 | Songs and poems |  |
1
POEMS.
THE MONYMUSK CHRISTMAS BA'ING.
Has ne'er in a' this countra been,
Sic shou'dering and sic fa'ing,
As happen'd but few ouks sinsyne,
Here at the Christmas Ba'ing.
At evening syne the fallows keen
Drank till the niest day's dawing,
Sae snell, that some tint baith their een,
And could na pay their lawing
Till the niest day.
Sic shou'dering and sic fa'ing,
As happen'd but few ouks sinsyne,
Here at the Christmas Ba'ing.
At evening syne the fallows keen
Drank till the niest day's dawing,
Sae snell, that some tint baith their een,
And could na pay their lawing
Till the niest day.
Like bumbees bizzing frae a byke,
Whan hirds their riggins tirr;
The swankies lap thro' mire and syke,
Wow as their heads did birr!
They yowff'd the ba' frae dyke to dyke
Wi' unco speed and virr;
Some baith their shou'ders up did fyke,
For blythness some did flirr
Their teeth that day.
Whan hirds their riggins tirr;
The swankies lap thro' mire and syke,
Wow as their heads did birr!
They yowff'd the ba' frae dyke to dyke
Wi' unco speed and virr;
Some baith their shou'ders up did fyke,
For blythness some did flirr
Their teeth that day.
2
Rob Roy, I wat he was na dull,
He first leit at the ba',
Syne wi' a rap clash'd Geordie's skull
Hard to the steeple-wa'.
Wha was aside but auld Tam Tull?—
His frien's mishap he saw,—
Syne rair'd like ony baited bull,
And wi' a thud dang twa
To the yird that day.
He first leit at the ba',
Syne wi' a rap clash'd Geordie's skull
Hard to the steeple-wa'.
Wha was aside but auld Tam Tull?—
His frien's mishap he saw,—
Syne rair'd like ony baited bull,
And wi' a thud dang twa
To the yird that day.
The tanner was a primpit bit,
As flimsy as a feather,
He thought it best to try a hit,
Ere a' the thrang shou'd gadyr:
He ran wi' neither fear nor wit,
As fu' o' wind's a bladder;
Unluckily he tint the fit,
And tann'd his ain bum-lether
Fell weel that day.
As flimsy as a feather,
He thought it best to try a hit,
Ere a' the thrang shou'd gadyr:
He ran wi' neither fear nor wit,
As fu' o' wind's a bladder;
Unluckily he tint the fit,
And tann'd his ain bum-lether
Fell weel that day.
Syne Francie Winsy steppit in,
A sauchin slivery slype,
Ran forrat wi' a furious din,
And drew a swinging swype.
But Tammy Norie thought nae sin
To come o'er him wi' a snype,
Levell'd his nose flat wi's chin,
And gart his swall'd een sype,
Sawt tears that day.
A sauchin slivery slype,
Ran forrat wi' a furious din,
And drew a swinging swype.
But Tammy Norie thought nae sin
To come o'er him wi' a snype,
Levell'd his nose flat wi's chin,
And gart his swall'd een sype,
Sawt tears that day.
3
Bockin red bleed the fleep mair caum,
Ran hame to his nain mammy:
“Alas!” co' Katie, when she saw him,
“Wha did you this, my lammie?”
“A meikle man,” co' he, “foul faw him,”
But kent na it was Tammie,
“Rax'd me alang the chafts a wham
“As soon as e'er he saw me,
“And made me blae.”
Ran hame to his nain mammy:
“Alas!” co' Katie, when she saw him,
“Wha did you this, my lammie?”
“A meikle man,” co' he, “foul faw him,”
But kent na it was Tammie,
“Rax'd me alang the chafts a wham
“As soon as e'er he saw me,
“And made me blae.”
“Deil rax his chandler chafts,” co' Kate,
“For doing you sic wrang,
“Gin I had here the skypel skate,
“Sae weel's I shou'd him bang!”
The gilpy stood, and leuk't fell blate,
To see her in sic a sang;
He squeel'd to her, like a young gyte,
But wad na mird to gang
Back a' that day.
“For doing you sic wrang,
“Gin I had here the skypel skate,
“Sae weel's I shou'd him bang!”
The gilpy stood, and leuk't fell blate,
To see her in sic a sang;
He squeel'd to her, like a young gyte,
But wad na mird to gang
Back a' that day.
The hurry-burry now began,
Was right weel worth the seeing,
Wi' routs and raps frae man to man,
Some getting, and some gieing;
And a' the tricks of fit and hand,
That ever was in being;
Sometimes the ba' a yirdlins ran,
Sometimes in air was fleeing,
Fu' heigh that day.
Was right weel worth the seeing,
Wi' routs and raps frae man to man,
Some getting, and some gieing;
And a' the tricks of fit and hand,
That ever was in being;
Sometimes the ba' a yirdlins ran,
Sometimes in air was fleeing,
Fu' heigh that day.
4
Stout Steen gart mony a fallow stoit,
And flang them o'er like fail;
Said, “he'd na care ae clippit doit,
“Tho' a' should turn their tail.”
But wi' a yark Gib made his queet
As dwabil as a flail,
And o'er fell he, maist like to greet,
Just at the eemest ga'ill,
O' the kirk that day.
And flang them o'er like fail;
Said, “he'd na care ae clippit doit,
“Tho' a' should turn their tail.”
But wi' a yark Gib made his queet
As dwabil as a flail,
And o'er fell he, maist like to greet,
Just at the eemest ga'ill,
O' the kirk that day.
The sutor like tod-lowrie lap,
Three fit at ilka stend:
He did na miss the ba' a chap,
Ilk ane did him commend.
But a lang trypall there was Snap,
Cam' on him wi' a bend;
Gart him, ere ever he wist, cry clap
Upon his nether end;
And there he lay.
Three fit at ilka stend:
He did na miss the ba' a chap,
Ilk ane did him commend.
But a lang trypall there was Snap,
Cam' on him wi' a bend;
Gart him, ere ever he wist, cry clap
Upon his nether end;
And there he lay.
Sanny soon saw the sutor slain,
He was his ain hawf-brither;
I wat right well he was fu' brain,
And fu' could he be ither?
He heez'd in ire a puttin-stane,
Twa fell on him thegither,
Wi' a firm gowff he fell'd the tane,
But wi' a gowff the tither
Fell'd him that day.
He was his ain hawf-brither;
I wat right well he was fu' brain,
And fu' could he be ither?
He heez'd in ire a puttin-stane,
Twa fell on him thegither,
Wi' a firm gowff he fell'd the tane,
But wi' a gowff the tither
Fell'd him that day.
5
In came the insett Dominie,
Just riftin frae his dinner,
A young mess John, as ane cou'd see,
Was neither saint nor sinner.
A brattlin band, unhappily,
Drave by him wi' a binner,
And heels-o'er-goudie coupit he,
And rave his guid horn penner
In bits that day.
Just riftin frae his dinner,
A young mess John, as ane cou'd see,
Was neither saint nor sinner.
A brattlin band, unhappily,
Drave by him wi' a binner,
And heels-o'er-goudie coupit he,
And rave his guid horn penner
In bits that day.
Leitch lent the ba' a loundrin lick,
She flew fast like a flain;
Syne lighted whare faes were maist thick,
Gart ae gruff Grunsie grain.
He whippit up a rotten stick,
I wat he was na fain,
Leitch wi's fit gae 'im sic a kick,
Till they a' thought him slain,
That very day.
She flew fast like a flain;
Syne lighted whare faes were maist thick,
Gart ae gruff Grunsie grain.
He whippit up a rotten stick,
I wat he was na fain,
Leitch wi's fit gae 'im sic a kick,
Till they a' thought him slain,
That very day.
There was nane there could Cowlie byde,
The gryte guidman, nor nane,
He stenn'd bawk-height at ilka stride,
And rampag'd o'er the green:
For the kirk-yard was braid and wide,
And o'er a knablick stane,
He rumbl'd down a rammage glyde,
And peel'd the gardy-bane
O' him that day.
The gryte guidman, nor nane,
He stenn'd bawk-height at ilka stride,
And rampag'd o'er the green:
For the kirk-yard was braid and wide,
And o'er a knablick stane,
He rumbl'd down a rammage glyde,
And peel'd the gardy-bane
O' him that day.
6
His cousin was a bierly swank,
A derf young man, hecht Rob;
To mell wi' twa he wad na mank
At staffy nevel-job:
I wat na fu' but on a bank,
Whare gadder'd was the mob,
The cousins bicker'd wi' a clank,
Gart ane anither sob,
And gasp that day.
A derf young man, hecht Rob;
To mell wi' twa he wad na mank
At staffy nevel-job:
I wat na fu' but on a bank,
Whare gadder'd was the mob,
The cousins bicker'd wi' a clank,
Gart ane anither sob,
And gasp that day.
Tho' Rob was stout, his cousin dang
Him down wi' a gryte shudder;
Syne a' the drochlin hempy thrang
Gat o'er him wi' a fudder;
Gin he should rise, and hame o'ergang,
Lang was he in a swidder;
For bleed frae's mou' and niz did bang,
And in gryte burns did bludder
His face that day.
Him down wi' a gryte shudder;
Syne a' the drochlin hempy thrang
Gat o'er him wi' a fudder;
Gin he should rise, and hame o'ergang,
Lang was he in a swidder;
For bleed frae's mou' and niz did bang,
And in gryte burns did bludder
His face that day.
But, waes my heart, for Petrie Gib,
The carlie's head 'twas scaw't,
Upo' the crown he got a skib,
That gart him yowll and claw't.
Sae he wad slip his wa' to Tib,
And spy at hame some fawt;
I thought he might hae gott'n a snib,
Sae thought ilk ane that saw't,
O' th' green that day.
The carlie's head 'twas scaw't,
Upo' the crown he got a skib,
That gart him yowll and claw't.
Sae he wad slip his wa' to Tib,
And spy at hame some fawt;
I thought he might hae gott'n a snib,
Sae thought ilk ane that saw't,
O' th' green that day.
7
But taylor Hutchin met him there,
A curst unhappy spark,
Saw Pate had caught a camshack cair
At this uncanny wark.
He bade na lang to seek his lare,
But, wi' a yawfu' yark,
Whare Pate's right spawl, by hap, was bare,
He derfly dang the bark
Frae's shins that day.
A curst unhappy spark,
Saw Pate had caught a camshack cair
At this uncanny wark.
He bade na lang to seek his lare,
But, wi' a yawfu' yark,
Whare Pate's right spawl, by hap, was bare,
He derfly dang the bark
Frae's shins that day.
Poor Petrie gae a weary winch,
He could na do but bann;
The taylor baith his sides did pinch,
Wi' laughing out o' hand;
He jee'd na out o' that an inch,
Afore a menseless man,
Came a' at anes athort his hinch
A sowff, and gart him prann
His bum that day.
