Legal & Other Lyrics :: :: University of Virginia Library

I gaed to spend a week in Fife—
An unco week it proved to be—
For there I met a waesome wife
Lamentin' her viduity.
Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell,
I thought her heart wad burst its shell,
And—I was sae left to mysel'—
I sell't her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh—
She just was turned o' saxty-three;
I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh,
By human ingenuity.
But years hae come, and years hae gane,
An' there she's yet as stieve's a stane—
The limmer's growin' young again,
Since she got her annuity.

She's crined awa' to bane an' skin,
But that it seems is nought to me;
She's like to live—although she's in
The last stage o' tenuity.
She munches wi' her wizened gums,
An' stumps about on legs o' thrums,
But comes—as sure as Christmas comes—
To ca' for her annuity.

She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack,
As spunkie as a growin' flea—
An' there she sits upon my back,
A livin' perpetuity.
She hurkles by her ingle side,
An' toasts an' tans her wrunkled hide—
Lord kens how lang she yet may bide
To ca' for her annuity!

I read the tables drawn wi' care
For an Insurance Company;
Her chance o' life was stated there,
Wi' perfect perspicuity.
But tables here or tables there,
She's lived ten years ayont her share,
An's like to live a dizzen mair,
To ca' for her annuity.

I gat the loon that drew the deed—
We spelled it o'er right carefully;—
In vain he yerked his souple head,
To find an ambiguity:
It's dated—tested—a' complete—
The proper stamp—nae word delete—
And diligence, as on decreet,
May pass for her annuity.

Last Yule she had a fearfu' hoast—
I thought a kink might set me free:

I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost,
Wi' constant assiduity.
But Deil ma' care—the blast gaed by,
And missed the auld anatomy;
It just cost me a tooth, forbye
Discharging her annuity.

I thought that grief might gar her quit—
Her only son was lost at sea—
But aff her wits behuved to flit,
An' leave her in fatuity!
She threeps, an' threeps, he's livin' yet,
For a' the tellin' she can get;
But catch the doited runt forget
To ca' for her annuity!

If there's a sough o' cholera
Or typhus—wha sae gleg as she?
She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a',
In siccan superfluity!
She disna need—she's fever proof—
The pest gaed o'er her very roof;
She tauld me sae—an' then her loof
Held out for her annuity.

Ae day she fell—her arm she brak,—
A compound fracture as could be;
Nae Leech the cure wad undertak,
Whate'er was the gratuity.

It's cured!—She handles't like a flail—
It does as weel in bits as hale;
But I'm a broken man mysel'
Wi' her and her annuity.

Her broozled flesh, and broken banes,
Are weel as flesh an' banes can be.
She beats the taeds that live in stanes,
An' fatten in vacuity!
They die when they're exposed to air—
They canna thole the atmosphere;
But her!—expose her ony where—
She lives for her annuity.

If mortal means could nick her thread,
Sma' crime it wad appear to me;
Ca't murder—or ca't homicide—
I'd justify't,—an' do it tae.
But how to fell a withered wife
That's carved out o' the tree o' life—
The timmer limmer daurs the knife
To settle her annuity.

I'd try a shot.—But whar's the mark?—
Her vital parts are hid frae me;
Her backbane wanders through her sark
In an unkenn'd corkscrewity.

She palsified—an' shakes her head
Sae fast about, ye scarce can see't;
It's past the power o' steel or lead
To settle her annuity.

She might be drowned;—but go she'll not
Within a mile o' loch or sea;—
Or hanged—if cord could grip a throat
O' siccan exiguity.
It's fitter far to hang the rope—
It draws out like a telescope;
'Twad tak a dreadfu' length o' drop
To settle her annuity.

Will puzion do't?—It has been tried;
But, be't in hash or fricassee,
That's just the dish she can't abide,
Whatever kind o' goût it hae.
It's needless to assail her doubts,—
She gangs by instinct—like the brutes—
An' only eats an' drinks what suits
Hersel' an' her annuity.

The Bible says the age o' man
Threescore an' ten perchance may be;
She's ninety-four;—let them wha can
Explain the incongruity.

She should hae lived afore the Flood—
She's come o' Patriarchal blood—
She's some auld Pagan, mummified
Alive for her annuity.

She's been embalmed inside and out—
She's sauted to the last degree—
There's pickle in her very snout
Sae caper-like an' cruetty;
Lot's wife was fresh compared to her;
They've kyanised the useless knir—
She canna decompose—nae mair
Than her accursed annuity.

The water-drap wears out the rock
As this eternal jaud wears me;
I could withstand the single shock,
But no the continuity.
It's pay me here—an' pay me there—
An' pay me, pay me, evermair;
I'll gang demented wi' despair—
I'm charged for her annuity!

WISHES

(OF A MISANTHROPE)

[_]

Air—“O doubt me not” (Moore's Melodies).

I wish I was a Woman!
Wi' nought to do but dance an' dress,
An' think mysel' sae bloomin’,
An' kaim my hair afore the glass;
To greet when my feet
Werena just sae sma' as I wad like,
An' ne'er feel a care
Though the cobbler should nae discount strike;
I'd spend my days in wearin' claes,
An' my gudeman should pay the bill;
An' if he raised an unco fraise,
I'd greet an' say I wasna weel!

I wish I was a Hero!
To spend my life in fire an' din,
An' murder like King Nero,
An' never think it was a sin:
I'd soon tak a toon,
An' wi' the spoil I wad mak free,
An' style it in a bulletin
A great an' glorious victory!
I'd write how brave my men behaved,
An' how the field was won by me;
An' to my king and country leave
To say what my reward should be.

I wish I was a Lawyer!
To ken what conscience ought to be,
An' no remember a' year
My friends reduced to poverty;
To be glad instead o' sad
When mithers weep, an' sons look pale,
An' say grace o'er a case,
As honest men do o'er their kail.
“Go to the court o' last resort
For the sake o' your poor family.”
“The Lords sustain!” My client's gane—
He's ruined—but I've got my fee!

I wish I was a Brute Beast!
To live in some sequestered vale.
Frae friends and loves remote placed,
An' ne'er see man, an' wag my tail
To chow on a knowe
A' the herbs, an' flowers, an' grassy blades,
An' tread ower the head
O' gowans never touched wi' spades:
I'd never see a friendly face,
Sae nae friend wad prove fause to me;
I'd never ken the human race,
Nor ever curse humanity!

I wish I was a Bottle!
O' brandy, rum, or what you please,

In some frequented hôtel,
Where gude souls tak their bread an' cheese;
To fill out a gill
For some puir chield that wants a trade—
Or pass o'er the hass
O' some blythe, rantin, roarin' blade;
An' while unscrewed, I'd sit an' brood,
An' think mysel' weel blessed to ken
That when I dee'd I'd spend my bluid
To purchase joy for honest men!

THE FACULTY ROLL

[_]

Air—“Ye Mariners of England.”

Ye Barristers of England,
Your triumphs idle are,
Till ye can match the names that ring
Round Caledonia's Bar.
Your John Doe, and your Richard Roe,
Are but a paltry pair:
Look at those who compose
The flocks round Brodie's Stair;
Who ruminate on Shaw and Tait,
And flock round Brodie's Stair.

Although our Brough'm you've stolen,
To brush your Chancery—
He may be spared—our hoary Baird
Can sweep as clean as he;
And though you've got some kindly Scotts,
To breathe your southland air,
We've the rest, and the best,
To stand by Brodie's Stair—
To garrison old Morison,
To stand by Brodie's Stair.

We'll still stand by our colours—
Our Brown, Reid, White, and Gray;
We'll still extol our Northern Lights—
You've seen their distant Rae.

We still can boast of glorious names,
Who love their country's fare,
And ne'er roam from their Home,
But study Brodie's Stair—
The pages con of Morison,
And study Brodie's Stair.

Should enemies e'er venture
To threaten us with war,
We'll rouse broad Scotland to our aid,
From Dingwall to Dunbar.
The Lothians, Ross, and Sutherland,
The powers of hell would dare
To the field, ere they'd yield
One step of Brodie's Stair—
One foot of Erskine's Institute,
One step of Brodie's Stair.

The insolent invaders
Should never move Shank More;
Our Marshall's Steele, the knaves should feel,
Within their bosom's core.
Have at them with a plump of Spiers,
And if that shock they bear,
Let the thieves meet our Neaves,
Ere they tread on Brodie's Stair—
Ere their foot pollute the Institute
Of Erskine or of Stair.

We've some things worth defending,
And that our foes shall see;
Though ours is not a land of gold,
'Tis the land of Ivory—
And hearts behind our Greenshields beat,
Than Ophir's stores more rare—
Ready still, come who will,
To fight for Brodie's Stair—
Resolved each Section to defend,
Of Erskine or of Stair.

