[Footnote 1: Willie is Nicol, Allan is
Masterton
the writing--
master.
master.
burns
O mount and go, &c.
John Anderson, My Jo
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent;
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
My Love, She's But A Lassie Yet
My love, she's but a lassie yet,
My love, she's but a lassie yet;
We'll let her stand a year or twa,
She'll no be half sae saucy yet;
I rue the day I sought her, O!
I rue the day I sought her, O!
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd,
But he may say he's bought her, O.
Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet,
Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet,
Gae seek for pleasure whare you will,
But here I never miss'd it yet,
We're a' dry wi' drinkin o't,
We're a' dry wi' drinkin o't;
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife;
He could na preach for thinkin o't.
Song--Tam Glen
My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len',
To anger them a' is a pity,
But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?
I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak a fen;
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I maunna marry Tam Glen!
There's Lowrie the Laird o' Dumeller--
"Gude day to you, brute! " he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o' his siller,
But when will he dance like Tam Glen!
My minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware o' young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me,
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen!
My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,
He'd gie me gude hunder marks ten;
But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen!
Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing,
My heart to my mou' gied a sten';
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written "Tam Glen"!
The last Halloween I was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken,
His likeness came up the house staukin,
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!
Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry;
I'll gie ye my bonie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.
Carle, An The King Come
Chorus. --Carle, an the King come,
Carle, an the King come,
Thou shalt dance and I will sing,
Carle, an the King come.
An somebody were come again,
Then somebody maun cross the main,
And every man shall hae his ain,
Carle, an the King come.
Carle, an the King come, &c.
I trow we swapped for the worse,
We gae the boot and better horse;
And that we'll tell them at the cross,
Carle, an the King come.
Carle, an the King come, &c.
Coggie, an the King come,
Coggie, an the King come,
I'se be fou, and thou'se be toom
Coggie, an the King come.
Coggie, an the King come, &c.
The Laddie's Dear Sel'
There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity
That he from our lassies should wander awa';
For he's bonie and braw, weel-favor'd witha',
An' his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.
His coat is the hue o' his bonnet sae blue,
His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw;
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae,
And his clear siller buckles, they dazzle us a'.
For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin;
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted an' braw;
But chiefly the siller that gars him gang till her,
The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'.
There's Meg wi' the mailen that fain wad a haen him,
And Susie, wha's daddie was laird o' the Ha';
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy,
--But the laddie's dear sel', he loes dearest of a'.
Whistle O'er The Lave O't
First when Maggie was my care,
Heav'n, I thought, was in her air,
Now we're married--speir nae mair,
But whistle o'er the lave o't!
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Sweet and harmless as a child--
Wiser men than me's beguil'd;
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love, and how we gree,
I care na by how few may see--
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
Wha I wish were maggot's meat,
Dish'd up in her winding-sheet,
I could write--but Meg maun see't--
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
My Eppie Adair
Chorus. --An' O my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie,
Wha wad na be happy wi' Eppie Adair?
By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair!
By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie, &c.
A' pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me,
If e'er I beguile ye, my Eppie Adair!
A' pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me,
If e'er I beguile thee, my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie, &c.
On The Late Captain Grose's Peregrinations Thro' Scotland
Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;--
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it:
A chield's amang you takin notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it:
If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,
That's he, mark weel;
And wow! he has an unco sleight
O' cauk and keel.
By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,
Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's! colleaguin
At some black art.
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,
And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches,
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight bitches.
It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And taen the--Antiquarian trade,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont gude;
And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.
Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass:
A broomstick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.
Forbye, he'll shape you aff fu' gleg
The cut of Adam's philibeg;
The knife that nickit Abel's craig
He'll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
Gude fellows wi' him:
And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
And Then ye'll see him!
Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose! --
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca' thee;
I'd take the rascal by the nose,
Wad say, "Shame fa' thee! "
Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary
The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying
So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;
But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning,
Astonish'd, confounded, cries Satan--"By God,
I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable load! "
The Kirk Of Scotland's Alarm
A Ballad.
