore the wind, they're a' fast thriving.

A.
Wha doubts o' that whan trade's sae brisk,
And ready payment skreen's frae risk?
Ilk ane is thriving!—thriving fast!
Thanks to the Times!—lang may they last!

14

Thanks too, to them wha spend on dress
Mair in ae month, than we, alas!
Saw in a year, whan in Lawn Market
If ane drapt in, our Collies barkit,
They war sae scarce:—but now dames rattle
On chariot wheels in droves, like cattle
Driven to a Tryst wi' Highland din,
And mak sure gains come linking in!

B.
Profits nae doubt, come frae brisk sale,
But hangs there nae weight to their tail?—
Count ilk Expence throughout the year,
Then tell us what your Gains are—clear!

A.
Faith! they're no great, I maun confess,
But while we sell, they'll no grow less,
And whan I see the Times sae braw,
And ilk ane striking the tee'd ba',

15

Maun I no strive to do my best,
And gie't a gowf as weil's the rest?

B.
Ah Sandy!—its a dangerous game;
Mark, how some Gowfers come to shame!
Look round ye first afore ye play;
What strikes your een and lugs ilk day
But Bankrupt signs at some shop door,
And Bankrupt sounds frae thae who roar
“Cheap sales o' goods, o' various sorts,”
To draw folk in wi' fause reports:
“Stock selling off, below prime cost,”
Whan Gain's near spent, and credit's lost!
Is this the gate to gowf the ba,
Whan by the straik ye're sure to fa'?
Is this the Game, a while to flare
Wi' aping strut, and borrow'd air,

16

And shows o' Feast, and midnight Rout,
Till want comes withershins about?
But, aboon a', is this parade
Fit, or becoming in plain Trade,
Whar prudence, gumption and discretion
Should keep folk steady in their station?—
Are mankind a' upon a level?
Is ilk ane born for show and revel?
Is walth laid up in a bee-bike,
Whare a' man toil and live alike,
And whan the hony'd store's laid up,
A' dip their gabs in the sam cup?

A.
Its Wives man! that breed a' this racket;
They fight for power, we let them tak it
For peace at hame; for shoud we stent them,
Deil hait we do will e'er content them!


17

B.
The mair fool you! if this can scare ye,
Fy! wad ye let a woman waur ye?
War I but ance to be sae tame,
Gude faith! my auld, new fashion'd dame,
Wha's just as ready as the lave,
To spend what I am bound to save,
Wad, if I gae her length o' tether,
Upset a' gain and trade thegither!
But gifted, thank God! wi' some mettle,
I've play'd my game, altho' right kittle,
And spite o' lectures night and day,
Hae got at length my ain dour way,
Tho' mony a glunch, and mony a gloom
I get for nae—fine Drawing room!

A.
I coudna live sae wi' my wife
In constant cangling, gloom, and strife!

18

I guess, that yours has no the art
To win about a husband's heart,
Nor kens the gate wi' saftening sound,
And pawks, to bring ilk project round.
Its no by lecturing, nor preaching,
Wives gain their ends—but dauts and fleeching.
They watch their time, and whan they see
The door, tho' slotted, budge a wee,
They gie a tirle, but mak nae din,
And try how a' gangs on within;
Keek through ilk opening chink and wee hole,
Syne whisper gently through the key hole;
Roose every virtue e'er we had,
Extol what's good, and hide what's bad,
And tirling ay saft at the pin,
Beg in sweet tone to let them in,

19

Till quite owrecome, we draw the slot,
When ilka firm resolve's forgot;
A kiss or twa ends a' the strife!—
Sae rules my lad ilk pawkie wife.
Sae rule thae too, wha nae less dear,
Ken how to gain a parent's ear
Wi' flattering phrase, and timeous fleeching,
In spite o' wisdom's secret teaching.

B.
It may be sae!—but as for me,
While I hae een my road to see,
Or sense to ken whan I gang right,
And can discern 'tween day and night,
The feint a wife, or dochter either,
Shall gar me lengthen out my tether
Ae single inch beyond the bound
Whar safety guards me round and round!

20

Nor shall ae Lass o' mine e'er spank
Wi' flaunting braws aboon her rank,
Or gang ae fit to midnight revel,
Or thae cursed Routs that are the devil!
Tho' I war worth ten times the gear
Plain sober Trade has brought me here!—
Ilk ane keep firm in his right stance!
Say I, while mad fools round us dance,
And strive (God help them!) bound in fetters

Were the Author disposed to amuse his readers with anecdotes illustrative of this imitating mania, he might fill a volume. The following well known fact may, however, suffice to prove the influence of the disease.