Our Hall is all surrounded
By Forrest, Loch, and Shaw—
A Park, such as you never trod,
A Hill you never saw.
We rest among the summer Hay,
Beside the Gowan fair,
With a Rose at our nose,
While we think on Brodie's Stair,
Or ponder on old Morison,
Or think of Brodie's Stair.

We gather Wood and Burnett,
When bleak December blows;
We're snug within, although without
The Wilde is White with snows.
Our Taylor, and our Hozier,
Defy the wintry air—

And the while to beguile,
We run through Brodie's Stair—
With Thomson's Acts, through Lord Kames' Tracts,
And Fountainhall, and Stair.

We've three Milnes, and six Millers,
Although no meal we make;
We've two Weirs, and a Lister large,
Although no fish we take;
A Horsman too, without a horse—
A Hunter, but no hare—
Yet our Horn wakes the morn,
With a note from Brodie's Stair,
While echoes court the full report
Of Morison or Stair.

Our table's poorly furnished—
Our Cook has little toil—
Sometimes a fowl to Currie,
Sometimes a joint to Boyle;
But still Cheape's head and Trotters is
The dish beyond compare—
To suggest Shaw's Digest,
And the sweets of Brodie's Stair—
To give a zest to Shaw's Digest,
And the sweets of Brodie's Stair.

For wisdom, where's the mortal
Who claims to be our peer,
When Solomon was David's son,
And Davidson is here?
But for religion!—Clerks, alas!
And Bells we have to spare—
But of faith not a breath
Is heard near Brodie's Stair;
Our most devout have Dirleton's Doubts,
As well as Brodie's Stair.

When politicians wrangle,
We shun the idle brawl;
We've but one Torrie in our ranks,
And ne'er a Whig at all.
The schoolmaster abroad may roam—
For him we do not care,
Because we've the Tawse,
And the rules of Brodie's Stair—
The lessons sage of Erskine's page,
And the rules of Brodie's Stair.

And still as merry Christmas
Concludes our peaceful year,
Our Pyper lends his minstrelsy,
Our bounding hearts to cheer.
Poor as we are, for his reward,
A Penney we can spare,

Though we've got but one Groat,
And some notes in Brodie's Stair—
Some doubtful bills in Dallas' Styles,
And some notes in Brodie's Stair.

Our live-stock's scarce; we have but
A solitary Hog;
One L'Amy on his Trotters stumps,
Secure from Wolf or dog.
But still whene'er he wanders forth
We dread a Tod is there,
On the watch for a catch
Should he slip from Brodie's Stair,
Or seek his food in Spottiswood,
Or slip from Brodie's Stair.

But, Barristers of England,
Come to us lovingly,
And any Scot who greets you not
We'll send to Coventry.
Put past your brief, embark for Leith,
And when you're landed there
Any wight with delight
Will point out Brodie's Stair;
Or lead you all through Fountainhall,
Till you enter Brodie's Stair.

THE MULTIPLEPOINDING

[_]

Air—“O the Roast-Beef of Old England!”

Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding! Hurrah!
What land but our own such a gem ever saw?
The Process of Processes—Pride of the law—
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

To the rich, to the poor, to the high, to the low,
'Tis open to all who a title can show—
It combines every comfort that litigants know—
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

No matter in what shape your claim may emerge,
By Petition or Summons, Suspension or Charge,
Reduction, Declarator, all may converge
And conjoin in the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

From the north, from the south, from the east, from the west,
Come claimants, each deeming his own claim the best,
What myriads of lawyers are then in request
To manage the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

Hark! hark! what the deuce is that Macer about?
What means his prolonged, diabolical shout?
Does the man mean to call the whole Faculty out?
Hurrah! 'tis the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

See! see! how the lawyers all start at the sound!
See! see! how the agents from place to place bound!
See! see! how their clerks flash like lightning around!
Hurrah! 'tis the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

They rush to the Bar like the waves of the sea—
They swarm like a hive on the branch of a tree—
They'll smother the Judge—he is not a Queen Bee—
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

But the storm is composed, and there's silence at last
The lawyers look grave, and the Judge looks aghast,

And the short-hand Reporter prepares to write fast
His notes of the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

There the Dean stands profound as the depths of the sea;
And Snaigow—as smooth as its surface could be;
And Rutherfurd—sharp as the rocks on the lee;
All fee'd for the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

And there stands M `Neill, “with his nostril all wide,”
And Ivory's eyes glisten fierce by his side;
And Cunninghame's there with his papers untied,
And dreams of the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

And More and Buchanan have come at the call,
And Marshall, and Pyper, and Whigham and all—
And Peter the Great looks to Adam the Tall
To open the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

'Twas Jane M `Grugar, ship-chandler, Dundee,
Became moribund in the year twenty-three,
And disponed her estates all to Nathan M `Ghee,
Who claims in the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

That she had not disponed in liege poustie was plain,
For she ne'er went to kirk or to market again—
So maintains her apparent heir, Donald M `Bean,
Who claims in the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

Now Donald M `Bean was in debt to the knee,
And so, it appeared, too, was Nathan M `Ghee,
And Janet herself had by no means been free,
And so came the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

So what with arrestments, where'er funds could be,
And charges on bill and extracted decree,
And hornings and captions—you'll easily see
'Twas a beautiful Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

But where are the claimants, and how have they sped?
See yon shrivelled matron, as hueless as lead—
'Tis a liferent she claims—and she's on her death bed!
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

Her deep indignation she cannot repress,
Though her tongue is scarce able her griefs to express—
She swears 'tis an action of “double distress.”
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

The landlord claimed rent—and he'll best tell you how
He got into the process by poinding a cow;
His hypothec is quite hypothetical now—
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

The Suspender was bothered to such a degree
That he went and suspended himself from a tree;
The Arrester's in jail—no forthcoming can he
Obtain through the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

One brought a Reduction—but he has retired,
Reduced to extremes his worst foe ne'er desired.
The Adjudger—as well as the Legal's expired.
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

No more will the poor Heir-Apparent appear—
By way of a seisin they've seized all his gear;
He's absconded-and now his Retour, it is clear,
Can't be hoped through the Multiplepoinding—
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

“In medio tutissimus!”—this might be true
When Phœbus instructed, and Phaëton flew;
But the fund, though in medio, has gone to pot too—
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

The Creditor's credit is utterly gone—
And he, whom they call Common Debtor, alone
Has uncommon good luck—he's got off with his own!
Hurrah for the Multiplepoinding!
The Multiplepoinding, hurrah!

SOUMIN AN' ROUMIN

“Where divers heritors have a common pasturage in one commonty, no part whereof is ever ploughed, the said common pasturage may be soumed and roumed, that all the soums the whole commonty can hold may be determined and proportioned to each roum having the common pasturage, according to the holding of that roum.”—Case of the Laird of Drumalzier, Stair's Decisions, ii. 678.

[_]

Air—“Hooly and Fairly.”

My Grannie!—she was a worthy auld woman;
She keepit three geese an' a cow on a common.
Puir body!—she sune made her fu' purse a toom ane,
By raising a Process o' Soumin an' Roumin,
Soumin an' Roumin—
By raising a Process o' Soumin an' Roumin.

A young writer lad put it into her head;
He gied himsel' out for a dab at the trade—
For guidin'a plea, or a proof, quite uncommon,
And a terrible fellow at Soumin an' Roumin,
Soumin an' Roumin, &c.

He took her three geese to get it begun,
And he needit her cow to carry it on,
Syne she gied him her band for the cost that was comin',
And on went the Process o' Soumin an' Roumin,
Soumin an' Roumin, &c.

My Grannie she grieved, and my Grannie she graned,
As she paid a wa'ilk honest groat she had hained;
She sat in her elbow chair, glow'rin' and gloomin'—
Speakin' o' naething but Soumin an' Roumin,
Soumin an' Roumin, &c.

She caredna for meat, and she caredna for drink—
By night or by day she could ne'er sleep a wink;
“O Lord, pity me, for a wicked auld woman!
It's a sair dispen sation this Soumin an' Roumin.”
Soumin an' Roumin, &c.

In vain did the writer lad promise success—
Speak of Interim Decrees, and final redress;
In vain did he tell her that judgment was comin'—
“Its a judgment already this Soumin an' Roumin!”
Soumin an' Roumin, &c.

The Doctor was sent for-but what could he say;
He allowed the complaint to be out o' his way;
The Priest spak' o' Job—said to suffer was human—

But she said “Job kent naething o' Soumin an' Roumin.”
Soumin an' Roumin, &c.

The Priest tried to read, and the Priest tried to pray,
But she wadna attend to ae word that he'd say;
She made a bad end for sae guid an auld woman—
Her death-rattle sounded like “Soumin an' Roumin,”
Soumin an' Roumin, &c.

I'm Executor—heir-male—o' line—an' provision,—
An' the writer lad says that he'll manage the seisin;
But of a' the Estate, there's naething forth-comin',
But a guid-ganin' Process o' Soumin an' Roumin,
Soumin an' Roumin, &c.

