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The Seven Champions Of The stage

In imitation of Gill Morice. An excellent new old fashion'd Song All to the melancholy Tune of Gill Morice; except the 17th. 18th. and 19th. Stanzas which ought to be Sung to the merry Tune of the C---s are coming O ho! [by John Home]

Home, John (1722-1808)

[section]

[dedication]

GILL MORICE, AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH POEM.

In Imitation of Gill Moris.

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DEDICATION. TO ALL THE NURSES AND BALLAD SINGERS IN SCOTLAND THIS NEW EDITION OF LONG FORGOT GILL MQRICE IS CHEARFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.

GILL MORICE, AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH POEM.

The foundation of the tragedy called Douglas.

I

Gill Morice was an Erle's son,
His name it waxed wide;
It was nae for his great riches,
Nor zet his mickle pride;
Bot it was for a lady gay,
That livd on Carron side.

II

Quhair will I get a bonny boy
That will win hose and shoen,
That will gae to Lord Barnard's ha,
And bid his Lady cum?
And ze maun rin errand Willie,
And ze may rin wi pride;
Quhen other boys gae on their foot,
On horse-back ze sall ride.

III

O no! Oh no! my master dear!
I dare nae for my life;
I'll no gae to the bauld Baron's
For to triest furth his wife.
My bird Willie, my boy Willie,
My dear Willie, he said,
How can ze strive against the stream?
For I sall be obeyd.

IV

Bot, O my master dear! he cryd,
In grene wod ze're zour lain;
Gi owre sic thochts, I walde ze red,
For fear ze should be tain.
Haste, haste, I say, gae to the ha,
Bid hir cum here wi speid:
If ze refuse my heigh command,
I'll gar thy body bleid.

V

Gae bid hir take this gay mantel,
'Tis a gowd but the hem:
Bid hir cum to the guid grene wod,
And bring nane bot hir lain:
And there it is, a silken sarke,
Hir ain hand sewd the slive,
And bid hir cum to Gill Morice;
Speir nae bauld Baron's leave.

VI

Yes, I will gae zour black errand,
Tho' it be to thy cost,

Sen ze by me will nae be warnd,
In it ze sall find frost.
The Baron he's a man of might,
He neir coud bide to taunt,
As ze will see before its nicht,
How sma ze hae to vaunt.

VII

And sen I maun zour errand rin,
Sae sair against my will,
I's mak a vow, and keip it trow,
It sall be done for ill.
And quhen he came to broken brigue,
He bent his bow and swam,
And quhen he came to grass growing,
Set down his feet and ran.

VIII

And quhen he came to Barnard's ha,
Woud neither chap nor ca;
Bot set his bent bow to his breist,
And lichtly lap the wa.
He wauld nae tell the man his errand,
Tho' he stude at the gait;
Bot stracht into the ha he cam,
Quhair they were set at meit.

IX

Hail! hail! my gentle Sire and Dame!
My message winna waite;
Dame, ye maun to the guid grene wod
Before that it be late.
Ze're bidden tak this gay mantel,
'Tis a gowd bot the hem:

Zou maun gae to the guid grene wod,
Even by zour sel alane.

X

And there it is, a silken sarke,
Zour ain hand sewd the slive;
Ze maun cum speik to Gill Morice;
Speir nae bauld Baron's leave.
The Lady stamped wi hir foot,
And winked wi hir ee;
Bot a that she coud say or do,
Forbidden he wad nae bee.

XI

Its surely to my bowr-woman;
It neir could be to me.
I brocht it to Lord Barnard's Lady;
I trow that ze be she.
Then up and spack the wylie nurse,
(The bairn upon her knee),
If it be cum frae Gill Morice,
Its deir welcum to me.

XII

Ze leid, ze leid, ze filthy nurse,
Sae loud's I heire ze lie;
I brocht it to Lord Barnard's Lady;
I trow ze be nae she.
Then up and spack the bauld Baron,
An angry man was he;
He's tain the table wi his foot,
Sae hes he wi his knee;

Till siller cup and ezar dish
In flinders he gard flee.

XIII

Gae bring a robe of zour cliding,
That hings upon the pin;
And I'll gae to the guid grene wod,
And speik with your lemman.
O bide at hame now Lord Barnard,
I warde ze bide at hame;
Neir wyte a man for violence,
That neir wate ze wi nane.

XIV

Gill Morice sits in guid grene wod,
He whistl'd and he sang;
O what means a these folks coming?
My mother she tarrys lang.
And when he cam to guid grene wod,
Wi miekle dule and cair;
And there he first saw Gill Morice
Kemeing down his zellow hair.

XV

Nae wonder, nae wonder, Gill Morice,
Than my Lady loed thee well,
The fairest part of my body
Is blacker than thy heel.
Zet neir the less now Gill Morice,
For a thy great bewty,
Ze's rew the day ze eir was born;
That heid sall gae wi me.

XVI

Now he has drawn his trusty brand,
And slaited on the strae;
And thro' Gill Morice fair bodie
He's gard cauld iron gae.
And he has tain Gill Morice heid,
And set it on a speir;
The meanest man in a his train
Has gotten that heid to bear.

XVII

And he has tain Gill Morice up,
Laid him across his steid,
And brocht him to his painted bowr,
And laid him on a bed.
The Lady sat on castil wa,
Beheld baith dale and doun,
And there she saw Gill Morice heid
Cum trailing to the town.

XVIII

Far better I loe that bluidy heid,
Bot and that zellow hair,
Than Lord Barnard, and a his lands,
As they lay here and there.
And she has tain hir Gill Morice,
And kissd baith mouth and chin.
I was ance as fow of Gill Morice,
As the hip was o' the stean.

XIX

I got ze in my father's house,
Wi miekle sin and shame;

I brocht thee up in guid grene wod,
Under the heavy rain:
Oft have I by thy credle sitten,
And fondly seen thee sleip;
Bot now I gae about thy grave,
The sat tears for to weip.

XX

And syne she kissd his bluidy cheik,
And syne his bluidy chin.
O better I loe my Gill Morice
Than a my kith and kin!
Away, away, ze ill woman!
And an ill deed mait ze die;
Gin I had kend he'd bin zour son,
He'd neir bin slain for me.

XXI

Obraid me not, my Lord Barnard,
Obraid me not for shame!
Wi that saim speir O pearce my heart!
And put me out o' pain.
Since naithing bot Gill Morice heid
Thy jelous rage coud quell,
Let that saim hand now tak hir life
That neir to thee did ill.

XXII

To me nae after day nor nichts
Will eir be saft or kind;
I'll fill the air with heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.
Enouch of blood by me's been spilt,
Seek not zour death frae me;

I rather lourd it had been my sell
Than eather him or thee.

XXIII

With waefo wae I hear zour plaint;
Sair, sair I rew the deid,
That eir this cursed hand of mine
Had gard his body bleid.
Dry up zour teirs, my wensom dame,
Ze neir can heal the wound;
Zou see his heid upon my speir,
His heart's bluid on the ground.

XXIV

I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill;
The feet that bore me wi sik speid,
The comly zouth to kill.
I'll ay lament for Gill Morice,
As gin he were my ain;
I'll neir forget the driry day
On which the zouth was slain.

FINIS.

Perhaps setchie.

In Imitation of Gill Moris.

[1]

Our reverend bard's a clerkes son;
His name has waxed wide;
It was nae for his mickle grace.
But for his mickle pride;
And for twa tragedies right gay,
For whilk he far did ride.

2

Where will I get an actor gude,
That will win mony a crown,
And gar my play ay famous be,
As clapp'd in London Town?
And ye maun act my play Garrick;
And ye maun act wi' pride.
When other Parsons gae on foot
In my ain coach I'll ride.

3

O no! oh no! my Parson dear!
How can ye bid me this?
Your Agis were it acted here,
Baith great and sma' waed hiss.
My bird Garrick, my gude Garrick,
My dear Garrick he said,
How can ye strive against the stream?
My Agis s'all be play'd.

