Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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Poems, on sacred and other subjects | ||
The Rose of Sharon.
Save by the genius of the mountain stream,
The sighing wood, or thyme-surrounded spring,
While brooding over fancy's fairy dream!
Awake! to swell by far a nobler theme
Than honours won upon the field of war—
Than Waterloo, where furbish'd steel did gleam,
When Wellington did gain the ducal star,—
Rich Sharon's thornless Rose now blooms on wild Sennar.
Wipe from thy aching eye the burning tear!
No more the rude marauder's ruthless hand
His predatory bark shall round thee steer;
No more his cruel threat thy sons shall fear,
Or, 'neath his scorpion-scourge, convulsive weep;
Grim Ferity smooths up his brow severe,
And Love triumphant rules both land and deep,
While Bondage shuts his eyes in everlasting sleep.
With all her ardent ecstacy of soul,
While Praise responsive joins the glowing lay
In strains that echo wide from pole to pole;
And, Afric, though the scorching heat of Sol
The rose and lily from thy sons hath driven,
Yet Freedom, deep engraved on Mercy's roll,
Shall open wide to them the gates of heaven,
And Slavery's hell-forged chains asunder shall be riven.
Its amaranthine bloom shall never fade;
Alike, with beauteous hue, it lustrous blows
On Atlas' top or in drear Greenland's shade;
Whether by Chalmers be its worth display'd,
Where learning scans each phrase with logic eye,
Or lone sequester'd missionary stray'd
'Mong nations rude, beneath another sky,
Where rang through ages gone the cannibal's war cry.
Hath borne you far from Britain's classic shore;
Your pilot be th' Immortal King above,
Who dare those gloomy regions wild explore,
Disseminating wide that heavenly lore
Which drives Delusion from his ebon throne;
Bursts the strange spell, which, passion's wand before
Destructive waved, throughout the burning zone,
And leaves angelic love within the soul alone.
To cheer the fields with warm prolific beam;
Sweet, to the sun-scorch'd Indian, faint, forlorn,
At sultry noon, is Ganges' cooling stream;
Sweet, to the fetter'd captive, is the dream
Of freedom, and release from want and woe;
But sweeter far the light which now doth gleam
On savage lands, and freely doth bestow
The unction that sole soothes sin's heart-convulsing throe.
Which Amram's augur, tranced on Peor high,
Beheld—ev'n Jacob's Star, whose radiant glare
Illumed the gloom of black futurity:
The wide-expanded kingdom he could 'spy
O'er which Messiah would in glory reign,
When all, 'neath torrid, mild, or frigid sky,
Should join in anthems, through the bless'd domain,
To Him whose cleansing blood once Calvary's cross did stain.
Which to the favour'd son of Amas shone,
Transcendent as high-noon surpasses night,—
Christ, drench'd in blood for sins, though not his own!
When o'er red Edom's fields he march'd alone,
For sins of deepest tincture to atone,
Messiah the unequall'd vintage trode,
To waft the wanderers wild back to his own abode.
Take not a future but a past survey;
A sight appears, which makes the bosom thrill,
In the lone garden of Gethsemane:
The grand fulfilment of the prophecy,
That “death should have his death's-wound,” now draws near,
When, prostrate on the ground, the Saviour lay
In blood bedew'd from agony severe,
Drinking the sin-gall'd cup for man he loved so dear.
Among his friends no watchful eye He found;
For, 'neath the weepings of the roral skies
They sank in death-like slumbers on the ground.
Then waved hell's black emblazon'd banners round,
As if, for man, the field of war were lost;
Again, the demon-troops their leader crown'd
With wreaths of fame; but short-lived was their boast,
For, quick, their vaunting vain was by destruction cross'd.
At once the traitor-guided band appears,
And grim assassination's torches' light
Gleams direly clear on scimitars and spears.
Judas, the van of this base rabble, steers,
With heart perfidious, drench'd in bloody guile;
And, as His follow'rs stand absorb'd in fears,
He hails his Master, kissing him the while;
Yet hate Satanic beams through the dissembled smile.
By his own creatures,—who the theme can scan?
The Deity, enshrined in human clay,
To fall a victim 'neath the hand of man?
'Twas Thine, Omniscience, to devise this plan
Which prostrates reason to its matchless light;
Best emanation of that trine divan
By Godhead held, ere shone creation bright,
When, throughout bonndless space, reign'd dark chaotic night.
The scatter'd flock behold, without their guide,
All timid fly from persecution's view,
Forsake their leader, and for safety hide.
But He—the mob's maltreatment must abide—
Is headlong borne into the judgment hall,
Where Pilate, who in council doth preside,
Condemns Him 'neath their brutal rage to fall,
That tumult's tongue may cease through envy's answer'd call.
Fills Salem's streets! what execrations ring!
Where praise erst flow'd, where beam'd devotion mild,
Where suff'ring touch'd compassion's keenest string!
While through the crowd heav'n's sin-destroying King
Bears his own cross to bloody Calvary,
That He, by death, may their salvation bring,
Who should, through faith, from their destruction fly;
Ev'n those who 'gainst his life in frantic rage now cry.
“My God, my God, why hast thou me forsaken?”
Hell's gloomy troops, aroused, as by surprise,
Feel in their souls hope's dim-seen form half 'waken.
But oft is guile by snares unlikely taken,
And grim despair fills hope's prolific womb,
And wisdom's deepest schemes to nought are shaken,
Or on their owners' heads destructive boom—
This demon-spirits felt when Jesus fill'd the tomb.
(Between two malefactors suff'ring, just);
Now in short triumph o'er his frame reigns death,
The sable tyrant with voracious lust.
But soon shall he receive his deadly thrust,
Have his dart broken, fatal-edged so long;
And all, who in redemption's virtue trust,
Shall swell with ecstacy the glorious song
To Him who vanquish'd death, that erst seem'd matchless strong.
Are their base hearts who throng the cross around,
Who now reward His love with murd'rous hate,
Who cured their sick—freed those by devils bound—
Who made the deaf's ears know the joy of sound—
Who call'd the dead from death's dark gulf profound—
And souls immured in sin from guilt set free;—
At recompense so base, light from his throne doth flee!
Sinks instantaneous in the gloom of night,
Without eclipse from intervening moon,
And earth's black orb rolls quite debarr'd from light;
Convulsed, she quakes; and pale terrific fright
The nations seizes, wond'ring at the view;
The vested high priest, swooning at the sight,
Beholds the temple's vail quick rent in two,
Emblem of access free to all believers true.
Then rose, victorious, conq'ring death and hell,
And with Him brought saints to the light of day
Who long lay fetter'd in death's dreary cell.
Thereafter He with men on earth did dwell,
Confirming thus His doctrine by His power,
Ere yet the Sacred Spirit on them fell;
Them to support, unto the latest hour,
'Gainst men and demon's rage, though leagued them to devour.
His gospel preaching throughout ev'ry land;
None but the King of heav'n their aid and guide,
Who steers their course with secret-working hand.
Of Afric and Arabia's burning sand,
The pain, the toil, most patiently they bore;
With countless perils, from the sea and strand,
They warr'd, that distant lands might hear their lore,
And with the precious seed profuse be scatter'd o'er.
Wide o'er the world did Sharon's Rose extend;
Till Rome's black venom, poisoning its root,
Its verdure blighted, and its boughs did rend.
Then, from the north dire, barb'rous tribes descend,
Huns, Goths, and Vandals, with victorious sweep;
Her learning and religion to defend
In vain Europa strove; for, like the deep,
They whelm'd all, round and round, in ruin's blasted heap.
And all their once fresh-tinted bloom was fled;
Though brutal rage drove with triumphant reins,
While 'neath his car unnumber'd thousands bled;
Though Sharon's Rose seem'd rooted out and dead;
Yet heaven's protecting hand it kept the while:
One shoot He planted, and upon it shed
His choicest blessing—in Iona's isle—
There did it bud and bloom, 'neath his benignant smile.
And sheds its glory hence through ev'ry clime;
Grim Paganism 'neath its blaze declines,
And fast approaches the millenial time.
Through savage lands is heard the dulcet chime
Of holy song, where murder's voice erst swell'd;
And Christian love, of union's bonds the prime,
Erects her throne where tortured captives yell'd;
And Zion's flag now floats, by ev'ry land beheld.
Refrain from owning Brumma for their god;
Through China's realms the glorious message runs
To light those who in Tien's pagod trode;
Dark Java, that inhospitable abode,
Now joins, of praise, the soul-elating tone:
And superstition's galling pond'rous load
Falls from your sons, Sumatra and Ceylon,
And countless other realms beneath the scorching zone.
Sudden to set in everlasting night;
No sun-scorch'd pilgrim thitherward shall roam,
Nor mufti mutter o'er the impious rite;
The astonish'd Gaour sees Zoroaster's light
Drown'd by the splendour of the gospel-sun;
The roving Arab's sabre, glancing bright,
No more sheds terror o'er the desert dun
On peaceful caravans, who joy'd its sight to shun.
The outcasts of Britannia's lovely bow'rs—
Australia, yet shall moral feeling smile,
And sin-bound souls recruit their blasted pow'rs;
America, where mental stupor lours
Shall bloom, refresh'd by Zion's genial show'rs,
From Patagonia north to Baffin's Bay,
And to rich harvest rise, beneath heaven's fostering ray.
Shall joyous join to swell Immanuel's praise,
Punctual as birds, when rosy morn's at hand,
When verdant spring the fields in green arrays.
Then Rage no more in flame his arm shall raise
Against his brother, threat'ning blood and death;
But glowing heart-felt love each act displays,
And pure devotion flows from every breath,
Nursed by that cordial balm, unfading Christian Faith.
All Must Die.
And tulip wither'd lie;
This solemn message they disclose,
That “all on earth must die.”
Though summer decks the fields with green,
Fair to the raptured eye,
Yet winter writes on all the scene,
“All earthly things must die.”
Long spreads his foliage round,
And shelter oft the cow'ring flock
Beneath his shade have found;
But storms at length impair his strength,
Apace his beauties fly;
Till, mould'ring low, to time he bow,
Exclaiming, “all must die.”
Sing in the summer beams,
'Mid honeysuckle's balmy flow'rs
That fringe the purling streams!
At morn or eve they ply;
Which sends this truth creation o'er,
“All joys on earth must die.”
And eye like diamond clear,
And polish'd lily-brow so meek,
With charms the soul to cheer!
Age soon shall ridge that brow so white,
And dim that sparkling eye,
And that gay cheek's vermillion blight,
Proclaiming—“all must die.”
How few the tidings mind?
The vanities of flaunting youth
Their eyes enchanted blind:
E'en age, too oft in folly bound,
Lets time unheeded fly,
Unmindful of the warning sound—
“O man, thou soon must die!”
On Eden's blissful scene,
When endless rapture led the dance,
Unknown to sullen spleen!
But Eden's virgin joys are o'er,
Her blooms all blighted lie;
And death's black banner, stain'd with gore,
Denounces—“all must die.”
That radiates through the gloom,
And waves her dazzling torch of light
Around the frowning tomb!
'Tis Faith! that cheers the humble soul,
That soothes the mourner's sigh,
And points to worlds, beyond control
Of death, where joys ne'er die.
Revive when winter's past;
And soar, hosannas sweet to sing
In endless life at last.
Loud swelling to the sky,
For on Immanuel's blissful shore
No dweller e'er shall die.
Ode to Charity.
Weeping over misery,
Heaven marks thy ev'ry doing,
While thou art the path pursuing
That doth lead to scenes of bliss,
Past our knowledge while in this.
Who embrace the gospel's call;
Fruit of that most precious tree
Which from hunger's power doth free;
Faith and Hope resplendent shine,
But thour't the brightest of the trine.
Ode to Friendship.
Source of earth's most ecstatic joy,
From thee throughout the mind do roll
Those pleasures which can never cloy!
The treasures of Peruvian mines
May charm the miser's eye,
But round the heart thy hand entwines
A band of surer tie.
Returning, and burning
With still increasing light,
To soothe here, and smooth here
Life's rough oppressive weight.
The poring philosophic sage,
From social intercourse self-hurl'd,
With thee unheeded war doth wage.
Vague compensation for a friend
Is scientific skill;
The brow of care it can't unbend,
But knits it closer still.
Thy pleasure, past measure,
Haunts not his drear abode,
To cheer him, and bear him
Along the rugged road.
While sailing down the tide of time,
Who feels the mystic guardian knot
Him hold in pleasure's maze sublime.
To lend the charm of mirth in health,
Of succour in distress,
To man, is earth's most precious wealth,
His truest happiness.
He needs not, he heeds not
Imperial power and fame;
Their grandeur and splendour
His notice never claim.
As through this wilderness I stray,
My supplication hear, and grant
This darling boon, for which I pray:
A friend to cheer this mundane scene,
So direly tinged with woe,
Till one arrive, of brighter sheen,
To man unknown below;
Where caring, despairing,
Are objects far remote,
Where joying, uncloying,
Is ev'ry dweller's lot.
ON THE Decay of the Scottish Language & Manners.
And Independence ca' your Faither,
And hail, for your leal elder Brither,
Fidelity,
Join socially wi' ane anither,
To mourn wi' me.
(The miser's god, his joy and pain,)
That gars me pour my doolfu' main,
Wi' harp unstrung,
But 'cause they've scorn'd frae hill and plain
Our mither tongue.
First glintit on our native place,
And banish'd the expressive grace
O' words sae pawky,
And planted a base mongrel race,
No half sae knacky.
Lilt owre a lay in Scottish verse;
The savage sounds their sauls wad pierce
Wi' siccan force,
They'd stap their lugs, and swear 'twas Erse
Or mongrel Norse.
As 'gainst true honour steek your een?
Ye whase forbears ha'e aften seen
War's field wi' Wallace;
Wha did o' yon invaders clean
Our hills and vallies.
Wear naething but a Scotsman's face?
Can freedom mark nae kindred trace
Within your heart,
That should hae been her resting place,
Unstain'd by art?
And back to your allegiance turn,
And thae landlouper manners spurn
Ye're now pursuin',
Before in dark destruction's urn
They seal your ruin.
When tongue and heart gaed side by side,
Before the accursed glare o' pride
Gleam'd owre the bent,
When on ilk glen and mountain wide
Smiled blithe content.
Ambition shot nae venom'd stang;
The younkers struck the lover's sang
Wi' bosoms licht,
And parent's souls wi' pleasure rang
To see them richt.
Nor Scotland left in want benichted
By vagrant gentry, wha hae tichted
Taxation's ban's,
And harriet us, though they ha'e righted
A' foreign lan's.
Vice owre baith rich and poor doth reign;
Baith priests and laity sair may grane
In sackcloth weed;
Auld Scotland's devour'd, ne'er again
To raise her head!
How Scotland's bairns wi' freedom dwell,
For now the darin' thistle fell
Hings doun its head;
And her sweet purple heather bell
Is wallowt dead.
Whase fame ance far and near did ring;
The harp's untuned in ilka string
For her misdeeds,
And her sweet minstrels doolfu' hing
Unlaurell'd heads.
Elegy on Robert Frame,
SHOEMAKER, EAST KILBRIDE.
That gars ilk body hing their brow?
“Wow, are the tidings strange to you?
Death's batt'rin'-ram
Has noost the carcase, black and blue,
O' Robin Fram!”
His peregal we'll never get!
King Crispin's sons may whinge and fret
Aside their dram,
Sin' death has ta'en, as nature's debt,
Queer Robin Fram.
Atween Port-Patrick and Dundee?
He gart the time like lightning flee,
When ane did happen
To touch his endless comic glee
Out owre a chappin.
O' Comus at a rant or fair!
Weel was he wordy o' a skair,
Frae ony body,
O' porter, yill, or better ware,
True blue or toddy.
He brak industry's pinin' tether,
And kennin weel whar to forgether
Wi' chaps o' glee,
There would they bleeze wi' ane anither
Till a' were ree.
While tastin' o' the maut-bree barrel,
He didna stan' to rive and harle,
But doun on's back,
Syne wi' his legs he keepit parle,
And flang and strack.
Could bang their circus braggadocios;
In Greek he could ha'e puzzled Grotius
Wi' his deep head:
But, oh! his want ilk birkie's woe shows,
For Robin's dead.
Wha thrum for cash the dancin' solo,
For manliness he beat you hollow;
For Robin ever
Drank a' his pay: whate'er might follow
He pouch'd it never.
For sib was he to the ale bicker;
His face oft gart ye laugh and nicker,
At his ain cost;
He was a frequent prize, and sicker;
But now he's lost.
Fill ony neuk within your breast,
A snod headstane ye'll raise at least
To mark his graff;
And, gratis, I shall gi'e ye neist
His Epitaph.
EPITAPH.
Cauld below lies Robin Fram,Wha sincerely loved his dram,
By which love he'll surely merit
To be call'd a man of spirit.
True, indeed; but 'tis a pity
'Twas the sp'rit of aquavitæ.
An exceedingly inoffensive man, whose humour over a quiet glass was truly entertaining, to those who could occasionally withdraw the frown of gravity from their brows.
A kind of gipsy jargon, with which he sometimes amused his companions in his revels, to which he gave the name of Greek.
Donald Stuart: a Tale.
Tha snaw fell thick, the wind was heigh,
The craws had left the dark muir-side
To shelter in the haughs o' Clyde;
The kye were bound up in the byre,
And we sat round the gleesome fire;
Whan Donald Stuart, blind and lame,
Led by his dug, withouten hame,
Blew up his chanter at our door,
Whilk at Culloden rang before.
The bairns were blithe, whan frae the loan
They heard the sound o' Donald's drone,
And loot him in wi' flichtrin speed,
And fed his dug wi' bits o' bread.
Wi' eild and storm was Donald yowden,
And's legs wi' dirt were sairly browden,
His shouthers daugit owre wi' snaw,
Whilk ance were clad in tartan braw,
And cauld, and aiblins hunger fell,
Mair pity drew than tongue can tell.
To sort him up ilk lent a han';
Ane lowst his meal-pock and his plaid,
Anither laid his pipes aside;
Ane dawded frae his locks the snaw,
Anither aff his hose did draw;
Syne set him by the cheerie ingle,
Wi' some warm meat, which gart's bluid tingle;
While aft we could wi' feeling trace
Joy's tear rin doun his furrow'd face.
And, oh! how did his spirits waken!
Whan tellin' how the Highland clans
Fought at Falkirk and Prestonpans;
Or how they march'd across the Tweed,
Wi' gallant Charlie at their head;
Or how the folk upbye at Lon'on
Were quakin' when the Prince was comin'.
His breast wi' martial fire wad goup
While blithely singin' “Johnnie Cope;”
At “Charlie in the Isle o' Skye.”
But when Culloden field cam' roun'
His voice strack up anither soun',
And aft the tears cam' trickling doun.
Yet still he tauld the waefu' story,
And in the hopeless cause wad glory;
Still brag o' Charlie's deeds o' fame,
Whan fechtin for his lawfu' hame;
And boast about his look and air,
His bonnie face and yellow hair.
Wi' feidfu' wrath he'd bitter ban
The waefu' Duke o' Cumberlan',
(Wha cam' against them on the fiel',)
And vow'd he was sent by the deil.
For a' her couthie friendly ways,
And fealty to the Stuart cause,
And guid auld hamely Scottish laws,
Whilk, wi' guid reason, plain declare
The son to be the faither's heir.
At whilk the younkers a' did glour,
Upon the floor he got them ranked,
And gart them dance, while they could shank it,
To hieland reels and brisk strathspeys,
Auld Scotland's cantie festive lays.
Was just the nicht o' Valentine;
And some blithe nei'bour lads and lasses
Met at our house, to try what passes
Wi' future fortune on sic nichts,
When weird her magic candle lichts.
To see how aften changed the dye;
And whether they gat names they likit,
Or gyn they mix'd (whilk sair them fykit).
At length their fates were fairly fix'd,
And some wi' ithers coshly mix'd
In lo'esome kisses o' their joes,
To them a rapt'rous glad'nin' dose.
Syne gart auld Donald fill the drone,
And play till he was richt far yon;
They tired their legs and pleased their fancies;
Till, pechan, they bood quat the wark,
Fair fouchten out, though young and stark.
The lasses vow'd they'd dance nae mair,
And dried their faces, red their hair;
The lads raised groats apiece, to pay
The piper for his minstrelsy;
And a' declared, before they'd gang,
They'd hear auld Donald sing a sang.
He needed nae fraca o' fleeching,
Like some, amaist as lang's a preaching,
But clear'd his hawse, and syne began;
And thus his hamely ditty ran.
DONALD'S SANG.
Green grow the rashes, O,
Nae pleasure has this world to me,
But when I'm wi' the lasses, O.
Despair me never fashes, O,
For blithe I'll toddle sax Scots miles
At e'en, to see the lasses, O.
The time most cheerfu' passes, O,
Where aft, till cocks proclaim the day,
I tousle wi' the lasses, O.
The lazy doitit hashes, O,
I draw the bar, and out I creep
Mysel', to see the lasses, O.
Though twa unfeelin' asses, O,
They'll fecht while they can stan' their lane
If ought insult the lasses, O.
Wha late and early splashes, O,
Through dub and mire, frae neck to heel,
Before he'll want the lasses, O.
The whisky bottle ben was brung
By the guidwife, wi' muckle mense,
To mak' a kind o' recompense
To Donald for his blithesome ditty,
Sae primely timed, and eke sae witty;
Syne, after that, the younkers parted
In social mood, and a' licht hearted.
To 's bed auld Donald gaed, and sleepit
Till clear the sun o'er mountains peepit;
His breakfast gat, then march'd awa,
Wi' 's faithfu' dog, amang the snaw.
THE CHANGE O' THE TIMES;
An Ingle Crack.
An' frae the loch the curlers had return'd
Wi' dozint han's, an' dreepin' noses blae,
Splorin' the hale road hame amang the snaw;
While, frae the wast, the cauld win' louder blew,
Shorin' o' drift, the shepherd's sairest wae.
Blythe Robin Rae, wi's stockin', doitit down
To his auld cronie, hamely Saunders Gray;
Wha, wi' his spouse, sat beekin' by the ingle,
While their oe Tammie did himsel' divert
Twirlin' a tottum on the clean hearth-stane.
Blithe were the twa, when Robin's hoast they heard
Ayont the hallan, while he daudit frae
His shoon the snaw, an' his blue bonnet sheuk.
Withouten ceremony, ben comes he,
Wi' common salutation, “Wha warms best
Amang ye here the nicht?”—“Wha's niest the fire,”
Quoth Janet, while she brings a chair, an' rypes
The ribs to gratify their lealfu' guest.
To set the blood in motion through his han's,
An' syne began a stockin' to cast on,
Wi' yarn that his ain thriftie Elspa span.
Saunders was, wi' the souple o' a flail,
Thrangly engaged, fittin' a tug to stan'
The niest day's wark; while Janet, at her wheel,
Joined wark wi' crack, an' fast the time gaed on.
Hech, Sirs! but things are sairly alter'd now,
Ye'd think the warl' maist turn'd upside down.
As I cam' yont the loan by Arthur Gawt's
It was, wi' gossip's tongues, baith wives an' men,
Bummin' like ony barn on bridal nights,
Or bee-skep at the castin'.
Saunders.
E'en sae, man!
Truth, little better can come o' the gear
His umquhile gutcher wan; gin tales be true,
It cam' nae honest way. He was a body
Wha wadna lea a stane unturn'd, whare he
Could think his greedy clutches would come speed.
It matter'd na' by what way 'twas obtain'd,
Saebeins he gat it; now the kintra's clatter
Is—“Sin' it cam' by win', 'twill gang by water.”
But what need ane say aught o' Arthur Gawt?
The maist feck o' the warl' is gaun as fast
Into the clutches o' the glede as he!
Robin.
I kenna how they manage to keep up
Sic dear garivishin; certes, were I
To try, about my buird, sic costly pranks,
I'd soon be tethert by fell poortith's branks.
But sair, I dread, the upshot o' sic wark
Will gar some rue the day when they began
To ape the manners o' the rich an' great.
Janet.
'Twill soon be seen whar a' their grandeur lies,
Poor, thochtless fools! wha ha'e nae fear o' Guid,
Nor loove to mense ava', but rin in debt,
Withouten either will or power to pay:
A thing nae ferlie now-a-days.
Saunders.
Were laws as strict as I wad ha'e them made,
I trow for beagles there wad be less trade,
Or mair for hangmen; I'd gar the woody
Haud mair respeck for honesty amang us,
Than a' that ministers can say or do!
Robin.
Soon wen ye on the bench! for trugs, I'm rede,
Sax hunder mark laird Barehips gat frae me,
A towmond byegane at auld Hallowe'en,
Will be like butter in the black dog's hause.
For, when I stappit down ae night at e'en
To lift the int'rest, soon I fan', I trow,
To my nae sma' vexation, nae great rowth
Within his coffer. Wealth o' show they ha'e;
Braw carpet floors, and gowd rimm'd China cups,
Bottles and glasses rife, and frank and fair—
But what sairt that to me, when a' I gat
Was twa-three dish o' tea; for bread, waesocks!
'Twas thin as ony wafer. That was a'
I thumb'd for my kin' aid in time o's need.
He promised fair, nae doubt, that he wad sen't,
An' spak' as it were but to him a trifle;
But whare is't yet?
Janet.
My trowth it's in their wames,
Like muckle mair guid gear o' ither folks!
Bare, braggin' beggars, whase hale study is
To twine ger thrifty folk out o' their gear,
An' rant about like lords an' ladies a'!
While we maun toil to bear their howtie heads.
Saunders.
Gear's no sae easy won to gang sic gaets;
But there has come amang us now sae mony
Outlandlish manners, that ilk corky-head
Wad swap his conscience, e'er he'd want the means
Wherewi' to haud him saunterin' about
It's like to gar a body's teeth a' water
To see their gomril gaets, when ane looks back
Upon the mensefu' ways o' our forebears.
Owre rash in takin', for guid twenty pounds,
Laird Grippock's line; whilk, had I lang delay'd,
Wad been nae better than Squire Barehips' word.
But, I did herd the loun, till, timeously,
Just when his dochter's name was in the kirk,
I threaten'd I wad lay the lad in jail—
Whilk gart him draw his purse his name to save,
Else I had got the whistle o' my groat.
Janet.
Few brides were blither than was I, atweel,
When our guidman cam' laughin' ben the floor,
Sayin'—“It is na a' tint that's in hazard.”—
An' now it's whare there is but little skaith,
As lang's the nation mans to keep her feet—
In B---n and C---ck's bank.
Robin.
Guid sen' that mine were in as sicker han's!
But, leezance! it's past redemption now,
I muckle dread, or in great jeopardy.
But should I loss't, 'tis but ae lesson mae
To a' the kintra, to tak' tent in time
O' billies wham they see unkeen o' wark
And fond o' finery.
Saunders.
Were siccan airs confined
'Mang folk wha claim nae orra holiness,
'Twere less; but now we see our priests as vain
And howtie, as they were na' sent to preach
Humility, but a' the pride o' Nick.
Robin.
Sax towmonds past at Lammas 'tis sin we
Were favoured wi' a visit o' Mass John;
And had it no been for some selfish en',
I ferlie muckle gif we'd seen him then.
Our stent was to be raised.
Janet.
And batin' ance, when he our Meg did kipple,
He hasna' cross'd our hallan sin' he cam'—
Na, na, they downa speak to hamely folk:
Ye'll get but little o' their company
Unless ye keep a buird might sair a king.
I'm rede, gif they had lived in former days,
They had bestowed on Martha a' the praise.
Robin.
Ay, ay! they're a' fu' ready at a snoist;
Few o' them wad, I trow, reprove a cook
For losin' time, gin they were to be guests:
It's but to sic like howffs they loove to tramp.
To haud examines in a cauld, bare barn,
Is what our pastors now-a-days contemn,
They're a' sae skeigh an' gentle 'mang their flocks.
Our kirk, I fear, wad on her hunkers sit,
Were the dark days o' persecution back,
Which tried their creed wha wonn'd in thae grim times:
Few o' our cozie lads wad tak' the hills,
Ere they'd subscribe the whore o' Bab'lon's creed,
Like Peden, Welsh, Cargill, an' mony mae.
Saunders.
'Deed they were men who seem'd to ha'e at heart
The cause o' Him wham they profess'd to serve;
And, rather than mak' shipwreck o' their faith,
Suffer'd the fate o' martyrs—countin't gain
To lea' the sinfu' warl', wi' a' its pomp,
And dwell where want and pain are never known.
But, waesocks! it's owre true that ye ha'e said,
Our priests ha'e tint the spirit o' their function;
They tend the flock in houp to get the fleece,
And fallow na their Master's great comman'—
“To feed the poor”—for, certes, now we see
They a' their care bestow upon the rich,
And downa keek within a poor thing's door,
To drap the balm o' comfort on a saul
Pinin' beneath a lade o' want an' trouble.
Fu' weel I mind, ere I was in my teens,
Our umquhile pastor yearly through us cam'
To tairge us in our caritches, fu' fell,
Whilk pat us in a fizz o' fervour a'
To get oursel's weel versed in holy things,
That we might stan' wi' mense when he cam' roun',
And be a credit to oursel's and him:
Forbye, a visit he ilk towmond gied
To ilka family within his parish,
To pray, exhort, an' talk o' things divine.
But now we scarce can weekly see the face
O' our instructor, he's sae pinch'd to come
Before us on the Lord's ain holy day;
And e'en, when he appears, he canna speak
Ae word till ance he has his sermon spread,
Drawn out on black-an'-white, before his face,
Whilk gars him snoove aboon't wi' hingin' head,
That I can scarce hear ae word o' a score;
And sae come hame as wise as I gaed there,
For ought I get frae him.
Janet.
An' sae it fares
Wi' mony mae than you; our younkers a'
Will be nae mense to him, fu' weel I wat.
Saunders.
Howe'er it fare wi' them beneath their care,
The stipend and the glebe are sure to them
While government can gar us pay the tithes;
And that they'll do, unless their greater need
Rax out a paw an' haurlet to themsel's.
Robin.
A trick like that wad gar the billies think,
And shaw their pow'rs o' skill themsel's to raise
By merit, wha by patronage before
Securely sat, and shuffled by the time.
That government is needfu' is nae doubt—
How can it happen else? when plain we see
Them sawin't frae them, 'mang the nations 'roun',
Supportin' wars by their ain pride raised up;
They'll wi' their greed us dyvour a' thegither.
Saunders.
Fient haet that ane can either eat or wear
But's worried by that worm within the gourd.
Our food, our claes, tobacco, licht, and fire,
Our horses, carts and cars, our dogs and roads—
Trowth cats will be upon the list ere lang,
To crown the monstrous burden o' oppression.
About the house and on the hill, for mair
Than half-a-score o' years; and weel I wat
A wiser tyke than he ne'er took the hill
In drifty nichts, or yet mair helpfu' was
'Mang thrawart sheep, when sweer to tak' the bught;—
But on his head a tax they now ha'e clappit,
Whilk gars me yearly draw my purse, and pay
What micht me furnish wi' a special pair
O calf-skin shoon. I canna tak' his life,
And sae maun bide, to my richt sair affliction,
The bitin' lash o' our guid government.
Janet.
Poor beast, he's been our help whan little else
We had frae frien' or fremit—he shanna want
His mouthfu' while we ha'e a bite to gi'e 'im,
And that without a grudge, though trowth the tax
Is no' that light to thole.
Robin.
I drown'd our “Help,” though sair against my will,
But he was doilt and useless grown wi' eild,
Though in his younger days he was fu' fleet.
And could (ere licence had to be procured
By lairds to hunt a hare on their ain lan'),
Ha'e ta'en the bauldest maukin ever ran;
Whilk loot us aften dine on venison,—
Wha now daur nae mair think on sic a snoist,
Than dought a Jew upon a grumphy's griskin.
Scarce had I heaved the poor tyke in the pool,
When something in my breast condemn'd the deed,
And waukint in my min' the voice o' pity,
O' this warl's gear, that I amaist lap in
To bring him ance mair to the licht o' day:
I curst the king and a' his ministers,
Wha forced me to a deed that cost sic pain;
Syne hameward cam', wi' dowie heart and wae,
Wi' tears o' grief an' anger in my e'e.
Saunders.
That won'er o' our isle, that's looked on
By some as ane inspired by God himsel'
To set the whomilt nation on her feet;
Though sair I dread that he and his successors
Will throw her in a pit, from whilk she ne'er,
In our day nor our sons', again will rise.
On errors in baith kirk and cabinet,
The conversation took anither turn,
To things mair suited to their hamely lear,—
The state o' markets, price o' horse an' kye,
Births, deaths, and marriages—till clinkum-bell
The hour o' bed-time frae the steeple rang,
Whan Robin pat his stockin' in his pouch—
His plaid threw roun' him—took guid nicht—and syne
Hame doitit to his ain bien house and bed.
Hebrew Melodies.
MELODY FIRST. Nahum, Chap. I.
When night to western realms retired,
And Sol Philistia's mountains fired—
His face directed easterly.
He feels prophetic transport rise:—
“Thy awful doom await,” he cries,
“From Justice, bloody Nineveh!
With indignation red doth glow
To wreak His wrath on thee, his foe,
Thou daughter of iniquity!
The whirlwind, rapid, rolling far,
And clouds, He makes his flying car;
Seas, rivers, by Him dried up are,
Such is His matchless majesty!
The stable hills all quake for fear;
Burn'd up is earth's wide rolling sphere,
Before His dread immensity.
Who can endure His kindled ire?
High swells His wrath, like seas of fire;
Yet proves a Saviour and a Sire
To sons of pure fidelity.
And dark Oblivion's lightless cave,
Will prove the wicked's sullen grave,
Where reigns eternal misery.
What do ye plot against the Lord,
In impious league, with one accord?
No second stroke his furbish'd sword
Shall seek of you, O enemy!
And think no foeman's hand is nigh,
You'll be burnt up, like stubble dry,
Amidst your drunken revelry.
Thy sons of Belial high may swell
Gainst Him who rules in Israel,
Yet, though His millions all rebel,
God rides the car of victory.
Thy power on earth no more is known,
Thy idols vile he will dethrone,
Thee doom to death eternally.
Behold thy Saviour to thee hies;
No more shall Belial 'gainst thee rise,
For now he 's vanquish'd utterly.”
MELODY SECOND. Nahum, Chap. II.
And pour'd the awful doom;
The troops of war, before his eyes,
Presaged destruction's gloom:
He saw unnumber'd banners float,
Turms quick to battle boom,
And thus denounced the City's lot,
While yawn'd the stanchless tomb.
Against thee glances bright:
Secure the fort; let sentry's word
Be heard both day and night;
Attire thy strong with sword and spear
In all their strength and might:
But with thy foe doth God appear,
Thy vengeance to requite.
Heaves high the blazing shield;
Their weapons clash; their chariots flash
Like lightning o'er the field.
In rubbish lie the broken walls,
The river's gates now yield,
The flame runs through the palace-halls,
Where pamper'd riot reel'd.
Shall leave her stable throne;
Her maids, with eyes like coral red,
Shall loud her fate bemoan.
Thus Nineveh, though old in years,
Must evermore be gone!
The rallying shout though each one hears,
Yet backward look shall none!
And gold of endless store;
Thy heart with plunder, warrior, cheer—
Her glory now is o'er.
Each heart doth melt, each sinew shrink,
Through pain and terror sore;
Despair doth quite their spirit drink:
They fall—to rise no more.
Her children ravaged round,
Despoiling towns by sword and fire,
In blood the nations drown'd.
But God, aroused to flaming ire,
Shall all her power confound;
Nor herald's voice, nor thrilling lyre,
Shall in her chambers sound.”
MELODY THIRD. Nahum, Chap. III.
In numbers sad and slow,
When low the City lay devour'd
By the victorious foe:—
“Woe to the City! full of guile,
And riches, plunder'd nation's spoil;
No future day shall make thee smile;
Woe! bloody City, woe!
And prancing horses sound;
The blood-stain'd chariot, rapid, reels
With dire and deadly bound.
In serried ranks the horsemen rear
The glancing sword, the glitt'ring spear;
And sumless slain, with aspect drear,
Bestrew the bloody ground.
(In incantations skill'd,)
And countless whoredoms base, impure,
Thy deadly cup have fill'd:
And show thy crimes upon thy face:
He'll quite ecscind thee from thy place;
Thy beauty shall be spill'd.
Far from thy ruins wild,
Wailing that none can comfort thee,
Of mirth and beauty spoil'd:
For now, like mighty sea-lined No,
Round which prolific streams did flow,
Thou'rt levell'd by the northern foe,
Where tow'ring fanes once smiled.
Will call for strength in vain,
Or for a place of safety seek,
While red fate guides the rein.
As drop-ripe fruit falls from the trees
When shaken by the slightest breeze,
So will the foe thy ramparts seize,
And level with the plain.
Or strongholds fortify;
In vain like hills the bastion form,
High heaving to the sky;
For open to the en'my's hand
Are laid the portals of the land;
Their power thy warriors can't withstand;
Flames all thy bars destroy.
Thy gilded princes shone;
Like locusts swarming round the coasts
Thy merchants flow'd anon;
In countless troops thy warriors spread
Their serried ranks, the nations' dread;
But, quite ennerved, they basely fled,
And all thy grandeur's gone.
And on thy wardens call;
Alas! no subject hears thy cries,
Thy nobles slumber all!
And triumph's shouts around thee ring;
In every breast will rapture spring,
Relieved now from thy thrall.”
MELODY FOURTH. 2d Samuel, I. 19, &c.
Upon the mountains high,
Or, stretch'd upon the gory plain,
Thy fallen mighty lie.
Let Gath nor Askelon not hear
Those news, so grating to my ear,
Which will the uncircumcised cheer,
While I do weep and sigh.
Upon Gilboa's hills;
Nor off'ring's fume in ether wend
By banks of murm'ring rills;
For there the shield which blazed around
Lies trampled on the blood-stain'd ground;
Thy shield, O Saul, by unction bound,
Lies prostrate at their wills.
Bring from the foughten field;
Nor Saul, as oft in times before,
His sword, with valour steel'd.
They lovely in their lives have been,
And death them sever'd not, I ween;
Swifter than eagles—on the green,
Like lions, slow to yield.
Who you in scarlet clad:
With voice of woe his slaughter mourn!
Ah me! my soul is sad.
Oh how, within the battle's swell,
Have perish'd they I loved so well?
Could no bless'd arm the stroke repel
Of destiny so bad?
Excell'd the ardent throe
Which doth the female bosom move
To rapture's warmest glow.
But now from me are ever fled
They who so oft to vict'ry led;
The strength of war lies prostrate, dead,
By this marauding foe.
MELODY FIFTH. Proverbs, VII. 6, &c.
Crept o'er the plain, in lieu of day;
The bird of night pour'd forth her lay
Among the sylvan scenery.
What made the tear conglobe my eye;
What raised the deep heart-burden'd sigh,
And struck the strings of sympathy.
A youth I saw, of airy gait,
Brush swift along, with look elate,
To meet his hidden destiny.
Him to her lustful bosom press'd,
And hail'd him, as a welcome guest
For her base stanchless lechery.
It seized him like enchantment's dart;
Her potent soul-subduing art
Him lured to matchless misery.
But instant snatch'd the baited hook,
And virtue's radiant path forsook
To fall through weak simplicity.
Who stray through sleek temptation's vale,
Where thousands fall, which makes them wail
Through time and long eternity.
MELODY SIXTH. Solomon's Song, Chap. II. III.
To the banquet of cloyless delight quick repair;
For the winter of sorrow hath fled far away,
And the mild spring of gladness shines bright as noonday.
The flowers of the field now 'mong dew-drops are springing;
From each bush and spray native music is ringing;
Even sweet Philomela, unrivall'd in singing,
Beguiles the lone night with her soul-melting lay.
And the rich clust'ring grapes weigh their stems to the ground,
Which with sweet flav'rous scent doth the garden perfume:
Rise, my love! come away: thou art beauty's best bloom.
Among lilies we'll rove till the break of the morning,
And the sun banish night, while the fields he's adorning;
Bound, my love, like a roe, all dependency scorning;
On Bethel's green mountains thy freedom resume.”
And yet all my search unsuccessful did prove;
But when I was wand'ring the city around,
To my joy and surprise, my beloved I found.
“O beloved,” I cried, “never leave nor forsake me,
But of thy joys divine let me always partake free;
The daughters of Zion shall never awake thee,
Till in thy soft slumbers all langour be drown'd.”
MELODY SEVENTH. Psalm CXXXVII.
When we thought of mount Zion, from which we were torn!
On the green waving willows our mute harps now slept,
While they hung on the breeze-shaken poplars forlorn.
Even those who our spoilers were sought from us mirth;
Saying, “Strike up the lyre, to dispel pensive sadness;
Give us one of the songs of the place of your birth.”
Shall we touch their sweet strings at the will of a foe?
Nay; let us lose rather the skill of our hand
Than waft on their ears Zion's grand sacred flow.
Let my tongue sleep in silence, and sound never more;
I'd far rather share in thy now ruin'd lot
Than deny thee for all mighty Babylon's store.
In the red day of vengeance, for Zion destroy'd;
Who cried, “Lay in ruins, to spite our contendants,
Their great boasted city, that hath us annoy'd.”
The foe soon shall reach thee, our woes to requite;
And to thine own house shall thy children pursue in,
And dash them to pieces before thy dimm'd sight.
MELODY EIGHTH. Isaiah, Chap. VI.
Where spheres unnumber'd fly,
To that pure clime where love resounds,
And rapture fires each eye:
Far, far-receded from the view,
The stars, which gild our arch of blue,
Outshone, by light of purer hue
Which spirits sole can spy:
Where God immediate reigns,
Whose brilliant temple, tow'ring high,
Adorns the spacious plains;
Where seraphs strike the chiming lyre—
Not strung, like ours, with thrumming wire,
But with what suits their glorious choir—
And dulcet vocal strains.
In splendour matchless bright;
But of the angels—none thereat
Could look,—so pure the light!
Veil'd with the wings of awe they stand,
And chaunt their hymns in concord grand;
Or fly like lightning—at command—
Which gilds the vault of night.
How justly I did cry—
“Alas! should I, of lips unclean,
On heaven's courts dart an eye?
'Mong rebel sinners I do dwell,
Who shun Jehovah's praise to swell;
To me more just the vault of hell,
Where vengeance red doth fly.”
With inspiration's power,
Close to the heavenly cause I clung,
With ecstacies, that hour
A willing messenger, to fly,
At God's supreme behests, with joy;
Calling aloud—“Lo! here am I
To go, though judgment lour.”
The message sad and drear:—
“This people spy out, though they 'lone
Possess my records clear.
So, dim the sight of every eye,
And shut all ears that sound comes nigh,
Lest they repentance should descry,
And find forgiveness here.”
MELODY NINTH. Genesis, VII. 10, &c.
No lay was heard from thrush or lark,
Nor swelling wave did stir the Ark,
That sacred safe menagerie:
And sackcloth topp'd each tow'ring hill,
And fear began each breast to fill,
When lightnings burst forth brilliantly.
More dire than e'er was heard before;
And down the heavens their torrents pour,
Round all the black convexity.
For refuge to the mountains high;
The quaking heart and streaming eye
Can not avert their destiny.
And cities sink within the deep,
While crowds, assembled on each steep,
See earth turn ocean suddenly.
Or roam in search of higher land;
But, follow'd by the murd'rous strand,
They sink into eternity.
And now, a shoreless ocean drear,
Earth rolls, a glitt'ring wat'ry sphere,
Beneath the crystal canopy.
Majestic to the smiling skies,
Whereon the Ark, safe-moor'd, now lies
In absolute security.
The Vision of Mopus.
ANALYSIS.
An apostrophe to Indolence—with a view of a person under its control. The character of Mopus, in the early part of his life—his trance, and ascent to the Temple of Wisdom.—The mirror of Sapientia, with his explanation of the objects seen therein.—His return, in which he withstands the allurements of Vice, by the admonition of Self-Love.— His entertainment and discourse with Sobriety in the green vale of Contentment.—His future conduct.—An encomium on Industry.
I.
Lord of the sallow tatter'd crew,Thy listless look I loath to view;
Thy thread-bare raiment, blotch'd with dust,
Doth strike the soul with deep disgust.
Say, languid loiterer, oh say!
Why thus from happiness you stray?
Can mortals Pleasure's face descry
Through the black veil of Poverty?
Can Misery, in wrath, e'er plant
A direr shaft than haggard want?
Ah no! this truth full well I weet,
Want is with earthly ills replete.
In poverty's cloud-darken'd vale
What woes the cheerless wight assail!
Blank, drear, is all creation's smile,
When poverty doth reign the while:
Cashless—then straight an exile driven,
Damn'd by the laws of earth and heaven.
Oh, Indolence! thou bane of life,
Thy vot'ries war in endless strife;
Hunger and cold, and jails and rags,
Attend thee, while through life thou lagg'st.
Friendless and poor, what joy, what mirth,
Can mortals find upon the earth?
Disease lurks in thy stagnant blood,
And poisons all the crimson flood;
Though fate awake necessity;
And, like the searing eastern wind,
Steals slumb'ring stupor o'er thy mind.
II.
Still wishing time away;
Slow from his bed he rises, loth,
Even at the noon of day.
And, beggar-like, with rags are clad,
Pale as the living's mortal foe
Who threatens soon to end their woe;
O'erhead the fatal stroke is pending,
Beneath the blow I see them bending;
Their sprites 'twixt death and life are wending.
Do bid adieu to all below!
How canst thou loit'ring lie,
Or thy poor childrens' mis'ry see,
Or hear their melting cry?
Look to the tenants of the wood,
How they provide their young with food;
See how the little songsters sweet
Supply their nestlings weak with meat;
Keen as the knave in quest of gold
The fox breaks through the high sheepfold,
And drags the weak defenceless lamb,
Nor minds the bleatings of the dam;
And bears away
His hapless prey
At risk of life,
And constant strife
Of vengeful shepherds, leagued to be his death
So long as he or they draw breath.
Provision none he makes
For it—though famine madly rage,
'Gainst which all mortals else engage,—
The combat he forsakes.
Pursuing the uncertain prize
That sports within the flood;
Thus doth he more enjoyment find,
To his ignoble erring mind,
Than kings or royal blood.
Affords but little gain,
Yet such delusions him decoy,
To part with which would quite destroy
His bliss—and prove his bane.
Till death his fireless bosom chill,
And sweep him from the face of earth,
While life laments she gave him birth.
III.
But many views young Mopus had,
Still searching for the path to fame,
Yet missing which still made him sad.
Who on the field of ease did hover;
Mopus of indolence was free,
But yet he was a fickle rover.
Wealth, fame, and popular applause,
By Poetry in many a strain;
And well he knew all music's laws.
Untouched by his mellow lyre;
Then he, to disappointment hurl'd,
No more would court the Muse's fire.
Himself—for nature charm'd his soul;
Gay fancy's arts could he forsake?
Ah no! she ruled without control.
When all his gain was empty praise?
Despairing now to find out bliss
He dropp'd his pencil like his lays.
And drown all others with their glare,
Who are unheeded, left to whine
Through life in hopeless black despair?
This fate severely, much I ween,
Had not kind heaven with love beset
His track, and rightly it beseen.
By yonder smooth reed-border'd Lake:
In disappointment's wailing tone,
To vent his grief, he thus outspake.
IV.
To grasp Riches' coffer no more will I try;
Come, black-robed Despair, I reluctant must hail thee;
By Hope quite forsaken, I fear not to die.
Thou bright flash of heaven, oh! in pity destroy me;
Thou false ignis fatuus, to ruin decoy me;
For life's snare-allurements serve only to cloy me,
And grave-like oblivion alone I espy.
Aloof from the world, ere the world I had known;
And on nature, far, far from ambition, had ponder'd,
I had found sweet contentment, and found it alone.
But teased, harass'd, criticised, vex'd, and forsaken;
Oh! that in the dawn of life death had me taken;
Remembrance, oh! rise not, my woes to awaken;
And sleep, cruel memory, I charge thee anon.
V.
Thus Mopus mourn'd his hapless fate,And sole his mis'ry did relate,
While, flashing through the sable sky,
The barbed lightning bright did fly:
And, while the gleaming welkin shone,
Deep thunder struck her hollow tone.
Harsh scream'd the plover in the brake,
Loud yell'd the wild-duck on the lake,
Keen blew the wind, thick drove the rain
Across the dreary midnight plain.
Her slanting beam did cheering throw
Upon the grim tower's mould'ring wall,
To wake the night-owl's dreary call,
Who, from her ivy-haunt, did wail,
Harsh as could mortal ear assail.
Meanwhile did Mopus, musing wide,
Resolve on coward suicide;
Thought this last exit he would take,
To plunge into th' engulphing Lake:
When, quick, to his astonish'd sight,
Had vanish'd all the shades of night;
The dull owl dropp'd her dreary lay,
And mute was, as at noon of day;
The plover and the wild-duck harsh
Scream'd neither from the brake nor marsh;
The wind slept in her airy bed;
Sheer from the plain the rain had fled;
Far o'er the wide horizon's bound,
Was spent the thunder's blust'ring sound;
And from the sight, by tempest driven,
Fast fled the death-fraught bolt of heaven:
He rapt was from the former scene
To one of glitt'ring, dazzling sheen.
VI.
Whose verdure like the Jasper shone,
Round which did flow a limpid rill,
Where dews ambrosial sweet distil—
A Temple stood of onyx-stone.
Was deck'd with many a comely flower,
By nature form'd to recreate;
Fair amaranth and flav'rous date
Wove many an aromatic bower.
More lucid than the purest spring;
Grandeur and symmetry unite
To strike the eye, the mind delight,
With admiration's sweetest string.
Possess'd from immemorial time;
The Virtues form'd a dulcet band,
And thus to Mopus, hand in hand,
Their invitation sung sublime.
VII.
Life's thorns elude, and pull the rose
Which in fair Wisdom's garden grows,
Even love and immortality.
Thee lures, thy spirit to devour;
So, fly from her enchanting power,
And shun her woeful destiny.
And breathe the pure immortal air,
Where squallid want nor sordid care
Ne'er dim the lamp of liberty.
Arise, trip o'er the roscid road,
Where few 'mong mortals ever trod,
Or felt truth's thrilling ecstasy.
Time's race is short; haste! come away!
We'll show the path to endless day,
In th' realm of long eternity.
VIII.
This sung—they led him to the gate,Where Sapientia did await
To hail his wilder'd guest;
Sage was his look, and grave his mien,
His hoar-beard kiss'd the flowery green,
While, bowing with inviting look,
Young Mopus by the hand he took,
And thus him short address'd.
IX.
Far from the path which leads to joy;
By error's glare thou wast betray'd,
It sought thy peace still to destroy.
While pendant hung the fatal blow;
And, ere the prowler stop thy breath,
The way to happiness thee show.
Where thou shalt see things hid before;
Foolish they seem to heedless men,
Who only short-lived joys adore.
Although presented unto all!
This riddle's not more strange than true—
Be pleased to walk into the hall.
X.
Low, prostrate on the ground;
But when the Seer said, “Come away,”
Gave him his hand, and show'd the way,
He obey'd the inviting sound.
Which was with tap'stry cover'd all;
At the farther end a curtain flow'd,
That rich with gold enamel glow'd,
Which, by the Sire's desire, was furl'd,
And show'd the follies of the world.
XI.
Had such a strange fantastic look,
That Mopus burst to laughter loud,
Nor could the sight demurely brook.
Ran, eager, grasping chaff and straws;
And warrior's mad, with blood-stain'd swords,
Roared out, “revenge! for broken laws.”
Beside the lone sequester'd stream;
Some grasp'd the wind, as it did sweep
Across the flower-bespangled green.
The wild fire chase through dense and rare;
The meteor's flash some to secure
With madlike bounds rise in the air.
To reach rich Mammon's fleeting dome;
While “ever and anon” they shout,
“Kind Father take us to thy home!”
Did show that madness reign'd in man,
The Sage, with grave commanding mein,
Its explanation thus began.
XII.
Discard the comical grimace;
The prospect open'd to your view
Is comic, but 'tis solemn too.
So I demand your best attention,
To what concerning it I mention.
Down from his rectitude fell man,
And on his hapless offspring hurl'd
The plagues and follies of the world.
Burning with envy, pride, and want,
On wealth they leer, with eye aslant;
And bound o'er justice, reason, law,
To catch a feather or a straw.
What's wealth, though gain'd at such expense?
The surplusage of competence!
And what is fame, that phantom fair?
Nor more nor less than empty air!
Titles! their owners only shame,
Who boast upon a vague nickname;
For no high-sounding appellation
Can raise man higher than his station:
Virtue alone deserves our praise,
And virtuous man should wear the bays.
Observe yon glory-hunting race,
Through dense and rare, the spectre chase;
Who, rather than their object lose,
Would death with all its horrors choose:
In vain assail their ruthless ears;
Wan labour do they eye with scorn,
From every earthly pleasure torn,
And poor low-stooping service spurn
Sheer from their door, ne'er to return.
Pride and oppression gave thee birth;
Built on injustice and on power
Thus hast thou raised thy lofty tower,
Whose pinnacles have reach'd the skies,
And dazzle the beholders' eyes.
Thus Monarchy, with Papal sway,
Uninterrupted, lolls away;
While, to support its pomp and pride,
Through hardship, groans the world beside.
Yet let not this disturb thy rest—
Wherever virtue is, 'tis bless'd;
Calm, sweet, serene, life glides away
With him who walks in virtue's way;
Suns never scorch, frosts never freeze
Him who doth God and nature please;
Far more transporting joy he feels
Than he who in debauch'ry reels.
The warrior, fired with thirst of fame,
Lays cities waste to gain a name;
Depopulates whole countries wide
To gratify his damned pride;
And yet, black fiend! throughout the nation
Proclaims, 'tis all self-preservation!
And his vile colleague, brother cheat,
To keep his privy council seat,
Doth, echo-like, the theme repeat.
These keep the world in close turmoil,
Still stirring up some novel broil;
So great for wealth and power their lust is,
That stern oppression's styled bland justice.
And seek for pleasure in the wood;
Oft do they linger thus away
Full many a precious golden day,
If home they come, she's left behind:
Error on back of error lights,
And all their baseless prospects blights.
'Mongst whom thou didst commence thy chase;
The object which thou hadst in view
Was as vague, and elusive too,
As what those dreamers now pursue.
Where is the prize? they have it not,
Though deem'd within their fist close shut.
But, open—they have gain'd no more
Than what they did possess before.
Thus didst thou in delusion rove
Within the Muses' fairy grove,
And in this Eden thought'st to dwell
Till trial broke the magic spell:
Then all around was wrapp'd in gloom;
Wide yawn'd the black untimely tomb;
No face appear'd but that of death,
With visage stern, to end thy breath.
I then, in pity and in love,
Did interpose, once more to prove
Thee: but this trial is the last.
Unmindful of the when or where,
Ne'er follow fancy's meteor glare;
Nor after glory cast thine eyes,
Which doth above thy limits rise;
Nor yet the course unduly hold
Which leads to Mammon's fane of gold.
Love virtue only—that is wealth;
Sweet nature's law—for that is health;
Search for true knowledge—that is grandeur
Which far outshines all earthly splendour:
And when grim death at last appears,
When from their orbits drop the spheres,
When rings the far-heard trump of doom,
To wake the tenants of the tomb,
When, tow'ring in th' effulgent sky,
God's judgment throne's erected high,
And try in vain to shun the light,—
The terror of these objects shall
Thee neither frighten nor appal;
God shall declare then, from above,
That he doth only virtue love.
And as the man is—is his sentence:
If bad, what signifies repentance;
If bad, kind Hope is fled for ever—
One ray of her he shall have never:
Consign'd to everlasting pain,
All retrospection then is vain,
Where injured justice, to and fro,
Doth haunt the dreary realms of woe.
Go cultivate the virtue love;
True love has eyes, true love has ears,
True love has both her hopes and fears;
Eyes, to behold a brother's need;
Ears, which no ill report can feed;
Hopes, that the best account is true;
And fears, least any want their due.
Then back to earth, reform thy plan,
And act the humble part of man;
With that, thou need'st no other guide—
For misery centres all in pride.
XIII.
Yet, bowing, at his high desire
He left the spacious hall;
In youthful bloom, before the door,
His guardians, whom he left before,
In readiness were all,
To guide him off their hallow'd field,
With complimental air,
Stern virtue's weapons now to wield,
With all judicious care.
To bid these blooming nymphs farewell,
Perhaps to meet no more;
With sweet adieu they all wheel'd round,
Their duty being o'er.
Through fields, he knew not where;
When soon a damsel, brisk and gay,
Approach'd with cheerful air.
She tried, by her grand lust'rous sheen,
To wile him to her bower;
But by that very instant came
Self-love, who told her grove was fame,
And that her wealth was power;
And that the harlot had beguiled
Full many a stranger there,
But oft her trappings he had foil'd,
When listen'd to with care.
Quick from her look the lustre fled,
And all her bloom decay'd;
By Self-love thus the youth, set free
From such deluding company,
Straight down the vale now stray'd.
A humble cottage stood upon
The flower-bestuded vale,
Where neither pomp nor grandeur shone;
This was Contentment's dale.
XIV.
Which murm'ring on did play,
And 'neath the blazing noontide beam
With windings fair did stray—
An aged shepherd, musing deep,
Lay 'neath a birken shade;
While frisking lambs and fleecy sheep
Browsed on the flowery glade.
Bespoke him good and sage,
And that he had, long, long ere now,
Withstood fell passion's rage.
The complimental swain
Arose, and thus, with placid eye,
The youth did entertain.
XV.
Sobriety.Stay, O stranger, young and mild,
Tarry on this flowery wild;
See, the sun is wearing low,
From our cottage do not go
Till again the rosy morn
Sky, and fields, and woods adorn;
So, till peep of blithesome day,
Deign, young stranger, here to stay.
Mopus.
Corteous Father, hoary Sire,
Much thy kindness I admire;
Sweet, inviting is your seat,
Sure 'tis contentment's bless'd retreat:
But too long I've been away,
So I can't much longer stay;
Friends will think I've cross'd the bourne
Whence I never shall return:
Yet your converse, Sage, to hear,
I shall give attentive ear.
Sobriety.
Since instruction thou wilt take,
It I'll tender for thy sake.
Youth's beset with many snares
Which may lure him unawares;
It behoves him much to guard
Fickle fancy's lying card;
And to weigh each step in life,
For there gins and traps are rife;
There is neither rank nor station,
Post, nor place, nor occupation,
But is fraught with trials fell,
Fit to drag the soul to hell.
If not conquer'd face to face,
And driven from the combat place,
From sage experience it doth flow.
Mopus.
True, kind Sire! for every part
Darts conviction on the heart:
Vice I've found a liar deep,
Who all bounds and law would leap,
His vile purpose to attain;
And his adamantine chain
Binds with unsubduing power,
While the shafts of justice shower
'Round him while in this condition,
And fix him down in black perdition.
Sobriety.
Of the traitor guide thee through
Life's important briary maze,
Free from all his hard assays.
Never let him have a hearing,
Though he seem e'er so endearing:
Hear but his tale, he'll thee deceive;
The devil's dialogue ruin'd Eve:
But shun the first insinuation,
Then proof thoul't stand 'gainst all temptation.
I pray God speed thee on thy way:
Keep virtue's path, which leads to rest;
Her path is safest, and 'tis best.
Mopus.
Thanks, master of this verdant vale,
Thanks for thy virtue-cheering tale;
And as the sun wanes low away,
And night draws on, I cannot stay.
XVI.
Short way he from the Sire was goneWhen all this scene was changed anon;
Instead of verdant fields and groves,
Of winding dales and dark alcoves,
And show'd the dark sedge-skirted lake.
Downcast and dull young Mopus stood,
As in his wonted wretched mood;
But, such effect had wrought the vision,
He chid his conduct with derision:
Nor longer tarried there alone,
Nor mourn'd his lot with bitter tone,
But suddenly he homeward sped,
Reflecting on the life he'd led;
Resolved upon a future plan—
To act the noble part of man.
Vice now he doth indignant spurn,
A neighbour's fall doth make him mourn,
True love pervades through every act,
And follows bold industry's track;
He listens to misfortune's plaint,
And 's both philosopher and saint.
XVII.
I praise thy potent power;
Thou string'st the nerves to truest health,
And dost fell want devour.
From Eden's fatal curse,
Thou canst discard infringing hate,
If raised by empty purse.
When all in sleep are still;
Thou meet'st the sun, at first of dawn,
With pleasure and good will.
Which lies in labour's power,
And by thy toil-worn hand receive
Earth's unprolific dower.
And sloven, vilely clad;
Gay diligence I fondly eye;
At cleanliness I'm glad.
Succeed in legal gain;
He ever shifting is his plan
At each imagined pain.
But is no mopus now;
He's guided by discretion's laws,
And honour decks his brow.
The Missionary's Death.
Where solar winds, like lightning hot,
And burning heats parch up the plain,
God's servant stray'd, nor stray'd in vain.
His only aim was to convey
The gospel's sound to those who lay
Close shrouded by sin's opaque screen,
That hides heaven's bright angelic scene.
For this he rode the surging deep,
For this he climb'd the towering steep,
For this he roam'd the arid plain,
And suffer'd thirst and hunger's pain.
Impell'd, protected, by that power
Which shields in danger's darkest hour,
The cross's standard he unfurl'd
In that dark region of the world
Where terror fills the savage throne,
Beneath the ardent torrid zone;
And to that standard closely clung
The sable converts, old and young,
Who bless'd the kind, propitious hand
Which bore him to their barb'rous land.
The harp of Zion here he strung,
Where torture's voice erewhile had rung;
And furious ferity gave place
To soothing love's alluring grace;
Grim Paganism, in vengeance hot,
Fled back to regions more remote.
Came on, portending sudden death;
And tainted all the vital flood.
The pallid cheek and languid eye
Bespoke his dissolution nigh;
Yet, while he felt the stinging dart,
Religion soothed the burning smart.
His mourning converts round him stood,
Grieved as the prophet's sons, when, far,
Elijah rode the flaming car.
No more they join his prayers sincere,
No more his counsels sage they hear,
No more they list him swell the song
Of praise that doth to God belong!
But ere he drew his latest breath,
And ere he closed his eyes in death,
While every heart with sorrow bled,
His blessing thus he on them shed:—
The prize of warfare's almost won;
Fast, fast the mission'd angel flies
To seize my tongue, and seal my eyes,
And waft me to the realms of light,
Unvisited by sable night.
O could my tongue the joys declare
Which faith confirms to centre there!
Or the efflux divine impart
Which now pervades my trembling heart,
'Twould captivate the vilest soul
That doth in riot's circle roll.
O may the God of boundless love
Deign, from his radiant throne above,
To cast on you his watchful eye,
And aid you when temptation's nigh!
O may my labours not prove vain
On Afric's far secluded plain;
To 'lumine which, o'er sea and land,
I've sped at God's divine command.
Though ofttimes danger did increase,
I'm here allow'd to die in peace.”
Life's rugged path, and trouble soothe;
Which cheers through life, and welcomes death;
And now, to show I've been sincere—
Death comes—I hail him without fear:
He comes to ope the gate of heaven,
And cares and toils away are driven.
I go, triumphant praise to swell!
May God attend you all: farewell!
Lord Jesus, in thy arms of love,
Me welcome to the world above.
In more depressed tones of woe!
More keenly through each heart doth thrill
Grief's piercing throe, life's stream to chill,
As, round their father's drear death-bed,
They sigh for pleasures ever fled—
His counsels sweet, his lessons sage,
Drawn from the heaven-inspired page.
That beams from the dissembling eye
Of Europe's sons, whose bosoms bound
To hear their sires' reversion sound!
With downcast look now, see them tread
The pathway with the mighty dead,
Who did their souls from bondage save
When hung o'er deep destruction's grave.
No feigning-weeping eye was there,
While on the shrouded corpse they bear;
No breast but heaved grief's deepest sigh
While round his grave they thronged nigh;
No soul but render'd thanks to heaven
That to them such a guide was given,
As drearily they homeward stray'd
From burying of their sacred dead.
EPITAPH.
Like some fair star, unseen by human eye,That doth on wide creation's outskirts burn,
Here God's true servant doth sequester'd lie,
To slumber in the dark oblivious urn;
Yet comes the day when he shall mount on high,
A star conspicuous in the spiritual sky.
Britain's-Decline.
And humid pity lends a watchful ear
Unto her woe; O Muse, let not thy voice
Remain unheard, while ebon gloom surrounds
Once splendent Albion, known to realms afar;
But join the sad, the universal wail,
Pour'd by her sons and daughters, torn with grief,
And say, if thou canst tell, what forged the bolt,
That, thrown from ruin's deadly mortar, sends
Terrific havoc round our sea-girt isle.
Ah me! she little thought thus low to sink
In the pernicious mire of infamy,
When on the acme of the tow'ring arch
Of mundane glory she triumphant sat,
While at her feet the sceptred kings of realms
Obsequious crouch'd, as to divinity.
Of Britain's ruin: thy delusive glare
Waved, like enchantment, on her dazzled sight
The ignis-fatuus of pomp and power,
Which hath decoy'd her into that quagmire
From which to free her every art is vain.
Jealous of honour, she disdain'd to brook
The slightest speck of insult unrepaid,
But, with infuriate wrath, hurl'd headlong down
The bolt of retribution on the heads
Of those whom all the world beside would deem
The unoffending objects of her ire.
Hence war on war incessant was her fate;
Hence debt contracted ne'er to be repaid;
Hence fields of carnage, which in sackcloth clad
Widows and orphans, while the frequent tear
Rolls o'er th' untimely pallid cheek of woe:
But was she ne'er th' aggressor in the cause
Which lighted up the horrid torch of war,
Whence countless unoffending victims bled?
Let those who dwell in India's realms reply,
Whose sires have felt the bosom-rending throe
For sacked cities and for plunder'd stores,
Out of their hands, which they by right had held,
Time immemorial, from the hand of heaven.
List Afric's sons, while they, responsive, tell
What tempted first the bulwark of the waves
From Britain's shores to hapless Negroland?
Alas! not they e'er did infest our trade,
By predatory inroad o'er the deep,
In light canoe, incompetent for war;
Nor e'er assay'd, wide o'er th' Atlantic waves,
With dire armada, to invade our shores:
Yet have Britannia's sons, with guileful lure,
Spread their broad flags, inscribed to liberty,
Over the den whence slav'ry's clanging chain
Invokes the awful curse decreed by heaven
For those who fellow-sympathy debar.
In sounds so loud that none can ever claim
Exemption from the law through ignorance:
But thou hast sold, oh Britain! and hast bought
The sons and daughters of our general sire;
And canst thou then escape for aye the stroke
Of retribution, though delay'd for long?
No! heaven, vindictive, waves above thy head
The flaming brand of vengeance, to bestow
To stern-eyed Justice what by right is his.
So tyranny awhile may keep his place,
But sink at last into forlorn disgrace.
Epistle to I. Macpherson.
Dear Sir,
Frae Scotia's hills hath fled afar,
To dwell beneath the north pole star
The leelang simmer,
Whare, sax lang months, the sun scarce daur
Gie ae blithe glimmer.
Draws nature frae her annual urn,
Wi' gowans smile,
And birds, wha lang did ourie mourn,
Now sing the while.
Now bizz out frae their bykes o' fog;
The peasweeps cry, by brae and bog,
Harsh, loud, and shrill;
And whistlin' ploughmen lab'rin' jog
On plain and hill.
Cries, “Haste and tune the aiten reed;
Come, mount winged Pegasus wi' speed,
An tak' the lift;
Through fancy's regions drive the steed,
That precious gift.”
For fancy's realms I'm no yet ready;
In keepin' vows folk should be steady
To frien' or fae;
Sae, Pegasus, by me ill feed aye,
In's sta' maun stay.
A fancy-spun dreigh tale to send,
But twa-three lines, clean aff-loof penn'd,
O' rustic measure,
In hopes you'll them, my youthfu' friend,
Receive with pleasure.
That rough and aft disastrous main,
Where thousands lose and thousands gain,
As fortune throws
Frae her dice-box, their bliss or bane,
Their joys or woes.
And perseverance's frequent cheated,
And deeds o' hainin', still repeated,
We find to fail,
Yet wealth's strange maze they'll likely meet it,
If aught avail.
Where fancy aft is joyous borne
On hope's sweet wing, and dreads nae thorn
Frae life's fair rose;
Till, quick, the pullin' hand is torn,
And blood out flows.
That doth infest the kintra toun:
They promise fair; but when the soun'
O' cravin's heard
They steek the winnock—flee the toun
Like ony bird.
Wha shine at balls, and play the dandy;
Wha blithely look, although at hand be
Their affidavit
O' poverty: chaps wha should, handy,
Get hangie's gravit.
Is this short span—the human life!
Where cares, and wants, and woes are rife,
To gall and cloy;
Baith wi' and eke without a wife—
That boasted joy.
Upon the cheek its blossom shows,
And hope within the bosom glows,
And brows are brent?
Let's sing a sang owre Athole-brose,
And be content.
Twa sangs or three I've roused frae slumber,
And sent, your pouch-bouk to encumber;
Sae pardon that;
And 'mang your friends aye mind to number,
Yours,
Willie Watt.
SONGS.
ALL HAIL, CALEDONIA.
Whose children have ever breath'd freedom's pure air,
Thy sons are like lions, the sworn foes of slavery,
Thy daughters like rose-buds, for beauty so rare.
The patriot's fire in each bosom is glowing,
The soul of his sire through each son's blood is flowing,
While Fame's sacred trumpet fresh paeans is blowing,
To tell the whole world what Scotch valour can dare:
Such prowess the Alma's steep summits display'd,
When storm'd by the force of the Highland Brigade.
To tear from our fathers their freedom so dear,
In triumph they march'd till they came to the Grampians,
And there a stern foe to their front did appear;
Each mountain-top blazed with its war-fire of heather,
In myriads from hill and glen quick they did gather,
And shoulder to shoulder rush'd forward together,
And stem'd with sheer power the invader's career;
Thus Russia's dense columns roll'd back, sore dismay'd,
Before the dread fire of the Highland Brigade.
Expelling her children from pleasure and home,
And spreads desolation o'er all her sweet islands,
Exiling her sons o'er the wide world to roam.
No voice of the milkmaid is heard singing cheery,
No sound of the bagpipe is heard thrilling clearly;
But solitude reigns o'er her empire so dreary,
In league with the howl of the sea's dashing foam:
Britannia may yet see kilt, bonnet, and plaid;
She'll look all in vain for the Highland Brigade.
THE GLORIOUS BARD OF KYLE.
Looks down, wi' smiling e'e,
To see her children every one
In harmony agree;
While countless thousands onward move,
In ecstacy divine,
To show'r their wreaths of warmest love
On Burns's hallow'd shrine.
CHORUS.
Then swell his praise, in lofty lays,Throughout our happy isle,
For Scotia's boast, frae coast to coast,
Is the glorious Bard of Kyle.
The warm and manly heart,
To spurn the haughty tyrant's scowl,
Or brave misfortune's smart;
His magic lays transcendent blaze
'Mid the poetic throng;
Sic peerless fire flows from his lyre
As hails him king of song.
The lover's joys and woes;
The patriot's flame, wi' loud acclaim,
He nobly did disclose;
Hypocrisy oft felt his lash,
Wi' downcast tearfu' e'e,
While round his brilliant wit did flash
Wi' comic mirth and glee.
Or flash wi' comet glare,
Then dimly blink through darksome night,
Or vanish evermair;
Yet Burns's name, and Burns's fame,
Beam like the blazing sun,
And down the tide of time will glide
Till her last sands are run.
Composed for the general Anniversary of Burns' Hundredth Birth-day, 25th January, 1859—three months before Mr. Watt's death.
THE WARRIOR'S WELCOME.
Rest thee from the toil of fighting,
Till the yellow morning star
From the east sky gleams delighting.
Glorious hath thy struggle been,
'Mid the thunder of the battle,
When the armour, glitt'ring sheen,
Fill'd the air with direful rattle.
Howls the wolf 'mong blood and slaughter,
Where conflicting weapons reel'd,
Pouring blood like streams of water.
Banish from thine eye the tear,
Certain sign of inward sorrow,
Welcome art thou to dwell here,
'Midst of safety, till the morrow.
Fear no traitor standing round thee,
Though thy pulse beats faintly low,
Gold could not induce to wound thee.
For thy fate no child need weep,
For thy fate no mother languish;
Strengthen'd by refreshing sleep,
Thou shalt wake aloof from anguish.
Sweet presiding o'er thy slumber;
While time's chariot wheels swift roll,
May no incubus thee cumber.
But the soothing scenes of peace,
Home, and friends, and festive gladness,
Thee from war's fatigues release,
Thee estrange from themes of sadness.
THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.
Ere shades proclaim'd th' approach of night,
The sulph'rous tube and sabre bright
Swept thousands to eternity.
Stood glittering in the blaze of day;
While drums and trumpets loud did bray
Along the azure canopy.
The thunder bursts with voice sublime,
So cannons roar and armours chime
In contest for the mastery.
With stubborn brows their swords they wield,
Till Gallia's sons are forced to yield
To British strength and bravery.
The hero old, and skill'd in wars,
(Who lived a votary to Mars,)
Lamenting his hard destiny.
The soldier young, in horrid pain,
In life's gay morn untimely ta'en
By fate's delusive treachery.
Lies, parch'd with thirst, the wounded chief,
And not a hand to lend relief,
Or soothe his grevious misery:
In anguish fell doth groaning bleed;
Aloof from help, in time of need,
He dies at point of victory:
Resounds for Wellington and Graham,
Who've gain'd themselves a deathless name,
While lasts the page of history.
THE BELGIAN ACCOUNT OF THE BATTLE OF FLEURUS.
WRITTEN FROM A BRUSSELS GAZETTE.
To gild the Sambre's limpid flow,
When up arose the Gallic foe,
Indignant, to devour us.
Their columns deep, protracted far,
Attired in all the garb of war,
Presaged that they, in triumph's car,
Would course the plains of Fleurus.
Prepared the rebels to withstand;
His steady mien and order grand
Of freedom did assure us.
The Prussian black flag floated high,
And valour beam'd from every eye;
Each vow'd he'd conquer, else he'd die
Upon the field of Fleurus.
The cannon's roar, the sabre's clang,
With fatal grape-shot, rudely rang:
My heart could scarce endure this.
From every side, across the vale,
Swept showers of shot like driving hail,
And swords struck fire from helm and mail,
That dreadful day, on Fleurus.
Loud swell'd along the Sambre's shore;
He thousands bathed in reeking gore,
From bondage to secure us.
It was the gallant Scotch brigade
Which there such deeds of fame display'd;
Whose foes did quick recoil, dismay'd,
Or slept in death on Fleurus.
To kindle rage, and fear dispel,
And drown the wounded's dying yell,—
To them a wretched cure this.
The swords and bay'nets, waving high,
Fast sweep them down, 'mong fields of rye,
Upon the field of Fleurus.
“For injured rights in days of yore;
Let pity, though she keen implore,
From vengeance ne'er allure us.”
But darkness frown'd upon the plain,
When back the rebels fled amain,
And thousands, cold as ice, lay slain
Upon the field of Fleurus.
SONG.
Where sighing lovers fondly meet,
While waving birks o'erhang thy linns,
Whence blackbirds trill their lays so sweet!
Have shaded oft the sultry ray,
As, 'midst the vert, with love-charm'd heart,
With Anna I beguiled the day.
The voice that charm'd the tuneful ear;
From every swain the heart she stole,
That stray'd the banks of Calder near.
Full soon to wither wanly pale,
My Anna bloom'd to be entomb'd,
Ere prime of life, in yonder vale.
If ye have felt the burning throe?
Tell me if grief must still abide,
And still the tear of anguish flow?
Glides through the ever-deep'ning gloom;
The tearful eye and heaving sigh
Are mine, since Anna fills the tomb.
BAB AT THE BOWSTER.
Wi' touslet hair and drowsy een?
I trow ye've at the weddin' been,
And danced at “Bab at the Bowster.”
And sic a sicht I never saw
O' lads an lasses, dress'd sae braw,
A' dancin' “Bab at the Bowster.”
Fandangoes, waltzes, or quadrilles,
There's nane can fire our lichtsome heels
Like Scotland's “Bab at the Bowster.”
As owre the floor we slowly creep,
But joy comes wi' the fiddle's cheep
At the dance o' “Bab at the Bowster.”
At ony canty social spree;
Baith auld and young aye join wi' glee
To dance blithe “Bab at the Bowster.”
Wha came to kneel wi' the howdie Madge;
She strak in fun, but seem'd in rage,
To dance at “Bab at the Bowster.”
Wi' loof upon her wrinkled mou';
Nane witness'd sic a hallabulloo
At the dance o' “Bab at the Bowster.”
The howdie's braw mutch bord gaed 'stray,
And the rosy sun brought in the day,
Ere we ended “Bab at the Bowster.”
Wi' touslet hair, and drowsy een,
Nae sleep I've got, nor bed ha'e seen,
Since I danced “Bab at the Bowster.”
And want o' sleep's a weary pain,
But I wad thole a' owre again
To get dancin' “Bab at the Bowster.”
MERRILY DANCED THE QUAKER'S WIFE.
And merrily danced the Quaker;
She bought a gown, when at the town,
That gart a' the Friends forsake her;
For it was silk, o' sweet pea green,
Wi' velvet tartan bonnet,
And o'er her lovely brow serene
An Ostrich plume waved on it.
And merrily danced the Quaker;
The fiddler's e'e gart him tyne his key
When he look'd on the wife o' the Quaker.
The Quaker coost his snuff-brown coat
And braid-rimm'd hat i' the side room,
And sprang an flang at the Highland Fling,
Wi' his bonny wife and the bridegroom.
And merrily danced the Quaker;
He sat as close by the toddy bowl
As either the butcher or baker.
He quaff'd and danced till the cock did craw
Beside the miller and brewster,
And frae the bridal wad ne'er withdraw
Till ance he danced Bab at the Bowster.
Till the morning sun was glancin';
“My dear,” quo she, “put on your coat,
'Tis time now to end the dancin'.”
“My back and head nae mair I'll cleed,”
Quo' he, “in Quaker's garb now,
But I'll be dress'd as gay's the rest,
And never will thee nor thou you”
THE PEDLAR.
When the fam'ly were by wi' the breakfast and beuk;
The lasses were caiming an' curling their hair,
To gang to the bridal o' Maggie M'Nair.
“Guid morn,” quo' the pedlar, fu' frank an' fu' free,
“Let's see wha this day will be hansel to me!
An' if an ill bargain she happen to mak',
I'll gie her mysel' an' the hale o' my pack.”
I fear that would be makin' waur out o' ill;
My dochters wad, certes, o' wark be richt slack,
To trudge through the kintra and carry a pack.”
“Guidwife,” quo' the pedlar, “'tis only a joke,”
As he flang down his wallets to shaw them his stock;
When she saw his rich cargo, she ru'ed e'er she spak
Sae lightly o' either the pedlar or pack.
To glow'r on his ware that might fitted a queen;
They wal'd an' they boucht satins, ribbons, and lace,
Till they raised mony lirks on the laird's niggard face.
His brooches and bracelets, wi' di'monds enrich'd,
They greent for, till baith hearts and een were bewitch'd;
But bonnie blate Nelly stood aye a bit back,
Stealin' looks at the pedlar—but ne'er min't the pack.
He saw that her blinks were the glances o' love:
A necklace he gied her, wi' pearlins beset,
Saying, “Wha kens but we twa will married be yet?”
The blush flush'd her cheek, and the tear fill'd her e'e;
She gaed out to the yaird, and sat down 'neath a tree,
When something within her aye silently spak—
“I could gang wi' this pedlar, and carry his pack.”
Till he tauld her he'd taen a braw shop in the toun;
Then the rose left her cheeks, and her head licht did reel,
For she dreaded this wad be his hindmost fareweel.
Your parents may flyte, and your titties may jaw,
But they'll heartily rue yet, that e'er they jokes brack
Upon me, when the country I ranged wi' the pack.”
Till ae day to the kirk she gaed vogie an' braw;
Her heart to her mouth lap, the sweat on her brak',
When she heard Nelly cry'd to the lad wi' the pack.
She sat wi' a face hafflins roasted wi' shame,
Syne awa at twal hours she gaed scourin' straught hame;
She min't na the text, nor a word the priest spak',
A' her thoughts were ta'en up wi' the pedlar and pack.
The kail's no lang on! Is the day's service done?”
“Na, na,” quo' the kimmer, “I've got an affront
That for months yet to come will my bosom gar dunt!
That glaikit slut Nell, we have dautit sae weel,
Has now won us a pirn that will sair us to reel;
For a' we've wared on her, o' pound and o' plack,
She is thrice cry'd this day to yon chiel wi' the pack.”
He sal get her as bare as the birk tree at Yule!
Whare is she, the slut? gif I could but her fin',
Fient haud me, gin I wadna reesil her skin!”
But Nelly foresaw what the upshot wad be,
Sae she gaed 'cross the Muir to a frien's house awee,
Whare a chaise-an-pair cam', an' whene'er daylight brak',
She set aff wi' the pedlar unfasht wi' the pack.
Whilk the hale kintra roun' in the Herald may see;
Now his big shop's weel stow'd, baith for bed an' for back,
That was started wi' ballads an' trumps in a pack.
He raise up in rank, and he raise up in fame,
And the title o' Bailie's affixed to his name;
Now the laird o' Glenneuk about naething will crack
Save the Bailie,—but ne'er hints a word o' the pack.
AULD JOHN PAUL.
And auld John Paul was nae crazy man;
Though his haffits were white, and his noddle was baul',
Yet a slee, funny joker, was auld John Paul.
Auld John Paul had a widower been
For towmonds, they said, about twal or threteen;
Yet it lap in his head—though I'm now turnin' aul',
I may yet get a help-meet, thinks auld John Paul.
Wha keepit the sign o' the gowd cross-keys;
A cantie widow, baith stout and hale,
Wha had saved a bit trifle by sellin' ale.
Sae he ca'd for a dram, and begoud to crack,
And syne about wedlock a joke he brake,
While the kimmer she leuch, and said, sooth, but ye'er baul';
Wad ye yet face the minister, auld John Paul?
But I really think, John, ye're a crouse auld man,
Wha yet wad splice wi' anither wife,
When ye've sprauchilt sae far up the hill o' life.
Ye hae routh to keep ony wife bien, John Paul,
I'm redd ye'se get ane at fifteen, John Paul;
To look on your spunk, it's new life to the saul—
You're the flower o' the clachan yoursel', John Paul!
Though I ha'e a billet for thee, quo' John;
Gin the smith ye'll discard, wi' his lang sooty beard,
Ye'se my siller get ilka bawbee, quo' John.
And nae mair wi' the souter ye'll fash, quo' John,
For he's drucken ilk plack o' his cash, quo' John;
And the miller's gane through a' his mailin, I trow,
And, forbye, he's a daft gomrel hash, quo' John.
Sayin', John Paul, what want ye now wi' Nanse?
For I've offered mysel' afore you to Nanse.
It's a wonner to look at auld fools, John Paul,
Wha maun soon hurkel down 'mang the mools, John Paul;
Soon the divots will sward owre your head in my yaird,
Whan I've happit you up wi' my shools, John Paul.
Or the tangs I'se bring owre your lang snout, quo' Nanse,
Ye'll come in here to scaul', and to kick up a brawl!
Will ye e'er be a man like John Paul, quo' Nanse.
Sae the beadle did swagger out ragin' mad,
Misca'in the alewife for a' that was bad;
While the neebours assembled to witness the brawl,
Sayin' wha wad hae thought this o' auld John Paul?
We'll the clachan's banter get, quo' John;
That bletherin' fool, wi' his shools, and his mools,
Will be, aiblins, the first to cry dool, quo' John.
But the clerk we can get in a blink, quo' John,
Wi' his paper, his pen, and his ink, quo' John;
And niest Sunday, I say, we'll cry thrice i' ae day,
And gie the hale billies a jink, quo' John.
To wed ye, I'm content, John Paul;
But first, let's get a man o' law,
To bin' the langest liver a'.
Content! quo' John, a bargain be't,
Come, gies your han' and say we're greet!
Rab Snap the contract soon will scrawl,
'Tween Nanse M'Nees and auld John Paul.
The weddin' was a special shine;
Saxscore o' neebours, young and aul',
Ate, drank, and danced wi' auld John Paul.
They ranted and sang till the day did daw',
Ere ane o' the guests thought o' gaun awa;
And the fiddler swore nane shook a suppler spaul
On the floor, the hale night, than did auld John Paul,
This song, and a number of those succeeding, of the same character, were written for and sung by the late Mr. James Livingston, well known throughout Scotland for his fine taste, and rich and racy humour, in this class of songs.
ELSPA ADAIR.
Wham ilk body's heard o', but nane fully ken;
She's cosie, she's cosh, and she's bien butt and ben;
She has kists fu' o' claes, and has siller to ware;
But how she's sae rowthy, though howdie she be,
Lang puzzled ilk brain through the mystery to see,
Till the carlines o' sense did ilk ither agree
That Nick was in paction wi' Elspa Adair.
And to the laird's gamekeeper made a guid wife
For thirty lang years, without fam'ly or strife,
Till he left her a widow to mourn for him sair.
But though the protector o' paitricks and hares,
His conscience wad rack baith to set and lift snares;
And when he was tired o' his day's toilsome cares,
Awa' at the gloamin slade Elspa Adair.
And meet wi' the cadger and sell aff her stock,
And lauch aff the scorn wi' a blithe knacky joke,
Wi' conscience unscathed, and wi' heart void o' care.
When ta'en aff to howdie, by nicht or by day,
She airted aye hame whare the wily girns lay;
The laird micht traverse ilka valley and brae,
But the feck o' his game lodged wi' Elspa Adair.
GRIZZIL GRANGER.
The flower o' a' this island,
Whase peerless smile each heart can wile
Frae Lowland lad or Highland.
Ye youths tak' tent, wha cross the bent,
Her look is certain danger,
Nane, wha e'er saw her, could withdraw
His heart frae Grizzil Granger.
At every merry-meeting,
Though envy flings her vemon'd stings,
And hopeless love sits greeting.
The kirk's aye fou, in ilka pew,
Wi' denizen and stranger,
And een are crack'd, and necks are rack'd,
For views o' Grizzil Granger.
Set a' their nerves a-quakin';
A' day they reel on fancy's wheel,
A' nicht their heads are aching.
Or when, in scores, about the doors,
They quarrel through contention,
Till purple een are aften gien
To end the nicht's convention.
O' love's tormentin' passion,
And 'squires and clowns crack ither's crowns,
Discarding fear and caution.
The lasses bite wi' spleen and spite,
(Hot scandal's their avenger,)
And taunt and jeer, wi' envious leer,
Sweet lovely Grizzil Granger.
When they were bairns together,
They gather'd slaes amang the braes,
And berries 'mang the heather.
Though he had gane beyond the main,
Through Canada a ranger,
Yet still his mind did roam behind
Wi' bonny Grizzil Granger.
Her youthfu' love returned,
Whase omened name soon cooled the flame
That in ilk bosom burned.
The lowe o' youth soon beamed, forsooth,
On this long-absent stranger,
And now through life, he's got for wife
Young bonny Grizzil Granger.
KATE DARYMPLE.
Where peesweeps, plovers, and whaaps cry dreary,
There lived an auld maid for mony lang years,
Wham ne'er a wooer did e'er ca' dearie.
A lanely lass was Kate Darymple,
A thrifty quean was Kate Darymple;
Nae music, exceptin' the clear burnie's wimple,
Was heard round the dwellin' o' Kate Darymple.
Whilk did frae the fash o' a' wooers defend her;
Her lang Roman nose nearly met wi' her chin,
That brang folk in min' o' the auld Witch o' Endor.
A weegle in her walk had Kate Darymple,
A sneevil in her talk had Kate Darymple;
And mony a cornelian and cairngorm pimple
Did bleeze on the dun face o' Kate Darymple.
For Kate ne'er was lazy, but eident and thrifty;
She wrought 'mang the peats, coil'd the hay, shore the corn,
And supported hersel' by her ain hard shift aye.
But ne'er a lover cam' to Kate Darymple,
For beauty and tocher wanted Kate Darymple;
Unheeded was the quean by baith gentle and simple,
A blank in the warld seem'd poor Kate Darymple.
When the dice-box o' fate's jumbled a' tapsalteerie;
Sae Kate fell heiress to a friend's hale estate,
And nae langer for lovers had she cause to weary.
The Squire cam' a-wooing soon o' Kate Darymple,
The Priest, scrapin', bowin', fan' out Kate Darymple;
And on ilk wooer's face was seen love's smiling dimple,
And now she's nae mair Kate—but Miss Darymple.
Is flung by for the saft gilded sofa sae gaudy;
And now she's array'd in her silks and brocade,
And can brank now for ruffs and muffs wi' ony lady.
Was dressing and party clash to Kate Darymple;
She thought a half-marow, bred in line mair simple,
Wad be a far fitter match for Kate Darymple.
She could wed Willie Speedyspool the sarkin weaver;
And now to the wabster she the secret did tell,
And for love or for int'rest, Will did kindly receive her.
He flang by his heddles soon for Kate Darymple,
He brunt a' his treddles doun for Kate Darymple;
Though his right e'e doth skellie, and his left leg doth limp ill,
He's wedded to, and bedded now wi' Kate Darymple.
SONG.
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
I ha'e gowd to cleed ye in silk,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
Grazin' in glens, and on hillsides steep,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
Should your finger fit sic a thing,
Then I wouldna come ony mair to woo.
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
That feels nae joy like your comfort and weal,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.
And think it time to tell ye noo;
I will follow whare'er ye gang,
Sae ye needna come ony mair to woo.
A' for the love I bear to you;
I'll be your bride by the sweet burn side,
And ye'll ne'er rue the day ye cam to woo.
JEAN SAIPYSAPLES.
WRITTEN FOR MR. J. GALLACHER.
Wha haunt spirit cellars mair than kirks or chapels,
Come list the adventures o' Jean Saipysaples,
When clasp'd in the clutches of stout Usquabae.
Ae bitter March day, when the sun was na shinin',
Jean gaed to the green, to her freathin' and synin',
Supplied wi' baith outward and inward warm linin'
To help her to warsel the toils o' the day.
And aye amang han's took the ither bit weetin;
She wrang them, and hang them to dry, aft repeatin'—
“Sair toil and sma' comfort's allotted to me!”
Then she edged her big boyn by the side o' the river,
Her warm, tartan mantle flang roun' her fu' clever,
And crap in the lown wi' her true Fail-me-never,
A bladder, neck-fou o' the best barley brie.
And Jean, sair confined, in her centry-box lyin';
Forby, toiled and cauld, there is sure na denyin',
That she had strong claims on the wee, pithy drap.
Wi' toilin', and starvin', and watchin', and drinkin',
Some wad hae been sleepin' when Jean was but winkin';
But 'neath sic fatigue fast her spirits were sinkin',
And Jean doopit ower noo, as soun' as a tap.
Yet, sleep on the green is a dangerous risk aye;
But sleep, while on watch, play'd poor Jean sic a pliskie,
As may stan' for a warnin' to ane and to a'.
Ill luck threw that way a gleg, light-finger'd damsel,
Wha, for the rich prize, thought she'd risk the law's bensell;
Sae, stripped frae the railin' Jean's washin' for hansel
To her nightly toil, heedless what might befa'.
Straught aff to the office she's wheeled at a canter,
And the lads in dark-blue at their wark didna saunter,
To ferret the quean, and recover the pack.
Ilk howff, kenned to harbour lanlowpin banditti,
They rummaged, till ance the famed lady-thief witty
They captured, wi' a' the stown gear on her back.
(Spoken.)—Now, Jean lay soughin' awa' fu' soun'ly in a corner o' the office till about gray daylight, when she began to rax and gaunt before her een were open; and finnin her bed rather harder than ordinar', she began to glawm about her, and soon faund there was something wrang. Syne she tried if her memory could gi'e her ony insight, but it could bring her nae far'er than creepin' into the washing boyn, wi' the bladder in her bosom, aye takin' a blink now and then at the claes on the rails, and a' after that was but mist and darkness, a confused jumble. Seein' she had got a ravelt hesp to redd by her yesterday's wark, she cries, “Mysie, brang ye in the claes frae the green?” But, gettin' nae answer frae her dochter, and hearin' a wheen outlandish giggles o' laughin' mixt wi' keelie slang, oaths and curses, she raised her head frae the hard oak bench she was lyin' on, and got a glance o' her new neebors, wha had been brought in through the nicht, and were standin' and sittin' round the big half-burnt fire. “Guid watch owre us!” quo' Jean to hersel', “what can be the meanin' o' a' this? I've surely ta'en a towt o' the nicht-mare, and if I could but turn mysel' on my side, I wad get quat o' it.” Wi' that, she gied a row to get on her side, but put rather mair force till't than folk can do in the nicht-mare; sae she row'd owre the side o' the bench, an fell wi' a soss on the breast o' an Irish sailor, wha was lyin' on the floor. “Black spot on ye, ye owld hag; what do ye main, murthering people in cowld blood, in bed?—Gemmini, but I've a mighty notion to stove in the timbers of ye'r owl' crazy hull.” Sae when Jean faun she was within range o' the grapples o' an Irish sailor, the thocht o' the nicht-mare took wing; and she was beginning to tak' her excuse for her unseemly intrusion, when ben cam' an officer, wha calmed the coleshangie, and gied Jean an explanation o' her situation, advisin' her to ha'e patience till the bailie open'd the court, and he had nae doubt that she would be gye easy dealt wi'. It was a wearisome mornin' to Jean to sit sae lang amang sic a clamjamphry o' ruffians till the court opened; but at length, when her patience was worn to a hair, the hour chappit, and in cam' the bailie; and poor Jean's heart was duntin' wi' houp and fear when she was ca'ed ben to the court. Though she wasna in vera good order, she had made hersel' as snod as she could, and, wi' a decent beck, she entered.
Bailie.—What is your name?
Jean.
—Deed, Sir, that's what I canna vera weel tell, as I'm no sure whether I e'er heard it or no.
Bailie,
laughing.
—Many appear here who have too many names, and
Jean.
—Jean Saipysaples, please your honour.
Bailie.
—Little better than none! Such a name does, by no means, favour your case; but rather awakens stronger suspicion concerning your respectability.
Jean.
—I ha'e heard that I should ha'e anither name; but, bein' a foundlin', I was shankit aff to shift for mysel', as soon as I could do a han's turn in the place I was sent to (and that was the laird o' Glencruise's), where I was kepit slaisterin' and washin' day after day; sae the servants gied me the name o' Jean Saipysaples, and, no heedin' to take ony ither name, it just continued. But though it be a daft-like name—as lang's a body's honest, it sairs but little what the name be. There's my auld mistress, Mrs. Grubb, the lady o' Glencruisie, had a dochter baptized the ither Sabbath day, and to gar her look mair genteel, as she said, she gat her christened Margaretta Barbarina Julietta Alexina Sophietta Albertina Sarah Maria Victoria Grizzel Grubb. Now, if that wean hasna a far waurfaurt name than Jean Saipysaples, I'se leav't to your honour to judge. And yet Mrs. Grubb, for as refined a lady as she is, says it's a name that may gar the best o' the land tak' notice o' her yet, and gar a' the poets in the kintra round write sangs about her.
Bailie.
—There is truly but little in names, if the names be not fictitious. But as for women, in your line of business, carrying bladders of whisky with them to their lawful avocations, there are certainly strong objections. We have a striking proof of this in your own case. You were so much overcome by it, that the clothes were stolen with which you were intrusted; and the officers were taken off their dutie in search of the thief. The prosecution of the delinquent will cost both trouble and expenses, and all this would have been saved had you been in sobriety. So that, when all circumstances are taken into consideration, the crime of drinking to excess appears very heinous.
Jean.
—I maun e'en allow that its no good when the maut gaes aboon the meal; but how can a body work in cauld, blae, frosty weather like this, without something to warm their heart? If we hadna a cordial to bear us through, the town o' Glasgow wad be a' laid up thegither with the typhus fever or the cholera, for faut o' bein' keepit clean; and I'm sure a bladder's a far mair convenient and kindly thing to slip into a body's bosom than a bottle. But since ye hae gotten the impudent cutty that took awa the claes, I couldna say ye were owre sair on her, though she gat a quarter in Bridewell for't.
Bailie.
—I'm afraid, Mrs. Saipysaples, that will have to be your destination; her appointment must come from a higher court than this. “Saffs,” quo' Jean, “are ye speakin' that way o' ane that ne'er wrangt man, woman, or wean, a' her life?”
But just at this moment, in comes her dochter Mysie, wi' a letter in her han', accompanied by an officer, who delivered it to the bailie: the bailie soon brak' it open and read it to himsel'.
looking earnestly at Jean.
—I have received a letter, Mrs. Saipysaples, from Bailie Goodfellow, which has so much changed my opinion concerning your character, that I hereby dismiss you from this court, with this caution,—Take care in future not to keep too intimate acquaintance with whisky bladders.
When Jean heard this, she gied the bailie a curtchie, as laigh as she had been gaun to dance carcuddy, and left the court singin'—
That cracks a' our credit, and plunders our purses,
That headaches and heartaches aye carefully nurses,
And sen's us to jails and to bridewells, forbye.
But look to stout honesty, mensefou and gawsy,
That sets down his shanks on the crown o' the causey;
Though pride cocks her nose, and struts by him right saucy,
Her scorn and disdain he can ever defy.
THE TINKLER'S WEDDING.
And brackens waved fou fresh and green,
And warm the sun wi' silver sheen,
The hills and glens did gladden, O;
Ae day, upon the border bent,
The tinklers pitched their gipsy tent,
And auld and young, wi' ae consent,
Resolved to haud a weddin', O.
Wha twice had broke the nuptial knot,
And ance was sentenced to be shot
For breach o' martial orders, O;
His gleesome joe was Madge M'Kell,
A spaewife, match for Nick himsel',
Wi' glamour, cantrip, charm, and spell,
She frichted baith the borders, O.
Nae clerk to claim, o' crowns, a brace;
The piper and fiddler play'd the grace
To set their gabs asteerin', O.
'Mang beef and mutton, pork and veal,
'Mang painches, plucks, and fresh cow-heel,
Fat haggises and caller jeel,
They clawt awa careerin', O.
Saut ling and cod, o' Shetland breed,
They worry'd till kytes were like to screed,
'Mang flagons and flasks o' gravy, O.
There were raisin kail, and sweet-milk saps,
And ewe-milk cheese in whangs and flaps;
And they roopit, to gust their gabs and craps,
Right mony a cadger's cavie, O.
And soon upraised a hideous roar;
Blithe Comus ne'er a queerer core
Saw seated round his table, O.
They drank, they danced, they swore, they sang,
They quarrell'd and 'greed the hale day lang,
And the wranglin' that rang amang the thrang
Wad match'd the tongues o' Babel, O.
That vex'd baith mony a maw and mouth,
It damped the fire o' age and youth,
And every breast did sadden, O;
Till three stout louns flew owre the fell,
At risk o' life, their drouth to quell,
And robbed a neebourin' smuggler's stell,
To carry on the weddin', O.
To broach the barrels they werena slack,
While the fiddler's plane-tree leg they brake
For playing fareweel to whisky, O.
Delirium seized the roarous thrang,
The bagpipes in the fire they flang,
And sowthering-airns on riggins rang,
The drink play'd siccan a pliskie, O.
While on they plied their roughsome pranks,
And the stalwart shadows o' their shanks
Wide owre the muir were spreadin', O.
Till, heads-and-thraws, amang the whins,
They fell wi' broken brows and shins,
And sair-craist banes fill'd mony skins,
To close the Tinkler's Weddin', O.
LOO ME LITTLE AND LOO ME LANG.
Cam' blithely singin' adown the vale;
Few maids in Scotland wide, I ween,
Could match this lass wi' her milkin' pail.
Her face was as fresh as the flowers in May,
Wi' voice like the lark she lilted and sang;
And aye the burden o' her lay,
Was—loo me little, and loo me lang.
As I cam' hame frae the milkin' shiel;
He tauld me I had twa bewitchin' een,
And roosed my cheeks and my hair fu' weel.
He vow'd that he liked me best ava,
And to kiss me, his arms around my neck flang;
Half fun, half earnest, I cried—gae away!
Come—loo me little, and loo me lang.
Young winsome Willie I chanced to meet;
He, bowin', advanced wi' a tale fu' sleek,
And said that I was to his min' complete.
He roosed me for virtue, for beauty, and wit,
And syne to my praise he chanted a sang;
But I left the poor havrel whene'er I thocht fit,
Sayin'—loo me little, and loo me lang,
And guess ye what now gi'es me virtue and wit,
And guess ye what brings me the blithe wooers a',
Wha ance wadna lifted me at their fit.
My uncle is auld, and his bairns are a' dead—
He has bound me with gear, which has alter'd the sang;
But Jamie alane is the lad I will wed,
For he's looed me muckle, and looed me lang.
WALLACE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY BEFORE THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK.
Long trained on war's terrific fiel',
Unsheath again the flaming steel,
To gain our country's liberty!
No truce can faithless Edward bind,
So base, ambitious is his mind;
Then let us, sword-in-hand, conjoined,
Quick burst the bands of tyranny!
Been drenched amid their reeking gore,
And lowly sunk to rise no more,
Afraid to fight, unfit to flee!
And, haply, ere the blazing sun
Shall set beyond the mountain's dun,
O'er gloomy Carron's banks shall run
Our glorious shouts of victory!
Or meanly flies, appalled by fear,
Yet Graham and Wallace still are here,
To share your fate, whate'er it be!
Let freedom's patriotic glow
Dispel all terror of the foe,
And Edward's host, ere long, may know
The power of firm fidelity!
The Roman ranks, who all subdued,
And taught those stern marauders proud,
They fought or died for liberty!
And shall the soul-ennobling glow
Have ceased in Scottish breasts to flow,
Undaunted sons of freedom? No!
To death or glory follow me!
THE CHEVALIER'S WELCOME.
Come ashore, Charlie Stuart, wi' your tartans on,
The clan of brave Lochiel makes you welcome ev'ry one,
Since you've landed at Lochaber, wi' your tartans on.
Till hope had fled ilk breast, and the tear fill'd every e'e;
But our fears are chased awa now, by joy before unknown,
Since ye've landed safe among us, wi' your tartans on.
Hark! the gatherin' is sounding—the clans quick advance,
Each mountain and glen gleams wi' gun, sword, and lance;
The Lochaber axe will clear you a passage to the throne,
And at Holyrood we'll crown ye, wi' your tartans on.
Now resound, to the swell of the bagpipe and drum;
The targe and claymore, that in battle oft have shone,
Will assert our Prince's rights now, wi' his tartans on.
See the ranks from the hills, stream, attired in each dye
Of the rainbow, that gleams on the dark cloudy sky;
While the rocks resound the tread of the sons of Caledon,
Flocking to their Prince's standard, wi' their tartans on.
But times are alter'd fairly, sae they may ha'e their fears,
They will quickly change their tone, when they hear the bagpipe's drone,
And behold our daring warriors, wi' their tartans on.
Let us march, Charlie Stuart, wi' our tartans on,
There's no man without a true heart, that has tartans on;
Like the tempest of the North, we'll spread terror 'yond the Forth,
And the Saxon whigs will quake, to see our tartans on.
Brave Drummond and Kilmarnock, true Elcho and Dundee,
With daring Derwintwater, and fearless Elphistone,
Who will die before they flinch us, wi' our tartans on.
Like the wild mountain torrent, we'll quickly descend,
The rights and the laws of our Prince to defend;
The terror of our arms soon will shake the British throne,
And Whitehall will see us flauntin', wi' our tartans on.
THE CHEVALIER'S FAREWELL TO FLORA M'DONALD.
Caution says “it must be so;”
For thy image on my heart
Shall remain where'er I go.
Now the blackest storm of danger
Blows around thy royal stranger;
But, though I must from thee fly,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
By thick vapours, drear and dun,
Ushers smiling day, at last,
Gilded by the glorious sun.
So, to me, this night of sorrow,
May precede a joyous morrow;
But though fate thus turn the dye,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
And this ringlet of my hair;
Keep, O keep them for the sake
Of one worthy of thy care.
Woods and rocks may be my dwelling,
Where the winter breeze is swelling!
But while I for life do fly,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.
Distant from thee I must roam,
Over land and ocean wide,
Till I reach a safer home.
Far from Highland hills and valleys,
Haply, thou shalt grace my palace,
And in my embraces lie:
Farewell, lovely maid of Skye.
BAULDY FRAZER'S GAZETTE OF THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
And let us hae your crack, man,—
How's butter ratin' in the town?
Is trade now brisk or slack, man?
Or ken ye oucht about the wars,
How Britain sorts her feuds and jars?
I've heard our gallant mountaineers
Ha'e scoured their guns and filed their spears;
The French, ma certes, ha'e their fears,
Sin' Cam'ron's ta'en the lea, man;
Baith crakit crowns, and rippit kytes,
I trow, they'll shortly see, man.
Cam' wheezlin' up the gait, man,
To tell us how the French had fa'en,
And Bonny was defeat, man;
And how the British, roun' and roun',
Lap owre the wa's o' Paris toun;
Baith sword and lance did brightly glance,
When they did lay the pride o' France;
And mony thousands tript the dance
O' death upon the lea, man;
Some tint their heads, some tint their legs,
The rest awa' did flee, man.
Fu' soon their drift did draw, man,
And drew his men, wi' motion fleet,
In mony a bonny raw, man.
His bauld dragoons, upon the plain,
Regardless o' baith fire and rain,
At first comman', wi' steady han',
Their giant swords had scarcely drawn,
Till scores o' cloven French lay fa'en—
(As sure as death it's true, man!)
They gasped, grain'd, and cursed the day
They cam' to Waterloo, man.
Did naething fear ava, man,
Afore them aye the road they redd,
Scotch valour they did shaw, man.
Were levell'd by their sharp platoons;
But when they heard the Cornal's words,—
Fix'd Bayonets, and Highland swords!
Fast aff the birkies flew like birds,
To save their precious lives, man;
But thousands o' them ne'er wan hame
To see their weans and wives, man.
(Although we gain'd the day, man,)
Brave Ponsonby and Picton's fate,
As weel as mony mae, man;
Wi' gallant Cam'ron o' the North,
The bravest chiel ayont the Forth.
But, guid-be-thankit, Bonny's fled,
For wham sae mony thousands bled;
A bonny dance himsel' he's led,
The proud ambitious fool, man;
His throne, he thocht sae firm and sure,
Has cowpit like a stool, man.
THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
And threatened to scourge bleeding Europe again;
The genius of Freedom fled to his cavern hoar,
But the verdant tree of liberty bloom'd fair on our shore.
Then Wellington, with manly soul, Britannia's god of war,
Preferring death to base control, indignant rose afar,
With other leaders, skilled in arms, like lions bold and true,
They met the rebels clad in steel at dire Waterloo.
O'er the calm plains of Belgium discordantly rang;
By the dawning of morn, march'd the deep legions on,
Like a forest of steel far around Mount Saint John.
'Twas then the daring cuirassiers, in panoply immured,
'Gainst fate, and death, and British arms, did think themselves secured,
Till through their lines, with dreadful crash, our gallant heroes flew,
With dauntless hearts, and strength unmatch'd, at dire Waterloo.
Quick our brave scarlet ranks darted through the rolling smoke,
The dense battle cloud dimm'd the bright orb of day,
While the earth shook with dread 'neath the direful affray.
Incessant reel'd the musketry, clear gleam'd the Polish lance,
Harsh peel'd the deep artillery of Britain and of France,
The dreadful charge of cavalry accordant horror threw
Upon the scene, the fatal plain of dire Waterloo.
Extending destruction o'er desert and deep;
Nor earth-shaking Etna's eruption's red glare,
With lightning and thunder comixed, can compare
With the horrific havoc spread along the gory field,
When Gaul's determin'd warriors had to British arms to yield;
Far from the rampant lion's roar the imperial eagles flew,
And left the plain o'erspread with slain at dire Waterloo.
Unable to hazard the combat again;
Through the terror-struck ranks, quick, this wild accent ran,—
“All is lost—ever lost! quickly fly, whoe'er can!”
What dreadful slaughter then ensued, when thus dismay'd by fear,
While loudly rang our heroes' blades upon their broken rear;
And those who miss'd their force and fire, most sadly yet shall rue
That ere they join'd the tyrant's flag at dire Waterloo.
BUONAPARTE'S LAMENT IN HIS LAST EXILE.
And hope's enchanting smile,
I spend in woe life, ebbing slow,
On this remote, secluded isle;
Where all I spy is sea or sky,
Round this horrific steep,
And nought I hear but howlings drear
From off the foaming deep.
Alas! no more I'll tread,
No future morn, to me forlorn,
Can bring the happy scenes now fled.
I bade a last adieu,
When fortune's star, my doom, by war,
Resolved at Waterloo.
Though in the glow of day,
Nor solemn night, star-spangled bright,
Can drive my exile-grief away.
Contention's fate I've seen too late,
And grandeur's luring glare,
So here my doom is endless gloom,
With sullen, grim despair.
To me shall ranks appear,
Nor blazing steel e'er more shall reel,
In charge of bayonet or spear.
Keen ruin's blast, my lot at last,
Hath driven me far from joy;
Fate, take my life! but spare my wife,
And harmless, darling boy.
THE REBEL'S LAMENT.
For there I was ance independent and free;
But now I maun wander the wide Lowlan's o'er,
And solicit cauld charity frae door to door;
And the cause o' my wanderin', thus hameless and poor,
Was my followin' the Prince on Culloden's sad moor.
When the foe cross'd the fords o' the clear rollin' Spey!
When the forces o' Cumberlan' seal'd my sad lot,
And my twa gallant sons fell by ae cannon shot!
Then adversity's cloud on our cause dark did lower,
When our front-rank was broke on Culloden's sad moor.
Contending, like rivals, wha wad lead the van;
We faced the foe's fire wi' the naked claymore:
Nae tigers, defendin' their young, fought mair dour,
Than ilk clansman, that day, on Culloden's sad moor.
My lands were attainted, my house set on flame;
My braw sons baith slain, my dear wife died o' grief—
Och, I thocht the could grave wad to me been relief!
Lang, lang ha'e I wandered now, hameless and poor,
And I'll mourn till I die for Culloden's sad moor.
THE POLISH REFUGEE.
And the moon's yellow rays gilded palace and tree,
A poor Polish refugee stray'd, thus bewailing
The wrongs of his country and lost liberty—
“Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
There's no land, there's no land,
'Neath the blue vault of heaven, so ill-fated as thee!
Each patriot, undaunted, his weapon did draw;
But hope's verdant leaves by despair soon were blighted,
When our last stand was made round the walls of Warsaw.
Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
Can no hand, can no hand,
Dethrone that dread power that makes tyranny law?
‘To exile or death’! was the savage foe's yell—
But, vanquish'd at last, to our souls, O 'twas galling,
When destruction's harsh trump sounded freedom's last knell.
Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
Thou now art our foe's land,
And thy children must bid thee an endless farewell.”
KATTIE CHRISTIE.
Wha, for beauty and mien, could match either lord or earl;
Sae sweet was her look, that the di'mond and the pearl
Could add naething to the charms of Kattie Christie, O.
She was sweet nineteen,
Wi' pure azure een;
And her yellow hair
Flow'd in ringlets rare;
She was tight and tall,
And, take her all-in-all,
You'll but seldom meet the match of Kattie Christie, O.
That could glaze ilka e'e, wi' Love's delusive glamour,
And ilk wooer fan she was skill'd in Venus' grammar;
When every heart did glow for Kattie Christie, O.
At bridal and fair
She the gree bore there;
She the lads o' Fife
Held in constant strife;
And the priest was vex'd,
When reading out his text,
To fin' ev'ry e'e was fix'd on Kattie Christie, O.
Mony hearts glow'd wi' hope, mony pined and languish'd sairly;
Faithers gloom'd, mithers flate, lasses spite and spleen did ware aye
In profusion 'gainst young lovely Kattie Christie, O.
Sae wide spread her fame
'Yond her circle at hame,
Lothian lairds cross'd the Forth,
Chieftains cam' frae the north;
The precentor, by report,
Ran lang metre into short,
Through a random glance he got o' Kattie Christie, O.
There were sair dool and shame spaet by ilka envious carlin;
But Fate, on Time's wings, ended a' sic idle quarrellin',
And soon stamp'd the lot o' pretty Kattie Christie, O.
Now her lovers a'
Need nae langer ca',
Are aside a' flung;
For the dancing master's come,
Beating time like ony drum,
And has fairly won the heart o' Kattie Christie, O.
There's an end to a' strife 'mang the fierce contending classes,
And ilk ane now sees—they were doilt as mules or asses,
To be sae sair bewitch'd by Kattie Christie, O.
She threw wealth aside
To exalt the pride
Of this jumpin' John,
Wi' his turn'-pumps on,
Who must through the world go—
Flatter, shuffle, heel-and-toe,
To support in style, his charming Kattie Christie, O.
WHILE TEMPEST RAGES O'ER THE DEEP.
And moon and stars in darkness sleep,
When not an object striks the eye,
Save lightning flashing through the sky;
Who then the seaman's fate would share,
Now plunged in brine, then toss'd in air:
While hope, expell'd by grim despair,
From every breast doth fly?
None then would share the seaman's lot,
Though tenant of the meanest cot.
And swift the vessel nears the shore;
When wives and sweethearts hail again
The heroes of the stormy main;
Who then can feel the joyous glow
That in the seaman's breast doth flow,
When landed safe from storm and foe
The flowing can to drain?
The seaman's bliss but few can share,
Though born a monarch's crown to wear.
HAB O' THE MILL.
There is nane that's mair sweet than the smile o' content;
It gars the time flee sae delightfully smooth,
That our noddle's turn grey while we think we're in youth.
Yet it shuns courts and crowns for the glen and the hill,
And tak's shelter remote wi' auld Hab o' the Mill.
Yet he ne'er was sax miles frae his ain native glen;
And though the same scenes to his e'e still appear,
Yet they never him tire, but are ever as dear:
While the blackbird's blithe sang, and the laverock's gay trill,
Ever cheer up the heart o' auld Hab o' the Mill.
Ha'e a half-cent'ry pass'd free o' dull care and strife;
While a family they've raised, by example and thrift,
That for virtue are equall'd by few 'neath the lift:
Which delights the auld pair wi' true joy's sweetest thrill,
Sae few mortals are bless'd like auld Hab o' the Mill.
What they say wi' their tongue wi' their blood they will seal;
His dochters are bonny, and modest, yet free,
And the blithe blink o' love flashes warm frae ilk e'e;
And fou crouse is the wooer wha gets the guidwill
To become son-in-law to auld Hab o' the Mill.
And the shochles, like crystal, hing clear frae the rocks;
Wi' some auld couthie friend he the time passes by,
Nor complains o' the drift wheeling chill through the sky.
Wi' a crack and a snuff, and a cog o' guid yill,
Never king was mair happy than Hab o' the Mill.
For me I'll ne'er wish for their splendour nor state;
If thou'lt only me bless wi' contentment through life,
Far frae malice, frae envy, frae discord, and strife;
Then the cup of my lot to the brim thou wilt fill,
And I'll toddle through life like auld Hab o' the Mill.
THE BRIDAL PROSPECT.
The robin's awa' to the woods,
The whaup has come back to the mountains,
And the lav'rock sings blithe 'mang the clouds;
The merle and the mavis are liltin'
In the birken shaw sae gay;
Then haste thee round, blithsome beltan,
For thou art my bridal day!
A scarf like the blue o' the sky;
And seldom the sun's thrown a glimpse on
A bride ony brawer than I:
Wi' a Tuscan bonnet sae gaudy,
And feathers as white as the swan,
A' to charm the leal heart o' my laddie,
That day he is made my goodman.
For tykin', and blankets, and sheets;
Sae I'll look like my faither's ain bairn now,—
Wealth best aye the lowe o' love beets.
A flittin' baith gausy and gaudy,
I weel keen, my folk will gi'e me,
That winna affront my dear laddie,
Whase mailin's weel stocked and free.
A' blithsome, and bonny, and braw;
But I fear I my joy will can hide ill,
For my heart's like to loup clean awa!
And when in a raw we're marchin'
The bonny burnside alang,
The mavis, on green birks perchin',
Will lilt to the fiddle a sang.
In the cheery east appear;
And the joyous guests, returning,
Will get, frae the lav'rocks, a cheer.
Then haste thee round, blithesome beltan,
How can ye sae lang delay?
Thy name sets my heart a-meltin',
For thou art my bridal day.
GREEN BUD THE BIRKS AGAIN.
Green bud the birks again,
The primrose springs, the mavis sings,
And Robin vows he'll be my ain.
Wi' him I've wander'd by the burn;
I sigh'd when Robin was awa,
But sang wi' joy at his return.
Athwart the summer-evenin' sky,
Sae swift, wi' Robin, and sae sweet,
The langest nichts hae glided by.
There's nane like him sae leal, I trow,
There's nane like him, wi' winnin' glance,
Sae finely kens the way to woo.
O' him I dream the leelang nicht,
Wi' him in fancy still I stray;
Sae time flees by unheeded licht.
To some daft gomrel landed laird;
But I'll be nane but Robin's bride,
For he is a' my heart's regard.
THE LASSIE ON THE BANKS OF CART.
And the gowans, snaw-white, gem the green grassy lea;
In the fresh birken shaw the sweet blackbird now sings,
And wi' chorus o' larks a' the welkin loud rings.
The gloamin' draws on, and my labour is done,
And the houlet now screams frae the wa's o' Pynoon;
Wi' joy I'll tak' the gaet, like an arrow or a dart,
To my heart enchantin' lassie on the banks of Cart.
And warm is the love that she still shows to me;
That the strong cords of love 'round my heart are twined.
And lang may they bind my affection to her,
Whom I above all earthly objects revere!
We aye should meet at morn, if that night I mean to part,
With my charming loving lassie on the banks of Cart.
And boreas descends, clad in hail, snow, or sleet,
I could wend to my true love, as blithsome and gay
As in warm July, or the mildest of May.
Gi'e av'rice to wallow in spoils of Peru,
Gi'e me but my Jeannie, sae constant and true;
Wi' rapture still we meet, but the tear is like to start,
When I leave my lovely lassie on the banks of Cart.
THE LASS OF DYCHMONT-HILL.
Frae out the glens now steals awa',
And tints wi' orange grandeur
The tap o' Bothwell-castle's wa';
And now, 'neath dews sae mellow,
That sweetly on the fields distil,
Amang the broom sae yellow,
I'll meet the lass of Dychmont-hill.
Adorn the fertile country wide,
In gaudy dress or homely,
Along the charming vale of Clyde;
But a' I've heard, and a' I've seen,
To gar the youthfu' bosom thrill,
Gi'e me the lips, gi'e me the e'en,
Of her wha dwells on Dychmont-hill.
Where reigns that heart unstained by guile,
The purest lily's blossom
Compared wi' that were dim and vile.
Leal, constant, undeceiving,
Ne'er teas'd wi' a capricious will;
If she'll be mine, then I'll entwine
My fate wi' hers of Dychmont-hill.
THE MERRY GARD'NER.
And fresh verdure decks the bowers,
And the chilling breath of winter's past and gone, gone, gone;
To train his plants so gay,
'Neath the blackbird's cheering lay,
Who's so happy as the gard'ner with his apron on?
He makes all in order shine,
To charm the eye and make dull care begone, gone, gone;
And to shun the fervid heat,
To his bower he doth retreat;
O what bliss attends the gard'ner with his apron on!
Sweet perfumes the glowing air,
How delightfully he muses while alone, lone, lone,
'Mong sweet flowers of every die
That can charm the raptured eye—
Pleasure still attends the gard'ner with his apron on.
To reward his toil with gain,
Then how blithe he bears his horn of plenty home, home, home;
While the smile of sweet content,
Round his bless'd fireside is sent,
To rejoice the merry gard'ner with his apron on.
To the Lodge he doth repair,
And by every honest brother there is known, known, known,
Whom he joins with heart and hand,
To fulfil the high command
Of the sceptred kings that sat on Judah's throne, throne, throne.
Let each brother seize his cup,
Let all discord, care, and sadness, aye begone, gone, gone;
While we drink that joy and peace
May for evermore increase,
'Mong true gard'ners, when assembled, with their aprons on.
GALLOWA' TAM.
Chapt at the winnock, but durst na come ben;
I gaed to the door and I crackit awee,
And syne frae the nail whipit down the barn key.
Though the kintra misca' him for waur than the de'il,
I ne'er yet saw ought indiscreet in the chiel;
'Tis true, I maun own, he whiles tak's a bit dram,
But that's now nae exception in Gallowa' Tam.
Cam' down to my father to speer the guidwill;
My mither leugh butt, and my mither leugh ben,
And tauld the laird he'd begun at the wrang end.
For a young lassie's fancy no easy gart jee,
When charm'd wi' the blink o' a young laddie's e'e;
The gowk thocht she only was makin' a sham,
But ne'er dreamt o' the wiles o' young Gallowa' Tam.
Can talk about nocht but his gear and his cash;
The priest's no yet born wha will buckle us twa,
Though my faither should gie me nae tocher ava.
What signifies wealth, if nae pleasure we share?
What signifies wedlock, if love be nae there?
Sae, fareweel to the auld, wither'd, peat-reekit ram,
But aye welcome blithe penniless Gallowa' Tam.
Nae pleasure had I if young Tam wasna there;
But when he appear'd ilka bosom did jump,
For o' company Tam was the tongue o' the trump.
The hearts o' the lasses he wiles ane and a',
And ilka chiel's spite on his shouthers maun fa';
They may jeer, they may slander, his credit to slam,
But I ne'er think the less o' young Gallowa' Tam.
He's wiled in love's fetters mae lasses than me;
He tells me his love wi' sae winnin' an art,
That ilka word fa's like a charm on my heart.
Come weal or come woe, then, come pleasure or pain,
Though faither and mither say—“Lassie, refrain!”
I'll wed wi' the lad that my heart first o'ercam',
And leave fortune to guide me wi' Gallowa' Tam.
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
Frae foreign wars
Unscaithed wi' scars;
Nae mair he'll follow fife and drum,
But stay wi' me,
Frae danger free.
Though time and clime ha'e blanch'd his cheeks
When far frae me
Out owre the sea;
A lealfu' heart his e'e bespeaks,
Unalter'd still
To ought that's ill.
My heart, frae grief,
Gat nae relief;
But now my fears are banish'd a',
When he's return'd,
For whom I mourn'd.
O when I saw his tartans green
And bonnet's plume
Wave owre the broom,
The tears o' joy did blin' my een,
To see my love
Aye constant prove.
The noisy drum
And bagpipe's hum,
Wi' crook and plaid my love's array'd,
To tend his flocks
'Mong glens and rocks.
Fareweel to war, and a' its waes,
The cannon's roar
And drawn claymore;
Wi' joy we'll range the heather braes,
And spend a life
Unknown to strife.
POEMS.
The Pleasures of Faith.
Look'st upward to yon high celestial clime,
Whose beatific charms from bondage free—
Say, Power benignant! dare I sing of thee?
And touch the bosom with ecstatic fire;
Though doom'd to toil in labour's irksome cell,
Far from the scenes where wealth and honour dwell;
Though starr'd to brave misfortune's sweeping surge,
And oft o'erwhelm'd below the swelling gorge—
Warm rolls the torrent o'er my thrilling soul,
Poetic rapture spurning all control:
I raise my voice to sing thy joys, O Faith!
Which cheer the saint through the dark vale of death,
While, 'neath thy brilliant rays, he draws his latest breath.
I court no Muse on pure Olympus' height
To guide me in the high, the heavenward flight;
Thy aid, O Deity, I crave alone,
Who sitt'st on heaven's bright angel-circled throne;
Thy aid, that thou, in mercy, wouldst reveal
The vision fair; and, while I sing it, feel
The sweets ambrosial which it can impart,
The only opiate for the sinful heart.
On joys departed, shorn of all their woe;
And who can view his childhood's scenery bright,
Yet feel no filmy tear bedim his sight?
But all is fled! fled, never to return,
Inclosed for aye in Time's chaotic urn!
With fleeting scenes through fancy's florid maze;
Which in the end appear illusions sly;
May spur to action, yet, when all is done,
Her darling object may not then be won:
Her warmest feelings, when most sternly fix'd,
With doubts and fears are still profusely mix'd.
Of pleasure, gliding down the fatal stream
Where smoothly sails her gilded bark along,
Till headlong hurl'd sheer ruin's rocks among.
No! 'twas no weak, delusive, vague demur
Made Abra'am leave the fertile plains of Ur,
While, inly prompted by that Power divine,
He roam'd the distant land of Palestine;
Nor wild illusions of the vagrant mind
Caused him, in age, believe an heir to find,
From whom a race as num'rous, and as bright,
Should spring, as stars that gild the vault of night.
How bless'd the vision of the faithful sire,
To see, among that race, the just's Desire—
Messiah—born, death's bloody field to tread,
And, by his passion, bruise the serpent's head:
Adown time's lengthen'd vista beam'd his eye,
And view'd the scene in clear perspective lie—
The Saviour's triumph in the realms of light,
And Satan chain'd in tenfold shades of night.
Was his pure faith, which stood the potent shock
Of trial, and the wondrous conquest won,
When drew the sire the knife to slay his son;
That son, from whom, by God's supreme command,
A race should spring, as countless as the sand:
What throbbings must his tender heart have borne
When nature's ties by him in twain were torn,
And on the pile, with meek imploring eye,
His darling son a victim weak did lie!
But steadfast Faith firm nerved his feeling soul,
Though down his cheeks the tears of nature stole,
To show submission to that Power divine
Who never acts from motives unbenign.
On the instructive page of history,
Of saints heroic, who, like granite rock,
Have braved stern persecution's direst shock;
Nor could the fellest form of gloomy death
Appal their souls, upborne by cheering Faith.
Torture in vain the crucifix hath rear'd,
In vain with blood the rack hath been besmear'd,
In vain the fagot's fiercest flames have stung,
In vain the headsman's axe hath direful rung,
In vain, death-fraught, hath reel'd the shower of stones,
Or wheel to dust hath bruised the martyr's bones—
With angel-meekness has their latest breath,
In smiles, been pour'd, amid the scenes of death.
Strength to contemn the life-consuming glow
Of fire terrific, blown to sevenfold rage,
That death to all approachers did presage!
Such power did Faith indelibly impart,
To cheer, 'neath threaten'd martyrdom, the heart
Of those illustrious Jews whom Pagan ire
Doom'd to the ordeal of Chaldean fire;
Such power did Faith through Daniel's soul infuse—
High favour'd prophet of the captive Jews—
As led him ne'er God's law to disobey,
Though he should perish by the beasts of prey:
Firm clave their anchor to that Rock secure
Which can temptation's fellest storm endure.
Though terrors frown the heavenly bliss between;
Can realise those pleasures ever new,
Though densely dark unto the carnal view;
Can lift her voice, to join the dulcet song
That flows the pure angelic choir among,
Who from their harps such harmony impart
As could entrance with rapture every heart.
Of that bless'd realm of infinite delight,
Where haggard want and woe can ne'er appear!
Whose fields still bloom, whose sky is ever clear,
Round rocks of brightest gems, do wind their course,
Whereof who drinks shall never thirst again,
But through eternity refresh'd remain;
Whose ever-verdant trees' ambrosial fruit,
With nodding welcome, doth the saints salute
To taste the luscious food, so fair to view,
Of which who ever ate ne'er hunger knew.
And plants content there evermore to dwell;
She teaches all her vot'ries ne'er to fret,
Although by life's distresses sore beset;
Smooths the erst frowning brow of poverty
Amidst the rigours of the toiling day;
Awakes the finest feelings of the soul,
Immured before in stupor's black control;
Gives resignation when affliction's nigh,
Content to live, and fortitude to die:
Thus life she sweetens! but her strongest power
Sheds on the saint to cheer his dying hour.
He longs to reach his ever-bless'd abode,
And trusts that his all-gracious Sire on high
Will soothe the widow's grief and orphan's cry;
Will guide them, through earth's wilderness of woe,
From every outward, every latent foe,
And waft them, when they leave its dreary shore,
Safe to His arms, to taste of grief no more.
Such aid upheld those heaven-approved few
Whom persecution's vengeance did pursue;
Who, for Immanuel's life-dispensing cause,
Were doom'd to perish 'neath tyrannic laws;
Who, for their pure benevolence of mind,
Were too, too good to dwell with base mankind;
These trod the footsteps of their Master dear,
Unmindful of their suff'rings, though severe,
Conscious that, when life's per'lous day was o'er,
To joys beyond conception they would soar.
That shrouds the sceptic at death's gloomy hour?
On all sides round no solace can he find;
Shut are wit's once exhilarating springs,
Shorn are his fancy's bounding eagle wings;
Stern conscience throws her venom-pointed dart,
That shoots corrosive anguish through the heart;
Perverted reason brands his tortured soul,
And mem'ry spreads her guilt-bedaubed roll;
Time's trickling sands, he deems, too rapid run;
Too soon to set glides down the evening sun;
Conviction's lamp faint glimmers on his eye,
When down he sinks into eternity!
Upon the sceptic bosom of Voltaire,
When life refused her cordial beams to shed
Around the witty infidel's death-bed;
When all his humour, all his atheist lore,
The passing moments could beguile no more;
When, from profoundest hell, began to flow
That fire which wakes the sharpest pangs of woe—
That fire which, kindled, nought can ever quench,
But, flaming, burns with keen sulphureous stench—
Intense, as lightning through the welkin driven,
Eternal, as the sure decrees of heaven:
A backward eye he, haply, throws on youth,
Before estranged far from the path of truth;
What heart-contentment then his bosom found,
Ere he had trod the daring sceptic's ground!
But such a retrospect, when view'd thus late,
In tenfold misery sinks his hapless state;
He dies, to live anew to sharper pain,
Where torture merciless doth ever reign!
Did make the stubborn infidel admire—
Admire, and wish that hour he ne'er had met
Which had his mind with doubtings vain beset—
When he espied the fortitude of mind
Display'd by good La Roche, by Faith refined,
While he endured the shock of trial great,
Yet bow'd with meek submission to his fate:
Away by death—a stranger he forlorn—
His only child—his daughter sweet and fair,
Who sole remain'd his sufferings sad to share—
Sunk, 'spite of all the sage physician's art,
Beneath the cureless wound—a broken heart!
Untimely doom'd to tenant death's drear cell,
For rival lovers, who both fought and fell:
Yet soar'd the feeling saint o'er all these woes,
Which Faith's triumphant power resplendent shows.
Rich garnish'd grace of all-surpassing love!
May thy transcendent pleasures wide be shed
By Him who is thy only fountain-head;
Shed o'er a world by passions wild o'errun,
Shed to eclipse sin's scorching tropic sun,
Shed to prepare mankind for joys that lie
In other worlds, veil'd from the carnal eye!
'Tis thou canst penetrate those regions sheen,
Angelic “evidence of things not seen!”
Canst more than mountain obstacles remove,
And fix the mind on endless themes of love,
Which brightly shine, with still-increasing ray,
In the pure realms of immortality.
A Dream.
Did wave in the breeze;
On Flora's soft pillow
I lay at my ease:
I mused on the folly
Of gay thoughtless youth,
Which brings melancholy—
Oh heart-rending truth!
Beside a clear stream,
Till, in reasoning wander'd,
I slept, and did dream;
In full bloom of youth,
Who said, she would guide me
To unerring truth.
I knelt at her feet;
A leader to find thus
I grateful did greet:
For long I in error
And darkness had stray'd;
And heart-burning terror
Threw life all in shade.
And soon she did show,
That virtue should praised be
For banishing woe.
I listen'd her story,
Convincing and clear,
Was downcast and sorry,
And dropp'd a sad tear.
Is simple and true;
The tale of my leader;
I'll tell it to you.
She lean'd on a hawthorn
And did it rehearse;
Then hear 't without scorn,
In Pindaric verse.
His clay-built cot was thatch'd with rushes;
All could declare the hermit good,
Who lived obscurely 'mong the bushes.
But they as uniformly led
A counter life: they would not tread
The path to joy; for they did dread
The power that sensual pleasure crushes.
To all internal peace;
Where thou dost rule we find a fool,
And wisdom's quick decrease.
Beneath a hawthorn fair,
Rapt in deep adoration;
To Him, whose is creation,
He breathed a fervent prayer:
When forth stepp'd a young libertine,
Who cried, ‘Why dost thou groan and whine,
Reclusely, in this wild?
What will avail thy abstinence,
Thus curbing all the joys of sense,
When death thy days hath foil'd?’
And on the youngster fix'd his eyes,
And thus, laconical, did say
What made the stripling slide away.
Eternity's clear tide doth roll,
Then am I bless'd with endless life,
Whilst thou art plunged in deathless strife.
All be but blank nonentity,
I'm still the gainer, for I've shunn'd
Rude riot's sting, that oft thee stunn'd.’
And own'd his reasoning was true:
So deep did passion's fangs him fix on,
The wise reply but wrought conviction;
The rede he did regard no more,
So lived as he had done before.
And prize the talent Time;
Make true religion now thy choice,
While yet in youthful prime:
Submit to heaven's high behest,
Which will thee lead to endless rest;
The road is smoothest, surest, best—
It winds through Zion's clime.”
Ode to the Sun.
To us, the monarch of the sky,
Again I see thee southward hie
From Cancer's scorching tower:
Far, far from Scotia's desert plains,
The seat of cheerful nymphs and swains,
Thou fliest; and sullen clouds and rains
In gloomy horror lour.
For other realms, as well as we,
Rejoice thy brilliant smile to see,
And feel thy cheering beam.
No people, between pole and pole,
But feel thy mighty power, O Sol!
While Terra round her course doth roll,
Thy use will be their theme.
The verdant meads confess the same,
The yellow broom far spreads thy fame,
And flowers thy anthem raise;
And, fond, at eventide I rove,
To list the music of the grove,
The sweet retreat of ardent love,
Whence flow the amorous lays.
Finds shelter from misfortune hard;
From social pleasure oft debarr'd,
For want of needful money;
In lieu of which, thy offspring sweet,
Flowers, shrubs, with birds, is his retreat;
A bless'd Elysium, quite replete
With life's most luscious honey.
A Sabbath Morning Reflection.
SCENE—Torrance Hermitage.That, with incessant clamour, grating jar;
While here, sequester'd from all human eyes,
I taste the sweet, the hallow'd day of rest:
But not in solitude, for all around
Is joy and gladness, rapturously sweet;
From every shrub and thicket, bough and spray,
Soul-soothing melody is pour'd profuse.
From yonder larch, but late with verdure clad,
The blackbird's lay in boldest cadence flows;
The thrush, from yon green birch, her dulcet strain
Disseminates, more sweet than softest flute;
The linnet, redbreast, bullfinch, e'en the wren,
All join in harmony to hail the morn;
While Calder, gurgling o'er her rocky path,
Excites the mind to contemplation sweet.
What just arrangement still the senses meet!
What skill, past utterance, past conception far,
Appears, in every stroke and lineament
Of this first Cause, from whom all blessings flow!
Oh pride! that e'er in man thou shouldst have found
A haven where to hatch thy impious brood,
When all creation, subject to his ken,
With never-ceasing voice, proclaims aloud
That God, in every action, should be praised:
What hast thou, man, whereof thou mayest boast,
In mind or body, riches, titles, power?
Nought: all thy boasted dignity, assumed,
Is but the offspring of that cursed lust
Which threw bright Lucifer and his compeers
From Heaven's delightful realms of love and joy,
Down to the gloomy sulphurous vaults of hell,
To pine, blaspheme, and rage, in endless woe.
Why doat on knowledge? the infernal crew
Surpass thee almost to infinity:
Of this thou may'st be easily convinced,
When every day that passes o'er thy head
Can draw thee, captive, on to ruin's shore,
And all unseen e'en to the mental eye;
For while their death-fraught mandates thou obey'st,
They seem the only paths of cloyless bliss.
And why of that frail body art thou proud?
How short, at longest, is the term of life!
And, oh! how oft, ere shines thy noontide sun,
Thou sleep'st, unknowing, in the gelid tomb?
Yea, while the tenure lasts, what cares and toils,
With never-ceasing clamour, gall thy rest;
Till too, too oft, e'en in fair Britain's realms,
Grim suicide steps forth, with demon frown,
And, by one thrust, doth soul and body part.
And on it, bright, seems happiness impress'd;
But though of that thou hadst thy heart's desire,
No comfort, joy, nor solace wouldst thou find,
When this great lesson thou hast left unlearn'd—
“With God's disposals always be content.”
When breathing that too sublimated air?
The name's too mean which Deity bestow'd;
Hence to some stratagem we must resort,
To rid us of this fatal obloquy:
And kings and princes, with their endless train,
Lord o'er their fellows with despotic power.
Power, that gigantic champion, sits enthroned
With brazen sceptre, 'neath which millions groan,
And, by his nod, awes pining discontent,
And mire-clad drudgery, to their slave-like work—
Must too, at length, the ruler's voice forego,
When death, in horrent form—hell's nuncio grim—
Appears, beside the yew-surrounded grave,
Arm'd with that potent dart, of baleful point,
Venom'd in sin's terrific blazing forge,
To throw his fate—his endless destiny.
No figment this: the world's great victor see,
'Neath whose dire arm the Persian monarch sank,
Pallid and faint, on unrefreshing couch—
Now, in his turn, resigns his crown to death.
Vaulting in all the arrogance of pride;
Now, lonely, on Helena's rock he sits,
With pensive eye bent on the foaming wave,
(True emblem of his envy-rankled soul,)
Despoil'd of all his stern magnific port,
Sullen yet calm, like castigated child,
Nor dares he rule earth's most ignoble slave.
Or envy much the good which springs from earth?
That soul ought ne'er on time-girt themes to dwell
Whose native clime is heaven's illumined realm.
But, oh! how high, beyond conception's sight,
Are those keen transports which possess the soul,
In that pure intellectual region bless'd,
To man, thus stifled in gross matter's robe!
How high! when he essays to penetrate the veil
Which hangs, dark, waving round the hallow'd shrine!
Still wrapp'd in sense and sensitive delights,
What are his views? but those which Pagans feign;
Elysian joys, but alter'd in their form;
Their golden harps but tuned to other themes,
And gleaming courts, for flower-encircled bowers.
Yet should man's mind this mystic region scan
While here on earth? No: that were vain indeed:
He's made to serve his end, and this he doth
When he, with humble heart and contrite spirit, loves
His God supreme—his neighbour as himself.
Of those true joys which lie in store above;
Have felt the pleasures which in raptures flow
From conscience unreproving, and God's smile,
His benediction, and his grace vouchsafed.
Yea, e'en among the agonies of death
Thousands have gloried, in this cause divine,
On racks and crosses, and on blazing piles,
Cheer'd and supported by that heavenly Power
Who works, unseen, within man's inmost core.
But now, bless'd thought! grim persecution's fled,
Rome's hand is fetter'd, and, throughout this land,
All may, as conscience dictates, serve the God
Nor deputes a vicegerent here below
To lord supremacy o'er fellow-men.
And let me ne'er on life's fell hardships brood;
What things are only fit for me provide,
While wandering through life's vale of solitude.
A Prayer.
Who transcendent reign'st above,
Here I prostrate lie before thee,
To implore thy saving love.
I in vice have wallow'd long,
Nor could reason turn me from it,
Arm'd with demonstration strong.
Till the glorious gospel light
Burst the ebon gloom, to cheer me
While immured in sin's black night.
In more gloomy shades pourtray'd;
Darker seem'd each moral feature,
By the holy law display'd.
On thy creature now descend,
Which from Satan's bondage frees us,
If on grace we sole depend.
Through His all-atoning blood,
Which hath pathed the way to heaven
In an overflowing flood.
Kindle in my soul a flame,
Which, through every deed extending,
Still shall glorify Thy name.
Through this life, with snares beset;
Oh do Thou assistance render
To escape sin's fatal net!
Shed its heart-deluding ray,
Save me from its dire beguiling
By thy grace, O Lord, I pray.
Be through life my constant lot,
May “Take no thought for to-morrow”
By me never be forgot.
I my journey shall pursue,
With my face to heaven directed,
And bright glory's crown in view.
In that dark and dreary hour,
Oh do Thou not then forsake me,
But on me thy Spirit shower.
Who through boundless space dost reign,
This, my prayer, oh do Thou hear it,
And all praise be thine—Amen.
The Infanticide.
And still the Magi wander'd on
From Persia's mountains, distant far,
Where first they spied the wondrous Star,
O'er hills, through glens and rivers, wending,
Still on their heavenly guide attending;
No toil, no travel do they mind,
Their sole wish, Judah's King to find;
And, inly by the Spirit led,
With joy their longsome way they sped:
And parch'd Arabia's desert vast,
They reach the towers of Salem grand,
The pride of all the Holy Land.
The eye of wonder on them drew;
For, quick, their fame like lightning ran
From city crowd to grave divan,
Till Herod, trembling, hears anon,
And, hearing, dreads a captive throne.
“And should one in rebellion rise,
He and his allies soon shall feel
The conq'ring power of Roman steel!
But bring these vagrants, and I'll hear
Why in this city they appear,
And set the whole in wild uproar,
Where peace serenely reign'd before.”
And to the haughty monarch brought,
Who sat in anxious troubled mood,
And o'er the strange report did brood.
Arrived, he stares them with an eye
Of wrath, deep mix'd with jealousy,
While they, unawed by courtly grandeur,
In all the glare of tyrant splendour,
Give answer calm to all required
By Herod, whom suspicion fired;
But each he bound, with strict behest,
When found of whom they were in quest,
The joyful news they back should bring,
That he might go and hail their King.
And now the Star illumes the plain;
With vertic beam and brighter flame
It burns o'er humble Bethlehem.
The Infant here, in slumber, lies
Clasp'd in his mother's fond embrace—
Content, though mean her resting place.
While prostrated to Him they bow,
And, praising, gifts profuse bestow,
In wonder rapt that Power divine
Should through an infant's weakness shine.
On warm devotion's wings, arise
The parents' thanks to Jacob's God,
For cheering thus their lone abode
By timely aid, brought from afar,
When trouble seem'd all joy to mar.
With anxious wish, for the return
Of these sage pilgrims; but in vain,
For them he ne'er should see again:
By vision warn'd, they homeward stray,
To eastern lands, another way.
Instructed Joseph by a dream,
Warning the kind and cautious sire
To fly from Herod's vengeful ire,
And refuge seek in Egypt's clime
Until the due appointed time.
Obedient to the heavenly call,
He flies, to shun the despot's thrall;
By night, by day, through drearest road,
The desert wilderness he trod;
By night's dews chill'd, by day's heat parch'd,
With meek submission, on they march'd,
Till safe arrived in that far land
Where Pharaohs long held sole command.
The awful thunder rattles loud;
As volleying Etna's baleful blast
Rolls out in lava-streams at last;
As, from the marshall'd lines of war,
Destruction bursts, with fatal jar;
So wrath, matured in Herod's soul,
Breaks forth, disdaining all control,
And nought can calm his demon-pride
But hell-advised Infanticide.
A secret order out is sent,
Assembling all the sons of blood,
On Bethleh'ms streets to spread the flood
From the pure spring of infant hearts,
Pierced by their poniards, swords, and darts.
Surrounds the calm but fated town.
What though all robed in pilgrim guise!
Souls base are louring through their eyes!
With weapons arm'd, much joy they'll blight
Before to-morrow's sun gives light.
Soft slumbers slew the weary swain,
Quit was the lay of evening lark,
The dreary watch-dog ceased to bark,
The stray sheep dropp'd her woeful wail,
The crow did roost in woodland dale,
The sportive youths had left their play,
The saint had sung his vesper lay,
The miser summ'd his golden heap,
The mother lull'd her babe to sleep—
When murder's sable flag was rear'd,
Whereon grim death its crest appear'd,
As up the bolted doors were broke,
And parents—but to weep—awoke.
With sulphrous torches blazing blue
The murd'rers range the village through,
Waving the lamp of hell, to light
Them to the massacre this night.
The father, starting, quakes with fear,
The lights to see, the sound to hear;
The mother swoons, with terror wild,
Her latest grasp laid on her child;
The babe she fondled oft before
Now throbs, and welters in its gore.
From house to house th' assassins fly,
From street to street quick rings the cry
Of groaning sires, distracted mothers—
Of shrieking sisters, wailing brothers—
In blood and tears is drench'd and drown'd.
Resistance none could fathers make;
No sinew strung, each nerve did shake,
As sailors torpid struck with fear,
When, deeming that no danger's near,
Their vessel founders on the rock,
They stand confounded at the shock.
Displays, when, through the vapours dun
He darts, with red, effulgent beam,
On hill and vale, and lake and stream!
The sire he left in joyful air
Now sits o'ercome by black despair;
The mother singing to her child,
Now wails with bitter anguish wild;
The rosy infant, smiling once,
Now sleeps in death's eternal trance:
All pleasure's fled, and nought appears
But faces drown'd in grief and tears.
In vain the sympathising friend
His soothing counsel now doth lend;
In vain the sacred man of God
Drops comfort from the holy code;
In vain are nature's bounties spread—
The grieved soul recoils at bread;
For still the wildest wails of woe,
With floods of tears, afresh do flow.
When bears the kite her mate away,
No art revengeful can she try,
But only lives to mourn and cry,
So, 'gainst the cause of this event,
No bow of vengeance can be bent;
The bloody despot rests secure,
If conscience can the deed endure;
Nought can the injured do but mourn,
With throbbing bosoms, sadly torn.
While lab'ring 'mongst sepulchral stones;
With mould'ring bones bestrew'd all round;
E'en he with rage infuriate burns
To dig the graves for infants' urns.
The carpenter, both day and night,
Toils, while with tears and sweat his sight
Is dimm'd, to answer the demand
For sable coffins through the land.
No bolt of fate was ever shed
Like that which burst o'er Bethleh'm's head.
With grieved attendants, doth appear;
Incessant sounds the dreary mould,
Immuring corpses stiff and cold;
And none the wond'ring trav'ller meets
But mourners on the roads and streets,
All bathed in tears, in sackcloth clad,
Downcast, heart-broken, wildly sad.
No more the darkness lulls to rest,
To nerve the hind, with toil oppress'd;
No more the cheerful dawn of day
Can chase the gloom of woe away;
No more of love the joyous song
Is heard the greenwood shades among,
Nor mirthful tale, at even-tide,
Around the blazing bright fireside:
But now the mother's weeping seen
At eve, lone, straying o'er the green,
To view her murder'd infants' tomb,
More drear by night's congenial gloom:
Oft sits she on the letter'd stone,
That says, “Sad dame, this is thy own
Dear child!” Here, with an absent eye,
Stern fix'd upon the spacious sky,
She ponders in her mind the joy
Hope proffer'd in her darling boy—
Her boy, now mould'ring in the dust,
A victim to a tyrant's lust.
Nor can her home amend her state,
While sorrow rules the die of fate;
All consolation still she flies,
And mourning lives, and mourning dies.
On Scepticism.
In which creation wheels with ample sweep,
Or what idea has the human mind
Of non-existence, ere time had her birth
From the wide womb of dread eternity?
None! Never mortal could take in the range
So wide, which wraps in darkness, as a shroud,
The corse of matter gross, and farther sweeps,
With outspread wings, than fancy can descry.
And views unnumber'd suns and systems roll
Where scarce blue ether to his eye appears,
So thick these radiant orbs before him glance,
Thick as the dew-drops on the morning field,
What sees he of this shoreless continent?
Nought—but the foreground of infinity.
And yet the tenants of this atom world,
Whose stinted minds scarce know the right from wrong,
Will wield and manage the high attributes
Or Him who, out of nothing, gave them life!
Oh! had they but the feelings of the brutes,
That bend submissive to their masters' yoke,
Then would they shudder at the impious thought
Of aiming to explore God's mysteries;
A thought as blasphemous as it is vain.
Storms at the laws design'd to lead to joy,
And sees in God no attribute but Love,
Dragging, as 'twere, his Justice captive-bound.
There too the sceptic, with blasphemous tongue,
Doubts all beyond his reason's shallow depth,
And breathes defiance to the Deity,
Because he dwells beyond the reach of sense—
Dwells in that realm where never eye shall beam;
Where only Faith, the pilgrim, finds the way.
As in a circle all the radii
Are equidistant from the central point,
So all God's attributes, though infinite,
In him, the centre, do harmonious meet.
Seem these perfections, that they should agree:
See Justice stern with Mercy mingle tears;
Anger, with flashing eye, mild Love embrace;
Truth, sworn off sinners to exact the debt,
Yield to the plaint of sad Forgiveness.
For those who frown defiance 'gainst His throne
Carry, in their own frame, what quite as far
Transcends their knowledge as the King of heaven
Doth in his nature baffle their attempts
To find his ways of working here below.
The soul—of pure and unsubstantial mould,
Where length, breadth, depth, can no connection claim,—
The body—gross, of rude material make,—
Are join'd together by some law unseen;
But that fine bond of union let them tell
Ere we list to their soph'sms 'gainst their God.
Or, sages—since that name you arrogate—
Tell whence that law, which keeps in order due
The universe, which you attraction call!
Whence every atom of its mother globe,
If disengaged in the atmosphere,
Drops t'ward the centre, as if loth to fly,
Ungratefully, from where it first had birth.
The effect you see, the cause you cannot tell;
Confess and yield, and quit yourselves like men.
And since, by nature, we bewilder'd are
In all our most minute inquiries keen,
Then give to Faith the helm, though reason fail,
To bear our bark into the haven safe;
Lest on the shelves of ruin we be cast,
To mourn our wreck through all eternity.
“All is Vanity and Vexation of Spirit.”
That demon of the human breast;
Though oft in seemly garbage dress'd,
Its end is only misery.
That dazzles thy bewitched eyes,
The ignis-fatuus from thee flies,
For all is nought but Vanity.
On earth can all the pleasure claim;
Oft poverty, without a name,
Enjoys more sweet serenity.
Made every joy on earth his own;
Yet plain declares to every one,
“All earthly joy is Vanity.”
Where wealth displays her dragon-crest!
Nor day nor night can bring them rest
Who hunt the phantom Vanity.
In all the show of dress complete,
Though gay she seems, doth often meet
Neglect—which cries, “All's Vanity.”
Small happiness is found below,
More joy she'd meet, and feel less woe.
Earth holds not true felicity.
At fate's sour look she's ever spurning;
Of cold mischance knows every turning;
But still finds all is Vanity.
Our dandies too its horrors share;
Who hunt for fortunes everywhere—
But find full oft “all's Vanity.”
Drives, keen to pull fame's rosy bud—
But meets, when cross'd the troubled flood,
The airy phantom Vanity.
And he, on life's remotest shore,
Sees thousands weltering in their gore
Through his unbounded Vanity!
The ghastly picture still he 'spies;
And, black and wild, before him lies
A dismal dark eternity!
When, to despair's dark cavern driven,
Had they obey'd the voice of Heaven?
Which cries aloud, “All's Vanity.”
Which make creation loudly groan;
Each pleasure's crest has stamp'd thereon,
“All earthly joy is Vanity.”
Like clouds before the sweeping blast!
Like surging tides receding fast!
And all at last is Vanity.
And, sun-ward, fair its bosom shows;
But, evening come, its leaves soon close;
So death ends all our Vanity.
There sighs no more the soul oppress'd;
There finds the saint a haven bless'd,
Beyond the reach of Vanity.
The Mahometan Pilgrim.
To the temple of Mecca, to pay his devotion;
Breezy evening approach'd at the exit of day,
For the sun sank beyond the Egyptian ocean.
And partaken what supper his scrip did contain,
With his hymn made the whole Caravansary ring,
While devotion did soar with his echoing strain.
And the dreams of his Prophet did float in his mind;
He did fancy himself to Elysium led,
Where he left earth's perplexities far, far behind.
With groves, flowers, and pleasant streams, bless'd past compare;
And many a clear winding streamlet did stray,
By whose verdant banks never frown'd sordid care.
With their voices immortal, glad chanting their numbers;
When, sudden around, fancy's visions were marr'd
By the rude clang of arms, which dispell'd his sweet slumbers.
For now depart the shades of night.”
(Aretas heard, not far away,
This was the call of Morgavay
The robber, with his fearless band,
The scourge and terror of the land;
Who shortly paused, and, in a trice,
Again was heard his awful voice.)
“Rise, friends, to march with utmost speed,
The pursuit of the foe I dread;
Their vengeance, roused to utmost height,
May prompt perhaps to deeds of might:
But, lest they chance to find our rout,
For treach'rous spies look all about;
And each we meet, or friend or foe,
Must feel the dagger's fatal blow.
Within yon Caravansary,
Perchance, some pilgrim there may lie;
Haste, therefore, haste, with utmost speed,
And all you find, quick, make them bleed.”
Appall'd, distracted. His desire
To execute, his scouts drew nigh,
Who pull'd their morglays from the thigh.
Aretas fell on bended knee,
And begg'd that they would let him free;
Told them, for Mecca he was bound,
To see the Prophet's natal ground;
No spy he'd prove, though he should meet
Their rude pursuers, bold and fleet:
If rage were e'er to pity changed,
He had e'en now been from his ire estranged.
With a look of forgiveness he, fainting, expired:
On the name of his Prophet he spent his last breath,
While his saint-like demeanor his en'mies admired.
Lest the action should lead to discover their track:
Long his friends wish'd in vain for his company bland,
But, alas! poor Aretas did never come back.
The Waes o' Ambition;
Or, THE RUIN O' GLENMUIR.
CANTO FIRST.
And summer hies far southward o'er the lea,
While winter's prelude rises, wild but mellow,
Frae birds in hazle, row'n, and birken tree;
While Scotia sits, wi' tear bedazzled e'e,
On Goatfell's tap, and views the vessels glide,
Bearing her sons, wha ranged her hills ance free,
To toil in lands beyond the Atlantic tide—
I choose the season sad to wail the Waes o' Pride.
The syren sprang, and millions then beguiled;
Nor how she enter'd Eden's rosy bowers,
And, by her wiles, man frae his bliss exiled;
But how, o'er Scotia's dells, where sweetly smiled
Blithe faced content, o' conscience ever pure,
Ambition rages, like a fury wild!
Spreadin', baith far and wide, her balefu' lure;
And spill'd the peace at last o' happy gay Glenmuir.
The patrimony o' sage Robin Roy,
Whase sire it left him, at his ain decease,
Without mortgage or bond him to annoy.
Pure independence was his boast and joy,
Wha lent a han' vile popery to destroy,
When Knox's nervous reas'ning struck their ears,
And, Calvin's cause to prop, they wielded swords and spears.
Monmouth and Graham their fiend-like forces led,
Glenmuir his braid-sword wielded at Drumclog,
And was at Bothwell-brig the last that fled;
But met that nicht a cauld and bluidy bed;
On Earnock field he slept amang the slain:
His friends at hame lang listen'd for his tread,
But his blithe face they never saw again:
He fell a martyr there, to close life's troublous scene.
Men wise, religious, and, in danger, brave,
Who served their God with true fidelity,
But spurn'd, ilk ane, to be a tyrant's slave.
And Robin was in noucht behind the lave,
Which could man's real value aggrandise;
To vice's tale no listening ear he gave;
Her wanton gait he ever did despise,
For still his mind was fix'd on themes beyond the skies.
That ne'er unmoved could witness misery;
Want never frae his door was let depart
Withouten joy bright beamin' frae her e'e:
But the rude voice o' bedlam revelry
Was ne'er heard ring beneath his peacefu' roof;
The vicious still did frae his presence flee,
For sin frae wisdom ever stands aloof;
But, should they e'er intrude, they met his fell reproof.
When low the sun sets in the crimson'd west,
Rejoices when Glenmuir's wide-spread ash tree
He sees, assured he's still a welcome guest;
For ofttimes has he there got food and rest,
In summer hot and winter raging chill,
And tauld sic tales o' war, when danger press'd,
As gart their hearts wi' sympathy aft thrill,
And aft the glitt'ring tear their guileless een wad fill.
Met here nae countenance to their black art;
Still were they deem'd the instruments o' hell,
And without alms were ever bid depart:
But blind, and lame, and orphans, ne'er did smart
'Neath hunger wan, or Boreas' bitter blast;
Here food and shelter cheer'd the drooping heart,
By pallid woe's bleak howling storm o'ercast,
And bade the present smile at troubles o' the past.
When by the female bosom-friend display'd,
In this was Robin bless'd; for never wight
Could boast, through life's rough maze, o' sweeter aid.
Hers was the heart where nae base passion sway'd
The iron sceptre—all was heavenly mild;
The wife, the mother, without vain parade,
Still shone conspicuous, and wi' joy beguiled
Care frae the husband's brow, and pleased the fretting child.
O' bliss—frae which noucht e'er could him allure;
Nae market revel ever could detain,
Till midnight hour, the laird o' sweet Glenmuir:
Its inmates ever could to him secure
Such blinks o' earthly joy as beam on man,
Since sunk in sin's deep baleful slough impure;
And still through Robin's soul that pleasure ran
Which only's felt by those who follow virtue's plan.
Was ever his endeavour late and air;
Nor did his conduct mark a counter road,
For all his actions show'd the sire sincere.
His only son, his namesake and his heir,
A father's future joy did clear bespeak;
His only daughter—virtuous and fair,
The lure o' beauty smilin' on her cheek,
Show'd all her mother's grace—was modest, mild, and meek.
To burnish bright their intellectual powers
Wi' a judicious course o' human lare,
Which decks the mental field wi' bloomin' flowers:
And aften wad he pass his leisure hours,
Instructing them, beneath the shady bowers
O' bourtree that surround the auld grass yard,
Or heark'nin' if for school their lessons were prepared.
The boast and envy o' the country roun',
By education's glorious power refined,
To shine conspicuous in life's fervid noon.
But, ah! how little thought he, all the boon
On them bestow'd contain'd the seeds o' woe!
Refinement often fosters pride, which soon
To boundless-soul'd ambition rank doth grow:
Then fareweel evermair to joy's ecstatic glow!
What griefs they seek, when, fond, they long to see
To manhood grown their children dear! but blind
Is human hope to future destiny.
The prattlin' child, placed on the father's knee
In health's sweet bloom, beguiles his cares away;
Or, gaily sporting on the flowery lea,
Ere harlot vice can lure his heart astray,
Yields to his parents joys that with his years decay.
When clouds arise and dim the lamp of heaven;
As reels the vessel, o'er rude ocean borne,
When for the calm the scowling tempest's given:
So wanes parental bliss, when youth is driven
By passion's tide or adverse fortune's blast,
Till every joy on earth be from them riven,
And on the sterile shore o' want they're cast,
Where ever gath'ring gloom o'erwhelms the soul at last.
Young Robin ill could brook a rustic's toil;
Some other business, o' a gentler kind,
He long'd to try, where ease and splendour smile:
Hence to his father, wi' ilk cautious wile,
He by degrees his specious plan disclosed—
Whose honest soul, unskill'd in trade's sly guile,
His loving son's intention ne'er opposed;
The mother too warm hail'd the phantom now proposed.
While glitt'ring grandeur rode the car of hope;
So he in Glasgow town, where knaves aft shine,
Set up a gaudy weel-fill'd grocery shop:
And here his active mind got rowth o' scope,
For village hucksters soon found out his dwellin';
Yet they ere lang proved but a faithless prop,
When on his han' accounts and bills were swellin',
And they, for goods received, 'gainst payment were rebellin'.
To taste the gay allurements o' the town,
To leave the labour o' the field and byre,
And learn to wake the sweet piano's soun'.
This new establishment, sae quick brocht roun',
Form'd a new era sad to guid Glenmuir;
For rapid hurl'd the bolt of ruin down
On that calm scene o' pleasure, ance sae pure,
And blighted a' the joy that hope seem'd to secure.
In rural dulness, but in heart unite,
Withouten care their bosoms kind to pain,
Save for their children's weal, their sole delight;
For whom was mony a prayer, frae hearts upright,
Sent heavenward, warm on faith's fleet-bounding wing,
That grace would screen them from sin's fatal blight,
Which galls the soul wi' torture's keenest sting,
And turns to winter's gloom the cheerfu' joys o' spring.
CANTO SECOND.
Awakes wi' joy bright beaming in her eye,
And thinks the fleeting hours reluctant glide,
That waft on wings of love the sacred tie;
So hope, on speculation's summits high,
Shows golden visions to her vot'ries vain,
For which they long, wi' mony an ardent sigh,
Possession o' the glitterin' toy to gain,
And fret at tardy fate, and burn wi' inward pain.
Could blind humanity the path pursue,
She might obtain o' those her ample share,
And shun the thorns that pierce her bosom through;
But base ambition, unopposed by few,
Inserts her Vampire fangs to drain the heart,
Then, quick, the fated victim bids adieu
To pleasure's thrill, for now he's left to smart
'Neath the corrosive pangs o' his envenom'd dart.
That can gi'e lasting joy to man below,
Since borne by pride's propelling gale awa'
Frae calm Glenmuir to scenes o' polish'd woe:
Here affectation's garnish'd cheek may glow,
Here learning's sentimental e'e may smile,
Here wealth may dazzle wi' his gaudy show,
Yet scarce be fit the moments to beguile,
For deep within the core may torture reign the while.
The tide o' raptures, or delight his e'e;
Nae mair to him the mavis sweet doth sing,
At morn or eve, within the birken tree;
Nae mair the fragrance o' the clover lea,
Or hawthorns sweet, or honeysuckles please,
Or soothing murmurs o' the eident bee,
Saft swelling 'mang the foliage o' the trees,
Or glens o' yellow broom, that scent the fanning breeze.
His birthplace, or his hamely parents own,
Lest notions mean his lineage should betray,
Amang the belles and beaus throughout the town,
Till he his sire persuaded to pu' down
The ivy shaded mansion, stained by time,
That despicable to his sight had grown,
Though deem'd for lang to be of ernes the prime,
And raise a villa gay, to suit his views sublime.
The clasping woodbine frae its roots uptorn,
And nought to mark its boundary is let stay,
Except the bourtree, row'n, and ancient thorn.
Its very name can now nae mair be borne,
To please the fancy, and elude a' scorn,
Rosebank its gay successor now is styled,
At whase fair form our youth wi' inward pleasure smiled.
Though costly, mair adapted to their ease;
Nae driftin' snaws through doors and windows blew,
Nor chillin' frosts, that maist the blood wad freeze.
Adown futurity the sire now sees
His branchin' offspring high in honour rise;
E'en linked in close connection wi' grandees;
And sic like pageantry as fancy spies,
When through her airy bounds ambition's meteor flies.
Wide ramifies his trade, and eke his fame,
And village hucksters to his shop draw near,
Proud to be ranked debtors to the same.
Rosebank's hale produce here doth shelter claim—
Potatoes, barley, meal, eggs, butter, cheese—
A's here deposited, but naught sent hame,
Whilk kindles up suspicion by degrees,
And trade's vague phantom false fu' clear the auld man sees.
As yet they bask in joy's bright gilded morn,
And pleasure's tinkling strings concordant chime,
While plenty waves her full ambrosial horn.
On speculation's fairy wings upborne,
They deem all meet that glitters a-la-mode;
Those who think else are subject to their scorn,
And shunn'd as cannibals, grotesque and odd;
Ne'er named but wi' disdain in their superb abode.
Attended by the Cyprian archer boy,
Nane wore the attractin' smile o' love mair sweet,
Amang them a', than bonnie Mary Roy.
The rest o' mony youths she did destroy,
Smit by the glances o' her dark-blue een;
Nae concert, ball, or festival o' joy
Took place, but she in peerless light was seen,
Chaste as Diana fair, gay as the Cyprian queen.
To higher steps on grandeur's slipp'ry scale;
Yet, though in gorgeous robes ilk day attired,
Less joy she felt than when she trode the vale
Wi' gowans clad, while she the milkin' pail,
At morn or eve, bore frae the bught or shiel;
Or liltit owre in sang the lover's tale,
Beside the cheery ingle, at her wheel,
Unknown to envious pride, which peace doth ever steal.
Permission gain'd sweet Mary to escort
To gay Rosebank, and a' day idly flaunt
Amang the groves and streams o' that resort.
At first the sire view'd sic unhallow'd sport
Wi' inward grief, and on his brow a frown;
But ne'er could he sic reverence extort
Frae them as he to heaven was wont to own—
Which when neglected still draws retribution down.
When on the Sabbath he, by break of day,
The Bible's sacred pages to explore,
Retired beneath the hawthorn's flowery spray—
While saft the streamlet murmur'd on its way,
And shrill the lark sang o'er the dewy dale—
As he frae Ur with Abram wide did stray,
Or heard the weeping prophet sore bewail
For Zion's dreadful doom, through guilt that did prevail.
And talk profane, sae void o' ought that's holy,
Aft made auld Robin rue some bypast deeds,
And heave the burden'd sigh of melancholy;
The sermon barter'd for vain tales o' folly,
And private duties lost in sinfu' cookin';
Although austere amidst thae merchants jolly,
Much err'd he in sic conduct not rebukin',
When his ain fam'ly's wae lay in sic deeds o'erlookin'.
And ruin waved his desolating arm;
Losses and luxury, quite headlong, sent
To trustees' hands Rosebank's weel plenish'd farm.
Auld Robin, thunderstruck at the alarm
Nae ray o' hope appear'd, wi' soothin' charm,
To reinstate them, thus sae sair deceived
By trade's delusive glare, which they for truth believed.
Nae mercy has the law's black menial gang—
And grim oblivion shores her deepest shade
To throw out-owre the name o' Roy ere lang.
Nae mair again to them the mavis' sang,
Frae their ain trees, at morn or e'en shall ring;
Nae mair they'll tent their flocks the broom amang,
While list'ning to the lark's sweet carolling,
Where, tinklin' frae its source, clear flows the caller spring.
Ilk future scene of being to pervade;
How sad to them, wha want before ne'er knew,
To sit obscurely 'neath her balefu' shade!
'Tween debts and property a balance made,
What yet remain'd their ain did clearly show.
With grief in every feature deep pourtray'd
Rosebank they leave—heart-rending scene of woe!
And o'er th' Atlantic waves to Canada they go.
Why barter peace for vague uncertain gain?
Oh cast an e'e on thy departed days,
When in thy children's manners was no stain—
When independence roam'd the hill and plain,
Unknown to every vice—and fear'd nae foe!
May they yet frae Ambition's wiles refrain:
Hence deathless wealth shall through thy regions flow,
And every heart shall feel true pleasure's ardent glow.
On Genius.
If the rich ore of Genius lies not in the heart?
Why strive ye to burnish the crude gloomy mind,
When no gleams of the true innate gem ye can find?
Nor dwells she where riches and affluence soar;
For the greatest of dunces return from your schools,
And the great, we oft find, are the veriest fools.
Descendant divine of the star-spangled sky;
Who, heedless, will pass by the gold-garnish'd wight,
On the drudge in oblivion's hid realms to alight.
Her soul spurns to stoop to the foible of rules;
She sees, with one glance of her quick mental eye,
What the dolt, in a month's demonstration, can't spy.
For the most thou didst know of their laws and abodes;
Who, from principles simple, didst draw all thy ken;
For ever thou'lt stand at the head of wise men.
From what coal of heaven didst thou catch the bright fire?
From Genius, imprimis, which learning refined,
And show'd to the world thy unlimited mind.
