Peter Cornclips :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Twas New'rday, aughteen-twenty-four,
I think about the breakfast hour,—
At least, 'twas early in the day,—
That Peter Cornclips took his way
Frae auld St. Mungo's town sae smeeky,
To venerable gude Auld Reekie,
To view the ferlies, and so forth,
O' that famed Mistress o' the North;
Which self-conceited christian heathens
Hae lately baptiz'd Modern Athens.
Her Castle grey, her ancient Palace,
Her biggings high, on hills—in valleys,
Her spacious streets, her mound and bridges;
Where citizens, as thick as midges,

A varied, motley, countless thrang,
Mix, move and bustle still alang.
Her venerable auld St. Giles,
The pride o' ancient Gothic piles,
Surmounted by the imperial crown,
Which mony a stormy blast has seen,
And yet has ne'er been tumbled down,
As some imperial crowns hae been;
For not a few hae kiss'd the ground,
Since honest auld St. Giles was crowned:
But stop—sic thoughts are out o' season,
Besides, they strongly smell o' treason,
And that, ye ken, will never do,
While royal Reekie's in our view,
That seat o' ancient Scottish glory,
Ere there was either Whig or Tory.—
But, leaving politics to those,
Wha gulp down kingdoms at a dose,
We'll just proceed, as heretofore,
Auld Reekie's beauties to run o'er,—
Her Arthur's Seat and Calton Hill,
Where the charmed eye may rove at will,

Alang the varied scenes around,
As far as the horizon's bound.
Her Herriot's Wark and stately college,
Famed seats o' solid useful knowledge,
Whence many a genius has come forth,
And shone the day-star o' the north.
And her braw daughter, the new town,
Sae stately, straight and strapping grown,
Wi' her fine crescents, streets and squares,
And ither modern modish airs,
That, search a' Europe through and through,
Her equal you will hardly view.

Reader, perhaps, ye'll think it queer,
That at this season o' the year,
A man should tak a pleasure tramp,
When roads are just a perfect swamp;
When days are short, nights lang and dreary,
And Nature hangs her head fu' eerie,
Mourning the absence o' the sun,
Which far to southern climes has run,

Leaving her here to mak' her mane,
To sigh, shed tears and pine alane;
Mourning her summer bloom decayed,
Like some auld solitary maid,
Lamenting o'er her furrowed brow,
Torn up by time's relentless plough,
And wailing o'er her roses fled,
Her single state and lanely bed.—
Reader, I say, ye'll think it queer,
That ane should tak' a pleasure tramp,
At this dull season o' the year,
Sae bleak, sae comfortless and damp;
But stop your strictures on my story,
Till ance I've laid it a' before ye,
Then ye may criticise your fill,
I dinna care this half-worn quill.

But these digressions I rin into,
I fear, are rather near a kin to
Friend Tristram Shandy's turns and jinks,
His outs and ins, his whirls and links,

That mak' our memories tine the thread,
O' what we had begun to read:
Weel, to resume, as truth's imperative,
Here goeth Peter Cornclips' narrative.

It wasna pleasure a'thegither,
But partly business sent him thither,
For be it ken'd he there had freen's,
Possest o' very decent means;
Of course, could boast some influence,
Wi' folks o' rank and consequence,
Wha whiles hae places in their grant,
To gie for something else they want,
Maybe some lowly, cringing service,
Voting, or ---—Gude preserve us!
Now Peter took it in his head,
That he might earn a bit o' bread,
Much easier than he yet had done,
If he could but prevail upon
His freens, to mak' some intercession
For him, wi' folks o' lofty station;

Just to be plain, which aye is best,
And set the matter quite at rest,
Peter a snug bit birth did want,
And hence the reason o' his jaunt.

As forward on his way he set,
He wi' an auld acquaintance met
About Tolcross, and as 'twas new'rday,
Forby a very cauld and dour day,
The twa agreed that naething less
Should part them, than a hearty glass;
For aft had they thegither drank,
Ere trade made difference in their rank;
But mony a day had o'er them pass'd,
Since they had drank thegither last.
For in this land o' trade and stir,
A thousand things ilk day occur,
To mak' near neighbours change their stations,
Their habits, hames and occupations;

And move in new and separate spheres,
So that they'll scarcely meet for years.
Not that they quite forget ilk ither,
But just, they chance not to forgether,
As some new object, or pursuit,
A different path to each chalks out.
While some, devoid of means or aim,
Plod on from year to year the same,
And, like a tree fix'd to the spot,
Just grow up, wither, die, and rot.
And aft, while striving to mak' rich,
Some wade, some jump hard fortune's ditch,
And some, while jumping, tumble in,
And out again can never win,
But deep and deeper still they sink,
The mair they strive to reach the brink,
Till fairly in the mud stuck fast,
They struggle till they breathe their last.
Thus, Commerce, frae her lottery box,
Draws different lots to different folks—
To some gives gall, feeds some wi' honey—
The case wi' Peter and his cronie,

For trade had his condition mended;
While Peter, poor man, daily bended
Beneath hard toil's unpleasant burden,
Yet ne'er could save a single fardin'.
A proof, that if you strip your coat,
Ye'll never mak' a fortune o't;
But, get it ance kept on your back,
'Tis very like you'll something mak'.
But, though the chiel had risen thus,
He didna mak' an unco fuss
About his elevated state,
Like thousands o' our mushroom great,
Wha, when they meet an auld acquaintance,
Forget the face they brawly kent ance,
And consequentially strut past,
Wi' head ajee, and een up-cast;—
No; though this be the case wi' some,
It ne'er was sae wi' Peter's chum—
For, wheresoe'er auld frien's he met,
He ne'er “remember'd to forget,”
But, friendly-like, aye kept in min'
Their social joys o' auld langsyne.

Weel, they into the Black Bull stappit,
And for the best half-mutchkin rappit.—
'Twas brought; and then, their gabs to please,
The wife set down her bread and cheese,
And, wi' a kind and takin' smile,
Addrest them in her ain frank style,—
“Come, sirs, fa' to, and no be blate;
Sic cheese ye'll no fin' ilka gate,
It's saxteen month since it was caft,
And that's its neebour in the laft,
Baith gude Du'lap,—come, eat your fill;
It's a bit dainty kebbock still.
What think ye o' our aitmeal cakes?
Thae's aye the kind our Kirsty bakes,—
As smart a kimmer as ye'll see,
Although she war nae kin to me.—
But troth, I'll lose her soon I fear,
Sae mony chiels come wooing here:
Yet, wha she's for, or wha she'll get,
She's keeping that a secret yet;—
It maks nae odds—I'll find it out
Ere this day twalmonth comes about.

Hout! mak' nae ceremonies here,
New'rday comes round but ance a-year.”
Weel pleased, the cronies heard her crack,
(For she had aye an unco knack
At pleasing customers,)—and then,
'Twas “Come, gudewife, fill this again.”—
Nae sooner said than it was done,
And then her gaucy curran'-bun
Was niest produced, wi'—“Come, sirs, see,
Here's something yet for you to pree:
It's braw and rich—Hout, tak' a slice o't,
Ne'er fash your heads about the price o't.
I gat it free just as you see't;
And as I gat it sae I gie't.
What are ye fear'd for?—tak' a whang:
Ye'll maybe hae a bit to gang.”
Peter, whase heart wi' joy did loup,
Cried, “Lucky! fill again that stoup;
For sickin kindness, I declare,
I never witness'd onywhere.”

Thus, did they crack, and eat, and drink,
Till ance they baith began to wink;
The gudewife trotting butt and ben,
Filled up the stoup aye now and then,
Drank baith their healths, and crack'd her joke;
While loud they laugh'd, and took their smoke.

At last, as frae a dream awaking,
Peter, his drumly twinklers raking,
Gat up and cried, “I'm waur than wud!
I should been half-way on my road.
Come, rise; for I maun tak' the gate:
And troth it will be braw and late
Ere I get to my journey's end.—
Was e'er sic stupid nonsense ken'd!
For Whitburn I should reach ere night;
And I hae tint three hours o' light.
Deil tak' that drink! as I should ban!
It mak's an idiot o' a man.”
“Weel, just ae glass then,” quo' his cronie;
“And here's my tap-coat, put it on ye,

'Twill keep you cozie, dry and warm,
Amidst this cauld and biting storm.”
Peter got on the meikle coat,
Shook hands, and took the road like shot,
But, had ye seen the body in't,
Ye'd fairly thought he wad been tint;
The size o't very nearly drown'd him,
It wad hae button'd three times round him,
For, made to fit its owner's carcase,
Which, being a better meat than wark case,
Had grown till nearly hogshead thick:
Peter's, a perfect walking stick;
A chanter, wanting bag and drones;
A moving “vision of dry bones.”
Nae wonder, then, ye'd thought him tint,
For ye could scarce hae seen him in't.
Deil cares—he trudg'd through thick and thin,
Nor e'er took time to look behin',
But kept a quick, half-running pace;
Whiles moralizing on his case;
Whiles grumbling at the heavy road,
And hapless feet, but poorly shod;

Whiles cursing that infernal whisky,
Fell cause o' mony a luckless plisky;
Whiles thinking, if he wad succeed,
He'd be a happy man indeed;
But doubting whiles, his mean condition
Might baulk him in his present mission:
For great folks maistly shower their gifts
On them wha are nae favours needing,
And leave the poor man to his shifts,
As something scarcely worth the heeding:
Peter kent this, but yet he thought
A place was aye worth being sought;
Thus trudg'd he on, 'tween doubt and hope,
And scarcely ever made a stop,
Except, when to an inn he cam',
He had to halt to tak' a dram,
To keep his sinking spirits up,
And help him forward on his trip.

But, waesucks! night cam' on at last,
And fiercely rag'd the furious blast;

And, what made waur his piteous case,
The storm blew keenly in his face;
By turns, the rain, the sleet, the hail,
Did Peter's feeble frame assail;
Clouds gather'd round him, black as ink,
He couldna see a single blink
Of moon, or star, or candle light;—
Oh, but it was an awfu' night,
For ony houseless, wandering wight.
He flounder'd on, he kent nae whar,
Knee-deep amang the mud and glaur;
Whiles owre some big whin-stane he stumbled;
Whiles into some deep ditch he tumbled;
Whiles like a goat owre hillocks leaping;
Whiles like a crab on all-fours creeping;
Whiles driven forward by the blast;
And whiles knock'd back again as fast.
The covering o' his “judgment-seat”
Got so be-drench'd wi' rain and sleet,
That the slouch'd rim o't, tempest-batter'd,
Against his chafts incessant blatter'd.

The big tap-coat a cumb'rance grew,
For it got soak'd wi' water through;
While Peter 'neath it graned and growled,
Cursing the storm, that heedless howled;
The half-worn shoon upon his feet,
Grew saft as dishclouts wi' the weet;
Bewildered, and half-dead wi' fear,
Nae kindly house for shelter near,
Nae gleam to light him on his way,
Peter at length began to pray;—
But, oh, the prayer he then did mutter
Was such as raving madmen utter,
A mixture of ejaculations,
Blessings and horrid imprecations:
What else could he have uttered then?—
The drink still bizzing in his brain,
That a' the ills he had come through,
Had not been able to subdue.
Now, with a desperate courage flushed,
Wi' a' his might he forward rushed,
Through dub and mire sublimely dashing,
Resembling just a steam-boat plashing;

Nor stopt he in his frantic rage,
Till souse, he pitched into a hedge;
And there he struggled like a fish
Caught in the net's entangling mesh.
How he got free 'twere hard to tell,—
But on the ither side he fell;
His hand let go his trusty staff,
And, waur than a', his hat flew aff,
Leaving his poor bewilder'd pate
In a most lamentable state,
Exposed to a' the furious blast,
That mercilessly on him lash'd.
Lang, lang he sought, but sought in vain,
Nor staff nor hat could he regain,
Which truly was a sad affair;
For, wha e'er liked, wi' noddle bare,
To bide the battering o' a shower,
Such as did then on Peter pour?
Except, indeed, the great Sam Johnson,
Wha let a shower fa' his bare sconce on,
For ae lang hour, by way of penance
For some bad action he had done ance.—

His crime, if I can recollect,
Was some gross piece of disrespect,
Or stubborn disobedience rather,
Which he, when young, had shown his father:
A very serious crime, nae doubt,
Which youngsters tak' sma' thought about;
But, when they ance come up to years,
How vastly different it appears.
'Twas thus Sam Johnson viewed his crime,
After a distant lapse o' time;
And hence his standing for an hour
Bare-powed beneath a heavy shower:—
A stupid piece o' superstition,
Or waur, a mockery o' contrition,
As if a heavy shower o' rain,
Washing the thatch-wark o' the brain,
Could cleanse or cure the gangrened part,
That festered foully at the heart.

But Peter felt nae sic compunction,
While smarting 'neath this heavenly unction,

Which fell in such a bitter torrent,
As made it to his skull abhorrent;
But viewed his case in similar light,
As those who suffer for the right:
Whether it was, his heart was hardened,
Or that he deemed his sins were pardoned,
I know not; but, without remorse,
At fate he threw out mony a curse,
For playing him sae vile a plisky,—
When really 'twas not fate, but whisky,
That had involved him in the scrape,
From which he kentna how to 'scape:—
Ergo, himsel' had a' the faut,
By laying in owre meikle maut.

Now, Peter's conduct in this case
Was just what every day tak's place;
At least, we very often see
That ither folks, as weel as he,
When through imprudence, or neglect
Of being somewhat circumspect,

Some dire mischance upon them fa's,
Ascribe it to some other cause,
Trying, (such is their sense of shame)
To shift from off themselves, the blame.

Poor Peter, wi' his droukit pow,
Was so completely wilder'd now,
That in this dismal swampy place,
He kentna whar to turn his face;
But groped about now here, now there,
In darkness, terror and despair,
Like some dumfounder'd, wandering ghaist,
Lost 'mid the howling Stygian waste;
Or if this simile winna do,
As some may doubt o't being true,
Like some great sumph, whase father's gains
Are clearer than his ain dull brains;
Wha to the college straight is sent,
And for some learned profession meant,
Gropes, wades, and flounders thro' the classics,
Dreaming the while o' gowns and cassocs,

O' tithes or stipends, briefs or fees,
D.D.s and ither learned degrees;
Tries Law—finds Law will never do;
Tries Physic next—sticks Physic too;
Then, pertinaciously grown stupit,
Attempts to mount into a pu'pit;
But finding the ascent too steep,
The stance too high, for him, to keep;—
His balance lost, he staggers—reels,
And backward, fairly coups the creels,
Greets wi' a soss, his mother earth,
From which he'd better ne'er cam' forth.

