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I. Part I. —Scottish Poems.
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Please note that square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations

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WATTY AND MEG, OR THE WIFE REFORMED.

A TALE.

“We dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.” —Pope.

Keen the frosty winds were blawing,
Deep the snaw had wreath'd the ploughs;
Watty, weary'd a' day sawing,
Daunert down to Mungo Blue's.
Dryster Jock was sitting cracky,
Wi' Pate Tamson o' the Hill;
“Come awa',” quo' Johnny, “Watty!
Haith we'se hae anither gill.”
Watty glad to see Jock Jabos,
And sae mony neibours roun',
Kicket frae his shoon the snawbas,
Syne ayont the fire sat down.
Owre a broad wi' bannocks heapet,
Cheese, and stoups, and glasses stood;
Some were roaring, ithers sleepit,
Ithers quietly chewt their cude.
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Jock was selling Pate some tallow,
A' the rest a racket hel',
A' but Watty, wha, poor fallow!
Sat and smoket by himsel'.
Mungo fill'd him up a toothfu',
Drank his health and Meg's in ane;
Watty, puffing out a mouthfu',
Pledged him wi' a dreary grane.
“What's the matter, Watty, wi' you?
“Trouth your chafts are fa'ing in!
“Something's wrang—I'm vex'd to see you—
“Gudesake! but ye're desp'rate thin!”
“Ay,” quo' Watty, “things are alter'd,
“But it's past redemption now;
“Lord! I wish I had been halter'd
“When I marry'd Maggy Howe!”
“I've been poor, and vex'd, and raggy,
“Try'd wi' troubles no that sma';
“Them I bore—but marrying Maggy
“Laid the cap-stane o' them a'.”
“Night and day she's ever yelping,
“With the weans she ne'er can gree;
“When she's tired with perfect skelping,
“Then she flees like fire on me.”
“See ye, Mungo! when she'll clash on
“With her everlasting clack,
“Whiles I've had my neive, in passion,
“Liftet up to break her back!”
5

“O, for gudesake, keep frae cuffets!”
Mungo shook his head and said:
“Weel I ken what sort of life it's;
“Ken ye, Watty, how I did?—”
“After Bess and I were kippled,
“Soon she grew like ony bear;
“Brak' my shins, and, when I tippled,
“Harl't out my very hair!”
“For a wee I quietly knuckled,
“But whan naething would prevail,
“Up my claes and cash I buckled,
“Bess, for ever fare-ye-weel—”
“Then her din grew less and less aye,
“Haith I gart her change her tune;
“Now a better wife than Bessy
“Never stept in leather shoon.”
“Try this, Watty—When ye see her
“Raging like a roaring flood,
“Swear that moment that ye'll lea' her;
“That's the way to keep her good.”
Laughing, sangs, and lasses' skirls,
Echo'd now out-thro' the roof;
“Done?” quo Pate, and syne his erls
Nail'd the Dryster's waukèd loof.
In the thrang of stories telling,
Shaking hauns, and ither cheer;
Swith! a chap comes on the hallan,
“Mungo, is our Watty here?”
6

Maggy's well-kent tongue and hurry,
Darted thro' him like a knife;
Up the door flew—like a Fury
In came Watty's scawling wife.
“Nasty, gude-for-naething being!
“O ye snuffy, drucken sow!
“Bringing wife and weans to ruin,
“Drinking here wi' sic a crew!”
“Devil, nor your legs were broken!
“Sic a life nae flesh endures;
“Toiling like a slave to sloken
“You, ye dyvor, and your 'hores!”
“Rise, ye drucken beast o' Bethel!
“Drink's your night and day's desire;
“Rise, this precious hour! or faith, I'll
“Fling your whiskey i' the fire!”
Watty, heard her tongue unhallow'd,
Pay'd his groat wi' little din;
Left the house, while Maggy fallow'd,
Flytin' a' the road behin'.
Fowk frae every door came lamping;
Maggy curst them ane and a';
Clappet wi' her hands, and stamping,
Lost her bauchles i' the sna'.
Hame, at length she turn'd the gavel,
Wi' a face as white's a clout;
Raging like a very devil,
Kicking stools and chairs about.
7

“Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round you!
“Hang you, sir? I'll be your death!
“Little hauds my hands, confound you,
“But I cleave you to the teeth.”
Watty, wha 'midst this oration,
Ey'd her whiles, but durstna speak,
Sat like patient Resignation,
Trem'ling by the ingle cheek.
Sad his wee drap brose he sippet,
Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell;
Quietly to his bed he slippet,
Sighing aften to himsel';
“Nane are free frae some vexation,
“Ilk ane has his ills to dree;
“But thro' a' the hale creation
“Is a mortal vexed like me!”
A' night lang he rowt and gaunted,
Sleep or rest he cou'dna' tak;
Maggy, aft wi' horror haunted,
Mum'ling, started at his back.
Soon as e'er the morning peepit,
Up raise Watty, waefu' chiel;
Kist his weanies, while they sleepet,
Wauken'd Meg, and sought fareweel.
“Farewell, Meg!—and, O, may Heaven
“Keep you aye within His care;
“Watty's heart ye've lang been grievin',
“Now he'll never fash you mair.”
8

“Happy cou'd I been beside you,
“Happy, baith at morn and e'en;
“A' the ills that e'er betide you,
“Watty aye turn'd out your frien';
“But ye ever like to see me
“Vext and sighing, late and air;
“Farewell, Meg! I've sworn to lea' thee,
“So thou'll never see me mair.”
Meg, a' sabbing sae to lose him,
Sic a change had never wist;
Held his hand close to her bosom,
While her heart was like to burst.
“O, my Watty, will ye lea' me,
“Frien'less, helpless, to despair?
“O! for this ae time forgi'e me:
“Never will I vex you mair.”
“Ay! ye've aft said that, and broken
“A' your vows ten times a week;
“No, no, Meg! See, there's a token
“Glittering on my bonnet cheek.”
“Owre the seas I march this morning,
“Listed, tested, sworn and a';
“Forced by you confounded girning—
“Farewell, Meg! for I'm awa:”
Then poor Maggy's tears and clamour
Gush afresh, and louder grew;
While the weans, wi' mournfu' yaumour,
Round their sabbing mother flew.
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“Thro' the yirth I'll waunner wi' you—
“Stay, O Watty! stay at hame;
“Here upo' my knees I'll gi'e you
“Ony vow ye like to name;”
“See your poor young lamies pleadin',
“Will ye gang and break our heart?
“No a house to put our head in!
“No a friend to take our part!”
Ilka word came like a bullet,
Watty's heart begoud to shake;
On a kist he laid his wallet,
Dighted baith his een and spake,—
“If ance mair I cou'd, by writing,
“Lea' the sogers, and stay still;
“Wad you swear to drop your flyting?”
“Yes, O Watty! yes, I will.”
“Then,” quo Watty, “mind, be honest;
“Aye to keep your temper strive;
“Gin you break this dreadfu' promise,
“Never mair expect to thrive;”
“Marget Howe! this hour ye solemn
“Swear by everything that's gude,
“Ne'er again your spouse to scal' him,
“While life warms your heart and blood;”
“That you'll ne'er in Mungo's seek me;
“Ne'er put drucken to my name:
“Never out at e'ening steek me;
“Never gloom when I come hame;”
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“That ye'll ne'er like Bessy Miller,
“Kick my shins, or rug my hair;
“Lastly, I'm to keep the siller;
“This upo' your saul you swear?”
“O—h!” quo' Meg; “aweel,” quo' Watty,
“Farewell! faith, I'll try the seas:”
“O stand still,” quo Meg, and grat aye;
“Ony, ony way ye please.”
Maggy syne, because he prest her,
Swore to a' thing owre again;
Watty lap, and danc'd, and kist her;
Wow! but he was won'rous fain.
Down he threw his staff, victorious;
Aff gaed bonnet, claes, and shoon;
Syne below the blankets, glorious,
Held anither Hinnymoon!

HOGMENAE.

A SONG.

[_]

Air,—“Patie's Wedding.”

On Hogmenae night, as ye'll hear,
Our noble good masters being willing
To help us to haud the New Year,
Sent up twenty hogs and a shilling;
The table in Mitchell's was laid,
That reached frae ae end to the tither;
A claith white as snaw o'er't was spread,
And knives, plates, and forks, a' thegither.
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There waur Dempster, and Brodie, and Dott,
The Landlord, and wee Danie Murray;
Geordie Kemp, wi' a spark in his throat,
And Andrew, wha's ne'er in a hurry.
Saunders Wright, Murray, Sandy, and Knox,
And Mitchell, and Wilson, and Miller;
A core o' as good hearty cocks
As e'er spent a saxpence o' siller.
At seven, the hour that was set,
By ane and ane inward they drappèd,
Till ance maist a dizen had met;
And syne for some porter we rappèd.
At length by a chiel 'twas propos'd,
Wha lang'd to devour like a glutton,
That gin we were a' sae dispos'd,
We might send for the roast beef and mutton.
So Dempster and Brodie, in Co.,
Like lamplighters ran to the baker's;
We drank in the meantime as slow
And dowse, as a meeting of Quakers.
At length the twa carriers appear'd,
The ne'er a ane then had the spavy;
And Brodie soon slairy'd his beard
Wi' bra' creeshie platefu's of gravy.
Sic clashing of knives, plates, and forks,
Was hardly e'er heard at a weddin';
The bottles were cleared o' their corks,
And plate after platefu' was laid in.
Slow Andrew drank brue like a fish,
For beef he had no meikle share in't;
And Brodie's chin glittered with creesh,
Till some swore they saw themsel's fair in't.
12

Now ilka ane, swell'd like a drum,
With roast beef, potatoes, and mutton,
Right steeve grew the stomachs of some,
While button was lows'd after button.
The banes a' thegither were got,
And plates and a' clear'd frae the table;
And the landlord desired, by a vote,
For a stoupfu' as quick's he was able.
The board was now lifted awa',
And round gaed a mutchkin o' brandy;
The chairs were set round in a raw,
For ilka ane thought it mair handy.
A chairman was also judg'd right,
To clear up a' difficult cases;
So by vote 'twas declared, “That this night
John Brodie is chairman and preses.”
This bus'ness was hardly got o'er,
When up started President Brodie:
“I order” (quo' he, with a glow'r)
“That they bring in a bowlfu' o' toddy.”
The liquor was brought in a blink;
Six glasses soon glanc'd on the table:
“Here's—May all our enemies sink,
“Or swing through the air in a cable.”
“Success to Montgomerie & Co.”
“May our trade flourish brighter and brighter;
“May our purses aye weightier grow,
“Our cares and our troubles aye lighter.
“May we ever be grateful for gude;
“May ne'er ony waur be among us;
“May courage aye warm up our blude
“To cudgel the scoundrels that wrang us.”
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Now some fall to singing of sangs,
And others to roaring and bleth'ring;
They rappèd like fire with the tangs,
“Our bowl's toom, come bring us anither in.”
“Silence,” (quo' Brodie) “nae clash,
“I say.” But to ilka ane's wonder,
Down hurl'd the form with a crash,
And levell'd the preses like thunder.
It's past a' description to tell
How toddy inspir'd ev'ry bosom;
How often our president fell,
How aft it was mov'd to depose him;
How Andrew sang “Blythe was the night,”
And, “Hummle, dum tweedle, dum tweedle;”
How ev'ry ane's wit grew as bright
And as sharp as the point of a needle.
With laughing, and roaring, and drink,
At last we grew doited and weary;
Auld Saunders begoud for to wink,
Syne coupèd as sound as a peerie.
Ae shilling was now to the fore,
We bury'd it soon in our stomachs;
Syne, grouping to find out the door,
Gaed swaggering a' hame to our hammocks.

THE DISCONSOLATE WREN.

“Be not the Muse asham'd here to bemoan
Her brothers of the grove.”
—Thomson.

The morn was keekin' frae the East,
The lav'rocks shrill, wi' dewy breast,
Were tow'ring past my ken;
Alang a burnie's flow'ry side,
That gurgl'd on wi' glancin' glide,
I gain'd a bushy glen;
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The circling nets ilk spider weaves
Bent, wi' clear dew-drops hung;
A' roun' amang the spreading leaves,
The cheary natives sung;
On'ts journey, the burnie
Fell dashing down some linns;
White foaming, and roaming,
In rage amang the stanes.
While on the gowan turf I sat,
And view'd this blissfu' sylvan spat,
Amid the joyous soun';
Some mournfu' chirps, methought, of wae
Stole on my ear frae neath a brae;
Whare, as I glinted down,
I spy'd a bonnie wee bit Wren,
Lone, on a fuggy stane;
An' aye she tore her breast, an' than,
Poor thing, pour'd out her mane;
Sae faintive, sae plaintive,
To hear her vent her strain;
Distrest me, an' prest me
To ken her cause o' pain.
Down frae a hingan' hazel root,
Wi' easy wing, an' sadly mute,
A social Robin came;
Upon a trem'lin twig he perch'd,
While owre his head the craig was arch'd,
Near han' the hapless dame;
Awee he view'd her sad despair:
Her bitter chirps of wae
Brought frae his e'e the pearly tear,
Whilk owre his breast did gae;
Still eyeing, and spying
Nane near to gi'e relief;
And drooping, and stooping,
He thus enquir'd her grief.
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“What dolefu' ill, alas! what woe
“Gars thee sit mourning here below,
“And rive thy mirley breast?
“Has ony Whitret's direfu' jaws,
“Or greedy Gled's fell squeezing claws,
“Made thy wee lord a feast?
“Or has some callans frae the town,
“While roaring through the shaw;
“Thy wee things, nest an' a', torn down,
“An' borne them far awa?
“My Wrannie, I canna
“Rest till thy waes thou tell;
“For I yet may cry yet
“Wi' siccan griefs mysel'.”
“Och, Rab! my heart will brust in twa;
“Alas! I'm dizzy—O I'll fa!
“My legs, my heart will fail;
“But since ye speer sae kind, my frien',
“An' love like yours is seldom seen,
“I'se tell the dreadfu' tale:
“Aneath yon hingin' brae, as best,
“Soon as the leaves came out;
“Ye ken we joyfu' bug our nest,
“And clos't it a' about,
“Fu' cleanly an' beinly,
“We lin'd it a' wi' down;
“An' neatly an' quietly
“We form'd it snug an' soun'.”
“The brae hung owre in bushy height,
“And hade it close frae ony's sight
“That dauner't thro' the glen;
“Nane e'er observ'd us jink within,
“Or ever there for nests did fin,
“'Twas sic a lanely den;
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“An' mony a day an' night I sat,
“While my wee Tam did sing;
“Till saxteen bonny things I gat,
“A' hotching 'neath each wing.
“What pleasure, this treasure
“Gied us, I needna' tell;
“Sic pleasures, sic treasures,
“Ye've aft enjoy'd yoursel'.”
“Soon as the gladsome morning rose,
“I left them row't in warm repose,
“An' thro' the warbling wood,
“'Mang aul' tree-roots an' prickly brier,
“My Tam an' me, withouten fear,
“Rov'd for their wanted food;
“An', oh! what transports swell'd my breast,
“At night, when I survey'd
“A' safe an' weel about our nest,
“An' them quiet feath'rin' laid!”
“Och! Robin—this sobbin'
“Forgie, for to the scenes
“I draw now, that gnaw now,
“My heart wi' wringing pains.
“This morn, as soon as it grew light,
“Baith thro' the glen we took our flight,
“An' soon my neb I fill'd;
“Some dreadfu' hurling noise I heard,
“An' pale forebodings made me fear'd,
“That a' my hopes were kill'd.
“I flighter't hame; but, och! dread scene!
“Whose horror crush'd my breath;
“The brae had fa'n huge to the plain,
“An dash'd them a' to death:
“Ye heavens, my grievings
“You might have ceas'd to flow;
“Me crashing, and dashing
“With them to shades below.”
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“Nae mair I'll thro' the valley flee,
“And gather worms wi' blissfu' glee,
“To feed my chirping young;
“Nae mair wi' Tam himsel' I'll rove,
“Nor shall e'er joy throughout the grove,
“Flow frae my wretched tongue;
“But lanely, lanely, aye I'll hap,
“'Mang auld stane-dykes an' braes;
“Till some ane roar down on my tap,
“An' end my joyless days.”
So, lowly and slowly,
Araise the hapless Wren;
While crying and sighing,
Remurmur'd through the Glen.

THE LAUREL DISPUTED;

OR, THE MERITS OF ALLAN RAMSAY AND ROBERT FERGUSSON CONTRASTED.

[_]

Delivered in the Pantheon, at Edinburgh, on Thursday, 14th April, 1791, on the Question—“Whether have the exertions of Allan Ramsay or Robert Fergusson done more honour to Scotch poetry?”

To Merit's brow this garland gives the Muse,
For who to Merit would a wreath deny?
Tho' base Neglect the due deserts refuse,
Fair Fame forbids the poet's name to die.
Before ye a' hae done, I'd humbly crave,
To speak twa words or three amang the lave;
No for mysel', but for an honest carl,
Wha's seen right mony changes i' the warl',
But is sae blate, down here he durstna come,
Lest, as he said, his fears might ding him dumb;
And then he's frail—sae begg'd me to repeat
His simple thoughts about this fell debate;
He gied me this lang scroll; 'tis e'en right brown;
I'se let you hear't as he has't set down.
18

Last owk, our Elpsa wi' some creels o' eggs,
And three fat eerocks fassent by the legs,
Gaed down to Embrugh; caft a new bane-kame,
An' brought a warl' o' news and clashes hame:
For she's scarce out a day, an' gets a text,
But I'm dung deaf wi' clatter a' the next;
She'll tell a' what she heard frae en' to en',
Her cracks to wives, wives cracks to her again;
Till wi' quo' I's, quo' she's, an' so's, her skirle
Sets my twa lugs a ringing like a gir'le.
'Mang ither ferlies whilk my kimmer saw,
Was your prent paper batter't on the wa';
She said she kentna rightly what it meant,
But saw some words o' goud an' poets in't!
This gart me glour; sae aff sets I my lane
To Daniel Reid's, an auld frien' o' my ain;
He gets the News, and tauld me that ye'd hecht
A dawd o' goud, on this same Fursday night,
To him wha'd show, in clinking verses drest,
Gin Ramsay's sangs or Fergusson's war best.
Trouth I was glad to hear ye war sae kind,
As keep our slee-tongu'd billies in your mind;
An' tho' our Elpsa ca'd me mony a gouk,
To think to speak amang sae mony fouk;
I gat my staff, pat on my bonnet braid,
An' best blue breeks, that war but fern-year made;
A saxpence too, to let me in bedeen,
An' thir auld spentacles to help my een;
Sae I'm come here, in houps ye'll a' agree,
To hear a frank auld kintra man like me.
In days whan Dryden sang ilk bonny morn,
An' Sandy Pope began to tune his horn;
Whan chiels round Lon'on chanted a' fu' thrang,
But poor auld Scotlan' sat without a sang;
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Droll Will Dunbar, frae Flyting than was freed,
An' Douglas too, an' Kennedy were dead;
And nane were left, in hamely cracks to praise
Our ain sweet lasses, or our ain green braes;
Far aff our gentles for their poets flew,
An' scorn'd to own that Lallan sangs they knew;
Till Ramsay raise: O blythsome hearty days!
Whan Allan tun'd his chaunter on the braes!
Auld Reekie than, frae blackest, darkest wa's
To richest rooms resounded his applause;
An' whan the nights were dreary, lang an' dark,
The beasts a' fothert, an' the lads frae wark;
The lasses' wheels thrang birring round the ingle,
The ploughman, borin' wi' his brogs an' lingel,
The herd's wires clicking owr the ha'f-wrought hose,
The auld gudeman's een ha'flins like to close;
The “Gentle Shepherd” frae the bole was ta'en,—
Than sleep I trow was banished frae their een;

[then]


The crankiest than was kittled up to daffin',
An' sides and chafts maist riven war wi' laughin'.
Sic war the joys his cracks cou'd eith afford
To peer an' ploughman, barrowman, or lord;
In ilka clachan, wife, man, wean, an' callan,
Cracket an' sang frae morn to e'en o' Allan.
Learn'd fouk, that lang in colleges an' schools,
Hae sooket learning to the vera hools,
An' think that naething charms the heart sae weel's
Lang cracks o' gods, Greeks, Paradise, and deils;
Their pows are cram't sae fu' o' lear an' art,
Plain simple nature canna reach their heart;
But whare's the rustic that can, readin', see
Sweet Peggy skiffin' ow'r the dewy lee;
Or, wishfu' stealing up the sunny howe
To gaze on Pate, laid sleeping on the knowe;
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Or hear how Bauldy ventur'd to the deil,
How thrawn auld carlines skelpit him afiel',
How Jude wi's hawk met Satan i' the moss,
How Skin-flint grain't his pocks o' goud to loss;
How bloody snouts an' bloody beards war gi'en
To smith's and clowns at “Christ's kirk on the Green;”
How twa daft herds, wi' little sense or havings,
Din'd by the road, on honest Hawkie's leavings;
How Hab maist brak the priest's back wi' a rung,
How deathless Addie died, an' how he sung;
Whae'er can thae (o' mae I needna speak)
Read tenty ow'r, at his ain ingle-cheek;
An' no fin' something glowan thro' his blood,
That gars his een glowr thro' a siller flood;
May close the beuk, poor coof! and lift his spoon;
His heart's as hard's the tackets in his shoon.
Lang saxty years ha'e whiten't ow'r this powe,
An' mony a height I've seen, an' mony a howe;
But aye whan Elspa flate, or things gaed wrang,
Next to my pipe was Allie's sleekit sang;
I thought him blyther ilka time I read,
An' mony a time, wi' unco glee I've said,
That ne'er in Scotland, wad a chiel appear,
Sae droll, sae hearty, sae confoundet queer,
Sae glibly-gabbet, or sae bauld again,—
I said, I swor't—but deed I was mistaen:
Up frae Auld Reekie Fergusson begoud,
In fell auld phrase that pleases aye the crowd,
To chear their hearts whiles wi' an antrin sang,
Whilk far an' near round a' the kintry rang.
At first I thought the swankie didna ill,
Again, I glowrt to hear him better still;
Bauld, slee and sweet, his lines mair glorious grew,
Glow'd round the heart, and glanc'd the soul out-thro;
21

But whan I saw the freaks o' Hallow Fair,
Brought a' to view as plain as I'd been there;
An' heard, wi' teeth 'maist chatterin i' my head,
Twa kirk-yard ghaists rais'd goustly frae the dead;
Dais'd Sandy greetan for his thriftless wife;
How camscheuch Samy sud been fed in Fife;
Poor Will an' Geordy mourning for their frien';
The Farmer's Ingle, an' the cracks at e'en;
My heart cry'd out, while tears war drappan fast,
O Ramsay, Ramsay, art thou beat at last?
Ae night,—the lift was skinklan a' wi' starns,—
I cross'd the burn an' dauner't thro' the cairns,
Down to auld Andrew Ralston's o' Craig-neuk,
To hear his thoughts, as he had seen the beuk:
(Andrew's a gay droll haun—ye'll aiblins ken him?—
It maksna, I had hecht some sangs to len' him,)
“Aweel,” quo' I, as soon's I reek't the hallan,
“What think ye now o' our bit Embrugh callan?”
“Saf's man,” quo' Andrew, “yon's an unco chiel!
He surely has some dealings wi' the deil!
There's no a turn that ony o' us can work at,
At hame, or yet a-fiel', at kirk or market;
But he describ'st as paukily an' fell,
As gin he'd been a kintra man himsel'.
Yestreen I'm sure, beside our auld gudewife,
I never leugh as meikle a' my life,
To read the King's Birth-day's fell hurry-burry,
How draigl't pussey flies about like fury;
Faith, I ken that's a fact.—The last birth-day,
As I stood glouring up an' down the way,
A dead cat's guts, before I cou'd suspect,
Harl't thro the dirt, cam clash about my neck;
An' while wi' baith my hauns, frae 'bout I tok it,
Wi' perfect stink, I thought I wad a bocket.
22

His stories, too, are tell't sae sleek an' baul',
Ilk oily word rins jinking thro' the saul;
What he describes, before your een ye see't,
As plain an' lively as ye see that peat.
It's my opinion, John, that this young fallow,
Excels them a', an' beats auld Allan hallow;
An' shows at twenty-twa, as great a giftie
For painting just, as Allan did at fifty.
You, Mr. President, ken weel yersel',
Better by far than kintra-fouks can tell,
That they wha reach the gleg, auld-farrant art,
In verse to melt, an' soothe, an' mend the heart;
To raise up joy, or rage, or courage keen,
And gar ilk passion sparkle in our een;
Sic chiels (whare'er they hae their ha' or hame),
Are true blue-bards, and wordy o' the name.
Sud ane o' thae, by lang experience, man
To spin out tales frae mony a pawky plan,
An' sets a' laughing at his blauds o' rhyme,
Wi' sangs aft polish'd by the haun o' Time;
And should some stripling, still mair light o' heart,
A livelier humour to his cracks impart;
Wi' careless pencil draw, yet gar us stare
To see our ain fire-sides and meadows there;
To see our thoughts, our hearts, our follies drawn,
And nature's sel' fresh starting frae his haun;
Wad mony words, or speeches lang, be needed
To tell whase rhymes war best, wha clearest-headed?
Sits there within the four wa's o' this house,
Ae chield o' taste, droll, reprobate, or douse;
Whase blessed lugs hae heard young Rob himsel',
(Light as the lamb that dances on the dell,)
Lay aff his auld Scots crack wi' pawky glee,
And seen the fire that darted frae his ee?
23

O let him speak! O let him try t'impart
The joys that than gush'd headlang on his heart,
Whan ilka line, and ilka lang-syne glowr,
Set faes an' friends and Pantheons in a roar!
Did e'er auld Scotland fin' a nobler pride
Through a' her veins, and glowan bosom glide,
Than when her Muses' dear young fav'rite bard,
Wi' her hale strength o' wit and fancy fir'd,
Raise frae the thrang, and kin'ling at the sound,
Spread mirth, conviction, truth and rapture round?
To set Rob's youth and inexperience by,—
His lines are sweeter, and his flights mair high;
Allan, I own, may show far mair o' art,
Rob pours at once his raptures on the heart;
The first, by labour mans our breast to move,
The last exalts to ecstasy and love;
In Allan's verse, sage sleeness we admire,
In Rob's, the glow of fancy and of fire,
And genius bauld, that nought but deep distress,
And base neglect, and want, could e'er suppress.
O hard, hard fate!—but cease, thou friendly tear,
I darna mourn my dear lo'ed Bardie here,
Else I might tell how his great soul had soar'd,
And nameless ages wonder'd and ador'd;
Had friends been kind, and had not his young breath
And rising glory, been eclipsed by Death.
But lest owre lang I lengthen out my crack,
An' Epps be wearying for my coming-back;
Let ane an' a' here, vote as they incline,
Frae heart and saul Rob Fergusson has mine.
24

RAB AND RINGAN.

A TALE.

[_]

The following tale was recited by the Author at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, in a debate on the question—“Whether is Diffidence or the Allurements of Pleasure the greatest bar to Progress in Knowledge!”

INTRODUCTION.

Hech! but 'tis awfu'-like to rise up here,
Where sic a sight o' learn'd folks' pows appear!
Sae mony piercing een a' fix'd on ane,
Is maist enough to freeze me to a stane!
But 'tis a mercy—mony thanks to Fate,
Pedlars are poor, but unco seldom blate.
(Speaking to the President.)
This question, Sir, has been right weel disputet,
And meikle, weel-a-wat's been said about it;
Chiels, that precisely to the point can speak,
And gallop o'er lang blauds of kittle Greek;
Ha'e sent frae ilka side their sharp opinion,
And peeled it up as ane wad peel an ingon.
I winna plague you lang wi' my poor spale,
But only crave your patience to a Tale;
By which ye'll ken on whatna side I'm stinnin',
As I perceive your hindmost minute's rinnin'.

THE TALE.

There liv'd in Fife, an auld, stout, warldly chiel,
Wha's stomach kend nae fare but milk and meal;
A wife he had, I think they ca'd her Bell,
And twa big sons, amaist as heigh's himsel':
Rab was a gleg, smart cock, with powder'd pash:
Ringan, a slow, fear'd, bashfu', simple hash.
25

Baith to the College gaed. At first spruce Rab,
At Greek and Latin, grew a very dab;
He beat a' round about him, fair and clean,
And ilk ane courted him to be their frien';
Frae house to house they harl'd him to dinner,
But curs'd poor Ringan for a hum-drum sinner.
Rab talkèd now in sic a lofty strain,
As tho' braid Scotland had been a' his ain;
He ca'd the Kirk the Church, the Yirth the Globe,
And chang'd his name, forsooth, frae Rab to Bob;
Whare'er ye met him, flourishing his rung,
The haill discourse was murder'd wi' his tongue;
On friends and faes wi' impudence he set,
And ramm'd his nose in ev'ry thing he met.
The College now, to Rab, grew douf and dull,
He scorn'd wi' books to stupify his skull;
But whirl'd to Plays and Balls, and sic like places,
And roar'd awa' at Fairs and Kintra Races;
Sent hame for siller frae his mother Bell,
And caft a horse, and rade a race himsel';
Drank night and day, and syne, when mortal fu',
Row'd on the floor, and snor'd like ony sow;
Lost a' his siller wi' some gambling sparks,
And pawn'd, for punch, his Bible and his sarks;
Till, driven at last to own he had eneugh,
Gaed hame a' rags to haud his father's pleugh.
Poor hum-drum Ringan play'd anither part,
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor art;
Of mony a far-aff place he kent the gate;
Was deep, deep learn'd, but unco unco blate;
He kend how mony mile 'twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad lave the ocean toom;
26

Where a' the swallows gaed in time of snaw,
What gars the thunders roar, and tempests blaw;
Where lumps o' siller grow aneath the grun',
How a' this yirth rows round about the sun;
In short, on books sae meikle time he spent,
Ye cou'dna speak o' aught, but Ringan kent.
Sae meikle learning wi' sae little pride,
Soon gain'd the love o' a' the kintra side;
And Death, at that time, happ'ning to nip aff
The Parish Minister—a poor dull ca'f,—
Ringan was sought; he cou'dna' say them Nay,
And there he's preaching at this very day.