And whence didst thou bring thy bright costume profuse?
From nature, I ween—nowhere else could it be,
When the fates had consign'd thee to black poverty.
Didst thou find out Genius, the heaven-born maid?
Thou found'st her unsought, thou exception 'mong mortals,
Who wast most ignobly consign'd to death's portals!
The gift it was grand, although humble thy station;
Thy sweet loreless harp shall with ecstacy ring
When the cant lyres of pedants shall wear not a string.
No tame graft from learning thy fruit can enrich—
I love thee, admire thee, adore thee, divine,
And bow down and worship before thy rich shrine.
Kilbride Kirk's most Sincere Thanks
TO THE HERITORS AND OTHERS WHO CONTRIBUTED SO LIBERALLY TO HER RECENT REPAIRS.
O' stan'in' in the Pass alane,
Wi' thumpin' heart, and reelin' brain,
And sweatin' face,
Ken something o' the life I've haen
O' fell disgrace.
The country's spitefu' jeers and scorn;
Wi' burnin' wrath lang inly torn,
I've lain in scandal,
Despised like vagrant Jew forlorn,
Or plund'rin' Vandal.
By whilk I lang did sigh and grane,
And my proud spire and gilded vane
Triumphant rise,
Since jarring discord now lies slain,
Wi' closed eyes.
Sic reparation wrought on me,
Wham nei'bour kirks, wi' pridefu' e'e,
Spurn'd frae their quorum;
But now I preses sit, fu' spree,
Wi' great decorum.
The danger o' a broken head,
Frae Bibles tumblin' doun, like lead
Aff Spoutie's railin',
Aft clourin' crouns wi' spitefu' feid;
To fricht ne'er failin'.
Held revels on the Muirland laft,
Tak' front seats there—that look'd sae daft
In sic a place;
The braw boun' front keeps tykes abaft
Frae shawin' face.
Lie gruntin' at the hour o' wark;
But quick maun spring up, like the lark,
When, clean pell-mell,
John waukens sleep, be 't licht or dark,
Wi' 's sax-hour bell.
Is heard the country roun' and roun';
Glad news to mony a weary loun
At labour toilin',
Wi' head maist to the grund bow'd doun,
And sweat outboilin'.
When wabsters bauld and souters snell
Meet owre a dram, their news to tell,
At the week's en',
Is the ungracious curfew bell,
Loud rung at ten.
Though to religion's truest frien';
Mine's still the test, at morn and e'en,
Of ony wicht
Wha'd break the holy morn unseen,
When planted richt.
Ha'e hearts unkenn'd to melancholy,
Wha left the beaten track o' folly
And raised my spire,
While faes out vented mony a volley
O' oaths, in ire.
Wha ranged the toun and country through
To raise a clock and dials too,
For use and beauty;
Ye were still eident, stainch, and true
To this your duty.
My saul 'bout ellwand-steepled Blantyre;
To ither airs;
I've play'd my nei'bours a mishanter
Ilk ane declares.
My bell resounds thus far and wide;
Our bonnet-lairds, sae fu' o' pride,
Fu' crouse may craw,
And owre the Mearns' nabs vogie ride,
And taunt them a'.
Our esquires ha'e been set a-swearin',
And claes frae aff their backs been tearin',
In change-house wars;
But wi' my gawdy steeple's rearin'
Has fled sic jars.
An Elegy
On the Death of the Kilbride Beadle, Charles Mair.
Wha flees the country roun' and roun',
Again thou hast come through our toun,
Wi' dagger bare,
And hew'd thy nearest nei'bour doun,
Poor Charlie Mair.
Ere lang, I trow, ye'll sairly rue it;
To gi'e thy gard'ner sic a flewet,
Wha still rejoiced
When thy black ensign he did view it
By thee up hoised.
And stitch her doolfu' weepers on,
Since her auld Beadle's fairly gone,
Ne'er to return:
Cauld on his back he lies, ochone!
Within death's urn.
And gravel-pangs richt sair him pain'd;
Yet, while ae spark o' health remain'd,
Fu' fain wad he
Inspect the lairs, wi' sorrow feign'd,
When ane did die.
His pinches, mattocks, spades, and shools,
And raise in heaps the putrid mools
On ilka side,
Mix'd wi' the pows o' saints and fools,
Now close allied.
The black procession he wad wait on;
Or, frae the bell arouse the wae-tone,
Wi' doolfu' din;
Or, fast as trouts do seize the bait on,
The cash draw in.
An occupation dull and wild,
Yet wha than Charlie blither smiled
Out owre a gill,
Or time wi' better jokes beguiled
Beside gude yill.
Had him denied ilk manly feature,
And burden'd wi' a humph the creature,
His patience tryin';
But yet he wore a saul o' stature
Micht saired O'Brien.
To tug at auld King Crispin's trade,
Yet easier ways to earn his bread
He aim'd at still;
To assassinate a sheep weel-fed,
And sell a gill.
Contemned by folk in ilka station—
By poind or summons;
For wham they leave their habitation,
And skulk on commons.
May sair lament their umquhile preses,
For he the brunt o' their disgraces
Did bear for lang;
And jockies at our summer races,
Our days o' thrang.
But now he'll nae mair gang that road,
To wauchle wi' the holy code
Owre to the kirk:
Death's claucht him to his ain abode,
Cauld, drear, and mirk.
The gowans bloom and nettles wave;
But since he's left nae heir, to save
His name frae death,
We'll on his headstane deep engrave
As underneath.
EPITAPH.
Incog.! hic jacet Charles Mair,Unbless'd wi' male or female heir:
A spouse he had, baith kind and tender,
But barren as the neuter gender.
Although his soul hath left his body,
As steam sublimely soars frae toddy;
And though the worms his carcase share a',
While it lies happed subter terra—
Yet when the dreadful trump of doom
Calls forth the vassals of the tomb,
Revived, to bliss he forth may come,
More fair than beauteous Absalom.
Allan Bane's Dream.
Although nae sceptic, was a doubter
O' things that thwarted common sense;
But he to lare had nae pretence;
Nae help got he frae schule or college,
Yet still he grasped after knowledge;
At auld buik-stan's wared mony a bodle
For volumes that maist crazed his noddle;
Read baith th' abettors and cross parties
Of Norris, Locke, and sage Des Cartes,
Wha treat on matter and on spirit
Sae nice, they maist ding folk deleiret.
Thae metaphysic themes explorin',
'Bout observation and reflection,
Which they explain wi' nice dissection;
'Bout time, infinity, and space,
And, eke, the spirit's resting place;
And whiles, by logic's deep inspection,
They would disprove the resurrection.
But Allan rhymed and raved about it,
Till folk began to doubt his creed,
And Meg his wife began to dread
That, soon or syne, he'd craze his head.
As when they labour'd to explain
The palace o' the inner man,
And a' his outs and ins to scan.
Ane proved, by demonstration grand,
His dwellin' was the pineal gland;
For there the nerves, frae ilka station,
Brought in the tidings o' sensation,
As aide-de-camps, on wings o' win',
Wi' news unto the marshal rin:
Anither would as plainly shaw
It had nae special hame ava,
Through ilka bore, frae tap to tae.
He gaed to bed richt sair perplex'd:
Yet, though in's head sic thochts were swimmin',
He dover'd owre, and fell a' dreamin'
How that his body and his saul
Coost out, and had this bitter brawl.
'Tis strange, auld nei'bour, folk's sae doitit
As tuilyie 'bout how we're united;
And try, by logic, that vain foible,
To contradict the holy Bible,
Wi' siccan metaphysic wraith
That they would kow the wings o' faith
Wi' reason's shears, that she might sten'
Nae farther than their narrow ken.
Vain fools! trowth, they ha'e shallow powers
Wha think this clumsy frame o' yours
Wad e'er allow them, while we're join'd,
To judge correctly wi' their mind,
When they receive their ilka notion
Frae jumpin' nerves, in panic motion,
Wha tell them many a sinfu' lee,
Syne a' the blame lies aye on me.
Thus, by your means, I'm wrang'd richt sair,
In spite o' a' their college lare:
Though no the thief, you're the resetter,
Which, in the law, is little better.
Body.
'Deed, frien', the naked truth to tell,
Thae blades are something like yoursel',
As scant o' that rare thing ca'd sense
As they're o' oucht approachin' mense.
Ilk ane still mak'st his only aim
His nei'bour rival to defame;
Or else, their bedlam notions screening
'Neath words devoid o' oucht like meaning,
Their contradictors' een they steek,
And hide themsel's amang the reek.
Wi' brazen front, to rave and lee?
Less jeerin', else ye'se bide the brunt
O' what wad ither folk affront.
Soul.
Vile bag o' dirt! think ye that I
Dread oucht comes frae your stinkin' stye?
What mind wad heed your brawlin' scandal?
Ye rude, unfeelin', graceless Vandal;
Sae brutal are your hail desires
That frae you naething great transpires.
A miser ye're o' every meanness;
A stews, for knavery and uncleanness;
Whase filthy appetites appear
Unquenchable wi' oucht that's here;
Which gars me pine, in deep vexation,
Till death—that blessed separation.
Body.
Mean, lewd! guid guide's, whar now is conscience,
That suffers sic infernal nonsense
To bellow frae that fiend o' pride,
And sober hamely folk deride?
'Tis past the power o' tongue to say
What filthy notions, nicht and day,
Rin through your head, ye beast uncivil,
And constant colleague o' the devil.
Some graceless plot ye're ever plannin',
And God's ain law richt aften bannin',
That fetters sae your inclination,
Ye basest wretch o' the creation!
Yet still on me ye lay the blame,
And say sic plans I foremost frame,
And slander far and near my name.
Soul.
Wi' sic low fools 'tis vain to reason;
Advice to you's aye out o' season;
Wha claver on, wi' jargon mean,
Because ye are nae farther seen.
Know ye but oucht o' nature's laws—
Aye, aye! like you, wi' B's and A's;
And drive the truth clean heels-owre-head—
I'd be a prodigy indeed.
Soul.
Instructor base! Come, keep decorum.
Body.
Ay, like the Academic forum;
To list to your bombastic blethers,
As licht's a goupin o' hen feathers.
Soul.
I'se let ye feel my castigation,
That ye may learn, for time to come,
To speak wi' mense, or else sit dumb!
The soul claucht fast the body's thrapple,
And held sae firm, he wad him choked,
And noosed him sae that bluid out bocked.
Soon put to flicht this vile nicht-mare;
Yet for some time could scarce compose him,
Sae lap his agitated bosom:
Syne, neist, he tried t' investigate
The spring and cause o' this debate,
And fand it had its fountain fair
Amang his metaphysic lare:
Therefore, wi' nervous resolution,
He raised an ordeal persecution,
And brunt the philosophic nest
That had sae troubled him in rest,
And did his brain a' day molest.
The Revel of Riot.
Perhaps thou'lt wish thyself unborn.”
Robertson of Struan.
The leading model of the town,
Sent round her cards of invitation
To those of noted reputation,
To dine, drink tea, and spend the night
In dancing, until morning light.
The guests quick to their toilets flew,
To deck themselves in order due;
For cost and beauty each did try
His and her neighbours to outvie;
In silks and satins, gauze and lace,
They were equipp'd with playhouse grace;
With lard and rouge bedaubed o'er,
To banish time's intrenching power;
With beads and sparkling gems they shone,
And for the fete set out anon,
In hopes that pleasure's magic power
Would banish spleen's unwelcome lour,
And from their bosoms far away
Chase the drear spectre ennui.
And in they come, pop, one by one;
The carriages—thick reeling—jostle;
The valets run in heyday bustle;
The drivers lodge their cargoes rare;
The cooks and scullions curse and swear
Because the roast is scarcely done
And all the guests arrived but one:
Now here she comes, dark fiend of hell,
Dame Lust,—so rings the dinner bell.
Their talk flows like the tongues of Babel;
Are meetly done to foster vice
And drought to raise, which they to smoother
Soon usher drink, a jocund brother,
Who, ere they end the night's debauch,
Proves for them all an overmatch.
The table head supports with grace,
While on her right her gay compeer,
Lewd Mrs. Lust, sits, eyes on leer;
Next, Dames Pride, Scandal, Envy, Guile,
Disguised by mild decorum's smile;
Then Misses Caper, Lounge, and Quiz,
Cant, Clash, Chat, Quibble, Quirk, and Friz;
And many more of these and those:
To name them all much time we'd lose.
Assisted, both for deeds and chat.
Close placed beside his elbow chair,
Superb, sat Monsieur Debonair;
Then Messieurs Bagatelle and Pun,
Eclat, Hauteur, Gibe, Cully, Fun,
Outre, Savant, et cetera, et ceteræ,
In long and elegant array;
Famed amateurs of dance and song,
Double entendre and Bon ton.
Them set as potent mode directs—
We've ranged them here by age and sex.
Peep'd through the door, with eyes aslant,
And view'd this gay alluring scene,
Much envy had it raised, I ween!
What pity that the joys of sense
Eclipse the fatal consequence!
Is an uplifted thought e'er given,
To supplicate a blessing down
On what doth now their table crown:
But all at once, in formal mode,
With query sweet and smiling nod,
And lavishly the bounties share,
And praise, with complimental flow,
That all is cook'd quite comme-il-faut;
While perk Outre takes off his glass,
His ever welcome Coup de grace.
The pride of culinary art,
To tempt the appetite, though slain,
The combat to renew again,
Until, per force of gormandising,
They're foiled by pastry's art surprising.
Of wit and glee the very soul,
The laugh to raise, dispelling woe,
And vending pleasure apropos;
Sed hic, the laws of chaste decorum
The ladies must observe before 'em;
For debauchees are ever haters
Of belles who are the bowl's abettors;
Therefore, at decency's desire,
Bon-gre, they all at once retire.
How powers above rule men below,
That these may not bide all the blame,
When those at them their arrows aim;
And that we likewise hence may see
It is not all adversity
Which is accoutred in its guise,
For wisdom in a well oft lies.
Sly Cupid did with Bacchus join
To shed on man his love benign,
By cunning art, in firm compact,
This fete's event to counteract;
So each his twanging bow did bend,
And showers of arrows down did send,
T' accomplish the desired end.
Like lightning through the ladies' hearts
The Cyprian archer sent his darts,
He viewed them half entranced with love;
And in their glancing eyes were seen
Some glimpses wild of lust unclean.
So glued his Messieurs to the vine,
That nought could wile them from the seat
Where brimm'd the bowl with nectar sweet.
In vain the bell for tea was rung,
In vain the lyre for dance was strung,
In vain was every warm essay
To break the bands of revelry;
Jocund they toasted, pledged, and sang,
While discord through their catches rang;
Till fled the sable shades of night,
And dawn'd the saffron morning light.
All disappointed, left the scene;
For cards and scandal both gave way
To ease the grief of this affray.
Yet still our toppers braved the blast,
Each Bacchus serving to the last,
Till piecemeal on the soft tapis,
They sank, while wine sang victory.
Had not their valets, stout and tight,
Them in sedans and coaches huddled
(To their disgrace so sorely fuddled)
Home—there to lie and snore unseen;
But who could the dishonour screen?
With drought and rage their bosoms burn
As they to sense's realms return;
Apologies each way they're planning,
And all the power of diction scanning;
While valets run, with blister'd feet,
With cards, their doings to secrete:
And thus did end Dame Riot's fete.
The Misanthropos.
Of the impending rock,
O'ertopp'd with pines of searest brown,
Scathed by the lightning's shock?
With folded arms and downward gaze
He dernly treads the briery maze,
Where scarce the sun's all-cheering rays
Smile through the gloomy oak.
So speaks his hermit look—
Who shuns the world's destructive lure
In this sequester'd nook.
His rural weeds and matted hair,
His musing, world-contemning air,
A philosophic aspect bear,
Which only few can brook.”
Far, far, in thinking so;
The seemly ambush oft inters
A deadly lurking foe.
That troglodyte, of manner mild,
From human intercourse exiled,
Was ne'er devotion's pious child—
Ne'er felt love's melting glow.
Flows from his rocky cell;
By hatred keen he's inly torn,
Though thus recluse he dwell.
Like pois'nous asps and adders vile,
Rove through his soul rage, hate, and guile,
Where galling discord rules the while
This miniature of hell.
Who wanders from his way,
Whom nature says he should have cheer'd,
He fails not to betray.
Smooths the deep lake with snow and frost,
Ofttimes the trav'ller there is lost,
Led by this wretch astray.
Was learned, proud, and brave,
And glory sought, through fortune's maze,
Where thousands found their grave.
Amidst the horrent shouts of war
He drove infuriate slaughter's car;
Power hunted he, both near and far;
For this his mind did rave.
And bias of his soul;
Then quick his towering flight was spent,
Which aim'd at chief control.
Statists—the check of those who stray
Beyond the limits of their sway—
Did lop his wings—then, well-a-day!
From manhood's haunts he stole.
In universal hate,
Immured within this narrow clime,
To rail and spurn at fate.
Mark now his gait, his accent hear,
His imprecations wildly drear—
Alike unknown to love or fear:
This is the hermit's state.”
Britannia in Lacrymis.
Where Freedom, guardant, roams the rocky coast,
And night's grim shroud obscured heaven's stellar smile,
When famed Britannia wail'd her Princess lost.
The goddess came, in mourning weeds attired,
While gloomy tempest drove his boreal car,
And sat by Windsor's tomb, by woe inspired.
While hail-blasts harsh the direful prelude rung;
And ever and anon the tears did flow,
As dropp'd this dirge from off her faltering tongue.
Which bright anticipation view'd with joy;
But all is changed, and every tongue is dumb,
Or sighs, ‘Oh, death! why thus our hope destroy?”
In death's cold grasp she doth profoundly sleep:
Pale visaged woe now strikes her drearest strings—
While Leöpold and I in anguish weep.
And where the hope like that which I possess'd?
But now, of that bereft, despair finds scope
To hold grim council still with the distress'd.
The ebon shroud now screens that pallid face,
Which lately virtue, love, and life bespoke—
With every Christian, every courtly grace.
That usher'd death to her, approach'd so fast:
But e'en when death, with horrid frown, did lour,
Her look of love on Leöpold was cast.
It will remain till time with him be o'er:
That look! like angel's smile serene from heaven!
Bade earth a sweet farewell for evermore!
Will find a clime congenial, high in bliss,
In rapture sweet, to join the choir above,
Nor cast one “lingering, longing look” on this.
“Britannia in tears” for the death of the Princess Charlotte. This afflicting national bereavement took place in November, 1817, and the above lines were a nearly extemporaneous effusion upon receipt of the distressing news.
Scotia's Lament.
Why dropp'st thou that sad tear?
Why droops thy crest-plume, that so high
Did, tow'ring, long appear?
Thy rosy cheek is pale;
Thy voice, that long triumphant sang,
Now pours a woeful wail.
So strange, and yet so true;
Thy sons disgraced thee not, I know,
At blood-stain'd Waterloo.
Upon the field of war;
There still my sons maintain'd their post,
Though mark'd with many a scar.
His wings o'er my domain,
Have my brave sons like cowards fled,
The martial page to stain.
That bounds my free-born strand,
They've oft repell'd the en'my's shock,
Disdaining their command.
For what they now endure,
Who ought, 'gainst carping want's control,
To have remain'd secure.
For dangers bravely borne;
But, ah! to them comes no release,
For which I sadly mourn!
Where Wallace fought and fell,
The fiend Oppression's ruthless hand
Should raise want's direful yell!
They might have been forgiven,
But Sires to treat their children so
Calls down the wrath of heaven.
For vengeance loudly cries,
And mercy's portals open wide,
Whence retribution flies.
Where pleasure once was free,
The harp and viol, ere 'tis long,
Shall ring no more in thee!
In legions, from thee fly
Thy sons—to where wealth's banner saves
From want's distressing cry.
Shall blossom fresh and gay,
While misery thy fields o'erwhelms,
Where pleasure sheds no ray.
O'er Europe waved so long,
Where, Albion, wilt thou then appear,
Thou land of dance and song?”
The Poetaster: an Epigram.
A pedant Peter Rithmus was,Who vow'd he knew prosodial laws;
A bold pretender unto all
The strains which from the Muses fall:
But yet, alas! his visage shows
Want visits oft'ner than the Muse.
He sits up late, burns many a candle,
In hopes his subject well he'll handle:
His stock of lore in every lay is cramm'd,
And, after all his pains, his works are damned.
Though Rithmus thinks all else he doth surpass,
The critics term him still a stupid ass.
Cash.
Or bugs, wha haunt auld beds o' timmer,
Or thole slee Love's inconstant glimmer,
That gi'es sic fash;
But waur than a' is that base limmer,
Miss Want-o'-Cash.
Can mortal budies ha'e on yirth?
Whare mis'ry's Oronock-like firth
Doth whelming dash.
A day o' woe is ilk chield's birth
That's scant o' Cash.
Wha has 'gainst adverse fate to strive;
The stubborn jilt her drift will drive
Wi' scorpion lash;
Till 'neath despair he sink, belyve,
For want o' Cash.
When baskin' 'neath kind fortune's rays;
The pulse wi' heavin' rapture plays;
Licht reels our pash;
We've mony frien's, withouten faes,
When rife o' Cash.
Ane dowie sits, wi' dread a' sweatin',
And scarce daur gi'e their craig a weetin',
Or join the clash;
A yillwife's bill's na'e sicht invitin'
When scant o' Cash.
And rings and brews, and drinks and splores;
When conscious he can clear his scores,
He gabs fu' gash,
And toasts and sangs he blithe en-cores,
When pang'd wi' Cash.
Gars mony a coof appear perfyte;
Though he can neither read nor write,
The claverin' hash
Mak's lasses' hearts amaist gae hyte
Wi' rowth o' Cash.
Cash gars a birkie strut and stare;
And ony lass that's ranked there,
Like lichtning's flash,
Springs at his wink; she needs nae mair
If he hae Cash.
Accounts aff-hand he aye can clear them;
That bluid-hound gang comes never near him,
The beagle trash:
Noucht casts him down, a' aids to cheer him,
That's rife o' Cash.
And smoor the warld deep under snaw,
Yet pale-faced want dare never draw
At his door-lash;
Nor sullen spleen his visage shaw,
While he has Cash.
Whase wealth can let him reel at ease,
Will be respected by grandees;
While his weak clash
Will savour o' the learn'd degrees,
Sic power has Cash.
That scarce a louse can travel there,
Will meet the sklent disdainfu' stare,
Though straucht's a rash
His conduct be; yet, de'il may care,
He still wants Cash.
Cauld puirtith's claims incessant tease him,
Clean teeth to gnash;
Till death, his frien', frae mis'ry frees him
That's void o' Cash.
That strut about baith braid and braw,
Beware, lest ye tyne fortune's ba',
Else, clean slapdash,
Your friends their friendship will withdraw
When ye want Cash.
Wi's puncheon-kyte projectin' gawsy,
Has drawn respect on Glasgow causey,
Now fin's pride's lash;
While former friends him heedless pass aye,
Since tined o's Cash.
Ode on the Return of Peace.
And Bellona her ensign hath furl'd;
No more doth the soldier the red weapon wield,
Nor with blood drench the grief-laden world.
Nor the swell of the thundering drum;
No dense sulph'rous smoke dims the sky's glorious lamp;
All the furies of war now are dumb.
And no wife, child, or parent doth mourn;
Joy tunes, at the signal, the sweet rural reed
For the stay of her country's return.
When the blood of thy children was shed;
When, throughout the whole earth, in war's contest sublime,
Thy death-daring sons bravely bled!
Content.
The regions of philosophy,
Do all agree, with one consent,
The greatest blessing is Content:
But where to find this heavenly fair
They differ strangely wide;
Some search the earth, and some the air,
As fancy doth decide.
Explores each consequence and cause;
Experiments unnumber'd tries,
Nor quits his search until he dies;
Finds pleasure new in each advance
He makes to wisdom's throne,
Till wheeling systems, at one glance,
He can descry anon.
Parnassus' tow'ring height sublime?
And Homer, Virgil, Milton, Pope,
With Shakespeare, have attain'd the top:
Though sweeter far the Hebrew strains
Which through our bosoms thrill,
Struck by the heaven-inspired swains
Who stray'd round Zion's hill.
Behold the sons of blood appear;
The leader of the Grecian host,
And Cæsar, Rome's eternal boast;
With those who o'er Hindostan ran
With predatory sweep—
Famed Tamerlane and Zinghis Khan,
By whom did thousands weep.
The golden gate of Mammon's fane;
O'er land and sea they eager press
To reach their throne of happiness:
Their hearts for lucre burn;
That gain'd, they still are discontent,
And, disappointed, mourn.
And wisdom found, and riches gain'd,
May still have miss'd the hallow'd road
Which leads to true Content's abode.
She seldom in the palace dwells,
Where grandeur gleams in gold,
But oft the peasant's bosom swells,
Who tends the lone sheepfold.
Upon the sun-burn'd face of toil;
To cheer the soul and clear the eye
Of downcast ragged poverty;
And dissipate the sullen gloom
That o'er misfortune frowns;
And soothe the martyr 'neath his doom,
While horror dwells with crowns.
Can tempt her thither to resort;
'Tis not that mirth where riot reigns
Can waft her from her calm domains;
But patient mild humility
Alone she does attend,
Whose handmaid, pure fidelity,
Befriends her to the end.
Epitaph
TO THE MEMORY OF FOUR INFANTS.
Parents, forbear for us to wail and weep!We in the arms of Jesus fell asleep,
While you in tears mourn'd o'er the loss;
For, 'mid the throng of saints and angels bright,
We swell that song, with ever new delight—
The glorious, matchless triumph of the cross!
Vice's Entreaty.
To all that's opposite to virtue's call!
Oh but this once, and then the path pursue
In which man walk'd before the fatal fall.
Repent before you die the soul will save;
None, but who latterly the ransom slight,
Shall sink despairing in the gloomy grave.
And man was form'd to enjoy his state;
Then why the clemency of heaven dread?
Or frown beneath th' Omnipotence of fate?
Which vivifies and brightens every power;
Then dally not, time's fleeting hours to waste,
But seize with rapture sense's blooming flower.
Unto the base remonstrance lent an ear;
And deem'd the counsel the behest of truth—
So in the mire of guilt plunged, void of fear.
Epitaph on a Lady,
ALIKE FAMOUS FOR TATTLING, LYING, AND HYPOCRISY.
Nae greedy grub dare pree;
So she may lie a thousand years,
Yet ne'er corruption see.
O' the Egyptian nation;
The vip'rous venom o' her heart
Is special preparation.
Wi' sic a pest, I ween;
For, since she's gane, some folk will threep
We've the millennium seen.
SONGS.
DEAR CALEDONIA.
To the praise of our dear native land;
See, see the bright blazon'd roll where the name
Of each genius doth brilliantly stand!
Who then would refrain
To join the sweet strain
Which the Muses in harmony swell?
While the chime they impart
Sweetly flows on the heart,
When the theme is the land where we dwell.
No spot on this earth
Can I love half so well
As the place of my birth,
The dear land where I dwell—
Caledonia, Caledonia! dear, dear Caledonia!
With the clarionet and mellow toned flute;
Come, come, let's with these the sweet prelude begin,
While Cecilia's fair daughters are mute.
Then, then let the fair
Aloud join the air
Which the Muses in harmony swell!
While the chimes they impart
Sweetly flow on the heart,
When the theme is the land where we dwell.
The hero and bard
With thee always remain;
That thy freedom to guard,
This to cheer the sweet plain.
Caledonia, Caledonia! dear, dear Caledonia!
THE STAR OF BRUNSWICK.
At last, with blaze effulgent shines;
The fiend of scandal flies afar,
Defeated in his base designs.
Sons of Freedom, the laurel-wreath entwine,
Round the crown of Caroline!
Can show her beauteous smiling face,
While none her en'mies will defend,
But brand them still with fell disgrace.
Hail, Britannia, Britannia, hail thy Queen,
Freed from harm by Power unseen.
THE SOLDIER'S DIRGE.
As slowly he trudged o'er the dark dreary moor;
“Beat lightly, ye rains, on a wretch left to danger,
In quest, this sad night, of a lodging secure.
I've braved Gallic valour, and triumph'd victorious;
I've stood shot and shell on Corunna's cold shore,
And yet I must stray here, thus friendless, inglorious,
And ne'er see the smile of my Mary once more.”
Exposed his dark locks to the night dews of heaven;
On the red field of Fleurus he left was to languish,
Where thousands that day were from life's mansions driven.
Around him the victims of slaughter were lying,
Around him the wounded in sorrow did wail;
The wind in the cannons' mouths wildly was sighing,
And the sentinel's lone foot was heard in the dale.
His tongue, parched with thirst, to his palate did cling,
O'er the corses of comrades and foes he was treading,
Where the vulture's harsh scream did their requiem sing.
His brain reels, he faints, he falls prone on the damp ground;
Life's joys and life's woes to the warrior are o'er—
He sleeps now for aye 'neath the sward of the camp ground,
Unbless'd with the smile of his Mary once more.
THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO.
And flock to the shade of the verdant tree of liberty!
With fear, with fear oppression's minions quake,
When they deem the sons of slavery shall be free.
To Codrington, to Hayden, and Rigny, sons of valour,
Let us drain our brimmers dry, and to every gallant sailor,
Who mann'd our hearts of oak,
Amid thunder, fire, and smoke;
Who mann'd our hearts of oak
When they broke the Turkish yoke;
And freedom's blooming face
Aroused from base disgrace.
Then resound, resound their deathless names around,
While angels rejoin, from the gilded azure canopy:
Resound, resound their deathless names around,
Who proclaim'd that Greece—that Europe should be free!
The flags of Europa were seen triumphant wave!
When thy children, O Greece, from the thunder-shaken shore,
Saw the tyrant's doom waft freedom to the slave.
As the sultan's crescent sank 'neath Britannia's direful thunder,
His trembling vassals saw, and were petrified with wonder;
While they reel'd into the deep
By our cannons' fatal sweep;
While they reel'd into the deep
To their everlasting sleep,
And the shrieks of wild despair
Rang throughout the sulph'rous air.
Then resound, resound the matchless deed around,
While angels rejoin, from the gilded azure canopy:
Resound, resound their deathless names around,
Who proclaim'd that Greece—that Europe should be free!
To wave freedom's flag o'er the golden Archipelago;
Come share, come share the prize of peace, come share,
Now wrested from your fierce marauding foe!
Let the spirits of your sires point the way to deeds of glory,
That your actions long may gild the true patriot's noble story;
And let Navarino bay
Swell the hero's lofty lay;
And let Navarino bay
Be a theme to last for aye,
When the Turkish fleet combined
To destruction was consign'd.
Then resound, resound the matchless deed around,
While angels rejoin, from the gilded azure canopy:
Resound, resound their deathless names around,
Who proclaim'd that Greece—that Europe should be free!
THE HUNGARIAN REFUGEE.
Her bright standard to float in the breeze,
Joy whisper'd that pleasure pervaded the world,
Nought frowned, and all rivall'd to please.
But a faint filmy cloud the horizon o'ercast,
And it deeper and darker shed gloom,
Till the pure banner's sheen, by a tempest's fell blast,
Was uprooted and shorn of its bloom.
Dear land! once so happy, my home, once bless'd,
A traitor's hand hath stain'd thy crest.
Leagued in merciless unholy faith,
Pour'd their legions of ruthless marauders forth,
Commission'd with torture and death.
Still the war-cry was Freedom or Death from our ranks,
Mingling wild with the canon's harsh roar,
Till we vanquish'd our foe on the dark Danube's banks,
And the spoil off in triumph we bore.
Alas! that warrior who thus fought best,
A traitor turn'd and stain'd our crest.
NON MI RICORDO.
“You, who wealth are courting,
Here your treasure lies
In the lap of fortune!
All who wish may win,
And not risk a shilling—
Tumble, tumble in—
To the lucky bag of Milan.
To ra lo ra le, &c.
Nor the nation's curses,
While the gold doth chime
Sweetly in your purses.
Swear the Queen's unchaste
On land, and when aboard, O;
And when cross-tried, in haste
Bawl out, ‘non mi ricordo!’”
To ra lo ra le, &c.
The refuse of a nation,
By bribery and by plot
Well trained for defamation.
He cries, “I think we'll do—
We'll gain our point completely;
We'll prove it through and through—
For we've all the knaves in Italy.”
To ra lo ra le, &c.
His perjury and bluster,
He's in confusion still
For all his noisy fluster.
Demont's in error's thrall!
Help Sacchi can't afford, O!
Majacci cries to all
That's asked, “non mi ricordo!”
To ra lo ra le, &c.
To think of the expenses,
And eke the matchless scorn
And woeful consequences!
All Europe, laughing, jeers,
To see the bosom cronies
Of our great House of Peers
A band of Lazaronies.
To ra lo ra le, &c.
Lest foreign knaves befoil ye,
Premiers often need
Reflect on Cardinal Wolsey.
Caroline must reign,
Though we squander millions,
Far and near, to gain
A host of perjured scullions.
To ra lo ra le, &c.
THE BARBER'S BRIBES.
GLEE.
A burgess was of note;
And both a Lord and Knight came down
To bribe him for his vote.
The Lord did give him fifty pounds
Each time that he was shaved;
The Knight but gave him fifty crowns,
So might his pains have saved.
To close the keen election;
The Lord the Barber's vote did get,
Which met with quick detection.
“Hold,” cried the Knight, “you shaved me once,
Pray, Barber, mind the price!”
“O yes,” said the Barber, “I own, Sir, you're right,
But I shaved his Lordship twice.”
THE BEADLE AND THE SEXTON.
Gaed in to drink a chappin,
And talk on ony odds and ends
That up and down did happen.
The tide o' trade is run sae ebb
That folk combine thegither,
Sae Rab and Will averr'd their right
As good as ony ither.
A gash and gabby body,
Wha could wheep aff a horn o' yill,
Or glass o' reeking toddy;
The beadle's name was Willie Gled,
A slee and sleeky shaver,
Whase drouth as great as Robin's was,
But aye his face was graver.
And talked on the weather,
Quo' Willie, “how's trade gaun wi' you?
Mine's reestin a' thegither!”
“Indeed, I canna sair complain,
To tell the truth,” said Robin,
“For aye somebody's drappin' aff,
Whilk hauds me hafflings jobbin'.
When I was at my labour,
Wha stappit owre the style to crack,
But just the priest, our neighbour!”
‘Robin,’ quo' he, ‘ye're eident at
Your dreary avocation;’
‘Yes, Sir,’ quo' I, ‘folk's blithe o' wark,
To keep them frae starvation.
Come labour or come nane, Sir,
Frae wishin' skaith to ony ane
For aye I would refrain, Sir;’
And hafflins did him huff, man;
He said nae mair, but bade guid morn',
Syne walked aff right gruff, man.”
Says, “Man, that's special reason;
It gars ane's elbow yeuk to hear
A word laid in—in season;
To help the clerk, he's raised the cries,
Whilks set the folk a-smugglin';
Sae ne'er a ane comes through the kirk—
They a' skip yont to Ruglen.
Will splice a hasty couple;
And sae I lie out o' my dues,
And canna weet my thrapple:
I've been sae sair bestead o' late,
By rich and puir negleckit,
That twice or thrice I've spunged the plate,
And, heth, I'm now suspeckit.”
To better our condition,
Gin we could only cautious be,
And keep awa' suspicion.
The kirkyaird's fairly in our power,
Unfasht wi' strict inspection;
What hauds our han's, but we, at times,
May try a resurrection?”
“I've whiles been thinkin' on it;
Yet couldna broach't, till ance I heard
What cam' frae 'neath your bonnet.
The doctors wad skip a' their lare
Withouten sic assistance;
Gin ye agree, come, there's my han',
I sal mak' nae resistance.”
And soukit aff his jorum,
To sanction the unhallow'd law
Pass'd by this twasome quorum.
A warlock couldna spae yet;
Perhaps in wealth, perhaps 'twill send
Them baith to Bot'ny Bay yet.
CUPID'S CONQUEST.
On the banks of Calder now?
Why flows the song of love from every tongue, tongue, tongue?
Sweet Cupid soon replies,
'Tis my darts, shot from the eyes
Of a girl that is charming and young, young, young.
He'd defy the powers of love
In the verdant palm of victory he'd won, won, won;
Till through the glen he stray'd
With that soul-enchanting maid,
For whom he now cries out, I'm undone, done, done.
That perfumes the morning air,
And the soul of music hangs on her tongue, tongue, tongue.
Her wit and repartee
Have completely captured me,
For by Cupid's sharpest dart I'm stung, stung, stung.
And so winning all her wiles,
That his heart she has quite overcome, come, come.
His fancy night and day
O'er love's flowery fields doth stray,
And still he exclaims, I'm undone, done, done.
That a lover kind and true
From the bonnie banks of Cart he had come, come, come,
He cried out, in despair,
Blackest grief is now my share,
For by Cupid's timely dart I'm undone, done, done.
SEND THE COG ABOUT.
Met upon a simmer morn,
To drink a pint of perry
At the sign of Plenty's horn.
There Bauldy Black and Watty White,
And Barny Blue, the dyester's brither,
Wi' Geordie Green and Gibbie Gray,
Were sittin' singin' a' thegither—
Aye let's pree the reamin' cappie;
Care flees frae mornin' joys:
Send the cog about.”
And the crack grew loud and dreich,
But the birkies wadna lift,
Although the sun was wearin' heich.
Ilk fancy was sae weel inspired,
That every tongue grew glib and roarous,
And aye's they took the ither waucht,
They lilted up the merry chorus,
Shorin' baith to scart and strike,
For aye she swore by a' aboon
That she wad quickly skail the byke.
She claucht her dearie's purple pow,
Misca'in' a' for graceless sinners,
And she haul'd him owre the table straucht,
And a' the dishes brak to flinners—
Pree now your reamin' cappie;
I'se gi'e ye mornin' joys:
Send the cog about!”
To appease the spouse's ire;
But she claucht his braw new wig
And flung 't wi' vengeance on the fire.
The dyester's menseless wife misca'in',
While the landlord, in his wrath,
Baith forgat his graith and lawin'.
Spoken.—And this for ance put an end to the merry Chorus of—
“Ca' roun' the bicker, boys,Aye let's pree the reamin' cappie;
Care flees frae mornin' joys:
Send the cog about.”
GET NELLY'S HAND.
Up and waur them a';
Ye hae the airt to wile the heart
Frae lasses ane and a', Willie!
Their thrawart joes to see, Willie;
Their bosoms knell, wi' pleasures swell,
At ae blink o' thy e'e, Willie.
To join in wedlock's bands, Willie;
Unless she hae the powerfu' sway
O' siller and o' lands, Willie.
As blithe as rosy May, Willie;
Her try, as weel the way ye ken,
I'm sure she'll ne'er say nae, Willie.
And muckle love do show, Willie;
Enrol your name, and ere 'tis lang
You'll bear the gree awa', Willie.
Up and waur them a';
Get Nelly's han', and a' her lan',
Ere Beltan winds do blaw, Willie.
THE CADGER.
To shun a' the tolls, aye took through the muir roads;
Of poachers and smugglers he kenn'd the abodes,
For in geography skill'd was the cadger.
Though nearly threescore, he was supple and stark,
As fresh as a trout, and as blithe as a lark;
As wily's a fox, whether daylight or dark,
He could bilk either beagle or gauger.
To rack out a penny frae bodle or plack;
His purse was weel stow'd, and weel clad was his back;
Sae baith mensefu' and bien was the cadger.
He twenty lang summers admired the ash trees
That waved round the dwellin' o' Mirren Braidlees;
Yet ne'er durst he hint o' her coffer'd bawbees,
For Mirren was shy as a badger.
Since Mirren did first for a half-marrow pine;
But ne'er, till the last claucht o' hope she did tyne,
Did she e'er think o' weddin' a cadger.
Though the sages declare “that we see nothing new,”
Yet the pith o' this saw mony couldna see through;
E'en the dominie smiled, while his ink-cork he drew
To beuk Mirren Braidlees to a cadger.
That day he set out to bid folk to the bridal;
Through bog, muir, and moss, whip and spur werena idle;
He rode as 'gainst time on a wager.
He was firmly intent ilka saul should be there
Wi' whom he had traffic in hen, duck, or hare,
Which brought on his roll the maist feck o' the shire:
Sic a rant was ne'er plann'd by a cadger.
The frosty east win' blew the drift sharp and snell,
Whilk gart him tak' howff in a smuggler's snug stell,
For the cuddy nae langer could budge her.
Baith bottles and bladders he'd fill'd there before,
Sae the swats circled quick, wi' guid-will, in galore,
To the health o' the bride and the cadger.
Wintled Robin clean owre 'mang the rashes and hay,
To hiccup and snore, as he vanquish'd thus lay,
A hapless and helpless nicht lodger.
The moon, shining clear, now display'd, 'mang the whins,
The flickerin' gleam o' baith bay'nets and guns;
Sae for safety, in terror, ilk smuggler aff runs,
Leaving fate to tak' tent o' the cadger.
The bridegroom to bridewell, for twal months to smart,
Which brak up the bridal, and brak down his heart,
That, for steel, could ha'e sairt a drum-major.
Debarr'd now frae poachers, and smugglers, and stills,
Frae fresh braken glens, and frae red heather hills,
The staunchers and cells, wi' their thousands o' ills,
Made a sad total wreck o' the cadger.
THE PAINTER.
The likeness o' lovely Miss Lillie to draw;
He screen'd a' the lozens but ane or twa,
And no ane the door durst enter.
The housemaids deck'd themselves in haste,
They crimped their frills, and their corsets they braced,
And their caps wi' pink ribbons most gaudily graced,
To entangle the heart o' the painter.
His sweetest love ditties the hale day lang;
The cook whiles thoucht he wasna that thrang,
Sae to keek through the key-hole did venture.
She saw the canvas stood by to dry,
The brushes and palette unheeded did lie,
While bonnie Miss Lillie, wi' languishing eye,
Sat talkin' 'bout love wi' the painter.
And it soon was rehearsed to mamma and papa;
The laird looked sour, and his haffits did claw,
And vow'd she o' that would repent her.
“A fine guffaw to the hale kintra wide,
To hear o' a lady, sae void o' a' pride
As lose a guid tocher, to be a bare bride
To a puir scowrie loun like the painter.”
Delight gart the ire o' the laird quickly cease;
Few pencils o' Rome, and few chisels o' Greece,
Sweet nature e'er hit like the painter.
The lady cried, “Eh! we see seldom sic sichts;
'Deed, laird, we maun e'en ha'e a' wrangs put to richts,
For, ye ken, when the king fa's a-dubbing o' knichts,
He wales out clever chields like the painter.”
Syne at the fine portrait he looked anew;
The lady's word aye he as gospel did view,
Sae langer he didna resent her.
“Weel, weel,” quo' he, “frae the plea I'se withdraw,
The bliss or the bann on your shouthers may fa';
Wi' women 'tis needless to gang to tongue-law:”
So Miss Lily's now tied to the painter.
THE MERRY NEW YEAR.
The trees a' wi' fleeces hung dreary;
Nae birdie was chirpin' ava,
And the hale warld look'd dowie and eerie:
When New'rday bade dulness be gane,
And kittled up mirth in the clachan;
Ilk carle, carline, lad, lass, and wean,
Lang ere daylicht, were rantin' and laughin',
To welcome the merry New-Year.
When ilk birkie bang'd to his kist shottle,
Determined to banish the caul'
Wi' a scour o' guid strunt frae his bottle.
Wi' reengin at doors and at winnocks,
Wi' whisky, and ither guid cheer,
Curran' buns, cheese, and weel-butter'd bannocks,
To hansel the merry New-Year.
Lay down in auld Ringan M'Aulay's;
This was the pole-star, that, a' roun',
Attracted in a' the young fallows.
His dochters, sae gleesome and braw,
Bewitch'd hearts and een just like glamour;
Sae, lang ere we heard the cock craw,
The house rang wi' taproom-like clamour,
To welcome the merry New-Year.
To rival the smith and the miller,
Cocksure he wad win farthest ben
Wi' braggin o' gear and o' siller:
While touslin' wi' Nell in the neuk
He tumbled the cast-metal boiler,
That scaddit, by fearfu' misluck,
A' the shins o' Tam Bodkin the tailor,
To welcome the merry New-Year.
“Oh, murder! I'm dead now, I'm dead now!”
And straucht on Jock's summit he fell,
And rave nievefu's o' hair frae his head now;
But Nepps, to prevent further strife,
Strack in, to keep Tam's wrath in balance,
Else Jock's face had borne through his life
Fleesome scaurs frae the tailor's sharp talons,
For haudin the merry New-Year.
And wi' saft linen clouts gat them buckled;
And Jock, to avoid future broil,
A' morn to the tailor aye knuckled:
Sae a' was forgot and forgi'en
Out owre a guid bicker o' toddy,
And Tammie was singin' bedeen,
While the smith fell a-dancin' curcuddy,
To welcome the merry New-Year.
As blithesome and bung'd as auld Bacchus,
But fell owre the smith wi' a reenge,
Wha at his Scotch-waltz no that slack was;
This tickled the wabster, Will Thrum,
Wha flang a fou glass in the ingle;
Like lichtnin', it kindled the lum,
And fear wi' their mirth soon did mingle,
To welcome the merry New-Year.
Like sailors they speel'd to the riggin';
But twa gang o' water toom'd down,
Secured the contents o' the biggin'.
Auld Ringan sat singing Kail-brose
Meantime o' this fearfu' mishanter;
And scour'd aff the ither guid dose
O' hill-dew frae a chappin decanter,
To welcome the merry New-Year.
Were witness'd by auld Habbie Semple,
Wha pass'd the hail mornin' fou douse,—
He was priest o' the Teetotal Temple:
Till slee tricky Duncan M'Phail,
Determined to play him a pliskie,
Sugar'd up a het-pint o' strong ale
Wi' a mutchkin o' Campbelton whisky,
To welcome the merry New-Year.
While he tootit aff aye the fou bicker;
Tint his hearin', and nearly grew blin',
And his tongue couldna wauchle that sicker:
Sae they happit him snug in his bed,
Wi' claes, shoon, and a' on thegither,
And Duncan the story soon spread,
Sayin', “Nane need now laugh at anither
For haudin the merry New-Year.”
This was written during the Temperance movement, which only prohibited the use of alcoholic or distilled liquors, whilst it tolerated the moderate use of fermented.
TIT FOR TAT.
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
To tak' a dram wi' Rab M'Queen,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Guid auld peat reak, Highlan' blue,
Did sae nobly fire their mou',
That they drank till they got roarin' fou,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Yoked on him clean barefaced,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Dang him owre, and brak' the wheel,
Bled his nose, pure luckless chiel'—
Raged and rampit like a de'il,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Meg flew at him like a dart,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Fasten'd on him like a brier,
And to clouts his claes did tear;
Her rage o'ercam' baith love and fear,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Quietly out puir Geordie slips,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Hame he ran, and barr'd the door,
Meg without micht rant and roar,
She's got what she gied him before,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
MUNGO M'GILL.
A dribble o' spirits, and porter, and ale,
While I sing o' a carle, a great mense to your trade,
Though he forty lang miles frae King Willie was bred.
He keepit nae tavern nor splendid hotel,
Nae floors coort wi' carpets, nor dandy-hung bell,
But a cosie thack-house, at the fit o' the hill,
And baith auld and young liked queer Mungo M'Gill.
An index o' meaning, although something rare;
For a birkie, ance seated, fan', to his surprise,
That the langer he sat he was sweerer to rise.
There the tailor and souter took their fittin' drams,
And the smith, owre a chappin, aft rested his trams,
And but seldom a lade gaed awa' frae the mill
But the stour was synt doun aside Mungo M'Gill.
Wore a grey worsit wig on his time-polish'd pash,
And a girdle-braid bonnet, fu' bien and fu' braw,
Wi' a tap like a red double-poppy in blaw:
A waistcoat o' red plush inclosed his round kyte,
His brown coat wi' ivory buttons shone white;
His knee and shoe-buckles were polish'd wi' skill:
Sae a snod clachan vintner was Mungo M'Gill.
Wi' joke and wi' jest seldom Mungo was slack;
He aye countenanced coshly ilk sentiment said;
Contradiction, he kenn'd, was nae help to his trade:
Or when chance brang a guest in sair laden wi' care,
Auld Mungo could balsam the wound to a hair;
He could quote frae the Beuk words o' comfort at will,
For nae priest was mair knacky than Mungo M'Gill.
His patients wi' ham, herrin', speldings, or cheese,
Things nobly adapted to gust a drunk mouth,
And as guid afterhind for increasin' a drouth.
It was lang 'tween the rounds that the gill-stoup play'd clink,
He wad look ben the trance, wishin' nae time to spill—
“Was't here ye were ca'in'?” quo' Mungo M'Gill.
For watchin' the motion o' baith stoup and bell;
And, when birkies were bungt, Neps but seldom did fail
To water the stoupie—to keep their heads hale:
Or, to please the rouch gabs o' the sons o' the mine,
She wad sharpen its taste wi' the spirit-o'-wine;
Syne auld Mungo wad laugh at his wife's pawkie skill,
For an inbringin' joke liked Mungo M'Gill.
Wi' drink to ilk taste, or wi' sang or wi' crack,
Frae the grave-spoken laird, wi' his dull hingin' brow,
To the cat-witted tailor, wi' drink ravin' fou.
He had liquor as guid as e'er gusted a gab,
And he had it as worthless as e'er fleeced a fab;
Yet the fient a ane ever disputed his bill,
For their trim was aye watch'd by slee Mungo M'Gill.
Though fou ilka visit, he toddled hame free;
This strauchted the beuks, and prevented a' strife—
And ae permit sairt Mungo the hale o' his life.
But ilk thing has an end, and a puddin' has twa;
Auld age warsel'd round, and took Mungo awa';
And but few o' his trade e'er his fitstaps will fill,
For a dungeon for craft was auld Mungo M'Gill.
Tears fill'd every e'e, and grief lengthen'd ilk face;
But the tailor, and souter, and miller, 'boon a',
To ha'e seen, wad ha'e melted a whinstane awa';
And the smith, at the dragie, sat back in the neuk,
Loudly sabbin' his lane—while nae whisky he took!
And ilk kimmer sigh'd out, that was sib to a gill—
“Sers! we'll ne'er see the like o' auld Mungo M'Gill!”
THE RUNAWA' BRIDE.
A BALLAD.
Wham auld and young did brawly ken;
She cracked the hearts o' a' the men—
Her name was Nancy Dawson.
But her auld daddie ne'er could bear
That ony ane her price should speer
Except the laird o' muckle gear,
Glee'd, wheezlin' Bauldy Lawson.
Wi' coral lips and diamond een,
And glowin' cheeks and gracefu' mien—
Oh but she was a darlin'!
And Bauldy, bleert o' baith the een,
Had mair than half a cent'ry seen,
And yet wad come, ilk Friday-'teen,
To rival Rab M'Farlane.
And had a tongue ayont them a';
Could wiled the egg frae 'neath the craw—
He was the lassie's fancy.
But Rab had neither gear nor lan',
Sae couldna please the auld guidman,
Whilk gart the carle aft rage and ban
That the loun wad ne'er get Nancy!
And bother'd the lass baith air and late,
To wed the laird for his braw estate,
Else she wad get nae tocher.
But she at Glasgow town did ca',
And was advised by a limb o' the law
To please hersel' before them a',
For she was an only dochter.
And dress'd himsel' fu' trig and braw;
To strike the match for guid and a',
Cam' brankan up the entry:
As he cam' hostin' ben the trance,
And thocht, wi' sigh and scornfu' glance—
This plan but answers gentry.
The braws were boucht wi' great parad',
And Bauldy then fu' crousely craw'd,
Owre a' the lads victorious.
At length the bridal day cam' roun';
The gossips met, wi' gleesome soun';
But hope turn'd disappointment soon—
Hech! we seena far before us.
The brewer, wi' his sled, cam' neist;
The baker brang a special feast
O' roast, pyes, buns, and gravy.
The cry gat up—the bridegroom's comin'!
And auld and young without gaed rinnin',
For now they heard the fiddle bummin',
And liltin' Dainty Davie.
But out at the back door she has gane,
And down the yard, and through the glen,
Amang the birks and hazles.
She ran straucht to the trystin' tree,
And met wi' Rab wi' muckle glee;
Now aff they're fled, across the lea,
As licht as hares or weasels.
And wow but he was skeigh and crouse,
Cock sure, ere lang, to ha'e a spouse
Surpass'd by nane ava, man:
He's welcomed ben, wi' muckle mense,
To see the bride within the spence;
But they were bereaved o' every sense
When they fan' she was awa', man.
But on the track they ne'er could win;
The extericks seized ilk carline;
But Tam, the herd, cam' down the dale,
The herald o' the doolfu' tale;
Quoth he, “I saw her, blithe and hale,
Scourin' aff wi' Rab M'Farlane.”
He darts like lightnin' frae the house;
Puts on his specks, the hill he views,
And saw them turn the cairn, man:
He cried to the best-man, “Rodger, rin;
As yet, thou's no that far behin';
To me thou yet a wife may win,
And save the laird's dear bairn, man.”
And took the road like a cannon shot;
The broosers, pityin' Bauldy's lot,
Flew aff as fleet as roes, man;
The fiddler, neither stiff nor slack,
Did rin till his lungs were like to crack—
But fell, and his bow and his brow he brack,
And cam' back wi' a bluidy nose, man.
Puir Bauldy saw his cronies reist;
Gat consolation frae the priest,
Syne dichtit baith his een, man:
But aye he look'd, wi' ruefu' face,
To see the upshot o' the chase;
While ilka ane believed the race
Wad end at Gretna Green, man.
And wha's to quaff the browst o' maut?
For Bauldy has nae taste for that,
Since Nancy's proved no sterlin'.
Sae they a' slade aff, like knotless threads,
To lay aside their bridal weeds;
And the morn they'll rise wi' braw hale heads,
And be thankin' Rab M'Farlane.
And prudence learn frae this event;
Ne'er barter them 'gainst their consent,
Although it be the fashion;
Lest, on their blithesome bridal day,
They through the back-door chance to stray,
And lichtly skip out owre the brae,
Like charmin' Nancy Dawson.
A MASONIC SONG.
In harmony unite,
Each bosom thrills with ecstasy
'Neath the glorious mystic light.
Still the brow of care smooths its wrinkles there,
While love and joy entwine
Round a social horn of John Barleycorn,
Or the juice of the sparkling vine.
Nor faction's hot debate,
No tales of slander taint the air,
Nor intrigues of the church or state.
But each heart and hand join in love's soft band,
Within the sacred shrine;
While each action we spy, is still guided by
Reason's compass, square, and line.
And all distinction smothers;
Makes the peasant and king join hands and sing,
On the level met as brothers.
May the glorious light blaze with splendour bright,
Till time's last sun decline;
Then, pray ye, all comply to give heart, hand, and thigh,
And follow it with three times nine.
MY WIFE'S AYE TIPPLIN'.
My wife's aye tipplin' when I'm awa frae hame.
The rose was on her cheeks, and the diamond in her een;
Now she's wallow'd like a docken, and her een are blear'd and red,
For she lies, her drouth to slocken, wi' the bottle in her bed.
My wife, in her tipplin', sees neither sin nor shame.
And aye on the rhumatiks, when the weather's cauld and damp;
But what or where the trouble is, between the tap and tae,
Nae potion and nae lotion she'll apply but usquabae.
My wife's aye tipplin', and I get a' the blame.
And the weans, wi' cauld and hunger, are wheengin' a' about:
She drank the sow, she drank the cow, and syne she drank the horse;
She's drucken a' the siller done, and now she's pawn'd the purse.
My wife, wi' her tipplin', has made a doolfu' hame.
Wi' five wee helpless bairnies, wha maun hae bit and brat?
And when, at times, she's sober, it brings across my min'
The glow o' love I bore to her in days o' langsyne.
O wad she drap her tipplin', 'twad mak' a heaven o' hame.
Ye'll get a cure for ilk disease within the boords o' Buchan;
But to reclaim a drucken wife wad gi'e the doctors wark,
For, when baith cash and tick are done, she'll pawn her hindmost sark.
Their cursed tipplin' aye mak's a waefu' hame.
BOB O' THE BENT.
And I'll show you the upshot o' John Barleybrie;
Ye may, aiblins, be laith to gi'e up the bit drap,
But, I trow, in the end, ye'll fin't craw in your crap:
Then scorn nae advice gi'en wi' frien'ly intent,
Though it come frae the gab o' auld Bob o' the Bent.
Left me laird o' the mailin, a' stocked fou bien,
Wi' three horses, twal' kye, and sax score o' tups and ewes,
That frisked and fed on the haughs and the knowes:
And a guid clash o' siller, that draw sax per cent.;
Sae but few chiels could brank then wi' Bob o' the Bent.
(Spoken.)—But when I gat the bridle in my ain han' I gaed on at a bonny carry; ran to a' fairs, markets, rockin's, sacraments, and weddin's —kent o' naething but fill and fetch mair; trowth, my nieve was ne'er out o' my purse frae June to Januar', sae, that e'er ye wad hae said Jock Robison, I gaed through as muckle o' my daddie's weel haint gear as wad hae been a guid nest-egg to a canny chiel a' the days o' his life. Mony a caution I gat frae my mither, puir body, wi' the tear in her e'e, and when I was sittin' hearin' her I saw my folly as clear's a bead. But whene'er I was out o' her sicht—fare-ye-weel, Tammy Orr! nae reformation wi' Bob, he's just the auld saxpence—in for another nievefu' o' siller frae the shuttle o' the kist, and awa to the nearest yill-house to get a slockenin', or, as a body may rather say, a kindlin' o' drouth, whare we wad hae clawt awa at the bicker till the mornin' sun wad been blinkin' owre the Shotts knowes.
My hale lyin' siller I soon tippled done.
When to Glasgow I gaed, wi' the butter and milk,
I ne'er fail'd, on the road, frae the auld naig to bilk,
And wad clatter and quaff till my siller gaed done,
Syne gaed staggerin' hame wi' the licht o' the moon:
While the beast toddled on, and aye hame fand the scent,
Leavin' fate to tak' charge o' doilt Bob o' the Bent.
(Spoken.)—And mony a dreary nicht I took the gate my lane, reelin' fou, when there was nae livin' saul to be seen a' the road hame, nor a lichted house, unless a bit blink frae the raikin'-coal o' somebody's
As I drew near my hame, when the day it did daw.
And, in time o' maist need, my best frien's did withdraw;
My servants they jauked, my labour fell back,
And I saw, gin I ment na, I'd soon gae to wrack;
But my head was yet licht, and my brow was yet brent,
And dull care couldna conjure blithe Bob o' the Bent.
'Twas lammas or e'er we our hay could get mawn;
Cauld winter at han' was when our corn was green,
For our kirn we got seldom before halloween:
Sae I fell far ahin' wi' the minister's stent,
Forebodin' destruction to Bob o' the Bent.
(Spoken.)—When I'm carryin' on in this manner, borrowin' siller frae ane to pay anither, and gettin' the tither visit frae the beagle, I'm down at Hamilton court ae day, (a place o' business at whilk I was beginnin' to be owre weel kenn'd, and appearin' aftener as defendant than plaintiff) and ha'ein' settled accounts wi' my legal advisers, (a class o' gentlemen, by-the-by, wha had nae sooner gotten me out o' ae scrape than they had me landed into anither) we had, as usual, a dainty dreigh sederunt owre a jug o' toddy, and syne I took the airt hame, pinch'd enough to keep the crown o' the causey. Weel, gaun by an auld howff whare I had spent hunners o' pounds, though I was now beginnin' to be mair fash than profit to them, I hears the landlady say, “there's Bob o' the Bent, rin and bar the door and keep 'im out!” Sae I just steady'd mysel' on my staff a blink, and said in my ain min',—ay, ay, is this the gratitude o' changekeepers? The diel a ane o' your craft, Lucky, will e'er bar the door on Bob o' the Bent again! I gaed straucht hame to my bed, yoked my wark niest mornin', and hae continued as steady as the sun in the lift sin'syne, and I soon fan' my affairs tak' anither turn; and aye, as I persevered, I fan' my credit grow better, till I cleared ilka bodle o' debt that was on my farm, and can defy the hale warld to say I'm awn a doit!
And to nane in the warld I, for favour, need crouch;
I ha'e braw piece o' min', and guid health to the boot,
Though I saur in the changekeeper's thrapples like soot:
Let ilk chiel aff the road, then, that leads to content,
Just gae tread the last fitstaps o' Bob o' the Bent.
THE HEROIC TAILOR.
The tailor at our house was sewin', O;
He gaed down the howm, ere his labour was done,
And wi' Nelly fell briskly a-wooin', O.
A swarm o' keen lovers cam' round the same nicht,
Ilk ane, for his ain int'rest, to use his hale micht;
But a' firm resolved wi' the tailor to fecht—
For mischief in ilk head was brewin', O.
And mindna their jibin' and jeerin', O;
Frae bother to blows they richt soon fell to wark,
And the tailor was fast the field clearin', O.
Ane, grippin' the cushion that was on his sleeve,
Declared he a hedgehog had claucht wi' his nieve,
While stabs frae his bodkin gart ithers believe
That the broil wad come to an ill-bearin', O.
And frae numbers they courage did muster, O;
The tailor foresaw, but was naething afraid,
That he'd come aff wi' skaith frae this cluster, O:
He sprang up the craft to the house, in his ire,
And bang'd out the red goose that lay in the fire,
Syne gied them, o' fechtin', mair than their desire,
For their hides he did sotter and blister, O.
Sair skaith'd by his red salamander, O,
Astonish'd to fin' that a young tailor chield
Had the courage o' great Alexander, O.
Young Hughoc, the laird, met the warst fate ava;
He a new suit had on, and was baith skeigh and braw,
But plunged in the midden when fleein' awa';
He wi' little mense hameward did wander, O.
There's nane now has charms like the tailor, O;
She jeers them awa', sin' that nicht's wark befell,
And no ane can guess what doth ail her, O.
She scorns a' their gear, and their bonnet-laird pride,
And vows that the tailor's got her for his bride;
Wi' a chiel o' sic mettle she'd range the warld wide,
For he's like a champion for valour, O.
FAR BEYOND THE ISLE OF KILDA.
Far beyond the Isle of Kilda,
The sun his daily course hath run,
And I must meet with fair Matilda.
As e'er wore tartan plaid or bonnet,
But vows no blood of Saxon slave
His clan will e'er have grafted on it.
For fear I rouse his Highland anger,
Sae I maun lanely linger here
Till she arrives who soothes my languor.
Ne'er brush'd the dew frae heather blossom;
Sae witchin' kind, sae pure her mind,
'Tis heaven to clasp her to my bosom.
I've beauties seen where Clyde meanders,
But there's a beauty farther north,
Wi' her my fancy ever wanders.
Should bide a norlan' chieftain's fury,
Sae, lang ere dawn of morning light,
Matilda leaves the heights of Jura.
Far beyond the Isle of Kilda,
The shades of night assist my flight
To gay Tweedside with fair Matilda.
THINK OF THY VOWS.
Decks the woods all in green,
And the birds sweetly sing
By the smooth winding stream;
When the daisies snow-white
Gem the green grassy lea,
I'll hie with delight,
My dear Mary, to thee.
In the green hazel bower,
On the sun-gilded knows,
By yon grey ruined tower;
When the sun's yellow rays
Slanted o'er the green plain,
And thy voice joined the lays
Of the pipe of thy swain:—
Should to us e'er return,
And the merle again sing
In the shade by the burn,
That thy hand and thy heart
Should for ever be mine;
When we'd meet, ne'er to part,
At kind Hymen's fair shrine.
FAR AWA' FRAE THEE, ANNA.
Far awa' frae thee, Anna,
I alane can tell the pain
I felt when leavin' thee, Anna.
Shot frae thy lovely e'e, Anna,
My heart sunk into love's soft trance,
I thought on nought but thee, Anna.
Soft murmur'd down the vale, Anna,
Where sweet the mavis o'er us sung,
While whisp'ring love's kind tale, Anna.
Made short the longest day, Anna—
Bewitch'd me sae, while in thy sight,
They wadna let me gae, Anna.
Far on a distant shore, Anna,
I pine in sorrow, while from home
And thee, whom I adore, Anna.
To glad the prospect drear, Anna,
That I shall yet return to thee,
Whom I o'er all revere, Anna.
THE FORTUNATE WANDERER.
And screen me frae the stormy weather;
I've stray'd on that bleak mountain side,
Forlorn and dreary 'mang the heather.
Owre the muir amang the heather;
The lad I loved inconstant proved,
Which makes me wander 'mang the heather.
By meadow green, and purling fountain;
But now I'm left, of peace bereft,
To wander lanely on the mountain.
Owre the muir, &c.
But now frae joy debarr'd am I,
To stray and weep amang the heather.
Bespoke a passion felt sincerely,
When close he press'd me to his breast,
And vow'd he'd ever love me dearly.
Owre the muir, &c.
By burn and brae, we spent the day,
On tales o' love wi' ane anither.
Nor seek a faithless lover blindly;
If in my cot, thou'lt share my lot,
Here is the heart will treat thee kindly.
Owre the muir, &c.
Aloof frae strife, we'll glide through life,
Where lambkins play amang the heather.
Nor longer roam the mountain dreary;
Through summer mild, and winter wild,
Wi' me thou shalt be ever cheery.
Owre the muir, &c.
Till life's last day, I'll with thee stay,
Where blooms the bonny purple heather.
His tartan plaid, the rain defending,
Her tear-soil'd eye now beams wi' joy,
While rapture's heaving sigh's ascending.
Owre the muir, &c.
Baith nicht and day, she's glad and gay,
Wi' her dear swain amang the heather.
FU' LEESOME AND LEAL IS MY LADDIE.
And blithe is the blink o' his e'e;
At partin' my heart is richt sad aye,
At meetin' it dances wi' glee.
Yestreen we sat down 'mang the clover,
When the gloamin' her veil o'er us flang;
The time flew sae fleet wi' my lover,
I wist na till mornin' larks sang.
When I gaed to last Lammas fair,
And syne to the dancin' he soucht me,
And muckle he on me did ware.
Noo, aye when my pearlin's I blink on,
It mak's me baith blithesome and wae,
Far aften their cost I do think on,
Has gart him toil mony lang day.
Whilk's a' my folk 'gainst him can say;
But whae'er respects guid behaviour
Maun roose my true laddie for aye.
For love I will wed my dear laddie,
And tak' whate'er fortune may send,
For true love and virtue sae steady
Will surely come to a guid end.
THE LASS WITH THE AUBURN HAIR.
To wake the smiling morn;
The lark his cheering lay increased,
On dew-wet wings upborne.
The mavis sang in greenwood shade,
Fresh flowers perfumed the air,
When first I spied, in yon green glade,
The lass with the auburn hair.
Dear lass with the auburn hair;
She stole my joy with her bright eye,
The lass with the auburn hair.
For flowers of sweetest dye,
As emblems of the snowy brow,
Red lip, fresh cheek, bright eye.
But though the rose's blush is sweet,
And the lily's bloom is fair,
They ne'er can vie those charms replete
Of the lass with the auburn hair.
Sweet lass, &c.
Dear lass, &c.
Devoid of art, she's won my heart,
The lass with the auburn hair.
In yonder glen remote?
What though no courtly form she sees
Within her humble cot?
Her native grace all art disarms,
In features, form, and air;
Description fails to paint the charms
Of the lass with the auburn hair.
Sweet lass, &c.
Dear lass, &c.
No more I want, that fate can grant,
But the lass with the auburn hair.
Is not more mild than she;
The thrush that's singing by the rill
More blythsome ne'er can be.
The joy that stole across my soul
Was bliss beyond compare,
When she complied to be my bride,
The lass with the auburn hair.
Sweet lass, &c.
Dear lass, &c.
Unknown to strife, I'll spend my life
With the lass with the auburn hair.
THE LUCKLESS WOOER.
Wha wons in the warlock glen,
At wooin' he's cauldrife and silly,
An's been slichtit by nine or ten;
He's been slichtit by nine or ten,
When he paid a' the dues o' the kirk,
And yet the auld gleyt doitit havrel
Came to woo me yestreen when 'twas mirk.
When Willie dang up our back-door,
He stay'd na to chap the hallan,
But cam' lampin' ben the floor;
He cam' clinchin' ben the floor,
Wi' his bonnet ajee on his head;
Guid's! thinks I, or I'd marry ye, Willie,
I'd rather lie down wi' the dead.
Close up by the chimla cheek,
Where he thowt his cauld han's and he het him,
And dichtit his blae drappin' beak;
And at me he gied mony a keek,
As I sat wi' my seem in the neuk;
But a' his hale crack was o' thrashin',
And delvin', and drivin' o' muck.
Whilk was a blythe signal to me,
Weel I kenn'd that it was my ain Sannock,
And my heart did gae dancin' wi' glee;
When I raise Willie looked ajee,
Syne he dichted his een, and he sigh'd;
But, gaun out, thinks I, fare-ye-weel, Willie,
Ye'll sit late if ye see me the nicht.
THE BRAES OF BUSBIE.
When fate decreed I should depart
Far from the lovely banks of Cart,
And the bonny braes of Busbie, O.
In vain I strove to check the sigh,
Or tear that glitter'd in the eye,
While thinking that the hour drew nigh
Which drove me far from Busbie, O.
Nor glen, bespread with summer flowers;
'Twas not to leave that stream, which pours
Its murmuring tide through Busbie, O.
But parting with Eliza dear,
Of blooming cheek, and eye so clear—
'Twas that which brought the frequent tear,
When I took leave of Busbie, O.
Yet oft on fancy homeward borne,
With her I sat beneath yon thorn,
Among the braes of Busbie, O.
And cheering hope, with radiant smile,
Would still the fleeting hours beguile,
When far from my dear native isle,
And the bonny braes of Busbie, O.
With her, by lonely grot or grove,
And fan the mutual flame of love,
Among the braes of Busbie, O.
Let heroes chase the phantom Fame,
Peru's rich ore let misers claim—
My only wish, my dearest aim,
Is that sweet nymph of Busbie, O.
THE BLOOM OF KILBRIDE.
And blooming and gay on the banks of the Clyde,
But none of them all can I love half so dearly,
As charming Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride.
She's cheerful as morning when gilding the mountain,
Or calm and serene as the mild even-tide,
And fair as the lily that blows by the fountain,
Is lovely Eliza, the bloom of Kibride:
Is lovely Eliza,
Is charming Eliza,
Is peerless Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride.
The blush of the rose on her cheek doth reside;
Her black eyes are wiling, where modesty, smiling,
Displays half divine the fair bloom of Kilbride.
Oft lonely I wander, and pleasantly ponder
On all her dear charms by clear Calder's green side;
Roam, fancy, thou rover, thy fairy-fields over,
Thou'lt cull not a flower like the bloom of Kilbride:
Like lovely Eliza,
Like charming Eliza,
Like peerless Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride.
That blooms fresh and fair by the streamlet's clear tide,
And softly I bound it, 'neath yon birken bower,
Around the fair brow of the bloom of Kilbride.
When gently I press'd her, and fondly caress'd her,
And vow'd in my love she might always confide,
She sank on my bosom, the virtuous blossom,
My charming Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride:
My lovely Eliza,
My charming Eliza,
My peerless Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride.
I WILL STRAY TO YON GLEN.
Where the clear burnie's rowin',
Round the green fairy den,
In the sun's rays a' glowin'.
Where the thrush thrills his lay
'Mang the green birks sae clearly,
I will spend the lang day
Wi' the lass I like dearly.
'Neath the broom's gowden blosom,
Wi' my hale earthly joy
Fondly pressed to my bosom!
While the mild western breeze
Fans the sweet-scented bowers,
And the saft hum of bees
Flows amang the wild flowers.
Sae affectedly witty,
Woo the gay belle of show,
Deck'd in satins sae pretty;
I nae envy can feel
For his heart-teasing treasure,
Since my Mary, mair leal,
Bears me love without measure.
Where the clear burnie's rowin',
Round the green fairy den,
In the sun's rays a' glowin'.
And there spend my hale life,
And will ne'er think it dreary,
Far frae wild jarring strife,
Wi' the lass I like dearly.
MARY, THE MAID O' THE INN.
A courtin' baith early and late;
I to mony hae whispered love's tale—
Some were cadgie, and ithers seem'd blate;
Among either strangers or kin,
I declare I ha'e never yet seen,
As young Mary the Maid o' the Inn.
Sweetest complaisance plays on her smile,
She frae pride and frae envy is free,
Fraut wi' charms my hale heart to beguile.
I would fain my warm passion disclose,
But I kenna weel how to begin,
Sic a tumult within my breast glows,
For sweet Mary the Maid o' the Inn.
I sit by the ingle, and think
How the wearisome night I'll devour,
If I see nae dear Mary a blink;
Sae awa to her dwelling I hie,
To regale me wi' whisky or gin,
And the hours fleet as lichtning flee by
When wi' Mary the Maid o' the Inn.
To spend a' your siller in vain;
Trowth, I fear that your love will soon cool,
For a gawkie like her ye'r owre fain!”
But what's siclike clatter to me,
Even though what I do be a sin;
I maun ilka nicht birl my bawbee
Beside Mary the Maid o' the Inn.
And waft to thy altar my love,
Then the sorrows of life I'll beguile
With her charms, which aye constant will prove.
She wi' pleasure my cottage will glad,
All remote frae the world's jarring din;
Nought on earth can my bosom make sad,
When wi' Mary the Maid o' the Inn.
POEMS.
The Rich Man's Sabbath.
The sacred day by heaven ordain'd!”
For patronage to aid a hapless muse,
Must squallid vice on virtue's throne instate,
And screen their impious deeds with shades profuse;
But me no servile mercenary views
Inspire, to mount, with Pegasian wing,
Gilding with varnish-wit the nauseous stews:
I ask no grace of noble peer or king;
Then 'wake, unfavour'd muse—the Rich Man's Sabbath sing.
That Popish despotism in Britain reigns?
When her obscurest subject may pourtray
The sacrilegious conduct of her thanes?
Woe to the land that God's own day profanes!
For her Destruction's furbish'd sword doth gleam;
For this did Judah's children doleful strains
Pour forth, while captives by Euphrates' stream,
And pine “in servile chains,” uncheer'd by hope's fair beam.
And mirthful crowds now from the farce home hie;
But, 'mong these sons of pleasure, there is not
One soul now thinking of the misery
Awaiting vice in dread eternity,
When life's grand drama's o'er, and every soul
Stands naked at the bar of Deity!
Ah, pois'nous pleasure! which infects the bowl
Where lurks deception sly, and lords without control!
To store the brain with such fantastic toys
Ferments the soul with an unhallow'd yeast,
That prayer or praise the mental palate cloys.
Thus wealth, allured by such delusive joys,
Sinks down to sleep upon his downy bed;
But direful dreaming all his rest destroys:
He tosses to and fro till night be fled,
And Sol o'ertop the hills, gilding the clouds with red.
Is unprepared to stand the silver light;
Unwelcome sounds the matin-bell hard bye,
That doth his dronish doseing fairly blight—
While he, perchance, on fancy's vagrant flight,
The nightmare vision sees of awful death,
And starts, with terror paralysed white,
Sore struggling, for a while, to draw his breath,
To hear the spectre groan—Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!
Whom calm sobriety doth daily guide;
Whose mind for duty ne'er is out of trim,
Nor e'er for sport religion lays aside!
A stranger quite to all the pomp of pride,
He treads humility's sequester'd road;
He dares not, cannot anything deride
That bears the sanction of the word of God:
He counts this world a tent, and not his fix'd abode.
Intrude upon the Rich Man's Sabbath morn,
What hallow'd preparations are display'd
That mark a soul to heavenly pleasures born?
Say, does the sound of praise his house adorn?
Or bends the knee in penitential prayer?
Or does his brow treat scandal's tale with scorn?
Or dares he trust in God to slake his care?
Or list the orphan's wail, or widow's burden share?
The tree we judge just as we find its fruit;
Be 't sweet or bitter, we decide at once
What is the nature of both branch and root.
All morn throughout is heard th' incessant bruit
The menials' laugh, and clamorous dispute
'Bout dresses, sweethearts, and such topics vile,
Unmeet for holy morn—wherewith they time beguile.
From master or from mistress; who likewise,
In their own way, as far aloof from good,
The duties of the Sabbath day despise:
As far their conduct from religion flies;
As low their converse, only more polite;
As heedless to obey the gospel ties;
As prone the good man's piety to slight;
And every way as far from duty's path upright.
Mammon his ne plus ultra fixes sure;
The slavish servant must his toil attend,
Or page behind his lord, with air demure;
While he, a name and notice to secure,
Rolls off to church, with family elate,
Nor ever fails most copiously to pour
The minted metal in the clanging plate,
Which gains the obsequious bow of wardens at the gate.
Which penetrates the heart with snaky wiles,
And taints the soul with ruinous disease,
And cheats the world with fair external smiles!
Ah me! what crowds the demon sly beguiles,
With glossing falsehood, into ruin's slough;
Then at the last their folly sore reviles,
When sunk in the abyss of endless woe;
And only then appears their worst though hidden foe.
To catch the observation of the throng;
But ne'er in church his jolly face doth show
To join the worship's introductive song,
Or hear if prayers be orthodox or wrong:
'Twould seem too servile thus to honour God;
'Twere an intrusion rash upon bon ton,
Which would not miss just censure's smarting rod,
For bearing, in this age, religion's cumbrous load.
Although he sit with solemn air, demure?
Alas! his soul religion comes not near,
But wanders o'er the fields of sense impure:
Here Satan spreads his sacrilegious lure
To wile his thoughtless mind from peace astray;
Till, tangled in his silken gin secure,
The hapless victim deem the hallow'd day
The most obstructive pest that lies in pleasure's way.
Like plaintive murmur of the distant stream;
Meanwhile the pompous hearer's mind is gone
Far out of reach, and traffic is the theme:
Or, ruminating on some sensual dream,
The pleasing phantom lulls him o'er asleep:
Thus, on his callous mind, no dazzling gleam
Of sharp conviction's sword can make him weep,
Of carnal pleasure's cup his soul hath drunk so deep.
If 'tis not warfare 'gainst the Holy Spirit?
And what, but the profoundest gulf of hell,
Can such a soul at last think to inherit?
The torment due, what sin-steel'd mind can bear it?
Seal'd by that Word which shall for aye abide:
Alas! while doom'd to suffer for demerit,
'Twill wish its exit lay in suicide,
And 'neath the pond'rous hills from God's ire seek to hide.
That sour life's cup!” the rich man inly cries;
Yawns, rubs his eyes, and looks his watch again,
And every art to murder time he tries:
The sermon ended, joy illumes his eyes;
Work more congenial soon his senses greets;
The well-cull'd dinner party, rich and wise,
Concentre from their several retreats,
To exile sober thought with bounteous nature's sweets.
Expands the mind, and animates the frame!
Conviviality can charms impart
For which dry language hath not found a name:
The heaped board vends no sensations tame,
While wine the jocund fancy doth inflame,
And wit bursts forth, in corruscations bright,
To gild the solemn lour that dulls the Sabbath night.
Have form'd his manners southward of the Tweed,
The hallow'd day meets more avow'd abuse,
Approaching nearer Rome's infernal creed:
'Twere then no marvel though he forth should lead
The yelling kennel 'mong the woods and rocks,
And thus profane Jehovah's gracious meed
By clam'rous pursuit of the hare or fox:
Such sacrilegious work heaven's Legislator mocks!
And home he gallops from his rural sport,
To banish dreary slumbers from his head,
The fiddle, haply, is his next resort;
Or cards, accursed, time's burden may support,
While wife and children in the pastime join:
With all the modish sweetness of the court
On sin's soft couch they heedlessly recline,
Spurning, 'mid clearest light, God's overture divine.
Of Epicurus' supper soon produce;
Afresh boon joy pervades the festive hall,
Roused by the fragrance of a roasted goose
Or turkey—better far than bitter grouse
For satiating the keen edge of appetite—
With store of spirits, and the grape's sweet juice,
That on the palate tell with true delight,
To cheer the soul if sad, and fancy to excite.
In which devotion dares not show her face;
Yet in society's sublimest walk
These sentimentalists hold highest place;
Too proud to pray for God's redeeming grace,
Or render thanks for temp'ral wants supplied,
Where can we aught like true religion trace,
That may with love's fair robe defection hide,
Or show that in their souls doth heavenly grace reside?
A day thus spent in sense's regions rude,
In broad defiance of that high behest
Promulged on Sinai for man's greatest good!
Alas! the soul that thus loathes heavenly food
At last must starve in want's profoundest woe,
When the vain call of keen solicitude
Can never melt Jehovah, now its foe,
To quench the flames intense, that sting with endless throe.
The work requires your most energic power;
“The way is narrow, and the gate is strait,”
And countless snares beset you every hour:
But not on you alone shall vengeance shower
His coals of juniper, of awful sting;
For dread Omnipotence will all devour
Who seek not shelter 'neath Immanuel's wing:
Then kneel both rich and poor to heaven's triumphant King!
An Acrostic.
Eternal Power and Wisdom came,
No pomp he wore to rouse the crowd,
In rapture to extol his fame.
Ire, fierce as hell, the sceptre sway'd;
Demoniac powers their vengeance hurl'd,
In wrath, on man's devoted head.
In Godhead's might, his flaming sword,
Carrying sheer conquest o'er the field:
In songs of triumph praise the Lord.
A sentence which Cæsar caused to be written on a table, and carried aloft, when he triumphed after a signal victory. —Vide Prid.
The Convert's Hymn.
Which wild boasting reason could never impart;
But man, thoughtless man! does resist her mild call,
Though kindly and graciously proffer'd to all.
How dull once the day! and how dark once the night!
And creation disclosed not one charm to my sight,
When in sin's snaring, wild, trackless path I did roam,
I found no contentment abroad nor at home:
In vain tried the sun to bring pleasure with dawn,
Or to glad my stung mind with the dew-spangled lawn!
In vain did the birds chaunt the sweet march of day,
From the green-tufted bough and the sweet blooming spray;
Or the brook rippling roll through the flower-spangled glen,
When in languor I stole from the gay haunts of men!
No: sun, birds, nor brook brought no comfort to me,
Nor from sin's chilling pangs could me ease, cure, or free.
And hope's cheering lamp quite in darkness was found,
That the blood-dropping Cross rose effulgent afar,
And dispell'd with its rays all the dark foes of war;
Down prostrate I fell 'fore its life-giving blaze,
Which glared on each sin with its heart-searching rays:
How horrid the sight of a mind thus disclosed,
And to wrath and to hell's flaming torture exposed!
But how cordial the prospect to me, when I found
That a balsam prepared was for each bleeding wound:
On the death-roll of sin, which the gospel unfurl'd,
Shone pardon and peace, life and love to the world;
Who should, by repentance and faith, it embrace,
Their sins would the blood of Immanuel efface.
Till the Saviour arose, me to seek and to save;
He banish'd the spectre extinction away,
And did show to me life without end or decay.
At thy sight death and woe, sin and hell disappear:
Thou wast plann'd ere yon golden orbs shone thro' the sky,
And thy objects shall live when yon bright lamps shall die.
Nor with terror I muse on the cold silent tomb;
For the trumpet's loud clang calls me up to a crown,
And the grave lights a sun that shall never go down.
A Hymn.
In awful radiance shone,
Ere angels heaven's pure courts had trode,
Or sung around thy throne:
Millions of ages ere the hour
When first the sun his rays did pour
On Eden's roseate peaceful bower,
Thou blissful dwelt'st alone.
When, from the ebon gloom,
Creation struck the march of time,
And night did backward boom?
Then flamed in native light each sun,
Its course each planet fleet begun,
While comets rapidly did run
Through space's boundless womb.
At thy volition grand,
Which power and wisdom boundless shows
To man in every land:
Conviction for the sceptic hence
Clear demonstration doth dispense,
And from his mind the vapours dense
Dispels—which truth withstand.
When thou, for fallen man,
Relief sought'st 'gainst the needful hour,
And didst redemption plan!
Here flames the attribute of Love,
The wonder of the hosts above,
With splendour, all in heaven to move,
But which they ne'er can scan.
My only hope and joy,
Which only can from sin set free,
And Satan's power destroy:
Oh may the blissful gospel call
Be duly prized by me—by all!
Lord, free from sin's tyrannic thrall,
And nought else can annoy!
Winter's Approach.
While the farmer's heart is glowing;
Now the piercing boreal air
Keenly o'er the waste is blowing.
Is the swiftly gliding swallow,
And the redbreast's hopping nigh,
And the woods are sere and sallow.
On the startled ear is swelling,
Till the ruddy setting sun
Drive him to his jocund dwelling.
Offers to the cow'ring cattle,
While descends the chilling rain,
Or the biting hail blasts rattle.
With unequal cadence pealing,
As, across the mind of all,
Languor's dreary power is stealing.
Where oft sang the thrush so mellow;
Drooping, round the sweeping glade,
Hang the linden's branches yellow.
Where the clust'ring wild-fruit dazzle,
Tearing from the rustling spray
Fruits of bramble, sloe, and hazle.
When the brawling storms, descending,
Burst from their terrific urn,
All fierce winter's horrors blending.
Lists the tempest wildly raving,
Bless'd, with all his heart's desire,
In the horn of Ceres waving.
Lightning's flash, nor growling thunder,
Nor the surge of driving snow,
Hiding sheep and shepherds under.
Doom'd by penury to wander,
Who might fill some happy cot
On what spendthrifts vainly squander.
Mis'ry's woeful case while viewing;
And the tears of pity roll,
All her pallid cheeks bedewing.
Shields, with flinty incrustation,
Their hard hearts, who heedless view
Pining want without vexation.
The heart-rending tale of sorrow
Which now flows without your gate;
Heaven will you reward to-morrow.
O'er the sable landscape spreading,
And the warping snow doth fly,
Which the weary trav'ller's dreading.
Drives along the whit'ning mountain,
Till are seen and heard no more
Sobbing rill nor sighing fountain.
Are bedeck'd to shield the raven,
While on rocks, with crystal bright,
Frosts enchanting forms have graven.
Frost and snow shall be discarded;
All the ire of hail and rain
Soon shall vanish disregarded.
Shall dispel the gloom of winter;
Music through the land shall ring:
Then the shades with joy thou'lt enter.
STANZAS On a Starry Winter Night.
The wind's asleep, the air is chill,
The world is clad in snow;
No sound assails the watchful ear,
Save when the distant linn I hear,
With pealing cadence, flow:
The dusky haze fumes down the vale,
And crusts the hoary spray;
The owl resumes her frightful wail
From yonder castle grey;
As, weary and dreary,
The trav'ller plods along,
Benighted, while frighted
By her terrific song.
No dense and devious cloud is driven,
To intercept the light;
But, round and round, with golden rays,
Unnumber'd stars effulgent blaze,
With scintillation bright.
Great Jupiter, with monarch grace,
Leads on the brilliant host,
And wheels his course through boundless space,
Nor quits his destined post.
Among those orbs is found,
But lightly and brightly
They sweep their mystic round.
All garnish'd o'er with gleaming gold,
Orion mounts on high;
He, vertic to the burning line,
Doth in refulgent beauty shine
To every human eye:
The raging Bull, in fiery red,
And glowing Twins, appear;
While Perseus, o'er Medusa's head,
High waves his sabre clear;
The Pleiades and Hyades
Like topaz jewels glance,
That gild the Queen with peerless heen,
Who leads the courtly dance.
While calm the Lady-in-her-Chair
High mounts the vault sublime:
Boötes, in the north-east sky,
Lets Cara and Asterion fly
Throughout the azure clime;
The Lion, Britain's potent guard,
With Cancer, red doth roll,
While Draco and Camelopard
Wheel round the steady pole:
All streaming and beaming
With innate, glorious light,
Both clearing and cheering
The sullen gloom of night.
That through the bournless welkin flame,
So beauteous and so grand;
Thick as the dew-drops that adorn
The verdant fields at rosy morn,
When Sol illumes the land?
Around creation's outskirts wide
Is wound the Milky Way,
Whence glimmer through the awful void
The cloud-like nebulæ.
With bright protracted train,
Astounding, confounding,
The fearful, loreless swain.
Essays to count the endless train
That through the gloom appear;
In vain his ardent mind he racks
To find their hair-breadth parallax;
The task is too severe:
Far past the bounds of human ken
These truths mysterious lie,
To teach the haughty sons of men
Profound humility:
But they still astray still
From lessons so benign,
Do plan still to scan still
Omniscience, though divine!
Create those flaming orbs to glow
Round this small world in vain?
No! reason cries; for still we see
Wealth, join'd with strict frugality,
In all his works remain:
They, if analogy we trust,
Life's green abodes may be,
Whose 'habitants, unknown by lust,
Sip pure felicity;
All strangers to dangers
Which we, accursed, meet,
Where no care e'er frown'd there,
To sour their bliss complete.
Which sweeps those brilliant lamps away
From being's gay domain!
When, at the thund'ring trump of doom,
They vanish, in primeval gloom,
No more to shine again!
When fate's dark curtain shall be furl'd,
And every soul shall see,
Within the intellectual world,
His endless destiny:
On heaven's bright plains to dwell,
Else groaning and moaning
In gloomy vaulted hell.
The Moon wide spreads her saffron veil
Athwart the twinkling heaven;
Eclipsed by her more yellow light,
The stars, and boreales bright,
Far from the sight are driven:
She cheers the nightly trav'ller's path,
While all is drear and still,
And lights the drifty, lonely rath,
To shepherds faint and chill.
I home now will roam now
To my low-roof'd abode,
While wondering, and pondering
Upon the works of God.
Ode to Spring.
Again I see the cheering sun
Low rising o'er the heath-clad hill,
And glittering on the mossy rill:
Again the infant daisies spring,
And early larks attempt to sing;
Sweet snowdrops tuft the streamlets' brink,
And gladden in the sunny blink:
Once more I hear the ploughman's lay
Resound, to cheer the toilsome day;
While loud the lapwing, plaintive, shrill,
Screams o'er the lonely distant hill.
Thy blithesome power I love to sing;
Fair emblem of eternal day,
To thee I contribute my lay!
My rural haunts I now resume
Among the sweetly budding broom,
On sloping glade or dreary dell,
Where fairy bands oft sportive play
Till the break of rosy day.
Fondly, through the fragrant birk,
'Lone, I'll roam till it is mirk,
List'ning to the murm'ring stream,
Gazing on the lightning's gleam,
As it, glaring, flashes high
Across the dark beclouded sky.
Take the crowd's ear-grating noise
Ye who solitude despise;
Jaded riot's banquet sip
Till it gall the tasting lip;
Or revel in the midnight ball,
To music, in the splendid hall,
And drink till strumpet-surfeit pall:
More dear to me the streams and rocks,
The balmy birks and monarch oaks,
The honeysuckle's flavorous bower,
The ruined daw-frequented tower—
Dearer than mirth-inspiring bowl
To me's the lonely wailing owl.
Thy voice is sweeter to my ear,
Thy look more pleasant to my eye,
Than art's stiff boasted symmetry.
How luscious is the grand contrast—
Spring's whisp'ring breath to winter's blast!
This chills the heart with terror wild,
That charms the soul with cadence mild.
Now music flows from every spray
To cheer the lab'rer's hours away;
Now gay, the lately callow trees,
Leaf-clad, do rustle in the breeze,
And fields resume their gaudy green,
To banish heart-corroding teen;
The primrose decks the velvet glen,
Bog-lilies gem the marshy fen;
And now the flower-ransacking bee
Dandelion's golden smile doth see;
And spring's blithe look our isle doth glad.
To gladden man, bird, tree, and flower?
It is Jehovah's grand donation
To keep in being all creation;
Therefore to Him, first cause of all,
Let heaven and earth down prostrate fall.
ELEGAIC STANZAS
ON THE HAPLESS FATE OF THE COVENANTERS AT Bothwell Bridge.
When furiously roll'd persecution's red car;
Thou stream that hast listen'd the widow's complaints,
When their husbands they sought 'midst the slaughter of saints;
O! spurn not the tribute I pour to their name,
Who all shine eternised on the bright roll of fame.
Loudly cry, “Lord, how long shall it be ere thy rod
Sweep in vengeance their names quite away from below,
For the blood they have shed at the altar of woe?”
That blood, lovely Clyde, on death's terrible day,
Dyed thy pure limpid tide 'midst the woeful affray!
Unmoved at their suff'ring? few, surely, I ween!
What eye but clear glistens, bedimm'd with a tear,
When the woeful event of the contest they hear?
None, surely, who rightly religion maintain,
And who wish stainless truth over error to reign.
And the merle and thrush from the white flow'ring thorn!
But their warbling so dulcet died dreary and dumb
'Neath the harsh grating swell of the trumpet and drum,
While the death-boding march of the serried ranks
Shed a horror unknown to smooth Clyde's verdant banks!
And the daisy and vi'let were wet with the dew;
But, alas! how appalling, how alter'd the sight,
When they lay drench'd in blood ere the frowning of night!
As the thick sulph'rous smoke, boiling darkly and dun,
Quite excluded the light of the midsummer sun.
On the censer of faith, for their state so forlorn;
Full many a tear had been bitterly shed
By relations, who still the sad issue did dread;
Full many a soul was o'erwhelmed with fear,
When the thundering cannon loud peal'd on the ear!
They stumbled, they fell, on the dead and the dying;
When the bloodhounds of Monmouth and Graham, fast pursuing
The saints of the Lord, they were hacking and hewing!
Nor could Hackston his forces, confused, get to rally,
When for safety they sought the wild mountain and valley.
When the cause of the cross they so bravely asserted?
And mourn'd o'er the land weeping fathers and mothers,
And widows and orphans, and sisters and brothers?
'Twas to show unto all, that his own time appointed
Had not then arrived, to relieve his anointed.
To Vice.
Thy sight I hate, detest, and shun;
Or frowning on thee gaze:
Thy sallow look and jaundiced eye
With deep abhorrence I espy,
And curse thy squallid ways.
Want, grief, remorse, and fear,
Who never trod the path to fame,
But still did counter steer:
Still bending, and tending
To objects mean and vile;
Though jarring, and warring
With poverty the while.
Youth, heedless of the latent thorn,
Grasps sense's dazzling rose,
Yet mark the conscience-stinging wound,
Deep rooted in the heart, that's found,
Which age too often knows.
He falls, a blasted bloom,
And, long ere pious nature's time,
Lies prostrate in the tomb.
Nor mirth here, nor birth here,
Relentless death reveres;
No crying nor sighing
Can melt his soul to tears.
Whose greatest meed to man is love,
Guide me in virtue's way!
May garnish'd vice, that tyrant fell,
Who lures his captives down to hell,
Ne'er o'er me sceptre sway.
Among the silent dead,
Through faith I'll hope that love to know
Through which the Saviour bled;
In bright day, where night may
Not dim the lucid realm;
Where spleen ne'er, nor teen ne'er,
The joys divine shall 'whelm.
The Auld Weaver's Address
To the KING, PEERS, and COMMONS, in Parliament assembled, February, 1822.
George IV. Dei gratia Rex!
Ye Peers, wha are by heirship great,
Wham politics perplex!
And you, ye Commons, wha maun wait
The rabble's nods and becks!
Wham taxes sairly vex
Baith nicht and day.
Thou elf of foul sedition!
Darest thou present, before the throne,
Thy mother-tongue petition?”
Yes: though to lare I'm scarcely known,
And mean be my condition,
I see the state is out o' tone,
And needs some sage physician,
In haste, this day!
Has warslet tough and dour,
And spite o' a' their clouts and scaurs,
Has sternly stood the stour;
Her scarlet ranks and hardy tars
Ha'e prappit sae her power,
That, 'neath the auspices o' Mars,
Her honour's handed, pure,
Down to this day.
Hail'd the return o' peace,
Blithe fancy did our minds up buoy
Wi' hopes that want would cease:
Baith priests and peers, wi' tales fu' coy,
Did prophesy release;
But, faith! they fawn'd but to destroy:
Their aim was just to fleece
Our fabs ilk day.
They pictured sittin' vogie,
While plenty, wi' invitin' e'e,
Still fill'd the ebbin' coggie;
But ceaseless toil instead, wae's me!
'Midst damp and oil-reek foggy,
Gars you a' strut wi' head fu' high,
While we croyn, bare and scroggy
As death, this day.
Perceives the nation's thrivin',
Forsooth, 'cause trade now blinks a-wee,
And revenue's revivin';
But poor bedrudged wichts like me,
What still wi' want are strivin',
Deem, on the rock o' bankruptcy,
Wi' rapid sweep, she's drivin'
Adrift this day.
In this, your peerless nation,
Nor would I ha'e you live ava'
Below your royal station;
But, guide's! within Westminster ha',
Upon your coronation,
The sum ye that day threw awa'
Surpasses calculation
On ony day.
Whene'er his fab's affeckit;
Ilk whig his eloquence hard plies,
In hopes to be respeckit:
But I, wha ne'er aspired to rise,
And ha'e been aye negleckit,
The State-bark trust to you sae wise,
And carena though ye wreck it,
I vow, this day.
The gratitude o' Russia,
And show the thanks for favours done
To Austria, France, and Prussia;
Thae faithless blades ha'e changed their tune,
And now richt fain would crush a'
That's left o' freedom 'neath the moon,
And your hale treasure wish a'
Their ain this day.
The present constitution,
And on puir Boney barr'd the door,
Whilk wroucht his dissolution;
Her leave to persecution
Frae tyrants, leagued wi' mad uproar,
And hope for absolution
On ony day?
By whilk ye will support her,
For a' the nation shrieks wi' pain,
Wrung by financial torture:
If Wellington intend again
Frae bondage to escort her—
E'en tak' your will—Amen! Amen!
Your race will be the shorter
For that some day.
The Death o' Trade:
A DIRGE.
Wha scarce can fen frae week to week,
Or, at the maist, your credit keep,
By labour sair, and want o' sleep;
Whase duds o' claise threadbare are worn,
Or, aiblins, tatter'd sair and torn;
In whase shoon-soles sic leaks ye spy
As do the souter's skill defy:
To you, wha breathe unwholesome air,
And tread the fitstaps o' despair,
I dedicate my waefu' lay,
And for your weelfare humbly pray;
So, whilst to you my tale I tell,
Remind, I'm o' your craft mysel'.
Grew tired o' a' their pills and gumption,
And, having paid the doctor's fee,
Lay down contentedly to dee.
She fand her feeble constitution
Wad shortly meet its dissolution;
Her feckless pulse beat weak and slow,
Her een roll'd wildly to and fro;
And quiverin' lip, were drear to view;
But, ere she closed her een in death,
She thus spak wi' her dyin' breath—
While round her bed, wi' tear-clad face,
Her vassals wail'd her hapless case:—
For I solicit nae reprieve;
I'm gaun the way o' a' the yirth,
Whilk to you should be cause o' mirth:
I've wi' misfortune warsled lang,
And stood her mony a fearfu' bang,
But now she's laid me on my back,
And robb'd me o' my hindmost plack;
Yet the vile unrelentin' hag
Doth o' her victory brag.
Alake a-day! ye'll see my en',
Wha kept ye canty butt-an'-ben;
In days o' yore I was respeckit,
But now I'm coungeir'd and negleckit,
And, like some tinkler's jaded ass,
I've landed at my hindmost pass—
E'en murder'd by thae ruffians fell
Wha gat my favours a' theirsel:
Sae thus do benefactors fare—
O' base ingratitude beware.
Ye ken by nature I'm immortal,
For, like the phœnix burn'd in fire,
I dinna dee, but just transpire;
Sae, when I leave this rugged isle,
And seem as if extinct the while,
New plumed, and, like the peacock braw,
Ye'll find me in America.
Whare then will Albion's glory be,
That dazzled ilka gazin' e'e?
Whare then the navy's matchless pride,
That awed the nations far and wide?
The army, that did conquest wield,
And still were masters o' the field?
Whare now the glitterin' princely show,
That foil'd a' grandeur here below?
Or like the lichtning's short lived gleam!
Thus pride is humbled at the last
By fate's fell all-devouring blast;
Thus fades the grandeur o' the world,
Which once its matchless flags unfurl'd,
And sinks thus meanly, wildly low,
Beneath corruption's cureless blow!”
She faulter'd out, “Ohone! ohone!”
Syne turn'd her face round to the wa',
And in a faint she wore awa'.
The news soon flew through a' the town,
And “Trade is dead” was a' the soun',
And at the corner o' ilk street
Great groups o' weavers ye wad meet,
Wi' sabbin' breasts and tear-stain'd face,
Lamentin' sair their hapless case;
And big-waim'd manufacturers aft
Hang strangled to the warehouse laft,
Or, haply, in some corner groanin',
Wi' nickit craig ye'd hear them moanin';
And, floatin' in the River Clyde,
Lay many a loathsome suicide.
Smiths, wrights, shoemakers, grocers, tailors,
Swall'd-kyted vintners, swearin' sailors,
Were loungin' through the streets, clean doitit,
Wi' want and grief grown capernoited;
Gaugers, wha erst a smuggler 'd fell,
Now beg a mouthfu' frae his stell;
And folk wha could drink noucht but tea
Wad brose or parritch gladly pree.
Sic alterations great to meet
Doth fill my heart and gar me greet,
For now our kintra's purse, we find,
Will scarcely cast against the wind;
They've roopit her o' a' kin coin
Wi' their eclat—kept-m---s' wine;
And, though puir folk got mony a deevil,
We'll soon a' be upon a level.
Then, hail! bless'd day, when rank or station
Are things unknown o'er a' the nation—
The thing design'd at our creation!
The Clachan New-Year Day.
CANTO FIRST. MORNING.
In garbs o' frost and snaw,
And the nor'-wasts envenom'd blasts
Wi' bitter rancour blaw;
When low the sun, through cranreuch d un,
Blinks frae the southern lift,
Time wheels us roun' ae honeymoon
That drives our cares adrift
Fu' fast that day.
Wha sang us Hallow-e'en,
Or yours, wha penn'd, in airer times,
Christ's Kirk upon the Green!
To paint the scenes o' rustic glee,
O' revelry and drinkin',
When frae the moral law we're free,
And void o' care and thinkin',
On New-year day.
Inspects his claise-kist shottle,
To see if stocks will stan', wi' mense,
The fillin' o' a bottle;
And housewives, wha their credit keep,
Ha'e a' things laid in store,
That lasses needna feign to sleep,
Should chields come to the door
Ere break o' day.
Ne'er out o' tift for fun,
Whase only lass, and true delight,
Was merry Jenny Gunn;
And rampin' roarin' Tam M'Gee
Aye swore he wad her first-fit;
Frae a' the lave he'd bear the gree,
And gi'e them a begunk yet,
That vera day.
When Wattie was in's gear,
And up the gaet, wi' fitstap licht,
His course did quickly steer;
Tam dream'd o' feet upon the loan,
And bang'd up wi' a breinge,
But, darklins, tramped on a goan,
Syne tumbled wi' a reinge
On the floor that nicht.
That play'd him sic a shavie,
Limps through the floor, and girns and grains,
Like ane fash'd wi' the spavie;
Syne rumbled up the rakin' coal,
That shaw'd his shin a' bluid;
The sicht o' whilk he couldna thole,
But cursed in wrath; sae rude
Was he that nicht.
He got it sweel'd fu' swamp;
Bang'd on his claise, and sloiter'd out,
Like ane wha'd ta'en the cramp;
And soon fand, to his farther wae,
That grief comes seldom single,
For Wattie White, and twa-three mae,
Were perch'd round Jenny's ingle,
Fu' blithe, that morn.
He couldna face the core;
Chagrined and spited, aff he slade,
Like vengeance, frae the door,
Across the muir, to Maggie Lang,
A lass by few caress'd;
Sae miss'd the banter o' the thrang,
And was a welcome guest
To her that morn.
The moon sets in the wast,
And ilka chield scuds fast for bield,
To shun the ragin' blast:
Mirth reigns through a' the clachan,
And wooer chaps, wi' cracks fu' crouse,
Keep a' the lasses lauchin'
Richt loud that morn.
“Wha's there?” auld Maggie cries,
Richt glad that nane had been before.
“Kent folk,” quoth Rabbie; “Rise.”
Auld Ringan, started frae a dream,
Wi' e'elids scarce ajar,
Bangs out the bed, like fireflaught's gleam,
And quickly draws the bar
O' the door this morn.
Was Rab's first salutation;
Wi' that a swirl o' driftin' snaw
Gars Ringan change his station;
Sae ben the house he stugs bedeen,
Wi' heart now something bighted,
Chaps up the fire, rakes up his een,
Syne tells how he was frichted
In's sleep that nicht.
Was lichted in a lowe,
Whilk fired Tam Borland's cart-house thack,
And brunt it stick-and stow;
And took Rab, reengin to win in,
For beagle Wattie's drum,
Sae he, new wauken'd wi' the din,
Out o' the bed did come,
Wi' a scud, that morn.
Rab, Jock, et cetera, vented,
That Will a hostin fell, and spew'd,
And in a kink maist fainted.
The lasses, wauken'd wi' the soun',
Fu' brisk, cam' bouncin' ben—
The pick and wale o' a' the toun,
Wha gart the hearts o' men
Lowp fast this day.
Unrivall'd, mystic nature!
To vend love's blinks, that fire the heart,
And brighten every feature.
Their cheeks and lips like roses red,
Een clear, in youdith glancin',
And lichtsome hearts, that humour shed,
Wad gar threescore gae dancin'
Wi' mirth this morn.
In gorgeous garbs attired,
(I own, to ha'e seen yon wanton skip,
My heart's been haflins fired,)
Fresh frae the toilet launch'd, complete,
Wi' paints, perfumes, and lotions,
'Neath parasols gaun down the street,
Ye kittle wooers' notions
Sublime by day:
Clap on their rustic dresses,
Compared wi' them, faith, I'se be rede
Ye'd meet but few caresses;
Nae greater share ye'd ha'e, I ween,
Amang our landward fair anes,
Than the mummy o' some Coptic queen,
By warlock antiquarians
Display'd this day.
Ilk birkie's bottle's bockin,
The vera fire and saul o' glee,
And ready wit, and jokin';
The lasses nae cauld distance shaw;
Ilk chield guid fortune blesses,
Wi' arms twined round a neck like snaw,
While he a fouth o' kisses
Enjoys this morn.
Than kings and queens mair happy,
Secure frae cauld, wi' love's desire,
And routh o' reamin' nappy;
His pipe-shank clears, for suction,
Wi' Maggie's sma'est reelin' wire,
And clears aff the defluxion
Wi' a smoke this morn.
And bread and cheese and glasses:
“A guid new-year” is aft the sound—
And “Scotland's bonnie lasses:”
E'en the guidwife, no yet a-fit,
To show she is in tune,
Drinks, “Ilka lad, o' mense and wit,
A wife ere it be done,”
Fu' frank this morn.
Love's cracks, and jokin's rare,
Rab scarce had hosted, and begun
To sing them Calder fair,
Whan in cam' bowlie Bauldy Baird,
Wi' richt ill-timed intrusion,
And syne blate Hugh, the wally laird—
Sae a' gaed to confusion
In a crack this morn.
While Nelly gied a sneer;
Rab, haudin't arm's-length in his han',
Says, “Hech! but crystal's dear:”
A' smirtlin round, till't cam' to Will,
Whare it fared little better;
Quoth he, “Guid faith, I'll wad a gill
Some lintie wants its water
For this the-day.”
As he cam' owre the midden,
And tint its doup and shank, aff-han',
Whilk couldna weel be hidden.
Sic big affronts he couldna bear
By thae twa billies gi'en,
But raged and swore, that, cheap or dear,
There wad be blacken'd een
Ere lang this morn.
For Bauldy wrath was fryin'—
But down the howm was heard a bray,
Frae some ane “Murther!” cryin'.
The house soon toom'd, and, down the craft,
To their nae sma' surprise,
They saw young Sandy founder aft
On's growf, and couldna rise
Himsel' that morn.
But, when he saw the licht,
His face grew white, his een grew blin'—
He fainted wi' the sicht.
His napkin's lowst, his bosom's bared,
He's in the big chair seated;
Cauld water on him is na spared,
Whilk soon his cure completed,
In a twitch, this morn.
Right keen to ken the cause o't,
While Sandy, wi' a face like snaw,
Begins to lowse his gazette.
“Oh, sirs!” quoth he, “I've seen the de'il
Gaun wi' a band o' witches;
At e'en I'll ne'er daur gang a fiel',
For I was maist in's clutches
This vera morn.”
I've trudged through muir and dell,
But ne'er yet ha'e I got a sicht
O' aucht waur than mysel':
Be't de'il be't daw, I'm ane o' twa
To gi'e 't a fair inspection:”
“And I,” says Jock, “As firm's a rock,
Will be your rear protection,
Mysel', this morn.”
And swore ilk clank wad fell ane,
And Jock the rusty sword down bangs,
Ne'er used since Mar's rebellion.
By whisky's pith inspired,
To gi'e the howms a thorough search;
And, wow! but they were fired
Wi' pride that morn.
A place by fairies haunted—
There something hobbled 'mang the snaw,
And they grew rather daunted;
But, gatherin' courage, on they hie,
And aff the goblins skelter:
'Tis Grey's black toop, they soon descry,
And twa ewes! seekin' shelter
Frae the storm this morn.
And tell the hale narration;
Poor Sandy's dung baith deaf and dumb
Wi' jaw and botheration:
Wi' patience lang their jibes he stood,
Till they gaed past a' bearin';
Syne left the house in crankous mood,
Whiles greetin', and whiles swearin'
In ire this morn.
He gat a word in season,
Then, skeigh as kings, they down the gaet
Did gae, to see Meg Mason:
Then did they sprose, till ance, owre hills
O' snaw, the sun is glancin';
Discardin' care and a' his ills,
They're singin' now, and dancin'
Fu' blithe this morn.
Was chieftain o' a clan,
And dreigh did he lead on the spree,
Aside his ain dear Ann.
At sangs and jokes, and saws and toasts,
Most fervently they yoked;
And, victor-like, ilk birkie boasts,
As his wee finger's cocked
To the glass this morn.
Play'd some an unco pliskin;
Some yont the peat-stack maws did ease,
Some warslet wi' the yeskin:
The maut, lang, lang in Geordie's crap,
Was heterogeneous brewin',
Till, wi' a hurl, on Annie's lap,
He's gullerin' and spewin'
Bedeen this morn.
Ca's Ann a silly tumphy,
Vow'd, ere she'd ga'e wi' sic a chap,
She'd rather gang wi' grumphy;
Distress'd, affronted, out he slade,
To shun their altercation,
And, yont the sow-house, lanely paid
To Bacchus, an oblation
Profuse this morn.
Wha ne'er in's life was fuddled;
For, 'neath the blankets, till 'twas day,
He wi' his spousie cuddled:
Syne up they raise, pat on their claise,
And eke a rantin' ingle,
Neist, wi' guid will, a pint o' ale
Was het, to hail Tam Pringle
And's wife this morn.
Shoe-deep amang the snaw;
In hoddin grey baith clad were they,
Fu' clean, and bein, and braw;
He, wi' the cathel and the cap,
To gi'e eild's lade a heize;
She wi' a truncher in her lap,
Weel heap'd wi' bread and cheese
In rowth this morn.
To his blithe couthie cronie;
His face, his feelin's, ne'er belies,
Wi' ape-like ceremony;
Sae skill'd in courtly graces,
That friendship, e'en on your levees,
Ne'er beams frae your sleek faces,
Like theirs this morn.
The crack, progressive, rises,
Till up the length o' Lon'on town
Their managin' assizes;
Meantime the carles soar sae high,
'Mang commons, lords, and mayors,
The wives curl o'er, wi' converse dreigh,
Their ain fireside affairs,
Jocose, this morn.