I think I hear you, gentle reader,
Demanding what's become o' Peter?
Troth, sir, 'twere hard for me to tell,
When Peter didna ken himsel';
However, if you wait, I'll try
To find him for you by and bye,
I think I left him in a bog,
Quarter'd of course, on Monsieur Frog,

But nae mair relishing his quarters,
Than horses do the whips o' carters;
He therefore made a hard exertion,
To save himsel' frae fresh immersion,
And get his carcase extricated,
Frae lodgings he so truly hated.
At last he to a planting got,
And then began to bless his lot,
For there, he might some shelter find,
Frae the fell storm o' rain and wind;
But then, the rain might overflow
The place, it lay so very low,
And should he stretch him on the ground,
He ran the risk of being drowned;
What shift remained? for heavy sleep,
O'er his tired frame began to creep,
And fain wad he his een hae closed,
But busy fear here interposed,
And whisper'd, if he shut an e'e,
He very soon a corpse might be.
Necessity! resistless power,
How oft in the most trying hour,

When feeble man, by thee opprest,
Almost gives up the hard contest,
That crushes him down to the earth,
Dost Thou give bright invention birth;
Though stern thou art, how much do we,
Poor helpless mortals owe to thee,
For many grand discoveries made
In every science, art and trade.

Poor Peter, to his last shift driven,
Beset alike by earth and heaven,
An angry sky aboon him frowning,
On earth below the risk o' drowning,
If he but stretched him down to sleep,—
Langer awake he could not keep,
For, jaded nature worn out quite,
Demanded quickly some respite,—
What's to be done?—a happy thought!
O gude be praised! the meikle coat,
The meikle coat!—weel, what of it?
Ye'll shortly hear, but rest a bit.

Plunging in water to the knees,
Peter searched through amang the trees,
For ane, aneath which he might stand,
Securely, upon solid land.
At length a stately pine he found,
And then the big-coat button'd round
Himsel' and it—and thus made fast,
Poor Peter got a nap, at last.

But busy Fancy now began,
To picture things ne'er seen by man,
In ither words, he dreamt a dream,—
He thought that coming to a stream,
Swell'd by the rains, by whirlwinds tost,
And that it must by him be crossed,
The only brig a single plank,
That lay across frae bank to bank;
With trembling steps he ventured o'er,
But ere he reached the farthest shore,
With horrid crash down broke the plank,
And to the bottom Peter sank.

The furious waves enclosed him round,
He struggled long and hard for breath,
But no relief poor Peter found,
At last he closed his eyes in death.
But, ah! what scenes now met his view!—
Scenes altogether strange and new;
For Fancy, as she wildly sported,
Had him to the next world transported.
By some resistless Power unseen,
He rapidly through space was whirl'd;
And, looking back where he had been,
Descried far off this nether world,
At first like a small taper blinking,
And less and less each moment shrinking,
Till, by degrees, receding fast,
The glimmering thing went out at last.
Now, upwards as he cast his eyes,
He saw new suns, new stars, new skies,
Whose boundless glories filled him quite
With inexpressible delight.
Fain, fain would he have lingered there,
Among those planets bright and fair,

Those golden isles of heaven that lay,
Scatter'd along the milky way.
For as he drew those islands nigh,
That gem the ocean of the sky,
And there, in living brilliance glow,
A heavenly archipelago,
Whose dazzling lustre far outshines,
The brightest gems of earthly mines;
He deemed they were the blest abodes,
Of beings of celestial birth,
Or those who had thrown off the loads,
Of mortal clay they bore on earth;
And as he near and nearer drew,
Still more expanded waxed the view,
So that his eye, where'er it strayed,
Ten thousand worlds at once surveyed;
For now upon his vision shower'd,
The glories of ten thousand spheres,
Such as would wholly have o'erpower'd,
Frail man in this dark world of tears,
Whose weak and mortal eyes must shun,
The blaze of one far distant sun.

And now he saw the happy race,
Blest tenants of that glorious place,
With beauteous forms divinely fair,
Array'd in robes of purest white,
Moving majestic through the air,
Up-borne on golden sun-beams bright;
Or walking in unclouded day,
Along the emerald-paved way;
Or bathing their celestial limbs,
In heaven's pure translucent streams;
Or hymning forth their grateful songs,
Fit only for celestial tongues;
While every face, and every eye,
Beam'd with the purest ecstacy.
For now all earthly grossness gone,
They, pure etherial beings, shone,
In all the vigour, bloom and joy,
Of youthful immortality.
No wrinkl'd forehead, stamped with care,
No sadden'd countenance was there,
No squalid cheek, no tearful eye,
No breast that heav'd the woe-fraught sigh,

No guilt, no pain, no wretchedness,
No virtue struggling with distress,
No frame bowed down with toil or age,
No secret hate, no party rage,
No servile slave, no haughty lord,
No red depopulating sword;
Nothing to hurt, or to destroy,
Was known in all those realms of joy;
But beauty, youth and innocence,
Smiled sweetly on each countenance,
And love benign, and freedom bland,
Made every gladen'd heart expand,
And peace serene, and purest pleasure,
And rapture without end or measure,
Enliven'd all those haunts of bliss,
Those worlds of endless happiness.

Though longing greatly to alight,
And dwell among those isles so bright,
Yet still a conscious worthlessness,
Rose up 'tween Peter and such bliss,

Proclaiming he was no fit guest
For those pure “Islands of the blest.”

So, by the Power unseen urged on,
He left those islands one by one,
Far on his right, with deep regret,
And soon each orb to him was set.
Now, as he cast his eyes below,
He thought he saw the shades of woe,
Far on his left, where a dark cloud,
Of sulphur, did the place enshroud;
Pushed onward with resistless force,
He stopt not in his downward course,
But whirl'd along, o'erwhelmed with dread,
Till light and giddy grew his head.
Losing his recollection quite,
He knew not further what befel,
Till waked with horror and affright,
Upon the black confines of hell;
He found himself bound to a stake,
Upon the borders of a lake,

From whose foul surface, noxious steams,
And here, and there, sulphureous gleams
Arose, and mounting to the air,
With poison filled the atmosphere.
No sun shone there, diffusing light,
But all was dark and drear as night,
Save, where a flame of livid hue,
A pale and sickly glimmer threw
Around this dreadful place, which light,
Was worse by far than tenfold night.
No shrub, nor blade of grass grew near,
The weary wakeful eye to cheer,
No music of the grove was there,
But piercing yells of deep despair,
And sickening groans, and rending sighs,
And wailings loud, and deafening cries,
And murmurs deep, were heard around,
From many a heaving smould'ring mound,
Where heaps of tortured wretches lay,
Banished the blissful realms of day,
And bound in everlasting chains,
A prey to hell's acutest pains.

Beyond the lake was dimly seen,
Through the blue flames that roll'd between,
A Being of tremendous size,
Seated upon a fiery throne,
Whose prideful brow and wrathful eyes,
Bespoke the mighty fallen One;
Whose boundless pride made him rebel,
And who, by madly mounting,—fell.
Though dark despair sat on his face,
Yet still his looks bore many a trace
Of heavenly birth; for even there,
Linger'd the bright archangel's air;
The glory of whose former state,
Even hell could not obliterate.
For, notwithstanding his offence,
His loss of perfect innocence,
Of heaven, of happiness, and all,
He still looked noble in his fall.
Around his throne a numerous crowd,
Of dark inferior beings bowed,
Involved alike in his sad fate,
Upon whose faces, deadly hate,

And stern defiance were portrayed;
For heaven had no impression made
Upon their stubborn hearts, which still
Rejoiced to thwart th' Almighty will.
But yet, all malignant, they promptly obeyed,
Their terrible chieftian's word or nod,
Fulfilling each plan of mischief laid,
Against the broken Image of God,
The poor degraded human race,
To drag them to that dismal place,
Incessantly to undergo
Their long, long quarantine of woe.

As Peter view'd those awful scenes,
A chilling fear ran through his veins,
His knees together smote with dread,
The hair stood bristling on his head,
His teeth were chattering, lips were quivering,
His frame all o'er was seized with shivering,
A cold, cold sweat bedew'd his skin,
While hot the fever raged within.

His burning tongue and parched mouth,
Already felt the quenchless drouth,
Which plagues the miserable race,
For ever in that dismal place.
While trembling he stood looking on,
The awful chief, upon the throne,
With voice as loud as tenfold thunder,
That seemed to rend all hell asunder,
Cried, guards! go fetch yon culprit here,
Yon shrivel'd ghost, who shakes with fear,
Go quick, and loose him from the stake,
Then plunge him in the sulphury lake,
And there baptize him in our name,
O'er head and ears in liquid flame;
For by such rites, 'tis our intent,
To mimic the Omnipotent,—
That done, present him here before us,
He'll help to swell th' infernal chorus.
The guards no sooner orders got,
Then quick they flew toward the spot,
Where Peter stood, and loosing him,
In franctic horror with a scream,
He woke—when lo!—'twas all a dream.

A band of tinklers passing by,
And hearing Peter's dolefu' cry,
Humanely thought it was their duty,
To help a creature in distress,
For though their looks were grim and sooty,
Their hearts felt not a whit the less.
So, by the assistance of a light,
They soon found out the hapless wight,
But oh! how great was their surprise,
They scarcely could believe their eyes,
To see him button'd to a tree,
And vainly struggling to get free.
They questioned him how he got there,
His only answer was a stare
Of hopeless grief, for though awake,
His thoughts, still ran upon the stake,
The burning lake, and heaving mounds,
The dreadful sights and dismal sounds,
Which he had lately seen and heard;
For, when the swarthy band appear'd,
Their sable looks could ill dispel
His fears, of being still in hell.

By soothing words and treatment kind,
They calm'd at length his troubl'd mind;
Heard him his piteous tale relate,
How he had wander'd aff his gate;
How he had lost baith staff and hat;
How he had neither lain, nor sat,
But stood lash'd to a tree that night;
And lastly, what an awfu' fright,
He got, by dreaming o' a dream,
Which almost true, even yet did seem.

The tinklers, pitying Peter's case,
Had him conducted to a place,
Where he his weary frame might rest,
Wi' cauld and hunger sair distrest;
An auld untenanted abode,
That lay twa gun-shot aff the road,
Weel shelter'd by a clump o' trees,
That sugh'd and whistl'd in the breeze:
This auld deserted lanely biggin,
Sair riddl'd, baith in wa's and riggin,

The tinklers had, wi' nae sma' pains,
Made proof against the winds and rains,
And there, amid their vagrant trudgings,
Ta'en up their temporary lodgings.
Thence, aft in bands they issued out,
And roam'd the country round about,
Mending auld kettles, pats and pans,
Cheese toasters, heaters, jugs and cans,
Makin' horn spoons, repairing bellows,
Clasping or splicing auld umbrellas;
Cementing china, glueing fiddles;
Or vamping up auld sieves and riddles;
And sometimes 'mid their various jobbing,
If need required, a hen-roost robbing;
Or nabbing, sly, a pig or sheep,
To help a holiday to keep.
But, to gie fair play to the deevil,
If country-folks to them were civil,
And paid them freely for their wark,
Or shelter'd them when nights were dark,
They paid a sort o' just regard,
To a' about their barn-yard,

And wadna harm a single haet,
Although their needs were e'er sae great.
But stingy churls, that dared to differ
Wi' them, were always sure to suffer
In worldly substance, for their pains,
By loss o' pigs, sheep, ducks or hens:—
For tinklers didna care a button,
Whether 'twas poultry, pork or mutton,
With which they did themselves supply,
Frae niggard's hen-house, bught, or sty;
And never stuck, to let their ass,
Feed on his hay, his oats or grass;
Nor in cauld weather, were they slack,
To help him down wi' his peat stack.
Back to their haunt, again returning,
A' rules o' sober prudence spurning,
They spent hale days and nights, carousing,
In feasting, fiddling, singing, boosing,
Till, prest by want, they trudged again,
To scour the country, hill and plain.

'Twas when a party coming back,
Frae an excursion round the country,
Wi' routh in ilk ane's haversack,
To stow, for ance, their sair-run pantry—
And drawing near their auld houff-door,
Rejoicing o'er their ample store,
And, in anticipation, tasting,
The joys, ance mair, o' fun and feasting:
'Twas at this very nick of time,
When sadness would have been a crime,
That Peter, wi' the dreadfu' scream,
Awoke from out his fearfu' dream.
A shriek so wild, so loud, so near,
Chilled the hale hardy gang wi' fear,
Who made a simultaneous pause,
Listening wi' open ears and jaws.
But soon recovering frae their fright,
They quickly ran, procured a light,
And to the wood their footsteps bent,
Some dreadfu' mischief to prevent:—
Where luckily, they Peter found,
Whom with amazement they unbound,

And to their dwelling straight convey'd him,
Stript him, and in a warm bed laid him,
And tried what means was in their power,
The exhausted creature to restore:—
Rejoicing, that, as things then stood,
They could afford rest, warmth and food,
To their benum'd, benighted guest,
Who needed food and warmth and rest.

Peter, recovering by degrees,
Looks round, and with amazement sees,
A motley group, wi' queer-like faces,
Not overstock'd wi' smiles and graces
Such as on Ladies' faces play,
And o'er their lovely features stray,
Like streamers bright in northern skies,
Darting from cheeks, to lips—to eyes,
Where oft, from 'neath each silken lid
Young Love peeps out, half-seen, half-hid,
Or sporting o'er the neck's soft white,
Or round the sweetly-dimpled chin,

Or 'mong luxuriant ringlets bright,
Fluttering about—now out—now in;
Like butterflies, 'mong beds of flowers,
Or blooming honey-suckle bowers,
Revelling on every luscious sweet,
And sporting in the noon-day's heat;
No, no!—the faces Peter saw,
Had nae sic loveliness at a';
But waggish winks and merry grins,
Scarred cheeks, wide mouths, hard bristly chins,
And shaggy brows, a' soil'd and sweaty,
Supplied the place o' fair and pretty.
Yet, maugre these forbidding features,
They seemed a set o' happy creatures,
Exempt, for ance, frae care and sorrow,
And quite regardless of to-morrow;—
Determined to enjoy their hour
Of pleasure, while 'twas in their power.
And therefore, to begin aright,
The pleasure-business o' the night,
A hearty supper, piping het,
Upon the board was quickly set;

Nor was there wanting, nappy brown,
Nor blue, to synde the supper down.
When placed around the rustic table,
Good-humoured, warm and hospitable,
Remembering still the hapless stranger,
Whom they had lately saved from danger;
They vowed, they wadna taste a bit,
Till he, too, wad participate;—
So, frae the bed they gat him raised,
And in the snuggest corner placed,
While the auld Patriarch o' the gang,
A rackle carle, stark, stiff and strang,
Placed in the corner opposite,
Wi' greasy locks o' black and white,
A swarthy visage, gaunt and lean,
A hook'd proboscis, sharp grey e'en,
A lengthy chin protruding out,
As if in mockery o' the snout,
A hoarse rough voice, and grave grimace,
Mumbled owre something, like a grace.

Peter, whase brain was yet affected,
His wits, at least, scarce quite collected,
With eager looks the group surveying,
While the auld carle the grace was saying,
Wondered, if what he saw was real,
Or if it only was ideal:
And, as his nose inhaled the steam,
Of ilka reeking savoury dish,
Thinks he, if this be a' a dream,
To wake again I ne'er wad wish;
And then, he mutters to himsel',
“Faith! this is no that ill a hell,
“And as for thae black deils around,
“I've met wi' waur aboon the ground.”
But helpit by a guid horn spoon,
Wi' knife and fork, he gather'd soon
His wandering scattered wits again,
That for a while had slipt the rein,
And into wild disorder run,
Like the hot coursers o' the sun,
That day when Phaeton, stuffed wi' pride,
Presumed to undertake to guide

The car of light—which, when he got,
He made a pretty business o't.
And thus, with man, 'tis still the case,
When passion sits in reason's place,
That a' things to confusion rin,
As weel without him, as within,
So, that his every thought, and act,
Is guided mair by whim than fact.
But sage experience tells us a'
That something solid in the maw,
Helps to dispel the fumes and vapours,
That mak' the passions cut their capers,
At sic a wild unruly rate,
As ding the senses aff their gate,
And set them jostling 'gainst ilk ither,
Till ance they're a' confused thegither.
Such was the case wi' Peter here,
Whase intellect was pretty clear
In general, except when he
Took rather meikle barley bree;
A practice, which I'm wae to say,
Prevails owre meikle in our day,

Amang the high as well as low,
Which aften ends in want and woe;—
But then—it helps the revenue,
A good excuse for getting fou,
Expecially for loyal folks,
Or those whase siller's i' the stocks.
But I had 'maist forgotten Peter,
Weel;—as he was a right guid eater,
Takin' a hearty belly-full,
And eke o' swats a noble pull,
He was sae far again brought round,
As ken he was aboon the ground;
And not in that sad place below,
To where, 'tis said, the wicked go;
But placed amang a set o' folks,
That relished weel his funny jokes:—
For Peter had a chosen store,
Of tales, sly jokes, and such like lore;
And then, the way he set them aff,
He'd mak' the very gravest laugh,
Forbye, ye couldna tak' him wrang,
To ask him for a merry sang.

These qualities which he possest,
Soon made him a most welcome guest,
Amang this merry careless core
Wha gloried in a hearty splore,
An' wadna gien a night o' fun,
For a' the grandeur 'neath the sun.
The supper being now discussed,
The twa-pint bottle was produced,
Which, circulating for a wee,
Drew forth loud bursts o' mirth and glee,
And made the jest, the laugh, the sang,
Be keepit up the hale night lang.
Peter was ca'd on for a verse,
At first, his voice was somewhat hearse
(And little wonder, when it's kent
How he that night had partly spent,
But helpit to a wee drap blue,
As he got on it clearer grew,
And then he gied them sic a lilt,
And made sic funny gestures till't,
That when he ended—an encore
Was ca'd for, by a general roar.

Which sang, we here set down in print,
Tho', trowth, ye'll find but little in't.

PETER'S SANG.
[_]

Air, “The Cornclips.”

My mither men't my auld breeks,
An' wow! but they war duddy,
An' sent me, to get shod our mare,
At Robin Tamson's smiddy;
The smiddy stands beside the burn
That wimples thro' the clachan,
I never, yet, gae by the door,
But aye I fa' a laughin'.

For Robin was a walthy carle,
An' had ae bonnie dochter,
Yet ne'er wad let her tak a man,
Tho' mony lads had sought her;
But what think ye o' my exploit?—
The time our mare was shoeing,
I slippit up beside the lass,
An' briskly fell a-wooing.

An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks,
The time that we sat crackin.'
Quo' I, my lass, ne'er mind the clouts,
I've new anes for the makin';
But gin ye'll just come hame wi' me
An' lea' the carle—your father,
Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim,
Mysel', an' a 'thegither.

'Deed, lad quo' she, your offer's fair,
I really think I'll tak' it,
Sae, gang awa', get out the mare,
We'll baith slip on the back o't;
For gin I wait my father's time,
I'll wait till I be fifty,
But na;—I'll marry in my prime,
An' mak' a wife most thrifty.

Wow! Robin was an angry man,
At losing o' his dochter:—
Thro' a' the kintra-side he ran,
An' far an' near he sought her;
But when he cam' to our fire-end,
An' fand us baith thegither,

Quo' I gudeman, I've taen your bairn
An' ye may tak' my mither.

Auld Robin girn'd an' sheuk his pow,
Guid sooth! quo' he you're merry,
But I'll just tak' ye at your word,
An' end this hurry-burry;
So Robin an' our auld wife,
Agreed to creep thegither;
Now, I hae Robin Tamson's pet,
An' Robin has my mither.

Sae soon as Peter's sang was sung,
Frae every neive, and throat, and tongue,
There cam' sic vollies of applause,
As almost shook the very wa's;
And even made the soot, to come,
In sable showers, down the lum.
The glass again was sent about,
And ilk ane had to drink it out,
For, to his health, it was a bumper,
That he might richer grow—and plumper,

And aye be able to rehearse,
A merry tale, or sing a verse.
A sturdy member o' the gang,
Was neist requested for a sang,
Wha, after hemming twice or thrice,
In order to mak clear his voice,
He pitched upon the proper key,
And then began wi' life and glee,
Quite in the true bravura style,
But wi' a pipe so strong and rough,
That though you had been off a mile,
You might hae heard him weel enough.

THE TINKLER'S SONG.
[_]

“Air, Allan-'a-Dale.”

O who are so hearty,—so happy and free,
Or who for the proud care so little as we?
No tyrants control us, no slaves we command,
Like free birds of passage we cross sea and land;
And still, to the comfort of all, we attend,
By calling out, “chaldrons or kettles to mend.”

Each climate—each soil, is to us still the same,
No fixed local spot, for our country we claim,
Yon lordly domain, with its castles and towers,
We care not a pin for—the world, it is ours;
Superiors we know not—on none we depend,
While our business is, caldrons or kettles to mend.

The law says we're vagrants—the law tells a lie,
The green earth's our dwelling, our roof the blue sky,
Then tho', through the earth, for employment we roam,
How can we be vagrants, who ne'er are from home?
Our neighbours are mankind, whom oft we befriend,
While trudging about, pots or kettles to mend.

No rent, tythes, nor taxes, we're called on to pay,
We take up our lodgings wherever we may,
If people are kind, we show kindness to them,
If people are churlish, why, we are the same;
But those who are friendly, fare best in the end,
While their pots, bellows, caldrons or kettles we mend.

Not even the Parson, the Squire, nor my Lord,
A daintier supper than we, can afford,
For nature profusely each blessing doth grant,
Then why should her children be ever in want?—

Let them share with each other whate'er she may send,
Like us—while we've caldrons or kettles to mend.

Then, fill to the stranger a cup of the best,
And when he is wearied conduct him to rest,
For the poor lonely wanderer, homeless and bare,
Should ever the wanderers' sympathy share;
Now we've one consolation—whate'er be our end,
While the world remains wicked—we daily do mend.

The tinkler's ditty being finished,
The bottle, too, right sair diminished,
Not in dimensions—but contents,
Like purses, after paying rents;
Anither jar was ordered out,
To serve the company about,
Wha still were bent upon the splore,
While they could drink, or sing, or roar.

But I had 'maist forgotten fairly,
Something, I should ha'e min't mair early,

Namely, the group o' tinkleresses,
(I kenna whether wives or misses,)
That still accompanied this gang,
Through a' their journeyings alang.
For each male veteran o' the squad,
A sort o' tack-to partner had,
Forbye a bunch o' duddy brats,
Brought up, amang auld pans and pats.
But to portray aright, this gang,
Wad tak' my time up rather lang,
The reader's, too, it wad be wasting,
On subjects little interesting:—
However, I may here assert,
That each was just the counterpart—
The second self—the rib—the Eve,
Of him, to whom she then did cleave;
And was his like in a' respects
With ae slight difference—the sex.—
But there was ane, I must not pass,
A truly interesting lass,
The only daughter o' the man,
Wha seemed the Patriarch o' the clan;

And such a contrast to the rest,
Was she, as is the east to west,
Or as to swarthy night is day,
So lovely she—unlovely they.
This little sprightly black-e'ed creature,
A deeper interest felt for Peter,
And tended him since he cam' thither,
Far mair than a' the rest thegither;
And though her tongue was not so loud,
As ither tongues amang the crowd,
Her eye a great deal more exprest,
Than a' the tongues of a' the rest;
For often had that eye been filled,
With drops, from Pity's urn distilled;
Oft on her cheek those drops had glistened,
The while she sat and meekly listened,
To Peter's tragi-comic story;—
While round was heard “dear me!—I'm sorry”
“O what a pity”—“well”—I vow,”
“But bless me! how did you get through?”
And though he ne'er before had seen her,
Her mild and affable demeanour,

Her loveliness o' form and feature,
Completely captivated Peter.
She was as lively as a lintie,
Her years might border upon twenty,
And though her dress was rather odd,
Made after some outlandish mode,
As fair a form it covered o'er,
As ever silks or satins wore,
And sure, a lovelier tapered waist,
The arm of lover ne'er embraced.
Her sweet complexion—light brunette,
O'erhung with curls of darkest jet,
At times, was brightened by a smile,
That would a saint from heaven wile;
And then, the expression of her eye,
Might charm a seraph from the sky.
This lovely contrast to the rest,
So great a power o'er them possest,
That with one disapproving frown,
She'd make the boldest front look down.
Not that they worshipped her through fear,
(That passion was a stranger here,)

But love, esteem and admiration,
Still made them court her approbation,
And hang upon her every look,
Which for an oracle they took.
And, though the example she had seen
Had not the very fairest been,
She still remained as unstained water:—
Such, was the tinkler's lovely daughter.
With such a sylph, so fair, so winning,
To fa' in love were nae great sinning,
At least, our Peter thought sae then,
And so, indeed, might wiser men:—
For he who could unmoved, behold,
A being of such beauteous mould;
He, who could see the modest blush,
That would her neck and face o'erflush;
He who could mark her eyes mild beaming,
In pity's soft suffusion swimming;
That man, if such a man there be,
Who could with cold indifference see,
Such beauty clothed in smiles or tears:—
A human form perhaps he wears,

But nothing more—his heart, indeed,
Must be of flint—his brain of lead;
Unblest through life, he ne'er can know,
The purest bliss of man below.
But then, I wish to mak' it clear,
That this same love I speak of here,
Is not that groveling sensual passion,
That mak's such crowds to ruin dash on,
But love of that exalted kind,
That is by Heaven, itself, refined.
In such a place, at such a time,
To be in love were nae great crime,
Especially when a' united,
To mak' the opened heart delighted;
When heated by the genial bowl,
Each generous purpose of the soul,
Enlarged, exalted, unconfined,
Glowed with good-will to all mankind;
And ere the liquor's potent spell,
Had changed the scene frae heaven to hell.
I say, at such a place and time,
To feel pure love, was nae great crime.

But now, the liquor operating,
Upon the auld, as weel as young,
Each tinkler's heart wi' pride elating,
And loosing every tinkler tongue,
It showed a very different scene,
Frae ony thing that yet had been.
For now, they a' were getting glorious,
Or rather boisterously uproarious,
The humblest striving wi' the proudest,
Wha wad talk maist or roar the loudest.
Here—ane, was telling queer auld stories,
There—twa, were quarrelling, mad as furies;
Here—ane, a smutty verse was bawling,
And there—a female tongue was brawling;
Here—sat a chiel, that puffed and smoked,
Anither there—the table knocked;
Here—ane was boasting o' great feats,
Anither there—was muttering threats;
Here—stood a chiel, wi' clenched fist,
Anither there, his doxy kiss'd;
And here—was heard the vacant laugh,
Of blockhead, bellowing like a calf.

Amid this tumult, noise and gabble,
Resembling, much a scene at Babel,
Was heard the mingled strange hotch-potch,
Of English, Irish, Welsh and Scotch.
As things proceeded at this rate,
Nor likely, soon to terminate,
A single circumstance took place,
That quickly altered, quite, the case,
And did so great a change produce,
As made the very drunkest douse.
The thing was neither mair nor less,
Than this:—a fellow seized a glass
Brimfu' o' whisky, in his ire,
And dashed the hale o't in the fire.
The fire was brisk—up flew the low,
Quick as a kindled tap o' tow,
Which meeting wi' the soot aboon,
Set a' the lum a-bleezing soon.
Like shot stars fell the clots o' soot,
That burning flew the house about,
While ilka ane to save himsel',
By speed o' foot, in rising, fell.

And as the fire wi' fury burned,
Seats, boards and bottles were o'erturned,
Which, midst the uproar and confusion,
Dealt mony a black and sair contusion
Amang the crew;—who dais'd and foundered,
Owre ane anither sprawled and floundered;
While nought was heard, but cursing, bawling,
The screams o' wives and gettlings squalling.
Amidst this bustle and uproar,
Peter essayed to reach the door;
But stumbling o'er a heap o' strae,
That hidden in a corner lay,
And finding it baith saft and warm,
He thought there might be little harm,
In lying there, to 'bide the event,
And watch to hear how matters went;
For though he wasna fond o' fire,
He didna like to risk the mire,
And face the blast without the door,
As he had done the night before.
Meanwhile, recovering frae their fright,
A few that had escaped by flight

Returned again, and, fetching water,
Soon put an end to a' the matter:
In short, they got the fire put out,
A lucky circumstance, nae doubt,
For had the fire but put out them,
They'd found the earth a right cauld hame,
Especially on sic a morning,
For a' their vaunting, pride and scorning.

Now, every thing again set right,
And morning ushering in the light,
The sobered party a' agreed,
That they o' sleep stood maist in need;—
They therefore, a' retired to rest,
Each, wi' his mate he liket best,
While poor forgotten Peter lay,
Still snug and warm amang the strae.
Nor very lang had he reposed,
Till baith his e'en in sleep were closed,
And then his busy working brain,
Fell speedily to wark again.

