Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle ::

George, the Regent, 's chaste and wise,
Castlereagh 's an honest man,
Southey tells no fulsome lies,
England's free—likewise Japan:
Sidmouth's acts are all upright,
Canning 's modest as a maid;
Darkness can be proven light,
So can Britain's debt be paid.

Hey triangle, derry down,
Doctor, old bags, wig and gown,
O how grave a judge can tell,
‘Truth's a libel’—‘false as hell.’

Johnny Bull is plump and stout,
All his sons are fat and fair;
Spies are worthy men—no doubt;
Taxes are as light as air.

Ellenborough 's mild and just;
Ministers no rights invade;
Prison keys are brown with rust,
Jailors starve for lack of trade.

Hey triangle, &c.

Parsons are a liberal race,
Noble paupers waste no cash;
Everything now thrives apace—
Paper 's sterling, gold is trash.
Parliament is pure as snow—
Vile corruption hides her head:
Every body now must know,
Dearest grain makes cheapest bread.

Hey triangle, &c.

Trying times are fairly past;
Want no more dare show his face;
Treason is pent up at last,
Close within a thimble's space.
Wealth has banished discontent,
Press and people both are free,
Doctor Sadmouth—pious saint—
Grunts ‘Amen: so let it be.’

Hey triangle, &c.

COME, PADDY, REJOICE.

“When the wicked perish, there is shouting.”—Solomon's Proverbs.

Come, Paddy, rejoice—throw your cap in the air,
For the great Long-Thong-Derry will lash you nae mair;
Whirl round your shillela, and loudly huzza,
For the back-flogging, flesh-salting cut-throat 's awa'.
Come join, Johnny Bull, wi' your poor brither Pat,
You're as lean now as he is, but laugh and grow fat,
For the great pauperizer, wha squeezed you sae sma',
The seat-selling, hole-digging cut-throat 's awa'.

Come, Sawney, rejoice too, wi' Paddy and John,
For the essence and life o' humbugging is flown,—
In ilk town and clachan your pipes loudly blaw,
For the brow-beating, nose-grinding cut-throat 's awa'.
Come, Europe and Africa, sing, too, wi' glee,
You now have some chance, if you wish to be free,
For the deadliest enemy freedom e'er saw,
The man-dealing, slave-selling cut-throat 's awa'.

This Upas of Freedom, with influence fell,
Spread mair desolation than tongue can e'er tell,
For wherever her soul-cheering blossoms would blaw,
If his power could but reach them, they wither'd awa'.
So prone to destroy was this demon of blight,
That whatever he touched he destroyed it outright;
And when nought else was left for his withering paw,
He destroyed his vile self—cut his throat, and awa'.

The precious hole-digger at last dug a hole
So wide, that it let out his crime-clotted soul,
And so deep that it ne'er could be filled up ava,
So, just like a thief, he sneaked meanly awa'.
Stern Justice decreed, and himself struck the blow,
That should have been dealt him twice ten years ago;
For the strong and the terrible arm of the Law,
Ne'er reached a delinquent like him that's awa.'

Let his friends toast his memory as oft as they please,—
Like the Pittites of Gotham, too, do't on their knees.
'Bout a' his great actions fu' loud let them craw,
And copy his last—'twas the best o' them a'.
Success to the Jew-boy, good sale for his knives,
They're the things can rid tyrants of guilt-loaded lives;
And if on his tramps at Verona he'd ca',
Gude send him brisk sale for a dozen or twa!

THE FATTEST OF THE FAT.

[_]

Air—‘O, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me.’

O Whelpus! wilt thou go to sea,
And leave the hissing, ill-bred town?
Can knotty brows give pain to thee?
A severed rib, or fractured crown?
Sublimely deck't with bags of green,
Sublimely waving round thy hat,
Say, wilt thou quit each beastly scene,
Where thou art fattest of the fat?

O Whelpus! may thy Milan Leech,
Give thee a bite full sharp and sore,
Upon thy huge protuberant breech,
Where many a leech has sat before.
Or may thy faithful Cooke prepare
A treat of Milan brothel chat,
On which with gloating eyes thou'lt stare,
Where thou art fattest of the fat?

And wilt thou send that costly treat
Down to the starred and mitred race,
And order them to swallow it,
To give thy itching temples peace?
And wilt thou call thy wife a ---
A strumpet, jade, and God knows what?
As if thyself wert chaste and pure,
Where thou art fattest of the fat.

But should thy wife prove spotless now,
For all that has been done and said,
And prove the knobs upon thy brow,
To be but brandy pimples red;
Then say, how would'st thou scratch thy head,
Draw down thy brows, look develish flat,
Nor comfort find in Heref—d's bed,
Where oft thou'rt fattest of the fat?

FOR A' THAT, AN' A' THAT.

Though Freedom's day be sair o'ercast
Wi' storms, an' clouds, an' a' that,
Though Tyranny's terrific blast,
Her sun enshrouds, an' a' that;—
For a' that, an a' that,
He yet will shine for a' that;
His cheering rays will pierce the haze,
Wi' tenfold blaze, an' a' that.

Though despot demons ride the storm,
Howl terribly, an' a' that,
Yet soon shall Freedom's lovely form,
Frae heaven descend, an' a' that;
For a' that, an' a' that,
Her dazzling light, an' a' that,
Shall strike wi' consternation wild,
Their guilty hearts, an' a' that.

Down to their dens, wi' racks and chains,
Wi' tortures, gags, an' a' that,
They'll tak' their flight, to shun her sight,
To dwell wi' night, an' a' that;
For a' that, an' a' that,
Shall happen them, an' a' that,
When Freedom fair, wi' angel air,
Revisits earth, an a' that.

Then shall poor gag-degraded man,
Wha inly broods, an' a' that,
Owre a' his wrangs,—sae faint and wan,
Be cheered again, for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
His heavy heart, for a' that,
Shall bound fu' light, when Freedom, bright,
Breaks on his sight, an' a' that.

O, Freedom, come! resume thy reign,
Though tyrants strive to thraw that:
Bring ilka blessing in thy train,
To cheer the world wi' a' that,—
Wi' a' that, an' a' that,
Extend thy sway, wi' a' that,
Owre Europe, Afric', Asia, too,
America, an' a' that.

SAWNEY, NOW THE KING'S COME.

[_]

Air—‘Carle an' the King come’

Written in 1822.

Sawney, now, the king's come,
Sawney, now, the king's come,
Kneel, and kiss his gracious —,
Sawney, now, the king's come.

In Holyroodhouse lodge him snug,
And butter weel his sacred lug,
Wi' stuff wad gar a Frenchman ugg,
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

Tell him he is great and good,
And come o' Scottish royal blood,—
To your hunkers—lick his fud,—
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

Tell him he can do nae wrang,
That he's mighty, heigh, and strang,
That you and yours to him belang,
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

Swear he's sober, chaste, and wise,
Praise his portly shape and size,
Roose his whiskers to the skies,
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

Mak' your lick-fud bailie core,
Fa' down behint him—not before,
His great posteriors to adore,
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

Mak' your tribe in good black claith,
Extol, till they rin short o' breath,
The great “Defender o' the Faith,”
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

Mak' your Peers o' high degree,
Crouching low on bended knee,
Greet him wi' a “Wha wants me?”
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

Mak' his glorious kingship dine
On good sheep-heads and haggis fine,
Hotchpotch, too, Scotch collops syne,
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

And if there's in St James' Square,
Ony thing that's fat and fair,
Treat him nightly wi' sic ware,
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

Shaw him a' your biggings braw,
Your castle, college, brigs, an' a',
Your jail, an' royal forty-twa,
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

An' when he rides Auld Reekie through,
To bless you wi' a kingly view,
Charm him wi' your “Gardyloo,”
Sawney, now, the king's come.

Sawney, &c.

A CONGRATULATORY ADDRESS,

TO A CERTAIN FLOCK, ON THEIR GETTING A WORTHY PASTOR.

Ye dowie flock wha've gotten sic a scatter,
Wha starve for lack o' halesome gospel grass—
Wha pant an' gape for waughts o' caller water—
As through this weary wilderness ye pass.

Lang hae ye wanted a guid herd to lead ye,
An' keep ye frae that wily thief, the Tod,
On halesome caller pasture aye to feed ye,
And keep ye frae gaun down the braid stey road.

Lang hae ye wander'd through the wilds sae dreary,
And strayed afar 'mang grassless barren tracks;
And aft when seeking shades to screen and cheer ye,
The thorns hae torn the woo' frae aff your backs.

Lang hae ye suffered sair by strifes and troubles,
Bred by some headstrong brutes amang yoursels,
Wha took a pride in vile, contentious squabbles,
And a' about the bearing o' the bells.

But cock your lugs, puir things, and quat your sadness,
Nae mair ye'll hunger, thirst, nor gang astray;
Yea, mae aloud, and frisk, and loup for gladness!
Ye'll hae a herd, a trusty herd, this day;

A herd wha e'idently will tent and feed ye,
And ca' ye aye to caller shades at noon,—
By bonnie, wimpling, crystal burns he'll lead ye,
And ward ye faithfully baith late and soon.

Your weak and sickly things he'll kindly foster,
And gently lead your ewies grit wi' lamb;
Your lammies young he'll carry in his oxter,
But tightly creesh ilk ramp unruly ram.

Nae mair through grassless barren muirs ye'll wander,
Nor scattered be on dark and cloudy days,—
Nae mair ye'll quake at Sinai's awfu' thunder,
But snugly feed on Zion's bonnie braes.

There ye may frisk and loup at will securely,
Nae gully formed against ye e'er shall thrive,
Nor barbarous butcher, wi' his curs sae surly,
Unto the slaughter your young lammies drive.

The clegs and wasps, indeed, may whiles annoy ye,
But wha can keep aff that mischievous brood?
Na, troth, they're ablins sent to prove and try ye,
And sic like ills can only work your good.

But mind, now, sheep, when ance ye're a' thegither,
And feeding 'neath your Shepherd's tenty e'e,
O strive nae mair, nor box wi' ane anither,
But like a chosen, precious flock, agree.

Prove what ye are by lo'eing ane anither—
By bearing ane anither's toils and cares—
By keeping in the right road aye thegither—
A-back frae sly Tod Lowrie's wiles and snares.

O never gie that sleekit thief occasion
To triumph owre ye, either night or day,
But aye keep back frae ilka sweet temptation,
Ilk cunning trap that he sets in your way.

So shall ye thrive, and wax baith fair and lusty,
Your herd wi' pleasure will your thriving view;
And as his just reward for being sae trusty,
Will only fleece ye o' your tait o' woo'.

A PARAPHRASE FOR THE ASSEMBLY'S FAST.

By Alisander the Seer.

‘A Fast, a Fast! proclaim a Fast,
And Naboth set on high;
Hire spies to swear his life away,
And stone him till he die.’
Thus wrote Queen Jezebel, of old,
Unto a venal crew,
Who promptly her behests obeyed,
And righteous Naboth slew.

‘A Fast, a Fast! proclaim a Fast,’
Old Mother-Church now cries,
(For all our doings must be cloth'd
In meek Religion's guise,)
That we in others' pots may dip
Our sacerdotal prongs,
And feast and fatten on the flesh,
Which not to us belongs.’

But, saith the Just One,—‘Lo! ye fast
For strife and for debate,
To smite with fist of wickedness,
And stir up party hate.
Ye shall not fast as on this day,
To make your voice be heard:
'Gainst all such solemn mockeries
Are heaven's pure portals barr'd.

‘Are formal prayers, and turned-up eyes,
And bendings of the knee,
Such services as ye would deem
Acceptable to me?
Is this the fast that I would choose,
That ye afflict your souls?
Do I require my worshippers
To tread on burning coals?

‘To bow the head like bulrush down—
In sackcloth to be clad—
To mourn in ashes, all demure,
When not a heart is sad
Is rank hypocrisy and guile,
And what I will not bear;
For none but they of contrite heart
Can shed the contrite tear.

‘But here's the Fast that I would choose,
If thou would'st honour me:—
That thou undo the heavy loads,
And set the fetter'd free;
That to the hungry thou should'st deal
With lib'ral hand thy bread;
And from the wintry winds protect
The houseless wanderer's head:

‘That on the poor and destitute
Warm clothing thou bestow;
Nor from thy brother hide thy face,
But soothe him 'midst his woe.

Observe this Fast—then shall thy light
Break forth as doth the morn,
And rays of glory from above
Henceforth thy brows adorn.’

RATIONAL AMUSEMENTS FOR CERTAIN STATESMEN, UPON THEIR RESIGNING OFFICE.

When Saintly Sadmouth's gagging reign is o'er;
When Cast-ill-ray shall cure live stock no more;
When George Fitz-Hunn, so feelingly humane,
Shall cease to laugh at ruptured Ogden's pain;
When worthless Man no longer is their sport,
To what amusements will they then resort,
To wear life's tedious, irksome hours away,
And keep their ingenuity in play?
The only gentle pastimes that will please
Those gentle worthies, will be such as these:
To fry blind pups,—strip kittens of their skins;
To horsewhip frogs, and spit small flies with pins.

SHONNY CAMMEL;

OR, THE TURN-COAT PRIEST.

Written 1819.

Shonny Cammel's my name—frae the Highlands I come;
I've exchanged the braw tartans that hung round my —
For a black coat, and gravat sae white.
I've exchanged the oak cudgel, and brogue of Argyle,
For the gold-headed cane, and the fine English style;
I've exchanged the clay-bigging, and coarse Highland cheer,
For this braw preaching place, and some hundreds a year,—
Wi' my black coat, and gravat sae white.

And here I retail out the word o' the lord,
At a far cheaper rate than I weel can afford,
For a black coat, and gravat sae white.
But the lord whom I speak of—whose word I retail,
Is the lord whose dominion extends o'er each jail;
Yea, even the blessed Lord Sidmouth's the lord
Whom I piously serve, by retailing his word,
In my black coat, and gravat sae white.

And here, too, I rule, like a Turkish Bashaw,
To mak' the poor people look upwards wi' awe
To my black coat, and gravat sae white.
But, troth, I have whiles rather meikle to do,
For some of the blockheads I canna bring to;
Was ever there seen sic a parcel o' fools?
They winna submit to be driven like mules,
By the black coats, and gravats sae white.

I once was Reformer—though not from the heart,
But now I have chosen the far better part,
For a black coat, and gravat sae white.
For lately, at ‘Reekie’ some new light I got,
Which made me determined on turning my coat;
And the new light shone clear through a good swinging purse,
So, homewards I came,—the Reformers to curse,
In my black coat, and gravat sae white.

Now come unto me, all ye loyal and true,
And I will instruct you in what you must do,
Wi' my black coat, and gravat sae white.
Renounce all connection with Radical knaves,—
Bow down to Lord Sidmouth,—be his willing slaves;
And listen to me, with devotion and awe,
While I, from this high place, promulgate his law,
In my black coat, and gravat sae white.

His law, then, is this, that ye spend not your cash
In purchasing wicked and blasphemous trash
Against black coats, and gravats sae white.
The ‘Spirit of the Union’ no more you must read,
For it is the spirit of the devil indeed;
And its publisher ought to be whippit through—,
For publishing truths unbecoming to tell,
About black coats, and gravats sae white.

But depart ye from me, all ye Radical crew,
With you I will henceforth have nothing to do,
In my black coat, and gravat sae white.

Your breath is rank poison—your tongues are sharp stings,
Directing your venom at priests and at kings;
You're foes to the Kirk, as you're foes to the State,
And therefore ye merit the rancour and hate
Of each black coat, and gravat sae white.

Ye scoff at our gospel, which brings us our bit,
And ye wickedly point your satirical wit
At our block coats, and gravats sae white.
Instead of your paying us proper respect,
Ye say that we're wolves in sheeps' clothing bedeck't;
That we're thieves who have slyly slipt into the fauld:
Now these, though they're facts, yet they shouldna be tauld
Upon black coats, and gravats sae white.

Yet rich are the comforts our gospel affords,
To those useful playthings ca'd kings, dukes, and lords,
And to black coats, and gravats sae white.
It teacheth the people submission and awe
To anything we are inclined to make law;
It fattens the lads at the altar who serve,
And makes them to live who would otherwise starve,—
Even black coats, and gravats sae white.

But the gospel we preach was not known to St John,
Nor to Matthew, nor Mark, nor yet Luke,—'tis our own,
With our black coats, and gravats sae white.
Such gospel as theirs would not do now-a-days,
For providing fine dwellings, rich food, and braw claes:

A fisherman's net, or a camel's rough hide,
Would ill suit the dignity, splendour, and pride
Of our black coats, and gravats sae white.

Then depart ye from me, and that quickly, I say,
All ye who implicit respect winna pay
To my black coat, and gravat sae white.
'Twere better to want such a cross, thrawart breed,
For never a bit will you drive nor yet lead;
'Twere better to speak to the stanes and the sticks,
Than to you who can see through the sly loopy tricks
Of our black coats, and gravats sae white.

A PIOUS WAILING,

AS WAILED BY THE YIRL O' GABERDEEN, OWRE THE MISFORTUNES O' HIS DEARLY-BELOVED DESPOT, DONALD M'GILL, (DON MIGUEL.)

O, what will become of poor Donald M`Gill?
O, what will become of poor Donald M`Gill?
He has lost the braw seat he sae doucely did fill,
And a vagabond life leads poor Donald M`Gill.

Now a wandering outcast, he gangs here and there,
Wi' his brogues sadly torn, an' his hurdies half bare,
Right glad o' a bite, or a drink o' sma' yill,
For clung is the kyte o' poor Donald M`Gill.

O, what will become, &c.

'Mang decent folk, now, he can scarce show his face,
While a young glaikit lassie loups into his place;
Nae wonder he taks it confoundedly ill,
To be treated sae rudely—poor Donald M`Gill.

O, what will become, &c.

A few breekless billies, as bad as himsel',
Gang spulzieing wi' him owre mountain an' fell,
Wi' scarcely a morsel their bellies to fill,—
What a pitifu' pastime for Donald M`Gill.

O, what will become, &c.

The Battlings o' Bourmont—the prayers o' the Pope—
Hae lost a' their virtue, his fortunes to prop;
And the kind-hearted Tories, although they've the will,
Sma' help now can gie to poor Donald M`Gill.

O, what will become, &c.

They've done what they could, and they still wad do mair,
To place him again in his ‘ain muckle chair;’
But his case is sae hopeless it maks their bluid chill,
To think on the fate o' poor Donald M`Gill.

O, what will become, &c.

O, wad Nick o' the North his assistance but gie,
We might yet get poor Donald propt up for a wee;
But while Louie's in league wi' that Tarry Tyke, Will,
There's a dowie look-out for poor Donald M`Gill.

O, what will become, &c.

Confound a' your liberal opinions, we say;
Wi' us it is now the back half o' the day;
Our late goodly places, I fear, we'll ne'er fill,
And may soon be as needy as Donald M`Gill.

O, what will become o' poor Donald M`Gill?
An' what will become o' poor Donald M`Gill?—
Come weel or come woe, he'll be dear to us still,
An' we'll share our last plack wi' poor Donald M`Gill.

ANOTHER OF THE SAME,

AS HOWLED BY THE MARQUIS OF LONG-THONG-DERRY, OVER HIS ILLEGANT ADORABLE DAN MY-JEWEL, (DON MIGUEL.)

Come all you true right-hearted boys,
Throughout the Irish nation,
And join wid me, while I howl out,
A bitter lamentation.
For now I mane for to complain,
Of fate so hard and cruel,
How she has trick'd, and cuff'd, and kick'd
The darlint, Dan My-jewel.
Och smilaloo, habubaboo!
Bad luck and bodderation!
Poor Dan's cut up, beyond all hope,
And knock'd to ruination.

Och, Dan he was the darlint boy,
That rightly done the jab, surs,
For wid his big shillela, why,
He kept in awe the mob, surs.
He was the chap upheld the Church,
By houlding liberals down, surs,
Till Napier and Dan Paddy-row, (Pedro)
Attack'd and crack'd his crown, surs.
Och smilaloo, hububaboo!
Bad luck and bodderation!
They've druve him from his rightfu' home,
Midst wreck and devastation.

Bormount! the devil bore him through,
His late purtended friend, surs,
And hundreds more, vile spalpeens, too,
Have left him in the end, surs.
Have left him in his greatest need,
Och, how monstracious cruel,
To trate a dacent fellow so—
The pious Dan My-jewel.
Och smilaloo, hububaboo!
Bad luck and bodderation;
The precious boy, I fear, will die,
Through want or—strangulation.

A pert young minx now fills his place,
Bad further to her cause, surs,
That she should ever dare to rule,
By equitable laws, surs;

That she should raise the people up,
Whom Dan kept well inunder,—
The thought is like to burst my heart,
Blue blazes, turf, and tunder!
Och smilaloo, hububaboo!
Bad luck and bodderation;
Our cause is o'er, to rise no more,
Our state is desperation.

A LIKENESS TAKEN FROM REAL LIFE.

Know ye the man who is empty and proud?
Know ye the man who is noisy and loud?
Know ye the man whose stentorian lungs
Could give motion and force to four dozen of tongues?
Know ye the man to whom Nature, still kind,
To make up for the want of a heart and a mind,
Has given a visage of fifty-cheek power,
To help him to sputter out froth by the hour,
And talk till his audience no longer can sit,
Quite sick of the trash which he passes for wit?
Know ye the man who, to gain his own ends,
Can wheedle, and diddle, and cozen his friends,
And, after obtaining the favour he wants,
Can turn round and pay them with jeers and with taunts?
Know ye the man who, to gain him a rib
Possessing the needful, could coin a neat fib,
Pretending to be what he really was not,
Till the trusting one's cash in his clutches he got,—

And, now that he reckons his fortune half made,
Can laugh at the innocent dupe he betrayed,—
Who fondles to fleece her—then treats her with scorn,
And who yet will leave her to languish forlorn?
Know ye the man fraught with bombast and foam,
Who, courting applause, through the country can roam,
Displaying the learning which others have shown,
To make it go down, when he can, as his own;
Who into good company gets himself bored,
Still making a fuss that he may be adored;
But if to engross the whole talk he should fail,
Whose plan is to bully, browbeat, or turn tail?
Know ye the man—But I need not say more
Than this: if you e'er meet a terrible bore,
A bore who will pester your soul to the quick,
And dose you with dogmas until you're quite sick,
An ignorant dabbler in logic and law,
A discarded fiscal, who hunts for eclat,
A pompous practiser of fudge and clap-trap,
A fopling, a fibber,—then, that is the chap.

DANIEL O'CONNELL'S WELCOME TO SCOTLAND.

Hail to thee! high-minded chieftain of Erin,
Happy and blest be thy native ‘Green Isle;’
Heaven give thee strength to march onward, careering,
Curbing misrule and oppression the while;
Here to the ‘land of cakes;’—
Land of pure streams and lakes,
Blue bonnets hail thee with hearty hurrah:
This be our watchword then,
Echoed from hill and glen,
‘Freedom! O'Connell! and Erin go bragh!’

Hail to thee! Erin's renowned Liberator,
Welcome to Scotland, the land of the brave;
Tyrants who fear thee may howl ‘agitator,’
Still thou art dear to the heart-broken slave;—
Lordlings may rant and rave,
Joined by each canting knave—

Each rabid cur ope his venomous jaw,
Ours be the watchword still,
Echoed from glen and hill,
‘Freedom, O'Connell, and Erin go bragh.’

Ours is no hireling—no bought adulation,
Offered to titles, to rank, or to birth,
No:—'tis the heart-felt applause of a nation,
Paid to pre-eminent talent and worth.
Lords may be pretty things,
Talk very witty things,
Simper and smile, while they pillage by law,
Let them their minions fee,
Our grateful theme shall be,
‘Freedom, O'Connell, and Erin go bragh.’

Hail to thee, who, whilst o'er Erin's woes weeping,
Feel'st for the wrongs of the rest of mankind:—
Hail to thee, who, at thy post ever keeping,
Sleep'st not till freedom a resting-place find;
Still may'st thou grow in strength,
Till crowned with joy at length,
Freedom's last foe from his stronghold thou draw;—
Then shall the welkin ring,
While future ages sing,
‘Freedom, O'Connell, and Erin go bragh.’

A MOST LOYAL PEAL,

IN HONOUR OF SIR ROBERT PEEL,

[_]

As chanted in a Wooden Booth, at the back of Buchanan Street, on Friday the 13th January, 1837, at the enacting of the Peel-Tory Feed and Farce.

WRITTEN BY ANDREW WHAUP O' HAZELKNOWE.

Welcome, mighty man of Tamworth,
To our Tory banquet here;
Come like lion, not like lamb, forth,
Our desponding hearts to cheer.

Come in all thy pride and glory,
Come with all thy power and might;
With thy breath to bless each Tory,
But to blast each Whiggish wight.

Prince of princely cotton-spinners,
As our chief we hail thee now;
Who would grudge a thousand dinners
To a thousand such as thou?

Fast our Tory cause was sinking;
Murky clouds our hearts deprest;
Not a star of hope was blinking,
Save the star on Lyndhurst's breast.

Numb'd, inert, we lay like oysters;
All was drear as death's abode;
Till auld Clutha's rotten cloisters
With phosphoric lustre glow'd.

Thus, by light o' rotten timmer,
Were we made to see our way;
While our een wi' howlet glimmer,
Cursed the ugly glare o' day.

Monkish Greybeards, bald and hoary,
In their plenitude of power,
With a kindness truly Tory,
Help'd us in our needfu' hour.

Yes, as if by force of magic,
Out o' darkness brought they light
And, by dint o' lear and logic,
Gart their breeklings vote aright;

Gied them mony a solemn lecture,
Did their barren minds direct;
Made them choose thee for their Rector,
And the wily Whig reject.

Hence, ten score o' bubbly blichens,
Like the geese that sav'd auld Rome,
By their gabbling (dear young chickens!)
Saved us from our threaten'd doom:

Saved us from annihilation,
Made us fix our hopes on thee;
Who, 'midst joy and tribulation,
Still our guiding star must be.

Wants there proof, now, of reaction!
When a batch of beardless chaps,
Peal'd out ‘Peel’ at thy election,
And for ‘Peel’ threw up their caps?

From the mouths of babes and sucklings
Here was wisdom perfected;
O, the dear young dainty ducklings,
What sweet quacking then they made.

Hence, let honours be decreed them;
Round their necks be garlands hung;
Out o' siller dishes feed them;
Be their praises ever sung:

That their deeds may live in story
After they are dead and gone,
Pointing to each future Tory,
Where to rest his hopes upon.

As our sires, when we were younkers,
To Pitt's image bent the knee;
So, on our obsequious hunkers,
Here, great Peel! we worship thee.

Here, we lowly bend before thee;
Here, we kiss thy muckle tae;
Here, enraptured, we adore thee,
And for thy assistance pray.

Save us, then, from wheedling Whiggies;
Save us, too, from rampant Rads;
Save our sacred gowns and wiggies
From those vile, rapacious squads.

Save our throne and save our altars,
Places, pensions, O preserve;
To the Rads gie chains and halters—
Richly they such things deserve.

Save Hereditary Wisdom
From the rabble's wicked fangs;
Save the whisker'd Duke from his doom,
For on him our safety hangs.

Save our Kirk and save our steeple,
Save our Poopit and our bell;
That we still may awe the people
Wi' the terrors o' a hell:

That we still may keep them under;
Mak' them toil, that we may eat;
Be allowed to fleece and plunder,
And tak' ease while others sweat.

Up, then, mighty man of Tamworth,
Seize again the helm o' state;
Melbourne—poh! he's not a d---n worth—
Mak' him quickly tak' the gate!

Drive the Whigs and Rads to ruin,
Turn them to the right about;
Else they'll work our sad undoing,
If not smartly a' kick'd out.

O, that Vicky, some dark morning,
Wad be pleased to cut her stick;
And auld Willy get his warning,
Soon we'd send the Whigs to Nick.

By the adored grey moustachios
Of the saintly Cumberland,
Not a rascal then durst fash us,
While we ruled with mighty hand.

Every foe we'd put to rout then,
Through the land our spies should prowl;
Not a Whig durst show his snout then,
Not a Rad durst gie a growl.

Reinstated in our places,
Then how happy should we be,
Midst a group of jolly faces,
Ruled by Cumberland and thee.

‘COME, FYE, LET US A' TO THE GUZZLE.’

A SONG.

WRITTEN BY ANDREW WHAUP OF HAZELKNOWE.

[_]

Air—‘Fye, let us a' to the bridal.’

Come, fye, let us a' to the guzzle,
For there will be munching there,
For Peel, that political puzzle,
Is come to partak' o' our fare;
And there will be cod-heads in plenty,
And calves'-heads and bullocks'-heads too,
Wi' store o' stuff'd geese (nae great dainty,)
And rowth o' rich white-livered broo.

And there will be gulls and fat gudgeons,
And gammon, and flummery, and froth!
And likewise to stuff our curmudgeons,
Some rich yellow Carlton broth;
And there will be guttling most glorious,
And guzzling till ance we're a' fou,
Wi' hip-hip-hurraing uproarious,
And damning the vile Whiggish crew.

And there will be worthy Lord Harry,
Whase person will grace our board-head,
As plump and as round as a berry,
Wi' intellect brilliant as—lead;

And there will be weathercock Sandford,
The knight wot spouts gammon and Greek;
Vile freedom—he once made a stand for't,
But now he's our ain Jerry Sneak.

And there will be Doctor Statistics,
Still fash'd wi' the ghaist o' Nanse Baird,
Wi' twenty fat clerical mystics,
Whase creeds by state tactics are squar'd.
And there will be Ex-Deacon B---y,
Wi' his most vociferous lungs,
To play us the part o' Grimaldi,
Wi' sleek, plural-paunch'd Duncan Rungs.

And there will be jolly John Geordie,
The king o' the Calico Nobs,
Wi' Robin, that proud cotton lordie,
Sae fond o' nice pickings and jobs.
An' tere will pe Norman M`Tartan,
Wha in her nainsel' pe a host,
Wi' face red an' round as a partan,
To greet us wi' some yeuky toast.

And there will be braid-backit Steenie,
Whase bouk made the Glaizert recede,
Ae night, when pursuing some queanie,
He plumpit in, heels over head;
(The holms and the haughs were o'erflooded,
The hay ricks were carried awa',
The beasts to the hills quickly scudded,
Or else they'd been drown'd, ane an' a'.)

And there will be glib-gabbit Gibson,
Sae famed for his telling o' truth,
Wham wicked Dissenters crack squibs on,
Because his kirk's crammed to the mouth.
And there will be Jordanhill Strata,
To gie us a nice dainty dish,
Composed o' the fossil potatoe,
And ante-diluvian fish.

And there the great Pythagorean,
Half-dosed wi' his drinking and sleep,
Wha swears that each nasty plebeian
Was made, not to walk, but to creep.
And there—the black Knights o' Gartsherrie,
Wha ne'er did vulgarity ken,
But soon o' dung-wheeling grew weary,
To mak' themselves grit wi' great men.

And there will be Saintly Killermont,
Wha, though he'd exchange Saint for Sir,
Wad yet tramp ten miles to hear sarmont
Frae mighty Mike Crotty of Birr.
And there—our wee Piggie o' Knowledge,
Wi' face like a winter day's sun,
Wha aft to the chaps in the College
Is subject o' frolic and fun.

And there will he great Dr Belfast,
Our church's chief Cook, and her hope,
Who'd fry every Papist in h---ll fast,
And give each Dissenter a rope.

Och! troth, he's the broth of a bruiser,
Can smash Dr Ritchie to pie;
Some people say Cooke is the loser,
But, blazes! that's all in my eye.

And there will be wee Doctor Corky,
Wi' blinker half open, half shut,
As pompous and proud as a turkey,
Displaying his medical strut.
And there—our braw gawcey Reporter,
Wha ne'er in his lifetime got fou,
Save ance—when he dined on a quarter
O' coal-hunting Craig's fossil cow.

And there will pe bare-hippet gillies,
Frae Morven, frae Mull, and Tiree,
As rampant and rough as young fillies,
Shust cum ta great wonder to see.
An' hoogh! how she'll grunt ‘Gaelic agud,’
An' gie her a sneesh o' her mill,
Tan swore if py Whigs she's attackit,
Her tirk pe mak' very goot kill.

And there our rough Tatterdemallions,
Wha signed the Peel-garlic address,
Wha'll nicher and squeal like ramp stallions,
For sake o' a fuddle and mess;
For sake o' auld bauchels and hushions,
They'll kiss our great Idol behind—
Wear chains, or drink oil, like the Russians,
And roar they are free as the wind.

And there will be lang frothy speeches,
Wi' nonsense and humbug replete,
In praise o' State locusts and leeches,
And ilka State-clerical cheat.
And there we'll drink death and destruction
To Whigs, and their damnable cause,
Success to exclusion, restriction,
State churches, and intricate laws.

Then, fye, let us a' to the guttle,
For there will be gorging there,
For the son o' the jenny and shuttle
Will sit on the right o' the chair.
And there will be hundreds o' asses,
Wha loudly his praises will bray;
Then wi' smashing and crashing o' glasses,
We'll end wi' a right bloody fray.

DESCRIPTION OF A NONDESCRIPT.

Or a few Facts strung together, illustrative of the birth, life, and general character of that Creature, best known where he is by the name of
‘THE LIVING SHAPE.’