Tune--"Come rouse, Brother Sportsman! "
Orthodox! orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast has been blown in the West,
"That what is no sense must be nonsense,"
Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.
Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror:
To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,
Was heretic, damnable error,
Doctor Mac! ^1 'Twas heretic, damnable error.
Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing,^2
Provost John^3 is still deaf to the Church's relief,
And Orator Bob^4 is its ruin,
Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.
D'rymple mild! D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child,
And your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you,
For preaching that three's ane an' twa,
D'rymple mild! ^5 For preaching that three's ane an' twa.
Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan,
Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd;
Then out wi' your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd.
Rumble John! ^6 And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd.
[Footnote 1: Dr. M'Gill, Ayr. --R. B,]
[Footnote 2: See the advertisement. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 3: John Ballantine,--R. B. ]
[Footnote 4: Robert Aiken. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 5: Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 6: John Russell, Kilmarnock. --R. B. ]
Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view:
I'll lay on your head, that the pack you'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few,
Simper James! ^7 For puppies like you there's but few.
Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,
Unconscious what evils await?
With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev'ry soul,
For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Singet Sawnie! ^8 For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your "Liberty's Chain" and your wit;
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh--t.
Poet Willie! ^9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh--t.
Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye?
If ye meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi' people that ken ye nae better,
Barr Steenie! ^10 Wi'people that ken ye nae better.
Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark, for the Lord's holy ark,
He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't,
Jamie Goose! ^11 He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't.
Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster,
The corps is no nice o' recruits;
[Footnote 7: James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 8: Alexander Moodie of Riccarton. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 9: William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster,
who, among many other things, published an ode on the "Centenary
of the Revolution," in which was the line: "And bound in
Liberty's endering chain. "--R. B. ]
[Footnote 10: Stephen Young of Barr. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 11: James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been
foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant
Mitchel--R. B. ]
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the Ass were the king o' the brutes,
Davie Bluster! ^12 If the Ass were the king o' the brutes.
Irvine Side! Irvine Side, wi' your turkey-cock pride
Of manhood but sma' is your share:
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, ev'n your foes will allow,
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,
Irvine Side! ^13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock,
To crush common-sense for her sins;
If ill-manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance,
Muirland Jock! ^14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book,
An' the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye;
Tho' ye're rich, an' look big, yet, lay by hat an' wig,
An' ye'll hae a calf's--had o' sma' value,
Andro Gowk! ^15 Ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma value.
Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there'a a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Tho' ye do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death,
For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark,
Daddy Auld! ^16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.
Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;
The timmer is scant when ye're taen for a saunt,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,
Holy Will! ^17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin's sons! Calvin's sons, seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;
[Footnote 12: David Grant, Ochiltree. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 13: George Smith, Galston. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 14: John Shepherd Muirkirk. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 15: Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 16: William Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see
"Holy Willie"s prayer. --R. B. ]
[Footnote 17: Vide the "Prayer" of this saint. --R. B. ]
Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,
And your skulls are a storehouse o' lead,
Calvin's sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o' lead.
Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelpin turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e'en tipsy,
She could ca'us nae waur than we are,
Poet Burns! She could ca'us nae waur than we are.
Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents
Factor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone,
And ne'er made anither, thy peer,
Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard,
He presents thee this token sincere,
Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.
Afton's Laird! Afton's Laird, when your pen can be spared,
A copy of this I bequeath,
On the same sicker score as I mention'd before,
To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith,
Afton's Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.
Sonnet On Receiving A Favour
10 Aug. , 1979.
Addressed to Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry.
I call no Goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns:
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gifts still dearer, as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night!
If aught that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,
Then roll to me along your wand'rig spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!
I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,
And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.
Extemporaneous Effusion
On being appointed to an Excise division.
Searching auld wives' barrels,
Ochon the day!
That clarty barm should stain my laurels:
But--what'll ye say?
These movin' things ca'd wives an' weans,
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!
Song--Willie Brew'd A Peck O' Maut^1
O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allen cam to see;
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna found in Christendie.
Chorus. --We are na fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our ee;
The cock may craw, the day may daw
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!
We are na fou, &c.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!
We are na fou, &c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',
He is the King amang us three.
We are na fou, &c.
[Footnote 1: Willie is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing--
master. The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of
the Lowes. Date, August--September, 1789. --Lang. ]
Ca' The Yowes To The Knowes
Chorus. --Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rowes,
My bonie dearie
As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad:
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca'd me his dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.
Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu' clearly.
Ca' the yowes, &c.
Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
An' ye sall be my dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.
If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' thee, my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.
While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.
I Gaed A Waefu' Gate Yestreen
I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o'bonie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white--
It was her een sae bonie blue.
She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd;
She charm'd my soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een so bonie blue.
But "spare to speak, and spare to speed;"
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonie blue.
Highland Harry Back Again
My Harry was a gallant gay,
Fu' stately strade he on the plain;
But now he's banish'd far away,
I'll never see him back again.
Chorus. --O for him back again!
O for him back again!
I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land
For Highland Harry back again.
When a' the lave gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen;
I set me down and greet my fill,
And aye I wish him back again.
O for him, &c.
O were some villains hangit high,
And ilka body had their ain!
Then I might see the joyfu' sight,
My Highland Harry back again.
O for him, &c.
The Battle Of Sherramuir
Tune--"The Cameronian Rant. "
"O cam ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,
Or did the battle see, man? "
I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh;
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockauds,
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd
And mony a bouk did fa', man:
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty miles;
They hough'd the clans like nine-pin kyles,
They hack'd and hash'd, while braid-swords, clash'd,
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
But had ye seen the philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man;
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs,
And covenant True-blues, man:
In lines extended lang and large,
When baiginets o'erpower'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge;
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted dows, man!
La, la, la, la, &c.
"O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man;
I saw mysel, they did pursue,
The horsemen back to Forth, man;
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a' their might,
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut;
And mony a huntit poor red-coat,
For fear amaist did swarf, man! "
La, la, la, la, &c.
My sister Kate cam up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man;
She swoor she saw some rebels run
To Perth unto Dundee, man;
Their left-hand general had nae skill;
The Angus lads had nae gude will
That day their neibors' blude to spill;
For fear, for foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose; they scar'd at blows,
And hameward fast did flee, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man!
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,
Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man,
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world gude-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets knell,
Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell,
And Whigs to hell did flee, man.
La, la, la, la, &c.
The Braes O' Killiecrankie
Where hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O?
Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad?
Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O?
Chorus. --An ye had been whare I hae been,
Ye wad na been sae cantie, O;
An ye had seen what I hae seen,
I' the Braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
I faught at land, I faught at sea,
At hame I faught my Auntie, O;
But I met the devil an' Dundee,
On the Braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
An ye had been, &c.
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr,
An' Clavers gat a clankie, O;
Or I had fed an Athole gled,
On the Braes o' Killiecrankie, O.
An ye had been, &c.
Awa' Whigs, Awa'
Chorus. --Awa' Whigs, awa'!
Awa' Whigs, awa'!
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae gude at a'.
Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,
And bonie bloom'd our roses;
But Whigs cam' like a frost in June,
An' wither'd a' our posies.
Awa' Whigs, &c.
Our ancient crown's fa'en in the dust--
Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't!
An' write their names in his black beuk,
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.
Awa' Whigs, &c.
Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving:
The Whigs cam' o'er us for a curse,
An' we hae done wi' thriving.
Awa' Whigs, &c.
Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap,
But we may see him wauken:
Gude help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!
Awa' Whigs, &c.