4

But O my Parson dear! (he cry'd,)
Your lain ye'll be expos'd;
Gi' o'er sic thoughts I waud ye red;
For fear ye be depos'd,
Haste, haste, (I say,) gae to the stage,
And act my play wi' speed.
If ye refuse my heart's desire,
I rather lourd be dead.

5

I winna gae your black errand;
It waud be to thy cost;
By me if ye will nae be warn'd
Ye s'all in it find frost:
Your kirk was ay a kirk o' might;
She ne'er cou'd bide to taunt;
As ye will see if on ye gae
How sma' ye hae to vaunt.

6

Syne clean red wod away he ran,
To Shakespear made his mene,
Sen my first-born is sae despis'd,
May I be turn'd to stane!
He bent his knee and lightly lap,
Up on his fav'rite steed;
And vex'd this prov'd a gowk's errand
Gart baith his sides sair bleed.

7

The mettled steed then lap fu' heigh
And flang him off his back;
Tho' light his head, this dolefu' fa',
His colar bain did crack,

Oh!—only ha'f my pray'r was heard,
A living man I grane;
And tho' I'm faun down to the yird,
But ha'flens am I slane.

8

When he came trailing to his manse
He sent for C---r---le dear,
And C---ples too, that they wi' him,
Might shed a kindly tear;
And when they saw his dreary plight,
And heard his waefu' tale,
Their een grew red wi' water saut,
Their faces lang and pale.

9

Oft have we by thy table sitten
And fondly seen thee write,
Thy Agis for whose shamefu' death,
We now saut tears maun greet.
Then up and spak C---r---le in rage,
The fire flew frae his ee,
He's ta'en the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee,

10

The China bowl and glasses clear,
In flinders spread the floor;
Help me my brethren baith to curse
Yon proud son of a whore.

My Johnny break nae thus your heart
But cast despair away;
Sen Agis maun in silence sleep,
Gae write another play.

11

Then C---ple's said wi' winking ee
That may be done e'er lang;
And for your plot, I waud ye redd
Tak' my auld mamie's sang:
A bonny tale it is and sad
Of a dear bastard bairn;
And how to hide a slip o' foot,
Frae it fo'k well may learn.

12

Fair fa' ye Ge---dy dear! quoth I---n,
Your counsel slee I'll take;
But marry'd maun Gill's mother be
For decency's sweet sake.
I'll gar her say she wedded was,
To a son o' my brain,
And keep her lady Barnard still;
Syne safe your point we'll gain.

13

Sae soon's this pauky play was written,
And Morice Douglas nam'd,
These, three for joy aloud did shout,
Douglas can ne'er be damn'd.
The Bard put on his braw brown suit,
In whilk he aft had preach'd;
Again he left his flock and rede,
Till he had London reach'd.

14

And when he came to Garrick's door,
He shook sae sair wi' pride,
The porter guess'd he was a Bard,
Had gaen his wits beside.
He wad nae wait to tell his name,
But strutted stately ben;
Hail! Hail! my gentle Garrick, Hail!
Your Parson comes agen;

15

And here it is, a braw new play,
The best that e'er was wrote;
My ain head's wark, a but saft bits
By my friend---ot.
When Garrick had a' Douglas read,
He glowr'd wi' baith his een,
And stamping wi' his foot, he cry'd,
Sic dam'd stuff ne'er was seen.

16

Sic solemn lang prayers on the stage,
Waud gar a Christian grue,
Mix'd wi' sic oaths, and dev'lish rants
As troopers never knew;
Your Wylie Heroine's auld disgrace,
Thro' the thin vail is seen;
And for the killing twa poor rogues,
Nane hero e'er has been.

17

Then up and spake a wylie man
Right proud o' might was he,
If this be come frae a Scots priest,
It's dear welcome to me.
I set a Quixote on a seat
And there I keep him still;
And this damn'd Play s'all acted be,
At Enbrugh when I will.

18

Chear up young Parson; wi' this line
Down to my agent gae,
A greater thrang than e'er was seen,
He'll gar greet at your play.
The Parson bent his back and thanks
Gave to the noble ****;
And wi' light purse, but lighter heart,
His hameward journey took.