MORAL.

Now, Mr. President, I think 'tis plain,
That youthfu' diffidence is certain gain;
Instead of blocking up the road to Knowledge,
It guides alike, in Commerce or at College;
Struggles the bursts of passion to controul;
Feeds all the finer feelings of the soul;
Defies the deep-laid stratagems of guile,
And gives even Innocence a sweeter smile;
Ennobles all the little worth we have,
And shields our virtue even to the grave.
How vast the diff'rence, then, between the twain!
Since Pleasure ever is pursu'd by Pain.
Pleasure's a syren, with inviting arms,
Sweet is her voice, and powerful are her charms;
Lur'd by her call we tread her flow'ry ground,
Joy wings our steps and music warbles round;
Lull'd in her arms we lose the flying hours,
And lie embosom'd 'midst her blooming bow'rs,
Till—arm'd with death, she watches our undoing,
Stabs while she sings, and triumphs in our ruin.
27

THE LOSS OF THE PACK.

A TRUE TALE.

(Recited in the character of a poor Pedlar.)

[_]

The following Tale was recited by the Author at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, in a debate on the Question,—“Whether is Disappointment in Love, or the Loss of Fortune, hardest to bear”?

'Bout-gates I hate, quo' girning Maggy Pringle;
Syne, harl'd Watty, greeting, thro the ingle.
Since this fell question seems sae lang to hing on,
In twa-three words I'll gie ye my opinion.
I wha stand here, in this bare scoury coat,
Was ance a packman, wordy mony a groat;
I've carried packs as big's your meikle table,
I've scarted pats, and sleepet in a stable;
Sax pounds I wadna' for my pack ance ta'en,
And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.
Ay! thae were days indeed, that gart me hope,
Aeblins, thro' time, to warsle up a shop;
And as a wife aye in my noddle ran,
I kend my Kate wad grapple at me than.
O Kate was past compare! sic cheeks! sic een!
Sic smiling looks were never, never seen.
Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whane'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal-day but set;
Stappèd her pouches fu' o' prins and laces,
And thought mysel' weel paid wi' twa three kisses;
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug wad say,
“Ae half year langer is nae unco stop,
We'll marry, then, and syne set up a shop.”
O, Sir, but lasses' words are saft and fair,
They soothe our griefs, and banish ilka care;
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he lo'es?
A lover true minds this in a' he does.
28

Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,
And that I cou'dna get her to relent,
There was nought left, but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang hard campaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventur'd there in spite of wind and weet.
Cauld now the Winter blew, and deep the sna'
For three haill days incessantly did fa';
Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Whar nought was seen but mountains and the lift;
I lost my road, and wander'd mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' hunger, cauld, and fright, and toil:
Thus wand'ring, east or west, I kend na' where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair;
Wi' a fell ringe, I plung'd at ance, forsooth,
Down thro' a wreath o' snaw, up to my mouth.
Clean o'er my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens! I never knew.
What great misfortunes are pour'd down on some!
I thought my fearfu' hinderen' was come;
Wi' grief and sorrow was my soul o'ercast,
Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last;
For aye the mair I warsl'd roun' and roun',
I fand mysel' aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my poor auld carcase frae the hole.
Lang, lang I sought, and grapèd for my pack,
Till night and hunger forc'd me to come back;
For three lang hours I wander'd up and down,
Till chance, at last convey'd me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate;
29

But bade her aye be kind, and no despair;—
Since life was left, I soon wad gather mair;
Wi' whilk, I hop'd, within a towmond's date,
To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.
Fool that I was, how little did I think
That love would soon be lost for fa't o' clink.
The loss of fair won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this, ne'er had power to force a tear.
I trusted time wad bring things round again,
And Kate, dear Kate, wad then be a' mine ain;
Consol'd my mind, in hopes o' better luck,—
But, O! what sad reverse!—how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,
That Kate was cried, and married on anither!
Tho' a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet,
At ance, had drappèd cauld dead at my feet;
Or, tho' I'd heard the Last Day's dreadfu' ca',
Nae deeper horror on my heart could fa';
I curs'd mysel', I curs'd my luckless fate,
I grat—and, sobbing, cried—O Kate! O Kate!
Frae that day forth, I never mair did weel,
But drank, and ran headforemost to the deel;
My siller vanish'd, far frae hame I pin'd,
But Kate for ever ran across my mind;
In her were a' my hopes—these hopes were vain,
And now—I'll never see her like again.
'Twas this, Sir President, that gart me start,
Wi' meikle grief and sorrow at my heart,
To gi'e my vote, frae sad experience, here,
That disappointed love is waur to bear
Ten thousand times, than loss o' warld's gear.
30

THE PACK.

Hard Fate has this ordain't, that I
Maun dauner thro the warl',
The wants o' thousan's to supply,
An' heavy lades to harl;
Sae aft, whan E'ening brings the Night,
In lanely desolation,
I seek a corner, out o' sight,
To mourn my condemnation.
The western sun, bright to the eye,
Was sinking in the flood;
Adorn'd with robes of richest dye,
Gay crimson streak'd wi' blood;
The swallows twittert through the sky,
In jinking, sportive mood;
While, prest wi' care, poor hapless I,
Near yonder riv'let stood,
Thoughtful that day.
My pond'rous Pack upo' the ground,
I carelessly had flung;
A wallet green, wi' straps fast bound,
And near't a hazel rung;
The vera sight my heart did wound,
My breast wi' grief was stung;
Fir'd wi' indignance I turn'd round,
An' basht wi' mony a fung
The Pack, that day.
“Thou cursed, base, inglorious load!
(Enrag'd wi' grief I cry'd)
“Shall thou along the weary road
“Borne on my shouthers ride;
31

“While crusht beneath I groaning nod,
“An' travel far an' wide?
“Hence! frae my sight, or wi' this clod,
“I'll dash thy hated hide,
“This vera day.
“Nay, no excuse—I winna hear,
“I winna tak' a word in;
“What! was these shouthers form'd to bear
“Thee, vile, disgracefu' burden?
“My lugs to thole ilk taunt an' jeer,
“That pierce me like a sword in?
“Crouchin' to ev'ry wretch, to speer,
“‘Mem! will ye buy a bargain
“Right cheap, the day?’”
It fires, it boils my vera blude,
An' sweats me at ilk pore,
To think how aft I'm putten wud,
Whan drawin' near a door;
Out springs the mastiff, through the mud,
Wi' fell Cerberian roar,
An' growlin', as he really wou'd
Me instantly devore
Alive, that day.
“Ye're come frae Glasco', lad, I true;
(The pert guidwife presumes;)
Ye'll be a malefactor too,
Ye'll hae yer horse and grooms;
What de'il brings siccan chaps like you,
To lea' your wabs an' looms?
Wi' beggars, packmen, an' sic crew,
Our door it never tooms,
The live-lang day.
32

“Nae doubt ye'll e'en right hungry be,
I see your belly's clung;
I hae some parritch here to gi'e,
As soon's a sang ye've sung.
Come, lilt it up wi' blithsome glee;
Ye're supple, smart an' young;
An' gin ye please our John an' me,
Ye'se get the kirnan rung
To lick, this day.”
What flesh an' blude could thole this jaw,
An' no start in a rage;
An' kick their heels up ane an' a',
E'en though he war a sage?
Aft hae I dar't them, grit an' sma',
Gin they durst but engage,
Their noses in their a—to thraw,
And screw't as firm's a wedge,
Right smart, that day.
“O thou, who 'midst the Muses all,
Plays while they rapt'ring sing,
Attentive hear thy vot'ry's call,
An' view his drooping wing!
How mournfu', how forlorn I crawl,
Far frae Parnassian spring;
Oh! deign to stoop, an' from this thrall
Thy once-lov'd Bardie bring,
In haste, this day.”
I ceas'd—and to my huge amaze,
That bordert maist on fear;
Upon ae end the Wallet raise,
Tho' cram't wi' silken gear;
33

While I, wild glowrt, to see its ways,
An' stood a' een an' ear;
It solemn shook its verdant claes,
Syne in tones hoarse and queer,
Thus spoke, that day.
“Ye proud, provokin', hair-braint ass!
Owre lang I've borne your bleth'ring;
I've lain a' frythin' on the grass,
To hear yer nonsense gath'ring.
Ye've brought me to a bonny pass,
Since your rhime-wings war feathering;
An' now, set up yer saucy jaws!
Earth! ye deserve a leath'ring,
Right snell, this day.”
“Ha'e ye sae soon forgot the gude
Whilk I ha'e aften doon you?
Had ye no ance aneath me stood,
John swore that he wad poon you;
Whan ye fell in the snawy flood,
I truntl't frae aboon you,
Or trouth ye'd soon been flesh an' blood,
For craws to pick, and spoon you
Wi' their nebs, that day.”
“Weel may ye mind, yon night sae black,
Whan fearfu' winds loud gurl'd,
An' mony a lum dang down an' stack,
Heigh i' the air up swirl'd,
Alangst yon brae, ye clam, an' stack,
Down whiles like to be whirl'd;
Had I no slippet aff yer back,
An' ere I stoppet, hurl'd
To the fit, that night.”
34

“No to relate how aft, in barns,
When night without did bluster,
On me ye've laid yer crazy harns,
An' fixt me for a bouster;
There wad ye lie, an' sit by turns,
An' rhyme e'en in that posture;
Or through the thack survey the starns,
Till glimm'rin' Night did foster
The new-born day.”
“For me, indeed (I scorn to wheese)
Ye've tholt some bits o' losses;
For me ye've waded to the knees,
Thro' gutters, bogs, an' mosses;
For me, adventur'd foamin' seas,
An' met wi' mony crosses;
For me, ye've tell't ten thousan' lies,
An' measurt stairs an' closses,
For mony a day.”
“But than, reflect what blissfu' gluts
O' parritch ye ha'e bury'd
Within the caverns o' yer guts,
While wi' me ye ha'e tarry'd;
What dawds o' cheese, frae out yer clauts,
Wi' fury ye ha'e worry'd;
How aft lain dozin out yer wits,
Disdaining to be hurry'd
By ought, that day.”
“Guid guides!” (quo I), “thou's get the gree
O' Wallets, de'ils or witches;
A speakin' Pack's owre learnt for me
Or ane that steers an' fitches.
35

Wha kens, but thou may Master be,
An' haul me thro' the ditches;
Or may-be learn (preserves!) to flee,
An' lea' me in the clutches
O' rags, some day.”
“Ungratefu' sinner! think how aft
I ve fillt yer pouch wi' catter—
For gudesake whist! we're baith gane daft,
It's nonsense a' this splutter.
Come to my shouthers, warp an' waft,
Nae mair we'll flyte an' chatter;”
Sae aff I trudg'd alang the craft,
An' ended a' the clatter,
In peace, that day.

THE INSULTED PEDLAR.

A POETICAL TALE RELATED BY HIMSELF.

Honi Soit Qui Mal y Pense.

O Ye, my poor sca't brethren a',
Wha mony a time wi' hungry maw,
Implore the beild o' some barn wa',
Wi' hurdies sair;
Now to the deil your boxes blaw,
And beg nae mair.
I've seen the day, but faith it's gane,
When roun' farm-towns, frae ane to ane,
The shortest route we might have ta'en,
Nor been molested;
But now wi' stabs, an' lime, an' stane,
We're vext an' pested.
36

The deil a fit ye owre dare set,
But trudge lang twa mile to the yett,
Or by the Lord ye'll aiblins get
Your legs in chains;
Or skelpit back wi' haffits het,
And broken banes.
Ae nicht short syne as hame I trampit,
Beneath my pack, wi' banes sair crampit,
But owre a wee bit dyke I lampit,
And trottin burn;
There to do for my ain bethankit,
A needfu' turn.
Aweel, I scarcely had begun
To ope the evacuating gun,
I'll swear they hadna reached the grun,
When frae the wud
A bellied gent, steps owre the run,
Wi' “Dem your blood!
“By whose authority or order
Came ye upon this corn-rig border,
To rowe your filth and reeking ordour
On me a Bailie?
Hence wi' your dirt, else by the Lord, or
Lang, I'll jail ye.”
I gloweret a wee, syne fetched a grane,
“Deed sir, through mony a lane I've gane,
An' gin ye raise me frae this stane,
Ne'er laird or lady
Attempted such a job their lane,
Till I was ready.
37

“Gin ye can prove, by pen or tongue,
That lan' ne'er profited by dung,
That by its influence corn ne'er sprung,
Though I should lumple,
I'se thole a thump o' that hard rung,
Out owre my rumple.
“My order, sir, was Nature's laws,
That was the reason, and because
Necessity's demands and ca's
War very gleg,
I hunkered down 'mang thir hard wa's
To lay my egg.
“And sir, I'm seeking naething frae ye;
My offering here I freely lea you,
Sic presents ilka ane wont gie you,
Tak' ye my word,
Ye're richer since I first did see you,
That reeking turd.”
Scarce had I spoke, when owre he sprung,
And rais't a yellow knotted rung,
And aim't at me a dreadfu' fung,
Wi' foaming spite;
But owre my head it suchin swung,
Dash on the dyke.
I started up and lap the dyke,
“Now, curse ye, sir, come when you like,
I'll send this stick, armed wi' a pike,
Amang your painches;
Ye ugly, greasy, girnin' tyke,
Now guard your hainches.”
38

He roared a most tremendous oath,
That Satan's sell wi' shame wad loath,
While frae his devilish mouth the froth
Flew aff wi' squatter;
Then raised a stane, as dead's a moth
My brains to batter.
When at this instant o' the faught,
A gentleman came belly-flaught,
And in his arms the tiger caught,
Wi' frighted tone;
Exclaiming, “Lord's sake, Mr. L---
What has he done?”
Here I stood forth to bring't to a bearing,
“Please, sir, to grant a patient hearing,
An' I'll unravel what your speering,
To your contentment;
Let go the bitch, don't think I'm fearing
The fool's resentment.”
Sae I related a' the matter,
That raised between us sic a clatter;
At which he laughed till fairly water
Reliev'd his e'en;
While the grim wretches baith did clatter
Wi' malice keen.
“Now, sir, compose yoursel' a wee;
Tak' aff your hat an' join wi' me,
While for this sinner black I gie
My earnest prayer;
Whilk frae my very saul on hie
I here uprear.
39

“Great Jove! before Thee here is seen,
A human bear, a speaking swine,
Wha wi' dread oaths, and fiery e'en,
And devilish feature,
Has dared to curse a work o' Thine
For easing nature.
“On him pour plagues without restraint,
Wi' restless buneuchs him torment,
Till through fierce purgin' he be spent
As tume's a blether;
And that big wame that's now sae bent,
Be a' lowse leather.
“And when he limps wi' gout and spavie,
Through jaunering crowds, held as a knave aye,
There may't attack him, while a privie
In vain he seeks,
Till he be forc'd to blow't the gravie
Just in his breeks!
“Whene'er he drinks to raise the flame,
Syne hurries hame to Venus' game,
May cauld yill clankin' in his wame
Wi' hurlin' rum'le,
Aft force him to forsake the dame
Wi' spoulin' whum'le.
“Then may he rue (although owre late
To stop the yellin' roarin' spate)
That e'er he curst, or vicious flate
On pedlar Sawney;
And e'en envy his blessed fate
Wha sat sae canny.
40

“And Lord! an answer soon sen' back,
And let him see Thy han's na slack.
Amen, amen,—put on your hat,
And haud the bear in.”
So up I swung my verdant pack,
And left him swearin'.

RABBY'S MISTAKE,

A TRUE STORY.

Short is the far'est fouk can see,
Yet unco wary we shou'd be,
To leuk before we loup;
Nor e'er, in huth'ron haste, advance,
Or we'll rin mony a narrow chance,
In black mistaks to coup.
Ae ca'm, blae, bitter frosty day,
When deep the glisterin' snaw-wreathes lay
Aboon ilk moor an' fiel',
An' owre the Loch's clear frozen face,
On skytchers thrang, in airy chase,
Flew mony a cheery chiel.
Far aff the curlers' roaring rink,
Re-echo'd loud, wi' noisy clink
O' stanes and besoms rappin';
Doos flighter't thro' amang the stacks,
An' craws upo' the toll-road tracts,
In hungry mood were happin'.
41

Sic was the day, whan san'-blin' Rab,
Arm'd wi' a gun like ony stab,
An' pocks o' lead an' pouther,
Set out in eager search for game,
Resolv'd to bring a maukin hame
In triumph, owre his shouther.
Nae snifterin' dog had he, I wat,
To air't him to the lanely spat
Whare ony creature lay;
Tho' scarce twa tether-length his e'en
Cou'd ken a midding by a green,
Yet on he push'd his way.
Alangst the drifted crumpin' knowes,
A' roun' his glimmerin' een he rowes,
For hares, or bits o' burdies;
Aft taking ilka stane he saw,
Bare rais'd aboon the glistering snaw,
For pussey's crouchin' hurdies.
Down thro' the Glen between twa trees,
At length sly glowrin' Rabby sees
A hare amang the bushes;
He chaps the flint—leans on a stump,
Aff gaed the shot wi' thunerin' thump,
An' after't Rabby rushes.
But when he saw (guide's! how he stood!)
His ain sow weltering in her blude,
An' sticks in anguish tearing!
Her deean squeels maist rung him deaf,
He hung his head in silent grief,
And wander'd hamewards swearing.
42

CALLAMPHITRE'S ELEGY.

Attend ye squads o' wabsters a',
Whare'er may be your byding;
Whether ye hing owre muslins braw,
Or sonsier sacks, or plaiding;
Ye've lost a patriarch an' mair,
Whase crown Death's lang been cloorin';
And I'se relate the haill affair,
Though baith my een be pourin',
Wi' grief this day.
There liv'd a carle near a glen,
Fouk Callamphitre ca'd him;
Wha saw lang sinty year an' ten,
Ere ever trouble ga'd him;
He at the sowing-brod was bred,
An' wrought gude serge an' tyken;
An' mony an aul' wife's nest he clad
Fu' bra'ly to their liking,
An' snug that day.
Whare Highlan' hills, out thro' the cluds,
Lift up their snawy rigging;
Beside a glen, atween twa wuds,
Stood his bit lanely bigging:
Nae pridefu' plaister't beild, wi' staps
Plann'd out wi' square or tether;
But stanes rowt up in ithers' taps,
Co'ert owre wi' hardy heather,
And turfs, that day.
His loom, made o' stout aiken rungs,
Had sair't him saxty simmer;
Though his lang Lay, wi' fearfu' fungs,
Shook a' the roofing tim'er.
43

As soon's braw day-light cleart the lift,
He raise, an' waukent Jennock;
Laid owre his leg, an' till't like drift,
Till moon-light thro' his winnock,
Shone late at night.
His banes were like a horse's strang,
His tusks like bear's or shark;
An' foul a brither o' the gang,
Wad dung him at his wark.
He wad ha'e roar'd like ony nowt,
When he o' pirns grew scanty;
Till ance the hirpling pining gout
Swall't baith his legs unhaunty,
Like beams, that day.
But waes my heart! anither ill
On him spue't out its venom,
An' a' the doctors' drogs or skill,
Nae ease, alake! cou'd len' him;
It wrung his vera soul, poor chiel!
Wi' grips beneath his navel;
Whilk made him roar, an' girn, an' squeel,
As he had seen a devil,
Or ghaist, that day.
Alangst a sack, ha'f fu' o' strae,
Beneath an aul' gray co'ering;
Wi' face grim pale, an' lips right blae,
He lay, maist at the smo'ering.
He fan Death's fearfu' grapple-airns,
An' that he cou'dna free them;
Sae gaspèd out, “O bring my bairns,
That I for ance may see them,
This waefu' day.”
44

Wi' yowlin' clinch aul' Jennock ran,
Wi' sa'r like ony brock;
To bring that remnant o' a man,
Her foistest brither Jock.
As soon's she reekt the sooty bield,
Whare labrod he sat cockin;
“Come down,” she cryd, “you lump o' eild,
His vera guts he's bockan
In blude, this day.”
Down gaed the wark-looms—out he struts,
Wi' dreadfu' fright, a' sweating;
While Mirran, wi' her shoelin' cloots,
Ran, yellochan an' greeting.
As soon's they to the house came in,
An' saw that he was deean;
They stood a whyle baith deaf an' blin',
While down the tears came fleean
In show'rs that day!
At length aul' Callam gied a glowre,
An' said, “May God be wi' ye!
Death's maunt at last to ding me owre,
An' I'll soon ha'e to lea' ye.
Some sinfu' clues, the laft aboon,
Ye'll fin' row't in a blanket”—
Syne gied a fearfu' dreary croon,
An' aff for aye he shanket
Wi' Death that day.
O dool! whane'er they saw him gane,
They rais'd a lamentation;
An' yells, an' sabs, and mony a grane,
Declar'd their deep vexation.
45

“Lord help us a'! he'll e'en be mist,”
Quo' Jock, as up they bore him.
Sae a' three streek't him on a kist,
An' waefully did co'er him
Wi' a claith that day.
O Mirran! dinna rive yer hair,
And wi' sic vengeance yelp sae;
My heart is for you a' right sair,
But deed I canna help ye.
Hech, see! they've borne him to yon brae,
And aff the mortclaith furl'd,
And in a hole they've let him gae,
Syne yird and stanes down hurl'd
Wi' spades this day.
Some said he was a camsheugh bool,
Nae yarn nor rapes could haud him,
When he got on his fleesome cowl,
But maybe they misca'd him.
While Jennock tum't the winles' blade
An' waft in lapfu's left her,
Frae's nieves the spool like light'ning fled,
And raps cam thunerin' after,
Like death that day.
But now nae mair he'll bless their bield,
Wi' gabby cracks an' stories;
He fell a prey to runkly Eild,
And's trampit aff afore us.
Let ilka shop his praises roar,
In melancholious metre,
An' at the hin'-er-en' o' ilk bore,
Mourn out, O Callamphitre!
Thou'rt dead this day!
46

VERSES,

OCCASIONED BY SEEING TWO MEN SAWING TIMBER IN THE OPEN FIELD, IN DEFIANCE OF A FURIOUS STORM.

My friends, for God sake! quat yer wark,
Nor think to war a wind sae stark;
Your saw-pit stoops, like wans are shaking,
The vera planks and deals are quaking;
Ye're tempin' Providence, I swear,
To raise your graith sae madly here.
Now, now ye're gone!—Anither blast
Like that, an' a' yer sawing's past!
Come down, ye sinner!—grip the saw
Like death, or trouth, ye'll be awa'.
Na, na, ye'll saw tho' hail an' sleet
Wreathe owre your breast, an' freeze yer feet.
Hear how it roars, an' rings the bells;
The carts are tum'lin' round themsels;
The tile an' thack, an' turf up whirls;
See yon brick lum!—down, down it hurls:—
But wha's yon staggering owre the brae,
Beneath a lade o' buttl't strae;
Be wha he will, poor luckless bitch,
His strae an' him's baith in the ditch.
The sclates are hurling down in hun'res,
The dading door an' winnock thun'ers.—
But, ho! my hat, my hat's awa'!
Lord help's! the saw-pit's down an' a'!
Rax me your hand—hech! how he granes,—
I fear your legs are broken banes.
I tauld you this; but deil-mak-matter,
Ye thought it a' but idle clatter;
Now see, ye misbelieving sinners,
Your bloody shins—your saw in flinners;
47

An' roun' about your lugs the ruin,
That your demented folly drew on.
Experience ne'er sae sicker tells us,
As when she lifts her rung an' fells us.

EPPIE AND THE DEIL.

A TALE.

Auld Eppie was a thrifty wife,
An' she had spun maist a' her life,
For threescore yeer row't in her cloak,
She sat, an' rugged at the rock.
As Eppie's life had lang been single,
She whyles span by a neibor's ingle,
An' when the sin slade out o' sight,

[sun.


She dauner't hamewards owre the height,
Lamenting aft that poortith caul',
For her to spin wha scarce could crawl.
As Eppie wi' her wheel gaed hame,
Toom hunger crackin' in her wame,
Made her regret wi' mony a grane,
That she sae far a-fiel' had gaen;
The wind whyles whirlin' roun' the rock,
Aft lent her on the lug a stroke;
Right cankry to hersel' she crackit,
“That wheel o' mine—the devil take it—”
Nae sooner had she said the word
Than Clootie, shapet like a burd,
Flew down, as big's a twomont ca',

[calf.


An' clinket Eppie's wheel awa',
Ha'f dead wi' fright, up to the lift
She glowr't, an' saw him spur like drift,
As fast as ony bleeze o' pouther,
Out through the cluds wi't owre his shouther.
48

“Aye, aye,” quo Epps, “an' so it's you,
Ye aul', confounded, thief-like sow!
Nae doubt ye're keen to try yer han'
Amang yer hairy, blackguard ban'?
Ye maybe think that spinning's naething,
An' that it wastes na sap nor breathing?
Ye're new-fangl't now, but wait a wee
Till ance ye've spun as lang as me,
I'll wad a dollar, Mr. Deil,
Ye'll gladly gie me back my wheel.”
Cloots heard, and though he was the devil,
For ance he acted vera civil,
For laughin' at poor Eppie's crack,
He threw the wheel down on her back.

MORAL.

Whan ill luck comes, be't mair or less,
It's aye best then to acquiesce,
And rather laugh, though gear sud lea' us,
Than whinge whene'er its harl't frae us.
This taks the stang frae ilka cross,
And gars us rise aboon the loss;
Gars Fortune whiles gie owre to hiss us,
And smiling, turn about and bless us.

DAY-BREAK.

SCENE—THE TOWN.

Now darkness blackens a' the streets;
The rowan e'e nae object meets,
Save yon caul' cawsey lamp,
That has surviv'd the dreary night,
An' lanely beams wi' blinkin' light,
Right desolate and damp.
49

Fore-doors an' winnocks still are steeket,
An' cats, wi' silent step, and sleeket,
Watch whare the rattons tirl;
Or met in yards, like squads o' witches,
Rive ither's hair out wi' their clutches,
An' screech wi' eldritch skirl.
Now mony a ane, secure frae harm,
Lies row't in blankets snug an' warm,
Amus'd wi' gowden dreams;
While ithers scart their sides an' lugs,
Tormentet wi' infernal bugs,
Thick swarmin' frae the seams.
Some sunk amid their kimmers' arms,
Are huggin' matrimonial charms,
In bliss an' rapture deep;
Some turnin', curse the greetin' wight
For skirling a' the live-lang night,
An' keepin' them frae sleep.
Some weary wight, perhaps like me,
Doom'd Poverty's distress to dree,
Misfortune's meagre brither;
Now dauners out beneath the starns,
Wi' plans perplexing still his harns,
To keep his banes thegither.
Now lasses start their fires to kin'le,
An' load the chimly wi' a tanle
O' bleezin' coals an' cin'ers;
Syne scowr their stoups an' tankar's clear,
An' glasses dight wi' canny care,
To grace the gentry's dinners.
Wi' clippet feathers, kame an' chirle,
The gamester's cock, frae some aul' burrel,
Proclaims the morning near;
50

Ilk chiel now frae his hammock jumps,
The floor receives their lang bare stumps,
An' wives an' a's asteer.
Now reek rows briskly out the lums;
Loud thro' the street the piper bums,
In Hielan' vigour gay.
Doors, hatches, winnock-brods are steerin';
An' ev'ry ane in short's preparin',
To meet the toils o' day.

ELEGY ON AN UNFORTUNATE TAILOR.