He could na do but bann;
The taylor baith his sides did pinch,
Wi' laughing out o' hand;
He jee'd na out o' that an inch,
Afore a menseless man,
Came a' at anes athort his hinch
A sowff, and gart him prann
His bum that day.
The Priest's hireman, a chiel as stark
As ony giant cou'd be,
He kent afore o' this day's wark,
For certain that it wou'd be,
He ween'd to drive in o'er the park,
And ilk ane thought it shou'd be;
Whether his foot had mist its mark,
I canna tell, but fou't be,
He fell that day.
As ony giant cou'd be,
He kent afore o' this day's wark,
For certain that it wou'd be,
He ween'd to drive in o'er the park,
And ilk ane thought it shou'd be;
Whether his foot had mist its mark,
I canna tell, but fou't be,
He fell that day.
8
'Ere he cou'd change th' uncanny lair,
And nae help to be gi'en him,
There tumbled a mischievous pair
O' mawten'd lolls aboon him.
It wad ha made your heart fu' sair,
Gin ye had only seen him;
An't had na been for Davy Mair,
The rascals had ondune him,
Belyve that day.
And nae help to be gi'en him,
There tumbled a mischievous pair
O' mawten'd lolls aboon him.
It wad ha made your heart fu' sair,
Gin ye had only seen him;
An't had na been for Davy Mair,
The rascals had ondune him,
Belyve that day.
Cry'd black Pate Mill, “God save the King!”
Cry'd gley'd Gib Gun, “God grant it;”
Syne to the ba' like ony thing,
Baith ran, and baith loud vauntit.
But auld James Stuart drew his sting,
Tauld them they could na want it;
He sware he'd gar their harnpans ring
Till black Pate Mill maist fantit,
For fear that day.
Cry'd gley'd Gib Gun, “God grant it;”
Syne to the ba' like ony thing,
Baith ran, and baith loud vauntit.
But auld James Stuart drew his sting,
Tauld them they could na want it;
He sware he'd gar their harnpans ring
Till black Pate Mill maist fantit,
For fear that day.
A stranger bra', in Highland claise,
Leit mony a sturdy aith,
To bear the ba' thro' a' his faes,
And nae kep meikle skaith.
Rob Roy heard the fricksome fraise,
Weel girded in his graith;
Gowff'd him alang the shins a blaize,
And gart him tyne his faith
And feet that day.
Leit mony a sturdy aith,
To bear the ba' thro' a' his faes,
And nae kep meikle skaith.
Rob Roy heard the fricksome fraise,
Weel girded in his graith;
Gowff'd him alang the shins a blaize,
And gart him tyne his faith
And feet that day.
9
His neiper was a man o' might,
Was few there could ha' quell'd him,
He did na see the dreary sight,
Till some yap gilpy tell'd him,
To Robin syne he flew outright,
As he'd been gaun' to geld him;
But, dolefu' chance, frae some curst wight,
A clammy-houit fell'd him.
Hawf dead that day.
Was few there could ha' quell'd him,
He did na see the dreary sight,
Till some yap gilpy tell'd him,
To Robin syne he flew outright,
As he'd been gaun' to geld him;
But, dolefu' chance, frae some curst wight,
A clammy-houit fell'd him.
Hawf dead that day.
The millart's man, a suple fallow,
Ran's he had been red wud;
He fethir'd fiercely like a swallow,
Cry'd, hech! at ilka thud.
A gawsie gurk, wi' phiz o' yellow,
In youthood's sappy bud,
Nae twa there wad ha gart him wallow,
Wi' fair play i' the mud
On's back that day.
Ran's he had been red wud;
He fethir'd fiercely like a swallow,
Cry'd, hech! at ilka thud.
A gawsie gurk, wi' phiz o' yellow,
In youthood's sappy bud,
Nae twa there wad ha gart him wallow,
Wi' fair play i' the mud
On's back that day.
Tam Tull upon him cuist his ee,
Saw him sae mony fuilzie;
He green'd again some play to pree,
And raise anither bruilzie.
Up the kirk-yard he fast did jee,
I wat he was na hoilie,
And a' the kenzies glowr'd to see
A bonnie kind o' tuilzie
Atween them twa.
Saw him sae mony fuilzie;
He green'd again some play to pree,
And raise anither bruilzie.
Up the kirk-yard he fast did jee,
I wat he was na hoilie,
And a' the kenzies glowr'd to see
A bonnie kind o' tuilzie
Atween them twa.
10
The millart never notic'd Tam,
Sae browden'd he the ba',
He rumbl'd rudely like a ram,
Dang o'er whiles ane, whiles twa.
His enemy in afore him cam',
Ere ever he him saw;
Raught him a rap on the forestam,
But had na time to draw
Anither sae.
Sae browden'd he the ba',
He rumbl'd rudely like a ram,
Dang o'er whiles ane, whiles twa.
His enemy in afore him cam',
Ere ever he him saw;
Raught him a rap on the forestam,
But had na time to draw
Anither sae.
Afore he could step three inch back,
The millart drew a knife,
A curst-like gullie and a snack,
Some blacksmith's wark in Fife.
The lave their thumbs did blythly knack,
To see the stalwart strife;
But Tam, I ken, wad gien a plack
T' hae been safe wi' his wife,
At hame that day.
The millart drew a knife,
A curst-like gullie and a snack,
Some blacksmith's wark in Fife.
The lave their thumbs did blythly knack,
To see the stalwart strife;
But Tam, I ken, wad gien a plack
T' hae been safe wi' his wife,
At hame that day.
The parish-clark came up the yard,
A man fu' meek o' mind;
Right jinch he was, and fell weel-fawr'd,
His claithing was fu' fine.
Just whare their feet the dubs had glawr'd,
And barken'd them like bryne,
Gley'd Gibby Gun wi' a derf dawrd,
Beft o'er the grave divine
On's bum that day.
A man fu' meek o' mind;
Right jinch he was, and fell weel-fawr'd,
His claithing was fu' fine.
Just whare their feet the dubs had glawr'd,
And barken'd them like bryne,
Gley'd Gibby Gun wi' a derf dawrd,
Beft o'er the grave divine
On's bum that day.
11
When a' were pitying his mishap,
And swarm'd about the clark,
Wi' whittles some his hat did scrap,
Some dighted down his sark,
Will Winter gae the ba' a chap,
He ween'd he did a wark,
While Sanny wi' a weel-wyl'd wap,
Youff'd her in o'er the park
A space and mair.
And swarm'd about the clark,
Wi' whittles some his hat did scrap,
Some dighted down his sark,
Will Winter gae the ba' a chap,
He ween'd he did a wark,
While Sanny wi' a weel-wyl'd wap,
Youff'd her in o'er the park
A space and mair.
Wi' that Rob Roy gae a rair,
A rierfu' rout rais'd he,
'Twas heard, they said, three mile and mair,
Wha likes may credit gie.
I wyte his heart was fu' o' care,
And knell'd fell sair to see,
The cleverest callant that was there,
Play himsel' sic a slee
Begeck that day.
A rierfu' rout rais'd he,
'Twas heard, they said, three mile and mair,
Wha likes may credit gie.
I wyte his heart was fu' o' care,
And knell'd fell sair to see,
The cleverest callant that was there,
Play himsel' sic a slee
Begeck that day.
Jock Jalop shouted like a gun,
As something had him ail'd:
Fy, Sirs, co' he, the ba' spel's won,
And we the ba' ha'e hail'd.
Some green'd for hawf an hour's mair fun,
'Cause fresh and nae sair fail'd:
Ithers did Sanny gryte thanks cunn,
And thro' their haffats trail'd
Their nails that day.
As something had him ail'd:
Fy, Sirs, co' he, the ba' spel's won,
And we the ba' ha'e hail'd.
Some green'd for hawf an hour's mair fun,
'Cause fresh and nae sair fail'd:
Ithers did Sanny gryte thanks cunn,
And thro' their haffats trail'd
Their nails that day.
12
Syne a' consented to be frien's,
And lap like sucking fillies:
Some red their hair, some maen'd their banes,
Some bann'd the bensome billies.
The pensy blades doss'd down on stanes,
Whipt out their snishin millies;
And a' ware blyth to tak' their einds,
And club a pint o' Lillie's
Best ale that day.
And lap like sucking fillies:
Some red their hair, some maen'd their banes,
Some bann'd the bensome billies.
The pensy blades doss'd down on stanes,
Whipt out their snishin millies;
And a' ware blyth to tak' their einds,
And club a pint o' Lillie's
Best ale that day.
Has ne'er in Monymuss been seen
Sae mony weel-beft skins:
Of a' the bawmen there was nane
But had twa bleedy shins.
Wi' strenzied shouders mony ane
Dree'd penance for their sins;
And what was warst, scoup'd hame at e'en,
May be to hungry inns,
And cauld that day.
Sae mony weel-beft skins:
Of a' the bawmen there was nane
But had twa bleedy shins.
Wi' strenzied shouders mony ane
Dree'd penance for their sins;
And what was warst, scoup'd hame at e'en,
May be to hungry inns,
And cauld that day.
13
ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE.
[_]
[The following was written as an answer “in kind” to an Epistle from Portsoy, which appeared in the Aberdeen Journal, January 11, 1779.]
What can ye be that cou'd employ
Your pen in a sic a tirly-toy,
Frae hyne awa' as far's Portsoy
Aside the sea,
Whare I ken neither man nor boy,
Nor ane kens me?
Your pen in a sic a tirly-toy,
Frae hyne awa' as far's Portsoy
Aside the sea,
Whare I ken neither man nor boy,
Nor ane kens me?
Be wha ye will, ye're unco frush
At praising what's nae worth a rush,
Except it be to show how flush
Ye're at sic sport,
Yet tho' ye even gar me blush,
I thank you for't.
At praising what's nae worth a rush,
Except it be to show how flush
Ye're at sic sport,
Yet tho' ye even gar me blush,
I thank you for't.
For, troth, I ha'ena seen a letter
This mony a day I likit better;
Ye ken there's something in our nature
Likes to be reez'd;
Be't just or no, makes little matter,
An we be pleas'd.
This mony a day I likit better;
Ye ken there's something in our nature
Likes to be reez'd;
Be't just or no, makes little matter,
An we be pleas'd.
14
My sangs, it seems, hae made a din,
But still I hope it's nae a sin,
Sometimes to tirl a merry pin
As weel's we're able,
Whan fowks are in a laughin bin
For sang or fable,
But still I hope it's nae a sin,
Sometimes to tirl a merry pin
As weel's we're able,
Whan fowks are in a laughin bin
For sang or fable,
It's bat about sic smeerless things,
That my auld doited maiden sings,
She never fykes wi' flighty flings
Of heathen gods;
Nor seeks to please or pester kings
Wi' birth-day odes.