The seisin, as already explained, was a writ to complete the heir's title to the property which had proved so disastrous to his poor old grandmother.

THE OLD TRUE BLUE

AN HISTORICAL BALLAD

[_]

Air—“Captain Glen.”

Come, Buff and Blue chaps, here's my claw,
You're good souls in your way;
But ere you compare your man of Law
To old Admiral Milne, belay your jaw,
And hear what I've to say,
Brave boys!
And hear what I've to say.

'Tis forty years and more this day
(Short time it seems to me!)
Off Guadaloupe our frigate lay,
The Frenchman skulked in Mahout Bay,
Beneath the battery,
Brave boys!
Beneath the battery.

We cruised about from place to place,
And swept the ocean free;

At last, ashamed of the disgrace,
Mounseer put on his fighting face,
And ventured out to sea,
Brave boys!
And ventured out to sea.

He trusted to his metal's weight,
And to his crowded crew;
We cheered him as he hove in sight,
For though our numbers were not great
Our men were all true blue,
Brave boys!
Our men were all true blue.

We fought him on that glorious day,
While we could man a gun;
Each mast and spar was shot away,
But though a shattered hulk we lay,
Our colours ne'er went down,
Brave boys!
Our colours ne'er went down.

We fought him on that glorious day,
Till our decks were drenched in gore;
But hot and hotter grew the fray,
Till at length the Frenchman's heart gave way,

And he doused the tricolor,
Brave boys!
And he doused the tricolor.

We lay like logs upon the tide,
Not a boat or oar had we;
I stood by our youthful leader's side—
“Come, follow me, my lads!” he cried,
And plunged into the sea,
Brave boys!
And plunged into the sea.

He swam aboard of the noble wreck,
We followed with a will:
I stood at his side on the Frenchman's deck—
I stood by him then, and, come what like,
I'll stand by Admiral Milne,
Brave boys!
I'll stand by Admiral Milne.

I've seen his glory grow since then,
With his increasing years;
His faithful shipmate still I've been,
Till a splinter cost me my larboard fin
At the taking of Algiers,
Brave boys!
At the taking of Algiers.

I'll stand by him now as then I stood,
And I'll trust him now, because
It's like he'll labour to do us good,
Who never scrupled to spill his blood
In aid of his country's cause,
Brave boys!
In aid of his country's cause.

As for that bumboat lawyer craft
That you have got in tow,
A seaman would rather trust to a raft
Than a hulk that looms so large abaft,
If a gale should come to blow,
Brave boys!
If a gale should come to blow.

Belike with speeches fair he'll try
To gammon me and you:
Come! off, ye swab! if you wish to shy;
But here stands one that would rather die
Than shrink from the Old True Blue,
My boys!
Than shrink from the Old True Blue.

Written on the occasion of a parliamentary election contest for the Leith burghs, between the late Admiral Milne and the then Lord Advocate, John Archibald Murray, and sung through the streets by a disabled sailor.

A canard had been got up that his lordship had joined in a game at backgammon in the steamer, between London and Leith, on a stormy Sunday.

THE SAUMON

[_]

Air—“The Angel's Whisper.”

By Tweedside a-standin',
Wi' lang rods our hands in,
In great hopes o'landin' a Saumon were we;
I took up my station,
Wi' much exultation,
While Morton fell a-fishin' farther doun upon the lea.

Across the stream flowin'
My line I fell a-throwin',
Wi' a sou'-wester blowin' right into my e'e;
I jumpt when my hook on
I felt something pookin';
But upon farther lookin' it proved to be a tree.

But deep, deep the stream in,
I saw his sides a-gleamin',
The king o' the Saumon, sae pleasantly lay he;
I thought he was sleepin',
But on further peepin',
I saw by his teeth he was lauchin' at me.

The flask frae my pocket
I poured into the socket,
For I was provokit unto the last degree;
And to my way o' thinkin',
There's naething for't like drinkin',
When a Saumon lies winkin' and lauchin' at ye.

There's a bend in the Tweed, ere
It mingles with the Leader—
If you go you will see there a wide o'er-spreadin' tree;
That's a part o' the river
That I'll revisit never—
'Twas there that scaly buffer lay lauchin' at me.

Charles Morton, W.S., a school and lifelong friend of Outram.

THE PROCESS OF AUGMENTATION

[_]

The Minister states his case to a tune of his own composing (for which see p. 82).

Whoever shall oppose my claim for augmentation,
I'll hold amongst my foes—
Whoever shall oppose;
I'll deem him one of those who seek their own damnation,
Whoever shall oppose my claim for augmentation.

Though some may hold their lands cum decimis inclusis,
Secure from my demands—
Though some may hold their lands;
Enough's in other's hands, who have no such excuses—
Though some may hold their lands cum decimis inclusis.

'Tis fully twenty years since my stipend was augmented,—
A time of want and fears!
'Tis fully twenty years;
In silence and in tears my griefs I have lamented;

'Tis fully twenty years since my stipend was augmented.

'Tis partly paid in Bear, and partly paid in Barley;
Though few such crops now rear,
'Tis partly paid in Bear;
Though Wheat and Oats elsewhere are now grown regularly,
'Tis partly paid in Bear, and partly paid in Barley.

My glebe is small and poor, and my parish is prodigious.
How long shall I endure!
My glebe is small and poor.
No error, I am sure, was ever more egregious.
My glebe is small and poor, and my parish is prodigious.

I have no means but those. A small mortification
Just keeps my wife in clothes.
I have no means but those.
If I might be jocose, I'd say on this occasion
I have no means but those—a great mortification.

Then whoever shall oppose my claim for augmentation,
I'll hold amongst my foes—
Whoever shall oppose;
I'll deem him one of those who seek their own damnation.
Whoever shall oppose my claim for augmentation.

The Heritors defend themselves to the tune of “Judy Callaghan.”
FIRST HERITOR
And hang me if I don't
Oppose your augmentation!
My Lords, you surely won't
Condemn me to starvation.
I couldn't give a rap
To purchase immortality,
More than that fat old chap
Draws under the last locality.

Chorus of Heritors—
Uh! uh! uh!
Nae wonder we're in sic a rage—
He wants the hale o' the teind,
Parsonage and Vicarage.

SECOND HERITOR
She'd readily pay her merk
Upon ony just occasion;
But she lives ten miles frae the kirk—
An she's of another persuasion.
He ought to scrutineese
The errors that have perverted her—
An' she'll pay him whatever ye please
As soon as he has converted her.

Chorus—
Uh! uh! uh! &c.

THIRD HERITOR
My father mortified
A field of about ten acre—
But he scarce had signed the deed
When his spirit was aff to his Maker.
Had the minister shown less greed,
I didna mean to object to it—
But now I hope to see't
Reduced ex capite lecti yet.

Chorus—
Uh! uh! uh! &c.

FOURTH HERITOR
He says, that frae the teinds
He is but puirly pensioned;
But he's ither ways an' means,
Though he'd rather they werena mentioned.

He kens the ways o' a'
The wives in his vicinity,
An' weel can whilly-wha
A rich, auld, sour virginity.

Chorus—
Uh! uh! uh! &c.

FIFTH HERITOR
He'll croon to ane on death,
Until her een are bleerit—
An' lecture anither on faith,
Till she's like to gang deleerit.
An' thus he mak's a spoil
O' fatuous facility,
An' works into the Will
O' dottrified senility.

Chorus—
Uh! uh! uh! &c.

SIXTH HERITOR
Every time (an' that's ance a-year)
That his wife's in the hands o' the howdie,
He sets the hale parish asteer
For things to flavour her crowdie.
An' this ane sends jelly an' wine,
An' that ane sends puddin's an' pastries,
Till she—like a muckle swine—
Just wallows in walth an' wasteries.

Chorus—
Uh! uh! uh! &c.

SEVENTH HERITOR
He warns us to beware,—
For if we're caught in transgression,
It's his duty to notice't in prayer,
Or bring us afore the Session;
But a turkey, or a guse,
Or some sic temporalities,
Can mak' a braw excuse
For a' our wee carnalities.

Chorus—
Uh! uh! uh! &c.

EIGHTH HERITOR
The time he fixes for
Parochial visitation,
Is aye our dinner-hour—
An' he's sure to improve the occasion.
An' siccan a stamack he has!
You'd think he'd ne'er get to the grund o' it;
An' he tells us that flesh is grass—
Just after he's swallowed a pund o' it.

Chorus—
Uh! uh! uh! &c.

ALL THE HERITORS TOGETHER
Then, oh, my Lords, don't grant
The smallest augmentation!
His pleading's nought but cant,
Perversion and evasion.

Don't give a single rap
('Twere worse than prodigality)
More than that fat old chap
Draws under the last locality.

Chorus—
Uh! uh! uh! &c.

THE LORDS MODIFY

[_]

Judicial Madrigal.—Air: “Now is the Month of Maying.”