Wha like true brethren o' the thumle,
Sav'd aye a remnant as his due;
And ne'er was heard to grudge or grum'le,
As lang's he fan' his belly fu'.
O sirs, he's e'en awa' indeed,
Nae mair to shape or draw a thread,
Or spin a crack, or crump his bread,
An' hotch an' gigle;
Or wave the elwan owre his head
To fight the beagle.
In mornings soon, ere sax o'clock,
Whan blankets hap a' sober fouk,
Whan fires are out, an' shoon, an' troke
Confuse the floor,
Nae mair we'll start to hear his knock,
An' roaring stoor.
Whan days war caul', near, bit by bit,
Close at the glowan ribs he'd sit,
An' ilka wee the eldin hit,
An' gab fu' trimly;
An' aye the tither mouthfu' spit
Alangst the chimly.
51

Ye creepin' beasts that hotch an' wheel
Through neuks o' breeks, an' ye that speel,
Swallt, gray and fat, now lift ilk heel
Wi' gleefu' speed;
An' up the seams in hun'ers reel,
Since Rabby's dead.
Assemble a' yer swarmin' legions,
Baith jumpin' black an' creeshy sage anes,
An' rank an' file parade your cage ance,
Nor needles dread;
But loud proclaim through a' yer regions,
That Rabby's dead.
Nae mair his thums to death shall post ye;
Nae mair his needle-points shall toast ye,
Nor shall his horrid goose e'er roast ye,
For hear't, oh lice!
Death's made yer foe as caul' an' frosty,
As ony ice.
Wi' won'er aft I've seen him worry
Up cogs o' kail, in hungry hurry;
Grip up the cheese in gapin' fury,
An' hew down slices,
Syne punds o't in his entrails bury,
In lumps an' pieces.
Twa pints o' well-boilt solid sowins,
Wi' whauks o' gude ait-far'le cowins,
Synt down wi' whey, or whiskey lowins,
Before he'd want,
Wad sarce ha'e ser't the wretch to chew ance,
Or choke a gant.
52

Yet Rabby aye was dousely dautet;
For soon as ilka dish was clautet,
He'd lift his looves an' een, an' fa' to't,
Owre plates an' banes,
An' lengthen out a grace weel sautet
Wi' haly granes.
Aft ha'e I heard him tell o' frights,
Sad waefu' souns, and dreary sights,
He's aften got frae warlock wights,
An' Spunkie's bleeze;
Gaun hame thro' muirs and eerie heights
O' black fir-trees.
Ae night auld Bessie Baird him keepet,
Thrang cloutin' claes till twall was chappet;
But soon's he got his kyte weel stappet
Wi' something stout;
An' goose in's nieve, right snugly happet,
He daunert out.
Maist hame, he met a lang black chiel,
Wi' huggers, stilts, an' pocks o' meal;
Wha drew a durk o' glancin' steel
To rob an' maul him;
Rab rais't his brod wi' desp'rate wheel
An' left him sprawlin'.
Tho' aft by fiends and witches chas't,
An' mony a dead man's glowrin' ghaist;
Yet on his knees he ae time fac't
The Deil himsel':
An' sent him aff in dreadfu' haste,
Roarin' to hell.
53

But oh, ae night prov'd his mishap!
Curst on the wide-moutht whiskey-cap;
Beware, beware o' sic fell sap,
Ye taylor chiels!
For Rabby drank owre deep a drap
O' Janet Steel's.
Mirk was the night—out Rabby doitet,
Whiles owre big stanes, his shins he knoitet,
Alangst the dam the bodie stoitet,
Wi' staucherin' flounge;
Till, hale-sale, in the lade he cloitet,
Wi' dreadfu' plunge.
Loud tho' he roart, nane was asteer,
His yells an' fearfu' granes to hear;
The current suckt him near an' near,
Till, wi' a whirl,
The big wheel crusht his guts an' gear,
Like ony burrel.
Next morning, gin the peep o' day,
Alang the stanes caul' dead he lay!
Crouds ran to hear the fatal fray;
Wives, weans, an' men
Lamentin' while they saw his clay,
Poor Rabby's en'.

ELEGY

ON THE LONG EXPECTED DEATH OF A WRETCHED MISER.

Wealth he has none, who mourns his scanty store,
And midst of plenty, starves, and thinks he's poor.
—Pope.

Wi' branchin' birk yer winnocks hing,
Whang down the cheese owre heaps o' bread;
Roun' wi' the blue, an' roar an' sing,
For camsheugh auld F---s is dead.
54

Hech! is he dead? then ilka chiel
May now be fear't for Death's fell nips,
Since he wha fac'd the vera de'il,
Has fa'n beneath the spectre's grips.
Whare will the god o' gowden ore,
Light on a box wi' sic a dog,
To guard by night an' day his store,
Since John's laid caul' below the fug?
His fearsome blue Kilmarnock cowl,
His cloutet hose, an' sarks, and bedding,
Wi' weel-swall't social vermin foul—
I saw them a' flung to the midding.
Now, Clootie, loup an' shake yer rump,
Nae mair ye'll need at night to watch him,
Grim glowrin' by some aul' tree-stump,
An' rattlin' airns in vain to catch him.
Nae mair need ye in corp-like shape,
Aneath the midnight moon lie streeket;
Nor wi' lang clauts, like ony graip,
Wauk thro' his bield, an' doors a' steeket.
Whiles like a cat, ye'd tread his skelf,
An' range amang his plates an' bannocks;
Whiles rumlin' owre his box't-up pelf,
Or chappin' awsome at his winnocks.
But a' your schemes, an' a' your plots,
An' a' the midnight frights ye lent him;
And a' the fear o' tyning notes,
Was naething, till a wife ye sent him.
“A Wife! a curse!” (quo' John, in rage,
Soon as his tickling heat abated,)
“A black, bare whore, to vex my age!”
He said, he girn't, swore, an' regretted.
55

His dearie, glad o' siccan routh,
To mill a note was aye right ready:
Aft she wad kiss his toothless mouth,
While John keen ca'd her his ain lady.
When in the bed, (whare a' fouks gree)
An' John laid soun' wi' Venus' capers;
She raise—lowst frae his breeks the key,
Slade up the lid, an' poucht the papers.
This pass't a wee, till rous'd he ran,
He visited his cash,—his heav'n;
He coudna see, but trem'lin' fan'
A yearly income frae him riv'n.
O then what tortures tare his soul!
He groan'd, he spat, he glowrt, he shor'd out:
Then rais't a most tremendous growl,
Sunk by the box, and desperate roar'd out:
“My soul—my all—my siller's fled!
Fled wi' a base confounded limmer!
O grief o' griefs! alake, my head!
My head rins roun', my een grow dimmer.
Wi' meikle, meikle faught an' care,
An' mony a lang night's fell vexation,
I toil'd, and watch'd to keep it there,
An' now I'm left in black starvation.
My meal, like snaw afore the sin,

[sun


Its aye ga'n doon an' aye beginnin',
Lade after lade she orders in,
An' than for trash she's ever rinnin'.

[then


A' day she'll drink an' flyte an' roar
A' night she tears me wi' her talons,
An' gin I crawl butt frae the door,
I'm hunted hame wi' dogs an' callans.
56

My sons, wi' chan'ler chafts gape roun',
To rive my gear, my siller frae me;
While lice an' fleas, an' vermin brown,
Thrangt in my sarks, eternal flae me.
Ye precious remnants! curst to me,
Ye dearest gifts to John e'er given;
Wi' you I've liv'd, wi' you I'll die,
Wi' you I'll gang to Hell or Heaven.”
He spak'; an' on the vera spot,
Ramt goud and notes, wi' trem'lin' hurry,
In han'fu's down his gorged-up throat,
While blude lap frae his een in fury.
I saw wi' dread, an' ran my lane,
To clear his throat and ease his breathing;
But ere I reach't he gied a grane,
An' lifeless lay alang the leathing.

EPITAPH ON AULD JANET.

A whore's a pitfal, and a scold's a rod;
An honest wife's a noble work of God!

Clean dead an' gane—beneath this stane
Auld Janet lies, o' Torry;
Life warm'd her blude, an' hale she stood,
Till Time saw her right hoary.
Weel lo'ed by a', she gaed fu' braw,
Clean, snod, an' wondrous gawsey;
A sonsier dame, or sappier wame,
Ne'er hotcht alangst the cawsey.
57

Her blythsome bield, to ilka chield
Wha bare a pack, was fenny;
Whare safe an' soun', they might lie down,
Syne rise an' pay their penny;
Till spitefu' Death clos'd up her breath,
An' a' our daffin hum'elt;
For, thro' the head he shot her dead,
An' down poor Janet tum'elt.
Ye pedlars now, O mournfu' view
This stane rear'd by a brither;
And as ye pass, greet owre the grass
That co'ers your auld kind mither;
For me—Oh deer! the waefu' tear
Starts at the dismal story;—
I'll gar ilk vale sad echoing wail,
That Janet's dead o' Torry.

THE SHARK;

OR LANG MILLS DETECTED.

“Yes, while I live, no rude or sordid knave
Shall walk the world in credit to his grave.”
—Pope.

Ye weaver blades! ye noble chiels!
Wha fill our land wi' plenty,
And mak our vera barest fiels
To waive wi' ilka dainty;
Defend yoursels, tak sicker heed,
I warn you as a brither;
Or Shark's resolved, wi' hellish greed,
To gorge us a' thegither,
At ance this day.
58

In Gude's-name will we ne'er get free
O' thieves and persecution!
Will Satan never let abee
To plot our dissolution!
Ae scoun'rel sinks us to the pit,
Wi' his eternal curses,
Anither granes,—and prays,—and yet
Contrives to toom our purses,
Maist every day.
A higher aim gars Willy think,
And deeper schemes he's brewin';
Ten thousan' fouk at ance to sink
To poverty and ruin!
Hail mighty patriot! Noble soul!
Sae generous, and sae civil,
Sic vast designs deserve the whole
Applauses of the devil
On ony day.
In vain we've toiled wi' head and heart,
And constant deep inspection,
For years on years, to bring this art
So nearly to perfection;
The mair that art and skill deserve,
The greedier Will advances;
And saws and barrels only serve
To heighten our expenses
And wrath this day.
But know, to thy immortal shame,
While stands a paper-spot,
So long, great Squeeze-the-poor! thy fame,
Thy blasted fame shall rot;
59

And as a brick or limestane kiln
Wi' sooty reek advances;
So grateful shall thy mem'ry still
Be to our bitter senses,
By night or day.
Lang Willy Shark wi' greedy snout
Had sneaked about the C---n---l,
To eat his beef and booze about,
Nor proved at drinking punch ill;
Till, Judas-like, he got the bag,
And squeezed it to a jelly;
Thae war the days for Will to brag,
And blest times for the belly
Ilk ither day.
The mair we get by heuk and cruk
We aften grow the greedier;
Shark raiket now through every neuk
To harl till him speedier;
His ghastly conscience, pale and spent,
Was summoned up, right clever;
Syne, wi' an execration sent
Aff, henceforth and for ever,
Frae him that day.
This done, trade snoovt awa wi' skill
And wonderfu' extention;
And widen't soon was every mill,
(A dexterous invention!)
Groat after groat, was clippet aff,
Frae ae thing and anither;
Till fouk began to think on draff,
To help to haud thegither
Their banes that day.
60

Now round frae cork to cork he trots
Wi' eagerness and rigour,
And “Rump the petticoats and spots!”
His Sharkship roared wi' vigour;
But, whan his harnishes cam in
In dizens in a morning;
And a' grew desolate and grim,
His rapture changed to mourning,
And rage that day.
Thus Haman, in the days of yore,
Pufft up wi' spitefu' evil,
Amang his blackguard, wicked core,
Contrived to play the devil;
High stood the gibbet's dismal cape,
But little thought the sinner
That he had caft the vera rape
Wad rax his neck, e'er dinner
Was owre that day.
Wha cou'd believe a chiel sae trig
Wad cheat us o' a bodle?
Or that sae fair a gowden wig
Contained sae black a noddle?
But Shark beneath a sleekit smile
Conceals his fiercest girning;
And, like his neighbours of the Nile,
Devours wi' little warning
By night or day.
O happy is that man and blest
Wha in the C---n---l gets him!
Soon may he cram his greedy kist
And dare a soul to touch him.
61

But should some poor auld wife, by force
O' poortith scrimp her measure,
Her cursed reels at P---y Corse,
Wad bleeze wi' meikle pleasure
To them that day.
Whiles, in my sleep, methinks I see
Thee marching through the city,
And Hangman Jock, wi' girnan glee,
Proceeding to his duty.
I see thy dismal phiz and back,
While Jock, his stroke to strengthen,
Brings down his brows at every swack,
“I'll learn your frien' to lengthen,
Your mills the day.”
Poor wretch! in sic a dreadfu' hour
O' blude and dirt and hurry,
What wad thy saftest luke or sour
Avail to stap their fury?
Lang Mills, wad rise around thy lugs
In mony a horrid volley;
And thou be kicket to the dugs,
To think upo' thy folly
Ilk after day.
Ye Senators! whase wisdom deep
Keeps a' our matters even,
If sic a wretch ye dare to keep,
How can ye hope for heaven?
Kick out the scoun'rel to his shift,
We'll pay him for his sporting,
And sen' his mills and him adrift
At ance to try their fortune
Down Cart this day.
62

Think, thou unconscionable Shark!
For heaven's sake bethink thee!
To what a depth of horrors dark
Sic wark will surely sink thee—
Repent of sic enormous sins,
And drap thy curst intention;
Or faith I fear, wi' brislt shins,
Thou'lt mind this reprehension
Some future day.

HOLLANDER, OR LIGHT WEIGHT.

“------ Unheard of tortures
Must be reserved for such, these herd together;
The common damned shun their society,
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul.”
—Blair.

Attend a' ye, wha on the loom,
Survey the shuttle jinking,
Whase purse has aft been sucket toom,
While Willie's scales war clinkin';
A' ye that for some luckless hole
Ha'e paid (though right unwillin')
To satisfy his hungry soul,
A saxpence or a shillin'
For fine some day.
Shall black Injustice lift its head,
And cheat us like the devil,
Without a man to stop its speed,
Or crush the growin' evil?
63

No;—here am I, wi' vengeance big,
Resolved to calm his clashin';
Nor shall his cheeps nor powdered wig,
Protect him frae a lashin'
Right keen this day.
See! cross his nose he lays the specks,
And o'er the claith he glimmers;
Ilk wee bit triflin' fau't detects,
And cheeps, and to him yaummers,
“Dear man!—that wark 'ill never do;
See that: ye'll no tak' tellin';”
Syne knavish chirts his fingers through,
And libels down a shilling
For holes that day.
Perhaps the fellow's needin' clink,
To calm some threatnin' beagle,
Whilk mak's him at sic baseness wink,
And for some siller wheedle.
In greetin', herse, ungracious croon,
Aul' Willy granes, “I hear ye,
But weel a wat! our siller's done,
We really canna spare ye
Ae doyt this day.”
Health to the brave Hibernian boy,
Who when by Willie cheated,
Cocked up his hat, without annoy,
And spoke with passion heated;
“Upon my sowl I have a mind,
Ye old deceiving devil,
To toss your wig up to the wind,
And teach you to be civil,
To me this day.”
64

But see! anither curtain's drawn,
Some chiel his web has finish't,
And Willy on the tither han',
The price o't has diminish't.
But brought before the awfu' Judge,
To pay the regulation;
Will lifts his arm without a grudge,
And swears by his salvation—
He's right that day.
Anither's been upo' the push,
To get his keel in claith,
In certain hopes to be sure flush,
O' notes and siller baith.
Returnin' for his count at night,
The poor imposed-on mortal,
Maun pay for punds o' clean light weight,
Though he's maist at the portal,
O' want that day.
In vain he pleads—appeals to God,
That scarce he lost an ounce;
The holy watcher o' the broad,
Cheeps out that he's a dunce.
Out frae the door he e'en maun come,
Right thankfu' gin he get
Some counterfeits, a scanty sum
Brought frae the aul' kirk yate,
Yon preachin' day.
O sirs! what conscience he contains,
What curse maun he be dreein';
Whase every day is marked wi' stains
O' cheatin' and o' leein'!
65

M'K---l, H---b, or trowther O---r,
May swear and seem to fash us,
But justice dignifies their door,
And gen'rously, they clash us
The clink each day.
Our Hollander, (gude help his soul)
Kens better ways o' workin',
For Jock and him has aft a spraul,
Wha'll bring the biggest dark in.
“Weel, Jock, what hast thou skrewt the day?”
“Deed father I'se no crack o't;
Nine holes, sax ounce, or there away,
Is a' that I cou'd mak o't
This live lang day.”
Sic conversation aft takes place,
When darkness hides their logic;
Like Milton's Deil and Sin, they trace
For some new winning project:
Daft though they be, and unco gloits,
Yet they can count like scholars,
How farthings, multiplied by doits,
Grow up to pounds and dollars,
Some after day.
Forbye, to gie the deil his due,
I own, wi' biggest won'er,
That nane can sell their goods like you,
Or swear them up a hun'er.
Lang hacknied in the paths of vice,
Thy conscience nought can fear her;
And tens and twals can, in a trice,
Jump up twa hun'er far'er,
On ony day.
66

What town can thrive wi' sic a crew
Within its entrails crawlin',
Muck-worms, that must provoke a spew
To see or hear them squallin'!
Down on your knees, man, wife, and wean—
For ance implore the deevil,
To haurl to himself his ain;
And free us frae sic evil,
This vera day.

HAB'S DOOR,

OR THE TEMPLE OF TERROR.

Oh a' ye Nine wha wing the lift,
Or trip Parnassus' green;
Or through droll bardies' noddles skift,
And mak' them bauld and bien;
Attend me while a scene I lift,
An awfu' waefu' screen;
That aft maist sent my saul adrift,
Out at my vera een.
On mony a day.
Now draw the string—hail weel kent part,
Ye doors and firms—black gear;
But cease, thou flighterin' thuddin' heart,
Thou naething hast to fear;
The Muses deign thus low to dart,
To guard thy footsteps here;
Then cock thy bonnet brisk and smart,
The ferlies see and hear,
This waefu' day.
67

See how they're scuddin' up the stair,
A' breathless, and a' pechin'—
“Wha cam' last?” “Me,” cries some ane there—
Still up their comin' stechin';
Some oxtering pocks o' silken ware,
Some lapfus hov't like kechan;
An' aft the sigh, and hum, and stare,
E'en frichtet like they're hechin',
Sad, sad, this day.
“Is this the dolefu' jougs, gudewife,
Or black stool o' repentance?
Or are ye try't 'tween death and life,
And waiting for your sentence?
Ye leuk to be a dismal corps
O' desolate acquaintance!”
“Whisht,” quo' the wife, “ye maunna roar,
Or lad ye'll soon be sent hence,
By Hab this day.”
Now twiggle twiggle goes the door,
In steps the foremost comer;
Tak's aff his cowl, pu's out his store,
A' shakin', tells the num'er.
The ready scales, a clinkin' corps
O' weights, amaist a hun'er;
Lets Andrew ken what down to score,
Syne heaves it out like lum'er,
In's neive this day.
Now, now, you wretch, prepare, prepare,
And tak' a snuff to cheer ye;
See how he spreads your lizures bare—
Hech, but they're black and dreary.
68

“Lord, sirrah,” Hab roars like a bear,
“What stops me but I tear ye?
Such lizures!—damn your blood, ye stare—
By God, ye dog, I'll swear ye
To hell this day.”
The poor soul granes aneath the rod,
As burning in a fever,
His knees to ane anither nod,
And hand, and lip pale, quiver.
The tiger stamps, with fury shod,
“Confound your blasted liver,
Bring hame the beating, and by God
Ye may be damned for ever,
For ought I care.”
Now swelled to madness, round the room
Hab like a fury prances;
While each successive comer's doom
Is fixt to hell as chance is.
His agents a', wi' sullen gloom
Mute, measure, as he dances
With horrid rage, damning the loom,
And weavers; soon he scances
Their claith this day.
His fate met out, awa' wi' speed
The plackless sinner trudges;
Glad to escape the killing dread
O' sic unfeeling judges.
His greetin' weans mourn out for bread,
The hopeless wife now grudges;
And ruin gathers round his head,
In many a shape that huge is,
And grim this day.
69

And now, ye pridefu' wabster chiels,
How dare ye stand afore him,
And say he aften gi'es to deils,
Men that's by far before him;
Ye mock his skill o' claith and keels,
And frae douce christians score him,
But haith gin he kens this as weel,
To coin oaths I'se encore him
Aloud this day.
Go on—great, glorious Hab, go on—
Rave owre the trembling wretches;
Mind neither music, sex, nor one,
But curse them a' for bitches;
While echo answers every groan,
That their deep murmur fetches;
Damn every poor man's worth, and moan,
For that exalts like riches,
Bright souls as thine.
But when that serious day or night
That sure to come draws near;
When thy ain wab, a dismal sight,
Maun to be judged appear.
Ha, Hab! I doubt thy weight owre light,
Will gar thee girn and swear;
An' thou'lt gang down the brimstane height,
Weel guarded flank and rear,
To hell that day.
71

ADDRESS TO THE SYNOD OF GLASGOW AND AYR.

Ye very reverend haly dads,
Wha fill the black gown dously,
And deal divinity in blauds,
Amang the vulgar crously;
72

And when in Synod ye do sit,
There to fill up your station;
Ye fleech the king and Willy Pitt,
And roose the Proclamation
Wi' pith this day.
I hae a word or twa to gie,
Ye'll maybe think it's flyting;
Gin ye wad lend your lugs a wee,
Ye'll get it het and piping;
An overture, that ne'er cam' through
Presbyt'ry or Session;
And to your reverences now
It comes without digression
In lumps this day.
Ye wad do weel to feed your flocks,
And read your buiks mair tenty;
Then ye wad better raise your stocks,
And fill your ha's wi' plenty.
Morality and common sense,
And reason ye should doat on;
For then ye're sure of recompense
Frae ladies and your patron
On sic a day.
Ye think to get your wages up
For sic a lang oration;
But aiblins ye may get the slip—
Ye've cankered half the nation.
Though P---s be a funny soul,
And fu' o' craft and learning;
He'll hardly get a siller bowl
Worth forty shillings sterling,
For thanks yon day.
73

Sic things are but ill taen thir days,
When Liberty's sae raging;
And in her leel and noble cause
Ten thousands are engaging:
The Kirk should a' your time mortgage,
For weel she pays the cost;
And royalty and patronage
Eternally's your toast,
Baith night and day.
O Patronage! ye cunning baud,
Ye should be sairly thumpit;
Deil blaw ye south, ye cruel jade,
Ye ne'er-do-weel like strumpet.
For under your infamous wing,
The clergy sits sae paughty;
And slyly hums the foolish king,
Wi' cracks that are fell daughty,
For clink this day.
The ‘Rights of Man’ is now weel kenned,
And read by mony a hunder;
For Tammy Paine the buik has penned,
And lent the Courts a lounder;
It's like a keeking-glass to see
The craft of Kirk and statesmen;
And wi' a bauld and easy glee,
Guid faith the birky beats them
Aff hand this day.
Though Geordy be deluded now,
And kens na what's a-doing;
Yet aiblins he may find it true
There is a blast a-brewing.
74

For British boys are in a fiz,
Their heads like bees are humming;
And for their rights and liberties
They're mad upon reforming
The Court this day.
But gin the proclamation should
Be put in execution,
Then brethren ye may chew your cud,
And fear a revolution.
For fegs ye've led the Kirk a dance,
Her tail is now in danger;
For of the liberties in France
Nae Scotsman is a stranger
At hame this day.
But deil may care for a' your thanks,
And prayers that did confirm it;
Like Lewis in his royal branks,
The king and you may girn yet.
There's mony a chiel of noble stuff,
'Tween Johnny Groats and Dover,
That starkly may gie him a cuff,
And send him to Hanover,
Wi' speed some day.
Ye think yoursels sae safe and snug,
That ne'er a ane dare strike ye;
But for your thanks, I'll lay my lug,
Few patriots will like ye:
The Kirk is now on her last legs,
And to the pot she's tumbling;
And troth my lads ye're aff your eggs,
For a' your gratefu' mumbling,
On sic a day.
75

It's true indeed she's lang stood out
Against Dissenting nostrums;
Although she's gotten many a clout
Frae their despis'd rostrums.
The State has long kept at her side,
And firmly did support her;
But Liberty wi' furious tide,
Is like to come athwart her
Pell mell this day.
The power of clergy, wylie tykes,
Is unco fast declining;
And courtiers' craft, like snaw aff dykes,
Melts when the sun is shining;
Auld Monarchy, wi' cruel paw,
Her dying pains is gnawing;
While Democracy, trig and braw,
Is through a' Europe crawing
Fu' crouse this day.
But lest the Muse exaggerate,
Come, here's for a conclusion,
On every true blue Democrate
I ken ye'll pray confusion.
But frae your dark and deep designs
Fair Liberty will hide us;
Frae Glasgow and frae Ayr divines
We pray good Lord to guide us
On ilka day.
76

AN EXPOSTULATORY ADDRESS TO THE RAGGED SPECTRE, POVERTY.

Haggard harlot! why thus dare
To wage with me eternal war?
Shall I bear it? no, thou strumpet!
Here I swear in voice like trumpet,
Soon's thou shows thy visage, elf,
Meet thy fate and blame thyself.
Did I e'er invite or wrong thee?
Did I vow e'er to belong t'thee?
Do I welcome? do I nurse thee?
No, thou ly'st—I hate, I curse thee;
Why then, black, presumpt'ous ghost,
Why thus stern invade my coast?
Some, thou throws but shadows o'er them,
Fly'st thyself, and all adore them.
Why thus partial? If the Muse
Deign at times to bliss my brows,
I lift the pen—prepare for study,
There thou stares, grim, ghastly, duddy;
Shakes thy rags, begins thy grieving,
Terrifies the Muse to heaven;
Then displays my pockets empty,
Belly worse, and all to tempt me.
Humour, rhyming, headlong scampers;
Rotten stockings, soleless trampers,
Nameless torments, crowds of evils
Grin around like real devils.
So disfigur'd with thy scoffing,
Need I wonder why so often
Friends go past, nae answer gi'e me,
Look their watch, and never see me.
77

ODE,

FOR THE BIRTHDAY OF OUR IMMORTAL SCOTTISH POET; SET TO MUSIC BY A BACCHANALIAN CLUB.

Ye sons of bright Phœbus, ye bards of the plough,
Shout aloud! and let gladness sublime every brow;
See the young rosy morning rejoicing returns,
That blest our fair isle with the rare Robin Burns!
Let the pure aquavitæ now inspire ev'ry soul,
Since whisky can waft us at once to the pole;
Let us laugh down the priest and the devil by turns,
And roar out the praise of the rare Robin Burns.
Hail blest “Ordination”! all hail “Holy Fair”!
Ye glorious effusions! ye thrice-sacred pair!
Your pages the rake on his death-bed o'erturns,
And mixes a damn with “O rare Robin Burns!”
By Babel no more let us languish forlorn,
Come twitch up the strings to great “John Barleycorn”;
Be our friendship eternal, and laid in our urns,
If we roar let us roar with the rare Robin Burns.
Ye nymphs of old Colia, who exult in his art,
And have felt the warm raptures glide home to your heart,
Leave your raw, lifeless clodpoles, your cows and your churns,
And encore the great sportsman, “O rare Robin Burns!”
Clear the road, ye dull churchmen! make way for our bard,
To whose tow'ring genius no task is too hard;
Your glories, your precepts, your nonsense he spurns,
And Europe loud echoes, “O rare Robin Burns!”
Rejoice ye Excisemen! resound the huzza!
Nor tremble, by piecemeal in brimstone to gnaw;
Though horrors surround, he's a coward that mourns,
All hell will befriend you for rare Robin Burns.
78

Hark, hark! what an uproar! every ghost is afoot,
How they brandish their fire-brands 'mid darkness and soot!
See legion on legion tumultuous adjourns,
To swell the loud strain of “O rare Robin Burns!”
Ye “heav'n-taught” rhymers, ye bards of the plough,
Shout aloud! and let gladness sublime every brow;
While the young rosy morning rejoicing returns,
That blest our fair isle with the rare Robin Burns.

ACHTERTOOL.

[_]

Tune,—“One bottle more.”

From the village of Lessly, with a heart full of glee,
And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free;
Resolv'd that same ev'ning, as Luna was full,
To lodge ten miles distant, in old Achtertool.
Thro' many a lone cottage and farmhouse I steer'd,
Took their money, and off with my budget I sheer'd;
The road I explor'd out, without form or rule,
Still asking the nearest to old Achtertool.
A clown I accosted, enquiring the road;
He stared like an ideot, then roar'd out “Gude God,
Gin ye're ga'n there for quarters, ye're surely a fool,
For there's nought but starvation in auld Achtertool.”
Unminding his nonsense, my march I pursu'd,
Till I came to a hill-top, where joyful I view'd,
Surrounded with mountains, and many a white pool,
The small smoky village of old Achtertool.
79

At length I arriv'd at the edge of the town,
As Phœbus behind a high mountain went down;
The clouds gather'd dreary, and weather blew foul,
And I hugg'd myself safe now in old Achtertool.
An inn I enquir'd out, a lodging desir'd,
But the landlady's pertness seem'd instantly fir'd;
For she saucy reply'd, as she sat carding wool,
“I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld Achtertool.”
With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride,
But asking, was told there was none else beside,
Except an old weaver, who now kept a school,
And these were the whole that were in Achtertool.
To his mansion I scamper'd, and rapt at the door;
He op'd, but as soon as I dar'd to implore,
He shut it like thunder, and utter'd a howl,
That rung through each corner of old Achertool.
Provok'd now to fury, the domini I curst,
And offer'd to cudgel the wretch, if he durst;
But the door he fast bolted, though Boreas blew cool,
And left me all friendless in old Achtertool.
Depriv'd of all shelter, thro' darkness I trod,
Till I came to a ruin'd old house by the road;
Here the night I will spend, and inspir'd by the owl,
I'll send up some prayers for old Achtertool!

FIRST EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES DOBIE.

Clos'd in a garret spread wi' beuks,
Whare spider-wabs, in dozens
Hing mirk athort the winnock neuks,
Maist dark'ning up the lozens;
80

Thro' whilk the sin, wi' beams sae braw,
Ne'er shows his face discreetly,
Save whan out owre the Misty-Law,
He's flitherin' downward sweetly,
To close the day.
Here sits the bardie, sir, his lane,
Right glad to rest retir'd;
His griefs an' girnin' cares a' gane,
An' a' his fancy fir'd;
The Muses round him dancin' thrang,
Their skill fu' proud to show it;
In lively measure, thun'erin' lang,
To sing an' please the poet
O' Beith, this day.
O! how my heart exulting loups,
To meet a chiel like you;
Life's bitter horn aside it coups,
An' fill'st wi' chearing blue:
While chaunrin' critics grin an' growl,
An' curse whate'er they light on,
The honest, friendly, gen'rous soul,
Can check, inspire, and brighten,
Wi' ease each day.
Yet some there are whase flinty hearts,
An' hollow heads (poor wretches!)
Despise the poet's glorious parts,
An' ca' them daudron bitches.
Tell them a plan o' cent per cent,
They'll glut yer words like hinee;
But mention poetry, they'll gaunt
An' gloom, as gin't were sinee,
Or salts, that day.
81

Anither set comes in my view,
A' trampin' Heaven's way in;
See! how they shake their heads an' groo
At ought but grace an' prayin':
These godly fouks will tak' the qualms,
To hear a rhyme-repeater,
An' solemnly declare the 'Salms
To be the far best metre
On earth this day.
Poor brainless wights! they little ken
Its charms, its soaring fire;
In ev'ry age, the best of men
Have, raptur'd, tun'd the lyre:
'Tis this that breathes Job's mournful plaints,
Or aids him to adore;
And this the seraph's mouth, and saints,
Will fill when Time's no more,
But endless day.
Whan bonny Spring adorns the year,
An' ilka herb is springing,
An' birds on blossom'd branches, clear
Wi' lightsome hearts are singing;
How sweet to rove at early morn,
Whare dewy flow'rs are ranket,
While they wha sic enjoyments scorn,
Lie snorin' in a blanket,
Till height o' day.
I ne'er was rich, nor ever will,
But ony time ye come
To our bit town, we'se hae a gill,
An' owr't we'se no sit dumb.
82

A gill, man, spreads the Muse's wing,
Sets ilka quill in order;
And gars her mount, an' soar, an' sing,
Till she maist gains the border
O' brightest day.

SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES DOBIE.

Edinburgh—
While rains are blattrin' frae the south,
An' down the lozens seepin';
An' hens in mony a caul' closs-mouth,
Wi' hingin' tails are dreepin';
The Muse an' me,
Wi' frien'ly glee,
Hae laid our heads thegither,
Some rhyme to pen,
Syne bauldly sen'
To you, the jinglin' blether.
Auld Reekie for this month an' mair,
Has held me in her bosom;
Her streets a' streamin' like a Fair,
Wi' mony a beauteous blossom;
Their bosoms, whilk
Seen through the silk,
Heav'd up sae blest uneven,
Maist gars me swear,
To tempt us here,
Jove drapt them down frae Heav'n.
83

Here strutting wi' their glitt'rin' boots,
An' flutterin' a' wi' ruffles,
The coxcomb keen, to rax his koots,
Alang the planestanes shuffles:
Wi' sweet perfumes,
Like apple blooms,
He fills the air aroun';
His hale employ,
How to enjoy
The pleasures of the town.
Fair as the gay enrapt'ring Nine,
That tread the fam'd Parnassus;
And rang'd in mony a glorious line,
Appear the bouncin' lasses;
Whase shape, adzooks
An' killing looks,
An' claes like e'ening cluds;
Wad hermits fire
Wi' fond desire,
To leave their caves an' woods.
Here mony a wight, frae mony a place,
At mony an occupation,
Exhibits mony a groosome face,
In hurrying consternation;
Some shakin' bells,
Some hammerin' stells,
Some coblin' shoon in cloysters;
Here coaches whirlin',
There fish-wives skirlin'
“Wha'll buy my cauler oysters?”
But, see! yon dismal form that louts,
Black crawlin' owre a midding,
84

Thrang scartin' cin'ers up, an' clouts,
That i' the awse lie hidden;
While round her lugs,
Poor starvin' dogs,
Glowre fierce wi' hungry gurle;
She wi' a clash
O' dirt or awse,
Begins a horrid quarrel.
Sic creatures dauner auld an' clung,
Whan morning rises gawsey;
An' mony a hutch o' human dung
Lies skinklin' owre the cawsey:
Out-through't wat shod,
I've aften trod,
Wi' heart maist like to scunner;
Oblidg't to rin,
Least, like a lin,
Some tubfu' down might thun'er.
O shocking theme! but, sir, to you
I leave the moralizing;
Ye hae the pictures in your view
Mair orthodox than pleasing.
Farewell a wee;
Lang may ye be
Wi' fortune blest in season,
Within your arms
To clasp the charms
That kings wad joy to gaze on.
85

AN EPISTLE TO MR. EBENEZER PICKEN.

O thou wha 'midst lang yellow ranks
O' gowans, on sweet Cartha's banks,
Row't in a skinklan plaid;
Souns loud the Scottish Muse's horn,
Aneath some spreadan eldren thorn,
An' maks the herdies glad;
While lads an' laughin' lasses free
Chirt in to hear thy sang;
Will Eben let a chiel like me
Join wi' the chearfu' thrang?
A wee while, in auld stile,
On Pegassus I'll scrive;
Sae tent me, an' canty
I soon sal tak my leave.
This ha'f a year yer funny tales,
Owre mosses, mountains, seas an' dales,
I've carried i' my lingle;
An' scores o' times, in kintra tafts,
They've gart the fouk maist rive their chafts,
Whan owre a bra' peat ingle,
I loot them hear droll Symon's crack,
Wi' Hodge, twa curious cronies;
How the queer carles sae camsheugh spake,
'Bout pouther't cockernonies.
Young Jenny an' Nannie,
An' Meg wad laught thegither;
Sly sneeran an' swearan,
“Od, that's just like our father.”
Whan “Aul' Joanna i' the Brae,”
Or “Bonny Bell,” and mony mae,
They hear me try to tout;
86

Or when poor “Brownie” tells his tale,
How he was maist kidnappèd hale,
Blude drappan frae his snout:
When “Yon Spat's” fearfu' fa' ye mourn,
In simple hammart croon;
Nae mair to get a needfu' turn
Aneath it's biggin' doon;
Lord help me! they yelp me,
Wi' laughin' near han' deaf;
While sweatin' an' greetin'
I turn the tither leaf.
“Preserves!” says Jean, an' stops her wheel,
“An' do you really ken the chiel!
An' whar-a'wa's his dwallin?”
“I'd gang,” quo' Meg, “a simmer day
To get ae glint o'm in my way,
Tho' I soud spen a shilling.”
Out granes auld grannie frae the neuk,
Whare at the rock she's rivan;
“Vow sirs! an' did he mak the beuk
Just out his ain contrivin!
Whare-e'er he's I'm sure he's
A minister, or mair;
Sic stories, sae curious,
Wad tak a man o' lear.”
But, Eben, thinkna this but clatter,
An' that I tell't for fau't o' matter,
To lengthen out a crack;
It's what I've heard a hun'er times
The fouk exclaim, wha read your rhymes,
Or may I burn my pack.
87

Wi' chiels o' taste an' genius baith,
I aften hae forgather't;
An' war I to relate their breath
O' you, ye'd say I blether't.
Wi' leisure an' pleasure,
I've seen them aft read owre,
While strokes o' wit, wi' ready hit,
Gart aft the reader glowre.
For me, when I begin to read
About aul' honest Harry dead;
Beneath the yird laid stieve in;
Or at the bauld brooze o' wasps an' bees,
Whilk had set Allan in a bleeze,
Had the auld bard been livin';
Or that which scorns the bounds o' rhyme,
Fate, sung in lofty strains,
Owre whulk I've grutten mony a time,
An' blest ye for yer pains.
Whan these an' a thousan'
Mae beauties strike my e'e,
Inspirèd, I'm firèd
Wi' won'rous thoughts o' thee.
Let senseless critics roun' ye squeel,
An' curl like ony empron eel,
Wi' want o' taste or spite;
Nane e'er gat fame in's native spat,—
The vera Haly Beuk says that,—
But let them girn an' flyte.
While I can douk in ink a quill,
An' blether rhyme or prose;
While spoons an' ladles help to fill
My kyte, wi' kail or brose;
88

Believe it, while I'm fit
The right frae left to know it;
I'll reverence, while blest wi' sense,
The poems and the poet.
If ever fortune, thrawart bitch!
Should kick me in Misfortune's ditch,
Awhile to lie an' warsle;
Gif I yer sangs hae in my fab,
An' whiles a glass to heat my gab,
An' snuff to smart my girsle;
Tho' beagles, hornings, an' sic graith,
Glowre roun', they ne'er sal dread me:
I'll canty chaunt aul' Harry's death,
While up the stair they lead me;
I'll roar than, I'll soar than,
Out thro' the vera cluds;
Tho' hung roun', an' clung roun',
Wi' stenchers an' wi' duds.
Owre Highlan' hills I've rov'd this whyle,
Far to the north, whare mony a mile
Ye'll naething see but heather;
An' now-an'-than a wee bit cot,
Bare, hunkerin' on some lanely spot,
Whare ither words they blether.
Last owk there on a winnock-sole,
I fan some aul' newspaper;
And tho' 'twas riv'n in mony a hole,
Yet, fegs, it made me caper;
When scanin't, I fan in't
Some rhyme I ne'er had seen,
How nature ilk creature
Maks canty, blythe, an' bien.
89

Ha, Eben! hae I catcht ye here,
Quoth I, in unco glee an' chear,
While their nainsels a' gapet,
And speer't right droll, gin she was mine,
An' whareabouts me did her tine?
(While aff the sang I clippet,)
Some bawbies bury't a' the plea,
Though they afore war sweer o't;
Sae aff I came in clever key,
Resolv'd to let you hear o't;
Now fareweel, my braw chiel,
Lang tune the reed wi' spirit;
Let asses spit clashes,
Fools canker aye at merit.

EPISTLE TO A BROTHER PEDLAR.

Thou curious, droll, auld-farran chiel,
Some rhyme I'se now ha'e wi' thee;
May I gang hurlin' to the de'il,
But I'd be blythe to see thee.
'Mang a' the chiels wha bear a pack,
Thro' kintra, town, or claughan;
The fient a ane can tell a crack,
Whilk sets us aye a laughin',
Like thee, this day.
A snawy winter's now maist owre,
Since we frae other parted;
Like ony ghaist I than did glowre,
Wi' sickness broken-hearted.
90

But, by my sang! now gin we meet,
We'll hae a tramp right clever;
Since I'm now stively on my feet,
An' hale an' weel as ever,
This blessed day.
Whiles whan I think upo' our tramp,
It sets me aft a sneering;
Though 'deed our conscience it shou'd damp,
When we ca' to a clearing;
How whiles, amang the lasses' smocks,
We rais'd an unco splutter;
On Sundays, speelt owre awfu' rocks,
Or ramt auld Grannie's butter,
I' the plate, yon day.
I'll ne'er forget yon dreadfu' morn,
That maist had prov'd our ruin;
When ye sat on a sack forlorn,
Ha'f dead wi' fright and spewin.
Waves dashing down wi' blatt'rin' skyle,
Wins roarin'—sailors flyting;
Poor wretches bockin, rank an' file,
An' some (God knows!) maist shiteing
Their breeks, that day.
Though conscience' gab we try to steek,
It gies ane whiles a tassle:
I'm cheated gin it didna speak,
Right smartly at Fa's Castle.
Poor Jute! she'd curse our ilka step,
When she tauld owre her siller;
But faith, she got an honest kepp,
Might ser't a decent miller,
Sax years an' mair.
91

Lang may thou, aye right snug an' dry,
Frae barns be kept aback;
Whare tinkler wives an' beggars ly,
An' rain seeps thro' the thack.
Aft may some canty kintra wife,
Whan hunger wrings thy painches,
Draw through her cheese the muckle knife,
An' stap thy pouch wi' lunches
O' scons, that day.

FIRST EPISTLE TO MR. WILLIAM MITCHELL.

Leadhills, April—
Hail! kind, free, honest-hearted swain,
My ne'er forgotten frien';
Wha aft has made me, since wi' pain
We parted, dight my e'en;
Ance mair frae aff a lanely plain,
Whare warlocks wauk at e'en,
An' witches dance; I'll raise my strain
Till to your bield bedeen
It sound this day.
Wide muirs that spread wi' purple sweep,
Beneath the sunny glowe;
Hills swell'd vast, here—there dark glens deep,
Whare brooks embosom'd rowe;
92

Cots hingin' owre the woody steep,
Bields reekin' frae the howe;
Wild scenes like these, a blissfu' heap,
Has driven't in my powe
To write this day.
Be this thy last, my Muse, and swear
By a' that e'er thou sung,
'Till Mitchell's cheerfu' song thou hear,
To chain thy tuneless tongue—
It's sworn! I saw her frowning, rear
Her arm, an' while it hung
Aloft in air, glens that lay near,
An' rocks re-echoing rung
Consent this day.
Yet wha can, daunerin' up thir braes,
No fin' his heart a' dancin';
While herdies sing wi' huggert taes,
An' wanton lam's are prancin';
Or down the spreadin' vale to gaze,
Whare glitt'rin' burns are glancin';
An' sleepin' lochs, owre whase smooth face
Wild fowl sport the expanse in,
Ilk bonny day.
Here mountains raise their heath'ry backs,
Rang'd huge aboon the lift;
In whase dark bowels, for lead tracts,
Swarm'd miners howk an' sift;
High owre my head the sheep in packs,
I see them mice-like skift;
The herd maist like ane's finger, wauks
Aboon yon fearfu' clift
Scarce seen this day.
93

Here mills rin thrang, wi' whilk in speed
They melt to bars the ore in;
Nine score o' fathoms shanks down lead,
To let the hammerin' core in;
Whare hun'ers for a bit o' bread
Continually are borin';
Glowre down a pit, you'd think, wi' dread,
That gangs o' deils war roarin'
Frae hell that way.
Alangst the mountain's barren side,
Wi' holes an' caverns digget;
In lanely raws, withouten pride,
Their bits o' huts are bigget;
Nae kecklin' hens about the door,
E'er glad their chearless Lucky;
They pick the pyles o' leaden ore,
Whilk to poor heedless chucky
Is death that day.
A wimplan burn atween the hills,
Thro' mony a glen rins trottin';
Amang the stanes an' sunny rills
Aft bits o' gowd are gotten;
Thought I “Three yeer thro' closs an' trance,
An' doors I've been decoy't;
Now Fortune's kussen me up a chance,
An' fegs I sal employ't
Right thrang this day.”
Sae up the burn wi' glee I gade,
An' down aboon some heather,
Saft on the brae my pack I laid,
Till twa-three lumps I'd gather;
94

But wae-be-till't, had I forseen
Things war to turn sae doolfu';
I ne'er had waded there sae keen,
Tho' sure to fin a shoolfu'
An' mair that day.
As thro' the stream, wi' loutin' back,
Thrang, stanes an' sand I threw out;
A toop, who won'ert at my pack,
Cam down to take a view o't;
A tether-length he back did gae,
An' cam wi' sic a dash,
That hale-sale hurlan' down the brae,
It blatter't wi' a blash
I' tho burn that day!
Tho' earthquakes, hail, an' thuner's blaze
Had a' at ance surroundet,
I wudna' glowr't wi' sic amaze,
Nor been ha'f sae confoundet!
Wi' waefu' heart, before it sank,
I haul't it out a' clashing;
And now they're bleaching on the bank,
A melancholy washing
To me this day.

SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. WILLIAM MITCHELL.

While ye nod on the weaver's thronie,
Porin' wi' sharp inspection,
Or in a freak wi' lasses bonny,
Skip round in supple action;
95

Or maybe wi' a bosom crony,
Kick up a funny faction;
Accept this as a testimony
Of my sincere affection
For you this day.
In fact, my frien', I wad hae writ,
Lang ere this time wi' pleasure;
But something touch'd aye on my fit,
An' bade me tak' my leisure.
Yon callan's sic a pawky wit,
Gif he but mak' a seizure
O' ae daft word, ye'll get a skit
Will wring your head, as bees war
In't thick this day.
Sae aft the pen I laid aside,
Wi' this bugbear reflection;
As aft my heart wad fairly chide
Me for the harsh objection;
Till just the day, within I staid,
And band wi' baul affection,
Tho' ye sud cut an' ga' my hide
Wi' critical dissection,
I'd write this day.
Sae paper, pen, an' ink I got,
An' down to wark I set me;
And soon a lengthen'd sang I wrote,
For mirth the lines did mete me.
I sey'd ance to cast off my coat,
The thoughts o't hae sae het me;
But, as my brain was on the trot,
The hurry wadna let me
Tak time this day.
96

Aweel, whane'er I got it doon,
I took a canny view o't;
Where notes raise tow'rin' to the moon,
That, troth, I scarcely knew it.
'Twas set to sic a skirlin' tune,
I heartily did rue it;
And least ye sud e'en laugh owre soon,
Dash i' the fire I threw it,
Wi' rage that day.
Yet still resolv'd something to sen',
I didna stan' to swither,
But duket i' the ink my pen,
An' so began anither;
Nae poetry, but just the ken
O' Scotland, my auld mither;
In hopes I wadna you offen',
By jinglin' it thegither
In rhyme this day.
Ye ken ye sung auld Harry's fate,
An' deed it was e'en curious,
Whan at the fire he hunker't late,
An' croon'd a prayer spurious;
As “Lord sen' us aye garse an' meat,
Till ance Thou skin an' bury us;”
Syne turn'd his fish, or sent a sklate
Out thro' the winnock, furious,
At chiels that night.
I ne'er cou'd gab prodigious pert,
An' flatterin' phrazing gi'e you;
An' laugh, an' sing, an' crack sae smart,
Syne wi' dame Fortune lea' you.
97

But cou'd you peep into this heart,
That jumps aye when I see you;
Ye'd fin' a saul could gladly part
It's hinmaist bannock wi' ye
On ony day.
Blyth wad I be to shake your han',
Gif matters wad allow me;
But Fortune's ta'en a slippery stan',
An' leuks right sullen to me.
Yet aftentimes the morning's dawn,
Hangs cloudy, dull and gloomy;
Till Sol dispels the misty ban',
An' shines bright, warm an' roomy,
A bonny day.
My compliments I'll hope ye'll gie
To garrulous Rab G---y;
Tell him, I trust he bears the gree,
Aye dadlin' poor an' hearty;
Altho' I fear the barley bree,
An' roving blades sae quirty;
May gar him speed his wings an' flee,
An' lea' his nest right dirty,
Like mae yon day.
Now gi'es yer hand, and fare-ye-weel,
Kind, honest-hearted Willy!
Aye whan I meet a canty chiel,
It minds me o' the billy,
Wha aften us'd, wi' heart fu' leel,
To show his wondrous skillie;
An' made our vera hearts to reel,
Whan owre a pint or gillie,
For joy that day.
98

Lang may thou weather't out-an'-in
Without a drog or plaister;
An' may thou tune the violin,
Aye sweeter an' aye faster;
An' swell an' sink the notes sae keen
Wi' gracefu' air an' gesture,
Till An'rew lift his hands an' een,
An' own that Will's his master
By night or day.

THIRD EPISTLE TO WILLIAM MITCHELL.

Dear Willy, now I've ta'en the pen,
Wi' lightsome heart, to let you ken,
I'm livin' yet and weel;
Tho' cuft and dauded gayan sair,
Since last I left that luckless Ayr,
Thro' mony a moor an' fiel'.
Misfortunes, on ilk ithers' backs,
Come roaring whyles aroun' me;
For comfort to the blue I rax,
Or ablins they might drown me.
What sights man, what frights man,
Are pedlars doom'd to thole;
Aye chaunerin' an' daunerin'
In eager search for cole.
But let us cease this heartless sang,
An', gin ye binna unco thrang,
I'll here lay down my pack;
99

Tho' miles in scores atween us lie,
An' hills, an' seas, yet, haith we'll try
Out owre them a' to crack.
Dame Fortune, thou may hing thy brow,
An' girn wi' threat'nin' een;
I carena a' thy spite, since now,
At last, I've fun' a frien';
Let misers owre treasures,
O' goud an' siller croon;
A blessing like this ane,
Gangs never, never doon.
While youth and health inspires our blood,
In innocent and sprightly mood,
We'll cheat the cares of life;
By friendship sowthert into ane,
We'll be as firm, as stark again,
To stan' the warly strife;
An' when slee Love's endearing dart
Inflames our glowan veins;
We'll thowe the bonny lasses' heart
In saft complaining strains;
Nae sorrows, before us,
Sal drive us to despair;
Tho' carefu', yet chearfu',
We'll hug the smiling Fair.
But, if alas! it hap that e'er
A flaw in friendship shou'd appear,
Thro' passion or mistake;
Oh! never, never let us part,
Wi' hate or envy in our heart,
Curst, base revenge to take;
100

But strive, wi' kind relenting speech,
Upo' the very spot,
To men' the mournfu' luckless breach,
An' firm the slacken'd knot:
Then langer an' stranger,
Our friendship will remain;
Aye dowin' an' glowin'
Without a crack or stain.
An' when frail eild—if e'er we see't—
Sal gie us stilts instead o' feet,
An' shake our hingan pows;
We'll hotch awa' wi' friendly grane,
And soss down on yon sinny stane
Amang the broomy knows;
An' soon's our hechs an' heys are by,
An' baith our rungs laid down;
An' we twa streekit, beekin lie,
Auld, runkly-fac'd, an' brown;
The sporting, the courting,
We had, when we war young;
An' wonders, in hunders,
Sal gallop frae our tongue.
Perhaps Rab G---y's auld gray pate,—
Of dark unfathom'd sense the seat,—
May join the social gab;
Nae common stilt maun fill his nieve,
But, by his honour's size an' leave,
I'd here propose a stab,
His vera height, an' on the hilt,
A gawsy mason's mell;
To puzzle fouk, whilk is the stilt,
Or whilk is Rab himsel':
101

The carle, I'm sure he'll
No hae his tale to seek;
Aye puffin', or stuffin',
Wi' ugsome chews, his cheek.
An epitaph I ance had made,
To put on Rab, whan he was dead;
But war't to do again,
His pardon begging, for sic fun,
This motto I'd hae neatly done,
Upon the waefu' stane:—
“Here lies a corpse: that ance could say,
What seldom carcase can,—
Tho' here I rot, pale stinking clay,
I ance contain'd a man;
Sae stern-ey'd, sae learnèd,
That Death's arm switherin' hung;
Till chance by, he lanc'd my
Hale saul frae out my tongue.”
My frien', tho' Fortune, partial slut!
Still holds you in a toilsome hut;
Yet, if I don't mistake,
Your modest merit will you raise,
An' Fortune smile yet in your face,
Your tuneful pow'rs to wake.
How often hae I at yer feet,
In deepest silence lain;
While from the strings, harmonious, sweet,
You sent the warbling strain;
Ev'n now man, I vow man,
I think I hear you singing;
The ferly, sae rarely,
Sets baith my ears a-ringing.
102

Adieu, my kind, my wordy chield;
Lang may ye hae a cozie bield,
To screen frae Winter's cauld;
May time yet see ye wi' a wame
As fat as J---'s sonsy dame,
Till thretty year thrice tauld;
An' gin we live to see that date,
As, fegs, I hope we will;
Tho' ye to gang, hae tint the gate,
Yet we sal hae a gill.
Fu' cheary, I'll rear ye,
And 'neath my burden bend;
And show fouk, without joke,
What it's to hae a friend.

SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES KENNEDY.

CRAIL, JANUARY.
Nae doubt ye'll glowre whane'er ye leuk,
An' see I'm maist at Scotland's neuk,
Whare owre the waves black swarms o' deuk
Soom far an' near;
And laden't ships to try their luck,
For Holland steer.
And let them gang, for me—nae mair
My luck I'll try at selling ware;
I've sworn by a' aboon the air
To quat the pack;
Or deed I doubt baith me an' gear
Wad gang to wrack.
103

Three years thro' mairs an' bogs I've squattert,
Wi' duddy claes an' huggars tatter't;
Sleepit in barns, an' lee't, an' clatter't,
Thrang sellin' claith;
An' now wi' storms I've maist been batter't
An' smoor't to death.
Nor think this droll, when sic a clash
O' snaw an' sleet, and sic caul' trash,
Ilk day I hae out thro' to plash,
Owre muir an' brae,
An' ablins whyles but little cash:
Whilk mak's ane wae.
'Twas just yestreen, as tir'd an' slaw
I waded hame through drifted snaw,
Nae livin' creature, house or ha',
Perceiv'd I cheary;
But muir an' mountain, glen an' shaw,
War sad an' dreary.
Mirk fell the night, an' frae the wast
Loud roar't the bitter-biting blast;
The blatterin' hail, right fell an' fast,
O'erscourg'd my face;
While owre the drifted heaps I past
Wi' weary pace.
As down a knowe my way I hel';
Nane wi' me but my lanely sel',
Whistlin' fu' blythe; trouth, sir, to tell
The mournfu' truth,
Down thro' a wreathe o' snaw I fell,
Maist to the mouth.
104

As soon's I fan' I yet was livin',
I rais'd my e'en wi' doolfu' grieving,
Gude fegs! I wish I'd yet been weavin';
For deed I doubt,
Sae deep I'm down, an' wedged sae stive in,
I'll ne'er win out.
But out at last I maunt to speel,
Far mair than e'er I thought atweel;
Roun' for my pack I straight did feel,
But deil-be-licket
I fan' or saw,—quo' I, fareweel,
For death I'm pricket.
This is the last, the snellest lick,
That I'll e'er get frae Fortune's stick;
Now she may lift a stane or brick
An' break my back;
Since her an' Cloots has plann'd this trick
To steal my pack!
To keep you, sir, nae mair uneasy,
I'll tell ye what, mayhap, will please ye,
I gat my pack; quo' I, I'se heeze ye,
Frae out the snaw;
Nae deil in a' the pit sal seize ye,
Till I'm awa'.—
But I maun stop, for dull an' dozin',
The glimmerin' wintry evening flows in,
The short-liv'd day his reign is losin'
The scene to shift;
An' Nature's winnock-brods are closin'
Across the lift.
105

SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. ANDREW CLARK.

Tir'd wi' tramping moors an' mosses,
Speeling stairs, an' lifting snecks;
Daunering down through lanes an' closses,
Buskin' braw the bonny sex.
Hame, at e'ening, late I scuded,
Whare Auld Reekie's turrets tow'r;
Mirk, the lift was, drousy cluded,
An' the starns begoud to glow'r;
In my nieve, my honest Lucky,
Soon's I reek't her ingle cheek,
Ram't yer lines; as daft's a bucky
Was I when I heard you speak.
Ben the room I ran wi' hurry,
Clos'd the door wi' unco glee;
Read, an' leugh, maist like to worry,
Till my pow grew haflins ree.
Sonsy fa' your Muse, my laddie!
She's a wench can mount fu' heigh;
Tho' her phraizing (far owre gaudie),
Gars me cock my tap fu' skeigh.
Cartha's banks wi' flow'rets hinging,
Warbling birds, wi' tow'ring wing;
Rocks and hills wi' music ringing,
Weel I like to hear you sing.
These are scenes of health an' quiet,
Innocence and rural bliss;
Solitude, tho' others fly it,
Towns to me are dull with this.
106

Distant far frae ony living,
Deep in lanely woodings lost;
Oft my Muse, wi' ardour heaving,
Sung her woes, by fortune crost.
Stretch'd beside the bubbling burnie
Aften musing wou'd I lie;
While glad Phœbus, on his journey,
Stream'd wi' gowd the eastern sky,
This, man, sets our brains a' bizzing,
This can soothe our sorrowing breasts;
Want and Care set afward whizzing,
'Till our jaded hobby reests.
While ye spoke of notes enchanting,
Dying o'er the distant plain,
All my soul, tumultuous panting,
Sprung to meet the friendly swain.
Oh! prolong the sweet description,
Bid the Muse new-prune her wing;
Sylvan gods shall at thy diction,
Dance around in airy ring.
Shall the youth whose pow'rs surpassing,
Melt our souls to sweet delight,
All the soul of song arising
Thro' the silent list'ning night:
Shall he, doom'd to dark oblivion,
Languish, lost to joy or fame;
Not a swain to soothe his grieving,
Not a Muse to sing his name?
Gods forbid! for yet he'll blossom,
In thy verses now he lives;
Gladly could I paint his bosom,
Gen'rous as the song he gives.
107

But the cluds are black'ning dreary,
Night is drawing owre her screen;
Bodies hame are daunering weary,
Dews are dribbling owre the green.
Trust me, tho' closèd in a cellar,
Wantin' huggars, breeks, or sark;
Prest wi' debt, or blest wi' siller.
I'm a frien' to An'rew Clark.

VERSES TO A STATIONER.

WITH AN EMPTY INK-GLASS.

A present, perhaps, you'll conclude this to be,
But open't, and keek down the brink,—
Surpris'd ye're nae doubt at a message sae wee,
A dorty bit bottlie for ink.
Yet sma' tho' it seem, 'tis a manifest truth,
That castles frae out o't hae risen;
An' claughins, an' mountains, maun start frae its mouth,
An' critics in mony a stern dozen.
Then since sic a terrible squad's to be drawn,
Sican thrangs o' corruption an' evil;
Let the liquor, gude sir, that ye sen' owre the lawn,
Be as smooth an' as black as the deevil.
108

EPITAPH ON JOHN ALLEN.

Below this stane John Allen rests;
An honest soul, though plain;
He sought hale Sabbath days for nests,
But always sought in vain!
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