19

Hark! C---r---le, C---ples, a' my friends;
Braw news I now can tell;
**** my Douglas will protect;
Let Garrick gae to Hell.
You C---r---le, write an Epilogue;
A Prologue fine will I;
We'll bauldly to the play-house gae;
And a' our kirk defy.

20

Our friends warde us to bide at hame,
And nae offence to gi';
But a' that they can say or do,
Forbidden we winna be.
I' the gude green room he first saw Ward,
Plaiting her nut-brown hair;
O save my darling! and I'll ay
Remember you in pray'r

21

Far better I loo that bony face,
But and that nut-broun hair,
Than a' my brethren in the land,
As they preach here and there.
And syne he kiss'd her rosie cheek,
And syn her cherry lip
I'm o' my Douglas just as fow
As o' the stane the hip.

22

I got him in my mother's house,
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
Baith him and Agis Garrick damn'd
And if Ward join to blame,
To me nae after day nor night.
Will e'er prove saft or kind;
I'll fill the air wi' heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.

23

I never had a priest till now,

There can be no inpropriety in supposing that the Bard presented his supplications in that posture so familiar to Stage players, and to the imaginations of dramatic poets.

Here kneeling at my feet;
'T, were pity o' my tender heart
Sic a sweet youth s'ou'd greet.
With waefu' wae I hear your plaint,
Sair, sair I curse the dead,
That ever Garrick's cruel scorn,
Sae lang your heart gard bleed.

24

There's nae help for poor Agis now,
He's bury'd been sae lang;
Nor can we lay his angry ghaist,
That schreehs in mony a sang.
But for the bonny bastard lad,
Be in nae fear nor pain:
For him I will do mickle mair,
Than for ane o' my ain.

FINIS.

This part of the imitation is not carry'd too high for a Poets imagination; and 'tis hop'd no critic will call this a castle bas'd on air.

“Like a fair castle on a hill of sand,” See Agis.

The fervent devout prayer he made at that Poets tomb for petrification, when enrag'd at his disappointment, is reckon'd by the best critics the most excellent of all his productions.

“I am a man; a living breathing man.” See Agis.

See the incomparable Essay of the Laws of Motion, by the hon. H---y H---e Esq. which would naturally occur to the thoughts of his learned friend after such a prayer, followed by such a fall.

This part of the imitation needs no other apology than it's being supported by that Rev'd brother's heroical behaviour in the play-house, and his having been often in the politest company at R---ts, &c. where he cou'd not fail to learn many phrases, never us'd by his aukward old-fashion'd brethren.

The only reason for supposing, that Gill Morice was recommended by this Rev'd brother, is, that he has always been admir'd by all his companions, for having an inexhaustible fund of wit and humour of that kind.

Brown for a Minister is almost a disguise like womens clothes for a lay man.

It must here be observed that this Tragedy was corrected between the time of Mr. Garrick's seeing it, and its being acted the first night at Edinburgh; and more corrected the second day; and very much altered after it had been seven times acted; tho' it had been celebrated, by the poet or one of his intimate friends, in the news papers, as the most perfect work of genius produced in any age.

As the imitator did not see this play acted more than once, and was at a too great distance from the stage to hear every word, erhaps the hero kill'd but one.

The humour of imitation is grown so strong that the very cream of the Tragedy cannot escape it.—

As looks our Bard, so look his six brave brothers
Array'd in nature's pride, their mein, their speech,
Are frankly foolish; and can ne'er deceive
Those fools who think priests shou'd seem always wise;
And Morice matching their most mighty minds,
Up rose these Heroes; on their warlike eyes,
Sat bold defiance; on their hostile march
Keen arrows followed; as the thunder-bolt
Pursues the flash. ------

It was impossible to forbear imitating the most affecting lines in the old Ballad; and there can be no indecorum in supposing a few chaste endearments between the anxious young Poet, and the handsome actress, on whom his future fame and wealth intirely depended.

The changing father's house into mother's house is purely metaphorical; and signifies only his conceiving and bringing forth his two illegitimate plays, while a minister in his mother Church