That my auld doited maiden sings,
She never fykes wi' flighty flings
Of heathen gods;
Nor seeks to please or pester kings
Wi' birth-day odes.
And yet may be some girnin gowks
May tak' the pett at harmless jokes,
And think sic simple silly strokes
O' poetrie,
Far unbecomin' sacred fowks
The like o' me.
May tak' the pett at harmless jokes,
And think sic simple silly strokes
O' poetrie,
Far unbecomin' sacred fowks
The like o' me.
What tho' some Sage o' holy quorum,
Should lightlie me for Tillygorum,
I'll never steer my sturdy for him,
Wha e'er he be;
As lang's I ken to keep decorum
As well as he.
Should lightlie me for Tillygorum,
I'll never steer my sturdy for him,
Wha e'er he be;
As lang's I ken to keep decorum
As well as he.
15
Indeed I wad on nae pretence
Wiss to tyne sight o' reverence;
Sae, if sic fowk be men o' sense,
I ask their pardon,—
But value not a fool's offence
Ae single fardin.
Wiss to tyne sight o' reverence;
Sae, if sic fowk be men o' sense,
I ask their pardon,—
But value not a fool's offence
Ae single fardin.
Your M.A.s and your L.L.D.s,
That get a vogue and mak' a fraize,
I dinna hadd them worth three straes,
Wi' a' their fame;
Nor do I envy ony praise
That's gi'en to them.
That get a vogue and mak' a fraize,
I dinna hadd them worth three straes,
Wi' a' their fame;
Nor do I envy ony praise
That's gi'en to them.
A frien' like you delights me sair,
An' hits my fancy till a hair,
Sae couthy and sae debonnair,
An' then sae plain;
It does nae need a birn o' lair
To write again.
An' hits my fancy till a hair,
Sae couthy and sae debonnair,
An' then sae plain;
It does nae need a birn o' lair
To write again.
Now, honest onkent, fare ye weel,
I guess you be some pawky chiel,
That's may be been at Allan's skuil
Some orra time,
And seems to understand the tweel
O' rustic rhyme.
I guess you be some pawky chiel,
That's may be been at Allan's skuil
Some orra time,
And seems to understand the tweel
O' rustic rhyme.
16
But print nae mair, I beg it o' you,
Lest Cha'mers say, he's plaguit wi' you,
You see I have nae thing to gie you
That's worth your while,
But only send my wisses to you,
In your ain style.
Lest Cha'mers say, he's plaguit wi' you,
You see I have nae thing to gie you
That's worth your while,
But only send my wisses to you,
In your ain style.
Lord keep you, man, frae sin and shame;
Frae skaith a' outing, and at hame;
An gie you ay, (blest be His name!)
What He thinks fit;
Tak' this frae me in kindly frame,
Instead o' wit.
Frae skaith a' outing, and at hame;
An gie you ay, (blest be His name!)
What He thinks fit;
Tak' this frae me in kindly frame,
Instead o' wit.
17
ON THE FRENCH CONVENTION.
What stupid creatures are the French,
Quite free from superstition;
Yet when they die, 'tis hard to say,
What can be their condition?
Quite free from superstition;
Yet when they die, 'tis hard to say,
What can be their condition?
Of Heaven they entertain no thought,
Since it can no way fit them;
And as for Hell, the despot there
Has more sense than admit them.
Since it can no way fit them;
And as for Hell, the despot there
Has more sense than admit them.
If then for Hell they have no chance,
And to Heav'n have no pretension;
Some other dwelling must be found,
To lodge the French Convention.
And to Heav'n have no pretension;
Some other dwelling must be found,
To lodge the French Convention.
Or, as their new philosophy
Has laid the fine foundation,
Their only prospect now must be
A blest annihilation.
Has laid the fine foundation,
Their only prospect now must be
A blest annihilation.
How must these miscreant wretches move
Our anger, or our laughter,
Who wish to live like monsters here,
And nothing be hereafter!
Our anger, or our laughter,
Who wish to live like monsters here,
And nothing be hereafter!
18
Preserve us, Reason, taught by Grace,
From reveries so beastly;
By whomsoever set afloat,
By Price, or Payne, or Priestly.
From reveries so beastly;
By whomsoever set afloat,
By Price, or Payne, or Priestly.
May Britons thankful still, and wise,
Beware of Gallic leaven;
So we need have no fear of Hell,
And grace will give us Heaven.
Beware of Gallic leaven;
So we need have no fear of Hell,
And grace will give us Heaven.
19
EPISTLE TO A DAUGHTER.
[_]
This affectionate epistle, addressed to a daughter who had patiently endured many afflictions, is dated January 29, 1795, and now published for the first time. The “two blooming youths” referred to, had been led into a dispute which resulted in their being apprehended on a grave charge; but, having been tried at Aberdeen, they were proved innocent and sent home to their sorrowing parents, with “honour and applause.”
Accept, dear ---, of a father's strain,
To soothe a daughter's heart-corroding pain.
Thy Charlie gone!—Poor, sweet, engaging child,
In looks so charming, and in mind so mild.
The last of nine thy tender care had rear'd,
And well deserving of thy fond regard,
Pull'd from this world in dawn of youthful years,
From all thy prospects, and from all thy fears;
Not by the quick-paced march of fever's rage,
Nor childish malady, of childish age,
Chin-cough, and measles, ev'n the frightful power
Of loathsome small-pox, all got safely o'er;
But slow and lingering, under many a groan
Of tortured weeks and months, from cruel stone,
Beyond the reach of medicinal cure,
Beyond the strength of childhood to endure;
With manhood's agonies, poor infant torn,
With manhood's courage, by poor infant born;
In writhing posture clinging round thy knee,
And looking up with wistful eyes to thee,
Now wishing Death to ease his shatter'd frame,
Now lisping out, for help, his Saviour's name,
His face convulsed, his once bright eyes aghast,
And pained, yet patient, breathing out—his last!
Distressful scene! to a fond mother's breast,
'Bove what in saddest lays can be exprest!
To soothe a daughter's heart-corroding pain.
Thy Charlie gone!—Poor, sweet, engaging child,
In looks so charming, and in mind so mild.
The last of nine thy tender care had rear'd,
And well deserving of thy fond regard,
Pull'd from this world in dawn of youthful years,
From all thy prospects, and from all thy fears;
Not by the quick-paced march of fever's rage,
Nor childish malady, of childish age,
Chin-cough, and measles, ev'n the frightful power
Of loathsome small-pox, all got safely o'er;
But slow and lingering, under many a groan
Of tortured weeks and months, from cruel stone,
Beyond the reach of medicinal cure,
Beyond the strength of childhood to endure;
With manhood's agonies, poor infant torn,
With manhood's courage, by poor infant born;
In writhing posture clinging round thy knee,
And looking up with wistful eyes to thee,
20
Now lisping out, for help, his Saviour's name,
His face convulsed, his once bright eyes aghast,
And pained, yet patient, breathing out—his last!
Distressful scene! to a fond mother's breast,
'Bove what in saddest lays can be exprest!
Yet think, my dear, how different is this blow
From what thou felt not twenty months ago:
Two blooming youths, their drooping father's prop,
Their brethren's favourites, and their mother's hope,
All of a sudden driv'n from peaceful home
To underly the law's severest doom,
By Falsehood charg'd, by Malice quick pursu'd,
Their near relations thirsting for their blood,
One dragg'd to jail, the other forc'd to fly,
Not stung by guilt, but seeking remedy:
Thy anxious heart uncertain of their fate,
And bleeding o'er their miserable state,
'Twixt fears and hopes nine long weeks on the rack—
Fears for their loss and hopes to get them back—
Thy parents sunk in unavailing grief,
Thy husband wand'ring to procure relief,
And thou alone within thy walls to mourn,
Once happy there, now weeping and forlorn;
No neighbour near vouchsafing to condole,
In soft compassion with thy wounded soul,
But standing off, all Christian ties forgot,
And shunning, like the plague, the wretched cot!
From what thou felt not twenty months ago:
Two blooming youths, their drooping father's prop,
Their brethren's favourites, and their mother's hope,
All of a sudden driv'n from peaceful home
To underly the law's severest doom,
By Falsehood charg'd, by Malice quick pursu'd,
Their near relations thirsting for their blood,
One dragg'd to jail, the other forc'd to fly,
Not stung by guilt, but seeking remedy:
Thy anxious heart uncertain of their fate,
And bleeding o'er their miserable state,
'Twixt fears and hopes nine long weeks on the rack—
Fears for their loss and hopes to get them back—
Thy parents sunk in unavailing grief,
Thy husband wand'ring to procure relief,
And thou alone within thy walls to mourn,
Once happy there, now weeping and forlorn;
No neighbour near vouchsafing to condole,
In soft compassion with thy wounded soul,
21
And shunning, like the plague, the wretched cot!
Not so this present cause of second woe—
No stroke from hellish or from human foe,
But gentle touch of Heavenly Father's rod,
The gracious pleasure of a gracious God,
Calling thy Charlie to more lasting bliss
In other worlds than could be found in this,
Through rugged paths, but such as Heav'n thought best,
To lead the sufferer to his bed of rest;
Thy neighbours crowding now about thy door
And showing what they had not shown before,
Their flint of soul, or soften'd or subdued
By grace or guilt, to more becoming mood.
Thy mother using all love's arts to drown
Thy sorrows in the memory of her own;
Thy father acting, with scarce-smother'd tear,
His last good office o'er a grandchild's bier;
Thy husband, with his yet remaining seven,
Conveying to the grave a guest for heaven;
Sweet balsam this to mollify the smart,
And still the throbbings of a mother's heart!
No stroke from hellish or from human foe,
But gentle touch of Heavenly Father's rod,
The gracious pleasure of a gracious God,
Calling thy Charlie to more lasting bliss
In other worlds than could be found in this,
Through rugged paths, but such as Heav'n thought best,
To lead the sufferer to his bed of rest;
Thy neighbours crowding now about thy door
And showing what they had not shown before,
Their flint of soul, or soften'd or subdued
By grace or guilt, to more becoming mood.
Thy mother using all love's arts to drown
Thy sorrows in the memory of her own;
Thy father acting, with scarce-smother'd tear,
His last good office o'er a grandchild's bier;
Thy husband, with his yet remaining seven,
Conveying to the grave a guest for heaven;
Sweet balsam this to mollify the smart,
And still the throbbings of a mother's heart!
Remember, too, how lively were thy joys
To clasp again thy persecuted boys,
When Heav'n and Law had justified their cause,
And sent them home with honour and applause,
In spite of all that malice could devise
To drive and keep them from thy longing eyes;
More joy in this to find them thus reliev'd,
Than if thou ne'er hadst for their absence griev'd:
And such, in God's good time, thy joy shall be
To find this absent child restor'd to thee,
And thee again to him, no more to part—
No separation more to thrill the heart.