The Court on this occasion
Of solemn consultation,
Fol lol de rol, &c.—
With deep sense of their high
Responsibility,
Thus modify:
Fol de rol, &c.

We'll first allow him yearly
Ten pecks of Meal,—as clearly
Equivalent
To the full extent
Of stipend paid in Bear;
Though, lest he that deny,
We'll add, for certainty,
A boll of Rye.
Fol de rol, &c.

One chalder, in addition,
Of Oats, would seem sufficient;
And an increment
To that extent
We therefore modify,
With Barley as before.

Lord C.—
“Oh! half a chalder more.”
Ho! ho! hi!—

(Judicial laughter.)

The process now must tarry
Till the Junior Ordinary
Proceed to prepare,
With his usual care,
A scheme of locality.
And, having done its turn,
The Court will now adjourn
Instantly.
Fol de rol, &c.

(The Lords adjourn.)

THE HERITORS REJOICE

Hurrah for the Court o' Teinds!
Hurrah for the Tithe Commission!
We couldna done better if friends
Had taen up the case on submission.
His teeth he now may gnash
O'er his matters alimentary;

The Lords have settled his hash
For anither fifth part of a century!
Ha! ha! ha!
They've done for his venality!
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
For the rectified locality!

Had he an offer fair,
Or rational propounded,
For twa three chalders mair
We'd gladly hae compounded.—
A boll o' Meal a-year
We'd readily hae sent it him—
Forbye his pickle Bear,
If that could hae contented him.
Ha! ha! ha!
The clod o' cauld legality
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
For the rectified locality!

But he wad tak' nae course,
Except to raise an action,
In order to enforce
The most extreme exaction.
He's now got his decree—
An' muckle he's the better o't!
But we'll tak' care that he

Shall keep within the letter o't.
Ha! ha! ha!
The mass o' fat formality!
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
For the rectified locality.

For not a single Ait,
Nor yet a spike o' Barley,
Nor nip o' Meal, he's get
Again irregularly.
His wife, neist time, may grane
As friendless as the Pelican;
While he may dine his lane
Forenent her empty jelly-can.
Ha! ha! ha!
The lump o' sensuality!
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
For the rectified locality!

(Exeunt Heritors.)

THE MINISTER CONSOLES HIMSELF

Though I have been beset by roaring Bulls of Bashan,
There is some comfort yet,
Though I have been beset.

'Tis well that I'm to get a little augmentation,
Though I have been beset by roaring Bulls of Bashan.

I've many other cares that press on my attention.
My Manse requires repairs—
I've many other cares,—
Nay! common sense declares it needeth an extension.
I've many other cares that press on my attention.

The rooms are far too small, and fewer than beseemeth,
Should sickness e'er befall,
The rooms are far too small,
We can't have beds for all when next my helpmeet teemeth.
The rooms are far too small, and fewer than beseemeth.

A wing on either side, of decent elevation—
Proportionably wide—
A wing on either side—
Would suitably provide for our accommodation—
A wing on either side, of decent elevation.

My byre requires new walls—my milk-house a new gable.
To stand the wintry squalls,
My byre requires new walls.
New mangers and new stalls are needed for my stable.
My byre requires new walls—my milk-house a new gable.

If all this be not done unto my satisfaction,
Before a year has run,—
If all this be not done,—
All compromise I'll shun, and raise another action—
If all this be not done unto my satisfaction.

And whoever did oppose, &c.

(Exit muttering.)
DISTANT CHORUS OF HERITORS
Ha! —ha! —ha!
Curs —mean —scality!
—rah! —rah! —rah!
Rec —fied —cality!

THE LAW OF MARRIAGE

THOUGHTS AT SEA

O marriage!—tell me if you truly are
A Deity, as poets represent ye!
Or are you, as the Institutes declare,
Nothing but a consensus de presenti?
No matter!—I espoused a maid of twenty
By promise, and a process subsequente.

We married without contract; but our rights
Were all defined within the year and day.
A youngster came, one o' the cold spring nights—
I hardly had expected him till May.
My wife did well—in fact as well as could be;
The baby squeaked, and all was as it should be.

The darling's eyes were dark and deeply set—
My wife's and mine were light and round and full;
His hair was thick and coarse and black as jet,
While ours was thin and fair and soft as wool;
I knew 'twas vain to play the rude remonstrant,
For Pater est quem nuptiæ demonstrant.

The am'rous youth may fervidly maintain
That marriage is a cure for every trouble;
The feudalist may learnedly explain
When its avail is single and when double:
Its sole avail to me, I grieve to say it,
Was debt—without the where withal to pay it.

And debt brings duns. My dun was of a sort
That never can desist from persecution.
He brought my case before the Sheriff Court—
My debt, they told him, needed constitution.
'Twas false! He knew—I knew it to my curse—
It had the constitution of a horse.

But the decree went out, and I went in—
And in the jail lived more debitorum;
Yet though I lost my flesh I saved my skin,
By suing for a Cessio Bonorum.
I got out, naked as an unfurred rabbit.
The Lords dispensed, they told me, with the habit.

I went to seek my wife, but she had fled,
And had not left a single paraphernal;
But matrimonial law, upon my head
Seemed destined still to pour its curse eternal.

I had indeed obtained a separation
From bed and board—no prospect but starvation!

But bed and board are things worth striving for,
So I bethought me of the pea and thimble:
But people had grown wiser than of yore,
And all in vain I plied my fingers nimble.
I then attempted Vitious Intromission,
And was immediately conveyed to prison.

And here again I lay upon my oars;
A Hermit keeps his cell—my cell kept me.
No letters came to me of Open Doors;
Criminal letters, though, came postage free,
The air I breathed just added to my cares,
Reminding me of coming Justice Ayres.

And come they did! And therefore am I now
Upon thy wave, old Ocean—Sydney bound!
And here the partner of my youthful vow,
Among the fourteen-yearers have I found;
Here are we (though not just as when we courted)
Again united and again transported.

THE REFORM BILL

[_]

Air—“Merrily danced the Quaker.”

Oh! weary fa' Reform an' Whigs!
That ever they were invented!
An' wae's me for my auld gudeman,
He's fairly gane demented:
He grunts and growls frae morn to night
About pensions an' taxation:
He's ruined wi' meetin's got up for the gude
O' the workin' population.

The ne'er a turn o' wark he'll do
To save us frae starvation;
He leaves his horse to sort the coo,
For he maun sort the nation.
The fient he'll do but read the news—
An' he reads wi' sic attention,
That his breeks are a' worn out in a place
Which I'm ashamed to mention.

He gangs to publics ilka night,
An' ilka groat he'll spend it,
An' how he gets hame in siccan a plight
I canna comprehend it.
An' then my sons, like three wee Hams,
Laugh at their drucken daddie,

As doun on the floor wi' a clout he slams.
Wi' een like a Monday's haddie.

Afore the Whigs began their rigs,
He was anither creature;
His een were bright as stars at night,
An' plump was every feature.
His brow was like the lily white,
His cheek as red as roses;
He had a back like Wallace wight,
An' a thicker beard than Moses.

But now he's lost his comely look,
An' lost his stalwart figure;
His een are sinkin' into his head,
An' his nose is growin' bigger.
His houghs are gane, an' when nicht sets in,
He's fusionless as a wether;
His back sticks out, an' his wame's fan in—
An' he's a' reformed thegither!

Oh! dinna ye mind, my auld gudeman,
When first we cam' thegither,
How cheerily our wark gaed on,
How pleased we were wi' ither?

Our lives passed away like a Sabbath-day
When the distant bells are ringin';
An' your breath was sweet as the new-mawn hay,
An' no like a rotten ingan.

Oh! think what was't ye wanted then,
An' see what now ye're brocht to!
Ye're far waur aff than ever you were
Before Reform was thocht o':
For then, when you wanted a sark to your wame,
Ye made an unco wark, man:
But what's to be done wi' you now, when you want
A wame to pit in your sark, man?

Oh! gin ye wad but mind your pleugh,
An' mind your empty pockets,
'Twere wiser-like than drink an' read
Your een out o' their sockets.
Leave them that kens to mak' the laws—
An' while your breeks will mend, man,
Just leave the nation to look to itsel',
An' look you to your hinner end, man!

The Monday's haddock must have been caught at least on the Saturday, and hence the condition of its eyes.

JOHN AND JEAN

ANTENUPTIAL

JOHN SINGS OF JEAN

[_]

Air—“Bonnie wee thing.”

Bonnie Jeanie!
Artless Jeanie!
Rosy, cosy Jeanie!
Wert thou mine!
How wad I adore you!
What could I do for you!
Think on what I swore you—
See if I repine!

Try to vex me,
Pester or perplex me—
A' your little sex may,
To bother ane o' mine!
Wreck me—break me—
Lick me—kick me—
Only let me think, the
Wee bit foot was thine.

JEAN SINGS OF JOHN

[_]

(In lines varied from old Scottish Ballads.)

When bonnie young Johnnie went over the sea,
He said there was naething he liket like me.
He sang an' he whistled while haddin' the pleugh,
Though of gowd an' of gear he hadna eneugh.

But noo he has gotten a hat an' a feather—
An' its hey! brave Johnnie, lad! cock up your beaver.

His kin are for ane o' a higher degree,
What has he to do wi' the like o' me?
Although I am bonnie, I amna for Johnnie,
An' werena my heart light I wad dee.

(Dreams.)

Lang hae we parted been,
Johnnie my dearie;
Noo we hae met again,
Laddie, lie near me!
Near me! (Suddenly wakening.)
Dear me!
Did ony ane hear me?
Could Johnnie been listenin'?
Dear me!—Oh dear me!

POSTNUPTIAL

JOHN TELLS OF JEAN
[_]

(To a tune of his own composing.)

Oh! what a deevil, a deevil, a deevil!
Oh! what a deevil is Jean!
The life o' a deevil I lead wi' the deevil,
An' she cares deevil a preen!

She dauds wi' the poker, but no' at the coals,
Her tongue an' her temper are out o' a' rules;
She dings at my head wi' a dizzen o' shools,
And then she bawls out, “Mind your een!”
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

She seizes the kail-pat, an' I get my share;
The stools spend the best o' their time in the air,
An' sittin' is no the right use for a chair,
As I an' my shattered banes ken.
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

I never come right down my stair, stap by stap,
For she aye flings me head over heels frae the tap;
An' when I gang down wi' a horrible slap,
She bids me come soon back at e'en!
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

She plays at the ba' wi' my head every day,
An' when I fa' ower she cries out—Hurrah!
An' she's got a great cuddie-heel to her shae,
An' I've got a patch for my een!
O! what a deevil, &c.

It's a miracle she's murdered nane o' the weans,
For she plays rowley-powley wi' them at my shins,

An' she says that it's punishment for's a' at ance,
Like killin' twa dogs wi' ae bane.
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

I'm sae muckle accustomed to lounders and licks,
That when I'm asleep she canna wake me wi' kicks,
Though her fit is as heavy as baith o' Auld Nick's,
No countin' the weight o' her shoon.
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

She dauds at me sae, that whate'er I may do,
I am ae single lump just a' through an' through,
An' every bit o' my body is blue,
Except twa three bits that are green!
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

JEAN REFLECTS ON JOHN
[_]

(To the same tune.)

Oh! what a deevil, a deevil, a deevil,
Oh! what a deevil is John!
Dinna think me unceevil to ca' him a deevil.
Till ye hear how the deevil gans on.

He snuffs, an' he smokes, an' he drinks, an' he chews,
Till he's donnard, an' daised, an' ayont ony use;

An' how he whiles finds his way hame to his house,
Is to me just a phènomenon!
Oh! what a deevil. &c.

He fa's on the stair, an' he coups o'er the weans—
It's a miracle he's broken nane o' their banes,
As he bangs at the wa', or clytes doun on the stanes
Wi' a weight that is twenty stane tron.
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

An' when wi' a fecht I hae got him to bed,
He lies crookit, an' pu's a' the claes to his side;
An' he's got evermair sic a cauld in his head,
That the neb o' him rins like a rone,
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

When at last he's asleep, an' I'm just fa'in' o'er;
It wad be heaven's mercy if he'd only snore;
But he first gies a squeak—then a grunt—then a roar—
Like a bagpiper sortin' his drone.
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

In the mornin', to rise to his wark he's sae laith,
I whiles think he's sleepin' the slumber o' death;

I've to kick and to paik till I'm clean out o' breath,
Eer I get him to cry out “Ohone!”
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

On pay-nights he'll come hame as white as a clout,
Wi' his hat a' bashed in, an' his pouch inside out;
An' afore I can ask him what he's been about,
He fa's down as flat as a scone.
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

Just last Sunday morning—O sic a disgrace!—
The very policeman that took him up, says,
That he never saw, in the coorse o' his days,
Sic a shamefu' exposure as yon.
Oh! what a deevil, &c.

THE BANKS O' THE DEE

[_]

Air—“Days o' lang syne.”

I met wi' a man on the banks o' the Dee,
An' a merrier body I never did see;
Though Time had bedrizzled his haffits wi' snaw,
An' Fortune had stown his luckpenny awa',
Yet never a mortal mair happy could be
Than the man that I met on the banks o' the Dee.

When young, he had plenty o' owsen an' kye,
A wide wavin' mailin an' siller forbye;
But cauld was his hear there his youdith was o'er,
An' he delved on the lands he had lairded before;
Yet though beggared his ha' an' deserted his lea,
Contented he roamed on the banks o' the Dee.

'Twas heart some to see the auld body sae gay,
As he toddled adown by the gowany brae,
Sae canty, sae crouse, an sae pruif against care;
Yet it wasna through riches, it wasna through lear;
But I fand out the cause ere I left the sweet Dee—
The man was as drunk as a mortal could be!

THE PROCESS OF WAKENIN'

[_]

Air—“Peggie is over ye Sie wi' ye Souldier.”—Skene MS.

Jenny! puir Jenny! the flow'r o' the lea—
The blythesome, the winsome, the gentle an' free—
The joy and the pride
O' the haill kintra side—
She dee'd of a process o' Wakenin'.

Though her skin was sae smooth, an'her fingers sae sma',
She won through the hoopin'-cough, measles an' a'—
She never took ill
Frae fever or chill—
Yet she dee'd of a process o' Wakenin'.

The case fell asleep when her Grandfather dee'd,
And few folk remembered it e'er had been plea'd.
She never heard tell
O' the matter hersel',
Till they sent her the summons o' Wakenin'.

Jenny! puir Jenny!—though courted by a',
Only ane touched her heart—an' he bore it awa'.
It had just been arranged
That her state should be changed,
When they sent her the summons o' Wakenin'.

She had plighted her troth—they had fixed on the day—
A' arrangements completed—nae chance o' delay;
She was thinkin' on this,
And entrancèd wi' bliss,
When they sent her the summons o' Wakenin'.

Her friends were sae kindly—her true-love sae prized,
Surrounded by them, an' by him idolised;
She had just passed the night
In a dream o' delight,
When they sent her the summons o' Wakenin'.

She fee'd the best counsel—what could she dae mair?
She read through the papers wi' sorrow an'care,
But she could only mak' out,
That beyond ony doubt,
'Twas a wearifu' process o' Wakenin'.

An'her friends that she thought wad be constant for aye,
Of course they grew scarce, an' kept out o' her way;
For naebody ken'd
How the matter wad end,
When they heard o' the process o' Wakenin'.

An'her true-love for whom she wad gladly gien a',
Slid cauld frae her grasp like a handfu' o' snaw;—
Sae she gied up the case,
An' gied up the ghaist,
An' dee'd o' a process o' Wakenin'.

When a suit in Court remains for a year, without procedure taking place, it is technically said to fall asleep. It may be resuscitated by raising a summons or suit of “wakening.”

CESSIO BONORUM

[_]

Air—“Tullochgorum.”

Come ben ta house, an' steek ta door,
An'bring her usquebaugh galore,
An' piper pla' wi' a' your pow'r
Ta reel o' Tullochgorum.
For we'se be croose an' canty yet—
Croose an' canty,
Croose an' canty—
We'se be croose an' canty yet,
Around a Hieland jorum.
We'se be croose an' canty yet,
For better luck she never met—
She's gotten out an' paid her debt
Wi'a Cessio Ponorum!
Huch! tirrum, tirrum, &c.

She meant ta pargain to dispute,
An' pay ta price, she wadna do't,
But on a Bill her mark she put,
An' hoped to hear no more o'm.

100

Blythe an' merry was she then—
Blythe an' merry,
Blythe an' merry—
Blythe an' merry was she then
She thought she had come ower 'm.
Blythe an' merry was she then—
But unco little did she ken
O' Shirra's laws, an' Shirra's men,
Or Cessio Ponorum!
Huch! tirrum, tirrum, &c.

Cot tamn!—but it was pad indeed!
They took her up wi' meikle speed—
To jail they bore her—feet an' head—
An' flung her on ta floor o'm.
Wae an' weary has she been—
Wae an' weary,
Wae an' weary—
Wae an' weary has she been
Amang ta Debitorum.
Wae an' weary has she been,
An' most uncivil people seen—
She's much peholden to her frien'
Ta Cessio Ponorum!
Huch! tirrum, tirrum, &c.

She took an oath she couldna hear—
'Twas something about goods an' gear—

101

She thought it proper no to speer
Afore ta Dominorum.
She kent an' caredna if 'twas true—
Kent an' caredna,
Kent an' caredna—
Kent an' caredna if 'twas true,
But easily she swore 'm.
She kent an' caredna if 'twas true,
But scrap't her foot, an' made her poo,
Then, oich!—as to ta door she flew
Wi' her Cessio Ponorum!
Huch! tirrum, tirrum, &c.

She owed some bits o' odds an' ends,
An'twa three debts to twa three friends—
She kent fu' weel her dividends
Could paid anither score o'm.
Ta fees an' charges were but sma'—
Fees an' charges,
Fees an' charges—
Ta fees an' charges were but sma',
Huch! tat for fifty more o'm!
Ta fees an' charges were but sma'—
But little kent she o' the law.
Tamn!—if she hasn't paid them a'
Wi' her Cessio Ponorum!
Huch! tirrum, tirrum, &c.

102

But, just let that cursed loon come here
That took her Bill!—she winna swear,—
But, ooghh!—if she could catch him near
Ta craigs o' Cairngorum!
If belt an' buckle can keep fast—
Belt an' buckle,
Belt an' buckle—
If belt an' buckle can keep fast,
She'd mak' him a' Terrorem.
If belt an' buckle can keep fast,
Her caption would be like to last,
Py Cot!—but she would poot him past
A Cessio Ponorum!
Huch! tirrum, tirrum, &c.

By the law of Scotland, a debtor imprisoned for debt, or in certain equivalent circumstances, since imprisonment for debt was abolished, may institute a suit of cessio bonorum. Under it, the Court, if satisfied of the debtor's honesty and inability to pay, may grant him protection against claims for debts then existing, upon his making a conveyance of all his means to a trustee for his creditor's behoof, and might grant him liberation, if in prison.

103

LADY! THINE EYE IS BRIGHT

Lady! thine eye is bright—
Boast of it well,
While youth and delight
In its airy beam dwell:
Fast comes the hour
When its light must away—
Portent the power
That bids beauty decay.

Lady! thy lip is red—
Be proud, lady, proud;
Rejoice ere its bloom is shed
Under the shroud.
When the sod presses you,
Pleasure is gone;
When the worm kisses you,
Raptures are done.

Lady! rejoice—
Triumph has crowned you;
List to the voice
Of flatt'ry around you.
Forget that your bright day
Brings darkness behind it;
Forget while you may,
You will soon be reminded!

104

WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY DOGGIE DEE?

[_]

Air—“O'er the hills an' far away.”

Oh! what will I do gin my doggie dee?
He was sae kind an' true to me,
Sae handsome, an' sae fu' o' glee—
What will I do gin my doggie dee?
My guide upon the wintry hill,
My faithfu' friend through gude an' ill,
An' aye sae pleased an' proud o' me—
What will I do gin my doggie dee?

He lay sae canty i' my plaid,
His chafts upon my shouther-blade,
His hinder paw upon my knee,
Sae crouse an' cosh, my doggie an' me.
He wagged his tail wi' sic a swirl,
He cocked his lug wi' sic a curl,
An' aye snook't out his nose to me—
Oh! what will I do gin my doggie dee?

He watched ilk movement o' my ee,
When I was glad he barkit tae;
When I was waefu', sae was he—
Oh! I ne'er lo'ed him as he lo'ed me.

105

He guarded me baith light an' dark,
An' helpit me at a' my wark;
Whare'er I wandered there was he—
What will I do gin my doggie dee?

Nae ither tyke the country roun',
Was ever fit to dicht his shoon;
But now they'll hae a jubilee,
He's like to be removed frae me.
'Twas late yestreen my wife an' he—
Deil hae the loons that mauled them sae!
They're baith as ill as ill can be—
What will I do gin my doggie dee?

106

ELSIE

[_]

(As sung by her boorish husband.)

[_]

Air—“Bobbin John.”

Elsie's neat an' clean,
Elsie's proud an' saucy,
Elsie's trig an' braw,
Elsie is a lassie;
Elsie is a fule,
Elsie's neives are massy.
Elsie's tongue is lang—
Elsie is a lassie.

Elsie is my wife,
Thinks to be the ruler;
Elsie is an ass,
Thinks that I care for her;
Swear's she'll keep the cash,
Disna keep a boddle,
Wares it a' on dress,
Ca's hersel' a model!

Elsie is a guse—
I'll gang an' tell her,
I'll hae the house,
I'll hae the siller;
I'll haud my ain,
I'll keep the causey;
Elsie wears the breeks?—
Elsie is a lassie.

107

I've got a foot,
Ken how to use it;
If I gie a kick,
She maun just excuse it.
I am a man,
Strong built an' massy—
Elsie's takes her chance,
Elsie's but a lassie!

108

DUBBYSIDE

The foam-flakes flash, the black rocks scowl,
The sea-bird screams, the wild winds howl;
A giant wave springs up on high—
“One pull for God's sake!” is the cry:
If struck, we perish in the tide—
If saved, we land at Dubbyside!

O Dubbyside! our peril's past,
And bliss and thee are reached at last!
As sprang Leander to his bride,
Half drowned, so we to Dubbyside!
What though we're drenched, we will be dried
Upon thy banks, sweet Dubbyside!

Are we in Heaven, or are we here,
Or in the Moon, or Jupiter?
These velvet Links, o' golfers rife,
Are they in Paradise, or Fife?
Am I alive, or am I dead,
Or am I not at Dubbyside?

Through Eden's groves there flowed a stream,
And there it's very waters gleam—
Its pebbly bed, its banks the same,
Unchanged in all except the name,

109

Since Adam bathed in Leven tide,
While Eve reposed at Dubbyside!

And still it is a blissful spot,
Though Paradise is all forgot
The fairies shower their radiance here,
The rocks look bright, the dubs are clear;
Deem not that bush the forest's pride—
Remember, you're at Dubbyside!

Is that an angel shining there,
Or sea-nymph with her flowing hair,
Or Neptune's pearl-embowered bride
Kissing the foam-bells of the tide?
'Tis neither angel, nymph, nor bride—
'Tis Podley Jess of Dubbyside!

110

WHEN THIS OLD WIG WAS NEW

[_]

Air—“When this old coat was new.”

When this old wig was new,
The Barber raised his eyes
And blessed himself to view
A wig so wondrous wise!
It was his pride—and, sooth,
I proudly prized it too,
For I was but a youth
When this old wig was new.

But now my wig is old,
And I am young no more;
The course of time has rolled,
And our career is o'er:
I'll mix no more with men
As I was wont to do,
Nor see the days again
When this old wig was new.

Oh, the days that I have seen,
And the hours that I have passed,
And the pleasures that have been
Too exquisite to last!

111

Before my eyes they pass
In sweet though sad review—
I think of what I was
When this old wig was new.

I think of times when far
Aloof cold envy stood,
And brethren of the Bar
Professed good brotherhood—
Not soulless etiquette,
But friendship warm and true,
With heart and hand we met
When this old wig was new.

No greedy hand was then
Projected for a fee;
We held no servile pen
To any lordly he:
And none of us demurred
The poor man's cause to sue,
For honour was the word
When this old wig was new.

Then truly was the age
Of matchless eloquence,
And counsels deep and sage,
And energy intense;

112

And we had men of lore,
And wit and fancy too,
For Wisdom's cup ran o'er
When this old wig was new.

I've laughed until mine eye
Has filled with tears of glee,
I've wept that fountain dry
From very agony,
As the floods of Erskine broke,
Or the sparks of humour flew
From the lips of those who spoke
When this old wig was new.

But when our weekly toil
Brought Saturday about,
Then all was one turmoil
Of revelry and rout.

[_]

(Cætera desunt.)

[OMITTED]

113

THE SIGN O' THE CRAW

(SENTIMENTS ATTRIBUTED TO A WELL-KNOWN FREQUENTER OF THAT INSTITUTION)

[_]

Air—“Soldier's joy.”

Let others sing the graces an'roose the jolly faces
O' a' the bonnie lasses that ever were ava;
I'll rout wi'right gude will, about the joys I feel,
When sookin' at a gill at the Sign o' the Craw.
Lal de daudle, &c.

I like meat unco weel, for my wame it can fill,
An' wantin' it I feel I could ne'er fend ava:
But why I wish to fend some folk hae never ken'd—
'Tis my staps that I may bend to the Sign o' the Craw.
Lal de daudle, &c.

I'll acknowledge my belief, that to hae a tidy wife
Is a comfort to my life that I couldna forega;
For if she's worth a louse, she may surely keep the house
When I've gane to take a bouse at the Sign o' the Craw.
Lal de daudle, &c.

114

Inever a' mydays liked to gang withouten claes,
An' a reason if you please I can readily shaw:
'Tis that when my siller's gane, my coat I then can pawn,
An' get anither can at the Sign o' the Craw.
Lal de daudle, &c.

The last time I was sober, ae morning in October,
I foregathered wi'a robber wha clinked my cash awa;
But not e'en the hornèd deil frae me can ever steal
What I've gien them for a gill at the sign o' the Craw.
Lal de daudle, &c.

I wadna gie a sneeshin' to hear a blockhead screechin',
Himsel' an' ithers fashin', cause a lassie's ran awa';
Contented here I am, sae I'll e'en take aff my dram,
Till I fa' into a dwam at the Sign o' the Craw,
Lal de daudle, &c.

115

MY WIFE HAS COME OWER TO CURE ME

[_]

Air—“My Mither's aye glowerin' o'er me.”

My wife she's come ower to cure me—
For naething on earth but to cure me;
I was deein' o' ease, an' comfort, an' peace,
An' my wife has come ower to cure me.
Nae doubt I was ill when a' thing gaed weel,
An' I didna ken what was gude for me;
My sleep was sae soun', an' my body sae roun';
Butmy wife has come ower—an'she'll cure me.

My wife has come ower to cure me,
My wife has come ower to cure me;
She cuist up her place where she gat meat an' claes,
An' she's come ower the water to cure me.
My cheeks were sae red, my heart was sae glad,
Bad symptoms they were to alarm me;
Preternatural fat, an' strength, an' a' that,
But my wife has come ower—an'she'll cure me.

My wife has come ower to cure me,
To show the affection she bore me;
I was deein' o' health, an' ruined wi' wealth,
When my wife came ower to cure me.

116

I rose wi' the lark, an' ate like a shark,
A' the joys o' the angels came ower me;
Outrageously right, stark mad wi' delight;
But my wife has come ower—an' she'll cure me.

My wife has come ower to cure me—
For no earthly cause but to cure me;
I was horridly weel—my banes hard as steel;
But my wife has come hame—an' she'll cure me.
Oh were she to die, what wad come o' me?
What spirits an' thrills wad devour me!
Ilka pap wi' the shool on the tap o' the mool,
Wad forbid her frae comin' to cure me.

117

DRINKIN' DRAMS

(BACCHANALIAN HEROICS)

[_]

Air—“My Luve's in Germany.”

He ance was holy,
An' melancholy,
Till he found the folly
O' singin' psalms;
He's now as red's a rose,
An' there's pimples on his nose,
And in size it daily grows
By drinkin' drams.

He ance was weak,
An' couldna eat a steak
Without gettin' sick
An' takin' qualms;
But now he can eat
O' ony kind o' meat,
For he's got an appeteet
By drinkin' drams.

He ance was thin,
Wi'a nose like a pen,
An' haunds like a hen,
An' nae hams;

118

But now he's round an' tight,
An' a deevil o'a wight,
For he's got himsel' put right
By drinkin' drams.

He ance was saft as dirt,
An' as pale as ony shirt,
An' as useless as a cart
Without the trams;
But now he'd face the deil,
Or swallow Jonah's whale—
He's as gleg's a puddock's tail
Wi' drinkin' drams.

Oh! pale, pale was his hue,
An' cauld, cauld was his broo,
An' he grumbled like an ewe
'Mang libbit rams;
But now his broo is bricht,
An' his een are orbs o' licht,
An' his nose is just a sicht
Wi' drinkin' drams.

He studied mathematics,
Logic, ethics, hydrostatics,
Till he needed diuretics
To lowse his dams;

119

But now, without a lee,
He could make anither sea,
For he's left philosophy
An' taen to drams.

He found that learnin', fame,
Gas, philanthropy, an' steam,
Logic, loyalty, gude name,
Were a' mere shams;
That the source o' joy below,
An' the antidote to woe,
An' the only proper go,
Was drinkin' drams.

It's true that we can see
Auld Nick, wi' gloatin' ee,
Just waitin' till he dee
'Mid frichts and dwams;
But what's Auld Nick to him,
Or palsied tongue or limb,
Wi' glass filled to the brim
When drinkin' drams!

120

HERE I AM

Whaever's here that wishes a cure
For mind, or wind, or limb,
Let him listen to mine—wi' me it's been sure—
It'll be the same wi' him.
Whatever comfort failed me,
Whatever it was that ailed me,
Whatever was my plisky,
Whatever dangers cam—
I tipp'd aff a bottle o' whisky,
An' here I am!

Ance I was ill, an' to mak' up his bill,
The Doctor cam like stour,
Wi' a forpit o' squills, an' laxative pills,
My bowels for to cure.
He swore I was in a consumption—
I swore he had nae gumption;
He said I might tak the riskie—
I said I wad tak my dram,—
Sae I tipp't aff a bottle o' whisky,
An' here I am!

When I was in love, my mettle to prove,
My sweetheart behaved unco queer;
She ance saw me fou, an' she ca'd me a sow,
An' said I was portable beer!

121

Her love I cast aff a' houp o't,
Sae I ran to a linn to loup it—
But as I was rinnin' sae briskly,
I thought I wad tak a dram—
Sae I tipp'd aff a bottle o' whisky,
An' here I am!

I ance gaed aff, like a sober calf,
To sail the warld round,
But as we cam' back, the ship was a wrack,
An' we were just gaun to be drowned;
The passengers lustily sang out,
The crew whomelled into the long boat,
An' how I got out o' the plisky,
I dinna ken whether I swam—
But I tipp'd aff a bottle o' whisky,
An' here I am!

122

WE BE THREE POOR BARRISTERS

[_]

Round—“We be three poor Mariners.”

We be three poor Barristers,
With minds but ill at ease,
Because we never are retained
In any kind of pleas.
We pace the House around, around, around,
Where litigants abound, abound, abound,
Where fees are rife,
Yet for our life
We cannot take a pound, a pound, a pound.

Ah! little do their clients know,
Who trust to legal skill,
What injury their doers do,
Employing whom they will,
And leaving us around, around, around,
No chance to be renowned, renowned, renowned,
Though we have store
Of wit and lore
That might the world astound, astound, astound.

We wonder what their agents think—
Or if they think at all—

123

Who still employ these little men,
With voice so thin and small,
You scarce can hear a sound, a sound, a sound,
While we walk idly round, around, around—
With lungs to make
The rafters shake
And vaulted roofs rebound, rebound, rebound.

As for that clerk of evil fame,
Accursèd let him be,
Who tempteth meaner souls than ours
To plead for half a fee—
With emphasis profound, profound, profound,
We execrate the hound, the hound, the hound,
As to and fro
Each day we go
Across the ear then Mound, a-Mound, a-Mound!

Yet not because we're thus forgot
Down-hearted shall we be;
The pluckless soul may yield to grief—
We'll live in jollity!
We'll pass the glass around, around, around,
And thus dull care confound, confound, confound,
Nor heed the fee
So long as we
With mirth and glee abound, abound, abound.

124

THE LAWYER'S SUIT

[_]

Air—“For the lack of Gold.”

Oh why, lady, why, when I come to your side,
Repulse your poor suitor with such haughty pride?
That you'll never wed with a Lawyer you swear—
But why so averse to a Lawyer, my dear?

Can it be, that because I have thought and have read,
Till my heart to the world and its pleasures is dead?
Pshaw! my heart may be hard, but then it is clear
Your triumph's the greater to melt it, my dear!

Can it be that because my eyes have grown dim,
And my colour is wan, and my body is slim?
Pshaw! the husk of the almond as rough does appear—
But what do you think of the kernel, my dear?

Would you wed with a Fop full of apish grimace,
Whose antics would call all the blood to your face?

125

Take me, from confusion you're sure to be clear,
For a Lawyer's ne'er troubled with blushes, my dear!

Would you wed with a Merchant, who'd curse and who'd ban
'Cause he's plagued by his conscience for cheating a man?
Take me, and be sure that my conscience is clear,
For a Lawyer's ne'er troubled with conscience, my dear!

Would you wed with a Soldier with brains made of fuel,
Who, defending his honour, is killed in a duel?
Take me, and such danger you've no need to fear,
For my honour is not worth defending, my dear!

Come, wed with a Lawyer! you needn't fear strife,
For since I have borne with the courts all my life,
That the devil can't ruffle my temper, I'll swear—
And I hardly think you could do't either, my dear!

126

MY NANNIE

[_]

Air—“Carrickfergus.”

My Nannie fell sick, an' my Nannie was deein',
My friends a' advised me for doctors to send;
But she was sae grievin' me when she was livin',
That, troth, I had little desire she should mend.

I said I'd nae siller—they wadna come till her—
Sae I watched her wi' tenderest care by mysel';
But whate'er was the matter, the limmer got better,
And to my great sorrow she soon was quite well.

Wi' a jorum o' whisky I gat mysel' frisky,
An' said 'twas for joy to see her sae weel:
Says she—“How got ye that when you couldna buy med'cine?”
An' gied me a thump wad hae murdered the deil!

Her passion near choked her—I ran for the doctor—
But she hardly had been a week under his care,

127

When he said—“Your wife's leavin' the land o' the livin',—
I've done what I could, sir—I canna do mair.”

“O Doctor!” says I, “Sir, you'd much better stay, sir,
An' do what ye can for her—till she's quite gane!”
He plied her wi' physic, an that made her sae sick,
That in less than a month Nannie graned her last grane!

To the Doctor I handed twice what he demanded;
My friends a' advised me to marry again—
But quo' I, “I'll no marry again in a hurry,
For I canna forget my dear Nannie that's gane!”

128

THE HOLY LOCH

Calm, calm, the blue lake silent lies,
The sky without a breath to shake it;
The drowsy clouds nor fall nor rise—
The earth's asleep, and none to wake it.
The sun glares with his fiery eye
Upon the beauteous scene before him,
While green-robed Nature modestly
Shrinks from such outrage of decorum.

The sun has gone, the day is done,
The moon beams o'er the peaceful water,
High up above, looking such love
As mother's o'er an only daughter.
Restless, in vain my ear I strain
To catch the ripple of the billow.
Earth fades, and heaven looms on my sight;
Oh! would some angel smooth my pillow!

These were the last verses composed by the author.

129

INSURANCE

[_]

Air—“What can a Young Lassie.”

The premium is ae thing—the duty's anither,
It comes a' thegither to saxty pound three,
An' ilk year at Yule it gars us sing dool—
It's a terrible pull on a poor family!
But the gudeman was failin' an' constantly ailin',
'Twas high time that his life insurèd should be;
And on ilk occasion it's some consolation
That we'll a' be provided for gin he should die.

131

IS THE HOUSE WARM YET?

[_]

Air—“When the house is rinnin' round about it's time enough to flit.”

When there's joy in ilka heart, and there's mirth in every e'e,
When we've burst the bands o' care and feel the spirit free,
An' we canna tell what house it is, we then may think it fit
To whisper to each other—Is the house warm yet?
Is the house warm yet? is the house warm yet?
It aye becomes the cozier the langer that we sit;
An' till it's like an oven we will never steer a fit,
Though we ask at ane anither—Is the house warm yet?

When Bell begins to falter in his boisterous career,

132

And Mackenzie's merry voice begins to sound a little queer,
And Hill's becoming tuneless—we may the question pit,
In whispers to each other—Is the house warm yet?

Chorus—

Is the house warm yet? &c.

When Rhind begins, with husky throat, to overture the chair,
And the joyous-hearted Crutherland seems quite o'ercome wi' care,
And Ellis seems at sea—we may then the question pit,
In whispers to each other—Is the house warm yet?

Chorus—

Is the house warm yet? &c.

When Macnee confuses Archie wi' the little Paisley boy,
And Dunbar's tongue is motionless by sheer excess of joy,
And Spens callsit doubly hazardous—we then may think it fit
To inquire at ane anither—Is the house warm yet?

Chorus—

Is the house warm yet? &c.

133

When Salmond breaks his glass and seeks to justify the deed,
And the Doctor frae Gartnavel tries to stand upon his head,
And the landlord fa's asleep—we may then the question pit,
In whispers to each other—Is the house warm yet?

Chorus—

Is the house warm yet? &c.

And when the house is warmed at last, and frae it we have gane,
We maun haud a carefu' memory o' the road back again;
An' o' friendship an' o'kindness we'll often tak a fit,
An' come rinnin' back to ask—Is the house warm yet?

Chorus—

Is the house warm yet? &c.

134

AN APPEAL FROM THE SHERIFF

Sustains the pursuer's title!
Finds no irregularity in cital,
Therefore repels the defences,
And in respect
The stamp is correct,
Decerns for pursuer, with expenses.

Am I to be ruined by such drivel?
No! I'll see the pursuer at the devil;
'Tis only Henry Bell's decision—
'Tis not too late
To advocate,
And avoid this enormous lesion.

135

I'll go to the Court of Session,
And resist this most infamous oppression;
I'll retain both Monro and M`Kenzie,
Fordyce, Handyside,
And others true and tried,
And I'll put the pursuer in a frenzy.

But if Fortune in spite of them should fail me,
And neither law nor equity avail me,
I'll care not for either Division—
Though I go to the court
Of last resort,
I'll upset this preposterous decision.

Notes on An Appeal from the Sheriff, see p. 196.

136

ON HOPE

Saw ye the snow-wreath,
White on the hill?
Saw ye the wild lily
Bloom by the rill?
Saw ye the star
Light heaven only,
Gleaming afar,
Lovely and lonely?

Hope's like the snow
That falls from the sky:
Beauteous and holy,
It dazzles the eye.
But with manhood comes sorrow,
And hopes disappear;
And the snow-drop to-morrow
Will melt to a tear.

Hope's like the lily
That bloomed in the spring,
Wooing the breeze
With its delicate wing.
Alas! the bright sun,
In which it delighted,
Too powerfully burns,
And the lily is blighted.

137

Hope's like the lone star
In Eternity riding,
The trembling mariner
O'er the deep guiding.
A dim earthly vapour
Its glory hath crossed:
Hope has departed—
The sailor is lost.

138

FORGET NOT ME

Forget not me, my love,
When others whisper thou art fair;
With honeyed words their lips may move,
But love like mine is rare.

Forget not me, my love,
When warmer eyes upon thee rest;
Their fire can ne'er so fervent prove
As that within my breast.

Think not I doubt thy faith;
The wreathy foam upon the sea,
Spread by the zephyr's gentlest breath
Is not more pure than thee.

I well believe thee true,
Thy heart will ne'er deceitful be;
But then that heart is tender too,
For it was kind to me.

May not a tearful eye,
A glowing cheek, and mournful air,
Break from thy friendly heart a sigh,
And waken pity there?

139

AE DAY I GOT MARRIED

[_]

Air—“They all take a sup in their turn.”

Ae day I got married—an' so you see
There of course was an end to peace wi' me;
Whenever I moved, Kate loosed her tongue,
An' when I replied, she took to the rung;
So what between licking,
An' scolding, an' kicking,
I hoped for rest but in the grave.

My wife was a woman—an' so you see
She was nae great shakes at constancy;
Sae a lawyer cam' and skreighed himsel' hoarse,
Persuading at me to get a divorce;
For, says he, if ye dinna,
Ye're a low stupit ninny,
An' ye'll get nae rest but in the grave.

But he was a lawyer—an'so you see
Ilk thing that he said was a great muckle lee;
But the very attempt put my wife in a fever,
An' nought but a muckle-wigged doctor could save her,
Wha swore by the rood
He wad do what he could
To rescue my spouse frae the grave.

140

But he was a doctor—an' so you see
My ill-natured Katty began to dee;
So in a few days she was laid in the mool,
An' I was delivered frae a' my dool:
So I fand I was right,
That to do what I might,
My only relief was the grave.

141

THE SWINE

A SKETCH

My twa swine on the midden,
Wi' very fat their een are hidden,
Their wames are swelled beyond dimension,
Their shapes!—ye hae nae comprehension.

Sic a sicht!—their tails sae curly,
Their houghs sae round, their necks sae burly;
In the warld there's naething bigger
Than the tane—except the tither!

University of Virginia Library

THE ANNUITY

WISHES

(OF A MISANTHROPE)

THE FACULTY ROLL

THE MULTIPLEPOINDING

SOUMIN AN' ROUMIN

THE OLD TRUE BLUE

AN HISTORICAL BALLAD

THE SAUMON

THE PROCESS OF AUGMENTATION

THE LORDS MODIFY

THE HERITORS REJOICE

THE MINISTER CONSOLES HIMSELF

THE LAW OF MARRIAGE

THOUGHTS AT SEA

THE REFORM BILL

JOHN AND JEAN

ANTENUPTIAL

JOHN SINGS OF JEAN

JEAN SINGS OF JOHN

POSTNUPTIAL

JOHN TELLS OF JEAN[_] (To a tune of his own composing.)

JEAN REFLECTS ON JOHN[_] (To the same tune.)

THE BANKS O' THE DEE

THE PROCESS OF WAKENIN'

CESSIO BONORUM

LADY! THINE EYE IS BRIGHT

WHAT WILL I DO GIN MY DOGGIE DEE?

ELSIE

DUBBYSIDE

WHEN THIS OLD WIG WAS NEW

THE SIGN O' THE CRAW

(SENTIMENTS ATTRIBUTED TO A WELL-KNOWN FREQUENTER OF THAT INSTITUTION)

MY WIFE HAS COME OWER TO CURE ME

DRINKIN' DRAMS

(BACCHANALIAN HEROICS)

HERE I AM

WE BE THREE POOR BARRISTERS

THE LAWYER'S SUIT

MY NANNIE

THE HOLY LOCH

INSURANCE

IS THE HOUSE WARM YET?

AN APPEAL FROM THE SHERIFF

ON HOPE

FORGET NOT ME

AE DAY I GOT MARRIED

THE SWINE

A SKETCH

JOHN TELLS OF JEAN
[_]

(To a tune of his own composing.)

JEAN REFLECTS ON JOHN
[_]

(To the same tune.)