The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Well, yes, I was fond of him once I admit;
He was gallant, and courtly, and handsome, and big,
Had plenty of means, and was not without wit,
Till he took to mad ways, and became a rank Whig.

598

We were neighbours—my father and he—on the Ken,
And our forebears had hunted together, and fought,
Had always been staunch friends, and right-hearted men,
Who stood by the Church and the King, as they ought.

They had backed up the Queen in her quarrel with Knox,
Had trampled the Covenant down in the mire,
Had followed Montrose o'er the Bens and the rocks,
And swore to King Charles, as they did to his sire.

There was not a strain of the Whig in them all,
Their blood was untainted, their hearts were all true;
Horse and rider were ready to answer the call
When the King wanted friends and had fighting to do.

But he took to hill-preachers, and sat on the moss
When a Peden, Cargill, or a Cameron spoke
Of Christ's crown and kingdom and bearing a cross,
Though it was plain rebellion they tried to evoke.

He was warned by his friends, but he would not take heed,
He was fined o'er and o'er, but that troubled him not;
Not a man to be swayed, he, by fear or by greed,
He would stand, as he said, by the thing that he thought.

Now, a girl might well fancy a man such as that,
Might deem him a hero, or hold him a saint—
A kind of small god, to be just wondered at,
And loved with a love which had no earthly taint.

I can scarce now believe I was e'er such a fool,
And I dare say my friends would to laughter be moved
At the thought that I ever could whimper and pule
For a psalm-singing Puritan rogue that I loved.

But I was in my teens, and I worshipped him then,
Though I wished that he were not a Whig, as they said;
For we were of the Old Church that bred saintly men,
And oft for its faith, too, our blood had been shed.

Of course, I stood by him, the more they opposed,
And the worse they spake of him, the better I thought;
I was not to be crushed, nor my mouth to be closed,
But all the day long for his honour I fought.

My father was wroth that I stuck so to him,
My mother was worse, and kept nagging me still,
My brothers looked at me with countenance grim,
Till I swore I'd turn Whig too, and take to the hill.

599

They were at their wits' end, for the house had no rest;
I held my own well, though at times I would gasp,
When my temper grew hot at some ill-mannered jest,
For I had a sharp tongue, and it stung like a wasp.

Then they sent me away to a Convent in France:
It was not a strict one; the Mother was gay,
And the Father Confessor was fond of a dance,
And we learnt to make love, like the girls in a play.

Our morals were nowise improved, I allow,
But then our religion was strict and severe;
We were taught when to kneel, and to cross, and to bow,
And we went to Confession six times in the year.

We counted our beads, and our Aves we said,
But meanwhile our thoughts were about the next ball;
We chaunted our Psalms were we lay down in bed
To watch our fine gallants come over the wall.

What would you? Young blood will not always run slow,
Young minds will rebel against dull, pious looks,
Young fingers will tire making laceflowers to grow,
And oh, how we hated the Nun's dismal looks.

They were wise, then, to send me away, for ere long
I got rid of heroics about wrong and right,
And took to the dance and the lute and the song,
And thoughts that were cheerful, and ways that were light;

And came back a woman; and woman is not
Like a girl in her teens that goes mooning about;
I knew the world now, with its cynical thought,
And I looked at its facts, and left sentiment out.

I said to myself: “I have had my love-fit,
And found it a day-dream, a fastfading flower,
A cloud which the sun for a moment hath lit
With glories, that end in a dull, drenching shower.

“One must think of position and jewels and dress,
And comforts and pleasures, in choosing a mate;
And what can one look for but times of distress,
If her man is a fool, and will fight with the State?”

I knew what it was to be poor, and to pinch
And scrape just to keep things a-going, for we,
Though our acres were many, had hardly an inch
Of land that paid rent from the Ken to the Cree—

600

All moorland, the haunt of the whaup and the grouse
And the falcon and fox—but our salmon was good—
And we had to keep up a great ark of a house,
Filled with idle retainers who clamoured for food.