The tinkler's daughter, fair and kind,
Had ne'er been absent frae his mind,
During the time he was awake,
Yet, then he could no freedom take,
To tell her she was fair and good,
And talk of—love?—no;—gratitude.
But now, set free from a' restraint,
Fancy, again, began to paint
Bright scenes of youth, a' fresh and glowing,
Love's sweets, and Beauty's roses blowing.
He dreamt, that, being young again,
And walking o'er a spacious plain,
O'erspread with summer's richest hue,
And brightly gemmed with morning dew,
And deckt with flowers, and trees, in bloom,
That lent the air a sweet perfume;
While clear the rivulet purled alang,
Sweet mingling wi' the blackbird's sang;
He thought that idly walking there,
Inhaling morning's purest air,
He saw the tinkler's lovely daughter,
Wading a brook of clearest water,

With feet unshod, and ancles bare,
Of finest shape, and hue most fair;—
That crossing o'er the daisied green,
With downcast eye and modest mien,
Her feet still bare, her ancles wet,
She saw him not, until they met;
That then, a blush of purest red,
Her lovely modest face o'erspread,
Which, gazing on, he silence broke,
And thus, with tremulous voice he spoke:
“Dear lassie! lovelier than the morn,
Sweeter than blossoms on the thorn,
Lang hae I had an anxious wish,
To meet thee in a place like this;
And tell thee a' this bosom feels,
Which every ardent sigh reveals.
O list! and hear this vow o' mine,
If thou'lt thy vagrant life resign,
Leave thy rude race, and come wi' me,
My loving mate, through life, to be;—
If thou'lt consent—lo! here, I vow,
To love thee aye, as I do now.”

Then, thus the maid, with face averted,
While from her eye the big tear started,
And o'er her check ran trickling down,
Which now was darkened with a frown;
“What! leave my Sire, forsake my clan,
To live with thee? presumptuous man!
No;—rather let me perish first,
Than with a parent's hate be curst;
Become the apostate of my race,—
And bring on all my kin disgrace?
No, never;—but if thou'lt resign,
Thy groveling race with ours to join,
I may consent to bless thine arms,
But not on any other terms.”
Then Peter thus; “Yes, I agree,
For what are all my kin to me?
To live upon thy cheering smiles,
With thee I'd trudge ten thousand miles,
And with thy race, contented, share
The hardest toil and humblest fare.”
Then beamed her face with look so kind,
While she her hand to him resigned,

That Peter, while he fondly seized it,
Between his own with rapture squeezed it.
And then with both his arms embraced,
Most ardently her gentle waist.
But ah! the ecstacy, too great,
For Peter's poor enfeebled state,
Awoke him, panting, breathless, gasping,
Just in the very act of clasping;
When lo! instead of that sweet lass,
Peter embraced the tinkler's—ASS!
Wi' downright wonderment o'er powered,
He at the Cuddy gaped and glowred,
Rubbed baith his e'en, then muttering stammered,
Gu—gu—gude L---d! I'm a' be-glamoured,
Did ever mortal get the slip sae,
As I've got frae this tinkler gipsey?
Was ever ought sae mad provoking?
O horrible! O—shocking—shocking!
To think I hugged a bonnie lass,
Then waukened hugging this auld ass.
I wadna this were kent at hame,
For a' the goud that I could name,

I'm clean bewitched, I really think,
Och hey!—my head!—a drink—a drink!
The tinklers hearing a' this clatter,
Approached, to learn what was the matter;
When lo! they saw the ass and Peter,
Baith snugly bedded 'mang the litter.
But soon as he the group espied,
He started up and wildly cried,
Avaunt! ye fiends, wi' your curst spells,
That mak' poor mortals no themsel's,
For aye, since I cam here yestreen,
Your glamour has misled my e'en,
And made me think, and say, and do,
Things that I may for ever rue:—
Avaunt! I say, ye hounds o' hell,
Or loose me frae this horrid spell;—
O were I but mysel' ance mair!
Hech! bring a drink—my head is sair.
The tinklers seeing him sae mad,
Recourse to their auld nostrum had,
Namely a hearty lunch o' meat,
Which soon as he began to eat,

A' the blue devils by degrees,
Flew frae him like a swarm o' bees;
And left him quite himsel' again,
Wi' good sound head and settled brain.
Preparing, now, to tak' the road,
He got his person made as snod,
As circumstances wad allow,
Considering what he had come through.

It being, now, about mid-day,
He was escorted on his way,
But he had ten lang miles o' trudging,
Ere he could reach his Whitburn lodging;
For, poor man, he had wandered, far
South through the muirs beyond Benhar.
Arrived, he got a good night's rest,
Which his worn carcase weel refresh'd;
Set off for Reekie, reached it too,
But mony a street and lane sought through,

And mony a brae gaed up and down,
Aft cursing sic a tiresome town,
And mony a weary round-about,
He had, ere he his friend found out.

Now let me tak' my breath awee,
And just suppose twa things or three,
Suppose a hearty welcome gien,
To Peter by his gentle frien';
Suppose him in the parlour seated,
Fu' snug and warm and kindly treated;
Suppose his frien' an interest taking,
In his new plan o' bannock-baking,
And every thing completely settled,
Just to his mind as he had ettled;
Suppose him great as ony king,
And ye will just suppose the thing,
The very thing that ne'er took place,
In hapless Peter Cornclips' case.
But on the ither hand suppose,
That Peter to the front door goes,

Surveys the place, then pulls the bell,
Thinking the laird will come himsel',
Wi' gladness beaming in his e'e,
His poor, yet honest frien' to see;
Suppose then, that a powdered flunky,
Trick'd out like ony showman's monkey,
In antique party-coloured claes,
And cheeping shoon as clear as slaes,
Ruffles and lace, and sic like gear,
As stage buffoons and flunkies wear.
Suppose that he comes to the door,
Sees Peter weary, lean and poor,
His meagre face wi' bruises scar'd,
His upper garments a' beglaur'd,
Orders him aff, wi' saucy sneer,
For beggar trash get nothing here,
D—ns him and all his lousy race,
Then slaps the big door in his face:
And through the lobby strutting back,
Wishing old Nick had all the pack,
A lousy, lazy, dirty vermin,
With which the town, for shame!—is swarming;

Suppose, but stop—we've had enough
O' suppositions and sic stuff,
Try now, and wi' the Muse prevail,
To gie a plain straight-forward tale,
Without sae mony ins and outs,
And langsome turns and round-abouts,
For wha can comprehend her meaning,
When aye to right and left she's rinning?
True;—on we'll jog then, wi' our tale,
In a straight-forward even course,
Nor tack wi' every shifting gale,
Like Hawser Trunion on his horse.
Weel then, as was supposed before,
The flunky coming to the door,
And seeing Peter's odd-like figure,
At him began to sneer and snigger,
To screw his mouth, and hem and cough,
Then scold him to get quickly off,
Wi' a' the vulgar insolence,
And self-important consequence,
With which such pamper'd slaves are puffed up,
Wha on the best are fed and stuffed up.

Peter began to tell his story,
Which put the thing quite in a flurry,
Be off, it cried, I cannot hear you,
I tell you sir, I cannot bear you,
Off, off I say! I've heard enough,
I'm not accustomed to such stuff;
Then making a most graceful wheel,
Upon its pretty weel-turned heel,
Into the house the creature rushed,
And in his face the great door pushed;
Leaving poor Peter so amazed,
That nought he did, but gaped and gazed,
Wi' sic a stupid vacant stare,
That had ye seen the body there,
Ye'd taen him for some ancient bust,
For ages hid 'mang dirt and rust;
Or warldly freen' o' Mistress Lot,
Struck dead and fixed unto the spot;
Or wooden man, for setting up,
In front o' some tobacco shop;
So set his mouth, so fixt his e'en,
His living likeness ne'er was seen.

At length recovered frae his trance,
Peter began to leave his stance,
But near the spot he still did hover,
Hoping he might his friend discover,
And be enabled face to face,
To let him ken his waefu' case.
But as his evil star, or fate—
Misluck, or some such thing wad hae't,
(For Fate, like Death, tak's nae denial,)
He had to bide a farther trial;
Not ane by fire, like godly martyrs,
But ane by mire, like drunken carters,
Wha aften when their swats are in,
Regardless o' a paiket skin,
Fa' out and fight like folk gane wud,
And row ilk ither in the mud.

As 'twas within the Police bounds,
Where stood the house o' Peter's freen',
A sergeant passing on his rounds,
On Peter fixt his corbie e'en;

For gentlemen o' his profession,
Mixing amang the low and vicious,
By their superior education,
Become confoundedly suspicious;
A fact, which to establish clear,
Just let us view this red-neck here,
Wha judging Peter might belang,
To some rapacious thieving gang,
And stationed there to act as spy,
He, like grimalkin, keen and sly,
Determined for a while to watch him,
And try, if possible—to catch him.

For twa lang hours did Peter wait,
Lingering about the great man's gate,
But not a soul was to be seen,
Could tell him aught about his freen'.
At last his patience quite worn out,
He thought he e'en might slip about

By the back door, and wait awee,
Perchance, he there might some ane see,
That wad mair kindness to him show,
Than did the powder'd flunky beau;
But maun I tell it?—here again,
Poor Peter sadly was mistaen,
For if he was ill-used before,
He now was treated ten times waur,
Not by a flunky, or sic like,
But by a surly mastiff tyke,
Whilk, wi' a loud and angry growl,
Seized Peter by the neck, poor soul;
And in the gutter laid him sprawling,
While loud for help he fell a-bawling,
But aye the louder he did roar,
The dog held faster than before;
And if a limb he dared to stir,
He was admonished by a gurr
Frae the fierce brute, to lie there quiet;
For, to get free, 'twas vain to try it.
Now red-neck, thinking a' things snug,
And that he might approach the dog,

And bear frae him his prisoner aff,
By dint o' his official staff;
Quite certain that a scarlet neck,
Wad frae the brute ensure respect;
So in on Peter straight he ran,
But, trowth, he had mistaen his man,
Or rather, had mistaen his dog,
For he was gripit by the lug,
And ere he could ca' out for aid,
Was side by side wi' Peter laid.

But now began a glorious splutter,
Amang this trio in the gutter;
For, on three sides, three mutual foes,
Alike ilk ither did oppose,
Not ane on twa, nor twa on ane,
But a' the three against ilk ither,
Like Midian's graceless host langsyne,
When every man turned on his brither.
The bipeds struggled, cuffed and swore;
The quadruped growled, bit and tore;

For, though he couldna help the quarrel
By cursing, yet he weel could snarl;
So that between the men and dog,
Ensued this pretty dialogue.

“Let gae your grip sir—what d'ye want?”
“Let co my crip” (gurr) “No I sha'nt,
She's shust my prisoner.”—“What! me?”—“Yes.”
“Your (gurr) your warrant”—“look at this,”
“At that!—if that be your authority,
Here's ane disputes it wi' a—gurr at ye;”
“Here! catch him fast tog” (bow wow gurr)
“Tamfound her for an uglee cur!—
She's pit my”—(bow wow.) “Sorrow cares!
You're cheap—(gurr) mind your ain affairs.”
“Tamn'd thieving rogue! I knows your cuilt,”
“You know the!”—“Come sir, no consult,
But mind fat's tue man, to my coat,”
(Gurr) “Snarling felp! I'll cut your throat”
“Your coat! and you! confound you baith,
Here's ane as big as three o't faith,”

“Come! crip him sir!—“Ye hangman's jackall,
Vile sweep-street—nab-thief—dirty rake-hole,”
“Tiel tamn her pluit man!”—(bow wow wow)
“Weel sergeant lad! wha's prisoner now?”
“Help! murter!—O my—plastit felp!”
(Bow wow wow wow) “ho! poliesh help!
Coot Cot!—tiel tamn!”—“aye—that's it now,”
“Help! poliesh! poliesh!” (bow wow wow.)

Alarmed by this unusual din,
The whole inhabitants within,
Rush'd out to learn what was the cause,
When lo! the sturdy mastiff's paws,
Were firmly prest on Peter's breast,
While the ill-manner'd surly beast,
Regardless of the official coat,
Held the poor sergeant by the throat.
But ordered, now, he loosed his grip,
And yielding baith his prisoners up,
Stood blythely by, his tail a-wagging,
Not ostentatiously bragging,

But conscious o' his ain utility,
Begging wi' a' a dog's humility,
A kindly word, a stroke, or smile,
The full reward for a' his toil:
Like some auld veteran frae the wars,
Disabled and deformed wi' scars,
Worn out by battles and by broils,
Unhealthy climes, unceasing toils,
Deprived, perhaps, o' baith his shanks,
Thankfu' to get his sovereign's thanks.

The landlord came among the rest,
To whom the man of rule addrest
A lang harangue, complaining sair,
O' Peter and the watch-dog there;
Ta ane, no toubts, a cot tamn tief,
Wasna her face tere, 'ficient prief?
Ta other, an uncivil tog,
Treating her, as she'd treat ta rogue,
For which, py cot, she'd have her shot,
Wishout telay upon ta spot,

To teach her to pay more suspect,
In future, to ta scarlet neck;
Ta tamn, plack, uglee, pitch's ghost,
She'd hang her, at ta first lamp post.

An explanation now took place,
For recognized was Peter's face,
The honest watch-dog was carest,
The man of office was dismist,
But not without this admonition—
“Beware on whom you fix suspicion,
And fasten not your grappling hooks,
On all who may have blackguard looks.”

Peter at length an audience gained,
The purpose o' his jaunt explained,
With condescension great was heard,
While his petition he preferred,
And to enforce his argument,
To mony a deep drawn sigh gied vent;
Nay, by some folk 'tis even said,
That tears by Peter, then were shed;

But that is only a report.
Of course, I winna answer for't,
Bound, as I am, the truth to state,
In every thing that I narrate,
In good, plain, honest, hame-spun diction,
Without embellishment or fiction.

Now Peter having tald his story,
Was answered by his friend, “I'm sorry,
Extremely sorry, I must own,
To think that you have come to town,
On such an errand as you've come,—
Ho, John!—Fetch up a glass of rum,
Or brandy, to this starving creature,
Or would you fancy whisky, Peter?”
“O Sir, just ony thing you please.”
“And, John, set down some bread and cheese,
Or stop, bring rather some warm broth,
For he is cold and hungry both,
Yes, fetch some comfortable dinner—
Peter, I think you're now much thinner,

Than what you were, last time we met,
Come, John, be quick—and don't forget
A bottle of your good old beer,
To cheer the heart of Peter here.
Why Peter I am truly sorry,
To say I can do nothing for ye;
For let me tell you, you're too lean,
And your appearance rather mean,
For filling such a situation,
Which, people of a higher station,
Would be right glad of, I assure you;
And they should be preferred before you;
For those, you know, who cannot dig,
Should never be allowed to beg.
Besides, I'm told you've been imprudent,
And often done the things you should'nt;
For, if you are belied not greatly,
Your conduct has been so so lately;
Now Sir! you know, 'twould never do,
For me to involve myself with you,
While you possess a character,
That is not altogether fair.

I therefore, would advise you Peter,
To do the thing would fit you better,
And that is, to get quickly home,
Nor more upon such errands come;
But follow your own trade with diligence;
For, be assured, I get intelligence,
When any of my poor relations,
Act counter to their humble stations;
Now take your dinner, if you can,
And I will send my gentleman,
To help you to procure a bed,
Somewhere about the Cowgate-head.
And lest that you should money lack,
To help you on your journey back,
Here, take this crown, and so adieu,
I've got no more to say to you.
I hope your walk home will be pleasant,
Farewell—I'm just engaged, at present.”

So saying, quickly he withdrew,
Ending, at once, the interview,

Leaving poor Peter in a state,
Waur than when first he took the gate;
For back again he had to trudge,
Deep wading through the mire and sludge,
And little else got for his pains,
But blistered feet and wearied banes.

Reader, our tale concluded now,
We will, although we scarce know how,
Proceed some moral to deduce
From what we've said—which may produce
Good fruits, and be of vast advantage,
Both to our Sinnerage and Saintage.
(Critic, perhaps, thou'lt say we're coining
New words, but no; we're just combining,
We have our Peerage—very true,
Then why not have our Saintage too,
And Sinnerage—if these two classes,
Wore badges or distinctive dresses.)
For our part, we see no more harm in
Drawing a moral from a story,

Than in the improving of a sermon,
By Dons at pulpit oratory;
Then, by your leave, we'll just proceed,
Though, Gude kens, how we may succeed.

And in the first place we may learn,
What bitter wages drinkers earn,
When heedless of the consequences,
They sit and drink away their senses,
Impair their faculties and health,
Neglect their business, spend their wealth,
Ruin their families, hurt their morals,
And get themselves involved in quarrels;
Hence headaches, bruises, foolish whims,
Unquiet sleep and frightful dreams,
With many other nameless ills,
That daily flow from whisky stills.

And, secondly, we may observe,
That if we have some end to serve,
We ne'er should loiter on our way,
Lest haply we be led astray,

Far from our mark, we know not whither,
And lose our object altogether;
But use all diligence and speed,
Which is the best way to succeed.

And, in the third place, we may see,
Whatever our condition be,
We should upon ourselves depend,
If that condition we would mend;
Nor trust to friends, nor rich relations,
For bettering our situations,
For this world's friendship's always best,
When it is least put to the test.

And, fourthly, we may here perceive,
That if we would the calling leave
Which we've been bred to, and aspire
To modes of living somewhat higher;
The greatest care is necessary,
Else, ten to one, but we miscarry,
And meet the fate of Whang the miller,
Wha lost his mill thro' greed o' siller.

And, in the fifth place, to conclude,
We may observe what solid good,
In certain cases, may be got,
By having on, a good big-coat.

Now Reader, that thou mayest have grace,
To act in thine own proper place,
With credit to thyself, and those,
Who nightly round thy fireside close,
And that thou mayest not like an ass,
Through Peter's miry ordeal pass,
Nor get thy good name soil'd nor hurt,
By Calumny's besmearing squirt.
And, whilst thou travel'st life's rough way,
That thou like him mayest never stray,
Surrounded with affliction's gloom,
By adverse storms of fate o'ercome,
Plunging from hardship into hardship,
Is the warm prayer of our Bardship.

Herriot's Hospital.

A village three miles east of Glasgow, on the Edinburgh road.

In the West of Scotland, a currant-bun is usually a New Year's gift from the baker.

Half-way between Glasgow and Edinburgh.

Alias, Whisky.

Auld Reekie, a common appellation o' the gude town o' Edinburgh, where Peter's friend resided.

A red collar generally forms part of the official dress in Scotland, of an Officer of Police.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

MY COUNTRY.

My Country, my country!—O there is a charm
And spell, in that sound, which must every heart warm:
Let us burn at the line, let us freeze at the pole,
Pronounce but that sound, and it thrills through the soul.

And where lies the charm in that all-potent sound,
That is felt and acknowledged where'er man is found?
And why is our country—the land of our birth,—
The sweetest—the loveliest spot upon earth?

Say; is it in climate? In soil? Or in sky?
In gay sunny landscapes that ravish the eye?
In rich golden harvests? In mines of bright ore?
It may be in these—but there's still something more:

100

The deeds of our fathers, in times that are gone,
Their virtues, their prowess, the fields they have won;
Their struggles for freedom, the toils they endured,
The rights and the blessings for us they procured:

Our music, our language, our laws, our great men,
Who have raised themselves high by the sword, or the pen;
Our productions of genius, the fame of our arms,
Our youths' native courage, our maidens' soft charms:

The dreams of our childhood, the scenes of our youth,
When life's stainless current ran placidly smooth;
Our friends, homes and altars, our substance, tho' small,
And one lovely object, the sweetener of all:—

From these, and ten thousand endearments beside,
From these springs the charm, that makes country our pride;
And what, wanting these, would a paradise be?
A waste—a dark cell—a lone rock in the sea.

101

The adventurous emigrant launched on the main,
Who goes, to behold not his country again,
What painful reflections must rush through his mind,
As he takes the last look of the shores left behind;—

The long cherished spot where to manhood he grew,
The friends whom he loved, the acquaintance he knew;
Parents, children, or wife, left behind broken-hearted,
The mutual sorrows that flowed when they parted;

A country before him, all strange and unknown,
Where no heart in unison beats with his own
Such thoughts, through his mind, that sad moment will rush,
While big swelling drops from his straining eyes gush.

But the merchant or warrior, absent afar
From his country, engaged in her commerce or war,
Returning, at last, what a flood of delight
Fills his soul, when his country first breaks on his sight.

102

How cheering the hope! that he shortly will meet,
The warm grasp of friendship, or love still more sweet;
And while his heart bounds toward home's hallowed spot,
Even Watch the old house-dog is then not forgot.

But, Oh! it is only the man who is free,
That can boast, “I've a country that smiles upon me;”
The captive and slave who in wretchedness moan,
Alas, they can scarce call their country their own.

The Laplander, coursing his deserts of snow,
Possessing his rein-deer, his sledge and his bow,
On Lapland though warm summer suns rarely beam,
No country on earth is like Lapland—to him.

Though scanty his fare, yet, content with his lot,
The terrors of slavery trouble him not;
He bounds free as air, o'er his own native snows,
Secure in his poverty, fearing no foes.

103

But the ill-fated negro, from home rudely torn,
And o'er the Atlantic a poor captive borne;
How frantic the grief of his untutored mind,
While sharp galling fetters his manly limbs bind:

Pent up in a dungeon, deprived of fresh air,
The victim of sorrow, disease, and despair;
Behold the poor negro-man, panting for breath,
And gasping, and struggling, and praying for death:

Now see him, poor wretch, to the slave market brought,
Like the ox of the stall, to be sold—to be bought,
Condemned to hard toil, by the cruel whip flayed;
Oh, God! was't for this, that the negro was made?

A captive—a slave, on a far foreign coast,
Where now is his country?—To him it is lost;
A sad recollection is all he has left
Of home's sweet endearments, from him wholly reft.

104

But the time may arrive yet, when he, even he!
Will burst his vile fetters, and rank with the free;
How glorious to see him then, treading the sod,
Erect—independent—the image of God.

O, Haytians! how noble a cause have you won,
You now have a country, who lately had none,
The trammels that bound you, in shivers you've broke,
And scorned, now alike, are the tyrant and yoke.

The children of Judah in warfare o'ercome,
And borne away captive afar from their home,
By Babylon's rivers how loud was their moan,
While they wept their lost country, laid waste and o'erthrown:

Their Zion consumed, and their Temple defiled,
Of all its rich ornaments robbed and despoiled;
Its vessels, for God's holy service ordained,
By lips, all unholy and impious, profaned;

105

No wonder, then, Judah's sad children deplored,
The havoc and rage of the conqueror's sword,
For, while mock'd and insulted in bondage they lay,
What Temple—what Zion—what Country had they?

Not so, the brave Greeks, when obliged to retreat,
From their Athens destroyed, and retire to their fleet,
Oh, say, when their city was one smoking heap,
Say where was their Athens?—'Twas then on the deep:

Yes, they had a country, for still they were free,
To no foreign conqueror bent they the knee;
Their fields might be wasted, their homes wrapt in flame,
Their fleet, and their freedom, were country to them.

O, glorious example, by patriots of old,—
Would to God that their sons were but now half so bold!
One gleam of the steel only waved by such hands,
Were sufficient to wither the whole turban'd bands.

106

Then Freedom again, would smile lovely on Greece,
And rapine, and murder, and tyranny cease;
And Athens, and Sparta, we yet might behold,
Out-rivalling Athens and Sparta of old.

And the Hellenists—Lords of their own native soil,—
Would reap unmolested the fruits of their toil;
And their country, no longer by slavery debased,
Would present one vast Temple to Liberty raised!

Then, since it is Freedom, and Freedom alone,
That halloweth country and makes it our own;
May she march with the sun, like the sun may she blaze,
Till the whole earth be gilded and warmed by her rays.

Accurst be the villain, and shunned by mankind,
Who would fetter the body, or trammel the mind;
May his name be detested, himself from earth driven,
Who thus would rob man of the best gift of heaven.

107

But honoured and blest be the patriot chief,
Who fearlessly struggles for mankind's relief;
In his Country's affections, long, long may he bloom,
And his memory shed, an eternal perfume.

And, O, my dear Country! wherever I be,
My first—my last prayer shall ascend still for thee,
That thou mayest flourish, as lasting as time,
Unblighted by slavery, unsullied by crime.

108

ODE,

Written for the Anniversary of the Birth of Robert Tannahill.

While certain parties in the state,
Meet yearly, to commemorate
The birth of their great “heaven-born” head,
Wha lang did Britain's councils lead;—
And, in the face of downright facts,
Launch forth in praise of certain acts,
As deeds of first-rate magnitude,
Performed a' for the public good,
By this rare pink o' politicians,
This matchless Prince o' state Physicians;
Whase greatest skill in bleeding lay,
Bleeding the state into decay:
For—studying the great Sangrado,—
There's little doubt, but he got haud o'
The secret o' that great man's art,
At which he soon grew most expert;

109

As his prescriptions, like his master's,
Still ran on lancets, mair than plasters:—
A proper mode, nae doubt, when nations,
Like men, are fash'd wi' inflammations;
But somewhat dangerous when the patient,
From being rather scrimptly rationt,
Has little blood to spare—and when,
(With all respect for learned men)
He has much less desire, to look,
To the Physician, than the Cook.
While thus they meet, and yearly dine,
And o'er their flowing cups o' wine,
By studied speech, or weel-timed toast,
Declare it is their greatest boast,
That they were friends o' that great Pilot,
Wha braved the storm, by his rare skill o't,
And brought the vessel fairly through,
Though mutinous were half the crew.
But then, these Pitt-adoring fellows,
Are careful to forget, to tell us,
That running foul o' some rude rock,
He gied the vessel such a shock,

110

As shattered a' her stately hull;
So that her owner, Mr. Bull,
So terrible a loss sustaining,
Has ever since been sair complaining:—
In fact, this once brave, stout, plump fellow,
With face, now of a sickly yellow,
A constitution, sadly shattered,
A frame wi' toil and sickness battered,
Wearing away by constant wasting,
Down to the grave seems fast a-hasting.
But yet, he vows, if he be spared,
He'll have her thoroughly repaired,
Nor weary out his gallant crew,
By toiling mair than men can do;
For now, it tak's them ceaseless pumping,
To keep the crazy hulk from swamping:
Na, trowth, they tell us nought like that,
They're no sae candid, weel I wat.
But getting a' quite pack thegither,
They bandy compliments at ither,
Sae thick and fast, that mutual flatteries,
Are playing off like bomb-shell batteries;

111

Or rather to come lower down,
For that's a simile too high flown,
It's somewhat like a boyish yoking,
At battle-door and shuttle-cocking;
For, soon as this ane gies his crack,
The next ane's ready to pay back
His fulsome compliments galiore;
And thus, is blarney's battle-door,
Applied to flattery's shuttle-cock,
Till ilk ane round gets stroke for stroke.

A different task is ours indeed,
We meet, to pay the grateful meed;—
The meed of just esteem sincere,
To ane, whase memory we hold dear;
To ane, whase name demands respect,
Although wi' nae court titles deckt;
To ane, wha never learned the gate,
Of fawning meanly on the great;
To ane, wha never turned his coat,
To mak' a sinfu' penny o't;

112

To ane, wha never speel'd to favour,
By turning mankind's chief enslaver;
To ane, wha never did aspire
To set, and keep the warld on fire;
To ane, wha ne'er, by mischief brewing,
Raised himsel' on his country's ruin;
But humbly glided on through life,
Remote from party jars and strife,
A quiet, inoffensive man,
As ever life's short race-course ran,
A simple, honest child of nature still,
In short, our ain dear minstrel—Tannahill.

O Tannahill! thou bard revered,
Thy name shall ever be endeared
To Scotia, thy loved land of song,
While her pure rivers glide along;
While her bleak rugged mountains high,
Point their rude summits to the sky;
While yellow harvests on her plains,
Reward her children's toils and pains;

113

And while her sons and daughters leal,
The inborn glow of freedom feel,
Her woods, her rocks, her hills and glens,
Shall echo thy delightful strains.
While “Jura's cliffs” are capt with snows;
While the “dark winding Carron” flows;
While high “Benlomond” rears his head;
To catch the sun's last radiance shed;
While sweet “Gleniffer's dewy dell”
Blooms wi' “the craw-flower's early bell;”
While smiles “Glenkilloch's sunny brae,”
Made classic by thy tender lay;
While waves the “wood of Craigielee,”
Where “Mary's heart was won by thee,”
Thy name—thy artless minstresley,
Sweet bard of nature, ne'er shall die;
But, thou wilt be remembered still,
Meek, unassuming Tannahill.
What, though with Burns thou could'st not vie,
In diving deep, or soaring high;
What, though thy genius did not blaze
Like his, to draw the public gaze;

114

Yet, thy sweet numbers, free from art,
Like his, can touch—can melt the heart.

The lav'rock may soar, till he's lost in the sky,
Yet the modest wee lintie that sings frae the tree,
Altho' he aspire not to regions so high,
His song is as sweet as the laverock's to me;
And O thy wild warblings are sweet, Tannahill,
Whatever thy theme be,—love, grief or despair,
The tones of thy lyre move our feelings at will,
For nature, all powerful, predominates there.

But, while the bard we eulogize,
Shall we the man neglect to prize?
No; perish every virtue first,
And every vice usurp its place,
With every ill let man be curst,
Ere we do aught so mean and base.
Shall bloody warriors fill the rolls of fame,
And niches in her lofty temple claim?—

115

Shall the unfeeling scourgers of mankind,
To mercy deaf, to their own interest blind?—
Shall the depopulators of the earth,
Without one particle of real worth—
Whose lives are one compounded mass of crime,
Be handed down by fame, to latest time,
The admiration of each future age,
They!—whose vile names are blots on every page?
And shall the child of virtue be forgot,
Because the inmate of a humble cot?
Shall he whose heart was open, warm, sincere,
Who gave to want his mite—to woe his tear;—
Whose friendship still, was steady, warm and sure,
Whose love was tender, constant, ardent, pure;—
Whose fine-toned feelings, generous and humane,
Were hurt to give the meanest reptile pain;—
Whose filial love for her who gave him birth,
Has seldom found a parallel on earth;—
Shall he, forgotten in oblivion lie?
Forbid it, every sacred Power on high;

116

Forbid it, every virtue here below.—
Shall such a precious gem lie buried?—no:—
Historians may neglect him, if they will,
But age will tell to age, the worth of Tannahill.

When mighty conquerors shall be forgot,
When like themselves, their very names shall rot;
When even the story of their deeds is lost,
Or only heard with horror and disgust;—
When happy man, from tyranny set free,
Shall wonder if such things could really be;
And bless his stars that he was not on earth,
When such destructive monsters were brought forth;
When the whole human family shall be one,
In every clime below the circling sun,

117

And every man shall live secure and free,
Beneath his vine, beneath his own fig tree;
No savage hordes his dwelling to invade,
Nor plunderer daring to make him afraid;
When things are prized, not by their showy dress,
But by the solid worth which they possess;
Even then, our loved, our much lamented bard,
Those times shall venerate with deep regard;
His songs will charm, his virtues be revered,
And to his name shall monuments be reared.

[_]

It is well authenticated, that the rash act which terminated the career of the unfortunate Tannahill, was committed in a fit of mental distraction, arising from a circumstance, which the peculiar sensibility of his mind could not brook. The many amiable qualities of his disposition, which we have here endeavoured to depict, have ever been confirmed by his intimates, as well as by all who were in the least degree acquainted with him, so as justly to entitle him to the epithet “child of virtue.”

See note at the end of this Poem, (Page 117.)

This may seem to many, perhaps, too harsh a term to apply to human beings; but, when we consider the atrocities and butcheries committed or sanctioned, by such characters as Nero, Caligula, Atilla and others, in what terms can we more properly designate such individuals, than “destructive monsters?”

124

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

When proud man, for thirst of fame,
Madly wades through blood and slaughter,
What his savage heart can tame?—
Woman!—Nature's fairest daughter.
In this thorny vale of grief
Where shall weary man repose him?
Where obtain such blest relief,
As on lovely woman's bosom?

When the infant is distrest,
What is then its sweetest soother?—
'Tis the soft—the tender breast,
Of its anxious, fondling mother.
Where's the only heaven on earth,
Where those buds celestial blossom—
Truth, love, feeling, meekness, worth—
Where?—in virtuous woman's bosom.

125

What impels the patriot band
On to actions more than human,
To redeem their dear-loved land—
What!—but sweet, endearing woman?
Yes, her meek imploring tear
With supernal fire endues them:—
Freedom! then, how doubly dear,
Breathed upon her panting bosom!

126

AS AE DOOR STEEKS ANITHER CLOSES, OR THE PROVERB REVERSED.

Methinks some old Scotch proverb says,
“As ae door steeks anither opens,”
Though this may sometimes be the case,
Its sad reverse much oftener happens;
Let's therefore coin the thing anew,
(Ne'er minding what each snarling foe says)
And try to prove this axiom true,
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”

The man whose trade moves to his mind,
Is always sure of friends to help him,
And ne'er is at a loss to find
An open door—a hearty welcome;
But he, whose fortune's on the wane,
Who tries—and tries—and tries, but loses,
Soon finds just reason to complain,
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”

127

The haughty minister of state,
Who proudly basks in royal sunshine,
While numbers daily on him wait,
To catch a glimpse of borrowed moonshine;
Poor man! for all his pomp and power,
He sleeps not on a bed of roses,
For should his lord but shut the door,
Then every door against him closes.

The artizan whose dauntless mind,
Revolts against his proud oppressor,
Turned off—can no employment find,
For being such a bold transgressor;
His suit is met in every place
With jibes, and sneers, and turn'd-up noses.
Thus feels he this sad truth, alas!
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”

The spendthrift wild, who wastes his wealth,
In rioting and dissipation,
Ne'er dreams, poor fool! of injured health,
Pale want, or blasted reputation.

128

Disease and poverty come on,
His credit everywhere he loses,
Even self-respect, at last is gone,
Door after door against him closes.

The poor neglected virtuous man,
Who long the storms of life has braved,
Sinks down, at last, exhausted—wan—
Of every earthly stay bereaved;
Yet still has he one prop that's sure,
On which his harassed soul reposes,
Though spurned from every earthly door,
The door of Heaven—never closes.

129

SONGS.

131

THE GREEK CHIEF TO HIS COUNTRYMEN.

[_]

Air.—Athenian.

The mild evening blushes, afar in the west,
Among the green bushes, each bird finds its nest,
Unlike troubled mortals,
The love-mated turtles,
Among their green myrtles,
Sink calmly to rest.

But where shall the wanderer, his weary head lay,
When wide roams the plunderer, insatiate on prey,
Our sweet homes devouring,
Our life's blood out-pouring,
And red ruin showering,
On all in his way?

132

O rouse from your torpor! my countrymen all,
Too long the usurper, has held us in thrall—
Our fire-levell'd dwellings,
Our children's loud wailings,
Our wives' injured feelings,
Most powerfully call.

Too long has the Crescent, triumphantly shone,
While we, all quiescent, have tamely look'd on,
'Twas not so of old, when
Our sires brave and bold then,
Their foemen laid cold then,
At famed Marathon.

O, for the three hundred free Spartans, so brave,
Would they, too, be plundered, by slaves of a slave?
No! rather than bear it,
With tame servile spirit,
The Turk should inherit
The Persian's grave!

Then rouse! ye degraded, and onward with me,
Your laurels are faded, what worse can you be?

133

The chains that inthral you,
No more let them gall you,
But burst them. Then—shall you
Be happy and free.

ISABELL.

[_]

Air.—“Miss Graham of Inchbrecky.”

When lads and lasses a' convene,
To daff awa' an hour at e'en,
I tak' my way across the green,
To meet my Isabell.
I meet her at our trysting place,
Where midst our mutual fond embrace,
The blushes on her bonnie face,
Her bosom-secrets tell;
And O how swift the moments pass,
When seated on the verdant grass,
I snatch a kiss frae my dear lass,
My blooming Isabell.

134

How sweet—on such an hour at e'en,
Beneath the silver moon serene,
Whose mellow tints give each lov'd scene
A soft bewitching spell;
How sweet! to meet my lassie dear,
Down by yon burnie, wimpling clear,
Where sweetly bloom the scented brier,
The violet and blue bell;
And there to clasp her to my breast,
And hear her love for me confest,
O then! what youth is half so blest,
As I wi' Isabell?

The city belle, the reigning toast,
A fairer face, perhaps, may boast,
But what is beauty's date at most?
Let age or sickness tell;
A transient rainbow in the sky;
A tender flower that blooms to die;
A feeble noon-day butterfly,
Cut off in evening snell:

135

But Isabella's beauties rare,
That hidden frae the vulgar stare,
Will ever blossom rich and fair,
As lasting as hersel'.

Thou! Power who rul'st this earth below,
And met'st our shares o' joy and woe,
The richest boon thou canst bestow,
On me—is Isabell;
The warlike chief may fight for fame,
The wily priest a mitre claim,
The groveling grub for gear may scheme,
To suit its sordid sel';
Sic things are far beneath my care,
For them I'll ne'er prefer a prayer,
But O gie me my lassie fair!
My lovely Isabell.

136

BAITH SIDES O' THE PICTURE.

[_]

Air.—“Willie was a wanton wag.

Gin ye hae pence, ye will hae sense,
Gin ye hae nought, ye will hae nane,
When I had cash, I was thought gash,
And my advice by a' was taen;
The rich and poor then thrang'd my door,
The very dog cam' for his bane,
My purse, my ha', were free to a',
And I was roosed by ilka ane.

Guid freens, and true, I had enow,
Wha to oblige me aye were fain,
Gin I but said, “I want your aid,”
I didna need to say't again;
Whene'er I spak', and tald my crack,
Loud plaudits I was sure to gain,
For a' I said, be't guid or bad,
Was for undoubted gospel taen.

137

At catch or glee, I bore the gree,
For music's powers were a' my ain,
And when I sang, the hale house rang,
Wi' rapturous encores again;
At pun or jest, I shone the best,
For nane had sic a fertile brain;
My jibes and jokes, my satire strokes,
Were—like my wine—a' kindly taen.

But when I brak', and gaed to wrack,
Ilk gowden prospect fairly gane,
My judgment, wi' my wealth did flee,
And a' my sense was frae me taen;
Nor rich, nor poor, cam' near my door,
My freens a' vanished ane by ane,
Nor word, nor crack, was worth a plack,
For I was listened to, by nane.

My jests and wit, they wadna hit,
My singing met wi' cauld disdain,
The distant look, or dry rebuke,
Was a' that ere I could obtain;

138

But thanks to Gude, I've fortitude,
Adversity's sour cup to drain,
And ae true freen, as e'er was seen,
And that's the Dog that shares my bane.

141

“DINNA FORGET.”

[_]

Air.—“When Adam at first was created.”

Here, put on thy finger this ring, love;
And, when thou art far o'er the sea,
Perhaps to thy mind it will bring, love,
Some thought—some remembrance—of me:
Our moments of rapture and bliss, love,
The haunts where so oft we have met,
These tears, and this last parting kiss, love,
It tells thee—O “dinna forget!”

We might look on yonder fair moon, love,
Oft gazed on by us with delight,
And think of each other alone, love,
At one sacred hour every night:
But, ah! ere she'd rise to thy view, love,
To me, she long, long would be set.
Then, look to this token more true, love,
On thy finger—and “dinna forget!”

142

Thou mayest meet faces more fair, love,
And charms more attractive than mine;
Be moved by a more winning air, love,
Or struck by a figure more fine:
But, shouldst thou a brighter eye see, love,
Or ringlets of more glossy jet,
Let this still thy talisman be, love,
Look on it, and “dinna forget!”

And, oh! when thou writest to me, love,
The sealing impress with this ring;
And that a sweet earnest will be, love,
To which, with fond hope, I will cling;
That thou to thy vows wilt be true, love;
That happiness waiteth us yet;
One parting embrace—now adieu, love—
This moment I'll never forget!

143

COMPOSED FOR, AND SUNG AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BIRTH OF CHARLES JAMES FOX, 24th January, 1827.

[_]

Air.—“Over the Water to Charlie.”

Ye've heard o' “the Pilot that weather'd the storm,”
But where is the vessel he saved?
Like a log on the deep, lies her auld shatter'd form,
That for ages the tempest had braved:
The rats are devouring her now scanty stores,
Her timbers are worm-eaten sairly,
Her hands, discontented, desert her by scores,
For lang they've been victuall'd but sparely.

Her Captain, poor chiel, hardly kens what to do,
To fit her again for tight sailing,
For so heartless and weak are her once sturdy crew,
That their efforts seem quite unavailing:

144

But, O! had our captain been captain langsyne,
She ne'er wad hae suffer'd sae sairly;
For then, for his steersman, he sure wad hae ta'en
That true “heart of oak”—honest Charlie.

He weel ken'd the shallows, the breakers, and rocks,
That such vessels, founder and split on;
Then sure they were daft, not to tak' Charlie Fox
For pilot, yet mak' Willie Pitt one:
For he, through the tempest, drove recklessly on,
Tho' warn'd o' the danger by Charlie,
Till rigging and masts overboard were a' blown,
Which crush'd her best hands most severely.

Then what can be done to preserve her afloat,
When she scarce can hoist one of her flags, now?
For what are her jury masts?—next thing to nought:
Her sails?—bits of auld rotten rags, now;
And the billows of ruin her hull so o'erwhelm,
That they threaten to swallow her fairly;
Alas! that ere Willie was placed at the helm,
That should hae been guided by Charlie.

145

For he was the lad that could hand, reef, and steer,
His compass could box to a hair, too—
Had skill of the weather, be't cloudy or clear,
Could tell when for squalls to prepare, too;
And though he could swig off his can of good flip,
He still did his duty most rarely,
So that each jolly seaman, on board of the ship,
Respected and loved gallant Charlie.

Then here's to the memory of generous Fox,
For nane to our hearts should be dearer;
And may the auld ship yet survive her late shocks,
Be repair'd, and have tight lads to steer her:
And here's to the Captain that bears the command—
May he keep by his post late and early;
And may the Britannia still henceforth be mann'd
With brave honest fellows, like Charlie.

146

HONEST MEN AND BONNIE LASSES.

[_]

Air.—“Roy's Wife.”

Honest men and bonnie lasses,
Honest men and bonnie lasses,
Creation's pride, through Nature wide,
Are honest men and bonnie lasses.
Amid life's dreary wastes o' care,
The cheerless gloom wad quite depress us,
Did not such flowerets blossom there,
As honest men and bonnie lasses;
Honest men and bonnie lasses,
Honest men and bonnie lasses,
The balm o' grief, the life o' life,
Are honest men and bonnie lasses.

The Midas-hearted wretch may starve,
While he his yellow heaps amasses,
Be mine the joys that thrill each nerve,
'Mang honest men and bonnie lasses;

147

Honest men and bonnie lasses,
Honest men and bonnie lasses,
What joys below, poor mortals owe,
To honest men and bonnie lasses.

An honest man's a gem so rare,
His price could ne'er be paid by Cæsar,
But what's a lass when good and fair?—
A sparkling mine of richest treasure;
Honest men and bonnie lasses,
Honest men and bonnie lasses,
What wealth on earth can boast the worth
Of honest men and bonnie lasses?

Now, comrades, would you wish a toast?
Then haste and seize your sparkling glasses,
I'll gie you Scotia's stay and boast,
Her honest men and bonnie lasses;
Honest men and bonnie lasses,
Honest men and bonnie lasses,
Her stay and boast, frae coast to coast,
Her honest men and bonnie lasses.

150

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.

[_]

Air.—“Good morrow to your night-cap.”

Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk,
And dinna be sae rude to me,
As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gi'e me meikle pain,
Gin we were seen and heard by nane,

151

To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane;
But, gudesake! no before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Whate'er you do, when out o' view,
Be cautious ay before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack,
And what a great affair they'll mak'
O' naething but a simple smack,
That's gien or taen before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young
Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss,
That I sae plainly tell you this,
But, losh! I tak' it sair amiss
To be sae teaz'd before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;

152

When we're our lane ye may tak' ane,
But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free
As ony modest lass should be;
But yet, it doesna do to see
Sic freedom used before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
I'll ne'er submit again to it—
So mind you that—before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair;
It may be sae—I dinna care—
But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair
As ye hae done before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,
But ay be douce before folk.

153

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;
At ony rate, it's hardly meet
To prie their sweets before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
Gin that's the case, there's time and place,
But surely no before folk.

But, gin ye really do insist
That I should suffer to be kiss'd,
Gae, get a licence frae the priest,
And mak' me yours before folk.
Behave yoursel' before folk,
Behave yoursel' before folk;
And when we're ane, baith flesh and bane,
Ye may tak' ten—before folk.

154

LAND OF THE SHAMROCK AND HARP.

[_]

Air.—“Erin-go-bragh.”

O Land of the Shamrock and Harp! lovely Erin,
Where warm hospitality still wears a smile,
May suns more benign, and may prospects more cheering,
Arise soon, to bless thee, sweet Emerald Isle.
Thou gem of the west, worth and beauty combining,
Tho' dimmed be thy lustre, thy glory declining,
Thou yet wilt astonish the world with thy shining,
And make thyself loved and respected the while.

Tho' sad sounds thy harp, though thy shamrock be drooping,
The bravest, the best of thy sons in exile,
Tho' thousands beneath heavy burdens be stooping,
And full pampered insolence triumphs the while.
Thy harp shall awake yet, to strains bold and cheering,
Thy shamrock be seen yet, its lowly head rearing,

155

And comfort and joy make their homes yet endearing,
To thy injured sons, lovely Emerald Isle.

Like thine own Patron Saint, may a Patriot arise soon,
To banish the vile yellow worm from thy soil,
From clouds of black locusts, to clear thy horizon,
Which eat up the fruits of thy children's hard toil;
May Freedom descending in all her mild glory,
Her bright angel wings spread benignantly o'er thee,
Thy ancient renown, thy lost rights to restore thee,
And give thee new splendour, sweet Emerald Isle.

ROBIN HOGG'S DELIGHT.

[_]

Air.—“Toddlin hame.”

Let votaries o' Bachus, o' wine mak' their boast,
And drink till it mak's them as dead's a bed-post,
A drap o' maut broe I would far rather pree,
And a rosy-faced landlord's the Bachus for me.

156

Then I'll toddle butt, an' I'll toddle ben,
An' let them drink at wine wha nae better do ken.

Your wine it may do for the bodies far south,
But a Scotsman likes something that biteth his mouth,
And whiskey's the thing that can do't to a T,
Then Scotsmen and whiskey will ever agree;
For wi' toddlin butt, and wi' toddlin ben,
Sae lang we've been nurst on't we hardly can spean.

It's now thretty years since I first took the drap,
To moisten my carcase and keep it in sap,
An' tho' what I've drunk might hae slocken'd the sun,
I fin' I'm as dry as when first I begun;
For wi' toddlin butt, an' wi' toddlin ben,
I'm nae sooner slocken'd than drouthy again.

Your douse folk aft ca' me a tipplin' auld sot,
A worm to a still,—a sand bed—and what not,
They cry that my hand wad ne'er bide frae my mouth,
But oddsake! they never consider my drouth;

157

Yet I'll toddle butt, an' I'll toddle ben,
An' laugh at their nonsense—wha nae better ken.

Some hard grippin' mortals wha deem themsel's wise,
A glass o' good whisky affect to despise,
Poor scurvy-soul'd wretches—they're no very blate,
Besides, let me tell them, they're foes to the State;
For wi' toddlin butt, an' wi' toddlin ben,
Gin folk wadna drink, how could Government fen'?

Yet wae on the tax, that mak's whisky sae dear,
An' wae on the gauger, sae strict and severe.
Had I but my will o't, I'd soon let you see,
That whisky, like water, to a' should be free;
For I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben,
An' I'd mak' it to rin like the burn after rain.

What signifies New'rday?—a mock at the best,
That tempts but poor bodies, an' leaves them unblest,
For a ance-a-year fuddle I'd scarce gie a strae,
Unless that ilk year were as short as a day;

158

Then I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben,
Wi' the hearty het pint, an' the canty black hen.

I ne'er was inclined to lay by ony cash,
Weel kenin' it only wad breed me mair fash;
But aye when I had it, I let it gang free,
An' wad toss for a gill wi' my hindmost baubee;
For wi' toddlin butt, an' wi' toddlin ben,
I ne'er kent the use o't, but only to spen'.

Had siller been made, in the kist to lock by,
It ne'er wad been round, but as square as a die,
Whereas, by its shape, ilka body may see,
It aye was designed it should circulate free;
Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben,
An' aye when we get it, we'll part wi't again.

I ance was persuaded to put in the pin,
But foul fa' the bit o't ava wad bide in,

159

For whisky's a thing so bewitchingly stout,
The first time I smelt it, the pin it lap out;
Then I toddled butt, an' I toddled ben,
And I vowed I wad ne'er be advised sae again.

O leeze me on whisky! it gies us new life,
It mak's us aye cadgy, to cuddle the wife,
It kindles a spark in the breast o' the cauld,
And it mak's the rank coward courageously bauld,
Then we'll toddle butt, and we'll toddle ben,
An' we'll coup aff our glasses,—“here's to you again.”

[_]

Robin Hogg, an eccentric character, was well-known in Bridgeton for many years. He had been bred a farmer, which occupation he followed for some time; but, being unfortunate, he came to Glasgow, where he was obliged to betake himself to the driving of coals for a subsistence. Possessing a pretty good taste and retentive memory, he could recite, with tolerable grace, the very best pieces of the best English Poets; and often, over his cups, in which his misfortunes led him at times to indulge too freely, would he astonish and delight his less refined brethren of the whip, with the finest passages from Milton, Shakspeare, Thomson, Pope or Dryden. Passing off such pieces as his own, by way of joke, full often would he beguile the time away,

160

and make his gaping auditors (who, it may be supposed, did not understand a tithe of what he said,) declare, that he was “as deep as ony minister.” Sometimes, too, when he was “i' the vein,” for want of other company, he would deliver to his horse, Anthony's Oration over Cæsar's body, Ossian's Address to the Sun, &c. the tears hopping down his cheeks in the meantime, while the horse would prick up his ears, better pleased, no doubt, with these harangues than with the sound of the whip, which, however, in justice to Robin, was seldom or ever applied by him. One day I had the curiosity to follow him when he was in one of his rhyming fits, and heard him recite very feelingly to his beast, as they trudged side by side along the road, Thomson's beautiful Episode of Lavinia. Although a good deal addicted to dram-drinking, he still was “merciful to his beast,” and would not cheat him out of his feed of oats, even for the sake of “anither gill.” When rallied upon his love of the bottle, he would good-naturedly reply, “hout man! ye aye cry about my drinkin', but ye never consider my drouth,” and then he would hum over, two staves of the old song of “toddlin hame.” He left Glasgow some years ago, and it is supposed he now “sleeps with his fathers;” if so, peace to his ashes: if he had one failing, it was counterbalanced by many amiable virtues, and we may safely aver, that he has not left his like upon the road, for gentleness and humanity.

When a person makes a vow against drinking for a certain time, he is said to “put in the pin.”

161

WHEN YOUTHFU' LOVE'S DELIGHTFU' TIES.

[_]

Air.—“The waefu' heart.

When youthfu' love's delightfu' ties,
By perfidy are broke,
Or when we lose, whom most we prize,
By fate's determined stroke;
When ills on ills thick round us press,
And friends our cause desert,
What then remains for us? alas!
A lanely waefu' heart.

How desolate that hapless wight,
On whom such evils fall,
To him, a starless, cheerless night,
Enshrouds and saddens all;
Yet, should he then, that comfort seek,
Heaven can alone impart,

162

Who knows what light benign may break,
Upon his waefu' heart?

JEANIE THE PRIDE O' STRATHBLANE.

[_]

Air.—“Jessy the flower o' Dumblane.”

Cauld blew the north wind, frae the lofty Benlomond,
And snell was the drift, o' the sleet and the rain,
When poor sodger Willie, sair wearied wi' roaming,
Returned to his ain native cot in Strathblane;
The laddie had lang been awa' wi' the army,
And bore unrepining, ilk weary campaign,
For hope pointed hameward, and hame had a charm aye,
That charm was his Jeanie, the pride o' Strathblane.

Discharg'd, and set free, frae the camp's noisy bustle,
The fell clang o' war, and the crimson-dyed plain,
He took the lang road for the land o' the thistle,
To visit her heather-clad mountains again;

163

Far, far, lay his way through the muirs bleak and dreary,
And sair was he batter'd by wind and by rain,
Yet thoughts o' his hame, made him trudge on fu' cheery,
His hame, and his Jeanie, the pride o' Strathblane.

O Hame! what can break the endearing connexion,
That links us to thee like an adamant chain?
Thou still hast some object to bind our affection,
Amidst all our wandering, our sorrow and pain;
Some bower o' green woodbine, or tree o' our planting,
Some friend or fond parent, some dear wife or wean,
Or some faithfu' lassie, wi' fond bosom panting,
Like Willie's ain Jeanie, the pride o' Strathblane.

Tho' weary and wet, yet wi' pulse quickly beating,
He rapp'd at her dwelling, admission to gain,
She opened hersel', and O judge what a meeting,
'Twixt him and his Jeanie, the pride o' Strathblane;
Sae soon as she saw him, her heart gied a flutter,
She sprang to his bosom in ecstacy fain,

164

And shriek'd out, “my Willie,” nor mair could she utter,
Sae taen was poor Jeanie, the pride o' Strathblane.

Dear lassie! he cried, we shall never mair sever,
For ne'er shall the wars wile me frae thee again,
A pension for life, and a heart sound as ever,
I bring to my Jeanie, the pride o' Strathblane.
The day was appointed, the friends were invited,
The good haly man made his Jeanie his ain,
Now happy in love, and in wedlock united,
Are Willie and Jeanie, the pride o' Strathblane.

WHEN GLOAMIN' SPREADS HER MANTLE GREY.

[_]

Air.—“Langsyne beside yon woodland burn.”

When gloamin' spreads her mantle grey,
O'er ilka hill and valley,
And little lambs nae langer play,
Upon the lea sae gaily.

165

Then through the wood aboon the mill,
Wi' willing steps I aften steal,
Wi' my dear lad I loe sae weel,
My constant, loving Willie.

While wandering through our shaded walks,
What dear delight I feel aye,
To hear him as he fondly talks,
Avow his love sae freely;
Or when our arms we fondly link,
And stray by Kelvin's grassy brink,
What pure delicious joys I drink,
Pour'd frae the lips o' Willie.

How sweet the mavis sings at e'en,
When a' is hush'd sae stilly;
How sweet his melting mellow strain,
Comes echoing down the valley;
How sweet to breathe the scented gale,
That lightly skiffs yon clover vale,
But sweeter far the melting tale,
And balmy breath o' Willie.

166

The rose blooms on his cheek sae smooth,
Upon his brow the lily,
His bosom is the seat of truth,
Which love and honour fill aye;
His manly look and gracefu' form,
Might ony lassie's bosom warm;
But native worth, O that's the charm,
That binds me to my Willie.

Our Squire, to lure me, tries ilk art,
Wi' a' his airs sae silly,
But never shall he move the heart,
That beats alone for Willie;
For ere to-morrow's sun decline,
The Priest our willing hands will join,
And mak' the dear, dear laddie mine,
My life, my joy, my Willie.

167

O KITTY WHEN THAT FORM AND FACE.

[_]

Air.—“Ye banks and braes.”

O Kitty, when that form and face,
In Nature's fairest mould were cast,
To deck thee with each winning grace,
She rifled all her treasures vast;
Whate'er was lovely, mild or fair,
Whate'er could move or melt the heart,
Through sea or sky, through earth or air,
To thee, sweet maid, she gave a part.

But lest her fairest, favour'd work,
By Time's rude hand should be defaced,
She caught a bright celestial spark,
Pure, from a flaming Seraph's breast;
Of that, she formed a spotless mind,
To animate a frame as pure,
Then sent thee, loveliest of thy kind,
That man might view thee, and adore.

168

HIGHLAN' SOBRIETY.

[_]

Air.—“The Braes o' Glenorchy.”

My praw ponnie lads! I will shust tell't you what,
Whene'er you will down py ta stoup whiskee sat,
In hearty coot freenships your whistles pe wat,
Shust teuk ta coot trams, but no fill yoursel's fou.
For, oich! she pe shamefu', pe sinfu' an' a',
Pe mak' yoursel's trunk as pe haud py ta wa',
Or down in ta tirty hole-gutter pe fa',
An' wallow ta mire, like ta muckle muhk dhu.

Me sure, gin you shust teuk ta troubles pe leuk,
(Ta place I'm forgot) in ta coot Pible Peuk,
She tell you, tat you ta wee trappies moucht teuk,
For coot o' ta pody, but no pe got fou;
You moucht teukit ae glass, you moucht teukit twa,
You moucht teukit sax for pe help him awa',

169

But oich! dinna teuk him, pe gar yoursel's fa',
For tat wad play tamn an' hellnations wi' you.

Ta whiskees pe coot when ta pelly pe sore,
Pe coot, when Shon Highlan'man traws her claymore,
For ten she'll peform ta crate wonders galiore,
Sae lang's her coot beetock or skean stood true:
Pe coot for ta peoples in a' kind o' station,
When tey will pe use her in tue podderation,
But when tey pe 'puse her wi' toxification,
Far petters pe feught wi' ta Deoul mhor dhu.

Ta whiskees preed shoy, and ta whiskees preed woe,
Ta whiskees pe freen', an' ta whiskees pe foe,
For as you pe treat him, he shust use you so,
Hims coots and hims neevils must 'pend a' 'pon you:
So now, my praw lads, tis coot 'vice I will gie,
Whene'er tat you'll met wi' ta Shon Parley-pree,
Trunk aff your coot glasses—ay—ane, twa, nor tree,
But oich! teukit care, no pe piper pitch fou.

Black Sow.

Dirk.

Knife.

Great Black Devil.

170

ALANG KELVIN'S BANKS.

[_]

Air.—“Wounded hussar.”

Alang Kelvin's banks on a dark wintry gloamin',
When thick heavy clouds had enshrouded the sky,
Young Mary went wandering her sad fate bemoaning,
While heav'd her fair bosom wi' many a deep sigh;
The tears trickled down o'er her once-blooming cheek,
Loud whistled the winds thro' her loose streaming hair,
And aft she burst out, wi' a heart like to break,
Alas! my dear Allan, I'll ne'er see thee mair.

Nae mair, ye lov'd banks, can I tread you wi' gladness,
Nor gaze wi' delight on the stream gliding by,
For nought now is mine but a bosom of sadness,
A woe-washen cheek and a tear-streaming eye;

171

Ye dark heavy clouds moving slow thro' the air,
More welcome your gloom than the canopy's glow,
For o'er my sad soul hangs the veil of despair,
And my heart is surcharged wi' a deluge of woe.

Ye scenes of past joy, ah! how much now, ye grieve me,
Recalling those once happy hours to my mind;
O death! wilt thou not, shortly come and relieve me,
And grant me that rest which the weary do find?
My sight is grown dim wi' the tears that I shed,
The sun's cheering beams yield nae comfort to me,
Even hope, the last stay of the sufferer, is fled,
And fled every joy, my dear Allan, with thee.

By glory's false glare, lured awa' frae my bosom,
To meet a brave foe, to the conflict he flew,
'Twas then, some dark spirit, presaged I should lose him;
And ah! I soon found its sad bodings too true;
For Allan soon fell with the brave gallant Moore,
Where died many Britons, ill-fated, though brave,

172

And now a lone widow, his death I'll deplore,
Till worn out with weeping, I sink in my grave.

O NANCY.

[_]

Air.—Not published.

O Nancy! dear Nancy, my young lovely blossom,
Sweet essence of beauty and virtue combined,
What bliss, thus to clasp thee to this beating bosom,
And meet thy sweet glances, so lovingly kind.
Those dark ebon tresses that shade thy white forehead,
That black beaming eye, so expressively bright,
That innocent blush, on thy soft cheek so pure red,
These, fill my fond bosom with sweetest delight.

O come let us wander, my dear lovely treasure,
Down by yon green planting of tall waving pines,
While yonder bright star in the pure cloudless azure,
Like thee sheds its lustre, and peerlessly shines;

173

The eve's mild and gentle, the dew's saftly fa'ing,
The fragrance comes sweet frae yon full-blossom'd thorn,
And hark! from afar, how the bugle is blawing,
While woods, rocks and valleys their echoes return.

How fit, my dear Nancy, is this gentle season,
For two love-knit beings with souls void of art,
To breathe out their feelings so tenderly pleasing,
And taste the sweet raptures true love can impart:
And now, dearest maid, since our hearts are united,
In love, purest blessing by mortals enjoyed,
Its ties let us cherish, through life undivided,
Unaltered by changes, by time undestroyed.

THE DRYGATE BRIG.

[_]

Air,—“Cameronian's rant.”

Last Monday night, at sax o'clock,
To Miran Gibb's I went, man,

174

To snuff an' crack an' toom the cap,
It was my hale intent, man:
So down I sat an' pried the yill,
Syne luggit out my sneeshin' mill,
An' took a pinch wi' right good will,
O' beggar's brown, (the best in town,)
Then sent it roun' about the room,
To gie ilk ane a scent, man.

Our club consisted,—let me see,—
O' aught auld canty carles, man,
Whase rule was aye nae room to gie,
To ony needless quarrels, man;
Guid yill, plain snuff an social crack,
Was a' we had to gie or tak',
An' we could be as blythe in fact,
Wi' siccan fare, when gather'd there,
As they whase share o' goud an' gear,
Could match a duke's or earl's, man.

The sneeshin' mill, the cap gaed round,
The joke, the crack an' a', man,

175

'Bout markets, trade and daily news,
To wear the time awa', man;
Ye never saw a blither set,
O' queer auld-fashion'd bodies met,
For fient a grain o' pride nor pet,
Nor eating care gat footing there,
But freendship rare, aye found sincere,
An' hearts without a flaw, man.

To cringing courtiers, kings may blaw,
How rich they are an' great, man,
But kings could match na us at a',
Wi' a' their regal state, man,
For Mirran's swats, sae brisk an' fell,
An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell,
Made ilk ane quite forget himsel',
Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld,
And fired the saul wi' projects bauld,
That daur'd the power o' fate, man.

But what are a' sic mighty schemes,
When ance the spell is broke, man?

176

A set o' maut-inspired whims,
That end in perfect smoke, man.
An' what like some disaster keen,
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
An' bring us to oursel's again?—
As was the fate o' my auld pate,
When that night late, I took the gate,
As crouse as ony cock, man.

For sad misluck! without my hat,
I doiting cam' awa', man,
An' when I down the Drygate cam',
The win' began to blaw man,
When I cam' to the Drygate brig,
The win' blew aff my guid brown wig,
That whirled like ony whirligig,
As up it flew, out o' my view,
While I stood glowrin', waefu' blue,
Wi' wide extended jaw, man.

When I began to grape for't syne,
Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man,

177

I coupet owre a meikle stane,
An' skail'd my pickle snuff, man;
My staff out o' my hand did jump,
An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,
Whilk raised a most confounded lump,
But whar it flew, I never knew,
Yet sair I rue this mark, sae blue,
It leuks sae fleesome waff, man.

O had you seen my waefu' plight,
Your mirth had been but sma', man,
An' yet, a qucerer antic sight,
I trow ye never saw, man.
I've lived thir fyfty years an' mair,
But solemnly I here declare,
I ne'er before met loss sae sair;
My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,
I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof,
An' brak' my snout an' a', man.

Now wad you profit by my loss?—
Then tak' advice frae me, man,

178

An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing,
On fumes o' barley bree, man;
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by-an'-by,
Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud,
That aft it's guid, if dirt an bluid,
Be a' he has to dree, man.

179

SONGS FROM FRAGMENTS OF TANNAHILL.

[_]

[The first Stanzas of the six following Songs, are fragments which were left by the much-lamented Robert Tannahill, and published in the “Harp of Renfrewshire.” Thinking it a pity, that even a “fragment” of so celebrated a Song-writer should be lost, for want of something like a proper finish, I, perhaps with too presumptive a hand, have made the attempt of completing them, to the best of my abilities. How far I may have been successful, in entering into the spirit of the original, I must leave the candid reader to judge. The lines marked with inverted commas, are by Mr. Tannahill.]

“MEG O' THE GLEN.”

[_]

Air.—“When she cam' ben she bobbit.”

“Meg o' the glen set aff to the fair,
“Wi' ruffles an' ribbons, an' meikle prepare,

180

“Her heart it was heavy, her head it was licht,
“For a' the lang way, for a wooer she sicht;
“She spak to the lads, but the lads slippet by,
“She spak to the lasses, the lasses were shy,
“She thocht she might do, but she didna weel ken,
“For nane seem'd to care for poor Meg o' the glen.”

But wat ye, what was't made the lads a' gae by?
An' wat ye, what was't made the lasses sae shy?
Poor Meg o' the glen had nae tocher ava,
And therefore could neither be bonnie nor braw;
But an uncle wha lang in the Indies had been,
Foreseeing death coming to close his auld een,
Made his will, left her heiress, o' thousand punds ten,
Now, wha is mair thocht o' than Meg o' the glen?

“THE LASSIE O' MERRY EIGHTEEN.”

“My father wad hae me to marry the miller,
“My mither wad hae me to marry the laird,

181

“But brawly I ken it's the love o' the siller,
“That brightens their fancy to ony regard;
“The miller is crookit, the miller is crabbit,
“The laird, tho' he's wealthy, he's lyart and lean,
“He's auld, an' he's cauld, an' he's blin', an' he's bald,
“An' he's no for a lassie o' merry eighteen.”

But O there's a laddie wha tells me he loes me,
An' him I loe dearly, ay, dearly as life,
Tho' father an' mither should scold an' abuse me,
Nae ither shall ever get me for a wife;
Although he can boast na o' land nor yet siller,
He's worthy to match wi' a duchess or queen,
For his heart is sae warm, an' sae stately his form,
An' then, like mysel', he's just merry eighteen.

“COME HAME TO YOUR LINGELS.”

[_]

Air.—“Whistle an' I'll come to you my lad.”

“Come hame to your lingels, ye ne'er-do-weel loon,
“You're the king o' the dyvours, the talk o' the town,

182

“Sae soon as the Munonday morning comes in,
“Your wearifu' daidling again maun begin.
“Gudewife, ye're a skillet, your tongue's just a bell,
“To the peace o' guid fallows it rings the death-knell,
“But clack, till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill,
“The souter shall ay hae his Munonday's yill.”

Come hame to your lap-stane, come hame to your last,
It's a bonnie affair that your family maun fast,
While you and your crew here, a-guzzling maun sit,
Ye dais'd drunken guid-for-nocht heir o' the pit;
Just leuk, how I'm gaun without stocking or shoe,
Your bairns a' in tatters, an' fotherless too,
An' yet, quite content, like a sot, ye'll sit still,
Till your kyte's like to crack, wi' your Munonday's yill.

I tell you gudewife, gin ye haudna your clack,
I'll lend you a reestle wi' this, owre your back;
Maun we be abused, an' affronted by you,
Wi' siccan foul names as “loon,” “dyvour” an' “crew”?
Come hame to your lingels, this instant come hame,
Or I'll redden your face, gin ye've yet ony shame,

183

For I'll bring a' the bairns, an' we'll just hae our fill,
As weel as yoursel' o' your Munonday's yill.

Gin that be the gate o't, sirs, come let us stir,
What need we sit here to be pester'd by her,
For she'll plague an' affront us as far as she can,
Did ever a woman sae bother a man?
Frae yill house to yill house she'll after us rin,
An' raise the hale town wi' her yelpin' an' din,
Come ca' the gudewife, bid her bring in her bill,
I see I maun quat takin' Munondays yill.

“THE LASSES A' LEUGH.”

[_]

Air.—“Kiss'd yestreen.”

“The lasses a' leugh, an' the carlin flate,
“But Maggie was sitting fu' ourie an' blate,
“The auld silly gawkie, she couldna contain,
“How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen;
“Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen,
“How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen;

184

“She blethered it round to her fae an' her freen,
“How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen.”

She loosed the white napkin frae 'bout her dun neck,
An' cried the big sorrow tak' lang Geordie Fleck,
D'ye see what a scart I gat frae a preen,
By his towsling an' kissing at me yestreen;
At me yestreen, at me yestreen,
By his towsling and kissing at me yestreen;
I canna conceive what the fellow could mean,
By kissing sae meikle at me yestreen.

Then she pu'd up her sleeve an' shawed a blae mark,
Quo' she, I gat that frae young Davy our clark,
But the creature had surely forgat himsel' clean,
When he nipt me sae hard for a kiss yestreen;
For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yestreen,
When he nipt me sae hard for a kiss yestreen;
I wonder what keepit my nails frae his een,
When he nipt me sae hard for a kiss yestreen.

185

Then she held up her cheek an' cried foul fa' the laird,
Just leuk what I gat, wi' his black birsie beard,
The vile filthy body! was e'er the like seen?
To rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen,
For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yestreen,
To rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen,
I'm sure that nae woman o' judgment need green,
To be rubbit, like me, for a kiss yestreen.

Syne she tald what grand offers she aften had had,
But wad she tak' a man?—na, she wasna sae mad,
For the hale o' the sex she cared na a preen,
An' she hated the way she was kiss'd yestreen,
Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen,
She hated the way she was kiss'd yestreen,
'Twas a mercy that naething mair serious had been,
For, it's dangerous, whiles, to be kiss'd at e'en.

186

BRAVE LEWIE ROY.

[_]

An old Gælic Air.

“Brave Lewie Roy was the flower of our highlandmen,
“Tall as the oak on the lofty Benvoirlich,
“Fleet as the light bounding tenants of Fillin-glen,
“Dearer than life to his lovely neen voiuch.
“Lone was his biding, the cave of his hiding,
“When forced to retire with our gallant Prince Charlie,
“Tho' manly and fearless, his bold heart was cheerless,
“Away from the lady he aye loved so dearly.”

But woe on the blood-thirsty mandates of Cumberland,
Woe on the blood-thirsty gang that fulfill'd them;
Poor Caledonia! bleeding and plunder'd land,
Where shall thy children now shelter and shield them?

187

Keen prowl the cravens, like merciless ravens,
Their prey,—the devoted adherents of Charlie,
Brave Lewie Roy is taen, cowardly hack'd and slain,
Ah! his neen voiuch will mourn for him sairly.

Beautiful Maid.

“O HOW CAN YOU GANG LASSIE.”

[_]

Air.—“The bonniest lass in a' the warld.”

“O how can you gang lassie, how can you gang,
“O how can you gang sae to grieve me?
“Wi' your beauty, and your art ye hae broken my heart,
“For I never, never dreamt ye could leave me.”
Ah wha wad hae thought that sae bonnie a face,
Could e'er wear a smile to deceive me?
Or that guile in that fair bosom could e'er find a place,
And that you wad break your vows thus, and leave me?

188

O have you not mind, when our names you entwined,
In a wreath, round the purse, you did weave me?
Or have you now forgot the once-dear trysting spot,
Where so oft you pledged your faith ne'er to leave me?
But, changing as wind is your light fickle mind;
Your smiles, tokens, vows, all deceive me;
No more, then, I'll trust, to such frail painted dust,
But bewail my fate, till kind death relieve me.

Then gang fickle fair to your new-fangled jo,
Yes, gang, and in wretchedness leave me,
But, alas! should you be doomed to a wedlock of woe,
Ah, how would your unhappiness grieve me;
For, Mary! all faithless and false as thou art,
Thy spell-binding glances, believe me,
So closely are entwined round this fond foolish heart,
That the grave alone, of them can bereave me.

University of Virginia Library

PETER CORNCLIPS,

A Tale.

PETER'S SANG. [_] Air, “The Cornclips.”

THE TINKLER'S SONG. [_] “Air, Allan-'a-Dale.”