On the hearth-stane, bedeen,
Wi' rowth o' meat on't, cauld and het,
A' gusty, guid, and clean;
The cow's-tongue, and the fat king's-head,
And beef and bacon ham,
Are a' served up—the wale o' food!
Syne backed wi' a dram
O' usquabae.
In Maggie Mather's nose;
That was to her a day o' Lent,
Withouten bread or brose!
Her luckless lord to Sandy Sym
Had made a pair o' trews,
And, gettin' 's hogmonay frae him,
Had fa'n upon the bouse
That waefu' nicht.
Quoth Sym, “We seldom meet;
To pairt without another fill
Wad scarcely be discreet.”
The handy host soon brought it ben;
That drunk, to rise they swither:
“This year we'll never see again,”
Quoth Will; “We'se ha'e anither,
And syne we'll gae.”
O' thy insinuation;
But, sway'd by thee, fell pain they dree,
Frae base intoxication!
Sad truth is this; for, quite outworn
By whisky, ale, and clavers,
Our chiefs appear, at break o' morn,
Twa gaunt and ghastly shavers
This ruefu' day.
Wi' grief and anger burnin';
Thocht ilka fit that cam' that way
Wad be her joe returnin';
Till, tired wi' wark and watchin' lorn,
She soundly sank in sleep,
While Will, unfash'd wi' scaith or scorn,
Frae her did vigils keep
Till break o' day.
Though braid day-licht was beamin';
Bang'd on her claise—and out she gaes,
Wailin' the weird o' women:
Soon fand him, in his fav'rite howff,
Half-sleepin', doilt, and drunk:
On's haffits took him sic a gowff
As roused him up like spunk,
In a crack, this morn.
Wha raged wi' flamin' ire;
Wi' that she claucht his braw new trews,
And heaved them in the fire;
Syne bann'd the host and hostess, fell,
For bein' sae uncivil;
Declared their house the yett o' hell,
Them agents o' the deevil,
Point-blank, this morn.
The dinsome quarrel redd,
Will stachert hame, although richt bung,
And slipped to his bed;
'Neath's oxter, out did saunter,
'Gainst Maggie vendin' scores o' oaths,
Wha play'd him that mishanter
On sic a day.
Cam' victor frae the tuilyie,
And neither een nor han's were lag
To spunge Will's spung for spuilyie;
Yet naething fand but five bawbees,
And half-an-ounce o' snuff:
What want the drinker's wife aft drees,
Forbye richt mony a cuff?
Alack-a-day!
O' fryin'-pans in action,
And puddin's fell send forth a smell
Possess'd o' strong attraction;
Baith young and auld, made blithe and bauld
Wi' meat and drink in plenty,
Devote the day to joy and play,
'Mang rural pleasures dainty
And cheap this day.
CANTO SECOND. NOON.
They're canty, young and auld,
Secure till e'en against the fear
O' hunger and o' cauld:
The beggars frae their howffs draw out,
On this day's forage bent,
Resolved at nicht to ha'e a rout
Wi' what kind fortune sent
This special day.
Wi' faces red as roses,
On sheuchs and dubs gleg slides now raise,
While mirth ilk' look discloses:
Draws in his new year gift,
And kings and queens and dukes doth name
Them wha his purse best lift
Wi' clink this day.
A bake to ilk he gi'es,
And neist a glass, richt weel refined
Wi' water—them he frees
Frae this day's task, when season'd wi'
A wholesome guid advice;
But, aiblins, ere neist morn he see
His stomach twice or thrice
He'll toom, some say.
A moralist in clatter!
But backin' words wi' deeds, we see,
Is quite anither matter:
Like Solomon, the dominie
Can finely moralise it;
But, like that royal debauché,
He never can practise it
By nicht or day.
To be this day's employment,
'Tween married dads and wanter lads,
Whilk yields them prime enjoyment:
Aff to the loch they're airtin straucht,
Wi' implements o' curlin',
While Bawsie's frothin' wi' her draucht,
As owre the field she's hurlin'
Their stanes this day.
In garrulous procession,
They march awa' amang the snaw,
While joy beets ilk expression.
The carles curl owre their feats o' yore,
The lads their lass-diversions;
Or 'mang the knowes, to cut broom-cowes
They lamp, wi' wide excursions,
Fu' brisk this day.
Frae labour Bawsie's freed,
And Tam the herd, bent on a ride,
Her riggin' mounts wi' speed,
To stable her, wi' nae sma' pride,
Frae hunger, cauld, and danger,
Where she till e'en may safely bide,
And feast at heck and manger,
Fu' snug this day.
The shools and brooms they ply,
And in a crack they clean a rack
As pure as midnight sky:
Some mak' the brughs, some scrape the hacks,
Some draw the lazy hogscores;
While some, less keen o' wark than cracks,
Are blithely tellin' splores
This gleesome day.
And let's toast for the ice;
Ye see the sun's maist at his height—
Be quick, if ye be wise.”
Wi' eager e'e they tak' the tee,
And bang them up wi' speed;
But Bauldy Black took the wrang hack,
And ran the hale-rack bread
Aglee this day.
The wanters tak the lead,
Whilk fires the pride o' carles sae stark,
Wha plan wi' fatal feid.
Ae tee, wi' risps and lazy hogs,
Threw a' the odds now even;
The neist garr'd gutchers cock their lugs,
For they gat in hale seven
At ance this day.
When they'd won on the van;
The snuff-mull's thumb'd around the rack;
Wi' spite the wanters ban:
They're plannin' and they're cryin';
While some, less skill'd, but as guid will'd,
Their brooms are tightly plyin',
Sincere, this day.
In dandy dress and air,
Young Geordie Brown, fresh frae the town,
Wha'd spent twa towmonds there:
This samen blade, o' uppish min',
Had there commenced a grocer;
But weel his sire can tell, sinsyne,
Wha was by that a loser,
To his grief, this day.
'Mang school-weans fill'd wi' wonder,
And, fond to show his dext'rous feats,
Scrunts owre the rack like thunder:
A risp he raised 'fore Ringan's stane,
That spoiled it in a twitch,
Wha, sair enraged, ca'd him “a vain
And bubbly bankrupt b---ch,”
And waur this day.
At Ringan's naked skyte,
George did exit wi' little grace,
Wi' silent wraith clean hyte;
Yet took twa turns 'round the loch edge,
To show his detestation;
Syne lowst his buckles, and, in rage
O' hettest indignation,
March'd hame this day.
Alang the slides are whirrin';
Some on the ae foot nicely poise,
While some, less skill'd, sit currin':
But Will, wha did his balance lose
Upon this slipp'ry pavement,
First clour'd his crown, neist bled his nose;
Which proved a sair bereavement
O' his fun this day.
When shots o' skill are play'd;
The bottle's handed weel about,
Their merriment to aid;
The crowd grows greater 'round the tees,
As fast augments their clatter,
Wi' noise confused, like castin' bees,
For ilk mind's fu' o' matter
This joyous day.
That is unmix'd wi' pain;
This truth was felt by Bauldy Blair,
A chield baith proud and vain:
His stane was finish'd aff perfyte,
Wi' ivory hand and a';
But Simon, wi' a feidfu' skyte,
Did fairly ding 't in twa
Wi' a skelp this day.
And wad ha'e got the game,
When Saunders Bryson, like the win',
Wi' a' his vengeance came:
He brake a guard, and gat a wick
That gart him rin aglee,
And, polished weel wi' besom's sleek,
He landed on the tee
Fu' nice this day.
That cam' in time o' need,
To wag his hand, auld Tammy Gray
Hitch'd up the rack wi' speed.
“Fair fa' your hand,” quoth Tammy, “man,”
While Saunders up did bicker;
“We'se let them find, wi' little din,
That auld dogs bite aye sicker
By nicht or day.”
And clouds were eastward flyin';
While clam'rous craws, wi' dreary scraigh,
Aff to the woods were hiein';
Withouten dog or valet,
Slips hameward, at the set o' sun,
Wi' a weel fill'd bloody wallet
O' hares this day.
O' play the weans are weary;
And chitterin' fidge, in cauldrife plight,
Wha erst were warm and cheery.
The game 's cried out: the carles ha'e won,
At whilk they craw fu' crousely;
And a' declare 'twas famous fun;
The losers look mair dousely,
As weel they may:
For beef and greens in store;
And likewise rowth o' nappy drink,
To gar them rant and splore.
The horse they yoke, and hameward flock
Wi' red and drippin' noses,
While piles o' snaw begin to fa'
As Sol the short day closes
In robes o' grey.
CANTO THIRD. NIGHT.
And fae o' gouts and cholics,
Thou gi'es mair than Peruvian wealth
To them wha join thy frolics.
Our curlers here can witness bear
In truth o' my assertion,
While, free frae spleen, wi' stomachs keen,
The fruits o' their diversion
They taste this night—
Our greatest clachan vintner,
Wi' choicest cheer to gust their gabs,
Bielt frae the blasts o' winter:
Nane better was nor fatter,
Gars a' the mouth o' Geordie Bell
Wi' keen impatience water
To pree 't this nicht.
Potatoes drench'd in gravy,
And buns and baps, and cakes and scones,
Maist meet to dine a navy.
Auld Ringan, in the twa-arm'd chair,
Their chaplain and their preses,
Casts by his bonnet, straikes his hair,
And ane o's Sunday graces
Screeds owre this nicht.
Are plied on sirloins noble;
And clean slapdash they kemp and hash
As lang 's their jaws can hobble.
O Fashion! had'st thou here but view'd
Sic garblin', thou, wi' won'er,
Had'st raised thy hands, and bockin spew'd,
And jaundice ta'en, wi' scunner,
At sic a sicht.
As stomachy's a Bustard,
At ilka dainty laid-abreed,
Till settled by the mustard;
O' that he took a hearty dose,
Its smeddum naething fearin',
Whilk ran like powther up his nose,
And set the loun a-clearing
O's hawse this nicht.
Flew 'cross the braid aik table,
And did the breast o' Bauldy Scott
Wi' ugsome splairges draible.
Nanse han't him ale his gab to cool,
While 's een stood fu' o' water;
But Bauldy bann'd the blootrin fool,
That did him sae bespatter
This merry nicht.
The muse would e'en be hurried,
How Souter Jock did rift and bock,
When wi' a bane maist worried;
Or how, wi' glee, the carles did dree
While tongues and een were able;
Or noisy dogs rave ither's lugs
While feichtin 'neath the table
For banes this nicht.
Says, “Lassie, wilt thou gae
To Simon's barn, and tak' a blink
O' that delightfu' fray?”
Awa' they trip, and get a swatch
O' jollity right funny;
Where, rafflin' Watty Wylie's watch,
Baith lads and lassies mony
Are met this nicht.
Sits wanton Jamie Brodie,
A chield wha weel could drink and brew
Guid rum or whisky toddy.
Now rapidly the dice-box reels,
And shilling stakes are clinkin';
But leesome maids and wooer chields
On ither themes are thinkin'
This special nicht.
In some capricious fird
The dice-box touch'd, while in the han'
O' whistlin' Tam the herd.
Three times the rattlin' cubes he shook,
As aft he saxes threw,
While sklentin' envy, frae the neuk
Did look baith sour and blue
Wi' spite this nicht.
Cries capernoited Sandy,
“Let me ne'er thrive, but, as sure's death,
Ye are a perfect dandy.”
Wi' joy in ilka feature;
As babs his chain maist to his knees,
He dreams he finds his stature
Advance this nicht.
Black, snuffy fiddler Johnnie,
Wha, frae his green pock, wi' a host,
Draws out his black Cremony;
For elevation, lookin' 'round,
He hints his want to Saunners,
Wha, on twa thack sheaves, mounts him loun,
Triumphant, on the fanners
Fu' high this nicht.
Ilk chap his joe selectin';
While some, the lawin' to secure,
The members are inspectin'.
The fiddler's fingers, 'numb'd wi' cauld,
For reel time scarce are waukent,
Whilk gars some louns, ill-bred and bauld,
Cry out, “He's mighty slack on't
On sic a nicht.”
The toddy table's set,
And mony gabs impatient yeuk
For stingo pipin' het.
A big-shaird-plate, whase roomy kyte
At ilk time brews a chappin,
Dings mony drouthy louns clean hyte,
And sends them sidlins stappin'
To their beds this nicht.
In jugs, and bowls, and glasses;
While blithesome lads, on daffin bent,
Are kittlin' up the lasses.
The auld folk too, wi' air jocose,
Join in the crack and dance;
E'en Simon cries for “Athole brose,”
And through the reel doth prance,
Though bauld, this nicht.
Screeds aff the jigs like Jehu;
And mettled chields, wi' gabs untired,
Gar a' the hallan echo:
The comic sang, aside the bowl,
Richt mony a fancy 's touching;
While Andrew swears, “by 's vera soul,
The pleasure 's quite bewitching
This royal nicht.”
To higher feats they're soarin';
And fast they 're walin' out their joes
Wi' meikle rustic roarin'.
Our skating grocer, Geordie Brown,
The head taks wi' Jean Wilson,
Neist cutty-legged Tam M'Gown
And sklener Nepple Neilson,
Right skeich this nicht:
Wi' meikle noisy bustlin',
Till twenty couple's up belyve,
Weel ranged and free frae justlin':
The minstrel dreads a reekin' buff
In sic a dreich campaign,
Casts aff his coat, and tak's a snuff,
And does his coggie drain
Right glib this nicht.
Wi' hoochin and wi' wheelin';
And blithe they jump, and hooch, and squeel—
Whiles settin' and whiles reelin'.
Skeich Geordie, proud but hapless lad,
Fine modish airs assumin',
Side-cuttin', tumbled wi' a daud
Whare Archie had been toomin'
His crap this nicht.
Comes rattlin' Jamie Morgan,
Swearin' they should na want their bass
Ance he had tuned his organ:
The fiddle soon he drown'd it;
The dancers tint a' time belyve;
A' order he confounded
In a trice this night.
And roose their new musician;
While ithers fret and tak' the pet,
And wish him at perdition.
“Sair wark, bot pay,” as auld saws say,
“Soon loses its enjoyment;”
Sae he, for breath and drinkin' baith,
Resigns his new employment
At will this nicht.
After the thunder blast,
Sae Johnny's fiddle blithe doth ring
When this rude brainge is past.
Some weary shanks, wi' dancin' tired,
Seek rest beside the bicker;
While tongues, wi' whisky half inspired,
Vend shouts o' wit fu' sicker
This rantin' nicht.
In quest o' some repose,
And younkers left, uncowt, alane,
The noisy scene to close.
Some yawp and yowden, blink and gaunt,
Some wrestle wi' the hiccup;
While poet Will, as grave 's a saunt,
Ilk motion queer doth pick up
In the neuk this nicht.
The hindmost browst is brewin';
And loud the voice o' chanticleer
Approachin' day's foreshewin';
When, wi' the shawl o' Jean, his joe,
Upstarted Francie Foster,
Swearin', that “hame they should nae go
Without Bab-at-the-bowster
In style this nicht.”
Frank 'round the floor gaes vap'rin',
Shores first to land at Nelly Gibb,
Sheers aff syne, vogie, cap'rin':
But, kneeling low before his dear,
She answers in a crack,
Then, o' her mouth, as sweet's a pear,
He tak's a luscious smack,
Wi' joy, this nicht.
The floor fu' fast they're thrangin';
Some shy and blate before their joes,
And some wi' love a' mangin':
Some laugh, and, blushin', bend the knee,
By modesty o'ercome;
While ithers kiss baith frank and free,
And never fash their thumb,
On sic a nicht.
As plookie-faced Jock Jenkin;
He fain wad measured mou's wi' Kate,
Wha frae his grasp ran linkin';
He follow'd hard, and gat her gripped,
And on a caff-bing flang her;
She flate and flang, and bate and nipped,
And gaed red-wud wi' anger
At him this nicht.
And redd the roughsome tuilyie,
Else there might been, ere lang, club law
In this wanchancie bruilyie;
Syne, when the lo'esome dance is done,
Whilk mony gabs weel gusted,
They hameward spread, wi' licht o' moon,
In love's embraces twisted,
Right close this nicht.
Wha won within the city,
And wallow, in vile vice's flame,
'Mang harlots, void o' pity!
Frae this day's scaithless fun,
As gars life's wheels, wi' meikle ease,
Maist for a towmond run
Down time's steep brae.
STANZAS ON HEARING A YOUNG LADY PERFORM On the Piano Forte.
Raised from the mild piano's tone,
He'd torn from off his head the bays,
And drown'd his lute in Helicon.
Dream'd that, on time's remotest shore,
Thus flourish would his ancient lore,
He'd almost died in ecstacy.
Who canst dispel corrosive care,
May sorrow's cloudy atmosphere
Ne'er dim thy realms of harmony.
Gave thee to sweep along the strings,
Whence ever-pleasing solace rings
To gild woe's gloomy canopy.
The care-pervaded soul to cheer,
To wipe from languor's eye the tear,
By thy enchanting minstrelsy.
Such strains as from thy wires do chime,
To waft the mind, on wing sublime,
Through fancy's florid scenery.
Forego to raise such concord grand,
And join the bright angelic band
In the realms of bless'd eternity.
Extemporary Lines
ADDRESSED TO SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES, WHO HAD, ON A NEW YEAR MORNING, MADE THE AUTHOR A PRESENT OF DR. WATT'S IMPROVEMENT OF THE HUMAN MIND.
His dreary old routine has run;
And haggard Winter, clad in snow,
O'er Scotia's isle drives dreary slow:
No flow'ret gems the russet fields;
No bower the lonely blackbird shields;
But harsh, the night's cold sleety breeze
Roars through the bending leafless trees—
Or howls, with wild discordant sweep,
Across the surging briny deep.
Who strays through fortune's trackless vale,
Well guarded by an angel train,
Who steer his course to truest gain—
Even bless'd improvement of the mind,
The truest wealth for man designed.
My dearest wishes turn to you:
May never spleen, nor sullen care,
Nor sallow want, nor dark despair,
Your well-deserved bliss destroy,
But may you taste earth's every joy,
Which flows from wealth, peace, competence—
These only earth's true joys dispense:
And when in death you close your eyes,
And bid farewell to earth and skies,
May such an angel guard be given
To bear you up—aloft to heaven.
I wish included in your lot—
I mean, you know, a husband true,
Life's rugged path to guard you through,
Which will the case be, I don't doubt it,
Nor shall it be a thing disputed,
But that you all, in proper time,
Will know that marriage is no crime:
Though that I will not here discuss.
Which many a one before has trode;
And may she find it smooth and sweet,
With every requisite replete;
For which I do most humbly pray;
And with this wish shall quit my lay:
Her pattern follow, mind you that,
Which is the wish of William Watt.
Ode to Poetry.
To pass the day with me?
On the clover cover'd plain,
Where roams the humming bee;
Or where doth the limpid rill
Smoothly glide adown the hill,
Skirted by the daffodil
And waving willow tree.
Me teach thy heavenly art;
Raise from off thy harp the sigh
Which captivates the heart:
Strike the melting tone of woe;
Wake the wounded lover's glow,
Or grim ire's indignant throe;
Or hatred's poignant smart.
Did dart across my mind,
Still thy magic haunt I sought,
And to thy art inclined;
Still assay'd the tuneful lay;
Drove the fleeting hours away
Through the else unpleasant day;
And thus solace did find.
Thy various mein I trace;
Or, with Thomson, roam the plains
And wide ethereal space:
Sweet as manna on us drop
The immortal tones of Pope;
Cheerful Campbell, child of Hope,
Eke felt thy kind embrace.
Beneath the sighing wood,
Musing in the fragrant grove
Of stillest solitude;
List'ning to the heav'nly chime
Israel's bards did raise, sublime,
In the days of olden time,
In rapt ecstatic mood.
Of supplicative tone;
Thy enchanting lore's my choice,
Which I admire alone:
Tune to me the dulcet harp,
Which before was harshly sharp;
Then dull pedantry may carp,
And criticism groan.
The Bard's Address to his Flute.
While hope's cheering ray glads my life-loving soul;
'Till death's fatal stroke—nought on earth shall us sever,
For oft thou hast freed me from languor's control.
I've raised thy soft flow by the breeze-shaken willow,
Which waken'd the lay of the mavis so mellow;
Or pensively lain, 'mong the primroses yellow,
Beside the clear stream, which did murmuring roll.
By Calder's green banks, at the close of the day;
And, lonely, on nature's fair volume I've ponder'd,
Deluding the care-winged moments away:
And cheer'd my dull mind with the light thrill of gladness!
A rapture unknown to the wild throe of madness,
A joy which alone I derived from thy lay!
In transport I'd rove by the shady green wood;
Till the drear-wailing owl had proclaim'd me benighted,
O'er the phantom with miser-endearment I'd brood:
Till cold feeble age check the wide-wand'ring rover,
To wake thy soft voice shall my hand ne'er give over—
Even then warm devotion will over thee hover,
For oft thou hast raised her from sorrow's dull mood.
And prostrate me lays in the cold silent tomb,
I'll hail those bright realms, and leave mortals to languish,
For earth and its pleasures shall vanish in gloom:
Thou, then, in some muse-wooing hand shalt bewail me,
And—though not so sweet as with me may thy tale be—
The genius of music, melodious, will hail thee,
And flowers amaranthine around thee shall bloom.
The Life of the Loreless Bard.
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
—Gray.
O'ercome the harshly swelling wave,
And gain the highly wished for shore,
Safe from the boiling tempest's roar;
If thou hast seen the hero wield
His arm upon the battle's field,
And, by fell death subdued, his foe,
Besmear'd with gore, laid prostrate low;
If thou hast been in Egypt's clime,
And seen the piles which baffle time,—
Oppose the humble loreless bard,
Exposed to want, that rigid spright,
Whose look the bravest soul would blight;
Sequester'd in the cell of toil,
Where intermission ne'er doth smile;
Debarr'd from sage instruction's school,
His thoughts adjusted by no rule:
If sing he must, he's taught by nature,
Devoid of learning's vivid feature.
Was he, whose life we sing the while;
From early youth was taught to sigh
'Neath the harsh hand of poverty;
Felt cold neglect's heart-breaking stroke,
Yet, heaven-inspired, still braved the shock.
When winter, with relentless power,
Rain, hail, or snow, did blust'ring shower,
No warm inviting home had he
Ofttimes—to fire his soul with glee:
Much did the hapless youth endure,
Whilst thus he lived ignobly poor.
He off was sent to tend the kine;
This—more propitious situation
From dread of want—gave relaxation;
Hope's magic fancy brought to view
Thoughts that days brighter would ensue;
Such mental visions drove away
Full many a long and lonely day.
Although unknown to classic ground,
He ne'er could brook the vulgar sound,
But rather, sole, beside the wood,
Would on sweet nature's features brood;
And, fancy aided, pass the time,
To chaunt her praise in rugged rhyme:
The light'ning's flash, the thunder's roll,
To pitch sublime did raise his soul;
The tempest's sweep he'd fondly eye
In all the flight of ecstacy;
And sweetly on his tuneful ear
Did fall the lark's song, warbled clear:
Where fairies wont in yore to dwell;
To muse beside the streamlet dern,
'Mong loosely waving broom and fern;
To list the sound of the cascade,
By zephyr wafted down the glade;
Or lie, charm'd by the wood-band's sound,
Upon the genii-haunted mound.
In hist'ry's page, he would explore
Old Scotland's fields, deep bathed in gore,
When Wallace swang the dire morglay,
And through deep columns cut his way;
When Bruce did England's bondage spurn
On the red field of Bannockburn:
Themes such as these to him were dear,
And wrang the patriotic tear—
Nor could his breast the sigh withhold,
Reviewing val'rous deeds of old;
He judged the cause of injured worth
The most defensible on earth;
Misfortune's hapless lot he mourn'd,
Power's high contemptuous sneer he scorn'd—
And still he shudder'd, still he sigh'd,
To see the haughty gait of pride—
And still he eyed, with deep vexation,
The unfeeling tyrants of creation.
In solitude, were pass'd away,
Upon the purple-blossom'd heath,
Or the green shady wood beneath,
Close tracing, through the sacred page,
The bard who felt despotic rage;
But who, ere long, on Judah's throne,
Establish'd sure, effulgent shone;
Who spread the praise of God afar,
In song immortal as in war:
His chief delight to con and scan
The most pathetic lays of man.
Thus, rurally, he spent the while,
Till years brought round mechanic toil,
When he did change the scene in life—
The verdant fields, of beauties rife,
Whence rings the sound of endless care.
A drear routine his life is led,
Ungracious to the poet's mind—
From nature's visage sweet confined,
Doom'd there to dwell from her apart,
And ply the tiresome tool of art;
Yet, even here, the whole day long,
His fancy treads the fields of song;
And much he ponders on, and reads
Of art, or nature's grandest deeds;
Nor slips occasion, place, or time,
To spin the golden thread of rhyme:
As war or love suggests the theme,
He treats the muse aye with esteem.
He thinks, perchance, the day may come
His lays may strike the ear of some
Who yet may lend the patron's hand,
And make him known throughout the land;
This thought flows from no venal views,
But for the honour of the muse,
For still he vows he'll ne'er forego
To follow her or high or low.
To him a wild ungracious maze;
Yet, hopeful of what may ensue,
He casts an antecedent view,
Haply, his coming lot to eye
In thy blank map—futurity:
Yet doth his search unfruitful find,
He only knows what lies behind,
Where time, the tyrant, sweeps the ground,
And swift apace all's ruin found.
So well doth time and fate agree,
They've brought his age to twenty-three;
What adverse or propitious follows,
Est nullus sed scit Deus solus.
The Tinkler's Wedding.
Attend the haunts of gentle birth.”
Upon the border bent,
The wand'rin' gang o' Habbie Hay
Did pitch their gipsy tent,
To celebrate the nuptial knot
'Tween glaikit Sall M'Kechan
And—her fifth husband—Norman Scott,
A caird frae Ecclefechan:
Nae saunt was he.
Amang the knowes are browsin';
And wives, to grace the social spree,
Their duddie bairns sit lousin':
Some do them deck wi' washen toys
O' clean garbs vauntin' frisky,
While ithers show that a' their joys
Concentre in the whisky,
Alane, this day.
To tie the bands need they,
But only cash to raise a feast,
And rowth o' usquebae;
For whilk they had, for weeks before,
The tin and horn been whangin',
To put some smeddum in the splore,
And set their gabs a-gangin'
Loquaciously.
O' grandeur, or sic like,
They nestle in an auld sheep bught,
A wathers' spauls to pyke:
There, wet or dry, beneath the sky,
Unscreen'd by thack or kebbres,
They joyous join the wark divine
Wi' bacchanalian labours,
Most fervently.
The younkers wide are roamin',
And mirth doth ilka breast inspire,
While cans o' drink are foamin':
Mair heart-felt joy they feel, I ween,
In this sequester'd station,
Than gladdens either king or queen,
Even on their coronation
Or grand levee.
Slapdash, they're gormandising
On kail and beef, the wale o' ware,
Till kytes like tuns are rising.
Blin' gangrel Geordie, in the neuk,
His fiddle sets a bummin',
While's duddie guide, wi' airy leuk,
On's tambourine stan's drummin',
Right skeigh, this day.
To dance some out did sally,
While ithers, fonder o' the maut,
Did wi' their doxies dally.
Auld Habbie, wha the rights o' age
Aye manfully defended,
First took the green wi' toothless Madge,
While at the rump he vended
Great rowts this day.
Neist claim'd the minstrel's aid;
Fu' richtly he his spauls did show,
And starkly flang and strade;
But he in a cow's cusslock slade,
And on his hurdies grundit,
Whereat sic laughin' through them gaed,
That he was maist affronted
On's marriage day.
And dour as ony badger;
Her mither was o' gipsy kin,
Her father was a cadger;
But soon had cause to rue it,
For he amaist was driven blin',
She gied him sic a fluet
I' the face this day.
Wi' blows and altercation,
For Dan did swear, in wrath right rude,
He'd make retaliation;
But Dennis Drew, a bully loun,
To quell this collieshangie,
Cam' owre the green, drew near the soun',
And said, “Wha's this amang ye
Sae loud the day?”
At this interrogation,
For sair he fear'd he'd get a clout,
Nae envied dispensation;
For Dennis was a rackle wight,
As some in Scotland knew—
He'd purses ta'en 'neath cloud o' night,
And lives, they said, nae few,
Wha kent his tricks.
His guide, himsel', and fiddle—
Struck up “the merry lads o' Ayr”
As fast as he could driddle:
A' took the hint, sae too they set,
Withouten hesitation,
And danced until their hides they het,
And cursed the wild stagnation
O' their fun this day.
Sat close beside the jorum,
For night and day the liquor can
Was his sanctum-sanctorum.
His wife he did baith bruise and ban
For drinkin' o't before him,
Though on his shanks he scarce could stan':
A hater o' decorum,
Maist fell, was he.
Whilk she in wrath resented,
And fix'd her talons in his beef,
And gart the blade repent it.
In grips they tumbled on a bairn,
And maist the same had smoor'd,
Whase mither, wi' a sowth'rin' airn,
Their crowns and curpons clour'd
Right sair that day.
Till laigh the sun was glidin',
And the lang shadows o' their shanks
Far owre the fields were stridin';
And Geordie was sae daised wi' drink
His lyre he cou'dna tune,
To gar the gossips blithe play jink,
Though he'd been crown'd at Scone
For the deed that day.
Mair close they hug the bicker,
Till noddles to their rest are sent
By the mislushious liquor.
Stout Norman touttit aff his quaff,
To set them an example,
Till he, like ony sack o' draff,
Did lig, a waefu' sample
To the bride that night.
For a deserter billie,
On ithers' faces flew like mad,
And scarted right ill-willy.
The blade, to end the feidfu' strife,
Gat up, the trulls to sever,
For whilk he maist had lost his life,
As thanks for his behaviour
To the sluts that night.
Ilk action to narrate;
How cairds and kimmers drank like wud,
And fought wi' furious hate;
While heads and thraws they lay,
Or tell how Sall a maid might been
For Norman, when neist day
She raise fu' sour.
The Hawk.
And, far beyond the dark-blue hill,
The sun nigh closed the day;
After the irksome hours of toil
I wander'd out, to pass the while,
Across the fields to stray.
A towering hawk I did espy
Poised o'er the verdant plain,
In quest to find his hapless prey;
But, after many a sharp essay,
All fruitless proved and vain.
Where sweetly, in the even-tide,
A thrush did trill her lay;
Sweet was her strain as happy love,
Fix'd, never, never to remove
Till life's last parting day.
And every op'ning did explore,
With eager wistful eye:
To raise her, down he quick did dart,
But from the gorse she would not start,
Nor from her seat would fly.
But sat the prickly shrubs among,
His ruthless claws to shun;
When thus he saw his efforts vain,
He homeward skimm'd along the plain,
Among the thick mist dun.
“Quick to thy bloody dwelling hie,
To pine in hunger all night long—
Now safe's the mellow queen of song:
And sing, dear bird! I love the note
Pour'd from thy various warbling throat;
For dear to me's thy cheering lay,
At rising morn or closing day;
And may'st thou still escape the snares
Laid, thee to catch all unawares.”
Fable: THE REDBREAST AND LINNET.
A redbreast, unperplex'd with care,
Sat on a branching old elm tree,
Chanting his lay with matchless glee:
He found his voice in famous tune,
And emulously thought that soon
He'd rival either merle or thrush,
Who sang in brake or birken bush.
But, while in zenith of his pride,
A falcon up the glen did glide,
Whom, when poor robin saw, woe's me!
He darted from his fav'rite tree
Into a close beech-hedge, where sat
A linnet, little gi'en to chat,
Who thus, with scornful envious leer,
Did little trembling robin jeer:—
Your plight doth fill me with suspicion!
Are foes abroad?”—Quoth Robin, “Hush!
A falcon hovers o'er the bush!
'Tis strange that Jove, so wondrous wise,
Should place such tyrants in the skies!
A person scarce can show his face,
For death appears in every place:
I swear—'tis cruel and unjust
Thus to permit despotic lust:
But words are vain; what must be must!”
Says, “Friend, refrain your peevish cheeping—
The foe is gone—we're free from harm!”
Says Robin, “Thanks! faith, there's a worm!”
He swoop'd the victim in a trice,
And gulp'd him, saying, “eigh! that's nice!
May every wight, by land and sea,
As sure of supper be as me!”
“Sir, you possess a sophist's mind!
Should Jove but hearken to your prayer,
How nobly would that falcon fare;
Nor would the deed more cruel be
Than what's transacted now by thee.”
The conduct how unholy,
Of charging Providence divine
With deeds unjust, or folly:
And, hence, a precept proffer'd is
To each reforming elf—
Ne'er to reform a government
Till he reform himself.
ON HEARING A Lark Singing after Sunset.
Escorts the fleeting hours away,
As here, at dusky eve, I stray
Across the glade,
Or muse beneath the sloe-thorn grey,
O' fragrant shade!
Who feels the heedless world's reward,
From fame and profit oft debarr'd,
And jeer'd oft-times;
And oft, like thee, he sings unheard
His sweetest rhymes.
When rising o'er the dew-wet corn,
And, heaven-directed, upward borne,
To greet the sun;
But clearer far, while I muse, lorn—
All mortals shun.
I love thy cadence, melting, mild;
To me thou'rt music's dearest child,
By grove or moor;
Oh may thy nestlings ne'er be spoil'd,
But live secure!
Who lonely spends the summer day
Beside the streamlet's murm'ring play,
Or verdant mound,
While frisking lambs, with feigned fray,
Around him bound.
When gall'd by wild poetic spleen,
Or stung by sallow-visaged teen,
In solitude,
While straying o'er the bent-field green,
In pensive mood.
And, should I never hear thee more,
Oft, till I cross time's farthest shore,
I'll mind thy song,
Which can arouse the muse's lore,
Swift, smooth, and strong.
The Lapdog Cured.
—Scotch Proverb.
Was Miss Sophini Bagatelle,
Than any of her two-faced gender,
Which kept her in perpetual trouble,
For things as trifling as a bubble;
But nought her spirits so did clog,
As what befell her dear Lapdog.
Imported was from Cochin China,
As story went—but judges swore
The elf was bred in Labradore,
While others proved, by demonstration,
Its lineage was of our own nation.
But, leaving cavils to each critic,
Poor harmless pamper'd Tiny fell sick,
For which event Miss did so pine,
Some thought her threaten'd with decline;
So when Mamma heard this suspicion,
She call'd the village sage physician,
Who, being the family's true health warden,
Charged Miss to walk oft in the garden;
As nought could better banish sorrow
Than roaming in the fields of Flora.
Began the day's perambulation,
With Tiny's case still fresh in mind,
She thus address'd her gard'ner hind—
A man who, though in humble station,
Knew more than nursing a carnation.
Lost every spark of appetite;
For, though I've tried him o'er and o'er
With all that's nice within our door,
He eyes all with as little care
As he could live on common air:
And while I see him daily languish,
My heart is like to break with anguish!
And now, John, think you ought could be
Applied to set poor Tiny free
From trouble? I'd reward the wight
With twenty guineas, when my sight
His wonted quantity of meat!”
John fondly heard the offer made,
And thought within himself meanwhile,
He'd gain the sum with little toil.
Thrice o'er his face his hand he drew,
Then rubbed well his sweaty brow,
And seem'd as if in study lost
On what would take both skill and cost;
So, having hemm'd! his voice to clear,
He wheedled thus in Misses' ear:—
Can boast but small proficiency
In physic, you, perchance may be
Averse to trust his cure with me;
Else would I try what skill I have
Your little fav'rite's life to save.”
To help the creature so oppress'd,
And if good fate should you succeed,
You shall receive the proffer'd meed!”
John homeward pamper'd Tiny bore,
Well knowing, if the squeamish elf
Felt hunger as oft as himself,
No surfeit qualms had e'er assail'd him,
Nor frisky health had ever fail'd him.
Close-shut within a cellar dark,
This demi-god was left to bark
And whine; nor did John ope the prison
Till thrice the sun had set and risen.
By this time hunger bit so keen,
That carrion vile a feast had been
To suff'ring convalescent Tiny,
Who now, with fasting, had grown spleeny.
Inquiring how the cure went on—
So, as the wily gard'ner knew,
Hunger had tamed the pining shrew,
He offer'd Miss an interview
Was from his sable cloister borne,
In purpose that Miss should not see
John's well-meant stern austerity.
But three rounds of the sun I've had 'im,
And, without aid of cordial-drinks,
He's cured; and, sharp as any lynx,
You see he scents in quest of meat.
Cries Miss, “John, let me see him eat!”
John, from a pantry, forthwith drew
A mess that made Miss puke to view:
Sour broth, cold porridge, and hens' drummock,
That would have tried a stout sow's stomach.
Tine, heedless of the rank stale savour,
Deem'd it of most delicious flavour;
And lick'd and breath'd, and lick'd again,
Till he the whole contents did drain:
While Miss, o'erwhelm'd with wonder, stands,
With eyes a-stare and lifted hands,
Blessing the fate, so kind, so good,
That sent John to her servitude:
Then out her silken purse she drew,
To give the trusty hind his due,
And would have paid the proffer'd sum
Most cheerfully;—but John says, “Um!
'Tis far too much, ma'am—but one guinea
I charge for thus recov'ring Tiny;
Since little did the med'cine cost:
I've not the sting of conscience lost.
If the disease return again
To give the creature further pain—
Than three short days, let him no longer
Remain oppress'd: the cure is—hunger!”
And Miss against consumption guarded.
Emigration.
Whose rays in every breast do shine,
And gild the realms of hope:
Glad as Aurora's smile thy look,
Which ne'er the human mind forsook,
Though it in gloom did grope:
Thou shoot, from soundest reason sprung,
Be thou my theme the while;
Though I thy fame but rude have sung,
I yet may catch thy smile.
My lone harp, of tone sharp,
May touch the feeling soul,
While wandering, and pondering
On tyrant power's control.
From clear Euphrates' flowery side,
With Israel's faithful sire;
O'er distant Canaan's arid plains,
Scarce visited by roving swains,
Whose breasts thy features fire.
Or let me trace thy hallow'd feet
Through bless'd Arabia's clime,
Where bondage ne'er, with motion fleet,
Waved round her coasts sublime.
Whence sighing and crying
From anguish never flow,
Where slavery and knavery
Meet law's terrific blow.
When brave Columbus sped his way
Across the wide Atlantic's roar,
Where Europe's sons ne'er went before.
Much was his peril, much his toil;
And after all his great turmoil,
He spied at last the land veer nigh,
Where Freedom's flag did fan the sky.
How did his manly bosom swell
To find the realm where peace might dwell!
So far they soared past common bless.
But joy's mild sky is oft o'ercast
By woe's opaque tempestuous blast,
And blithe prosperity's clear noon
Is dimm'd by adverse fortune soon;
Their case was this, who held that land,
From time unknown, by Heaven's command.
Her sulph'rous lava round,
Sicilians, summon all your powers,
And fly her roar profound.
And wrecking vessels reel,
Sailors, let every aid be given
To brave the awful peal.
Have robb'd the rights of man,
Leave, quickly leave, your ruined nation,
And other regions scan.
Must lose her free-born sons;
These leave the land they much revere;
Each, base oppression shuns.
Cast on their native shore,
Nor, tearless, could the prospect brook
By philosophic lore.
Farewell of Scotia's isle,
Till down it pass'd, with motion fast,
Beneath green ocean's smile.
Obeying fate's control,
But, throbbing, viewed the fleeting strand
Back from his vision roll?
On future pleasure broods,
And in Columbia's healthful air
Seeks shelter in her woods.
“Beside Ontario's Lake,
Where Niagara's thunders rise,
And Scotia I'll forsake.
Saved from the wreck of old,
I'd bless the guardian of my fate,
When freedom I behold:
Where poesy ne'er trod,
Where ne'er the Muse's harp had rung,
Where slavery ne'er abode:
Where want appals no more,
And where no orphan, dame, nor Sire,
Needs beg from door to door.”
Thoughts truly worthy man;
He leaves the realms of woe behind
And draws his future plan.
His oft form'd resolution,
And blushes he'd so long preferr'd
Our sapped Constitution:
For thousands sail from every port,
And gaily o'er the ocean glide,
Triumphant, from want's ebbing tide,
While shouting, as they leave the shore,
“To thee we shall return no more.”
Hail, Liberty! thy sons protect,
Their floating vehicles direct,
And bear them to their destined port,
America, that bless'd resort!
STANZAS COMPOSED ON READING THE ACCOUNT OF THE Execution of Marshal Ney.
Through Paris streets—oh! tell me why?
From every faltering tongue doth flow,
“To-morrow dies brave Marshal Ney!”
That destiny now gives to thee?
Black death! at manhood's glorious noon,
Who strovest to set thy nation free.
To-morrow seals thy hapless lot;
But Freedom's sons shall mark their names
Who did condemn thee to be shot!
I see thee dauntless hear thy doom,
And, hopeless, by their villain thrall,
Consign'd to the ignoble tomb.
These accents fall upon my ear,
Sung by bright Freedom's angel band,
While trickling drops grief's deepest tear:—
Round the ashes of the dead:
By the sable yew and tomb
'Neath the ebon cypress gloom,
We will wail, till rising day
Chase night's spectres all away:
Hither let no stranger come
Till the beat of morning drum:
Weep we will, with sorrow deep,
For him who underneath doth sleep.
Oft he heard the cannon's rattle
In the hard contested battle;
Oft he for his country's weal
Felt the foe's indignant steel;
And still did act the patriot's part,
For Freedom flamed within his heart.
Ever was the last to fly;
When the combat fierce began,
He was seen upon the van;
When the trumpet rang defeat,
In the rear he did retreat;
And that day to the flag was true,
When war eternised Waterloo.”
To wake his grief-clad mourners all,
The dulcet choir his ditty sang
In sorrow's black escutcheon'd hall.
And for their hapless leader sigh;
Each gen'rous soul his fellow greets,
While tears responsive fill each eye.
Nor symptom show'd of inward woe,
Save for the cause so much revered,
Which oft raised feeling's deepest throe;
Protectorless amidst the world,
Where haply none durst mind their state—
Thus might they be to ruin hurled.
He stands before the ruthless band:
Hark! there's the signal of the drum—
And all in mute suspense doth stand.
Points to his heart; says, “Soldiers, fire!”
Obey'd—he drops upon the green,
And doth without a sigh expire!
Stalks unrevenged throughout the land;
His blood yet on their heads shall light,
And Freedom's flag wave direly grand!
Epistle to J. R.
Sae saftly blawn in yon epistle!
O'erjoy'd, I see, 'round Scotland's thristle
Her bards combine
The wreath o' fame, sae firm, to twissle,
Wi' art divine.
The case mair clearly could ha'e stated,
Or yet mair cogently debated
Ilk clause, than you?
I'm rede, if I be not crack-pated,
There are but few.
But swill your halesome potion down!
It wad mair pleasure, late and soon,
Gi'e to his mind,
Than ony way beneath the moon
That he will find.
Wha seldom wisdom's counsels scan,
I fear he winna tak' the plan
Laid out by reason,
Till he by want be forced to ban,
When out o' season.
Are aft wud rakes amang the lasses,
Whether they're drill'd in college classes,
'Neath logic sly,
Or school'd amang the bent and masses,
Like you or I.
I kneel, I bow before thy shrine;
O would the verdant laurel twine
About my bonnet!
Nae higher aim I'd ha'e than shine
In Scottish sonnet.
To me did pleasure aye impart,
Since I could wauchle at a cart,
Or pu' a tether;
E'en when secluded far apart
'Mang haggs and heather.
Far in the dreary moorland wild,
The langest day I've aft beguiled
Wi' Ramsay's lays,
Wha sang the shepherd's manners mild,
In former days:
O' far-famed, shrewd, immortal Burns—
Chields wha ha'e planted round their urns
The laurel tree:
What feeling heart their fate but mourns
Wi' tearfu' e'e?
To think that mossy Calder's side
Can boast o' bards wha needna hide
Their warks frae ony;
Then let us blateness lay aside,
Blithe-hearted cronie!
Lang may your purse contain a bodle,
Lang may you owre the green fields toddle,
In store o' health,
And lead a life o' virtuous model,
Mair worth than wealth.
To Louisa B.
Louisa, veil that face so fair—That face is Cupid's fatal snare,
Strange as the Gordian knot!
Wake not the glow of hopeless love,
Which only can despair promove,
And seal my hapless lot!
Hospitality:
AN EVENING SCENE.
Welcome, wand'rer! old and poor,Here to pass the night secure;
Cold the wind, and thick the rain,
Drive across the darksome plain;
Eastward has the raven fled
To the wood, his airy bed;
And the darkness-loving owl
From the rifted rock doth howl:
See, the rosy sun is set,
Feel, the night is cold and wet:
Walk in, stranger, to our cot,
And the ferry try thou not.
Hark! the waves tumultuous roar
'Gainst the stubborn, rocky shore:
Through the sable shroud of night
Not a star can give thee light,
Neither can the boatman's wherry
Ride so rudely rough a ferry.
Shouldst thou propose to take the tide,
In rage he'll from his door thee chide;
So stay, old stranger, for thy weal,
Thou'lt share our fire, our bed, our meal,
And, when the radiant sun doth rise,
To gild again the ample skies,
Refresh'd, thou'lt cheerful speed thy way,
Throughout the soon returning day.
SONGS.
THE EMIGRANT'S LAMENT.
'Twas with sorrow I left thee,
While through want I did roam,
When of joy she bereft me.
I was once blithe and gay
On the green banks of Yarrow,
Now I sigh night and day
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
In the dull frowning wildwood,
Fancy wanders, the while,
'Midst the haunts of my childhood;
With my Mary I rove
On the sweet braes of Yarrow;
While I hew the dark grove
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
Decks the glens and the mountains,
And the maids blithely sing
By the wood-shaded fountains;
But more pleasure I found
On the calm banks of Yarrow,
Than can dwell near the sound
Of the Falls of Ni'gara.
On the mead, beams as brightly—
Here, the moon's yellow rays,
On the lake, dance as lightly—
Here, the winds breathe as mild
As they e'er fann'd on Yarrow—
Yet to me all seems wild
By the falls of Ni'gara.
Why of Mary remind me?
The dear maid left behind me!
Else, I live all in vain
When I'm far, far from Yarrow,
Torn by love's burning pain
By the Falls of Ni'gara.
THE LAST VIEW OF ERIN.
Of the vessel that bounded away for Quebec,
Far, far from the land of the shamrock so green:
The sigh heaved his breast, and the tear dimm'd his eye,
While his native land melted 'twixt ocean and sky;
Yet he sprang up the shrouds for the last parting view
Of sweet Erin's green hills, now by distance turn'd blue,
The land of the shamrock so yellow and green.
As aloft to the breeze-sighing cordage he clung,
Till his dear native land could no longer be seen.
“O my country,” he falter'd, “an endless farewell,
For whose freedom my forefathers both fought and fell:
Ah! my sad bosom thrills to its innermost core,
Thus to leave thee for dark Niagara's wild roar,
Afar from thy harp and thy shamrock so green.
By Killarney's pure lake, when, a stranger to care,
I gather'd the shamrock so yellow and green,
That the ties of affection, so form'd to enchant,
Should be ruthlessly torn by the chill hand of want,
Which exiles me from all I admire and adore,
The land of my birth, and my dear Ellenore,
Who wails where the shamrock blooms yellow and green.
Whose eye beams with love, and whose heartglows with truth,
I have left thee to roam 'mong the shamrock so green;
But should fate e'er relent, who hath press'd me so hard,
And bless my endeavours with plenty's reward;
With rapture I'd waft, from our dear native shore,
The charm of my life, my young, sweet Ellenore,
No longer to mourn 'mong the shamrock so green.”
THE AFRICAN TRAVELLERS.
And trace the Niger's wand'rings wide;
Though tears bedew'd our cheeks the while,
Oh don't for cowards e'er us chide!
Sweet love and friendship's dearest ties
We burst, to roam 'neath Afric's skies,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home;
Exposed to prowling beasts of prey,
And savage man, more dire than they,
Far, far from home.
Scaled mountains, threaded forests dire,
Drench'd 'neath the stern tornado's blast,
Or scorch'd by Sol's fierce fluid fire;
From savage tribes we peril ran,
That scarce deserved the name of man,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home:
Angelic hope still on did glide,
Adown the Niger's gleaming tide,
Far, far from home.
Where the Atlantic's billows roar,
Our dangers all in joy were lost,
We deem'd us safe on Britain's shore.
We've broke the long mysterious spell,
Which hundreds sought, and seeking, fell,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home.
Now, free from peril, toil, and pain,
Our fam'lies' smiles we hail again,
Safe, safe at home.
WAE DAYS FOR ANE AND A'.
This Song was written for, and sung at a Benefit Concert, in behalf of the unemployed weavers of ---, during a great stagnation in trade.
An' cleads the fields in green,
And blithesome lambs frisk roun' their dams,
Whilk charms the shepherd's een.
The mavis cheers the greenwood shaw,
The lav'rock cheers the hill,
But noucht can drive our cares awa',
As lang's the looms stan' still.
For they're wae days for ane and a',
It ilka joy doth spill,
There's noucht can drive our cares awa',
As lang's the looms stan' still.
Has warsled teugh an' dour,
And, spite o' a' their clouts and scars,
Has nobly stood the stour;
But had she tint the fertile source,
That aye her pouch did fill,
A dyvour she had been, of course,
Had a' our looms stood still.
For they're wae days, &c.
The tenant noucht can gie;
The factor comes to lift the stent,
But where's the parson's fee?
The vintner looks baith dowff and blae,
And rarely sells a gill—
Now, what's the cause o' a' this wae,
But, that our looms stan' still?
For they're wae days, &c.
Craves liberty to speak,
To thank our benefactors here,
Wi' warm, half-blushin' cheek.
Should trade e'er gi'e a cheerin' blink,
We then, in reamin' yill,
Cap-aff, your healths will often drink,
When ne'er a loom stan's still.
It gars our bosoms thrill,
When nane o' Scotlan's bairns can shaw
A loom that's stan'in' still.
TO THE MEMORY OF C. J. FOX.
And pensive droops her laurell'd head?
Why dims the tear that brilliant eye,
Whose smile could joy o'er Europe shed?
Cries Liberty, “She's reason just,
For Fox now moulders in the dust;
And who, like him, can wield the plan
Which guards the sacred rights of man?”
For virtue, reason, and for wit,
Which burst the chains of base control,
Wreathed round our necks by subtle Pitt.
From Africa, that land woe,
He caused the song of joy to flow,
And waved around her plunder'd coast
The sword of freedom, reason's boast.
Or cloud thy brow with ceaseless gloom,
When forward stand, for thy relief,
Undaunted Brougham, Grey, and Hume?
With many more of noted name,
Who grace the golden roll of fame,
And twine the wreath around his urn,
To bloom till time's remotest bourn.
The friend of freedom and of man!
Who, in stern reason's mail array'd,
'Gainst power, despotic, led the van;
And ere had set life's glorious sun,
The field of victory had won;
Then, who need dread an en'my's shocks,
When vanquish'd by immortal Fox?
IRISH ECONOMY.
That my voice is but harsh, and my ear is not good;
As to music, I ne'er in my life made pretence,
So I hope you'll look less to the sound than the sense.
But as for the subject, ay, there lies the deuce!
For war, love, and murder, are stale grown through use;
So I'll choose a new theme, quite apart from them all,
And scream you a stave about—Nothing at all.
Sing tara la, &c.
On board of a steam ship I went to embark
For the kingdom of Scotland, the harvest to cut,
And I station'd myself 'hind a big water butt:
But, before we set sail, my ould mother says, “Pat,
I'm afraid you won't make it:” says I, “Why? for what?”
“Because you've no cash, man, to pay the Fingal:”
“Aisy, mother,” says I; “For that's—Nothing at all.”
Tara la, &c.
And up waves and down waves away she did ride;
Such splashing and dashing among the salt spray,
Made my head whirl round, and my eyes flew away:
And when it came round we our passage should pay,
I lay both blind and dumb, and my hearing gave way;
Though they rugg'd me and tugg'd me, and loudly did bawl,
I lay dead as a stone, and said—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
Where a hundred fine vessels at anchor did ride:
Thinks I, it's high time that I should make a push,
So I button'd my coat, and away I did brush:
I plunged in the water, and swam underneath,
As long, 'pon my soul, as I could do for breath,
Till I came to the side, when I quick out did crawl,
And took to my heels, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
As I nothing had ate since I sail'd from Belfast,
And, as I was hungry, I took a good meal:
But how to get off set my wits all at war,
For a jolly big landlady stood at the bar;
Till I tipp'd her a nobber, and down she did fall;
Then I tripp'd off at ease, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
Who dragg'd us and slaved us confoundedly hard,
Where I pass'd for a fine boy, possess'd of much sense,
And was trusted to sleep with his son in the spence:
There I saw where the ould boy oft snugged his cash,
And resolved that some night I'd on it make a dash;
So I nipp'd off his purse from the head of the wall,
And, at midnight, tripp'd off, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
Some sixty pounds richer in so short a space;
Where I rigg'd myself out as a dandy complete,
And the heart won of every fair maid I did meet.
Now, all you young boys, that your fortune would make,
Try Scotland, the land of the thistle and cake;
If you find it not there, you may just close the ball,
And to Ireland return, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.
BARNY BLAKE'S MISFORTUNE.
I come from Londonderry town,
Great care my folk did of me take,
And let me ramble up and down:
Till I had grown a clever boy,
I roved about both night and day;
But when I first saw Molly Roy,
Och, dear! she stole my heart away.
Smiling, wiling, quite beguiling,
Sweet as honey then she spake;
Her rosy cheeks and sloe-black eyes
O'ercame the heart of Barny Blake.
That's not to read, and count, and write:
Such things did never suit my mind,
So I learn'd to drink, and dance, and fight.
But Molly said—Och, Barny, boy!
You've always been a roving blade;
You ne'er can marry Molly Roy
Till you can keep her by your trade.
Brisk and jolly, lovely Molly,
That I'll do all for thy sake;
I'll list into the Carabineers,
If you'll but marry Barny Blake.
Who paid me twenty guineas down;
With drink that night, and Molly Roy,
All care and sorrow I did drown.
Well, on we boused, both night and day,
And thus my bounty did destroy;
Och! when my cash was all away—
Off with a Tar fled Molly Roy!
Coaxing, hoaxing, leering, jeering
Girl, she made quite a rake;
And, after all this mischief done,
Adieu! said she, sweet Barny Blake!
I did not tarry long behind,
For off that very night I slipp'd,
Through darkness, mire, through rain and wind:
But, och! a party follow'd fast,
And quickly did me overtake;
So then, I blubber'd out at last—
Farewell to freedom, Barny Blake!
No more with roaring, drinking, sploring,
Shall I spend a merry night,
For Molly's given me such a slip
That all my pleasure's ended quite.
And to three hundred sentenced me;
Though loudly I for mercy bawl'd,
The deuce a one did set me free:
And all my darling back they tore;
I now invet'rate foes them found,
Whom I did take for friends before.
Moaning, sighing, groaning, crying—
Satisfaction they did take;
For not a soul among them all
Did pity show to Barny Blake.
Reflecting on my follies past,
For many a dull and sorry day;
But—now I'm well again at last—
I swear by sweet Killarney's lake,
By Belfast bridge, St. Patrick, too,
No wench shall cully Barny Blake,
But to his standard he'll be true:
And while I'm roaring, drinking, sploring,
Duty still I'll mind to do,
And never flinch to face the French,
Though on the field of Waterloo.
BARNY O'BRYNE.
In such glowing strains that our fancies they move,
So I long'd for the field where the loud cannon rattle,
Where war was pourtray'd as on object of love:
But, whether bards deal most in truth or in fiction,
Let each form his judgment—I'll tell you what's mine;
Then, pray ye, despise not the rude homely diction
Of hapless, but truth-telling Barny O'Bryne.
I set off one morn from the plains of Kildare,
When Sergeant Kidnap, with his quizzical blarney,
Soon tipp'd me the shilling at Donnybrook fair:
My friends for me search'd, but I soon off was march'd;
I was drill'd and accoutred to rank in the line;
And none less fear'd dangers, in the Connaught Rangers,
Than rallying light-hearted Barny O'Bryne.