He was richer than we, for his farms were well tilled,
His tenants all thrifty, his rents duly paid;
They were psalm-singing rogues, but yet steady, and skilled
To make of the land all that well could be made.

But a Whig he must be, with a conscience forsooth!
Must go to hill-preachings the Law had forbid,
And must have a room where “The Witness for Truth,”
Whom the troopers were seeking, might safely be hid.

It is true that we, too, had a chamber concealed,
Where the Priest lay, perdu, when fanatics held sway,
But it's one thing to preach to rude clowns in a field,
And another for lords at God's altar to pray.

I gave him my mind when I met him one day,
And he spake of old times; but the old times were dead;
He was still as he had been, and went the old way,
But for me I had quite other thoughts in my head.

I was sorry, of course, but the truth must be told:
His Kirk was a schism, his faith was not mine,
And I could not approve of his purpose to hold
The Law in contempt, and the King's right divine.

So we parted; on my part, with something of scorn
For a man who could wantonly shipwreck his life
For a cause that was lost, and a Kirk that was torn
In pieces by jealousy, envy, and strife.

So the Sheriff, of course, had his duty to do;
They must pay for their preaching, and they found it dear,
When the troopers were quartered upon them, and slew
Their kine and their sheep, and ate up half their gear.

They rose in rebellion, but speedily found
That claver'se made short work of them and their pikes;
I am told they fought well, but were borne to the ground
By our fellows who rode straight o'er hedges and dykes.

That's what he brought on himself by his pride,
And he brought it no less too on most of his folk,
Who were soon hunted out of the glens where they hide,
And who lie now securely in fetter and lock.

601

'Tis a pity, no doubt, that so many were killed,
For they were our best farmers and workers all round;
When you came on a trim house, and fields nicely tilled,
You might know that a Whig held a lease of the ground.

Our fellows are nearly all roystering loons,
Who take to the ale-cup more than the plough,
Carousing each night, singing Cavalier tunes,
Which they shout, till the birds wake upon the green bough.

The Whigs have their psalms and their sermons, but then
They are up with the sun for the tasks they must do;
They are all canting rogues, but I wish our brave men
Were as fond of their work, and as honest and true.

There's a batch of them waiting in gaol to be sold
To the Colony planters, all healthy and strong,
And worth a round sum to be paid there in gold,
Though here they are bargained for just an old song.

I am told they will bring twenty guineas a head
Over there, and probably some of them more,
So I got at the Lady old Lauderdale wed,
And she gave me a grant of at least half a score.

Perhaps he is one of them? Be it so. He
Will be sold anyhow when the ship comes to port;
And why should not some of the price fall to me,
As well as to fine Lords and Ladies at Court?

There's Queensferry in for a slice of his land,
And Lagg will not rest till he shares with Dundee
What is over, unless Earlshall get his hand
On the fields which march nicely with his on the Cree.

They take what they can, as my father does too,
And I'm poorer than they are, and needing it more:
My debts at the Tables are more than I knew,
And duns come and hammer each day at the door.

This grant will be worth a two hundred, at least,
And will quiet their angry demands for a space;
And perhaps I may spare a small sum for the Priest,
To absolve from the sin, if sin be in the case.

But there is not. I liked him, and so did they all,
But that does not hinder them doing their most
To get at the wreck, and to profit withal
When the ship of a fool has gone down, and been lost.

602

I am doing quite right, then. And speaking of that,
Were it right to give up all this money to pay
Old debts, when I'm needing new frocks and a hat,
For it shamed me last night to be seen at the play?

My debts they can wait. I've a good mind to go
Up to London a while, and look in at the Mall,
And see the Court beauties and gallants, although
Where the beauty is found 'tis not easy to tell.

One must hope our good King has some politic wits,
But his taste in women astonishes me;
That Churchill might well give his Majesty fits,
Were it not that the others are worse even than she.