A Waukrife Minnie
Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass,
Whare are you gaun, my hinnie?
She answered me right saucilie,
"An errand for my minnie. "
O whare live ye, my bonie lass,
O whare live ye, my hinnie?
"By yon burnside, gin ye maun ken,
In a wee house wi' my minnie. "
But I foor up the glen at e'en.
To see my bonie lassie;
And lang before the grey morn cam,
She was na hauf sae saucie.
O weary fa' the waukrife cock,
And the foumart lay his crawin!
He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep,
A wee blink or the dawin.
An angry wife I wat she raise,
And o'er the bed she brocht her;
And wi' a meikle hazel rung
She made her a weel-pay'd dochter.
O fare thee weel, my bonie lass,
O fare thee well, my hinnie!
Thou art a gay an' a bonnie lass,
But thou has a waukrife minnie.
The Captive Ribband
Tune--"Robaidh dona gorach. "
Dear Myra, the captive ribband's mine,
'Twas all my faithful love could gain;
And would you ask me to resign
The sole reward that crowns my pain?
Go, bid the hero who has run
Thro' fields of death to gather fame,
Go, bid him lay his laurels down,
And all his well-earn'd praise disclaim.
The ribband shall its freedom lose--
Lose all the bliss it had with you,
And share the fate I would impose
On thee, wert thou my captive too.
It shall upon my bosom live,
Or clasp me in a close embrace;
And at its fortune if you grieve,
Retrieve its doom, and take its place.
My Heart's In The Highlands
Tune--"Failte na Miosg. "
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Chorus. --My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, &c.
The Whistle--A Ballad
I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North.
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall--
"The Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more! "
Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell:
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea;
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.
Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd;
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd.
Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw
Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.
"By the gods of the ancients! " Downrightly replies,
"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er. "
Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe, or his friend;
Said, "Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,"
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.
To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;
But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.
A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.
Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er:
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.
Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;
A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine;
He left the foul business to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend!
Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light;
So uprose bright Phoebus--and down fell the knight.
Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:--
"Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
Come--one bottle more--and have at the sublime!
"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day! "
To Mary In Heaven
Thou ling'ring star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past,
Thy image at our last embrace,
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
'Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene:
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray;
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser-care;
Time but th' impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear,
My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy blissful place of rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Epistle To Dr. Blacklock
Ellisland, 21st Oct. , 1789.
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel and cantie?
I ken'd it still, your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye!
And then ye'll do.
The ill-thief blaw the Heron south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tauld myself by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter;
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,
And bade nae better.
But aiblins, honest Master Heron
Had, at the time, some dainty fair one
To ware this theologic care on,
And holy study;
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on,
E'en tried the body.
But what d'ye think, my trusty fere,
I'm turned a gauger--Peace be here!
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,
Ye'll now disdain me!
And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.
Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is
'Mang sons o' men.
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies;
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is--
I need na vaunt
But I'll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.
Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
I'm weary sick o't late and air!
Not but I hae a richer share
Than mony ithers;
But why should ae man better fare,
And a' men brithers?
Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
A lady fair:
Wha does the utmost that he can,
Will whiles do mair.
But to conclude my silly rhyme
(I'm scant o' verse and scant o' time),
To make a happy fireside clime
To weans and wife,
That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.
My compliments to sister Beckie,
And eke the same to honest Lucky;
I wat she is a daintie chuckie,
As e'er tread clay;
And gratefully, my gude auld cockie,
I'm yours for aye.
Robert Burns.
The Five Carlins
An Election Ballad.
Tune--"Chevy Chase. "
There was five Carlins in the South,
They fell upon a scheme,
To send a lad to London town,
To bring them tidings hame.
Nor only bring them tidings hame,
But do their errands there,
And aiblins gowd and honor baith
Might be that laddie's share.
There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith,
A dame wi' pride eneugh;
And Marjory o' the mony Lochs,
A Carlin auld and teugh.