For Bonny from Elba had made his escape;
Straight over to Brussels we'd orders to fly all—
I thought myself then in a terrible scrape.
At our embarkation, to leave my sweet nation,
The crowds on the beach were all shouting Huzza!
But, in midst of their cheering, I sigh'd out sweet Erin—
Sweet Erin mavourneen, Och, slan laught go brah!
Was sea-sick, at death's door, the whole passage through,
And got no recreation for such botheration,
But faced the French lines out beyond Waterloo.
On the eighteenth of June, in the morning right soon,
Bugles, trumpets, and drums sounded—Form into line!
The French were advancing, their cavalry prancing—
Then fear seized the heart of poor Barny O'Bryne.
The clangour of steel rang both near and afar;
There was groaning and cheering, and cursing and swearing,
And crying and dying, for the glory of war.
I was hurried along, in the midst of the throng,
Through blood, fire, and smoke, oftentimes out of line,
Till I met my sad lot by a canister shot,
That lopp'd off both the limbs of poor Barny O'Bryne.
Until from the doctors I rallied again,
On my new wooden legs, like two bass-fiddle pegs,
To totter through life in great sorrow and pain:
Although I must mention, I've got a good pension,
To keep me for aye, ne'er of want to repine;
Then let each Hibernian by me take good warning,
Nor tread the hard footsteps of Barney O'Bryne.
THE INSPIRED BACHELOR.
A carefu', cannie, honest chiel,
Wha 'neath guid fortune's smile, fu' biel,
Lived fifty years an' twa.
To soothe the cares and toils o' life,
Though gowd and siller were baith rife
And ready at his ca'.
While beakin' on yon sunny brae,
His lightsome lambs did friskin' play,
Wi' mirth and joy nae sma';
Sly Cupid, frae behind a thorn,
Wi' look dejected and forlorn,
Because he treated was wi' scorn,
His sharpest shaft did draw.
He found the am'rous bitin' smart;
Resolved to act the lover's part,
Out, owre the muir, he flew,
To Nelly, merry, braw, and free,
Wi' rosy cheek and sparklin' e'e,
Wha ne'er the auld maid's life wad dree,
She aften did avow.
On errand he ne'er gaed before;
Auld Bawtie raised a fearfu' roar,
That maist did Robin fley:
But Nelly quell'd the growlin' tyke,
And gaed wi' Robin yont the dyke:
Although he looked right auld like,
The siller fill'd her e'e.
Till Nelly, hafflins, whisper'd Ay:
For weel ye ken what cash can buy,
Silks, rings, and hearts, and a'.
The day was set, and Robin cam',
And took young Nelly by the han';
So now they're canty wife and man,
And ha'e nae care ava.
NEIL M'NEIL'S NARRATIVE.
You'll brangt her here tae nicht,
Her kens, you'll kens, her canna sang,
An' she'll no be wants to fecht;
But sin' she's here, she'll no backdraw,
Te let tae laddish ken,
Tat her mother was a shentleman,
Far, far 'yont Lomond-Ben.
Lara lurin, cleechan cluran, sheelum shullam shaw.
Hur Glory o' Argyll;
Her faiter tell hur ne'er be pride,
Nor Hielinman beguile.
Sae far she cam't owre Campsie Hills,
To herd tae Lawlan's kyes,
But growt nane richer tan get trews,
Her braw legs ta tisguise.
Her fee was crowan mair,
An' she want down ane summer tay,
To sawt tae Glasgow Fair:
An' tere she'll seent sae mony folk,
Her ribs them maist til crush;
Tae stant as tick, a' roun an' roun,
As treshes in a push.
Aroun' tae hangman's loan,
An' tere she mony pagpipes heard,
Put coudna sawt ta drone;
An' tere she sawt a wee wee man,
Was fechtin wi' um's wife,
An' tae folk tit cawt um Mr. Toddie, or Mr. Grog,
Or some troll name like that, belangin tae ta whisky,
An' tae rogue him tuckt her life.
Wi' ponny sprittilt hair,
Hersel' be sure tere was mair mae
Tan Moss-o'-Balloch fair;
Tere shentlemans an' ladish tance,
Teir claes wi' sixpence clad;
Och! gif her hae sae muckle cash,
Wi' shog she'll wad gae mad.
Paith white, an' black, an' brown;
Tae gallop, put ne'er lift teir fit;
Tae caw 'um merry-go-roun';
An' though tae callop hale tay lang,
She neer cout saw't tum sweat,
An' he maun cruel maister pe,
Ta gi'e him's horse nae meat.
Her neen an' foot grew tire,
Ten she'll gangt to tae whisky house,
An' for tae dram inquire;
Tae maister him pringt in tae gill,
An' first tit drank himsel',
Put sic a whisky I ne'er sawt,
She was weaker nor tae well.
Gart lads and lasses dance,
Sae, whan she was gangt out hersel',
Shust stappit in by shance:
A pra' pra' ladysh says to her,
Come, lad, we'll ha'e tae reel;
Oich, Mattam! wi' my heart, says she,
But she's horse shoons on her heel.
Shenteel to her was I,
I treatit her ben te drink tae gill,
An' eat the mutton pie;
An' dram, dram, dram, and crack,
Till nainsel' she fawt soun' asleep,
An' hadna payt ae plack.
Oich, man! but she be try;
She think she'll could Lochlomon drink,
Sae loud for ale tit cry:
Her shappit ance, her shappit twice,
Her shappit thrice, an' a',
But teel ane came to nanser her,
Or tae toor lock te traw.
So you'll see, when she'll couldna get naebody to open tae room toor, her nainsel opens tae room window, and cries to a man tat was gaun bye, “could you'll tell her, frien', how she'll could win oot to get a trink, for gif she stay muckle langer here she'll be shockit wi' try!” an' says tae man, says him, “tiel tak' your Highlan' wame! gif ye ha'e drucken the house try tat ye're in, ye teserve tae want trink for a twalmonth!” So you'll see—an' him shust stapit awa'—so you'll see, when she sawt her could get nane help she shust looks town to tae causey, for she was tae twa story up—“Od,” say she to her nainsel', “'s shaist no' muckle far'er high than tae Craig o' Balloch, tat she loupit owre wan she was chaist wi' tae gauger, wan she'll rin't awa' wi' tae worm o' tae still. She'll try.” So shust wan she was be gaun to loup, tae maister o' tae house opens tae room toor, an' cries, “Whar are ye gaun, ye Highlan' vagabond! wait and pay your reck'nin' 'ore ye gang oot, or else he'll sent you to bridewell!” So she shust turn roun and mackit a pow, and said to him, “Oich, sir, her's nunko glad to see you, an' wou'd be blithe to be sent to either—the bride's well or the bridegroom's well—she'll cou'd tireck her to, for she's tat try she cou'd trink oot o' tae glooter sheugh.” “Od,” say him, “you'll needna been sae try, for ye left tae feck o' a gill and a pottle o' yill yestreen, when yon limmer left ye, after ye fell asleep; an' I set, shust set it by i' the press there. I thocht ye wad haen as muckle sense as fan' the smell o't whan ye waukent.” So her brangt him oot o' tae press, and she shust flewt on't like tae tiger, an' trank t'em a' baith; oich, man, it was refresh! Then says to tae maister, “What pe tae tamage yestreen?” “Oo,” say him, says the maister, “ye'll ken tere was shust seven trams an' sax pottles o' yill, an' the twa pies—that's shust four an' fourpence;—ay, an' tere was a proken glass, that's fivepence mair—five shillin's a' tegither; we'll sharge naething for lodgin', as she was only lyin' on the floor.” “Weel, weel,” say she, “'s gawn to be tae dear fair; petter she't been at her
Or she could learn the trade—
To stan', to march, prime, load, and fire,
Or stick the Frenchman dead.
But whan tae thocht tae could her trust
To fecht, and no to run,
Tae sent her te a warm place,
Straucht down aneth the sun.
At a place tae cawt abroad,
An' though she'll try't to gang again
She cou'dna fin' the road:
An' she did mony places sawt,
She'll no be min' ta name;
'Twas no half sae ponny's hame.
When ta cannon bullets flew,
And shot her ramrod and her han'
Awa' at Waterloo.
Her head ran roun', her near growt blin',
She fell upon ta grun,
And cryt, oich on! she'll fecht nae mair
Wi' either sword or gun.
And syne tit let her hame;
For a' ta trouble she comt through,
Oich! Bonny was to plame.
And now, my lads, tak' her advice,
Be cautious and tak' care;
You'll see what whiles lies in your lot
By gaun to Glasgow Fair.
THE SHEPHERD OF LORN.
Cease, thou clear streamlet, thy murmuring flow,
And list a sad lover give vent to her pain,
While darkly her soul is o'ershadow'd with woe!
Parents and friends all distract me with scorn;
All for my loving, with virgin simplicity,
That darling youth, the sweet Shepherd of Lorn.
Where now the sweet fleeting phantoms of youth?
All fled! ever fled to oblivion from me!
No longer to wear the fair semblance of truth.
E'er to remind me to fortune I'm born,
For my sad fancy doth ever awaken thee,
Soul of my life, thou sweet Shepherd of Lorn!
MAGGIE PICKEN.
Had it painted owre her door,
Never mind how lang's your score,
You're welcome yet to mair o't.
Maggie's blithe invitin' sign
Garr'd the ale ga'e down like wine;
Few gaun bye could e'er decline
To daunner in and share o't.
Maggie's whisky aye was pure;
Nae sair heads we did endure
Frae Maggie's true Glenlivet:
Maggie's swats soon wauken'd glee,
Garr'd the hours like moments flee;
Faes red-wud at a law plea
Grew friends when they did pree it.
Nichts o' whilk we ne'er repent;
Pleasure, leaving blithe content,
Her magic wand waved o'er us:
Dancin', singin', happy a',
Ne'er ane thocht o' gaun awa',
Though the cock's clear mornin' craw
Did join the merry chorus.
Has dung Maggie's run to wrack;
Weddin', ball, or social crack,
Maun end ere weel begun now:
Scarce the clock has chappit ten
When the police straucht comes ben,
Sayin', “Lads, the law, ye ken,
Allows na later fun now!”
Maggie could nae langer draw;
Frae the shore she's now awa',
Whare lang she dwelt fu' cheery:
Trav'llers, wha afttimes before
Aye fand shelter on the shore,
Look in vain for Maggie's door,
For a's now dull and dreary.
MISS HARRIOT LUCY BROWN.
At the west end of the town,
For these thirty years, has been the leading dandyzett,
While the public always cry,
They can't see the reason why
Such a beauty as Miss Harriot's never married yet.
To a person with half sight,
Why this Clyde-side beauty's wiles have still miscarried yet;
Though she's half the town in thrall,
She's objections to them all;
Why then marvel that Miss Harriot's never married yet?
Mr. Taylor's coat brush'd bare,
Mr. Mason's Boaz and Jachin rather bandy set,
Mr. Short is rather tall,
Mr. Mieckle rather small;
Not an Absalom could please this squeamish dandyzett!
Mr. Meek a vulgar scold,
Mr. Richer is to poor to run his carriage yet,
Mr. Sharp is rather flat,
Mr. Long is rather squat;
How the deuce then could Miss Harriot fix on marriage yet?
Her confections and conserves,
Her snow-white teeth are, not a little, tinged with the jet;
To the dentist she must go,
And repair the upper row,
Then haply she may run a chance of marriage yet.
That she's fairly past her prime;
Still the wiling charms of love have with her tarried yet;
Though the rose hath fled her cheek,
She's a model of the antique,
So there's hope that sweet Miss Harriot will get married yet.
CALLER HERRIN'.
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
Come, wives, support the fishers' trade,
Wha still in peril earns his bread,
While round our coast, oft tempest toss'd,
He drags for caller herrin'.
So, then, buy them, and try them,
You'll find them special herrin';
With their gills red as roses,
Their een like diamonds shine.
Wi' their wistfu' een a' glancin',
When they see caller herrin',
How delightfully they smile.
Then buy them, and fry them:
The weans will soon be dancin'
Round the fireside and table,
Your labours to beguile.
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
The sage, the simple, weak, and strong,
Rejoice to hear o' halesome cheer,
Like fine caller herrin'.
Then come buy caller herrin',
You wha dainties are preferrin'!
Their backs are like green grass,
Their sides like silver shine.
Can yield supply but scanty,
And, though costly, they scarcely
Reward the fisher's toil;
But grand shoals o' herrin'
Stream around our shores in plenty;
They're so sweet they may treat
The best lady of our isle.
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
THE LOVELY HUSSAR.
While musing alone, on the green banks of Clyde;
For, early next morning, the route bore afar
The sole joy of her heart, her young lovely Hussar.
“The bright dawn of hope, now, is darken'd by shade;
From favour my friends will me doubtless debar,
Should I harbour one thought of my lovely Hussar.
His absence I mourn who oft charm'd me before;
Oft here, till the dawn of the bright morning star,
I have roam'd arm-in-arm with my lovely Hussar.
Nor with tales of love wing the else dreary hours;
Since morn's golden smile, and the loud trump of war,
Waft afar from my arms my young lovely Hussar.
Though beauty is his to the eye's whole desire,
But his bright mental charms, more alluring by far,
Are the magic that beams from my lovely Hussar.
And autumn, unheeded, may wave o'er the plain;
Grim winter, enthroned on thy dark rolling car,
Join my woe, since I'm lost to my lovely Hussar.
No blithe ray of hope says he e'er will return;
Yet, while from my arms, sad, he wanders afar,
I'll retain in my heart my young lovely Hussar.”
THE BONNIE BANKS OF CALDER.
Mary, wilt thou go with me, to the bonnie banks of Calder?
And summer's charms the heart engage;
Let's seek the heath-clad hermitage,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
Wafts through the glen a sweet perfume,
And flowers unnumber'd sweetly bloom,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
For music cheers the dark-green bowers,
And blithely glide the lightsome hours,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
'Neath honey-suckles waving gay,
Where blackbirds trill the dulcet lay,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
To lead my love to Hymen's shrine,
I'd rapt'rous meet that joy divine,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.
MARY'S LAMENT.
For the sweet smiles of nature from me are all fled;
And here I stray
The live-long day
In solitude and pain,
To mourn the fate
Of him who late
At Waterloo was slain.
From the green fragrant birch or the white flowery thorn,
Yet still from me
Doth pleasure flee,
Ne'er to return again;
For my love lies,
No more to rise,
On Waterloo's red plain.
For she has lost her mate now, and I've lost my love;
And, till to death
I yield my breath,
I'll constantly complain,
For the hard fate
Of him who late
At Waterloo was slain.
COME TO YON BIRKEN BOWER.
To shun the noontide rays,
And talk of love till Phœbus leave the sky.
The roses wide their fragrance shower
Throughout the woodland maze,
And sweet the streamlet murmurs bye:
Flowers spring; birds sing,
With their music rocks ring;
Roaming fancy's luring glances
Charm the mental eye.
Come Flora, &c.
Where honey-suckles twine
With ivy green, in yonder sweet alcove;
The hum of bees floats through the air,
Till Zephyr fan the pine
And aspen, trembling in the grove.
Nearest, dearest,
Still my soul thou cheerest;
Looks of love all cares remove
From me, while thus we rove.
Laburnum waves, &c.
ANNA, MY DEAR!
Mournfully drear?
Why in thy languid eye
Starts the sad tear?
“Oh! 'tis for her that's gone
To that dark world unknown,
And left me here alone—
Anna, my dear!
Nature doth cheer,
And birds melodious sing,
Charming the ear;
Still every grot and grove,
While there I pensive rove,
Echoes this dirge of love—
‘Anna's not here!’
Sighs on my ear;
Thoughts through my bosom thrill
Painful to bear!
Still round her lonely urn
Shall sad remembrance mourn;
Yet never will return
Anna, my dear!”
MARIA.
That dwelt on Turio's verdant banks;
But her dear lover left the shade,
To join the patriotic ranks.
On war's dire field he fought and fell;
Maria heard the woful tale;
She wept—she bade the world farewell,
And in yon convent took the veil.
She, pensive, spends the dreary hours;
To grief's distracting vortex hurl'd,
She still the tide of sorrow pours.
Her cheek, once like the blushing rose,
With grief, now vies the lily pale;
Maria now no pleasure knows,
But in yon convent wears the veil.
DARKSOME WINTER'S COME AGAIN.
Yellow autumn's left the plain,
Darksome winter's come again,
And ilka thing looks dreary, O.
Loud the hail-showers, dark and chill,
Sweep along the Eldrigg hill;
Birdies cease their lays to trill,
That wont to chaunt fu' cheery, O.
Rudely now the norlan' breeze
Tears the cleadin' aff the trees;
Frosts the windin' burnies seize,
That ne'er wi' wimplin' weary, O.
That did bloom on field and bower,
Sullen winter's cranreugh lour
Gars ilka thing look eerie, O.
Cauld the driftin' blast doth blaw,
Fillin' glens wi' wreaths o' snaw;
Courin' flocks, by dell and shaw,
Are bleatin' wild and dreary, O.
Yet, the blithesome smile o' spring
Will gar a' wi' music ring;
Then ilk swain on braes will sing
The praises o' his deary, O.
POEMS.
Solitude.
Remote from dissipation's gadding eye,
Who, 'neath the shade of dark umbrageous oaks,
Hast wisely shunn'd ambition's grating cry;
And who, while thousands vaguely rove, awry,
From the calm path that leads to wisdom's shrine,
Dost point thy vot'ries to the garnish'd sky,
The radiant empire of that Power Divine
By whose omnific word those countless orbs do shine.
Hath woo'd me ofttimes to thy hermit cave—
Far from the crowd's ear-stunning fervid broil—
Where purling streams the wending willows lave;
Or, where wild-thyme and heath in blossom wave,
Hath held thy lucid mirror to my view—
Shown sage philosophy, abstractly grave,
The flood of mind and matter wading through;
And, though he toil'd and learn'd, scarce less his lesson grew.
Or gaily circle round the racy bowl,
While from the minstrels showers of music fall,
And bright enchantment elevates the soul,
Think! For, while thus in fleeting joys ye roll,
Time's swiftest gale down life's short vista glides,
Sweeping, with irresistible control,
The race of man to death's oblivious tides,
Where horror's sable frown in awful gloom presides.
Less bless'd than you, though different be their aims;
For in sobriety they pleasures find,
Though fashion's roll exhibit not their names:
And this they do, experience sage exclaims,
But, ah! they know how riot's end defames
His conduct, justly, with her clam'rous voice,
Who haunts her wanton courts, and joins her crackling noise.
Which on the mind leaves no improving trace,
But seeks its tomb soon as it finds its birth,
Close lock'd within oblivion's firm embrace!
The masquerade's low-born buffoon grimace
May tickle hearts by folly overrun,
While they who love true wisdom's hallow'd face
Such trifling aping both detest and shun,
While undiscerning crowds are by its snares undone.
Then say what work, or great or good, appears
Fit reason's scrutinising eye t' engage,
Through the long lapse of nigh six thousand years,
But sprung from Solitude, whose mirror clears
From feculence opaque the mental powers?
Who wisdom's flag o'er error's urn uprears,
E'en in her solemn, scarce-frequented, bowers,
As lightly glide along the evanescent hours.
The sons of genius, modern or remote,
And, keen, their modes of acting oft explore,
While, with increasing love, we on them dote;
Yet whence, but from the lone sequester'd grot
Or study-closet, came their works abroad?
To rescue—from the sinking rabble's lot,
Forgetfulness—their names, who nobly trod
The path of wisdom fair, which leads to fame's abode.
From jarring life to pure Olympus' top?
Thence flow'd their lays, doom'd ne'er in time to die,
But stand as models till life's curtain drop:
Unfetter'd fancy there had ample scope
To scan the intellectual regions round;
There reason her mysterious way did grope
Through error's furzy labyrinth profound,
While tyrant passion lay, quite vanquish'd, on the ground.
Amid society's tumultuous roar?
No: he acquired to captivate the heart
Where brawling waves howl'd on the rocky shore:
The mind's whole windings did he nice explore,
Mark'd when the potent cadence had effect—
Wielded at will their hearts who stood before
His awful presence—drawing all respect
When rousing them to arms, their freedom to protect!
As Socrates and Plato, truly wise;
Or Aristotle, from whose wisdom much
Of Alexander's glory did arise;
Or those who dwelt beneath Italia's skies,
And rose to fame, in learning or in war;
Tully and Cæsar soon the muse espies,
And him, of song the most effulgent star
'Mong heathen bards, Virgil, who sweetest sang by far.
Ere in life's drama they conspicuous shone;
Their brows did fame with verdant laurels bind,
To bloom when countless millions are unknown.
To other lands, O Muse, why hast thou gone,
To cull the relicts of the mighty dead?
Thy sons, Britannia, are surpass'd by none
Who o'er the world have such bright lustre shed
As hath thee raised to be its wonder and its dread:
Who search'd out Nature's laws, though dark and deep,
Nor erring wander'd; for the vast machine
He clear expounded, and, with potent sweep,
Exiled dull sophistry, to wail and weep
Beneath the fell contempt of after days;
Consign'd her folios, now a useless heap,
As fuel on the burning hearth to blaze—
Glorious, his name will shine while heaven her light displays:
Whose hair-dividing metaphysic eye
Man's wondrous immaterial part hath seen,
And clear'd the mist that thereon long did lie:
A Milton thine, who sang, in numbers high,
Who doth each bard, heaven-uninspired, outvie,
That struck the lyre since Sol on terra smiled,
To ward her in her course from devious rovings wild.
Didst thou to Shakespeare's muse such fire impart—
Such bold description, and bright flashing wit,
Such peerless knowledge of the human heart?
Doubtless to show thy power, devoid of art,
To prune proud learning's all-ambitious wing—
Conviction on the muse's sons to dart,
That, without thee, in vain they try to sing;
For never from the harp true harmony they'll bring.
When roused her country's sages to detail,
To pay the tribute of profound respect
Due to the memory of godlike Hale;
Humble, amidst true honour's prosp'rous gale;
Just, while the golden bait of bribery flow'd;
Feeling, to soothe want's supplicative wail;
Awful in judgment, to the wretch who trode
The flagrant paths of guilt which lead to death's abode.
To grace the bright saturnian roll of fame;
For, through the gloom of other days, far gone,
Her sons of genius uneclipsed flame.
In classic lore, what modern bold dare claim
Precedency to chaste Buchanan's muse?
Or thy sweet lays (which carping cynics aim
Quite to explode by sophistry profuse),
Ossian, great Celtic bard, nursed 'mid the mountain dews?
A Beattie, a M'Laurin, and a Keil,
Auspiciously have fallen to her share,
Whose labours have made learning's garden smile:
A Thomson, whose sweet strains the hours beguile,
As if the talisman's enchanting wand
Raised, to our still delighted eye, the while,
The varied scenery of every land,
Whose memory for aye will time's assaults withstand.
That with heroic Wallace can compare?
His was the undaunted soul, 'mong dangers bred,
On fields of war, or 'mid the mountain air:
His mighty mind drew inspiration there
From Solitude, the nurse of virtues strong;
And when his country's plains were plunder'd bare,
He rid her of the base marauding throng,
And raised her thistle's head, that drooping hung so long.
Scan their biography with critic eye!
And own the peerless power of Solitude
In aiding minds for works that never die.
Base is the soul that haunts the nauseous sty
Of riot, losing life's true halcyon joys,
While time's on wing, and merit raising high
Her roll of honour, free to all whose choice
It is to mind her call, and spurn earth's sensual toys.
Her powers propitious; mild devotion, too,
From crude society sequester'd far,
Soars into ecstacies of joy still new:
Untroubled there she rapt'rous can pursue
Her hopeful prospects in the world unknown,
Beneath the fragrant birch or sable yew,
Where mourning streams sigh with incessant tone:
Her sweetest hours she spends in wild-wood shades alone.
Shows nature's charms far, far surpassing art,
While native music flows from blooming bowers,
With power to captivate the feeling heart:
Still, solemn, lonely night doth charms impart
To minds which are to contemplation given,
When sumless stars their twinkling splendour dart,
Of golden hue, from circumambient heaven,
While every thought that's mean is from the bosom driven:
In close communion with the Deity,
When through the jarring city's every nook
Rings the unhallow'd voice of revelry:
And then, too, roused to true sublimity,
Or when ascends the lark's blithe melody
O'er freshest meads, with rushes waving long,
Tuning his dulcet lay as vaults his fancy strong:
Upon the perils of the days of yore,
When persecution's deadly sword and lance
Deep dyed these lovely wilds in human gore,
The tide of sympathy swells more and more
Within his breast, and quite o'erwhelms his soul,
For those who fought true freedom to restore,
Or, hapless, fell, to grace the martyr's roll,
Tasting the unsav'ry dregs of death's impoison'd bowl:
And, frequent, paces o'er the dreary ground,
While o'er the darksome hills the lightning gleams,
And thunder from the welkin peals around;
Or haply, stretch'd upon the verdant mound,
By Roman hands uprear'd in th' olden time,
Thousands of thoughts upon his fancy bound,
And swell his soul to ecstacy sublime;
Then rolls the rapid tide of pure orig'nal rhyme:
Or bleating lambs, far o'er the heathy moor,
Or mourning soft of lonely mountain rill,
Than theatres, where flashes wit impure;
A gifted Kean may thitherward allure
The gaping throng, by skill in mimicry;
But, to th' impassion'd mind, impart no cure,
While trips the wanton siren levity;
Remote from this lewd court dwells true philosophy.
In highest rank, where true politeness shone,
Where learning bright display'd her radiant port,
Could Jerom's heart to virtue's mandates tone:
No: 'twas in Bethle'm's humble village, lone,
The glorious conquest o'er his lusts he won,
'Neath whose fell sway he long oppress'd did groan,
When, beaming bright, arose the gospel-sun,
Dispelling from his soul of vice the vapours dun:
Incessant, pondering o'er the hallow'd page;
Hence study keen, with warm devotion mix'd,
Subdued to quiet passion's burning rage.
Such power has Solitude to disengage
The soul from objects mean, to raise her aims,
The thirst for splendid trifling to assuage,
And mark punctiliously fair Virtue's claims,
Who eternizes still her noble vot'ries' names.
On heathy hills, wild wolds, or lonely vales,
'Midst woods and rocks, and fairy-haunted dells,
Where nought obtrusive eye or ear assails:
Oft in the city all his power prevails,
Within the closet's taper-lighted bourn,
Where study pores; or pale affliction wails,
Through adverse fate, or friends laid in the urn;
Or penitence laments time lost ne'er to return:
A life of toil and poverty expends,
And, when his latest tie on earth is gone,
For him in black appear no weeping friends;
Thus strangely, woefully, his life he ends,
In frightful Solitude, amid the throng;
More sadly drear than he who never blends
Among society, but all life-long
Dwells in the hermit-shades, and die's the same among:
With ceaseless ardour, in his still recess,
Where passion ne'er his face distorted shows,
Nor riot enters, with obscene address;
Unheard his name, till wide the teeming press
His sapient labours to the world displays;
Then lauding thousands join his name to bless,
And through the letter'd world his fame to raise,
And twine the laurel-wreath or ever-verdant bays.
For lonely contemplation, prime of joy,
The sacred-day have we, by mandate high,
When nought obtrusive dares the mind annoy;
In acts devotional, without alloy,
The themes which highest Seraphim employ
May well claim entrance to the human breast,
When, sweet, they soothe the soul with hopes of endless rest:
Deep consultation with the inner man;
For pond'ring revelation's records bright,
Which show redemption's all-excelling plan:
Yet, oh! what swarms of wretches, direly wan,
With quenchless riot, lounge along the streets!
Who ne'er one act by wisdom's standard scan,
Nor of retirement lone partake the sweets,
But scorn, with brazen front, heaven's promises and threats!
To breathe the halcyon fragrant mountain air,
While from the east th' illuming sun doth smile,
And fields bright gleam, bespread with di'monds fair;
While birds the cheering power aloud declare,
In matins sweet, from forest, hill, and plain;
There let me usher in the day of prayer
With contemplation's soul-enriching train,
Unseen by mortal eye, save some mild early swain:
Him o'er whose head hung envy's dagger dire,
The darling of his father and his God,
Joseph, enslaved to glut fraternal ire;
Or Israel's destined, legislative sire,
On Midian mountains tending, lone, his flock,
Where, from the bush of sight-bedazzling fire,
God him commission'd with the awful shock
'Gainst Egypt's sons, who bound round Jacob's neck the yoke;
Death-edged, from God's terrific armoury,
O'er Palestine, devoted by the Lord,
To drink the blood of her cursed progeny;
Or David, famed for sacred minstrelsy,
Wand'ring the desert wild, the mountain drear,
Or pouring forth the heart-felt elegy
For those who fell, by woeful doom severe,
Upon Gilboa's hills, by sabre, bow, and spear;
Or Buzi's son, by limpid Chebar's strand;
Or Daniel, raised, by God's all-ruling will,
To princely sway in Babel's distant land;
Or John the Baptist, the forerunner grand
Of Him whose love earth's every clime should see—
Who gave existence, by his sole command,
To all things in creation's bounds that be,
Yet deign'd to die for man, from sin to set him free!
Till, call'd from roaming by the village bell,
Homeward I tread, o'er dew-bespangled flowers,
And leave the sighing stream and silent dell!
There peace and pleasure, in sweet concord, dwell;
There blithe content, with brow unruffled, reigns;
There ne'er is heard rude riot's bedlam swell,
Nor base deception friendship's visage feigns;
But, glowing, mutual love prevails 'mong honest swains.
Entire seclusion sternly I decry:
From convents dull what good result can spring,
Whose inmates social nature's laws deny?
Or hermit, far removed from mortal eye,
In woods and caves, sad, sullen, sitting lone,
A whole life through, in wild obscurity,
Where tempest-shaken forests deeply moan—
His bed the rushy mat, his seat the mossy stone?
That mutual intercourse best suits our race:
Each is dependent; therefore is constrain'd
To court affiance with his brother's grace;
Nor, though exalted to the regal place,
Where riches, honours, titles, brightly blaze,
Ought squinting scorn e'er to distort his face,
Nor demon-pride his wrath malignant raise;
But fellow-love should gild his most propitious days.
An endless Solitude for man's not meet!
Yet, in the dawn and eve of life's long day,
'Tis right her silent arbours oft to greet;
In that, to nerve the soul with knowledge sweet,
In this, to take a retrospect, complete,
How oft to vice we fell, to virtue stood,—
And close the chequer'd scene in solemn Solitude!
Address to the Protestant.
To speak and write ye need na'e proxy;
Yon louns, wha vainly tried to hoax ye
Wi' sophistry,
Wad now, I'm rede, be fain to coax ye
To quat the play.
Wad prap the tumblin' Whore o' Bab'lon,
Or that, by dint o' friendlike fablin',
To plant Rome's creeds—
My sooth, ye've garr'd them quat their quibblin',
Wi' hingin' heads.
Wi' joy to pore upon your beuk,
That doth sae weel ilk grousome neuk
O' Popery rummage,
And ilka peacock-pinion pluck
Frae her gay plumage.
Wha rear'd our temple orthodox,
Has auld Papa, the wily fox,
Tholed sic a birsel,
Whilk's garr'd some herds o' his ain flocks
Maist tine their hirsel.
To yon zeal-rash vain-glorious three,
Wha boost sey to set heads wi' thee,
Wha garr'd them rin
Like thistle down out-owre the lea,
Blawn by the win'.
Amang the quacks o' ghastly glamour;
His Holiness maun ca' the chamer,
Wi' grim grimace,
To see what rule o' Satan's grammar
Will fit the case.
Wha enter heaven by pick-lock keys,
Will fin' this is nae slight disease,
Purged aff by physic;
There lurks in ilka diocese
A deadly phthisic.
The deep delusion shall have spied,
And thrown the brazen bands aside,
That's gall'd sae lang,
While Rome's base priestcraft's hellish pride
Triumphant rang.
Rip up ilk knavish beggarplet!
Till, on ilk Catholic chapel yett,
We plain can read,
In letters large, “A Kirk to Let,”
Since Popery's dead!
Nae mair around the chapel wa'
She'll creep, bare-knee'd, wi' pinin' awe,
To won heaven's haven;
She now can read anither law,
Cleared by M'Gavin.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY George the Third.
And birds again resume the cheerful lay,
But Britain's gen'rous sons now deep deplore
Their venerable sovereign, torn away
By death, who rules with unrelenting sway,
And mighty George sleeps 'neath his kindred clay
In the grim vault of death, where, all demure,
The conq'ring tyrant reigns with black and sullen lour.
In splendour bright, to mount the regal throne;
And his the lot to wail incessant strife,
While, deep, his nation under war did groan:
Yet heaven, propitious, left him not to moan
Beneath the sorrows of his country's woe;
But, in that way mysterious and unknown,
Bereft his mind of reason—thus the throe
Intense of weeping grief ne'er from his soul could flow.
And strangely wild be lunacy's abode,
Yet fancy oft dispels the gloom, though dense,
And shows her florid fields for reason's road:
Such regions fair our fated monarch trod,
Nor seem'd perplex'd throughout th' enchanting scene,
Till death, obsequious to the will of God,
Wide scatter'd all the fairy visions sheen—
Changed for that land, we trust, unknown to care and teen.
Whose voice gave law to Europe's regions wide;
Whose arms, victorious, waved the flag of fate
On Mars' red fields and Neptune's rolling tide:
How bless'd the change! if, by the verdant side
Of life's pure stream, the victor's crown he wear,
Wreath'd with the palm of triumph, while do glide
The dulcet strains of angels on the ear,
To Him who ransom'd man by suff'rings so severe!
If pure perfection our criterion be,
Since every act and thought of fallen man
Deep tinged with guilt obscene we feel and see;
Yet, in the rank of life he moved, how free
From vice imperial was our gracious king;
Revered by all who virtue love was he;
And Britain's sons his mournful requiem sing,
While mem'ry round his tomb hails ever-blooming spring.
In troublous times, the golden sceptre sway'd,
And bold his daring subjects strove the while
Destruction's blow terrific to evade:
Each nerve was strung, and every effort made
To stand of tyranny the thund'ring shock;
And peace at length dispell'd war's gloomy shade,
When pride's enthralling chain in twain was broke,
And Europe was set free from slavery's galling yoke.
Which from the feeling soul awakes the sigh;
And now the choir the lay of death hath sung,
That, thrilling keen, bedims the downcast eye;
And now, in death's strong fetters bound, doth lie
Britannia's king, pale, in the gelid urn,
Which speaks the solemn truth, that “all must die”—
Though pompous pride the rigid law should spurn,
And royalty superb, with hatred red, should burn!
DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF Queen Caroline.
Around your polished brows like virgin snow;
And dress yourselves in sackloth, for beneath
The stroke of death lies Albion's glory low,
Queen Caroline, alas! the hapless child of woe!
That braved the sternest shock of calumny!
Hers was the fortitude that hath reveal'd
The power of Christian magnanimity,
'Gainst hell's battalia fierce, in serried, deep array.
Sweet innocence bereft of earthly joy?
Yet such there are in Britain's bounds, ah, me!
Who sought her every comfort to destroy,
And pleasure had in nought but what could her annoy.
Could blast the pleasure of a nation's love;
Come, retribution, mark their just deserts,
And hurl the bolt of vengeance from above
On their malignant heads who scathed the harmless dove.
That burned within the bosom of each foe,
And granted in the end her warm desire
To bid adieu to every thing below,
When all was sabled o'er with persecution's woe.
Far from the grasp of enemies malign;
But mem'ry, bending o'er her gelid urn,
Shall shed the tear of sympathy benign
For Britain's injured Queen, the hapless Caroline.
Queen Caroline, the persecuted wife of George IV. died at Brandenburgh House, on Tuesday, 7th August, 1821, in the 53d year of her age.
LINES ON The Death of Buonaparte.
To read the death of Buonaparte,
Whose never satiated ambition
Hath brought our land to this condition?
Yes, just reflection pensive throws
A look of sympathy on foes;
Nor can she, with invidious heart,
Wield retribution's whetted dart;
But, with a loving, pitying eye,
A British magnanimity,
Weeps o'er a fallen enemy,
Though fell as Buonaparte.
To give his wild ambition rein!
Ah! who can weigh the load of grief,
The anguish, finding no relief,
Which o'er our land relentless hung,
While woe mark'd every eye and tongue,
When he in scales the nations weigh'd,
And his satanic sceptre sway'd?
Post after post brought news of death;
Afresh the streams of sorrow start,
But never ease the burden'd heart:
No parent's, brother's, sister's tear,
No relative's nor lover's fear,
Could melt the eye or ope the ear
Of direful Buonaparte.
Hath doom'd, in want or pain, to pine;
We wail the wretch whom ruthless hap
Brings to the gibbet's fatal trap,
Whose crime perhaps is treason dire,
Or murder, done in midst of ire,
Or forgery, caused by pressing want,
Or stealth, when means of life are scant.
She inly groans with stifled breath
To list the piercing knell of death;
That knell, the law's terrific nod,
Which sites him to the bar of God.
But, ah! what sympathy claims he,
The boasted friend of liberty,
Who, twenty years, by field and flood,
Drench'd Europe with her children's blood?
Much! then let Britons, Christians named,
For pity and forgiveness famed,
Bid hatred, vengeance, both depart,
While charity's warm tears do start;
Let each, within his little sphere,
Of sly ambition's wiles beware,
And mark pride's fatal, final share,
In hapless Buonaparte.
The Battle of Issus,
Fought between ALEXANDER THE GREAT and DARIUS, King of Persia.
I.
Or hast thou none e'er found?
Alas! thy every-stinging case
Home, peace, and love have drown'd:
The name superior or compeer,
But instant swells thy envious soul
To sink him under thy control;
Though, to accomplish thy desire,
Whole cities blaze in vengeful fire;
Though thousands draw their latest breath
Upon the bloody field of death;
Though Pity, bathed in silent tears,
The scream of ravish'd maidens hears;
All must obey thy dire command,
Though desolation sweep the land.
Did court thy meteor glare,
Till he the Eastern world had won,
By blood, and toil, and care:
Thus, great in fame and grandeur grown,
A vanquish'd world at will his own;
Puff'd up, no longer he'll confess
He sprung was from the mortal class—
But doth assume the sovereign nod,
And doth proclaim himself a god;
Until the vine's subduing power
Did wheel around the fatal hour
Which caused him enter death's dark portal,
And claim his friendship with the mortal;
Fate's barbed dagger struck the blow,
And laid him like his fellows low.
With thy bright retrospective eye,
The lapse of ages past—
Say, what eventful deeds were done,
That day, by Philip's martial son;
What numbers breathed their last.
Thy wings expand, and waft me o'er
The gulph of ages gone;
Oh bear me to Cilicia's shore,
Nor leave me there alone:
To me the battle scene unfold
Which fought was in the days of old—
The hapless victims how deform'd,
The warriors' face, indignant burning,
Repell'd by force, with hope returning!
The din of arms, the battle shout,
The victor's fire, the conquer'd's rout!
And, when I've view'd this scene of yore,
Return me to my native shore,
With peace and freedom sweet to dwell,
Far from the noisy battle's swell.
To gild the dark horizon;
The sight that day he sought to shun
Behind the vapours, floating dun;
A sight so dire he never cast his eyes on!
He sought it to evade in vain,
For quickly clear'd the dewy plain,
And, full before his potent ray,
The battle ranks appear'd that day:
He heard the war clang sounding high,
The wounded groan, the conquer'd sigh!
He saw the Persians backward reel
Before the glare of Grecian steel,
And, ere he kiss'd the shades of night,
The Persian army put to flight!
II.
The far-famed Grecian commander,
On whose brow sat deliberation
In this momentous situation;
Cool, yet intrepid, was his mien;
He first in danger still was seen;
Undaunted views the Persian host
While others judged the cause was lost.
Ere yet the gallant bands engage,
To fire each mind with martial rage,
He thus address'd his daring few,
Who were arranged in order due:—
To be enslaved, or nobly die
Beneath the conq'ring foe!
Nor flinch a foot, in van or rear,
For all their glaring show!
Though on they move, in phalanx deep,
Sheer from the plain our files to sweep,
Withstand the shock quite undismay'd;
For lance or spear be none afraid;
Their weak effeminated front
Will yield, when once it feels your brunt;
And then, into confusion driven,
The vict'ry sure to us is given.
Remember how—in days of yore,
What hate they to our fathers bore,
When Xerxes led his countless band
To spread destruction o'er our land—
Our valiant sires them vanquish'd quite,
And put the cumbrous horde to flight.
Spoil for the spoiler there you see,
If you on plunder bent should be;
Revenge for those whose fathers fled
Before their power, or nobly bled:
Remember, that in no community
Strength lies in numbers, but in unity.
The day is ours, I see it, won
Before the setting of the sun;
Th' immortal hills our stable flanks;
‘Revenge or death’ rings through our ranks!
Our hearts are true, our cause is just,
And Persia yield before us must!”
III.
His dauntless warlike band,
Warm glow'd with rage each hero's breast:
Like rocks, unmoved they stand.
In vain doth gild the plain;
Or, swelling through the ambient air,
Loud rings their battle strain.
And, glitt'ring in his rays, appears
Upon the field, with furbish'd gleam,
Six hundred thousand swords and spears.
Which, echo'd through th' etherial realm,
Join'd with the shout and battle song,
Threat'ning the Grecian host to 'whelm.
And meets a dire repulsive shock;
Like ocean's surge, to bubbles dash'd
Against the stubborn flinty rock!
IV.
Impetuous, led his army on,
In glitt'ring arms of gold;
Far follow'd a protracted train,
Which 'lumined round all Issus' plain,
As they to battle roll'd:
Might shake the coward's heart,
But Macedonia's sons, I ween,
Fear'd not their glare nor art.
As gleams the fatal light of heaven,
So darts the flash of arms!
As thunder 'mong the hills doth rattle,
So rung the clangour of the battle,
And echo's ear alarms!
And grate on helm and shield,
And oft, death-fraught, make heroes lie
Upon the blood-stain'd field.
Till Persia's hope-flush'd front gave way,
And back in haste recoil'd;
Then rose aloud the Grecian shout,
“They fly! they fly! they're put to rout!
Their utmost effort 's foil'd.”
Which runs throughout the host;
The shrieks of thousands, bathed in gore,
On point of sabres toss'd!
Throughout the terror-smitten throng,
Unmindful of their fate;
To Ecbatana safe he fled,
While for his cause an army bled—
Heart-thrilling to relate!
At Alexander's will;
Such riches never Greece disclosed,
The envious breast to fill.
Here stray'd not from the path of truth,
Nor brake stern virtue's law;
By no unruly passion driven,
He acted as if conscious heaven
His conduct's chart did draw:
Through all his after life,
With glory had his steps been strew'd,
And shunn'd much toil and strife.
Heaved many a sigh, dropp'd many a tear,
For this, their hapless lot;
But, when the conq'ror's conduct shone
With chaste protection, all anon
The dread of harm forgot.
V.
The combat's o'er at set of sun,And now, the night's cold air to shun,
The weary Greeks retire to tent,
After a day in bloodshed spent.
Now murky night o'erspreads the plain,
Where wounded lie among the slain;
Across the field wild groans are driven
Within the bleaky blast of heaven;
Half dead half living many lie,
Who heave the deep unheeded sigh,
And writhe beneath the rankling smart
Of death's chill dagger in their heart!
VI.
And shone with golden gleam;
The wolf, voracious, hied to feast
Beneath her flaunting beam;
Red glared the field in Luna's light,
And show'd a drear heart-rending sight;
Harsh, o'er the plain, the live-long night
Was heard the vulture's scream!
And buried the ill-fated slain;
Yet roves the wild hyena, growling,
Among the trenches nightly prowling;
And bloody wolf, carniv'rous rover,
Likes o'er the gory field to hover.
VII.
And bring sweet spring again
To clothe with grass the plain,
That swains the sight of blood may shun.
The rank green grass shall gaily wave;
That flowers shall deck the verdant mead,
Where many a daring heart did bleed;
That lambs shall frisk upon the mound
That wraps the mould'ring heroes round;
And, where once rung the battle-swell,
In peace, the husbandman shall dwell.
VIII.
With thee I long to wander;
Great Persia now, and all her stores,
Belong to Alexander.
Nor yet to forfeit life for pleasure;
But grant me Peace, and I'll consent
With Poverty to live content.
Let kings for crowns, indignant, war;
Let merchants search for wealth afar;
Give titles to the rich and great;
For me, no other boon I crave,
While I on earth a being have,
But freedom from internal strife—
A competence to keep in life,—
The rest I have from nature free,
Else, Fancy, they belong to thee;
Thy roamings, amidst daily toil,
Can summer's longest day beguile:
Can, while the sun doth vertic beam,
Me stretch beside the cooling stream;
Or, while the world lies clad in snow,
Recall can July's genial glow;
Can change the harsh ear-grating drum
To nurse's sleep-invoking hum;
The thunder rolling through the sky
Sweet as the infant's lullaby!
To gain the field of fame,
Give me but fancy's halcyon draughts,
Though none should know my name.
Elegy
ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. W. CREIGHTON.
O'er Sol's bright face, like midnight's ebon shroud,
While he, far south, in Sagittarius reigns,
And drops his rays on Afric's sultry plains.
Wild rung the hail, borne by the boreal breeze;
The river, buried, was not seen to flow,
Immured by crusting ice and smoth'ring snow.
And ruthlessly 'gainst mortals warr'd the while,
Relentless fate did throw his death-fraught dart,
And struck bright virtue's champion to the heart.
Swift, through the stellar orbs that gem the sky,
And prostrate falls before the throne above,
Prelusive to her endless song of love.
The strong assaults of earth's malignant foe;
And there to join the grand angelic choir,
Who touch, with hand sublime, the golden lyre!
With such a benefactor now to part;
To see him laid in earth's damp gelid urn,
Thence, till time's latest day, ne'er to return.
Who squared his life by the Almighty's plan;
Subdued each vice, each virtue did improve;
His groundwork, sure, was universal love.
Time's longest, dullest hours, have oft beguiled;
To guide oft-erring youth his greatest care,
To show them virtue's path, and keep them there.
From earth, though heavenward in a chariot borne;
And grieved was I to see my guardian's head
Interr'd within the chamber of the dead.
Sweet shall he rest until the day of doom!
Round which remembrance oft shall pensive sigh,
While tears conglobe her retrospective eye.
For whom the virtuous and the learned weep;
Warmer remember'd than the hero great
Who, in Westminster Abbey, lies in state.
To judgment an assembled world to bring,
He'll rise to share the glorious interview,
Where, of the great on earth, will be but few.
Elegy ON THE LATE J. F. SURGEON.
Our warden's fa'n, sae stainch and true!
Matches like him death met but few—
I'd maist said nane;
To health we a' may bid adieu,
Since Jamie's gane.
Kilbride his peer may look for never;
He's wafted o'er that fatal river,
Recrossed by nane;
And wha frae death will us deliver,
Since Jamie's gane?
We wish, but canna bring him back;
We've roopit Robin's shop o' black,
Oursel's to cleed;
Nae consolation can we tak',
Since Jamie's dead.
For healin' heads when they were sair;
The middle ward o' Lanarkshire
May loudly maen;
His peregal she'll meet nae mair!
Och! Jamie's gane!
Wha aften for the howdie ca';
Your tears he banish'd far awa
In time o' pain;
His like auld Scotlan' never saw;
But now he's gane.
Than a' the Glasgow faculty,
Wha ance wad pierced for dropsy
A wife wi' wean,
Whase time was tauld, even to a day,
By Jamie gane.
Our legs and arms to cut and slash;
Nor yet wi' vomits, and sic trash,
To gar us graen;
Now we maun thole ilk gamrell hash,
Since Jamie's gane.
Saturday in Glasgow.
The twilight bright advances,
Till owre the Shotts knowes, wet wi' dew,
The sun effulgent glances:
The mountains' streams, gilt wi' his beams,
Like silver, twinkle clear;
The birds o' sang, the woods amang,
Salute the tunefu' ear
Fu' sweet this morn.
Throws back an e'e o' pity,
As down the brae I bouncin' ga'e
To view famed Glasgow city;
Whare mist and reek, wi' darksome smeek,
Defy the solar blaze;
Whase inmates pale may sair bewail
The absence o' his rays
Sae aft by day.
Bot custom or embargo,
Reel fast and thrang the roads alang,
Fraught wi' their sinfu' cargo;
While mony a mouth, sair parch'd wi' drouth,
Is waitin' their arrival,
That late yestreen had whisky'd been,
And's needin' a revival
O' health this day.
Toils 'neath the great coal-waggon,
Urged to exert its utmost force,
Through terror o' a flaggin';
While some, mair skeich, wi' head fu' heich,
Are prancin' trim and trig,
As at their heels bright glancin' reels
The coach, landau, or gig,
Superb this day.
Swells through her echoin' regions,
And to parade, rude, swearin', rin
Her boist'rous vassal legions:
Now down the street, to music sweet,
Straucht for the Green they're airtin',
While schule-weans, keen to please their een,
Are frae their beuks desertin'
In droves this day:
The weel-train'd ranks are spreadin';
While awkward squads, without cockades,
Wi' ill-timed pace are treadin':
Here, washerwives, wi' ban'less tongues,
'Mang freathin' graith are splashin';
There, servant lasses, stark and young,
The stour frae carpets dashin',
Like reek, this day.
Beside the jail, their hame,
Wi' visage din, japann'd wi' sin,
And void o' fear and shame!
While owre ilk motion, gleg as fire,
The police lads are watchin',
And, as light-finger'd deeds transpire,
Most dext'rously they're catchin'
Ilk blade this day.
The wabsters skeichly bicker,
Some hopin' tap-room mirth ere lang,
While some are far mair sicker;
'Neath national burdens groanin';
The wives are tempted maist to ban,
While dearth o' tea bemoanin'
Right sair are they.
Wi' business and wi' folly;
Some 'neath misfortune's burden grain,
While ithers rant fu' jolly.
Here skulks a chiel o' noble soul,
Wi' empty pouches pinin',
There struts a weel-clad jobbernowl,
Wha is on sirloins dinin'
Profuse ilk day.
Now lovely maids are seen
Neist tawdry bawds, the glaikit jades,
Wi' drumlie lustfu' een.
'Neath pond'rous burdens porters grain,
And sweat through stark oppression,
While stout gigantic tailors vain
Dose at their slim profession,
In ease, this day.
The streets are trimmin' tightly,
Whare sights less fair than fiel'-pea blooms
Are there deposed nightly.
The barbers glib, wi' razors keen,
Are beards and whiskers mawin';
And fill their fabs wi' cash fu' bien,
Though blood they're aften drawin'
Frae plouks this day.
Rings echoin' up the closses;
And auctioneers, wi' wit right fell,
Joke owre the dyvours' losses.
Here fiddlers strike the dulcet strings,
By gapin' crowds surrounded,
And there a sair-maim'd sailor sings
How he in war was wounded,
Right loud, this day.
And sable-clad procession,
Whare gloom, beyond the power o' verse
To paint, hold full possession;
On that a chaise like lightning flies,
Scarce frae tap-gallop stoppin',
Whase inmates, bound in love's soft ties,
To Gretna-Green elopin'
Are, fast, this day.
The warehouse lobby's fillin',
Wha shore to leave the Corks ere lang,
Wi' scarce a single shillin'.
Some ware their mite wi' muckle mense,
'Gaint neist week's wants providin';
While ithers, void o' savin' sense,
Are State affairs decidin'
Owre th' ale this day.
Ilk core for news is ca'in';
Some greedily a speldin' chow,
Some cut-and-dry are blawin';
On argument some enter keen,
And mark state errors primely;
And some, to physic aff the spleen,
Swill down the drink, sublimely,
In pints this day.
In want's drear hovels pinin',
While husbands are, wi' frantic brains,
In alehouse senates shinin':
Whare, spendin' cash, they drink and clash,
And Britain's weelfare plan;
Till speechless gabs and empty fabs
Break up the doilt divan,
When drunk are they.
That aft to leeward veers,
Were she to ride the tempest dark
Mann'd by sic timoniers:
Ha'e been severely branded,
Yet han's like thir, fu' weel I trow,
Had her completely stranded
Lang ere this day.
In riot-like condition,
Whare butchers, wi' unhallow'd tongues,
For profit risk perdition:
Here ladies, wi' mercantile air,
Amang the stands are clav'rin',
While servants' faces plain declare,
They inly curse their hav'rin',
Sae vain, this day.
Fraught wi' a noble roast;
There flytes a souter's wife, half mad,
Anent a sheep's pluck's cost:
Some wauchle hame wi' sirloins fat
In baskets on their hainches,
While ithers cater for the pat
Guid fresh cow-heel, or painches
Fu' clean, this day.
Cleed mony strange riffrandies;
Poor, naked, scawt Hibernian louns
Come forth equipp'd like dandies;
Wi' backs to braid-claith strangers quite,
And hurdies to hale trews,
Nae wonder that they feel delight
When struttin in surtouts,
Right spree, this day.
Are in a perfect bustle,
Whare lab'rin' chaps, wi' stomachs keen,
For service strive and justle;
For soup and kail, and beef and ale,
A' airts at ance they're cryin',
While lasses rin, amidst the din,
To stop their mouths, a' fryin'
Wi' heat this day.
Dines when the pats are eekit;
Sma' toil will he ha'e pith to dree—
Experience weel can speak it:
Half-hunger'd drabs, wi' tasteless gabs,
Amang sic graith may slabber;
To me a treat, before sic meat,
Beer-scones and bonny-clabber
Would be ilk day.
Frae door to door slow creepin';
Sae toss'd by bitter fortune's storms,
Nae wonder that she's weepin'.
Some listen to her waefu' tale,
And cheer her abject face;
Some, haughty and unfeelin', rail,
Unmindfu' o' her case,
Sae sad, this day.
United, thrang are must'rin';
Their bodies frail, and faces gaunt,
Might quell youth's vogie blust'rin':
Hail! ye, o' heaven-expanded heart,
Wha plann'd this institution,
And sae judiciously impart,
Wi' weekly distribution,
Supply this day.
Down western skies is slidin',
While some for health, and some for fun,
On Clyde steam-boats are glidin':
Here tars, wi' faces black as sweeps',
Toil at the block and tackle;
And there the sharp tidewaiter keeps
Accounts o' rum and treacle,
Fu' sly, this day.
To beet the back and wame,
And lets us pree the gusty bree
O' foreign lands at hame;
Graced wi' a guid sprit cable,
'Langside o' whilk the fishwives brawl
As a' the tongues o' Babel
Were lowsed this day.
Lies here for sale right handy;
And barrels big, to let us swig
Dutch gin and fell French brandy:
A' kinds o' food, and drink, and drugs,
To fatten and to clean ye,
Ye'll get, that grow—I'll lay my lugs—
'Tween Ailsa Craig and China,
In rowth, ilk day.
To rouse the thievish varlets,
And thrang frae a' the closses spring
Great troops o' lustfu' harlots;
Some, late enlisted in the trade,
Show beauty's fadin' roses;
While ithers, lang in lech'ry bred,
Display sair flatten'd noses,
At the lamps, this nicht.
For she recoils wi' scunner:
To paint the brothel's scenes obscene
Would gar e'en Pagans won'er!
Here, revelling till morning dawn
In odious dissipation,
They break the fetters o' comman',
And laugh at stark damnation
Baith nicht and day.
In allusion to the farm servants—for pocket-money, not always spent by them in the most sober way—occasionally watering the milk on their way to the city.
Address to Line Water.
I pass'd my infant years away,
A sportive boy, wi' glancin' een,
And flaxen ringlets wavin' gay.
That in thy crystal waves did shine,
I aften waded wi' delight
Amang thy purlin' fords, O Line.
Then all was glad wi' pleasure's smile,
Then was not laid sly vice's snare,
For then it could not me beguile:
Day after day sped lightly on,
While but the present I did min',
And nought but Eden-bliss was known
By me, upon the banks o' Line.
As morn's faint dawnin' frae the skies,
When bright the blazin' sun at last
Doth owre the gilt horizon rise;
And fair my morning's magic dawn
Awoke, foreshowin' no decline,
Till time display'd th' enchantin' lawn,
Delusive all, when far frae Line.
Sensations strange my bosom burn,
When retrospection back doth throw
A look on joys ne'er to return.
Anticipation nought can spy
To equal those sweet days divine,
When, 'neath the summer evenin' sky,
I gambol'd on the banks o' Line.
This veneration for the place
Where time to him her march began;
A love which nothing can efface?
Ah, none! but yet I feel the power
Around my heart the bands entwine,
Which shall, till life's last dreary hour,
Make dear to me thy banks, O Line.
Of birks and aspens by thee waving?
What though the murmuring cascades
Be few, thy brink wi' eddies laving?
Where grandeur rude and gloom combine,
Are thy green mounds, where bleating flocks
Browse on thy lovely banks, O Line.
Which youth once felt serenely pure?
While I, an ambling harmless boy,
Roam'd artless wi' the fisher's lure!
To gain that pleasure, now all fled,
Each other aim I would resign;
And, roused to transport, fondly tread
Thy sweet, but distant banks, O Line.
To gild sad sorrow's frowning gloom;
All seems a dark and dreary night,
And ended by the lonely tomb.
Still, while I tread the sterile ground,
I'll muse on joys I felt langsyne,
Which youth, ere known to care, hath found
Upon thy verdant banks, O Line.
Robert Goscar, a shoemaker, at that time in the employment of the author's father, in West Linton, Peebles-shire.
An Address to Calder Water.
The care-dispelling muse
First pour'd the rapture-raising tide
Of pleasure so profuse!
To me thy banks are ever gay,
At sober eve or rising day;
Whether the gladsome smile of spring
Excite the tuneful train to sing—
Or summer deck the cooling bowers
With sweetly simple woodland flowers—
Or autumn blight with yellow hue
Thy verdant shades, so fair to view—
Or winter, howling through the air,
Wild, from thy trees the foliage tear:
A friendship warm—sublime;
Remote from pride, remote from fame,
Where pleasure's harp doth chime!
In pensive musing mood,
Or on thy primrose-tinted glades,
I've roam'd in solitude.
While fancy's scenes I stray'd among,
Melodious flow'd the blackbird's song;
And, faintly falling on the ear,
Was heard the linn, of cadence drear;
And Phœbus, beaming on the rocks,
Display'd their loosely-waving locks
Of ivy, brier, birk, and broom,
Of pleasant scent and beauteous bloom,
Where sweetly humm'd the honey-bee,
Unheard, unseen, to all but me,
Who there would pass the moments fleet,
Till, through the waving trees,
At Sol's decline, soft zephyr, sweet,
Would pour the fanning breeze.
At ruddy, beaming morn,
In pursuit of the robber fox,
The huntsman blows the horn;
While, loud, the clam'rous noise of hounds
Among the woods and rocks resounds.
Sly reynard tries, with every guile,
The murd'rers from his path to wile;
Oft in thy streams, to kill the track,
He treads, to cheat the fatal pack,
Who, yelling, scent; but all in vain;
No tainted air thy fords retain;
While he, far on the upland heath,
By thee rescued, escapes from death:
But, like the felon freed from jail,
With nature unsubdued,
He makes the shepherd sore bewail
His plund'ring deeds renew'd.
In lovely hues pourtray'd—
The lovers, warm with beaming eye,
Beneath the birken shade;
There, breathing soft the mutual flame,
Devoid of every vicious aim,
While all the mystic charms of feeling
Across their raptured souls are stealing,
And cheerful hope's propitious smile
Down life's long vista beams the while.
Long may such lovely scenes pervade
Thy every meadow, grove, and glade,
From where thou leav'st the bleak muir side
Down to the fertile banks of Clyde.
Hail, Calder! ever dear to me,
As on thy banks I stray,
Still roams the muse, in ecstasy,
On boundless wing, away!
An Address to the Mains Castle.
Thou lang wi' time hast warsled dour,
And tholed the pith o' mony a shower,
Rain, hail, and snaw:
Far distant be the destined hour
Whan thou maun fa'.
Thy ha's are visited by few,
Except the howlet and the dow,
Wha haunt thy wa's;
Or thy black correspondin' yew,
The bield o' craws.
The tricks o' vile Dunrode, the loon!
Wha fley'd the kintra roun' and roun'
Wi' cruel deeds;
By him, some 'neath the ice did drown,
Some tint their heads.
That aft, within thy gloomy cell,
Forth issues mony an irksome yell
Frae restless spectres,
Wha in your eerie chaumers dwell,
And haud their lectures.
Drives o'er the plains the roarin' blast,
And clouds the yellow moon o'ercast,
Then, in thy biggin,
The whoop and yell o' ghaists ring fast
Frae floor to riggin'.
And haud their balls, to music sweet:
They bob and wheel, wi' motion fleet,
Till Crawford granes;
Syne aff they scour, wi' lichtsome feet,
Across the plains.
Grim Hecate, wi' her hags o' hell,
Wi' gruesome charm and cantrip spell,
Stirs Dunrode up,
To drink the sour ingredients fell
O' their cursed cup.
Wi' the black bicker in his han',
Obedient to their stern comman',
Scour aff his potion,
While roun' him laughs the wrunkled ban',
Wi' de'il devotion.
That shelters in auld Scotland's isle
In scunnersome hotch-potch they boil,
To feast the villain!
Whilk brings to min' his acts o' guile
Done in this dwellin'.
Rehearse his wicked tricks o' yore;
Hell's fire he feels;
Till, breinge, the broom-staves o' the core
Upon him reels.
And aff to Styx the skellum whirl;
Syne Hecate on the roof doth dirl,
Wi' 'chantress'-wan',
And, quick, at her conjurin' tirl,
They flee aff-han'.
Of mony a dull and cheerless day
Within thy caverns cauld and grey,
Till echo rings,
Roused by the cock's shrill morning lay,
When twilight springs.
A score o' his ain pleughs he saw,
Drawn by his milk-white horses braw,
On his ain lawn;
And yet, watreck, he met his fa'
Frae his ain han'.
Frae ill to waur the tyrant ran,
Till Ruin's fell Herculean han',
Past a' remead,
Low laid him, ghastly, pale, and wan,
Amang the dead!
The wretch had neither hame nor biel',
But died, like ony beggar chiel',
For fau't o' meat;
Syne slippit to his frien' the de'il—
Oh, vile retreat!
Keen winter's sleety blasts are brewin',
Wha, gut and ga' indignant spewin',
May blaw thee owre,
A rubbish heap, through days ensuin',
'Neath Time's grim power.
An Address to the Kirktoun Pharisees.
And Satan, wi' his wiles, befool ye?
Wha keeps ye in malignant broolyie
O' girnin' ire;
And, whan he does your comfort spoolyie,
Legs aff like fire.
'Twixt Johnnie Groats and Gretna Green,
Sic hatred fell, and bitin' spleen,
In ony flock?
The tear stan's in religion's een
At sic a shock.
Wha rear'd our temple orthodox,
Were sic unchristian jeers and mocks
Gi'en ane anither;
Some swear “their zeal is a' a hoax
O' pride thegither.”
'Tween Logoch-moor and Nerston-mill,
Lament that death, wi' dagger chill,
Your herd has slain!
Wha fed you aye wi' care and skill;
But now he's gane!
Amang the mires o' heresy,
Whare some Socinian sharp craw-tae
Might lie unseen;
But aye on Calvin's sunny brae
O' pasture green.
Within your bught or fauld to enter;
Ilk silly ewe he'd cannie tent her,
For fear o' skaith,
Or snugly in some out-house pent her,
To draw her breath.
We hear scaith'd ewies sairly mae,
Wha've fawn to lawless tups a prey—
Brutes void o' conscience;
Sair will they rue the luckless day
They wroucht sic nonsense.
Because ye thus ha'e play'd the fool;
He'll perch ye on the creepie-stool,
That seat o' fame,
To whinge and sab, and cry, oh dool!
And sweat wi' shame.
How will she stan' this fatal shock?
Ye've torn the rowan aff her rock,
Wi' stainchless greed;
Ye've gi'en her trade a deadly stroke,
And spoil'd her bread.
'Bout extra zeal is a' a haver,
For mony a rude and drunken shaver
Has join'd your clan;
A slower pace and visage graver
Ne'er saint a man.
Is a ne'er-failin' sign o' grace,
Will some day sairly turn the chase
Upon their creed;
'Tis fools that do this test embrace—
Ay! fools indeed.
Ye fervent pray for ithers' weal,
Or Charity's thick mantle sweel
About their failin's;
But trumpet, loud as ye can squeel,
Their knavish dealin's.
Your whinings grave, at burial graces,
And eldritch gesture,
Were but the quirks o' hell's sly preses,
Your lang-served maister.
Why thus molest our synagogue?
Why, serpent-like, thus lie incog.
Your frien's to slay?
Avaunt! thou impious demagogue,
Fast! fast away!
And clout the loons wha sairly wrang us;
For grim extortion will o'ergang us—
Sae will ambition;
And waukit conscience tint its stang has,
And's near perdition.
Sworn faes, till death, 'gainst patronage,
Be hoolie! lest your holy rage
Create a split;
Your conduct something doth presage
That's extra yet.
Fareweel to freedom evermore!
Ye'll sweat, in wrath, at every pore,
And curse the day
That frae your guid auld mither's door
Ye went astray.
Nor, girnin', shaw your rancour fell
'Gainst patronage; gif ye yoursel'
But ruled the roast,
Ye'd turn the spate, baith snack and snell,
At ithers' cost.
Ye'd gi'e thae pawkie loons a clearin',
Wha murgon us wi' gibin', jeerin',
And gar us greet;
Their Janus-faces wad appear then
A vile black leet.
What queer intrigues, and faulds and lirks,
Are used by them wha rule the kirks,
To raise their fame;
And how they wield black scandal's dirks,
And vice declaim.
At whilk ye aft did rout and rair,
The soun' is hush'd for evermair
Out o' this place;
Oh, worthy frien's, I doubt it sair,
Your fawn frae grace.
Was laid amang the silent dead,
The tempter, wi' malignant feid,
Has won amang ye,
And garr'd ye rive in rags your creed—
And, trugs, he'll bang ye!
Presides within the holy place;
The change is great—alase! alase!
We see him now,
In drunken meetings, next the brace,
Aft spewin' fu'.
Wha o' their gifts were crouse and bauld,
Hae turn'd out, now, luke-warm—yea, cauld
As boards o' ice;
Sae fares our nei'bour gospel fauld,
By Nick's device.
Before that ye resign your breath;
For, gin stern fate ance gi'e his aith,
He'll no draw back;
Repentance that's delay'd till death
'S no worth a plack.
Lynda and Dormac of Cassimere.
The paradise of India's land,
Dwelt Lynda, pride of all the plain,
Who vice did treat still with disdain;
For her full many a heart did sigh,
For her was moisten'd many an eye;
And many tales of love she heard,
And was the theme of many a bard;
Yet unavailing all was still,
For reason sway'd her pliant will.
On her the sun ne'er vertic shone;
She ne'er traversed the torrid zone;
From home no farther she'd appear
Than the clear lake of Cassimere;
Or hills which Cabul do surround,
To mark the roving Tartars' bound.
With eastern pomp, without its pride;
Or lonely by the river rove,
And list the music of the grove:
She to religion did incline,
While that with mercy would combine;
But rites contained in Brahma's code
She thought offended nature's God.
Young Lynda was the same, I ween,
And the great boast of Cyprus' isle
Had disappear'd in Lynda's smile.
The Grecian bards had changed their theme,
Had they beheld this nymph supreme.
Which to her many lovers led;
'Mong whom did to her mansion steer
Young Dormac, Prince of Cassimere;
Charm'd by her captivating grace,
He thought her scarce of mortal race.
She night and day was in his mind;
In nothing could he pleasure find,
Whom he did to all earth prefer.
'Mong India's beauties found he none
He could admire but her alone;
And oft in transport he'd extol
This only darling of his soul.
He sued that she would be his wife,
For with her was his joy in life;
Placed all his riches in her power,
Which heaven abundantly did shower;
So, after many a fond essay,
They set the pompous nuptial day.
Could not young Dormac be denied?
Ah, no! the potent god of love
Can every obstacle remove.
Methinks I could, without a sigh,
Hear the grave Bramin's deathless tie;
And, should my Dormac first expire,
I'd mount for him the fatal pyre,
And thus would I resign my breath
With him whom I do love to death.”
His greatest earthly bliss to claim,
In all the glow of eastern grandeur,
Of Soubah-pride and garnish'd splendour;
With stately elephants, array'd
In golden tissue, rich display'd;
And Lynda left her sire's abode,
And with her Dormac homeward rode,
In all the flush of nuptial joy,
Devoid of mixture or alloy.
But wild revenge did rudely rave
In Vender's bosom, of Devave,
Whose love, rejected, turn'd to hate,
And seal'd the lovers' bloody fate.
A Tartar leader he had been,
Who many foughten fields had seen;
But insurrection made him leave
Parch'd Eskerdu for green Devave:
There heard he of gay Lynda's fame,
And off in suit of her he came,
And still his company forsook.
Who traced the marriage route the while,
Till it arrived at Cassimere,
And enter'd Dormac's castle there,
Whence rang the sound of festival,
Both night and day, within the hall;
Such mirth as hotter blew the fire
Of Vender's breast, deep fraught with ire:
For he ere long did strike the blow
Which turn'd this joy to deepest woe.
Within the fragrant cooling grove,
Beside the clear unruffled lake,
And, sweet, of mutual love they spake:
But Vender, with his ruthless band,
Did lie in ambush nigh at hand,
Who rush'd upon the hapless pair,
And instantly did slay them there.
No pity did the caitiff show,
For Vender pity never knew,
Else had mild Lynda's angel face
Deterr'd him from his purpose base.
He sank their bodies in the lake,
And did himself to flight betake.
The servants all in Dormac's dome
Did weary for their coming home:
The night arrived, but came not they;
The sun arose with radiant ray,
But Dormac, with his Lynda sweet,
Return'd no more, their friends to greet.
The wood was search'd all round and round,
But the fond pair could not be found:
Hence goes this tale through Cassimere,
That they were tired of staying here,
And had fled up into the air,
To dwell along with Bramah there.
LAMENT On the Dearth of Tobacco.
Come, let us join, wi' true good-will,
To forward a Tobacco Bill
To Parliament;
Nor cease to pray and flyte, until
Some aid be sent.
Frae that sma' weed to be debarr'd!
Is this the promised great reward
They shored us lang,
Wha did them and their country guard
Frae en'mies strang?
Till they've done something thereanent:
For instance, ta'en three-score per cent.
Aff our Tobacco:
That wad be news 'tween this and Lent
For folk to crack o'!
And curers grudge the price o' saut,
And miser's dread they'll die for faut,
Wi' ruefu' face;
But mulls and spleuchans toom to claut
'S a sadder case.
To be deprived o' what we need:
Oh! had that dear Virginian weed
Ne'er cross'd the waves!
But what sair words? since we're decreed
To be its slaves.
Or, wi' a lichted pipe, play fuff,
Beside a jug o' reamin' stuff,
In taprooms snug,
Lest famine for a fortnight cuff
Our sairest lug.
Whase word can stamp the bill o' fate,
Nae langer wrangle and debate,
Wi' logic skill,
Else we maun starve, “nae distant date,”
Wha toom the mull!
But letna greenin' turn to greed;
Weel we supported that sad feid
Ye had wi' France,
By whilk ye've led us a' indeed
A bonnie dance.
And pray'd that peace might soon return;
But, och! in famine's dreary urn
Her blessings lie,
And hafflins we the favour spurn,
Wi' grieved sigh.
Retrench, retrench! or, faith, ye're over!
Ilk placeman snib, that wons 'tween Dover
And Johnnie Groats;
Likewise Clan-W---fe, frae poor Hanover,
Might wear waur coats.
And ilka nerve wi' pleasure tingle,
And folk in social pleasure mingle,
To break a joke,
While seated round the bleezin' ingle,
To tak' their smoke.
This change will never come about:
Our statesmen may baith darn and clout
The constitution,
Yet rapid comes, beyond dispute,
Its dissolution.
Beyond the power o' liquation:
Could stap its gab?
Item—a sultan-coronation,
To fleece our fab!
And source o' mony a waefu' evil,
Whether thou foreign be or civil,
Want's in thy train;
Hence dear Tobacco will us grieve still—
A matchless bane.
Whi'sonmonday.
To cleed the fields wi' green,
And blithesome lambs frisk roun' their dams,
Whilk charms the shepherds' een;
As blithe and thrang as youngsters spang
To a Communion Sunday,
The kintra roun' swear care to drown,
By haudin' Whi'sonmonday,
Fu' brisk and gay.
To hail the risin' sun,
Whan owre the fields, wi' kilted coats,
The lasses had begun
To airt straucht aff to Glasgow-town,
Their trysted joes to see;
Or buy a braw new cap or gown,
Wi' the orras o' their fee,
Aff-hand that day.
Careerin' down the hill;
The tough-lung'd piper leads the van,
Wha thrums his chanter shrill;
He blaws wi' Gaelic fire,
Whilk raises in their bosoms a'
A hame-sent warm desire,
Wi' zeal that day.
Alang the roads now scour,
While poor, less skeich, but better folk,
Maun toddle through the stour;
Yet thae maun ha'e, to quench their drouth,
Guid rum or sunkots better;
While thir get noucht, to weet their mouth,
But sma' swipes or sheuch water
On sic a day.
Wi' siller graith a' glancin';
Thought erst broucht up 'mang rags and brose,
They're now on race-horse prancin';
Oh waefu' pride! thou's ill to bide;
Thou mak's fools sae uncivil,
They'll cry, “by G---, quick, clear the road,
Or else we'll to the devil
You ride this day.”
In fortune's rays a-baskin',
Ye'll, aiblins, yet drink o' the bree
That ye ha'e lang been maskin';
Wi' wine and tea ye are richt bauld,
And toss your heads fu' vogie;
But yet, I fear, wi' puirtith cauld,
Your wonted parritch cogie
Ye'll claw some day.
And ragged rowly-powly,
Flock to the fair, a mangled group,
Wi' broken legs and bowly:
Here Lucky Grant tak's up her stan',
The gangrel sweetie seller,
Though glib-tongued sisters, at ilkhan',
Are shorin' now, to bell her
At the trade this day.
Whare now will he appear?
He may sab out, Ochon! ochon!
And drap a briny tear;
For sic outlandish skybalds now
Ha'e ta'en the dicin' trade,
I doubt he's ruin'd, stick and stow—
I fear his fortune's fled
For guid and a'.
To see what's doin' there,
Whare knavery, wi' stainchless greed,
Are nursed wi' special care.
Heich, man! there stan's a bonnie show
O' coosers and o' yawds;
And oaths are rife as Ays and Noes
W' thir rough cowper lads
I' the fair this day.
I wish I may be d---d:”
His frien', wha weel the price can guess,
Says—“Hoot! ye lang ha'e shamm'd:
Come, here's a maik: let's see your han':
I've gi'en the fairest bodds:”
The graceless wight lang does na' stan'
To cast awa' the odds,
Though pounds, this day.
The match o't ne'er was heard;
For siccan cheatin' Truth stan's greetin',
As if frae earth debarr'd:
Their language fell resembles hell,
By ought that we can learn;
Justice and conscience gang for nonsense,
Their sauls are sae forfain
And foul this day.
Wi' cattle clean worn out;
Far better had they a' been kill'd,
Than live to join the rout:
The tanner's sharp inspection;
Nor will their meagre carcase grace
The kennel's rough dissection,
On ony day.
To see the raree-shows,
And doun the street they houp to meet
Their dear-lo'e'd trysted joes,
Wha through the toun ha'e ta'en their roun',
To glour at shawls and gowns,
For whilk they 'mang, and inward pang;
Their greenin' naething drowns
I' the shops this day.
And to the auld-brig scour,
For mountebanks, wi' nimble shanks,
Are out, them to allure:
Their tinsy claise, a' glancin' clear,
Enchant the sordid heart;
Chaps stan' na here a crown to tear
Wha'd scarce a tester part
Frae the purse yon day.
To see the spaewife horse;”
Robin, the revel to begin,
Fu' frankly draws his purse:
But Maggie, hapless lass! ne'er greins
To see a show sinsyne,
For powny tauld what—'mang the beans—
Ae nicht she chanced to tyne,
That luckless day.
Displays, wi' eldritch face;
There, Tam o' Shanter's devil lours,
Wi' brimstone-burn'd grimace;
Here's lions, doun frae Lon'on tower,
Bears, elephants, and monkeys;
There's wheel-o'-fortune's lucky bags,
That fraught wi' slee begunk is,
At times, this day.
Drums, trumpets, clar'nets, fiddles,
And cymbals clank, our lugs to drown;
The tambourine it diddles:
The sun's low sinkin' in the wast,
Whilk marks the gloamin' near;
And baxter chiel's, their labour past,
Set a things in a steer,
In a blink, this nicht.
Nought else them fun affords;
Dead bawdrons flap throughout the fair;
Doun reel the sweetie boords:
A' order's turn'd to riot quick,
And feichten now is rife;
Weel wault is mony a hazle stick,
Enough to tak' a life
Ilk stroke, this nicht.
Frae this wanchancie crowd
Slip hameward wi' their lasses, laith
To thole their usage rude:
Ilk' chiel', fu' coshlie, wi' his dear,
Talks o' the day's fell feats;
As skelpin' up the hills they steer,
Their lo'esome heart aft beats,
Fu' thick, that nicht.
The brawlers left ahin';
But neives aff heads and shoulders crack,
And glaur ilk e'e does blin':
The police lads daur scarce appear
To keep the toun in peace,
Their red-neck'd coats are useless here
To gar the brawlers cease
This roughsome nicht.
Upon the caravans,
And open on the street are laid
Apes, sloths, and pelicans:
By thir fell louns disseckit,
Whan, breingin wi' their claws and cloots,
That Noah's ark was wreckit
This luckless nicht.
Frae ilka nook now come;
The cursin' o' mischievous loons
Maist breaks the lug's thin drum.
But darkness now pervades the lift,
And noucht mair can be seen;
So I, this tuilyie fierce to shift,
Will toddle up the Green,
Straucht hame, this nicht.
A well-known fair, held at Glasgow upon the first Monday after the 28th of May; or, if Monday fall on the 28th, on that day.
It is a lamentable truth, that the most indecorous behaviour is often exhibited upon country Sacramental occasions.
The Twalt' o' August.
The smedum o' the Sportman's gun,
For life's sake! cease, awhile, to won
Upon the heath;
Else, sprawling, bleedin', on the grun,
Ye'll meet your death.
And, now! there is an unco soun'
O' pointers, fresh frae Glasgow toun,
Wi' noses gleg,
Wha'll snock ye out, baith up and down;
Sae, guidsake, leg!
Nae back-look cast on heather-bells;
But shelter in our howms and dells
'Mong cornfields snug;
Then they may range the muirs themsel's,
And claw their lug.
Sic wiles as might frae danger screen ye;
Frae poacher louns,
Their tyrant lords do sairly glean ye,
Wi' their platoons.
In phaetons, chaises, coaches, reelin',
Wi' swarms o' flunkies, pechin', speelin'
The heather-braes;
While leesh-freed spaniels blithe are squeelin'—
Your deadly faes.
I wonder that ye think na shame
To rise sic steer, pursuin' game
Through muirs and mosses;
Sic deeds will never raise your fame
'Boon downricht asses.
Boost steer his course up to the heicht,
Resolved to won baith day and nicht,
In's house-like tent,
Though scarcely he, for want o' sicht,
Kens corn frae bent.
Gin 'twere to fill a hungry kite;
But, faith, I dread, 'tis through delight
O' bloody fowlin',
At whilk poor dogs ye whauk and hyte,
And haud them yowlin'.
Wha bear your blasted powther wallets;
Gae hame, among your pimps and callets,
In stews obscene,
Whare ye may row on hanty pallets,
In acts unclean.
Boils, like the tempest-waken'd flood,
Throughout your veins, by riot rude,
Malignant, raised,
Whilk lea's ye aft in crankous mood,
Baith doilt and daised.
Ye lea' a-while the reekin' toddy,
And in some hackney, gig, or noddy
Ye tak the fiel',
While covies, frae their snug abode, aye
Before you reel.
Wha chirr amang the mountain springs,
Aft maun you pine, wi' gory wings,
Frae deadly guns;
But yet your state nae pity brings
Frae thae base Huns.
'Mang yellow corn-fields wavin' wide,
The persecution's blast maun bide,
Fell, fell indeed;
And, dyin', welter side-by-side,
Through their cursed greed.
Whan winter's breath wi' rancour rairs,
Will taste the poacher's wily snares,
'Bout kail-yard dykes,
And sloungin grews, aft unawares,
Vile worryin' tykes.
By hunter's han's, tod-lowrie dee,
Yet suff'rin' innocence to me
Brings grief, I vow;
Withouten bluster, brag, or lee,
As truth 'tis true.
Wha stifle feeling's glorious law;
This trade I canna brook ava,
Sae, while I've breath,
My cauldest love to you I'll shaw,
And hettest wraith.
STANZAS ON READING IN THE GLASGOW HERALD THE ACCOUNT OF LAYING THE FOUNDATION STONE OF A MONUMENT In Memory of Robert Burns.
Who merit still reward,
Who memo'rise, in order grand,
Your country's boasted Bard!
But why this monumental cost?
The fame of Burns can ne'er be lost!
Sink beneath the ocean wave,
Remembrance shall, with tearful eye,
Rove round his laurell'd grave;
For while his varied muse we trace,
We meet each true poetic grace.
And spread all Europe o'er,
Fame's sacred, safe, and golden urn
Would soon his works restore;
Since, under fate's auspicious hand,
His strains ring sweet in every land.
Thrills through the feeling soul!
So potently his force and fire
In native torrents roll:
Nor roams he e'er for imagery
Among the groves of Thessaly.
By bards neglected long,
Now sweetly glide, through many a tune,
In Caledonia's song;
For every scene that caught his eye
He stamp'd with immortality.
Love's various-working glow;
Or pour the bosom-rending 'plaint
Of misery and woe;
Or laughter's comic nerves excite;
Or sting with satire's vip'rous bite.
Through life's tempestuous gale;
The russet robe—the lonely cot—
Which want did oft assail!
His mind intrepid braved the blast,
And reach'd fame's glorious fane at last.
To raise her name in song;
And, though from learning's light expell'd,
His fervid genius, strong,
Such warm effusions to the world displays
As wreath his mem'ry with unfading bays.
With meritorious aim,
To 'grave his worth in letters bright
Upon the roll of fame!
That all who view this splendid pile
May recollect the Bard of Kyle!
An Address to Poverty.
My gaunt attendant here below,I judge thee still my greatest foe:
Thou bar accursed to every pleasure
I'm teased by thee beyond all measure:
Acquaintance with thee gains no love,
I here protest by all above.
Hope once half-promised time would be
That I should bid adieu to thee;
Yet still I see thy haggard face,
And, spurning, feel thy cold embrace.
Hope is an ignis fatuus bright
That oft has lured me, by her light,
Onward to castles built on sand,
Through many a visionary land;
And, after all her roamings vain,
Me left on want's blank arid plain.
Nought now avails my grief to cure—
Fate's roll me dooms a weaver poor.
VERSES ON SEEING A Trout in a Small Pool,
IN THE DROUGHT OF SUMMER, 1821.
Why start with wild alarm?
Think not that I, to take thy life,
Would bare a plund'ring arm.
That could make thee his prey;
'Twere rank extortion, direly wreak'd
On poor necessity.
His daily wants supplies,
Is blameless, though, in quest of food,
He banish feeling's ties:
To salve the ruthless deed,
Who, out of wanton cruelty,
Could make thee hapless bleed!
I'd free thee from that shallow;
Then, in the deep wide limpid linn,
Thou'dst glide, swift as the swallow!
Drinks moisture from the main,
But fills the sky with humid clouds,
To slake the earth with rain.
From bondage be set free,
To roam at large the swollen floods
In perfect liberty.
On Hypocrisy.
EXTEMPORARY.
The rose's dye is deepest in the shade,And black Hypocrisy is best unseen;
That by the sun's fair light is paler made,
And this, when tried by truth, doth prove unclean:
True gold with honour stands the rigid test,
But base alloy, unheeded, passes best.
Lines to a Young Lady,
WITH A SONG.
How dang'rous is the art of Poesy,If 'tis possess'd by one that's prone to guile;
Best it can dress the tale of flattery,
And, like a knave, put on a mimic smile.
Oh let it ne'er be said in Britain's isle,
Her bards use flattery to deceive the fair;
But if, to gain a heart, they use each wile,
And are successful, may they solemn swear,
Ne'er to change, till death, with direful visage, stare!
SONGS.
JACK JIBB.
To view the wide horizon;
And, while fancy did roam
With his Nancy at home,
He the blue hills of Wales cast his eyes on.
Oh how his manly bosom glow'd,
As in fancy she's clasped in his arms,
And the warm tear of joy
Glitter'd clear in his eye,
When he thought on his true love's charms,—
When he thought on his true love's charms,
When he thought on his true love's charms;
And the warm tear of joy
Glitter'd clear in his eye,
When he thought on his true love's charms.
In quest of India's treasure,
Still his thoughts, night and day,
With his Welsh maid did stray;
Her sweet smile was his life's dearest pleasure.
Now, as he nears his native shore,
Safe return'd from the ocean's alarms,
All the dangers of the deep
In oblivion now sleep,
When he views again his true love's charms,—
When he, &c.
When he, &c.
All the dangers of the deep
In oblivion now sleep,
When he views again his true love's charms.
Jack, now safe moor'd from danger,
Has furl'd all his sails,
By his pole-star of Wales,
O'er the ocean no longer a ranger.
The blithe bland smile of his faithful fair
His true bosom with ecstacy warms;
He quaffs his can of wine
Off, in bumpers divine,
Never more to leave his true love's charms,—
Never more, &c.
Never more, &c.
He quaffs his can of wine,
Off, in bumpers divine,
Never more to leave his true love's charms.
ROBIN GLEN'S COURTSHIP.
To clatter an hour wi' blithe Nepple Lyle;
The carlin leugh as he doitit ben,
Thinkin' love had come back to the lan' again.
He frae his bonnet shook aff the snaw,
And hang his plaid on a knag at the wa',
Syne in the big-chair, by the ingle's smile,
He his gloamin-shot took aside Nepple Lyle.
That happen'd o' late in kintra and toun;
At length the kimmer, wi' paukie maen,
Said “Robin, ye'll now be e'en dull your lane.”
“Ay, ay,”, quo' Robin, wi' tearfu' e'e,
“It's now twal' simmers sin' Mirren did die,
And ilk o' my dochter's, as chance befell,
Has left her auld father, to please hersel'.
Was beukit, although she's jimply fifteen;
And now, when left by my hindmost wean,
I'm min'd no to sit like an owl my lane.
And live fu' happy wi' ane anither;
There's nae man's marrow, in a' the isle,
Sal be beiner or blyther than Nepple Lyle!”
My han' and my heart ye frankly sal hae;
Your baith a man o' means and o' mense,
O' flawless conduct, and sterlin' sense.”
“Settled,” quo' Robin, “there's my neive;
Ye happy sal be as lang as I live;
I'se let my thouchtless dochter Bell
See, I hae got matchin' as soon's hersel'!”
And, ere they parted, o' swats took a waucht;
Neist day ilk ane in the kirk did smile,
When Robin was twice cried to Nepple Lyle.
A canty bridal the hale toun gat,
They feasted and danced till they rifted and swat,
And ne'er a kimmer in Carrick or Kyle
Gat a better down-sittin' than Nepple Lyle.
GLASGOW FAIR.
Was blinkin' owre the mountains blue;
The hares were whiddin, the heath-cock crew,
And fragrant and fresh was the air, man.
The lav'rocks scarce had tuned their throats,
When through the meadows, wi' kilted coats,
The lasses were springin' owre burns and gots,
A' braingin' awa' to the fair, man.
Wi' watch-chains bobbin' down to mid-thie;
To meet wi' their joes, and glowre at the shows,
Was the feck o' their business there, man.
Jockeys are scourin' alang the roads,
Prick-the-loops rinnin' wi' tables and brods;
Dicers and thimblers, and jugglers and tumblers,
Are a' startin' trade in the fair, man.
Wabsters are rinnin' wi' wallets and reeds;
Souters and sawyers, and doctors and lawyers,
Straucht aff to the shows a' repair, man:
The Calton keelies are fingerin' fabs,
Cloak'd in their knavery by barefitted drabs:
Folk in high fashion had need o' some caution,
To come aff hale-scart frae the fair, man.
Melody's smother'd and harmony's drown'd;
Trombones gruntin', and bass-fiddles scruntin',
Now torture our lugs to despair, man:
The bagpipes yell, and the organ bums,
The cymbals clatter 'mang trumpets and drums;
French-horns yowlin', and wild beasts growlin',
Help up wi' the mirth o' the fair, man.
Waterloo swings are gaun up like balloons;
Rowley's rungs' reelin' folk's shins aften peelin',
Which min's them o' scaith to beware, man:
Merryman's showin' his wit and his pranks,
Heads-owre-heels wheelin', wi' quick-mettled shanks;
Fine ladies dancin', wi' spangles a' glancin',
Bewitchin' a' een in the fair, man.
Justlin' and bustlin' the merry day lang:
The Charlies, gleg watchin', are skiebalds quick catchin',
When ony ane's fab's riffled bare, man:
Fuddlers, forjeskit wi' stour and wi' drouth,
Flock to the tap-rooms to moisten their mouth,
Deemin' a bicker o' sterling maut liquor
The essence and saul o' the fair, man.
Land'ard folk, guided by prudence and fear;
Spank up the hills, to escape a' the ills
That the brawlers behind them may share, man:
The carry's now mirk, and there's naething but wars
'Mang pedlars and pickpockets, tinklers and tars;
And the Office and Jail are fill'd in fine style,
To bring up the hale rear o' the fair, man.
THE ADVICE.
Wale ane, if ye be wise;
For, ance ye're five-and-twenty,
But few will speer your price;
But few will speer your price, Jean;
And, mind, ye'll find it sae,
For the witchery o' your cheeks and een
Will rapidly decay.
Aud wooers had nae few,
Wha roosed my een sae blue, Jean,
And neck o' lily hue;
Yet I, sae wise, took nae advice,
But teased them ane and a';
So now I'm left, o' joes bereft,
And ha'e nae choice ava.
A' looks life fairy-land;
Age flings the curtain wide, Jean,
And breaks the magic wand:
Ye maun ha'e a' lads rich and braw,
O' fau'ts and failin's free;
But mark in time, while in your prime,
The fate o' ane like me.
I thank ye for the rede;
But think nae I act blindly,
Although I'm no yet wed.
My folk wad ha'e me tak' the laird,
But aye my heart says—no!
For him I can ha'e nae regard;—
Young Jamie is my joe.
Behaves himsel' wi' mense;
For lang has loe'd me dearly;
Can talk wi' muckle sense.
Though dad should preach, and minnie fleech,
And a' my kin should jeer,
I'll wed wi' nane but him alane,
To me than life mair dear.”
TAM TWIST.
As e'er put shears in claith,
But he liked the Norlan' blue
As dear as he liked his breath.
His wife was a thrifty dame,
And wish'd their trade extended;
But Tam's most fav'rite aim,
Was to draw in cash to spend it.
(Spoken.)—So he would cheer up his journeymen and apprentices, frae dawn till dusk, with his favourite chorus of—
Base before ye sew—be handy;
Brew before ye drink, drink, drink, my boys;
O whisky is the dandy!
Then Nell gaed raving mad;
For then he'd curse and sink,
And ca' her a' 'twas bad:
But, when reason wad na do,
She seized him like a tiger,
And by force did him subdue,
For she sprang frae Rab M'Gregor.
(Spoken.)—But before Nell got the better o' him, there was whiles na lown sough in the house, wi' the reelin' o' chairs and stools, the jinglin' o' tangs and poker, and the squeelin' o' weans. It was like the rattlin' o' gabberty-shells, ere Nell could get him master'd, and flung in the bed like a sack o' draft, unable to sing—
He did, like ither folk,
To escape mair scaith and scorn,
Tak' a' 'twas said in joke.
Then, to shun Nell's tongue severe,
On the shop-board took his station,
Where his men he up did cheer,
With his wonton salutation—of
In its common course, or so,
As other weeks had gone;
Whiles an ebb, and whiles a flow:
Till a luckless date cam' roun',
Tam, for sax lang days, ne'er tasted,
Sae, when Saturday's sun gaed down,
To a weel-kenn'd howff he hasted.
(Spoken.)—And this was neither mair nor less than the house o' Lucky Teughcallaps, that has the sign o' the pint-stoup and haggis, at the west end o' Gibson's Wynd, the place where he aye gaed to pay his men their week's wages, and tak', what he ca'd, in his ain genteel way o' speakin', a collation. Sae, after Tam had settled wi' his men, and they had eaten tripe and cowheel, and drucken a gye twa-three half-mutchkins o' Campbelton whisky thegither, the billies slippit awa, ane after anither, on some o' their ain errands, and left their master hickuppin' a' his lane. When Tam was warslin' awa wi' the yeskin, and fa'in' rather into a dover, in comes twa firebran's o' Irishmen,—ca' for a gill, —and syne began to quarrel about cock-fightin' and badger-drawin'. Tam waukens in a wee; and, hearin' the tongues o' the Hibernians gaun like Jehu, says (hickuppin'), “Frien's, whare got ye your manners, to come stavin' into ony gentleman's company, without speerin' whether ye were made welcome or no?” “Gemmini,” says one of them, “in a' nations of a better place than your pease-brose and brimstone country, where there's nothing but starvation for back and belly, and frost and snow the whole year through!” “Confound your Irish muzzle,” cried Tam, “that has the insolence to speak lightly o' a Scotchman's kintra; but, as sure's my name's Tam Twist, I'll twist the ragged carcase o' ye like a shapin o' duffle!” And syne flang a tankard o' yill in his face, and grippit him owre the table, that gaed awa' wi' a reinge, and brak' a' that was on't. When Lucky Teughcallaps heard that, she ran to the door, and gart a' the street echo, cryin',—Police! police! But the Irishmen, dreadin' skaith, ran out o' the house as fast as their legs could carry them, no sae muckle as takin' time to pay their reckonin', leavin' Tam to clear himsel', and sing—
And seized him in a trice,
And, though he flang and flounced,
They held him like a vice;
And sometimes wad resisted,
Yet awa' their prize they bore,
For they soon were weel assisted—singing,
Amidst the roarin' croud,
Wi' rage and pride sair gall'd,
While the boys huzza'd aloud.
Soon before the judge he stands,
When he's safely moor'd in harbour,
Who consigns him to the hands
O' the doctor and the barber.
(Spoken.)—Sae ye maun be a' weel aware o' what wad follow. The doctor approved of the award of the judge, and the barber obeyed the directions of the doctor; and poor, harmless, merry Tam Twist's beard, whiskers, and bushy head, were shaven as bare as a painch, and his purse lighten'd o' five shillings, by way o' a friendly admonition, and memento, and judicious display of medical skill, to prevent inflammation of the brain, which might have arisen from the excessive exertion made in singing—
Sic a droll sicht's seldom seen,
Wi' his head sae ghastly bare,
And his hat slouch'd owre his een;
When he set it on the left,
To catch his slidd'ry head, man,
Then the right, o' hair bereft,
Was an eldritch sicht indeed, man.
(Spoken.)—But ere Tam wan hame, Nell and the weans were bedded, and the door barr'd; and when Tam gied his usual chap and countersign, she gied a wheen indistinct grumblings about drunken brutes, wasterfu' blackguards, and torments to a' that's conneckit wi' them. But when she lighted the lamp, and drew the bar o' the door, and saw a man wi' lang bare chafts, and his hat restin' on the brig o' his nose, she dash'd the door too again, and squeel'd, Murder! robbers! Sae a' that Tam could say, to convince her o' his identity, was in vain, till the nei'bours, waukened by the soun', drew near, and got an explanation o' the hale affair; syne Nell loot him in, and gied him as muckle halesome admonition as put him for ae night frae singing—
His credit in to keep,
Which made his head look trig,
Though it made his head not cheap.
Then let us all take care,
For they're dang'rous times we live in,
Lest we fall into Tam's snare,
And to purchase wigs be driven.
(Spoken.)—And, as a caution to all, I could not recommend a better maxim than Tam's favourite chorus, which, I'm sure, ye ha'e a' by heart by this time, by only alterin' the last line a kennin'—
Base before ye sew—be handy;
Brew before ye drink, drink, drink, my boys;
But ne'er let drink command ye!
LOVE TRIUMPHANT.
Surpassing, for charms and accomplishments rare;
Her equal you'd scarce in some thousands of miles meet;
Love shot from her eyes, and he play'd round her hair.
All her dress was so gracefully antic;
Angelic her look, but her fancy romantic;
The beaux of the city, about her grown frantic,
Were sighing and dying 'twixt hope and despair.
Yet ne'er durst a frown on her features be seen;
Intendedly vex'd, and immediately pleased them;
A coquette of skill was this fair nymph, I ween.
Thus did she drag them on in love's fetters,
All proud to be counted her most humble debtors;
But gay wealthy merchants, and deep men of letters,
Were foil'd by one glance of young Captain M'Queen.
He was a-drilling his troop on the Green;
Sweet rapture's sigh rose when she saw he did notice her;
Love seem'd far brighter to gild the gay scene.
Her jaunting, and flaunting, and splendid parading,
At concerts, assemblies, and gay masquerading,
She still was escorted by Captain M'Queen.
In pitiful plight, thought of cures for their spleen;
Their jealousy fled, but revenge did awaken
Each low passion's aid, the affront now to screen.
Hope's latest gleam some still fondly did flatter,
But all was delusion; nought could mend the matter;
Some plann'd their last exit by hemp or by water,
While some thought of pistolling Captain M'Queen.
(Though sympathy's sigh would ofttimes intervene,)
To wreck all her hopes of the gaudy young soldier,
Though e'er so alluring his rank and his mein.
Thus was she toss'd on despair's surging billow;
All sadly she droop'd, like the lone weeping willow;
She sigh'd all day long, and by night, round her pillow,
Still hover'd the vision of Captain M'Queen.
The regiment adieu bade to Clyde's banks so green;
This love-sick young lady, all counsel now scorning,
Resolved fate to follow, whate'er lay between.
To share her love's lot, she was fairly resign'd now;
With parents and lovers she care left behind now;
The door was fast lock'd, but she dropp'd from the window,
And straightway was wedded to Captain M'Queen.
WISHING FOR MARRIAGE.
While dreaming all day, and tossing all night,
Alternately teased between pleasure and pain;
Afraid, when we part, lest we ne'er meet again;
Suspicious their smiling
May prove my beguiling;
And wishing for marriage, but wishing in vain.
While longing to change the maid for the wife;
The wild ceaseless hum of yon foaming cascade
No pleasure can give like the grand masquerade;
The gay Trongate dandies
A sight far more grand is
Than e'er can be seen in the grotto and glade.
The slow-passing hours of day to beguile;
But sweeter by far is the gay blazing hall,
While amorous waltzing awakens the ball;
Thus tripping so sprightly,
As love glances brightly,
In Cupid's sweet snare, every heart could enthral.
Doth fail in the end to gain me the prize?
I'll seek then the shades of the dark lonely bowers,
Where mirth never smiles, and where solitude lours;
Recluse by the wild wood,
The haunts of my childhood,
In silent retirement, I'll spend the lone hours.
HE'S AWA' AND LEFT US:
A DIRGE.
He's now awa' for evermair;
He's now awa' and left us a',
And for the loss our hearts are sair.
Wi' love's sweet smile, kind, in his e'e,
He had to bid us a' fareweel,
And ne'er again his face we'll see.
To spend in social glee the night,
Beneath the shade of pleasure's wing,
In harmony, till morning light.
THE INSTRUMENTAL BAND.
SUNG BY MR. JOHN BURNS, VOCALIST, EAST KILBRIDE, AT A CONCERT FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE E. K. INSTRUMENTAL BAND.
Again has left our isle,
And fresh and fragrant summer's bloom
O'er hills and glens doth smile:
The birds a universal cheer
Pour forth, in chorus grand,
And now, with joy, again we hear
Our Instrumental Band.
CHORUS.
Let music charm the ear and soulWith ecstacy sublime,
And, with increasing cadence, roll
Down to the end of time.
Dull languor o'er this place,
And blithesome mirth seem'd ever fled
From every blooming face;
But now that gloom has vanish'd quite,
As touch'd by magic wand,
And young and old hail with delight
The Instrumental Band.
Whene'er they hear the drum;
The auld folk fling their cares away,
Though nearly blind and dumb;
While lads and lasses, wives and weans,
Th' excitement can't withstand,
To revel 'neath the lofty strains
Of th' Instrumental Band.
To ply their charming art;
May jarring discord ne'er annoy
The pleasures they impart;
Our gratitude we would express
With voice, and heart, and hand,
In three-times-three, to wish success
To th' Instrumental Band.
THE BRIDE OF LORN.
The clansmen were ready,
And the bargemen in the bay
At their station sat steady;
And, soon as the sun tinged the summit of Benledi,
The chieftain cross'd the firth for his fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
The chieftain cross'd the firth for his fair bride of Lorn.
No wave on the water;
The chief heaved rapture's sigh
For M'Lean's lovely daughter.
The bard sang her praise, but her charms he could not flatter.
So peerless was the look of the fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
So peerless was the look of the fair bride of Lorn.
With her ladies attending,
Amazed the guests were all,
At her beauty transcending.
The blaze of the di'mond, and brilliant topaz blending,
Was dimm'd beside the eyes of the fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
Was dimm'd beside the eyes of the fair bride of Lorn.
Every hall echoed gladness,
Till the sun's departing glance
Tinged the dark clouds with sadness;
The wind howl'd, the sea scowl'd, all nature cried 'twas madness
To trust the surging waves with the fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
To trust the surging waves with the fair bride of Lorn.
Round the high cliffs of Jura,
Fate whisper'd—“Chief, beguiled,
I of life can't insure ye!”
A huge billow burst, as it roll'd with frightful fury,
And sank the bonny barge with the fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
And the mermaid sang the dirge of the fair bride of Lorn.
THE MAID OF ARRAN.
Amang the western islands,
To view the scenes of nature fair
That grace the lanely Highlands.
But what to me seem'd nature's charms,
Dull, dreary, bleak, and barren,
Till I enfaulded in my arms
The lovely maid of Arran.
To love the soul beguiling,
With charms to move all hearts to love,
Such rapture's in her smiling.
Her brow the lily's hue bespeaks,
Her lips, the rose of Sharon,
And warm's the glow that tints the cheeks
Of the lovely Maid of Arran.
Wash'd by the rippling ocean,
I first her spied, whom I adore
With love's unfeign'd emotion.
Unusual transport seized my soul,
All nymphs beside debarrin';
For there she reigns without control,
The lovely Maid of Arran.
How sweet wi' her to wander;
Or lofty Goatfell's brow to scale,
And on her beauties ponder!
Let merchants strive for wealth and fame,
Let kings for power be warrin',
For me, I wish nae higher aim
Than the lovely Maid of Arran.
CHORUS.
Hail, lovely maid! hail, charming maid!Hail, peerless maid of Arran!
Nae lassie, though fair, can ever compare
Wi' the lovely Maid of Arran.
MY LASSIE'S FAR AWA'.
Shot wide his parting beam,
And tinged wi' gowd a' Cramond woods,
That shade sweet Almond stream,
When loud a swain did thus complain,
Beside the waterfa'—
“Nae joy to me can life now gi'e,
Sin' my dear love's awa'!
And water wimplin' clear,
Shed countless charms, while in my arms
I clasp'd my true love dear.
Now a' looks wild that ance gay smiled,
Roun' bonny Craigie-ha';
Ilk birdie's lay to me doth say—
‘Your lassie's far awa'!’
Sae rich and fair to view,
And seek for love 'mong westlan' swains,
Than mine, mair warm and true?
Fate's sternest blast hath blawn at last,
And broke my heart in twa;
Now, een and morn, I sigh, lovelorn,
‘My lassie's far awa'.’
And autumn wave in vain,
But ne'er can cheer the darksome gloom
That maun wi' me remain.
Grim winter's storms, in direst forms,
That owre the Pentland's blaw,
Accord now best wi' my sad breast,
Sin' my dear love's awa'.”
SWEET MARIA.
Till Phœbus quit the evening sky,
And Luna, with her visage pale,
Gleam faintly down this rural vale.
And cheer this lone retreat of love;
Eden-fragrance breathes around
This charming fairy-haunted ground.
And for Maria I espy;
With sprightly step, across the glade,
She hastens to the ivy shade.
And wafts along a sweet perfume;
But nought, in all kind nature's charms,
Is like Maria in my arms.
THE LOST SMILE OF HOPE.
Dar'st thou then deceive me, Callum?
Ah! where now thy plighted vow,
That thou would'st never grieve me, Callum?
And leave me lone in wild Glengarry,
Some fairer maid, with dress more gay,
May haply turn thy love from Mary.
Of hope thou often bad'st me cherish?
All sunk in gloomy, breme despair,
And doom'd, alas! for aye to perish.
When by the eastern breeze 'tis blighted,
So fades the maid, in hopeless gloom,
When by a faithless lover slighted.
CORA LINN.
Where lofty Cora thund'ring flows:
Where, twinkling in the sunny sheen,
The pearly dew-drops gem the rose.
Adieu! ye ivy-skirted rocks,
Which overhang the deep profound,
Ye long have stood fell winter's shocks,
And echo'd Cora's deaf'ning sound.
Sweet as Malvina's dulcet lyre,
Which rung, the poets mind to cheer,
While rapt in wild seraphic fire!
Yet I must leave the fragrant grove,
These giant rocks, and ruin'd dome,
The foaming Linn, the dark alcove,
And, musing dreary, wander home.
MATRIMONIAL JOYS.
Fill the glass up to the brim;
Here's a lass, here's a lass,
Here's a lass that's tight and trim!
Oh I've courted twenty years and more,
In hopes to find a wife;
Hard fate, thy banter now give o'er,
Else it will take my life!
No longer let's delay;
Haste away, blithe and gay,
Come, thou happy marriage day!
All the pleasures that in life I've had
I count them only toys,
For nought my love-sick heart can glad
But matrimonial joys.
When at the barber's shop,
For, grey wi' care, a tuft o' hair
From my temples he did lop:
The sight did shock my feelings so
I heaved this bitter sigh—
“If courtin' keen I do forego
A Bach'lor I must die.”
PARTING OF NORMA AND ANNA.
To dispel love's teasing pain;
Still the bitter tear and sigh
Burst from Anna's heart and eye:
The grief she felt what tongue can tell,
To bid her Scottish lad—Farewell?
Sorrow from her look to wile;
But, alas! his every art
Fail'd to soothe her throbbing heart;
For still her breast did higher swell,
To bid her Scottish lad—Farewell!
Through her soul, though mix'd with woe;
Silence stay'd her falt'ring tongue
As around his neck she hung;
And still the tears in torrents fell,
To bid her Scottish lad—Farewell!
Lovely sign of future bliss,
Long they gazed, with meaning eye,
Heaving oft the mutual sigh;
And each did feel the bosom knell,
To say the grievous word—Farewell!
THE ABSENT SWAIN.
Why sae soon awa'?
Come back again to Torrance glen,
And gang nae mair awa'.
The primrose gilds the brae,
Laburnum waves her yellow locks
Within the sunny ray;
The mavis pours his meltin' strain
Within the greenwood shaw;
But nature smiles to me in vain,
For now thou'rt far awa'.
Before your face I saw?
O had some ither won your heart,
And won it ance for a'?
That noucht could gar your fancy jee,
To dwell by Calder's side,
When I could gi'e the warl' for thee,
Gin ye wad be my bride.
Though distant mony a mile,
Nae win' nor weet, nor snaw nor sleet,
Wad gar me think on toil;
If cheerin' hope ae ray wad drop,
To say ye wad return,
To spend your days on Calder braes,
Beside the wimplin burn.
IN YON GREEN GLEN.
In yon green glen,
Beside the ivy-skirted rock,
In yon green glen;
'Mong the brackens waving gay,
On the bonnie sunny brae,
Down by yon green glen.
In yon green glen,
While echoes still his strains salute
In yon green glen:
Far remote from jarring strife,
There he spends his peaceful life,
Where the rural joys are rife,
Down in yon green glen.
From yon green glen;
And shine, my fortune's gleaming star,
On yon green glen:
Guide me to my shepherd's arms,
Where no guile nor fear alarms;
Still my thrilling heart he charms,
Down in yon green glen.
THE MAID OF ARGYLL.
Let Scotia the thistle's rude merits disclose,
Which bright on the ensigns of heraldry fly:
More pleasant to me is the look of my love,
While with her I stray through the dark birken grove;
For nothing that's earthly can vie with the smile
Of that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather blooms on the mountains so high.
When, spangled with dew-drops, its bosom it shows,
Perfuming the air, and delighting the eye;
But more fresh than the rose is the cheek of my dear—
And more bright than the dew is her eye shining clear;
And powerful those charms, that each fancy can wile,
Of that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather blooms on the mountains so high.
And Daphne, the pride of the dark shady grove,
In strains which the rude hand of time do defy:
But if pleasure can flow from the warm feeling heart,
And if beauty and youth any charms can impart,
Then dear, as the queen of the Cyprian isle,
Is that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather waves on the mountains so high.
THE LOVELY MAID OF JURA ISLE.
O guileless maid of Jura isle,
There's nought can rival her sweet smile,
The darling maid of Jura isle!
The am'rous heart by ilka wile;
But a' her arts would prove in vain
Beside the maid of Jura isle.
And snow bedims the sky the while,
To me, they seem their force to lose
When wi' the maid of Jura isle.
Her mind sae far remote frae guile,
Ha'e stung my heart wi' love's sweet dart,
Enchantin' maid of Jura isle.
She care did frae my breast exile,
While rangin' owre the mountains high
Wi' her, the flower of Jura isle.
Frae ilka knave's deludin' smile,
Till I recross the waves, to wed
The fairest maid of Jura isle.
THE MAID OF COWAL.
Awee before the dew did fa',
I met a lass surpassing a',
The brawest Maid of Cowal.
The rosebud and the lily meek
Sweet blended on her glowin' cheek;
An e'e that to the heart could speak,
Sweet, graced the Maid of Cowal.
That e'er a Scottish lass did grace,
Maun surely evermair gi'e place
To her, the Maid of Cowal.
Wi' stately step she glided on,
Wi' mien that weel might grace a throne;
In a' her airs perfection shone,
Wi' her, the Maid of Cowal.
To where I met that lovely maid,
In those enchanting charms array'd
Which grace the Maid of Cowal.
To see her mild angelic smile
Would cheer the weary pilgrim's toil—
The hermit frae his cell could wile—
To follow her to Cowal.
What heart but glows in transport's blaze!
When love her masterwork displays,
The peerless Maid of Cowal!
On Monarchs' crowns let diamonds shine,
Round heroes' brows let laurels twine,
Mair dear to me's the smile divine
Of her, the Maid of Cowal.
A Reflection on Life.
In life's vague fleeting joys?
When long eternity, sublime,
Awaits their frantic choice.
Relentless fate stands, ready nigh,
To seal the doom of all;
Nor ardent prayer, nor throbbing sigh,
Can e'er postpone his call.
Is nearing on apace;
We reach the beach, life's gale is o'er,
We feel death's chill embrace.
We launch into the chasm unknown,
Untried, and unexplored,
Where scenes unthought of shall be shown,
Which fame did ne'er record.
'Tis what gold cannot buy;
Nor can Golconda's mine unfold
This rich, this precious die!
Poems, on sacred and other subjects | ||