To clasp again thy persecuted boys,
When Heav'n and Law had justified their cause,
And sent them home with honour and applause,
22
To drive and keep them from thy longing eyes;
More joy in this to find them thus reliev'd,
Than if thou ne'er hadst for their absence griev'd:
And such, in God's good time, thy joy shall be
To find this absent child restor'd to thee,
And thee again to him, no more to part—
No separation more to thrill the heart.
Thy heart, poor ---! Poor has been thy life
From new-born infant up to married wife,
Ere yet three suns had warm'd thy tender form,
Ere yet thy mother had got o'er her storm,
A band of armed ruffians round the bed
Where child and mother were together laid,
Thy father seized in silent hour of night,
Thy mother trembling and half-kill'd with fright,
And thou, sweet babe, with many a whimpering cry,
Uncared for, and neglected, forced to lie;
Thy maiden years with weakness often vext,
Thy married state with toils and cares perplext,
Yet cheerful under all and still content,
Without envying, and without complaint,
Resigned to God, and pleased with all His ways;
'Tis He sustains thee—His be all the praise.
From new-born infant up to married wife,
Ere yet three suns had warm'd thy tender form,
Ere yet thy mother had got o'er her storm,
A band of armed ruffians round the bed
Where child and mother were together laid,
Thy father seized in silent hour of night,
Thy mother trembling and half-kill'd with fright,
And thou, sweet babe, with many a whimpering cry,
Uncared for, and neglected, forced to lie;
Thy maiden years with weakness often vext,
Thy married state with toils and cares perplext,
Yet cheerful under all and still content,
Without envying, and without complaint,
Resigned to God, and pleased with all His ways;
'Tis He sustains thee—His be all the praise.
O! may we all at last be called to meet
In heavenly mansions at our Saviour's feet,
Thyself, thy husband, parents, boys, and all,
With church trumphant at th' enliv'ning call,
Purg'd from the stains and sorrows of this earth,
And by grace fitted for celestial mirth,
Where no insulting foe can dash our joy,
No rotten-hearted friend our peace annoy;
But all with love and harmony abound,
Combining all in one melodious sound
Of tuneful song, with raptures to adore
The great Preparer of eternal store,
Through endless ages of—one evermore!
In heavenly mansions at our Saviour's feet,
23
With church trumphant at th' enliv'ning call,
Purg'd from the stains and sorrows of this earth,
And by grace fitted for celestial mirth,
Where no insulting foe can dash our joy,
No rotten-hearted friend our peace annoy;
But all with love and harmony abound,
Combining all in one melodious sound
Of tuneful song, with raptures to adore
The great Preparer of eternal store,
Through endless ages of—one evermore!
Take this and keep it, till gray hairs come on—
'Twill mind thee of thy father when he's gone.
'Twill mind thee of thy father when he's gone.
24
THE OWL AND THE ASS,
AN INNOCENT FABLE.
Once on a time, no matter when,
Nor under what a king,
But so it was, in yonder wood,
An Owl began to sing;
Nor under what a king,
But so it was, in yonder wood,
An Owl began to sing;
With phiz so grave, and whoop so loud,
He made a learned din,
And all the burden of his song
Was “O! the light within!
He made a learned din,
And all the burden of his song
Was “O! the light within!
“This inward light, this jewel hid,
“Is all in all to me,
“By it I know, I judge, and act,
“Nor would I wish to see.
“Is all in all to me,
“By it I know, I judge, and act,
“Nor would I wish to see.
“What blockheads call external guides,
“I'm wiser far without,
“And had I eyes, as others have,
“I'd surely pluck them out.
“I'm wiser far without,
“And had I eyes, as others have,
“I'd surely pluck them out.
25
“No foreign help do I require,
“To guide my flights of youth,
“For common sense is all I need
“To lead me into truth.
“To guide my flights of youth,
“For common sense is all I need
“To lead me into truth.
“When in self-cogitation wrapt,
“I use my Light innate,
“'Tis then I search th' eternal laws
“Of nature and of fate.
“I use my Light innate,
“'Tis then I search th' eternal laws
“Of nature and of fate.
“Your outward light may be of use
“To yonder herd of fools,
“The light within is what directs
“Philosophers and owls.”
“To yonder herd of fools,
“The light within is what directs
“Philosophers and owls.”
An Ass, who long had been his friend,
Pricks up his leathern ears,
And gapes and swallows every note,
Like music of the spheres.
Pricks up his leathern ears,
And gapes and swallows every note,
Like music of the spheres.
“So sweet a song so wondrous sweet,
“Was ever such a strain?
“And O! my dearest Doctor Owl,
“Repeat it o'er again!”
“Was ever such a strain?
“And O! my dearest Doctor Owl,
“Repeat it o'er again!”
Charm'd with the sound of booby's praise,
The self-taught Sage agrees,
And makes additions here and there
A second time to please.
The self-taught Sage agrees,
And makes additions here and there
A second time to please.
26
Then o'er and o'er like minstrels meet,
They both in concert act,
And what the one demurely sings,
The other echoes back.
They both in concert act,
And what the one demurely sings,
The other echoes back.
And now the Ass is qualified
To play the Teacher's part,
Till every ass in yonder wood
Has got the song by heart.
To play the Teacher's part,
Till every ass in yonder wood
Has got the song by heart.
[How must fair Science now revive]
[_]
[Some silly remarks on the foregoing, having appeared in the Newspapers, under the mask of “A Scampering Wolf,” produced the following appropriate reply.]
How must fair Science now revive,
And Truth lift up her head,
When owls thus sing, and asses learn,
And wolves vouchsafe to read?
And Truth lift up her head,
When owls thus sing, and asses learn,
And wolves vouchsafe to read?
That birds and beasts in old times spoke,
We know from Æsop's page,
But never one essay'd to read,
Till this enlightened age.
We know from Æsop's page,
But never one essay'd to read,
Till this enlightened age.
Thrice happy age above what has
In former ages been,
And blest the land, above all lands,
Where such rare sights are seen.
In former ages been,
And blest the land, above all lands,
Where such rare sights are seen.
27
Philosophy shall surely now
Her blossoms wide expand,
And good old heathen wisdom shed
Her blessings o'er the land.
Her blossoms wide expand,
And good old heathen wisdom shed
Her blessings o'er the land.
Long therefore may Minerva's bird
Possess unrivall'd fame,
And long may all the long-ear'd tribe
Their praises loud proclaim!
Possess unrivall'd fame,
And long may all the long-ear'd tribe
Their praises loud proclaim!
And O! that every “Scampering Wolf”
Would thus employ his time,
To “sport himself with paper scraps”
And snarl in harmless rhyme.
Would thus employ his time,
To “sport himself with paper scraps”
And snarl in harmless rhyme.
28
ON BURNS' ADDRESS TO A LOUSE.
[_]
These verses were written at the suggestion of a lady who did not like Burns' address to the “crawlin ferlie” which he saw on a lady's bonnet in the church of Mauchline.
A Lousie on a lady's bonnet!
Disgracefu' dirgy! fie upon it!
An' you, forsooth, to write a sonnet
On sic a theme!
Guid fa' me, man, I wad na done it
For a' your fame.
Disgracefu' dirgy! fie upon it!
An' you, forsooth, to write a sonnet
On sic a theme!
Guid fa' me, man, I wad na done it
For a' your fame.
Nae doubt your ballad's wise and witty;
But fowks will say it was na pretty
To yoke sic twa in conjunct ditty,
Them baith to hit;
And ca' you but a twa-fac'd nitty,
Wi' a' your wit.
But fowks will say it was na pretty
To yoke sic twa in conjunct ditty,
Them baith to hit;
And ca' you but a twa-fac'd nitty,
Wi' a' your wit.
For a' your being a bard of note,
Ye shou'd na minded sic a mote,
To mak' a warl's wonner o't,
As ye hae dane;
But past it for an orra spot,
Whare't shou'd na been.
Ye shou'd na minded sic a mote,
To mak' a warl's wonner o't,
As ye hae dane;
But past it for an orra spot,
Whare't shou'd na been.
29
Your philosophic fitty fies,
Tho' clad in sweet poetic guise,
The ladies will them a' despise,
Gin ye express
The least rebaghle ony wise
Upo' their dress.
Tho' clad in sweet poetic guise,
The ladies will them a' despise,
Gin ye express
The least rebaghle ony wise
Upo' their dress.
When ye bemoan'd the herryt mousie,
Rinning as gin't had been frae pousie;
When couter-nib down-stroy'd her housie,
Ye pleas'd us a';
But thus to lilt about a lousie,
Black be your fa'!
Rinning as gin't had been frae pousie;
When couter-nib down-stroy'd her housie,
Ye pleas'd us a';
But thus to lilt about a lousie,
Black be your fa'!
What tho' at godly Ayrshire meeting,
Sic thing had happen'd past dispeeting,
Was that eneugh to fa' a writing
About a story,
That ladies canna hear repeating
Wi' ony glory?
Sic thing had happen'd past dispeeting,
Was that eneugh to fa' a writing
About a story,
That ladies canna hear repeating
Wi' ony glory?
Its nae mows matter, man, to jibe,
Your jeer-cuts at the sweet-fac'd tribe;
Their charms will ay some body bribe
To tak' side wi' them,
Whan chiels like you set up to scribe
O'er freely o' them.
Your jeer-cuts at the sweet-fac'd tribe;
Their charms will ay some body bribe
To tak' side wi' them,
Whan chiels like you set up to scribe
O'er freely o' them.
30
The bonny Duchess, seil upon her!
That's heez'd you up to a' your honour,
And been to you sae braw a Donor,
May say “what raiks!”
And think ye've flung some wee dishonour
At a' the sex.
That's heez'd you up to a' your honour,
And been to you sae braw a Donor,
May say “what raiks!”
And think ye've flung some wee dishonour
At a' the sex.
Fouk wad do well to steek their een,
At sights that shou'd na a' be seen,
Or whan they see, lat jokes alane,
Gin they had sense;
For little jokes hae aften gi'en
Fell great offence.
At sights that shou'd na a' be seen,
Or whan they see, lat jokes alane,
Gin they had sense;
For little jokes hae aften gi'en
Fell great offence.
I'se warran' ye hae read or heard,
Of an ald hairum-skairum bard,
Saw anes a sight was as ill-fawrd,
As your's cou'd be;
An for his sight got sma' reward,
And sae may ye.
Of an ald hairum-skairum bard,
Saw anes a sight was as ill-fawrd,
As your's cou'd be;
An for his sight got sma' reward,
And sae may ye.
Sae, Robie Burns, tak' tent in time,
And keep mair haivins wi' your rhyme,
Else you may come to rue the crime
O' sic a sonnet,
And wiss ye had ne'er seen a styme
O' Louse nor Bonnet.
And keep mair haivins wi' your rhyme,
Else you may come to rue the crime
O' sic a sonnet,
And wiss ye had ne'er seen a styme
O' Louse nor Bonnet.
31
LETTER TO A FRIEND.
[_]
The following was written, probably in 1765, on giving up the farm of Mains of Ludquharn, near Longside, which Mr Skinner held of the Earl of Errol for several years.
You ask, my friend, whence comes this sudden flight
Of parting thus with husbandry outright?
What mean I by so strange a foolish whim,
Am I in earnest, or think you I but dream?
True, you may think so, but suspend, I pray,
Your judgment, till you hear what I can say.
I join with you that there is no great harm
In clergy-folks to hold a little farm.
But poverty's the scourge, and I can tell,
As dire a scourge as any out of Hell:
The farm indeed can furnish malt and meal,
But gentry must have more than cakes and ale.
There's wife, and sons, and daughters to maintain,
Sons must be bred, and daughters will be vain,
What signifies, that they can knit or spin?
There's twenty needs for all that they can win.
Thus one needs this, another she needs that,
Ribbons, and gloves, and lace, and God knows what.
As far as their own penny goes they pay,
When that is spent, they then must take a day,
“Papa will clear't;” they have no more to say.
Of parting thus with husbandry outright?
What mean I by so strange a foolish whim,
Am I in earnest, or think you I but dream?
True, you may think so, but suspend, I pray,
Your judgment, till you hear what I can say.
I join with you that there is no great harm
In clergy-folks to hold a little farm.
But poverty's the scourge, and I can tell,
As dire a scourge as any out of Hell:
The farm indeed can furnish malt and meal,
But gentry must have more than cakes and ale.
There's wife, and sons, and daughters to maintain,
Sons must be bred, and daughters will be vain,
What signifies, that they can knit or spin?
There's twenty needs for all that they can win.
Thus one needs this, another she needs that,
Ribbons, and gloves, and lace, and God knows what.
As far as their own penny goes they pay,
When that is spent, they then must take a day,
“Papa will clear't;” they have no more to say.
32
You can't imagine how much I'm distrest,
There's not a day that I enjoy rest:
Except on that blest day the first in seven,
That day appointed, as it was in Heaven!
Then I'm myself: For when the gown goes on,
I'm no more Farmer, than, but Pres'ter John.
The folks with pleasure hear me sermonize,
And once a week I'm reckon'd learn'd and wise;
The pulpit brings me into people's favours,
And Sunday screens from creditors and cravers:
But Monday comes, of course, and then begins
A new week's penance for the last week's sins.
The mistress takes the morning by the top,
She must have tea and sugar, starch and soap,
Candles and hops, all which are now so dear,
I answer nothing, but am forc'd to hear.
There's not a day that I enjoy rest:
Except on that blest day the first in seven,
That day appointed, as it was in Heaven!
Then I'm myself: For when the gown goes on,
I'm no more Farmer, than, but Pres'ter John.
The folks with pleasure hear me sermonize,
And once a week I'm reckon'd learn'd and wise;
The pulpit brings me into people's favours,
And Sunday screens from creditors and cravers:
But Monday comes, of course, and then begins
A new week's penance for the last week's sins.
The mistress takes the morning by the top,
She must have tea and sugar, starch and soap,
Candles and hops, all which are now so dear,
I answer nothing, but am forc'd to hear.
In comes the ploughman with important brow,
“Well, Thomas lad, and what would you say now?”
“We're out of iron, the horses must be shod,
“The coulter needs a lay:”—“That's very odd;
“Go to the merchant”—“He has none come home,”
(I know the cause, but must conceal't from Tom,)
“Why, then, we'll get it somewhere else.”—“That's true,
“The pleugh needs claithing and must have it new,
“We cannot do without a foremost yoke,
“And t'other day the meikle stilt was broke.”
“Well I shall see about it.”—Tom goes out,
And I get clear of him for once about.
“Well, Thomas lad, and what would you say now?”
“We're out of iron, the horses must be shod,
“The coulter needs a lay:”—“That's very odd;
“Go to the merchant”—“He has none come home,”
(I know the cause, but must conceal't from Tom,)
“Why, then, we'll get it somewhere else.”—“That's true,
“The pleugh needs claithing and must have it new,
“We cannot do without a foremost yoke,
“And t'other day the meikle stilt was broke.”
“Well I shall see about it.”—Tom goes out,
And I get clear of him for once about.
33
There's one knocks—“Is the minister within?”
The servant answers “yes,” and he comes in:
“Well, John, I'm glad to see you; howd' ye do?”
“I thank you, Parson, how goes all with you?”
“Sit down! what news?”—“Not much, the times are hard:
(I know what's coming now, and am prepar'd,)
“I've got a rub, I ne'er got any such.”
“I'm sorry for't, but hope it is not much.”
“Why, faith, a great deal, forty pounds and more,
I can assure you, will not clear the score:”
“What way?”—“By that damn'd rascal, Duncan Aire.
Losses like this must soon make merchants bare,
And force them many times to seek their own,
Sooner than otherwise they would have done.”
“Afflictions, John, you know will always be,—”
“The little trifle, Sir, 'twixt you and me,”
“Betty, bring in a drink—here's to you, John,”
“Your good health, Parson,” drinks and then goes on:
I study all I can to ward the blow,
And try to shift the subject, but no—no;
What can I do, but tell how matters stand;
“I cannot pay you,—money's not at hand,
As soon's I can I'll do't,”—John in a huff,
Says, “Parson, fare ye well”—and so walks off.
The servant answers “yes,” and he comes in:
“Well, John, I'm glad to see you; howd' ye do?”
“I thank you, Parson, how goes all with you?”
“Sit down! what news?”—“Not much, the times are hard:
(I know what's coming now, and am prepar'd,)
“I've got a rub, I ne'er got any such.”
“I'm sorry for't, but hope it is not much.”
“Why, faith, a great deal, forty pounds and more,
I can assure you, will not clear the score:”
“What way?”—“By that damn'd rascal, Duncan Aire.
Losses like this must soon make merchants bare,
And force them many times to seek their own,
Sooner than otherwise they would have done.”
“Afflictions, John, you know will always be,—”
“The little trifle, Sir, 'twixt you and me,”
“Betty, bring in a drink—here's to you, John,”
“Your good health, Parson,” drinks and then goes on:
I study all I can to ward the blow,
And try to shift the subject, but no—no;
What can I do, but tell how matters stand;
“I cannot pay you,—money's not at hand,
As soon's I can I'll do't,”—John in a huff,
Says, “Parson, fare ye well”—and so walks off.
Now I expect some ease, when, in a crack,
In comes a note, with Reverence on the back:
“Sir, times are bad, I know not what to do,
I'm in a strait, else had not troubled you,
Have sent you your account, which please peruse,
Errors excepted—hopes your kind excuse.
A draught comes on me, money must be got,
And I'll be ruined, if you send it not;
At any other time you may command,
And shall be serv'd with what I have in hand,
So, Sir, no more at present, but remains.”
This must be answered, so I rack my brains,
And fall to work, part argue, partly flatter,
Be't taken well or ill makes little matter;
Debtors must still be dungeons of good nature.
My Lord's officer comes next, with “Sir, I'm sent,
To warn you in to pay the Whitsun' rent:
The factor's angry, and bade tell you so,
That you're so long in paying what you owe,
Expects you will with speed provide the sum,
And be more punctual in time to come:”
I hing my head betwixt chagrin and awe,
For officers, you know, are limbs of law.
In comes a note, with Reverence on the back:
34
I'm in a strait, else had not troubled you,
Have sent you your account, which please peruse,
Errors excepted—hopes your kind excuse.
A draught comes on me, money must be got,
And I'll be ruined, if you send it not;
At any other time you may command,
And shall be serv'd with what I have in hand,
So, Sir, no more at present, but remains.”
This must be answered, so I rack my brains,
And fall to work, part argue, partly flatter,
Be't taken well or ill makes little matter;
Debtors must still be dungeons of good nature.
My Lord's officer comes next, with “Sir, I'm sent,
To warn you in to pay the Whitsun' rent:
The factor's angry, and bade tell you so,
That you're so long in paying what you owe,
Expects you will with speed provide the sum,
And be more punctual in time to come:”
I hing my head betwixt chagrin and awe,
For officers, you know, are limbs of law.
Thus farm and house demands come on together,
Both must be answer'd, I can answer neither;
I put them off till Lammas, Lammas comes,
Our vestry meets, and I get in my sums;
The half year's stipend makes a pretty show,
But twenty ways poor fifteen pounds must go:
Scarce one night does it in my coffers stay,
Like Jonah's gourd that wither'd in a day;
First come, first serv'd with me, is still the way;
Then for my Lord, whatever comes to pass,
My Lord must even wait till Martinmas:
Well, Martinmas a few weeks hence comes on,
As certainly it will: what's to be done?
Shoemakers, tailors, butchers, to be paid,
For shoes, and clothes, and meat, must all be had:
There's servants' fees, and forty things beside;
How then can fifteen pounds so far divide?
Why! we'll set through, and try another year,
The worst is but the worst, let's never fear;
My Lord, God bless him, is a gracious man,
And he can want awhile, if any can;
We'll sell some meal, perhaps, or spare a cow;
But what will be the case, if that wont do:
Why then I'll borrow! I have many a friend,
There's such and such a one, all rich, and surely kind;
Well they're applied to, and behold the end:
They all condole indeed, but cannot lend;
They're griev'd to see the minister in strait,
And fain would help him, but I come too late.
And, after trying every shift in vain,
The old distressful life returns again.
Would any friend advise me thus to bear
Repeated strokes like these, from year to year?
No! th' event, be what it will, prepar'd am I,
And now resolv'd another course to try:
Sell corn and cattle off; pay every man;
Get free of debt and duns as fast's I can:
Give up the farm with all its wants, and then,
Why even take me to the book and pen,
The fittest trade I find, for clergymen.
Both must be answer'd, I can answer neither;
I put them off till Lammas, Lammas comes,
Our vestry meets, and I get in my sums;
The half year's stipend makes a pretty show,
But twenty ways poor fifteen pounds must go:
35
Like Jonah's gourd that wither'd in a day;
First come, first serv'd with me, is still the way;
Then for my Lord, whatever comes to pass,
My Lord must even wait till Martinmas:
Well, Martinmas a few weeks hence comes on,
As certainly it will: what's to be done?
Shoemakers, tailors, butchers, to be paid,
For shoes, and clothes, and meat, must all be had:
There's servants' fees, and forty things beside;
How then can fifteen pounds so far divide?
Why! we'll set through, and try another year,
The worst is but the worst, let's never fear;
My Lord, God bless him, is a gracious man,
And he can want awhile, if any can;
We'll sell some meal, perhaps, or spare a cow;
But what will be the case, if that wont do:
Why then I'll borrow! I have many a friend,
There's such and such a one, all rich, and surely kind;
Well they're applied to, and behold the end:
They all condole indeed, but cannot lend;
They're griev'd to see the minister in strait,
And fain would help him, but I come too late.
And, after trying every shift in vain,
The old distressful life returns again.
Would any friend advise me thus to bear
Repeated strokes like these, from year to year?
36
And now resolv'd another course to try:
Sell corn and cattle off; pay every man;
Get free of debt and duns as fast's I can:
Give up the farm with all its wants, and then,
Why even take me to the book and pen,
The fittest trade I find, for clergymen.
37
EPISTLE TO CAPTAIN ROBERT BAIGRIE.
[_]
Captain Baigrie, who had been an early and intimate friend of the Author, and a frequent visitor at Linshart, from being a Jamaica shipmaster became a farmer. He was for some time in Mill of Rora in the vicinity of Longside, but afterwards removed to Sutherlandshire.
“Ay, ay, what's this?” I ken you'll say,
“And whare comes this epistle frae?”
Forsooth, it comes frae Linshart brae,
Whare anes we twa
Us'd to be merry mony a day:
But that's awa’.
“And whare comes this epistle frae?”
Forsooth, it comes frae Linshart brae,
Whare anes we twa
Us'd to be merry mony a day:
But that's awa’.
I want to crack a touchie wi' you,
Since now I've little chance to see you,
It's a' the guid that I can do you
To wiss you weel,
And pray the Lord may ever gie you,
Baith hae and heal!
Since now I've little chance to see you,
It's a' the guid that I can do you
To wiss you weel,
And pray the Lord may ever gie you,
Baith hae and heal!
Ye've ta'en a jump leuks right gigantic,
To norland hills frae gulf Atlantic;
And fowk may think ye some wee frantic,
In sic a lowp;
But tarry breeks was ay romantic,
And lykit scowp.
To norland hills frae gulf Atlantic;
And fowk may think ye some wee frantic,
In sic a lowp;
But tarry breeks was ay romantic,
And lykit scowp.
38
Better, ye'll say, be telling tales
Aneath a reef o' highland dales,
Or greeving follows at their flails,
In barns weel thackit,
Than hoize and furl at flappin' sails
Wi' droukit jacket.
Aneath a reef o' highland dales,
Or greeving follows at their flails,
In barns weel thackit,
Than hoize and furl at flappin' sails
Wi' droukit jacket.
I doubt na, whan ye steer'd your ship,
The bleed has aft gane frae your lip,
Now ye may lie upo' your hip,
And tak' your ease;
Or thro' the hills a huntin' skip
As far's you please.
The bleed has aft gane frae your lip,
Now ye may lie upo' your hip,
And tak' your ease;
Or thro' the hills a huntin' skip
As far's you please.
Your hawsers and your fleeand sheets,
Ye've turn'd them into sowms and theets,
An' a' your sough o' sonsie fleets,
An' shippin' news,
Is fawin awa' to coupin breets,
An' trailin pleughs.
Ye've turn'd them into sowms and theets,
An' a' your sough o' sonsie fleets,
An' shippin' news,
Is fawin awa' to coupin breets,
An' trailin pleughs.
Yet mony a risk's in farmin'-wark,
Tho' pleugh, and purse, and a' be stark,
It's but like rinnin' i' the dark,
Whare mony ane
Has run fou sair and mist their mark,
When a' was dane.
Tho' pleugh, and purse, and a' be stark,
It's but like rinnin' i' the dark,
Whare mony ane
Has run fou sair and mist their mark,
When a' was dane.
39
I wadna hae ye o'er soon boast,
Or count your winnin's by your cost,
A dreel o' wind, or nip o' frost,
Or some sic flap,
Has aft the farmer's prospects crost,
And fell'd the crap.
Or count your winnin's by your cost,
A dreel o' wind, or nip o' frost,
Or some sic flap,
Has aft the farmer's prospects crost,
And fell'd the crap.
Sae live at land's ye did at sea,
Uncertain now what neist may be,
There's naething sure to you nor me,
Aneath the meen,
But that we baith sometime maun die,
Lord kens how sein!
Uncertain now what neist may be,
There's naething sure to you nor me,
Aneath the meen,
But that we baith sometime maun die,
Lord kens how sein!
Nae doubt your schemes may right weel wirk,
'Mang girssy glens and braes o' birk,
Wi' mony a staig, and mony a stirk,
An' fowth o' gear;
But what comes o' ye for a Kirk,
Gin I might speir?
'Mang girssy glens and braes o' birk,
Wi' mony a staig, and mony a stirk,
An' fowth o' gear;
But what comes o' ye for a Kirk,
Gin I might speir?
I've spoken to a frien' o' mine,
An 'onest aefauld soun' divine,
Gin he cou'd sometimes wi' you dine,
Ye've seen the man,
And do't he will, I ken his stryne,
As far's he can.
An 'onest aefauld soun' divine,
Gin he cou'd sometimes wi' you dine,
Ye've seen the man,
And do't he will, I ken his stryne,
As far's he can.
40
Be that as't may, keep true and tight,
To what ye ken to be the right,
An' whare ye hae na best o' light,
Tak' what ye hae,
But dinna turn a graceless wight,
For ony say.
To what ye ken to be the right,
An' whare ye hae na best o' light,
Tak' what ye hae,
But dinna turn a graceless wight,
For ony say.
Now binna sayin' I'm ill bread,
Else o' my troth, I'll no be glad,
For cadgers, ye hae heard it said,
And sic like fry,
Maun ay be harlin in their trade,
An sae maun I.
Else o' my troth, I'll no be glad,
For cadgers, ye hae heard it said,
And sic like fry,
Maun ay be harlin in their trade,
An sae maun I.
An' yet I wad on nae pretence,
Incline to gie a frien' offence,
Nor wad I had sae little mense,
As gane sae far,
Had ye not been the lad o' sense,
I'm seer ye are.
Incline to gie a frien' offence,
Nor wad I had sae little mense,
As gane sae far,
Had ye not been the lad o' sense,
I'm seer ye are.
Ye ken or e'er ye got a frock,
I took you in to my sma' flock,
An' ye and I have had a trock
This forty year,
Sae what I gab in sooth or joke,
Ye e'en maun bear.
I took you in to my sma' flock,
An' ye and I have had a trock
This forty year,
Sae what I gab in sooth or joke,
Ye e'en maun bear.
41
My love to a' about Midgairty,
To Menie, Bob, and bonny Bertie,
I hope ye fin't as braw a pairtie
As mill o' Rora,
Lang may ye a' keep haill and hairtie,
An' free o' sorrow.
To Menie, Bob, and bonny Bertie,
I hope ye fin't as braw a pairtie
As mill o' Rora,
Lang may ye a' keep haill and hairtie,
An' free o' sorrow.
Now, Robie, fareweel for a time,
My muse ye see's nae way sublime,
But's rattled out a leash o' rhyme,
Sic as was in her,
An' a' to tell you just that I'm
Your frien', John Skinner.
My muse ye see's nae way sublime,
But's rattled out a leash o' rhyme,
Sic as was in her,
An' a' to tell you just that I'm
Your frien', John Skinner.
42
TO A YOUNG BOOKSELLER.
I got your letter, honest cock,
And thank you for your kindly joke;
But d'ye think a saughin block
The like o' me,
Can furnish out a decent stock
O' poetrie?
And thank you for your kindly joke;
But d'ye think a saughin block
The like o' me,
Can furnish out a decent stock
O' poetrie?
Wad ye hae me be sic a fiel,
As gin I were but at the skuil,
To gather ilka rhyme or reel
That I hae scrawl'd,
An' gie them out to ony chiel,
To be o'erhawl'd?
As gin I were but at the skuil,
To gather ilka rhyme or reel
That I hae scrawl'd,
An' gie them out to ony chiel,
To be o'erhawl'd?
Na, na, my lad, that winna do,
I ken the warld better now;
Whan I was young and daft like you
It might hae dane,
But near threescore wad best I trow,
Lat them alane.
I ken the warld better now;
Whan I was young and daft like you
It might hae dane,
But near threescore wad best I trow,
Lat them alane.
43
Besides, I'm tauld, the singin' Lasses,
That heft sae aft about Parnassus,
Were never fond o' sober asses,
That cou'd na drink
A score or twa o' bumper glasses,
To mend their clink.
That heft sae aft about Parnassus,
Were never fond o' sober asses,
That cou'd na drink
A score or twa o' bumper glasses,
To mend their clink.
Your bucks that birl the forain berry,
Claret, and port, and sack, and sherry,
Or ev'n as muckle English perry
As they can draw;
I dinna mein them to be merry,
And lilt awa'.
Claret, and port, and sack, and sherry,
Or ev'n as muckle English perry
As they can draw;
I dinna mein them to be merry,
And lilt awa'.
But that camsteary—what-d'ye-caw't?
(I think it's genius, walie fa't,)
That helps the Poet to create
Baith form and matter,
Will never dreep frae draffy mawt,
Or bare spring water.
(I think it's genius, walie fa't,)
That helps the Poet to create
Baith form and matter,
Will never dreep frae draffy mawt,
Or bare spring water.
An' then there's that ill hadden ghaist,
That Gerard has sae finely grac'd
Wi' stately stile, and ca't her “Taste,”
A pox upon her,
She winna let a poor auld Priest
Gain muckle honour.
That Gerard has sae finely grac'd
Wi' stately stile, and ca't her “Taste,”
A pox upon her,
She winna let a poor auld Priest
Gain muckle honour.
44
Now baith o' them's aboon my reach,
For a' that I can fraise or fleitch,
What tho' fowk says that I can preach,
Nae that dein ill,
I tell you, man, I hae na speech
For critics' skill.
For a' that I can fraise or fleitch,
What tho' fowk says that I can preach,
Nae that dein ill,
I tell you, man, I hae na speech
For critics' skill.
It's them that fleys me wi' their taws,
Their cankart cuffs, and whitty whaws,
An' troth the carlies might hae cause,
To curse and bann,
Gin I were ane that sought applause
Frae ony man.
Their cankart cuffs, and whitty whaws,
An' troth the carlies might hae cause,
To curse and bann,
Gin I were ane that sought applause
Frae ony man.
But now and then to spin a line
Or twa, nor fash the tunefu' nine;
I'm seir, there's nae man needs repine,
Whae'er he be,
Critic, or bard, o' hamil kine,
Or high degree.
Or twa, nor fash the tunefu' nine;
I'm seir, there's nae man needs repine,
Whae'er he be,
Critic, or bard, o' hamil kine,
Or high degree.
Yet after a' I'm unco' sweir
To lat you print the idle geir
That I've made up this forty year,
And some guid mair,
Ye wadna clear the cost, I fear,
Wi' a' the ware.
To lat you print the idle geir
That I've made up this forty year,
And some guid mair,
Ye wadna clear the cost, I fear,
Wi' a' the ware.
45
But, may be, gin I live as lang,
As nae to fear the chirmin chang
Of Gosses grave, that think me wrang,
And even say't,
I may consent to lat them gang,
And tak' their fate.
As nae to fear the chirmin chang
Of Gosses grave, that think me wrang,
And even say't,
I may consent to lat them gang,
And tak' their fate.
Remember me to a' your frien's,
The lads like you that lie their lanes,
And them that's gotten bonny Jeans
To lie aside them,
Lang may they fitt the causey stanes,
An' guid betide them!
The lads like you that lie their lanes,
And them that's gotten bonny Jeans
To lie aside them,
Lang may they fitt the causey stanes,
An' guid betide them!
46
TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN.
[_]
The young Clergyman, to whom these sympathetic lines were addressed, was the late Bishop Torry, for many years Incumbent of Peterhead. They were written at his own suggestion on the death of his mother and a brother, who were crushed by the sudden fall of their dwelling-house.
How hard, Lorenzo, is the boon you ask,
And how unequal I to such a task?
I, whose weak muse, borne down with weight of years,
O'er common griefs might shed some tender tears,
But finds her powers of lamentation fail,
And sinks and sickens at thy doleful tale?
And how unequal I to such a task?
I, whose weak muse, borne down with weight of years,
O'er common griefs might shed some tender tears,
But finds her powers of lamentation fail,
And sinks and sickens at thy doleful tale?
A Mother! (ah, the venerable name,
Which my young lips were never taught to frame,)
She, whose warm bowels form'd thy infant span,
Whose tenderest watchings nurs'd thee up to man,
She, earthly image of the highest love,
Which ev'n the yearnings of a God could move!
Which my young lips were never taught to frame,)
She, whose warm bowels form'd thy infant span,
Whose tenderest watchings nurs'd thee up to man,
She, earthly image of the highest love,
Which ev'n the yearnings of a God could move!
A Brother, too! the next congenial tie
Of strongest force in nature's symmetry!
Thy partner thro' a course of prattling years,
In all youth's fondnesses, and all its fears!
Both in a moment robb'd of vital breath,
And quick and sudden hurry'd into death!
No hasty fever, no slow pac'd decay,
To snatch the young, or wear the old away;
The humble cot, which, for convenience rear'd,
Harbour'd no mischief, and no danger fear'd,
Where, by the cheerful fire in peace secure,
They now had spent the pleasant evening hour,
Crush'd all at once by one stupendous shock
Of tumbling rubbish from th' impending rock!
No sturdy pillars to support the weight
Of such a burthen, thrown from such a height;
The unsuspecting victims, half undrest,
In preparation for a sweet night's rest;
No boding omen heard, no warning giv'n,
No time to lift their souls and eyes to heav'n;
Bury'd beneath th' enormous mass all round,
And breathing, tomb'd in dust above the ground;
Their shatter'd limbs all into atoms crash'd,
And bones and bowels to one chaos dash'd!!
Of strongest force in nature's symmetry!
Thy partner thro' a course of prattling years,
In all youth's fondnesses, and all its fears!
Both in a moment robb'd of vital breath,
And quick and sudden hurry'd into death!
47
To snatch the young, or wear the old away;
The humble cot, which, for convenience rear'd,
Harbour'd no mischief, and no danger fear'd,
Where, by the cheerful fire in peace secure,
They now had spent the pleasant evening hour,
Crush'd all at once by one stupendous shock
Of tumbling rubbish from th' impending rock!
No sturdy pillars to support the weight
Of such a burthen, thrown from such a height;
The unsuspecting victims, half undrest,
In preparation for a sweet night's rest;
No boding omen heard, no warning giv'n,
No time to lift their souls and eyes to heav'n;
Bury'd beneath th' enormous mass all round,
And breathing, tomb'd in dust above the ground;
Their shatter'd limbs all into atoms crash'd,
And bones and bowels to one chaos dash'd!!
But why attempt description? words are vain!
The dreadful ruin mocks my languid strain—
And does my friend need counsel how to bear
This wound so piercing—stroke indeed severe;
Then think on what thy hoary sire must feel,
(For sure thy sire had not a heart of steel)
When by next dawn return'd from distant toil,
In hopes of welcome from thy mother's smile,
He saw, and star'd, and gaz'd at this and that,
And hop'd, and fear'd, and wish'd he knew not what?
'Till, like a voice, he heard from menial maid,
With wife and son in dire sepulchre laid,
Who ten long hours had groan'd an age of pain,
And just expiring, breath'd the how and when.
Now view him in a gulph of horror cast,
His heart-strings breaking, and his eyes aghast,
Like pictur'd patience, all benumb'd he stands,
And tries to lift, but drops his trembling hands;
No groan his heart emits, his eye no tear—
Good heaven! what more can mortals suffer here?
The dreadful ruin mocks my languid strain—
And does my friend need counsel how to bear
This wound so piercing—stroke indeed severe;
Then think on what thy hoary sire must feel,
(For sure thy sire had not a heart of steel)
When by next dawn return'd from distant toil,
In hopes of welcome from thy mother's smile,
He saw, and star'd, and gaz'd at this and that,
And hop'd, and fear'd, and wish'd he knew not what?
48
With wife and son in dire sepulchre laid,
Who ten long hours had groan'd an age of pain,
And just expiring, breath'd the how and when.
Now view him in a gulph of horror cast,
His heart-strings breaking, and his eyes aghast,
Like pictur'd patience, all benumb'd he stands,
And tries to lift, but drops his trembling hands;
No groan his heart emits, his eye no tear—
Good heaven! what more can mortals suffer here?
'Tis this, you say, that aggravates the smart,
'Tis this that doubly rends the filial heart.
True, unfledg'd sufferer, thou hast much to do,
To act the Son, and shine the Christian too:
Insensible to this what heart can be,
Not form'd of marble, or hewn out of tree?
Lorenzo's heart, tho' cut, must not repine
At what, it knows, comes from a hand divine;
But strive in due submission to comply,
Nor boldly dare to guess the reason why.
The philosophic sage, from self's proud school,
May act, or feign to act, th' heroic fool:
At nature's feelings may pretend to mock,
And wisely sullen stand th' appalling shock.
The heav'n-taught Christian may, and must do more,
May grieve from nature, must from grace adore;
Adore the love of ev'n a chast'ning God,
And kiss the gracious hand that wields the rod.
'Tis this that doubly rends the filial heart.
True, unfledg'd sufferer, thou hast much to do,
To act the Son, and shine the Christian too:
Insensible to this what heart can be,
Not form'd of marble, or hewn out of tree?
Lorenzo's heart, tho' cut, must not repine
At what, it knows, comes from a hand divine;
But strive in due submission to comply,
Nor boldly dare to guess the reason why.
The philosophic sage, from self's proud school,
May act, or feign to act, th' heroic fool:
At nature's feelings may pretend to mock,
And wisely sullen stand th' appalling shock.
The heav'n-taught Christian may, and must do more,
May grieve from nature, must from grace adore;
Adore the love of ev'n a chast'ning God,
And kiss the gracious hand that wields the rod.
49
TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY FARMER.
What! shall my rural muse in feeble strainOf pompous deaths and titled woes complain,
And shall she be asham'd to drop a tear
In public, o'er a worthy Farmer's bier?
A Farmer! name of universal praise,
And noble subject for the poet's lays:
This one, a Farmer of superior mind,
For higher spheres from early love design'd,
Taught to converse with men of rank and note,
Yet stooping to adorn the rural cot;
There, calm and quiet in his humble state,
Lov'd by the good, and valu'd by the great,
Disdaining flattery, yet without offence,
The man of manners, virtue, grace, and sense.
In agriculture's wide extended tract,
Skill'd and instructive, punctual and exact,
Prudent from principle in every part,
Which or concerns the head, or moves the heart.
To God religious, to his neighbour just,
And strictly honest in each branch of trust;
Ne'er jarring from himself, but still the same,
Clear in his thoughts and steady in his aim
50
The Farmer's pattern, and the scholar's friend.
To such a Farmer surely praise is due,
And all who knew him can declare it true,
Can tell how uniform o'er life's vain stage
He stept in virtue's paths to good old age.
Fair was his life, and blest, we hope, his end;
To each good man may Heav'n such mercy send!
Asks any reader who this man could be,
So much esteem'd by all, and prais'd by me:
Know, honest friend, that in thy way to fame,
A Farmer's footsteps do thy notice claim,
And James Arbuthnot was that Farmer's name.
51
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN
WHO DIED OF THE SMALL POX.
'Twas winter, and the sickly sun was low,
Thro' yonder fields I took my lonely way;
Musing on many a gloomy scene of woe,
As oft I wont in evening calm to stray.
Thro' yonder fields I took my lonely way;
Musing on many a gloomy scene of woe,
As oft I wont in evening calm to stray.
With languid step, advancing I perceiv'd
A passenger of aspect pale and wan;
With frequent sighs his labouring bosom heav'd,
And down his cheek the briny torrent ran.
A passenger of aspect pale and wan;
With frequent sighs his labouring bosom heav'd,
And down his cheek the briny torrent ran.
“What ails thee, friend?” I ask'd in pitying tone
Of sympathetic mood to speak relief
“Say, what's the cause that makes thee thus to moan,
And why thy visage pictur'd thus with grief?”
Of sympathetic mood to speak relief
“Say, what's the cause that makes thee thus to moan,
And why thy visage pictur'd thus with grief?”
“Shall I not moan?” the stranger sad reply'd,
“And thus in sighs my inward grief express?
How can my troubled heart its sorrows hide?
My melting soul conceal its deep distress?
“And thus in sighs my inward grief express?
How can my troubled heart its sorrows hide?
My melting soul conceal its deep distress?
“Last week a darling brother was my boast,
The last born product of my mother's womb;
This darling brother t'other day I lost,
To day I laid him in the silent tomb.
The last born product of my mother's womb;
This darling brother t'other day I lost,
To day I laid him in the silent tomb.
52
“Meek his deportment, and his manners mild,
In all his carriage undisguis'd and plain;
As virgin chaste, and soft as new born child,
Comely his features, and his look serene.
In all his carriage undisguis'd and plain;
As virgin chaste, and soft as new born child,
Comely his features, and his look serene.
“Steady in principle, and in practice pure,
With modesty and manly sense endued;
His honest heart from vanity secure,
The paths of vice with just abhorrence view'd.
With modesty and manly sense endued;
His honest heart from vanity secure,
The paths of vice with just abhorrence view'd.
“Not poorly mean, nor anxious to be great,
His mind tho' lofty, and his genius bright;
Yet pleas'd and happy in his humble state,
And Music, heavenly gift, his dear delight!
His mind tho' lofty, and his genius bright;
Yet pleas'd and happy in his humble state,
And Music, heavenly gift, his dear delight!
“How gracefully, amidst th' applauding ring,
His well taught fingers mov'd the lyre along;
Whether to mirth he briskly struck the string,
Or on soft psalt'ry touch'd the sacred song!
His well taught fingers mov'd the lyre along;
Whether to mirth he briskly struck the string,
Or on soft psalt'ry touch'd the sacred song!
“Oft have I seen, when jocund friends were met,
In summer's evenings or by winter's fire;
The listening choir in emulation set!
What tongue should most th' enchanting youth admire
In summer's evenings or by winter's fire;
The listening choir in emulation set!
What tongue should most th' enchanting youth admire
“But now no more his notes shall charm the fair,
No more his Numbers soothe th' attentive Swain,
With Tullochgorum's dance-inspiring air,
Or Roslin-castle's sweet, but solemn strain.
No more his Numbers soothe th' attentive Swain,
With Tullochgorum's dance-inspiring air,
Or Roslin-castle's sweet, but solemn strain.
53
“In early dawn of merit and of fame,
To wish'd-for health, from sickness just restor'd;
The loathsome pustules seiz'd his tender frame,
And sudden gave the stroke that's now deplor'd!
To wish'd-for health, from sickness just restor'd;
The loathsome pustules seiz'd his tender frame,
And sudden gave the stroke that's now deplor'd!
“'Tis this that grieves me,—this the loss I mourn,
Excuse a sorrowing brother's heavy tale;
No more shall he to earth and me return,
Nor sighs, nor tears, nor love, can now prevail!”
Excuse a sorrowing brother's heavy tale;
No more shall he to earth and me return,
Nor sighs, nor tears, nor love, can now prevail!”
He stopt, the tears again began to flow,
And sigh on sigh burst from his throbbing breast;
My feeling heart soon catch'd the poor man's woe,
And soon my eye the rising tear confest.
And sigh on sigh burst from his throbbing breast;
My feeling heart soon catch'd the poor man's woe,
And soon my eye the rising tear confest.
“Dear youth,” I cry'd, “whom heav'n has call'd away,
'Midst early innocence from this vain stage;
Safe now, we hope, in fields of endless day,
Above the follies of a sinful age!
'Midst early innocence from this vain stage;
Safe now, we hope, in fields of endless day,
Above the follies of a sinful age!
“In these bright regions fill'd with many a Saint,
Sweet be thy rest, and blest thy wakening be!
And may kind Heav'n at last in mercy grant
A happy meeting to thy friends and thee!”
Sweet be thy rest, and blest thy wakening be!
And may kind Heav'n at last in mercy grant
A happy meeting to thy friends and thee!”
54
A MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION.
And is she gone, the once so lovely maid,
Gone hence, and now a dear departed shade!
Snatch'd from this world in early dawn of life,
When but beginning to be call'd a wife?
Gone hence, and now a dear departed shade!
Snatch'd from this world in early dawn of life,
When but beginning to be call'd a wife?
Ye virgin tribe, whom chance may lead this way,
Where brightest beauty moulders into clay,
Behold this stone, nor be asham'd to mourn,
A while o'er Mary Alexander's urn—
Then pause a little, while these lines you read,
And learn to draw instruction from the dead—
She, who lies here, was once like one of you,
Youthful and blyth, and fair, as you are now:
One week beheld her a bright blooming bride,
In marriage pomp laid by her lover's side;
The next we saw her in death's livery drest,
And brought her breathless body here to rest.
Not all this world's gay hopes, nor present charms,
Nor parents tears, nor a fond husband's arms,
Could stamp the least impression on her mind,
Or fix to earth a soul for heav'n design'd;
Calmly she left a scene so lately try'd,
Heav'n call'd her hence, with pleasure she complied,
Embrac'd her sorrowing friends, then smil'd—and dy'd.
Where brightest beauty moulders into clay,
Behold this stone, nor be asham'd to mourn,
A while o'er Mary Alexander's urn—
Then pause a little, while these lines you read,
And learn to draw instruction from the dead—
She, who lies here, was once like one of you,
Youthful and blyth, and fair, as you are now:
One week beheld her a bright blooming bride,
In marriage pomp laid by her lover's side;
The next we saw her in death's livery drest,
And brought her breathless body here to rest.
Not all this world's gay hopes, nor present charms,
Nor parents tears, nor a fond husband's arms,
Could stamp the least impression on her mind,
Or fix to earth a soul for heav'n design'd;
Calmly she left a scene so lately try'd,
Heav'n call'd her hence, with pleasure she complied,
Embrac'd her sorrowing friends, then smil'd—and dy'd.
55
ON A FARMER'S GRAVESTONE.
IN THE CHURCHYARD OF LONGSIDE.
Here lies, consign'd a while to promis'd rest,
In hopes to rise again among the blest,
The precious dust of one, whose course of life
Knew neither fraud, hypocrisy, nor strife:
A Husband loving, and of gentle mind;
A Father careful, provident and kind;
A Farmer active, from no sordid view;
A Christian pious, regular, and true:
One who, in quiet, trod the private stage
Of rural labour, to a ripe old age.
Lov'd by his neighbours, honour'd by his own;
Liv'd without spot, and died without a groan.
In hopes to rise again among the blest,
The precious dust of one, whose course of life
Knew neither fraud, hypocrisy, nor strife:
A Husband loving, and of gentle mind;
A Father careful, provident and kind;
A Farmer active, from no sordid view;
A Christian pious, regular, and true:
One who, in quiet, trod the private stage
Of rural labour, to a ripe old age.
Lov'd by his neighbours, honour'd by his own;
Liv'd without spot, and died without a groan.
Long may his humble virtues be rever'd;
Long be his name remember'd with regard;
And long may Agriculture's school produce
Such honest men as Alexander Bruce.
Long be his name remember'd with regard;
And long may Agriculture's school produce
Such honest men as Alexander Bruce.
Si musæ fas sit pietatis pangere laudes,
Quid vetat Agricolas commemorâsse pios?
Quid vetat Agricolas commemorâsse pios?
56
TO THE AUTHOR'S GRANDSON,
ON HIS MARRIAGE AT FORFAR, AUGUST 19, 1798.
One trifling sixpence more, dear Forfar
John,
To pay for this poor scrawl, and I have done.
The subject opens up a brilliant scene,
And calls for something from my rustic pen:
But don't expect a flow of warbling lays
To charm your ear, or chant your Fair-one's praise,
Unfit for such a task, my torpid muse,
Were I to ask it, would the task refuse,
Nor venture to debase the theme sublime
With fustian stanzas of Paganic rhyme.
My brink of eighty wears a frozen hue,
Too sable for the charms of such a view:
Yet, old and languid, I remember well,
With pleasing retrospect what you now feel;
And can, on memory's chart, the beauties trace
Of my once blooming, now decrepit, Grace,
Tottering tho' both with age, yet both uncloy'd
With sweets thro' Fifty-Seven long years enjoy'd.
The rapt'rous flush of youth not fully gone,
But into solid friendship mellow'd down,
Such be my Reverend Grandson's future lot
In brighter life, and line of higher note.
Then let me, thus in low, but friendly, strain,
Express my love, and your acceptance gain.
To pay for this poor scrawl, and I have done.
The subject opens up a brilliant scene,
And calls for something from my rustic pen:
But don't expect a flow of warbling lays
To charm your ear, or chant your Fair-one's praise,
Unfit for such a task, my torpid muse,
Were I to ask it, would the task refuse,
Nor venture to debase the theme sublime
With fustian stanzas of Paganic rhyme.
My brink of eighty wears a frozen hue,
Too sable for the charms of such a view:
Yet, old and languid, I remember well,
With pleasing retrospect what you now feel;
And can, on memory's chart, the beauties trace
Of my once blooming, now decrepit, Grace,
Tottering tho' both with age, yet both uncloy'd
With sweets thro' Fifty-Seven long years enjoy'd.
The rapt'rous flush of youth not fully gone,
But into solid friendship mellow'd down,
57
In brighter life, and line of higher note.
Then let me, thus in low, but friendly, strain,
Express my love, and your acceptance gain.
Long may you glad recall the happy hour
That join'd you, hand-in-hand to ------
And gave you solace sweet of mortal life!
A young, a lovely, and a virtuous wife,
To share your comforts, and to soothe your fears,
Your joy in youth, your stay in drooping years;
A dear companion thro' the chequer'd path
That leads from marriage to the gate of death:
May you be long in one another blest
With love increasing to adorn the feast,—
The feast of matrimonial joys refin'd
By mutual sympathy of heart and mind,
With soft contentment, and abundance full
Of all that can delight the pious soul!
And may fair branches, in succession, run
From your conjunction, as from ours have done,
With many a flourishing and fertile shoot,
Springing in order from the parent-root,
Till in decline of years, like mine, you see
Descendents down to third and fourth degree,
Spreading, some more, some less, their leaves abroad.
In Israel's peace, as promis'd by her God!
That join'd you, hand-in-hand to ------
And gave you solace sweet of mortal life!
A young, a lovely, and a virtuous wife,
To share your comforts, and to soothe your fears,
Your joy in youth, your stay in drooping years;
A dear companion thro' the chequer'd path
That leads from marriage to the gate of death:
May you be long in one another blest
With love increasing to adorn the feast,—
The feast of matrimonial joys refin'd
By mutual sympathy of heart and mind,
With soft contentment, and abundance full
Of all that can delight the pious soul!
And may fair branches, in succession, run
From your conjunction, as from ours have done,
With many a flourishing and fertile shoot,
Springing in order from the parent-root,
Till in decline of years, like mine, you see
Descendents down to third and fourth degree,
Spreading, some more, some less, their leaves abroad.
In Israel's peace, as promis'd by her God!
58
Be this your conjunct state, on earth's vain stage,
Thro' bloom of youth-hood to the frowns of age,
Pleas'd with yourselves, and favourites of Heaven,
Your conduct worthy, and defects forgiven,
Ready, when call'd, together to remove,
By angels led to those blest seats above,
Where all is harmony, and all is love!
Thro' bloom of youth-hood to the frowns of age,
Pleas'd with yourselves, and favourites of Heaven,
Your conduct worthy, and defects forgiven,
Ready, when call'd, together to remove,
By angels led to those blest seats above,
Where all is harmony, and all is love!
Accipe, chare Nepos, tenuis pia vota Camaenae,
Nec sperne obscuri nubile munus Avi.
Nec sperne obscuri nubile munus Avi.
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