 | Poems and Songs, Humorous and Satirical |  |
15
A WORD OF ADVICE
To the disaffected “Sooty Rabble,” on their meeting to petition for a Reform in Parliament, in the year 1816; by James Block, Esq., Place-hunter.
Vile “Sooty Rabble!” what d'ye mean,
By raising a' this dreadfu' din?—
Do ye no' ken what horrid sin
Ye are committing,
By hauding up your chafts sae thin
At sic a meeting:
By raising a' this dreadfu' din?—
Do ye no' ken what horrid sin
Ye are committing,
By hauding up your chafts sae thin
At sic a meeting:
Fine times, indeed! when squalid spectres,
Like you, maun now turn State directors,
And meet here to deliver lectures
On Parliaments,
And, like sae mony bullying Hectors,
Cry “To your tents.”
Like you, maun now turn State directors,
And meet here to deliver lectures
On Parliaments,
And, like sae mony bullying Hectors,
Cry “To your tents.”
16
What deevil brings you here ava,
To set up your confounding jaw?—
Sheer off;—or faith we'll learn you a'
Anither way yet;
Ye have nae business wi' the law,
But to obey it.
“What Deevil brings you here ava?” It must be distinctly stated here, that the pious Place-hunter does not use this exclamation in the same sense as profane swearers do;—no; he puts it by way of interrogation, as he is perfectly certain that such a rabble could only meet at the instigation of some infernal agent.
To set up your confounding jaw?—
Sheer off;—or faith we'll learn you a'
Anither way yet;
Ye have nae business wi' the law,
But to obey it.
Base outcast riddlings o' creation,
How daur ye speak o' Reformation?
Or spurt your vile disapprobation
At men o' worth,
Wha represent the happiest nation
Upon the yirth?
How daur ye speak o' Reformation?
Or spurt your vile disapprobation
At men o' worth,
Wha represent the happiest nation
Upon the yirth?
Whaur could we find sic talents bright?—
Whaur meet wi' conduct sae upright
As theirs?—whilk beams as clear's the light
That shines at noon;
And yet ye'll cry there's naething right,
For a' they've done.
Whaur meet wi' conduct sae upright
As theirs?—whilk beams as clear's the light
That shines at noon;
And yet ye'll cry there's naething right,
For a' they've done.
17
Ye'll rave and rant 'bout rotten boroughs,
Fell fruitfu' source o' a' your sorrows,
Whilk, like the lean, starved, kye o' Pharaoh's,
The fat devour,
And after a' are just as poor as
They were before.
Fell fruitfu' source o' a' your sorrows,
Whilk, like the lean, starved, kye o' Pharaoh's,
The fat devour,
And after a' are just as poor as
They were before.
But be they poor, or be they rich,
Their chartered rights ye daurna touch,
Their sacredness has aye been such,
And shall be still,
That whar's the base unhallowed wretch
Daur do them ill?
Their chartered rights ye daurna touch,
Their sacredness has aye been such,
And shall be still,
That whar's the base unhallowed wretch
Daur do them ill?
Ye'll cry for equal rights to all,
Without regard to great or small,
For annual Parliaments ye'll bawl;
But what are ye?
A blank—a mere political
Non-entity.
Without regard to great or small,
For annual Parliaments ye'll bawl;
But what are ye?
A blank—a mere political
Non-entity.
18
Frae what grand era do ye date
Your first existence in the State,
That ye maun rave at sic a rate,
And storm about it?
We ne'er heard tell o't till of late,
And therefore doubt it.
Your first existence in the State,
That ye maun rave at sic a rate,
And storm about it?
We ne'er heard tell o't till of late,
And therefore doubt it.
But you—ye silly credulous pack,
Ye maun believe ilk knavish quack,
Wha does possess that cursed knack
O' specious wheezing,
Whilk ye gulp down for gospel fact,
Just 'cause 'tis pleasing.
Ye maun believe ilk knavish quack,
Wha does possess that cursed knack
O' specious wheezing,
Whilk ye gulp down for gospel fact,
Just 'cause 'tis pleasing.
Now will ye blether out your nonsense,
'Bout titled paupers and their pensions,
And wonder how they hae the conscience
To fleece ye sae;
These things are past your comprehensions,
Like mony mae.
'Bout titled paupers and their pensions,
And wonder how they hae the conscience
To fleece ye sae;
These things are past your comprehensions,
Like mony mae.
19
Ye'll hae the face, too, to debate,
And argue 'bout the nation's debt,
As if ye meant to liquidate
Ilk plack that's awn,
If so;—then nae mair idle prate,
But pay't aff han'.
And argue 'bout the nation's debt,
As if ye meant to liquidate
Ilk plack that's awn,
If so;—then nae mair idle prate,
But pay't aff han'.
If not;—say ye nae mair about it,
We great folks couldna do without it;
By it, we've a' got spurred and bootet,
And (mind your sides)
By it we'll soon hae saddles suited
To your grim hides.
We great folks couldna do without it;
By it, we've a' got spurred and bootet,
And (mind your sides)
By it we'll soon hae saddles suited
To your grim hides.
And L---d, we'll ride you till you sweat,
And hay and strae we'll mak you eat,
Upon your vera hands and feet
We'll gar you rin;
The lash, too,—ye shall smartly dree't
On your bare skin.
And hay and strae we'll mak you eat,
Upon your vera hands and feet
We'll gar you rin;
The lash, too,—ye shall smartly dree't
On your bare skin.
20
Ye'll growl at our most righteous war,
And what it was engaged in for;
Silence, ye stupid brutes, nor daur
To yell and bray sae,
Do ye no ken 'twas to restore
Legitimacy?
And what it was engaged in for;
Silence, ye stupid brutes, nor daur
To yell and bray sae,
Do ye no ken 'twas to restore
Legitimacy?
Behold how Heaven thus wisely brings
About sae mony glorious things;—
See Pope and Prelates, Priests and Kings,
Restored again,
While ilka ane now rules and rings
Owre what's his ain.
About sae mony glorious things;—
See Pope and Prelates, Priests and Kings,
Restored again,
While ilka ane now rules and rings
Owre what's his ain.
Behold a base licentious Press,
Ay prone just limits to transgress,
Pretending ever to redress
The people's wrangs,
Now, curb'd at last, the power confess
Of lawyers' fangs.
Ay prone just limits to transgress,
Pretending ever to redress
The people's wrangs,
Now, curb'd at last, the power confess
Of lawyers' fangs.
21
See how the Church doth proudly raise
Her head, in these her glorious days;
Mark how she smites her deadly faes,
The Hug'nots vile,
Frying them a' like bugs or flaes
'Mang tar and oil.
Her head, in these her glorious days;
Mark how she smites her deadly faes,
The Hug'nots vile,
Frying them a' like bugs or flaes
'Mang tar and oil.
See how the Inquisition grand
Diffuses, wi' unsparing hand,
Its various blessings o'er a land
That swarms wi' priests;
Dispelling, with the flaming brand,
Heretic mists.
Diffuses, wi' unsparing hand,
Its various blessings o'er a land
That swarms wi' priests;
Dispelling, with the flaming brand,
Heretic mists.
Behold the Queen (Quean?) of Babylon placed
Upon her scarlet-coloured beast,
As drunk as Bacchus at a feast,
Wi' blood o' saunts,
While round her mony a rosy priest
Roars, reels, and rants.
Upon her scarlet-coloured beast,
As drunk as Bacchus at a feast,
Wi' blood o' saunts,
While round her mony a rosy priest
Roars, reels, and rants.
22
When ye've reviewed these blessings o'er,
Whilk we've sae lang been fechting for,
Then say, ye wretches, if ye daur,
To speak it but!
Was it a just—a needfu' war,
Or was it not?
Whilk we've sae lang been fechting for,
Then say, ye wretches, if ye daur,
To speak it but!
Was it a just—a needfu' war,
Or was it not?
Vile Pagans! doom'd through life to drudge,
And howk amang your native sludge,
Wha is't gies you a right to judge
O' siccan matters;
That ye maun grumble, grunt and grudge,
At us, your betters?
And howk amang your native sludge,
Wha is't gies you a right to judge
O' siccan matters;
That ye maun grumble, grunt and grudge,
At us, your betters?
As hands and feet at first were made,
To serve their sovereign lord, the head,
So you, ye low-born slavish breed,
For a' your fuss,
By righteous heaven were decreed
To toil for us.
To serve their sovereign lord, the head,
So you, ye low-born slavish breed,
For a' your fuss,
By righteous heaven were decreed
To toil for us.
23
Yes, ye were made, ye drudges vile,
To drive the shuttle, plow the soil,
To wield the hammer, grasp the file,
The plane, the saw,
That we might live exempt frae toil,
Abune you a'.
To drive the shuttle, plow the soil,
To wield the hammer, grasp the file,
The plane, the saw,
That we might live exempt frae toil,
Abune you a'.
Ye'll bawl aloud how hard ye're taxed,
How sair ye're hungered, pinched and vexed,
How oftentimes ye're sair perplexed
To get a diet,
It's a' a flimsy weak pretext
To breed a riot.
How sair ye're hungered, pinched and vexed,
How oftentimes ye're sair perplexed
To get a diet,
It's a' a flimsy weak pretext
To breed a riot.
A growling disaffected crew,
There's aye a something wrang wi' you,
Nae matter whether toom or fou,
Ye'll carp at us;
Gude troth, ye're no half hauden to,
And that's your loss.
There's aye a something wrang wi' you,
Nae matter whether toom or fou,
Ye'll carp at us;
Gude troth, ye're no half hauden to,
And that's your loss.
24
When fouth o' meat and drink ye gat,
Scarce kenning then what ye'd be at,
Jeshuran-like, ye waxed fat,
And fell a-kicking;
But now, ye're weel paid in for that,
Wi' scanty picking.
Scarce kenning then what ye'd be at,
Jeshuran-like, ye waxed fat,
And fell a-kicking;
But now, ye're weel paid in for that,
Wi' scanty picking.
And when we deigned to scrimp your food,
Mind, wretches, it was for your good,
In order to correct your blood,
And keep it cool,
And bring you to a proper mood
To bear our rule.
Mind, wretches, it was for your good,
In order to correct your blood,
And keep it cool,
And bring you to a proper mood
To bear our rule.
Sae dinna girn, and growl, and fret,
At siclike usage as ye get,
Do not our Clergy tell you flat,
It's for your sins,
That ye are gettin't now, sae het,
Out owre the shins?
At siclike usage as ye get,
Do not our Clergy tell you flat,
It's for your sins,
That ye are gettin't now, sae het,
Out owre the shins?
25
Yes, for your sins an angry God
Thus heavily applies the rod;
And daur the offspring o' the clod,
The child o' dust,
Thus impiously arraign abroad
His dealing just?
Thus heavily applies the rod;
And daur the offspring o' the clod,
The child o' dust,
Thus impiously arraign abroad
His dealing just?
“No, no,” I think I hear you cry,
“That heavy charge we a' deny,
“It's naething but a downright lie,”
And siclike stuff;
But, haud your tongues, nor daur reply,
You've said enough.
“That heavy charge we a' deny,
“It's naething but a downright lie,”
And siclike stuff;
But, haud your tongues, nor daur reply,
You've said enough.
Base herd! whase ignorance surpasses
The dull stupidity of asses,
Think ye the privileged classes
Care aught about ye?
If ony mair ye daur to fash us,
By George, we'll shoot ye.
The dull stupidity of asses,
Think ye the privileged classes
Care aught about ye?
If ony mair ye daur to fash us,
By George, we'll shoot ye.
26
It's only makin' matters waur
To argue here wi' sic a core,
What need we cast our pearls before
A drove o' swine,
Wha'd tak and tramp them in the glaur,
And rive us syne?
To argue here wi' sic a core,
What need we cast our pearls before
A drove o' swine,
Wha'd tak and tramp them in the glaur,
And rive us syne?
We've walth o' sodgers in the town,
To keep sic ragamuffins down,
And gin ye dinna settle soon,
By a' that's good!
We'll gar the common sewers rin brown
Wi' your base blood.
To keep sic ragamuffins down,
And gin ye dinna settle soon,
By a' that's good!
We'll gar the common sewers rin brown
The reader may here suppose that the word “brown” is introduced merely for the sake of rhyme, without paying any regard to sense. This is by no means the case. A pure Aristocrat firmly believes that the blood of the “Sooty Rabble” is neither so pure, so rich, nor so red as his own; hence his aversion to, and detestation of the working classes.
Wi' your base blood.
Tak', therefore, this kind admonition,
Recant, repent, be a' submission;
And as a proof that your contrition
Is frae the heart,
In Gude's name rive that curst petition
Before ye part.
Recant, repent, be a' submission;
And as a proof that your contrition
Is frae the heart,
In Gude's name rive that curst petition
Before ye part.
27
Then to your hovels ilka ane,
Ye tattered tribes o' skin and bane,
There—thank your stars ye're let alane,
In peace to starve;
Sic mild forbearance, I maintain,
Ye scarce deserve.
Ye tattered tribes o' skin and bane,
There—thank your stars ye're let alane,
In peace to starve;
Sic mild forbearance, I maintain,
Ye scarce deserve.
37
A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE GREENOCK ADVERTISER,
Requiring him to give a reason for the wonderful appearance of the “Aurora Borealis,” on Saturday night, the 13th October, 1833.
Dear Mr Editor,—I beg you'll deign,
In your next Thursday's paper, to explain
What was the reason of the streamers' light
Shining so brilliantly, the other night
Emitting all around such glorious rays,
As made the heavens seem almost in a blaze:
And from the Pole, up to the Milky Way,
Turned night into a soft imperfect day.
Now floating, one wide sea of living light;
Now one vast sheet of pure transparent white,
Moving along majestically grand;
Now wildly darting out, on every hand,
Into ten thousand bright fantastic forms
Quick as the lightnings amid tropic storms,
Or mimicking the flash of falchions bright,
When armies meet in wild tumultuous fight;
Now—but I here must stop;—my feeble quill
Cannot describe what's indescribable.—
But, Mr Editor, I beg you'll say
What was the reason of this grand display.
Say, could it be, as some wise folks suppose,
The light reflected from the Polar snows,
When, by some wild commotion in the air,
They're rudely whirled and drifted, here and there,
And, as they fly, assume each varied form,
As moved by the monarch of the storm?
Or was it, as some others think, the light,
Thrown up by countless shoals of fish at night,
Which hold their gambols in the northern deep,
When other sober fish are gone to sleep?
And that on this particular night the whales,
With joy and gladness glancing in their scales,
Had met in myriads in the northern sea,
To hold a high and joyous Jubilee,
In honour of their being freed once more
From wicked whalers who infest their shore,
Dealing destruction with their dread harpoons,
But who had left them now for eight long moons:
And while around their iceberg tables they,
In mirth and feasting, passed the time away—
Drinking most loyal, patriotic toasts,
And cursing ships that visited their coasts,
And passing compliments from side to side
In all the pompousness of whalish pride:
(For whales, like men, we're told can meet and dine,
And drink each other's healths in generous—brine;)
Or, while they gambol through the mazy dance—
Retreating now—now making an advance—
Reeling and wheeling with their partners fair—
Now setting here, now nimbly darting there,
And giving now and then a graceful snort,
By way of keeping up their gentle sport.
Say, while such scenes as these were going on,
Was't the reflection of their scales that shone
Upon the sky, and made so bright a glow?
If this was not the case, pray tell us so.
Or, was it, as some folks are pleased to say,
That Captain Ross, the time he was away,
Was busily employed, with his brave crew,
In gathering and barrelling up the dew
That falls about the Pole each summer night,
And is possessed of qualities so bright,
And lasting, too, that when the summer's done,
It serves the people there instead of sun:
And that the worthy Captain wisely thought,
If such a freight to Britain could be brought,
It soon might supersede the use of gas,
And be a benefit to every class:
That full of this idea, he, brave fellow,
Got safely shipped on board the Isabella
Two barrels of this pure ethereal stuff,
Thinking that quantity would be enough
To make a trial; and, if it succeeded,
More could be had whenever it was needed:
But that, alas! on nearing Orkney's coast,
The Isabella being tempest-tost,
Her rolling and her pitching (sad relation)
Produced among the dew a fermentation,
So strong and rapid, that, before the crew
Had time to think, the hoops asunder flew—
Out burst the dew with such a thundering sound,
'Twas heard for twenty thousand leagues around;
Up flew the light in two vast blazing streams,
Outstripping far the sun's most potent beams;
And as they rose they wide and wider spread,
Till all the sky was glowing overhead.
Now tell us, Mr Editor, (for you
Must know the truth,) if this strange tale be true,
And if it was the cause of that great light,
Which was beheld on that particular night?
In your next Thursday's paper, to explain
What was the reason of the streamers' light
Shining so brilliantly, the other night
Emitting all around such glorious rays,
As made the heavens seem almost in a blaze:
And from the Pole, up to the Milky Way,
Turned night into a soft imperfect day.
Now floating, one wide sea of living light;
Now one vast sheet of pure transparent white,
Moving along majestically grand;
Now wildly darting out, on every hand,
Into ten thousand bright fantastic forms
Quick as the lightnings amid tropic storms,
Or mimicking the flash of falchions bright,
When armies meet in wild tumultuous fight;
38
Cannot describe what's indescribable.—
But, Mr Editor, I beg you'll say
What was the reason of this grand display.
Say, could it be, as some wise folks suppose,
The light reflected from the Polar snows,
When, by some wild commotion in the air,
They're rudely whirled and drifted, here and there,
And, as they fly, assume each varied form,
As moved by the monarch of the storm?
Or was it, as some others think, the light,
Thrown up by countless shoals of fish at night,
Which hold their gambols in the northern deep,
When other sober fish are gone to sleep?
And that on this particular night the whales,
With joy and gladness glancing in their scales,
Had met in myriads in the northern sea,
To hold a high and joyous Jubilee,
In honour of their being freed once more
From wicked whalers who infest their shore,
Dealing destruction with their dread harpoons,
But who had left them now for eight long moons:
And while around their iceberg tables they,
In mirth and feasting, passed the time away—
39
And cursing ships that visited their coasts,
And passing compliments from side to side
In all the pompousness of whalish pride:
(For whales, like men, we're told can meet and dine,
And drink each other's healths in generous—brine;)
Or, while they gambol through the mazy dance—
Retreating now—now making an advance—
Reeling and wheeling with their partners fair—
Now setting here, now nimbly darting there,
And giving now and then a graceful snort,
By way of keeping up their gentle sport.
Say, while such scenes as these were going on,
Was't the reflection of their scales that shone
Upon the sky, and made so bright a glow?
If this was not the case, pray tell us so.
Or, was it, as some folks are pleased to say,
That Captain Ross, the time he was away,
Was busily employed, with his brave crew,
In gathering and barrelling up the dew
That falls about the Pole each summer night,
And is possessed of qualities so bright,
And lasting, too, that when the summer's done,
It serves the people there instead of sun:
40
If such a freight to Britain could be brought,
It soon might supersede the use of gas,
And be a benefit to every class:
That full of this idea, he, brave fellow,
Got safely shipped on board the Isabella
Two barrels of this pure ethereal stuff,
Thinking that quantity would be enough
To make a trial; and, if it succeeded,
More could be had whenever it was needed:
But that, alas! on nearing Orkney's coast,
The Isabella being tempest-tost,
Her rolling and her pitching (sad relation)
Produced among the dew a fermentation,
So strong and rapid, that, before the crew
Had time to think, the hoops asunder flew—
Out burst the dew with such a thundering sound,
'Twas heard for twenty thousand leagues around;
Up flew the light in two vast blazing streams,
Outstripping far the sun's most potent beams;
And as they rose they wide and wider spread,
Till all the sky was glowing overhead.
Now tell us, Mr Editor, (for you
Must know the truth,) if this strange tale be true,
41
Which was beheld on that particular night?
But there is yet another reason given
For this great light which shone that night from heaven;
And it is said 'twas Bishop S--- who gave it:
However, as I heard it you shall have it;
But recollect, I vouch not for its truth,
And will not be amenable, forsooth.—
Well,—it is said the Reverend Pastor told
The pious bleaters of his numerous fold,
The Sunday morning after it took place,
That this light was a miracle of Grace,
Sent to convince an unbelieving world,
Which for its sins to Tophet should be hurled,
But chiefly to convince this wicked land,
That the “Beloved,” departed “Ferdinand,”
Was one of those few favourites of Heaven
To whom the glorious privilege was given
Of an apotheosis grand—sublime,
Such as had scarcely been since Peter's time:
That this was a decree of Holy Church,
Who never left her true sons in the lurch,
But still rewarded them for their good deeds,—
Especially for counting well their beads,
And paying homage to the holy saints
In heaven, now free from all unholy taints:
That Ferdinand, the time he was below,
Did still a holy zeal for these things show;
So much so that the Church had now decreed
The highest seat in heaven as his meed:
That being freed last night from Purgatory,
The well “Beloved,” on his way to glory,
Arriving safely at St. Peter's porch—
That holy Rock, on whom is built the Church,
Saluted him with a most gracious smile,
And kindly shook him by the hand the while,
Telling him his embroideries and flowers
Would be his passport to the heavenly bowers:
That Ferdinand then showed the petticoat,
Which he, on earth, had for the Virgin wrought,
And brought it here with him to be presented
To her, upon the day he should be sainted,—
(For sainting, if the Canons speak aright,
Is just the dubbing one a heavenly knight,)
Hoping he'd be acknowledged then by her,
Her well beloved, chief embroiderer:
That the Apostle took it in his hand,
Praised it, and blessed the pious Ferdinand;
And while upon the petticoat he breathed,
The holy breath so twined, and curled, and wreathed
About the flowers, that, losing earth's pale hue,
They bright and brighter every moment grew,
Till catching all the glow of heaven's rich dyes,
They shed so rich a radiance o'er the skies,
As ne'er was matched since the creation's birth,
When fresh and lovely was this new born earth,
Ere it was blasted by the crimes of men,
When all was peace and purity—and when
The morning stars together sang on high,
And shouted all the sons of God for joy.
Now he (the Bishop) would make bold to say,
That this was a most merciful display
Of Heaven's long-suffering with the sons of men,
To bring them back to the right way again,
Into the heart of this our holy fold,
From which their wicked fathers strayed of old;
He therefore hoped that all would warning take,
And of this gracious dispensation make
A right improvement and a proper use,
And never more to slander or traduce
The blessed memory of him, now gone
And left an earthly for a heavenly throne;
For truly the departed King of Spain
A bright example was for all who yet should reign.
Now, Mr Editor, as this display
Was noted in the Journals of the day,
As the most glorious ever seen by men,
Who scarce can hope to see the like again;
Pray tell us, for we must depend on you,
Which of these reasons is most likely to be true?”
For this great light which shone that night from heaven;
And it is said 'twas Bishop S--- who gave it:
However, as I heard it you shall have it;
But recollect, I vouch not for its truth,
And will not be amenable, forsooth.—
Well,—it is said the Reverend Pastor told
The pious bleaters of his numerous fold,
The Sunday morning after it took place,
That this light was a miracle of Grace,
Sent to convince an unbelieving world,
Which for its sins to Tophet should be hurled,
But chiefly to convince this wicked land,
That the “Beloved,” departed “Ferdinand,”
Was one of those few favourites of Heaven
To whom the glorious privilege was given
Of an apotheosis grand—sublime,
Such as had scarcely been since Peter's time:
That this was a decree of Holy Church,
Who never left her true sons in the lurch,
42
Especially for counting well their beads,
And paying homage to the holy saints
In heaven, now free from all unholy taints:
That Ferdinand, the time he was below,
Did still a holy zeal for these things show;
So much so that the Church had now decreed
The highest seat in heaven as his meed:
That being freed last night from Purgatory,
The well “Beloved,” on his way to glory,
Arriving safely at St. Peter's porch—
That holy Rock, on whom is built the Church,
Saluted him with a most gracious smile,
And kindly shook him by the hand the while,
Telling him his embroideries and flowers
Would be his passport to the heavenly bowers:
That Ferdinand then showed the petticoat,
Which he, on earth, had for the Virgin wrought,
And brought it here with him to be presented
To her, upon the day he should be sainted,—
(For sainting, if the Canons speak aright,
Is just the dubbing one a heavenly knight,)
Hoping he'd be acknowledged then by her,
Her well beloved, chief embroiderer:
43
Praised it, and blessed the pious Ferdinand;
And while upon the petticoat he breathed,
The holy breath so twined, and curled, and wreathed
About the flowers, that, losing earth's pale hue,
They bright and brighter every moment grew,
Till catching all the glow of heaven's rich dyes,
They shed so rich a radiance o'er the skies,
As ne'er was matched since the creation's birth,
When fresh and lovely was this new born earth,
Ere it was blasted by the crimes of men,
When all was peace and purity—and when
The morning stars together sang on high,
And shouted all the sons of God for joy.
Now he (the Bishop) would make bold to say,
That this was a most merciful display
Of Heaven's long-suffering with the sons of men,
To bring them back to the right way again,
Into the heart of this our holy fold,
From which their wicked fathers strayed of old;
He therefore hoped that all would warning take,
And of this gracious dispensation make
A right improvement and a proper use,
And never more to slander or traduce
44
And left an earthly for a heavenly throne;
For truly the departed King of Spain
A bright example was for all who yet should reign.
Now, Mr Editor, as this display
Was noted in the Journals of the day,
As the most glorious ever seen by men,
Who scarce can hope to see the like again;
Pray tell us, for we must depend on you,
Which of these reasons is most likely to be true?”
October 17th, 1833.
60
HIGHLAND POLITICIANS.
Come, Tougall, tell me what you'll thocht
Apout this Bill Reform, man,
Tat's preeding sic a muckle steer,
An' like to raise ta storm, man;
For noo ta peoples meet in troves,
On both sides o' ta Tweed, man,
An' spoket speechums loud an' lang,
An' very pauld inteed, man.
Apout this Bill Reform, man,
Tat's preeding sic a muckle steer,
An' like to raise ta storm, man;
For noo ta peoples meet in troves,
On both sides o' ta Tweed, man,
An' spoket speechums loud an' lang,
An' very pauld inteed, man.
'Teed, Tonald, lad, she'll no pe ken,
For she's nae politish, man,
But for their speechums loud an' lang,
She wadna gie tat sneesh, man;
For gin she'll thocht ta thing was richt,
She wad her beetock traw, man,
An' feught like tamn—till ance ta Bill
Was made coot Cospel law, man.
For she's nae politish, man,
But for their speechums loud an' lang,
She wadna gie tat sneesh, man;
For gin she'll thocht ta thing was richt,
She wad her beetock traw, man,
An' feught like tamn—till ance ta Bill
Was made coot Cospel law, man.
61
Hoot toot, man Tougall! tat micht do
When Shordie Twa did ring, man,
An' her fore-faiters trew ta tirk,
Ta mak teir Chairlie king, man;
But tirks, an' pistols, an' claymores,
Pe no for me nor you, man;
Tey'll a' pe out o' fashions gane
Since pluity Waterloo, man.
When Shordie Twa did ring, man,
An' her fore-faiters trew ta tirk,
Ta mak teir Chairlie king, man;
But tirks, an' pistols, an' claymores,
Pe no for me nor you, man;
Tey'll a' pe out o' fashions gane
Since pluity Waterloo, man.
Last nicht she'll went to pay her rent,
Ta laird gie her ta tram, man,
An' tell her tat this Bill Reform
Was shust a nonsense tamn, man!
Pe no for honest man's, she'll say,
Pe meddle 'ffairs o' State, man,
But leave those matters to him's Crace,
Him's Clory, an' ta great man.
Ta laird gie her ta tram, man,
An' tell her tat this Bill Reform
Was shust a nonsense tamn, man!
Pe no for honest man's, she'll say,
Pe meddle 'ffairs o' State, man,
But leave those matters to him's Crace,
Him's Clory, an' ta great man.
She'll talk 'pout Revolations, too,
Pe pad an' wicked thing, man,
Wad teuk awa ta 'stinctions a',
Frae peggar down to king, man.
Nae doubts, nae doubts, her nainsel said,
But yet tere's something worse, man;
Ta Revolations tat will teuk
Ta puir man's cow nor horse, man.
Pe pad an' wicked thing, man,
Wad teuk awa ta 'stinctions a',
Frae peggar down to king, man.
62
But yet tere's something worse, man;
Ta Revolations tat will teuk
Ta puir man's cow nor horse, man.
An' ten she'll wish ta Ministers
Pe kicket frae teir place, man:
Och hon, och hon! her nainsel said,
Tat wad pe wofu' case, man;
For gin ta Ministers pe fa',
Precentors neist maun gang, man—
Syne wha wad in ta Punker stood,
An' lilt ta godly sang, man?
Pe kicket frae teir place, man:
Och hon, och hon! her nainsel said,
Tat wad pe wofu' case, man;
For gin ta Ministers pe fa',
Precentors neist maun gang, man—
Syne wha wad in ta Punker stood,
An' lilt ta godly sang, man?
Och! ten ta laird flee in a rage,
An' sinfu' diel me ca', man—
Me tell him no pe understood
What him will spoke ava, man;
Ta sinfu' diel!—na, na, she'll say,
She'll no pelang tat clan, man,
Hersel's a true an' trusty Grant,
As coot as 'nitter man, man.
An' sinfu' diel me ca', man—
Me tell him no pe understood
What him will spoke ava, man;
Ta sinfu' diel!—na, na, she'll say,
She'll no pelang tat clan, man,
Hersel's a true an' trusty Grant,
As coot as 'nitter man, man.
63
But Tougall, lad! my 'pinion is,
An' tat she'll freely gie, man,
Ta laird pe fear tat this Reform
Will petter you an' me, man:
For like some ither lairds, she still
Wad ride upon our pack, man;
But fait! she'll maybe saw ta tay
Pe tell him 'nitter crack, man.
An' tat she'll freely gie, man,
Ta laird pe fear tat this Reform
Will petter you an' me, man:
For like some ither lairds, she still
Wad ride upon our pack, man;
But fait! she'll maybe saw ta tay
Pe tell him 'nitter crack, man.
For Shames ta feeter
say this Bill
Will mak' ta rents pe fa', man;
Pe mak' ta sneesh an' whisky cheap,
Ta gauger chase awa, man;
An' ne'er let lairds nor factors more
Pe do ta poor man's harm, man,
Nor purn him's house apoon him's head,
An' trive him aff ta farm, man.
Will mak' ta rents pe fa', man;
Pe mak' ta sneesh an' whisky cheap,
Ta gauger chase awa, man;
An' ne'er let lairds nor factors more
Pe do ta poor man's harm, man,
Nor purn him's house apoon him's head,
An' trive him aff ta farm, man.
Weel, Tonald! gin I'll thochtit that,
Reformer I will turn, man,
For wi' their 'pressions an' their scorns,
My very pluit will purn, man:
Och, shust to hae ta tay about,
Wi' some tat I will ken, man:
Tey'll prunt my house to please ta laird,
Cot! let them try't again, man!
Reformer I will turn, man,
For wi' their 'pressions an' their scorns,
My very pluit will purn, man:
64
Wi' some tat I will ken, man:
Tey'll prunt my house to please ta laird,
Perhaps this passage can be best explained by those Lairds and Ladies in the County of Sutherland, and elsewhere, on whose estates some years ago depopulation and expatriation were carried on to such an extent as would have gladdened the heart of a very Malthus. Under this exterminating system hundreds of poor families were driven by force and violence from the homes which their fathers had occupied for centuries, and all to make room for a few large sheep farms.
Cot! let them try't again, man!
SHAVING BANKS;
OR, MATTHEW'S CALL TO THE WORTHLESS, TO COME AND BE SHAVED O' THEIR SILLER.
Being the substance of a speech delivered by Matthew, (not the Evangelist,) at a Public Meeting held in the ---, on the --- day of ---, 1818, on the utility of “Shaving Banks.”
Ho! ye poor worthless, thriftless trash;
Worthless, because ye haena cash—
Thriftless, because ye try to dash
Like your superiors;
Come hither, till I lay the lash
To your posteriors.
Worthless, because ye haena cash—
Thriftless, because ye try to dash
Like your superiors;
Come hither, till I lay the lash
To your posteriors.
Sae lost are ye to a' reflection—
To wisdom, prudence, circumspection—
That naething but some smart correction
I see will do;
And naething else than pure affection
Mak's me fa' to.
To wisdom, prudence, circumspection—
That naething but some smart correction
I see will do;
And naething else than pure affection
Mak's me fa' to.
118
Who can death's portals close,
By making peace with foes,
And ending warfare's woes?
Great Dzheordzhe, the king.
By making peace with foes,
And ending warfare's woes?
Great Dzheordzhe, the king.
Who can do nothing wrong?
Who human life prolong?
Great Dzheordzhe, the king.
Who, by his Royal will,
Can, with a grey goose quill,
Graciously save—or kill?
Great Dzheordzhe, the king.
Who human life prolong?
Great Dzheordzhe, the king.
Who, by his Royal will,
Can, with a grey goose quill,
Graciously save—or kill?
Great Dzheordzhe, the king.
Who is the Church's Head,
Mighty, and high, and dread?
Great Dzheordzhe, the king.
Who makes the nations pay
Tythes—that a tythe may pray
After one certain way?
Great Dzheordzhe the king.
Mighty, and high, and dread?
Great Dzheordzhe, the king.
Who makes the nations pay
Tythes—that a tythe may pray
After one certain way?
Great Dzheordzhe the king.
225
THE DEVIL'S VISIT TO THE ISLANDS OF JAPAN.
A TALE: Translated from the Japanese.
From his brimstone throne, at the close of day,
The devil went out to walk,
To visit a “snug little Isle of the sea,”
And have with his friends some talk;
And over the hill, and over the dale,
And over the plain he hies,
And still as he walked he whisked his tail,
As a cow whisks off the flies.
Thus trudged he along without feeling fatigue,
Till he came to a very great town,
Then he hid his horns 'neath a Judge's wig,
And his tail 'neath a Bishop's gown,
And on his cloven feet he puts
A pair of dandy Wellington boots;
For, quoth Nick, my friends would be sadly hurt
Unless I appeared in style at Court.
He went to visit a very great man,
Who very large whiskers wore:
He found him beside his flowing can,
While from mouth and from nose the red liquor ran,
As he wallowed and snored on the floor.
“Your servant,” quoth Nick, “I'm so happy to find you
From radical practices free,
That I'll be most graciously pleased to assign you,
So soon as friend Death to my care has consigned you,
A place near myself which has long been designed you,
For being so faithful to me:—
I'll give you to drink of the river of lava,
Which flows from the foot of my throne,
And you'll eat of the fruit of the upas of Java,
A tree which has long been my own:
And your bed shall be scented with vitriol strong,
Mixed up with manganese;
And if you should graciously happen to long
For an old wench or two,
Then I've got enow,
Such as old Madam Endor,—Xantippe the shrew,
Agrippina, Medusa, old Jezebel too,
Northern Kate, and Meg Merrilees:
And your pot-mates shall be like yourself, men of weight,
Belshazzar, and Heliogabulus great.”
A portly old lady
he visited next,
He never saw any thing fairer nor fatter;
He ogled, and sighed, and looked sore perplexed,
And wished himself man,
For then he began
To feel himself queerish, and half guess'd the matter:
O L---d, cried Nick, what a luscious feast,
How fitted to please the great man's taste.
The devil went out to walk,
To visit a “snug little Isle of the sea,”
And have with his friends some talk;
And over the hill, and over the dale,
And over the plain he hies,
And still as he walked he whisked his tail,
As a cow whisks off the flies.
Thus trudged he along without feeling fatigue,
Till he came to a very great town,
Then he hid his horns 'neath a Judge's wig,
And his tail 'neath a Bishop's gown,
And on his cloven feet he puts
A pair of dandy Wellington boots;
For, quoth Nick, my friends would be sadly hurt
Unless I appeared in style at Court.
226
Who very large whiskers wore:
He found him beside his flowing can,
While from mouth and from nose the red liquor ran,
As he wallowed and snored on the floor.
“Your servant,” quoth Nick, “I'm so happy to find you
From radical practices free,
That I'll be most graciously pleased to assign you,
So soon as friend Death to my care has consigned you,
A place near myself which has long been designed you,
For being so faithful to me:—
I'll give you to drink of the river of lava,
Which flows from the foot of my throne,
And you'll eat of the fruit of the upas of Java,
A tree which has long been my own:
And your bed shall be scented with vitriol strong,
Mixed up with manganese;
And if you should graciously happen to long
For an old wench or two,
Then I've got enow,
Such as old Madam Endor,—Xantippe the shrew,
Agrippina, Medusa, old Jezebel too,
Northern Kate, and Meg Merrilees:
And your pot-mates shall be like yourself, men of weight,
Belshazzar, and Heliogabulus great.”
227
He never saw any thing fairer nor fatter;
He ogled, and sighed, and looked sore perplexed,
And wished himself man,
For then he began
To feel himself queerish, and half guess'd the matter:
O L---d, cried Nick, what a luscious feast,
How fitted to please the great man's taste.
In Needle-thread Street
he met an old hag,
Bedecked and bedizened with many an old rag.
Quoth Satan, my dear, we're relations,
For thou art sure
The old scarlet w---e
John saw in his Revelations:
For the kings of the earth thou hast made to drink
Of the cup of thy fornications,
Until thou hast made thy name to stink,
In the noses of them who can reason and think,
Through thy horrid abominations.
I hear thou art getting a new sable dress,
To cover thy hideous ugliness,
And thy wrinkled appearance to mend:
But it rather looks ominous, I must confess,
Of thine own approaching end.
And O, what a terrible day will that be,
For all who have had dealings with thee,
When instead of finding themselves enriched,
They will find they have only been duped and bewitched;
But the fools can have no just cause to complain;
They were well enough warned by C*bb*t and P**ne.
Confound these two rascals! they've done me more ill,
By that little damnable weapon—the quill,
Than e'er has been done me elsewhere,
By all the fat tribe of sleek Bonzes in black,
Who make it a rule every Sunday to thwack
My poor tortured hide,—till the gaping mouthed pack
Almost fancy they hear me receiving each smack,
While I gnaw my hot chains in despair:
But farewell, my dear Sister,—when aught happens thee,
A very warm friend thou wilt have in me.
Bedecked and bedizened with many an old rag.
Quoth Satan, my dear, we're relations,
For thou art sure
The old scarlet w---e
John saw in his Revelations:
For the kings of the earth thou hast made to drink
Of the cup of thy fornications,
Until thou hast made thy name to stink,
In the noses of them who can reason and think,
Through thy horrid abominations.
I hear thou art getting a new sable dress,
To cover thy hideous ugliness,
And thy wrinkled appearance to mend:
228
Of thine own approaching end.
And O, what a terrible day will that be,
For all who have had dealings with thee,
When instead of finding themselves enriched,
They will find they have only been duped and bewitched;
But the fools can have no just cause to complain;
They were well enough warned by C*bb*t and P**ne.
Confound these two rascals! they've done me more ill,
By that little damnable weapon—the quill,
Than e'er has been done me elsewhere,
By all the fat tribe of sleek Bonzes in black,
Who make it a rule every Sunday to thwack
My poor tortured hide,—till the gaping mouthed pack
Almost fancy they hear me receiving each smack,
While I gnaw my hot chains in despair:
But farewell, my dear Sister,—when aught happens thee,
A very warm friend thou wilt have in me.
From thence he went to a house of bad fame:
But when he looked round he blushed red with shame,
I thought, quoth Satan, that hell was most foul,
But this place is dirtier far, 'pon my soul!
He sat him down in an empty chair,
And heard some matters debated;
Quoth he, I'll learn some lessons here,
How subjects ought to be treated.
And tho' I'm king of the shades below,
My sceptre I will for a while forego,
And sojourn here seven years—or so,
To learn how shackles are made:
Like Peter the Great, who left Moscow
To learn the carpenter trade.
But when he looked round he blushed red with shame,
I thought, quoth Satan, that hell was most foul,
But this place is dirtier far, 'pon my soul!
229
And heard some matters debated;
Quoth he, I'll learn some lessons here,
How subjects ought to be treated.
And tho' I'm king of the shades below,
My sceptre I will for a while forego,
And sojourn here seven years—or so,
To learn how shackles are made:
Like Peter the Great, who left Moscow
To learn the carpenter trade.
He heard “Derry Down” make a frothy speech,
Concerning the features of his breech:
Quoth Nick, he has made it quite plain,
From the manner in which he “prostrate stands,”
See-sawing his salt-and-gun-powder-stained hands,
That his breech is the case of his brain;
Why, I'd not be surprised if that same stupid elf
Would, on one of these days, turn his back on himself;
Yet the fellow's rare talents command my esteem
More than any one's talents I know,
And so well has he used them that soon I'll make him
My own Provost-Marshal below:
For such skill he acquired 'mong the cropt-headed Pats,
That he'll wield most expertly my thunder-bolt cats,
And make the damned felons run squeaking like rats,
Through my dark gloomy regions of woe.
Derry Down, otherwise Long-thong-Derry—a well-known Minister at the Court of Japan, celebrated for making disadvantageous treaties, frothy speeches, and blundering bulls; also for planning foolish and destructive expeditions, but chiefly for applying salt and gunpowder to the newly flogged backs of political delinquents.
Concerning the features of his breech:
Quoth Nick, he has made it quite plain,
From the manner in which he “prostrate stands,”
See-sawing his salt-and-gun-powder-stained hands,
That his breech is the case of his brain;
Why, I'd not be surprised if that same stupid elf
Would, on one of these days, turn his back on himself;
Yet the fellow's rare talents command my esteem
More than any one's talents I know,
And so well has he used them that soon I'll make him
My own Provost-Marshal below:
230
That he'll wield most expertly my thunder-bolt cats,
And make the damned felons run squeaking like rats,
Through my dark gloomy regions of woe.
Old Circular,
too, his black Majesty saw,
With his thumb-screws, gags, and chains,
To his under-turnkeys dictating law,
And inventing new tortures and pains.
Quoth Nick, my dear boy, thou must go with me,
For Cerberus grows old and frail,
And a famous assistant to him thou wilt be,
With thy double face, and his heads three,
Provided thy saintship and he can agree,
To guard my infernal jail:
By the bye, thou'rt so like him, so hideous, and grim,
That I really believe thou art brother to him.
With his thumb-screws, gags, and chains,
To his under-turnkeys dictating law,
And inventing new tortures and pains.
Quoth Nick, my dear boy, thou must go with me,
For Cerberus grows old and frail,
And a famous assistant to him thou wilt be,
With thy double face, and his heads three,
Provided thy saintship and he can agree,
To guard my infernal jail:
By the bye, thou'rt so like him, so hideous, and grim,
That I really believe thou art brother to him.
But his Devilship never got half so much fun
As when he beheld a mountebank Hunn
Making sport of an old man's sorrows;
Quoth Nick, that stage gettling has pleased me so well,
That I ne'er felt such pleasure before—since man fell:
By Jove! I will have him made Jester in hell,
To quiz at the poor tortured wretches who yell,
When with pain they're all howling in chorus.
As when he beheld a mountebank Hunn
Making sport of an old man's sorrows;
Quoth Nick, that stage gettling has pleased me so well,
231
By Jove! I will have him made Jester in hell,
To quiz at the poor tortured wretches who yell,
When with pain they're all howling in chorus.
He looked, and he saw two bags of green
Upon a huge table laid;
Crammed full of vile stories about some Queen,
Who, 'twas said, had the wanton played.
Quoth Nick, I know how these bags came there,
For at filling of them I had my own share:
Because I always take vast delight,
Along with my darling sons of night,
In making a character black that is fair.
The Vice-whipper-General Satan espied,
With the Sophister-General close by his side,
Telling stories so grossly obscene,
That even old Nick with astonishment stared,
For, fiend as he was, he had not been prepared
To meet human nature so void of regard,
For every thing decent, as e'er to have dared
To utter such slanders as those he now heard,
So wicked, so low, and so mean.
Well, quoth Satan, for all the experience I've had,
I never before thought that man was so bad;
But hold!—let me look at the creatures again.
Why, truly!—they've only the semblance of men;
They are reptiles, I see, of the lowest description,
That, hatched in the dunghill of putrid corruption,
Are warmed into life by the Treasury's sun:
For men!—even devils could ne'er do as they've done.
Upon a huge table laid;
Crammed full of vile stories about some Queen,
Who, 'twas said, had the wanton played.
Quoth Nick, I know how these bags came there,
For at filling of them I had my own share:
Because I always take vast delight,
Along with my darling sons of night,
In making a character black that is fair.
The Vice-whipper-General Satan espied,
With the Sophister-General close by his side,
Telling stories so grossly obscene,
That even old Nick with astonishment stared,
For, fiend as he was, he had not been prepared
To meet human nature so void of regard,
For every thing decent, as e'er to have dared
To utter such slanders as those he now heard,
So wicked, so low, and so mean.
232
I never before thought that man was so bad;
But hold!—let me look at the creatures again.
Why, truly!—they've only the semblance of men;
They are reptiles, I see, of the lowest description,
That, hatched in the dunghill of putrid corruption,
Are warmed into life by the Treasury's sun:
For men!—even devils could ne'er do as they've done.
He saw “Non-Ricordo,”
and Miss Columbier,
With twenty such worthies, brought forward to swear
To vile stories cooked up at Milan:
Quoth Nick, 'tis now time that my trade I give o'er,
'Tis not worth my while to be Devil any more;
For, lo! I'm out-deviled by that brazen w---e,
And eke by that consummate villain.
With twenty such worthies, brought forward to swear
To vile stories cooked up at Milan:
Quoth Nick, 'tis now time that my trade I give o'er,
'Tis not worth my while to be Devil any more;
For, lo! I'm out-deviled by that brazen w---e,
And eke by that consummate villain.
He saw how the Bonzes
and Quos
gladly listened
To every improbable fib;
And how their chaste eyes most delightedly glistened,
And how they yelled out like wild Indians unchristened,
When any thing foul was about to be fastened
On great Dairo Whiskerman's rib.
Well, quoth Satan, my lads, you're a beautiful set
To meddle with such ugly matter;
Pray now, how much wages may each of you get
For this pretty business on which you are met?
For that you're well paid for't, my kingdom I'd bet,
You make such a rumpus and clatter.
However, I wish you success of your job;
May your labours succeed to your wishes!
Then, take my advice, never mind the rude mob,
But each of you act by your conscience—your fob,
Still minding the “loaves and the fishes.”
Then success to your bags, and success to your spies,
Success to your perjury, bribery, and lies,
To plots against people, and plots against Queens,
And bickerings between your Outs and your Ins,
Who, for aught I can see, are so curious a batch,
That in all my dominions I have not your match.
Carry on, my dear boys, you are all doing right,
Your proceedings have given me a h*ll of delight,
I'll home now, full fraught with the knowledge I've got,
And through Sulphur-land trumpet your fame;
Yea, I'll bellow your praise till my furnace, so hot,
Shall blaze with a tenfold flame.
To every improbable fib;
And how their chaste eyes most delightedly glistened,
And how they yelled out like wild Indians unchristened,
When any thing foul was about to be fastened
On great Dairo Whiskerman's rib.
233
To meddle with such ugly matter;
Pray now, how much wages may each of you get
For this pretty business on which you are met?
For that you're well paid for't, my kingdom I'd bet,
You make such a rumpus and clatter.
However, I wish you success of your job;
May your labours succeed to your wishes!
Then, take my advice, never mind the rude mob,
But each of you act by your conscience—your fob,
Still minding the “loaves and the fishes.”
Then success to your bags, and success to your spies,
Success to your perjury, bribery, and lies,
To plots against people, and plots against Queens,
And bickerings between your Outs and your Ins,
Who, for aught I can see, are so curious a batch,
That in all my dominions I have not your match.
Carry on, my dear boys, you are all doing right,
Your proceedings have given me a h*ll of delight,
I'll home now, full fraught with the knowledge I've got,
And through Sulphur-land trumpet your fame;
Yea, I'll bellow your praise till my furnace, so hot,
Shall blaze with a tenfold flame.
248
THE WAEFU' LAMENTATION
OF THE PROVOST AND BAILIES OF THE ROYAL BURGH OF BLYTHSWOOD.
Occasioned by the passing of the Reform Bill.
3. And when the people heard these things, they shouted aloud with a great shout, for their joy was very great.
4. But the chief ruler and the elders which sat in the gate gnashed their teeth and rent their garments; yea, they lifted up their voices and wept bitterly, making a sore lamentation.
5. And the chief ruler cried grievously, saying, Alas! alas! for this great evil which hath now come upon us; truly may we be called “Ichabod,” for the glory is departed from us and from our house for ever. —Book of Jasher, Chap. IX.
Wow, Sirs! what's this come owre us a'?
Wae worth that vile Reforming Law,
That's torn the vested rights awa'
Frae ilka borough,
An' left us Bailies nocht ava'
But dool an' sorrow.
Wae worth that vile Reforming Law,
That's torn the vested rights awa'
Frae ilka borough,
An' left us Bailies nocht ava'
But dool an' sorrow.
249
Alas! that I should live to see't,
The thocht o't 's like to gar me greet,
An' gnash my teeth, an' stamp my feet,
Wi' grief an' anger,
To think how many pickings sweet
We'll pree nae langer.
The thocht o't 's like to gar me greet,
An' gnash my teeth, an' stamp my feet,
Wi' grief an' anger,
To think how many pickings sweet
We'll pree nae langer.
Gane are our bits o' canny jobs,
By whilk we used to line our fobs,
And creesh our loofs, and gust our gobs,
An' dink us braw;
That curst Reform! it comes an' robs
Us o' them a'.
By whilk we used to line our fobs,
And creesh our loofs, and gust our gobs,
An' dink us braw;
That curst Reform! it comes an' robs
Us o' them a'.
Nae close electioneerings now—
Thae times are a' gane by, I trow,
When ye chose me, an' I chose you;
An' here sit we,
As cowed as ony hummilt cow
That treads the lee.
Thae times are a' gane by, I trow,
When ye chose me, an' I chose you;
An' here sit we,
As cowed as ony hummilt cow
That treads the lee.
250
Hech! but we've got a fearfu' fa',
We, wha were wont to gang sae braw,
Whase word or nod was ay a law
To a' about us;
The rabble now will owre us craw,
An' rudely flout us.
We, wha were wont to gang sae braw,
Whase word or nod was ay a law
To a' about us;
The rabble now will owre us craw,
An' rudely flout us.
Whare now are a' our gowden dreams?
Our hole-an'-corner plots an' schemes?—
Gane, like the sun's departed beams,
Ayont the hill—
While ilka future prospect seems
To lour wi' ill.
Our hole-an'-corner plots an' schemes?—
Gane, like the sun's departed beams,
Ayont the hill—
While ilka future prospect seems
To lour wi' ill.
Nae mair we'll dine now wi' his Grace,
Nor to my Lord haud up our face,
To bargain for some snug bit place
For Jock the laddie;
Nor get our wife bedeckt wi' lace
An' silks fu' gaudy.
Nor to my Lord haud up our face,
To bargain for some snug bit place
For Jock the laddie;
Nor get our wife bedeckt wi' lace
An' silks fu' gaudy.
251
An' there's your auld bit house an' mine,
We thocht to get replaced short syne
Wi' ashler wa's o' freestane fine,
An' sclated riggins;
That's past—an' here we still maun pine
In auld thack biggins.
We thocht to get replaced short syne
Wi' ashler wa's o' freestane fine,
An' sclated riggins;
That's past—an' here we still maun pine
In auld thack biggins.
An' mair than that, I thocht to get
A grand piano for our Kate,
Whare, leddy-like, she'd sit in state
An' thrum her tune;—
The pirn-wheel now maun be her fate
To birr an' croon.
A grand piano for our Kate,
Whare, leddy-like, she'd sit in state
An' thrum her tune;—
The pirn-wheel now maun be her fate
To birr an' croon.
An' as for Jock, wi' a' his lear,
He needna think on pu'pits mair,
For notwithstanding a' my care,
Expense an' pains,
I fear he jimply has a share
O' common brains.
He needna think on pu'pits mair,
For notwithstanding a' my care,
Expense an' pains,
I fear he jimply has a share
O' common brains.
252
But yet, for a' that, his bit lack
Wad ne'er hae been a great drawback
Unto his wearing o' the black,
Provided still
Things hadna a' been knocked to wrack
By this curst Bill.
Wad ne'er hae been a great drawback
Unto his wearing o' the black,
Provided still
Things hadna a' been knocked to wrack
By this curst Bill.
For had we still possessed our vote,
We might hae made that muckle o't,
As, through some Patron, to hae got
Our Jock a kirk;—
That's gane—now he maun cast his coat,
Poor chiel! an' work.
We might hae made that muckle o't,
As, through some Patron, to hae got
Our Jock a kirk;—
That's gane—now he maun cast his coat,
Poor chiel! an' work.
An' waes me! since he wants the brains
To handle chisels, files, and planes,
There's naething for him now remains
In this world wide,
That I can see, but knapping stanes
By some dyke side.
To handle chisels, files, and planes,
There's naething for him now remains
In this world wide,
That I can see, but knapping stanes
By some dyke side.
253
Nae mair will Blythswood meet us here,
An' dine wi' us four times a year;
We'll be for nae mair use, I fear,
To him, och hon!
An' therefore he will never speer
The road we're on.
An' dine wi' us four times a year;
We'll be for nae mair use, I fear,
To him, och hon!
An' therefore he will never speer
The road we're on.
Nor yet will Finlay Kirkland ca',
An' treat us in our ain Town Ha',
Nor kiss our wives an' dochters a',
An' slip fu' sleek
A bonnie yellow George or twa
Into their cheek.
An' treat us in our ain Town Ha',
Nor kiss our wives an' dochters a',
An' slip fu' sleek
A bonnie yellow George or twa
Into their cheek.
O had we but ta'en care langsyne,
An' made hay while the sun did shine!
But na—we boost to dash sae fine
Aboon our level;
An' wi' our dinners an' our wine,
Feast, rant, an' revel.
An' made hay while the sun did shine!
But na—we boost to dash sae fine
Aboon our level;
An' wi' our dinners an' our wine,
Feast, rant, an' revel.
254
Short-sighted mortals! ne'er to ween
But things wad be as they had been:
We little dreamt a blast sae keen
For us was brewin',
Whase breath wad bring our branches green
To wrack and ruin.
But things wad be as they had been:
We little dreamt a blast sae keen
For us was brewin',
Whase breath wad bring our branches green
To wrack and ruin.
Aye, aye!—the crowd may bawl “Reform!”—
What wondrous gude it will perform!
To us it proves a ruthless storm—
A devastation—
A plague—a pest—a canker-worm—
Annihilation!
What wondrous gude it will perform!
To us it proves a ruthless storm—
A devastation—
A plague—a pest—a canker-worm—
Annihilation!
May muckle trouble, dool, an' wae,
Alight on Russell, Brou'am, and Grey,
They've ta'en frae us our prop, our stay,
Our chief support;
But bide a wee,—they yet will hae
To answer for't.
Alight on Russell, Brou'am, and Grey,
They've ta'en frae us our prop, our stay,
Our chief support;
But bide a wee,—they yet will hae
To answer for't.
255
Aye, that they will—an' wi' a vengeance!—
For soon as comes a happy change ance,
We'll mak' them chaunt, in Royal dungeons,
“Sweet Libertie!”
Or try if Robespierrean engines
Can set them free.
For soon as comes a happy change ance,
We'll mak' them chaunt, in Royal dungeons,
“Sweet Libertie!”
Or try if Robespierrean engines
Can set them free.
An' a' the rest wha wi' them fought,
An' their unhallowed labours wrought,
We'll hae them served, too, as they ought,
Vile, graceless fallows!
To justice they shall a' be brought—
An' that's the gallows.
An' their unhallowed labours wrought,
We'll hae them served, too, as they ought,
Vile, graceless fallows!
To justice they shall a' be brought—
An' that's the gallows.
May ruin seize that wicked Press—
The movin' cause o' our distress;
It has exposed ilk wee finesse,
An' loopy job,
An' shown us, in our nakedness,
To a' the mob.
The movin' cause o' our distress;
It has exposed ilk wee finesse,
An' loopy job,
An' shown us, in our nakedness,
To a' the mob.
256
An' O, confound the Unions a'!—
Sae bauld an' crousely now they craw,
They'd rule the King—they'd rule the law,—
Ilk thing they'd rule:
I fear they'll try to chase awa
Our King, ere Yule.
Sae bauld an' crousely now they craw,
They'd rule the King—they'd rule the law,—
Ilk thing they'd rule:
I fear they'll try to chase awa
Our King, ere Yule.
But Gude preserve him, honest man!
Frae that infernal, graceless clan;
I hope he'll yet do what he can
In our behalf,
An' try to mend, by ilka plan,
Our broken staff.
Frae that infernal, graceless clan;
I hope he'll yet do what he can
In our behalf,
An' try to mend, by ilka plan,
Our broken staff.
An' Heaven shield our spotless Queen
Frae ilka scoundrel Jacobin—
For she has kept her garments clean,
'Mid a' this stour,
Nor filed her fingers wi't, I ween,
Up to this hour.
Frae ilka scoundrel Jacobin—
For she has kept her garments clean,
'Mid a' this stour,
Nor filed her fingers wi't, I ween,
Up to this hour.
257
May ilka blessin' light upon
The glorious Duke o' Wellin'ton,
An' may he do as he has done;
Gude bless his Grace!
He was our leading-star—our sun,
When he kept place.
The glorious Duke o' Wellin'ton,
An' may he do as he has done;
Gude bless his Grace!
He was our leading-star—our sun,
When he kept place.
May Heaven uphold Sir Robert Peel,
An' Weatherall, that witty chiel—
An' Croaker, too, wha fought sae weel,
In our ain cause,
An' a' the rest wha, true as steel,
Maintained our laws.
An' Weatherall, that witty chiel—
An' Croaker, too, wha fought sae weel,
In our ain cause,
An' a' the rest wha, true as steel,
Maintained our laws.
Gude save auld Airland's weeping Church,
Now hurklin' low without the porch;
They've torn her mantle, an' her curch
They've set on lowe,
While wicked corbies crousely perch
On her bare pow.
Now hurklin' low without the porch;
They've torn her mantle, an' her curch
They've set on lowe,
While wicked corbies crousely perch
On her bare pow.
258
An' gin they're no scaured aff, I doubt,
They'll pick her bare, clout after clout,
Nor leave her ought to wrap about
Her naked skin;
Na, waur,—they threaten to pick out
Her vera een!
They'll pick her bare, clout after clout,
Nor leave her ought to wrap about
Her naked skin;
Na, waur,—they threaten to pick out
Her vera een!
An' her gude Bishops still preserve,
Wha daily in the temples serve,—
Through want o' tithes may they ne'er starve,
But aye hae plenty,—
For muckle, muckle they deserve,
They are sae tenty.
Wha daily in the temples serve,—
Through want o' tithes may they ne'er starve,
But aye hae plenty,—
For muckle, muckle they deserve,
They are sae tenty.
They never stain their snaw-white bands
By breaking ane o' the Commands,
Nor e'er defile their haly hands
Wi' dirt o' Mammon;
Then, O! may those wha'd seize their lands
Be strung like Haman!
By breaking ane o' the Commands,
Nor e'er defile their haly hands
Wi' dirt o' Mammon;
Then, O! may those wha'd seize their lands
Be strung like Haman!
259
An' may red wrath an' indignation
Be poured out on this graceless nation!
May ruin an' black desolation
Sweep owre the land!
While, safe entrenched in domination,
We snugly stand!
Be poured out on this graceless nation!
May ruin an' black desolation
Sweep owre the land!
While, safe entrenched in domination,
We snugly stand!
283
VERSES,
SUNG AT THE GLASGOW TYPOGRAPHICAL FESTIVAL, IN THE TONTINE HOTEL, GLASGOW, ON 6TH JANUARY, 1835.
O, weel may the Press be plied,
And bravely may it speed,
And merry may the Press move on,
That gie's us means to read.
The Press! the Press! the glorious Press!
Of mild celestial ray;
Soon may it shed o'er a' the earth
One universal day.
And bravely may it speed,
And merry may the Press move on,
That gie's us means to read.
The Press! the Press! the glorious Press!
Of mild celestial ray;
Soon may it shed o'er a' the earth
One universal day.
For countless ages man was doomed
To grope in mental night;
At last this Sun of Knowledge rose
“God said let there be light.”
The Press! the Press! the giant Press!
Tho' faint at first its ray,
It yet shall shed o'er a' the earth
One universal day.
To grope in mental night;
At last this Sun of Knowledge rose
“God said let there be light.”
284
Tho' faint at first its ray,
It yet shall shed o'er a' the earth
One universal day.
At first a speck like prophet's hand
The infant Press appeared;
But soon it overspread the land,
While darkling man it cheered;
The Press! the Press! the brilliant Press!
Now lights him on his way,
And soon will shed o'er a' the earth
One grand and glorious day.
The infant Press appeared;
But soon it overspread the land,
While darkling man it cheered;
The Press! the Press! the brilliant Press!
Now lights him on his way,
And soon will shed o'er a' the earth
One grand and glorious day.
Though legal fogs its beams obscure,
These yet dispersed shall be;
Then men shall breathe an air more pure,—
Walk more erect, and free;
The Press! the Press! the glorious Press!
Of mild effulgent ray,
Shall grow, until it shed on earth
One universal day.
These yet dispersed shall be;
Then men shall breathe an air more pure,—
Walk more erect, and free;
The Press! the Press! the glorious Press!
Of mild effulgent ray,
Shall grow, until it shed on earth
One universal day.
285
Then let us toast our splendid Press—
The Press that gives us bread,
A bumper for the powerful Press,
The tyrant's woe and dread;
The Press! the Press! the Samson Press!
Extended be its sway,
Till o'er the earth it sheds at last
One everlasting day.
The Press that gives us bread,
A bumper for the powerful Press,
The tyrant's woe and dread;
The Press! the Press! the Samson Press!
Extended be its sway,
Till o'er the earth it sheds at last
One everlasting day.
286
PETITION.
UNTO G--- R--- AND A--- H---, ESQRS., MANAGERS AT B--- DYE-WORKS, THE PETITION OF A--- R---,
Humbly Sheweth,
That,
That,
Tired of the Town, of the Saltmarket sick;
With pledging plagued and pestered to the quick;
And driven distracted by a desperate squad,
Whose clamorous clack would clatter meek men mad:—
Your humble suppliant, supplicating low,
Ventures to vent, in wailings wild, his woe;
Trusting you'll listen to his groaning grief,
And stretch a helping hand to his relief.
With pledging plagued and pestered to the quick;
And driven distracted by a desperate squad,
Whose clamorous clack would clatter meek men mad:—
Your humble suppliant, supplicating low,
Ventures to vent, in wailings wild, his woe;
Trusting you'll listen to his groaning grief,
And stretch a helping hand to his relief.
O dark and dreary be that doleful day,
When to this sink of sin seduced away,
He turned on blythesome B--- his back:—
May that day in the Heavens be ever black,
When he exchanged the haunts of hearty men,
For a dark, dismal, dingy, dusty den;
Condemned to draw in draughts of putrid air,
And pine amidst anxiety and care,
While turning over Mammon's meanest coin,
Bronzed o'er with blubber, herring scales and brine;
Obliged each day and hour to undergo
The pain of hearing tales of want and woe,
So finely framed, with so much feeling told,
As would make misers give, nor grudge, their gold:
Compelled to handle every dirty rag,
Stript from the hide of every hateful hag,
And doomed each finer feeling to degrade,
By bullying every blackguard trull and jade,
Who hither comes her tawdry trash to pop,
That she may drink it at the next dram shop.
When to this sink of sin seduced away,
287
May that day in the Heavens be ever black,
When he exchanged the haunts of hearty men,
For a dark, dismal, dingy, dusty den;
Condemned to draw in draughts of putrid air,
And pine amidst anxiety and care,
While turning over Mammon's meanest coin,
Bronzed o'er with blubber, herring scales and brine;
Obliged each day and hour to undergo
The pain of hearing tales of want and woe,
So finely framed, with so much feeling told,
As would make misers give, nor grudge, their gold:
Compelled to handle every dirty rag,
Stript from the hide of every hateful hag,
And doomed each finer feeling to degrade,
By bullying every blackguard trull and jade,
Who hither comes her tawdry trash to pop,
That she may drink it at the next dram shop.
That your said suppliant sadly suffers sore,
From these said ills on ills, and many more,
Which, but to name, or even to think of, must
Make man's flesh creep with loathing and disgust.
From these said ills on ills, and many more,
Which, but to name, or even to think of, must
Make man's flesh creep with loathing and disgust.
288
Now, may it therefore please you, Sirs, to list
To your Petitioner's sincere request,
And take his case into consideration,
To save him from this every day's damnation;
And into your employment take him back,
And he'll take any job however black,
Rather than stay in this detested place,
Cut off from all communion with his race,
(Or if it be the human race he sees,
Good God, it must be, sure, the very lees.)
He'll fire your furnaces, or weigh your coals,
Wheel barrows, riddle ashes, mend up holes,
Beat cloth, strip shades; in short, do any thing,
And your Petitioner will ever—sing.
To your Petitioner's sincere request,
And take his case into consideration,
To save him from this every day's damnation;
And into your employment take him back,
And he'll take any job however black,
Rather than stay in this detested place,
Cut off from all communion with his race,
(Or if it be the human race he sees,
Good God, it must be, sure, the very lees.)
He'll fire your furnaces, or weigh your coals,
Wheel barrows, riddle ashes, mend up holes,
Beat cloth, strip shades; in short, do any thing,
And your Petitioner will ever—sing.
A--- R---. 17th November, 1832.
289
THE QUEEN'S ANTHEM.
God bless our lovely Queen,
With cloudless days serene;
God save our Queen.
From perils, pangs and woes,
Secret and open foes,
Till her last evening close,
God save our Queen.
With cloudless days serene;
God save our Queen.
From perils, pangs and woes,
Secret and open foes,
Till her last evening close,
God save our Queen.
From flattery's poisoned streams;
From faction's fiendish schemes,
God shield our Queen;
With men her throne surround,
Firm, active, zealous, sound,
Just, righteous, sage, profound;
God save our Queen.
From faction's fiendish schemes,
God shield our Queen;
With men her throne surround,
Firm, active, zealous, sound,
Just, righteous, sage, profound;
God save our Queen.
Long may she live to prove,
Her faithful subjects' love;
God bless our Queen.
Grant her an Alfred's zeal,
Still for the Commonweal,
Her people's wounds to heal;—
God save our Queen.
Her faithful subjects' love;
God bless our Queen.
290
Still for the Commonweal,
Her people's wounds to heal;—
God save our Queen.
Watch o'er her steps in youth;
In the straight paths of truth,
Lead our young Queen;
And as years onward glide,
Succour, protect and guide,
Albion's hope—Albion's pride;—
God save our Queen.
In the straight paths of truth,
Lead our young Queen;
And as years onward glide,
Succour, protect and guide,
Albion's hope—Albion's pride;—
God save our Queen.
Free from war's sanguine stain,
Bright be Victoria's reign;—
God guard our Queen.
Safe from the traitor's wiles,
Long may the Queen of Isles,
Cheer millions with her smiles;
God save our Queen.
Bright be Victoria's reign;—
God guard our Queen.
Safe from the traitor's wiles,
Long may the Queen of Isles,
Cheer millions with her smiles;
God save our Queen.
291
SANCT MUNGO.
[_]
Set to Music, and arranged as a Glee for three voices, by John Turnbull, Esq., and published by J. Brown, Glasgow.
Sanct Mungo wals ane famous sanct,
And ane cantye carle wals hee,
Hee drank o' ye Molendinar Burne,
Quhan bettere hee culdna prie;
And ane cantye carle wals hee,
Hee drank o' ye Molendinar Burne,
Quhan bettere hee culdna prie;
Zit quhan hee culd gette strongere cheere,
Hee neuer wals wattere drye,
Bot dranke o' ye streame o' ye wimpland worme,
And loot ye burne rynne bye.
Hee neuer wals wattere drye,
Bot dranke o' ye streame o' ye wimpland worme,
And loot ye burne rynne bye.
Sanct Mungo wals ane merry sanct,
And merrylye hee sang;
Quhaneuer hee liltit uppe hys sprynge,
Ye very Firre Parke rang;
And merrylye hee sang;
Quhaneuer hee liltit uppe hys sprynge,
Ye very Firre Parke rang;
292
Bot thoch hee weele culd lilt and synge,
And mak' sweet melodye,
Hee chauntit aye ye bauldest straynes,
Quhan prymed wi' barlye-bree.
And mak' sweet melodye,
Hee chauntit aye ye bauldest straynes,
Quhan prymed wi' barlye-bree.
Sanct Mungo wals ane godlye sanct,
Farre-famed for godlye deedis,
And grete delyte hee daylye took
Inn countand owre hys beadis;
Farre-famed for godlye deedis,
And grete delyte hee daylye took
Inn countand owre hys beadis;
Zit I, Sanct Mungo's youngeste sonne,
Can count als welle als hee;
Bot ye beadis quilk I like best to count
Are ye beadis o' barlye-bree.
Can count als welle als hee;
Bot ye beadis quilk I like best to count
Are ye beadis o' barlye-bree.
Sanct Mungo wals ane jollie sanct:—
Sa weele hee lykit gude zil,
Thatte quhyles hee staynede hys quhyte vesture,
Wi' dribblands o' ye still;
Sa weele hee lykit gude zil,
Thatte quhyles hee staynede hys quhyte vesture,
Wi' dribblands o' ye still;
Bot I, hys maist unwordye sonne,
Haue gane als farre als hee,
For ance I tynd my garmente skirtis,
Throuch lufe o' barlye-bree.
Haue gane als farre als hee,
For ance I tynd my garmente skirtis,
Throuch lufe o' barlye-bree.
The Patron Saint of the Glasgow Cathedral; and the Molendinar Burn, alluded to in the third line, is the Glasgow Lethe that separates the two great repositories of mortality—the church-yard of the Cathedral and the Necropolis.
328
O DEAR IS OUR HAME.
O dear is our hame by yon bonnie burn-side,
Where the blue-bells and primroses blaw,
Where the sweet scented hawthorn, in maidenly pride,
Spreads a robe that outrivals the snaw;
And the wide spreading tree, where my Edwin met me,
Sae aft in the gloamin' wi' love-lighted e'e;
While I sighing confest, as I leaned on his breast,
That I lo'ed him the dearest of a'.
Where the blue-bells and primroses blaw,
Where the sweet scented hawthorn, in maidenly pride,
Spreads a robe that outrivals the snaw;
And the wide spreading tree, where my Edwin met me,
Sae aft in the gloamin' wi' love-lighted e'e;
While I sighing confest, as I leaned on his breast,
That I lo'ed him the dearest of a'.
O dear is our hame by yon bonnie burn-side,
Where the blue-bells and primroses blaw,
Where the sweet scented hawthorn, in maidenly pride,
Spreads a robe that outrivals the snaw.
How dear yet to me are those scenes of our youth,
Where the moments so joyously flew,
When my Edwin was constancy, faithfulness, truth,
As still he is faithful and true.
Where the blue-bells and primroses blaw,
Where the sweet scented hawthorn, in maidenly pride,
Spreads a robe that outrivals the snaw.
How dear yet to me are those scenes of our youth,
Where the moments so joyously flew,
When my Edwin was constancy, faithfulness, truth,
As still he is faithful and true.
329
How blest is our lot, in that calm happy spot,
With our bonnie wee lammies around our snug cot,
Full of innocent glee, running careless and free,
From pastime to pastime still new.
How dear yet to me are those scenes of our youth,
Where the moments so joyously flew;
When my Edwin was constancy, faithfulness, truth,
As still he is faithful and true.
With our bonnie wee lammies around our snug cot,
Full of innocent glee, running careless and free,
From pastime to pastime still new.
How dear yet to me are those scenes of our youth,
Where the moments so joyously flew;
When my Edwin was constancy, faithfulness, truth,
As still he is faithful and true.
“HOUT AWA', JOHNNIE, LAD!”
Hout awa', Johnnie, lad! what maks ye flatter me?Why wi' your praises sae meikle bespatter me?
Why sae incessantly deave and be-clatter me,
Teasing me mair than a body can bide?
Can I believe, when ye “angel” and “goddess” me,
That ye're in earnest to mak' me your bride?
Say, can a woman o' sense or yet modesty,
Listen to talk frae the truth sae far wide?
350
LINES
WRITTEN ON BOARD THE NEW STEAMER ROBERT BURNS. 1838.
O! why has Scotia's darling Child of Song
Neglected been, by Scotia's sons so long,
That not, till now, has vessel borne his name,
Though standing foremost on the roll of Fame?
Whilst Byron, Scott, James Watt, and Henry Bell,
Bruce, Wallace, Washington, and William Tell,
With many more, whose deeds most proudly shone,
Leaving a glory after they were gone,
Have often, to perpetuate their fame,
Had ships and monuments stamp'd with their name.
Neglected been, by Scotia's sons so long,
That not, till now, has vessel borne his name,
Though standing foremost on the roll of Fame?
Whilst Byron, Scott, James Watt, and Henry Bell,
Bruce, Wallace, Washington, and William Tell,
With many more, whose deeds most proudly shone,
Leaving a glory after they were gone,
Have often, to perpetuate their fame,
Had ships and monuments stamp'd with their name.
But truce with sad repining o'er the past,
The tardy tribute has been paid at last,
And lo! the eye with gratulation turns
Upon the stately steamer, “Robert Burns.”
The man, whose name is Scotland's boast and pride,
Has found at last a namesake on the Clyde;
The rustic Bard, whose hands once held the plough,
His statue decks at last the vessel's prow,
While Cutty-sark, and Shanter's mare so fleet,
Are seen swift flying at the Poet's feet.
The tardy tribute has been paid at last,
And lo! the eye with gratulation turns
Upon the stately steamer, “Robert Burns.”
The man, whose name is Scotland's boast and pride,
Has found at last a namesake on the Clyde;
351
His statue decks at last the vessel's prow,
While Cutty-sark, and Shanter's mare so fleet,
Are seen swift flying at the Poet's feet.
Survey this splendid steamer round and round,
Her match on water scarcely will be found,
So tightly built, so tidy and so trim,
The “Robert Burns!” she's worthy, sure, of him;
For as among the Bards, the first was he,
Among the Steamers, she the first will be.
Her match on water scarcely will be found,
So tightly built, so tidy and so trim,
The “Robert Burns!” she's worthy, sure, of him;
For as among the Bards, the first was he,
Among the Steamers, she the first will be.
Go to her cabin—view the scenery there,
So well depicted by the “Bard of Ayr;”
Go, view the “Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon,”
“Kirk Alloway,” “Auld Ayr,” the distant Troon,
“Barskimming,” and the “Catrine Woods sae Green,”
The fairy-haunted grounds around “Colzean;”
“The Castle o' Montgomerie,” near whose towers
Burns and his “Mary” spent such “golden hours.”
The “toil worn Cottar” at his snug fire-side,
His wife and bairns, his comfort, joy and pride;
And honest auld “John Anderson, my jo,”
Wi' “lyart haffets” white as driven snow,
Listening wi' rapture to his kind gudewife,
Singing the joys o' their past blameless life.
The new'rday morning, and the hallowe'en,
The weel rang'd luggies—empty, foul and clean;
The gripping factor, wi' his saucy “snash,”
Railing at “tenant bodies scant o' cash.”
The noble Bruce, on Bannock's bloody plain,
Resolved his Country's freedom to regain:
Full in the front, with battle-axe in hand,
Cheering to victory his gallant band.
These scenes, and many more as graphic still,
Which show the Poet's and the Painter's skill,
Around the cabin gracefully are placed,
Proving to all the Owner's classic taste.
So well depicted by the “Bard of Ayr;”
Go, view the “Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon,”
“Kirk Alloway,” “Auld Ayr,” the distant Troon,
“Barskimming,” and the “Catrine Woods sae Green,”
The fairy-haunted grounds around “Colzean;”
“The Castle o' Montgomerie,” near whose towers
Burns and his “Mary” spent such “golden hours.”
The “toil worn Cottar” at his snug fire-side,
His wife and bairns, his comfort, joy and pride;
352
Wi' “lyart haffets” white as driven snow,
Listening wi' rapture to his kind gudewife,
Singing the joys o' their past blameless life.
The new'rday morning, and the hallowe'en,
The weel rang'd luggies—empty, foul and clean;
The gripping factor, wi' his saucy “snash,”
Railing at “tenant bodies scant o' cash.”
The noble Bruce, on Bannock's bloody plain,
Resolved his Country's freedom to regain:
Full in the front, with battle-axe in hand,
Cheering to victory his gallant band.
These scenes, and many more as graphic still,
Which show the Poet's and the Painter's skill,
Around the cabin gracefully are placed,
Proving to all the Owner's classic taste.
Success, then, to the namesake of our Bard,
Long may she merit each true Scot's regard;
May he “who stills the winds and waves” still keep
His arm around her on the stormy deep.
And may each trip she takes yield good returns
To all connected with the “Robert Burns.”
Long may she merit each true Scot's regard;
May he “who stills the winds and waves” still keep
His arm around her on the stormy deep.
And may each trip she takes yield good returns
To all connected with the “Robert Burns.”
355
“THE BILL, THE WHOLE BILL, AND NOTHING BUT THE BILL.”
Peace, peace! Johnny Bull, what the deuce are you growling at?
Can't you keep gnawing your bone and be still?
Sandy and Paddy, too, what are you howling at?
Have you not all of you now got your will?
Did you not lately most loudly vociferate—
Loudly as Boreas on cold wintry hill—
Threatening your old whippers-in at so stiff a rate
That they were fain just to give you your “Bill?”
Can't you keep gnawing your bone and be still?
Sandy and Paddy, too, what are you howling at?
Have you not all of you now got your will?
Did you not lately most loudly vociferate—
Loudly as Boreas on cold wintry hill—
Threatening your old whippers-in at so stiff a rate
That they were fain just to give you your “Bill?”
The Bill, the whole Bill, aye, and nought but the Bill you'd have,
Thinking 'twould shield you from all future ill,
Why then!—what the deuce is it more that you still would have?
Shame! to ask anything more than your Bill.
You thought that, at once, of your burdens 'twould lighten you,
Give you fine raiment and victuals your fill;
Nay more—to the rank of fine gentlemen heighten you;
Well—have not these things been done by your Bill?
Thinking 'twould shield you from all future ill,
Why then!—what the deuce is it more that you still would have?
Shame! to ask anything more than your Bill.
356
Give you fine raiment and victuals your fill;
Nay more—to the rank of fine gentlemen heighten you;
Well—have not these things been done by your Bill?
Say, has it not proven a cure that is Radical?
A grand panacea for each human ill?
A remedy, far beyond any thing medical?
Has not perfection been stamp'd on your Bill?
The bantling's your own, take and nurse it most tenderly,
Don't use it rudely, the poor thing to kill;
And though, for a time, it should serve you but slenderly,
Years may give vigour and strength to your Bill.
A grand panacea for each human ill?
A remedy, far beyond any thing medical?
Has not perfection been stamp'd on your Bill?
The bantling's your own, take and nurse it most tenderly,
Don't use it rudely, the poor thing to kill;
And though, for a time, it should serve you but slenderly,
Years may give vigour and strength to your Bill.
But if with its years no improvements grow visible;
If it still fail your desires to fulfil;
Exciting your enemies' faculties risible,
Even then don't desert it, 'tis still your own Bill.
But O! should it e'er try some damn'd whiggish trick, alas!
Such as coercing you 'gainst your own will,
To Muscovy send it, a present to Nicholas,
Make him adopt it—and get a New Bill.
If it still fail your desires to fulfil;
Exciting your enemies' faculties risible,
Even then don't desert it, 'tis still your own Bill.
But O! should it e'er try some damn'd whiggish trick, alas!
Such as coercing you 'gainst your own will,
To Muscovy send it, a present to Nicholas,
Make him adopt it—and get a New Bill.
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