Distorted in body, distorted in soul,
With the heart of a demon, dark, hateful, and foul,
And the head and the hands of a mischievous ape,
Forth issues that miss-shapen thing called the ‘Shape,’
In all the malignance of impotent rage,
'Gainst Freemen and Freedom fell warfare to wage.

But what is this Shape, doth the kind reader ask?
Which thus undertakes so ungracious a task,
As to vilify those, at once honest and bold,
Who are not to be purchased, and will not be sold;
As to stigmatise measures which wisely were planned,
To save from perdition a fast sinking land?

I'll tell thee, my friend—'twas a terrible night,
When this horrid Shape was first ushered to light,
Loud pealed the deep thunder, red lightnings did glare,
And whirlwind met whirlwind, and strove in the air.
Hail, rain, fire, and tempest conflictingly clashed,
And clouds against clouds in confusion were dashed;
Huge trees were uprooted, and strewn on the ground,
The swoln rivers deluged the country around,
Destroying each barrier that stood in their way,
And spreading wild havoc, and death, and dismay;
So awful the scene was, that both man and brute
With perfect amazement and fear were struck mute.
As the Woman of Endor stood trembling with dread,
When she saw that her spells brought the Seer from the dead,
So Nature to this wild commotion was stirred,
At thus bringing back again—Richard the Third!
But though greatly moved at this strange creature's birth,
Yet still she permits it to grovel on earth,
A curious caricature upon man,
To show that she sometimes departs from her plan,
And stains her fair page once in four hundred years,
With such a foul blot as the Shape now appears.

But the shell of the Shape we must try to peep through,
And its Proteus-like kernal expose to full view,
The soul of the thing, if a soul it may be;
For some have their doubts on't, and why may not we?
For our own part, we think, that instead of a soul,
The thing is possesed by some horrible goul,
Sent from its dark regions, for some horrid crime,
And condemned to inhabit the Shape for a time;
For we scarce can conceive that a soul would be formed,
To inhabit a body so vile and deformed,
Unless we suppose such a gross piece of clay,
Had been made to imprison some soul cast away.
But be that as it may—be it soul, be it goul,
One thing is most certain, 'tis hideously foul;
Being stained with each vice that can blacken a wretch,
Who is ripening apace for the cord of Jack Ketch.
Hypocrisy, meanness, fraud, treachery, guile,
Venality, envy, and lechery vile,
Malevolence, cunning, spite, falsehood, and pride;
In short, every vice that's supposed to reside
In man or in devil, resides in the Shape;
Which makes it, with such a facility, ape
Each prominent character known about town,
From the saint to the rake, from the sage to the clown.

Just follow the thing through its sinuous track,—
(You may know't by the mountain that graces its back:)
Observe it wrapt up in a cloak of Religion,
All humble in manner, and meek as a pigeon,—

So serious and saint-like in God's house of prayer;
Go next to the brothel, you'll find the Shape there,
In sensual dalliance with some wanton wench,
The fire of its lust both to kindle and quench:
Now go to its study, and view it again,
Drawing forth the full stores of its versatile brain,
And penning, as moved by its caprice or whim,
A loose sonnet—Sunday tract—prologue, or hymn.
Now see it to temperance so strongly inclined,
That with Cruickshanks and Kirk it behoves to be joined;
But, lo! on that very same night it gets drunk,
And is found fast asleep in the arms of a punk.

Long, long was the creature opposed to that plan
Which had for its object the freedom of man;
And often it vented its spleen and its rage
Against every one who would dare to engage
In Liberty's cause—for these notions had it,
That the mass of the people are bound to submit
To whatever the Lords of the soil may decree,
And that none but the great have a right to be free;
That Kings are appointed, by warrant divine,
To govern their States as their hearts may incline,
And that subjects have nothing to do but obey
The will of their lords,—be that will what it may;
That the bulk of mankind are a parcel of brutes,
Who have not the least claim to the earth's precious fruits,
But ought to be fed on husks, acorns, and roots,—
While nobles, and kings, and all those who command,
Have an exclusive right to the fat of the land;

That the poor are created for no other end
Than under huge burdens, like camels, to bend,
And that to make use of their reason or thought
They have just as much right as the ass or the goat.

This being its creed, how it fretted and fumed,
And squirted its venom at all who assumed
A different opinion, and boldly withstood
An impious faction, who, ruthless and rude,
Made every exertion to blight and destroy
The hope-buds of Freedom,—the blossoms of joy.

But down fell the faction, and round wheel'd the Shape,
And, with all the grimaces and grins of an ape,
Declared that its eyes were now opened to see
That man was a being God meant to be free;
Especially Britons, whose high moral worth
Was greater than that of all nations on earth;
That they were entitled above all the rest
To free institutions, the purest and best.
Moreover, the thing, in its new-kindled zeal,
And big with the project of Great Britain's weal,
Enlisted itself in the ranks of Reform,
Determined the haunts of Corruption to storm,
And drag from their nests the whole cormorant brood,
Which have fattened so long on the country's best blood.

But Liberty's atmosphere being too pure
For the putrescent lungs of the Shape to endure;
Hence finding it could not respire without pain,
It ‘returned like the dog to its vomit’ again;

‘Or the sow that was washed;’ but we need not quote more,
It returned to the creed which it held by before.

Deserting its new friends, it soon found its old,
The keen clinging crabs which tenaciously hold
By Corruption's foul corpus, and therefrom derive
The nutritive filth which preserves them alive.
And having atoned for its late misbehaviour,
The thing was admitted again into favour,
Provided it used both its tongue and its pen
In aspersing the lovers of freedom again.

But the cause of the crew must be desperate indeed,
When they're forced to rely on the Shape in their need;
A proof that the day of their triumph is past,
And their villanous system approaching its last.

And now its invectives are fiercer than ever,
And truly the thing is amazingly clever
At calling foul names, and bestowing abuse,—
A habit which may be improved by long use;
And the Shape has been fixed in that habit so long
That it grows with its growth,—with its strength waxes strong;
In fact, 'tis a passion that governs the Shape,
And its passions oft land it in some luckless scrape:
'Tis not very long since the thing lost its cloak,
('Twas a nymph of the town slipt it off in a joke,)
Of its cloak of Religion 'twas also bereft,
And in all its own naked deformity left.

Though a low fawning hypocrite long it has been,
In its own proper colours and shape 'tis now seen,
And it never will manage to gull people more
By its canting and whining, as it did before.

We therefore would warn it to keep in its den,
Nor trouble us more, with its tongue or its pen,
Else a sure castigation awaiteth it still,
If it dare to persist in its courses of ill.
This correction which we for the present bestow,
Is nothing to what it shall yet undergo,
If it do not repent, and its manners amend,
And make it its study no more to offend.

To conclude, we would warn it again to beware,
For the Lion of Britain is roused from his lair,
And should it much longer his anger provoke,
The result might be worse than the loss of its cloak;
For though he would scorn the vile creature to hurt,
He might—on't, and—on't, and roll't in the dirt.

THE POLITICAL CHAMELEON:

OR, BAULDY UNMASKED.

[_]

A True Portrait, to be exhibited to the good folks of G---.

Have you heard of the reptile that changes its hue,
From the black to the white, from the red to the blue,
From the brown to the buff, from the grey to the green,
Yet scarcely is twice in the same colour seen;

And by many is thought to exist upon air,
Which, if true, we must own, is but thin enough fare?
Even such, or such like, is that reptile so low,
Which to the good townsfolk of G--- we'd show,
The blustering, bullying Bauldy M`Slavery,
Well noted for low cunning, falsehood, and knavery.
A perfect Chameleon in politics he,
And in morals as changing as change can well be;
So much so, that none can decide what he is,
For this hour he is that, the next hour he is this.
At one time, a red-flaming Tory he burns,
At another, a raving Republican turns;
Now a loud, noisy Radical, bawling Reform;
Now a moderate—bent on allaying the storm;
Now a stanch sturdy Whig, praising up Charles Fox;
Now a Courier Scribbler, describing ‘Bum Clocks,’
And throwing out squibs about hoarse ‘Bubbly Jocks!’
To-day, he's a saint, if he could be believed,
For church desecration most piously grieved;
The next, a bold sinner, on wickedness bent,
To every bad passion meanwhile giving vent,
And spurning that wise admonition—‘repent.’
Now o'er the sick bed he sheds crocodile tears,
And now at pale misery throws out his sneers;
To-day, a philanthropist, mimicking Howard,
To-morrow, a man-hater, bully, and coward;
To-night, a lone hermit, chaste, cold, and morose,
The next—but no matter—just look at his nose:
He conceives 'tis not good, that he should be alone,
So takes flesh of his flesh—aye, and bone of his bone.

But although the Chameleon he's very much like,
There are two points of difference, must every one strike.
The one—though he changes, and changes at will,
His heart's sable hue is unchangeable still,
The other—he always takes very good care
To live upon something more solid than air,
As witness the ‘ring due’ and such things as that,
On which honest Bauldy contrived to get fat.

Now he's plotting 'mong friends, and he's plotting 'mong foes,
Like a Pat at a fair dealing right and left blows.
And he means by his plotting to make such a job,
As that he may slyly replenish his fob,
With that needful thing, in plain English called pelf,
For Bauldy has ever one eye towards self.

Now, he cringes to this one, and fawns upon that,
With all the low cunning and art of a cat;
But should you deny him your favour and grace,
Like that selfish beast, he will fly in your face,
And with blackest ingratitude strive to defame
The man who has hitherto borne a good name:
Although, notwithstanding, that man may have been
His best benefactor, his stay, and his screen.

But his right-and-left plotting would soon come to nought,
Did the good folks of G--- but act as they ought,
And hang up this portrait in hovel and hall,
That the same might be seen and acknowledged by all;

And simple folks thereby be put on their guard,
Nor fall into the trap which the wretch has prepared.
For a net he has woven of falsehood and guile,
And he foolishly thinks 'tis unseen all the while:
But let him beware,—for so closely he's watch'd,
That in his own snare he'll most surely be catch'd,
And get himself laughed at, and jeered for his pains,
For his want of good tact, and his pure lack of brains.
However, 'tis proper, that all should take care,
And not be too simply entrapt in his snare:
For though it be coarsely and clumsily wrought,
There is reason to fear that a dupe might be caught,
And ruined outright, by becoming the tool
Of him who is both a great knave and big fool.

Now, Bauldy, if e'er this same picture you see,
Don't startle,—'tis like you as likeness can be:
Don't startle,—but try to leave off your vile tricks,
Or never, in future, with honest men mix;
For each honest man from your presence should run,
And the vilest of rogues your vile company shun;
Nay, Satan himself, with his horrible crew,
Should be curst if they'd have any dealings with you.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

BY THE LATE BARON SMITH, OF THE IRISH EXCHEQUER.

Fear me not, butterfly; harm will I none
No—poor little fluttering thing;
Let me see but those colours that glance in the sun:

Let me see them—and when my inspection is done,
Away, on thy gossamer wing.

Fear me not, butterfly; I will not seize
Thee, poor little frolicsome thing;
Thou art liberty's heir—thou art child of the breeze,
Go—roam to what blossom, what bower you please,
Away, on thy gossamer wing.

Yes, fly to the rose—it is breathing perfume;
Away, little wandering thing.
Every sunbeam is stealing a tint from its bloom;
Go—wait not till day-light has faded to gloom,
For time is, like thee, on the wing.

Not gone yet, fair butterfly? why then so still?
Art weary? thou frail little thing!
Ah, hasten—nor wait, silly insect, until
Thou art marked by some bird for his ravenous bill;
Away, on thy gossamer wing.

I have noted each freckle and shade of thy coat,
Ev'ry spot on thy beautiful wing;
And I hear from yon ivy a twittering note;
Go—hide in the cup of some blossom remote;
Adieu, little fluttering thing.

How gaily you ramble across the blue sky,
Expanding a delicate wing;
I mark your vagaries—and think, with a sigh,
'Tis a pity how soon, very soon, you must die,
Poor innocent, perishing thing.

TO SIMEON CLYDE.

Dear Simeon,—Far be it from me to say, or yet to insinuate, that the Hon. Baron who wrote the beautiful piece of poetry ‘To a Butterfly,’ which I hereby send thee, ever treated a beggar in the harsh manner described below. No. All I mean to insist on is, that too many professed admirers of the beauties of nature, who will speculate on the tints of a butterfly's wing, or descant in rapturous terms on the various properties of a bit of stone, will, nevertheless, pass by a fellow-creature in distress, nor so much as deign him a look of sympathy, far less contribute to relieve his necessities—in short, who will view him as a being not belonging to the same species with themselves.

Thine,

Andrew Whaup.

A PARODY ON THE ABOVE.

NOT WRITTEN BY A BARON OF ANY EXCHEQUER, BUT BY PLAIN ANDREW WHAUP O' HAZELKNOWE.

A Baron a butterfly met on his way,
And thus did the bold Baron sing,—
‘Stop, beautiful flutterer, pr'ythee now stay;
I don't mean to harm thee, but just to survey
The tints of thy neat little wing.

‘If good uncle Toby could spare the big fly,
That gave his red nose such a sting,

Think'st thou I would hurt thee, poor devil? not I,
I'd sooner be hang'd—so, frail insect, good bye,
Away, on thy gossamer wing.

‘How delightful it is to be thus so humane
To each creeping—each flying thing.
I would not for kingdoms inflict needless pain,
The mercy I show I may need it again.
Adieu, then—go spread thy bright wing.’

A Baron a beggarman met in his path,
With arm buckled up in a sling;
His thin shrivell'd cheeks wore the paleness of death,
He totter'd, he trembled, he panted for breath,
While led by his dog with a string.

‘O! pity, good people, have mercy, I pray,
Your mite to a poor creature fling;
With fourscore of winters these locks are bleach'd grey,
I am cold, naked, blind, and have fasted all day,
While anguish my bosom doth wring.’

‘Be off, whining rascal,—get out of my way;
By Jove, I'll not give thee a ring;
I'll warrant that arm has been broke in some fray,
When thou and such rebels your tithes would not pay,
For which, like a dog, thou shouldst swing.

‘I hate all such beggarly trash, 'pon my soul;
I cannot endure such a thing.
Provoking!—a gentleman can't take a stroll
But he meets with such sights as would sicken a foal—
I'll bear it no longer, by Jing.’

Off strutted the Baron in baronly pride,
To the sweets of his office to cling.
The beggar sunk down by the lonely wayside;
He utter'd a prayer, gave a shudder, and died,
While his spirit to heaven took wing.

The Baron died likewise—not all his red gold
Could avert the last enemy's sting;
He lies now as lowly, as lonely, and cold,
As the poor abject beggar, so helpless and old,
While his pamper'd-up carcase now fattens the mould
Where the rank grass and nettle upspring.

How odd, that a being so charm'd with the dyes
And the specks of a butterfly's wing,
Should thus over man, fellow-man, tyrannize—
Thus spurn his own flesh,—yea, God's image despise—
God's image, too, formed to inherit the skies,—
What a strange unaccountable thing!

SONG,

BY W. H. BELLAMY, ESQ. OF BREINTON LODGE, HEREFORD.

‘True in the sunshine, and tried in the storm.’

A wreath, twine a wreath for our country's defender,
The last to destroy, yet the first to reform,
Who proudly can stand, and disdain to surrender,—
True in the sunshine, and tried in the storm.

When the voice of his King and his countrymen found him
Reposing awhile on a far foreign shore,
He flung, like the Roman, his mantle around him,
And flew to his post to protect her once more.

A wreath, twine a wreath for our country's defender,
The last to destroy, yet the first to reform,
Who proudly can stand, and disdain to surrender,—
True in the sunshine, and tried in the storm.

Every emblem of faction unblushingly wearing,
The foe stood before him in fearful array;
Yet calm was his brow, and undaunted his bearing,
When rush'd the wild phalanx to sweep him away.
Though, again and again, by their numbers defeated,
He bore, like a hero, the brunt of each blow;
Unappall'd to the last, when he calmly retreated,
His honour untarnish'd, his face to the foe.

A wreath, &c.

The hope of his country, in all her distresses,
Well, well may beat proudly the heart in his breast;
For, of all the brave patriots that England possesses,
She holds him the dearest, the noblest, the best:
Long, long may he live, with his laurels unfaded,
Our fears to dispel, and our discords to heal;
Long, long may the land that his counsels have aided,
Be blest with her statesman—her patriot Peel!

A wreath, &c.

A PARODY ON THE ABOVE.

WRITTEN BY ANDREW WHAUP O' HAZELKNOWE.

A whip, twine a whip for our country's enslaver,
The friend of abuses, the foe of reform,
Who still against freedom spouts forth his palaver,—
Jay in the sunshine, and crow in the storm.
When the page of the Duke, and his Tory tribe found him,
A-sculking incog. on a far foreign shore,
He flung the sly hypocrite's mantle around him,
And flew to ‘the loaves and the fishes’ once more.

A whip, twine a whip for our country's enslaver,
The friend of abuses, the foe of reform,
Who still against freedom spouts forth his palaver,—
Jay in the sunshine, and crow in the storm.

Every emblem of faction unblushingly wearing,
He stood by the Tories in hostile array,
With bold brazen brow, and with Bob-adil bearing,
To sweep every right of the people away.
But again, and again, by their guardians defeated,
He still tried to rally, and ward off each blow;
At last, like a bully, he, blustering, retreated,
His honour's seat slapping, in front of his foe.

A whip, &c.

The bane of his country, in all her distresses,
O ne'er be she more by his policy curst:
For all the dire enemies England possesses,
She holds him the deadliest, direst, and worst.

Soon, soon may he sink, with his laurels all faded,
No more to oppose the community's weal;
Soon, soon may the land, by his counsels degraded,
Be freed from such state quacks, as poisonous P---

A whip, &c.

STANZAS.

SUGGESTED ON PLANTING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF JOHN TAIT, 31ST JULY, 1837.

We pulled the wild weeds off thy grave,
And planted flowerets there,
Whose balmy blossoms bright might wave,
To scent the summer air.
Let no rude thoughtless hand presume
To pull these flowerets from thy tomb.

On every flower we placed in earth
We let a tear-drop fall—
A crystal tribute to thy worth—
'Twas friendship's holy call.
We dropt a tear—we heaved a sigh
O'er thee we saw too early die;
Thou died'st amid the blaze of fame
And hope of victory;
Thou died'st!—but no: thy dear-loved name
Can never, never die;
Kings, conquerors, heroes' names may rot—
John Tait's shall never be forgot!

The violet here shall yearly bloom,
And here the primrose too,
And plants of odorous perfume,
And of the loveliest hue.
For why should beauty be denied
To deck the grave of Simeon Clyde?
Then let affection's flowerets wave
For ever o'er thy honoured grave!

KNOWLEDGE BEING POWER,

OUGHT NOT, ACCORDING TO THE MINISTERIAL PAPERS, TO BE COMMUNICATED TO THE BULK OF THE PEOPLE.

'Tis not that Lord Althorp cares aught for the cash,
That's derived from the stamps upon Newspaper trash;
'Tis not that it yieldeth a revenue good,
To feed pauper peers, and such cormorant brood,
Which always keep croaking, and never are full,
Though devouring the vitals of poor Johnny Bull.
No:—'tis not for the money Lord Althorp needs care,
For still, 'twould appear, he has plenty to spare;
Or if he a few paltry millions should want,
He has only to ask of the Commons a grant;
And the Commons, good souls, ever prompt to bestow,
Are never so rude as to answer him ‘No!’
But obedient as puppets, when wrought by the wires,
Move this way, or that, as his Lordship desires;
And eager at all times to heap on him plenty,
They vote him at once from ‘one million’ to ‘twenty,’

To give to the Church for the loss of her tithes,
Or the Planters, to make them remove the soft withes,
That wreath round the limbs of their thrice-happy blacks,
While the cart-whip is gently applied to their backs.
The Commons, thus docile and ready to grant,
Pray, how should my Lord feel the bother of want?
It ne'er can intrude, his exertions to cramp,
Then why should he care for the Newspaper stamp—
A low paltry duty of fourpence per sheet?
He values it less than the dust on the street.
‘Then why not forego it,’ cries each stupid dunce,
‘And let us have duty-free knowledge at once?
‘We want to be knowing—we want to get wise—
‘Then why clap a pair of tax-blinds on our eyes,
‘That keep us still groping as blind as a stone,
‘And wont let us see how the world's getting on?’
‘Aye, there's the rub,’—truly you've hit it at last,
But just have some patience, and don't be so fast;
These blinds are your safeguards, as well as they're ours:
For if you could see to put forth all your powers,
Your ‘destructive opinions’ would send us adrift,
And, wanting our guidance, pray how would you shift?
You'd be ruined and lost were we driven away—
Curs'd with your own stupid anarchical sway—
Each low wretched scribbler would set up a press,
And, pretending to teach you your wrongs to redress,
Would only increase your ‘innate thirst for evil,’
And make you tenfold more the sons of the devil,
Till, losing all sense of what's right and what's wrong,
You'd set up a republican system ere long;

100

And, wanting in reverence for Kings, Lords, and Dukes,
Would be governed by Tailors, by Coblers, and Cooks.
Nay, worse, let me tell you, you infidel dogs,
You'd care less for Bishops than you'd do for hogs,—
The Church you'd destroy, as established by law,
Till down on your heads Heaven's vengeance you'd draw;
And, bereft of each temp 'ral and sp'ritual guide,
At last go to h---ll in your ignorant pride.
Then bore us no more with your bother and cant,
That ‘cheap untax'd knowledge’ is just what you want;
Such lore would but dazzle to lead you astray,
Till you'd lose, in the maze of false reason, your way;
Be therefore content with your too happy lot,
And seek no more ‘knowledge’ than what you have got.

ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

To our beloved brethren down the Clyde,
Where stately ships at anchor safely ride;
Grace, mercy, peace, contentment, joy of mind,
And every comfort—we, the undersigned,
Send greeting; and would fain know, if ye wot,
What has become of honest Father Scott.
Not Father Scott, the celebrated Bishop,
Who spiritual food for Cath'lic souls doth dish up;
But Father James Scott, intellectual cook,
Who used to dish up in the shape of book,

101

Broad sheet, or pamphlet, food of various kinds,
To suit the different tastes of different minds.
Who, whilom was at Montreal the Herald,
Proclaiming tidings through the western world;
And who, but lately, on the banks of Clyde,
Instructed and amused by his ‘Fireside,’
But who, 'tis now supposed, has settled down
In some snug corner, about Greenock town.

Then, wot ye where the said James Scott can be?
Is he in ‘durance vile,’ or is he free?
Is he 'mong reams on reams of paper hid,
Like Egypt's dead kings, in a Pyramid?
Or does he daily walk the streets, disguised
So deeply that he can't be recognised?
Is he engaged in manufacturing news?
Or writing criticisms and reviews?
Or does he haunt some solitary dell,
To woo the muse, and take at rhyme a spell?
Is he—but no; it cannot be,—that's flat,—
He's married now, so there's an end to that.

The said James Scott in age is thirty-two,
His face not pale, nor yet of florid hue;
High-cheek'd, hawk-beak'd, hawk-eyed, and raven-haired,
Fine-lipp'd, white-teeth'd, out-chinn'd, with little beard;
Full-brow'd, and pleasant-featured on the whole,
Where may be seen, at times, his inmost soul,
Sweet voiced, and having a most witching tongue,
As ever in a human head was hung;

102

In height he may be about five feet eight,
Stout made, and has a slight stoop in his gait;
Had on, 'tis thought, the last time he was seen,
A high-crowned hat, a coat of olive green,
A black silk neckloth, linen shirt, well dressed,
A figured double-breasted brown silk vest,
A pair of boots, most elegantly made,
And trousers of the Ayrshire shepherd's plaid.

Whoever, then, the said James Scott can find,
In any street or lane, or close, or wynd,
Shall be entitled to a Great Reward,
Provided he do send a timely card.
Either by Post, or Carrier King, the Great,
With proper signature, address, and date,
Informing any of the undersigned,
Where they the said James Scott will also find.

SONG.

MURTAGH O'SULLIVAN.

[_]

Tune—‘Looney M`Twolter.’

Goosedub Square, Oct. 27, 1835.

Mr Editor,—Plase put in print the above song, which you will find written inunder. It was penned by ould Mick M`Monigal, the blind piper, and as he cud not write it himself, becase of his blindness, he made me sit down and pen it for him. Och! many are the good things that have

103

come from his fertile pen, (for Mick is a bit of a genius,) and this is none of the worst of them.—Hoping you will put it in print for the edification of poor Paddy, I remain, Mr Editor, with all due submission and decorum, yours,

Murty O'Flannery.

Och, whack! Murtagh O'Sullivan,
Tundering, blundering, spaech-howling Barney;
Good lack, art thou so silly vain,
As to suppose we'll be gulled wid thy blarney?
Sure now, thy ‘Raw-head and bloody-bones’ stories
That frighten ould wives,
Almost out of their lives,
Are just the stale fibs of the ould bloody Tories;
Servile hack of the pack,
Frothing their blarney?
Och, whack! Murtagh O'Sullivan,
Tundering, blundering, spaech-howling Barney.
Yell, yell, 'gainst your ould creed, my boy,
Such are the pranks of each base renegado;
Well, well, Devil give you speed, my boy,
Since you're ‘black Prelacy's’ brazen bravado,
Damning poor papists redounds to your profit,
Then hot in your ire,
Deal damnation and fire,
And send every heretic headlong to Tophet!
You're the lad for the squad,
Black desperado,
Yell, yell, 'gainst your ould creed, my boy,
Such are the pranks of each base renegado.

104

Howl, shout, down wid ‘foul Popery,’
Send to perdition the ould ‘Romish harlot;’
Bawl, spout, ‘mummery,’ ‘foppery,’
Yet deck your own Church's champions in scarlet;
Bayonets and lead for the poor Widow Ryan,
Then charge well your guns,
And massacre her sons,
And smear wid their blood the proud walls of your Zion;
Sacrifice Nature's ties,
Proud, pampered varlet.
Bawl, shout, ‘mummery,’ ‘foppery,’
Yet deck your own Church's champions in scarlet.
On, on, march all these lands throughout,
Cumberland's orange unholy Crusader;
Run, run, scatter firebrands about,
Ould haggard bigotry, needs thee to aid her.
Rouse every dark, diabolical passion,
That lurks 'mong the base,
And most vile of our race,
Wid fire and wid faggot most valiantly dash on,
Supple birch of the church,
Mad gasconader;
Run, run, scatter firebrands about,
Ould haggard bigotry, needs thee to aid her.

105

THE EX-BAILIES' LAMENT.

[_]

Air—‘O, the days are gone.’

Oh, the days are gone, when Office sweet,
Could fill our fob:
And from morn till night—our sole delight
Was job, still job!
Dark days have come,
Of grief and gloom,
Without one cheering gleam.
O, there's nothing left us now in life,
Of power's gay dream;
But our sun that shone so bright, has gone
Nor left one beam.

Our cocked hats we now must doff,
And bright gold chains;
Our velvet robes of state throw off,
Nor touch job-gains,
And cast aside,
Official pride;
And even a Bailie's name:
For Whigs and Rads have now got in,
O grief and shame!
And civic power, alas, no more
Can we e'er claim.

Though the Whigs to surer fame may soar
Than ours, now past;
Though they've won the mob who frowned before,
To smile at last;

106

They'll never feel
So pure a zeal,
In all their blaze of fame—
As did we, when first to Pitt we knelt,
With hearts all flame;
And bowed our heads, and muttered o'er
His dear-loved name.

O! his hallowed form we'll ne'er forget,
Which our Hall graced;
But we'll fondly muse upon it yet,
Though now displaced.
And though we lick
No more the stick
That stirred the Borough cream,
O we still will think on bygone days;—
And each night dream
Of mounting yet to power and place
By some sly scheme.

SONG.

[Run, run! Tories and Tax-eaters]

[_]

Air—‘Blue Bonnets over the Border.’

Run, run! Tories and Tax-eaters,
Why don't you mind 'tis the fifth of November?
Run, run! Blackamoors' back-sweaters,
Else Whigs and Rads will get first to the Chamber;
Hundreds of voters, now,
Take to their trotters now,

107

All for the purpose of ousting each Tory,
Who, with a heavy sigh,
Well may set up the cry,
‘Ichabod!’—‘now is departed our glory.’

Fly, fly, hide your diminished heads,
Shorn of their deckers, and cropt of their glory,
Fie, fie! Whigs are such finished blades,
Nobody now cares a fig for a Tory;
Into your corners, then,
Call your chief mourners, then,
Gird you with sackcloth, get ashes strewed o'er ye,
Howl out your howling, too,
Growl out your growling, too,
Gone,—and for ever, your power and your glory.

Moan, moan! all's at the devil, now,
Radical rebels have got the ascendance,
Groan, groan! what a sore evil, now,
Every low scullion bawls out independence;
What were you doing, then,
When you saw ruin, then,
Fierce as the fiery Simoom, coming o'er ye?
Well may you weep and wail,
But what will that avail,
‘Ichabod!’—‘now is departed your glory.’

5th November, 1833.

108

YE WHO MOURN DEAR FRIENDS DEPARTED.

WRITTEN FOR AND SUNG AT A CONCERT GIVEN IN AID OF THE BRIDGETON GRAVE PROTECTING SOCIETY.—1824.

[_]

Air—‘Scenes of woe, and scenes of pleasure.’

Ye who mourn dear friends departed,
By the hand of death laid low;
Ye who, lone and broken-hearted,
Secretly indulge your woe:
'Mid your plaintive sighs and wailings,
One sad comfort, now, you have,
Shock'd no more shall be your feelings,
O'er a plundered, empty grave.

Midnight prowlers bent on robbing,
Shall no more your dead molest;
Now, ‘the wicked cease from troubling,’
Now, ‘the weary are at rest:’
Soundly sleeps your sire or mother,
Faithful husband, virtuous wife,
Son or daughter, sister, brother,
Safe from the dissector's knife.

O'er the hallowed green turf kneeling,
Shedding fond affection's tear,
Soothed will be your every feeling,
With, ‘Thy dear-loved dust lies here;
Here, too, shalt thou long repose thee,
In the calm and peaceful tomb,
Till the Archangel's trump shall rouse thee,
Radiant with immortal bloom.’

109

MY BONNIE SCOTCH LASSIE.

Let them boast of their maids on Italia's gay strand,
Or the green ‘Isles of Greece,’ once so free,
O dearer by far in my own native land,
Is my bonnie Scotch lassie to me.

Though England may vaunt of her daughters so fair,
Though bland Erin's beauties may be,
Give me the soft blush, and the heart-winning air,
That won me, dear Jessie, to thee.

Let them boast of their maids, &c.

In bright sunny climes many beauties I've seen,
Of high and of humble degree;
Yet in form or in feature, in mind or in mien,
I've ne'er met with maiden like thee.

Let them boast of their maids, &c.

Though the mild blushing red from thy soft cheek had fled,
Though grief had bedimmed thy bright e'e;
Yet thy heart and thy mind, by each virtue refined,
Would endear thee more fondly to me.

113

Let them boast of their maids in Italia's gay glades,
Or the green ‘Isles of Greece,’ once so free:
Yet no more will I roam after beauty from home,
But remain, my dear Jessie, with thee.

ANDREW WHAUP TO SIMEON CLYDE.

Hazleknowe, Dec. 25, 1834.

Dear Simeon,—I have been again pestered by that half-daft wandering minstrel who lately sung about the ‘Airn Juk o' W---.’ I wish I could get quit of him; but no—I am doomed to be crossed in my path by him at every turn. I have told him again and again, that I do not understand his nonsense; but still he comes and bothers me with his blethers. I told him I would put him in print; but that only excited his vanity the more. For any sake, do put him in print, with all his imperfections on his head, and shame the blockhead from ryhming any more. Show him up in the Liberator.

Yours, Andrew Whaup.

THE AIRN JUK AND HONEST ROBIN.

[_]

Air—‘Bonny Jeannie Gray.’

O why were ye sae lang awa',
My honest Robin P---?
Our Q--- has grutten, storm'd an' a',
An' play'd the vora deil;

114

Our K--- has f---l---d his braw new breeks,
Na, turned a downright veal,
Then, why awa' sae mony weeks,
My honest Robin P---?

Ye kent ye were to be the man
That was to tak' the helm,
When we had got matured our plan
That wad the Whigs o'erwhelm.
Ye kent they couldna reef a sail,
Nor yet direct the wheel;
Then, why did you in duty fail,
Our Anchor—Robin P---?

Wee Mothy is sae wondrous glad,
He's kicking at the moon,
An' Sam, although a solid lad,
Is dancing but his shoon;
An' Blackwood, too, our grand ally,
Is big wi' fiery zeal;
Then, why loot ye the time gae by,
My stoop—my Robin P---?

Dear Arthur, sit ye down by me,
An' list to what I say—
I kent our turn would soon come round,
But couldna guess the day.
But since we're in, let's face the Rads
Wi' bullet, fire, and steel,
We'll soon disperse the churchless squads,
As sure as I'm a P---.

115

For wee Buccleugh is straightway gaun
To keep the Irish down,
An' lift the tythes—nor let big Dan
Usurp the Croppy Crown.
‘Then Church and Tythes’ be still the cry;
We'll let the Rebels feel,
We still have power to crush the fry,
An' gie them orange Peel.

Songs of the Kirk.

THE MOURNFUL LAMENTATION OF THE SILVERSMITHS OF EPHESUS,

AFTER HAVING BEEN REBUKED BY THE TOWN CLERK.

[_]

TRANSLATED FROM AN OLD GREEK MANUSCRIPT, AND DEDICATED TO THE REV. PRESBYTERY OF AUCHTERARDER.

BY HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

Our ‘craft’ is in danger, our calling's at stake,
Our temple's proud walls are beginning to shake;
Our darling Diana, our hope and our all,
Now totters, and, Dagon-like, threatens to fall.
Her shrines—not exactly pure silver and gold—
So tarnished have grown, that we can't get them sold,—
While mankind, confound them, are growing so wise,
That truly they're seeing now with their own eyes.
The blinds, which for ages we made them to wear
The guilt-hardened wretches remorselessly tear,
And throw them behind them with pride and disdain,
Declaring they'll ne'er be blindfolded again.
For they've tasted the fruit of the forbidden tree
Of Knowledge, and hence, like ourselves, they can see;
The good that is for them they've sense now to choose,
While that which is evil the rascals refuse.

O! woe to that day when sound science began,
It has made us to lose all control over man:

118

Our oracles, omens, our shrines and our beads,
Our temples, our statues, our forms, and our creeds,
And all our inventions, which ignorance prized,
By the keen eye of reason are now scrutinised;
While lo! her hand-writing appears on the wall,
A dread Mene Tekel, foredooming our fall.

O, it is with a perfect heart-hatred we hate
These new-fangled ‘crafts’ which have sprung up of late,
Invading our rights with mischievous design,
And calling in question our Mission Divine;
Denying our title to Basket and Store,
And styling our lovely Diana a ---.
Nay, worse; there are some grown so wickedly bold,
As our sanctified cloth in derision to hold;
As to laugh at our temple, to mock at our bell,
To throttle our Pluto, and --- out our h---l.
Such wretches as these to perdition must go,
And wail o'er their crimes in the regions below.
Our Fiat is such, and we shall make it good,
By condemning in toto that infidel brood;
For while we're possessed of state temple, and bell,
We'll carry the keys of both heaven and h---l.

Ah! such was the language we held till of late,
But now there awaits us a far other fate;
For lo! half our power in this world is gone,
And that once away, in the next we'll have none.

O dire was the day when we bearded the laws,
And rose in our own, and Diana's great cause;

119

For, blindly intent upon riches and power,
We saw not approaching our sad trying hour;
But madly rushed on in the teeth of the law,
Convinced that our craft would create such an awe
In the minds of all men, as would make them afraid
To undo what we did—to unsay what we said.

But fled with the day are our arrogant dreams,
Our Bobadil boastings—our sly hidden schemes;
All futile alike; for, O horror and spite!
That law which we laughed at has risen in its might,
And thundered its threatenings so loud in our ears,
As to fill us with awful forebodings and fears;
For the Town Clerk has told us in language most plain,
What awaits us if e'er we turn rebels again.

O, now that the charm of our calling is broke,
And the dupes whom we led are let loose from our yoke,
What arts can avail us our power to regain?
For the vail of our temple is riven in twain,
Disclosing our craft's inmost secrets to view,
So long kept concealed from the gullable crew;
And showing Diana, all loathsome and bare,
A spectacle sad for vulgarity's stare.

Well, well, since our snug occupation is gone,
What stay have we left us? alas, we have none.
But downward, and downward, we fear we must fall,
Neglected, rejected, and hated by all.

120

Yet one consolation for us still remains,
Though reft of our glory, our power and our gains;
Though sorrow and suffering be henceforth our fate,
We'll shout till our latest, ‘Diana is great.’

OUR KIRK.

Our kirk, as established by law,
Our kirk, as established by law;
It's braw to belang to a kirk
That's secured by a Parliament wa':
Secured by a Parliament wa',
And built on a parchment rock;
Then how can our kirk ever fa',
When she's law-fenced against ilka shock?

Your heathenish vile Voluntary
On his Rock of Ages may rest;
We found on a different quarry,
Our rock of Endowment's the best:
Our rock of Endowment's the best,
To erect Mammon's altar upon;
'Tis there we have feathered our nest,
And there we'll reign eagle alone.

The Catholic leans on St Peter;
The Hindoo in Vishnu puts trust;
The Turk, that vile opium eater,
Pays homage to Mahomet's dust:

121

Pays homage to Mahomet's dust;
While the Jew for Jerusalem sighs;
But, O, his late Majesty's bust
Upon gold, is the god which we prize.

Poh! what were your early Apostles,
Wi' a' their great light from above?
Poor innocent, tractable dociles,
Their labours were labours of love,
Their labours were labours of love:
Our labours are labours of gain,
Our horse-leech's cry is—‘Give, give!’
Yes, give till we cannot retain.

The poor, how they clamour for bread!
How loud are their sighs and their moans!
But the rogues must have something instead,
So we'll give them a rickle of stones:
Yea, we'll give them a rickle of stones,
In shape of a bonnie bit kirk;
And we'll join in their tears and their groans,
And gull them by each pious quirk.

Then, O, for some further Endowments,
Our paunches and pouches to cram;
For wanting such earthly bestowments,
Our craft would be not worth a ---;
Our craft would be not worth a ---,
Unless we were handsomely paid.
But hush, never blab, 'tis all sham,
While the State is our bulwark and aid.

122

MIND THE BUTTER.

[_]

During Dr Chalmers' late visit to the guid town of Greenock, we are assured that he, in the course of an after-dinner speech, spoke nearly as follows:—

‘My brethren and beloved friends, I have been often asked, in the course of these agitations, how much I thought would suffice, if we were to get what we wanted in the shape of Endowments? I always replied that that was a difficult question to answer. But I happened, a few days ago, to be looking through an old book on cookery, and I saw a recipe for some dish or other, I forget the name of it just now—(Laughter)—but the recipe, I think, was a capital answer to the question, how much would suffice for Endowments. After enumerating several items necessary for the preparation of the dish, the recipe added, any quantity of Butter, and the cook was very particular about the Butter, for, (quoth the Doctor,) at the end of the recipe there was this injunction—mind the Butter—be sure to mind the Butter. Now, my friends, (added the Doctor at the close of this climax,) in regard to endowments, I would just tell you, as the cook did, do not be particular about the quantity—but just mind the Butter— be sure and mind the Butter.’

—Scotch Reformers' Gazette, 22d December, 1838.

Hail! chosen Champion o' the kirk,
Endowment-hunting doughty Chalmers,
On wi' thy great Extension work,
Nor heed the vile Dissenters' clamours;
While King, Heugh, Marshall (precious three,)
Their Voluntary speeches sputter,
Let this thy motto henceforth be—
‘Oh, mind the butter, mind the butter.’

Auld grunting, gouty Granny Kirk
Comes hobbling on her twa State crutches,
Determined by ilk wily quirk
To grab a' wi' her haly clutches;

123

Her bloated bouk and brandy een—
Her staggering step and stammering stutter,
Have made the Carlin still mair keen
To ‘mind the butter, mind the butter.’

Then quick and cook her up a feast
Of vile unhowkit heathens' livers—
The heart's blood of a Popish Priest:
A Deist's cranium cracked to shivers;
Frae puffed-up Prelate's pampered painch,
A whang o' morbid matter cut her—
A sturdy Independent's hainch;
But, oh, be sure to ‘mind the butter.’

For Granny Kirk's not half content
Wi' a' the guid things she has gotten,
But, still on fresh Endowments bent,
Has grown a downright greedy glutton.
Her Corbies through the land she sends,
Their ever-craving screams to utter;
And, as each greedy throat extends,
Their craik is still—‘Oh, mind the butter.’

But, oh, the days when she was young!
And free from blemish, blotch, and swelling;
Her muirland plaid around her flung—
The breezy hill-side was her dwelling;
Plain hame-spun plaiden was her wear,
Nae silks about her then did flutter;
Her drink, the mountain streamlet clear,
And aft she lack'd baith bread and butter.

124

Chased like a roe from hill to dale,
Debarred from village, town, and city;
Her bleeding feet and visage pale,
Ne'er moved her wicked hunters' pity:
To every murderous wretch a prey,
Who chose to mangle, maim, and cut her,
Heaven was her only hope and stay,
In whom to trust for bread or butter.

But mark the change on Madam now!
While silk and velvet robes bedeck her,
Wi' greedy een and brazen brow,
She glow'rs into the State Exchequer;
Though bread be given, and water sure,
Yet these do not exactly fit her,
Some richer thing she maun procure,
And hence her howl, ‘Oh, mind the butter.’

The ‘Poor Man's Kirk’ is all her cry,
Yet wi' the rich she fondly dallies;
Yea—poortith's cot she passes by,
To banquet in the lordly Palace.
Wi' Dukes and Lords she feasts and rants,
Drinks smutty toasts—kicks up a splutter;
Then wails about her waefu' wants,
And whining cries—‘Oh, mind the butter.’

Her ‘Kingdom is not of this warl',’
At least, if we may trust her story:
But oh! she's fond to get a haurl
O' warldly wealth, and pomp, and glory.

125

Her bloody sister up the gate—
Wha lang did tramp her in the gutter—
She fawns, now, on her air and late,
And cries—‘Oh, help me to the butter!’

But hail! redoubted Chalmers, hail,
On in thy glorious course careering,
Though Voluntaries rave and rail,
Treat with contempt their gibes and jeering;
In pleading greedy Granny's cause,
Ne'er stick a rousing whid to utter,
Till cheering echoes rend the wa's,
Wi' ‘mind the butter, mind the butter.’

Patronage and Endowments.

‘THE REEL O' BOGIE.’

AS DANCED BY THE REV. DR CHALMERS, THE REV. MESSRS. CUNNINGHAM, CANDLISH, AND GORDON.

DEDICATED (WITHOUT PERMISSION) TO THEIR REVERENCES, BY HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

There's sour kail in Aberdeen—
Het water in Strathbogie—
Dunkeld is rinning red-wud clean,
And a' about the cogie.
The cogie O! the cogie O!
The Kirk's capacious cogie;
O waesuck, sirs, the vera girs
They're riving aff her cogie.
Parody on Old Song.

Weel done, dear Doctor, that's the thing,
Wow, but you're skeigh and vogie!
Come, wheel about, and gie's a fling,
At this new ‘Reel o' Bogie.’

126

While Ritchie thrums his fiddle-string,
(That Voluntary roguie,)
Mak' wowf wee Candlish round you swing,
To ‘Bannocks in Strathbogie.’

My certie! but ye link it weel,
Light louping, like a frogie,
Though whiles ye mak' an unco wheel,
As if ye were half groggy;
Sae meikle smeddum's in your heel,
Nae yirthly weight can clog ye—
Not even Nick can damp your zeal,
While at your ‘Reel o' Bogie.’

‘Retract! no, not a single inch!’
Part rather wi' your cogie;
Nor let poor greeting Gordon flinch,
That terror-stricken doggie:
Gar Cunningham his hurdies pinch,
And gie his doup a brogie,
Till round he wheels, despite the Bench,
And joins your ‘Reel o' Bogie.’

What! heed the Hope-ful President?
That gurly surly fogie,
Haud out—the carle may yet relent,
And whisk you past Strathbogie.
Or should you by his breath be sent
To martyrdom's kiln-logie,
Even there, ‘retract not,’ nor repent,
Of your rare ‘Reel o' Bogie.’

127

But lift your voice, and do not spare
Ilk vile ‘intruding’ roguie,
Wha'd mount up by the Auld Back Stair,
Like some folk in Strathbogie.
And keep an e'e on Glasgow Chair,
Whilk yields a dainty cogie:
O rare to see you wheeling there,
Your darling ‘Reel o' Bogie.’

Even should the Kirk's horizon lour,
Wi' clouds baith mirk and foggy,
Ne'er quail to ony yirthly power,
Like crouching coward doggie;
But help her in her trying hour,
To keep her weel-filled cogie,
Till rampant a' the Queendom owre,
She loups your ‘Reel o' Bogie.’

A CLERICAL CANTICLE,

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, at their Secret Non-Intrusion Meetings, held in their Private Room, Presbyterian Close, Auld Reekie. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to
HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

It's hey for glebe, stipend, and manse,
And hey for the kirk wi' the steeple;
Let's try our bit clerical dance,
To quiz and bamboozle the people.

128

Wi' our dancing we'll raise sic a stour,
As will blind the intractable rabble;
And when they're ance mair in our power,
How we'll silence their insolent gabble.

Then hey for glebe, &c.

We'll lecture them on their misdeeds,
Their shortcomings, backslidings, errors,
And gie them most terrible screeds
About breach o' the Law and its terrors.

Then hey for glebe, &c.

We'll mak' them to kneel and obey
The Kirk, our auld Reverend Granny;
And if the vile pack mutter ‘nay,’
We'll just hand them owre to Auld Sawney.

Then hey for glebe, &c.

Thus, while for their spiritual good,
Our ‘vials of wrath’ we're out-pouring,
We'll scrimp them o' temporal food,
To keep them from playing Jeshuran.

Then hey for glebe, &c.

Though ‘Patronage’ now we decry,
And clamour against ‘Lay-Intrusion,’
That door we oursels entered by,
And not by the people's ain choosing.

Then hey for glebe, &c.

129

But now we maun shut up that door,
Against wily Whig and tough Tory;
And, for our ain order, secure
Kirk-Patronage, profit, and glory.

Then hey for glebe, &c.

For our Kirk independent must be
Of the State, and ilk yirthly connection,
Except that bit yirthly thing—Fee,
To which we've nae yirthly objection.

Then hey for glebe, stipend, and manse,
And hey for the kirk wi' the steeple;
Let's try our bit clerical dance,
To quiz and bamboozle the people.

A CLERICAL CANTICLE,

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, at their Secret Non-Intrusion Meetings, held in the Presbyterian Close, Auld Reekie. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to
HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

There's sour kail in Aberdeen,
And sourer in Strathbogie,
For ilka ane's contesting keen,
And a' about the Cogie;

The Cogie, lads, the Cogie, lads,
Our Kirk's capacious Cogie;
O dool and wae, baith frien' and fae
Are striving for her Cogie.

130

They're rugging here, they're tugging there,
Frae Irvine to Strathbogie,
And a' to get an orra share
O' kail frae out her Cogie;

Her Cogie, lads, her Cogie lads,
Her wally weel-filled Cogie;
Gude saff us, sirs, the vera girs
They're riving aff her Cogie.

She's nurst a set o' graceless loons,
Wha lang ha'e played the roguie,
And wi' their crookit carnal spoons,
Ha'e clautit at her Cogie.

Her Cogie, lads, her Cogie, lads,
Our darling dish—her Cogie;
Wi' clauting keen, they've scartit clean
A hole out through her Cogie.

They've rowed her into waters deep,
They've lair'd her in a bogie,
And left her there to wail and weep,
And howl about her Cogie.

Her Cogie, lads, her Cogie, lads,
Her dear time-hallowed Cogie;
The worldly knaves they'd ding in staves
Her State-begirded Cogie.

131

And there's your Voluntary crew,
Wi' minds sae dark and foggy,
They think that we should tamely boo,
And yield them up her Cogie.

Her Cogie lads, her Cogie lads,
Our staff and stay—her Cogie;
While we hae breath, we'll fecht till death,
Before we lose her Cogie.

Then let us smite the wicked jaws
O' ilk intruding roguie,
Wha'd daur wi' his unhallowed claws
To touch her sacred Cogie.

Her Cogie, lads, her Cogie lads,
Her precious dear-bought Cogie;
Let's form a ring, and lilt a spring,
And dance around her Cogie.

For we, her independent sons,
Despite ilk snarling doggie,
Maun fettle now our swords and guns,
And rally round her Cogie.

Her Cogie, lads, her Cogie, lads,
Our faith and hope—her Cogie;
Wi' hand on hilt, fye let us till't,
And loup our ‘Reel o' Bogie.’

132

A CLERICAL CANTICLE,

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, &c. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to
HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

[_]

Air—‘Brose and Butter.’

(Chorus sung as a Quartetta.)

Hey for the loaves, loaves,
Hey for the loaves and fishes!
Gie us Lucky Kirk's massy loaves,
And nice little delicate dishes.

(Solo by Dr C---s.)

A haddock is good at a time,
A salmon is truly delicious;
But turbot and skate—O how prime!
For they are the flats among fishes.

(Full Chorus)

—Hey for the loaves, &c.

(Solo by Mr C---m.)

We've anchored our boat in Kirk Bay,
And spread out our mystical meshes;
And O we've had excellent play,
At hauling in shoals o' flat fishes.

Hey for the loaves, &c.

133

(Solo by Mr C---ish.)

O dear to our hearts is dear corn,
It raises the loaf to our wishes;
Yea, makes us exalt our proud horn,
And brings us abundance o' fishes.

Hey for the loaves, &c.

(Solo by Dr C---s.)

Elijah by ravens was fed,
And meagre chance meals were Elisha's:
We'll trust neither corbie nor gled,
We've the State for our loaves and our fishes.

Hey for the loaves, &c.

(Solo by Mr C---m.)

The Galilee fishers of yore
Were men of such moderate wishes,
Their weak simple minds ne'er could soar
To the tything o' loaves or o' fishes.

Hey for the loaves, &c.

(Solo by Mr C---ish.)

They just went about doing good,
Cured leprosies, blindness, and issues,
Gied famishing multitudes food,
By dispensing their loaves and their fishes.

Hey for the loaves, &c.

134

(Solo by Dr C---s.)

But we, their successors—ha, ha!
Will ne'er treat the mob to sic dishes;
The herd—they may munch at their straw,
But we'll have the loaves and the fishes.

Hey for the loaves, &c.

(Solo by Mr G---n.)

But, boys, should our late ‘Bogie Reel’
Ere land us 'mang Law's loopy meshes,
Entangled, how awkward we'd feel,
At the fate o' our loaves and our fishes.

Hey for the loaves, &c.

(Solo by Mr C---m.)

For lo! there's a storm coming on,
A storm that may fairly undish us;
Then ply we our oars every one,
And pull for our loaves and our fishes.

Hey for the loaves, &c.

(Solo by Mr G---n.)

But see our twa Kirk-and-State oars
How they're bending like. fushionless rushes;
And O how the hurricane roars,
A-threatening our loaves and our fishes.

Hey for the loaves, loaves:
Hey for the loaves and fishes;
Let's haud to the last by our loaves,
Nor yield up our delicate dishes.

135

THE DIVINITY CHAIR.

Ah Tam, Ah Tam, thou'st got thy fairin',
Thou thought'st to sit the Glasgow Chair in;
In vain thy Clique await thy comin'—
That Chair thou ne'er shalt set thy bum in.
Not Robert Burns.

O whare hast thou a-wandering been,
Our boy Tammy?
We've miss'd thee sair baith morn and e'en,
Our boy Tammy.
I've been out owre Strathbogie braes,
Where godless flocks wild wandering graze,
To win them frae their wilfu' ways,
Back to their honoured Mammy.

Then tell us how did'st thou succeed,
Our boy Tammy,
Wi' that camstrairy graceless breed,
Our boy Tammy?
Indeed, gin I the truth maun tell,
They still rin mad owre muir and fell,
Determined ever to rebel
Against their rev'rend Mammy.

How shall we treat those brutes sae bauld,
Our boy Tammy;
To bring them back into the fauld,
Our boy Tammy?

136

Just shake them owre the Brumstane Pit,
As lang and sair as we are fit,
Till ilka cloot o' them submit,
And turn again to Mammy.

But tell us, hast thou lost the Chair,
Our boy Tammy;
For a' thy wheeling, pains, and care,
Our boy Tammy?
Alas, alas! the tale's owre true,
Confound the graceless Glasgow crew!
Wi' me they wad hae nought to do,
For a' my wheels for Mammy.

But as thou bitterly maun feel,
Our boy Tammy,
Wilt thou still lilt the Bogie Reel,
Our boy Tammy?
Yes, yes,—until the day I dee,
That reel shall aye be flung by me,
Ay—twenty thousand wheels I'll gie,
To help the Kirk—our Mammy.

137

VERSES,

WRITTEN UPON THE OPENING OF THE GLASGOW AND GREENOCK RAILWAY, 30TH MARCH, 1841.

While Bards of renown sing their heroes of yore,
Who marched on to fame—to the knees up in gore,
Whose chief entertainment was dying the sod,
And marring and mangling the image of God,
We'll choose a more homely, though happier theme,—
The genius of Watt, and the triumphs of Steam.

Had some gifted spirit arisen of old,
And to our great-grandfathers fearlessly told
The powers and the virtues which vapour contains,
They had deemed him a madman and fool for his pains;
The plain, honest, simple folks never could dream
Of the powers and the virtues inherent in Steam.

But forth came our Watt, in the strength of his mind,
Too powerful and vast for old fetters to bind—
He saw what was wanting—he planned what was right,
Then rose giant Steam in his fulness of might,
All vigorous and fresh as the sun's primal beam,
And darkness soon fled from the presence of Steam.

O Steam! what great wonders thou lately hast wrought,
For Time's but thy plaything, and Distance is nought;
Outstripping in fleetness the wings of the wind,
And leaving the storm-driven clouds far behind,

138

Thou link'st distant lands, thou o'ercom'st rock and stream,
Thou greatest of all Revolutionists—Steam.

The gentle and simple by thee both are fed,
Thou grindest their grain, thou preparest their bread,
Thou guidest the saw, and thou turnest the screw,
And things the most obdurate thou can'st subdue;
Thy cylinder, piston, and ponderous beam,
Are the creatures of thine own creation—O Steam!

The prince and the peasant by thee, too, are drest,
The jenny and loom thy minuteness attest,
The forge and the furnace proclaim thy great power,
Fresh wonders on wonders arise every hour,
And wonders on wonders for ages may teem,
So various and vast are the workings of Steam.

What mighty achievements thou yet hast in store,
No heart may conceive, and no eye yet explore,—
The desert Sahaara may yet own thy sway,
And the huge Polar icebergs before thee give way;
The Atlantic into the Pacific may stream,
And the whirl of the Maelstroom may yield yet to Steam.

Then fill up a bumper—yea, fill to the brim,
And drain to the bottom in memory of him
Who, wisely directing the Steam's latent powers,
Has given a new face to this planet of ours—
May his name float along upon Time's mighty stream,
Till sun, moon, and stars, be enveloped in Steam.

139

VERSES,

SUGGESTED ON VIEWING MR ANDERSON'S COMIC GROUP OF FIGURES IN STONE, ‘THE DEIL'S AWA' WI' THE EXCISEMAN.’

BY HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

Weel, Saunders, thou has made a seizure,
The Gauger's now thy siccar treasure;
O what a smile o' fiendish pleasure
Lurks in that leer,
While he, poor saul, beyond a' measure,
Seems struck wi' fear:

His mouth, hands, nostrils, een, and hair,
What terror is depicted there!
What agonies o' fell despair
Contort his face!
He'll ne'er seize cask nor caldron mair:
O hopeless case!

I trow thou hast him tightly graspit,
Thy barbed tail about him claspit;
Firm as a bolt securely haspit,
There is he fixt;
Ne'er to get loose, till down thy ash-pit
The wretch thou kick'st.

140

My sang, thou art nae lazy lurdane,
In takin' on thee sic a burden,
Boa-Constrictor-like, a girdin'
His worthless waist;
But, Clootie, let me put a word in,—
What's a' thy haste?

Wad'st thou not let him aff again?
Thou ken'st he'll yet be a' thine ain;
Then, wherefore gie him needless pain
Before his time?
He yet might yield thee meikle gain,
By future crime.

Fair fa' the Artist—clever chiel,
For truly he's portrayed thee weel:
Frae snout to tail, frae horn to heel,
‘The foul thief loon;’
The veritable, true Scotch deil,
The ‘auld Mahoun.’

Could Burns himsel' but rise and see
The pawkie glint o' hellish glee
That plays about thy mouth and e'e,
As aff thou hies,
Wi' welcome hand he'd wish to thee
‘Luck o' thy prize.’

But, ah! 'twas hardly fair to trace
His Dukeship's beak upon thy face;

141

Had Bailie P—l's but ta'en its place,
Or Chartist R—s's,
Such wad hae gi'en a coup de grace
To thy proboscis.

Or had the visage a' thegither,
Been lent thee o' the ane or ither,
Those wha ance saw thee ne'er could swither,
About thee mair;
For like thou should'st be as a brither,
To that choice pair.

O had'st thou never done mair ill
Than seized the seizer o' a still,
Mankind, in mony a Highland gill,
Had toasted thee;
And drank thy health wi' right good will,
In barley bree.

But O, thou auld malignant thief!
Fell origin of a' mischief;
Thou art the author o' our grief,
Our toil and pain,
And never shall we get relief
Till thou art gane.

But though thou art the vera fiend,
Thou'rt still the Clergy's dearest freend,
By thy vast influence unscreen'd,
They might shut shop,
For, wanting thee, baith tythe and tiend,
I trow would stop.

142

Hence, I'd propose a vote o' thanks
Frae them to thee, for thy d—d pranks:
'Tis thou wha keep'st them on their shanks,
And gi'est them bread,
Their weel-filled aumries soon were blanks,
Gin thou wert dead.

Therefore, just carry on thy calling,
To keep their Reverences frae falling,
For O they'd raise a hideous bawling,
Wert thou to stop;
As in the mud they lay a-sprawling,
'Reft o' their prop.

Improve thy time, then, while thou'rt here,
The ‘Thousand Years’ will soon draw near,
When closed will be thy curst career
For that lang season;
Man winna then be fool'd by fear,
But ruled by reason.

But, Nick—gin I might ca' thee such—
I've ae request, if not too much:
I carena though thou sametimes clutch
A greedy Gauger;
But O, I pray thee, dinna touch
The Auld Egg-Cadger.

143

THE WAEFU' LAMENT OF THE AGNEWITES

OVER THEIR DEFEAT IN THE ROYAL EXCHANGE, GLASGOW, ON THE 30TH NOVEMBER, 1841,

When they were baffled in their attempt to Shut up the Public Reading-room on the first day of the week—not on the Jewish Sabbath. Rendered into ryhme, by
HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

Hech! what is this come owre us now?—
Our loopy tricks are a' seen through;
In turning round Coercion's screw,
We toil in vain,
For spite o' a' that we can do,
Its power is gane.

Wi' a' our simpering sauntly airs,
Our turned-up een and lengthy prayers,
We find mankind a set o' bears,
Sae curst uncivil,
That fient a ane about us cares,
Nor yet our Deevil.

We tried to steek ilk Public Room,
And mak' our day a day o' gloom,
Sae dark ye couldna see your thoomb
Before your een;
But O, the pack hae sealed our doom,
And nail'd us clean.

144

We tried by ilka wily quirk
To force the wretches to the kirk,
Whether to hear a calf or stirk,
It didna matter,
If we our ends could only work,
So much the better.

But now we're beat, Och on! Och on!
Nor left a leg to stand upon:
‘Othello's occupation's gone,’
‘His meal's a' daigh.’
Now we maun hurkle down and moan
Right loun and laigh.

They've nail'd our Wright, that godly chap,
And eke our dainty douce Dunlap,
Wha never wants for bite nor drap
On haly days:
An' mair than a' that, doesna stap
To yoke his chaise.

They've pinned our prim and pious K---e,
Wha made a grand and glorious ettle,
To keep us a' in Jewish fettle,
And haud us right,
Like ane o' true Mosaic mettle,
Baith stanch and tight.

But K---e, too, can boil his pot,
And tak' his dinner piping hot;

145

Yea, shave his beard, and dust the coat
That busks his body;
And prie a canny ‘drappie o't,’
In reeking toddy.

They've maul'd our mighty M---n,
That gaucy, gash-like gospel gun,
Wha ne'er left a gude cause undone,
E'en on a Sunday,
Nor let a weel-fledged client run
About till Monday.

O wae befa' this graceless nation,
Sae prone to Sabbath desecration;
It's perfect evendown profanation
The way they walk,
Their every Sunday's recreation
And idle talk.

And foul befa' that wicked pack,
Wha'd tatoe-boggles o' us mak',
And paint our doings aye sae black
In their vile papers,
The wuddie yet their craigs may rack
For their curst capers.

And O confound that Loyal Peter,
Wha puts us into wicked metre;
May he get Moloch's hettest heater
To birsle on,
For lashing wi' his tawse sae bitter,
Rab, James, and John!

146

SUNDAY RAILWAY TRAINS.

DEDICATED (WITHOUT PERMISSION) TO THE REV. DR. MACKAY OF DUNOON.

BY HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

Has mad Revival Burns broke out,
Prowling the kintra round about,
And biting wi' his teeth devout,
Baith men and women,
That now there's sic a yell and shout,
'Gainst Sunday steamin'?

Or has Saint Andrew, 'clept Agnew,
O' Sabbath keeping zeal sae fou,
Been galloping ilk clachan through,
A-convert making,
That there is sic a great ado
'Bout Sabbath breaking?

Indeed it's true—what need ye spier?
And troth ye weel may think it queer,
That ne'er a whish you'll ever hear
'Bout gigs or noddies,
Or gilded coaches, built to bear
Braw bailie bodies.

Drivers may drink, and swear, and battle,
Horses may reek—poor hard-wrought cattle,—
And wheels owre causey-stanes may rattle,
Wi' ceaseless birr;
But sic unhallowed wark to settle,
What tongue will stir?

147

The Fourth Command enjoins, at least,
A day of rest for man and beast;
That a' that toil may be released
Frae yoke and team;
But say, when was the veto placed
Upon the steam?

Whisht, whisht; we never maun reproach,
A great man riding in his coach,
A vulgar, fat, unloesome hotch,
Beside him lolling;
But should a puff o' steam encroach,
'Twere past a' tholing.

Indeed, 'twad be an awfu' sin
For Sunday Trains on rails to rin,
Disturbing wi' their whizzing din
A peacefu' nation;
And whirling a' that ride therein
To red d---n.

But might the humble sons o' care,
Wha toil and pine sax days and mair,
Not get a breath o' callar air,
Ae day in seven?
No, no; the pack maun gang to prayer,
If they want heaven.

My certy, it wad set them weel
To get a Sunday forenoon's wheel—

148

They wha can scarce get milk and meal
To mak' their crowdie;
And yet they'd steam it to the deil,
Baith saul and body.

But if ye'd keep the day sae holy,
Wi' visage sour and melancholy,
How will you stop the thochtless folly
O' that vile gang,
Whase motto is, ‘Live and be jolly’
The hale day lang?

Just hing a mortclaith owre the sun,
Mak' nature dreary, dark, and dun,
Till even the blade upon the grun'
Forget to grow;
Till mighty rivers cease to run,
And burns to row.

Let woods and forests a' be dumb,
Nor let the reek ascend the lum,
Let man forget his fellow-chum,
And faithfu' rib,
And hurkle down, morose and glum,
Low in his crib.

Shut up ‘rude Boreas’ in his caves;
Nor let ‘old Ocean’ sport his waves;
Mak' trees and shrubs fauld up their leaves,
As if a-dying;
Stop ‘Johnny Ged’ frae howking graves;
And wives—frae crying.

149

Mak' cities solitary glens,
Gie social creatures caves and dens,
Put rams and ewes in separate pens,
To bleat and fast,
And lock the cock up frae the hens
Till Sabbath's past.

Such is the day wad please a Jew,
And rabid Burns, and Saint Agnew,
And a' the sanctimonious crew,
Wi' looks demure,
Wha wi' the bigot's vice wad screw
The labouring poor.

O, gin our Pastors could prevail,
How wad they mak' us cower and quail,
The fient a ride upon a rail
They'd grant ava;
For then their flocks might tak' steam bail,
And skelp awa'.

To check it, then, they've right good cause,
For some might preach to empty wa's;
On pews unlet their lungs and jaws
Might spend their force;
And, therefore, mind ye, ‘empty sta's
Mak' biting horse.’

Hence, Public Meetings now they ca',
At which they glibly gab awa',

150

Wi' haly zeal denouncing a'
Steam Sunday trips;
But catch them hinting aught ava
'Gainst spurs and whips.

And, look ye, how our meek Leadbetter,
The Sunday trains wad try to fetter,
And mak' them, to the vera letter,
The Sabbath keep,
But 'gainst the Sunday Navigator,
Say, will he cheep?

Nae farther gane than Sabbath last,
Despising every surly blast,
Did he not stand beside the mast,
And watch his luggage,
Till at Dunoon he fairly pass'd
Wi' bag and baggage?

And though 'twas then the hour of prayer,
What did his Lowly Meekship care?
Stout porters had his trunks to bear
Up through the toon;
But Glasgow did nae see him there,
'Twas just Dunoon.

And there's our worthy Bailie Bain,
O how it gies the good man pain!
To see the godless puffing train
Swift sweep the rails;
For weel it's kent he mak's nae gain
By Sunday mails.

151

For poor horse flesh how much he feels,
While smack—the brutes tak' to their heels;
Loud blaws the horn, round whirl the wheels—
Awa' they dash;
But then their torture never yields
The Bailie cash.

The mail arrives—what crowds convene,
(Nae desecration, this, I ween,)
Wi' gaping mouths and glowring e'en
The news to swallow;
And wi' debating fierce and keen,
The day to hallow.

It maun gie meikle consolation,
To ane in our gude Bailie's station,
To think how Sabbath desecration
His soul abhors;
Nae pelfish vile consideration,
E'er opes his doors.

It's a' to serve the cause of God,
The Bailie's coaches tak' the road,
Bearing alang their righteous load,
O' news and letters,
Concerning cotton, corn, and cod,
And sic like matters.

These are but samples o' the lave,
Wha wi' demeanour staid and grave,

152

At Sabbath strollers rail and rave,
As hardened sinners;
Yet aft in secret, sweet conclave,
Munch Sunday dinners.

Wi' lengthened phiz, and sour grimace,
They'll talk o' mercy, faith, and grace,
Parading in ilk public place
Their saintly airs;
Yet mock their Maker to his face,
Wi' hollow prayers.

O for a robe of dazzling white,
To clothe ilk hollow hypocrite,
And hide his doings, dark as night,
Frae sinfu' view;
For O, Sirs, 'twere an unco spite
To be seen through!

Weel, let the rich enjoy their ride,
Through town and kintra, far and wide,
In a' their dignity, and pride,
And consequence,
While they the sons o' toil deride
For want o' sense.

But cease to growl, ye worthless poor,
Ye're born privations to endure;
What! Sunday steaming, air that's pure,
And relaxation?
No, mount the tread-mill, that's mair sure
To suit your station.

153

THE ADVENTURES OF BILL BLARNEY,

THE FORTUNE-HUNTER.

Och, Bill was a broth of a boy,
And he wanted to make a big fortin;
Says he, ‘now, my luck I'll go try,
And be after some heiress a-courting.’
He heard that Miss Jane had the cash,
And off in prime style went to woo, sur,
Och, sowl, what a wonderful dash,
He cut wid his cane and surtout, sur.

He stapt—rung the bell—was let in,
And into the parlour was shown, sur,
Thinks Bill, ‘If Miss Jane I could win,
This house it would soon be my own, sur.’
About his great fortin and rank,
He towld hur a power of palavers,
He had thousands of cash in the Bank,
And a hundred-and-thurty fine waevers.

Now says Bill, my swaet Jewel, d'ye see,
I'm com'd just to ax you in marriage;
And if your dear self will agree,
Why you soon will be druve in your carriage.
But och! how astounded look'd Bill,
The blood it run cowld in his bones, sur,
When she ax'd if he wanted a spell,
Wid his friends at the breaking of stones, sur.

154

Away flew the boy in a huff,
Wid a flourish and twirl of his cane, sur,
Lamenting the loss of the stuff,
Much more than the loss of Miss Jane, sur.
But soon he fell in wid another,
And soon, too, wid hur got acquainted;
For she, not so shy as the other,
Was everything, sure, that Bill wanted.

He gain'd her consent quite delighted,
The names were thrice call'd on the Sunday,
And friends and relations invited,
To see the knot tied upon Monday.
But och! from his summit of bliss,
Poor Bill got a tarrible fall, sur,
When he found her a Jantleman's Miss,
Wid never a fortin at all, sur.

Bill left her, and wid a deep sigh,
Declared that he fairly disclaim'd hur,
Then wid a swaet ‘bowl-waever’ boy,
To act as his valut-dee-chaembur;
He off to the courting again,
Rigg'd out as the spruce Money-facturer,
And the hart of an heiress did gain,
So swaetly on love did he lacture hur.

The night of the wedding came on,
In the Parson's the folks were assembled;
Bill whisper'd, ‘now boy, it's my own,’
The blushing bride timidly trembled.

155

The Priest had begun to pronounce
The rite that would make them each others,
When up flew the door wid a bounce,
And in rush'd, bad luck! the bride's brothers.

Arrah, whack! how poor Bill stood aghast,
How quaer look'd his ‘valut bowl waever,’
When out pop'd the truth, sur, at last,
That Bill was an arrant deceiver.
The bride, then, did fervently pray
To be taken back by her brothers,
While Bill like a fool slunk away,
Disappointed and cow'd, to his mother's.

Now all you good people, come pray
That Bill may be cur'd of his foible,
Nor go about more to betray,
And get himself duped for his trouble.
And learn, ye young couples from hence,
To keep mind of this maxim when courting,
Sincerity, Love, and Good Sense,
Make still the most durable Fortin.

156

ANE WAEFU' LAMENT

FOR THE LOSS O' OUR WORDIE BAILIE'S SPEECH, QUHILK SULD HAE BEEN DELIVERIT AT ANE DINNER GIEN TO YE HONOURABLE AND NOBLE YIRL GREY, BE YE GUDE FOLK O' AULD REEKIE, IN YE ZIER O' GRACE AUGHTEEN HUNDER AND THRETTIE-THREE.

O heard ze o' this sad affaire
Hals happenit in Auld Reekie?
That wordie mann, our Magistrat,
Hals deevilit a' our Cleekie;
And brocht us intil sad disgrace,
Be stickand o' hys lesson,
Ane waefu' pruif that Bailzies ne'er
Suld sit wi' lords a-messin'.
An' it's O waes me!

Quhan our gude toon's prosperitie,
In bumpers deep wals drank,
Our Bailzie, als in dutie bound,
Gat up ye folk till thank;
But, waesucks! palsie or nightmare
Sae prest upon hys tongue,
That dumb als ane Egyptian quhalp,
Our wordie Bailzie sung,
An' it's O waes me!

But tell me, wals't ye Bailzie's faut,
Or wals't ye printer loon,
That sett hys speech ye backward way,
Or turned it upside doon?

157

Na, Gude in heaven only kens,
Bot this they say quha see'd it,
That thoch hee tryit it wi' hys specks,
Ye Bailzie culdna read it.
An' it's O waes me!

Hee leukit richt, hee leukit left,
Hee gapit and hee glowrit,
Bot wi' ye dazzland o' ye starrs,
Hee wals swa overpowrit,
Hee tynt hys tongue, hee tynt hys eyne,
Hee culdna see ane blink;
Na, waur,—hee gat swa doitrefiet,
Hee walsna fitt till think.
An' it's O waes me!

Hee sett hys specks, hee clawit hys pow,
He gied ane hum and haw,
Bot lyk ane tale beyond ye flood,
Hys speech it wals awa'.
Hee fumblit for't, hee mumblit for't,
Alace! 'twals fairlie gane,
Swa back hee stoiterit till hys seat,
And gied ane awfu' grane.
An' it's O waes me!

Ye wickit waggs o' Enbro toon,
O wearie 'fa' ye pack!
Quhan they beheld our Bailzie's plicht,
Their sport began till mak'.

158

Sum cryit ane ‘Glasgow magistrate,’
Sum ‘caller herring’ sung,
Quhat pitie bot ye wickit wordis
Wald blysterit ilka tongue.
An' it's O waes me!

Then henceforth let our Bailzies learn,
To bee less proud and vaine,
Nor rin awa' to drinke and dyne,
Wi' jukis and lordis againe,
For they're ane Order be themsels,
Swa farr 'buve common menn,
That honest folk suld shunn them, als
They'd shunn ane tigger's denn,
And it's O waes me!

EPIGRAM,

ON A LOW, GROVELLING, SELFISH FELLOW.

O, grovelling, gripping, greedy Willie C---se,
The C joined to thy name is all a farce;
Come lop it off, and then the world will see
How well thy nature and thy name agree:
For thou wert ne'er a rich and fertile carse,
But just a low, unseemly, dirty---!

161

EPIGRAM,

ON A VERY STUPID MAN, WITH A MOST UNMEANING FACE, WHO WAS A MOST GREEDY SNUFF-TAKER.

If such a thing exist as real space,
It must be, Paul, in thy unmeaning face.
But, hold: there is another blank beside,
I had forgot,—thy skull—thy skull's a void.
I'm wrong again: thy skull contains enough,—
Of what? of brains?—yes, brains of fusty snuff.

162

THE INDIAN COTTAGER'S SONG.

FOUNDED UPON ST PIERRE'S TALE OF THE INDIAN COTTAGE, AND ADAPTED TO AN HINDOSTAN AIR.

[_]

Arranged and Harmonised by R. A. Smith.

Though exiled afar from the gay scenes of Delhi,
Although my proud kindred no more shall I see,
I've found a sweet home in this thick-wooded valley,
Beneath the cool shade of the green banyan tree;
'Tis here my loved Paria and I dwell together,
Though shunned by the world, truly blest in each other;
And thou, lovely boy, lisping ‘father’ and ‘mother,’
Art more than the world to my Paria and me.

How dark seemed my fate, when we first met each other,
My own fatal pile ready waiting for me;
While incense I burned on the grave of my mother,
And knew that myself the next victim would be.
'Twas then that my Paria, as one sent from heaven,
To whom a commission of mercy is given,
Shed peace through this bosom, with deep anguish riven,
To new life, to love, and to joy waking me.

He wooed me with flowers, to express the affection
Which sympathy woke in his bosom for me;
My poor bleeding heart clung to him for protection;
I wept—while I vowed with my Paria to flee.

165

My mind, too, from darkness and ignorance freeing,
He taught to repose on that mercifnl Being,
The Author of Nature, all-wise and all-seeing,
Whose arm still protecteth my Paria and me.

Now safely we dwell in this cot of our rearing,
Contented, industrious, cheerful, and free;
To each other still more endeared and endearing,
While heaven sheds its smiles on my Paria and me.
Our garden supplies us with fruits and with flowers,
The sun marks our time, and our birds sing the hours,
And thou, darling boy, shooting forth thy young powers,
Completest the bliss of my Paria and me.

THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE.

[_]

Air—‘For lack o' gowd.’

How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside,
Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside,
Wi' his wifie blythe and free, and his bairnie on her knee,
Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside.
Nae cares o' State disturb him, by his ain fireside,
Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside,
In his elbow chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind,
To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.

When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside,
That health, content, and peace, surround his ain fireside,
A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles,
At their harmless pranks and wiles, around his ain fireside.

167

And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside,
In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside,
Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd,
He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside.

When the shivering orphan poor, draws near his ain fireside,
And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside,
She's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet,
While she's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside.
When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside,
And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside,
With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days,
While he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.

And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside,
What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside?
With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop,
Then calmly down doth drop, by his ain fireside.
O may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside,
Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside,
May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath,
Then we'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.

WHETHER OR NO.

[_]

Set to Music by John Turnbull.

'Mang a' the braw lads that come thither to woo me,
There's only but ane I wad fain mak' my joe;
And though I seem shy, yet sae dear is he to me,
I scarce can forgie mysel' when I say ‘No.’

168

My sister she sneers 'cause he hasna the penny,
And cries, ‘Ye maun reap, my lass, just as ye sow,’
My brither he bans, but it's a' ane to Jenny,
She'll just tak' the lad she likes—whether or no.

My father he cries, ‘tak’ the laird o' Kinlogie,
For he has baith mailins and gowd to bestow;’
My mither cries neist, ‘tak' the heir o' Glenbogie,’
But can I please baith o' them?—weel I wat, no;
And since 'tis mysel' maun be gainer or loser—
Maun drink o' life's bicker, be't weal or be't woe—
I deem it but fair I should be my ain chooser;
To love will I lippen, then—whether or no.

Cauld prudence may count on his gowd and his acres,
And think them the sum o' a' blessings below,
But tell me, can wealth bring content to its makers?
The care-wrinkled face o' the miser says ‘No!’
But, oh, when pure love meets a love corresponding,
Such bliss it imparts as the world cannot know;
It lightens life's load, keeps the heart from desponding,
Let fate smile or scowl, it smiles—whether or no.

I HAD A HAT, I HAD NAE MAIR.

[_]

Air—‘I had a horse, I had nae mair.’

I had a hat, I had nae mair,
I gat it frae the hatter;
My hat was smash'd, my skull laid bare,
Ae night when on the batter;

169

And sae I thocht me on a plan,
Whereby to mend the matter—
Just turn at ance a sober man,
And tak' to drinking water.

My plan I quickly put in force,
Yea, stuck till't most sincerely,
And now I drive my gig and horse,
And hae an income yearly.
But, had I still kept boozing on,
'Twa'd been anither matter,
My credit, cash, and claes had gone,
In tatter after tatter.

My wife, perhaps, a worthless pest,
My wanes half-starved and duddy;
And I mysel', at very best,
Gaun wi' an auld coal cuddie;
Wi' scarce a stick in a' the house,
Or spoon, or bowl, or platter,
Or milk, or meal, to feed a mouse,
Or blanket, save a tatter.

Now, Gude be praised, I've peace o' mind,
Clear head, and health o' body,
A thrifty wifie, cosh and kind,
And bairnies plump and ruddy.
Hence, I'd advise ilk weirdless wight,
Wha likes the gill-stoup's clatter,
To try my plan this very night,
And tak' to drinking water.

170

SINCE FATE HAS DECREED IT.

[_]

Air—‘A' body's like to get married but me.’

Since fate has decreed it—then e'en let her gang,
I'll comfort mysel' wi' a canty bit sang:
Yes, I'll sing like a lintie, and laugh at it a',
Though the auld donnart dotard has wiled her awa'.
O wae worth that siller! what mischief it breeds,
Dame Fortune's pet weans, how it pampers and feeds;
It has made them baith ane whom auld Nature meant twa,
And has torn frae my arms, my dear lassie awa.

The neighbours will clatter about the affair,
But e'en let them talk—that's the least o' my care,
For the sugh will blaw by in a fortnight or twa,
But ne'er can restore to me her that's awa.
Come cheer up, my heart!—yet, what need'st thou be wae?
There are thousands behint her, sae e'en let her gae;
Yes, thousands as bonnie, as good, and as braw—
Then why should'st thou grieve for her, now she's awa?

But ah! hapless lassie, my heart's wae for thee,
To think what a comfortless life thou maun dree;
How cheerless to sit in a rich splendid ha',
'Midst desolate grandeur, when love is awa'.
And thou, her auld mither, ah, what wilt thou say,
When thou seest thy poor lassie heart-broken and wae?
Ah, what will avail then her cleeding sae braw,
When it covers a bosom that's riven in twa.

171

THE HAPPY MEETING.

[_]

Air—‘Guardian angels.’

Have you hail'd the glowing morning,
When the sun first gilds the plain?
Or the genial spring returning,
After winter's dreary rain?
Then conceive, to me how dear,
When my Anna—faithful, fair,
After years of lonely pain,
Bless'd my fond eyes—my arms again.

Every charm more finely heighten'd,
Fix'd my raptured, wondering eyes!
Every grace divinely brighten'd,
Held my soul in sweet surprise;
O! I could have gazed my last,
On her bosom heaving fast—
Met her eyes, benignly bright,
With ever-growing new delight.

Who'd not bear a separation,
Thus again to fondly meet,
And to find no alteration,
Save the heart's more ardent beat?
Thus, the same soft hand to grasp,
Thus, the same fair form to clasp,
Thus, the same warm lips to kiss—
O, say, can heaven give more than this?

172

COME TO THE BANKS OF CLYDE.

[_]

Air—‘March to the battle field.’

Come to the Banks of Clyde,
Where health and joy invite us;
Spring, now, in virgin pride,
There waiteth to delight us;
Enrobed in green, she smiles serene—
Each eye enraptured views her;
A brighter dye o'erspreads her sky,
And every creature woes her.
Come to the banks of Clyde,
Where health and joy invite us;
Spring, now, in virgin pride,
There waiteth to delight us.

Mark! how the verdant lea,
With daisies she is strewing;
Hark! now, on every tree,
The birds their mates are wooing;
Love wakes the notes that swell their throats,
Love makes their plumage brighter;
Old Father Clyde, in all his pride,
Ne'er witness'd bosoms lighter;
Mark! how the verdant lea,
With daisies she is strewing;
Hark! how, on every tree,
The birds their mates are wooing.

173

ROLL, FAIR CLUTHA.

[_]

Air—‘Rule Britannia.’

When Nature first, with mighty hand
Traced Clutha's windings to the main,
'Twas then the Genii of the land,
Assembled round, and sung this strain;

‘Roll, fair Clutha, fair Clutha to the sea,
And be thy banks for ever free.’

For on thy banks in future times,
A brave and virtuous race shall rise,
Strangers to those unmanly crimes,
That taint the tribes of warmer skies.

‘Roll,’ &c.

And stately towns and cities fair,
Thy lovely shores shall decorate;
With seats of science, to prepare
Thy sons for all that's good and great.

‘Roll,’ &c.

And on thy pure translucent breast,
Shall numerous fleets majestic ride;
Destined to south, north, east, and west,
To waft thy treasures far and wide.

‘Roll,’ &c

174

And up thy gently sloping sides,
Shall woods o'er woods in grandeur tower;
Meet haunts for lovers and their brides,
To woo in many a sylvan bower.

‘Roll,’ &c.

And early on each summer morn,
Thy youth shall bathe their limbs in thee;
Thence to their various toils return
With increased vigour, health, and glee.

‘Roll,’ &c.

And still on summer evenings fair,
Shall groups of happy pairs be seen,
With hearts as light as birds of air,
A-straying o'er thy margin green.

‘Roll,’ &c.

And oft the Bard by thee will stray,
When Luna's lamp illumes the sky,
Musing on some heart-melting lay,
Which fond hope tells him ne'er shall die.

‘Roll, fair Clutha, fair Clutha to the sea,
And be thy banks for ever free.

THE ROYAL UNION.

There's joy in the Lowlands and Highlands,
There's joy in the hut and the ha';
The pride o' auld Britain's fair islands
Is woo'd and wedded an' a';

175

She's got the dear lad o' her choosing—
A lad that's baith gallant and braw;
And lang may the knot be a-loosing
That firmly has buckled the twa.

Woo'd and wedded an' a',
Buckled and bedded an' a';
The loveliest lassie in Britain
Is woo'd and wedded an' a'.

May heaven's all-bountiful Giver
Shower down his best gifts on the twa;
May love round their couch ever hover,
Their hearts closer and closer to draw.
May never misfortune o'ertake them,
Nor blast o' adversity blaw:
But every new morning awake them
To pleasures unsullied as snaw.

Woo'd and wedded an' a', &c.

Then here's to our Queen an' her Marrow,
May happiness ay be their fa',
May discord and sickness and sorrow
Be banished for ever their ha'.
So, fy let us coup aff our bicker,
And toast meikle joy to the twa,
And may they, till life's latest flicker,
Together in harmony draw.

Woo'd and wedded an' a', &c.

176

'TWAS MORN.

[_]

Air—‘Within a mile of Edinburgh Town.’

'Twas morn—and the lambs on the green hillocks played,
The laverock sung sweetly on high,
The dew-draps bespangled ilk green spiky blade,
And the woods rang wi' music and joy;
When young Patie down the vale
Met fair Kitty wi' her pail,

178

He clasp'd her hand and blythely speered,
‘Dear lassie, where to now?’
‘A wee bit down the glen,’ quo' she,
‘To milk our bruckit cow.’

‘O Kitty! I've lo'ed you this towmond an' mair,
And wha lo'es na you canna see,
There's nane on our plains half sae lovely and fair,—
No; nane half sae lovely to me:
Will you come, dear lass, at e'en,
Up the burnie's bank sae green?
And there beneath the beechen shade,
You'll meet a lover true.’
‘Na, na,’ she cried, ‘I canna come
At e'en to meet wi’ you.

‘My mither will flyte, and my father will ban,
Gin here meikle langer I stay;
Come cease wi' your daffiin, and let gae my han’,
It's daft like at this time o' day.’
‘Dearest lassie, ere ye gang,
Tell me, shall we meet ere lang?
Come, say't and seal't wi' ae sweet smack
O' that enticing mou';’
‘Haud aff,’ she cried, ‘nor think that I
Was made for sport to you.’

‘Then, farewell, proud lassie, for since ye're sae shy,
Nae langer I'll press you to bide;
E'en show aff your airs, toss your head and look high,
Your beauty demands a' your pride;

179

I may find some ither where,
Ane mair kind, although less fair.’
He turned to gang—she laughing cried,
‘Stop, lad, I've ta'en the rue,
Come back and set the tryst wi' me,
And I will meet wi' you.’

181

SONG.

[O Jeanie! why that look sae cauld]

O Jeanie! why that look sae cauld,
And withering to me now?
And wherefore lours that cloud o' gloom
Upon thy bonnie brow?
What hae I said, what hae I done,
To draw sic looks frae thee;
Is this the love—the fond regard
Sae lately pledged to me?

O Jamie! wherefore spier at me?
Ye ken the cause yoursel',
Ye thocht yestreen, ye werena seen
Alang wi' bonnie Bell:
Your arm was claspit round her waist,
Your cheek to her's was laid,
And mony a melting kiss she gat,
While row'd within your plaid.

O lassie dear! thou wrang'st me sair,
Wi' jealous thochts and mean;
For I was twenty miles and mair,
Awa' frae hame yestreen:
I gaed to see my brither dear,
A gift he sent to thee;
And see—thou maun this necklace wear,
That day thou'rt wed to me.

182

And art thou, then, still true to me?
I'll ne'er forgie mysel';
O, what could tempt me to believe,
Thou'd'st leave thy Jean for Bell?
But there's my hand, I'll never mair
Dream foolish thochts o' thee;
But love wi' a' a woman's love,
Till light forsake mine e'e.

SONG.

I ANCE WAS IN LOVE.

I ance was in love—maybe no lang ago,
And I lo'ed ae sweet lassie most dearly,
I sought her wee hand, but her daddy growled ‘no,’
Which stung my young heart most severely;
For he, wealthy wight, was an auld crabbit carle,
Wha held fast the grip he had got o' the warl,
So, the poor plackless laddie got nought but a snarl
For lo'eing the lassie sincerely.

But love wadna hide, and the lassie lo'ed me,
And O her black een tald it clearly,
That she'd tak' and wed me without a bawbee,
Although she had twa hundred yearly.
So, ae winter night when her dad was asleep,
And the wind made the doors a' to rattle and cheep,
Frae out the back window she made a bit leap,
And my arms kepp'd the prize I lo'ed dearly.

183

Auld Gripsiccar wasna to haud nor to bin':
He tint a' his wee judgment nearly,
He stormed, he rampaged, he ran out, he ran in,
And he vowed we should smart for it dearly:
But time wrought a change, when he saw his first oe,
Nae langer was heard then the growl and the ‘no:’
Our house now is Gripsiccar, Goodson, & Co.,
While our labours are prospering yearly.

COME, FILL A BUMPER.

[_]

Air—‘Cam' ye by Athol.’

Come, fill a bumper, dear friends and good neighbours now,
Drink to the right we hae struggled for sairly;—
We shall enjoy the reward of our labours now:
Clyde's bonny banks are made free to us fairly.
Pledge me then, honest men, now since we've got our ain,
Dearly let's prize what we've purchased so dearly;
Now may we tread with glee Clyde's lovely margin free,
High as the dyke was—'tis tumbled right rarely.

Late, the abode of seclusion and dreariness,
Still as the vale of death's shadow—or nearly,
Clyde's bonny banks are a' life, now, and cheeriness.
Throng'd with each class that loves liberty dearly;
Age, with his silver hairs, youth, too, in loving pairs,
Gladly pursuing their course, late and early,
Childhood that scarce can run, boyhood, with noisy fun:
Joyous that matters are now settled squarely.

184

Here's to the brave honest hearts of our Committee!
Lang hae they battled and striven for't sairly;
Wha now dare challenge, or yet cast a gloom at ye,
While on your banks ye can go late or early?
Come, then, our Committee, ‘nine times nine’ let it be,
They in the front stood, and fought it out rarely;
Wha wad hae done like them, tyranny's tide to stem?
Then let us honour them—ever sincerely.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERKIP.

O'er Cowal Hills the sinking Sun
Was bidding Clutha's vale good day,
And from his gorgeous golden throne,
Was shedding evening's mildest ray;
As round the Cloch I bent my way,
With buoyant heart and bounding skip;
To meet my lass at gloaming grey,
Amang the shaws of Inverkip.

We met—and what an eve of bliss,
A richer, sweeter, never flew;
With mutual vow—with melting kiss,
And ardent throb of bosoms true.
The bees 'mid flowers of freshest hue,
Would cease their honeyed sweets to sip,
If they her soft sweet lips but knew,
The lovely lass of Inverkip.

185

Her ebon locks, her hazel eye,
Her placid brow, so fair and meek,
Her artless smile, her balmy sigh,
Her bonnie blushing modest cheek:
All these a stainless mind bespeak,
As pure as is the lily's tip;
Then O may sorrow's breath so bleak
Ne'er blight my bud of Inverkip!

STANZAS,

WRITTEN ON A WOMAN-HATER, WHOM THE AUTHOR HEARD DECLARE BEFORE A COMPANY, THAT HE WOULD RATHER SEE A SOW WITH A LITTER OF PIGS, THAN SEE A MOTHER SUCKLING HER INFANT AT HER BREAST.

He who hateth lovely woman,
And forswears her dear embrace,
Can lay claim to nothing human,
Save, perhaps, an idiot's face.

Thick his skull, as blocks for wigs,
Cold his heart as coldest metal,
Who'd prefer the grunt of pigs
To the smiling infant's prattle.

With the pigs, then, let him herd,
Ne'er may smile of woman bless him;
And if e'er he be intered,
None but pigs will ever miss him.

186

STANZAS,

WRITTEN ON MR JAMES PGN, A FEW DAYS BEFORE HIS MARRIAGE.

‘O ken ye the man wi' the Heathenish name?—
For P*g*n and Heathen are nearly the same;’
Come, truce wi' your joking, though P*g*n he be,
He's as true a Christian as mony ye'll see.
He's open, he's honest, mild-tempered, and warm,
Inclined to do good, but averse to work harm:
For his motto is this—as ilk ane's ought to be—
‘Let me do unto others as they should to me.’

He spins a good story, he weaves a good tale,
He lilts a good sang owre a tankard o' ale,
He cracks a good joke, too, wi' humorsome glee;
But nane lashes vice mair severely than he.
And ilk body likes him wherever he gangs,
Sae fond o' his stories—his jokes and his sangs;
But the thing he's maist prized for by meikle and wee,
Is the generous heart, ever open and free.

He never can hear o' a poor mortal's woes,
But his hand's in his pouch, while his heart overflows;
For when the heart wills it, the hand's sure to gi'e,
And blest are the heart and the hand—thus so free.
But P*g*n has fauts, like the rest o' guid chiels;
He likes to keep oiling Humanity's wheels;
But he oils them sae gently, when creaking awee,
That he keeps the machine aye in good working key.

187

He likes his bit lass, too, as ilka man should;
And, O! that sweet lass is so fair and so good,
And returns so his love, that in twa weeks or three,
She may be prevailed on—a P*g*n to be.
A health, then, to P*g*n—a health to his lass;
May bright days of happiness still o'er them pass,
And a braw fruitfu' vine may the bonnie lass be,
Till clusters o' P*g*n-grapes cling round her knee.

AN ADMONITORY ADDRESS

TO THE FREE AND INDEPENDENT ELECTORS OF THE KILMARNOCK DISTRICT OF BURGHS.

[_]

Written 1841, when Johnston was returned, and Doublecreed rejected.

BY HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

Ye gude folks o' Killie, and Ruglen auld toon
I rede ye beware o' that oily-tongued loon,
The smooth-lippit, white-livered, canting C---n,
Nor mair by sic harpies be pounced on;
But a' ye gude wabsters and spinners o' woo',
An' ye wha keep knittin' at bonnets o' blue,
Wale out for yoursels, now, a gude man and true,
And such ye will find Saunders Johnston.

The Saint will come down wi' his Prelatic face,
And whine ye a lang Presbyterian grace,
But kick Mr Doublecreed back to his place,
To preach to his rocks o' blue whinstone;—
What! trust to a man wha professes twa creeds,
He may adopt three yet, and tell owre his beads;
Ne'er lippen again to sic fause hollow reeds,
But trust the upright Saunders Johnston.

The Saint he will wheedle, the Saint he will fleech,
And twine you a sly jesuitical speech;
‘The lammies should tremble when auld foxes preach,’
Whase breath smells sae rankly o' brimstone.

189

But Saunders will tell you a plain, honest crack,
And never betray you by turning his back;
Then, forward, my laddies, and dinna be slack,
In backing your friend, Saunders Johnston.

He ne'er will entrap you by fast-and-loose play,
He ne'er will cajole you to lead you astray,
But still keep consistent and straight on his way,
Nor e'er haud your nose to the grundstone.
Your een he'll ne'er dazzle by Saintly parade,
But do what he can to promote a free trade,—
To bring you cheap bannocks, and beef to your bread,
Then, up wi' your man, Saunders Johnston.

University of Virginia Library

A BUNDLE OF TRUTHS.

A PARODY.

COME, PADDY, REJOICE.

THE FATTEST OF THE FAT.

FOR A' THAT, AN' A' THAT.

SAWNEY, NOW THE KING'S COME.

A CONGRATULATORY ADDRESS,

TO A CERTAIN FLOCK, ON THEIR GETTING A WORTHY PASTOR.

A PARAPHRASE FOR THE ASSEMBLY'S FAST.

By Alisander the Seer.

RATIONAL AMUSEMENTS FOR CERTAIN STATESMEN, UPON THEIR RESIGNING OFFICE.

SHONNY CAMMEL;

OR, THE TURN-COAT PRIEST.

A PIOUS WAILING,

AS WAILED BY THE YIRL O' GABERDEEN, OWRE THE MISFORTUNES O' HIS DEARLY-BELOVED DESPOT, DONALD M'GILL, (DON MIGUEL.)

ANOTHER OF THE SAME,

AS HOWLED BY THE MARQUIS OF LONG-THONG-DERRY, OVER HIS ILLEGANT ADORABLE DAN MY-JEWEL, (DON MIGUEL.)

A LIKENESS TAKEN FROM REAL LIFE.

DANIEL O'CONNELL'S WELCOME TO SCOTLAND.

A MOST LOYAL PEAL,

IN HONOUR OF SIR ROBERT PEEL,

‘COME, FYE, LET US A' TO THE GUZZLE.’

A SONG.

DESCRIPTION OF A NONDESCRIPT.

Or a few Facts strung together, illustrative of the birth, life, and general character of that Creature, best known where he is by the name of ‘THE LIVING SHAPE.’

THE POLITICAL CHAMELEON:

OR, BAULDY UNMASKED.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

BY THE LATE BARON SMITH, OF THE IRISH EXCHEQUER.

TO SIMEON CLYDE.

A PARODY ON THE ABOVE.

NOT WRITTEN BY A BARON OF ANY EXCHEQUER, BUT BY PLAIN ANDREW WHAUP O' HAZELKNOWE.

SONG,

BY W. H. BELLAMY, ESQ. OF BREINTON LODGE, HEREFORD.

A PARODY ON THE ABOVE.

WRITTEN BY ANDREW WHAUP O' HAZELKNOWE.

STANZAS.

SUGGESTED ON PLANTING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF JOHN TAIT, 31ST JULY, 1837.

KNOWLEDGE BEING POWER,

OUGHT NOT, ACCORDING TO THE MINISTERIAL PAPERS, TO BE COMMUNICATED TO THE BULK OF THE PEOPLE.

ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

SONG.

MURTAGH O'SULLIVAN.

THE EX-BAILIES' LAMENT.

SONG.

[Run, run! Tories and Tax-eaters]

YE WHO MOURN DEAR FRIENDS DEPARTED.

WRITTEN FOR AND SUNG AT A CONCERT GIVEN IN AID OF THE BRIDGETON GRAVE PROTECTING SOCIETY.—1824.

MY BONNIE SCOTCH LASSIE.

ANDREW WHAUP TO SIMEON CLYDE.

THE AIRN JUK AND HONEST ROBIN.

Songs of the Kirk.

THE MOURNFUL LAMENTATION OF THE SILVERSMITHS OF EPHESUS,

AFTER HAVING BEEN REBUKED BY THE TOWN CLERK.

OUR KIRK.

MIND THE BUTTER.

‘THE REEL O' BOGIE.’

AS DANCED BY THE REV. DR CHALMERS, THE REV. MESSRS. CUNNINGHAM, CANDLISH, AND GORDON.

A CLERICAL CANTICLE,

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, at their Secret Non-Intrusion Meetings, held in their Private Room, Presbyterian Close, Auld Reekie. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

A CLERICAL CANTICLE,

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, at their Secret Non-Intrusion Meetings, held in the Presbyterian Close, Auld Reekie. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

A CLERICAL CANTICLE,

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, &c. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

(Chorus sung as a Quartetta.)

(Solo by Dr C---s.)

(Full Chorus)

(Solo by Mr C---m.)

(Solo by Mr C---ish.)

(Solo by Dr C---s.)

(Solo by Mr C---m.)

(Solo by Mr C---ish.)

(Solo by Dr C---s.)

(Solo by Mr G---n.)

(Solo by Mr C---m.)

(Solo by Mr G---n.)

THE DIVINITY CHAIR.

VERSES,

WRITTEN UPON THE OPENING OF THE GLASGOW AND GREENOCK RAILWAY, 30TH MARCH, 1841.

Or a few Facts strung together, illustrative of the birth, life, and general character of that Creature, best known where he is by the name of
‘THE LIVING SHAPE.’

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, at their Secret Non-Intrusion Meetings, held in their Private Room, Presbyterian Close, Auld Reekie. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to
HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, at their Secret Non-Intrusion Meetings, held in the Presbyterian Close, Auld Reekie. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to
HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

As canted by the Rev. Reel o' Bogie Ranters, &c. Communicated, by an Ear-Witness, to
HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

When they were baffled in their attempt to Shut up the Public Reading-room on the first day of the week—not on the Jewish Sabbath. Rendered into ryhme, by
HUMPHREY HENKECKLE, EGG-CADGER.

WRITTEN ON MR JAMES PGN, A FEW DAYS BEFORE HIS MARRIAGE.