A Gentleman of this town, of general fashion, had, for above 20 years, been punctually attended by a barber, who never failed to make his diurnal appearance at a certain stated hour; till one day, after waiting long and anxiously for his arrival, the Gentleman was at length under the disagreeable necessity of going out to dinner, unshaved, “unanointed, unanealed.” When the poor tonsor made his appearance next morning, and was asked the cause of his non-attendance, he, with a countenance highly expressive of contrition, returned the following answer: “I am sure, Sir, you will do me the justice to confess, that for mair than twenty years I hae never ance disappointed you before, nor would I hae done it yesterday had it been in my power to prevent it; but to tell you the plain truth, Sir, I found it impossible, for my wife took it into her head to gie a Hame last night.” When the Reader is sufficiently enabled to appreciate the importance of this act, and to figure to himself a poor barber's wife distributing her cards of invitation—“At home,” need he be surprised at Tradesmen giving Routs? The author is well aware of the distinction that will here be made by some casuists, namely, that should Wealth be the attendant of one description of tradesmen, and not of the other, the absurdity and impropriety of these entertainments are not equally reprehensible. Against this remark, the author must enter his caveat, as it applies not at all to the general reasoning and animadversions contained in the poem.—We have nothing to do with Wealth,—it is Station, Consistency, Example, we are considering. Had the Barber been as rich as Crœsus, the conduct of his wife would have been equally absurd and reprehensible; and were tradesmen to give up their profession when they become wealthy, we should not object to their giving Routs six nights in the week. By such vanities and follies, wealth at least circulates and benefits the general community, without materially corrupting—but in the other case, exclusive of the folly, example not only perverts the mind, but is contra bonos mores.


To loup and caper like their betters,
Whan a' they gain—(poor senseless elfs!)
Is steekit doors, and empty skelfs!

C.
In troth ye'er right!—and now I think o't,
This was what ruin'd poor Wat Linkit,
Turn'd pride and show to shame and laughter
And kill'd wi' grief a dainty daughter,

21

Set a' his family helter skelter,
Without a hame, or friendly shelter!—
Heh! but my heart e'en now, grows wae
Whan I look back to that sad day
That reft o' a' their pride and pleasure,
They tint for aye this blooming treasure,
And kent owre weel, that a' the shame,
And a' the loss, was their ain blame!

B.
I never heard o' this mischanter.—
Wattie, I ken, was a vain vaunter,
Held himsel up aboon his station,
Wi' brag, and shew, and affectation,
Puffing o' wealth, and friends high mettled,
Scarce twalmonths after he was settled;
I ken too, that ere lang he brak
But o' this dochter heard nae talk.


22

C.
O man! they hiddled close the story,
But Friends kent a'—and a' war sorry!—
A bonnier bairn, or ane mair douse,
Ne'er blessed an honest tradesman's house;
And had they let the Lassie bide
Contented at their ain fire side,
Pleas'd wi' her wark the hail day lang,
This sober thing had ne'er gane wrang!
But vogie o' her dochter's beauty,
A thoughtless Mither tint her duty,
And sent her bairn to thae sam schools
Whar nought is seen but fashion'd fools;
Gat Maisters in, albeit she saw na
The use o' French or the Piana,
And buskt her up wi' fine things flaring,
As out ilk day she gade an airing

23

Amang our bucks in Prince's Street,
Wha glowr at ilka lass they meet,
And soon find out, in spite o' flare,
Wharfrae they come, and what they are.
A Thing sae bonnie, and sae meek,
Wi' Youth's fresh roses in her cheek,
Soon drew ilk rake-hell's markt attention,
And led bad minds to base intention,
For a' wha roos'd, and a' wha sought her
Kent that she was a Shopman's dochter!
Myzie, sae fallow'd, prais'd, and fleech'd,
Thought na o' harm while fause anes preach'd,
Nor did her sensless Parents think
Their bairn was treading on the brink
O' ruin's gulf, till in a whirl
The straik cam on them wi' a dirl!—

24

Na! far frae fear, or prudent caution,
Thae fools set up for tip tap Fashion;
For whan they learnt that May was courted
By fine rich blades (as was reported,)
Wha talk'd o' Marriage—Honour—Troth,
Confirm'd (good gracious!) wi' an oath,
They thought it wad be nae bad game
If a' their dochters heard the same.
Fu' o' this project, (wad ye think it?)
Up in the lift gat Madam Linkit,
Deckt out her House, and Lassies a',
Our New Town Loungers in to draw,
Wha spy'd things clear, ye may believe,
And a' the time leugh in their sleeve.—
Weel! on gade Madam wi' her art,
Gae twa-course Feasts and a dessert,

25

Wi' walth o' wine, and by my certes!
This aping fool gae Evening parties,
And private Balls—at last nae doubt
To mak things sure, she gae a Rout!
This Rout indeed was rightly named,
It routed Watt, poor chiel! and shamed
The Family a' wi' sneers and scoffin,
And laid sweet Myzie in her coffin,
Wha pined wi' sorrow and vexation,
Mourning a blasted reputation,
Till ruin'd Health, and Death, soon gave
Relief within the silent Grave!

B.
Aye, aye!—I guess'd how things wad end!
Thae Routs and Feasts rare comfort lend,
And ere its lang, or I'm mistaen,
They're mair that will hae cause to mane,

26

Whan waste and want come whirling round
To pu' some heigh heads to the Ground.—
As things gang on, they canna last!
They 've come owre soon, and ris'n owre fast!
While fools wha spy them, clap their hands,
And brag o' Walth, and rising Lands,
And endless Trade, and millions making,
O Gain; wi' ither bonnie cracking!
For me, war I to glowr my e'en out,
The feint a proof I see, or ken o't!—
Set by our Lairds, wha live in clover,
Wi' Walth that mak's their cup rin over,
Dreeping (as rising rent, bewitches)
Fast, fast! into our Law folk's pouches;
And some Practitioners o' knowlege
Wha thrive, tho' canglings fill our College,

27

Gathering ilk day their doubled fee,
The diel ae ither proof I see!
Yet a' gang on, as if wealth pour'd
In gowden streams, or daily shower'd
Frae morn till night upon our heeds,
While upstarts spring like mushroom seeds!

A.
It's aye the Fashion to complain
O' present Times, and roose thae gane.
Hae no auld bardies in their lays
Talk'd o' Scotch pride in their calm days?
And in their Tales and simple ditties
Blamed it as sair as you wha pities
Our vain Scotch boddies striving a'
To busk their wives and bairns sae braw?—
What says the sang that tells the clown,
“It's Pride pits a' the Country down,”

28

And maks the Carlin gash, cry out aye
“Tak your Auld Cloak, gudeman, about ye?”

B.
Will ony wife, now half as wise,
Gie her Gudeman sic sound advice,
Whan every new thing that they see
Affects the brain like witcherie,
And ilka fine thing Walth can trick out
But serves to mak them wish the like o't?
Can ony man

In his comparative view of the mode of living, arts, manners, &c. in Edinburgh, between the years 1763 and 1783, Mr. Creech has the following remark.

“In 1763.—In the best families in town, the education of daughters was fitted, not only to embellish and improve their minds; but to accomplish them in the useful and necessary arts of domestic economy. The sewing-school, the pastry-school, were the essential branches of female education; nor was a young lady of the best family ashamed to go to market with her mother.”

“In 1783.—The daughters even of many tradesmen consumed the mornings at the toilet, or in strolling from the perfumers to the milliners, &c. Many of them would have blushed to be seen in a market. The cares of the family were devolved upon a housekeeper; and Miss employed those heavy hours, when she was disengaged from public or private amusement, in improving her mind from the precious stores of a circulating library; and all, whether they have taste for it or not, must be taught music, at a great expense.”

Great as this change is, and much as it exceeds the conception we had formed of Edinburgh manners in the 1783, what is it, compared with the rapid progressive change of manners among our tradesmen's wives and daughters of late years? Had Mr. Creech continued his useful and curious publication down to the present times, what would he have said of our citizens, when the daughters of tradesmen, not contented with the precious stores of a circulating library, or the still more precious stores of a milliner's shop, come forward as the professed imitators of all the fashionable and expensive luxuries that Rank and Fortune can introduce,—who are now, in point of dress, no longer distinguishable from those who move in the highest circles, and who would not only blush at being seen in a market, but be out of all countenance at not having every display of elegance exhibited at their father's table, when a few obscure, and (till of late,) sober minded citizens are to be regaled? What would he have said of the musical powers, taste, and execution of our Edinburgh Misses now, who, without one exception, from the daughter of the Peer to the daughter of the Cobler, sit down to their Piano every morning and evening, and warble their mellifluent strains in every square, street, lane, and obscure corner in our musical metropolis, and when the same expence, labour, and time, are consumed in rendering them and their parents ridiculous? When we seriously consider this perversion of employment, which proceeds not from any thing natural, but merely from a blind imitation of fashionable education, can we cease to be astonished at the absurdity? The only excuse attempted to be offered is, that their daughters may probably become governesses:—Were they all employed, what an improved nation should we be! This reminds the Author of a circumstance which occured a few years ago. Meeting accidentally with a man whom he formerly knew as a waiter in a country inn, and who at this time kept an obscure ale-house in Edinburgh, he was accosted with an humble salutation, which was succeeded by a tale of domestic calamity in the death of a favourite daughter. “I had wared muckle siller on her education, Sir,” said the disconsolate father—“mair indeed, than I could weel afford! and just as I was ganging to pit her to the music, Sir, she died!” And pray, John, what good would the Music have done her?—“Indeed, Sir, I canna say; but they telt me it was fit I should gie it to her, in case she might be a governess.” As an additional proof, among many, of the prevalence of this lamentable malady, the following fact, related to the author by a respectable friend in this city, a few days ago, may suffice. Wishing to obtain some moderate priced harpsichord for the use of his daughters, he and his wife repaired to a music-shop for that purpose, and on their fixing on one valued at twenty-five guineas, the master of the shop told them, he was sorry he could not let them have it, as it was already purchased by a woman who kept a green stall, for the use of her daughter.—Out of such an immense number of females taught, not to find some young Ladies who are excellent musicians, would be a miracle; but, on the other hand, when it is considered, that hundreds are brought forward as tormentors, and that no person now can enjoy a quiet evening in a friend's house, without one of “my daughters” being set down to rattle over the keys of a piano, and who, totally void of natural taste, voice, feeling, and expression, wounds our ears with discordant squalls; this disease, (putting aside all considerations of misapplied time and labour) may safely be be called a pestilence.

o' sober thinking

Look at our wives, and jillets, linking
Foul day or fair, about the street,
Dragl'd, and wat,—frae head to feet
As fine as Fashion's hands can deck them,
Without this prayer—The Lord direct them?—
It's this that marks our senseless tawpies,
And shames us a' as Gillygaupies,

29

Puff'd up wi' vapouring pride and folly,
Turning calm minds to melancholy,
Whan ane reflects how, till o' late,
In ilka Country, Kingdom, State,
A Scotsman's wisdom and discretion
Was aye the theme o' admiration!—
Ance mair, I say, as things now gang,
They'll be a downcome or it's lang ;
And since we've had a serious tale
That proves how upstart fools maun fail,
Now, we're sae aptly met thegither,
Allow me, friends, to tell anither.
Sometime bygane, whan folk war canny,
And valued show far less than money,

30

A poor Scot's lad o' low degree
Cam here frae the north countrié,
To try his hand at that sam trade
Whar thousands yearly earn their bread,
And tho' a' poor when they begin,
Fast on to walth and grandeur rin.
The hail he had was on his back,
His wardrobe was no worth ae plack,
For I can tell ye without joking,
He brought it a' up in—a stocking.
Ident, and snack, the chiel gat on,
In spite o' his north kintrie tone;
Frae thrippeny pages, scrawl'd till dark,
Through time became a Signet Clark,
And frae the Auld Town, in a garret,
Moved to the New, and gae friends claret.

31

Fash'd at the time wi' a dispute,
And frighted for a lang law suit,
I thought it best, in case o' need,
To get ane o' the writer breed
To help me on in his profession,
And back me in the Court o' Session.
No gifted wi' a heavy purse,
I took, I thought, the safest course
To ward expence, and at sam time
To mak new deeds wi' auld deeds chime;
For as I aft had freely shared
My Sunday's dinner, and ne'er spared
My whisky punch and good brown nappy
To cheer this half starved norland chappy,
Whan he had little else at hame
To fill a sair pinch'd hungry wame,

32

I guess'd that now he wad na stand
To lend his friend a helping hand,
And without profit or reward
Bring a' things round,—just for regard.—
Weel! aff I gaed wi' cheery heart,
Assured o' kindness on his part;
But ne'er met I since I was cleckit
Wi' things sae strange, and unexpeckit!
Arrived at his fine New Town house,
Out cam a flunky, livery'd spruce,
Wha e'ed me first wi' saucy air,
Syne askt me wha I wanted there,
And gae me mony a scornfu' glance
As I gaed marveling thro' the trance,
Glowring (as weel I might,) at a'
The sudden changes that I saw.

33

Great as it was, I trow, or lang
A change I met that a' things dang!
For whan at length, (led wondering on)
I spy'd, cock'd on his business throne,
My norland chappy stately sit,
And ee me, nor ance budge a fit,
But wi' a cauldrife scornfu' air
Demand what business took me there;
Or what I wanted, or wha sent me?
I guess'd at first, he had miskent me.—
Bless me! quo I, can ye forget me!
Syne tauld my name and what wad fit me:
But judge, my friends, how I wad look
Whan up his pen this scoundrel took,
And turning frae me to his wark,
Advised me to find out some spark

34

Wha wanted business in the law;—
For him, he'd ither trade to ca',
Business of consequence and profit;
For mine,—nae charge could he take of it:
Some might indeed blaw a cauld coal
And get me on the “poor folks roll,”—
“But as for me,” quo this base cheat,
“I've hardly time to eat my meat,
“Or when my clients come to dine
“Scarce half an hour to drink my wine.”
Weel!—hame I gaed, as ye may guess,
No just transported wi' success,
Yet, ere we parted, could na help
To gie this upstart whalp a skelp,
And tauld him afore a' his clarks,
(Wha buff'd out at my plain remarks,)

35

That whan he cramm'd his hungry kyte
Ilk Sunday, and ilk Sunday's night,
At my free board, whan starved and bare,
He then had walth o' time to spare
To eat my meat, and drink my toddy,
Thoughtless o' wine, or client-boddie.
Mad at the taunt, he in a bang
Flew to his bell and furious rang!
Syne to his Flunky wi' a roar
Cried—“Shew that fellow to the door,
And should he back presume to come,
Remember, Sir!—I'm not at home.”
Ye need na fash, quo I, right slee,
To mak this fine spark tell a lie;
His breeding, Rab, as weel's your ain,
Will hardly bring me here again.

36

For a' your pride, ye'er o' ae clan,
“Like Maister, (Rabbie,) aye like man;”—
“Birds o' a feather flock thegither,—
“Ye baith war cleckit by ae mither.”

C.
Gude faith! ye pay'd him hame, my cock!

B.
But mark the fa' o' upstart folk,
Wha for a time mount heich in air,
Then sudden drap, to rise nae mair.

C.
How happen'd this?—I'm keen to ken!

B.
There's mony fine upsetting men
That mak a shew amang us here,
No wi' their ain, but ither's gear,
And gar folk trou wha see them thrive
The've walth o' hinny in the hive,
Whan, war truths kent, ilk honest boddie
Wad think sic chaps deserve a woodie.

37

By wylie trick this knave had got
Anither's fire to boil his pot;
To speak mair plain, by fraud beguil'd
O' her just right an orphan child,
And thought at length he could conceal
What creesh'd sae lang his rapid wheel;
Sae, on he drave wi' whirling speed,
Nor o' an after-clap took head;
Was first and foremost o' the thrang
Wha dash at ilk thing right or wrang,
And speculate on a' they see

Could any thing make a Speculator reflect at all, the present calamitous situation of the country, (occasioned by speculation alone,) might do something.—But unfortunately, the speculator and the gambler at the hazard table, are precisely similar:—their pleasure arises from the risk they run, and in proportion to the value of the stake depending. Remove this risk, and the excitement is gone, and consequently the pleasure: for in proportion to the danger is the stimulus that produces the enjoyment. Should any doubt the truth of this axiom, the author begs leave to refer them to the conduct of the smuggler—the highwayman —the house-breaker, and the common thief, who, although conscious of the risk they run, persevere in their practices, in defiance of all the laws contrived to inflict punishment on the delinquent, and to deter others. The only difference between these honourable gentlemen, (and a very material one to society!) is, that the last mentioned description, when they fall, fall alone; while the speculator in his fall involves thousands in distress along with him. Speculators, however, are not all alike, and it is not a little curious to remark the difference at the short distance of 200 miles in the same country. An English speculator is generally, if not uniformly, distinguished by his over pushing trade in the line of a profession to which he has been regularly bred;—whereas our Scotch speculators dash at every thing within their reach, whether they understand the branch in which they engage or not; or, as the author of the “Town Fashions” expresses it,

“Plunge in the stream; all future danger scorn!
“—'Tis make a spoon,” they cry, “or spoil a horn.”

Every iron is thurst into the fire, till one or other of them is sure to burn their fingers at last. There is another material difference, namely, that when a Scotch speculator begins his career, he immediately increases his expence of living; for to speculate without ostentatious shew, would, in his conception, be quite inconsistent. This, no doubt, constitutes another source of pleasure,—we mean while it lasts; for although it may ultimately plunge a wife and family from the height of extravagance to the depth of poverty and distress, what is it, compared with the immediate pleasure he enjoys during the existence of splendour, and the additional excitement of hope, anxiety, fear, and sanguine expectation?—Leaving the philosopher and the metaphysician to solve this problem, the author will content himself for the present, with a simple remark made by a very judicious and worthy acquaintance of his on this subject. “There certainly may, for aught I know, said he, be great pleasure, and sometimes great profits annexed to speculation; but, for my part, I am determined to speculate none, but to keep what I have like grim death!”


Unscared about—Futurity.—
Rab bought estates, and biggit houses,
Gae walth of feasts and claret bouses,
Had a fine Villa a' laid down
Wi' walks and shrubbries near the town,

38

And things mair fine than I can tell
To mak a show, whan swith! he fell
Frae a' his height wi' ae law lounder
Down to the ground as flat's a flounder!
A gleg, shrew'd chiel, skill'd in his trade,
Smelt out the rat that Rab had hid,
Whilk lang conceal'd, began to stink,
Till Justice pu'd it frae the chink,
And brought the vile thing clear to light,
Whan Rabbie's day was chang'd to night.
A good round sum wi' interest on't
For mony a year, was sic a dunt,
That in a blink this scoundrel brack,
Which (God forgie me!) claw'd my back.—
His Villa, Lands, and a' war sald,
And now, nae langer big and bauld,

39

I see him aft, as he slinks by
My weel kent shop, wi' downcast eye;
And hae nae doubt he wad be fain
To prie my Sunday's fare again.

D.
Troth! neebours, baith your Tales are good
And now we're in this story mood,
I'se gie ye mine, altho' nae dab
At telling things wi' a glib gab;
But as we're talking about Pride
That pu's the sober mind aside,
I'll tell ye what may ablins teach
How some folk change whan they grow rich.
Its now, I think, near thretty year
Since frae the Wast I first came here;
And whan I left my native hame
Saw little round me I could blame,

40

Page 40, 41.

It is more than probable, that the picture here drawn, will give offence to some, and dispose others to view it in a light very unfavourable to the Author's judgment. In a great manufacturing nation, where arts, trade, and commerce are considered as the grand sources of wealth, it can hardly be expected, that the removal of what is generally called an useless horde of idlers from districts where nothing beneficial can be done, to those where industry meets with its reward, will even be deemed an injury. Without entering into a critical discussion of this long contested point, may not the Author ask,—First, If any thing has hitherto been done, or even generally attempted, to render the description of people alluded to, more industrious in their native districts, by furnishing them with the means to better their condition, and, at the same time, to make them more useful to the Community? And, Secondly, If the vaunted haunts of our great manufactures are really and truly productive of the advantages held forth? If, by expatriating a numerous class of inhabitants from various districts, where it is well known much might be done by the united efforts of well directed industry, a material advantage is derived, the Author can only say, that he is so bad a political economist as not to understand it; and if the continual failures and disasters incident to our manufactures, can, by repeatedly casting thousands adrift without the means of support, be considered as a benefit, he must likewise confess, that his stupidity is so great as not to comprehend it. To a sheep laird, a manufacturer, or a speculating merchant, indeed, nothing can be more obvious and clear; but to a simple, uninformed follower of the Muses, every thing is involved in impenetrable darkness!—A ray of light, however, may sometimes break through the gloom, and enable even the most stupid to discover objects; and when at this moment the Author looks around him, and with no gladdening eye, or cheerful heart, perceives one description of men squandering their decreasing means in idle and luxurious vanities, and the other struggling under the calamities of heedless speculation; he is fool enough to wish that the first had never deserted their native humble homes and dependants; nor the other their caution, prudence, and economy! Were not lamentable examples immediately before us, this would be considered the mere ravings of a Poet, and poor Donald's story viewed in the light of a Romance; but perhaps the best proof that can be adduced in support of what has been brought forward in the text, is the conduct of Highland proprietors at this moment, who, perceiving at length their interest in retaining and encouraging the native inhabitants, are laudibly using their best endeavours to ameliorate their condition, and render their future situation more beneficial to themselves, and advantageous to their country.— Such incontrovertible facts are worth a thousand theories of political economists.

For a' was pleased wi' their calm lot,

And tho' but poor, had their ain spot,
Whar nane kent either dread or want,
While use pat up wi' things tho' scant.
Our Laird was then a douce, plain man,
Fond o' his birth-place and his clan;
In a' their welfare interest took,
Cheering ilk ane wi' kindly look,
And whan distress cam to the door,
His Leddie, bounteous helpt the poor.—
But Times—Ohon! are alter'd sair!—
Our Highland Chiefs are now nae mair!
And Highland Leddies, now sae braw,
Think na o' wintry winds that blaw,
Cauld, cheerless, bleak, baith night and day
On them wha now are driven away,

41

To search for what might thousands keep,
War Lairds as fond o' Men as Sheep.—
But to my Tale;—our Laird, like ithers,
Turn'd a' his thoughts to ewes and weathers,
And sent adrift frae hill and glen,
Mair than a hundred bourdlie Men,
Wi' a' their families at their back,
To mak room for a Lawland pack,
Wha gae mair rent, while far and near,
His lands o' Men was stript—clean bare!
Its said, (and I believe it's true,)
That whan thae fam'lies bad adieu
To their auld hames and native hills,
Pride, stung wi' shame, that sometimes thrills
Thro' greedy hearts, and out will keek,
Gart tears hap owre our Laird's wan cheek,

42

When a' his former boast and power
Pass'd mournfu' by his Castle door,
And tald in ilk expressive face
His sudden downfa' and disgrace .—
But gowd has charms to dry ilk tear,
And Pleasure's smile has powers to cheer;—
Our Laird and family a' flew here.
Some years ago, whan in my shop,
A braw new Carriage made a stop,
Wi' livery'd servants, back and fore,
And drew up whirling to the door,

43

Whan out there stept, wi' stately air,
A Leddy and twa dochters fair,
Deckt out sae fine, I mind fou weel,
The glitter made my e'en a' reel.
Speering for some rich brussel's laces,
Trimming for gowns, and veils for faces,
I thought I kent the hamely tongue
I aft had heard while I was young,
Rinning about the Laird's ha' house
Reckless o' want, fu' blithe and crouse,
As wi' good cheer I fill'd my wame
Whan but sma' store remained at hame.
The mair I heard this Lady talk,
The mair I thought o' times lang back;
At length, as we began to jabber,
I speer'd if she cam frae Lochaber.—

44

A short time brought a' things about,
And what I wish'd I soon fan'd out,
Yet, what I found, I weel may say
Gae little joy to me that day!
“Ay! Donald,” quo this sneerling Leddie,
“Are you the son of John Macreddie!
“Upon my word you've got well up!—
“Such fine new goods!—and such a shop!—
“Well! what strange things will come about!—
“You're getting wealthy fast, no doubt?”
Troth no, my Leddie! for, believe me,
I've mony things to plague and grieve me;
Amang the rest, my poor auld Mither
Wi' my three sisters and sick brither,
Hae scarce wharwi' to keep in life;
And here wi' sax bairns and a wife,

45

I'm fighting on ilk day to save
What keeps my kinsfolk frae the grave!—
They're now nae langer wi' affection
Skreen'd by their Laird's ance warm protection,
Nor by your Ladyship's kind care;
But driven out helpless, naked, bare,
To meet cauld poortith's nipping blast,
And on the wide warld houseless cast
To beg for help, since rich new Comers
Hae changed to frost their ance warm Summers!
“You blockhead! cease your senseless clack!”
Cried this changed dame, and turn'd her back.
“Your kindred, had they done like others,
“Would have made Parents, Sisters, Brothers,
“Long ere this time a thriving race,
“In some brisk manufacturing place:—

46

“But Highlanders are now got crazy;
“Puff'd up wi' stupid pride, and lazy,
“They scorn to work at honest trade
“To get themselves and family bread:—
“While all around are getting rich,
“They'd rather starve in sloth and itch!”
Wi' that she down hir siller threw,
And scornfu' frae my shop withdrew
Wi' a' her train, and wale o' lace:
Since then, I've never seen her face;
Nor could I weel—for ere 'twas lang
I heard how things came on ding dang,
To cow this vanity and shew,
And bow down purse proud heads—fu' low!
Some winters here in wastery spent,
Soon gat the start o' rais'd sheep rent,

47

And debt, and dun, and Tradesfolk's clamour,
Brought ere the fourth year, to the hammer,
What, for at least twa hundred years,
Had graced our fa'en Laird's bauld forbears,
And now belangs, (as I've heard said,)
To some in the Land couping trade,
Wha live in constant expectation
O' making rich by speculation,
Tho' aft I'm tald, right sair put to't
Whan pay day comes, to mak things out,
And aft too mony a dashing chap
Outowre the knuckles gets a rap,
That maks him wish he'd bidden still
Wi' the good grist o' his Law mill.—
Sae fa's it, friends! to the sad lot
O' Highland Lairds in this loo'd spot,

48

Whar, year by year, and day by day,
Vain folly makes a short display,
In feast, extravagance, and show,
To gie weak pride an overthrow!

C.
There's mair than Highland Lairds, they say,
Fast posting on the self sam way;
And thae, wha ken things to a tittle,
Say, that some Lairds play games right kittle,
For if they dinna mind their hand,
It's past a' doubt, they'll tyne their Land.
Ae thing is certain, a' agree,
Deil ane looks to Posterity;
But lives up to the fou extent
O' a' their new rais'd landed rent,
And some maintain, war things weel sifted,
They're mair wi' debt than siller gifted.


49

B.
If this be true, what can we think
O' thae wha thoughtless, careless wink
At what maun some day come, sair nippin!
Whan bairns to naithing sure can lippen;
Whan wives and dochters, without thrift,
And bred in waste, can mak nae shift
To screen themsels frae tempest's stour,
Whan Fortune, chang'd, turns frae their door,
And tells them, when she favours shed,
They only turn'd a spendthrift's head!
Let's strive then, neibours, while we can,
To act the part o' prudent men,
Lay by some savings, while we may,
To brighten eild's bleak, cheerless day;
In ither words, to saften pain
Wi' comforts glean'd frae weel-earn'd gain,

50

And mak life's calm descending sun
Shine mild on former labours done!
Whan Trade's gi'en owre, and bairns weel placed,
We then may sober blessings taste,
Set oursels down, composed, and prie
The charms o' sweet tranquillity,
Look back wi' smiles to labours past,
And bliss Retirement's calm at last;
Nor grieve because nae langer young
“We're bending twa fald owre a rung.”
What think ye now, o' some lown spot
Whar ane might get a feu'd-out lot,
And big a dainty, neat bit housie,
And live, when auld, as calm as pousie?
Some pasture ground wad keep a cow,
A good kail-yard raise things enow,

51

And twa tight hizzies serve as weel
As flunkies cock't ahint coach wheel.
Whan Simmer came, and a' around
Gowans and wild flowers deckt the ground,
By some green bank, whar wimpling clear
A bonnie burnie trotted near,
We'd tak our seat, or e'ening's walk,
And o' auld bygane matters talk.
A mile frae town and a' its bustle,
The Mavis and the Blackbird's whistle
Wad cheer us mair than a' the claver
O' fashion'd fools wha senseless haver
About fine dinners and fine dresses,
Aping rich Lairds and W.S's.—
Then, whan our bairns cam out thegither
To see their auld dad, and fond mither,

52

And brought their wee things in their haun,
To sport around us on the lawn,
And tak their Sunday's dinner wi' us,
Wadna ilk warldly fashery flee us?—
O Sirs! this life's an unco farce!
Whan sober comforts are na scarce
We cast them by, as useless things;
Its then that Discontentment springs!
We wish for what is far aboon us,
We glaum at shaddows that aye shun us,
Till spent, and worn out in the chace,
We drap down, cover'd wi' disgrace!

A.
Weel! Bauldy, a' ye've preach'd is true,
What's mair, my lad, has sair'd to pu'
To the right road ilk wandering thought,
And a' my mind to calmness brought!—

53

Frae this time furth, my care shall be
To find a spot whar sheltred free
Frae bustling toil, and city din,
A snug built housie, rounded in
Wi' planting, rail, and garden wa',
Will steek out care, and mak peace fa'
On sober eild, sae sweet and saft!
We'll pity thae wha here rin daft.—

B.
Bide—bide ye, friend!—ye're now owre fast!
Things rarely thrive that's done in haste:
Keep aye in mind our good Scotch creed,
“The mair the haste, the war the speed;”
Its time eneugh to drawl this tune,
Whan feckless eild cries out—hae done!
We've yet some active years to spare
Afore we think o' country air,

54

And country calmness in retreat
To mak life's gloamin pass by sweet,—
Na, neibour, na! start nae sae keen,
Lay up first what keeps auld banes green,
Syne big your house, and spread your table;
But stick to Trade as lang's you're able!
For I could tell our bigging breether,
Villas and Trade gree ill thegither.
Whan days grow short, and winds blaw bleak,
Placed cozie by our ingle cheek,
Cheer'd wi' our gabbing dames and getts,
We're unco swear to leave our seats,
And gang a mile o' gate or twa
To paedle back thro' drift and snaw,
Whan roads are deep, and nights pick dark,
And put things aff till morning's wark.

55

Should Customers bang in at e'en
On some new fashion'd finery keen,
And aften miss the Maister's face,
Wi' nane but shop lads in his place,
I doubt ere lang, if that's repeated,
O' Customers he'll soon be cheated,
And in their stead will meet neglect,
As weel he may, whan they suspect,
That without thrift he jovial spends
His e'enings wi' some feasting friends,
At his new Villa out o' town,
Whar Port instead o' Trade gangs down:—
Has this no happen'd mair than once?
Let us then cannylie advance,
And ere eild gies a warning jog
Nae mair the labouring oar to tug,

56

Lay something by to boil the kettle,
While we hae pith and active mettle,
Syne yield it up wi' tranquil brow
To them wha hae youth's strength to pu'!—
What is this Life, do a' we dow?
But ae continual changing row!
At morn a Sun—midday a Taper,
At gloaming dim, a passing vapour!—
Nor need we start, nor fret, nor mourn
Whan age draws to its last sojurn;
A Life weel spent has aye a balsam,
It feeds the mind wi' food that's halesome,
Defends frae thoughts that rack the breast,
And sooths ilk troubled care to rest;
Prepares for what a's doom'd to meet,
And turns the ee to Mercy's Seat,

57

Assured, (howe'er frail man may fail,)
That Justice mild will had the scale!

C.
Fair fa' ye, friend!—accept our blessin
For a' ye've said!—Could Pride but lissen
To sic advice, we ablins yet
Might see folk on right saddles sit,
And some too, conscious o' past blame,
Look back to former pranks wi' shame.—
As things stand now, my greatest fear
Is, that door-deaf, Pride canna hear,
And that plain, sober, sage Advice,
Like downfa'en Coin, has tint its price.
Mean time we'll part, in hopes again
To meet or lang—the Clock strikes Ten.
If Pride be deaf, or winna hear,
Some antrin ane may lend an ear,

58

And should they, hearkening to auld Tales
Compared wi' new, ance trim their sails,
And firmly stem the whirling tide
That drives weak barks frae side to side,
We canna think it toil or pain
Our cracking here o' “Times Bygane.”
Ae wilder'd, poor tint Sheep, we're tauld,
Whan found, is worth a hundred fauld,
And this sam night, (as a' here ken,)
A lang lo'ed Sheep, near tint and gane,
Is brought safe back to it's auld fare,
Content, and calm,—to stray nae mair:—
What say ye, Sandy?—am I right?

A.
I do confess my head was light
Wi' thae mad Times—till Bauldy's strain
Brought poor scar'd Reason back again.

THE END.
 

See Mr. Huskisson's excellent pamphlet on paper currency.

When this was written, the Author little suspected that the prophecy would have been so soon verified.

This is no imaginary picture, but faithfully represented from a real fact which occurred some years ago, in a northern district in the Highlands, when a proud and powerful chieftain saw a hundred expatriated families depart from his domain for America.