And blinkin Bess of Annandale,
That dwelt near Solway-side;
And whisky Jean, that took her gill,
In Galloway sae wide.
And auld black Joan frae Crichton Peel,^1
O' gipsy kith an' kin;
Five wighter Carlins were na found
The South countrie within.
To send a lad to London town,
They met upon a day;
And mony a knight, and mony a laird,
This errand fain wad gae.
O mony a knight, and mony a laird,
This errand fain wad gae;
But nae ane could their fancy please,
O ne'er a ane but twae.
The first ane was a belted Knight,
Bred of a Border band;^2
And he wad gae to London town,
Might nae man him withstand.
And he wad do their errands weel,
And meikle he wad say;
And ilka ane about the court
Wad bid to him gude-day.
[Footnote 1: Sanquhar. ]
[Footnote 2: Sir James Johnston of Westerhall. ]
The neist cam in a Soger youth,^3
Who spak wi' modest grace,
And he wad gae to London town,
If sae their pleasure was.
He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,
Nor meikle speech pretend;
But he wad hecht an honest heart,
Wad ne'er desert his friend.
Now, wham to chuse, and wham refuse,
At strife thir Carlins fell;
For some had Gentlefolks to please,
And some wad please themsel'.
Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith,
And she spak up wi' pride,
And she wad send the Soger youth,
Whatever might betide.
For the auld Gudeman o' London court^4
She didna care a pin;
But she wad send the Soger youth,
To greet his eldest son. ^5
Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale,
And a deadly aith she's ta'en,
That she wad vote the Border Knight,
Though she should vote her lane.
"For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,
And fools o' change are fain;
But I hae tried the Border Knight,
And I'll try him yet again. "
Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel,
A Carlin stoor and grim.
"The auld Gudeman or young Gudeman,
For me may sink or swim;
[Footnote 3: Captain Patrick Millar of Dalswinton. ]
[Footnote 4: The King. ]
[Footnote 5: The Prince of Wales. ]
For fools will prate o' right or wrang,
While knaves laugh them to scorn;
But the Soger's friends hae blawn the best,
So he shall bear the horn. "
Then whisky Jean spak owre her drink,
"Ye weel ken, kimmers a',
The auld gudeman o' London court,
His back's been at the wa';
"And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup
Is now a fremit wight;
But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean--
We'll send the Border Knight. "
Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs,
And wrinkled was her brow,
Her ancient weed was russet gray,
Her auld Scots bluid was true;
"There's some great folk set light by me,
I set as light by them;
But I will send to London town
Wham I like best at hame. "
Sae how this mighty plea may end,
Nae mortal wight can tell;
God grant the King and ilka man
May look weel to himsel.
Election Ballad For Westerha'
Tune--"Up and waur them a', Willie. "
The Laddies by the banks o' Nith
Wad trust his Grace^1 wi a', Jamie;
But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King--
Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie.
[Footnote 1: The fourth Duke of Queensberry, who supported the
proposal that, during George III's illness, the Prince of Wales
should assume the Government with full prerogative. ]
Chorus. --Up and waur them a', Jamie,
Up and waur them a';
The Johnstones hae the guidin o't,
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa'!
The day he stude his country's friend,
Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie,
Or frae puir man a blessin wan,
That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
But wha is he, his country's boast?
Like him there is na twa, Jamie;
There's no a callent tents the kye,
But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
To end the wark, here's Whistlebirk,
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie;
And Maxwell true, o' sterling blue;
And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie.
Up and waur them, &c.
Prologue Spoken At The Theatre Of Dumfries
On New Year's Day Evening, 1790.
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city,
That queens it o'er our taste--the more's the pity:
Tho' by the bye, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,
I come to wish you all a good New Year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage, grave Ancient cough'd, and bade me say,
"You're one year older this important day,"
If wiser too--he hinted some suggestion,
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink,
Said--"Sutherland, in one word, bid them Think! "
Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way!
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the foreclock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!
