The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
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 | II. | [PART II.] |
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 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
37
II. [PART II.]
EDINBURGH; OR, THE ANCIENT ROYALTY:
A SKETCH OF FORMER MANNERS. WITH NOTES.
BY SIMON GRAY.
Prisca Gons Mortalium.
—Hor.
—Hor.
39
DEDICATION
TO THE
CRAFTSMEN OF EDINBURGH.
44
You're welcome, Farmer, to our ancient town!
Here, take a chair, my friend, and sit you down.
You come in lucky hour; our dinner's hot,
And you must take a share of what we've got.
I say, again, you're welcome to Auld Reekie!—
Here are fresh herrings, and here's cock-a-leekie;
The market's near, and, as you are our guest,
A good beef-stake shall soon supply the rest.
Farmer.
I thank you; for I know you are sincere,
And freely give your hospitable cheer.
Your fare is excellent—far from the sea,
A bit of fish is luxury to me.
45
Luxury! name not that unhallowed phrase,
The very word makes cynic ire to blaze.
Have you not heard how this, our hapless city—
Without reserve or common Christian pity—
For very luxury, “God save the mark!”
Is to the devil sent and regions dark;
Given to the sentence of harsh condemnation,
For the unheard-of crime of Imitation?
Those who have cash, it seems, come here to spend;
Folks, as their purses fill, their views extend;
And we, the Citizens, in part partaking,
Are guilty of the sin of merry-making.
A Poet, in ill-humour or in passion,
Phrenzied by change of Manners and Town Fashion,
Rails at the change, and summons poor Edina,
To mend her ways with terrible subpœna.
Farmer.
'Twas ever so, in each succeeding age;
To rail at present times is still the rage.
The sour and discontented ever growl,
All former days are fair, all present foul;
The rigid, never-smiling misanthrope,
Imbitters present good, and blasts our hope;
46
And, by invective, gratifies self-pride.
The times are changed, I own, and so are men;
Manners are changed, and still must change again.
Time was, the Wits of Anna's golden age,
Whose tyrant genius swayed the classic page,
With magic melody of powerful song
Awed into native nothingness the throng;
Inflated Impotence collapsed and shrunk,
Fretted unknown, or in oblivion sunk.
Few rhymsters then would dare the public view:
We could write doggrels, but could burn them too.
Now ev'ry bungler courts the public eye;
Hot-press'd he shines, and simple fools will buy;
Deck'd in the gaudy trappings of the trade,
With graphic and with typographic aid,
Splendid in margin, cuts, and types, and ink,
In green to flourish, or to blush in pink.
Townsman.
You talk, my friend, with most surprising skill,
Whose days are pass'd remote, on dale and hill,
And seem even liberal sentiments to feel.
Soon shall we finish this, our good plain meal;
Well pleas'd, I then shall listen to your tale,
O'er bumpers, foaming high, of Giles's ale.
47
I'm but a rustic: Far remov'd from harm,
I watch the culture of an ample farm.
Our neighbouring markets, and the price of grain,
The choice of stock, the likelihood of rain;
Ploughs, harrows, sheep, and oxen, are my care,
And my red-letter day some well-known fair.
To such as me, though wisdom is denied,
We oft must chat around a warm fireside.
Old age is garrulous; I'm somewhat too,
When some old story rushes to my view.
These locks, you see, are gray; and guess, I ween,
That many a bleaching winter I have seen.
I studied for the Kirk, and you must know,
Dwelt in your city forty years ago.
I love her yet—nor careless, prythee, deem
Your country guest to old Edina's theme.
I feel long slumbering academic fire
Wake in my veins, and flitting dreams inspire.
Old as I am, I'll mount on Fancy's wing,
And, like a dying Swan, I'll try to sing.
Let me then grasp, though in a feeble hand,
Like some old necromancer, Fancy's wand—
Thus, while I wave it round, all disappears
That Time and Art have done in Fifty years.
Hence every Dome that swells your Adam's fame,
Hence every street that bears some Royal name!
Fly, as before John Knox, each letter'd Saint,
Fly, ev'ry holy rogue, from stone and paint!
To non-existence either Bridge consigned,
Leave not on Fancy's eye a wreck behind.
Ye formal Squares and Parallels, begone!
Hailes and Craigleith, resume your mass of stone!
I watch the culture of an ample farm.
Our neighbouring markets, and the price of grain,
The choice of stock, the likelihood of rain;
Ploughs, harrows, sheep, and oxen, are my care,
And my red-letter day some well-known fair.
To such as me, though wisdom is denied,
We oft must chat around a warm fireside.
Old age is garrulous; I'm somewhat too,
When some old story rushes to my view.
These locks, you see, are gray; and guess, I ween,
That many a bleaching winter I have seen.
I studied for the Kirk, and you must know,
Dwelt in your city forty years ago.
I love her yet—nor careless, prythee, deem
Your country guest to old Edina's theme.
I feel long slumbering academic fire
Wake in my veins, and flitting dreams inspire.
Old as I am, I'll mount on Fancy's wing,
And, like a dying Swan, I'll try to sing.
Let me then grasp, though in a feeble hand,
Like some old necromancer, Fancy's wand—
Thus, while I wave it round, all disappears
That Time and Art have done in Fifty years.
Hence every Dome that swells your Adam's fame,
48
Fly, as before John Knox, each letter'd Saint,
Fly, ev'ry holy rogue, from stone and paint!
To non-existence either Bridge consigned,
Leave not on Fancy's eye a wreck behind.
Ye formal Squares and Parallels, begone!
Hailes and Craigleith, resume your mass of stone!
'Tis done—and lo! to greet the coming year,
See Barefoot's Parks in vernal pride appear;
Long broken walls enclose a narrow road
Which leads by Lady Di's retired abode;
The Nor-loch fills, and odour sweet exhales,
And neighbouring tan-pits scent the passing gales.
Fancy, once more, at thy divine command,
Within the Ancient Royalty I stand.
How the reviving scene my bosom soothes!
In Creech's rear, behold the Lucken-booths!
Beneath the Church's shadow, in the Craims,
See toys, and gloves, and pattens, for the dames;
And in mid-street, fit theme for laureate bard,
The proper Castle of the City Guard.
Perch'd on its breech, one cannon it could boast,
Which marked it for a military post.
Oft have I seen one of the gallant band
Beside that very cannon listless stand,
With arms across, upon its mouth recline,
And watch with care the hour that he might dine;
While o'er the semi-door his comarde hung,
Who, spite of soft Intreaty's witching tongue,
In durance held some rogue, in that black hole
Which might appal the most courageous soul:—
While, reckless of the bright Lochaber axe
The sable Sootiman would dust his sacks.
See Barefoot's Parks in vernal pride appear;
Long broken walls enclose a narrow road
Which leads by Lady Di's retired abode;
The Nor-loch fills, and odour sweet exhales,
And neighbouring tan-pits scent the passing gales.
Fancy, once more, at thy divine command,
Within the Ancient Royalty I stand.
How the reviving scene my bosom soothes!
In Creech's rear, behold the Lucken-booths!
Beneath the Church's shadow, in the Craims,
See toys, and gloves, and pattens, for the dames;
And in mid-street, fit theme for laureate bard,
The proper Castle of the City Guard.
Perch'd on its breech, one cannon it could boast,
Which marked it for a military post.
Oft have I seen one of the gallant band
Beside that very cannon listless stand,
With arms across, upon its mouth recline,
And watch with care the hour that he might dine;
49
Who, spite of soft Intreaty's witching tongue,
In durance held some rogue, in that black hole
Which might appal the most courageous soul:—
While, reckless of the bright Lochaber axe
The sable Sootiman would dust his sacks.
Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise,
Whose azure summits mingle with the skies;
There, from the earth the labouring porters bear
The elements of fire and water high in air;
There, as you scale the steps, with toilsome tread,
The dripping barrel madifies your head;
Thence, as adown the giddy round you wheel,
A rising porter greets you with his creel!
How recollections rush upon my mind,
Of Lady Stairs's Closs and Blackford's Wynd!
There lived our Nobles, and here Judges dwelt—
O that my muse in sympathy could melt!—
Here in these chambers, ever dull and dark,
The Lady gay received her gayer spark;
Who, clad in silken coat, with cautious tread,
Trembled at opening casements overhead;
But when in safety at her porch he trod,
He seiz'd the ring, and rasp'd the twisted rod.
“No idlers then, I trow, were seen to meet,
Link'd, six-a-row, six hours in Princes Street;”
But, one by one, they panted up the hill,
And picked their steps with most uncommon skill;
Then at the Cross, each joined the motley mob—
“How are ye, Tam? and how's a' wi' ye, Bob?”
Next to a neighbouring tavern all retired,
And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired.
O'er draughts of wine the Beau would moan his love;
O'er draughts of wine the Cit his bargain drove;
O'er draughts of wine the Writer penn'd the will;
And Legal Wisdom counsel'd o'er a gill:
White Wine and Marmalade was then the rage,
It sooth'd the youngster, and regal'd the sage.
Whose azure summits mingle with the skies;
There, from the earth the labouring porters bear
The elements of fire and water high in air;
There, as you scale the steps, with toilsome tread,
The dripping barrel madifies your head;
Thence, as adown the giddy round you wheel,
A rising porter greets you with his creel!
How recollections rush upon my mind,
Of Lady Stairs's Closs and Blackford's Wynd!
There lived our Nobles, and here Judges dwelt—
O that my muse in sympathy could melt!—
Here in these chambers, ever dull and dark,
The Lady gay received her gayer spark;
Who, clad in silken coat, with cautious tread,
Trembled at opening casements overhead;
But when in safety at her porch he trod,
He seiz'd the ring, and rasp'd the twisted rod.
“No idlers then, I trow, were seen to meet,
Link'd, six-a-row, six hours in Princes Street;”
50
And picked their steps with most uncommon skill;
Then at the Cross, each joined the motley mob—
“How are ye, Tam? and how's a' wi' ye, Bob?”
Next to a neighbouring tavern all retired,
And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired.
O'er draughts of wine the Beau would moan his love;
O'er draughts of wine the Cit his bargain drove;
O'er draughts of wine the Writer penn'd the will;
And Legal Wisdom counsel'd o'er a gill:
White Wine and Marmalade was then the rage,
It sooth'd the youngster, and regal'd the sage.
Ye ‘fashioned’ youths, who while away the noon,
And balance, lightly, on a silver spoon
The trembling fragments of the amber pile—
Yes! o'er a glass of jelly whilst ye smile—
Blush for your flimsy and degenerate food!
With patriot palates seek your Country's good;
O call the ancient beverage in aid;
Call Virtue back—White Wine and Marmalade!
And balance, lightly, on a silver spoon
The trembling fragments of the amber pile—
Yes! o'er a glass of jelly whilst ye smile—
Blush for your flimsy and degenerate food!
With patriot palates seek your Country's good;
O call the ancient beverage in aid;
Call Virtue back—White Wine and Marmalade!
Then were the days of comfort and of glee!
When met to drink a social cup of tea—
The chequer'd chairs, in seemly circle placed;
The Indian tray, with Indian china graced;
The red stone Tea-pot with its silver spout;
The Tea Spoons numbered, and the tea fill'd out!
Rich Whigs and Cookies smoke upon the board,
The best that Keir the baxter can afford.
Hapless the wight, who, with a lavish sup,
Empties too soon the lilliputian cup!
Tho' patience fails, and tho' with thirst he burns,
All—all must wait till the last cup returns.
That cup returned, now see the hostess ply
The tea-pot, measuring with equal eye;
To all again at once she grants the boon,
Dispensing her gunpowder by platoon.
They chat of dress (as ladies will) and cards,
And fifty friends within three hundred yards—
Or now they listen, all in merry glee,
While “Nancy Dawson,” “Sandie o'er the lee,”
(Than foreign cadence surely sweeter far)
Ring on the jingling spinet or guitar.
The clogs are ready when the treat is o'er,
And many a blazing lanthorn leaves the door.
When met to drink a social cup of tea—
The chequer'd chairs, in seemly circle placed;
The Indian tray, with Indian china graced;
The red stone Tea-pot with its silver spout;
The Tea Spoons numbered, and the tea fill'd out!
51
The best that Keir the baxter can afford.
Hapless the wight, who, with a lavish sup,
Empties too soon the lilliputian cup!
Tho' patience fails, and tho' with thirst he burns,
All—all must wait till the last cup returns.
That cup returned, now see the hostess ply
The tea-pot, measuring with equal eye;
To all again at once she grants the boon,
Dispensing her gunpowder by platoon.
They chat of dress (as ladies will) and cards,
And fifty friends within three hundred yards—
Or now they listen, all in merry glee,
While “Nancy Dawson,” “Sandie o'er the lee,”
(Than foreign cadence surely sweeter far)
Ring on the jingling spinet or guitar.
The clogs are ready when the treat is o'er,
And many a blazing lanthorn leaves the door.
Then were the days of modesty and mien!
Stays for the fat, and quilting for the lean.
The ribbon'd stomacher, in many a plait,
Upheld the chest and dignified the gait;
Some Venus, brightest planet of the train,
Moved in a lutstring halo, propped with cane.
Then the Assembly Closs received the Fair;
Order and elegance presided there;
Each gay Right Honourable had her place
To walk a minuet with becoming grace;
No racing to the dance with rival hurry—
Such was thy sway, O fam'd Miss Nicky Murray!
Each Lady's fan a chosen Damon bore,
With care selected many a day before;
For, unprovided with a favourite beau,
The nymph, chagrined, the ball must needs forego;
But, previous matters to her taste arranged,
Certes, the constant couple never changed;
Through a long night to watch fair Delia's will,
The same dull swain was at her elbow still.
Stays for the fat, and quilting for the lean.
The ribbon'd stomacher, in many a plait,
Upheld the chest and dignified the gait;
Some Venus, brightest planet of the train,
Moved in a lutstring halo, propped with cane.
Then the Assembly Closs received the Fair;
Order and elegance presided there;
52
To walk a minuet with becoming grace;
No racing to the dance with rival hurry—
Such was thy sway, O fam'd Miss Nicky Murray!
Each Lady's fan a chosen Damon bore,
With care selected many a day before;
For, unprovided with a favourite beau,
The nymph, chagrined, the ball must needs forego;
But, previous matters to her taste arranged,
Certes, the constant couple never changed;
Through a long night to watch fair Delia's will,
The same dull swain was at her elbow still.
Townsman.
But, prythee, paint the Parent's anxious aid,
Which rear'd the honest man and virtuous maid;
The cautious nurture of the youthful mind,
By precepts guided, purified, refined.
Farmer.
Yes! mark the Street, for youth the great resort,
Its spacious width the theatre of sport;
There the young scavenger and youthful lord
Pour forth infantine smut in sweet accord;
To every secret haunt with speed they flie,
Or watch with listening ear the scream, Hie spie.
There, 'midst the crowd, the jingling hoop is driven,
Full many a leg is hit, and curse is given;
Far-stooping porters, tott'ring under coals,
In Scots Celtic accents, “Tam their souls!”
There, on the pavement, mystic forms are chalk'd,
Defac'd, renewed—delayed, but never baulk'd;
There, romping miss the rounded slate may drop,
And kick it out with persevering hop,
Till her associates in the froward game
Hie to the filthy cellars whence they came.
There, in the dirty current of the strand,
Boys drop the rival corks with ready hand,
And wading through the puddle with slow pace,
Watch in solicitude the doubtful race!—
And there, an active band, with frequent boast,
Vault in succession o'er each wooden post.
Or a bold stripling, noted for his might,
Heads the array, and rules the mimic fight.
From hand and sling now fly the whizzing stones,
Unheeded broken heads and broken bones;
The rival hosts in close engagement mix,
Drive and are driven by the dint of sticks,
The Bicker rages, till some Mother's fears
Ring a sad story in a Bailie's ears.
Her prayer is heard; the order quick is sped,
And from that corps, which hapless Porteous led,
A brave detachment, probably of two,
Rush like two kites upon the warlike crew,
Who, struggling, like the fabled frogs and mice,
Are pounced upon, and carried in a trice.
But, mark that motley group in various garb—
There Vice begins to form her rankling barb,
The germ of Gambling sprouts in pitch and toss,
And brawl, successive, tells disputed loss.
From hand to hand the whirling halfpence pass,
And, every copper gone, they fly to brass.
Those polish'd rounds which decorate the coat,
And brilliant shine upon some youth of note,
Offspring of Birmingham's creative art,
Now from the faithful button-holes depart.
To sudden twitch the rending stitches yield,
And Enterprise again essays the field.
So, when a few fleet years of his short span
Have ripen'd this dire passion in the Man,
When thousand after thousand takes its flight,
In the short circuit of one wretched night,
Next shall the honours of the forest fall,
And ruin desolate the Chieftain's hall;
Hill after hill some cunning clerk shall gain,
Then, in a mendicant, behold a Thane!
Its spacious width the theatre of sport;
There the young scavenger and youthful lord
Pour forth infantine smut in sweet accord;
To every secret haunt with speed they flie,
Or watch with listening ear the scream, Hie spie.
53
Full many a leg is hit, and curse is given;
Far-stooping porters, tott'ring under coals,
In Scots Celtic accents, “Tam their souls!”
There, on the pavement, mystic forms are chalk'd,
Defac'd, renewed—delayed, but never baulk'd;
There, romping miss the rounded slate may drop,
And kick it out with persevering hop,
Till her associates in the froward game
Hie to the filthy cellars whence they came.
There, in the dirty current of the strand,
Boys drop the rival corks with ready hand,
And wading through the puddle with slow pace,
Watch in solicitude the doubtful race!—
And there, an active band, with frequent boast,
Vault in succession o'er each wooden post.
Or a bold stripling, noted for his might,
Heads the array, and rules the mimic fight.
From hand and sling now fly the whizzing stones,
Unheeded broken heads and broken bones;
The rival hosts in close engagement mix,
Drive and are driven by the dint of sticks,
The Bicker rages, till some Mother's fears
Ring a sad story in a Bailie's ears.
Her prayer is heard; the order quick is sped,
And from that corps, which hapless Porteous led,
A brave detachment, probably of two,
54
Who, struggling, like the fabled frogs and mice,
Are pounced upon, and carried in a trice.
But, mark that motley group in various garb—
There Vice begins to form her rankling barb,
The germ of Gambling sprouts in pitch and toss,
And brawl, successive, tells disputed loss.
From hand to hand the whirling halfpence pass,
And, every copper gone, they fly to brass.
Those polish'd rounds which decorate the coat,
And brilliant shine upon some youth of note,
Offspring of Birmingham's creative art,
Now from the faithful button-holes depart.
To sudden twitch the rending stitches yield,
And Enterprise again essays the field.
So, when a few fleet years of his short span
Have ripen'd this dire passion in the Man,
When thousand after thousand takes its flight,
In the short circuit of one wretched night,
Next shall the honours of the forest fall,
And ruin desolate the Chieftain's hall;
Hill after hill some cunning clerk shall gain,
Then, in a mendicant, behold a Thane!
The spell dissolves, delusion melts away,
And we awaken to the present day.
The City grows and spreads on every side,
In all the honour of masonic pride.
From narrow lanes, where Pestilence was spent,
Now emigrate the Squire and thriving Gent,
To spacious mansions, elegant or neat,
Where sweeping breezes ventilate each street,
And where expanding, fanciful and free,
The rising City stretches to the Sea.
Blest be the change! May each succeeding day
Shine on your labours with propitious ray!
Ye busy Craftsmen of my native Town,
Oh that a wish could draw a blessing down!
Then should my feeble, untaught hand aspire
To strike an anthem on an humble lyre.
And we awaken to the present day.
55
In all the honour of masonic pride.
From narrow lanes, where Pestilence was spent,
Now emigrate the Squire and thriving Gent,
To spacious mansions, elegant or neat,
Where sweeping breezes ventilate each street,
And where expanding, fanciful and free,
The rising City stretches to the Sea.
Blest be the change! May each succeeding day
Shine on your labours with propitious ray!
Ye busy Craftsmen of my native Town,
Oh that a wish could draw a blessing down!
Then should my feeble, untaught hand aspire
To strike an anthem on an humble lyre.
Townsman.
Your picture seems so true, excuse me, now;
'Tis pity you were destined to the plough.
Ah! had you linger'd within Learning's pale,
And scorn'd, unknown, to follow a plough's tail,
Some Monthly Magazine might own your aid,
The reader gratified, the bard well paid.—
The moral's obvious: though ages pass,
Still Folly's visage meets us in the glass;
Tho' she may change her with the changing moon,
With all the varied skill of a buffoon,
To every age Fate gives its proper measure,
To blind the sage, and lead the man of pleasure.
56
Folly, while only folly, free from vice,
May vex the Puritan's sepulchral soul,
But still must form a Part of one great Whole.
69
CLAN-ALPIN'S VOW:
A FRAGMENT.
71
1. PART FIRST.
The parting look, the parting tear,
The loud acclaim that stunned the ear,
The thundering cannon's broken roar,
Rebellowed from the Swedish shore,
Were past; and Cronenberg was mute,
That erst poured forth the harsh salute;
And not a sound upon the breeze
Was wafted to the German Seas.
Tower after tower forsook the eye,
And melting, mingled with the sky;
And twilight threw her veil of grey
On landmark, headland, and on bay;
The mountains faded from the sight,
The dubious landscape sank in night;
When Anne to Denmark bade adieu,
While sorrow dimmed her eyes of blue;
Willing to go, yet loth to part,
Hope soothed, while memory wrung her heart.
The loud acclaim that stunned the ear,
The thundering cannon's broken roar,
Rebellowed from the Swedish shore,
Were past; and Cronenberg was mute,
That erst poured forth the harsh salute;
And not a sound upon the breeze
Was wafted to the German Seas.
Tower after tower forsook the eye,
And melting, mingled with the sky;
And twilight threw her veil of grey
On landmark, headland, and on bay;
The mountains faded from the sight,
The dubious landscape sank in night;
When Anne to Denmark bade adieu,
While sorrow dimmed her eyes of blue;
72
Hope soothed, while memory wrung her heart.
A shallop light the tidings bore,
With straining sail, to Scotland's shore:
The joyful news spread far and wide,
From Tweed to Tay, from Forth to Clyde;
And barons bold, and ladies gay,
Bethought them of the rich array,
The chain of gold, the jewel rare,
The orient pearl to braid the hair,
And costly rubies fair to see,
In chettouns of rich filligree.
From every vassal of the crown,
From landward and from borough town,
The largess came to grace, withal,
King James's nuptial festival.
With straining sail, to Scotland's shore:
The joyful news spread far and wide,
From Tweed to Tay, from Forth to Clyde;
And barons bold, and ladies gay,
Bethought them of the rich array,
The chain of gold, the jewel rare,
The orient pearl to braid the hair,
And costly rubies fair to see,
In chettouns of rich filligree.
From every vassal of the crown,
From landward and from borough town,
The largess came to grace, withal,
King James's nuptial festival.
And said Lord Drummond of Strathern,—
“Spite of Clan-Alpin, stark and stern,
Glenartney's bounds may well afford
An offering for Glenartney's Lord;
And noble Danes shall feast their fill,
On ven'son from the Highland hill.”—
Then mildly smiled around on all,
The brave and gay, that graced his hall;
And glancing kind from side to side—
“A health,” he cried, “to James's bride.”—
The heart of Margaret, at the word,
Sank like a stricken, fluttering bird:
She, too, a bride, and idle eye
Might mark her blush, and timorous sigh,
For Maurice, her betroth'd, was nigh.—
“Maurice,” Lord Drummond said, “full well
Thou know'st the forest, bank, and dell,
And seldom visit them in vain;
For not a huntsman of my train
But owns that thou, in speed and skill,
Surpass the best on Highland hill.”
Young Maurice heard with eyes half-raised;
He vowed his skill was over-praised,
But what he had of head or hand,
The forester might well command.—
“To-morrow, then,” Lord Drummond cried,
“Seek with the sun Glenartney's side.
The King shall know whose ready care,
Welcomes the Queen, and mends the fare.”
“Even now,” said Maurice, “I'll begone,
For, ere the tedious journey's done,
The sun may ride above the hill,
And all my high-emblazoned skill,
From hazle-brake, or bank of fern,
May fail to bring a deer to Ern.”—
He bowed, and left the banquet-hall;
He saw not Margaret lifeless fall,
Nor saw Lord Drummond, in alarm,
Pillow her head upon his arm.—
With hurried step he onward press'd,
Roused the dull grooms from early rest,
And led the shaggy gaze-hounds forth.
And better never scoured the north.
Not Fingal, for the mountain chase,
Could boast a stouter, fleeter race.
And long he urged, but urged in vain,
To needful speed the hunter train,
Who relished not the midnight cheer
Of mossy couch, Clan-Alpin near.
But every plea of slow delay
Exhausted, forth they took their way,
And murmured at the half-filled moon,
Yet thanked their fortune for that boon;
For as they moved, in showers around,
The crisped leaves pattered on the ground;
And, while they thought on mountain thieves,
'Twas well to know these were but leaves.
“Spite of Clan-Alpin, stark and stern,
Glenartney's bounds may well afford
An offering for Glenartney's Lord;
And noble Danes shall feast their fill,
On ven'son from the Highland hill.”—
Then mildly smiled around on all,
The brave and gay, that graced his hall;
And glancing kind from side to side—
“A health,” he cried, “to James's bride.”—
73
Sank like a stricken, fluttering bird:
She, too, a bride, and idle eye
Might mark her blush, and timorous sigh,
For Maurice, her betroth'd, was nigh.—
“Maurice,” Lord Drummond said, “full well
Thou know'st the forest, bank, and dell,
And seldom visit them in vain;
For not a huntsman of my train
But owns that thou, in speed and skill,
Surpass the best on Highland hill.”
Young Maurice heard with eyes half-raised;
He vowed his skill was over-praised,
But what he had of head or hand,
The forester might well command.—
“To-morrow, then,” Lord Drummond cried,
“Seek with the sun Glenartney's side.
The King shall know whose ready care,
Welcomes the Queen, and mends the fare.”
“Even now,” said Maurice, “I'll begone,
For, ere the tedious journey's done,
The sun may ride above the hill,
And all my high-emblazoned skill,
From hazle-brake, or bank of fern,
May fail to bring a deer to Ern.”—
He bowed, and left the banquet-hall;
He saw not Margaret lifeless fall,
Nor saw Lord Drummond, in alarm,
74
With hurried step he onward press'd,
Roused the dull grooms from early rest,
And led the shaggy gaze-hounds forth.
And better never scoured the north.
Not Fingal, for the mountain chase,
Could boast a stouter, fleeter race.
And long he urged, but urged in vain,
To needful speed the hunter train,
Who relished not the midnight cheer
Of mossy couch, Clan-Alpin near.
But every plea of slow delay
Exhausted, forth they took their way,
And murmured at the half-filled moon,
Yet thanked their fortune for that boon;
For as they moved, in showers around,
The crisped leaves pattered on the ground;
And, while they thought on mountain thieves,
'Twas well to know these were but leaves.
Now, on the broad and winding path,
Which led their footsteps through the Strath,
While love within his bosom burned,
Back on the castle Maurice turned;
And as his eager glance he sent
Upon the western battlement,
A form etherial struck his eye,
Like seraph in the azure sky,
The well-known signal met his view,
And Margaret waved a sad adieu.
Adieu, he said, and breathed a sigh;
Unwonted tears bedimmed his eye,
And o'er his face and o'er his frame
He felt the artless glow of shame;
And blessed the darkness that concealed
The tribute that his heart must yield.
And while he lingered for a space,
Deep wrapt, and willing to retrace
Scenes of delight for ever gone,
The hunter train moved slowly on,
And loitered on their cheerless way.
The rugged road through thickets lay;
And much of courtesy was shewn,
Who first should tread the path unknown,
Till Maurice, chafing, forward ran,
Chid the poltroons, and led the van.
Which led their footsteps through the Strath,
While love within his bosom burned,
Back on the castle Maurice turned;
And as his eager glance he sent
Upon the western battlement,
A form etherial struck his eye,
Like seraph in the azure sky,
75
And Margaret waved a sad adieu.
Adieu, he said, and breathed a sigh;
Unwonted tears bedimmed his eye,
And o'er his face and o'er his frame
He felt the artless glow of shame;
And blessed the darkness that concealed
The tribute that his heart must yield.
And while he lingered for a space,
Deep wrapt, and willing to retrace
Scenes of delight for ever gone,
The hunter train moved slowly on,
And loitered on their cheerless way.
The rugged road through thickets lay;
And much of courtesy was shewn,
Who first should tread the path unknown,
Till Maurice, chafing, forward ran,
Chid the poltroons, and led the van.
And now they left Strathern behind,
Devious the track, and hard to find.
And, rising from the fertile vale,
The moon's pale beam began to fail.
Slowly the silver orb of night,
Shrouded in clouds, withdrew her light,
And not the length of horseman's lance,
The troop, bewildered, could advance.
Stretched on the ground, in groups they lay,
Waiting the early dawn of day.
Soon as the first faint gleam was given,
Reflected from the arch of heaven,
Young Maurice urged them to pursue
Their toil, and brush away the dew
That fell on fern and seedling tree,
On heather bush and bilberry.
And now they heard on every side
The cockering heath-fowl woo his bride;
And rival champions on the wing,
From heathy knoll and mossy spring;
And when the skylark welcomed day,
Glenartney's wilds before them lay.
Devious the track, and hard to find.
And, rising from the fertile vale,
The moon's pale beam began to fail.
Slowly the silver orb of night,
Shrouded in clouds, withdrew her light,
And not the length of horseman's lance,
The troop, bewildered, could advance.
Stretched on the ground, in groups they lay,
76
Soon as the first faint gleam was given,
Reflected from the arch of heaven,
Young Maurice urged them to pursue
Their toil, and brush away the dew
That fell on fern and seedling tree,
On heather bush and bilberry.
And now they heard on every side
The cockering heath-fowl woo his bride;
And rival champions on the wing,
From heathy knoll and mossy spring;
And when the skylark welcomed day,
Glenartney's wilds before them lay.
Maurice to each his task assigned,
But bade them lurk awhile behind;
For now he eager longed to know
The success of his English bow,
And, crouching low, his path he took
Among the pebbles of the brook,
And shunned the stones with cautious tread,
Where slimy, slippery weeds were spread,
Lest stumbling step, or dashing spray
Might scare the startled herd away.
When sudden bursting from the wood,
Fierce Eachine Deargh before him stood.
His frizzled locks, of glaring red,
Around his rigid features spread—
Features, by fervid passion sway'd,
Where never soft emotion played.
“Ha! gentle Maurice, art thou here
To chase Glenartney's bounding deer?
I know thee well—thy sunshine lord
Loves such as thee around his board.
Back, stripling, to his sheltering tower,
Nor here provoke Clan-Alpin's power!”
“Vain boaster!” Maurice quick replied,
With knitting front, and glow of pride—
“Thou rudest of a savage tribe!
I spurn thy threat and scorn thy gibe!”
“Hence!” his fierce foe rejoined; “depart,
Or my good blade must reach thy heart!”
“Thy blade and thee I do defy,”
Cried Maurice; “And if one must die,
Approach me but a cloth-yard's space,
Crave not of me, but heaven, grace.”
And to the head the shaft he drew.
Eachine advanced—the arrow flew,
And on the target's edge it rung,
Across his guarded bosom flung,
And, glancing from the studded hide,
Grazed lightly on his brawny side.
Onward, in rage, he furious pressed,
Plung'd deep his sword in Maurice' breast;
Then high he raised the reeking blade;
Maurice a faint halloo essayed;
With gathered force the weapon sunk—
The muttering head flew from the trunk.
But bade them lurk awhile behind;
For now he eager longed to know
The success of his English bow,
And, crouching low, his path he took
Among the pebbles of the brook,
And shunned the stones with cautious tread,
Where slimy, slippery weeds were spread,
Lest stumbling step, or dashing spray
Might scare the startled herd away.
When sudden bursting from the wood,
Fierce Eachine Deargh before him stood.
His frizzled locks, of glaring red,
Around his rigid features spread—
77
Where never soft emotion played.
“Ha! gentle Maurice, art thou here
To chase Glenartney's bounding deer?
I know thee well—thy sunshine lord
Loves such as thee around his board.
Back, stripling, to his sheltering tower,
Nor here provoke Clan-Alpin's power!”
“Vain boaster!” Maurice quick replied,
With knitting front, and glow of pride—
“Thou rudest of a savage tribe!
I spurn thy threat and scorn thy gibe!”
“Hence!” his fierce foe rejoined; “depart,
Or my good blade must reach thy heart!”
“Thy blade and thee I do defy,”
Cried Maurice; “And if one must die,
Approach me but a cloth-yard's space,
Crave not of me, but heaven, grace.”
And to the head the shaft he drew.
Eachine advanced—the arrow flew,
And on the target's edge it rung,
Across his guarded bosom flung,
And, glancing from the studded hide,
Grazed lightly on his brawny side.
Onward, in rage, he furious pressed,
Plung'd deep his sword in Maurice' breast;
Then high he raised the reeking blade;
Maurice a faint halloo essayed;
78
The muttering head flew from the trunk.
And now Lord Drummond's men alarmed,
With bow, and spear, and hackbut armed,
Searching each bush and craggy nook,
Followed the channel of the brook;
Red Eachine heard the thickening tread,
And stooping, seized the lifeless head,
And firm he grasped a gory lock.
Then, bounding light from rock to rock,
O'er tangled bush, and broken root,
He bade defiance to pursuit.
The hunter train his form descried,
Scaling aloft the mountain side;
From matchlock, and from twanging yew,
The bullets whizzed, the arrows flew;
But onward still he bore away,
With rapid step, the bloody prey;
And over hill, and bog, and moor,
Skilful he held the pathway sure,
And left behind the dark ravine,
The dashing stream, the meadow green,
The willow bank, and copse-wood bower,
And reached dark Invercharnock Tower.
With bow, and spear, and hackbut armed,
Searching each bush and craggy nook,
Followed the channel of the brook;
Red Eachine heard the thickening tread,
And stooping, seized the lifeless head,
And firm he grasped a gory lock.
Then, bounding light from rock to rock,
O'er tangled bush, and broken root,
He bade defiance to pursuit.
The hunter train his form descried,
Scaling aloft the mountain side;
From matchlock, and from twanging yew,
The bullets whizzed, the arrows flew;
But onward still he bore away,
With rapid step, the bloody prey;
And over hill, and bog, and moor,
Skilful he held the pathway sure,
And left behind the dark ravine,
The dashing stream, the meadow green,
The willow bank, and copse-wood bower,
And reached dark Invercharnock Tower.
Then to the gate. Prepared for foes,
The huge portcullis slowly rose:
Then to his chieftain in the court—
His speech was quick, his story short—
He stretched the lifeless head to view;
Bowed to his chief with homage due.
There stepped not other, foe or friend,
To whom that haughty neck might bend.
And as he sought his tale to close,
His visage beamed, his utterance rose:—
“For this my fierce and sudden blow
Shall evil on Clan-Alpin flow,
And new pretext at Court be found
To summon hostile bands around?
The deed is mine—I brave their hate;
I scorn the tortures that await.
For thee, my chief, I raised my steel,
And let my life my duty seal.”
The huge portcullis slowly rose:
Then to his chieftain in the court—
His speech was quick, his story short—
79
Bowed to his chief with homage due.
There stepped not other, foe or friend,
To whom that haughty neck might bend.
And as he sought his tale to close,
His visage beamed, his utterance rose:—
“For this my fierce and sudden blow
Shall evil on Clan-Alpin flow,
And new pretext at Court be found
To summon hostile bands around?
The deed is mine—I brave their hate;
I scorn the tortures that await.
For thee, my chief, I raised my steel,
And let my life my duty seal.”
Fire flashed from Malcolm's frenzied eye:—
“A dog's death shall a warrior die!
Sooner may vital vigour part
From this my throbbing, bursting heart,
If Alpin's son his soul must yield,
By heaven, it shall be in the field!
And well fought shall that battle be
That robs Clan-Alpin's chief of thee.
Rouse, rouse the clan—call forth our men
From every deep and rocky glen!
Let pibrochs sound on hill and lee,
The hurried, thrilling Chanalie.
Let those, who faith and honour prize,
Step forth bedecked in warlike guise,
And every coward hide his face.
Balquhidder Kirk the meeting-place.
Gaze not! the place seems strange and new,
But we have solemn deeds to do.”
“A dog's death shall a warrior die!
Sooner may vital vigour part
From this my throbbing, bursting heart,
If Alpin's son his soul must yield,
By heaven, it shall be in the field!
And well fought shall that battle be
That robs Clan-Alpin's chief of thee.
Rouse, rouse the clan—call forth our men
From every deep and rocky glen!
Let pibrochs sound on hill and lee,
The hurried, thrilling Chanalie.
80
Step forth bedecked in warlike guise,
And every coward hide his face.
Balquhidder Kirk the meeting-place.
Gaze not! the place seems strange and new,
But we have solemn deeds to do.”
81
2. PART SECOND.
The early morn, in sober gray,
Had ushered in the holy day;
The busy buz of man was still,
In crowded glen and on the hill;
The face of Nature, sunk in peace,
Bade violence and rapine cease.
The birds of heaven, as if aware,
Man's dreaded presence seemed to dare;
On glade and mead, on herb and tree,
All was attuned to harmony.
But, ere the eastern sun rose high,
Dark lowered the cloud-encumbered sky,
And scarce a beam could pierce the gloom,
To gild awhile the heather-bloom;
Save when a transient flitting light
Passed swiftly o'er the mountain height,
And thence descending to the hill,
Left the huge mountain darker still.
And now the straining eye could mark
Black specks emerging from the dark,
On the long level of the heath,
Or on the hill or glen beneath.
From every airth, on every hand,
With quickening step band pressed on band,
And as they thickened and drew near,
Faint pibrochs struck the listening ear.
Louder and louder swelled the sound,
The Chanalie was heard around,
And gave to rocky depths afar
The warning of awakened war.
A signal given, with heavy tread
O'er the green hillocks of the dead
They moved; from north, and east, and west,
Mingled through crowded porch they pressed;
All armed for battle, full of zeal,
In haberschons and caps of steel,
And hektons tough; the spear they bore,
The target and the huge claymore;
Darlochs there were, for distant fray,
For battlement or turret gray;
And, for the close and fierce debate,
The dirk, the harbinger of fate.
And on they moved in rapid tide,
And ranged themselves on either side;
And ever as the first gave place,
The crowd flowed on and filled the space.
And such a rude, unhallowed din
Was never heard those walls within;
And through the lozenged windows, light
Fell not before on such a sight.
And not a holy priest was there,
To swell the praise and guide the prayer.
But Malcolm, in his harness cased,
Close by the altar step was placed,
And o'er that altar's sacred side
Clan-Alpin's banner hung in pride.
The chief, with air of high command,
Rose on his seat and waved his hand;
'Twas silence all, and not a breath,
As in the lonely vault of death.
Had ushered in the holy day;
The busy buz of man was still,
In crowded glen and on the hill;
The face of Nature, sunk in peace,
Bade violence and rapine cease.
The birds of heaven, as if aware,
Man's dreaded presence seemed to dare;
On glade and mead, on herb and tree,
All was attuned to harmony.
But, ere the eastern sun rose high,
Dark lowered the cloud-encumbered sky,
And scarce a beam could pierce the gloom,
To gild awhile the heather-bloom;
Save when a transient flitting light
Passed swiftly o'er the mountain height,
And thence descending to the hill,
Left the huge mountain darker still.
82
Black specks emerging from the dark,
On the long level of the heath,
Or on the hill or glen beneath.
From every airth, on every hand,
With quickening step band pressed on band,
And as they thickened and drew near,
Faint pibrochs struck the listening ear.
Louder and louder swelled the sound,
The Chanalie was heard around,
And gave to rocky depths afar
The warning of awakened war.
A signal given, with heavy tread
O'er the green hillocks of the dead
They moved; from north, and east, and west,
Mingled through crowded porch they pressed;
All armed for battle, full of zeal,
In haberschons and caps of steel,
And hektons tough; the spear they bore,
The target and the huge claymore;
Darlochs there were, for distant fray,
For battlement or turret gray;
And, for the close and fierce debate,
The dirk, the harbinger of fate.
And on they moved in rapid tide,
And ranged themselves on either side;
And ever as the first gave place,
The crowd flowed on and filled the space.
83
Was never heard those walls within;
And through the lozenged windows, light
Fell not before on such a sight.
And not a holy priest was there,
To swell the praise and guide the prayer.
But Malcolm, in his harness cased,
Close by the altar step was placed,
And o'er that altar's sacred side
Clan-Alpin's banner hung in pride.
The chief, with air of high command,
Rose on his seat and waved his hand;
'Twas silence all, and not a breath,
As in the lonely vault of death.
“Shall we forget from whence we sprung,
The songs of war our bards have sung,
The tide of glory flowing on,
From age to age, from sire to son?
Or yield to this despotic sway
That slowly steals our name away?
The songs of war our bards have sung,
The tide of glory flowing on,
From age to age, from sire to son?
Or yield to this despotic sway
That slowly steals our name away?
“Let courtiers bend their supple backs,
For parchment-rights and dangling wax,
By royal mandate call them lords,—
We bear our charters in our swords;
Daring we are, 'tis true, and rough,
Our blades are sharp, our spears are tough,
And faithless foemen fear or feel
The vengeance of Clan-Alpin's steel.
The puny robbers tread, in vain,
Our hills; we drive them back again;
And if to flout them to their beards,
We sweep their barn-yards, flocks, and herds,
Some dastard knave, some babe of fear,
Rounds it in easy James's ear,
Insidiously, in language mild,
And paints us lawless, cruel, wild,
Oppressors of the weak and good,
Untameable, and men of blood.
Forth hies a dizen'd herald straight,
To market-cross and castle-gate,
And thunders fire, and sword, and shame,
On all who boast Clan-Alpin's name.
Treason is bandied, and anon,
The curs are packed and hunted on
To bay the lion in his lair,—
By royal grant our lands they share.
Thus, by foul plan and licensed theft,
Glenlyon gone, Glenurchy reft!
And shall we tamely, day by day,
Yield hill, and heath, and glen away?
For parchment-rights and dangling wax,
By royal mandate call them lords,—
We bear our charters in our swords;
Daring we are, 'tis true, and rough,
Our blades are sharp, our spears are tough,
84
The vengeance of Clan-Alpin's steel.
The puny robbers tread, in vain,
Our hills; we drive them back again;
And if to flout them to their beards,
We sweep their barn-yards, flocks, and herds,
Some dastard knave, some babe of fear,
Rounds it in easy James's ear,
Insidiously, in language mild,
And paints us lawless, cruel, wild,
Oppressors of the weak and good,
Untameable, and men of blood.
Forth hies a dizen'd herald straight,
To market-cross and castle-gate,
And thunders fire, and sword, and shame,
On all who boast Clan-Alpin's name.
Treason is bandied, and anon,
The curs are packed and hunted on
To bay the lion in his lair,—
By royal grant our lands they share.
Thus, by foul plan and licensed theft,
Glenlyon gone, Glenurchy reft!
And shall we tamely, day by day,
Yield hill, and heath, and glen away?
“Owes James to simpering parasites,
Imperial crown and princely rights;
Or to his clerks, in cowl and hood,
That now he sits in Halyrude?
Curst be the pedantry of school!
Would thus our Scottish monarch rule
O'er dastard slaves, debased and low,
Whose blood, in sluggish lingering flow,
May stagnate ere they strike a blow?—
Shall we, to soothe a silk-clad chief,
Forswear the bow and feathered sheaf;
The soul of fire, the arm of power,
Proud Victory's exulting hour;
The brawny limb, that scales the steep,
Or reckless plunges in the deep,
When melting snows come rolling fast,
And shivering Saxons gaze aghast;
Claymore and target cast away,
In servile task-work wear the day;
Barter the chase and mountain joy,
For mean and womanish employ?”
Imperial crown and princely rights;
Or to his clerks, in cowl and hood,
85
Curst be the pedantry of school!
Would thus our Scottish monarch rule
O'er dastard slaves, debased and low,
Whose blood, in sluggish lingering flow,
May stagnate ere they strike a blow?—
Shall we, to soothe a silk-clad chief,
Forswear the bow and feathered sheaf;
The soul of fire, the arm of power,
Proud Victory's exulting hour;
The brawny limb, that scales the steep,
Or reckless plunges in the deep,
When melting snows come rolling fast,
And shivering Saxons gaze aghast;
Claymore and target cast away,
In servile task-work wear the day;
Barter the chase and mountain joy,
For mean and womanish employ?”
Around an angry murmur ran,
And kindling wrath, from man to man,
Flew like the flame that wastes the moor;
Again the chief, “What fiends allure
Our monarch's unsuspecting heart,
To play with us the tyrant's part,
While villains wither in his ears
The service of a thousand years.—
And kindling wrath, from man to man,
Flew like the flame that wastes the moor;
Again the chief, “What fiends allure
Our monarch's unsuspecting heart,
To play with us the tyrant's part,
While villains wither in his ears
The service of a thousand years.—
“Our bards have sung, and well we know
That, full five hundred years ago,
King Malcolm, hunting near Mamlorn,
By ardour of the chase, was borne
Aloof from all his spearmen bold:
A bristled savage, from his hold
Roused by the noise, with sudden spring,
Launched side-long at our Scottish King,
And, while he struggled with the boar,
Clan-Alpin's chief, Sir Callum More,
Rushed forward to his prince's side.
Een do, spair nocht, King Malcolm cried.
Callum uptore a rooted oak,
And, warding off the deadly stroke,
The moment watched, with ready art,
And plunged the dagger in his heart;
Then to the king, as offering meet,
Flung the huge carcase at his feet.
Mark, then, upon that altar spread,
The banner of the mighty dead:
On argent-field, the sword in bend,
The crown that it could well defend;
Th' uprooted oak, too, in its place,
The proud pretence of Malcolm's race;
The emblem of its ruin, too,
Unless our hearts are firm and true;
Together stand, together fall—
The fate of one, the fate of all.
“An upstart, of Hungarian breed,
Covets our birthright, and the meed
Of gallant deeds and fair renown,
By many a hero handed down:
And now, to swell his pampered pride,
Must drive, forsooth, Glenartney's side.
But let that mighty baron learn,
This doughty Steward of Strathern,
His dream may be of startled deer;
Awake he'll find Clan-Alpin here.
86
King Malcolm, hunting near Mamlorn,
By ardour of the chase, was borne
Aloof from all his spearmen bold:
A bristled savage, from his hold
Roused by the noise, with sudden spring,
Launched side-long at our Scottish King,
And, while he struggled with the boar,
Clan-Alpin's chief, Sir Callum More,
Rushed forward to his prince's side.
Een do, spair nocht, King Malcolm cried.
Callum uptore a rooted oak,
And, warding off the deadly stroke,
The moment watched, with ready art,
And plunged the dagger in his heart;
Then to the king, as offering meet,
Flung the huge carcase at his feet.
Mark, then, upon that altar spread,
The banner of the mighty dead:
On argent-field, the sword in bend,
The crown that it could well defend;
Th' uprooted oak, too, in its place,
The proud pretence of Malcolm's race;
The emblem of its ruin, too,
Unless our hearts are firm and true;
Together stand, together fall—
The fate of one, the fate of all.
87
Covets our birthright, and the meed
Of gallant deeds and fair renown,
By many a hero handed down:
And now, to swell his pampered pride,
Must drive, forsooth, Glenartney's side.
But let that mighty baron learn,
This doughty Steward of Strathern,
His dream may be of startled deer;
Awake he'll find Clan-Alpin here.
“Long ere yester sun's first gleam
Had darted on the mountain stream,
Or the hoarse raven, for the hills,
Had shook his plumes and trimmed his quills,
Lord Drummond's men were on their way;
Brave Eachine Deargh in ambush lay—
Brave Eachine Deargh, of all the clan,
Steps there a braver, better man?
Beneath the rock where Eachine slept,
Lord Drummond's minion, Maurice, crept,
To shun the herd and gain the wind—
His villains tarried far behind.
Eachine aroused, in parley short,
With angry word forbade the sport;
The angry word came back again;
The fight was short and Maurice slain.
Eachine did well!—a foeman bled!
And shall upon his gallant head
The fury of the courtiers light—
Who vindicates Clan-Alpin's right?”
The chief arose; with rapid stride
He gained the sacred altar's side,
Where many a penitent had knelt,
And keen remorse had deeply felt,
And pardon asked of pitying heaven,
And meekly hoped that pardon given.
In Malcolm's soul rage uncontrolled
Held its wild sway; his eyeballs rolled;
He cast a furious glance around,
Struck his claymore upon the ground,
And pausing, on the banner gazed;
Then cried in scorn, with finger raised—
“This was the boon of Scotland's king!”
And, with a quick and angry fling,
Tossing the pageant screen away—
The dead man's head before him lay.
Unmoved he scanned the visage o'er,
The clotted locks were dark with gore,
The features with convulsion grim,
The eyes contorted, sunk, and dim.
But unappalled, in angry mood,
With lowering brow, unmoved he stood.
Upon the head his bared right hand
He laid, the other grasped his brand;
Then kneeling, cried—“To heaven I swear
This deed of death I own and share;
As truly, fully mine, as though
This my right hand had dealt the blow.
Come then, our foemen—one, come all;
If to revenge this caitiff's fall,
One blade is bared—one bow is drawn,
Mine everlasting peace I pawn,
To claim from them, or claim from him,
In retribution, limb for limb.
In sudden fray or open strife,
This steel shall render life for life.”
Had darted on the mountain stream,
Or the hoarse raven, for the hills,
Had shook his plumes and trimmed his quills,
Lord Drummond's men were on their way;
Brave Eachine Deargh in ambush lay—
Brave Eachine Deargh, of all the clan,
Steps there a braver, better man?
Beneath the rock where Eachine slept,
Lord Drummond's minion, Maurice, crept,
To shun the herd and gain the wind—
His villains tarried far behind.
Eachine aroused, in parley short,
With angry word forbade the sport;
The angry word came back again;
The fight was short and Maurice slain.
Eachine did well!—a foeman bled!
88
The fury of the courtiers light—
Who vindicates Clan-Alpin's right?”
The chief arose; with rapid stride
He gained the sacred altar's side,
Where many a penitent had knelt,
And keen remorse had deeply felt,
And pardon asked of pitying heaven,
And meekly hoped that pardon given.
In Malcolm's soul rage uncontrolled
Held its wild sway; his eyeballs rolled;
He cast a furious glance around,
Struck his claymore upon the ground,
And pausing, on the banner gazed;
Then cried in scorn, with finger raised—
“This was the boon of Scotland's king!”
And, with a quick and angry fling,
Tossing the pageant screen away—
The dead man's head before him lay.
Unmoved he scanned the visage o'er,
The clotted locks were dark with gore,
The features with convulsion grim,
The eyes contorted, sunk, and dim.
But unappalled, in angry mood,
With lowering brow, unmoved he stood.
Upon the head his bared right hand
He laid, the other grasped his brand;
Then kneeling, cried—“To heaven I swear
89
As truly, fully mine, as though
This my right hand had dealt the blow.
Come then, our foemen—one, come all;
If to revenge this caitiff's fall,
One blade is bared—one bow is drawn,
Mine everlasting peace I pawn,
To claim from them, or claim from him,
In retribution, limb for limb.
In sudden fray or open strife,
This steel shall render life for life.”
He ceased; and at his beckoning nod,
The clansmen to the altar trod;
And not a whisper breathed around,
And nought was heard of mortal sound,
Save from the clanking arms they bore,
That rattled on the marble floor;
And each, as he approached in haste,
Upon the scalp his right hand placed:
With livid lips and gathered brow,
Each uttered in his turn his vow.
The clansmen to the altar trod;
And not a whisper breathed around,
And nought was heard of mortal sound,
Save from the clanking arms they bore,
That rattled on the marble floor;
And each, as he approached in haste,
Upon the scalp his right hand placed:
With livid lips and gathered brow,
Each uttered in his turn his vow.
Fierce Malcolm watched the passing scene,
And searched them through with glances keen,
Then dashed a tear-drop from his eye—
Unbid it came—he knew not why.
Exulting high, he towering stood:
“Kinsmen,” he cried, “of Alpin's blood,
And worthy of Clan-Alpin's name,
Unstained by cowardice and shame!
Een do, spair nocht, in time of ill,
Shall be Clan-Alpin's legend still.”
And searched them through with glances keen,
Then dashed a tear-drop from his eye—
Unbid it came—he knew not why.
90
“Kinsmen,” he cried, “of Alpin's blood,
And worthy of Clan-Alpin's name,
Unstained by cowardice and shame!
Een do, spair nocht, in time of ill,
Shall be Clan-Alpin's legend still.”
97
SIR ALBON.
INSCRIBED TO CAPTAIN MILLER,
IST GUARDS.
99
Enough of rain, of hail, and snow,
Has drench'd the regions here below,
The lark soars high, and sings in air;
The thrush begins her tender care;
The soft breeze whispers through the bough;
And busy crows pursue the plough.
When ev'ry songster strains its throat,
Shall silent be the minstrel's note?
High swells his soul, so swell his song,
And ev'ry rock the strain prolong.
Has drench'd the regions here below,
The lark soars high, and sings in air;
The thrush begins her tender care;
The soft breeze whispers through the bough;
And busy crows pursue the plough.
When ev'ry songster strains its throat,
Shall silent be the minstrel's note?
High swells his soul, so swell his song,
And ev'ry rock the strain prolong.
To thee, my M***r, shall I paint
With willing hand, but colours faint,
The joys that crowd our sylvan scene,
The rushing river, laurels green,
The time-worn bridge, romantic mill,
The rocks, and banks, and Lockhart-hill?—
Or shall I rouse the sportsman's shout,
When many a grawl, and many a trout,
By net resistless dragg'd to shore,
Adds to the well-filled larder's store?—
Or when the moorcock skims the heath
On rapid wing, more rapid death
O'ertakes the fugitive—he dies,
And the serf lifts the feathered prize?—
Or when September's new-born day
Gives partridges as legal prey,
Shall dogs and hackbuts pass unsung,
The steady point—the covey sprung—
Now right, now left, a brace are down,
With horse-shoe breast and scarlet crown?—
Or shall I mark on high Stairaird,
The hare steal off from Bauldy Baird,
Just when he meditates the feat,
To shoot her cow'ring in her seat?—
Or when the wintry wind bereaves
The copsewood of its wreck of leaves;
When men and dogs, a busy rout,
Try ev'ry holly-bush about;
When the moon's light conducts the flock,
And ev'ry bank can boast a cock?—
With spring elastic up he darts,
“Mark! mark!” they cry, then beat all hearts;
Like lightning (such the rapid view)
The sportsman pours the pellets through;
And as he falls to rise no more,
Curses th' inhospitable shore
Which dooms him far from Lapland's coast,
To stretch his limbs on—butter toast!
With willing hand, but colours faint,
The joys that crowd our sylvan scene,
The rushing river, laurels green,
The time-worn bridge, romantic mill,
The rocks, and banks, and Lockhart-hill?—
100
When many a grawl, and many a trout,
By net resistless dragg'd to shore,
Adds to the well-filled larder's store?—
Or when the moorcock skims the heath
On rapid wing, more rapid death
O'ertakes the fugitive—he dies,
And the serf lifts the feathered prize?—
Or when September's new-born day
Gives partridges as legal prey,
Shall dogs and hackbuts pass unsung,
The steady point—the covey sprung—
Now right, now left, a brace are down,
With horse-shoe breast and scarlet crown?—
Or shall I mark on high Stairaird,
The hare steal off from Bauldy Baird,
Just when he meditates the feat,
To shoot her cow'ring in her seat?—
Or when the wintry wind bereaves
The copsewood of its wreck of leaves;
When men and dogs, a busy rout,
Try ev'ry holly-bush about;
When the moon's light conducts the flock,
And ev'ry bank can boast a cock?—
With spring elastic up he darts,
“Mark! mark!” they cry, then beat all hearts;
Like lightning (such the rapid view)
The sportsman pours the pellets through;
101
Curses th' inhospitable shore
Which dooms him far from Lapland's coast,
To stretch his limbs on—butter toast!
And now, e'er drops my feeble wing,
My blessing take. Go, serve the king;
Forget the soft Sicilian fair,
The Mareschina's grace and air,
And set your heart on British stuff,
For surely they're quite good enough.
So—savoury be each well-cooked dish!
If aught avails the minstrel's wish.
My blessing take. Go, serve the king;
Forget the soft Sicilian fair,
The Mareschina's grace and air,
And set your heart on British stuff,
For surely they're quite good enough.
So—savoury be each well-cooked dish!
If aught avails the minstrel's wish.
L'Argument Prosaique.
The Camperdown coach stops to water the horses in a village, at M‘Lellan's door, publican and butcher— Sir Albon jumps out, mounts a hack—canters up the causeway—passes the door of the Clerk of the Roads —sees the light of Muirkirk Iron-works—passes Kinzencleugh and Ballochmyle, and arrives at the Howfoord. Distance, one mile—time, six minutes.
Sir Albon.
Swift o'er heaven's arch the streamers ran,
While slowly moved the caravan.
Sudden, unbid, the leaders stood
Before thy gate, O man of blood!
If aught did there the curb branch ply,
'Twas hand unseen by mortal eye;
If aught did esse and crochet strain,
'Twas hand unhallow'd drew the rein.
While slowly moved the caravan.
102
Before thy gate, O man of blood!
If aught did there the curb branch ply,
'Twas hand unseen by mortal eye;
If aught did esse and crochet strain,
'Twas hand unhallow'd drew the rein.
Swift to his steed Sir Albon sprung,
Beneath his feet the trap-stone rung;
For rapid was the courser's stroke,
And ev'ry wight whose sleep it broke,
By sudden start, on elbow raised,
Breathed a half-stifled “Gude be praised!”
Quicker than cloth-yard arrow's flight
De Wodrow's mansion pass'd Sir Knight,
And quicker than the drum-boy's ruff
His horse hoofs clatter'd hard and tough.—
De Wodrow! though it mar my tale,
To sing of thee can minstrel fail?
For clerk he was, if clerk there be,
Though little skilled in minstrelsy,
And less, I wot, in chivalry;
But I may say, in sooth, he knew
The magic powers of two and two,
And four the wonderful result;
And though in head no catapult
To batter logic's ramparts down,
Yet he might challenge fair renown;
For well he conn'd the mystic page
Of Cocker, and of Dilworth sage;
His cap could doff, his cap could don—
But to our tale—Sir Knight pricked on.
No light had he to cheer his way,
Fled were the sunny joys of day,
And not as yet the silv'ry moon
To way-worn pilgrim gave the boon;
Far in the east she linger'd still,
Behind Cairntable's pointed hill,
Or Tintoc brown, or Corsincone,
Whilst Albon dauntless rode alone.
No faintly glimm'ring aid, to mark
Each image in the poring dark,
Save when the well-wrought bars of steel,
Which clad his trusty horse's heel,
Drew from a stone the transient light,
Which brightest shines in darkest night;
For, like that emblematic form,
Which led to Salem's tow'rs the storm,
(And shall a Christian minstrel tell
The triumphs of an infidel?)
The horse-shoe, fitted to defend,
Like that bright moon in turn and bend,
Of shape and light both emulous,
Scatters its light most marvellous.
Beneath his feet the trap-stone rung;
For rapid was the courser's stroke,
And ev'ry wight whose sleep it broke,
By sudden start, on elbow raised,
Breathed a half-stifled “Gude be praised!”
Quicker than cloth-yard arrow's flight
De Wodrow's mansion pass'd Sir Knight,
And quicker than the drum-boy's ruff
His horse hoofs clatter'd hard and tough.—
De Wodrow! though it mar my tale,
To sing of thee can minstrel fail?
For clerk he was, if clerk there be,
Though little skilled in minstrelsy,
And less, I wot, in chivalry;
But I may say, in sooth, he knew
The magic powers of two and two,
And four the wonderful result;
103
To batter logic's ramparts down,
Yet he might challenge fair renown;
For well he conn'd the mystic page
Of Cocker, and of Dilworth sage;
His cap could doff, his cap could don—
But to our tale—Sir Knight pricked on.
No light had he to cheer his way,
Fled were the sunny joys of day,
And not as yet the silv'ry moon
To way-worn pilgrim gave the boon;
Far in the east she linger'd still,
Behind Cairntable's pointed hill,
Or Tintoc brown, or Corsincone,
Whilst Albon dauntless rode alone.
No faintly glimm'ring aid, to mark
Each image in the poring dark,
Save when the well-wrought bars of steel,
Which clad his trusty horse's heel,
Drew from a stone the transient light,
Which brightest shines in darkest night;
For, like that emblematic form,
Which led to Salem's tow'rs the storm,
(And shall a Christian minstrel tell
The triumphs of an infidel?)
The horse-shoe, fitted to defend,
Like that bright moon in turn and bend,
Of shape and light both emulous,
Scatters its light most marvellous.
104
Far on the circle of the sky
Sir Knight a gleaming light did spy;
So vivid was its meteor gleam,
That to some wights it well might seem
The moon herself should shortly rise.
Not so in brave Sir Albon's eyes;
For well he wist this lurid glare
Burst from the source of classic Ayr,
Where, 'midst the bleak and barren wild,
With Erebus' own hue defiled,
The sons of Vulcan at the forge
Their midnight massive hammers urge.
Sir Knight a gleaming light did spy;
So vivid was its meteor gleam,
That to some wights it well might seem
The moon herself should shortly rise.
Not so in brave Sir Albon's eyes;
For well he wist this lurid glare
Burst from the source of classic Ayr,
Where, 'midst the bleak and barren wild,
With Erebus' own hue defiled,
The sons of Vulcan at the forge
Their midnight massive hammers urge.
Fast and more fast his fleet horse flew,
When sudden darting on his view
A lonely light, that twinkled still,
The mansion mark'd of Dame M‘****
Its turrets mock'd his straining gaze;
But then he thought on ancient days,
When lady fair was in her prime,
Fit theme for youthful minstrel's rhyme;
Then bow'd to her on bended knee
The Laird of hazel-clad G ******
Long, long, are all her suitors fled,
Her beauty's fallen, wither'd, dead!
When sudden darting on his view
A lonely light, that twinkled still,
The mansion mark'd of Dame M‘****
Its turrets mock'd his straining gaze;
But then he thought on ancient days,
When lady fair was in her prime,
Fit theme for youthful minstrel's rhyme;
Then bow'd to her on bended knee
The Laird of hazel-clad G ******
Long, long, are all her suitors fled,
Her beauty's fallen, wither'd, dead!
On, on he spurr'd and pass'd the while
Old Kinzencleugh, and Ballochmyle
In song renown'd, and then anon
Was full in front of Willoxton.
On that proud rock a castle stood,
And frown'd upon the raging flood;
But how and when that castle fell
I may not think, I may not tell.
The flames bore ev'ry trace away;
But whence those flames I may not say.
Now on its shrivell'd stunted oak
Blood-sated ravens daily croak;
With gory beak and talons foul,
There nightly screams a howling owl.
Sir Albon pass'd the rock below;
He heard the river's sullen flow,
And high in air portentous sound
In undulations hover'd round—
But ever, as in time of need,
Sir Albon onward prick'd his steed.
Old Kinzencleugh, and Ballochmyle
105
Was full in front of Willoxton.
On that proud rock a castle stood,
And frown'd upon the raging flood;
But how and when that castle fell
I may not think, I may not tell.
The flames bore ev'ry trace away;
But whence those flames I may not say.
Now on its shrivell'd stunted oak
Blood-sated ravens daily croak;
With gory beak and talons foul,
There nightly screams a howling owl.
Sir Albon pass'd the rock below;
He heard the river's sullen flow,
And high in air portentous sound
In undulations hover'd round—
But ever, as in time of need,
Sir Albon onward prick'd his steed.
THE BENISON; OR P.P.C.
And now, why further swell my tome?Suffice it, Albon canter'd home.
What recks it in my simple tale,
That Albon supp'd and swallow'd ale;
Or, tired with travel and alone,
Placed on his pate a cotton cone,
And one of tin on candle's head,
106
But, reader, ere we part, adieu!
For I would part in peace with you.
Take my pot-luck, 'tis good hotch-potch,
A mess of Anglo-Gallic Scotch.
And if this sells, as sell it must,
I soon shall touch, again, your dust.
With wondrous speed, as I'm a sinner,
I'll knock you up another dinner;
For thoughts fall quick from fertile brain,
Like bright prismatic show'rs of rain—
And I can write with ready pen,
For gentle maids, and gentle men.
Though poor the measures from my reed,
Still poorer is your minstrel's meed:
I ask but half-a-crown a line—
The Song be your's, the Disk be mine.
109
THE SPIRIT OF TINTOC;
A BALLAD.
WITH NOTES.
Take any shape but that------
Shakespear.
Shakespear.
115
The Piper pech'd and the Piper blew,
And chirted out another spring,
And syne he sang as he gat fou,
(O weel auld Robin Scot could sing!)
And chirted out another spring,
And syne he sang as he gat fou,
(O weel auld Robin Scot could sing!)
Of bloody raids, and border wights,
When the clouds were dark or the moon was clear,
Who troop'd about, in winter nights,
To gather nolt and soudron geer.
When the clouds were dark or the moon was clear,
Who troop'd about, in winter nights,
To gather nolt and soudron geer.
Of knights and ladies fair he sang,
All underneath the greenwode tree;
Of Dick o' the Kow, and Johnie Armstrang,
And many an outlaw bold sang he.
All underneath the greenwode tree;
Of Dick o' the Kow, and Johnie Armstrang,
And many an outlaw bold sang he.
116
Of Tamlane and of Fairyland,
Of Kelpy, Shellycoat, and a';
Of witches, and a fearsome band,
That dalesmen never heard or saw.
Of Kelpy, Shellycoat, and a';
Of witches, and a fearsome band,
That dalesmen never heard or saw.
The gudeman glowr'd, and the gudewife gap'd,
Forgot poor Flecky in the byre;
Ilk peat she thought was fairy-shap'd,
And look'd for Brownie near the fire.
Forgot poor Flecky in the byre;
Ilk peat she thought was fairy-shap'd,
And look'd for Brownie near the fire.
Johnie Bell was the gudeman's name,
The wife's I wot was Kate M'Crae;
He was a taylor, to his shame,
A tippling taylor, neighbours say.
The wife's I wot was Kate M'Crae;
He was a taylor, to his shame,
A tippling taylor, neighbours say.
But though a taylor, troth the chiel
Was bold, and did not lack a soul;
He lik'd the Piper's crack fou weel,
And weel to share a cogue or bowl.
Was bold, and did not lack a soul;
He lik'd the Piper's crack fou weel,
And weel to share a cogue or bowl.
The Piper took a fearfu' waught;
For Robin had an awesome drouth;
The gudewife sigh'd, but the Piper laugh'd,
When Johnie cried, “It's done in sooth!
For Robin had an awesome drouth;
The gudewife sigh'd, but the Piper laugh'd,
When Johnie cried, “It's done in sooth!
117
“The graybeard's toom, I maun hae drink,
I've no a plack to buy a drap;
My heart is up, and away I'll link,
There's drink for nought on Tintoc tap.
I've no a plack to buy a drap;
My heart is up, and away I'll link,
There's drink for nought on Tintoc tap.
“Frae Robin's sangs I ken fou weel,
That fairies keep the liquor there;
But be it fairy, witch, or de'il,
I'll find the Cap, and tak my share.”
That fairies keep the liquor there;
But be it fairy, witch, or de'il,
I'll find the Cap, and tak my share.”
He has put his blue bonnet on his head,
And in his hand his rowntree staff;
Greening for drink, with a heart without dread,
Away for Tintoc the taylor is aff.
And in his hand his rowntree staff;
Greening for drink, with a heart without dread,
Away for Tintoc the taylor is aff.
He hadna gane a lang Scotch mile,
A lang Scotch mile but only twa,
When he thought that he spied the black de'il on a coile;
It was na the de'il, but it was—a craw.
A lang Scotch mile but only twa,
When he thought that he spied the black de'il on a coile;
It was na the de'il, but it was—a craw.
Of lang Scotch miles he had na gane,
Of lang Scotch miles but only three,
When crossing the burn, he miss'd the stane,
The stepping stane, and in gaed he.
Of lang Scotch miles but only three,
When crossing the burn, he miss'd the stane,
The stepping stane, and in gaed he.
118
“I hae ye fast, and I'll ha'd ye fast,
Come Johnie Bell to my crystal bower;
The night is come and the day is past,
And Johnie Bell is in my power.”—
Come Johnie Bell to my crystal bower;
The night is come and the day is past,
And Johnie Bell is in my power.”—
O Johnie roar'd most manfully,
When Brownie whistled at his ear,
“Cry, Cockatrice and Gallowlee
Thrice—and the de'il ye need na fear.”—
When Brownie whistled at his ear,
“Cry, Cockatrice and Gallowlee
Thrice—and the de'il ye need na fear.”—
He mutter'd thrice the magic spell,
Thrice Cockatrice and Gallowlee,
When Kelpy shriek'd—“O, Johnie Bell,
My charm is broken—you are free.”—
Thrice Cockatrice and Gallowlee,
When Kelpy shriek'd—“O, Johnie Bell,
My charm is broken—you are free.”—
On he hurried, and on he hied,
For the sake o' the Cap, and to get his fill,
Till he came at last to brown Tintoc side,
And turn'd him to the haunted hill.
For the sake o' the Cap, and to get his fill,
Till he came at last to brown Tintoc side,
And turn'd him to the haunted hill.
Up he clamber'd, and up he clamb,
And he's coost his coat o' the hoddin gray,
And he's seen a ewe, wi' a coal-black lamb,
Bickering cross the heathery brae.
And he's coost his coat o' the hoddin gray,
And he's seen a ewe, wi' a coal-black lamb,
Bickering cross the heathery brae.
He's ta'en his spleuchan
frae his breeks
For a quid o' the right Virginia;
And wi' his sleeve he's dried his cheeks,
For a hetter man ye never saw.
For a quid o' the right Virginia;
119
For a hetter man ye never saw.
And when to the misty tap he's come,
The cloud took a grisly spectre's form;
The taylor stood bombazed and dumb,
While thus it spoke like a thunderstorm:
The cloud took a grisly spectre's form;
The taylor stood bombazed and dumb,
While thus it spoke like a thunderstorm:
“Queen of the Spirits of fire,
Johnie,
I force them forth with potent blaze;
Curb your wild desire, Johnie;
Stilla, I am, so go your ways.”—
I force them forth with potent blaze;
Curb your wild desire, Johnie;
Stilla, I am, so go your ways.”—
“I fear ye not,” bold Johnie cried,
“That for you, witch, and your advice,
I matter you not nor your spirits beside—
Ken ye, Gallowlee and Cockatrice?”—
“That for you, witch, and your advice,
I matter you not nor your spirits beside—
Ken ye, Gallowlee and Cockatrice?”—
“When the fatal sister spins, Johnie,
I steal the life-lint frae her tap.” —
“Tell the priest your sins, cronie,
Right or wrong, I'll hae the Cap.”—
I steal the life-lint frae her tap.” —
“Tell the priest your sins, cronie,
Right or wrong, I'll hae the Cap.”—
“When the sister lifts the sheers, Johnie,
I close them fast to clip the thread.”—
“Confess, when the fryar spiers, cronie,
Gie me the Cap, and never heed.”—
I close them fast to clip the thread.”—
120
Gie me the Cap, and never heed.”—
She has stamped on the grassless yeard,
A fire and cauldron quick arose;
The taylor rubb'd his head and beard,
And lick'd his lips, and cock'd his nose.
A fire and cauldron quick arose;
The taylor rubb'd his head and beard,
And lick'd his lips, and cock'd his nose.
The fire low'd, and the cauldron hiss'd,
And the hell-steam rose baith red and blue,
When the guardian spirit of the Kist
Swell'd to the wond'ring taylor's view.
And the hell-steam rose baith red and blue,
When the guardian spirit of the Kist
Swell'd to the wond'ring taylor's view.
His hair was red, and his cheek-bones high,
And he look'd like a new-caught Highlandman;
His eyes in their sockets seem'd to fry;
He smelt like a peat-reek warming pan.
And he look'd like a new-caught Highlandman;
His eyes in their sockets seem'd to fry;
He smelt like a peat-reek warming pan.
Before him lay a skull in scorn,
A living skull, though the sense was out—
With a spoon o' the de'ils auld cast-off horn,
He stirr'd and stirr'd the brain about.
A living skull, though the sense was out—
121
He stirr'd and stirr'd the brain about.
The lid o' the Kist wi' a clap flew up,
And fou to the brim out flew the Cap;
The thirsty taylor, at ae sup,
Drank it a', baith dreg and drap.
And fou to the brim out flew the Cap;
The thirsty taylor, at ae sup,
Drank it a', baith dreg and drap.
The Kist, and Cap, and cantrip spell,
Wi' whizzing birr, in flinders flew,
But what became o' Johnie Bell,
Gude kens!—I ken nae mair than you!
Wi' whizzing birr, in flinders flew,
But what became o' Johnie Bell,
Gude kens!—I ken nae mair than you!
Rowntree staff. It is a popular superstition, that the Rowntree, or Mountain-ash, acts as a charm against witchcraft.
Hoddin Gray, a coarse gray woollen cloth, almost forgot, or unknown amongst the refined Scots of this century.
His hair was red, &c. This guardian Spirit of the Kist appears to be allegorical of Fairntosh, a name for the true strong unadulterated Highland Whisky.
From this we learn a very curious fact, viz., that the Prince of Darkness sheds his horns; and moreover, that from the economy of the lower regions, these horns are not shed in vain, but are still the instruments of evil to man.—Horn-spoons are still common in Scotland.
125
EPISTLE
TO THE
Edinburgh Reviewers.
127
127
EPISTLE FIRST.
Ye young Reviewers! listen to my strain!
Pardon my maxims, if they give you pain.
Accept the mild effusions of my pen;—
Ye are the ducklings, I the guardian hen.
I cannot follow—poor old anxious fool,—
But tremble, while you dabble in the pool.
Your early talents promise very fair,
Use them with prudence, cultivate with care.
Blast not my hopes, nor ridicule my fears;
Nor slight the wisdom of a length of years.
Pardon my maxims, if they give you pain.
Accept the mild effusions of my pen;—
Ye are the ducklings, I the guardian hen.
I cannot follow—poor old anxious fool,—
But tremble, while you dabble in the pool.
Your early talents promise very fair,
Use them with prudence, cultivate with care.
Blast not my hopes, nor ridicule my fears;
Nor slight the wisdom of a length of years.
A knack at words you have, some fancy too;
But have you judgment, think you, to review?—
You read I find,—then, like true men of spirit,
You needs must write, that folks may know your merit.
You pace the room, in fancy dealing terror,—
(There, I must hint, you're rather in an error).
All are not d—d you happen to dislike;
All turn not marble whom your glances strike.—
But have you judgment, think you, to review?—
You read I find,—then, like true men of spirit,
You needs must write, that folks may know your merit.
128
(There, I must hint, you're rather in an error).
All are not d—d you happen to dislike;
All turn not marble whom your glances strike.—
When the fierce tyger rages o'er the land,
Then to the chase, ye hunters, in a band!
Or when the crocodile, with treacherous tears,
Seeks to decoy and lead us by the ears,
Then to your task, these ravening foes destroy,
We'll shout your praises with tumultuous joy.
But where's the honour, where the mighty feat,
To seize a victim that can only bleat?
Why tinge with red the unassuming cheek,
Or tear a linnet with a vulture's beak?
Come, prythee do not vaunt, and puff, and swell,
That you can see what others see as well.
Toss not your heads about with happy grin,
Proud when you catch a straw, or find a pin.
Is he a lion who can gorge a rat?
Is he Goliath who can crush a gnat?
Then to the chase, ye hunters, in a band!
Or when the crocodile, with treacherous tears,
Seeks to decoy and lead us by the ears,
Then to your task, these ravening foes destroy,
We'll shout your praises with tumultuous joy.
But where's the honour, where the mighty feat,
To seize a victim that can only bleat?
Why tinge with red the unassuming cheek,
Or tear a linnet with a vulture's beak?
Come, prythee do not vaunt, and puff, and swell,
That you can see what others see as well.
Toss not your heads about with happy grin,
Proud when you catch a straw, or find a pin.
Is he a lion who can gorge a rat?
Is he Goliath who can crush a gnat?
Treasure this maxim in your thoughts for ever:
“A Critic must be just, as well as clever.”
Cloud not another's light, that you may shine,
And some politeness with your wit combine.
You must not be so rude, nor so conceited;
A woman surely should be gently treated.
Her poems, like her form, may catch your eye;
She seeks to please, but claims no ardent sigh.
If dress'd with taste, approach her and admire;
If tawdry, pray be silent and retire.
Don't snatch her cap, and kick it in the air;
Don't tear her gown, or thrust her from her chair;
Don't, arms a-kimbo, labour to affront her,
Nor use her as you use poor Mrs. H—r.
“A Critic must be just, as well as clever.”
Cloud not another's light, that you may shine,
And some politeness with your wit combine.
You must not be so rude, nor so conceited;
A woman surely should be gently treated.
129
She seeks to please, but claims no ardent sigh.
If dress'd with taste, approach her and admire;
If tawdry, pray be silent and retire.
Don't snatch her cap, and kick it in the air;
Don't tear her gown, or thrust her from her chair;
Don't, arms a-kimbo, labour to affront her,
Nor use her as you use poor Mrs. H—r.
Let not a doctor's wig your satire aid;
So poor an ally must your cause degrade.
Patterns you are of style, no doubt, of grace;
Then prythee, let us have each critic face;
To each essay prefix the learned head,
That lines and features may at once be read.
Thus he, whom now we deem or black or yellow,
May prove, if colour'd well, a pretty fellow.
If more than usual sharp his phiz, or fuller,
More clever we shall rate his works or duller.
So poor an ally must your cause degrade.
Patterns you are of style, no doubt, of grace;
Then prythee, let us have each critic face;
To each essay prefix the learned head,
That lines and features may at once be read.
Thus he, whom now we deem or black or yellow,
May prove, if colour'd well, a pretty fellow.
If more than usual sharp his phiz, or fuller,
More clever we shall rate his works or duller.
Mild Doctor Langford,
little did'st thou ween,
When with a fair round face, and placid mein,
Amidst the kind restorers of the drown'd
You preach'd humanity to all around.
Ah! little thought you that each trope and figure
Should pass the ordeal with so much rigour;
That what made Doctors Hawes and Lettsome weep
Should lull a critic, in the north, to sleep;
Who, though by nostrums and gay friends beset,
Upon my life, seems somewhat sleepy yet.
When with a fair round face, and placid mein,
Amidst the kind restorers of the drown'd
You preach'd humanity to all around.
130
Should pass the ordeal with so much rigour;
That what made Doctors Hawes and Lettsome weep
Should lull a critic, in the north, to sleep;
Who, though by nostrums and gay friends beset,
Upon my life, seems somewhat sleepy yet.
When the tir'd seaman in his hammock swings,
And dreams of rare fresh beef—ecstatic things!
With vacant grasp he snatches at a bit:
So our reviewer at a piece of wit:
Old jests of Joe his college letch provoke,
And, while he doses, struggles for a joke.
And dreams of rare fresh beef—ecstatic things!
With vacant grasp he snatches at a bit:
So our reviewer at a piece of wit:
Old jests of Joe his college letch provoke,
And, while he doses, struggles for a joke.
We love not petulance—it sickens quite—
'Tis nauseous—and although you may be right,
More to our feelings than our judgment trusting,
We fain would have you wrong,—'tis so disgusting.
'Tis nauseous—and although you may be right,
More to our feelings than our judgment trusting,
We fain would have you wrong,—'tis so disgusting.
Touch not on topics you can't understand:—
Why lug his Lordship forward sword in hand—
You read the title and a line or two,
And tell us so—Is this then to review?
Why ev'ry trifle to our notice bring,
Merely that you may say a clever thing?
Why lug his Lordship forward sword in hand—
You read the title and a line or two,
And tell us so—Is this then to review?
Why ev'ry trifle to our notice bring,
Merely that you may say a clever thing?
131
Your Pegasus, we find, is but a colt:
We see him start, dash headlong on, and bolt
He kicks, o'erleaps all bounds, and scorns all check,
The reins of reason loose upon his neck.
We see him start, dash headlong on, and bolt
He kicks, o'erleaps all bounds, and scorns all check,
The reins of reason loose upon his neck.
Some plants of vigour deck your work, I own,
But flowering weeds are very thickly sown.
If each contributor had equal powers,
I should not grudge the many tedious hours,
Torn from the pastimes that become your age,
To plod for jests, and blot a heavy page.
To Mounier's candid critic praise is due;
Make him your leader, keep him in your view.
Learn to be modest, in your wit be chaste,
Ye are not, yet, all Chesterfields in taste.
But flowering weeds are very thickly sown.
If each contributor had equal powers,
I should not grudge the many tedious hours,
Torn from the pastimes that become your age,
To plod for jests, and blot a heavy page.
To Mounier's candid critic praise is due;
Make him your leader, keep him in your view.
Learn to be modest, in your wit be chaste,
Ye are not, yet, all Chesterfields in taste.
I move not forward, with Herculean tread
And iron-mace, to break each Hydra head;
An humble friend, I offer hints in season,
Watching with fervent hope your dawning reason.
Prosper your youthful efforts to be known!
Whose swelling fame is dearer than my own.
And iron-mace, to break each Hydra head;
An humble friend, I offer hints in season,
Watching with fervent hope your dawning reason.
Prosper your youthful efforts to be known!
Whose swelling fame is dearer than my own.
Anniversary Sermon of the Royal Humane Society. By W. Langford, D.D. London: Rivington, 1802.—Review, p. 113.
William, Earl of Ancrum, afterwards Marquis of Lothian, whose observations in relation to proposed improvements in the arms and accoutrements of light cavalry had been inserted in the “Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh.”
135
SONGS IN THE Justiciary Opera,
COMPOSED FIFTY YEARS AGO, BY C[olin] M[aclaurin] & B[oswell] I.C.C.
Sævaque circuitu.------
Ovid. Met.
Ovid. Met.
Quin et Ixion,------vultu
Risit invito.------
Hor.
Risit invito.------
Hor.
140
- Caliendrosus Maximus, Grand Clerk of the Scales and Chopping Knife, and Commander of the Forces.
- Hystrix, Clerk of the Rounds.
- Bombyx, a very Great Officer.
- John Black, the Pannel.
- Bamboozle, Orator for the Pannel.
- Flaw-finder, Orator for the Pannel.
- Peppertail, the Horse-Couper, Witness.
- Bizz, the Blacksmith, Witness.
- Peter Brown, the Exciseman, Witness.
- Mathew Mutchkin, Witness.
- Widow Mackleerie, Witness.
- Waiter.
- Judges, Jurymen, Sheriffs, Baillies, Serjeants, Mob, &c., &c.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
141
Caliendrosus Maximus and Hystrix.
DUET.
Cal.
Saw ye my Trumpeter?
Or saw ye my Macer?
Or saw ye my man John?
Hyst.
I have not seen your Trumpeter,
I have not seen your Macer,
And drunk is your man John.
142
(Martial Music.)
Enter a Waiter.Waiter.
The Baillies are waitin, the Provost is come,
Twal permanent serjeants, a fife and a drum,
Twa Sherra's wi' swords (but they're peaceable men),
And some twa three mair—and the clock's chappit ten.
(A Grand Procession.)
SCENE, A Hall.Enter Caliendrosus Maximus, Bombyx, Hystrix, Bamboozle, Flaw-finder, Macer, Jurymen, Mob, &c.
Hyst.
Ge-en-tlemen o' the Jury,
Ye'll answer untill a' your names—
Walter Balwhid o' Pitlurie.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Mathew Powloosie o' Kames.
Jurym.
Here.
143
—Duncan Macwhey o' Todwiddock.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Jacob Bafour o' Howbrig.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—John Mackindo o' Glenpuddock.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Hew Gib in Bog o' Daljig.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Patrick Macrone o' Craig-gubble.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—George Yellowlees in Cowshaw.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Ralph Mucklehose in Blindrubble.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Robert Macmurdoch in Raw.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Andrew Mackissock in Shalloch.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Ingram Maclure in Benbole.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Gilbert Strathdee in Drummalloch.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Gabriel Tam in Dirt-hole.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Lowrie Macwill o' Powmuddle.
Jurym.
Here.
144
—Daniel Losh o' Benskair.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—John Stoupie, Writer, Kirkfuddle.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Baillie Bole, Shoemaker, there.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Samuel Macguire in Kraig-gullion—
If present, Sir, answer your name.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
—Quintin Maccosh in Knockdullion.
Jurym.
Here.
Hyst.
Gal-lery—Si-lence—Ahem!
[OMITTED]
Macer.
Hem!—Si-lence.
Cal.
Officer, bring John Black to the bar.
(The Pannel is brought in guarded, and Petitions for Banishment.)
Pannel.
O send me oure the lang seas
My ain kind lordie, O;
O send me oure the lang seas
My ain kind lordie, O.
145
Or send me south or nordie, O,
But send me oure the lang seas
My ain kind lordie, O.
Cal.
Pannel, a halter must be your end,
The fiend at your skirts has now his prong,
Your days, that are number'd, in penitence spend;
But I'll lecture you, presently, half-an-hour long.
The fiend at your skirts has now his prong,
Your days, that are number'd, in penitence spend;
But I'll lecture you, presently, half-an-hour long.
Mercy were folly, if lavish'd on him;
Robbing and thieving the gallows shall check.
Our duty is plain, we'll proceed to condemn;
John—you shall certainly hang by the neck.
Robbing and thieving the gallows shall check.
Our duty is plain, we'll proceed to condemn;
John—you shall certainly hang by the neck.
Pannel.
We're no guilty yet,
We're no guilty yet,
Although we're accused
We're no guilty yet.
We're no guilty yet,
Although we're accused
We're no guilty yet.
Afore ye condemn
Ye man hear us a bit,
For although we're accus'd
We're no guilty yet.
Ye man hear us a bit,
For although we're accus'd
We're no guilty yet.
146
Hyst.
Whereas, by the laws o' this realm,
And o' ev'ry well governed land,
To seize on anither man's geer,
(As the tangs ance a Highlandman fand)
And o' ev'ry well governed land,
To seize on anither man's geer,
(As the tangs ance a Highlandman fand)
And whether the thief, he be caught
In the fact, or be gruppit out-fang,
The law says expressly, and wisely,
That chiel by the thrapple shall hang.
In the fact, or be gruppit out-fang,
The law says expressly, and wisely,
That chiel by the thrapple shall hang.
And you, John Black, there, the pannel,
Ye robbit, assaulted and a',
And sae, gang till an assize, Sir,
And underlie pains o' the law.
Ye robbit, assaulted and a',
And sae, gang till an assize, Sir,
And underlie pains o' the law.
Bombyx.
Painful the duty is, which I must now perform,
Stating a train of guilt uncommon and enorm-
Ous,—calling my witnesses to make the fact out plain,
And if your verdict's guilty, my labour's not in vain.
Stating a train of guilt uncommon and enorm-
Ous,—calling my witnesses to make the fact out plain,
And if your verdict's guilty, my labour's not in vain.
147
Gentlemen, your feelings must, with justice, never jar,
The statutes of the land condemn the pris'ner at the bar;
The law most clearly indicates the gallows, as reward,
For culprits such as him between the soldiers of the guard.
The statutes of the land condemn the pris'ner at the bar;
The law most clearly indicates the gallows, as reward,
For culprits such as him between the soldiers of the guard.
John Black met Peter Brown, upon the King's highway,
With foul intent to rob, I fear intent to slay;
John Black, the pannel, did step up to Peter Brown,
And with his fist, or bludgeon, did knock said Peter down.
With foul intent to rob, I fear intent to slay;
John Black, the pannel, did step up to Peter Brown,
And with his fist, or bludgeon, did knock said Peter down.
Ferocious, atrocious, felonious also,
Did then and there, with that or this, reiterate the blow;
Then seized Peter by the throat, to suffocate his cries,
And most outrageously exclaim'd, “Your money, d--- your eyes.”
Did then and there, with that or this, reiterate the blow;
Then seized Peter by the throat, to suffocate his cries,
And most outrageously exclaim'd, “Your money, d--- your eyes.”
Enter Peter Brown.
Peter.
The pannel's a regardless loon,
And brags that he defies man;
And bauldly threepit through the toun
He'd do for the Exciseman.
And brags that he defies man;
And bauldly threepit through the toun
He'd do for the Exciseman.
148
I thought 'twas nought but silly clash,
That sneevlin gowks wad tell me,
Quo' I, my thum' I wanna fash,
It's no sic like can fell me.
That sneevlin gowks wad tell me,
Quo' I, my thum' I wanna fash,
It's no sic like can fell me.
Four cadgers rade through Halkwood-slack,
I doubted Jean Mackleerie,
I took the road, when up cam Black,
And dang me tapsalteerie.
I doubted Jean Mackleerie,
I took the road, when up cam Black,
And dang me tapsalteerie.
He rypit, may be, for his knife,
I thought I saw it glancin,
He took the rue, and sav'd my life,
Syne like a deil gaed dancin.
I thought I saw it glancin,
He took the rue, and sav'd my life,
Syne like a deil gaed dancin.
Enter Peppertail.
Pepper.
Comin' frae the toun o' Straiven,
On my poor mare that had the spaivin,
I met the pannel near the Kirk o' Shotts,
Like ony madman he was ravin.
On my poor mare that had the spaivin,
I met the pannel near the Kirk o' Shotts,
Like ony madman he was ravin.
Black his hair and blue his coat;
Tightly he did the gauger han'le,
The mair he shuck the fallow by the throat,
The steadier still I ee'd the pannel.
Tightly he did the gauger han'le,
The mair he shuck the fallow by the throat,
The steadier still I ee'd the pannel.
149
Mat.
As I cam hame frae Ruglin fair,
At e'en whan it was dusky,
I had enough—and may be mair,
A drap oure muckle whisky.
At e'en whan it was dusky,
I had enough—and may be mair,
A drap oure muckle whisky.
I saw twa fallows yoke thegither,
Wha they war, the taen or tither,
I ken na mair nor Abram's mither,
I was blin wi' whisky.
Wha they war, the taen or tither,
I ken na mair nor Abram's mither,
I was blin wi' whisky.
Enter Bizz.
Bombyx.
Pray, What is your name, friend? tell us.
Bizz.
Tammas Bizz.—I've blawn the bellows,
And I've clinkit on the studdy
Sin a wean, knee-heigh and duddy.
And the gauger, weel I ken,
Aft he stammers butt and ben,
Snowkin a' frae end to end,
He's mislear'd and capernoited.
Aft he stammers butt and ben,
Snowkin a' frae end to end,
He's mislear'd and capernoited.
150
And I ken Jock Black fou weel,
A sturdy hand at our fore-hammer;
Bess, his wife, flytes at the chiel,
But weel a wat I do condemn her.
A sturdy hand at our fore-hammer;
Bess, his wife, flytes at the chiel,
But weel a wat I do condemn her.
Wark, ye ken yersels, brings drouth,
Wha can thole a gaizen'd mouth,
And gif he tak a gill, forsooth
Queans man flyte, and fools man clatter.
Wha can thole a gaizen'd mouth,
And gif he tak a gill, forsooth
Queans man flyte, and fools man clatter.
Jock, I ken's an honest lad,
Thievish pranks was ne'er his custom,
Tho' he be sae sair misca'd,
Wi' gowd in gowpins ye may trust him.
Thievish pranks was ne'er his custom,
Tho' he be sae sair misca'd,
Wi' gowd in gowpins ye may trust him.
I hae kent him sin a bairn,
A penny willing aye to earn,
And tho' he's coupit i' the shearn,
Troth I ken nought ill about him.
Enter Widow Mackleerie.
A penny willing aye to earn,
And tho' he's coupit i' the shearn,
Troth I ken nought ill about him.
Widow Mac.
I hae a house o' my ain,
On the road to Hamilton,
Whisky I sell, to be plain,
Arran Water, or Campbleton.
On the road to Hamilton,
Whisky I sell, to be plain,
Arran Water, or Campbleton.
151
Peter the gauger, himsel,
Whiles comes pipple papple in,
Puzion, frae ony big stell,
He'll no pit his thrapple in.
Whiles comes pipple papple in,
Puzion, frae ony big stell,
He'll no pit his thrapple in.
Widow Mackleerie's my name,
Mine's a tippeny eatin house,
Carriers find a warm hame,
Mine's niest door to the meetin-house.
Mine's a tippeny eatin house,
Carriers find a warm hame,
Mine's niest door to the meetin-house.
As for the pannel, Jock Black,
I'm wae to see him here awa,
He never wrang'd me ae plack;
Gude send he wun clear awa!
I'm wae to see him here awa,
He never wrang'd me ae plack;
Gude send he wun clear awa!
(The Orators for the Pannel plead.)
Bamboozle.
Fye on the laws that hang a man for stealing,
Sure such penal statutes, were savagely fram'd
By legislators devoid of human feeling,
Before divine religion mankind had tam'd.
Gentlemen, 'tis yours, with vigour,
To check the law's excessive rigour,
Yours is the power, to you the choice is given.
A father—husband—bends;
152
'Tis yours to take or give,
To bid him die—or live!
Then here that mercy show, you hope from Heaven.
Flaw-finder.
Gentlemen, now 'tis my turn to address you,
And with much speaking I need not oppress you,
The proof lies before you, in writing down taken,
All I do wish is to save this man's bacon.
And with much speaking I need not oppress you,
The proof lies before you, in writing down taken,
All I do wish is to save this man's bacon.
But as it is usual some few things to mention,
I say, that to steal, it was not his intention,
So be not, I pray, like the Lords in a fury,
But bring this man off like a sensible jury.
I say, that to steal, it was not his intention,
So be not, I pray, like the Lords in a fury,
But bring this man off like a sensible jury.
(Charge to the Jury.)
Cal.
If ever a case before me came
That I could judge most clearly,
This is a case, I'll boldly name,
I've scrutiniz'd it nearly.
That I could judge most clearly,
This is a case, I'll boldly name,
I've scrutiniz'd it nearly.
153
To trace the truth through all its track,
No witch requires, or jugglers;
The witnesses are all a pack
Of drunkards and of smugglers.
No witch requires, or jugglers;
The witnesses are all a pack
Of drunkards and of smugglers.
The counsel for the crown, with skill,
Extorted facts most glaring;
Black, when prim'd, by stoup and gill,
You see, became most daring.
Extorted facts most glaring;
Black, when prim'd, by stoup and gill,
You see, became most daring.
That Black put Brown in mortal fear,
The proof is clear—clarissima,
And that he robb'd, tho' not quite clear,
Presumptio est fortissima.
The proof is clear—clarissima,
And that he robb'd, tho' not quite clear,
Presumptio est fortissima.
Gentlemen, 'tis my desire,
To state the case precisely;
'Tis you to judge, so now retire,
And weigh your verdict wisely.
To state the case precisely;
'Tis you to judge, so now retire,
And weigh your verdict wisely.
The proof is strong, a verdict bring,
Such honest men becoming;
I need not say one other thing,
And so I end my summing.
Such honest men becoming;
I need not say one other thing,
And so I end my summing.
154
Lowrie Macwill o' Powmuddle, Chancellor. John Stoupie, Clerk.
Powmuddle.
In this case there's nae argument,
Nae minor, and nae major,
A chield had taen a glass, and had
A towzle wi' a gauger;
That there's nae proof o' robbery,
To see, I think, ye canna miss,
Sae we the pannel man acquit,
No guilty, Sirs,—Unanimous,
Demi Chorus by Five Jurymen.
Unanimous, Unanimous,
Double Chorus by Ten Jurymen.
Unanimous, Unanimous,
Grand Chorus by the whole Fifteen.
Sae we the pannel man acquit,
No guilty, Sirs,—Unanimous.
(The Verdict is returned, Caliendrosus Maximus reads—in a passion.)
Caliendrosus.
A plague o' such juries, they make such a pother,
And thus, by their folly, let pannels go free;
And still on some silly pretext or another,
Nothing is left for your Lordships and me.
And thus, by their folly, let pannels go free;
155
Nothing is left for your Lordships and me.
Our duty, believe us,
Was not quite so grievous,
While yet we had hopes for to hang 'em up all;
But now they're acquitted,
O how we're out-witted,
We've sat eighteen hours here for nothing at all.
Was not quite so grievous,
While yet we had hopes for to hang 'em up all;
But now they're acquitted,
O how we're out-witted,
We've sat eighteen hours here for nothing at all.
Chorus by the whole Bench.
Tol de rol, lol de rol, tol de rol, lol de rol,
Tol de rol, lol de rol, tol de rol, lol,
But now they're acquitted, &c.
(Mob without Huzza.)
159
Skeldon Haughs;
OR, THE SOW IS FLITTED.
Fiet enim subito Sus horridus.
—Virg.
—Virg.
161
TO
GEORGE RANKINE, ESQ.
OF WHITEHILL.
163
Crawford o' Kerse sat in his ha',
White were his locks as drifted snaw;
For stealin change o' shrivelin time
Had quench'd the vigour o' his prime:
And totterin limbs poor service yield,
Whan rivals struggle in the field.
His shrunken arm refused its part,
Tho' warm the throbbins at his heart,
For through his veins there flow'd the blood
O' auld Sir Reginald the gude—
That blood that rous'd the soul and might
O' Scotland's Hero, Wallace, wight.
White were his locks as drifted snaw;
For stealin change o' shrivelin time
Had quench'd the vigour o' his prime:
And totterin limbs poor service yield,
Whan rivals struggle in the field.
His shrunken arm refused its part,
Tho' warm the throbbins at his heart,
For through his veins there flow'd the blood
O' auld Sir Reginald the gude—
That blood that rous'd the soul and might
O' Scotland's Hero, Wallace, wight.
In sooth he was a Baron bauld,
For toolyies tough in days o' auld,
A lion in the battle fray,
In deadly feud, a deadly fae.
But now, a venerable Lord,
He mirthfu' cheer'd the festive board
Wi' merry tale and hamely jest,
Or whiles he rear'd his warlike crest
As if prepar'd the brunt to meet,
And then recounted mony a feat
O' apen strife and artfu' wile;
Thus wad he listless hours beguile—
While a' around, his sinewy race,
Gaz'd, dumb wi' rapture, in his face.
Crack follow'd crack, the cap gaed roun,
That mony a cankerin thought cou'd drown,
Whan sudden at the yett a guest
Admittance claim'd—Quoth Kerse, “the best
Our almorie can yield bring ben,
I trow there's walth, gin he were ten,—
Shew in the stranger”—fair and free
In strode young Gilbert Kennedy.
“Kerse (said the youth), when feuds are sworn,
It matters nought how slight the thorn
That poisonous rankles in our side;
I bring defiance to your pride.—
The bauld Barganey bids me say,
Whan mornin breaks on Lammas-day,
A Sow upon your land I'll tether;
Like midges let the Crawfords gather,
Some teeth in angry fit may chitter,
But deil a man o' Kyle shall flit her.”
Kerse ee'd him wi' contemptuous sneer,
“My merry man—and come ye here
To jeer me at my ain fire-side?—
Gae hame, for ance, in a hail hide.
Time was, that Kerse wad blithe ha' ridden
Out oure yon hills at sic a biddin:
Fu' little value I, or mine,
Ten score o' Kennedys and swine;
Had wither'd Kerse a limb to wag—
But let the bauld Barganey brag.—
The Kennedys wi' a their power,
Frae Cassillis to Ardstinchar Tower,
May rise and flock like screechin craws,
Frae heights and hows, frae hames and ha's,
And hither come wi' blawin crack,
They'll bear anither story back.
Kerse is, alas! nae mair the man
That in the onset led the van,
But he has sons to shield his name,
Heirs o' his valour and his fame,
And if on Lammas-day they fail,
Curse him wha lives to tell the tale.
Let your proud Baron croosely craw
On his ain midden, days but twa,
But on the third, by this grey head,
He'll aiblins thank his geldin's speed.
This, in defiance, Crawford says—
Gi'e the chield room, lads—slip your ways.”
For toolyies tough in days o' auld,
A lion in the battle fray,
In deadly feud, a deadly fae.
164
He mirthfu' cheer'd the festive board
Wi' merry tale and hamely jest,
Or whiles he rear'd his warlike crest
As if prepar'd the brunt to meet,
And then recounted mony a feat
O' apen strife and artfu' wile;
Thus wad he listless hours beguile—
While a' around, his sinewy race,
Gaz'd, dumb wi' rapture, in his face.
Crack follow'd crack, the cap gaed roun,
That mony a cankerin thought cou'd drown,
Whan sudden at the yett a guest
Admittance claim'd—Quoth Kerse, “the best
Our almorie can yield bring ben,
I trow there's walth, gin he were ten,—
Shew in the stranger”—fair and free
In strode young Gilbert Kennedy.
“Kerse (said the youth), when feuds are sworn,
It matters nought how slight the thorn
That poisonous rankles in our side;
I bring defiance to your pride.—
The bauld Barganey bids me say,
Whan mornin breaks on Lammas-day,
A Sow upon your land I'll tether;
Like midges let the Crawfords gather,
Some teeth in angry fit may chitter,
But deil a man o' Kyle shall flit her.”
165
“My merry man—and come ye here
To jeer me at my ain fire-side?—
Gae hame, for ance, in a hail hide.
Time was, that Kerse wad blithe ha' ridden
Out oure yon hills at sic a biddin:
Fu' little value I, or mine,
Ten score o' Kennedys and swine;
Had wither'd Kerse a limb to wag—
But let the bauld Barganey brag.—
The Kennedys wi' a their power,
Frae Cassillis to Ardstinchar Tower,
May rise and flock like screechin craws,
Frae heights and hows, frae hames and ha's,
And hither come wi' blawin crack,
They'll bear anither story back.
Kerse is, alas! nae mair the man
That in the onset led the van,
But he has sons to shield his name,
Heirs o' his valour and his fame,
And if on Lammas-day they fail,
Curse him wha lives to tell the tale.
Let your proud Baron croosely craw
On his ain midden, days but twa,
But on the third, by this grey head,
He'll aiblins thank his geldin's speed.
This, in defiance, Crawford says—
Gi'e the chield room, lads—slip your ways.”
166
'Twas Lammas-morn, on Skeldon Haughs
The glintin sun had ting'd the saughs,
Frae Girvan banks and Carrick side
Down pour'd the Kennedys in pride.
And frae Kyle-Stewart and King's-Kyle
The Crawfords march'd in rank and file,
(If our fore-fathers own'd, of yore,
Sic term o' military lore).
Let them march on—a Rhymer I
Shall hae nae finger in the pye,
It's time enough for us to glowr
On battle-fields when a' is oure,
And draw our sketches o' ilk action,
Safe amang heaps o' putrifaction.
But troth a' battles are alike;
Some chields are stricken and some strike,
Weapons are sharp, and hides are tender,
And some maun fa', or else surrender;
Troops charge on troops, and slay and slash,
And sooghin bullets smite and smash;
Nae time, I trou, to shilly-shally,
Aff gaes the tae side, then they rally,
And on again, in mad delusion,
While heads and legs flee in confusion;
Some turn their backs and skelp awa',
And they that follow cry huzza:
Half o' the hale dung aff their feet,
Then is a Victory complete.
The glintin sun had ting'd the saughs,
Frae Girvan banks and Carrick side
Down pour'd the Kennedys in pride.
And frae Kyle-Stewart and King's-Kyle
The Crawfords march'd in rank and file,
(If our fore-fathers own'd, of yore,
Sic term o' military lore).
Let them march on—a Rhymer I
Shall hae nae finger in the pye,
It's time enough for us to glowr
On battle-fields when a' is oure,
And draw our sketches o' ilk action,
Safe amang heaps o' putrifaction.
But troth a' battles are alike;
Some chields are stricken and some strike,
Weapons are sharp, and hides are tender,
And some maun fa', or else surrender;
Troops charge on troops, and slay and slash,
And sooghin bullets smite and smash;
Nae time, I trou, to shilly-shally,
Aff gaes the tae side, then they rally,
And on again, in mad delusion,
While heads and legs flee in confusion;
Some turn their backs and skelp awa',
And they that follow cry huzza:
Half o' the hale dung aff their feet,
Then is a Victory complete.
167
Crawford o' Kerse sat at his yett,
Mournin a dowie carle's fate,
That he, when stalwart bands were gane,
Fourscore, maun hurkle there his lane:
He gazed as lang as darklin sight
Could trace their march oure ilka height;
“And now,” thought he, “they're bye Drumloch,
And bye the Kraigans and the Trough,
And bye the Know and Bright-burn birk,
And down upon Dalrymple Kirk—
And now stark Esplin rushes on—
Had ever man a braver son?
Come on ye Kennedys, come now!
Fight on my sons! the loons shall rue
The day they trod on Kerse's land:
Now is the pingle, hand to hand,
Esplin stand till't, nor flinch nor bend,
Forward, ye Crawfords, wi' a stend,
The bloody toolyie settle soon,
And drive the reiffars oure the Doon!”
'Twas fancy a', his aged trunk
Worn and fatigued supinely sunk;
On wayward chance he ponder'd deep,
And sorrow felt, but scorn'd to weep,
Then roused again; again the fight
Flitted before his dazzl'd sight.
His anxious ee, but firm and fierce,
Wander'd bewast the Loch o' Kerse,
Watchin some messenger o' speed,
Tidings to bear in time o' need:
Whan lightsome Will o' Ashyntree
Cam breathless pechin oure the lee.
Lang, lang or he cou'd parley hear,
The auld man cried, fu' loud and clear,
“Is the Sow flitted? tell me loon,
Is auld Kyle up and Carrick down?”
Mingl'd wi' sobs, his broken tale
The youth began.—“Ah! Kerse, bewail
This luckless day—your blithe son John
Now, waes my heart, lies on the loan;
And he could sing like ony merle”—
“Is the Sow flitted?” cried the carle,
“Gie me my answer, short and plain,
Is the Sow flitted? yammerin wean.”
“The Sow, deil tak her, 's oure the water,
And at their backs the Crawfords batter;
The Carrick cowts are cow'd and bitted”—
“My thumb for Jock! the Sow is flitted.”
Mournin a dowie carle's fate,
That he, when stalwart bands were gane,
Fourscore, maun hurkle there his lane:
He gazed as lang as darklin sight
Could trace their march oure ilka height;
“And now,” thought he, “they're bye Drumloch,
And bye the Kraigans and the Trough,
And bye the Know and Bright-burn birk,
And down upon Dalrymple Kirk—
And now stark Esplin rushes on—
Had ever man a braver son?
Come on ye Kennedys, come now!
Fight on my sons! the loons shall rue
The day they trod on Kerse's land:
Now is the pingle, hand to hand,
Esplin stand till't, nor flinch nor bend,
Forward, ye Crawfords, wi' a stend,
The bloody toolyie settle soon,
And drive the reiffars oure the Doon!”
'Twas fancy a', his aged trunk
Worn and fatigued supinely sunk;
On wayward chance he ponder'd deep,
And sorrow felt, but scorn'd to weep,
Then roused again; again the fight
Flitted before his dazzl'd sight.
His anxious ee, but firm and fierce,
Wander'd bewast the Loch o' Kerse,
168
Tidings to bear in time o' need:
Whan lightsome Will o' Ashyntree
Cam breathless pechin oure the lee.
Lang, lang or he cou'd parley hear,
The auld man cried, fu' loud and clear,
“Is the Sow flitted? tell me loon,
Is auld Kyle up and Carrick down?”
Mingl'd wi' sobs, his broken tale
The youth began.—“Ah! Kerse, bewail
This luckless day—your blithe son John
Now, waes my heart, lies on the loan;
And he could sing like ony merle”—
“Is the Sow flitted?” cried the carle,
“Gie me my answer, short and plain,
Is the Sow flitted? yammerin wean.”
“The Sow, deil tak her, 's oure the water,
And at their backs the Crawfords batter;
The Carrick cowts are cow'd and bitted”—
“My thumb for Jock! the Sow is flitted.”
171
ELEGAIC ODE
TO THE MEMORY OF DR. WILLIAM HARVEY, Discoverer of the Circulation of the Blood.
I.
Strike, strike the Harp, strike loud and long,Thine, God of Pindus, thine the theme;
So may thy warm life-giving beam
Fire our rapt spirits while we swell the song.
172
Rule light and harmony and healing skill;
And all thy three-fold influence be ours,
Shining propitious from thy sacred hill.
For thrice we honour thee,
While bosoms glow,
And goblets flow,
In honour of thy votary.
II.
Hail to immortal Harvey, hail!Thine inspiration breathed upon his soul,
And to his ken the hidden truth unfurled;
173
As from the eastern to the western flood,
Thy course revolving animates the world;
So circling moves the current of the blood.
Hail! to thy favoured son, let pæans ring,
Hail! to his deathless name, whose fervid mind
Flash'd light to teach, to heal, to bless mankind.
Hail! to immortal Harvey.
And while our bosoms throb, our pulses beat,
While the red current, charged with vital heat,
Plays in meand'ring streams,
Still higher shall we raise the strain,
Till heaven's high vault returns again
The soul-expanding theme—
Hail! to immortal Harvey raise the song,
Hail! to immortal Harvey, hail!
174
SONG.
For the Harveian Anniversary, 1816.
I
What! bid a man sing,In so dreadful a ring,
'Midst priests, for the sacrifice seated;
Æneas, they tell,
Promenaded to Hell,
But his courage would here be defeated.
II
In awe most profound,My eye wanders round,
And phantoms rise glaring to fancy,
Fear's mystical power
Conjures up at this hour
Lights would stun even stark Necromancy.
175
III
It on Wood I but think,From deal-coffin I shrink;
If on Bell, I hear a bell tolling;
For nothing can save
From that dead Home, the grave,
Tho' Hope, smiling Hope, sits cajoling.
IV
If murder and deathChill our blood in Macbeth,
Talk of Duncan, we hear ravens croaking;
But the Duncan that's here
Is th' assassin, I fear,
Who kills us, remorseless, with joking.
V
Old Duncan, they say,Can the merry fool play,
When seated amongst honest fellows.
Now Doctor of Mirth,
To fresh jokes he'll give birth,
And blow up the Fun with his Bellows.
176
VI
One Barclay, they quote,Who on Quakery wrote;
But our friend's of another persuasion.
The pleas'd Undertaker
Says John is no Quaker,
Though Patients perhaps have occasion.
VIII
The vile small-pox BryceCan trim in a trice,
And Cow him, with prompt Vaccination,
The Whig taste he hit,
For you'll scarce find a Pitt
On the purified face of creation.
XI
In the doctoring art,He who first took the start,
Named Phœbus, or rather Apollo,
In his chariot gay,
Rides about all the day,
An example which some Doctors follow.
177
XII
Not content with his skill,In the Bolus and Pill,
He patronis'd idle Musicians;
So the Fiddle and Flute,
By prescription must suit
With the practice of learned Physicians.
XIV
By Helicon's stream,If the Poets could dream,
'Twas Wine and not Water was flowing;
And a fork'd Hill we know
The God chose, just to show,
That a fork with the knife should be going.
XV
Like Leeches you bleed,And like locusts you feed;
Ah! pardon a Poet's presumption,
But Oman dismay'd,
O'er his joints quite decayed,
Cries,—See, what a rapid Consumption!
178
XVI
Since you smile, then a figFor each ominous Wig,
And adieu to absurd trepidation;
Let the wine, if 'tis good,
Take the course of our blood,
And flow round in blythe Circulation.
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |