Poems and Songs Read Online

Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country-dialect, we call a wecht; and go thro' all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass thro' the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.

13 Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time, you will catch in your arms, the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.

14 You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south-running spring or rivulet, where »three Lairds« lands meet,' and dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Ly awake; and sometime near midnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.

15 Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty: blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of Matrimony, a Maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times; and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.

16 Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper.

[The Mauchline Wedding]

1

When Eighty-five was seven month auld,

And wearing thro' the aught,

When rotting rains and Boreas bauld

Gied farmer-folks a faught;

Ae morning quondam Mason Will,

Now Merchant Master Miller,

Gaed down to meet wi' Nansie Bell

And her Jamaica siller,

To wed, that day. –

2

The rising sun o'er Blacksideen1

Was just appearing fairly,

When Nell and Bess2 get up to dress

Seven lang half-hours o'er early!

Now presses clink and drawers jink,

For linnens and for laces;

But modest Muses only think

What ladies' under dress is,

On sic a day. –

3

But we'll suppose the stays are lac'd,

And bony bosom steekit;

Tho', thro' the lawn-but guess the rest –

An Angel scarce durst keekit:

Then stockins fine, o' silken twine,

Wi' cannie care are drawn up;

And gartened tight, whare mortal wight –

But now the gown wi' rustling sound,

Its silken3 pomp displays;

Sure there's no sin in being vain

O' siccan bony claes!

Sae jimp the waist, the tail sae vast –

Trouth, they were bony Birdies!

O Mither Eve, ye wad been grave

To see their ample hurdies

Sae large that day!!!

Then Sandy4 wi's red jacket bra'

Comes, whip-jee-whoa! about,

And in he gets the bony twa –

Lord send them safely out!

And auld John5 Trot wi' sober phiz

As braid and bra's a Bailie,

His shouthers and his Sunday's giz

Wi' powther and wi' ulzie

Weel smear'd that day –

1 a hill –

2 Miller's two sisters –

3 The ladies' first silk gowns, got for the occasion

4 Driver of the post chaise

5 M–'s father –

The Auld Farmer's New-year-morning Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie, on giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New-year

A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie!

Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:

Tho' thou's howe-backet, now, an' knaggie,

I've seen the day,

Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie

Out-owre the lay.

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff an' crazy,

An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,

I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,

A bonie gray:

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,

Ance in a day.

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,

A filly buirdly, steeve an' swank,

An' set weel down a shapely shank,

As e'er tread yird;

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank,

Like onie bird.

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,

Sin' thou was my Guidfather's Meere;

He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,

An' fifty mark;

Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,

An' thou was stark.

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,

Ye then was trottan wi' your Minnie:

Tho' ye was trickie, slee an' funnie,

Ye ne'er was donsie;

But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie,

An' unco sonsie.

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,

When ye bure hame my bonie Bride:

An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride

Wi' maiden air!

KYLE-STEWART I could bragged wide,

For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,

An' wintle like a saumont-coble,

That day, ye was a jinker noble,

For heels an' win'!

An' ran them till they a' did wauble,

Far, far behin'!

When thou an' I were young an' skiegh,

An' Stable-meals at Fairs were driegh,

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' scriegh,

An' tak the road!

Towns-bodies ran, an' stood abiegh,

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,

We took the road ay like a Swallow:

At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,

For pith an' speed;

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,

Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,

Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;

But sax Scotch mile, thou try't their mettle,

An' gart them whaizle:

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

O' saugh or hazle.

Thou was a noble Fittie-lan',

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,

On guid March-weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

Thou never braing't, an' fetch't, an' flisket,

But thy auld tail thou wad hae whisket,

An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,

Wi' pith an' pow'r,

Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an' risket,

An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep,

An' threaten'd labor back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or Simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestet;

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;

Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastet,

Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastet,

Thou snoov't awa.

My Pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';

Four gallant brutes, as e'er did draw;

Forby sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,

The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,

An' wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' monie an anxious day, I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy Age we're brought,

Wi' something yet.

An' think na, my auld, trusty Servan',

That now perhaps thou's less deservin,

An' thy auld days may end in starvin',

For my last fow,

A heapet Stimpart, I'll reserve ane

Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;

We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;

Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,

To some hain'd rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue.

Address to the Deil

O Prince, O chief of many throned pow'rs,

That led th' embattl'd Seraphim to war –

Milton

.

O thou, whatever title suit thee!

Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,

Wha in yon cavern grim an' sooty

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,

An' let poor, damned bodies bee;

I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,

An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;

Far ken'd, an' noted is thy name;

An' tho' yon lowan heugh's thy hame,

Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,

For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;

Whyles, on the strong-wing'd Tempest flyin,

Tirlan the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my rev'rend Graunie say,

In lanely glens ye like to stray;

Or where auld, ruin'd castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon,

To say her pray'rs, douse, honest woman,

Aft 'yont the dyke she's heard you bumman,

Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustling, thro' the boortries coman,

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

The stars shot down wi' sklentan light,

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

Wi' waving sugh:

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick, quaick,

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd Hags,

Tell, how wi' you, on ragweed nags,

They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,

Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,

Owre howcket dead.

Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,

May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;

For Och! the yellow treasure's taen,

By witching skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gane

As yell's the Bill.

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,

On Young-Guidmen, fond, keen an' croose;

When the best warklum i' the house,

By cantraip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,

An' float the jinglan icy boord,

Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd

To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies

Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:

The bleezan, curst, mischievous monkies

Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

Ne'er mair to rise.

When MASONS' mystic word an' grip,

In storms an' tempests raise you up,

Some cock, or cat, your rage maun stop,

Or, strange to tell!

The youngest Brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to H–ll.

Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard,

When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,

An' all the Soul of Love they shar'd,

The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,

In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!

Ye cam to Paradise incog,

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,

Wi' reeket duds, an' reestet gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,

An' brak him out o' house an' hal',

While scabs an' botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,

Sin' that day 1MICHAEL did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In Prose or Rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkan,

A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkan,

To your black pit;

But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkan,

An' cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!

Ye aiblins might – I dinna ken –

Still hae a stake –

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake.

1 Vide Milton, Book 6th

Scotch Drink

Gie him strong Drink until he wink,

That's sinking in despair;

An' liquor guid, to fire his bluid,

That's prest wi' grief an' care:

There let him bowse an' deep carouse,

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,

An' minds his griefs no more.

Solomon's Proverbs,

Ch. 31st V. 6, 7.

Let other Poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' druken Bacchus,

An' crabbed names an' stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug,

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,

In glass or jug.

O thou, my MUSE! guid, auld SCOTCH DRINK!

Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,

Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn,

And Aits set up their awnie horn,

An' Pease an' Beans, at een or morn,

Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee John Barleycorn,

Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,

In souple scones, the wale o' food!

Or tumbling in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin:

Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,

When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;

But oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,

Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;

Thou chears the heart o' drooping Care;

Thou strings the nerves o' Labor-sair,

At's weary toil;

Thou ev'n brightens dark Despair,

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed,

Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head;

Yet, humbly kind, in time o' need,

The poorman's wine,

His wee drap pirratch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs an' rants?

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspir'd,

When gaping they besiege the tents,

Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in,

O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in!

Or reekan on a New-year-mornin

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,

An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellys breath,

An' Ploughmen gather wi' their graith,

O rare! to see thee fizz an' fraeth

I' the lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like Death,

At ev'ry chap.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;

The brawnie, banie, Ploughman-chiel

Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,

The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin weanies see the light,

Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,

How fumbling coofs their dearies slight,

Wae worth the name!

Nae Howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,

An' just as wud as wud can be,

How easy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel!

It's ay the cheapest Lawyer's fee

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason

To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!

But mony daily weet their weason

Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter season,

E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that Brandy, burnan trash!

Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!

Twins mony a poor, doylt, druken hash

O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash

To her warst faes.

Ye Scots wha wish auld Scotland well,

Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,

Poor, plackless devils like mysel,

It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May Gravels round his blather wrench,

An' Gouts torment him, inch by inch,

Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch

O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' Whisky-punch

Wi' honest men!

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks!

Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!

When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks

Are my poor Verses!

Thou comes – they rattle i' their ranks

At ither's arses!

Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!

Scotland lament frae coast to coast!

Now colic-grips, an' barkin hoast,

May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' Charter'd boast

Is taen awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,

Wha mak the Whisky stills their prize!

Haud up thy han' Deil! ance, twice, thrice!

There, sieze the blinkers!

An' bake them up in brunstane pies

For poor damn'd Drinkers.

Fortune, if thou 'll but gie me still

Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill,

An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,

Tak a' the rest,

An' deal 't about as thy blind skill

Directs thee best.

Brose and Butter

Jenny sits up i' the laft,

Jockie wad fain a been at her;

But there cam a wind out o' the west

Made a' the winnocks to clatter.

O gie my love brose, lasses;

O gie my love brose and butter;

For nane in Carrick wi' him

Can gie a c–t its supper.

The laverock lo'es the grass,

The paetrick lo'es the stibble:

And hey, for the gardiner lad,

To gully awa wi' his dibble!

O gie, &c.

My daddie sent me to the hill

To pu' my minnie some heather;

An' drive it in your fill,

Ye're welcome to the leather.

O gie, &c.

The Mouse is a merry wee beast,

The Moudiewart wants the een;

And O' for a touch o' the thing

I had in my nieve yestreen.

O gie, &c.

We a' were fou yestreen,

The night shall be its brither;

And hey, for a roaring pin

To nail twa wames thegither!

O gie, &c.

To J. S****

Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!

Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society!

I owe thee much –

Blair.

Dear S****, the sleest, pawkie thief,

That e'er attempted stealth or rief,

Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon,

And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,

Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon

Just gaun to see you;

And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair taen I'm wi' you.

That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,

To mak amends for scrimpet stature,

She's turn'd you off, a human-creature

On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,

She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme,

My barmie noddle's working prime,

My fancy yerket up sublime

Wi' hasty summon:

Hae ye a leisure-moment's time

To hear what's comin?

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash;

Some rhyme, (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;

Some rhyme to court the countra clash,

An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;

I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,

Has fated me the russet coat,

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

But, in requit,

Has blest me with a random-shot

O' countra wit.

This while my notion's taen a sklent,

To try my fate in guid, black prent;

But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries, »Hoolie!

I red you, honest man, tak tent!

Ye'll shaw your folly.

There's ither Poets, much your betters,

Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,

Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,

A' future ages;

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters,

Their unknown pages.«

Then farewel hopes of Laurel-boughs,

To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth, I'll rove where busy ploughs

Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My rustic sang.

I'll wander on with tentless heed,

How never-halting moments speed,

Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;

Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,

Forgot and gone!

But why, o' Death, begin a tale?

Just now we're living sound an' hale;

Then top and maintop croud the sail,

Heave Care o'er-side!

And large, before Enjoyment's gale,

Let's tak the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,

Is a' enchanted fairy-land,

Where Pleasure is the Magic-wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks Hours like Minutes, hand in hand,

Dance by fu' light.

The magic-wand then let us wield;

For, ance that five an' forty's speel'd,

See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostan, hirplan owre the field,

Wi' creeping pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,

Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;

An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foamin,

An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear, deluding woman,

The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,

Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!

Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,

We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,

To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,

We eye the rose upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Among the leaves;

And tho' the puny wound appear,

Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,

For which they never toil'd nor swat;

They drink the sweet and eat the fat,

But care or pain;

And haply, eye the barren hut,

With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;

Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;

Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,

And sieze the prey:

Then canie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan',

Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin;

To right or left, eternal swervin,

They zig-zag on;

Till curst with Age, obscure an' starvin,

They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining –

But truce with peevish, poor complaining!

Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,

Let's sing our Sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, ye Pow'rs, and warm implore,

»Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Ay rowth o« rhymes.

Gie dreeping roasts to countra Lairds,

Till icicles hing frae their beards;

Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards,

And Maids of Honor;

And yill an' whisky gie to Cairds,

Until they sconner.

A Title, DEMPSTER merits it;

A Garter gie to WILLIE PIT;

Gie Wealth to some be-ledger'd Cit,

In cent per cent;

But give me real, sterling Wit,

And I'm content.

While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,

I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,

Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,

Wi' chearfu' face,

As lang's the Muses dinna fail

To say the grace.«

An anxious e'e I never throws

Behint my lug, or by my nose;

I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows

As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,

I rhyme away.

O ye, douse folk, that live by rule,

Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,

Compar'd wi' you – O fool! fool! fool!

How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,

Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hare-brain'd, sentimental traces,

In your unletter'd, nameless faces!

In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,

The rattling squad:

I see ye upward cast your eyes –

– Ye ken the road –

Whilst I – but I shall haud me there –

Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where –

Then Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content with YOU to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang.

The rantin dog the Daddie o't

O Wha my babie-clouts will buy,

O Wha will tent me when I cry;

Wha will kiss me where I lie,

The rantin dog the daddie o't.

O Wha will own he did the faut,

O Wha will buy the groanin maut,

O Wha will tell me how to ca't,

The rantin dog the daddie o't.

When I mount the Creepie-chair,

Wha will sit beside me there,

Gie me Rob, I'll seek nae mair,

The rantin dog the Daddie o't.

Wha will crack to me my lane;

Wha will mak me fidgin fain;

Wha will kiss me o'er again,

The rantin dog the Daddie o't.

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer1, to the Right Honorable and Honorable, the Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons

Dearest of Distillation! last and best! –

– How art thou lost! –

Parody on Milton.

Ye IRISH LORDS, ye knights an' squires,

Wha represent our BRUGHS an' SHIRES,

An' dousely manage our affairs

In Parliament,

To you a simple Bardie's pray'rs

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is haerse!

Your Honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,

To see her sittan on her arse

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechan out prosaic verse,

An' like to brust!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,

Scotland and me's in great affliction,

E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction

On AQUAVITÆ;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move their pity.

Stand forth and tell yon PREMIER YOUTH

The honest, open, naked truth;

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,

His servants humble:

The muckle devil blaw you south,

If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?

Speak out an' never fash your thumb!

Let posts an' pensions sink or swoom

Wi' them wha grant them:

If honestly they canna come,

Far better want them.

In gath'rin votes ye were na slack,

Now stand as tightly by your tack:

Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back,

An' hum an' haw,

But raise your arm, an' tell your crack

Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greetan owre her thrissle;

Her mutchkin stowp as toom's a whissle;

An' damn'd Excise-men in a bussle,

Seizan a Stell,

Triumphant crushan 't like a muscle

Or laimpet shell.

Then on the tither hand present her,

A blackguard Smuggler, right behint her,

An', cheek – for – chow, a chuffie Vintner,

Colleaguing join, –

Picking her pouch as bare as Winter,

Of a' kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' SCOT,

But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,

To see his poor, auld Mither's pot,

Thus dung in staves;

An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat,

By gallows knaves?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,

Trode i' the mire out o' sight!

But could I like MONTGOMERIES fight,

Or gab like BOSWEL,

There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,

An' tye some hose well.

God bless your Honors, can ye see 't,

The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet,

An' no get warmly to your feet,

An' gar them hear it,

An' tell them, wi' a patriot-heat,

Ye winna bear it?

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,

To round the period an' pause,

An' with rhetoric clause on clause

To mak harangues;

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's

Auld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true-blue Scot I'se warran;

Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;

An' that glib-gabbet Highlan Baron,

The Laird o' Graham;

And ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran,

Dundass his name.

Erskine, a spunkie norland billie;

True Campbels, Frederic an' Ilay;

An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;

An' mony ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully

Might own for brithers.

Arouse my boys! exert your mettle,

To get auld Scotland back her kettle!

Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,

Ye'll see't or lang,

She'll teach you, wi' a reekan whittle,

Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankous mood,

Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;

(Deil na they never mair do guid,

Play'd her that pliskie!)

An' now she's like to rin red-wud

About her Whisky.

An' L–d! If ance they pit her till 't,

Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt

An' durk an' pistol at her belt,

She'll tak the streets,

An' rin her whittle to the hilt,

I' th' first she meets!

For G–d-sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,

An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,

An' to the muckle house repair,

Wi' instant speed,

An' strive, wi' a' your Wit an' Lear,

To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,

May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks;

But gie him 't het, my hearty cocks!

E'en cowe the cadie!

An' send him to his dicing box,

An' sportin lady.

Tell yon guid bluid of auld Boconnock's,

I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,

An' drink his health in auld 2Nanse Tinnock's

Nine times a week,

If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,

Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,

I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,

He need na fear their foul reproach

Nor erudition,

Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,

The Coalition.

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;

She's just a devil wi' a rung;

An' if she promise auld or young

To tak their part,

Tho' by the neck she should be strung,

She'll no desert.

And now, ye chosen FIVE AND FORTY,

May still your Mither's heart support ye;

Then tho' a Minister grow dorty,

An' kick your place,

Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,

Before his face.

God bless your Honors, a' your days,

Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise,

In spite of a' the thievish kaes

That haunt St. Jamie's!

Your humble Bardie sings an' prays

While Rab his name is.

Postscript

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies,

See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;

Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,

But blyth an' frisky,

She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,

Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their Phebus kinder warms,

While Fragrance blooms and Beauty charms!

When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,

The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonor arms,

In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their shouther;

They downa bide the stink o' powther;

Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither,

To stan' or rin,

Till skelp-a shot – they're aff, a' throu'ther,

To save their skin.

But bring a SCOTCHMAN frae his hill,

Clap in his cheek a highlan gill,

Say, such is royal GEORGE'S will,

An' there's the foe,

He has nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;

Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him;

Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him;

An' when he fa's,

His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him

In faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek,

An' raise a philosophic reek,

An' physically causes seek,

In clime an' season,

But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,

I'll tell the reason.

SCOTLAND, my auld, respected Mither!

Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather,

Till when ye speak, ye aiblins blether;

Yet deil-mak-matter!

FREEDOM and WHISKY gang thegither,

Tak aff your whitter.

1 This was wrote before the Act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks.

2 A worthy old Hostess of the Author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies Politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink.

Sketch

Hail, Poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd

Frae Common Sense, or sunk ennerv'd

'Mang heaps o' clavers;

And Och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd

'Mid a' thy favors!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,

While loud the trumps heroic clang,

And Sock and buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;

Scarce ane has tried the Shepherd-sang

But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;

Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives;

Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives

Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives

E'en Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?

They're no' Herd's ballats, Maro's catches;

Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches

O' Heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,

That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair

Blaw sweetly in his native air

And rural grace;

And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share

A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scotish callan!

There's ane: come forrit, honest Allan!

Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,

A chiel sae clever;

The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan,

But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines,

In thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines

Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,

Her griefs will tell!

Thy rural loves are Nature's sel';

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;

Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell

O' witchin' loove,

That charm that can the strongest quell,

The sternest move.

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,

Where bonie lasses bleach their claes;

Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes

Wi' hawthorns gray,

Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays

At close o' day.

To a Louse, On Seeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlan ferlie!

Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gawze and lace;

Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely,

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepan, blastet wonner,

Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner,

How daur ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a Lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,

On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;

There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle,

Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle,

Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,

Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight,

Na faith ye yet! ye 'll no be right,

Till ye 've got on it,

The vera tapmost, towrin height

O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump an' gray as onie grozet:

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surpriz'd to spy

You on an auld wife's flainen toy;

Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On 's wylecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi, fye!

How daur ye do't?

O Jenny dinna toss your head,

An' set your beauties a' abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin!

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as others see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us

An' foolish notion:

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,

And ev'n Devotion!

Love and Liberty – A Cantata

Recitativo –

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,

Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird1,

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;

When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,

And infant Frosts begin to bite,

In hoary cranreuch drest;

Ae night at e'en a merry core

O' randie, gangrel bodies,

In Poosie-Nansie's2 held the splore,

To drink their orra dudies:

Wi' quaffing, and laughing,

They ranted an' they sang;

Wi' jumping, an' thumping,

The vera girdle rang.

First, niest the fire, in auld, red rags,

Ane sat; weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,

And knapsack a' in order;

His doxy lay within his arm;

Wi' USQUEBAE an' blankets warm,

She blinket on her Sodger:

An' ay he gies the tozie drab

The tither skelpan kiss,

While she held up her greedy gab,

Just like an aumous dish:

Ilk smack still, did crack still,

Just like a cadger's whip;

Then staggering, an' swaggering,

He roar'd this ditty up –

Air. Tune, Soldier's joy

I am a Son of Mars who have been in many wars,

And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;

This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,

When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.

Lal de daudle &c.

My Prenticeship I past where my LEADER breath'd his last,

When the bloody die was cast on the heights of ABRAM;

And I served out my TRADE when the gallant game was play'd,

And the MORO low was laid at the sound of the drum.

I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt'ries,

And there I left for witness, an arm and a limb;

Yet let my Country need me, with ELLIOT to head me,

I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.

And now tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,

And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum,

I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my Callet,

As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum.

What tho', with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,

Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home,

When the tother bag I sell and the tother bottle tell,

I could meet a troop of HELL at the sound of a drum.

Recitativo –

He ended; and the kebars sheuk,

A boon the chorus roar;

While frighted rattons backward leuk,

An' seek the benmost bore:

A fairy FIDDLER frae the neuk,

He skirl'd out, ENCORE.

But up arose the martial CHUCK,

An' laid the loud uproar –

Air. Tune, Sodger laddie

I Once was a Maid, tho' I cannot tell when,

And still my delight is in proper young men:

Some one of a troop of DRAGOONS was my dadie,

No wonder I'm fond of a SODGER LADDIE.

Sing lal de dal &c.

The first of my LOVES was a swaggering blade,

To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;

His leg was so tight and his cheek was so ruddy,

Transported I was with my SODGER LADDIE.

But the godly old Chaplain left him in the lurch,

The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;

He ventur'd the SOUL, and I risked the BODY,

'Twas then I prov'd false to my SODGER LADDIE.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified Sot,

The Regiment AT LARGE for a HUSBAND I got;

From the gilded SPONTOON to the FIFE I was ready;

I asked no more but a SODGER LADDIE.

But the PEACE it reduc'd me to beg in despair,

Till I met my old boy in a CUNNINGHAM fair;

His RAGS REGIMENTAL they flutter'd so gaudy,

My heart it rejoic'd at a SODGER LADDIE.

And now I have lived – I know not how long,

And still I can join in a cup and a song;

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,

Here's to thee, MY HERO, MY SODGER LADDIE.

Recitative

Poor Merry-andrew, in the/a neuk,

Sat guzzling wi' a Tinkler-hizzie;

They mind't na wha the chorus teuk,

Between themsels they were sae busy:

At length wi' drink an' courting dizzy,

He stoiter'd up an' made a face,

Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzie,

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace.

Air. Tune, Auld Sir Symon.

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou;

Sir Knave is a fool in a Session,

He's there but a prentice, I trow,

But I am a fool by profession.

My Grannie she bought me a beuk,

An' I held awa to the school;

I fear I my talent misteuk,

But what will ye hae of a fool.

For drink I would venture my neck;

A hizzie 's the half of my Craft:

But what could ye other expect

Of ane that's avowedly daft.

I, ance, was ty'd up like a stirk,

For civilly swearing and quaffing;

I, ance, was abus'd i' the kirk,

For towsing a lass i' my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,

Let nae body name wi' a jeer;

There 's even, I'm tauld, i' the Court

A Tumbler ca'd the Premier.

Observ'd ye yon reverend lad

Mak faces to tickle the Mob;

He rails at our mountebank squad,

Its rivalship just i' the job.

And now my conclusion I'll tell,

For faith I'm confoundedly dry:

The chiel that's a fool for himsel,

Guid L–d, he 's far dafter than I.

Recitativo –

Then niest outspak a raucle Carlin,

Wha ken't fu' weel to cleek the Sterlin;

For mony a pursie she had hooked,

An' had in mony a well been douked:

Her LOVE had been a HIGHLAND LADDIE,

But weary fa' the waefu' woodie!

Wi' sighs an' sobs she thus began

To wail her braw JOHN HIGHLANDMAN –

Air. Tune, O an' ye were dead Gudeman

A HIGHLAND lad my Love was born,

The lalland laws he held in scorn;

But he still was faithfu' to his clan,

My gallant, braw JOHN HIGHLANDMAN.

Chorus –

Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!

Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!

There's not a lad in a' the lan'

Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his Philibeg, an' tartan Plaid,

An' guid Claymore down by his side,

The ladies' hearts he did trepan,

My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Sing hey &c.

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,

An' liv'd like lords an' ladies gay:

For a lalland face he feared none,

My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Sing hey &c.

They banish'd him beyond the sea,

But ere the bud was on the tree,

Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,

Embracing my John Highlandman.

Sing hey &c.

But Och! they catch'd him at the last,

And bound him in a dungeon fast,

My curse upon them every one,

They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman.

Sing hey &c.

And now a Widow I must mourn

The Pleasures that will ne'er return;

No comfort but a hearty can,

When I think on John Highlandman.

Sing hey &c.

Recitativo –

A pigmy Scraper wi' his Fiddle,

Wha us'd to trystes an' fairs to driddle,

Her strappan limb an' gausy middle,

(He reach'd nae higher)

Had hol'd his HEARTIE like a riddle,

An' blawn't on fire.

Wi' hand on hainch, and upward e'e,

He croon'd his gamut, ONE, TWO, THREE,

Then in an ARIOSO key,

The wee Apollo

Set off wi' ALLEGRETTO glee

His GIGA SOLO –

Air. Tune, Whistle owre the lave o't

Let me ryke up to dight that tear,

An' go wi' me an' be my DEAR;

An' then your every CARE an' FEAR

May whistle owre the lave o't.

Chorus –

I am a Fiddler to my trade,

An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd,

The sweetest still to WIFE or MAID,

Was whistle owre the lave o't.

At KIRNS an' WEDDINS we'se be there,

An' O sae nicely's we will fare!

We'll bowse about till Dadie CARE

Sing whistle owre the lave o't.

I am &c.

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke,

An' sun oursells about the dyke;

An' at our leisure when ye like

We'll whistle owre the lave o't.

I am &c.

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms,

An' while I kittle hair on thairms

HUNGER, CAULD, an' a' sic harms

May whistle owre the lave o't.

I am &c.

Recitativo –

Her charms had struck a sturdy CAIRD,

As weel as poor GUTSCRAPER;

He taks the Fiddler by the beard,

An' draws a roosty rapier –

He swoor by a' was swearing worth

To speet him like a Pliver,

Unless he would from that time forth

Relinquish her for ever:

Wi' ghastly e'e poor TWEEDLEDEE

Upon his hunkers bended,

An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,

An' so the quarrel ended;

But tho' his little heart did grieve,

When round the TINKLER prest her,

He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve

When thus the CAIRD address'd her –

Air. Tune, Clout the Caudron

My bonie lass I work in brass,

A TINKLER is my station;

I've travell'd round all Christian ground

In this my occupation;

I've ta'en the gold an' been enroll'd

In many a noble squadron;

But vain they search'd when off I march'd

To go an' clout the CAUDRON.

I've ta'en the gold &c.

Despise that SHRIMP, that withered IMP,

With a' his noise an' cap'rin;

An' take a share, with those that bear

The budget and the apron!

And by that STOWP! my faith an' houpe,

And by that dear KILBAIGIE3,

If e'er ye want, or meet with scant,

May I ne'er weet my CRAIGIE!

And by that Stowp, &c.

Recitativo –

The Caird prevail'd–th' unblushing fair

In his embraces sunk;

Partly wi' LOVE o'ercome sae sair,

An' partly she was drunk:

SIR VIOLINO with an air,

That show'd a man o' spunk,

Wish'd UNISON between the PAIR,

An' made the bottle clunk

To their health that night.

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,

That play'd a DAME a shavie –

The Fiddler RAK'D her, FORE AND AFT,

Behint the Chicken cavie:

Her lord, a wight of HOMER'S craft4,

Tho' limpan wi' the Spavie,

He hirpl'd up an' lap like daft,

An' shor'd them DAINTY DAVIE

O' boot that night.

He was a care-defying blade,

As ever BACCHUS listed!

Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,

His heart she ever miss'd it.

He had no WISH but – to be glad,

Nor WANT but – when he thristed;

He hated nought but – to be sad,

An' thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.

Air. Tune, For a' that an' a that

I am a BARD of no regard,

Wi' gentle folks an' a' that;

But HOMER LIKE the glowran byke,

Frae town to town I draw that.

Chorus –

For a' that an' a' that,

An' twice as muckle's a' that,

I've lost but ANE, I've TWA behin',

I've WIFE ENEUGH for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' STANK,

Castalia's burn an' a' that,

But there it streams an' richly reams,

My HELICON I ca' that.

For a' that &c.

Great love I bear to all the FAIR,

Their humble slave an' a' that;

But lordly WILL, I hold it still

A mortal sin to thraw that.

For a' that &c.

In raptures sweet this hour we meet,

Wi' mutual love an' a' that;

But for how lang the FLIE MAY STANG,

Let INCLINATION law that.

For a' that &c.

Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft,

They've ta'en me in, an' a' that,

But clear your decks an' here 's the SEX!

I like the jads for a' that.

For a' that an' a' that

An' twice as muckle's a' that,

My DEAREST BLUID to do them guid,

They're welcome till 't for a' that.

Recitativo –

So sung the BARD – and Nansie's waws

Shook with a thunder of applause

Re-echo'd from each mouth!

They toom'd their pocks, they pawn'd their duds,

They scarcely left to coor their fuds

To quench their lowan drouth:

Then owre again the jovial thrang

The Poet did request

To lowse his PACK an' wale a sang,

A BALLAD o' the best.

He, rising, rejoicing,

Between his TWA DEBORAHS,

Looks round him an' found them

Impatient for the Chorus.

Air. Tune, Jolly Mortals, fill your glasses

See the smoking bowl before us,

Mark our jovial, ragged ring!

Round and round take up the Chorus,

And in raptures let us sing –

Chorus –

A fig for those by law protected!

LIBERTY'S a glorious feast!

Courts for Cowards were erected,

Churches built to please the PRIEST.

What is TITLE, what is TREASURE,

What is REPUTATION'S care?

If we lead a life of pleasure,

'Tis no matter HOW or WHERE.

A fig, &c.

With the ready trick and fable

Round we wander all the day;

And at night, in barn or stable,

Hug our doxies on the hay.

A fig for &c.

Does the train-attended CARRIAGE

Thro' the country lighter rove?

Does the sober bed of MARRIAGE

Witness brighter scenes of love?

A fig for &c.

Life is all a VARIORUM,

We regard not how it goes;

Let them cant about DECORUM,

Who have character to lose.

A fig for &c.

Here's to BUDGETS, BAGS and WALLETS!

Here's to all the wandering train!

Here's our ragged BRATS and CALLETS!

One and all cry out, AMEN!

A fig for those by LAW protected,

LIBERTY'S a glorious feast!

COURTS for Cowards were erected,

CHURCHES built to please the Priest.

1 The old Scotch name for the Bat.

2 The Hostess of a noted Caravansary in M– , well known to and much frequented by the lowest orders of Travellers and Pilgrims.

3 A peculiar sort of Whiskie so called: a great favorite with Poosie Nansie's Clubs.

4 Homer is allowed to be the eldest Ballad singer on record.

The Ordination

For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'n –

To please the Mob they hide the little giv'n.

I

K********* Wabsters, fidge an' claw,

An' pour your creeshie nations;

An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,

Of a' denominations;

Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a',

An' there tak up your stations;

Then aff to B–gh–'s in a raw,

An' pour divine libations

For joy this day.

II

Curst Common-sense, that imp o' h–ll,

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder1;

But O******* aft made her yell,

An' R***** sair misca'd her:

This day M'******* taks the flail,

An' he's the boy will blaud her!

He'll clap a shangan on her tail,

An' set the bairns to daud her

Wi' dirt this day.

III

Mak haste an' turn king David owre,

An' lilt wi' holy clangor;

O' double verse come gie us four,

An' skirl up the Bangor:

This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,

For Heresy is in her pow'r,

And gloriously she'll whang her

Wi' pith this day.

IV

Come, let a proper text be read,

An' touch it aff wi' vigour,

How graceless Ham2 leugh at his Dad,

Which made Canaan a niger;

Or Phineas3 drove the murdering blade,

Wi' wh–re-abhorring rigour;

Or Zipporah4 the scauldin jad,

Was like a bluidy tiger

I' th' inn that day.

V

There, try his mettle on the creed,

And bind him down wi' caution,

That Stipend is a carnal weed

He takes but for the fashion;

And gie him o'er the flock, to feed,

And punish each transgression;

Especial, rams that cross the breed,

Gie them sufficient threshin,

Spare them nae day.

VI

Now auld K*********, cock thy tail,

An' toss thy horns fu' canty;

Nae mair thou 'lt rowte out-owre the dale,

Because thy pasture's scanty;

For lapfu's large o' gospel kail

Shall fill thy crib in plenty,

An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale,

No gi'en by way o' dainty

But ilka day.

VII

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep,

To think upon our Zion;

And hing our fiddles up to sleep,

Like baby-clouts a-dryin:

Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep,

And o'er the thairms be tryin;

Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep,

And a' like lamb-tails flyin

Fu' fast this day!

VIII

Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' airn,

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin,

As lately F–nw–ck, sair forfairn,

Has proven to its ruin:

Our Patron, honest man! Gl*******,

He saw mischief was brewin;

And like a godly, elect bairn,

He's wal'd us out a true ane,

And sound this day.

IX

Now R******** harangue nae mair,

But steek your gab for ever;

Or try the wicked town of A**,

For there they'll think you clever;

Or, nae reflection on your lear,

Ye may commence a Shaver;

Or to the N–th–rt–n repair,

And turn a Carpet-weaver

Aff-hand this day.

X

M***** and you were just a match,

We never had sic twa drones;

Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,

Just like a winkin baudrons:

And ay he catch'd the tither wretch,

To fry them in his caudrons;

But now his Honor maun detach,

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,

Fast, fast this day.

XI

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes

She's swingein thro' the city!

Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!

I vow it's unco pretty:

There, Learning, with his Greekish face,

Grunts out some Latin ditty;

And Common Sense is gaun, she says,

To mak to Jamie Beattie

Her plaint this day.

XII

But there's Morality himsel,

Embracing all opinions;

Hear, how he gies the tither yell,

Between his twa companions!

See, how she peels the skin an' fell,

As ane were peelin onions!

Now there, they're packed aff to h–ll,

And banish'd our dominions,

Henceforth this day.

XIII

O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!

Come bouse about the porter!

Morality's demure decoys

Shall here nae mair find quarter:

M'*******, R*****, are the boys

That Heresy can torture;

They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,

And cowe her measure shorter

By th' head some day.

XIV

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,

And here's, for a conclusion,

To ev'ry New-light5 mother's son,

From this time forth, Confusion:

If mair they deave us wi' their din,

Or Patronage intrusion,

We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin,

We'll rin them aff in fusion

Like oil, some day.

1 Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr L– to the Laigh Kirk.

2 Genesis, ch. ix. vers. 22.

3 Exodus, ch. iv. vers. 25.

4 Numbers, ch. XXV. vers. 8.

5 New-light is a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously.

The Inventory

To Mr Robt Aiken in Ayr, in answer to his mandate requiring an account of servants, carriages, carriage-horses, riding horses, wives, children, &c.

Sir, as your mandate did request,

I send you here a faithfu' list,

O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith,

To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

Imprimis then, for carriage cattle,

I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,

As ever drew afore a pettle.

My 1Lan' afore's a gude auld has been,

An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been.

My 2Lan' ahin's a weel gaun fillie,

That aft has borne me hame frae Killie3,

An' your auld burrough mony a time,

In days when riding was nae crime –

But ance whan in my wooing pride

I like a blockhead boost to ride,

The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,

(L–d pardon a' my sins an' that too!)

I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,

She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.

My 4Furr ahin 's a wordy beast,

As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. –

The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,

A d–n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie;

Foreby a Cowt, o' Cowt's the wale,

As ever ran afore a tail.

If he be spar'd to be a beast,

He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.