The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
 | I. |
|
CALLAMPHITRE'S ELEGY. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
|
| III. |
|
| IV. |
 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Had sair't him saxty simmer;
Though his lang Lay, wi' fearfu' fungs,
Shook a' the roofing tim'er.
43
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
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!
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.
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.
“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.
They rais'd a lamentation;
An' yells, an' sabs, and mony a grane,
Declar'd their deep vexation.
45
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.
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.
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!
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!
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |