eee aera at eit re EE pe Ig a ‘ alee at S Patra Ee re fae ere cea r 4 4 cal : cots ee ‘Le vi pet rte Pn es SEP area Peet ree E cd 8 in eet Ae eae 7) fn Lene ge sew, Pps aod if ARORA ae fe | CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE ‘ornell University Library PR 3657.A6C97 Ramsay and the earlier poets of Scotland olin, ovet RAMSAY AND THE EARLIER POETS OF SCOTLAND TO WHICH IS ADDED ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS EDITED, WITH NOTES CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL, BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM AND CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D. a ILLUSTRATED BY STEEL ENGRATINGS, LONDON J. S. VIRTUE & CO., Limiren, 294, CITY ROAD, » Cw CONTENTS. —_——_~+——— POEMS OF ALLAN RAMSBAY. The Life of Allan Ramsay tenes the Genius nail Writings of Allan oh "Gentle Shepherd PasToRALs :— Richy and Sandy: Mr. Addison. Robert, Richy, and Sandy : "A Pastoral on ‘the Death of Matthew Prior. Keitha: An Elegy on the Death of Mary, the Countess of Wigton, Daughter of the Earl Marshal of Scotland . An Ode, with a Pastoral Recitative, on the Marriage of James Earl of Wemyss to Miss Janet Charteris . : A Masque: performed at celebrating the Nuptials of James Duke of Hamilton and Lady Ann Cochrane . - A Pastoral Epithalamium upon the happy Marriage of George Lord’ Ramsay and Lady Jean Maule . Betty and Kate: A Pastoral Farewell to Mr. Aikman, when he went for London Tartana; or, The Plaid : ‘The Morning Interview . The Vision . Christ's Kirk on the Green On the Death of Me Vussieke EPistTLes :— An Epistle to Allan Ramsay, by Josiah Burchet, Esq. . ‘ ‘ : Answer to Josiah Burchet . Seven Familiar Epistles, which passed between Lieutenant Hamilton, of Gil- bertfield, and the Author . : An Epistle to Lieutenant Hamilton, on re- ceiving the compliment of a Barrel of Loch Fyne Herrings from him. . 5 To the Music Club An Epistle to Mr. James Arbuckle, describing the Author 3 ae . To the Earl of Dalhousie . A i 6 To Mr. Aikman '. ‘ i ‘ ‘ To Sir William Bennet : és A ‘i To a Friend at Florence’ : ‘ To R. H. B. To Mr. Joseph Mitchell, on the successful Representation of a Tragedy ‘ : ‘ To Robert Yarde, of Devonshire. . . An Epistle from Mr. William Starrat . 7 To Mr. William Starrat, on receiving the foregoing . ‘o Mr. Gay, on “hearing the Duchess of ‘Queensberty commend some of his Poems An Epistle to Josiah Burchet, ou his being chosen Member of Parliament . To Mr. David Malloch, on his Departure from Scotland . . ' To William Somerville, of Warwickshire. ‘ An Epistle from Mr. Somerville . 2 RS Allan Ramsay’s Answer to the foregoing . PAGE 1 vili 36 87 38 41 42 44 48 51 55 65 66 66 72 72 73 “6 76 77 77 78 79 80 81 82 82 83 84 85 Porticat EpistLes—(continued) :— An Epistle from W. Somerville to Allan Ramaay, on publishing his merond Voiume of Poems . 7 ‘ Ramsay’s Answer | To Donald McEwen, J ewelle, at St. Peters- bur; . To the same, on ‘receiving a Present of a Gold Seal, with Homer’s Head és To his Friends in Ireland, who, on a ° port of his Death, made and published several Elegies An Epistle from a Gentleman in the Country to his Friend in Edinburgh An Epistle to James Clerk, Esq:, of Penny- cuick To Allan Ramaay, on’ the Poverty of the Poets ‘ . s The Answer : . _ An Epistle to J ohn Wardlaw ‘An Epistle to Duncan Forbes, Lord Advocate PAGE 86 37 88 88 88 89 90 91 91 92 95 Fasies AND Ravda: — v I. ‘The Fwa Books . II. The Clock and the Dial . III. The Ram and the Buck . * IV. The Lovely Lass and the Mirror. i A 3 V. Jupiter's Lottery . . . i VI. The Miser and Minos . ‘ 3 VII. The Ape and the Leopard’. ” VIII. The Assandthe Brook. . a = The Fox and the Rat . ‘he Caterpillar and the Ant . xT The Twa Cats and the Cheese. is es XII. The Cameleon ‘ : » MII. The Twa Lizards .. : - XIV. Mercury in Quest of Peace Fs XV. The Spring and the Dyke Fable » &VI. The Phoenix and the Owl » XVII. The Boy andthe Pig . » XVII. The Man with the Tw Wives : A % XIX. The Condemned Ass. 5 XX. The Gods of Egypt e “5 XXI. The Spectacles » S&XIT. The Fox turned Preacher » XXIII. The Beo andthe Fly . » XXIV. The eee 8 pea ; Tit for Tat. * The Parrot . 2 ; 3 é The Eclipse . The Monk and the Miller's Wife ‘4 The Daft Bargain . . The Twa Ontusedd ae oe . The Lure. ‘ 7 ‘ 5 The Thimble The Eagle and the Robin Redbreaat The Three Bonnots: A Tale Fi The Author’s Address to his Book, in imita- tation of Horaco . < eee ee ee ee ee we a ew Be ek we eee fe 2 ee 8 te ow 96 96 97 97 98 99 99 100 100 101 101 102 102 103 103 104 104 105 106 106 106 107 107 108 108 109 109 112 112: 112 113 115 116 124 iy: MtsceLLANEOus Poems :— on City of Edinburgh’s Address to the oun On the Preservation of Mr. Bruce and his Schvolfellows, in St. Andrew's Bay, on August i9, 1710 : . . . On Content . The City of ‘Edinburgh's Salutation to the Marquis of Carnarvon ; . On the Prospect of Plenty . On the Eclipse of the Sun, April, 1719. . The Gentleman's Qualifications debated < On Friendship The Author's adyese to the Town Council of Edinburgh . The Petition ie the Whin-Bush Club . Spoken to AXolus, in the House of Marlefield, on the Night of a violent Wind ; Clyde’s Welcome to his Prince . On the Marquis of Boromont’s cutting, off his Hair To some Young Ladies, who were , displeased with a Gentleman for telling them, that condemnation to a state of Virginity was the greatest of Pee : 3 The Poet's Wish . Health: A Poem ‘inscribed ‘to the Earl of Stair. An Ode on the Birth of the Marquis of Drumlanrig An Ode to Grace, Countess of Aboyne, on her Mariiage-day An Ode on the Marriage of Alex. Brodie of Brodie to Miss M. Sleigh . ‘ The Fair Assembly. On the Royal Archers, shooting for the Bowl, the 6th of July, 1724. On the Royal Archers, marching under the Duke of Hamilton to shoot for the Arrow, the 4th of August, 1724. The Poet’s thanks to the Ar hers, on being admitted into their Royal Company . On seeing the Archers diverting themselves at the Buts and’ Rovers, at the aes of Sir William Bennet . ‘ An Ode to the Earl of Hartford ‘ Advice to Mr. , on his Marriage . . An Anacreontic on Love . An Address of the Muse to George Drum- mond, the Lord Provost, and to the Town- Council of Edinburgh To Alex. Murray of Broughton, on his Marriage . An Ode on the falling of a Slate from a house on the Breast of Mrs. M. M—— An Ode: Allan Ramsay to his Son, on his painting Captain James Forester An Ode to the memory of Lady Margaret Austruther : An Elegy on James Lord Carnegie . An Ode, sacred to the memory of Anne Lady Garlies . To Sir John Clerk, on the death of his Son, John Clerk, Esq. An Elegy on the Death ‘of Robert ‘Alexander, of Black House . An Inscription on the Tomb of "Alexander Waidlaw . An Ode, sacred to the memory of Anne Duchess of Hamilton An Ode to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton An Ode to the menily of Mrs. Forbes of Newhall . ‘ . . . 3 PAGE 162 162 166 168 169 169 169 170 170 171 172 175 176. 176 179 179: 180 180 182 184 186 185 185 ‘185 185 185 186 186 186 186 186 187 187° 187 187 187 188 189 189 190 CONTENTS. PAGE ; Horace to Virgil . ‘ : : . An Ode to Mr. Aa 126 An Elegy on Maggy J ohnstoun The Auld Goodman . ~*~ The Auld Man’s best Argument . 126 Auld Rob Morris . . 126 An Elegy on Lucky Wood... An Elegy on Patie Birnie. 131 On Wit: The Tale of the Manting Lad 182 A Prologue, spoken at the acting of “The 135 Orphan ” and “The Cheats of Scapin,” by 186 some young gentlemen, in 1719 136 An Epilogue, after the Acting of “The - Drummer” 136 A Prologue, spoken by Anthony ‘Aston, the 137 first night of his acting in winter, 1726. A Prologue, before the acting of "e Auren- 137 zebe,” at Haddington School, in 1727 137 An Epilogue, spoken after ‘acting “The. ' Orphan” and “ The Gentle Rneabendy” in 138 January, 1729 . 3 Tho Last Speech of a Wretched Miser | 5 Tho Scribblers lashed . Wealth ; or, The Woody: ‘A Poem on the 139 South Sea . 139 The Riso and Fall of Stocks in 1720. An Epistle to Lord Ramsay- . 140 The Satyr’s Comic Project for recovering a Bankrupt Stock-Jobber 144 ae no Music: being’ a Satire on ‘Goole oet 145 Grub Sreciti ‘nae Satire an Answer to the foregoing . 146 Reasons for not answering the Hackney 146 Scribblers The General Mistake: inscribed to Lord 148 Erskine. An Address of Thanke from the Society of Rakes, to the pious Author of an Essay 149 upon improving and adding to the strength of,Great Britain and Ireland: y Horiba: 150 tion . : . Cupid thrown into the South Sea . . . On a Gold Teapot . . . . 7 150 On a Punch-Bowl A ‘ ‘ : 162 Spoken to three young Ladies . st. 163 The Rose-tree : . . 7 154 Spoken to two young Ladies, . F : On receiving a present of an Orange . To Mr. Pope: Wrote on Lady Somerville’s 154 Book of Scots Songs . . . . An Epigram 156 On the Marquis of Annandale’s ‘conveying me a present of Guineas in my Snuffbox, 156 after he had taken all the Snuff . ‘ To Mrs. M. M——, on her Painting. 156 On Mr. Drummond’s being appointed a Com- missioner of‘the Customs . 157 On the Duke of Hamilton’s chooting an 157 Arrow thro’ the neck of an Eel. ; To Calista . a8 . 7 . . 158 A Character . Verses on the last Leaf of the ‘Bannatyne 159 Manvecript in the Advocate’s Library Spoken to Mrs. N—— 169 Address of Allan Ramsay to the “Hon. Duncan Forbes, etc. . . 160 Sones :— 160 Dedication 161 Ye watchful Guardians of the Fait ‘ Look up to Pentiand’s Towering Top . . 161 A Ballad on Bonny Kate. . . : 190 Sonas—(continued) : To Dr. J. C., who got the foregoing e sive the young Lady A . An Ode on Drinking . 7 : The last ‘Time I came o'er the Moor . i The Lass of Patie’s Mill 5 ‘ The Yellow-hair’d Laddie Wine and Music Nanny-O Bonny Jean . Auld Lang Syne The Penitent Love’s Cure . ‘ . , Bessy Bell and Mary Gray . : ‘ The young Laird and Eee Baty 7 Katy’s Answer . ‘ Mary Scott . . . : . . O’er Boggie O’er the Moor to Maggie ‘ : ‘ . T’ll never leave thee “ is , ; Polwart on the Green . s " : . John Hay’s bonny Lassie. : é Genty Tibby and Sone Melly . Upinthe Air” . nl ; To Mrs. E. C. ‘ ® a 7 : To Calista Give me a Lass with a Lump of Land . Lochaber no more os ° Virtue and Wit y Adieu for a while, my native greon Plains . And I'll awa’ to bonny ane The Widow . ; : : The Step-daughter’s Relief . “ soos Bonny Chirsty . . ‘i F The Soger Taddie : 2 ‘ The bonny Scot . : ‘ : Love inviting Reason . . : The Dob of Dunblane . Thro’ the Wood, Laddie An thou were my ain Thing - é There’s my ‘Thumb, I'll ne’er beguile thee : The Highland Laddie . . “I ‘ The Coalier’s Daughter q The Mill, Mill—O Colin and _Grisy parting To L. L. in mourning . 4 2 A Scots Cantata ; , ‘ The Toast . . . : é > A South-sea Song A ‘ 3 Hap me with thy. Petticoat 3 3 Fy gar rub her o’er wi’ Strae : i The Cordial . - < . : . Allan Water : O Mary! thy Graces and Cilances This is no my ain House. i My Daddy forbad, my Minny forbad . Steer her up and haud her Gawn Clout the Caldron' ‘ 3 The Maltman . ; : : . Bonny Bessy, . ‘a ‘ 7 : The Quadruple Alliance. ‘ The Complaint . ‘ ‘The Carle he came o'er the Croft O Mither dear! I ’gin to ear A Song . 3 _ The Highland Lassie . 3 “When Beauty blazes” =. I have a green Purse, and a wee pickle Gowd On the Marriage of Lord G. ‘and Lady K. c. Jenny Nettles. : 7 For the sake of Somebody ane eo Us The Generous Gentleman . eo. : CONTENTS. PAGE 191 191 191 192 192 192 193 193 193 194 194 195 195 195 196 196 196 197 197 197 198 198 198 199 199 199 200 200 200 201 208 209 210 210 210 211 211 211 212 212 213 213 214 214 214 Sonos—(continued) : — The Cock Laird . = Let meaner Beauties use their Art Tue Evercreen ; PAGE 216 216 "Being a Collection of Scots Poems, wrote by the _ Angenious before 1600. Dedication to the puke of Hamilton ‘ Pe Preface . The Thistle and the "Rose: A Poem in honcar of Margaret, daughter to Henry VII. of England, Queen to James IV., King of Scots A Panygyrick on Sir Hey Vertue and Vyce: ean addrest to James V., King of Sacks by the famous and renown'd ‘clerk, John PSLERNS: Arch-dean of Murray . . . : . A Bytand Ballat . “ % : Robin and Makyne: A Pastoral. s 5 Advice to Man to enjoy his ain . : ; Grissell Sandylands 2 The Battle of Harlaw, foughten upon Friday, July 24, 141 my nee, poaee of the Isles. 7 : ek Ballat. . . . ‘ Tydings frae the Session ‘ . . . A gencrall Satyre . °. . . ° . Wise Sayings . The Complaint: An ‘Epistle to his Mistress on tne force of Love . Cupid quareld for his Tyranie, Blindnes, and Tujustice r Tho Auld Man’s fngeiidas ‘against Mouth: thankless ; ‘ % Tho Soutar descryvit by the Tailzior . . The Soutar’s Answer to the Tailzior . On the Uncertainty of Life and Fear of Death; or a Lament for the Loss of on Poets . Postscript ; . ‘ . Tho Wifo of Auchtermuchty | The Borrowstoun Mous, and the ‘Land wart Mous . . : . The Moralitie . A . Advice to his zoung King On Consciens . bese On the Creation and ‘Paradyce Lost ee The Devil’s Advice to All yen Sundry of his best Friends . . oe The Claith-Merchant . ° F The Lyon and the Mous . 3 . The Moralitie . .- ‘ . On Ane’s being his own Enemy 2 The Benefite of them who have Ladies can be gude Soliciters at Court . Jok Up-a-land’s Complaint nh the Court in the King’s Nonaige . : The Garment of gude Ladyis . ‘ To the Honour of the Laie and the Fortifi- eation of their Fame . ; : The Dounce . 5 . . . : The Soutar and Tailzior - ‘ : The Lover’s Mane, that dares not assay . Ane little Interlude of the. Dooichs . Auld kyndness quite forzet ee ane grows pure. Advice to be Liberal and Blyth ; A New Yeir Gift to Queen as when ehe came first home, 1562 . To his Heart . . A Brash of Woning. : : ; The Goldin Terge . ; , ‘ Lorges, Lerges, &.. \ . ; who . 217 218 220 222 223 226 227 229 229 230 233 234 235 236- 236 237 237 238 238 239 240 240 241 243 244 245 247 248 249 252 252 253 253 254 254 255 256 256 257 258 259 259 262 262 263 266 vi CONTENTS. PAGE Tre EvERrGREEN (continued) :— Dunbar’s Dregy; made to King a Vv. 266 being in Stirling . : 967 The Flyting of Dunbar and Kennedie . * 968 Kennedie to Dunbar 5 . * 968 Dunbar to Kennedie i i . * 990 Kennedie’s Answer to Dunbar. Testament of Mr. Andro pene . Bae Discration in Asking. . a ‘ ne Discration in Giving : - 3 ‘ a 75 Follows Discration in Taking . : . 275 On Detraction and Deming . 276 Sons exylt by Pryde. -» » 216 Satyre on Covetousness . . . 277 The Cherrie and the Slae 5 277 The Justing and Debate up at the Doun, be- twixt William Adamson and John Sym 293 Tus Tra-Taste Miscennany. Preface. Sa me ge BSD The Bush aboon Traquair e -Be. ‘fa seo Jee Though Beauty, like the Rose e 9 @ 827 Tweed-side . oe) Ce 48. eo 8 Is Hamilla then my ownP os, + 3828 Muirland Willie . 7 . 328 The Promised Joy i : 5 . » 9329 The Faithful Shepherd . . . . 330 The Broom of Cowdenknowes. , . » 3830 To Chloe . . . . . + 331 Song for a Serenade : io) tr, 1832 To Mrs. A. H., on seeing her at a Con- « cert. . : - 332 Scornfu’ Nancy ‘ 3 ¥ - 3832 Slighted Nancy 3 F z ‘ + 333 Lucky Nancy . 3 ‘i i + 833 Maggy’s Tocher ‘ . . . + 3834 Leave Kindred and Friends. , ‘ + 334 Celestial Muses ‘ i ‘ + 885 Subjected to the power of Love . 5 « 335 Tell me, Hamilla . A , a * 335 Song, complaining of Absence . 9 . » 335 Bright Cynthia’s Power . + 336 Tell me, tell me . . + 336 The Reply . ; . . . + 336 The Rose in Yarrow 4 : . * 336 Down the Burn, Davie . 3 " * 337 Ah! Chloris, could I now but sit ‘ ‘ - 837 Ye Shepherds and Nymphs ‘ ‘ - 8337 Dumbarton’s Drums . a . . » 338 My Deary, if you die : é . 3 + 888 My Jo Janet . ‘ : x « 839 What means this Niceness ? : ‘ » 3839 As Sylvia in a Forest lay + 839 Katharine Ogie - - 840 An thou were my ain thing » 840 For the love of Jean . 341 Colin’s Complaint . . . 341 The Gaberlunzie Man . 841 Ewe-brights, Marion » 9342 The blithesome Bridal. : » 842 Ab! the poor Shepherd’s mournful Fate + 843 Fient a crumb of thee she faws ‘ » 844 “ Omnia vincit Amor” ; ‘ . 844 The auld Wife beyont the Fire , : - 845 T’ll never love thee more » +e «B46 The Blackbird . ‘ - 346 Tak’ your auld Cloak about ye . 847 The Shepherd Adonis . 347 Lady Anne Bothwell’s Lament : . 3848 Jobn Ochiltree . ¥ : ; 349 Of all the Birds : 3 . 850 In January last. é - 350 General Leslie's Marcn to Longmaston Moor . de ‘ 5 5 z - 851 One day Theard Mary say . . . . 351 Sleepy body, drowsy body . 5 . * 351 Cromlet’s Lilt . . . . e ny 352 The Deceiver . é 3 Sweet Susan . : ‘ é ‘Cowdenknowes Z % 5 Tue Evercreen (continued) :— Luve a Leveler : . . . . The Floure of Womanheid . ° . Donald Owyr’s Epitaph . . . The Solscquium, or the Lover compiling him- self fo the Sun-flowir . 2 . . Comparisone . - ‘ ‘ The First Pschalme é - ; 35 The Twenty-third Pschalme . A Description of Pedder Coffes ; their having no regard to Honesty in their Vocation ° Jock’s Advyce . The Ballat oe the Reid- Sauer, fought on 7th July, 1576 . : e Tlay trix, tryme ant trix. : si z 7 On the Mes. . 7 . . . On Purgatorie . . 8 7 + . ‘Vay ‘Tza-TaBLeE MIscELLANY ieee) — William and Margaret . . I toss and tumble . Qa em am € Sandy and Betty . Now Spring begins: To Mr. AR. To W. D.: Horace, Book I., Ode II. Jocky, blithe ard guy * Haud away from me, Donald . ‘ . Todlin but, and todlin ben a : ; Ce ee ee ee ee er ee, ee ee ey The Peremptory Lover . é : . What's that to you ? . e . 0 A pastoral Song . . Robo Jock, a very ‘old Ballad . * . The Country Lass . ‘ a Waly, Waly, gin love be bonny : The loving Lass and Spinning-wheel Adieu, ye pleasant Sports 3 : ‘ O'er the Hills and far away a Jocky’s fou and Jenny’s fain . Leader-haughs and Yarrow. 5 Norland Jocky and Southland J Jenny i : The happy Clown . ‘ . Willy was a wanton Wag Clelia’s Reflections on cael for slighting Philander’s Love . The young Ladies’ Thanks to the repenting oe ee we Virgin for her seasonable Advice . : . Jeanie, where hast thou been ? 3 ‘ ‘ Ye blithest Lads. ‘ ‘ i ‘ S The Archers’ March . Hardyknute: A Fragment of an old heroic Ballad . : : : : . . The Braes of Yarrow. . 5 z . Farewell, my bonny Magey : ; s Etrick Banks . 3 . a . The Birks of Invermay 5 Q : . Rare Willy, drown’d in Yarrow Sweet William’s Ghost Ungrateful Nanny . Watty and Madge . Were not my — light T wad d die O, my heavy Heart! . Bonny Barbara Allan. . Cast away Care The Fairest of her Days . : Andrew and his cutty Gun Johnny Faa, the Gipsy Laddie Dunt, dunt, Pittie, Pattie : The bonny Earl of Murray The Fumbler’s Rant : : . Smirky Nan. ; : . oe of the Mill and buxom Nell é ‘ . aa ‘Woo’. ‘ . . enrietta’s Recov: . . . Buttery May . ey . . . These Gowans are gay . . Slighted Love sair to bide eo) ie PAGR + 298 299 299 299 300 300 300 301 302 302 303 304 805 352 353 354 354 354 355 355 356 356 357 357 358 358 359 859 360 361 361 362 362 363 363 364 365 365 366 366 366 367 367 368 377 377 380 380 381 381 381 382 382 382 383 383 383, 384 CONTENTS. THE POETIOAL WORKS OF HECTOR MACNEILL, PAGE Memoir of the Author . ‘ + 385 Dedication to James Currie, M. D. . 386 Scotland’s Scaith ; or, History 0’ Will and J ean 386 The Waes 0 War; or, EE Eee o’ the His- tory o’ Will and Jean . ; 391 To Eliza, on her Marriage 396 Donald and Flora: A Ballad on the Death ofa Friend killed at the Battle of Saratoga, 1778 396 An Elegy : 397 To a young Lady, with a Bottle of Irish Usquebaugh . 397 The Whip ; or, A Touch at the Times 399 To Miss Jean and Miss Isabella M., with two Bottles of the Otto of Roses 401 The Harp: A Legendary Tale 3 . 402 The Wee Thing; or, Mary of Castle- Cary 405 To J. W., on his Birthday: A Dialogue between Seventy-two and Twenty-seven 405 To Robert Graham, Esq., of Gartmore 407 On the Death of Lieut.-Gen. Sir Ralph ‘Aber- cromby, killed at the Battle of Alexandria . 407 Lines on Lord Nelson at Copenhagen. 407 ‘The Links o' Forth ; or, A Parting Peep at t the Carse o’ Stirling . . . . - 408 THE POEMS AND SONGS OF MR. HAMILTON, PAGE Memoir of the Author 428 Preface to the Edition of 1790 (by, Lord Ksk- 430 een the First Edition (by ‘Dr. Adam Smith) . 431 To the Memory of Mr. William Crauford, Merchant in lees the Friend of Mr. Hamilton . 431 Horace, Book I., Ode RL, imitated 432 To a Lady, on ‘her taking anes ill that Mr. H. said ., 432 Upon hearing his Picture was in a Lady's 8 Breast . 432 The Maid of Galashiels, i in twelve Books. 43 Book I. The Argument 433 Book II. ,, a 438 Epitaph on Lord Binny . 439 Epitaph on Lord Bargany 439 55 on Sir James Suttie 439 » on Lord Newhall 440 55 on Mr. Baillie of J exviswood 440 Contemplation ; or, The etaph of Love . 440 Ode I. To Fancy ‘ 446 Ode II. . 447 Miss and the Butterfly : A Fable, in the manner of the late Mr. Gay . . 448 Ode IV., on the New Year MDCCRXXIX. . 449 Epitaph ’ on Mrs. Keith . : . 450 on Mrs. Hepburn. ‘ . 451 On the Death of Mr. Basil Hamilton 3 451 An Ode on the Battle of Gladsmuir, 1745 451 Epitaph . . 452 A Soliloquy : In Imitation of Hamlet 452 Beginning of the First Georgic of Virgil . 452 A Soliloquy, written in June, MDCCXLVI. 453 To Lady Mary Montgomery . 453 On seeing the Lady Mary Montgomery ‘sit to her Picture . 4655 The Flower of Yarrow To Lady Mary Bont- gomery . 456 | Come under my Plaidy; or, Modern Marriage delineated ‘ To C. L., Esq., with a Present of a sarge Bottle of Jamaica Rum ‘i To the Members of the Sober Society Tak tent and be wary. Oh tell me how for to Woo, I loved ne’er a Laddie but ane . To geta Man . Molly Aiken: an old Song revived . Lassie wi’ the gowden Hair . O Johnnie! can gon. pity ony . The Lammie . J eanie’ s Black Ee ; or, “Tha mi nam chodal, ’sna duisgibh mi’ The Plaid amang the Heather . On the Death of David Doig, LL. D., Master of the Grammar School, eee Grandeur: an Ode . To Mrs. Pleydell May-day ; or, The Discovery « . ; : . Prologue . 5 : Sone The Scottish Muse. 3 eos Epitaph of James Graham, Esq. os oe OF BANGOUR. The Flowers: A Fragment . The Episode of Lausus and Merentius : rom the 10th Book of Virgil’s Aineas . ae Episode of the Thistle Flowers : Book I. ong : A Song, by a young Lady on reading the fore- going . 3 Reply by Mr. Hamilton . The young Lady’s Answer : Bt To a Gentleman going to travel . . Toa young EY on her pee . Song . Song Song Speech of Randolph Bruce: Book uw. Doves: A i das . . The Wish : . 3 : > 35 aA Serious Thought . ’ . . . . Palinode . : . Epitaph on Mrs. Colquhoun, of Luss js . On a Summer-house in my own Garden . Epitaph on Miss Seton, interred in the Chapel of Seton House . Epitaph on Mr. Cunin ghame, of Craigends Horace, Book I., Ode V., imitated . Horace, Book L, Ode VIL, imitated: To the Earl of Stair ; Horace, Book I., Ode XXIL: To B.S. Horace, Book i, Ode XXIL: To Miss Dal- rymple Harace, Book L, Ode XXIV, " imitated: To a young Lady, on the Death of her Father Horace, Book I, Ode XXXII, imitated: To ee Book I., Ode XXIII, " imitated : To a Gentleman in Love : Horace, Book II., Ode IV., imitated : To the Earl Marshal of Scotland’ 4 Horace, Book IT., Ode XVI., imitated To the Earl of Marchmont PAGR 412 413 414 414 415 415 416 416 417 417 418 418 419 419 419 420 422 422 423 427 PAGE 456 457 460 463 463 463 464 464 467 467 468 468 469 472 472 472 473 473 473 474 474 474 474 475 475 476 476 477 417 478 Horace, Book III., Ode XXI., imitated: Toa Cask of Twenty-year-old Beer. ; . Horace, Book IV., Ode I., imitated . Horace, Book IL, Ode XVIL in imitated : scribed to Mr. James Craig . Part of the Eleventh Epistle of the First Book of Horace, imitated 5 Horace, Book I., Epistle XVIIL., imitated Pindar’s Olympia, Ode L., translatcd Pindar’s Olympia, Ode Il. F To H. H., in the Assembly (Edinburgh) . Interview of Glaucus and Diomed between the Grecian and Trojan Armies: Homer's Iliad, Book VI. . Interview of Miss Dalrymple and Miss Suttie between the Pillars at the Edinburgh As- sembly: In imitation of Homer's Iliad, Book VI... The Parting of Hector and Andromache: From the Sixth Iliad of Homer, translated literally. ; To a Swallow: From Anacreon, Ode XII. ‘ Toa Dove: From Anacreon, Ode EX. % ‘ The Nineteenth Ode of ‘Anacreon 3 ‘ : The ‘I'wenty-first Ode of Anacreon . . . in- CONTENTS. PAGE 479 480 481 481 482 486 488 491 492 493 494 494 495 495 THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. « Memoir of the Author . . A . . Lyricat Preczs :— Ode to Hope The Rivers of Scotland. An Ode. Set to Music by Mr. Collett : 7 . ‘i Ode to Pity . ‘ . : j ‘ Ode to Horror. : ' 7 . Ode to Diappointment « é : : Song . . A ; ‘ . Song . ; : : : ‘ 7 . Song . : ; : : - . . Pasrorats, ELEarss, &c.:— Pastoral I Morning. Damon—Alexis Pastoral II. Noon. Corydon—Timanthes. Pastoral ITI. yen ee The Simile . A : : é The Complaint Retirement . On the Cold Month of April, 1771 Verses written a the eee of Braid, near Edinburgh : . . : Damon to his Breads ; Conscience . ; : 2 Against Repining at Fortune ; The Decay of Friendship. A Pastoral Elegy To the Memory of John ee Poet. The Delights of Saad ‘ ; ‘1 On Night . . ‘ F 5 ‘ Dirge é : : : ‘ MiscELLANtEs :— A Tale . ; Extempore, on being asked which of three Sisters was the most beautiful . The Town and Country Contrasted ; in an Epistle toa Friend . ‘ A Saturday’s Expedition, in “Mock Heroics 5 A Burlesque Elegy, on the Amputation of a Student’s Hair before his Orders The Canongate Playhouse in Ruins, a Bur- lesque Poem. a a i PAGE 503 507 507 509 510 510 511 511 511 511 512 518 514 514 515 516 516 517 517 518 518 519 520 521 521 521 522 522 522 524 524 PAGE The T'wenty-second Ode of Anacreon . » 495 Love turned to Despair . ‘ . + 495 The Rhone and the Aar . + 496 First Scene of the Philoctetes of Sophocles 496 King Lear's Speech to Edgar, taking a view of Man from the side of his Miseries 496 Verses to be put beneath Mrs. Cuninghame of Craigend’s Picture : 497 The youngest Grace: A Love Elegy, addressee to a Lady who had just finished her fifteenth 497 seer os 498 The Corycian Swain, from Georg. IV., line 116 Song to a Lady who ridiculed the Author's 499 Loves . : Mithridates, Act De Scene is after the manner 4oq of the French dramatic rhyme of Racine 01 Horace, Epistle I., Book I., imitated ‘ 3 Psalm LXV., imitated . 501 An Epitaph’ on the Author of these Poems, written by himself in the ie si zi . 501 Inscription on a Dog ‘ : . 502 On a Dial in my Garden . 5 . - , 502 On an Obolisk in my Garden . : 502 Epigram on a Lion enraged at seeing a Lad in Highland Dress . . 2. Oe eC . PAGE Mie ANE (continued) -— The Peasant, the ao and renne Ducks. A Fable . 525 Fashion : 526 On the Death of Mr. Thomas Lancashire, a Comedian . ne 527 On seeing a Lady Paint horself “ 527 Extempore, On seeing Stanzas addressed to Mrs. Hartley, Comedian, wherein she is de- scribed as ne aad =e of nee 537 A Tavern Elegy . . 527 oo Eating . : ee 828 Tea e oy . 529 The Sow of Feeling 530 Tho Bugs. 531 An Expedition to Fife and the Island of May, on board the “ Blessed Endcayvour,’’ of Dun- i bar, Captain Roxburgh, Commander 532 To Sir John Fielding, On his Attempt to Suppress the Beggar’s Opera. 534 Character of a Friend, in an Epitaph which he desired the Author to write $ 535 To Dr. Samuel Johnson. Food for a Now Edition of his Dictionary . < 535 Epigram, On seeing Scales used in a Mason Lodge ; ; ; ‘ 536 Epitaph on General Wolfe ; ‘ €36 Epigram, On the numerous Epitaphs for General Wolfe for the best of which a Premium of £100 was promised 3 536 . Horace, Ode XI., Libk I. : 536 Epigram, On a Lawyer's desiring one of the Tribe to look with respect to a Gibbct 586 Epigram, Written Extempore, at the Desire of a Gentleman who was rather ill- favoured, but who had a beautiful Family of Children, 536 Epilogue, Spoken by Mr. ‘Wilson, at the Theatre Royal, in the creer of an Edinburgh Buck, : é . 536 The Author’s Life 3 537 ° ° CONTENTS, PAGE Miscetantes (continued) :— Scors Porms (continued) :— es On the Author's intention of going to Sea . 537 The Sitting ofthe Session . : » « 550 My Last Will. . , 587 The Rising ofthe Session . 2. gS, «SSL Codicil to R. Ferg usson’s Last Will | 538 Leith Races. . ww, CD The Farmer’sIngle . . . . , 55e Scots Porms :— The Election : . F 5 . 555 fo Bolpgne Gia a ae 539 To the Tron-Kirk Bell . ‘i . 556 clogue, To the Memory of Dr. William Mutual Complaint ofPlainstanes and Wilkie, late Professor ny Natural Philo- in their Mother Tongue . Onneey, 557 sophy in the University of St. Andrew's . 540 A Drink Eclogue. Landlady, Brandy, and Elegy, On the Death of Mr. David Gregory, Whisky 558 late Professor of Mathematics in the Uni- Lines, To the Principal and Professors of versity of St. Andrew’s ; : » 541 the University of St. Andrew’s, on their The Datt Days. . 542 superb Treat to Dr. Samuel Johnson . 560 The King’s Birth-day i in n Edinburgh . 542 Elegy on John Hogg, Porter to the Uni- Caller Oysters. . . 54d versity of St. Andrew's. . , 561 Braid Claith , : - 544 The Ghaists. A Kirk-yard Eclogue » . 562 Elegy, On the Death of Seots 8 Music 3 » 545 Epistle to Mr. Robert Fergusson . ‘ . 563 Hallow-Fair . : . - 546 Answer to Mr. J. S.’s a : : . 564 Ode tothe Bee . ‘ - 547 Tomy Auld Breeks . ‘ » B65 On seeing a Butterfly in 1 the Street ‘ 548 Auld Reikie . : 566 Ode to the ee: . i » 548 Hane Content, a Satire. To all whom it may Cauler Water s , “ : » 549 concern . ; ‘ Z : . - 569 THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN LAPRAIK. f PAGE PAGE Memoir of the Author . . 7 : . b71 The Poet’s Farewell to his ee ae * 573 } Epistle to Robert Burns . ‘ . 7 - 572 | Song ; ; 5 * 574 . ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS OF THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND. PAGE PAGE Sir Patrick Spens . ‘ . . . - 875 | The Death of John Seton ‘ : : . 627 Young Akin ‘ ‘ ‘ 4 - 577 | Walter Lesly . ‘ ‘ ‘ - 628 The Twa Magicians . 5 bit Oo ‘ - 579 | O’er the Water to Charlie . ‘ ‘ . 629 Childe Owlet . . s ‘ ‘ : + 580 | The Duke of Argyle’s Courtship. - 630 The Bent sae Brown . 3 . : + 581 | The Laird o’ Meldrum and d Peggy Douglas - 631 Leesome Brand 2 : a : 7 583 | Johnny, Lad . » 631 Clerk Tamas. : ‘ : . . 585 | Donald of the Isles . . . : . » 632 The Queen of Scotland ‘ i i : . 686 | Portmore . ‘ ‘ ; » 633 The Earl of Mar’s Daughter . : é 586 } John Thomsor and the Turk | : . 633 Death of Lord Warriston Z ‘ : 589 | Jock the Leg and the Merry Merchant . . 635 Earl Crawford . : ‘ 5 590 | Captain Johnstoun’s Last rina : - 636 Burd Isbel and Sir Patrick 5 ‘i 3 592 | Lizie Baillie . F , ‘j . 637 Charlie M‘Pherson . r ‘ 9 594 | Willie Doo é . 638 The Birth of Robin Hood 3 5 . 595 | The Earl of Douglas and Dame > Oliphant . 638 King Malcolm and Sir Colvin . , 7 . 597 | The Gardener Lad . s . 640 Young Allan . . ; 3 3 Fi - 598 |} The Laird o’ Drum . ‘ ; j 7 . 641 Sir Niel and Mac Van. : . ; . 600 | Love Gregory a 2 : 3 . 642 Lord John’s Murder : i 4 3 . 601 | The Water o’ Wearie’s Well . : : . 643 The Duke of Athole’s Nurse. . . 602 | Lady Diamond, the King’s penenie . , 64d The Laird of Southland’s Courtship 5; . 603 | Bondsey and Maisry ; : , 645 Burd Helen... . . 604 | The Haughso’ Yarrow . 8 , 645 Lord Livingston _.. ‘ j . 606 | The Virginian Maid’s Lament . 3 ‘ . 646 Fause Sir John and May Colvin “ r . 608 | The Gordons and the Grants ; , 647 Willie’s Lyke Wake : ; . . 610 | Gofrommy Window. eh : . 648 Lord Lundy . é 5 . : -« 611 | The Lady’s Gown . ; . ‘ ; . 648 Jock and Tam Gordon i ; . 612 | Wallace and his Leman . ‘ i , . 648 The Bonny Lass o’ Englessie’s “Dance . 613 | Chil Ether . ; : : : : _ Oty Geordie Downie i : . 613 | May-a-Roe . . ; ; . , +50 Lord Aboyne . . . . ~. . « 613 | The Scottish Squire | : 6 . , 652 Young Hastings . - +. + « 614 | John o’ Hazelgreen. . ., . 654 Reedisdale and Wise William . ‘5 ‘ . 615 | Willie’s Fatal Visit . i é 5 , . 656 Young Bearwell » . . » 616 | Hynd Hasting oe a a GOT. Kemp Owyne . ; . . : - 617 | The Downed: Lovers. ; ; ‘ . 658 Bonny Lizie Lindsay . . » 618 | Hynd Horn . : : : ; a . 659 The Baron turned Ploughman_ 5 - 620 | Young Ronald ‘ - 4 : . . 660 Denald ‘M‘Queen’s Flight wi’ Lizie Menzie « 622 | The Cruel Mother . : Ps . 663 The Miller's Son . i 7 . 623 | Broomfield-Hills . ‘ : : é . 664 The Last Guid-Night . - ‘ - 625 | Lord Dingwall ‘ ; ‘ 7 . 665 The Bonny Bows 5 London . nf 5 - 625 | Charles Graeme . i ‘ ° ‘ . 663 Lord Salton and Auchanachie . 3 ° + 626 LIST OF PLATES. To face page ALLAN Ramsay READING HIs PorM To THE CountTEss or Eciintoun. To face Vignette. VILLAGE oF LEADHILLS ‘ Fs . $ : ‘ AuLan Ramsay's House anp Suor (High Street, Edinburgh) . ALLAN Ramsay's House (Ramsay Terrace, Castle Hill) Tur GenTLE SHEPHERD. Acti.sc.l . THe GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act ii.sc. 4. Tur GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act iii. sc. 2 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act iv. sc. 1 Tue GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act v. sc. 2 TARTANA A ‘ i : : Curist’s Kirk ON THE GREEN. Canto i. ver. 3, 4 Curist’s KIRK ON THE GREEN. Canto ji. ver. 4, 5 Tse Lass or Patrs's MILL THE YELLOw-HAIR’D LADDIE LocuaserR no More TuroucH THE Woop, LappIE CLouT THE CALDRON Rosin AND MAkyNE CRYING THE CORONACH : : : Tue AvuLD Man’s INVEIGHING AGAINST MoOUTH-THANKLESS . Tue Devit's ADVICE : JOHNNIE ARMSTRONG THE BaLLaT oF THE REID-SQUEIR CowDoNKNOWES CowDENKNOWES : Waty, WALY, GIN LOVE BE BONNY Tue Lovine Lass anpD SPINNING WHEEL THE Brars oF YARROW GOWANS SAE GAY WILL AND JEAN . Tue Wass o° War Tue LAaMMIE CONTEMPLATION Mornine EXPEDITION To FIFE CALLER OysTERS Leira Races * . Domestic AFFECTIONS . Str Patrick SPens : : Kine Matcotm anp Sir CoLvin Fi ‘ : 3 : : JOHN 0’ HazELGREEN ‘ : Tue DrowneD Lovers : “ : 3 ‘ . Lorp DinewaLt . vii 16 19 24 29 44 55 59 191 192 199 203 209 227 , «230 237 247 295 302 330 354 361 362 aT 382 389 394 418 440 511 532 544 . 552 . 574 . 575 . . 597 . 654 658 665 (Aesuey wey Jo ely mag ) “STUIMAWIW AO SDWITMA - THE LIFE OF ALLAN RAMSAY. = teas No apology is needed to launch before the British public another edition of the works of Allan Ramsay. He was the poet of a time, if not of all time; and his ‘‘Gentle Shepherd” (not to specify some others of his works) entitles him to a distinguished place among the eminent men of his country. It is hardly possible to ignore the fact that Allan Ramsay is by no means so highly esteemed at present as he was in the eighteenth century. The greater brilliancy of Burns has thrown his glory into the shade. He is no longer, as he was a hundred and fifty years ago, the national poet of Scotland. Many good and true Scotsmen know little about him but his name; and scholars south of the Tweed think it quite sufficient to have dipped into his chef- @’euore with the assistance of a dictionary. But Allan Ramsay has become, if not a popular, at any rate a classic author, and no student of literature can be said to have fairly finished his education who has not read the ‘‘ Gentle Shepherd.” Without claiming for our author as high a pedestal as that occupied by the poet whose ‘Pastor Fido” he to some extent imitated, we cannot deny that he is entitled to a place in the same sanctuary. No admirer of Guarini will refuse his tribute of admiration to the pastoral dramatist of Scotland. It should be borne in mind by those who depreciate the works of this author, that there is an aristocracy of genius as well as of descent, and that all members of an aristocracy are to a certain extent equals. Dukes, Earls, and Barons are alike peers of the realm, and some baronets exist who have as good blood in them as the heir to the throne. So with Allan Ramsay. Whatever his relative position in the aristocracy of talent, he is still a poet, and as such requires the attention of the biographer. Allan Ramsay first saw the light on the 15th of October, 1686, at a place called Leadhill, in Lanarkshire. He was the son of one Robert ‘Ramsay, who superintended the lead-mills of Crauford Moor for Lord Hopetown, and the grandson of Robert Ramsay, a writer in Edinburgh. Captain John Ramsay was his great grandfather, and it is from this worthy that he derived some portion of that gentle blood of which he was so prone to boast, the captain being related in some remote manner to the Karls of Dalhousie. Ramsay’s mother was one Alice Bower, who claimed connection with the famous family of Douglas. Biography informs us, with a sort of triumph, that his grandmother was a Douglas, and moreover a Douglas of Muthill! This fact may not be interesting to English readers, but there can be little doubt that it was eminently so to our author, as well as to that numerous class of persons who imagine that a man of genius must necessarily have a pedigree, if you only search far enough and with sufficient zeal. “He was a poet sprung from a Douglas loin” are the poet’s own words, and one can imagine the pride with which they were written. Pride of ancestry is indeed a failing from which neither poets nor philosophers are exempt. They who are their own ancestors appear to take particular pleasure in depriving themselves of that crowning honour, and to accept of fame at second-hand rather than to acknowledge that they c ii THE LIFE OF ALLAN RAMSAY. are descended from nobody! When Napoleon said that he was his own grandfather, he said what few great men have been bold enough to say before or since; and Ramsay must he pardoned if he shared what is after all a common weakness. Perhaps as there are Buccleuchs who look with peculiar pleasure on their relationship (real or supposed) with the author of the “Waverley Novels,” so there may be Douglases of Muthill, and elsewhere, who may rejoice at the thought of being related to the author of the ‘“‘Gentle Shepherd.” At any rate there are Dalhousies who, if report speaks truly, find a particular charm in those lines of Ramsay in which he alludes to his paternal ancestry. “ Dalhousie of an auld descent, My chief, my stoup, my ornament,” are words not likely to give offence to any member of the Dalhousie family. Ramsay had the misfortune to lose his father while he was yet a child, and this loss was quickly followed by the comparative loss of his mother, who married again. Biographers— Ramsay had a host of biographers—are not quite certain whether this last was a bond-fide calamity, or whether it was not better for the future author to have a father of some sort rather than no father at all, even if that father took from him some of the maternal tenderness. At any rate it is certain that he received an early notice to quit from Mr. Crighton—such was the name of his second parent—and became, at the age of fifteen, apprentice to a wig-maker in Edinburgh, where, with his head moderately stocked with what knowledge he had picked up at the parish school, he set to work ‘‘ decorating” the heads of others. He appears to have got on pretty well at this business, and to have remained in it a considerable time with some credit as well as profit to himself. It was at twenty-six, namely in the year 1712, that he embarked in what must ever be considered a most serious undertaking for a young man entering life. He married—and all for love, as it appears—a young woman named Christian Ross, the daughter of a lawyer in Edinburgh, who promptly brought him a “strong, healthy child””—a nine months’ gift—who grew up to inherit his father’s genius. Each year for a considerable time did Mrs. Ramsay thus give proofs of her affection, and our author soon found himself the sire of a large family. It ought to be mentioned that this circumstance afforded him the liveliest satisfaction. About the time of his marriage Ramsay became a member of the ‘‘ Easy Club,” a society which he has immortalised in his writings, and whose sittings lasted till the Rebellion of 1715, when it was suppressed, not, however, before it had declared that Gawin Douglas (the ‘‘ Club” name of Allan Ramsay) ‘having behaved himself well for three years, was adjudged to be a gentleman.” Other distinction, however, had been conferred upon him, for a few months previously he had been chosen poet-laureate of the club. It may readily be conceived that this honour was not bestowed before he had given some proofs of his poetical ability. In fact he had read before the society several of his compositions, of which the earliest is a sort of ode dedicated to the ‘‘ Most Happy Members of the Easy Club,” and supposed to be his first attempt at versification. The ‘Elegy on Maggy Johnston’’—a humorous piece in which the author laments the shutting up of a favourite haunt in which he and his cronies used to meet for convivial purposes—is likewise one of his club poems. Others which he did not allow to be printed have since been brought to light; thanks to the zeal of some literary admirers who did not discover, till too late, that they were conferring a very questionable honour on the poet of their predilection. It was about the period of the Rebellion that Ramsay first directed his attention towards the publication of his pocms. His habits of business made him look upon the Muse as a sort of THE LIFE OF ALLAN RAMSAY. Wi stock in trade, which he was justified in putting out at interest. If he was favoured with celestial visits, he determined to make his visitor pay for her board and lodging. Other poets —Otway, Savage, Chatterton, Poe—have been starved out of house and home in their attempts to make a similar arrangement. But with Ramsay the main object in life was to get on, and it is presumable (from his peculiar tone of mind) that if he had found rhyming a bad business, he would have paid less attention to it. Ramsay’s first publications were a series of penny and halfpenny sheets, which were sold separately, and which seem to have partaken of the nature of street ballads. <‘‘ In this form,” says Mr. Chalmers, ‘‘ his poetry was at that time attractive, and the women of Edinburgh were wont to send out their children with a penny to buy ‘ Ramsay’s last piece.’”’ Herein consisted in a great measure the success of Allan Ramsay ; he suited his genius to his audience. He did not write epics, because he had doubtless discovered that there was no demand for epics. Probably if there had been a demand for them, he would have done his best to supply it. Meantime Pegasus was paying for his keep, and the pennies of the good people of Edinburgh were helping to feed the little mouths that no amount of epics would have appeased, even if their progenitor had been as great a man as Homer. Allan Ramsay, junior, the painter of future years, was now a little lad of two summers, the eldest of three children. Our author appears to have been occupied about this time in rummaging up some of the old literature of Scotland, and in the course of his researches came upon a humorous poem by James I. of Scotland, entitled ‘‘Christ’s Kirk on the Green.” This he published in 1716 (while he was yet carrying on the business of a wig-maker), with an original canto of his own, in the shape of a sequel. The publication met with so decided a success that Ramsay was induced, in 1718, to add a third part. These “modern antiques” were generally allowed by contemporary criticism to be at least equal to the original. How much praise that is, can only be ascertained by those who have the courage to wade through the two poems. Speaking of the modern work, Mr. Chalmers says that ‘‘it has puzzled all the commentators,” while he expresses a strong doubt whether Ramsay himself thoroughly understood the language of the poet whose work he was imitating. All things considered, it is better, perhaps, to be satisfied with the original verdict. Ramsay was now encouraged to make a collection of his fugitive pieces. He published them in 1721, under tke auspices of a long and fashionable list of subscribers, the volume being a handsome quarto, printed by Ruddiman. By this enterprise our author cleared four hundred guineas, a large sum, and which at once placed him in a foremost position among fortunate poets. It will be seen that Ramsay had a shrewd eye for business, and was far from endorsing the popular belief that a poet should necessarily be out at elbows. Meantime his ‘“ Christ’s Kirk on the Green” reached (1722) its fifth edition, and obtained for him the applause of many persons of wit and position. Among his eulogists were Sir William Scott, of Thirlstane, a contemporary poet, and Josiah Burchet, Secretary of the Admiralty, both of whom indited verses to him, which have been faithfully preserved by the lovers of Scottish minstrelsy. Ramsay’s next works were his “Yahles and ‘letes,” and a ‘Tale of Three Bonnets” (1722), his ‘Fair Assembly” (1723), and his poem on ‘t Health” (1724). These works were very favourably received at the time, but they do not appear, as a rule, to have fascinated the critics. Lord Woodhousclce speaks very flatteringly of the ‘‘ Monk and the Miller’s Wife,” a humorous poem of considerable merit, and even claims for Ramsay a place by the side of Chaucer and Boccacio. He speaks less enthusiastically of the ‘“ Fables,” which, with few exceptions, he observes are entitled to ‘‘no high commendation.” Perhaps, however, it will iv THE LIFE OF ALLAN RAMSAY. be found that Ramsay has as much right to be placed side by side with Aisop as to incur the odium of a comparison either with Chaucer or Boccacio. There is no surer way of depreciating a writer than by awarding him too much honour. In 1724 our author made his first large attempt at compilation, and published in one volume the first part of his ‘‘Tea-Table Miscellany,” a collection of Scottish and English songs, gallantly dedicated to ‘‘ilka lovely British lass wha dances barefoot on the green.” This volume met with great success, and was quickly followed by a second, which contained nearly a hundred original compositions, of which sixty were contributed by Ramsay himself, the rest being composed by some “ingenious young gentlemen,” tyros at the art of numbers who appear never to have reached Parnassus. However, this second volume was successful, and in 1727 Ramsay was induced to publish a third, he having at that time abandoned his trade of a wig-maker to adopt that of a bookseller. This congenial change no doubt contributed largely to his literary advancement, as he was thus enabled as a bookseller to propagate the fame he had acquired as a poet. An additional volume of the ‘‘ Miscellany’? was subsequently published, but whether edited by Ramsay is not determined. Ramsay’s collection ran through twelve editions, and is deservedly considered, at the present day, one of the best of the kind that has appeared in any country. Ramsay was now (1727) a man of some years and experience. He was not old, it is true, but as the French say, his ‘forty years were well counted.” He had established a reputation as a bookseller, and was on the high road to that competence which awaited him at the end of his career. But we must go back some years, namely to 1724, in order to follow his genius through its chronological development. He was already preparing at this period for the legitimate publication and extension of those two poems, ‘‘ Patie and Roger: a Pastoral” (included in his quarto of 1721), and ‘Jenny and Meggy”’ (published in 1723 with the ‘Fair Assembly’’), which were destined under the title of the ‘‘ Gentle Shepherd” to confer so much glory on the Scottish bard. But he was also engaged on a less successful work—a work which at the same time challenges and even provokes attention. No biography of Ramsay would be complete without a reference to the ‘ Evergreen,” that curious compilation of “Scots Poems” which gave rise to so much controversy after the death of the compiler. The “‘ Evergreen” was published in the October of 1724. It purported to be a collection of Scotch pieces written ‘by the ingenious before 1600.” The “ingenious,” however, are found to have contributed to it not only after 1600, but after 1700, and even after 1715. The most ingenious of these contributors was Allan Ramsay himself, who published in this collection his fine poem of the ‘‘ Vision,” which his enemies were apt to say was better than anything of Allan Ramsay’s! The ‘ Vision” was stated to have been ‘“ compylit in Latin, anno 1300,” and was signed Ax. Scor, which turns out on inspection to be a feigned name made up partly of the initials of the poet and partly of the word “Scot,” signifying Scotchman. The certainty of this deception at once places Ramsay in the category of such writers as Chatterton and Macpherson. There is no mincing the matter: Allan Ramsay was, to a certain extent—a very limited one, it must be allowed—a literary impostor. He inserted in his collection of ‘Scots Poems, wrote by the ingenious before 1600,” poems which he knew very well were written after 1700. But for the publication of the ‘‘Evergreen,” the world might never have learnt to doubt the veracity of Allan Ramsay. On the other nand, had the ‘‘ Evergreen” not come down to us, the ‘“Vision’”—its principal attraction—would have been wanting, and the poet would have lost one of the noblest of his laurels. It is better/ perhaps, as it is. At any rate it is certain, that what Ramsay has lost in character, he has gained in poetic fame. The world deals mercifully with literary frauds, ALLAN MAMSAYS NOWSE & Sor (High Street Lalinpureh | ee ee a. ee Oe ee THE LIFE OF ALLAN RAMSAY v the more so, perhaps, as the world is likely to be a gainer by them. On the other hand, who does not feel for those gentlemen who spent years of their lives in fruitless researches, all because a Ramsay would not own that he was the author of the ‘‘ Vision,” or a Chatterton that he wrote the ‘‘ Rowley Manuscripts” ? Perhaps the less we say on the matter the better for our author, who certainly deserves enough at our hands to be spared any unnecessary reproaches. There are spots on the sun; our author was not without his. His gravest fault: was that he was a dishonest editor. We must not forget, however, that he wrote one of the finest pastorals in any language, and that the authorship of the ‘‘Gentle Shepherd” is a passport to immortality as good as any that has been signed of late years. The ‘Gentle Shepherd” was first published in the year 1725, with a dedication to the Right Honourable Susanna, Countess of Eglintoun. Ramsay was very fond of attracting the rich. However lowly his Muse on some occasions (and on this occasion she was a buxom High- land lass), he lost no opportunity of introducing her into the best circles. The genesis of the “Gentle Shepherd” has been traced by some critics—and among others by Mr. Chalmers—to a passage in the ‘‘ Faérie Queen,”’ where a gentle shepherd is casually alluded to. But at most this derivation can concern the name only. The true origin of the poem, besides being in itself obvious, is well authenticated by no less an authority than Allan Ramsay himself, who pleads guilty to a gentle plagiarism of the ‘‘ Faithful Shepherd,” a work which he has imitated as well in dramatic construction as in poetical treatment. A year before the publication of his famous Pastoral, our author gave some account of it in a letter to his friend William Ramsay, of Templehall, which letter is still extant. ‘This vacation,” he says, ‘‘I am going through with a dramatic pastoral, which I design to carry the length of five acts, verse a’ the gate [all the way]; and if I succeed according to my plan, I hope to cope with the authors of ‘ Pastor Fido’ and ‘Aminta.’” No small pretension this, one would think, on the part of any poet ! For what writer would venture now-a-days, even in his most elated mood, to throw down a challenge to such authors as Guarini and Tasso! Ramsay, however, was well backed by his friends, and one of his critics (Lord Woodhouselee) distinctly asserts the superiority of the ‘Gentle Shepherd” over the two works which inspired it, more especially over the ‘‘Aminta.” After an elaborate inquiry into the relative claims of each, he descants—in terms that must be as flattering to the patriotism of a Scotchman as they must be unpalatable to his scholarship— on the superior claims of the Scottish poet. ‘If we compare him,” he observes (meaning Tasso), ‘‘ where the similarity of the subject allows a comparison with our author, how poor does the Italian appear in the competition!’’ This questionable verdict has been repeated by others, who are doubtless gratified on so good an authority to exalt their favourite bard without the preliminary trouble of examining the rival claimant. But no one indeed but a very partial Scotchman would have thought of instituting such a rivalry; and it is the best kindness as well as the truest wisdom to remember how much has been said about the odiousness of such comparisons. If Ramsay provoked them by his confidential letter to his friend, it must be remembered that that letter was confidential. Had he dreamed that it would have been published, it is more than probable that he would never have penned it; and we ought never to blame a mar for what has been raked up about him after his death. Let the ‘Gentle Shepherd ’’ stand on its own merits. It has too many of these to require any propping up by collateral circumstances; and this its admirers will discover if, setting aside the verdict of Lord Woodhouselee, they judge it in connection with that society and that natural scenery of which it is the poetical embodiment. No opinion of any single man should be taken on such a subject. For who is better entitled to an opinion than Ramsay’s own son, a painter, and to vt THE LIFE OF ALLAN RAMSAY. some extent a follower of the Muses? And yet Ramsay the Younger had a poor opinion of his father’s masterpiece. Nay, Ramsay himself, at a late period of his life, regretted that half of his works had not been burnt before going to press; and Guarini much deplored that he could not have an opportunity of rewriting the whole of the ‘Pastor Fido!” The world forms its own opinion on these matters in spite both of author and critic; and will neither concede to Ramsay the merit of having eclipsed his predecessors, nor sanction any destruction of his verses which shall include the ‘‘ Gentle Shepherd.” It has worthily stood the test of generations, resisting at once the attacks of foes and the flatteries of friénds, whose kindness is oftentimes more damaging than the shafts of enmity. On the whole, its place is well marked; and without agreeing with Burns that it is the ‘‘most glorious poem ever written” (which would be doing injustice, by the way, to Burns’s own productions of ‘‘Tam o’ Shanter” and the ‘‘ Cotter’s Saturday Night’’), we must agree with Mr. Chalmers in saying that it is ‘‘ one of the finest pastoral comedies in any language,” and honour its author to the end that he may in no wise be excluded from the glorious fraternity of poets. No congress of bards would be complete without him, and though neither a Guarinin or a Tasso, he is yet (in royal parlance) the “very good brother ”’ of Shakspere himself, who only excelled him, as he excels others, by his superabundance of: that fire without which no such poem as the ‘‘ Gentle Shepherd ” could have been penned. It must be mentioned of this ‘‘ Pastoral” that it was written for dramatic repre- sentation as well as for the field and the study, and that it held honourable and successful possession of the stage. It ‘nad-Bone through many editions, almost as many as any secondary work in the language. ‘It is immensely popular in certain parts of Scotland, where persons gifted with the power of Lady Strange * are by no means uncommon. It is to the Scottish peasantry what the ‘‘ Jerusalem Delivered” is to the boatmen of Venice. It is sung and recited at their wakes, on festive and on homely occasions. Though Ramsay has been in a measure dethroned by Robert Burns, his chief work has not been cast down. Burns did it notable honour, and took it with him to the pedestal of his predecessor. Ramsay’s next work was a ‘ Collection of Thirty Fables,” published in 1730, a species of composition in which he delighted, but which was hardly the most successful of his minor efforts. He was now forty-five years of age, having, during twenty of those years, as is quaintly observed by one of his biographers, endeavoured to ‘ please his countrymen and to benefit himself.” He now appears to have rested from his labours, for in a letter dated 1736, he says, ‘‘ these six or seven years past I have not written a line of. poctry. I e’en gave over in good time, before the coolness of fancy that attends advanced years should make me risk the reputation I had acquired.” trees In the meantime he had been devoting himself with increased energy to his business, which was now in a flourishing condition. He had removed from his original shop in Niddry’s Close to one in the High Street, where he changed his sign of the ‘‘Mercury”’ for one comprising the heads of Ben Jonson and William Drummond. He now began to let out books as well as to sell them, and to him belongs the honour of having established the first circulating library in Scotland. He was the Mudie of his day, and his shop, like that of the barber’s of * This lady is reported, on the authority of Mr. Thompson, the publisher and correspondent of Burns, to have defended Ramsay the poet against Ramsay the painter. The latter had been speaking rather unfeolingly of his father’s works, observing that if he could buy them—buy them up even at the cost of £1,000—he would commit them to the flames. “Indeed, sir,” replied tho lady, “then let me tell you that if you could and should do so, your labour would be lost, for I can repeat from memory every word of the ‘Gentle Shepherd,’ and were you to consume every copy of it, I would write out that matchless poem with my own hand, and cause it to bo printed at my own charge.” ALLAN RAMSAYS HOUSE. (Ramsay Terrace , Castle Hill.) THE LIFE OF ALLAN RAMSAY. vii Spain, was the resort at once of wits and dandies and those who had secrets to learn or to divulge. He was, in fact, a sort of literary Figaro, esteemed and required by all who had a penchant for literature, or whose flirtations with the Muses required a sponsor or a confidant. He was a ‘‘crony” of many persons of distinction, among whom was the poet Gay, and had the satisfaction of being admired by Alexander Pope. Among his intimate friends may be cited Lord Lyon Brodie, Sir John Clerk, Sir William Rennet, Sir Alexander Dick, Sir William Scott, and, if report speak truth, the Duke of Hamilton and the Earl of Loudoun, at whose houses he assuredly visited, and that on more than one occasion. The wig-maker’s apprentice had thus, in a comparatively short period, elevated himself to a place of high social distinction, and compelled society to do him honour both as a bard and a bookseller. But an evil hour was in store for him. He was destined at one blow to lose much of his well-acquired fortune, and to see the blighting of his hopes from a quarter whence he expected encouragement. It was at the age of fifty, namely in the year 1736, that his passion for the stage led him to commit the only blunder that has been recorded of him. He built a large theatre in Carruber’s Close at his own expense, and brought together and superintended a troop of actors. He had his own notions about the drama, which were peculiar enough in his age, but which would hardly, perhaps, distinguish a man in this. He thought dramatic representation a happy medium for instructing and purifying the masses. Doubtless a more selfish motive operated on his conduct, and as poetry had been a trade, so philanthropy was, to some extent, a speculation with him. He did not build his theatre from motives of sheer benevolence. He expected— and reasonably enough—a good return for his money. But in this he was disappointed ; for in less than a year-his theatre was shut up, consequent on the passing of a law for stage licences, and our author was nearly reduced to bankruptcy. He bore up bravely, however, against his adversity, and in ten years’ time, after having repaired his shattered fortuncs, he had the satisfaction of seeing the drama re-established in Edinburgh on a permanent if not on altogether a legitimate footing.* Previous to this time his wife died (1743), plunging him into intense grief, but eliciting no elegy from her poet-husband. Ramsay’s gifts were the reverse of Byron’s; he could not sing on a home-sorrow; and partly on this account, and partly on account of his vow (he had pledged himself to write ‘‘no more poetry”), grubbers up of literary scandal have no opportunity of peering into the secret heart of Allan Ramsay. There can be no doubt that he was deeply attached to his wife, whose three daughters can but indifferently have supplied her place. He retired from business in 1755, and built a house of retreat on the Castle Hill, in which he lived till the end of his days. This arrived sooner than he expected, for after having at the age of seventy infringed his own law, and written rhyme if not ‘‘reason” to foretell his own death thirty years after date, he expiredin some degree shattered by a violent scurvy that had affected his gums—on the 7th day of January, 1758. So died, at the venerable age of seventy-two, this remarkable man, who is one of the few poets who have made a competency out of their writings, and who enjoyed in his lifetime a celebrity but too often only accorded to the dead. * “In 1739, the parliament was moved for legal authority to establish a playhouse at Edinburgh, which was refused, because the spirit of certain classes of the people was not prepared to endure salutary mirth. They were protected in the enjoyment of their gloom by the licence act, which was ere long circumvented. It was in 1741 that Thomas Este established a theatre in the Taylor’s Hall, under the pretenco of giving a concert of music. In 1746, a theatre was built in the Canongate, where plays were acted, at stated times, under a similar evasion.”—Chalmers’ Life of Ramsay. REMARKS ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF ALLAN RAMSAY. By Wm. Fraser Tyrer, Lorp WoopHOUSsELEE. As the writings of Allan Ramsay have now stood the test of the public judgment during more than seventy years,* and, in the opinion of the best critics, he seems to bid fair to maintain his station among our poets, it may be no unpleasing nor uninstructive employment to examine the grounds on which that judgment is founded ; to ascertain the rank which he holds in the scale of merit; and to state the reasons that may be given for assigning him that distinguished place among the original poets of his country to which I conceive he is entitled. The genius of Ramsay was original, and the powers of his untutored mind were the gift of nature freely exercising itself within the sphere of its own observation. Born in a wild country, and accustomed to the society of its rustic inhabitants, the poet’s talents found their first exercise in observing the varied aspects of the mountains, rivers, and valleys, and the no less varied though simple manners of the rude people with whom he conversed. He viewed the former with the enthusiasm which, in early childhood, is the inseparable attendant of genius ; and on the latter he remarked with that sagacity of discriminating observation which instructed the future moralist and gave the original intimations to the contemporary satirist. With this predisposition of mind, it is natural to imagine that the education which he certainly received opened to him such sources of instruction as English literature could furnish ; and his kindred talents directed his reading chiefly to such of the poets as occasion threw in his way. Inheriting that ardour of feeling which is generally accompanied with strong sentiments of moral excellence, and keenly awake even to those slighter deviations from propriety which constitute the foibles of human conduct, he learned, as it were from intuition, the glowing language which is best fitted for the scourge of vice, as well as the biting ridicule which is the most suitable corrective of gross impropriety, without deviating into personal lampoon. A consciousness of his own talents induced Ramsay to aspire beyond the situation of a mere mechanic ; and the early notice which his first poetical productions procured him was ¢ natural motive for the experiment of a more liberal profession, which connected him easily with those men of wit who admired and patronised him. As a bookseller he had access to a more respectable class in society. We may discern, in the general tenor of his compositions, a respectful demeanour towards the great and the rich, which, though it never descends to adula- tion or servility, and generally seeks for an apology in some better endowments than mere birth or fortune, is yet a sensible mark that these circumstances had a strong influence on his mind. Ashe extended the sphere of his acquaintance, we may presume that his knowledge of * [a.p, 1800.] THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF ALLAN RAMSAY. in men and acquaintance with manners were enlarged; and in his latter compositions we may discern a sufficient intelligence of those general topics which engaged the public attention. The habits of polite life and the subjects of fashionable conversation were become familiar at this time to the citizens of Edinburgh, from the periodical papers of Addison and Steele ; and the wits of Balfour’s Coffee-house—Forrester, Falconer, Bennet, Clerk, Hamilton of Bangour, Preston, and Crawfurd *—were a miniature of the society which was to be met with at Will’s and Button’s. The political principles of Ramsay were those of an old Scotchman, proud of his country, delighted to call to mind its ancient honours while it held the rank of a distinct kingdom, and attached to the succession of its ancient princes. Of similar sentiments, at that time, were many of the Scottish gentry. The chief friends of the poet were probably men whose senti- ments on those subjects agreed with his own; and the Easy Club, of which he was an original member, consisted of youths who were anti-unionists. Yet among the patrons of Ramsay were some men of rank who were actuated by very different principles, and whose official situation would have made it improper for them openly to countenance a poet whose opinions were obnoxious to the rulers of his country. Of this he was aware; and putting a just value on the friendship of those distinguished persons, he learnt to be cautious in the expression of any opinions which might risk the forfeiture of their esteem: hence he is known to have sup- pressed some of his earlier productions which had appeared only in manuscript; and others, which prudence forbade him to publish, were ushered into the world without his name, and’ even with false signatures. Among the former was a poem to the memory of the justly cele- brated Dr. Pitcairne, which was printed by the Easy Club, but never published; and among the latter is ‘‘The Vision,” which he printed in the ‘‘ Evergreen,” with the signature of Ar. Scor.t In Ramsay’s ‘‘ Vision,” the author, in order to aid the deception, has made use of a more antiquated phraseology than that which we find in his other Scottish poems: but it evidently appears from this attempt, and from the two cantos which he added to King James I.’s ludicrous satire of ‘“‘Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” that Ramsay was not much skilled in the ancient Scottish dialect. Indeed the Glossary which he annexed to the two quarto volumes of his poems, wherein are many erroneous interpretations, is of itself sufficient proof of this assertion. In compiling the Glossary to his ‘‘ Evergreen,” Lord Hailes has remarked, that he does not seem ever to have consulted the Glossary to Douglas’s “Virgil ;” ‘and yet they who have not consulted it cannot acquire a competent knowledge of the ancient Scottish dialect, unless by infinite and ungrateful labour.”{ A part of this labour undoubtedly may be ascribed to * To the three last of these we owe the words of son-2 of the best of the Scottish songs which are to be found in “ The Tea-table Miscellany.” + See “Observations on the Vision,” by William Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee, in the first volume of the “Transactions of Scottish Antiquaries, where that poem, and “The Eagle and Robin Redbreast,” are proved to be both written by Allan Rameay. + I am convinced, however, from a comparison of many of Ramsay’s interpretations, Loth in the Glossary to the “Evergreen,” printed in 1724, and in that which is subjoined to his poems, with the interpretations given by Ruddiman in the Glossary to G. Douglas’s “ Virgil,” that Ramsay had made frequent use of the latter for the explanation of the most antiquated words; though he does not seem to have studied it with that care which his duty as an editor of ancient Scottish poetry certainly required. In proof of this, his obligations to Ruddiman’s Glossary, the reader has only to compare, with the interpretations in that work, the following, given by Rameay in the Glossary to his Poems: Bodin, Brankan, Camskough, Dern, Douks, Dynes, Elrituh Ettle, Freck, Gousty, Moup, Pawky, Withershins ; snd the following in the Glossary to the “ Evergreen :" Crawdon, Galziart, Ithandly, Ourefret, Ruse, Schent, &e. 4 x THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS Ramsay, when he selected and transcribed, from the Bannatyne Manuscript, those ancient poems which chiefly compose the two volumes of his ‘‘ Evergreen : ” and hence, it is probable, he derived the most of what he knew of the older dialect of his country. His own stock was nothing else than the oral language of the farmers of the Lothians and the common talk of the citizens of Edinburgh, to which his ears were constantly accustomed. A Scotchman, in the age of Ramsay, generally wrote in English; that is, he imitated the style of the English writers ; but when he spoke he used the language of his country. The sole peculiarity of the style of Ramsay is, that he transferred the oral language to his writings. He could write, as some of his compositions evince, in a style which may be properly termed English verse ; but he wrote with more ease in the Scottish dialect, and he preferred it, as judging, not unreasonably, that it conferred a kind of Doric simplicity, which, when he wished to paint with fidelity the manners of his countrymen and the peculiarities of the lower orders, was extremely suitable to such subjects. From these considerations, one cannot but wonder at the observation, which is sometimes made even by Scotchmen of good taste, that the language of ‘‘The Gentle Shepherd” disgusts from its vulgarity. It is true that in the present day the Scottish dialect is heard only in the mouths of the lowest of the populace, in whom it is generally associated with vulgarity of sentiment ; but those critics should recollect that it was the language of the Scottish people which was to be imitated, and that too of the people upwards of a century ago, if we carry our mind back to the epoch of the scene. If Ramsay had made the shepherds of the Lowlands of Scotland, in the middle of the seventeenth century, speak correct. English, how preposterous would have been such a.compo- sition! But with perfect propriety he gave them the language which belonged to them; and if the sentiments of the speakers be not reproachable with unnecessary vulgarity, we cannot with justice associate vulgarism with a dialect which in itself is proper, and in its application is characteristic. After all, what is the language of Ramsay but the common speech of York- shire during the last century ? * But, as associated ideas arise only where the connection is either in itself necessary, or the relation is so intimate the two ideas are seldom found disunited, so, of late years, that dis- union has taken place in a twofold manner; for the language even of the common people of Scotland is gradually refining, and coming nearer to the English standard; and it has for- tunately happened that the Scottish dialect has lately been employed in compositions of tran- scendant merit, which have not only exhibited the finest strokes of the pathetic, but have attained even to a high pitch of the sublime. For the truth of this observation, we may appeal to ‘The Cottar’s Saturday Night,” and ‘‘ The Vision of Burns.’ In these the language, so far from conveying the idea of vulgarity, appears most eminently suited to the sentiment, which seems to derive, from its simplicity, additional tenderness and superior elevation.+ * See “A Yorkshire Dialogue in its pure Natural Dialect;” printed at York, 1684. + As the Scottish language has, to an Englishman, the air of an antiquated tongue, it will be relished as such in grave compositions, on the principle assigned by Quintilian: “ Propriis verbis dignitatem dat antiquitas ; namque et sanctiorem et magis admirabilem reddunt orationem, quibus non quilibet fuerit usurus: eoque ornamento acerrimi judicii Virgilius unicé est usus. OLLI enim et QUIANAM, ef mis et PONE, pellucent et aspergunt illam, que etiam in picturis est gratissima, vetustatis inimitabilem arti auctoritatem.” (Inst. Orat. lib. vii. ¢. 3.) That the Scottish language is relished by an English ear on a kindred principle, is acknowledged by a very excellent critic: “I suspect,” says Mr. Aiken, after bestowing a very just encomium on the “ Gentle Shepherd,” as approaching nearer to nature than any other pastoral, “that Ramsay gains a great advantage among us by writing in the Scotch dialect : this not being familiar to us, and scarcely understood, softens the harsher parts, and gives a kind of foreign air that eludes the critic’s severity.” (‘ Essays on Song-writing,” p. 34.) OF ALLAN RAMSAY. x1 The Scotch and the English languages are, indeed, nothing more than different dialects of the same radical tongue, namely, the Anglo-Saxon ; and setting prejudice apart (which every preference, arising from such associations as we have mentioned, must be), it would not perhaps be difficult, on a fair investigation of the actual merits of both the dialects, to assert the supe- rior advantages of the Scottish to the English for many species of original composition. But a discussion of this kind would lead too far ; and it is but incidentally connected with the proper subject of these remarks.* It is enough to say that the merits of those very compositions, on which we are now to offer some remarks, are of themselves a sufficient demonstration of the powers of that language in which chiefly they are composed, for many, if not for all, the purposes of poetry. The earlier of the poems of Ramsay were printed in single sheets of a quarto and octavo form. Of these many copies are yet to be found; but as they are generally without a date, it is not possible to ascertain with certainty the order in which they were composed. It is probable, however, that the arrangement of the first quarto collection of the author’s works, printed in 1721, is nearly chronological, as, except a few of the songs, which are thrown together, the poems appear without any connection of subject or style ; alternately serious and burlesque, moral and satirical; and such of them as bear their dates, are in their proper order with respect to each other. Yet it is probable that Ramsay had been pretty much practised in versification before he wrote that piece which stands first in order in the quarto volume, as it displays a facility of numbers and a command of poetical expression which are rarely to be seen in firstattempts. ‘‘The Morning Interview” is written with ease and sprightliness, on a trifling subject—a morning visit of a beau to his mistress. It pleases, as a picture of the beaumonde of Edinburgh near a century ago, whon the celobrated John Law,t the future * A learned writer has published, in the ‘‘ Transactions of the Society of Scottish Antiquaries,” a Dissertation on the Scoto-Saxon Dialect, of which, as the work is not in everybody’s hands, the reader may not bo displeased with a short account. The author maintains this proposition—that the Scoto-Saxon dialect was, at the time of the union of the two nations, equal in every respect, and in some respects superior, to the Anglo- Saxon dialect. He lays it down as a principle, that three things constitute the perfection, or rather the relative superiority, of a language—richness, energy, and harmony. He observes, that a language is rich in proportion to the copiousness of its vocabulary, which will principally depend, 1, on the number of its primitive or radical words ; 2, on the multiplicity of its derivations and compounds; and 3, on the variety of its inflections. In all, or almost all of these respects, he shows the superiority of the Scottish dialect of the Saxon to the English. The Scotch have all the English primitives, and many hundreds besides. The Scotch have derivatives from diminution, which the English entirely want; ¢.g., hat, hatty, hattiky ; lass, lassie, lassiky. The degrees of diminution are almost unlimited—wife, wifie, wifiky, wee wifiky, wee-wee wifiky, &c. Both the English and Scotch dialects are poor in the inflections ; but the Glossary to Douglas’s “‘ Virgil” will show that the Scottish inflections are both more various and less anomalous than the English. Energy is the boast both of the English and the Scottish dialects; but, in this author’s opinion, the Scottish poetry can furnish some compo- sitions of far superior energy to any contemporary English production. With respect to harmony, he gives his suffrage likewise in favour of the Scottish dialect. He observes, that the sh rarely occurs; its place being supplied by the simple s, as in polis, punis, sall, &c. The s itself is often supplied by the liquids m or; as in expreme, depreme ; compone, depone. Harsh combinations of consonants are avoided; as in using sel, twal, neglek, temp, stown or stawn, for self, twelve, neglect, tempt, stolen. Even the vowel sounds are, in this author’s opinion, more harmonious in the Scotch than in the English dialect, as the open a, and the proper [talic sound of 7. For further elucidation of this curious subject, the Dissertation itself must be referred to, which will abundantly satisfy the critical reader. It is proper here to observe, that the remarks of this writer are the more worthy of attention that he is himself an excellent Scottish poet, as the compositions subjoined to his Dissertation clearly evince.—{‘‘ Three Scottish Poems, with a previous Dissertation on the Scoto-Saxon Dialect,” by the Rev. Alexander Geddes, LL.D. ‘Transactions of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland,” vol i. p. 402.) + Law was an egregious fop. He was commonly termed “Jessamy John,” from perfuming his shoes with oil of jessamine. Beau Forrester once exhibited himself in a chintz nightgown, and was dressed and powdered by his valet de chambre, on an open balcony in the High Street of Edinburgh. xii THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS projector of the Mississippi scheme, reigned sovereign of the fashions; and in the early part of that period, when Forrester, known afterwards as the Polite Philosopher, gave the laws of taste and elegance. The mention of the sylphs in ‘‘ The Morning Interview,” shows that it was composed after the publication of the second edition of ‘‘ The Rape of the Lock,” in which that happy machinery was first introduced, and, consequently, assigns it a date subsequent to 1712. We may pre- sume, therefore, that it was a later composition than that which stands next to it in the quarto collection. The ‘ Elegy on Maggy Johnston” was, it is probable, among the first compositions which the author allowed to appear in print. It isin that style in which certainly lay his chief talent—ludicrous and natural description of low life. It is written in the character of a good- humoured joyous toper, lamenting in burlesque, but cordial strains of regret, the privation of an accustomed haunt, where he and his cronies were wont to resort for the purpose of enjoying a country dinner and a social bowl. Maggy Johnston lived at a small hamlet, called Morning Side, about a mile to the south-westward of Edinburgh. - \ Of a similar character with this composition is the ‘Elegy on Lucky Wood,” who kept an alehouse in the suburbs; and who is celebrated as a rare phenomenon—an upright and conscientious hostess. Both these poems are characteristic of times and of manners. The concluding stanza of the latter exhibits a stroke of genuine poetry :- “O Lucky Wood! ’tis hard to bear Thy loss :—but oh! we maun forbear ! Yet sall thy memory be dear While blooms a tree ; And after-ages’ bairns will speer Bout thee—and me.” In the same strain of burlesque composition is the ‘‘ Elegy on John Cowper, the Kirk- treasurer’s Man,” which is dated in 1714. The hint of this jew d’esprit was probably taken from Pope and Swift’s account of the death of Partridge, the almanac-maker ; for John Cowper survived this intimation of his decease, and must have had his ears frequently stunned with this ludicrous encomium on his merits, which was hawked about the streets in a halfpenny sheet. The Kirk-treasurer and his man, who were personages of signal importance in those days, when the discipline of the Kirk savoured strongly of puritanism, and the stool of repentance was in habitual use, were fair objects of satire to the rakish wits who suffered from the vigilant discharge of their duty. Pennycuik the younger, a poet of no mean talents, in ludicrous Scottish verse, has an elegy in the same strain on Robert Forbes, who was probably John Cowper’s successor in office. This bard, who was a contemporary of Ramsay, and who appears frequently to have chosen, from emulation, to celebrate the same topics of the day, has satirised the Kirk- treasurer, in a composition entitled ‘‘The Presbyterian Pope,” in strains of great; humour and drollery.* “Lucky Spence’s Last Advice” is from the same mint with the preceding compositions, * I have seen a burlesque imitation of Horace’s Ode, “ Integer vite,” in English sapphics, by Allan Ramsay the younger (author of some ingenious essays under the title of “The Investigator,” who inherited a considerable portion of his father’s wit), in which the wild beast of the Sabine Forest, which frightened the poet while he was singing the charme of his mistress, Lalage (namque me sylua lupus in Sabina), is parodied by the suddea appearance of the Kirk-treasurer’s man to rake, in his nocturnal rambles, OF ALLAN RAMBAY. xiii and of its most perfect coinage. The subject being the last words of a dying bawd, I grant, is scarcely fit ‘‘for modest ear or eye ;” but the moral is strongly pointed : “ Quo. semel est imbuta recens servabit odorem Testa diu 2 “ Such in these moments as in all the past.” Even a death-bed to the hardened sinner brings no repentance. The old procuress instructs her pupils, with her latest breath, in the arts of their vocation, and dies with a glass of gin in her hand. So Pope’s expiring courtier— “The courtier smooth, who forty years had shinea An humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir— ‘If—where I’m going—I could serve you, sir.’ ” Of a similar character, and of a tendency more strongly moral, is ‘‘ The Last Speech of a Wretched Miser,” a satire of very high merit, whether we consider the intimate knowledge of human nature which it displays, the force of humorous description, or the salutary lesson which it inculcates. The character of a miser, even from the pencil of a Moliere, is not drawn with greater force of expression or truth of colouring; nor has the power of this most odious vice to extinguish every moral feeling and sentiment of natural affection ever been set in a stronger light of reprobation :— “© gear! I held you lang thegither ; For you I’ve starved my gude auld mither, And to Virginia sald my brither, And crush’d my wife : But now I’m gaun I kenna whither, To leave my life. “My life! my God, my spirit yearns, Not on my kindred, wife or bairns ; Sic are but very laigh concerns, Compared with thee ; When now this mortal rottle warns Me, I maun die.” It seems to have been a favourite whim of Ramsay’s, as it was the practice of the age, to write elegies on the living : a fancy in which there is fully as much propriety asin familiar letters from the dead to the living: the former is a harmless jest; the latter, however well intended, an awful and presumptuous fiction. We may freely amuse ourselves with ‘The Life and Acts,” or, “ An Elegy on Patie Birnie, The famous fiddler of Kinghorn, Wha gart the lieges laugh and girn aye, Aft till the coek proclaim’d the morn.” This catgut-scraper, like the minstrels of old, was a poet as well as a musician, a rogue too of infinite humour ; in short, conversant in the arts of his profession. From the mention of this Scotch Crowdero we are led to remark that the strongest test of the merits of Ramsay, as a characteristic painter of nature, and of his peculiar excellence in humorous description, is the compliment paid him by the inimitable Hogarth, who dedicated his twelve plates of ‘‘Hudibras,” to Allan Ramsay, of Edinburgh, and William Wood, of Great Houghton in Northamptonshire.” xiv THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS The silken plaid, which at the period of the Union was the universal attire of the Scottish ladies, and which is capable of more graceful variety of adjustment than any other piece of female dress,* was beginning to be laid aside by many of the fair sex, after the rebellion in 1715, probably from being considered as a mark of a party. Ramsay had no dislike to it on that account, and he admired it as an elegant and decorous piece of dress. He resolved tc vindicate its merits, and turn, if possible, the tide of fashion which threatened to strip his countrywomen of their appropriate ornament. ‘‘ Tartana, or the Plaid,” is written in English verse, and affords of itself sufficient proof that had its author been a native of the southern part of the island he would have held no mean rank in the catalogue of English poets. Ramsay would have been a poet in any language, if, as he truly observes, ‘‘ good imagery, just similes, and all manner of ingenious thoughts in a well-laid design, disposed into numbers, is poetry.”+ The ‘¢ Tartana’ accords in every particular with this standard. In celebrating the distinguishing dress of the Caledonian nymphs, they themselves are with propriety his muses :— “Ye Caledonian beauties, who have long ‘Been both the muse and subject of my song, Assist your bard, who in harmonious lays Designs the glories of your plaid to raise. How my fond breast with blazing ardour glows, Whene’er my song on you just praise bestows! Phebus, and his imaginary nine, With me have lost the title of divine; To no such shadows will I homage pay ; These to my real muses must give way : My muses, who on smooth meand’ring Tweed, Stray through the groves, or grace the clover mead ; Or those who bathe themselves where haughty Clyde Does roaring o’er his lofty cataracts ride ; Or you, who on the banks of gentle Tay Drain from the flowers the early dews of May ;— Inspir’d by you, what poet can desire To warm his genius at a brighter fire?” He begins by celebrating the antiquity of this attire :— “The Plaid’s antiquity comes first in view : Precedence to antiquity is due: Antiquity contains a potent spell To make even things of little worth excel ; To smallest subjects gives a glaring dash, Protecting high-born idiots from the lash : Much more ’tis valued when with merit placed— It graces merit, and by merit’s graced.” With what dexterity is the side-stroke of satire here given! It is the favourite weapon of the poet, and he is completely master of its exercise. He proceeds to contrast the easy elegance of the plaid with the stiff and formal drapery of the French toilette. He notices its additional value, as being the labour of the ladies’ hands; he reviews the most remarkable of the Scottish beauties who wore this becoming attire; he enumerates its properties, as ehielding alike from heat, from cold, from rain, from dust; and, * See the beautiful antique statue of the vestal, improperly called the “ Zingara;” and the figure of the bride in the Aldobrandini marriage. + Preface to the 4to edition. OF ALLAN RAMSAY. XY finally, as improving, by half concealing, the female charms. He deduces its origin in a beautiful fiction from the Pagan mythology, adding a new amour of Jupiter to the Ovidian catalogue. In the two supplemental cantos of ‘‘Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” the poet appears again in the style in which he peculiarly excelled—humourous description of vulgar life. The first canto is one of the many compositions of that most accomplished prince, James I. of Scotland, of whom says Major, the historian, ‘‘ Codices plurimi et cantilene memoriter adhuc apud Scotos habentur.” * It describes with great humour and pleasantry a brawl at a country wake, or dancing bout, probably on occasion of a wedding. ‘‘ The king,” says Ramsay, ‘‘ having painted the rustic squabble with an uncommon spirit, ambitious to imitate so great an original, I put a stop to the war, called a congress, and made them sign a peace, that the world might have their picture in the more agreeable hours of drinking, dancing, and singing.” This was a bold attempt; but the poet knew his own powers, and has executed his part in a most masterly manner. The quarrel is put an end to, in the first stanza, by the intervention of a tremendous figure, @eo¢g amo pnxarvnc. It is not “ The blue-eyed maid, Who to its sheath returns the shining blade ;” But @ personage equally awful :— “ But now the bauld gudewife of Baith, Arm’d wi’ a great kail-gully, Came belly-flaught, and loot an aith, She’d gar them a’ be hooly Fou fast that day.” * The circumstance of James V. inheriting this talent of his ancestor, and having like him composed humorous ballads, particularly the well-known song of the “Gaberlunzie Man,” describing a frolic of his own in the disguise of a beggar, has given rise to the doubt whether the poem of “ Christ’s Kirk” was not likewise the composition of the latter prince; but the controversy is decided by a twofold mode of proof: (1) intrinsic evidence ; and (2) positive testimony. The language of the first canto of “ Christ’s Kirk ” will appear to those who are critically skilled in the Scottish dialect, to be evidently that of a much older period than the language of the “ Gaberlunzie Man,” or the common language of the age of James V., who was born in 1511, and died in 1542. The improvement, or at least the change produced by the lapse of a century, is plainly observable on the slightest comparison of thetwo. Inthe “ Gaberlunzie Man” the language is very little different from that which is spoken at present by the vulgar in Tweeddale, Clydesdale, the Merse, the Lothians, and the Lowlands of Scotland; nor is there a single word or phrase in that song which the common people in those parts of the country at this day do not understand. In the poem of “ Christ’s Kirk” there occur such words and phrases almost in every stanza as—thir lasses licht of laitis—gluris of the raffel richt—shune of the straits—when men them nicht—her rude was reid—scho bad gae chat him—as he could lanss—the kensie cleihit to the cavell—he cheisit a flane—cheir him—chard him—ane hasty hensure callit Hary—the reird raise rudely wi the rapps—he was not yowden, &. &c. These are expressions which no Scotchman of the present day can interpret without the help of a glossary, or without etymological conjecture, and study of the context. The vicious taste of alliteration in poetry was prevalent in the age of James I. It was a favourite ornament of his own style, as the ballad of “Peeblis to the Play, or at Beltayn,” proves—a composition in every circumstance of subject, style, and manner go entirely resembling “ Christ’s Kirk,” as to leave no doubt that they are the work of the same hand. Alliteration abounds in the first canto of “ Christ’s Kirk ;” but it was exploded in the time of James V., at least with all men of taste: there is not a trace of it in the “ Gaberlunzie Man.” In short, there is as remarkable a difference betwixt the style of the latter composition and that of the former (though similarity of subject would naturally have induced similarity of expression) as there is between the language of Lydgate (I had almost said of Chaucer) and that of Spenser. But the positive testimony is decisive. Bannatyne was a contemporary of James V.; he was a curious collector of poetry, and, without doubt, perfectly well acquainted with all the king’s compositions. James V. died in 1542, in the thirty-first year of his age. Bannatyne’s collection, the labour of many years, was finished in 1568; and he asserts “‘ Christ’s Kirk” to have been composed by James the First—‘ Quod King James I” If this be an erroneous assertion, it would be just such a mistake as if Dodsley, in his collection, had assigned Gray’s ‘‘ Elegy in a Country Churchyard” to Abraham Cowley. (See various other arguments in “ Poetical Remains of James I,” printed at Edinburgh in 1783.) xvi THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS Terrified into good order, after a slight skirmish between a noisy poltroon and a termagant, the parties with one consent shake hands, adjust their dishevelled locks, tie their cravats, and call in the fiddler. A scene ensues of frolic and jollity, which furnishes a picture that Hogarth could not have easily improved. The variety of humorous characters, and their several employments in the piece, evince the most thorough acquaintance with rustic life and manners. The bold and sturdy hostess; the braggadocio, who lay quiet while the fray was at its height, and whose courage rises when the danger is over; the priggish tadlor who affects the airs of a courtly dancer, Falkland bred; the little short-legged gentleman, who makes up in pride what he wants in stature, and who damns the fiddle and calls for the pipes ; Tam Lutter, who scorns all amuse- ment but the tankard ; the self-important parish clerk (the ‘‘letter-gae of haly rhyme’’), who sits at the head of the board, and whose opinions it was unlawful to contradict or question ;—all are painted with exquisite humour; each with the strongest characters of discrimination, and with the strictest consonance to nature, from which the poet drew. The two supplemental cantos of ‘‘ Christ’s Kirk’? were written, the one in 1715, and the other in 1718. The latter is of equal merit with the former. It opens with a description of the morning, as rising on the jolly villagers, who are unusually drowsy from the last night’s debauch. Here let us, by the way, remark the difference between witty and humorous com- position. Butler and Ramsay were each possessed of both wit and humour in no ordinary measure; but the former quality predominated with the English bard, the latter with the Scottish. Butler thus describes the morning, ludicrously but wittily :— “The sun had long since in the lap Of Thetis taken out his nap, And, like a lobster boil’d, the morn From black to red began to turn.” This pleases as an ingenious piece of wit. The whimsicalness of the comparison makes us smile; but it is no just picture of nature, and therefore it is not humorous. Now mark the humour with which Ramsay describes the dawn, as rising upon his jolly company at the bridal: a little coarseness must be excused ; the picture otherwise had rot been faithful :— “ Now frae th’ east nook of Fife, the dawn Speel’d westlines up the lift ; Carles, wha heard the cock had crawn, Begoud to rax and rift ; And greedy wives, wi’ girning thrawn, Cried, ‘ Lasses, up to thrift.’ Dogs barked, and the lads frae hand Bang’d to their breeks like drift, Be break o’ day.” Humour must be consonant to nature: it is nature seen in absurd and ludicrous aspects. “Wit gives an apparent and fanciful resemblance to nature, but it requires for its very essence a real contrariety. This canto describes the events of the day following the marriage. The friends of the young couple bring each his present of some utensil, or piece of furniture, which is laid down on the bed, with a compliment or a banter. The morning is spent in receiving these tokens of kindness, the day in frolic and sports peculiar to the occasion, and it is concluded with a hearty carousal, where the main object is to send the new-married man to bed as drunk as possible, that his wife may know at once the best and worst of her bargain. Such is the plan of Ramsay’s ‘‘ Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” a composition of very high merit in its own OF ALLAN RAMSAY. xvii particular style, and which will preserve the memory of customs and manners long after they have ceased to be observed, or are known in actual life. The review of the humorous compositions of Ramsay prompts an observation which naturally rises from the subject: the pleasure derived from ridicule is felt in a much stronger degree by some temperaments than by others. There are even writers of acuteness and discern- ment who condemn that pleasure as gross or vulgar, and, therefore, as indicating the want of a delicate taste. Lord Chesterfield thought it unworthy of a man of fashion to laugh. The author of ‘ Elements of Criticism,” a work which displays a great knowledge of human nature, but which misleads sometimes from over-refinement, asserts,* that ‘‘ Ridicule arises chiefly from pride, which is a selfish passion. It is, therefore, at best, but a gross pleasure. A people, it is true, must have emerged out of barbarity before they can have a taste for ridicule; but it is too rough an entertainment for the highly polished and refined. Cicero discerns in Plautus a happy talent for ridicule, and a peculiar delicacy of wit ; but Horace, who made a figure in the court of Augustus, when taste was considerably purified, declares against the lowness and roughness of that author’s raillery. Ridicule,” continues the same author, ‘‘is banished France, and is losing ground in England.’”’ This appears to me to be a strained apology for the want of a natural, most agreeable, and most useful perception; and the whole doctrine here laid down is, as I apprehend, founded in error. Ridicule does not chiefly arise from pride, which is indeed a selfish passion, and could furnish only a very gross pleasure; but it arises from a strong sense of propriety and impropriety, and a nice discernment both of natural and of moral beauty and deformity. The violation of that propriety, whether by involuntary error, by folly, or absurdity, or even by some slighter vices, if not in such a degree as to excite an indignant or angry emotion, produces laughter, which carries with it some degree of scorn and contempt, uot arising from any proud feeling of excellence in ourselves, but merely from observing the want of it in others; and here we see the moral end of the perception, which, in truth, is to correct and reform. Men and nations, when they become too refined, lose that nice perception of propriety and impropriety ; for the commerce of the world, by presenting habitual violations of propriety, occasions the breach of it to be regarded with indifference. This is the cause why ridicule is banished France, and why it is perhaps losing ground in England ; a truth, therefore, little to the honour of any nation of which it can be predicated. With respect to the last, however, we would fain hope that the observation is unjust. Lord Chesterfield, by birth an Englishman, was a Frenchman both in manners and in principles. The sentiment of Horace is suitable to a courtier of the reign of Augustus; his morality was that of a corrupted age, and his taste was influenced by that morality. The times of Cicero, evil as he thought them, were not so refined, and he was himself 2 man of rigid virtue. Let us, then, cherish the sentiment of ridicule as a proof of uncorrupted manners, and let us value it for its moral usefulness. Woe be to that nation where it either ceases to be generally felt, or (in the approach of that fatal period) becomes an object of censure to the critic, or of condemnation to the moralist. The “ City of Edinburgh’s Address to the Country” is dated in November, 1718. It com- mences playfully, and in imitation of the epistolary form which is used in public writings that are issued by the sovereign :— “ From me, Edina, to the brave and fair, Health, joy, and love, and banishment of care : Forasmuch as bare fields,” &c. * Chapter ii. part 2. xviii THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS The pleasure and comforts of a city life in winter are delineated with great spirit and vivacity, and the colouring is glowing and attractive. The picture has likewise its peculiar merit, from exhibiting the appropriate features of the Scottish capital, with respect to customs and modes of life, at the period in which it was drawn. The greater cities, the residences of courts, possess a similarity, or rather uniformity of character, of which the features have been 80 frequently drawn, that the delineation has lost, in a great measure, the charm of novelty. Edinburgh, possessing the rank, and in no small degree the splendour of a metropolis, but no longer the residence of a court, promises from that circumstance to exhibit manners of her own; and this, in many respects, is really the case. Still, however, the general characters are nearly the same. Milton, in the latter part of his ‘ Allegro,” has given a masterly sketch of them :— “ Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men,” &e. It is amusing to mark the same, or nearly similar, ideas delineated by two writers of so different a character and genius as Milton and Ramsay; nor is the comparison dishonourable to the former, nor the contrast discreditable to the latter. The muse of Ramsay wears, as usual, her comic sock; while that of Milton, even in a moment of gaiety, preserves her air of majesty, and deigns not to divest herself of the buskin. The poem of “Content,” though displaying passages of considerable merit, is languid on the whole, from the trite nature of the subject, the awkward manner in which the piece is conducted, and its inordinate length. Silenus, conjured by the poet to “ Retail his gather’d knowledge, and disclose What state of life enjoys the most repose,” describes a variety of characters, without order or connection, who, from some prevalent evil passion or vicious conformation of mind, fail to attain that happiness which they pursue, and are a prey to discontent. Silenus ends his song, and the poet falls asleep; when Minerva appears to him in a dream, and sets out with him as his guide ‘‘to find the habitation of Content.” They travel through camps, crowded cities, warehouses, and fragrant fields; and at length, by means of an old telescope made by Socrates and Epictetus, they discover the object of their search in a palace on the top of a hill. Touchstone Disappointment guards the door, and tries the merits of various travellers, male and female, who seek admission into this residence of bliss. Of these, some of the characters are painted with propriety and skill. The apostrophe to the miser is vigorous, both in the thought and the expression :— “ Poor griping thing! how useless is thy breath. While nothing’s so much long’d for as thy death. How meanly hast thou spent thy lease of years A slave to poverty, to toils and fears ! And all to vie with some black rugged hill, Whose rich contents millions of chests can fill, As round the greedy rock clings to the mine, And hinders it in open day to shine, Till diggers hew it from the spar’s embrace, Making it circle, stamp’d with Ozesar’s face. So dost thou hoard, and from thy prince purloin His useful image, and thy country’s coin; Till gaping heirs have freed th’ imprison’d slave, When, to their comfort, thou hast fill’d a grave.” OF ALLAN RAMSAY. xix ‘‘Wealth, or the Woody;* a Poem on the South Sea;”’ written June, 1720. Ata time when this fascinating project was at its height, and the nation seemed intoxicated to the utmost pitch, Ramsay appears to have entertained a just suspicion of the solidity of a scheme which promised boundless wealth to a people, without the smallest exertion of talents or of industry ; and this composition is evidently intended to put his credulous countrymen on their guard against a delusion which he foresaw would entice thousands to their ruin. After a poignant description of the effect produced by a sudden change of prosperous fortune on native meanness of soul; the insolence and pride attending undeserved elevation; and painting, with the pencil of satire, the fastidious airs assumed by those who, a few months before, were the tenants of a garret, “ And only durst, in twilight or the dark, Steal to a common cook’s, with half a mark ;” how prophetic is the following anticipation of what a similar term of time might probably produce |— “This I foresee, and time shall prove I’m right, (For he’s nae poet wants the second sight): When autumn’s stores are ruck’d up in the yard, And sleet and snow dreeps down cauld winter's beard ; When bleak November’s winds make forests bare, And with splenetic vapours fill the air ; Then, then, in gardens, parks, or silent glen, When trees bear nothing else, they’ll carry—men.” “The Prospect of Plenty” follows. To the chimerical hopes of inexhaustible riches from the project of the South Sea, the poet now opposes the certain prospect of national wealth from the prosecution of the fisheries in the North Sea; thus judiciously pointing the attention of his countrymen to the solid fruits of patient industry, and contrasting these with the airy projects of idle speculation. Of industry, the certain consequence is plenty, a gradual enlargement of all the comforts of society, the advancement of the useful, and the encouragement of the elegant arts, the cultivation of talents, the refinement of manners, the increase of population,— all that contributes either to national prosperity or to the rational enjoyments of life. The composition and structure of this piece are less deserving of encomium than the wisdom of its precepts. An unskilful use is made of the heathen mythology. Amphitrite claims the song ; Nereus rises from his watery bed; and Oceanus with pleasure hears him sing—of herring- busses filling the northern seas—‘‘in order ranged before the muse’s eye.” The measure, which is heroic, is at variance with the dialect and phraseology, which are provincial and burlesque. The elapse of afew months completely justified the poet’s foresight in the preceding composition ; and in an epistle to Lord Ramsay, entitled “‘ The Rise and Fall of the Stocks,” he relates the origin and progress of the South Sea bubble, till its burst into air. This piece is dated the 25th March, 1721. It is a strong and vivid picture, contrasting the tumultuous infatuation that prevailed while the project was at its height, with the deep despondency that attended its dissolution. He cautions his countrymen from giving way to this despondency ; he labours to teach them the best improvement of their misfortunes, and presents to their minds the prospect of a bright sunshine, which is to break forth after a gloomy morning. On the same subject, ir a happy and frolicsome moment, our poet wrote “The Satyr’s * The woody is the gallows. xx THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS Comic Project for recovering a Young Bankrupt Stock-jobber.” It is a parody of the well- ‘known ballad of ‘‘ Colin’s Complaint.” “ By the side of a murmuring stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid,” &. “On the shore of a low ebbing sea, A sighing young jobber was seen, Staring wishfully at an old tree, Which grew on the neighbouring green.” The “Project,” if it want the merit of novelty, has the superior recommendation of constant repetition with complete success. The young stock-jobber, in despair of retrieving his broken fortune, and meditating to purchase a halter, is addressed by a satyr :— “A satyr that wander’d along, With a laugh to his raving replied The savage maliciously sung, And joked, while the stock-jobber cried “Come, hold up thy head, foolish wight ; Tl teach thee thy loss to retrieve ; Observe me this project aright, And think not of hanging, but live. “« ¢ Hecatissa, conceited and old, Affects in her airs to seem young ; Her jointure yields plenty of gold, And plenty of nonsense her tongue. “ © Tay siege to her for a short space, Ne’er mind that she’s wrinkled and grey ; Extol her for beauty and grace, And doubt not of winning the day,’ ” &c. There is no ancient poet whose compositions have so frequently been the subject of imitation as Horace. The reasons are, he is a jocose and festive moralist; his philosophy has nothing of the austere; even his satire is tempered with good humour; and his pieces are short, and within the compass of a moderate exertion of the imitator. But, for these reasons likewise, we have many unskilful attempts; for the happy ease of the composition is judged to be a proof that it may be easily composed. Yet, observe what was the opinion of one of the best of the English critics in reviewing the imitations of Horace by one of the greatest of the English poets :—‘‘ To fall short of the original cannot be deemed a disgrace to him (Pope), or to any other writer, if we consider the extreme difficulty of transfusing into another language the subtle beauties of Horace’s dignified familiarity, and the uncommon union of so much facility and force.”’ * The above remark, however, is not strictly applicable to the imitations of Horace by Ramsay, as he had not properly the task of translating from his original. He fairly tells us that his chief acquaintance with Horace was at second-hand, and through the medium of English translations.t But this is no diminution of his merits, as we do not find that he has borrowed anything of the dress or manner in which former translators had clothed the thoughts of the Roman poet. He has clad him according to his own fancy, in the general © Warton’s “ Essay on Pope,” vol. ii. p. 338. + “I understand Horace but faintly in the original, and yet can feast on bis beautiful thoughts dressed in English.”—Preface to Ramsay's Poems. OF ALLAN RAMSAY. Xx! costume of his native country. Ramsay was himself (if the expression may be allowed) a true Horatian genius. In taste, in passion, and in sentiment a friend to the innocent, because moderate, gratifications of convivial intercourse; an epicurean in everything but laxity of moral and religious principle. To William Earl of Dalhousie, the chief of his name and family, the poet addresses, with propriety, his imitation of the first ode of Horace to Mecaenas :— “ Mecenas atavis edite regibus.” “ Dalhousie of an auld descent.” This composition, which from its fidelity to the thought, and happy imitation of the style of the original, might almost fall under the description of a translation, is distinguished from that species of writing solely by this peculiarity, in which lies the chief merit of the copyist: an exact adaptation of the different characters in the original to modern times, and to the manners of his own country :— “Some like to study, some to play, Some on the Links to win the day, And gar the courser rin like wud,” &¢. Sunt quos curriculo pulverem Olympicum Collegisse juvat,” Fc. “The Lothian farmer he likes best To be of gude faugh riggs possest ; And fen upon a frugal stock, Where his forbears had used the yoke.” “ Lllum de proprio condidit horreo, Quicquid de Libycis versitur areis, Gaudentum patrios findere sarculo Agros.” In the piece which immediately follows, or Horace’s address, ‘‘Ad navim Virgilium Athenas vehentem,” this peculiarity is wanting. There is no adaptation of the sentiments of the Roman poet to modern times ; but instead of it a burlesque of the original, by substituting in place of its lofty imagery and serious style, a ludicrous caricature of its figures, and a vulgar phraseology. The worst is, that this burlesque is not professed, nor is it universal. Grave and judicious moral sentiments are illustrated by ludicrous figures and debased by vulgar expression. Thus the topic of the origin of evil, which the Roman poet attributes to the crime of Prometheus in steal- ing fire from heaven, and which he treats in suitable terms of solemnity, is, after a grave introduction, thrown most unseasonably into ridicule by low and ludicrous phraseology :— “ Audacious men at nought will stand, When vicious passions have command Prometheus ventured up, and staw A lowan coal frae heaven’s high ha’ ; Unsonsy thrift! which fevers brought In bikes, which fowk like sybows hought: Then death, erst slow, began to ling, And fast as haps to dart his sting. Neist, Dedalus must contradict Nature forsooth, and feathers stick Upon his back.” This is injudicious: the subject might admit of a ludicrous parody ; but we have here only a burlesque translation, and that but awkwardly performed. xxii THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS Of a character widely distinct from the preceding is the imitation of Horace’s ode to Sestius, ‘‘Solvitur acris hyems.”’ Here the native language of the poet has perfect propriety. The imagery of the original is familiar ; it is a just picture of nature. The return of spring is described as it isseen and felt ; the renovated beauty of inanimate nature, and the gaiety thence communicated to all animated beings, admirably described in the original, is pictured in the copy with no other change than the adaptation by the Scottish poet to the scenery and manners of his own country. Here Ramsay was truly within the sphere of his peculiar talents. In this ode to Sestius, | and yet more remarkably in the imitation of ‘ Vides ut alta stet nive candidum, Soracte,” he displays a singular felicity of genius. Of this most beautiful composition I have no scruple to affirm, what I believe will be assented to by all who are competent to judge of poetry alike in either language, that it surpasses the merit of the original :— “Look up to Pentland’s towering tops, Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw.” As the Roman bard throws his eye on the Tuscan Soracte, with what propriety does the ‘Scottish poet, the citizen of Edinburgh, direct his prospect to the Pentland hills! In the original the description is less particular, and the moral is more sententiously expressed, than in the copy. But this appears to me to constitute an additional merit of the latter. The scenes are not described by their general features; they are pictured to the eye; and the amplitude of easy and jocular expression gives an interest more approaching to the dramatic :— “Driving their baws frae whins or tee, There’s no nae gowfers to be seen ; Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee The byast bowls on Tamson’s green. “Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs, And beek the house baith butt and ben ; That mutchkin stowp it hauds but dribs Then let’s get in the tappit hen. “Good claret best keeps out the cauld, And drives away the winter soon ; It, makes a man baith gash and bauld, And heaves his saul beyond the moon.” Who but a kindred genius could have thus delightfully paraphrased ‘‘ Donec virenti canities abest,”? &. “Be sure ye dinna quit the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o’er a rung. “Sweet youth’s a blithe and heartsome time; Then, lads and lasses, while ’tis May, Gae pu’ the gowan in its prime, Before it wither and decay : “Watch the saft minutes of delight, When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, And kisses, laying a’ the wyte On you, if she kepp ony skaith. OF ALLAN RAMSAY. xxii “*Haith, ye’re ill-bred,’ she’ll smiling say ; ‘Ye’ll worry me, ye greedy rook:’ Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, And hide hersel’ in some dark nook. “ Her laugh will lead you to the place Where lies the happiness you want, And plainly tells you to your face, Nineteen nay-says are half a grant.” I am well aware that this is truly gwvayra ovvero, and that none but a Scotchman, and he a man of taste and a scholar, can fully appreciate the merit of this imitation, or thoroughly conceive its beauties; but even an Englishman may discern a part of the merits of the original, although this is all that perhaps he can do. But the talents of Ramsay are not only to be admired in that species of poetry which falls under the description of free translation, or imitation ; in original compositions of his own, he has adopted the Horatian manner with singular felicity, both of sentiment and expression ; of this an admirable specimen is ‘‘ The Epistle to Mr. on his Marriage ;” it is multum in parvo, a text for many homilies. The wisdom of the poet’s counsels will be acknowledged by all who are competent to judge of them; and we relish his precepts the better, that it is the easy friend, and not the pedantic moralist, who addresses us. In the ‘‘ Epistle to Robert Yarde, of Devonshire, Esq.,” we discern the moral and philosophic spirit of his Master, the just estimate of human enjoyments, the well-regulated mind, which balances the misfortunes with the pleasures of life, and sagely inculcates the great lesson of contentment with the lot assigned to us. The manner too is easy, familiar, and spirited; the Scottish dialect, in which it is composed, gives additional natveté, though we regret, in a few expressions, a tincture of vulgarity. In this pleasing composition, which I am inclined to class among the best of our author’s lesser pieces, we have an amplified commentary and beautiful illustration of the Horatian text— “ Auream quisquis mediocritatem Diligit ° or, yet more strictly, of the philosophic paradox of Hesiod, Nut #0’ wwacw dow teov fpuov mavroc; which Cowley has so beautifully illustrated in his essay ‘‘ Of Agriculture.” In the ‘‘ Address to his Book,” with which he concludes the first volume of his poems, our author has imitated, with singular success, the manner of the Roman lyric. A moderate portion of vanity is the chartered right of a poet. If he augur not for himself immortality, there is perhaps a fair presumption that he will never attain it. Yet, such is the pride of our nature, and our jealousy of all assuming pretensions, we cannot bear to see this sentiment seriously entertained, or too confidently asserted ; it will then offend by its arrogance ; and its imprudent cherisher will justly share the fate which Shakespeare announces to that ‘‘ vaulting ambition which o’erleaps itself, and falls on the other side.” It is a wiser policy to veil it in, the garb of jocularity, as if the poet even ridiculed himself for his presumption. Thus Ramsay, after expressing his dread of the worst of all fates—neglect and oblivion—addresaes, very happily, his ‘‘ dear venturous book :””— “ Away sic fears! gae spread my fame, And fix me an immortal name; Ages to come shall thee revive, And gar thee with new honours live; xxiv THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS The future critics, I foresee, Shall have their notes on notes on thee : The wits unborn shall beauties find That never enter’d in my mind.” As the Horatian manner is imitated in the preceding pieces, and in the excellent address “To Mr. William Aikman,” the ‘‘ Epistle to Mr. Arbuckle” is an imitation, no less successful, of the Hudibrastic. The poet’s picture of himself is humorous and spirited; as if drawn by the pencil of Hogarth, we see him reflected from his own mirror. He delineates, with equal spirit, his mental as his corporeal qualities; and assuming nothing that tends to extraordinary exaltation, we are the more apt to give him credit for the fidelity of his draught. Indeed, the character allowed him by the wits and poets who were his contemporaries, is sufficient evidence that an overweaning conceit of his own abilities was none of his defects. Pope, Gay, Swift, Arbuthnot, Steele, were all admirers and patrons of our Scottish bard. Somerville was his correspondent and encomiast. The writer of these pages has it on authority which he cannot question (a near relation of the celebrated Dr. Arbuthnot), that Pope was particularly delighted with the ‘‘Gentle Shepherd,” and was wont to make Arbuthnot interpret to him such passages as he could not easily understand; it is, therefore, with justice, that the ingenious Sir William Scott, of Thirlestane, who died at Edinburgh, on the 8th of October, 1725, records, in an inscription which is not unworthy of the pen of a Catullus, the admission of the portrait of Ramsay among those genuine poets whose images adorned the temple of Apollo :— “ Hffigues Allani Ramsei, Potte Scoti, inter ceteras Poétarum Imagines in Templo Apollonis suspensa :— “ Ductam Parrhasia videtis arte Allani effigiem, favente Phebo, Qui Scotis numeros suos, novoque Priscam restituit vigore linguam. Hanc Phebus tabulam, hanc novem sorores Suspendunt lepidis jocis dicatam : Gaudete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque, Omnes illecebree, facetizeque, Plausus edite; nunc in ede Pheebi Splendet conspicuo decore, vestri Allani referens tabella vultus.” * In mentioning the poetical epistles of Ramsay, the facetious correspondence between him and Lieutenant William Hamilton must not be forgotten. This gentleman, who seems to have inherited a talent for easy versification, with a considerable vein for humour, had figured in Scottish verse several years before Ramsay was known as a poet; nor is it improbable that on some of the humorous compositions of the latter our author formed his own manner, in those burlesque pieces which are in the Scottish dialect, and peculiar measure of six lines; as the ‘‘Elegy on Maggy Johnston,” &c. In Watson’s Collection, printed at Edinburgh in 1711, we find Hamilton’s ‘‘Elegy on Bonny Heck,” which is alluded to in these familiar epistles between him and Ramsay, and justly praised. He sustains his part in this correspondence with great spirit, nor is it easy to decide which of the poets has the superiority in the contest. The Fables of Ramsay are not of uniform merit. In some of his compositions of this = “Poemata D. Gulielmi Scoti de Thirlestane”—printed along with “Selecta Poemata Archibaldi Pitcarnii,” &e. Edinburgh, 1727. OF ALLAN RAMSAY. XXV kind he has attained to a high pitch of excellence ; in others he is beneath mediocrity. If we may judge from the very small number of eminent fabulists, there is no species of composition which is more difficult than that of a perfect fable. Adsop, who if not the inventor, was probably among the earliest of the writers of fable, seems to have had no other idea in his compositions than to convey some moral truth in a short and apposite allegory. Most of his fables are of a serious nature. Such of them as possess any portion of festivity, as the Fox and the Crow with the cheese in its beak, seem to derive it purely from the accidental nature of the story. The latter fabulists have annexed other requisites to the composition of a fable, which tend to raise it in dignity and usefulness. The fables of Phedrus gave the first example of that ingenuity or naiveté of expression, and of that slyness of wit, vafritées ingentt, which have, since his time, been esteemed the characteristics of this species of writing. In the former of these qualities, La Fontaine, the chief of the modern disciples of Phadrus, is supremely excellent ; but with regard to the latter, he errs from an exuberance of wit, which derogates from the superior requisite of simplicity. In reality, the latter character seems now to be fixed as the essential requisite of fable ; and where simplicity is preserved in thought and in expression, the poet may indulge his genius even for the highest efforts of his art, the power of descriptive painting, the tender, the pathetic, perhaps even the sublime. In this higher walk of fable, the illustrious Desbillons stands, perhaps, far removed beyond competition. The fables of Gay have wit and ease and elegance; but they are deficient in simplicity. They fail yet more in dramatic propriety. A good fabulist is he who, like a good dramatist, Reddere persone scit convenientia cuique. There must be a nice adjustment between the real characters and the assumed. Gay’s animals sustain the parts of statesmen, philosophers, beaux, and critics; and they act in their fictitious characters with sufficient aptitude and address; but we lose sight entirely of their original nature: we seldom perceive a trace remaining of the fox, the elephant, the monkey, or the mastiff. Any other animals might have been employed to fill their parts. The apologue, therefore, is deficient in characteristic or in dramatic propriety. The best of Ramsay’s fables are, ‘‘The Ass and the Brock,” ‘‘The Caterpillar and the Ant,” “The twa Cats and the Cheese.” These, with the utmost propriety of character, have all the naiveté of Phedrus and La Fontaine, with the wit and ease of Gay. The rest are entitled to no high commendation. The comic powers of Ramsay found a much superior field of exercise in his tales; and of these it is much to be regretted that he has left so few. ‘‘ The Monk and the Miller’s Wife” would of itself be his passport to immortality, as a comic poet. In this capacity he might enter the lists with Chaucer and Boccacio with no great risk of discomfiture. Though far their inferior in acquired address, his native strength was perhaps not widely disproportionate. Of this admirable tale I conceive he has the merit of the invention, as the story is not to be found in any of the older writers, as Sacchetti, Boccacio, or in the ‘‘ Cento Novelle antiche.” In a few circumstances there is indeed a small resemblance to the seventy-third of the ‘‘ Cent nouvelles Nouvelles,” entitled ‘I Oiseau en la Cage,” which barely affords a presumption that Ramsay may have read that story ; but in all the material circumstances his ‘‘ Monk and the Miller’s Wife” is original. A story of more festive humour could not have been devised. The characters are sustained with consummate propriety; the manners are true to nature; and poetic justice is most strictly observed in the winding up of the piece. We are amused with the ingenuous simplicity and credulity of the honest miller; we are delighted with the F xxvi THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS. malicious roguery of the young student, who amply revenges himself, yet, with infinite good- nature, spares his hostess, and her sanctimonious gallant, that utter disgrace which they might have justly expected at his offended hands. Of the other pieces entitled ‘‘ Tales,” ‘The Lure” is the best; yet it is more properly a satirical fable or allegory. The narrative and descriptive parts have much merit; but the moral of the fiction scarcely atones for its indelicacy. ‘‘ The Tale of Three Bonnets” is rather a dramatic dialogue than a proper tale. It is a severe political satire against his countrymen, for agreeing to the union of the kingdoms. Had our author lived to the present age, he would have confessed the absurdity of his prejudices, and borne testimony to the falsehood of his own predictions. Abstracting from the error of its opinions, we see the genius of the author in the characteristic painting, the knowledge of life and manners, and the keen edge of satire, which are conspicuous in this performance. It was among those compositions which the author, perhaps grown wiser as a politician, did not admit into the collection of his works; though it appears in a separate pamphlet, along with the two tales before mentioned, ‘‘ printed for the author, and sold at his shop, Edinburgh.” On the same or a kindred subject, on which it appears that the mind of our author had taken a keener interest than he dared to avow, is ‘‘The Vision,” printed by him in ‘‘The Evergreen,” with a misleading signature. This fine poem, under the affected disguise of being ‘“compylit in Latin be a most lernit clerk, in tyme of our hairship and oppression, anno 1300, and translatit in 1524,” is ascertained to have been composed by Ramsay, about the period of the rebellion 1715. During half a century it imposed itself upon the public as an ancient composition. Lord Hailes and Doctor Beattie at length gave a positive opinion that it was not older than that epoch. The arguments held by the elder Mr. Tytler,* for assigning it to Allan Ramsay, are convincing :—1. It was first published by him, and not found in any older collection than ‘‘ The Evergreen.” 2. There were affixed to it, in Roman letters, ar. scor; which are indicative of his own name and country. 3. Its political sentiments coincide with his. 4. The introduction of humorous description, which is unsuitable to the general strain of the composition, but consonant to Ramsay’s predominant talent. 5. The positive acknowledg- ment of the daughter of the poet (a lady of much discernment and probity), that this poem was of her father’s composition. In addition to these reasons, which already go far to decide the question, I shall throw some other arguments into the scale :—1. Ramsay was desirous of making ‘The Vision” pass for the composition of Alexander Scot, of whom we find some other poems in “‘ The Evergreen,” particularly a ‘“‘ New Year’s Gift to Queen Mary ;” but he has unluckily been inattentive to chronology. This poem of Scot’s is dated 1562, whereas “The Vision” is pretended to be translated in 1524; here is an interval of near forty years, a period to which the poetical life of very few writers has been known to extend, and it is believed of none who have left so few remains. 2. ‘‘The Vision,” though feigned to be composed so long before, is more modern in its language than ‘“‘The New Year’s Gift” of 1562. 38. The talents of Alexander Scot were not equal to that composition, as his poems bear witness. 4. In many parts of “‘ The Vision” we observe a striking similarity of thought and expression to various passages in Ramsay’s poems.t * Observations on “ The Vision,” in “Transactions of the Society of Scottish Antiquarians,” vol. i. + ‘‘Sayd Fere, let nocht thy heart affray, I come to hear thy plaint: Thy graining and maining Hath lately reik’d mine eir: OF ALLAN RAMSAY. XXvVil ‘The Vision” has great poetical merit. The allegorical personage of the ‘‘ Genius of Scotland” is drawn with great power of imagination and characteristic propriety of attiibute. The sentiments are suitable to the dignity of the theme, and the diction is highly energetic, It is a pity that the poem is not possessed of uniform excellence. In the description of the Debar then afar then All eiriness and feir.” Vision, st. 6. Again : “ Rest but awhile content, Nocht feirful, but cheirful, And wait the will of fate.” Ibid., st. 11. “ Mair speer na, and feir na, But set thy mind at rest ; Aspire aye still higher aye, And always hope the best.” Response of the Oracle to the Poet’s wish. “T vissy’t him then round about.” Vision, st. 7. “«_____ please to step in, And vissy’t round and round.” Gent. Shep., act iii. sc. 2, prol. “ For aften far abufe the mune We watching beings do convene.” Vision, st. 12. He’s seeing a’ that’s done a ilka place beneath or yont the mune.” Gent. Shep., act iii. se. 2. Or all rin richt again.” Vision, st. 15. «To gar the bowls row richt.” Gent. Shep., act ii. ec. 4. “ Syne byndging and whyndging, Qhen thus redusit to howps, They dander and wander About pure lickmadowps.” Vision, st. 23. “He gangs about sornan fra place to place, As scrimpt of manners as of sense and grace ; Oppressing a’ in punishment of their sin, That are within his tenth degree of kin.” Gent. Shep., act 3, se. 4.. «But now it’s tyme for me to draw My shynand sword against club law, And gar my lion rore.” Vision, st. 24. “ But now again the lion rares, And joy spreads o’er the plain.” Gent. Shep., act iii. 80, 2. « — The victor proudly cracks, He has blawn out our lamp.” Vision, st. 8. “For without oil our lamp will Gae blinkan out.” Edinburgh's Salutation. xxviii THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS earousal of the gods, the author has indulged his talent for the ludicrous at the expense of his propriety. : A few of the poems of Ramsay are written, as we have before remarked, in what may properly be termed English verse. It is in these attempts, which are generally of a graver species of composition than is suitable to his genius, that our Scottish poet chiefly fails. He is evidently not at his ease. He is in a dress of ceremony; and, from want of use, he feels it sit awkwardly upon him. He is constantly falling back into his accustomed habits. He mistakes the quantitics and sometimes the proper sense of English words ; as we may.see in his ‘‘ Content,” and in his poem on Friendship. When he clothes the same sentiment in Scottish and in English phraseology, its inferiority in the latter dress is most remarkably conspicuous. Thus, in the beautiful dialogue between Peggy and Jenny in the ‘‘ Gentle Shepherd,” the latter paints, with genuine humour, the distresses incident to a married life :— \ Oh, ’tis a pleasant thing to be a bride— Syne whinging gets about your ingle side, Yelping for this or that wi’ fasheous din ; To make them brats then ye maun toil and spin : Ae wean fa’s sick, ane scauds itsel’ wi’ brue, Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe ; The deil gangs o’er Jock Webster, hame grows hell, And Pate misca’s you waur than tongue can tell. In the poem entitled “Content,” we find the same sentiment in English; but how poor, how mean in comparison is the expression !— The pregnant matron’s grief as much prevails; Some of the children always something ails; One boy is sick, t’ other has broke his head ; And nurse is blamed when little miss is dead. Yet, from this censure of his pieces in English verse, we must except the poem entitled ‘Health,’ which is a composition of superior merit. Its form is that of satire; and its purpose is to inculcate the attainment and preservation of the inestimable blessing of health, by the delineation of a series of characters, in which the effects of sloth, effeminacy, gluttony, ebriety, and every species of debauchery, are contrasted with those of activity, temperance, and sobriety. The effects of the passions on the bodily temperature are likewise judiciously estimated ; the peevish, the envious, and the malignant characters are opposed to the cheerful, the contented, and the benevolent; and the preservation of a just equilibrium of mind, and benignity of heart, is shown to be eminently promotive of the vigour of the animal frame. The characters are drawn with a bold spirit and a powerful hand ; while the satire has all the keenness of the Juvenalian school. Of lyrie poetry, one of the most difficult species is the song. Itis one of those mental exertions that require not so much a superiority either of genius or of poetic fancy, as a certain native address ; so, in the intercourse of life, there is an elegance of manner which pleases independently either of worth or ability. Some of the best songs in the English language were written by contemporaries and countrymen of Ramsay; by Crawfurd, Hamilton of Bangour, and Lord Binning; for we have nothing more perfect, in that species of composition, than ‘‘ Tweedside,” ‘‘ What beauties does Flora disclose,” ‘‘ Go, plaintive sounds,” and, ‘‘ Did ever swain a nymph adore.” The elegant author of ‘‘ Essays on Song-writing” has arranged his OF ALLAN RAMSAY. XXix collection under three different classes—ballad and pastoral—passionate and descriptive — ingenious and witty. As the talents of Ramsay were conspicuous in all of these departments it might be presumed that he should particularly excel in song composition; and in reality he has displayed, in that species of writing, a high portion of merit ; though perhaps not reaching that degree of eminence at which other writers, who are in other respects of inferior talents, have arrived. This appears to have arisen from his haste, rather than his incapacity to give his compositions that perfect polish which seems to be particularly requisite in a song. Phillips* has observed justly, that ‘‘a song loses all its lustre if it be not polished with the greatest accuracy. The smallest blemish in it, like a flaw in a jewel, takes off the whole value of it. A song is as it were a little image in enamel, that requires all the nice touches of the pencil, a gloss and a smoothness, with those delicate finishing strokes, which would be superfluous and thrown away upon larger figures, where the strength and boldness of a masterly hand gives all the grace.” This delicate finishing Ramsay’s hasty pencil could not always bestow ; yet, as the beauty and propriety of sentiment are still more material than the elegance of the dress,— Scribendi recte, sapere principium,— we find many of his songs wherein there is everything to praise in the thought, and fortunately very little in the expression that diminishes its power of pleasing. An excellent judget+ has declared his opinion, that ‘‘‘The Lass of Patie’s Mill,’ ‘The Yellow-hair’d lLaddie,’ ‘Farewell to Lochaber,’ and some others, must be allowed to be equal to any, and superior, in point of pastoral simplicity, to most lyric productions, either in the Scottish or any other language.” Among those others I would mention, ‘‘ The last time I came o’er the moor,” “Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,’ ‘‘Now wat ye wha I met yestreen,” ‘Through the wood, laddie,” ‘‘The Highland Laddie,” ‘My Patie is a lover gay.” His ballad on ‘“ Bonny Kate’ (Lady Catharine Cochran), which is written in the stanza of Shenstone, has uncommon vigour and hilarity, propriety and polish. Such then are the lyric merits, which, notwith- standing their attendant imperfections, must for ever give Ramsay a very high place among the writers of Scottish and English song. In the year 1725 Ramsay published his pastoral comedy of ‘‘ The Gentle Shepherd,” the noblest and most permanent monument of his fame. A few years before he had published in a single sheet ‘‘ A Pastoral Dialogue between Patie and Roger,” which was reprinted in the first collection of his poems in 1721. This composition being much admired, his literary friends urged him to extend his plan to a regular drama; and to this fortunate suggestion the literary world is indebted for one of the most perfect pastoral poems that has ever appeared.} The pastoral drama is an invention of the moderns. The first who attempted this species of poetry was Agostino de Beccari, in his ‘‘Sacrificio Favola Pastorale,” printed in 1553. Tasso is supposed to have taken the hint from him; and is allowed, in his ‘‘ Aminta,”’ published in 1573, to have far surpassed his master. Guarini followed, whose ‘ Pastor Fido” contends for the palm with the ‘‘ Aminta,”’ and, in the general opinion of the Italians, is judged to have obtained it. Tasso himself is said to have confessed the superior merit of his rival’s #* * Guardian,” No. 16. { Mr. Ritson, who, besides other ingenious works, has favoured the public with two admirable collections of English and of Scottish songs and melodies. { In the quarto of 1728 the following note is subjoined to the first scene of the “Gentle Shepherd :"— “ This first scene is the only piece in this volume that was printed in the first: having carried the pastoral the length of five acts, at the desire of some persons of distinction, I was obliged to print thie preluding scene with the rest.” RXX THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS work ; but to have added, in his own defence, that had Guarini never seen his ‘‘Aminta,” ‘he never would have surpassed it. Yet, I think, there is little doubt that this preference is ill- founded. Both these compositions have resplendent beauties, with glaring defects and improprieties. I am, however, much mistaken, if the latter are not more abundant in the ‘* Pastor Fido,” as the former are predominant in the ‘‘Aminta.” Both will ever be admired for beauty of poetical expression, for rich imagery, and for detached sentiments of equal delicacy and tenderness ; but the fable, both of the ‘‘ Aminta”’ and ‘‘ Pastor Fido,” errs against all proba- bility; and the general language and sentiments of the characters are utterly remote from nature. The fable of the ‘‘ Aminta” is not dramatic ; for it is such, that the principal incidents on which the plot turns are incapable of representation: the beautiful Silvia, stripped naked, aud bound by her hair to a tree by a brutal satyr, and released by her lover Amyntas—her flight from the wolves—the precipitation of Amyntas from a high rock, who narrowly escapes being dashed in pieces, by having his fall broken by the stump of a tree—are all incidents incapable of being represented to the eye, and must therefore be thrown into narration. The whole of the last act is narrative, and is taken up entirely with the history of Amyntas’s fall and the happy change produced in the heart of the rigorous Silvia, when she found her lover thus miraculously preserved from the cruel death to which her barbarity had prompted him to expose himself. Yet the fable of the ‘‘ Aminta,’”’ unnatural and undramatic as it is, has the merit of simplicity. That of the ‘ Pastor Fido,” equally unnatural and incredible, has the additional demerit of being complicated as well as absurd. The distress of Amyntas, arising from an adequate and natural cause, rejected love, excites our sympathy; but the distress in the “Pastor Fido” is altogether chimerical; we have no sympathy with the calamities arising from the indignation of Diana, or the supposed necessity of accomplishing the absurd and whimsical response of an oracle. We cannot be affected by the passions of fictitious beings. The love of a satyr has nothing in it but what is odious and disgusting. The defects of these celebrated poems have arisen from the erroneous idea entertained by their authors, that the province of this species of poetry was not to imitate nature, but to paint that chimerical state of society which is termed the golden age. Mr. Addison, who in the “Guardian” has treated the subject of pastoral poetry at considerable length, has drawn his critical rules from that absurd principle ; for he lays it down as a maxim that, to form a right judgment of pastoral poetry, it is necessary to cast back our eyes on the first ages of the world, and inquire into the manners of men “‘ before they were formed into large societies, cities built, or commerce established; a state,” says he, ‘of ease, innocence, and contentment; where plenty begot pleasure, and pleasure begot singing, and singing begot poetry, and poetry begot singing again ;” a description this, which is so fantastical, as would almost persuade us that the writer meant to ridicule his own doctrine, if the general strain of his criticism did not con- vince us it was seriously delivered. Is it necessary to prove that this notion of pastoral poetry, however founded, in the practice of celebrated writers, has no foundation in fact, no basis in reason, nor conformity to good sense? To a just taste and unadulterated feelings, the natural beauties of the country, the simple manners, rustic occupations, and rural enjoyments of its inhabitants, brought into view by the medium of a well-contrived dramatic fable, must afford a much higher degree of pleasure than any chimerical fiction, in which Arcadian nymphs and swains hold intercourse with Pan and his attendant fauns and satyrs. If the position be dis- puted, let the ‘Gentle Shepherd” be fairly compared with the ‘“‘Aminta” and “ Pastor Fido.” OF ALLAN RAMSAY. xxxi The story of the ‘‘Gentle Shepherd ”’ is fitted to excite the warmest interest, because the situations into which the characters are thrown are strongly affecting, whilst they are strictly consonant to nature and probability. The whole of the fable is authorised by the circumstances of the times in which the action of the piece is laid. The era of Cromwell’s usurpation, when many loyal subjects, sharing the misfortunes of their exiled sovereign, were stripped of their estates, and then left to the neglect and desolation of forfeiture; the necessity under which those unhappy sufferers often lay, of leaving their infant progeny under the charge of some humble but attached dependant, till better days should dawn upon their fortunes; the criminal advantages taken by false friends in usurping the rights of the sufferers, and securing them- selves against future question by deeds of guilt; these circumstances, too well founded in truth and nature, are sufficient to account for every particular in this most interesting drama, and give it perfect verisimilitude. The fables of the ‘“Aminta” and ‘Pastor Fido,” drawn from a state of society which never had an existence, are, for that reason, incapable of exciting any high degree of interest ; and the mind cannot for a moment remain under the influence of that deception which it is the great purpose of the drama to produce. The characters or persons of the Italian pastorals are coy nymphs and swains, whose sole occupation is hunting wild beasts, brutal satyrs who plot against the chastity of those nymphs, shepherds deriving their origin from the gods, stupid priests of these gods who are the dupes of their ambiguous will, and gods themselves disguised like shepherds, and influencing the conduct and issue of the piece. The manners of these unnatural and fictitious beings are proper to their ideal character. A dull moralising chorus is found necessary to explain what the characters themselves must have left untold, or unintelligible. The persons of the Scottish pastoral are the actual inhabitants of the country where the scene is laid; their manners are drawn from nature with a faithful pencil. The contrast of the different characters is happily imagined, and supported with consummate skill. Patie, of a cheerful and sanguine temperament, spirited, yet free from vain ambition, contented with his humble lot, endowed by nature with a superior understanding, and feeling in himself those internal sources of satisfaction which are independent of the adventitious circumstances of rank and fortune. Roger, of a grave and phlegmatic constitution, of kind affections, but of that ordinary turn of mind which is apt to suppose some necessary connection between the posses- sion of wealth and felicity. The former, from native dignity of character, assuming a bold pre-eminence, and acting the part of a tutor and counsellor to his friend, who bends, though with some reluctance, to the authority of a nobler mind. The principal female characters are con- trasted with similar skill and equal power of discrimination. Peggy, beautiful in person as in mind, endowed with every quality that can adorn the character of woman, gentle, tender- hearted, constant in affection, free from vanity as from caprice, of excellent understanding, judging of others by the criterion of her own innocent mind, and therefore forming the most amiable views of human nature. Jenny, sensible and affectionate, sprightly and satirical; possessing the ordinary qualities of her sex, self-love, simulation, and the passion of conquest, and pleased with exercising a capricious dominion over the mind of a lover; judging of man- kind rather from the cold maxims of instilled prudential caution, than from the native suggestions of the heart. A contrast of characters strongly and skilfully opposed, and there- fore each most admirably fitted to bring the other into full display. The subordinate persons of the drama are drawn with equal skill and fidelity to their prototypes. Glaud and Symon are the genuine pictures of the old Scottish yeomanry, the Xxxii THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS Lothian farmers of the last age, in their manners, sentiments, and modes of life; humble, but respectable; homely, yet comfortable. The episode of Bauldy, while it gives a pleasing variety without interrupting the principal action, serves to introduce a character of a different species, as a foil to the honest and simple worth of the former. It paints in strong colours, and exposes to merited reprobation and contempt, that low and sordid mind which seeks alone the gratification of its own desires, though purchased by the misery of the object of its affection. Bauldy congratulates himself on the cruel disappointment of Peggy’s love—“ I hope we'll a’ sleep sound, but ane, this night ;’’—and judges her present situation of deep distress to be the most favourable moment for preferring his own suit. His punishment, as it is suitable to his demerits, gives entire satisfaction. The ‘“‘Aminta” and ‘‘ Pastor Fido” abound in beautiful sentiments, and passages of the most tender and natural simplicity; but it is seldom we find a single page in which this pleasing impression is not effaced by some affected and forced conceit. Nothing can be more delicately beautiful, or more agreeable to the true simplicity of pastoral, than Amyntas’s recounting to Tircis the rise of his passion for Silvia :— Aminta. Essendo io fanciulletto, sicche appena Giunger potea con la man pargoletta, A corre i frutti da i piegati rami De gli arboscelli, intrinseco divenni De la pui vaga e cara verginella, Che mai spiegasse al vento chioma d’ oro— Congiunti eran gli alberghi, Ma piu congiunti i cori: Seco tendeva insidie eon le ret Ai pesci ed aa gli agelli, &e. The description of their joint occupations and sports, till love insensibly arose in the breast of Tircis; the natural and innocent device he employed to obtain a kiss from Silvia ; the discovery of his affection, and his despair on finding her heart insensible to his passion, are proofs that Tasso was a true poet, and knew to touch those strings with which our genuine feelings must ever harmonise. In elegant and just description he is equally to be admired. The scene in which Tircis describes the lovely Silvia bound naked to a tree by a brutal satyr, ard released by Amyntas, whose passion she treated with scorn, is one of the most beautiful pieces of poetic painting :— egli rivolse I cupidi occhi in quelle membra belle Che come suole tremolare il latte Ne’ giunche,* si parean morbide e bianche. But when Amyntas, unloosing his disdainful mistress, addresses himself to the tree to which she was tied ; when he declares its rugged trunk to be unworthy of the bonds of that beautiful hair which encircled it, and reproaches its cruelty in tearing and disfiguring those charming tresses, we laugh at such despicable conceits, and lament that vicious taste to which even a true poet found himself (we presume against his better judgment) so often compelled to sacrifice. So likewise when, forgetting nature, he resorts to the ordinary cant of pastoral, the language and thoughts of Theocritus and Virgil, and even superadds to those commonplaces the false “** To understand this beautiful figure, it is necessary to know that the Italian peasants carry the curdled milk to market. in baskets closely woven of green rushes: -hence a country treat is called giwncata ; and honce the English junket, OF ALLAN RAMSAY. XXX Ul refinement which in his age delighted his countrymen, we turn with dissatisfaction from his page. If we compare him, where the similarity of the subject allows a comparison, with the Scottish poet, how poor does the Italian appear in the competition ! Thus, let the irst scene of the ‘‘ Aminta,”’ between Silvia and Dafne, be compared with the scene between Jenny and Peggy in the ‘‘Gentle Shepherd.” The subject of both is the preference between a single and a married life :— Dafne. Onde nasce il tuo odio? Silvia, Dal suo amore. Dafne. Piacevol padre di figlio crudele. Ma quando mai da’ mansueti agnelli Nacquer le tigri? O da i bei cigni i corvi? O me inganni, O te stessa. Silvia. Odio il suo amore, Ch’ odia la mia onestade— Dafne. Hor rispondimi almen, s’ altri t’ amasse, Gradiresti il suo amore in questa guisa ? Silvia, In questa guisa gradirei ciascuno Insidiator di mia verginitate, Che tu dimandi amante, ed io nemico. Dafne. Stimi dunque I] monton de 1’ agnella ? De Ja giovenca il toro? Stimi dunque nemico TI tortore a la sida tortorella? Stimi dunque stagione De nemicitia e d’ ira La dolce primavera, Ch’ or allegra e ridente Riconsiglia ad amare T mondo egli animali, Egli huomini e le donne? E non t’ accorgi Come tutte le cose Or sono innamorate D’ un amor pien di gioia e di salute? Mira 14 quel colombo, Con che dolce susurro lusingando, Bacia la sua campagna : Odio quel usigniiolo, Che va di ramo in ramo, Cantando, io amo, io amo: e se no’i sa, La biscia lascia i] suo veleno, e corre Cupida al suo amatore : Van le tigri in amore: Ama il leon superbo: e tu sol, fiera Piu che tutte le fere, Albergo gli dineghi nel suo petto. Ma che dico leoni, e tigri, e serpi, Che pur en senimento? Amano ancora Gli alberi. Veder puoi con quanto affetto E con quanti iterati abbraciamenti La vite s’avviticchia al suo marito ; L’ abete ama I’ abete, il pino il pino, L? orno per !’ orno, e per lo salce il salce, ¥ PV un per I’ altro faggio arde e sospira, &e. Silvia. Or su quando i sospiri Udiro de Je piante, To son contenta allor d’ csser amante. Amanta, att. i.se. 1. Xxxiv THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS Thus translated :— Daphne. But whence can spring thy hate? Silvia, Whence? from his love. Daphne. Too cruel offspring of so kind a sire! ‘When was it heard that e’er the tender lamb Produced a tiger, or the rook a swan ?— Sure you deceive yourself, or jest with me. Silvia. How can I choose but hate his love, Which hates my chastity ? Daphne. Now tell me, should another thus address thee, Would’st thou in such harsh kind receive his love? Silvia. In such harsh kind I ever would receive The traitor who would steal my virgin jewel : Whom you term lover I account a foe. Daphne. Thus to the ewe the ram Thou deem’st a foe; or to the tender heifer, The sturdy bull; the turtle to its mate. Thus the delightful spring Seems in thy mind the season of fell hate, And deadly enmity; the lovely spring That smiling prompts to universal love, That rouses nature’s flame through all her bounds: Nor less in animals of every kind, Than favour’d man. See how creation glows, In all her works, with love’s imperious flame ! Mark yonder doves that bill, and sport, and kiss : Hear'st thou the nightingale, as on the bough She evermore repeats, ‘I love, I love :” The wily snake sheathes her envenom’d fang, And sinuous glides her to her glossy mate : The savage tiger feels the potent flame: The grim majestic lion growls his love To the resounding forest.—Wilder thou Than nature’s wildest race, spurn’st at that power To which all nature bows.—But why of these, Of the grim lion or the spotted lynx, Or wily serpent ?—these have sense and feeling. Even trees inanimate confess the god : See how the vine clings with a fond embrace; The mountain fir, the pine, the elm, the beech, Have each their favour'd mate; they burn, they sigh, &c. Silvia. Well, when my ears shall hear their sighs of love, Perhaps I too may learn to love like them. By a similar strain of argument, Linco, in the ‘‘ Pastor Fido,” endeavours to persuade Silvio to love, whose sole delight is in the chase, and who tells his adviser that he would not give one wild beast, taken by his dog Melampo, for a thousand beautiful nymphs. Linco bids him ‘‘See how all nature loves, the heavens, the earth, the sea; and that beautiful morning star that now shines so bright, she likewise loves, and shines more splendid from her amorous flame; see how she blushes, for now perhaps she has just left the stolen embraces of her lover. The woods, and all their savage inhabitants, the seas, the dolphins, the huge whales,” &c., &c. How poor is all this refinement and conceit when compared with the language of truth and nature! When Peggy, in the confidence of a warm and innocent heart, describes to her com- panion the delights of a mutual passion, the enjoyments of domestic bliss, and the happiness arising from the exercise of the parental duties and affections; contrasting these with the cold OF ALLAN RAMSAY. XXXV and selfish feelings of determined celibacy, it is nature that speaks in every line, and the heart yields its warmest sympathy, as the judgment its complete conviction :— Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My eettled mind ; I’m o’er far gane in love. Patie to me is dearer than my breath, But want of him I dread nae other skaith, There ’s nane of a’ the herds that tread the green Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een. And then he speaks wi’ sic a taking art, His words they thrill like music thro’ my heart : How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave. Dk day that he’s alane upon the hill, He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill ; He is—but what need I say that or this, T’d spend a month to tell you what he is! To the sarcastical picture which Jenny draws of the anxieties and turmoil of a wedded life, Peggy thus warmly replies :— Yes, it ’s a heartsome thing to be a wife, When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. Gif I ’m sae happy, I shall hae delight To hear their little plaints, and keep them right. Wow, Jenny! can there greater pleasure be, Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee ; When a’ they ettle at, their greatest wish, Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss? Can there be toil in tenting day and night The like of them, when love makes care delight? * Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a’, Gif o’er your heads ill chance should beggary draw : Your nowt may die; the spate may bear away Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay; The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows, May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ewes, &e, Peggy. May sic ill-luck befa’ that silly she Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. Let folk bode weel, and strive to do their best, Nae mair’s required ; let heaven make out the rest. I’ve heard my honest uncle aften say, That lads should a’ for wives that’s virtuous pray ; For the maist thrifty man could never get A weel-stored room unless his wife wad let : Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part, To gather wealth to raise my shepherd’s heart : * When the sentiments are drawn from nature, it is not surprising that, where the subject is similar, there should be a concurrence of thought between two genuine poets, who never saw each other’s works. How similar is the following passage of the tenth satire of Boileau to the imagery of this beautiful family picture :— “ Quelle joie en effet, quelle douceur extréme De se voir caresser d’ une epouse qu’on aime ;— De voir autour de soi croitre dans la maison, Sous les paisibles loix d’ une agréable mére De petits citoyens dont on troit étre pére! Quel charme au moindre mal qui nous vient menacer De la voir aussitot accourir, s’ empresser,” Kc. XXXVI THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS Whate’er he wins I’l! guide wi’ canny care, And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo’, Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due : Syne a’ behind ’s our ain. Thus, without fear, Wi’ love and rowth we thro’ the warld will steer: And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife, He’ll bless the day he gat me for his wife. . Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green. Wi’ dimpled cheeks and twa bewitching een, Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, And her ken’d kisses, hardly worth a feg? Peggy. Nae mair of that :—dear Jenny, to be free, There’s some men constanter in love than we; Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind Has blest them with solidity of mind: They ’ll reason calmly, and with kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile : Sae whensoe’er they slight their maiks at hame, “Tis ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. ‘Then I’ll employ wi’ pleasure a’ my art, To keep him cheerfu’, and secure his heart: At e’en, when he comes weary frae the hill, I'll hae a’ things made ready to his will: In winter, when he toils thro’ wind and rain, A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane ; And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, . The seething pat ’s be ready to tak’ aff, Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board, And serve him wi’ the best we can afford: Good-humour and white bigonets shall be Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.—Act i. sc 2. Such are the sentiments of nature; nor is the language in which they are conveyed madequate to their force and tenderness; for to those who understand the Scottish dialect, the expression will be found to be as beautiful as the thought. It is in those touches of simple nature, those artless descriptions, of which the heart instantly feels the force, thus confessing their consonance to truth, that Ramsay excels all the pastoral poets that ever wrote. Thus Patie to Peggy, assuring her of the constancy of his affection :— I'm sure I canna change—ye need na fear ; Tho’ we're but young, I’ve lo’ed you mony a year : I mind it weel, when thou could’st hardly gang, Or lisp out words, I choosed you frae the thran ; Of »’ the bairns, and led thee by the hand Aft to the tansy-knowe, or rashy strand, Thou smiling by my side :—I took delight To pou the rashes green wi’ roots sae white, Of which, as well as my young fancy could, For thee I plet the flow’ry belt and snood.—Act ii. ac. 4. Let this be contrasted with its corresponding sentiment in the “ Pastor Fido,” when Mirtillo thus pleads the constancy of his affection for Amaryllis :— Prima che mai cangiar voglia, O pensiere, Cangero vita in morte: OF ALLAN RAMSAY. AXXKVIi Peré che ‘a bellissima Amarylli, Cofi com’ e crudel, com’ e spietata, E sola e la vita mia, Ne pué gia sostener corporea salma, Pit d un cor, pit d’ un alma. . Sooner than change my mind, my darling thought, Oh may my life be changed into death! (And mark the pledge of this assurance)— For cruel tho’, tho’ merciless she be, Yet my whole life is wrapt in Amaryllis; Nor can the human frame, I think, contain A double heart at once, a double soul! Past. Fid. act iii. sc. 6. The charm of the “‘ Gentle Shepherd” arises equally from the nature of the passions which are there delineated, and the engaging simplicity and truth with which their effects are described. The poet paints an honourable and virtuous affection between a youthful pair of the most amiable character; a passion indulged on each side from the purest and most disinterested motives, surmounting the severest of all trials—the unexpected elevation of the lover to a rank which, according to the maxims of the world, would preclude the possibility of union; and crowned at length by the delightful and most unlooked-for discovery, that this union is not. only equal as to the condition of the parties, but is an act of retributive justice. In the anxious suspense that precedes this discovery, the conflict of generous passions in the breasts of the two lovers is drawn with consummate art, and gives rise to a scene of the utmost tender- ness, and the most pathetic interest. Cold indeed must be that heart, and dead to the finest sensibilities of our nature, which can read without emetion the interview between Patie and Peggy, after the discovery of Patie’s elevated birth, which the following lines describe : — Patie. My Peggy, why in tears? Smile as ye wont, allow nae room for fears : Tho’ I’m nae mair a shepherd, yet I’m thine. Peggy. I dare not think sae high.—I now repine At the unhappy chance that made not me A gentle match, or still a herd kept thee. Wha can withoutten pain see frae the coast The ship that bears his all like to be lost; Like to be carried, by some reaver’s hand, Far frae his wishes to some distant land ? Patie. Ne’er quarrel fate, whilst it wi’ me remains To raise thee up, or still attend these plains. My father has forbid our love, I own ; But love ’s superior to a parent’s frown, I falsehood hate ;—come, kiss thy cares away ; I ken to love as weel as to obey. Sir William’s generous—leave the task to me, To make strict duty and true loves agree. Peggy. Speak on, speak ever thus, and still my grief ; But short I dare to hope the fond relief. New thoughts a gentler face will soon inspire, That wi’ nice air swims round in silk attire: Then I, poor me! wi’ sighs may ban my fate, When the young laird’s nae mair my heartsome Pate, Nae mair again to hear sweet tales exprest By the blithe shepherd that excell’d the rest; SXXVili THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS Nae mair be envied by the tattling gang, When Patie kiss’d me, when I danced or sang ; Nae mair, alake! we’ll on the meadow play, And rin half breathless round the rucks of hay, As aft-times I hae fled from thee right fain, And fa’en on purpose that I might be ta’en. Nae mair around the foggy knowe I’ll creep, To watch and gaze upon thee while asleep. But hear my vow—'twill help to gi’e me ease— May sudden death, or deadly sair disease, And warst of ills, attend my wretched life, If e’er to ane but thee I be a wife! Patie, Sure heaven approves :—and be assured of me, T'll ne’er gang back of what I’ve sworn to thee ; And time, though time maun interpose awhile, And I maun leave my Peggy and this isle, Yet time, nor distance, nor the fairest face (If there ’s a fairer), e’er shall fill thy place. I'd hate my fortune, &e. With similar fervent assurances of the constancy of his affection, Patie prevails in calming the agitation of Peggy’s mind and banishing her fears. She declares she will patiently await the happy period of his return, soothing the long interval with prayers for his welfare, and sedulous endeavours to improve and accomplish her mind, that she may be the more worthy of his affection. The scene concludes with an effusion of her heart in a sentiment of inimitable tenderness and beauty :— With every setting day and rising morn, I’ll kneel to heaven and ask thy safe return, Under that tree, and on the suckler brae, Where aft we wont, when bairns, to rin and play ; And to the hizel-shaw, where first ye vow'd Ye wad be min, and I as eithly trow’d, I'll aften gang, and tell the trees and flowers, Wi’ joy, that they’ll bear witness Iam yours.—Act iv. sc. 2. To a passion at once so pure, so delicate, so fervent, and so disinterested in its object, with what propriety may we apply that beautiful apostrophe of Burns, in his ‘‘Cottar’s Saturday Night !”"— O happy love! where love like this is found ; O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, ‘Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. In intimate knowledge of human nature Ramsay yields to few poets either of ancient or of modern times. How naturally does poor Roger conjecture the insensibility of his mistress to his passion, from the following simple but finely-imagined circumstances :— My Bawty is a cur I dearly like; Even while he fawn’d she strak the poor dumb tyke: If I had fill’d a nook within her breast, She wad have shawn mair kindness to my beast. When I begin to tune my stock and horn, Wi’ 9’ her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn: OF ALLAN RAMSAY. XXX1X Last night I play’d, ye never heard sic spite ; O'er Bogie was the tune, and her delight; Yet tauntingly she at her cousin speer’d, Gif she could tell what tune I play’d, and sneer’d.—Aet i. sc. 1. The counsel which Patie gives his friend, to prove with certainty the fate of Jenny’s affections, is the result of a profound acquaintance with the human heart :— Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way ; Seem careless: there’s my hand ye’ll win the day. Hear how I served my lass, I love as weel As ye do Jenny, and wi’ heart as leal. Then follows a picture so natural, and at the same time so exquisitely beautiful, that there is nothing in antiquity that can parallel it :— Last morning I was gay and early out ; Upon a dyke I lean’d, glow’ring about ; I saw my Meg come linkan o’er the lea ; I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me; For yet the sun was wading thro’ the mist, And she was close upon me ere she wist. Her coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs that whiter were than snaw; Her cockernony snooded up fw’ sleek, Her haffet locks hang waving on her cheek ; Her cheeks sae ruddy, and her een sae clear, And oh! her mouth like ony honey pear: Neat, neat she was in bustine waistcoat clean, As she came skiffing o’er the dewy green. Blithesome I cried, “‘ My bonny Meg, come here, I ferly wherefore ye’re sae soon asteer! But I can guess, ye’re gawn to gather dew.” She scowr’d away, and said, “ What's that to you?” “Then fare ye weel, Meg dorts, and e’en ’s ye like,” I careless cried, and lap in o’er the dyke. I trow when that she saw, within a crack, She came wi’ a right thieveless errand back ; Misca’d me first ; then bade me hound my dog, To wear up three waff ewes stray’d on the bog. T leugh, and sae did she; then wi’ great haste I clasp’d my arms about her neck and waist, About her yielding waist, and took a fowth Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth : While hard and fast I held her in my grips, My very saul came lowping to my lips. Sair, sair she flet wi’ me ’tween ilka smack, But weel I ken’d she meant nae as she spake. Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom, Do ye eae too, and never fash your thumb; Seem to forsake her, soon she’ll change her mood ; Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wud.—Act;i.s¢. 2 If at times we discern in the ‘“‘ Aminta” the proofs of a knowledge of the human heart, and the simple and genuine language of nature, our emotions of pleasure are soon checked by some frivolous stroke of refinement, or some cold conceit. In the ‘‘ Pastor Fido” the latter impression is entirely predominant, and we are seldom gratified with anything like a natural x] THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS or simple sentiment. The character of Silvio, utterly insensible to the charms of beauty or of female excellence, and who repays an ardent passion with insolence and hatred, if it exists at all in nature, is fitted only to excite contempt and detestation. Dorinda’s courtship of Silvio is equally nauseous, and the stratagem she employs to gain his love is alike unnatural. She steals and hides his favourite dog Melampo, and then throwing herself in his way while he is whooping after him through the forest, tells him she has found both the dog and a wounded doe, and claims her reward for the discovery. ‘‘ What shall that be?” says Silvio. ‘‘ Only,” replies the nymph, “‘one of those things that your mother so often gives you.” ‘‘ What,” says he, “‘a box o’ the ear?” ‘Nay, nay, but,” says Dorinda, ‘does she never give thee a kiss?” ‘She neither kisses me, nor wants that others should kiss me.” Silvio. Parle se vuoi Esser intesa. ; Dorinda. O misera! un di quelli, Che ti da la tua madre. Silvio. Una guanciata ? Dorinda, Una guanciata a chi t’ adora, Silvio ? Silvio. Ma carregia con queste ella sovente Mi suole. Dorinda. Ah so ben io che non é vero; Etal’ hor non ti bacia? Silvio. Né mi bacia, Ne vuol ch’ altri mi baci. The dog is produced, and Silvio asks, ‘Where is the doe?” ‘‘ That poor doe,” says she, ‘am I.” A petulance which, though rudely, we cannot say is unjustly punished, by Silvio giving a thousand kisses to his dear dog, and leaving the forward nymph, with a flat assurance of his hatred, to ruminate on his scorn and her own indelicacy. If this is nature, it is at least not la belle nature. But the circumstance on which turns the conversion of the obdurate Silvio, bids defiance even to possibility. Hunting in the forest, he holds a long discourse with an echo, and is half persuaded, by the reflected sounds of his own voice, that there is some real pleasure in love, and that he himself must one day yield to its influence. Dorinda clothes herself in the skin of a wolf, and is shot by him with an arrow, mistaking her for that animal. Then all at once he becomes her most passionate lover, sucks out the barb of the arrow with a plaster of green herbs, and swears to marry her on her recovery, which by the favour of the gods is fortunately accomplished in an instant. Equally unnatural with the fable are the sentiments of this pastoral. Amaryllis, passionately adored by Mirtillo, and secretly loving him, employs a long and refined metaphysical argument to persuade him that if he really loves her, he ought to love her virtue; and that man’s true glory lies in curbing his appetites. The moral chorus seems to have notions of love much more consonant to human nature, who discourses for a quarter of an hour on the different kinds of kisses, and the supreme pleasure felt when they are the expression of a mutual passion. But we need no chorus to elucidate arcana of this nature. True it is that in this drama, as in the ‘‘ Aminta,” there are passages of such transcendent beauty, of such high poetic merit, that we cannot wonder if, to many readers, they should veil every absurdity of fable, or of the general strain of sentiment: for who is there that can read the apostrophe of Amaryllis to the groves and woods, the culogy of rural life— Caro salve beate, &c. ; OF ALLAN RAMSAY, xii the charming address of Mirtillo to the spring— O primavera gioventi del anno, &c.; or the fanciful, but inspired description of the age of gold— O bella eta de I’ oro, &e.— who is there that can read these passages without the highest admiration and delight? But it must at the same time be owned, that the merit of these Italian poets lies in those highly- finished, but thinly-sown passages of splendour, and not on the structure of their fables, or the consonance of their general sentiments to truth and nature. The principal difficulty in pastoral poetry, when it attempts an actual delineation of nature (which we have seen is too seldom its object), lies in the association of delicate and affecting sentiments with the genuine manners of rustic life—an union so difficult to be accomplished, that the chief pastoral poets, both ancient and modern, have either entirely abandoned the attempt, by choosing te paint a fabulous and chimerical state of society, or have failed in their endeavour, either by indulging in such refinement of sentiment as is utterly inconsistent with rustic nature, or by endowing their characters with such a rudeness and vulgarity of manners as is hostile to every idea of delicacy. It appears to me that Ramsay has most happily avoided these extremes; and this he could the better do, from the singularly fortunate choice of his subject. The principal persons of the drama, though trained from infancy in the manners of rustic life, are of generous birth; to whom therefore we may allow, from nature and the influence of blood, an elevation of sentiment, and a nobler mode of thinking than to ordinary peasants. To these characters the poet has therefore, with perfect propriety and knowledge of human nature, given the generous sentiments that accord with their condition, though veiled a little by the manners, and conveyed in the language which suits their accidental situation. The other cnaracters, who are truly peasants, are painted with fidelity from nature; but even of these fne situation chosen by the poet was favourable for avoiding that extreme vulgarity and coarseness of manners which would have offended a good taste. The peasantry of the Pentland hills, within six or seven miles of the metropolis, with which of course they have frequent communication, cannot be supposed to exhibit the same rudeness of manners which distinguishes those of the remote part of the country. As the models, therefore, from which the poet drew were cast in a finer mould than mere provincial rustics, so their copies, as drawn by him, do not offend by their vulgarity, nor is there any greater degree of rusticity than what merely distinguishes their mode of life and occupations. In what I have said of the manners of the characters in the ‘‘ Gentle Shepherd,” I know that I encounter the prejudices of some Scottish critics, who, allowing otherwise the very high merits of Ramsay as a poet, and giving him credit in particular for his knowledge of human nature, and skill to touch the passions, quarrel with him only on the score of his language ; as they seem to annex inseparably the idea of coarseness and vulgarity to everything that is written in the native dialect of their country ; but of this I have said enough before. To every Englishman, and, I trust, to every Scotchman not of fastidious refinement, the dialect of the “Gentle Shepherd”? will appear to be most perfectly consonant to the characters of the speakers, and the times in which the action is laid. To this latter circumstance the critics I have just mentioned seem not to have been sufficicntly attentive. The language of this pastoral is not precisely the Scottish language of the present day; the poet himself spoke the language of the beginning of the century, and his persons were of the age preceding that A xiii THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS period. To us their dialect is an antiquated tongue, and as such it carries with it a Dorie simplicity. But when we consider both the characters and the times, it has an indispensable propriety ; and to have given the speakers in the ‘Gentle Shepherd” a more refined and polished dialect, or more modern tone of conversation, would have been a gross violation of truth and nature. ; In the faithful painting of rustic life Ramsay seems to have been indebted to his own situation and early habits, as well as to the want of a learned education. He was familiarly acquainted with rural nature from actual observation; and his own impressions were not weakened or altered by much acquaintance with the classical commonplaces, or with those artificial pictures which are presented by the poets.* It is not therefore the general characters of the country, which one poet can easily draw from the works of others, that we find in his pastoral; it was the country in which he lived, the genuine manners of its inhabitants, the actual scenes with which he was conversant, that fixed his observation and guided his imitative pencil. The character which, in the preface to his ‘‘ Evergreen,” he assigns to the Scottish poetry in general, is in the most peculiar manner assignable to his own:—‘‘ The morning rises in the poet’s description as she dogs in the Scottish horizon; we are not carried to Greece and Italy for a shade, a stream, or a breeze; the groves rise in our own valleys, the rivers flow from our own fountains, and the winds blow upon our own hills.” Ramsay’s landscapes are drawn with the most characteristic precision ; we view the scene before us, as in the paintings of a Claude or a Waterloo; and the hinds and shepherds of the Pentland hills, to all of whom this delightful pastoral is as familiar as their catechism, can trace the whole of its scenery in nature, and are eager to point out to the inquiring stranger the waterfall of Habbie’s How, the cottages of Glaud and Symon, Sir William’s} ‘‘ancient tower,” ruinated in the civil wars, but since rebuilt, the ‘‘auld avenue” and ‘‘shady groves,” still remaining, in defiance of the modern taste for naked, shadeless lawn. And here let it be remarked, as perhaps the surest criterion of the merit of this pastoral as a true deineation of nature, that it is universally relished and admired by that class of people whose habits of life and manners are there described. Its sentiments and descriptions are in unison with their feelings. It is recited, with congenial animation and delight, at the fireside of the farmer, when in the evening the lads and lasses assemble to solace themselves after the labours of the day, and share the rustic meal. There is not a milk-maid, a ploughboy, or a shepherd, of the Lowlands of Scotland, * So little has Ramsay borrowed from the ordinary language of pastoral, which is generally a tame imitation of the dialogue of Virgil and Theocritus, that in the whole of the Scottish poem there are (I think) only three passages that bring to mind those commonplaces which, in tho eclogues of Pope, we find almost in every line :— “The bees shall loathe the flower and quit the hive, The saughs on boggy ground shall cease to thrive, Ere scornful queans,” &c.—Act i. se. 1. “T’ve seen with shining fair the morning rise, And soon the sleety clouds mirk a’ the skies; T've seen the silver spring awhile rin clear, And soon in mossy puddies disappear ; The bridegroom may rejoice,” &c.—Act iii. sc. 3. ‘See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride,” &c.— Act i. se. 2. ¢ Sir William Purves of Woodhouselee, whosé estate was forfeited by the Protector, for his adherence to the royal cause: he regained it at the Restoration, and was appointed king’s solicitor. OF ALLAN RAMSAY. xliti who has not by heart its favourite passages, and can rehearse its entire scenes. There are many of its couplets that, like the verses of Homer, are become proverbial, and have the force of an adage when introduced in familiar writing or in ordinary conversation. U have thus endeavoured to accomplish what I proposed in the beginning of this Essay, which was, by an examination of the writings of Ramsay, to ascertain the character of his genius, and vindicate his title to that rank which, I conceive, it is his right to hold among our classical poets. I have shown that his genius was original, inasmuch as he drew from nature, with a vivid imagination and a vigorous pencil; that he inherited, in an uncommon measure, the knowledge of the human heart, the detail of life and manners; and though more prone to discern the weaknesses of mankind, the mean and the absurd in human conduct, and to apply to them the scourge of satire; yet, that he possessed the power of touching the finer passions, and was eminently skilled in the pathetic of nature. Of his power of invention, the drama of the ‘‘Gentle Shepherd,” and his ‘“‘Comic Tales,’ afford indisputable evidence; as does ‘‘ The Vision’ of his imagination. In variety of talents he yields to few poets either of ancient or of modern times. The writings of Ramsay, as of every uncultivated genius, abound with blemishes. Even the ‘‘Gentle Shepherd,” tender and affecting as it is in the general strain of its sentiments, displays some strokes of coarseness; and his smaller pieces are frequently tarnished with improprieties both of thought and expression. A harsh and fastidious critic may find abundant room to gratify a splenetic disposition: and such will not fail to remark that, in this short review of his writings, I have been much less solicitous to point out those imperfections of my author than to display his beauties. I acknowledge the justness of this observation; but I take no blame to myself. On this subject I have ever been of an opinion, in which I am warranted by the best of the English critics, Dryden and Addison, that it is much easier, in all works of taste, to discover faults, which generally fioat upon the surface, and are therefore okvious to the meanest understanding, than to discern those beauties which are delicate in their nature, and operate only on our finer sensibilities; and, as the task is the nicer, so is it incomparably the more pleasing. I must at the same time observe, that, in the preceding observations, the admirers of theoretic and metaphysical criticism will find but little to gratify their prevailing propensity. In judging of the merits of poetry, and of its power to please the imagination, or to touch the passions, I cannot help thinking, that an appeal to the feelings of mankind is a more sure criterion of excellence or defect than any process of reasoning depending on an abstruse analysis of the powers of the mind, or a theory of the passions. We may admire the ingenuity dis- played in works of this nature, but we cannot make use of them to regulate ourtaste. In our judgment of poetry, as of all the works of genius, there is a natural and instantaneous feeling of excellence, and a disapprobation of defect or impropriety which outruns all reasoning, and which directs with much more certainty than any conclusions of the understanding. In- formed by this unerring monitor, it maybe pleasing to find its decisions, on reflecting on the causes and nature of our feelings, approved and warranted by the judgment; but it is not necessary. Our opinion was formed antecedently to that reflection, and is therefore entirely independent of it. If I feel no pleasure in the perusal of a poem, I cannot be persuaded by any subtlety of philosophical argumentation that I ought to have been pleased; if I do feel pleasure that argument is unnecessary. In a word, that species of abstract reasoning may amuse and even improve the understanding; and, as fitted to do so, it is a laudable and a xhv THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF ALLAN RAMSAY. manly exercise of our faculties; but it cannot guide the taste. This quality of the mind is a gift of nature. It may be cultivated and improved by exercise upon its objects, but it cannot be created. We cannot acquire taste, as we do mathematics or logic, by studying it as a science. No process of reasoning can ever teach the nerves to thrill, the eyes to overilow, or the heart to sympathise. This sensibility is inbred in the mind; it is the dione particula aure ; and as all true poetry addresses itself to that faculty of our nature, it must be the only sure criterion to judge of its excellence or defects THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. INTRODUCTION. Ir is one of the many merits of Allan Ramsay that he prepared the way for Robert Burns. He was the first poet of any note who condescended to write in the native dialect of his country. With the exception of the nameless ballad and song-writers, all the poets of the first rank that have been produced in Scotland wrote in the best English they could command. Barbour, Dunbar, Montgomerie, Drummond of Hawthornden, though Scotchmen by birth and patriotism, were English in their literary character; and the fine poem on the achievements of Wallace, which has so long aroused the patriotic enthusiasm of Scottish youth, in the English translation attributed to Blind Harry, was originally composed in Latin. The Scottish vernacular poetry, as now known to the world, does not date from avery remote antiquity, The poetry of a thousand years has perished, and left no traces except in the ballads which preserve the stories and traditions of the past, changed in form and spirit into the language and manners of each succeeding age. Though it is known that before the invention of printing the Celtic population of the Highlands had their bards, and that the Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Scandinavian population of the Lowlands had their minstrels and scalds,—and that their themes were the old themes of love, wine, and war, common to all nations and to all periods,—it is too probable that the effusions of these times, like their green leaves and harvests, have passed away for ever. Historians made no note of them; for being wholly engrossed with the battles of kings, they thought but little of the loves and hopes, the joys and sorrows of the people. Scottish music, especially that of the Highlands, is of much greater antiquity than its poetry ; but Lowland music and poetry, when not derived from a Celtic source, are of more recent growth. Both the music and poetry of the Lowlands are largely indebted to the royal house of Stuart, and especially to James I., one of the most unfortunate scions of that unfortunate family. Upwards of four hundred and fifty years ago, James Stuart, eldest son of Robert III., and then in his eleventh year, was sent from Scotland to France, in a Scottish ship of war, to be educated in Paris. The vessel in which he sailed with his tutor was encountered off the coast of Norfolk by an English squadron; and although a truce existed between the two nations, of the same blood, lineage, and language, the English commander _ captured the royal boy, and carried him a prisoner to London. He was detained in the Tower for two years as a hostage. The war continuing, he was removed to Windsor Castle, to receive an education suitable to his rank, and the kind treatment due to his misfortunes. In these respects the English king behaved with generosity. Though the heir of Scotland was detained in captivity for nineteen years, and not restored to his country and to freedom until he was in the prime and maturity of manhood, he was instructed in all the. liberal arts and gentlemanly accomplishments of his time. He was taught to joust, wrestle, and fence, to dance, sing, and play on several instruments. He read and appreciated the classic authors of Greece and Rome, and was able to converse in French and Italian. With the sensibility of the poetic temperament, he fell in love, in very early youth, with the beautiful Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Duke of Somerset, whom he saw from the turrets of Windsor Castle, walking with her young companions on the terrace below. In B a THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. his poem of the “King’s Quair,” or the King’s Book, written in the choicest English of that day, and modelled on the style of Chaucer, then in the zenith of his fame, the. prince describes, in glowing langnage, the circumstances of his courtship. Love first made him a poet, as four hundred years afterwards it made a poet of another illustrious Scotchman— Robert Burns. He married this lady by the consent of the Kings of England and Scotland; and, when restored to liberty, and the throne of his ancestors, under the title of James L., he took her to Scotland, where, sitting by his side, in the royal palace of Scone, she was crowned his queen. James I. inherited misery and a crown at the same time; and his nineteen years of captivity in England were the happiest of his life, charmed as they were by poetry and music, and the delights ‘of youthful affection. He introduced English literature— then in its early infancy—into his native land, helped to refine its language and its manners, and appears to have been the first, though the fact has-been often and strenuously denied, to compose those peculiarly beautiful and plaintive melodies which have since made the music of the Scottish Lowlands famous throughout the world. , His reputation as a musician extended, even in his lifetime, beyond the limits of his own country. In the Pensiert Diversi ot Alessandro Tassoni, an Italian author of the fifteenth century, it is stated that “James, the King of Scotland, not only composed many sacred songs, but that he invented a new kind of music, very plaintive and melancholy, and different from all others, in which he has been imitated, by Carlo Gesualda, Prince of Venosa, who in that age improved music with many new and admirable inventions.” Scottish tradition attributes to this king many remarkable adventures, similar to those which are related in the Arabian Nights to have befallen the Caliph Haroun al Reschid. It also attributes to him many well-known songs and poems: among others, “Christ's Kirk on the Green,” afterwards re-modelled and extended by Allan Ramsay ; “ Peblis to the Play ;” and the joyous songs called the ‘“ Gaberlunzie Man,” and “ We'll gang nae mair a-roving, a-roving in the night.” But the tradition is not to be depended upon. There is no evidence to show that James composed any poems in the Scottish popular dialect. His education was English, not Scottish; and though he composed, as he certainly. did, Scottish tunes, it does not follow that he comipondd Scottish poetry ; and, in fact, all the puems' attributed to him, have been attributed, on the same vague authority, to James V. , For nearly a century after his death there was an interregnum of poetry in Scotland, except that of the nameless minstrels who sang as the birds sing, and left as little record behind them. Barbour, Dunbar, Montgomerie, and others, wrote in English. James V, did something to make the poetry of the people more fashionable at court. Like his contemporary, Henry VIII., he was fond of adventure, and wrote songs. Drummond of Hawthornden—himeself a poet, and so highly esteemed that Ben Jonson walked all the way from London on a pilgrimage to see him—says of James V., that he was naturally given to poetry, “as many of his works yet testify.” But it was not until the reign of the lovely Queen Mary,—who was not only a poetess herself, of no mean genius and cultivation, but who inspired more poetry and song than any woman since the days of Helen of Troy,—that the music as well as the song of Scotland took a newer and higher development. Educated and married in France, and returning to Scotland in her widowhood and in all the pride and bloom of youthful beauty, she introduced into her own country the musical culture and the taste of France and Italy. Chatelar, her secretary, drawing his inspiration from her beauty, composed songs which he sang to the guitar, and was, in all probability, the first to. give the Scottish popular tunes that easy, flowing, French character, which many of them still retain, and which the French, to this day, are so proud in detecting. Rizzio, her more unfortunate admirer, and one of the finest musicians of his age, composed melodies to Scottish songs,—though this also has been denied upon loud but not sufficient authority,— giving them an Italian refinement, while preserving the Scottish character, which James I. originally gave them. It was at this time, and partly through such agencies, and the | THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 3 innate enthusiasm and poetical temperament of the people, that the Scottish melodies, and. the songs and ballads which were adapted to them, were brought to that perfection which has made them the delight of all who hear them, whether they be accomplished musicians like Beethoven, or the simple children of nature who sing them at the plough or the fireside. The Reformation, operating a change in the national manners as well as faith, had naturally a great influence on poetry, music, and song. Many of the fine old wunes used’ in the choral services of the Roman Catholic Church were seized by irreverent reformers, and adapted to comic and satirical songs, in the broadest dialect of the people, full of coarse wit and humour, and broad caricature, such as “John, come kiss me now,” and “We're a’ noddin, nid, nid noddin.” It was in reference to songs such as these that “Godly Geddes,” author of the Saints’ Recreation, declared that “the Scottish airs and tunes seemed to have been made by holy angels, but that the words and sentiments of the songs seemed to be made by incarnate devils.” But Scotland was at this time more celebrated for its legendary ballads than for its songs. Immense numbers of such ballads, on all imaginable subjects, natural and super- natural, were in currency among the people. Those industrious collectors, Herd, Ramsay, Pinkerton, Percy, Scott, Motherwell, Hogg, Chambers, Aytoun, and others, have brought together many hundreds, if not thousands, of these ancient legends, full of romance and adventure ; yet few of them older than the seventeenth century, in the form in which we now see them, the finest of them having received constant touches and emendations from successive reciters, and some of them havin doubtless been either re-written or re-modelled, not only by professional bards, but by persons of education, such as Elizabeth Halkett, Lady Wardlaw, who flourished at the end of the seventeenth century, and died in her fifty-first year in 1727. Thomas (or, as he is better known, Tom) D’Urfey had begun to imitate Scotch songs so early as the reign of Charles II., but it was not until the days of Queen Anne, who was fond of the music of her own country, though she knew but little of its literature and poetry, that the Scotch melodies became fashionable first at court, and afterwards in society. Encouraged by the favour with which they were received, Gay introduced into the Beggar's Opera a large number of tunes, well known on the north of the Tweed, but not previously known in the south of it, and thus gave increased popularity to the music and songs of Scotland. ‘About the same time, Dr. Arne, an excellent English musician, began to write melodies in the Scottish style. And now appeared the first acknowledged popular poet and song-writer of the Scotch, in the person of Allan Ramsay, a barber and wig-maker. The trade of honest Allan suggests a characteristic of the Scottish people, and the men who have written their poetry. Though one of their most distinguished writers was, as we have seen, a king, every other poet of great note and genius, with some few exceptions, before or after the time of Allan Ramsay, sprung from the labouring classes. The Duke of Gordon wrote “There’s cauld kail in Aberdeen ;” William Hamilton of Bangour, a country gentleman of fortune and education, wrote the pathetic ballad, ‘The Braes o’ Yarrow,” which has made -Yarrow consecrated ground to all true lovers of poetry and romance; and Sir Walter Scott left a name as a poet, only eclipsed by the name which he left as a novelist: but the duke wrote nothing else worth remembering, and Scott may scarcely be considered an exception to the statement, for he, too, sprang from the ranks, and made himself noble by his genius. The greatest masters of the popular lyre have been men of the people, giving tuneful utterance to strong, tree sentiments, and warm, natural, and kindly emotions, as songs should do. Allan Ramsay, the barber; Robert Ferguson, the sailor; Robert Burns, the ploughman; James Hogg, the shepherd; Jane Glover, the strolling vagrant and tinker; Robert Nicoll, the printer; William Gill, the shoemaker; Robert Tannahill, the weaver; Allan Cunningham, the stone-mason; and a whole army of inferior, but still excellent songsters, born in the very dregs of poverty, and condemned to a life of penury and toil,— 4 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. all testify by their works to the rich, overflowing genius of the Scottish people in this depart- ment of poetry. The men of the pedple had powerful competitors, however, among the fairer sex. The daughters of the aristocracy entered the lists with the sons of the peasantry, - and claimed the honours of song:—Lady Grizzell Baillie, who wrote the pathetic ballad “Were na my heart light I would die ;” Lady Anne Lindsay, who wrote the ballad of “Auld Robin Gray,” known and admired wherever the Scottish dialect ia understood, or the English tongue is spoken; the late Lady Nairne, who died in London, a few years ago, at a venerable age, and who wrote “The Land o’ the Leal,” “Caller Herin’,” and many others equally exquisite; Mrs. Grant of Carron, who amended the old song of “ Roy’s wife of Aldivalloch ;” and Mrs, Cockburn, who wrote “The Flowers of the Forest,”—these are among the ladies dear to Scotland and to literature, who have vindicated the claims of the Scottish upper classes to a share in the laurels of song. But the Scottish popular poets—whether fair ladies of birth and education, or shepherds, ploughmen, mechanics, and rustics, with little or no education except that of the heart—have been stirred by the divine promptings of inborn genius, and enabled to pour upon the world countless strains of the tenderest beauty, which neither Scotland nor the world will let die, and which have never been excelled in simplicity or pathos, or in native wit and humour, by the bards and poets of any country in the world. Among this immortal company, ALLAN Ramsay stands high. It is his peculiar merit to have done more than any of his predecessors, and more than any who followed him, Robert Burns alone excepted, to render classic the dialect of the people. His songs, and more especially “The Gentle Shepherd,” not only present true pictures of the manners and character of his countrymen, but present them in such a way as to be equally pleasing to the most refined and the most illiterate. It was remarked by Mr. Fraser Tytler (Lord Woodhouselee), “ as perhaps the surest criterion of the merit of this pastoral, as a true delineation of nature, that it is universally relished and admired by that class of people whose habits of life and manners are there described. Its sentiments and descriptions are in unison with their feelings. It is recited, with congenial animation and delight, at the fireside of the farmer, when in the evening the lads and lasses assemble to solace themselves after the labours of the day, and share the rustic meal. There is not a milkmaid, a ploughboy, or a shepherd of the Lowlands of Scot- land, who has not by heart its favourite passages, and can rehearse its entire scenes. There are many of its couplets that, like the verses of Homer, are become proverbial, and have the force of an adage, when introduced in familiar writing, or in ordinary conversation.” The poem still retains its popularity, and Lord Woodhouselee’s description of it remains true to our time. It originally appeared without the songs, which the author some time afterwards was induced to interpolate, to fit it for representation on the stage, on account of the popularity of Gay’s Beggar's Opera, which set all England and Scotland singing the previously all but forgotten melodies of a bygone generation. ‘ But Ramsay did not improve the composition by this means. Many of the songs are “lugged in” very unnecessarily, and others are mere repe- titions, in a lyric form, of statements and sentiments previously introduced into the dialogue. The scene of this famous pastoral is supposed to have been laid in the neighbourhood ot Newhall House, about twelve miles from Edinburgh, on the bank of the North Esk, under the southern slope of the Pentland Hills. Some of the descriptions in the poem, corresponding with the actual scenery of the place, appear to lend strength to the supposition. Allan Ramsay is known to have visited Newhall, then iniabited by Mr. John Forbes, brother of the more celebrated Duncan Forbes of. Culloden, and is alleged to have recited, at a party of literati there assembled, some portions of the poem, prior to its publication. At the best, the case-is one of circumstantial evidence, and the poet, after all, may not have intended to represent any actual locality. But the supposition, whether well or ill founded, has becu enough to render Newhall classic ground to all the lovers of Scottish poetry. DEDICATION. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SUSANNA, COUNTESS OF EGLINTON * Manpam, Tux love of approbation, and a desire to please the best, have ever encouraged the poets to finish their designs with cheerfulness. But, conscious of their own inability to oppose a storm of spleen and haughty ill-nature, it is generally an ingenious custom among them to choose some honourable shade. Wheiefore I beg leave to put my Pastoral under your Ladyship’s protection. If my patroness says, the Shepherds speak as they ought, and that there are several natural flowers that beautify the rural wild, I shall have good reason to think myself safe from the awkward censure of some pretending judges, that condemn before examination. I am sure of vast numbers that will crowd into your Ladyship’s opinion, and think it their honour to agree in their sentiments with the Countess of Eglinton, whose penetration, superior wit, and sound judgment, shine with an uncommon lustre, while accompanied with the divine charms of goodness and equality of mind. If it were not for offending only your Ladyship, here, Madam, I might give the fullest liberty to my Muse to delineate the finest of women, by drawing your Ladyship’s character, and be in no hazard of being deemed a flatterer, since flattery lies not in paying what is due to merit, but in praises misplaced. * Were I to begin with your Ladyship’s honourable birth and alliance, the field is ample, and presents us with numberless great and good patriots, that have dignified the names of Kennedy and Montgomery: be that the care of the herald and the historian. It is personal merit, and the heavenly sweetness of the fair, that inspire the tuneful lays. Here every Lesbia must be excepted, whose tongues give liberty to the slaves which their eyes had made captives; such may be flattered: but your Ladyship justly claims our admiration and profoundest respect ; for, whilst you are possessed of every outward charm, in the most perfect degree, the never-fading beauties of wisdom and piety, which adorn your Ladyship’s mind, com- mand devotion. “ All this is very true,” cries one of better sense than good nature ; “ but what occasion have you to tell us the sun shines, when we have the use of our eyes, and feel his influence?” Very true; but I have the liberty to use the poet’s privilege, which is, “To speak what everybody thinks.” Indeed, there might be some strength in the reflection, if the Idalian registers were of as short duration as life; but the bard, who fondly hopes immortality, has a certain praiseworthy pleasure in communicating to posterity the fame of distinguished characters. I write this last sentence with a hand that trembles between hope and fear. But if I shall prove so happy as to please your Ladyship, in the following attempt, then all my doubts shall vanish like a morning vapour; I shall hope to be classed with Tasso and Guarini, and sing with Ovid, “Tf 'tis allowed to poets to divine, ’ One half of round Eternity is mine.” Mapam, Your Ladyship’s most obedient, And most devoted servant, EpinsurcH, Jue 25, 1725. ALLAN RAMSAY. * Whatever may be thought of the taste displayed by the authors of the last age in those flattering addresses styled dedications, we have here one in which the merits of the individual addressed are not over-estimated. Susanna, Countess of Eglintoune— daughter of Sir Archibald Kennedy of Colzean; born 1689, died 1780—was a woman of magnificent stature, unrivalled beauty and grace of person, and a cultivated and benevolent mind. She extended active patronage to Ramsay, Boyce, and other poets, at a time when, probably, no other peeress of the country, besides the Duchess of Queensberry, ever cast a thought on the interests of literary men. Boswell gives an interesting account of a visit which he and Dr. Johnson paid to the Countess, at her seat of Auchans in Ayrshire, on their return from the Hebrides.—R. CuamMBens. 6 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. TO THE COUNTESS OF EGLINTON, WITH THE FOLLOWING PASTORAL, Accert, O Eglinton! the rural lays, That, bound to thee, thy poet humbly pavs. The Muse, that oft has raised her tuneful strains, A frequent guest on Scotia’s blissful plains ; That oft has sung, her listening youth to move, The charms of beauty, and the force of love; Once more resumes the still successful lay, Delighted through the verdant meads to stray. O! come, invoked! and, pleased, with her repair To breathe the balmy sweets of purer air; In the cool evening, negligently laid, Or near the stream, or in the rural shade, Propitious hear, and, as thou hear’st, approve The Gentle Shepherd’s tender tale of love. Instructed from these scenes, what glowing fires Inflame the breast that real love inspires ! “he fair shall read of ardours, sighs, and tears, Il that a lover hopes, and all he fears : Hence, too, what passions in his bosom rise ! What dawning gladness sparkles in his eyes! When first the fair one, piteous of his fate, Cuted of her scorn, and vanquished of her hate, With willing mind, is bounteous to relent, And blushing, beauteous, smiles the kind consent ! Love’s passion here, in each extreme, is shown, In Charlotte’s smile, or in Maria’s frown. With words like these, that failed not to engage, Love courted Beauty in a golden age; Pure, and untaught, such Nature first inspired, Ere yet the fair affected phrase desired. His secret thoughts were undisguised with art, His words ne’er knew to differ from his heart : He speaks his love so artless and sincere, As thy Eliza might be pleased to hear. Heaven only to the rural state bestows Conquest o’er life, and freedom from its woes: Secure alike from envy and from care, Nor raised by hope, nor yet depressed by fear ; Nor Want’s lean hand its happiness constrains, Nor riches torture with ill-gotten gains. No secret guilt its steadfast peace destroys, No wild ambition interrupts its joys, Blest still to spend the hours that Heaven has lent, In humble goodness, and in calm content: ' Sereneiy gentle, as the thoughts that roll, Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia’s soul. But now the rural state these joys has lost ; Even swains no more that innocence can boast: Love speaks no more what beauty may believe, Prone to betray, and practised to deceive.. Now Happiness forsakes her blest: retreat, The peaceful dwelling where she fixed her seat ; The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace. Companion to an upright sober race, When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain, Free and familiar with the sons of men, To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast She uninvited came, a welcome guest ; Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts, Bribed from their innocence uncautious hearts, Then grudging hate, and sinful pride succeed, Cruel revenge, and false unrighteous deed. Then dowerless beauty lost the power to move; The rust of lucre stained the gold of love: Bounteous no more, and hospitably good, The genial hearth first blushed with strangers’ blood : The friend no more upon the friend relies, And semblant falsehood puts on truth’s disguise : The peaceful household filled with dire alarms ; The ravished virgin mourns her slighted charms : The voice of impious mirth is heard around, In guilt they feast, in guilt the bowl is crowned: Unpunished violence lords it o’er the plains, And happiness forsakes the guilty swains. Oh! Happiness, from human search retired, Where art thou to be found, by all desired ? Nun! sober and devout, why art thou fled, To hide in shades thy meek contented head ? Virgin! of aspect mild, ah! why, unkind, Fly’st thou, displeased, the commerce of mankind ? QO! teach our steps to find the secret cell, Where, with thy sire Content, thou lov’st to dwell, Or, say, dost thou a duteous handmaid wait Familiar at the chambers of the great P Dost thou pursue the voice of them that oall To noisy revel, and to midnight ball ? O’er the full banquet, when we feast our soul, Dost thou inspire the mirth, or mix the bowl? THE GENTLE SHEPH iow, 7 Or, with the industrious planter dost thou talk, Conversing freely in an evening walk ? Say, does the miser e’er thy face behold, Watchful and studious of the treasured gold ? Seeks Knowledge, not in vain, thy much-loved power, Still musing silent at the morning hour? May we thy presence hope in war’s alarms, Jn Stair’s wisdom, or in Erskine’s charms ? In vain our flattering hopes our steps beguile, The flying good eludes the searcher’s toil : In vain we seek the city or the cell; Alone with Virtue knows the power to dwell : Nor need mankind despair these joys to know, The gift themselves may on themselves bestow : Soon, soon we might the precious blessing boast, But many passions must the blessing cost ; Infernal malice, inly pining hate, And envy, grieving at another’s state; Revenge no more must in our hearts remain, Or burning lust, or avarice of gain. When these are in the human bosom nursed, Can peace reside in dwellings so accursed ? Unlike, O Eglinton! thy happy breast, Calm and serene, enjoys the heavenly guest ; From the tumultuous rule of passions freed, Pure in thy thought, and spotless in thy deed: In virtues rich, in goodness unconfined, Thou shin’st a fair example to thy kind; Sincere and equal to thy neighbour’s name, How swift to praise! how guiltless to defame! Bold in thy presence Bashfulness appears, And backward Merit loses all its fears. Supremely blessed by Heaven, Heaven’s richest grace Confessed is thine—an early blooming race - Whose pleasing smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm, Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm: What transports shall they to thy soul impart (The conscious transports of a parent’s heart), When thou behold’st them of each grace possest, Aud sighing youths imploring to be blest! After thy image formed, with charms like thine, Or in the visit, or the dance, to shine: Thrice happy! who succeed their mother’s praise, The lovely Eglintons of other days. Meanwhile, peruse the following tender scenes, And listen to thy native poet’s. strains : In ancient garb the home-bred Muse appears, The garb our Muses wore in former years. As in a glass reflected, here behold How smiling Goodness looked in days of old; Nor blush to read, where Beauty’s praise is shown, Or virtuous Love, the likeness of thy own: While ’midst the various gifts that gracious Heaven To thee, in whom it is well-pleased, has given, Let this, O Eglinton, delight thee most,— T’ enjoy that innocence the world has lost. W. H* * The author of this poem is William Hamilton of Bangour, born in 1704, and known for a very pathetic and forcible version of the ancient legend of “‘ The Braes o' Yarrow.” He is not to be confounded with William Hamilton of Gilbertfield, a more intimate friend and constant correspondent of Allan Ramsay, and to whom he addressed several ** Poetical Eplaties.” THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. INSCRIBED TO JOSIAH BURCHETT, ESQ, SECRETARY OF THE ADMIRALTY. THE nipping frosts, an’ driving snaw, Are o’er the hills an’ far awa’ ; Bauld Boreas sleeps, the Zephyrs blaw, An’ ilka thing Sae dainty, youthfu’, gay, an’ braw, Invites to sing. Then let ’s begin by creek 0’ day ; Kind Muse, skiff to the bent away, To try anes mair the landart lay, Wi’ a’ thy speed, Since BurcHert awns that thou can play Upo’ the reed. Anes, anes again, beneath some tree, Exert thy skill an’ nat’ral glee, To him, wha has sae courteously, To weaker sight, Set these rude sonnets,* sung by me, In truest light. In truest light may a’ that’s fine In his fair character still shine ; Sma’ need he has o’ sangs like mine To beet his name ; For frae the north to southern line, Wide gangs his fame ; His fame, which ever shall abide, While hist’ries tell o’ tyrants’ pride, Who vainly strave upon the tide T’ invade these lands, Where Britain’s royal fleet doth ride, Which still commands, These doughty actions frae his pent Our age, an’ these to come, shall ken, How stubborn navies did contend Upon the waves ; How free-born Britons fought like men, Their faes like slaves, Sae far inscribing, Sir, to you, This country sang, my fancy flew, Keen your just merit to pursue ; But ah! I fear, In gieing praises that are due, I grate your ear. Yet tent a poet’s zealous prayer ; May powers aboon, wi’ kindly care, Grant you a lang an’ muckle skair O’ a that’s good, Till unto langest life an’ mair You've healthfu’ stood ! May never care your blessings sour, Av’ may the Muses, ilka hour, Inprove your mind, an’ haunt your bower! I’m but a callan ; Yet may I please you, while I’m your Devoted Annan. * Allan Ramsay states, in a note on this passage, that Mr. Burchett had done him the honour of turning some of his pastoral poems into English ‘‘justly and elegantly.” These pastorals appear to have been ‘ Patie and Roger,” and *‘ Jenny and Meggy,” the first of which he afterwards incorporated with, and made the opening scene of, “* The Gentle Shepherd.” t His valuable Naval History.— ALLAN Ramsay ET THE GENTLE LONDON VIRTUE &C° LIMITED THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. —_e—____. DRAMATIS PERSONA. Su Wim Worry. Patie, the Gentle Shepherd, in love with Peggy. Rooker, a rich young Shepherd, in love with Jenny. | } two old Shepherds, tenants to Sir William. Symon, Gav, Baupy, @ Hind, engaged with Neps. Peaey, thought to be Glaud’s niece. JENNY, Glaud's only daughter. Mavst, an old woman, supposed to be a Witch. Exspa, Symon’s wife. Mange, Glaud's sister. Scene—A Shepherd's Village and Fields, some few miles from Edinburgh. Time of Action within twenty-four hours. ACT FIRST. SCENE I. Beneath the south side of a craigy bield, Where crystal springs their halesome waters yield, Twa youthfu' shepherds on the gowans lay, Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of May. Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring $ But blyther Patie likes to laugh an’ sing. Patiz and RocsEr. SANG I. Tune—“ The wawking o’ the faulds.” . Patie. My Peggy is a young thing, Just entered in her teens, Fair as the day, an’ sweet as May, Fair as the day, an’ always gay. My Peggy is a young thing, Av’ I’m no very auld, Yet weel I like to meet her At the wawking o’ the fauld. My Peggy speaks sae sweetly Whene’er we meet alane, I wish nae mair to lay my care, I wish nae mair o’ a’ that’s rare. My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a’ the lave I’m eauld, But she gars a’ my spirits glow, At wawking o’ the fauld. My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene’er I whisper love, That I look down on a’ the town, ust I look down upon a crown, My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It mak’s me blyth an’ bauld, An’ naething gi’es me sic delight As wawking o’ the fauld. My Peggy sings sae saftly When on my pipe I play, By a’ the rest it is confest, By a’ the rest, that she sings best. My Peggy sings sae saftly, Aw’ in her sangs are tauld, W? innocence, the wale o’ sense, At wawking o’ the fauld. Pat. This sunny morning, Roger, cheers my blood, An’ puts a? nature in a jovial mood. How heartsome ’tis to see the rising plants ! To hear the birds chirm o’er their pleasing rants ! How halesome it’s to snuff the cauler air, Av’ a’ the sweets it bears, when void o’ care! What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars thee grane? Tell me the cause o’ thy ill-seasoned pain. Rog. Tm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate! I’m born to strive wi’ hardships sad an’ great. Tempests may cease to jaw the rowin’ flood, Corbies an’ tods to grien for lambkins’ blood ; But I, opprest wi’ never-ending grief, Maun ay despair o’ lighting on relief. Pat. The bees shall loth the flower, an’ quit the live, The saughs on boggy ground shall cease to thrive, Ere scornfu’ queans, or loss 0’ warldly gear, Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear. Rog. Sae might I say; but it’s no easy done By ane whase saul’s sae sadly out o’ tune. You ha’e sae saft a voice, an’ slid a tongue, That you’re the darling o’ baith auld an’ young, 9 10 If I but ettle at a sang, or speak, They dit their lugs, syne up their leglens cleek ; Au’ jeer me hameward frae the lone or bught, While I’m confused wi? mony a vexing thought. Yet I am tall, an’ as well built as thee, Nor mair unlikely to a lass’s e’e. For ilka sheep ye ha’e, I’ll number ten, An’ should, as ane may think, come farer ben. Pat. But aiblins, neibour, ye ha’e not a heart, Aw’ downie eithly wi? your cunzie part. If that be true, what signifies your gear? A mind that’s scrimpit never wants some care. Rog. My byre tumbled, nine braw nowt were smoored, ° Three elf-shot were, yet I these ills endured: In winter last my cares were very sma’, Though scores o’ wathers perished in the snaw. Pat. Were your bien rooms as thinly stock’d as mine, Less you wad loss, an’ less ye wad repine.. He that has just enough can soundly sleep : The o’ercome only fashes fouk to keep. Rog. May plenty flow upon thee for a cross, That thou may’st thole the pangs o’ mony a loss! O may’st thou dote on some fair paughty wench, That ne’er will lowt thy lowan drowth to quench, Till, bris’d beneath the burden, thou cry dool, Av’ own that ane may fret that is nae fool! Pat. Sax good fat lambs, I sald them ilka clute At the West-port, an’ bought a winsome flute, O’ plum-tree made, wi’ ivory virls round ; A dainty whistle, wi’ a pleasant sound : I'll be mair canty wi’t, an’ ne’er cry dool, Than you, wi’ a’ your cash, ye dowie fool! _ Rog. Na, Patie, na! I’m nae sic churlish beast, Some other thing lies heavier at my breast : I dream’d a dreary dream this hinder night, That gars my flesh a’ creep yet wi’ the fright. Pat. Now, to a friend, how silly’s this pretence, To ane wha you an’ a’ your secrets kens! Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide Your weel-seen love, an’ dorty Jenny’s pride: Tak’ courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell, An’ safely think nane kens them but yoursel Rog. Indeed now, Patie, ye ha’e guessed owre true, An’ there is naething I'll keep up frae you; Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint, To speak but till her I dare hardly mint. In ilka place she jeers me air an’ Jate, An’ gars me look bombazed, an unco biate. But yesterday I met her yont a knowe, She fied as frae a shelly-coated cow: She Bauldy lo’es, Bauldy that drives the car, But gecks at me, an’ says I smell o’ tar. Pat. But Bauldy lo’es no her, right weel I wat; He sighs for Neps :—sae that may stand for that. THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. [aor lL. fog. I wish I cou’dna lo’e her—but, in vain, I still maun do’t, an’ chole her proud cisdain. My Bawty is a cur I dearly like, FH’en while he fawn’d, she strak the poor dumb tyke ; If I had filled a nook within her breast, She wad ha’e shawn mair kindness to my beast. When I begin to tune my stock an’ horn, Wi’ a’ her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn. Last night I played (ye never heard sic spite), O’er Bogie was he spring, an’ her delyte ; Yet, tauntingly, she at her cousin speer’d, Gif she could tell what tune I play’d, an’ sneer’d.— Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care, Tl break my reed, an’ never whistle mair. Pat. Fen do sae, Roger; wha can help misluck, Saebiens she be sic a thrawn-gabbit chuck ? Yonder’s a craig ; since ye ha’e tint a’ houp, Gae till’t your ways, an’ tak’ the lover’s loup. Rog. I needna mak’ sic speed my blood to spill, T'll warrant death come soon eneugh. a-will. Pat. Daft gowk! leave aff that silly whinging way; Seem careless, there’s my hand ye’ll win the day. Hear how I serv’d my lass I lo’e as weel As ye do Jenny, an’ wi’ heart as leal. Last morning I was gye an’ early out, Upon a dyke I lean’d glow’ring about ; I saw my Meg come linkin’ o’er the lee ; I saw my Meg, but Megey saw no me; For yet the sun was wading through the mist, An’ she was closs upon me ere she wist. Her coats were kiltit, an’ did sweetly shaw Her straight bare legs, that whiter were tha snaw, Her cockernony snooded up fu’ sleek, Her haffet-locks hang wavin’ on her cheek ; Her cheeks sae ruddy, an’ her een sae clear ; An’ oh! her mouth’s like ony hinny pear. Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean, As she came skiffin’ o’er the dewy green. Blythsome, I cried, “‘ My bonny Meg, come here, I ferly wherefore ye’re sae soon asteer ; But I can guess, ye’re gawn to gather dew.” She scoured awa, an’ said, “ What’s that to you?” “Than fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, an’ e’en’s ye like,” T careless cried, an’ lap in o’er the dyke. I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, She came wi’ a right thieveless errand back ; Misca’d me first,—then bade me hound my dog, To wear up three waff ewes strayed on the bog. I leugh, an’ sae did she: then wi’ great haste I clasp’d my arms about her neck an’ waist ; About her yielding waist, an’ took a fouth O’ sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth, While hard an’ fast I held her in my grips, My very saul came lowping to my lips. Sair, sair she flate wi’ me ’tween ilka smack, But weel [ ken’d she meant no as she spak’ SCENE TL.J Dear Roger, when your joe puts on her gloom, Do ye sae too, an’ never fash your thumb. Seem to forsake her, soon she’ll change her mood ; Gae woo anither, an’ she’ll gang clean wood. SANG II. Tune—“ Fy gar rub her o’er wi’ strae.” Dear Roger, if your Jenny geck, An’ answer kinduess wi’ a slight, Seem unconcern’d at her neglect ; For women in a man delight, But them despise wha’s soon defeat, An’ wi’ a simple face gi’es way To a repulse; then be nae blate, Push bauldly on, an’ win the day. When maidens, innocently young, Say aften what they never mean, Ne’er mind their pretty lying tongue, But tent the language o’ their een: Tf these agree, an’ she persist « To answer a’ your love wi’ hate, Seek elsewhere to be better blest, Av’ let her sigh when it’s too late. Rog. Kind Patie, now fair-fa’ your honest heart, Ye’re ay sae cadgy, an’ ha’e sic an’ art To hearten ane: for now, as clean’s a leek, Ye’ve cherished me since ye began to spéak. Sae, for your pains, I’ll make you a propine (My mither, rest her saul! she made it fine) ; A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo’, Scarlet an’ green the sets, the borders blue: Wi’ spraings like gowd an’ siller crossed wi’ black ; I never had it yet upon my back. Weel are you wordy o’t, wha ha’e sae kind Redd up my ravell’d doubts, an’ clear’d my mind. Pat. Weel, haud ye there—an’ since ye’ve frankly made To me a present o’ your braw new plaid, My flute be yours; an’ she too that’s sae mice, Shall come o-will, gif ye’ll tak’ my advice. Rog. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ’t ; But ye maun keep the flute, ye bes} deserv’t. Now tak’ it out, an’ gie’s a bonny spring; For I’m in tift to hear you play an’ sing. Pat. But first we'll tak’ a turn up to the height, Aw’ see gif a’ our flocks be feeding right ; By that time bannocks, an’ a shave o’ cheese, . Will mak’ a breakfast that a laird might please ; Might please the daintiest gabs, were they sae wise To season meat wi’ health, instead o’ spice. When we ha’e tane the grace-drink at the well, Til whistle fine, and sing t’ye like mysel. [Exeunt. THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. ll SCENE IT. A flowrie howm, between twa verdant braes, Where lasses use to wash an’ spread their claiths ; A trotting burnie wimpling through the ground, Its channel peebles, shining, smooth, an’ round : Here view twa barefoot beauties, clean an’ clear; First please your eye, next gratify your ear: While Jenny what she wishes discommends, An’ Meg, wi" better sense, true love defends, ‘ Preey and Jenny. Jen. Come, Meg, let’s fa’ to wark upon this green, This shining day will bleach our linen clean ; The water’s clear, the lift unclouded blue, Will mak’ them like a lily wet wi dew. Peg. Gae farder up the burn to Habbie’s How, Where a’ the sweets o’ spring an’ simmer grow: Between twa birks, out o’er a little lin, The water fa’s an’ mak’s a singin’ din ; A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, Kisses, wi’ easy whirls, the bordering grass. We'll end our washing while the morning’s cool, And when the day grows het, we'll to the pool, There wash oursels—it’s healthfu’ now in May, Aw’ sweetly cauler on sae warm a day. Jen. Daft lassie, when we’re naked, what'll ye say, Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae, Aw’ see us sae? that jeering fallow Pate , Wad taunting say, Haith, lasses, ye’re no blate. Peg. We're far frae ony road, an’ out o’ sight ; The lads they’re feeding far beyont the height. But tell me now, dear Jenny (we’re our lane), What gars ye plague your wooer wi’ disdain ? The neibours a’ tent this as weel as I, That Roger lo’es ye, yet ye carena by. What ails ye at him? Troth, between us twa, He’s worthy you the best day e’er ye saw. Jen. I dinna like him, Peggy, there’s an end , A herd mair sheepish yet I never ken’d. He kaims his hair, indeed, an’ gaes right snug, WY ribbon knots at his blue bonnet lug, Whilk pensylie he wears a-thought a-jee, An’ spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee; He falds his o’erlay down his breast wi’ care, An’ few gang trigger to the kirk or fair; For a’ that, he can neither sing nor say, Except, How d’ye?—or, There’s a bonny day. Pey. Ye dash the lad wi’ constant slighting pride, Hatred for love is unco sair to bide ; But ye’ll repent ye, if his love grow cauld: ‘What like’s a dorty maiden when she’s auld? Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat, ‘That for some feckless whim will orp an’ greet : 13 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. The lave laugh at it, till the dinner’s past ; An’ syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, Or scart anither’s leavings at the last. SANG III. Tone— Polwart on the green.” The dorty will repent, If lovers’ hearts grow cauld; An’ nane her smiles will tent, Soon as her face looks auld. The dawted bairn thus tak’s the pet, Nor eats, though hunger crave ; Whimpers an’ tarrows at its meat, An’s laught at by the lave. They jest it till the dinner’s past ; Thus, by itself abused, The fool thing is obliged to fast, Or eat what they’ve refused. Fy! Jenny, think, an’ dinna sit your time. Jen. I never thocht a single life a crime. Peg. Nor I:—but love in whispers-lets us ken, That men were made for us, an’ we for men. Jen. If Roger is my joe, he kens himsel, For sic a tale I never heard him tell. He glow’rs an’ sighs, an’ I can guess the cause; But wha’s obliged to spell his hums an’ haws ? Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, T’se tell him frankly ne’er to do’t again. They’re fools that slavery like, an’ may be free; The chiels may a’ knit up themsels for me. Peg. Be doing your wa’s; for me, I ha’e a mind To be as yielding as my Patie’s kind. Jen. Hech, lass! how can ye lo’e that rattle-skull? A very deil, that ay maun ha’e his will; We'll soon hear tell, what a poor fechting life You twa will lead, sae soon’s ye’re man an’ wife. Peg. Y'll rin the risk, nor ha’e I ony fear, But rather think ilk langsome day a year, Till I wi’ pleasure mount my bridal-bed, Where on my Patie’s breast I’ll lean my head. There we may kiss as lang as kissing’s gude, An’ what we do, there’s nane dar ca’ it rude. He’s get his will: why no? it’s good my part To gi’e him that, an’ he'll gi’e me his heart. Jen. He may indeed, for ten or fifteen days, Mak’ meikle o” ye, wi’ an unco fraise, Ay’ daut ye baith afore fouk an’ your lane ; But soon as his newfangleness is gane, He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, An’ think he’s tint his freedom for your sake. Instead then o’ lang days o’ sweet delight, Ae day be dumb, an’ a’ the neist he'll flyte: Aw’ may be, in his barlickhoods, ne’er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. {act I. SANG IV. Tune—“ O, dear mither, what shall Ido?" O, dear Peggy, love’s beguiling, We ought not to trust his smiling; Better far to do as I do, Lest a harder luck betide you. Lasses when their fancy’s carried, Think of nought but to be married : Running to a life, destroys Hartsome, free, an’ youthfu’ joys. Peg. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settled mind; I’m o’er far gane in love. Patie to me is dearer than my breath, But want o’ him I dread nae other skaith. There’s nane o’ a’ the herds that tread the green Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een: An’ then he speaks wi’ sic a taking art, His words they thirl like music through my heart. How blythly can he sport, an’ gently rave, An’ jest at feckless fears that fright the lave! Tk day that he’s alane upon the hill, He reads fell books, that teach him meikle skill. He is—but what need I say that or this? I'd spend a month to tell ye what he is! In a’ he says or does, there’s sic a gate, The rest seem coofs compared wi’ my dear Pate. His better sense will lang his love secure ; Ill-nature hefts in sauls that’s weak an’ poor. SANG VY. Tune—“* How can I be sad on my wedding-day ?” How shall I be sad when a husband I ha’e, That has better sense than ony of thae - Sour weak silly fellows, that study, like fools, To sink their ain joy, and mak’ their wives snools, The man who is prudent ne’er lightlies his wife, Or wi’ dull reproaches encourages strife ; He praises her virtues, and ne’er will abuse Her for a sma’ failing, but find an excuse. Jen. Hey, bonity lass o’ Branksome! or’t be lang Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. O ’tis a pleasant thing to be a bride ; Syne whinging getts about your ingle-side, Yelping for this or that wi’ fasheous din: To mak’ them braws then ye maun toil an’ spin. Ae wean fa’s sick, ane scads itsel wi’ broe, Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe ; The Dei! gaes o’er Jock Wabster, hame grows hell, An’ Pate misca’s ye waur than tongue can tell. Peg. Yes, it’s a hartsome thing to be a wife, When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. Gif I’m sae happy, I shall ha’e delight To hear their little plaints, an’ keep them right. SCENE 11. ] i Wow! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be, Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee; When a’ they ettle at—their greatest wish, Ts to be made o’, an’ obtain a kiss ? Can there be toil in tenting day an’ night The like o’ them, when love mak’s care delight ? Jen. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst 0° a’, Gif o’er your heads ill-chance should begg’ry draw ; But little love or canty cheer can come Frae duddy doublets, an’ a pantry toom. Your nowt may die; the spate may bear away Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks 0’ hay ; The thick-blawn wreaths o’ snaw, or blashy thows, May smcor your weathers, an’ may rot your ewes ; A dyvour buys your butter, woo’, an’ cheese, But, or the day o’ payment, breaks, an’ flees : W7 glooman brow, the laird seeks in his rent ; It’s not to gi’e; your merchant’s to the bent; His honour mauna want; he poinds your gear: Syne, driven frae house an’ hald, where will ye steer ? Dear Meg, be wise, an’ live a single life ; Troth, it’s nae mows to be a married wife. Peg. May sic ill luck befa’ that silly she Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. Let fouk bode weel, an’ strive to do their best ; Nae mair’s required; let Heaven mak’ out the rest. I’ve heard my honest uncle aften say, That lads should a’ for wives that’s virtuous pray ; For the maist thrifty man could never get A weel-stored room, unless his wife wad let : Wherefore, nocht shall be wanting on my part To gather wealth to raise my shepherd’s heart : Whate’er he wins, I’ll guide wi canny care, Aw’ win the vogue at market, trone, or fair, For halesome, clean, cheap, an’ sufficient ware. A flock o’ lambs, cheese, butter, an’ some woo’, Shall first be sell’d, to pay the laird his due; Syne a’ behint’s our ain.—Thus, without fear, Wi love an’ rowth, we through the warld will steer ; An’ when my Pate in bairns an’ gear grows rife, He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. Jen. But what if some young giglet on the green, Wi?’ dimpled cheeks, an’ twa bewitching een, Shou’d gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, An’ her ken’d kisses, hardly worth a feg? Peg. Nae mair of that.—Dear Jenny, to be free, There’s some men constanter in love than we: Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind Has blest them wi’ solidity of mind. They'll reason calmly, an’ wi’ kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile. Sae, whensoe’er they slight their maiks at hame, It’s ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. Then I'll employ wi’ pleasure a? my art To keep him cheerfu’, an’ secure his heart. At e’en, when he comes weary frae the hill, Dll ha’e a’ things made ready to his will. THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 13 In winter, when he toils through wind an’ rain, A bleezing ingle, an’ a clean hearth-stane ; An’ soon as he flings by his plaid an’ staff, The seething pats be ready to tak’ aff: Clean hag-a-bag I’ll spread upon his board, An’ serve him wi’ the best we can afford. Good humour an’ white bigonets shall be Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. Jen, A dish o’ married love right soon grows cauld, An’ dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld. Peg. But we'll grow auld thegither, an’ ne’er find The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind. Bairns and their bairns mak’ sure a firmer tye, Than aught in love the like o’ us can spy. See yon twa elms, that grow up side by side, Suppose them some years syne bridegroom an’ bride; Nearer an’ nearer ilka year they’ve prest, Till wide their spreading branches are increased, An’ in their mixture now are fully blest. This shields the other frae the eastlin blast, That in return defends it frae the wast. Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you!) Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt maun bow. Jen. I’ve done—I yield, dear lassie, I maun yield ; Your better sense has fairly won the field, With the assistance of a little fae Lies darned within my breast this mony a day. SANG VI. Tune—* Nancy's to the green-wood gane.” I yield, dear lassie, ye ha’e won, Av’ there is nae denying, That sure as light flows frae the sun, Frae love proceeds complying. For a’ that we can do or say *Gainst love, nae thinker heeds us; They ken our bosoms lodge the fae That by the heart-strings leads us. Peg. Alake, poor pris’ner! Jenny, that’s no fair; That you'll no let the wee thing tak’ the air: Haste, let him out; we'll tent as weel’s we can, Gif he be Bauldy’s or poor Roger’s man. Jen, Anither time’s as good ;—for see the sun Is right far up, an’ we’re not yet begun To freath the graith ;—if canker’d Madge, our aunt, Come up the burn, she’ll gie’s a wicked rant : But when we’ve done, I'll tell ye a’ my mind; For this seems true,—nae lass can be unkind. [ Breuné. 14 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. ACT SECOND. SCENE I. 4 snug thack house, before the door a green : Hens on the midding, ducks in dubs are seen. On this side stands a barn, on that a byre; A peat-stack joins, an’ forms a rural square. The house is Glaud’s: there you may see him lean, An' to his divot-seat invite his frien’, Guaup and Symon. Glaud. Good-morrow, neibour Symon :—come, sit down, Aw’ gie’s your cracks.—What’s a’ the news in town? They tell me ye was in the ither day, Aw’ sald your Crummock, an’ her bassen’d quey. T’ll warrant ye’ve coft a pund o’ cut an’ dry; Lug out your box, an’ gie’s a pipe to try. Sym. W7 a my heart ;—an’ tent me now, auld boy, I’ve gathered news will kittle your mind wi’ joy. I cou’dna rest till I cam’ o’er the burn, To tell ye things ha’e taken sic a turn, Will gar our vile oppressors stend like flaes, An’ skulk in hidlings on the hether braes. Glaud. Fy, blaw!—Ah, Symie! rattling chiels ne’er stand To cleck an’ spread the grossest lies aff-hand, Whilk soon flies round, like will-fire, far an’ near : But loose your poke, be’t true or fause let’s hear. Sym. Seeing’s believing, Glaud; an’ I have seen Hab, that abroad has wi’ our master been ; Our brave good master, wha right wisely fled, Au’ left a fair estate to save his head : Because ye ken fu’ weel he bravely chose To stand his liege’s friend wi’ great Montrose. Now Cromwell’s gane to Nick; an’ ane ca’d Monk Has played the Rumple a right slee begunk, Restored King Charles, an’ ilka thing’s in tune; An’ Habby says, we'll see Sir William soon. Glaud. That mak’s me blyth indeed !—but dinna flaw : Tell o’er your news again, and swear till’t a’. An’ saw ye Hah? an’ what did Halbert say ? They ha’e been e’en a dreary time away. Now God be thanket that our laird’s come hame. An’ his estate, say, can he eithly claim ? Sym. They that hag-rid us till our guts did grane, Like greedy hairs, dare nae mair do’t again ; An’ good Sir William sall enjoy his ain. SANG VIL. Tune—* Cauld kail in Aberdeen.” Cauld be the rebels cast, Oppressors base an’ bloody ; I hope we'll see them at the last Strung a’ up in a woody. [set vu. Blest be he of worth an’ sense, Av’ ever high in station, That hravely stands in the defence Of conscience, king, an’ nation. Glaud. Av’ may he lang; for never did he stent Us in our thriving wi’ a racket rent ; Nor grumbl’d if ane grew rich, or shor’d to raise Our mailens, when we pat on Sunday’s claise. Sym. Nor wad he lang, wi’ senseless, saucy air, Allow our lyart noddles to be bare. “Put on your bonnet, Symon ;—tak’ a seat.— “ How's a’ at hame?—How’s Elspa?—How does Kate ? “How sells black cattle?—What gi’es woo’ thu year ??— Aw’ sic-like kindly questions wad he speer. SANG VIII. Tune—“ Mucking o’ Geordy's byre.” The laird wha in riches an’ honour Wad thrive, should be kindly an’ free, Nor-rack his poor tenants, wha labour To rise aboon poverty : Else, like the pack-horse that’s unfothered An’ burdened, will tumble down faint: Thus virtue by hardship is smothered, An’ rackers aft tine their rent. Glaud. Then wad he gar his butler bring bedeen The nappy bottle ben, an’ glasses clean, Whilk in our breast raised sic a blythsome flame, As gart me mony a time gae dancing hame. My heart’s e’en raised !—Dear neibour, will ye stay, An’ tak’ your dinner here wi’ me the day ? We'll send for Elspa too—an’ upo’ sight, T’ll whistle Pate an’ Roger frae the height : T’ll yoke my sled, an’ send to the niest town, Aw’ bring a draught o’ ale baith stout an’ brown; Aw’ gar our cottars a’, man, wife, an’ wean, Drink till they tine the gate to stand their lane. Sym. I wad’na bauk my friend his blyth design Gif that it had’na first of a’ been mine; For ere yestreen I brewed a bow o’ maut, Yestreen I slew twa weathers prime an’ fat ; A furlet 0 guid cakes my Elspa beuk, An’ a large ham hings'reesting in the neuk : I saw mysel, or I came o’er the loan, Our meikle pat, that scads the whey, put on, A mutton bouk to boil,—an’ ane we’ll roast ; An’ on the haggies Elspa spares nae cost ; Sma’ are they shorn, an’ she can mix fu’ nice The gusty ingans wi’ a curn o’ spice: Fat are the puddings,—heads an’ feet weel sung ; An’ we’ve invited neibours, auld an’ young, SCENE II., M11.] To pass this afternoon wi’ glee an’ game, An’ drink our master’s health an’ welcome hame. Ye mauna then refuse to join the rest, Since ye’re my nearest friend that I like best : Bring wi’ you a’ your family; an’ then, Whene’er you please, I’ll rant wi’ you again. Glaud. Spoke like yoursel, auld birky; never fear, But at your banquet I sall first appear : Faith, we sall bend the bicker, an’ look bauld, Till we forget that we are failed or auld. Auld, said I1!—Troth I’m younger be a score, Wy’ your good news, than what I was before. T’ll dance or e’en!—Hey, Madge, come forth, d’ye hear P Enter Maver. Madge. The man’s gane gyte!—Dear Symon, welcome here. What wad ye, Glaud, wi’ a’ this haste an’ din ? Ye never let a body sit to spin. Glaud. Spin! snuff!—Gae break your wheel, an’ burn your tow, ' An’ set the meiklest peat-stack in a low; Syne dance about the bane-fire till ye die, Since now again we’ll soon Sir William see. Madge. Blythe news indeed!—An’ wha was’t tald you o’t? Glaud. What’s that to you?—Gae get my Sun- days’ coat ; Wale out the whitest o’ my bobit bands, My white-skin hose, an’ mittins for my hands ; Syne frae their washing cry the bairns in haste, An’ mak’ yoursels as trig, head, feet, an’ waist, As ye were a’ to get young lads or e’en; For we’re gaun o’er to dine wi’ Sym bedeen. Sym. Do, honest Madge :—an’, Glaud, Pll o’er the gate, Aw’ see that a’ be done as I wad hae’t. [Hveunt. SCENE II. The open field.—A cottage in a glen, An auld wife spinning at the sunny en’, Aasma’ distance, by a blasted tree, Wi' faulded arms, an’ hauf-raised looks, ye see Bautpy his lane. What's this !—I canna bear’t! ’Tis war than hell, To be sae brunt wi’ love, yet dar’na tell! O Peggy, sweeter than the dawning day, Sweeter than gowany glens, or new mawn hay ; Blyther than lambs that frisk out o’er the knowes ; Straughter than aught that in the forest grows: Her een the clearest blob o’ dew outshines ; The lily in ner breast its beauty tines ; THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. ‘16 Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her mouth, her een, Will be my dead, that will be shortly seen! For Pate lo’es her,—wae’s me! an’ she lo’es Pate; An’ I wi’ Neps, by some unlucky fate, Made a daft vow :—O, but ane be a beast, That mak’s rash aiths till he’s afore the priest ! I dar’na speak my mind, else a’ the three, But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy. Its sair to thole ;—T'll try some witchcraft art, To break wi’ ane, an’ win the other’s heart. Here Mausy lives, a witch, that for sma’ price Can cast her cantrips, an’ gi’e me advice : She can o’ercast the night, an’ cloud the moon, An’ mak’ the deils obedient to her crune: At midnight hours, o’er the kirk-yard she raves, An’ howks unchristened weans out o’ their graves ; Boils up their livers in a warlock’s pow: Rins withershins about the hemlock low; | Aw’ seven times does her prayers backward pray, Till Plotcock comes wi’ lumps o’ Lapland clay, Mixt wi the venom o’ black taids an’ snakes : O’ this, unsonsy pictures aft she makes O’ ony ane she hates,—an’ gars expire Wi’ slaw an’ racking pains afore a fire: Stuck fu’ o’ prins, the devilish pictures melt ; The pain, by fouk they represent, is felt. An’ yonder’s Mause ; ay, ay, she kens fu’ weel, When ane like me comes rinning to the deil. She an’ her cat sit beeking in her yard; To speak my errand, faith, amaist I’m fear’d : But I maun do’t, though I should never thrive ; They gallop fast that deils an’ lasses drive. | Bit? SCENE III. A green kail-yard; a little fount, Where water poplin springs : There sits a wife wi’ wrinkled front, An’ yet she spins an’ sings. SANG IX. Tune—“ Carle, an’ the King come.” Peggy, now the king’s come, Peggy, now the king’s come; Thou shalt dance, an’ I shall sing, Pegesy, now the king’s come. Nae mair the hawkies shalt thou milk, But change thy plaiden coat for silk, An’ be a lady o’ that ilk, Now, Peggy, since the king’s come. Enter Bavupy. Baul. How does auld honest lucky o’ the glen? | Ye look baith hale an’ fere at threescore ten. 16 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Mause. Wen twining out a thread wi’ little din, An’ beeking my cauld limbs afore the sun. What brings my bairn this gate sae air at morn? Is there nae muck to lead P—to thresh, nae corn? Baul. Eneugh o’ baith—But something that re- quires Your helping hand, employs now a’ my cares. Mause. My helping hand! alake! what can [ do, That underneath baith eild an’ poortith bow ? Baul. Aye, but ye’re wise, an’ wiser far than we, Or maist part 0’ the parish tells a lie. Mause. O’ what kind wisdom think ye I’m possest, That lifts my character aboon the rest ? Baul. The word that gangs, how ye’re sae wise an’ fell, Ye’ll may be tak’ it ill gif I should tell. Mause. What fouk say 0’ me, Bauldy, let me hear ; Keep naething up, ye naething ha’e to fear. Baul. Weel, since ye bid me, I shall tell ye a’ That ilk ane tauks about ye, but a flaw. ‘When last the wind made Glaud a roofless barn, When last the burn bore down my mither’s yarn ; When Brawny elf-shot never mair came hame ; When Tibby kirned, an’ there nae butter came ; When Bessy Freetock’s chuffy-cheeked wean To a fairy turned, an’ cou’dna stan’ its lane ; When Wattie wandered ae night through the shaw, Av’ tint himsel amaist amang the snaw ; When Mungo’s mare stood still, an’ swat wi’ fright, »— When he brought east the howdy under night ; ‘When Bawsy shot to dead upon the green, An’ Sara tint a snood was nae mair seen: You, lucky, gat the wyte o’ a’ fell out, An’ ilk ane here dreads you, a’ round about : Au’ sae they may that mean to do you skaith ; For me to wrang you, I’ll be very laith : But when I niest mak’ groats, I’ll strive to please You wi’ a furlet o’ them, mixt wi’ pease. Mause. I thank ye, lad.imNow tell me your de- mand, Aw’, if I can, I’ll lend my helping hand. Baul. Then, I like Peggy.—Neps is fond o’ me.— Peggy likes Pate ;—an’ Pate is bauld an’ slee, Aw’ lo’es sweet Meg.—But Neps I downa see.— Cou’d ye turn Patie’s love to Neps, an’ then Peggy’s to me,—I’d be the happiest man ! Mause. Vl try my art to gar the bowls row right; Sae gang your ways, an’ come again at night ; ’Gainst that time ll some simple things prepare, Worth a’ your pease an’ groats; tak’ ye nae care. Baul. Weel, Mause, I'll come, gif 1 the road can find ; But if ye raise the deil, he'll raise the wind; Syne rain an’ thunder, may be, when it’s late, Will mak’ the night sae mirk, I’ll tyne the gate. We're a’ to rant in Symie’s at a feast ;— O will ye come, like Badrans, for a jest ? (ACT IL Aw’ there ye can our different ’haviours spy: There’s nane shall ken o’t there but you an’ I. Mause. It’s like I may; but let nae on what's past *Tween you an’ me, else fear a kittle cast. Baul. If I aught o’ your secrets e’er advance, May ye ride on me ilka night to France. [Zeit Bauuy. Mauss her lane. Hard luck, alake! when poverty an’ eild, Weeds out 0’ fashion, an’ a lanely beild, WY a sma’ cast o’ wiles, should, in a twitch, Gi’e ane the hatefu’ name, 4 wrinkled witch. This fool imagines, as do mony sic, That I’m a wretch in compact wi Auld Nick; Because by education I was taught To speak an’ act aboon their common thought. Their gross mistake shall quickly now appear ; Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me here ; Nane kens but me ;—an’ if the morn were come, I'll tell them tales will gar them a’ sing dumb. [Zait. SCENE IV. Behind a tree upon the plain, Pate and his Peggy meet; In love, without a vicious stain, The bonny lass an’ cheerfu’ swain Change vows an’ kisses sweet. Partie and Preey. Peg. O Patie, let me gang, I mauna stay ; We're baith cry’d hame, an’ Jenny she’s away. Pat. Tm laith to part sae soon, now we're alane, An’ Roger he’s awa wi’ Jenny gane; They’re-as content, for aught I hear or see, To be alane themsels, I judge, as we. Here, where primroses thickest paint the green, Hard by this little burnie let us lean. Hark, how the lav’rocks chant aboon our heads, How saft the westlin winds sough through the reeds ! Peg. The scented meadows,—birds,—an’ healthy breeze, For aught I ken, may mair than Peggy please. Pat, Ye wrang me sair, to doubt my being kind; Jn speaking sae, ye ca’ me dull an’ blind; Gif I cou’d fancy aught’s sae sweet or fair As my dear Meg, or worthy o’ my care. Thy breath is sweeter than the sweetest briar, Thy cheek an’ breast the finest flowers appear. Thy words excel the maist delightfw’ notes, That warble through the merl or mavis’ th:oats THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act 2, scenes BUH LUE VIRTUE &¢ SCENE Iv.] W? thee I tent nae flowers that busk the field, Or ripest berries tnat our mountains yield. The sweetest fruits, that hing upon the tree, Are far inferior to a kiss 0’ thee. Peg. But Patrick for some wicked end may fleech, An’ lambs should tremble when the foxes preach. T dar’na stay ;—ye joker, let m2 gang ; Anither lass may gar you change your sang; Your thoughts may flit, an’ I may thole the wrang. Pat. Sooner a mother shall her fondness drap, Aw’ wrang the bairn sits smiling on her lap, The sun shall change, the moon to change shall cease, The gaits to clim, the sheep to yield their fleece, Ere aught by me be either said or done, Shall skaith our love ; I swear by a’ aboon. Peg. Then keep your aith—But mony lads will swear, An’ be mansworn to twa in hauf a year. Now I believe ye like me wonder weel ; But if a fairer face your heart shou’d steal, Your Meg, forsaken, bootless might relate, How she was dawted anes by faithless Pate. Pat. T’m sure I canna change; ye needna fear ; Though we’re but young, I’ve lo’ed you mony a year. I mind it weel, when thou cou’dst hardly gang, Or lisp out words, I choos’d ye frae the thrang O’ a’ the bairns, an’ led thee by the hand Aft to the tansy knowe, or rashy strand, Thou smiling by my side :—I took delight To pou the rashes green, wi’ roots sae white ; O’ which, as weel as my young fancy cou’d, For thee I plet the flowery belt an’ snood. Peg. When first thou gade wi’ shepherds to the hill, An’ I to milk the ewes first tried my skill ; To bear a leglen was nae toil to me, When at the bught at e’en I met wi’ thee. Pat. When corns grew yellow, an’ the heather bells Bloomed bonny on the muir, an’ rising fells, Nae birns, or briers, or whins, e’er troubled me, Gif I could find blae berries ripe for thee. Peg. When thou didst wrestle, run, or putt the stane, An’ wan the day, my heart was flight’ring fain: At a’ these sports, thou still ga’e joy to me; For nane can wrestle, run, or puti wi’ thee. Pat. Jenny sings saft the Broom o’ Cowden-knowes, An’ Rosie lilts the Milking 0’ the Ewes ; There’s nane like Nancy Jenny Nettles sings ; At tums in Maggy Lauder Marion dings ; But when my Peggy sings, wi’ sweeter skill, The Boatman, or the Lass o’ Patie’s Mill, It is a thousand times mair sweet to me: Though they sing weel, they canna sing like thee. THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. V7 Peg. How eith can lasses trow what they desire! An’, roosed by them we love, blaws up that fire : But wha lo’es best, let time an’ carriage try ; Be constant, an’ my love shall time defy. Be still as now, an’ a’ my care shall be, How to contrive what pleasant is for thee. SANG X. Tune—* The Yellow-hair'd laddie.” Peggy. When first my dear laddie gaed to the green hill, An’ I at ewe-milking first sey’d my young skill, To bear the milk-bowie nae pain was to me, When I at the bughting foregathered wi’ thee. Patie. When corn-riggs waved yellow, an’ blue heather-bell Bloomed bonny on muirland, an’ sweet rising fells, Nae birns, briers, or breckens ga’e trouble to me, Gif I found the berries right ripened for thee. Peggy. When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane, An’ cam’ aff the victor, my heart was aye fain ; Thy ilka sport manly ga’e pleasure to me; For nane can putt, wrestle, or run swift as thee. Patie. Our Jenny sings saftly the Cowden-broom-knowes, An’ Rosie lilts sweetly the Milking the Ewes ; There ’s few Jenny Nettles like Nancy can sing; At Thro’ the Wood, Laddie, Bess gars our lugs ring; But when my dear Peggy sings, wi’ better skill, The Boatman, Tweedside, or the Lass of the Mill, It’s mony times sweeter, an’ pleasing to me ; For though they sing nicely, they cannot like thee, Peggy. How easy can lasses trow what they desire ! An’ praises sae kindly increases love’s fire : Gi’e me still this pleasure, my study shall be, To mak’ mysel better, an’ sweeter for thee. Pat. Were thou a giglet gawky like the lave, That little better than our nowt behave ;— At naught they'll ferly, senseless tales believe, Be blyth for silly heghts, for trifles grieve ;— Sic ne’er cou’d win my heart, that kenna how Either to keep a prize, or yet prove true ; But thou, in better sense without a flaw, As in thy beauty, far excels them a’. Continue kind, an’ a’ my care shall be, How to contrive what pleasing is for thee. D 18 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Peg. Agreed.—But hearken! yon’s auld aunty’s cry, ~ T ken they'll wonder what can mak’ us stay. Pat, Aw let them ferly.—Now a kindly kiss, Or five-score guid anes wadna be amiss ; An’ syne we'll sing the sang wi’ tunefu’ glee, That I made up last owk on you an’ me. Peg. Sing first, syne claim vour hire.— Pat. Weel, I agree. SANG XI. By the delicious warmness of thy mouth, Av’ rowing een, that smiling tell the truth, I guess, my lassie, that, as weel as I, You’re made for love, an’ why should ye deny ? Peggy. But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o’er soon, Ye think us cheap, an’ syne the wooing’s done: The maiden that o’er quickly tines her power, Like unripe fruit, will taste but hard an’ sour. Patie. But gin they hing o’er lang upon the tree, Their sweetness they may tine; an’ sae may ye. Red-cheeked, ye completely ripe appear, An’ I ha’e tholed an’ wooed a lang half-year. Peggy (singing, fas into Patie’s arms). Then dinna pu’ me, gently thus I fa’ Into my Patie’s arms, for good an’ a’. But stint your wishes to this kind embrace, An’ mint nae farrer till we’ve got the grace. Patie (wi? his left hand about her waist). O charming armfu’! hence, ye cares, away ! Tl kiss my treasure a’ the live-lang day ; A’ night I'l dream my kisses o’er again, Till that day come that ye’ll be a’ my ain. Sung by both. Sun, gallop down the westlin skies, Gang soon to bed, an’ quickly rise ; O lash your steeds, post tume away, An’ haste about our bridal day ! Av’ if ye're wearied, honest light, Sleep, gin ye like, a week that night. [ Eeeunt. [ACT IL ACT THIRD. SCENE I. Now turn your eyes beyond yon spreading lime, An’ tent a man whase beard seems bleach‘d wi’ time 3 An elwand fills his hand, his habit mean ; Nae doubt ye’ll think he has a pedlar been. But whisht! it is the knight in masquerade, That comes, hid in this cloud, to see his lad. Observe how pleas'd the loyal suff’rer moves Through his auld av'nues, ance delightfu’ groves. Sir WILLIAM solus. The gentleman, thus hid in low disguise, Pll for a space, unknown, delight mine eyes With a full view of every fertile plain, Which once I lost—which now are mine again. Yet, ’midst my joy, some prospects pain renew, | Whilst I my once fair seat in ruins view. Yonder, ah me! it desolately stands Without a roof, the gates fallen from their bands! The casements all broke down; no chimney left; The naked walls of tap’stry all bereft. My stables and pavilions, broken walls, That with each rainy blast decaying falls ; My gardens, once adorned the most complete, With all that nature, all that art made sweet ; Where, round the figured green and pebble walks, The dewy flowers hung nodding on their stalks ; But, overgrown with nettles, docks, and brier, No jaccacinths or eglantines appear. How do those ample walls to ruin yield, Where peach and nect’rine branches found a bield, And basked in rays which early did produce Fruit fair to view, delightful in the use! All round in gaps, the most in rubbish lie, And from what stands the withered branches fly. These soon shall be repaired ;—and now my joy Forbids all grief, when I’m to see my boy; My only prop, and object of my care, Since Heaven too soon called nome his mother fair : Him, ere the rays of reason cleared his thought, I secretly to faithful Symon brought, And charged him strictly to conceal his birth, Till we should see what changing times brought forth. Hid from himself, he starts up by the dawn, And ranges careless o’er the height and iawn After his fleecy charge, serenely gay, With other shepherds whistling o’er the day. Thrice happy life! that’s from ambition free ; Removed from crowns and courts, how cheerfully A calm contented mortal spends his time, In hearty health, his soul unstained with crime! THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act 3% scene 2" LONDON VIRTUE & C° uimttep SCENE I1.] SANG XII. Tune—“ Happy clown.” Hid from himself, now by the dawn He starts as fresh as roses blown; And ranges o’er the heights and lawn After his bleating flocks. Healthful and innocently gay, He chants and whistles out the day ; Untaught to smile, and then betray, Like courtly weather-cocks. Life happy, from ambition free, Envy, and vile hypocrisy, ° Where truth and love with joys agree, Unsullied with a crime: Unmoved with what disturbs the great, In propping of their pride and state, He lives, and, unafraid of fate, Contented spends his time. Now towrds good Symon’s house I’ll bend my way, And see what makes yon gamboling to-day ; All on the green, in a fair wanton ring, My youthful tenants gaily dance and sing. ([Zvit. SCENE II. It's Symon’s house, please to step in, An’ vissy't round an’ round ; There’s nought superfluous to gi’e pain, Or costly to be found. Yet a’ is clean: a clear peat-ingle Glances amidst the floor; The green horn spoons, beech luggies mingle On skelfs foregainst the door. While the young brood sport on the green, The auld anes think it best, Wi' the brown cow to clear their een, Snuff, crack, an’ tak’ their rest. Symon, Giaup, aad Exspa. Glaud. We anes were young oursels.—I like to see The bairns bob round wi’ other merrylie. Troth, Symon, Patie’s grown a strapan lad, An’ better looks than his I never bade; Amang our lads he bears the gree awa’, An’ tells his tale the clev’rest o’ them a’. Eilspa. Poor man !—he’s a great comfort to us baith ; God mak’ him gude, an’ hide him aye frae skaith. He is a bairn, I'll say’t, weel worth our care, That ga’e us ne’er vexation late or air. Glaud. J trow, gudewife, if I be not mista’en, He seems to be wi’ Peggy’s beauty ta’en. An’ troth, my niece is a right dainty wean, THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 19 As ye weel ken: a bonnier needna be, Nor better,—be’t she were nae kin to me. Sym. Ha, Glaud! I doubt that ne’er will be a match ; My Patie’s wild, an’ will be ill to catch ; An’ or he were, for reasons I’ll no tell, Td rather be mixt wi’ the mools mysel. Glaud. What reason can ye ha’e? There’s nane, I’m sure, Unless ye may cast up that she’s but poor: But gif the lassie marry to my mind, Tl be to her as my ain Jenny kind. Fourscore o’ breeding ewes o’ my ain birn, Five kye that at ae milking fills a kirn, Pll gi’e to Peggy that day she’s a bride; By an’ attour, gif my gude luck abide, Ten lambs at spaining-time as lang’s I live, An’ twa quey cawfs, I'll yearly to them give. Elspa. Ye offer fair, kind Glaud; but dinna speer What may be is nae fit ye yet should hear. Sym. Or this day aught-days, likely, ye shall learn That our denial disna slight his bairn. Glaud. Weel, nae mair o't;—come, gie’s the other bend ; We'll drink their healths, whatever way it end. [Their healths gae round. Sym. But, will ye tell me, Glaud, by some’tis said, Your niece is but a fundling, that was laid Down at your hallen-side ae morn in May, Right clean rowed up, an’ bedded on dry hay? Glaud. That clatterin’ Madge, my titty, tells sic flaws, Whene’er our Meg her cankered bumwour gaws. Enter JENNY. Jen. O father, there’s an anld man on the green, The fellest fortune-teller e’er was seen: He tents our loofs, an’ syne whups out a book, Turns o’er the leaves, an’ gies our brows a look; Syne tells the oddest tales that e’er ye heard: His head is gray, an’ lang an’ gray his beard. Sym. Gae bring him in, we'll hear what he can say ; Nane shall gae hungry by my house the day. (Zeit Jenny. But for his telling fortunes, troth, I fear, He kens nae mair o’ that than my gray mare. Glaud. Spae-men! the truth o’ a’ their saws I doubt ; For greater liars never ran thereout. JENNY returns, bringing in SiR WILLIAM ; with them Patz. Sym. Ye’re welcome, honest carle; here tak’ a seat. Sir Wil. I give ye thanks, gudeman, I’se no be blate. 30 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Glaud (drinks). Come, here’s t’ye, friend.—How far came ye the day ? Sir Wil. I pledge ye, neibour:—e’en but little way 5 - Rousted wi’ eild, a wee piece gate seems lang; Twa mile or three’s the maist that I dow gang. Sym. Ye’re weleome here to stay a’ night wi’ me, An’ tak’ sic bed an’ board as we can gi’e. Sir Wil. That’s kind unsought.—Weel, gin ye ha’e a bairn That ye like weel, an’ wad his fortune learn, I shall employ the farthest o’ my skill To spae it faithfully, be’t good or ill. Sym. (pointing to Patre|. Only that lad :—alake ! I ha’e nae mae, Hither to mak’ me joyfu’ now, or wae. Str Wil. Young man, let’s see your hand ;—what gars ye sneer ? Pat. Because your skill’s but little worth, I fear. | Sir Wil. Ye cut before the point, but, billy, bide, Tl wager there’s a mouse-mark on your side. Elspa. Betouch-us-too! an’ weel I wat that’s true ;— Awa, awa! the deil’s o’er grit wi? you ;— Four inch aneath his oxter is the mark, Scarce ever seen since he first wore a sark. Sir Wil. Vl tell ye mair: if this young lad be spar’d But a short while, he’ll be a braw rich laird. Elspa. A laird! Hear ye, gudeman—what think ye now? Sym. I dinna ken !—Strange auld man, what art thou ? Fair fa’ your neart, it’s gude to bode o’ wealth; Come, turn the timer to laird Patie’s health. [Patix’s health gaes round. Pat. A laird o’ twa gude whistles an’ a kent, Twa curs, my trusty tenants on the bent, Is a’ my great estate—an’ like to be: Sae, cunning carle, ne’er break your jokes on me. Sym. Whisht, Patie,—let the man look o’er your Aft-times as broken a ship has come to land. (Sur Winuiam looks a@ little at Pamix’s hand, then counterfeits falling into a trance, while they endeavour to lay him right. Elspa. Preserve’s!—the man’s a warlock, or possest Wi’ some nae good, or second sight at least: Where is he now ?— Glaud. He’s seeing a’ that’s done In ilka place, beneath or yont the moon. Elspa. These second-sighted fouk (his peace be here !) See things far aff, an’ things to come, as clear As I can see my thumb.—Wov! can he tell (Speer at him, soon as he comes to himsel), [aeT IL How soon we'll see Sir William ? Whisht, he heaves. An’ speaks out broken words, like ane that raves. Sym. He’ll soon grow better.—Elspa, haste ye, gae An’ fill him up a tass 0’ usquebe. Sir Witt1aM starts up, and speaks. A Knight, that for a Lion fought, Against a herd of bears, Was to lang toil and trouble brought, In which some thousands shares. But now again the Lion rares, And joy spreads o’er the plain: The Lion has defeat the bears, The Knight returns again. That Knight, in a few days, shall bring A shepherd frae the fauld, And shall present him to his King, A subject true and bauld. He Mr. Patrick shall be call’d :— All you that hear me now, May well believe what I have tald, For it shall happen true. Sym. Friend, may your spaeing happen soon an weel; But, faith, I’m redd you’ve bargained wi’ the deil, To tell some tales that fouks wad secret keep ; Or, do you get them tald you in your sleep? Sir Wil. Howe’er I get them, never fash your beard, Nor come I to read fortunes for reward ; But I'll lay ten to ane wi’ ony here, That all I prophesy shall soon appear. Sym. You prophesying fouks are odd kind men! They’re here that ken, an’ here that disna ken, The wimpled meaning o’ your unco tale, Whilk soon will mak’ a noise o’er muir an’ dale. Glaud. Tt’s nae sma’ sport to hear how Sym believes, An’ tak’st for gospel what the spae-man gives O’ flawing fortunes, whilk he evens to Pate: But what we wish we trow at ony rate. Sir Wil. Whisht! doubtfu’ carle ; for ere the sun Has driven twice down to the sea, What I have said, ye shall see done In part, or nae mair credit me. Glaud. Weel, be’t sae, friend; I shall say naething mair ; But I’ve twa sonsy lasses, young an’ fair, Plump ripe for mea: I wish ye cou’d foresee Sic fortunes for them, might prove joy to me. Sir Wil. Nae mair through secrets can I sift Till darkness black the bent : I ha’e but ance a day that gift; Sae rest a while content. SCENE III. J Sym. Elspa, cast on the claith, fetch butt some meat, An’ o’ your best gar this auld stranger eat. Sir Wit. Delay a while your hospitable care ; Td rather enjoy this evening, calm an’ fair, Around yon ruined tower, to fetch a walk W? you, kind friend, to have some private talk. Sym. Soon as you please I’ll answer your desire :— An’, Glaud, you'll tak’ your pipe beside the fire ;— We'll but gae round the place, an’ soon be back, Syne sup together, an’ tak’ our pint, and crack. Glaud. Tl out a while, an’ see the young anes play ; My heart’s still light, albeit my locks be gray. [Ezeunt. SCENE III. Jenny pretends an errand hame; Young Roger draps the rest, To whisper out his melting flame, An’ thow his lass’s breast. Behind a bush, weel hid frae sight, they meet. See, Jenny's laughing; Roger's like to greet. Poor shepherd ! RocER and JENNY. Rog. Dear Jenny, I wad speak t’ye, wad ye let; An’ yet I ergh, ye’re aye sae scornfu’ set. Jen. Aw’ what wad Roger say, if he cou’d speak ? Aw I obliged to guess what ye’re to seek ? Rog. Yes, ye may guess right eith for what I grien, Baith by my service, sighs, an’ langing een. An’ I maun out wi’t, though I risk your scorn: Ye’re never frae my thoughts, baith e’en an’ morn, Ah! cou’d I lo’e ye less, I’d happy be; But happier far, cou’d ye but fancy me. Jen. Av’ wha kens, honest lad, but what I may? Ye canna say that e’er I said you nay. Rog. Alake! my frightened heart begins to fail, Whene’er I mint to tell ye out my tale, For fear some tighter lad, mair rich than I, Has win your love, an’ near your heart may lie. Jen. I lo’e my father, cousin Meg I love; But to this day nae man my mind cou’d move: Except my kin, ilk lad’s alike to me ; Av’ frae ye a’ I best had keep me free. Rog. How lang, dear Jenny ?—sayna that again ; What pleasure can ye tak’ in giving pain? I’m glad, however, that ye yet stand free ; Wha kens but ye may rue, an’ pity me ? Jen. Ye ha’e my pity else, to see you set On that whilkk mak’s our sweetness soon forget. Wow! but we’re bonny, gude, an’ every thing; How sweet we breathe whene’er we kiss or sing! But we're nae sooner fools to gi’e consent, Than we our daffin an’ tint power repent ; When prisoned in four wa’s, a wife right tame, Although the first, the greatest drudge at hame. THE GENTLE SHEPHiniw. é 2) Fog. That only happens, when, for sake o’ gear, Ane wales a wife as he wad buy a mare; Or when dull parents bairns together bind | O° different tempers, that can ne’er prove kind. But love, true downright love, engages me (Though thou shou’dst scorn) still to delight in thee. Jen, What sugar’d words frae wooers’ lips can fa’! But girning marriage comes an’ ends them a’, ve seen, wi’ shining fair, the morning rise, | An’ soon the sleety clouds mirk a’ the skies, I’ve seen the siller spring a while rin clear, An’ soon in mossy puddles disappear ! The bridegroom may rejoice, the bride may smile ; But soon contentions a’ their joys beguile. fog. I’ve seen the morning rise wi’ fairest light, The day unclouded, sink in calmest night. Tve seen the spring rin wimpling through the plain, Increase, an’ join the ocean without stain; - The bridegroom may be blyth, the bride may smile; Rejoice through life, an’ a’ your fears beguile. Jen, Were I but sure ye lang wad love maintain, The fewest words my easy heart cou’d gain: For I maun own, since now at last you’re free, Although I joked, I lo’ed your company ; Av’ ever had a warmness in my breast, That made ye dearer to me than the rest. Rog. Ymhappy now! o’er happy! haud my head! This gush o’ pleasure’s like to be my dead. Come to my arms! or strike me! I’m a’ fired Wi’ wond’ring love! let’s kiss till we be tired. Kiss, kiss! we'll kiss the sun an’ starns away, An’ ferly at the quick return o’ day! O Jenny! let my arms about thee twine, Aw’ briss thy bonny breasts an’ lips to mine. SANG XIII. Tune—“ Leith Wynd.” Jenny. Were I assured you’d constant prove, You should nae mair complain ; The easy maid beset wi’ love, Few words will quickly gain: For I must own, now since you're free, This too fond heart 0’ mine Has lang a black-sole true to thee, Wished to be paired wi’ thine. Rager. I'm happy now, ah! let my head Upon thy breast recline ; The pleasure strikes me near-hand dead ; Is Jenny then sae kind! O let me briss thee to my heart ! An’ round my arms entwine: Delightfw’ thought! we'll never part ; Come, press thy mouth to mine, 22 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Jen. Wi equal joy my easy heart gi’es way, To own thy weel-tried love has won the day. Now, by thae warmest kisses thou hast tane, Swear thus to lo’e me, when by vows made ane. Rog. 1 swear by fifty thousand yet to come, Or may the first ane strike me deaf an’ dumb, There sall not be a kindlier dawted wife, If ye agree wi’ me to lead your life. Jen. Weel I agree: niest to my parent gae, Get his consent ; he’ll hardly say ye nae. Ye ha’e what will commend ye to him weel, Auld folks, like them, that want aye milk an’ meal. SANG XIV. Tune—“ O'er Bogie.” Weel, I agree, ye’re sure o’ me; Niest to my father gae: Mak’ him content to gi’e consent, He'll hardly say ye nae: For ye ha’e what he wad be at, And will commend ye weel, Since parents auld think love grows cauld, When bairns want milk an’ meal. Should he deny, I carena by, He’d contradict in vain ; Though a’ my kin had said an’ sworn, But thee I will ha’e nane. Then never range, nor learn to change, Like those in high degree ; An’ if you prove faithfu’ in love, You'll find nae fau’t in me. Rog. My faulds contain twice fifteen forrow nowt, As mony neweal in my byres rout ; Five packs 0’ woo’ I can at Lammas sell, Shorn frae my bob-tailed bleaters on the fell ; Gude twenty pair o” blankets for our bed, W7 meikle care, my thrifty mither made. Uk thing that mak’s a heartsome house an’ tight Was still her care, my father’s great delight. They left me a’, whilk now gi’es joy to me, Because I can gi’e a’, my dear, to thee: An’ had I fifty times as meikle mair, Nane but my Jenny should the samen skair. My love an’ a’ is yours; now haud them fast, An’ guide them as ye like, to gar them last. Jen. Vldomy best. But see wha comes this way, Patie an’ Meg: besides, I mauna stay. Let’s steal frae ither now, an’ meet the morn; If we be sean, we'll drie a deal o’ scorn. Rog. To where the saugh-tree shades the mennin- pool, Y'll frae the hill come down, when day grows cool. Keep tryst, an’ meet me there: there let us meet, To kiss an’ tell our love; there’s nought sae sweet! (Exeunt, [aor mm, SCENE IV. This scene presents the Knight an’ Sym, Within a gall’ry o' the place, Where a’ looks ruinous an’ grim ; Nor has the baron shawn his face, But joking wi’ his shepherd leal, Aft speers the gate he kens fu’ weel. Sir Wi1am and Symon. Sir Wil. To whom belongs this house so much decayed P Sym. To ane that lost it, lending generous aid To bear the head up, when rebellious tail Against the laws o’ nature did prevail. Sir William Worthy is our master’s name, Whilk fills us a’ wi’ joy now he’s come hame. (Sir William draps his masking beard ; Simon, transported, sees The welcome knight, wi’ fond regard, An’ grasps him round the knees.) My master! my dear master! Do I breathe To see him healthy, strong, an’ free frae skaith! Returned to cheer his wishing tenants’ sight ! To bless his son, my charge, the warld’s delight ! Sir Wil. Rise, faithful Symon; in my arms enjoy A place thy due, kind guardian of my boy: I came to view thy care in this disguise, And am confirmed thy conduct has been wise ; Since still the secret thou’st securely sealed, And ne’er to him his real birth revealed. Sym. The due obedience to your strict command Was the first lock; niest my ain judgment fand Out reasons plenty ; since, without estate, A youth, though sprung frae kings, looks bauch an blate— Str Wil. And often vain and idly spend their time, Till, grown unfit for action, past their prime, Hang on their friends, which gives their souls a cast, That turns them downright beggars at the last. Sym. Now, weel I wat, sir, ye ha’e spoken true; . For there’s laird Kyttie’s son, that’s lo’ed by few. His ffther steght his fortune in his wame, Aw left his heir nought but a gentle name. He gangs about, sornan frae place to place, As scrimpt o’ manners as 0” sense an’ grace: Oppressing a’, as punishment o’ their sin, That are within his tenth degree o’ kin; Rins in ilka trader’s debt, what’s sae unjust To his ain family as to gi’e him trust. Sir Wil. Such useless branches of a common- wealth Should be lopt off, to give a state more health, Unworthy bare reflection. Symon, run O’er all your observations on my son: A parent’s fondness easily finds excuse, But do not, with indulgence, truth abuse. SCENT Iv. | Sym. To speak his praise, the langest: simmer day Wad be o’er short, could I them right display. In word an’ deed he can sae weel behave, That out o” sight he rins afore the lave ; An’ when there’s ony quarrel or contest, Patrick’s made judge, to tell whase cause is best ; An’ his decreet stands gude: he’ll gar it stand; ‘Wha dares to grumble finds his correcting hand. Wi’ a firm look, an’ a commanding way, He gars the proudest o’ our herds obey. Sir Wil. Your tale much pleases. friend, proceed. What learning has he? Can he write and read? Sym. Baith wonder weel; for, troth, I didna spare To gie him, at the school, eneugh & lair ; An’ he delights in books. He reads an’ speaks, W? fouks that ken them, Latin words an’ Greeks. Sir Wil. Where gets he books to read? and of what kind ? Though some give light, some blindly lead the blind. Sym. Whene’er he drives our sheep to Edinburgh port, He buys some books o” history, sangs, or sport : Nor does he want o’ them a rowth at will, Aw’ carries ay a poutchfw’ to the hill. About ane Shakespeare, an’ a famous Ben, He aften speaks, an’ ca’s them best 0’ men. How sweetly Hawthornden an’ Stirling sing ; An’ ane ca’d Cowley, loyal to his king, He kens fu’ weel, an’ gars their verses ring. I sometimes thought he made ower great a phrase About fine poems, histories, an’ plays : When I reproved him ance, a book he brings, “Wy? this,” quoth he, “on braes, I crack wi’ kings.” Sir Wil. He answered well; and much ye glad my ear, When such accounts I of my shepherd hear. Reading such books can raise a peasant’s mind Above a lord’s that is not thus inclined. Sym. What ken we better, that sae sindle look, Except on rainy Sundays, on a book ? When we a leaf or twa half read, half spell, Till a’ the rest sleep round, as weel’s oursel. Sir Wil. Well jested, Symon. Butone question more T’'ll only ask ye now, and then give o’er. - The youth’s arrived the age when little loves Flighter around young hearts, like cooing doves: Has nae young lassie, with inviting mien, And rosy cheeks, the wonder o’ the green, Engaged his look, an’ caught his youthful heart ? Sym. J feared the warst, but kend the sma’est part, Till late I saw him twa three times mair sweet Wi? Glaud’s fair niece, than I thought right or meet. I had my fears, but now ha’e nought to fear, Since, like yoursel, your son will soon appear. A gentleman, enriched wi’ a’ thae charms, May bless the fairest, best-born lady’s arms, My good THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 93 Sir Wil. This night must end his unambitious fire When higher views shall greater thoughts inspire. Go, Symon, bring him quickly here to me ; None but yourself shall our first meeting see. Yonder ’s my horse and servants nigh at hand; They come just at the time I gave command. Straight in my own apparel I'll go dress: Now ye the secret may to all confess. Sym. Wi how much joy I on this errand flee, There’s nane can ken that is no downright me. [Zcit Symon, Sir WILLIAM solus. Whene’er the event of hope’s success appears, One happy hour cancels the toil of years ; A thousand toils are lost in Lethe’s stream, And cares evanish like a morning dream ; When wished-for pleasures rise like morning light, The pain that’s past enhances the delight. These joys I feel, that words can ill express, I ne’er had known, without my late distress. But from his rustic business and love, I must, in haste, my Patrick soon remove, To courts and camps that may his soul improve. Like the rough diamond, as it leaves the mine, Only in little breakings shows its light, Till artful polishing has made it shine : Thus education makes the genius bright. SANG XV. Tune—* Wat ye wha I met yestreen?” Now from rusticity and love, Whose flames but over lowly burn, My Gentle Shepherd must be drove, His soul must take another turn. As the rough diamond from the mine, In breakings only shows its light, Till polishing has made it shine, Thus learning makes the genius bright. [Lait ACT FOURTH. SCENE L The scene described in former page, Glaud’s onset.—Enter Mause an’ Madge. MavsE and Mapes. Madge. Our laird’s come hame! an’ owns young Pate his heir. Mause. That’s news indeed !— Madge. As true as ye stand there. 94 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. As they were dancing a’ in Symon’s yard, Sir William, like a warlock, wi’ a beard Five nieves in length, an’ white as driven snaw, Amang us cam’, cried, Haud ye merry a’ ! We ferly’d meikle at his unco look, While frae his pouch he whirled out a book. As we stood round about him on the green, He viewed us a’, but fixt on Pate his een; Then pawkily pretended he could spae, Yet for his pains an’ ‘skill wad naething ha’e. Mause. Then sure the lasses, an’ ik gaping coof, Wad rin about him, an’ haud out their loof. Madge. As fast as flaes skip to the tate 0” woo’, Whilk slee tod-lowrie hauds without his mou, When he, to drown them, an’ his hips to cool, In simmer days slides backward in a pool : In short, he did for Pate braw things foretell, Without the help o’ conjuring or spell. At last, when weel diverted, he withdrew, Pu’d aff his beard to Symon: Symon knew His welcome master; round his knees he gat, Hung at his coat, an’ syne, for blythness, grat. Patrick was sent for: happy lad is he! Symon tald Elspa, Elspa tald it me. Ye’ll hear out a’ the secret story soon: An’ troth, it’s e’en right odd, when a’ 1s done, To think how Symon ne’er afore wad tell,— Na, no sae meikle as to Pate himsel. Our Meg, poor thing, alake ! has lost her jo. Mause. It may be sae, wha kens? an’ may be no. To lift a love that’s rooted is great pain : Even kings ha’e tane a queen out o’ the plain ; An’ what has been before may be again. Madge. Sic nonsense! love tak’ root, but tocher gude, *Tween a herd’s bairn an’ ane o’ gentle bluid! Sic fashions in King Bruce’s days might be, But siccan ferlies now we never see. Mause. Gif Pate forsakes her, Bauldy she may gain: Yonder he comes, an’ wow but he looks fain! Nae doubt he thinks that Peggy’s now his ain. Madye. He get her! slaverin’ doof! it sets him weel To yoke a pleugh where Patrick thought to teel. Gif I were Meg, I’d let young master see—— Mause. Ye’d be as dorty in your choice as he; Aw’ sae wad 1. But, whisht! here Bauldy comes. Enter BauLvy, singing. SANG XVI. Jocky said to Jenny, Jenny, wilt thou do’t P Ne’er a fit, quo’ Jenny, for my tocher gude, For my tocher gude, I winna marry thee. E’en’s ye like, quo’ Jocky, I can let ye be. facr rv. Mause. Weel liltit, Bauldy; that’s a dainty sarg! Baul. T’se give ye’t a’: it’s better than it’s lang. [Sings agatn.} I ha’e gowd an’ gear, I ha’e land eneugh, I ha’e sax guid owsen ganging in a pleugh; Ganging in a pleugh, an’ linkin’ o’er the lee, An’ gin ye winna tak’ me, I can let ye be. I ha’e a good ha’-house, a barn, an’ a byre ; A peat-stack *fore the door, will mak’ a rantin’ fire; T’ll mak’ a rantin’ fire, and merry sall we be, Aun’ gin ye winna tak’ me, I can let ye be. Jenny said to Jocky, gin ye winna tell, Ye sall be the lad, Pll be the lass mysel ; Ye’re a bonny lad, an’ I’m a lassie free ; Ye’re welcomer to tak’ me, than to let me be. I trow sae; lasses will come to at last, Though for awhile they maun their snaw-ba’s cast. Mause. Weel, Bauldy, how gaes a’ P— Baul. Faith, unco right : I hope we'll a’ sleep sound but ane this night. Madge. Av’ wha’s the unlucky ane, if we may ask P Baul. To find out that is nae difficult task :-— Poor bonny Peggy, wha maun think nae mair On Pate turned Patrick, an’ Sir William’s heir. Now, now, gude Madge, an’ honest Mause, stand be, While Meg’s in dumps, put in a word for me. T’'ll be as kind as ever Pate could prove, Less wilfu’, an’ aye constant in my love. Madge. As Neps can witness, an’ the bushy thorn, Where mony a time to her your heart was sworn. Fy! Bauldy, blush, an’ vows o’ love regard ; What ither lass will trow a mansworn herd ? The curse o’ heaven hings aye aboon their heads, That’s ever guilty o’ sic sinfu’ deeds. T'll ne’er advise my niece sae gray a gait ; Nor will she be advised, fu’ weel I wat. Baul. Sae gray a gait! mansworn! an’ a’ the rest ! Ye lied, auld roudes! an’, in faith, had best Eat in your words; else I shall gar ye stand, Wi’ a het face, afore the haly band. Madge. Ye’ll gar me stand! ye shevelling-gabbit brock ! Speak that again, an’, trembling, dread my rock, An’ ten sharp nails, that, when my hands are in, Can flyp the skin o’ yer cheeks out o’er yer chin. Baul. I tak’ ye witness, Mause, ye heard her say That I’m mansworn. I winna let it gae. Madge. Ye’re witness, too, he ca’d me bonny names, An’ should be served as his gude breeding claims, Ye filthy dog !— [Flees to his hair like a fury. A stout battle, Mauss endeavours to read them. GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act IV. Scene 1. LONDON. VIRTUK & Co SCENE I1.] Mause. Let gang your grips! Fy, Madge! howt, Bauldy, leen! I wadna wish this tulzie had been seen, It’s sae daft-like.— [Baur gets out of Manen’s clutches with a bleeding nose. Madge. It’s dafter like to thole u ether-cap like him to blaw the coal. lt sets him weel, wi’ vile unscrapit tongue, To cast up whether I be auld or young; Theyre aulder yet than I ha’e married been, An’, or they died, their bairns’ bairns ha’e seen. Mause. That’s true ;—an’, Bauldy, ye was far to blame, To ca’ Madge aught but her ain christened name. Baul. My lugs, my nose, an’ noddle find the same. Madge. Auld roudes! filthy fallow, I sall auld ye! Mause. Howt, no! ye’ll e’en be friends wi’ honest Bauldy. Come, come, shake hands ; this maun nae farder gae. Ye maun forgi’e’m; I see the lad looks wae. Baul. In troth now, Mause, I ha’e at Madge nae spite ; But she abusing first was a’ the wyte O’ what has happened, an’ should therefore crave My pardon first, an’ shall acquittance have. Madge. I crave your pardon! gallows-face, gae greet, An’ own your faut to her that ye wad cheat; Gae, or be blasted in your health an’ gear, Till ye learn to perform as weel as swear. Vow, an’ loup back! was e’er the like heard tell P Swith, tak’ him, deil; he’s o’er lang out 0’ hell! Baul. [running off]. His presence be about us! curst were he That were condemned for life to live wi’ thee. [Hcit Bau. Madge (laughing). I think I’ve towzed his bari- galds a wee ; He’ll no soon grien to tell his love to me. He’s but a rascal, that wad mint to serve A lassie sae; he does but ill deserve. Mause. Ye towin’d him tightly. I commend ye for’t ; His blooding snout ga’e me nae little sport : For this forenoon he had that scant o’ grace, An’ breeding baith, to tell me to my face, He hoped I was a witch, an’ wadna stand To lend him, in this case, my helping hand. Madge. A witch! how had ye patience this to bear, Av’ leave him een to see, or lugs to hear P Mause. Auld withered hands, an’ feeble joints like mine, Obliges fouk resentment to decline ; Till aft it?s seen, when vigour fails, then we Wi? cunning can the lake o’ pith supple. THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Thus I pat aff revenge till it was dark, Syne bade him come, an’ we should gang to wark. Tm sure he’ll keep his tryst; an’ I cam’ here To seek your help, that we the fool may fear. Madge. Aw special sport we’ll ha’e, as I protest; Ye’ll be the witch, an’ I sall play the ghaist. A linen sheet wound round me, like aue dead, Pll cawk my face, an’ grane, an’ shake my head. We'll fleg him sae, he’ll mint nae mair to gang A conjuring, to do a lassie wrang. Mause. Then let us gae; for see, it’s hard on night, The westlin clouds shine red wi’ setting light. [Exeunt, SCENE II. ‘When birds begin to nod upon the bough, An’ the green swaird grows damp wi’ falling dew, While gude Sir William is to rest retired, The Gentle Shepherd, tenderly inspired, Walks through the broom wi' Roger ever leal, To meet, to comfort Meg, an’ tak’ fareweel. Patre and RoceEr. Rog. Wow but I’m cadgie, an’ my heart loups light! Oh, Maister Patrick ! ay, your thoughts were right. Sure gentle fouk are farder seen than we, That naething ha’e to brag o’ pedigree. My Jenny now, wha brak’ my heart this morn, Is pertect yielding, sweet, an’ nae mair scorn. I spak’ my mind; she heard. I spak’ again; She smiled. I kissed, I wooed, nor wooed in vain. Pat. I’m glad to heart. But oh! my change this day Heaves up my joy, an’ yet I’m sometimes wae. I’ve found a father gently kind as brave, An’ an estate that lifts me *boon the lave. W? looks a’ kindness, words that love confest, He a’ the father to my soul exprest, While close he held me to his manly breast. “Such were the eyes,” he said, “thus smiled the mouth Of thy loved mother, blessing of my youth, Who set too soon!” An’ while he praise bestowed, Adown his gracefu’ cheeks a torrent flowed. My new-born joys, an’ this his tender tale, Did, mingled thus, o’er a’ my thoughts prevail ; That speechless lang, my late ken’d sire I viewed, While gushing tears my panting breast bedewed. Unusual transports made my head turn round, Whilst I mysel, wi’ rising raptures, found The happy son o’ ane sae much renowned. But he has heard !—Too faithful Symon’s fear Has brought my love for Peggy to his ear, Which he forbids. Ah! this confounds my peace While thus to beat, my heart shall sooner cease. 3 26 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Fog. How to advise ye, troth, I’m at a stand; But were’t my case, ye’d clear it up aff hand. Pat. Duty, an’ haflins reason, plead his cause : But what cares love for reason, rules, an’ laws ? Still in my heart my shepherdess excels, An’ part o’ my new happiness repels. SANG XVII. Tune— Kirk wad let me be.” Duty an’ part o’ reason Plead strong on the parent’s side, Which love so superior ca’s treason ; The strongest must be obeyed : For now, though I’m ane o’ the gentry, My constancy falsehood repels, For change in my heart has no entry, Still there my dear Peggy excels. Rog. Enjoy them baith: Sir William will be won. Your Peggy’s bonny; you’re his only son. Pat. She’s mine by vows, an’ stronger ties 0’ love; An’ frae these bands nae change my mind shall move. Dll wed nane else; through life I will be true: But still obedience is a parent’s due. Rog, Is not our master an’ yoursel to stay Amang us here? or, are ye gawn away To London court, or ither far aff parts, To leave your ain poor us wi’ broken hearts ? Pat. To Edinburgh straight to-morrow we advance ; : To London niest, an’ afterwards to France, Where I maun stay some years an’ learn to dance, An’ twa-three other monkey tricks. That done, I come hame strutting in my red-heeled shoon. Then it’s designed, when I can weel behave, That I maun be some petted thing’s dull slave, For twa-three bags o’ cash, that, I wat weel, I nae mair need nor carts do a third wheel. But Peggy, dearer to me than my breath, Sooner than hear sic news, shall hear my death. Rog. “They wha ha’e just eneugh can soundly sleep ; The o’ercome only fashes fouk to keep :” Gude Maister Patrick, tak’ your ain tale hame. Pat. What was my morning thought, at night ’s the same : The poor an’ rich but differ in the name. Content ’s the greatest bliss we can procure Frae ’boon the lift ; without it kings are poor. Rog. But an estate like yours yields braw content, When we but pick it scantly on the bent : Fine claiths, saft beds, sweet houses, an’ red wine, Gude cheer, an’ witty frien’s, whene’er ye dine ; Obeysant servants, honour, wealth, an’ ease,— Wha’s no content wi’ thae are ill to please. (act tv. Pat. Sae Roger thinks, an’ thinks no far amiss ; But mony a cloud hings hov’ring o’er the bliss. The passions rule the roast; an’, if they’re sour, Like the lean kye, will soon the fat devour. The spleen, tint honour, an’ affronted pride, Stang like the sharpest goads in gentry’s side. The gouts an’ gravels, an’ the ill disease, Are frequentest wi’? fouk o’erlaid wi’ ease: While o’er the muir the shepherd, wi’ less care, Enjoys his sober wish, an’ halesome air. Rog. Lord, man! I wonder aye, an’ it delights My heart, whene’er I hearken to your flights. How gat ye a’ that sense, I fain wad hear, That I may easier disappointments bear ? Pat. Frae books, the wale o’ books, I gat some skill; Thae best can teach what’s real gude an’ ill. Ne’er grudge, ilk year, to ware some stanes 0’ cheese, To gain thae silent friends, that ever please. Rog. V'll do’t, an’ ye sall tell me whilk to buy: Faith, I’se ha’e books, though I should sell my kye. But now let’s hear how you’re designed to move, Between Sir William’s will an’ Peggy’s love. Pat. Then here it lies: his will maun be obeyed, My vows I’ll keep, an’ she shall be my bride ; But I some time this last design maun hide. Keep ye the secret close, an’ leave me here ; I sent for Peggy. Yonder comes my dear. Rog. Pleased that ye trust me wi’ the secret, I, To wyle it frae me, a the deils defy. [vit Roger, Partie solus. WY what a struggle maun I now impart My father’s will to her that hauds my heart ' I ken she lo’es, an’ her saft saul will sink, While it stands trembling on the hated brink O’ disappointment. Heaven support my fair, Aw’ let her comfort claim your tender care ! Her eyes are red !— Enter Pecey. My Peggy, why in tears P Smile as ye wont, allow nae room for fears : Though I’m nae mair a shepherd, yet I’m thine. Peg. I darna think sae high. I now repine At the unhappy chance that made na me A gentle match, or still a herd kept thee. Wha can, withouten pain, see frae the coast The ship that bears his a’ like to be lost ? Like to be carried by some reiver’s hand, Far frae his wishes, to some distant land ? Pat. Ne’er quarrel Fate, whilst it wi? me remaina To raise thee up, or still attend thae plains, My father has forbid our loves, I own ; But love’s superior to a parent’s frown. SCENE I1.] I falsehood hate: come, kiss thy cares away ; [ ken to love as weel as to obey. Sir William’s gen’rous ; leave the task to me, To mak’ strict duty an’ true love agree. Peg. Speak on! speak ever thus, an’ still my grief; But short I daur to hope the fond relief. New thoughts a gentler face will soon inspire, That wi’ nice air swims round in silk attire ; Then I, poor me! wi’ sighs may ban my fate, When the young laird’s nae mair my heartsome Pate ; Nae mair again to hear sweet tales exprest, By the blythe shepherd that excelled the rest ; Nae mair be envied by the tattling gang, When Patie kissed me, when I danced or sang. Nae mair, alake! we’ll on the meadow play, An’ rin haff breathless round the rucks 0’ hay ; As aft-times I ha’e fled frae thee right fain, An’ fa’n on purpose, that I might be ta’en. Nae mair around the foggy knowe I’ll creep, To watch an’ stare upon thee while asleep. But hear my vow, ’twill help to gi’e me ease: May sudden death, or deadly sair disease, Aw’ warst o’ ills attend my wretched life, If e’er to ane, but you, I be a wife! ~ SANG XVIII. Tune—“ Wae's my heart that we should sunder.” Speak on, speak thus, an’ still my grief, Haud up a heart that’s sinking under Thae fears, that soon will want relief, When Pate maun frae his Pegey sunder : A gentler face, an’ silk attire, A lady rich, in beauty’s blossom, Alake, poor me! will now conspire To steal thee frae thy Peggy’s bosom. Nae mair the shepherd, wha excelled The rest, whase wit made them to wonder, Shall now his Peggy’s praises tell : Ah! I can die, but never sunder. Ye meadows where we aften strayed, Ye banks where we were wont to wander, Sweet-scented rucks round which we play’d, You'll lose your sweets when we’re asunder. Again, ah! shall I never creep Around the knowe wi’ silent duty, Kindly to watch thee while asleep, An’ wonder at thy manly beauty ? Hear, Heaven, while solemnly I vow, Though thou shouldst prove a wandering lover, Through life to thee I shall prove true, Nor be a wife to any other: THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 27 Pat. Sure Heaven approves; an’ be assured o’ me, Pll ne’er gang back o’ what I’ve sworn to thee: Av’ time, though time maun interpose a while, An’ I maun leave my Peggy an’ this isle ; Yet time, nor distance, nor the fairest face, If there’s a fairer, e’er shall fill thy place.. Td hate my rising fortune, should it move The fair foundation o’ our faithfu’ love. If at my feet were crowns an’ sceptres laid, To bribe my saul frae thee, delightfu’ maid ! For thee I’d soon leave thae inferior things, | To sic as ha’e the patience to be kings.— Wherefore that tear? Believe, an’ calm thy mind Peg. I greet for joy to hear thy words sae kind. When hopes were sunk, an’ nought but mirk despair Made me think life was little worth my care, My heart was like to burst ; but now I see Thy generous thoughts will save thy love for me. Wi patience, then, I'll wait ilk wheeling year, Hope time away, till thou wi’ joy appear ; An’ a the while I'll study gentler charms, To mak’ me fitter for my traveller’s arms : Tl gain on uncle Glaud ; he’s far frae fool, Aun’ will not grudge to put me through ilk schcol, Where I may manners learn. SANG XIX. Tune—“ Tweed-side.” When hope was quite sunk in despair, My heart it was going to break ; My life appeared worthless my care, But now I will save’t for thy sake. Where’er my tove travels by day, Wherever he lodges by night, Wi’ me his dear image shall stay, Av’ my saul keep him ever in sight. Wi? patience I'll wait the lang year, Aun’ study the gentlest o’ charms ; Hope time away, till thou appear, To lock thee for aye in these arms. Whilst thou wast a shepherd, I prized Nae higher degree in this life ; But now I'll endeavour to rise To a height that’s becoming thy wife. For beauty, that’s only skin deep, Must fade like the gowans in May; But inwardly rooted, will keep For ever without a decay. ‘ Nor age, nor the changes o’ life, Can quench the fair fire 0’ love, If virtue’s ingrained in the wife, An’ the husband has sense to approve. 28 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, Pat, That's wisely said ; An’ what he wares that way shall be weel paid. Though, without a’ the little helps o” art, Thy native sweets might gain a prince’s heart, Yet now, lest in our station we offend, We must learn modes to innocence unkend ; Affect at times to like the thing we hate, Aw’ drap serenity to keep up state ; Laugh when we're sad, speak when we’ve nought to say, An’, for the fashion, when we’re blythe, seem wae; Pay compliments to them we aft ha’e scorned, Then scandalize them when their backs are turned. Peg. If this is gentry, I wad rather be What I am still; but I'll be aught wi’ thee. Pat. Nae, nae, my Peggy, I but only jest Wi’ gentry’s apes ; for still, amangst the best, Good manners gi’e integrity a bleeze, When native virtues join the arts to please. Peg. Since wi’ nae hazard, an’ sae sma’ expense, My lad frae books can gather siccan sense, Then why, ah! why should the tempestuous sea Endanger thy dear life, an’ frighten me ? Sir William’s cruel, that wad force his son, For watna-whats, sae great a risk to run. Pat. There is nae doubt but travelling does improve ; Yet I wad shun it for thy sake, my love. But soon as I’ye shook aff my landart cast In foreign cities, hame to thee I'll haste. Peg. Wi’ every setting day an’ rising morn, I'll kneel to Heaven, an’ ask thy safe return. Under that tree, an’ on the Suckler brae, Where aft we wont, when bairns, to rin an’ play ; An’ to the Hissel-shaw, where first ye vowed Ye wad be mine, an’ I as eithly trowed, I'll aften gang, an’ tell the trees an’ flowers, Wi’ joy, that they'll bear witness I am yours. SANG XX. Tune—“ Bush aboon Traquair.” At setting day, an’ rising morn, WY saul that still shall love thee, T’'ll ask o”’ Heaven thy safe return, Wi a’ that can improve thee. Vl visit aft the birken bush, Where first thou kindly tald me Sweet tales o’ love, an’ hid my blush, Whilst round thou didst infald me. To a’ our haunts I will repair, To greenwood, shaw, or fountain ; Or where the simmer-day I’d share Wi’ thee upon yon mountain. [act v. There will I tell the trees an’ flowers, Frae thoughts unfeigned an’ tender, By vows you’re mine, by love is yours A heart that cannot wander. Pat. My dear, allow me, frae thy temples fair, A shining ringlet o’ thy flowing hair, Which, as a sample o’ each lovely charm, T'll aften kiss, an’ wear about my arm. Peg. Were’t in my power, wi’ better boons to please, . I'd gi’e the best I could wi’ the same ease; Nor wad I, if thy luck had fa’en to me, Been in ae jot less generous to thee. Pat. I doubt it no; but since we've little time, To ware’t on words wad border on a crime : Love’s safter meaning better is exprest, When it’s wi’ kisses on the heart imprest. [Hzeunt. -— -— ACT FIFTH. SCENE I. See how poor Bauldy stares, like ane possest, An’ roars up Symon frae his kindly rest : Bare-legg'd, wi’ night-cap, an’ unbuttoned coat, See, the auld man comes forward to the sot. Symon avd BavLpy. Sym. What want ye, Bauldy, at this early hour, While drowsy sleep keeps a’ beneath its power ? Far to the north the scant approaching light Stan’s equal ’twixt the morning an’ the night. What gars ye shake, an’ glow’r, an’ look sae wan ? Your teeth they chitter, hair like bristles stan’. Baul. O len’ me soon some water, milk, or ale! My head’s grown dizzy, legs wi’ shaking fail ; T'll ne’er dare venture out at night my lane! Alake! I'll never be mysel again ! Tl ne’er o’erput it, Symon! Oh, Symon! Oh! (Symon gives him a drink. Sym. What ails thee, gowk! to mak’ sae loud ado? You’ve waked Sir William ; he has left his bed. He comes, I fear, ill-pleased : I hear his tread. Enter Sir Wu.1aM. Sir Wil. How goes the night? Does daylight yet appear P— Symon, you’re very timeously asteer. Sym. I’m sorry, sir, that we’ve disturbed your rest ; But some strange thing has Bauldy’s sp’rit opprest : He’s seen some witch, or warsled wi’ a ghaist, apy ' “ : ; Mr a . % y ees . ‘ 1 : . | j | pt the a : os ao ca 2 ge er i an eg ; he + ne i S £ te a yt tire 8 : : 4 Ve ele ‘ . , . . ; : ta Ge i i ‘ 7 " a a : : + : : : : ' : i * at * o \ . ene 5: ie oe a As ihe ae 4B BP aghithe. 2 . ty * ; ; ee, Beg 9 cua Be ee : : ; x as he tn i e * ‘ ‘i 3 : BIN: : ‘ ‘ . 2 Stat ; j : 26 goog _ 8 tig oe te te ‘ a : ; Soa : ‘ . ie : : ; 3 b Ly ay ay . a ae See : é . x a rE : i / THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act 5 seent 2 LONDON VIRTUE & Co? aCENE I1.] Baul. O ay, dear sir, in troth it’s very true, An’ J am come to mak’ my plaint to you. Sir Wil. [smiling.) I lang to hear’t. Baul. Ah, sir! the witch ca’d Mause, That wins aboon the mill amang the haws, First promised that she’d help me, wi’ her art, To gain a bonny thrawart lassie’s heart. As she had trysted, I met wi’ her this night ; But may nae friend o’ mine get sic a fright ! For the curst hag, instead o’ doing me gude, (The very thought o’t’s like to freeze my bluid !) Raised up a ghaist, or deil, I kenna whilk, Like a dead corse, in sheet as white as milk; Black hands it had, an’ face as wan as death, Upon me fast the witch an’ it fell baith, An’ gat me down; while I, like a great fool, ‘Was laboured as I used to be at school. My heart out o’ its hool was like to loup, I pithless grew wi’ fear, an’ had nae houp, Till wi’ an elritch laugh they vanished quite ; Syne I, haff dead wi’ anger, fear, an’ spite, Crap up, an’ fled straught frae them, sir, to you, Houping your help to gi’e the deil his due. I’m sure my heart will ne’er gi’e o’er to dunt, Till in a fat tar-barrel Mause ‘be brunt. Sir Wil. Well, Bauldy, whate’er’s just shall granted be. Let Mause be brought this morning down to me. Baul, Thanks to your honour, soon shall I obey ; But first [ll Roger raise, an’ twa three mae, To catch her first, ere she get leave to squeal, An’ cast her cantrips that bring up the deil. [Beit Str Wil. Troth, Symon, Bauldy’s more afraid than hurt; The witch and ghaist have made themselves good sport. What silly notions crowd the clouded mind, That is through want of education blind! Sym. But does your honour think there’s nae sic thing, As witches raising deils up through a ring, Syne playing tricks? A thousand I could tell, Could never be contrived on this side hell. Sir Wil. Such as the devil’s dancing in a muir, Amongst a few old women, crazed and poor, Who are rejoiced to see him frisk and loup O’er braes and bogs, with candles in his dowp ; Appearing sometimes like a black-horned cow, Aft-times like bawty, bawdrans, or a sow. Then with his train through airy paths to glide, While they on cats, or clowns, or broom-staffs ride ; Or im an egg-shell skim out o’er the main, To drink their leader’s health in France or Spain ; THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 29 Then oft, by night, bumbaze hard-hearted fools, By tumbling down their cupboards, chairs, and stools. Whate’er’s in spells, or if there witches be, Such whimsies seem the most absurd to me. Sym. It’s true eneugh, we ne’er heard that a witch Had either meikle seuse, or yet was rich ; But Mause, though poor, is a sagacious wife, An’ lives a quiet an’ very honest life. That gars me think this hobbleshew that’s past, Will end in naething but a joke at last. Str Wil. Vm sure it will. But see, increasing light Commands the imps of darkness down to night. Bid raise my servants, and my horse prepare, Whilst I walk out to take the morning air. SANG XXI. Tune—“ Bonny gray-ey'd morn.” The bonny gray-eyed morn begins to peep, And darkness flies before the rising vay ; The hearty hynd starts from his lazy sleep, To follow healthful labours of the day ; Without a guilty sting to wrinkle his brow, The lark and the linnet tend his levee, And he joins their concert driving his plough, From toil of grimace and pageantry free. While flustered with wine, or maddened with loss Of half an estate, the prey of a main, The drunkard and gamester tumble and toss, Wishing for calmness and slumber in vain. Be my portion health and quietness of mind, Placed at a due distance from parties and state, Where neither ambition, nor avarice blind, Reach him who has happiness linked to his fate. [Eceunt. SCENE IL. While Peggy laces up her bosom fair, Wi' a blue snood Jenny binds up her hair: Glaud, by his morning ingle, tak's a beek, The rising sun shines motty through the reek, A pipe his mouth, the lasses please his een, An’ now an’ then his joke maun intervene. Guavp, Jenny, and Prcey. Glaud. I wish, my bairns, it may keep fai: till night ; Ye diuna use sae soon to see the light. Nae doubt, now, ye intend to mix the thrang, To tak’ your leave o’ Patrick or he gang. But do ye think, that now, when he’s a laird, That he poor landwart lasses will regard ? 30 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Jen, Though he’s young master now, I’m very sure He has mair sense than slight auld friends, though poor. But yesterday, he ga’ e us mony a tug, Aun’ kissed my cousin there frae lug to lug. Glaud. Ay, ay, nae doubt o’t, an’ he'll do’t again; But be advised, his company refrain : Before, he as a shepherd sought a wife, Wi her to live a chaste an’ frugal life ; But now, grown gentle, soon he will forsake Sic godly thoughts, an’ brag o’ being a rake. Peg. A rake! what’s that? Sure, if it means aught ill, He'll never be’t, else I ha’e tint my skill. Glaud. Daft lassie, ye ken nought o’ the affair ; Ane young, an’ gude, an’ gentle ’s unco rare. A rake’s a graceless spark, that thinks nae shame To do what like o’ us thinks sin to name. Be wary then, I say, an’ never gi’e Encouragement, or bourd wi’ sic as he. Peg. Sir William’s virtuous, an’ o’ gentle blood ; An’ may no Patrick, too, like him, be good ? Glaud. That’s true ; an’ mony gentry mae than he, As they are wiser, better are than we, But thinner sawn: they’re sae puft up wi’ pride, There’s mony o’ them mocks ilk haly guide, That shaws the gate to heaven. I’ve heard mysel Some o’ them laugh at doomsday, sin, an” hell. Jen. Watch o’er us, father! heh! that’s very odd; Sure, him that doubts a doomsday, doubts a God! Glaud. Doubt! why, they neither doubt, nor judge, nor think, Nor hope, nor fear; but curse, debauch, an’ drink : But I’m no saying this, as if I thought That Patrick to sic gates will e’er be brought. Peg. The Lord forbid! Nae, he kens better things. But here comes aunt: her face some ferly brings. Enter Mance. Madge. Haste, haste ye; we’re a sent for o’er the gate, To hear, an’ help to redd some odd debate *Tween Mause an’ Bauldy, "bout some witchcraft spell, At Symon’s house: the knight sits judge himsel. Glaud. Lend me my staff. Madge, lock the outer door, An’ bring the lasses wi’ ye: I'll step before. (Heit Guaup. Madge. Poor Meg! Look, Jenny, was the like e’er seen? How bleared an’ red wi’ greeting look her een! This day her brankan wooer tak’s his horse, To strut a gentle spark at Edinburgh cross ; [act v. To change his kent, cut frae the branchy plain, For a nice sword an’ glancing-headed cane ; To leave his ram-horn spoons, an’ kitted whey, For gentler tea, that smells like new-won hay ; To leave the green-sward dance, whan we gae milk, To rustle *mang the beauties clad in silk. But Meg, poor Meg! maun wi’ the shepherds stay, An’ tak’ what God will send, in hodden-gray. Peg. Dear aunt, what need ye fash us wi’ your scorn ? It’s no my faut that I’m nae gentler born. Gif I the daughter o’ some laird had been, I ne’er had noticed Patie on the green. Now, since he rises, why should I repine ? If he’s made for another, he’ll ne’er be mine; An’ then, the like has been, if the decree Designs him mine, I yet his wife may be. Madge. A bonny story, troth! But we delay: Prin up your aprons baith, an’ come away. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Sir William fills the twa-armed chair, While Symon, Roger, Glaud, an’ Mause Attend, an’ wi’ loud laughter hear Daft Bauldy bluntly plead his cause: For now it’s telled him that the taws Was handled by revengefu’ Madge, Because he brak gude-breeding’s laws, An’ wi’ his nonsense raised their rage. Sir Wri1iam, Patiz, Rocer, Symon, Guaup, Bautpy, and Mavsz. Sir Wil. And was that all? Well, Bauldy, ye was served No otherwise than what ye well deserved. Was it so small a matter, to defame And thus abuse an honest woman’s name? Besides your going about to have betrayed, By perjury, an innocent young maid. Baul. Sir, I confess my faut, through a’ the steps, An’ ne’er again shall be untrue to Neps. Mause. Thus far, sir, he obliged me, on the score, I ken’d na that they thought me sic before. Baul. An’t like your honour, I believed it weel ; But, troth, I was e’en doilt to seek the deil. Yet, wi’ your honour’s leave, though she’s nae witch, She’s baith a slee an’ a revengefu’ —— An’ that my some-place finds. But I had best Haud in my tongue, for yonder comes the ghaist, An’ the young bonny witch, whase rosy clieek Sent me, without my wit, the deil to seek. SCENE 111. ] Enter Maven, Preey, and Jenny. Sir Wil. (looking at Peccy.] Whose daughter’s she, that wears th’ aurora gown, With face so fair, and locks a lovely brown? How sparkling are her eyes !—What’s this I find ? The girl brings all my sister to my mind! Such were the features once adorned a face, Which death too soon deprived of sweetest grace.— Is this your daughter, Glaud ? Glaud. Sir, she’s my niece ; An’ yet she’s not: but I should haud my peace. Sir Wil. This is a contradiction. What d’ye mean P She is, and is not! Pray thee, Glaud, explain. Glaud. Because I doubt, if I should mak’ appear What I ha’e kept a secret thirteen year —— Mause. You may reveal what I can fully clear. Sir Wil. Speak soon—I’m all impatience ! Pat. Sae am I! For much I hope, an’ hardly yet ken why. : Glaud. Then, since my master orders, I obey :— This bonny foundling, ae clear morn o’ May, Close by the lee-side o’ my door 1 found, A’ sweet, an’ clean, an’ carefully hapt round In infant weeds, 0’ rich an’ gentle make. What could they be, thought I, did thee forsake P Wha, warse than brutes, could leave exposed to air Sae much o’ innocence, sae sweetly fair, Sae helpless young? for she appeared to me Only about twa towmonds auld to be. I took her in my arms ; the bairnie smiled Wi’ sic a look, wad made a savage mild. T hid the story. She has passed sinsyne As a poor orphan, an’ a niece o’ mine: Nor do I rue my care about the wean, For she’s weel worth the pains that I ha’e ta’en. Ye see she’s bonny; I can swear she’s gude, An’ am right sure she’s come o’ gentle bluid; O’ wham I kenna. Naething I ken mair, Than what I to your honour now declare. Sir Wil. This tale seems strange! Pat. The tale delights my ear ! Sir Wil. Command your joys, young man, till truth appear. Mause. That be my task. Now, sir, bid a be hush : Peggy may smile; thou hast nae cause to blush. Lang ha’e I wished to see this happy day, That I might safely to the truth gi’e way ; That I may now Sir William Worthy name, The best an’ nearest friend that she can claim. He saw’t at first, an’ wi’ quick eye did trace His sister’s beauty in her daughter’s face. Str Wil. Old woman, do not rave, prove what vou say : It’s dangerous in affairs like this to play. THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 3] Pat. What reason, sir, can an auld woman have To tell a lie, when she’s sae near her grave P But how, or why, it should be truth, I grant, I every thing that looks'like reason want. Omnes. The story’s odd! We wish we heard it out. Sir Wil. Make haste, good woman, and resolve each doubt. : [Mauss goes forward, leading Puaey to Sir WILLIAM. Mause. Sir, view me weel: has fifteen years sae ploughed A wrinkled face, that you ha’e aften viewed, That here I, as an unknown stranger, stand, Wha nursed her mother that now hauds my hand ? Yet stronger proofs I'll gi’e, if you demand. Str Wil. Ha! honest nurse, where were my eyes before ? I know thy faithfulness, and need no more; Yet, from the labyrinth to lead out my mind, Say, to expose her, who was so unkind ? [Str Wintiam embraces Prcey, and makes her sit by him. Yes, surely, thou’rt my niece; truth must prevail. But no more words, till Mause relate her tale. Pat. Gude nurse, gae on; nae music’s haff sae fine, Or can gi’e pleasure like thae words o’ thine. Mause. Then it was I that saved her infant life, Her death being threatened by an uncle’s wife. The story’s lang ; but I the secret knew, How they pursued, wi’ avaricious view, Her rich estate, o’ which they’re now possest : All this to me a confidant confest. I heard wi’ horror, an’ wi’ trembling dread, They'd smoor the sakeless orphan in her bed. That very night, when all were sunk in rest, At midnight hour the floor I saftly prest, Aun’ staw the sleeping innocent away, Wi? whom I travelled some few miles ere day. A’ day Lhid me. Whan the day was done, I kept my journey, lighted by the moon, Till eastward fifty miles I reached these plains, Where needfw’ plenty glads your cheerfw’ swains. Afraid of being found out, I, to secure My charge, e’en laid her at this shepherd’s door, Av’ took a neibouring cottage here, that I, Whate’er should happen to her, might be by. Here honest Glaud himsel, an’ Symon, may Remember weel, how I that very day Frae Roger’s father took my little cruve. Glaud. (wi tears of joy happing down his beard. } I weel remember’t. Lord reward your love! Lang ha’e I wished for this ; for aft I thought Sic knowledge some time should about be brought. Pat. It’s now a crime to doubt: my joys are full, Wi’ due obedience to my parent’s will. 02 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, Sir, wi’ paternal love, survey her charms, An’ blame me not for rushing to her arms, She’s mine by vows; an’ wad, though still unknown, Ha’e been my wife, when I my vows durst own. Sir Wil. My niece, my daughter! welcome to my care, Sweet image of thy mother, good and fair! Equal with Patrick. Now my greatest aim Shall be to aid your joys and well-matched flame. My boy, receive her from your father’s hand, With as good will as either would demand. [Paris and Puecy embrace, and kneel to Sir WiitaM. Pat. Wi’ as much joy this blessing I receive, As ane wad life that’s sinking in a wave. Sir Wil. (raises them.] I give you both my bless- ing. May your love Produce a happy race, and still improve. Peg. My wishes are complete; my joys arise, While I’m haff dizzy wi’ the blest surprise. An’ am I then a match for my ain lad, That for me so much generous kindness had ? Lang may Sir William bless thae happy plains, Happy while Heaven grant he on them remains! Pat. Be lang our guardian, still our master be ; We'll only crave what you shall please to gi’e: The estate be yours, my Peggy’s ane to me. Glaud. T hope your honour now will tak’ amends O’ them that sought her life for wicked ends. Sir Wil. The base unnatural villain soon shall know That eyes above watch the affairs below. T’'ll strip him soon of all to her pertains, And make him reimburse his ill-got gains. Peg. To me the views o’ wealth an’ an estate Seem light, when put in balance wi’ my Pate : For his sake only I'll aye thankfu’ bow, For sic a kindness, best 0’ men, to you. Sym. What double blytheness wakens up this day ! I hope now, sir, you'll no soon haste away. Shall I unsaddle your horse, an’ gar prepare A dinner for ye o’ hale country fare ? See how much joy unwrinkles every brow ; Our looks hing on the twa, an’ doat on you. F’en Bauldy, the bewitched, has quite forgot Fell Madge’s taws, an’ pawky Mause’s plot. Sir Wil. Kindly old man! remain with you this day ? I never from these fields again will stray. Masons and wrights my house shall soon repair, And busy gardeners shall new planting rear. My father’s hearty table you soon shall see Restored, and my best friends rejoice with me. Sym. That’s the best news I heard this twenty year ! New day breaks up, rough times begin to clear. [act v. Glaud. God save the King, an’ save Sir William lang, T’ enjoy their ain, an’ raise the shepherds* sang. Rog. Wha winna dance? Wha will refuse to sing? What shepherd’s whistle winna lilt the spring ? Baul. Ym friends wi’ Mause—wi’ very Madge I'm ’greed, Although they skelpit me when woodly fleid : Tm now fw’ blythe, an’ frankly can forgive, To join an’ sing, “ Lang may Sir William live!” Madge. Lang may he live! An’, Bauldy, learn to steek Your gab awee, an’ think before ye speak ; An’ never ca’ her auld that wants a man, Else ye may yet some witch’s fingers ban. This day I’ll wi’ the youngest o’ ye rant, An’ brag for aye that I was ca’d the aunt O’ our young lady, my dear bonny bairn ! Peg. Nae ither name T’ll ever for you learn. An’, my gude nurse, how shall I gratefu’ be For a’ thy matchless kindness done for me ? Mause. The flowing pleasures o’ this happy day Does fully a’ I can require repay. Str Wil. To faithful Symon, and, kind Glaud, to you, Au’ to your heirs, I give, in endless feu, The mailens ye possess, as justly due, For acting like kind fathers to the pair, Who have enough besides, and these can spare. Mause, in my house, in calmness, close your days, With nought to do but sing your Maker’s praise. Omues. The Lord o’ Heaven return your honour’s love, Confirm your joys, an’ a’ your blessings roove ! [Pattx, presenting Roger to Sir WILLIAM, Pat. Sir, here’s my trusty friend, that always shared My bosom secrets, ere I was a laird : Glaud’s daughter, Janet (Jenny, think nae shame) Raised, an’ maintains in him a lover’s flame. Lang was he dumb; at last he spak’ an’ won, An’ hopes to be our honest uncle’s son. Be pleased to speak to Glaud for his consent, That nane may wear a face o’ discontent. Sir Wil. My son’s demand is fair. Glaud, let me crave That trusty Roger may your daughter have, With frank consent ; and, while he does remain Upon these fields, I make him chamberlain. Glaud. You crowd your bounties, sir. What can we say, But that we’re dyvours, that can ne’er repay ? Whate’er your honour wills, I sall obey. Roger, my daughter, wi’ a blessing, tak’, An’ still our master’s right your business mak’, Please him, be faithfu’, an’ this auld grey head Sall nod-wi’ quietness down amang the dead. SCENE Tl.] THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 8 Rog. I ne’er was gude o’ speaking a’ my days, Or ever lo’ed to mak’ owre great a fraise ; But for my master, father, an’ my wife, I will employ the cares 0’ a’ my life. Sir Wil. My friends, I’m satisfied you'll all behave, Each in his station, as I’d wish or crave. Be ever virtuous, soon or late you’ll find Reward, an’ satisfaction to your mind. The maze of life sometimes looks dark and wild; And oft when hopes are highest we’re beguiled. Oft when we stand on brinks of dark despair, Some happy turn, with joy, dispels our care. Now, all’s at right, who sings best let me hear. Peg. When you demand, I readiest should obey : Tl sing you ane, the newest that I ha’e. SANG XXII.* Tune—“ Corn-riggs are bonny.” My Patie is a lover gay, His mind is never muddy ; His breath is sweeter than new hay, His face is fair an’ ruddy. His shape is handsome, middle size : He’s comely in his walking ; The shining o’ his een surprise ; It’s heaven to hear him talking. Last night I met him on a bauk, Whare yellow corn was growing ; There mony a kindly word he spak’, That set my heart a-glowing. He kissed an’ vowed he wad be mine, Aw’ lo’ed me best 0’ ony ; That gars me like to sing sinsyne, O corn-riggs are bonny! Let lasses 0’ a silly mind Refuse what maist they’re wanting ; Since we for yielding were designed, We chastely should be granting. Then I'll comply, an’ marry Pate, An’ syne my cockernony, He’s free to touzle air or late, Where corn-riggs are bonny. [ZLeeunt omnes, * [The songs in the ‘‘ Gentle Shepherd” are for the most part inferior to the rest of the poem. They everywhere betray that they were the results of an after-thought; and continually repeat, in weaker and less effective phraseology, the ideas of the dialogue. The eriginal edition, published for the author, contained but one song—‘ My Patie 1s a lover gay “—with which the story concluded. Even that might have been omitted without detriment. Robert Burns, a genial and kindly critic where Ramsay was concerned, eonsidered this song “ unequal.” In a letter to George Thomson, he says, “‘‘ His mind is never muddy’ is a muddy expression dudeed; and ‘ Then I'll comply, an’ marry Pate, an’ syne my cockernony,’ &c., is surely very unworthy of Ramsay.”] PASTORALS. 1721. RICHY AND SANDY.! ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON. Ricuy. Waar gars thee look sae dowf, dear Sandy, say ? Cheer up, dull fellow, take thy reed and play “My apron deary,” or some wanton tune: Be merry, lad, an’ keep thy heart abvon. SaNnpy. Na, na, it winna do; leave me to mane : This aught days twice o’er tell’d I'll whistle nane. Ricuy. Wow, man, that’s unco’ sad! Is’t that yer jo Has ta’en the strunt? Or has some bogle-bo, Glowrin frae ’mang auld wa’s, gi’en ye a fleg ? Or has some dauted wedder broke his leg? Sanpy. Naething like that, sic troubles eith were borne : What’s bogles, wedders, or what Mausy’s scorn? Our loss is meikle mair, and past remead: Adie, that play’d and sang sae sweet, is dead ! Ricuy. Dead ! say’st thou ?—Oh, haud up my heart, O Pan! Ye gods, what laids ye lay on feckless man! Alake, therefore! I canna wyte yer wae ; Tl bear ye company for year and day. A better lad ne’er lean’d out o’er a kent, Or hounded coly o’er the mossy bent : Blythe at the bught, how aft ha’e we three been, Heartsome on hills, and gay upon the green! Sanpy. That’s true indeed; but now thae days are gane— And, wi’ him, a’ that’s pleasant on the plain. A simmer day I never thought it lang, To hear him make a roundel or a sang. How sweet he sung where vines and myrtles grow Of wimpling waters which in Latium flow.? Titry, the Mantuan herd, wha lang sinsyne, Best sung on oaten reed the lover’s pine, Had he been to the fore now in our days, Wi’ Adie be had frankly dealt his bays. As lang’s the warld shall Amaryllis ken, His “ Rosamond” shall echo thro’ the glen. While on burn banks the yellow gowan grows, Or wand’ring lambs rin bleating after ewes, His fame shall last : last shall his sang of weirs,* While British bairns brag of their bauld forbears. We'll meikle miss his blythe and witty jest At speaning time, or at our Lammas feast. Oh, Richy! but ’tis hard that death aye reeves Away the best fouk, and the ill anes leaves. Hing down yer heads, ye hills! greet out, ye springs ! Upon yer edge nae mair the shepherd sings. Ricuy. Then he had aye a gude advice to gi’e, And ken’d my thoughts amaist as well as me. Had I been thowless, vext, or oughtlins sour, He wad ha’e made me blythe in haff an hour: Had Rosie ta’en the dorts, or had the tod Worried my lambs, or were my feet ill-shod, Kindly he’d laugh when sae he saw me dwine, And talk of happiness like a divine. Of ilka thing he had an unco’ skill . He ken’d by moonlight how tides ebb and fill; He ken’d—what ken’d he no ?—e’en to a hair He’d tell o’er night, gin niest day wad be fair. Blind John,* ye mind, wha sang in kittle phrase, How the ill sp’rit did the first mischief raise ; Mony a time, beneath the auld birk-tree, What’s bonny in that sang he loot me see. The lasses aft flung down their rakes and pails, And held their tongues, O strange! to hear his tales, (1) Sir Richard Steele and Mr. Alexander Pope. [Ramsay maintained a correspondence with Pope and Gay, and made many efforts to introduce himself, either personally or by letter, to the most famous English writers of the day.] (2) His poetic epistle from Italy to the Marl of Masta. (3) An opera written by him. (4) His “ Campaign,” ap herule poem. (5) Milton. FASTORALS. 35 SANDY. Sound be his sleep, and saft his wak’ning be ; He’s in a better case than thee or me. He was o’er good for us: the gods ha’e ta’en Their ain but back,—he was a borrow’d len. Let us be good, gin virtue be our drift, Then we may yet forgether ’boon the lift. But see, the sheep are wysing to the cleugh ; Thomas has loos’d his owsen frae the pleugh ; Maggy by this has bewk the supper scones ; And muckle kye stand rowting in the loans: Come, Kichy, let us truse and hame o’er bend, And make the best of what we canna mend. 1728. ROBERT, RICHY, AND SANDY.! A PASTORAL ON THE DEATH OF MATTHEW PRIOR. Rosesrt, the good, by a’ the swains rever’d, Wise are his words, like siller is his beard ; Near saxty shining simmers he has seen, Tenting his hirsle on the moorland green: Unshaken yet with mony a winter’s wind, Stout are his limbs, and youthfu’ is his mind. But now he droops, ane wad be wae to see Him sae cast down; ye wadna trow ’tis he. By break of day he seeks the dowie glen, That-he may scowth to a’ his mourning len: Nane but the clinty craigs and scroggy briers Were witnesses of a’ his granes and tears. Howder’d wi’ hills a crystal burnie ran, Where twa young shepherds fand the good auld man: Kind Richy Spec, a friend to a’ distrest, And Sandy, wha of shepherds sings the best ; With friendly looks they speer’d wherefore he mourn’d ? He rais’d his head, and, sighing, thus return’d: RoBERr. O Matt! poor Matt !—my lads, e’en take a skair Of a my grief :—sweet-singing Matt’s nae mair. Ah, heavens! did e’er this lyart head of mine Think to ha’e seen the cauldrife mools on thine. Ricuy, My heart misga’e me when I came this way, His dog its lane sat yowling on a brae; I oried “Isk! isk! poor Ringwood, sairy man :” He wage’d his tail, cour’d near, and lick’d my han’: (1) [Richy and Sandy appear, as in the foregoing, to mean Steele and Pope. No prominent writer of the day was named Robert.] I clapp’d his head, which eas’d a wee his pain ; But soon’s I gade away, he yowl’d again. Poor kindly beast !—Ah, sirs, how sic should be Mair tender-hearted mony a time than we! SANDY. Last ouk I dream’d my tup that bears the bell, And paths the snaw, out o’er a high craig fell, And brak his leg.—TI started frae my bed, Awak’d, and leugh.— Ah! now my dream it’s read. How dreigh’s our cares! our joys how soon away, Like sun-blinks on a cloudy winter’s day ! Flow fast, ye tears, ye ha’e free leave for me; Dear sweet-tongu’d Matt! thousands shall greet for thee. Rosert. Thanks to my friends, for ilka briny tear Ye shed for him; he to us a’ was dear. Sandy, I’m eas’d to see thee look sae wan; Richy, thy sighs bespeak the kindly man. Ricuy. ° But twice the simmer’s sun has thaw’d the snaw, Since frae our heights Addie? was ta’en awa’ : Fast Matt has follow’d.—Of sic twa bereft, To smooth our sauls, alake! wha ha’e we left ? Wae’s me! o’er short a tack of sic is given ; But wha may contradict the will of Heaven ? Yet mony a year he liv’d to hear the dale Sing o’er his sangs, and tell his merry tale. Last year I had a stately tall ash-tree, Braid were it branches, a sweet shadeito me; I thought it might ha’e flourish’d on the brae, Tho’ past its prime, yet twenty years or sae: But ae rough night the blatt’ring winds blew snell, Torn frae its roots adown it souchan, fell ; Twin’d of its nourishment it lifeless lay, Mixing its wither’d leaves amang the clay. Sae flourish’d Matt: but where’s the tongue can tell How fair he grew? how much lamented fell ? % Sanpy. How snackly cou’d he gi’e a fool reproof, Hen wi’ a canty tale he’d tell aff loof? How did he warning to the dosen’d sing, By auld Purganty, an’ the Dutchman’s ring ? And Lucky’s siller ladle shaws how aft Our greatest wishes are but vain and daft. The wad-be wits, he bad them a’ but pap Their crazy ueads into Tam Tinman’s shap ; There they wad see a squirrel wi’ his bells Aye wrestling up, yet rising like themsels, Thousands of things he wittily could say, With fancy strang, and saul as clear as day ; (2) Addison, 36 PASTORALS. Smart were his tales: but where’s the tongue can tell How blythe he was? how much lamented fell ? Ricuy. And as he blythsome was, sae was he wise, ‘Qur laird himsel wa’d aft take his advice. E’en cheek for chow! he’d seat him ’mang them a’, And talk his: mind ’bout kittle points of law. When clan Red-yards,? ye ken, wi’ wicked feud, Had skail’d of ours, but mair of his ain blood; When I, and mony mae that were right crouse, Wad fain about his lugs ha’e burnt his house : Yet lady Anne, a woman meek and kind, A fae to weirs, and of a peacefu’ mind, Since mony in the fray had got their dead, To make the peace our friend was sent wi’ speed. The very faes had for him just regard, Tho’ sair he jib’d their formast singing bard.? Careful was Matt: but where’s the tougue can tell How wise he was? how much lamented fell? , SANDY. Wha could like him, in a short sang, define The bonny lass and her young lover’s pine? I'll ne’er forget that ane he made on May, Wha brang the poor blate Symie to his clay ; To gratify the paughty wench’s pride, The silly shepherd “bow’d, obey’d, and died.” Sic constant lasses, as the Nut-brown Maid, Shall never want just praises duly paid; Sic claim’d his sang, and still it was his care, With pleasing words to guide and roose the fair. How sweet his voice when beauty was in view; Smooth ran his lines, aye grac’d wi’ something new; Nae word stood wrang: but where’s the tongue can tell ‘ How saft he sung? how much lamented fell ? Ricwy. And when he had a mind to be nmir grave, A minister nae better could behave ; Far out of sight of sic he aften flew, When he of haly wonders took a view: Well could he praise the Power that made us a’, And bids us in return but tent his law; Wha guides us when we're waking or asleep, With thousand times mair care than we our’sheep. - While he of pleasure, power, and wisdom sang, My heart lap high, my lugs wi’ pleasure rang : These to repeat: braid spoken I wad spill, Altho’ I should employ my utmost skill. He tow7r’d aboon: but ah! what tongue can tell How high he flew? how much lamented fell? (1),.Cheek by owl. (2) Louis XIV. (3) Bottéan, whose ode on the taking of Namur by the French, in 1692, he burlesyved, on its being retaken by the English, in 1695. Roserr. My benison, dear lads, light on ye baith, Wha ha’e sae true a feeling of our skaith: O Sandy! draw his likeness in smooth verse, As well ye can; then shepherds shall rehearse His merit, while the sun metes out the day, While ewes shall bleet, and little lambkins mae. T’ve been a fauter, now three days are past, While I for grief ha’e hardly broke my fast : Come to my shiel, there let’s forget our care, I dinna want a routh of country fare, Sic as it is, ye’r welcome to a skair : Besides, my lads, I ha’e a browst of tip, As good as ever wash’d a shepherd’s lip ; We'll take a scour o’t to put aff our pain, For a’ our tears and sighs are but in vain: Come, help me up; yon sooty cloud shores rain. 1721. KEITHA: AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MARY, THE COUNTESS OF WIGTON, DAUGHTER OF THE EARL MARSHAL OF SCOTLAND. Rinean. O’er ilka thing a gen’ral sadness hings ; The birds wi’ melancholy droop their wings ; My sheep and kye neglect to moup their food, And seem to think as in a dumpish mood. Hark! how the winds souch mournfw’ thro’ the broom, The very lift puts on a heavy gloom. My neighbour Colin, too, he bears a part— His face speaks out the sairness of his heart. Tell, tell me, Colin, for my boding thought A bang of fears into my breast has brought. Comin. Where hast thou been, thou simpleton, wha speers The cause of a’ our sorrow and our tears ? Wha unconcern’d can hear the common skaith The warld receives by lovely Keitha’s death? The bonniest sample of what’s good and kind, Fair was her make, and heav’nly was her mind: But now this sweetest flower of a’ our plain Leaves us to sigh; tho’ a’ our sighs are vain, For never mair she'll grace the heartsome green— Aye heartsome, when she deign’d there to be seen, PASTORALS. 37 Speak, flow’ry meadows, where she used to walk ! Speak, flocks and birds, wha’ve heard her sing or talk !— Did ever ye sae meikle beauty bear ? Or ye sae mony heav’nly accents hear ? Ye painted haughs, ye minstrels of the air, Lament, for lovely Keitha is nae mair ! Rivean. Ye westlin winds, that gently used to play On her white breast, and steel some sweets away,— Whilst her delicious breath perfum’d your breeze, Which gratefu’ Flora took to feed her bees,— Bear on your wings round earth her spotless fame, Worthy that noble race from whence she came. Resounding braes, where’er she used to lean, And view the crystal burn glide o’er the green, Return your echoes to our mournfu’ sang, And let the streams in murmurs bear’t alang. Ye unken’d powers wha water haunt, or air, Lament, for lovely Keitha is nae mair ! Comm. Ah! wha could tell the beauties of her face ? Her mouth, that never oped but wi’ a grace? Her een, which did with heav’nly sparkles low? Her modest cheek, flush’d wi’ a rosy glow ? Her fair brent brow, smooth as th’ unrunkled deep, When a’ the winds are in their caves asleep ? Her presence, like a simmer’s morning ray, Lighten’d our hearts, and gart ilk place look gay. Now twin’d of life, these charms look cauld and blae, And what before gave joy now makes us wae. Her goodness shined in ilka pious deed,— A subject, Ringan, for a lofty reed : : A shepherd’s sang maun sic high thoughts decline, Lest rustic notes should darken what’s divine. Youth, beauty, graces, a’ that’s good and fair, Lament! for lovely Keitha is nae mair! Rinean. How tenderly she smooth’d our master’s mind, When round his manly waist her arms she twined, And look’d a thousand saft things to his heart, While native sweetness sought nae help frae art. To him her merit still appear’d mair bright, As yielding she own’d his superior right. Baith saft and sound he slept within her arms, Gay were his dreams, the influence of her charms. Soon as the morning dawn’d he’d draw the screen, And watch the op’ning of her fairer een, Whence sweetest rays gush’d out, in sic a thrang, Beyond expression in my rural sang. Coin. O Clementina! sprouting fair remains Of her wha was the glory of the plains ! Dear innocence, with infant darkness blist, Which hides the happiness that thou hast mist ! May a’ thy mither’s sweets thy portion be, An’ a’ thy mither’s graces shine in thee. Rinean. She loot us ne’er gae hungry to the hill, And a’ she ga’e, she gi’ed it wi’ gude will : Fou mony, mony a ane will mind that day, On which frae us she’s ta’en sae soon away. Baith hinds and herds, whase cheeks bespake nae scant, And through the howms could whistle, sing, and rant, Will miss her sair, till happily they find Anither in her place sae gude and kind. The lasses wha did at her graces mint, Ha’e by her death their bonniest pattern tint. Oh! ilka ane wha did her bounty skair, Lament! for gen’rous Keitha is nae mair ! Conn. Oh, Ringan, Ringan! things gang sae unev’n, I canna well take up the will*of Heaven. Our crosses teughly last us mony a year, But unco’ soon our blessings disappear. Rinean, T'll tell thee, Colin, my last Sunday’s note, I tented well mess Thomas ilka jot. The powers aboon are cautious as they’re just, And dinna like to gi’e o’er meikle trust To this unconstant earth, wi’ what’s divine, Lest in laigh damps they should their lustre tine. Sae, let’s leave aff our murmuring and tears, And never value life by length of years, But as we can in goodness it employ, Syne wha dies first, first gains eternal joy. Come, Colin, dight your cheeks, and banish care, Our lady’s happy, though with us nae mair. AN ODE, WITH A PASTORAL RECITATIVE, ON THE MARRIAGE OF JAMES EARL OF WEMYSS TO MISS JANET CHARTERIS. REcITATIVE. Last morn young Rosalind, with laughing een, Met wi’ the singing shepherd on the green, Armyas hight, wha used wi’ tunefu’ lay To please the ear when he began to play: Him wi’ a smile the blooming lass addrest ; Her cheerfw’ look her inward joy confest. 38 PASTORALS. RosaLinp. Dear shepherd, now exert your wonted fire, TU tell you news that shall your thoughts inspire. ARMYAS. Out wi’ them, bonny lass, and if they’ll bear But ceremony, you a sang shall hear. RosaLinp. They'll bear, and do invite the blythest strains : The beauteous Charterissa of these plains, Still to them dear, wha late made us sae wae, « When we heard tell she was far aff to gae, And leave our heartsome fields, her native land, Now’s ta’en in time, and fix’d by Hymen’s band. ARMYAS. To whom ?—speak fast.—I hope ye dinna jeer. Rosainp. Nae, nae, my dear; ’tis true as we stand here. The thane of Fife, wha lately wi’ his flane, And vizy leel, made the blythe bowl his ain ; He, the delight of baith the sma’ and great, Wha’s bright beginning spae his sonsy fate, Has gain’d her heart; and now their mutual flame Retains the fair, and a’ her wealth, at hame. ARMYAS. Now, Rosalind, may never sorrow twine Sae near your heart as joys arise in mine. Come kiss me, lassie, and you’s hear me sing A bridal sang that through the woods shall ring: Rosatip. Ye’re aye sae daft: come, take it, and ha’e done. Let a’ the lines be saft, and sweet the tune. (ARMYAS sings.) Come, shepherds, a’ your whistles join, And shaw your blythest faces ; The nymph that we were like to tine, At hame her pleasure places. Lift up your notes both loud and gay, Yet sweet as Philomela’s, And yearly solemnize the day When this gude luck befel us. Hail to the Thane descended frae Macduff renown’d in story, Wha Albion frae tyrannic sway Restor’d to ancient glory : His early blossoms loud proclaim That frae this stem he rises, Whase merits gi’e him right to fame, And to the highest prizes. His lovely Countess sing, ye swains, Nae subject can be sweeter ; The best of bluid flows in her veins, Which makes ilk grace completer. Bright are the beauties of her mind, Which frae her dawn of reason, With a’ the rays of wit hath shined, Which virtue still did season. Straight as the plane, her features fair. And bonny to a wonder ; Were Jove rampaging in the air, Her smiles might stap his thunder. Rejoice in her, then, happy youth, Her innate worth’s a treasure ; Her sweetness a’ your cares will sooth, And furnish endless pleasure. Lang may ye live t’ enjoy her charms, And lang, lang may they blossom, Securely screen’d within your arms, And lodged in your bosom. Thrice happy parents, justly may Your breasts with joy be fired, When you the darling pair survey, By a’ the warld admired. A MASQUE! PERFORMED AT CELEBRATING THE NUPTIALS OF JAMES DUKE OF HAMILTON AND LADY ANN COCHRAN, CaLLIoPE (Playing upon a violoncello) sings, Joy to the bridegroom, prince of Clyde, Lang may his bliss and greatness blossom ; Joy to his virtuous, charming bride, Who gains this day his Grace’s bosom. Appear, great Genius of his line, And bear a part in the rejoicing ; Behold your ward, by pow’s divine, Jcin’d wi’ a mate of their ain choosing. (1) An unknown ingenious friend did me the honour of the following introduction to the London edition of this Masque; and, being a post, my vanity will be pardoned for inserting it here. ‘¢The present poem being a revival of a good old form of poetry, in high repute with us, it may not be amiss to say some- thing of a diversion once so agreeable, and so long interrupted or disused, The original of masques seems to be an imitation PASTORALE, 39 Forsake a while the Cyprian scene, Faw queen of smiles and saft embraces, And hither come, wi’ a’ your train Ut beauties, loves, and sports, and graces. Come, Hymen, bless their nuptial vow, And them wi’ mutual joys inspire: Descend, Minerva, for ’tis you With virtue beats the haly fire. At the close of this sang enters the Guntus of the Samtly, clad in a scarlet robe, with a duke’s coronet’ on his head, a shield on his left arm, with the pro- per bearing of Hamilton. GENIvs. Fair mistress of harmonious sounds, we hear Thy invitation, gratefu’ to the ear Of a? the gods, who from th’ Olympian height Bow down their heads, and in thy notes delight : Jove keeps this day in his imperial dome, And I to lead th’ invited guests am come. Enter Venus attended by three Gracus, with Mi- NERVA and HymeEn; all in their proper dresses. CALLIOPE. Welcome, ye bright divinities, that guard The brave and fair, and faithfu’ love reward ; All hail! immortal progeny of Jove, Who plaint, preserve, and prosper sacred love. GENIvs. Be still auspicious to th’ united pair, And let their purest pleasures be your care: of the interludes of the ancients, presented on occasion of some ceremony performed in a great aud noble family. The actors in this kind of half-dramatic poetry have formerly been even kings, princes, and the first personages of the kingdom ; and in private families, the noblest and nearest branches. The machinery was of the greatest magnificence, very showy, costly, and not uneommonly contrived by the ablest architects, as well as the best poets. ‘Thus we see in Ben Jonson the name of Inigo Jones, and the same in Carew; whether as the modeller only, or as poet in conjunction with them, seems to be doubtful, ,there being nothing of our English Vitruvius left (that I know of) which places him in the class of writers. These shows we trace back- wards as far ag Henry VIII., from thence to Queen Elizabeth and her successor, King James, who was both a great encourager and admirer of them. The last masque, and the best ever written, was that of Milton, presented at Ludlow Castle, in the praise of which no words can be too many; and I remember to have heard the late excellent Mr. Addison agree with me in that opinion. Coronations, princely nuptials, public feasts, the entertainment of foreign quality, were the usual occasions of this performance, and the best poet of the age was courted to be the author. Mr. Ramsay has made 2 noble and successful attempt to revive this kind of poesy, on a late celebrated account. And though he is often to be admired in all his writings, yet, I think, never more than in his present composition. A particular friend gave it a second edition in England, which, I taney, the public will agree that it deserved."—ALLan Ramsay. Your stores of genial blessings here employ, To crown th’ illustrious youth and fair ane’s joy. VENUS. Pll breathe eternal sweets in ev’ry air ; He shall look always great, she ever fair ; Kind rays shall mix the sparkles of his eye, Round her the loves in smiling crowds shall fly, And bear frae ilka glance, on downy wings, Into his ravish’d heart the saftest things : And soon as Hymen has perform’d his rites, T’'ll shower on them my hale Idalian sweets: They shall possess, In each caress, Delights shall tire The muse’s fire, In highest numbers to express. Hymen. 1) busk their bow’r, and lay them gently down, Syne ilka langing wish wi’ raptures crown; The gloomy nights shall ne’er unwelcome prove, That leads them to the silent scenes of love. The sun at morn shall dart his kindest rays, To cheer and animate each dear embrace : Fond of the fair, he folds her in his arms; She blushes secret, conscious of her charms. Rejoice, brave youth, In sic a fouth Of joys the gods for thee provide; The rosy dawn, The flow’ry lawn, That spring has dress’d in a’ its pride, Claim no regard, When they're compar’d Wi?’ blooming beauties of thy bride. MInerva. Fairest of a’ the goddesses, and thou That links the lovers to be ever true, The gods and mortals own your mighty power, But ’tis not you can make their sweets secure; That be my task, to make a friendship rise, Shall raise their loves aboon the vulgar size. Those near related to the brutal kind, Ken naething of the wedlock of the mind; °Tis I can make a life a honey-moon, And mould a love shall last like that aboon. A’ these sma’ springs, whence cauld reserve and spleen Take their first rise, and, favour’d, flow mair keen, I shall discover in a proper view, To keep their joys unmix’d, and ever new; Nor jealousy, nor envious mouth, Shall dare to blast their love ; But wisdom, constancy, and truth, Shall ev’ry bliss improve, 40 PASTORALS. GENTUs. Thrice happy chief, so much the care Of a’ the family of Jove, A thousand blessings wait the fair, Who is found worthy of his love. Lang may the fair attractions of her mind Make her still lovelier, him for ever kind. Minerva. The ancestors of mightiest chiefs and kings, Nae higher can derive than human springs ; Yet frae the common soil each wondrous root Aloft to heav’n their spreading branches shoot: Bauld in my aid, these triumph’d over fate, Fam’d for unbounded thought, or stern debate ; Borne high upon an undertaking mind, Superior rise, and left the crowd behind._ GeENtIvs. Frae these descending, laurell’d with renown, My charge through ages draws his lineage down. The paths of sic forbears lang may he trace, And she be mother to as fam’d a race. When blue diseases fill the drumly air, And red-het bowts through flaughts of lightning rair, Or mad’ning factions shake the sanguine sword, Wi’ watchfw’ eye I’ll tent my darling lord ; And his lov’d mate, though furies should break loose Awake or sleeping, shall enjoy repose. First: Grace. While gods keep halyday, and mortals smile, Let nature with delights adorn the isle: Be hush, bauld North, Favonius only blaw, And cease, bleak clouds, to shed, or wet, or snaw ; Shine bright, thou radiant ruler of the year, And gar the spring with earlier pride appear. Srconp GRACE. Thy mouth, great queen of goddesses, make gay, Which gains new honours frae this marriage-day. On Glotta’s banks, ye healthfu’ hinds, resort, And wi’ the landart lasses blithely sport. Tuirp GRACE. Wear your best faces and your Sunday weeds, And rouse the dance with your maist tunefw’ reeds ; Let tunefu’ voices join the rural sound, And wake responsive echo all around. First Grace. Sing your great master, Scotia’s eldest son, And the lav’d angel that his heart has won: Come, sistwrs, let’s frae art’s hale stores collect Whatever can her native beauties deck, That in the day she may eclipse the light, And ding the constellations of the night. VENUS. Cease, busy maids, your artfw’ buskings raise But small addition to her genuine rays ; Though ilka plain and ilka sea combine To make her with their richest product shine, Her lip, her bosom, and her sparkling een, Excel the ruby, pearl, and diamond sheen: These lesser ornaments, illustrious bride, As bars to safter blessings, fling aside: Steal frae them sweetly to your nuptial bed, As frae its body slides the sainted shade, Frae loath’d restraint to liberty above, Where all is harmony, and all is love; Haste to these blessings, kiss the night away, And make it ten times pleasanter than day. Hymen. The whisper and caress shall shorten hours, While, kindly as the beams on dewy flowers, Thy sun, like him who the fresh bev’rage sips, Shall feast upon the sweetness of thy lips : My haly hand maun chastely now unloose That zone which a’ thy virgin charms inclose ; That zone should be less gratefu’ to the fair Than easy bands of safter wedlock are ; That lang unbuckled grows a hatefu’ thing ; The langer these are bound, the mair of honour bring. Minerva. Yes, happy pair, whate’er the gods inspire, Pursue, and gratify each just desire ; Enjoy your passions, wi’ full transports mixt, But still observe the bounds by virtue fixt. Enter Baccuus. What brings Minerva here this rantin night? She’s good for naething but to preach or fight : Is this a time for either —Swith away, Or learn like us to be a thought mair gay. , MINERVA. Peace, Theban roarer, while the milder pow’rs Give entertainment, there’s nae need of yours: The pure reflection of our calmer joys Has mair of heaven than a’ thy flashy noise. Baccus. Ye canna want it, faith! you that appear Anes at a bridal but in twenty year: A ferley ’tis your dortiship to see, But where was e’er a wedding without me? Blue e’en, remember, I’m baith hap and saul To Venus there; but me, she’d starve o’ caul PASTORALS. 41 VENUs. We own the truth.—Minerva, cease to check, Our jolly brother with your disrespect ; He’s never absent at the treats of Jove, . And should be present at this feast of love. GENIts. Maist welcome, Pow’r that cheers the vital streams, When Pallas guards thee frae the wild extremes ; Thy rosy visage, at these solemn rites, My generous charge with open smiling greets. Baccuvs. I'm nae great dab at speeches that maun clink, But there’s my paw, I shall fou tightly drink A hearty health to thir same lovely twa, That are sae meikle dauted by you a’: Then with my juice a reaming bicker crown; Tl gie a toast, and see it fairly round. Enter GANYMEDE ‘ (With a flagon in one hand, and a glass in the other). To you, blithe beings, the benign directar Of gods and men, to keep your sauls im tift, Has sent you here a present of his nectar, As good as e’er was brow’n aboon the lift. Baccuvs. Ha! Gany, come, my dainty boy, Skink’t up, and let us prieve; Without it life wad be a toy: Here, gi’e me ’t in my nieve. (Takes the glass Good health to Hamilton, and his Lov’d mate :—O father Jove! we crave Thow’lt grant them a lang tack of bliss, And rowth of bonny bairns and brave : Pour on them, frae thy endless store, A’ benisons that are divine, Wi? as good will as I waught o’er This flowing glass of heav’nly wine. (Drinks, and causes all the company to drink round. Come, see’t about; and syne let’s all advance, Mortals and gods be pairs, and take a dance: Minerva mim, for a’ your mortal stoor, Ye shall wi’ billy Bacchus fit the floor. Play up there, lassie, some blithe Scottish tune, Syne a’ be blithe, when wine and wit gae round. [The health about, music and dancing begin.— The dancing over, before her Grace retires with the ladies to be undressed, CALLIOPE sings the EPITHALAMIUM. Bright is the low of lawfu’ love, Which shining sauls impart, It to perfection mounts above, And glows about the heart : It is the flame gi’es lasting worth To greatness, beauty, wealth, and birth. On you, illustrious, youthfu’ pair, Who are high heaven’s delight and care, The blissfu’ beam darts warm and fair, And shall improve the rest Of a’ these gifts, baith great and rare, Of which ye are possest. Bacchus, bear off your dinsome gang, Hark! frae yon howms the rural thrang: Invite you now away ; While ilka hind, And maiden kind, Dance in a ring, While shepherds sing In honour of the day : Gae drink and dance Till morn advance, And set the twinkling fires ; While we prepare To lead the fair And brave to their desires. Gae, Loves and Graces, take your place, Around the nuptial bed abide ; Fair Venus heighten each embrace, And smoothly make their minutes slide. Gae, Hymen, put the couch in case; Minerva, thither lead the Bride; Niest, all attend his youthfu’ Grace, And lay him sweetly by her side. A PASTORAL EPITHALAMIUM THE HAPPY MARRIAGE OF GEORGE LORD RAMSAY AND LADY JEAN MAULE. UPON Hatt to the brave apparent chief, Boast of the Ramsays’ clannish name, Whase ancestors stood the relief Of Scotland, ages known to fame. Hail to the lovely she, whose charms, Complete in graces, meet his love ; Adorn’d with all that greatness warms, And makes him grateful bow to Jove. (1) [Allan Ramsay was proud of his remote connection with the noble family of the Ramsays, Earls of Dalhousie, and takea pains, in his epistle to the head of the house, to proclaim him ‘* Dalhousie of an auld descent, AMy chief, my hope, my ornament.”) G 42 PASTORALS. Both from the line of patriots rise, Chiefs of Dalhousie and Panmure, Whose loyal fames shall stains despise, While ocean flows, and orbs endure. The Ramsays! Caledonia’s prop ; The Maules! struck still her foes with dread ; Now join’d, we from the union hope A race of heroes shall succeed. Let meaner souls transgress the rules That’s fix’d by honour, love, and truth; While little views proclaim them fools, Unworthy beauty, sense, and youth : Whilst you, bless’d pair, belov’d by all The powers above, and bless’d below ; Shall have delights attend your call, And lasting pleasures on you flow. What fate has fix’d, and love has done, The guardians of mankind approve: Well may they finish what’s begun, And from your joys all cares remove. We wish’d—when straight a heavenly voice Inspir’d—we heard the blue-ey’d maid Cry, “Who dare quarrel with the choice ? The choice is mine, be mine their aid.” Be thine their aid, O wisest power! And soon again we hope to see Their plains return, splendid their tower, And blossom broad the Edgewell tree. Whilst he with manly merits stor’d, Shall rise the glory of his clan ; She for celestial sweets ador’d, Shall ever charm the gracefw’ man. Soon may their royal bird? extend His sable plumes, and lordships claim, Which to his valiant sires pertain’d, Ere earls in Albion were a name. Ye parents of the happy pair, With gen’rous smiles consenting, own That they deserve yovr kindest care: Thus, with the gods, their pleasure crown. Haste, ev’ry Grace, each Love, and Smile, From fragrant Cyprus spread tke wing ; \1) [An oak which grew by the side of a spring of water near Palhonste Castle, ana from which popular superstition alleged a branch fell off whenever one of the family died.] (2) The spread eagle savle, on a field argent, in the arms of the Earl of Dalhousie.—ALLAN RAMSAY, To deck their couch, exhaust your isle Of all the beauties of the spring. On them attend with homage due, “n him are Mars and Phebus seen ; And in the noble nymph you'll view The sage Minerva and your Queen. BETTY AND KATE: A PASTORAL FAREWELL TO MR. AIKMAN, WHEN HE WENT FOR LONDON. Betty. Dzar Katie, Willy’s e’en away ! Willy, of herds the wale, To feed his flock, and make his hay, Upon a distant dale. Far to the southward of this height Where now we dowie stray, Ay heartsome when he cheer’d our sighs, And Jeugh with us a’ day. Kats. C Willy! can dale dainties please Thee mair than moorland ream ? Does Isis flow with sweeter ease Than Fortha’s gentle stream t Or takes thou rather mair delight In the strae-hatied maid, Than in the blooming red and white Of her that wears the plaid? Betty. Nae, Kate, for that we needna mourn, He is not giv’n to change; But sauls of sic a shining turn, For honour like to range : Our laird, and a’ the gentry round, Wha mauna be said nay, Sic pleasure in his art have found, They winna let him stay. Blithe I have stood frae morn to e’ea, To see how true and weel He could delight us on the green With a piece cawk and keel ; On a slid stane, or smoother slate, He can the picture draw Of you or me, or sheep or gate, The likest e’er ye saw. Lass, think nae shame to ease your mind, I see ye’re like to greet : Let gae these tears, ’tis justly kind, For shepherd sae complete. PASTORALS. Kate. Far, far, o’er far frae Spey and Clyde, Stands that great town of Lud, To whilk our best lads rin and ride, ‘That’s like to put us wood; For sindle times they e’er come back, Wha anes are heftit there: Sure, Bess, their hills are nae sae black, Nor yet their howms sae bare. Betty. Our riggs are rich, and green our heights, And well our cares reward, But yield, nae doubt, far less delights, In absence of our laird: But we maun calmly now submit, And our ill luck lament, And leave’t to his ain sense and wit, To find his heart’s content. A thousand gates he had to win The love of old and young, Dia & he did with little din, And in nae deed was dung. Katz. William and Mary never fail’d To welcome with a smile, And hearten us, when aught we ail’d, Without designing guile. Lang way she happily possess, Wha’s in his breast infeft, And may their bonny bairns increase, And a with rowth be left. O William! win your laurels fast, And syne we'll a’ be fain, Soon as your wand’ring days are past, And you’re return’d again, Betty. Revive her joys by your return, To whom you first gave pain ; Judge how her passions for you burn, By these you bear your ain. Sae may your kin with fatness flow, And a’ your kye be sleek ; And may your hearts with gladness glow, In finding what ye seek. 43 TARTANA; OR, THE PLAID.’ 1721. Ye Caledonian beauties! who have long Been both the muse and subject of my song, Assist your bard, who, in harmonious lays, Designs the glory of your plaid to raise. How my fond breast, with blazing ardour glows, Whene’er my song on you just praise bestows ! Phoebus and his imaginary nine With me have lost the title of divine; To no such shadows will I homage pay, These to my real muses shall give way ; My muses who, on smooth meand’ring Tweed, Stray through the groves, or grace the clover mead ; Or these who bathe themselves where haughty Clyde Does roaring o’er his lofty cat’racts ride ; Or you who, on the banks of gentle Tay, Drain from the flow’rs the early dews of May, To varnish on your cheek the crimson dye, Or make the white the falling snow outvie ; And you who, on Edina’s streets, display Millions of matchless beauties every day ; Inspir’d by you, what poet can desire To warm his genius at a brighter fire ? I sing the plaid, and sing with all my skill; Mount then, oh Fancy! standard to my will; Be strong each thought, run soft each happy line, That gracefulness and harmony may shine, Adapted to the beautiful design. Great is the subject, vast th’ exalted theme, And shall stand fair in endless rolls of fame. The plaid’s antiquity comes first in view, Precedence to antiquity is due: Antiquity contains a certain spell, To make e’en things of little worth excel ; To smallest subjects gives a glaring dash, Protecting high-born idiots from the lash ; Much more ’tis valued when, with merit plac’d, It graces merit, and by merit’s grac’d. Oh first of garbs! garment of happy fate! So long employ’d, of such an antique date ; Look back some thousand years, till records fail, And lose themselves in some romantic tale, We'll find our godlike fathers nobly scorn’d To be with any other dress adorn’d, Before base foreign fashions interwove, Which ’gainst their int’rest and their brav’ry strove. "Twas they could boast their freedom with proud Rome, And, arm’d in steel, despise the senate’s doom : Whilst o’er the globe their eagle they display’d, And conquer’d nations prostrate homage paid, They only, they unconquer’d stood their ground, And to the mighty empire fix’d the bound. Our native prince who then supplied the throne In plaid array’d magnificently shone ; Nor seem’d his purple or his ermine less, Though cover’d with the Caledonian dress. In this at court the thanes were gaily clad, With this the shepherds and the hinds were glad, In this the warrior wrapt his brawny arms, With this our beauteous mothers veil’d their charms, When ev’ry youth and ev’ry lovely maid Deem’d it a dishabille to want their plaid. Oh heav’ns! how chang’d, how little look their race! When foreign chains with foreign modes take place; When East and Western Indies must combine To deck the fop, and make the gewgaw shine. (1) [Allan Ramsay's English poems do not possess the charm or the grace of his compositions in the native Doric, though Lord Woodh an accomplished critic, iders them of high merit. ‘ The silken snood,” says his lordship, ‘ which, at the period of the Union, was the universal attire of the Scottish ladies, and which is capable of more graceful variety of adjust- ment than any other piece of female dress, was beginning to be laid aside by many of the fair sex, after the rebellion of 1715, probably from being considered as a mark of a party. Bamsay had no dislike to it on that account, and he admired it as an elegant and decorous piece of dress. He resolved to vindicate its merits, and turn, if possible, the tide of fashion, which threatened to strip his country women of their appropriate orna- ment. ‘Tartana; or, the Plaid,’ is written in English verse, and affords of itself sufficient proof that, had its author been a native of a southern part of the island, he would have held no mean rank in the catalogue of English poets.”) f, eet Le Yi) WT ey wh Fie OY ua Fae Wi) TARTANA. LONDON, VIRTUE & 09 TARTANA. 45 Thus while the Grecian troops in Persia lay, And learn’d the habit to be soft and gay, By luxury ennerv’d, they lost the day. I ask’d Varell, what soldiers he thought best ? And thus he answer’d to my plain request : “Were I to lead battalions out to war, And hop’d to triumph in the victor’s car, ‘To gain the loud applause of worthy fame, And columns rais’d to eternize my name, Td choose, had I my choice, that hardy race Who fearless can look terrors in the face; Who ’midst the snows the best of limbs can fold In tartan plaids, and smile at chilling cold : No nseless trash should pain my soldier’s back, No canvas tents make loaden axles crack ; No rattling silks I’'d to my standards bind, But bright tartanas waving in the wind ; The plaid alone should all my ensigns be, This army from such banners would not flee. These, these were they who, naked, taught the way To fight with art, and boldly gain the day.” Fen great Gustavus stood himself amaz’d, While at their wond’rous skill and force he gaz’d. With such brave troops one might o’er Europe run, Make out what Richlieu fram’d, and Louis had begun. Degen’rate men !—now, ladies, -please to sit, That I the plaid in all its airs may hit, With all the pow’rs of softness mix’d with wit. While scorching Titan tawns the shepherd’s brow, And whistling hinds sweat lagging at the plough, The piercing beams Brucina can defy, Not sun-burnt she’s, nor dazzled is her eye. Ugly’s the mask, the fan’s a trifling toy To still at church some girl or restless boy ; Fix’d to one spot’s the pine and myrtle shades ; But on each motion wait th’ umbrellian plaids, Repelling dust when winds disturb the air, And give a check to ev’ry ill-bred stare. Light as the pinions of the airy fry Of larks and linnets who traverse the sky, Is the tartana, spun so very fine Its weight can never make the fair repine, By raising ferments in her glowing blood, Which cannot be escap’d within the hood ; Nor does it move beyond its proper sphere, But lets the gown in all its shape appear ; Nor is the straightness of her waist denied To be by ev’ry ravish’d eye survey’d; For this the hoop may stand at largest bend, It comes not high, nor can its weight offend. The hood and mantle make the tender faint, Vm pain’d to see them moving like a tent ; By heather Jenny, in her blanket dress’d, The hood and mantle fully are express’d, Which round her neck with rags is firmly bound, While heather besoms loud she screams around. Was goody Strode so great a pattern? Say, Are ye to follow when such lead the way ? But know each fair who shall this surtout use, You’re no more Scots, and cease to be my muse. The smoothest labours of the Persian loom, Lin’d in the plaid, set off the beauty’s bloom ; Faint is the gloss, nor come the colours nigh, Though white as milk, or dipp’d in scarlet dye. The lily pluck’d by fair Pringella grieves, Whose whiter hand outshines its snowy leaves ; No wonder then white silks in our esteem, Match’d with her fairer face, they sullied seem. If shining red Campbella’s cheeks adorn, Our fancies straight conceive the blushing morn, Beneath whose dawn the sun of beauty lies, Nor need we light but from Campbella’s eyes. If lin’d with green Stuarta’s plaid we view, Or thine, Ramseia, edg’d around with blue, One shows the spring when nature is most kind, The other heav’n whose spangles lift the mind.. A garden-plot enrich’d with chosen flow’rs, In sun-beams basking after vernal show’rs, Where lovely pinks in sweet confusion rise, And amaranths and eglantines surprise, * Hedg’d round with fragrant brier and jessamino, The rosy thorn and variegated green— These give not half that pleasure to the view As when, Fergusia, mortals gaze on you; You raise our wonder, and our love engage, Which makes us curse and yet admire the hedge, The silk and tartan hedge, which doth conspire With you to kindle love’s soft spreading fire. How many charms can ev’ry fair one boast! How oft’s our fancy in the plenty lost! These more remote, these we admire the most: What’s too familiar often we despise, But rarity makes still the value rise. If Sol himself should shine through all the cay, We cloy, and lose the pleasure of his ray, But if behind some marly cloud he steal, Nor for some time his radiant head reveal, With brighter charms his absence he repays, And ev’ry sunbeam seems a double blaze: So when the fair their dazzling lustres shroud, And disappoint us with a tartan cloud, How fondly do we peep with wishful eye, Transported when one lovely charm we spy! 46 TARTANA. Oft to our cost, ah me! we often find The pow’r of love strikes deep, though he be blind ; Perch’d on a lip, a cheek, a chin, or smile, Hits with surprise, and throws young hearts in jail. From when the cock proclaims the rising day, And milk-maids sing around sweet curds and whey, Till grey-eyed twilight, harbinger of night, Pursues o’er silver mountains! sinking light, I can unwearied from my casements view The plaid, with something still about it new. How are we pleas’d when, with a handsome air, We see Hepburna walk with easy care! One arm half circles round her slender waist, The other like an iv’ry pillar plac’d, To hold her plaid around her modest face, Which saves her blushes with the gayest grace ; If in white kids her taper fingers move, Or, unconfin’d, jet thro’ the sable glove. With what a pretty action Keitha holds Her plaid, and varies oft its airy folds ! How does that naked space the spirits move, Between the ruffled lawn and envious glove! We by the sample, though no more be seen, Imagine all that’s fair within the screen. Thus belles in plaids veil and display their charms, The love-sick youth thus bright Humea warms, And with her graceful mien her rivals all alarms. The plaid itself gives pleasure to the sight, To see how all its sets imbibe the light, Forming some way, which e’en to me lies hid, White, black, blue, yellow, purple, green, and red. Let Newton’s royal club through prisms stare, To view celestial dyes with curious care, T’'ll please myself, nor shall my sight ask aid Of crystal gimeracks to survey the plaid. How decent is the plaid; when in the pew It hides th’ enchanting fair from ogler’s view! The mind’s oft crowded with ill-tim’d desires When nymphs unveil’d approach the sacred choirs. F’en senators who guard the commonweal, Their minds may rove :—are mortals made of steel ? The finish’d beaux start up in all their airs, And search out beauties more than mind their pray’rs. The wainscot forty-sixes are perplex’d To be eclips’d, spite nakes them drop the text The younger gaze at each fine thing they see; The orator himself is scarcely free. Ye then who would your piety express, To sacred domes ne’er come in naked dress. (1) The Ochi Hills. The pow’r of modesty shall still prevail ; Then, Scotian virgins, use your ualice vol. Thus far young Cosmel read; then star'd and curs’d, And ask’d me, very gravely, how I durst Advance such praises for a thing despis’d P He smiling swore I had been ill advis’d. To you, said I, perhaps this may seem true, And numbers vast, not fools, may side with you; As many shall my sentiments approve : Tell me what’s not the butt of scorn and love? Were mankind all agreed to think one way, What would divines and poets have to say ? No ensigns would on martial fields be spread, And corpus juris never would be read: We'd need no councils, parliaments, nor kings, Fen wit and learning would tur silly things. You miss my meaning still; I’m much afraid, I would not have them always wear the plaid. Old Salem’s royal sage, of wits the prime, Said, for each thing there was a proper time. Night ’s but Aurora’s plaid, that ta’en away We lose the pleasure of returning day; Pen thro’ the gloom, when view’d in sparkling skies, Orbs scarcely seen yet gratify our eyes : So through Hamilla’s open’d plaid we may Behold her heav’nly face and heaving milky way. Spanish reserve, join’d with a Gallic air, If manag’d well, becomes the Scotian fair. Now you say well, said he; but when’s the time That they may drop the plaid without a crime? Then I— Lest, oh fair nymphs, ye should our patience tire, And starch reserve extinguish gen’rous fire ; Since heav’n your soft victorious charms design’d To form a smoothness on the rougher mind; When from the bold and noble toils of war, The rural cares, or labours of the bar, From these hard studies which are learn’d and grave, And some from dang’rous riding o’er the wave, The Caledonian manly youth resort To their Edina, love’s great mart and port, And crowd her theatres with all that grace Which is peculiar to the Scotian race ; At concert, ball, or some fair’s marriage-day, Oh then with freedom all that’s sweet display. When beauty’s to be judg’d without a veil, And not its pow’r met out as by retail, But wholesale all at once to fill the mind With sentiments gay, soft, and frankly kind, Throw by the plaid, and like the lamp of day, When there’s no cloud to intercept his ray ; TARTANA 47 So shine Maxella, nor their censure fear, Who, slaves to vapours, dare not so appear. On Ida’s height, when to the royal swain, To know who should the prize of beauty gain, Jove sent his two fair daughters and his wife, That he might be the judge to end the strife; Hermes was guide: they found him by a tree, And thus they spake, with air divinely free: “Say, Paris, which is fairest of us three ?” To Jove’s high queen and the celestial maids, *Ere he would pass his sentence, cried, “ No plaids.” Quickly the goddesses obey’d his call, In simple nature’s dress he view’d them all, Then to Cytherea gave the golden ball. Great critics, hail! our dread; whose love or hate Can, with a frown or smile, give verse its fate ; Attend while o’er this field my fancy roams, _ I’ve somewhat more to say, and here it comes. When virtue was a crime, in Tancred’s reign, There was a noble youth who would not deign To own for sov’reign one a slave to vice, Or blot his conscience at the highest price ; For which his death’s devis’d, with hellish art To tear from his warm breast his beating heart. Fame told the tragic news to all the fair, Whose num’rous sighs and groans bound thro’ the air: All mourn his fate, tears trickle from each eye, Till his kind sister threw the woman by ; She, in his stead, a gen’rous off’ring stay’d, And he, the tyrant baulk’d, hid in her plaid. So when Aneas with Achilles strove," The goddess-mother hasted from above, Well seen in fate, prompt by maternal love, Wrapt him in mist, and warded off the blow That was design’d him by his valiant foe. I of the plaid could tell a hundred tales ; Then hear another, since that strain prevails. The tale no records tell, it is so old; It happen’d in the easy age of gold, When am’rous Jove, chief of th’ Olympian gods, Pall’d with Saturnia, came to our abodes, A beauty-hunting ; for, in these soft days Nor gods nor men delighted in a chase That would destroy not propagate their race. Beneath a fir-tree in Glentaner’s groves,? Where, ere gay fabrics rose, swains sung their loves, Iris lay sleeping in the open air, A bright tartana veil’d the lovely fair : The wounded god beheld her matchless charms With earnest eyes, and grasp’d her in his arms. Soon he made known to her, with gaining skill, His dignity, and import of his will. “Speak thy desire,” the divine monarch said. “Make me a goddess,” cried the Scotian maid ; “Nor let hard fate bereave me of my plaid.” “Be thou the handmaid to my mighty queen,” Said Jove; “and to the world be often seen With the celestial bow, and thus appear Clad with these radiant colours as thy wear.” Now say, my muse, ere thou forsake the field, What profit does the plaid to Scotia yield? Justly that claims our love, esteem, and boast, Which is produced within our native coast. On our own mountains grows the golden fleece, Richer than that which Jason brought to Greece; A beneficial branch of Albion’s trade, : And the first parent of the Tartan plaid. Our fair, ingenious ladies’ hands prepare The equal threads, and give the dyes with care. Thousands of artists sullen hours decoy | On rattling looms, and view their webs with. is. May she be curs’d to starve in frogland fens, To wear a fala’ ragg’d at both the ends. Groan still beneath the antiquated suit, And die a maid at fifty-five to boot. May she turn quaggy fat, or crooked dwarf, Be ridiculed while primm’d up in her scarf; May spleen and spite still keep her on the fret, And live till she outlive her beauty’s date: May all th’s fall, and more than I have said, Upon that wench who disregards the plaid. But with the sun let ev’ry joy arise, And from soft slumbers lift her happy eyes ; May blooming youth be fix’d upon her face, , Til she has seen her fourth descending race ; Biess’d with a mate with whom she can agree, And never want the finest of bohea; May ne’er the miser’s fears make her afraid, Who joins with me, with me admires the plaid. Let bright tartanas henceforth ever shine, And Caledonian goddesses enshrine. Fair judges, to your censure I submit ; If you allow this poem to have wit, . Pll look with scorn upon these musty fools Who only move by old worm-eaten rules. But with th’ ingenious if my labours take, I wish them ten times better for their sake. Who shall esteem this vain are in the wrong, Pll prove the moral is prodigious strong: I hate to trifle, men should act like men, And for their country only draw their sword and pen, (1) Homer, (2) A forest in Aberdeenshire o (3) A little square cloth worn by tho Dutch women. THE MORNING INTERVIEW’ : 1721, Wun silent show’rs refresh the pregnant soil, And tender salads eat with Tuscan oil; Harmonious music gladdens every grove, While bleating lambkins from their parents rove, And o’er the plain the anxious mothers stray, Calling their tender care with hoarser bae. Now cheerful Zephyr from the western skies With easy flight o’er painted meadows flies, To kiss his Flora with a gentle air, Who yields to his embrace, and looks more fair. When from debauch, with sp’rituous juice oppress’d, The sons of Bacchus stagger home to rest, With tatter’d wigs, foul shoes, and uncock’d hats, And all bedaub’d with snuff their loose cravats. The sun began to sip the morning dew, As Damon from his restless pillow flew. Him late from Celia’s cheek a patch did wound, A patch high seated on the blushing round. His painful thoughts all night forbid him rest, And he employ’d that night as one oppress’d ; Musing revenge, and how to countermine The strongest force, and ev’ry deep design Of patches, fans, of necklaces and rings, Een music’s powr when Celia plays or sings. Fatigued with running errands all the day, Happy in want of thought, his valet lay, Recruiting strength with sleep—His master calls, He starts with lock’d-ep eyes, and beats the walls. A second thunder rouses up the sot, He yawns, and murmurs curses through his throat : Stockings awry, and breeches’ knees unlac’d, And buttons do mistake their holes for haste. His master raves ; cries, “ Roger, make dispatch, Time flies apace.” He frown’d, and look’d his watch. “Haste, do my wig; tie’t with the careless knots; And run to Civet’s, let him fill my box: Go to my laundress, see what makes her stay, And call a coach and barber in your way.” (1) [A small flame, evidently kindled at the greater fire of Pope's “ Rape of the Luck."] Thus orders justle orders in a throng: Roger with laden mem’ry trots along. His errands done, with brushes next he must Renew his toil amidst perfuming dust : The yielding comb he leads with artful care Through crook’d meanders of the flaxen hair : Ere this perform’d, he’s almost chok’d to death, The air is thicken’d, and he pants for breath. The trav’ller thus, in the Numidian plains, A conflict with the driving sands sustains. Two hours are past, and Damon is equipt, Pensive he stalks, and meditates the fight : Arm’d cap-a-pie, in dress a killing beau, Thrice view'd his glass, and thrice resolv’d to go, Fiush’d full of hope to overcome his foe. His early pray’rs were all to Paphos sent, That Jove’s sea-daughter would give her consent ; Cried “Send thy little son unto my aid,” Then took his hat, tripp’d out, and no more said. What lofty thoughts do sometimes push a man Beyond the verge of his own native span! Keep low thy thoughts, frail clay, nor boast thy pow’r, Fate will be fate; and since there’s nothing sure, Vex not thyself too much, but catch th’ auspicious hour. The tow’ring lark had thrice his matins sung, And thrice were bells for pious service rung ; In plaids joa up, prudes throng’d the sacred ome, And leave the spacious petticoat at home; While softest beams seal’d up fair Celia’s eyes, She dreams of Damon, and forgets to rise. A sportive sylph contrives the subtle snare ; Sylphs know the charming baits which catch the fair : She shows him handsome, brawny, rich, and young, With snuff-box, cane, and sword-knot finely hung, Well skill’d in airs of dangle, toss, and rap, Those graces which the tender hearts entrap. Where Aulus oft makes law for justuce pass, And Charles’s statue stands in lasting brass, Amidst a lofty square which strikes the siyht, With spacious fabrics of stupendous height, THE MORNING INTERVIEW, 49 Whose sublime roofs in clouds advance so high, They seem the watch-tow’rs of the nether sky ; Where once, alas! where once the three estates Of Scotland’s parliament held free debates ; Here Celia dwelt; and here did Damon move, Press’d by his rigid fate, and raging love. To her apartments straight the daring swain Approach’d, and softly knock’d, nor knock’d in vain. The nymph, new-wak’d, starts from the lazy down, And rolls her gentle limbs in morning gown : But half awake, she judges it must be Frankalia, come to take her morning tea; Cries, “‘ Welcome, cousin :”—but she soon began To change her visage when she saw a man. Her unfix’d eyes with various turnings range, And pale surprise to modest red exchange. Doubtful *twixt modesty and love she stands ; Then ask’d the bold impertinent’s demands. Her strokes are doubled, and the youth now found His pains increase, and open ev’ry wound. Who can describe the charms of loose attire ? Who can resist the flames with which they fire? “Ah, barbarous maid!” he cries; “sure, native charms Are too, too much; why then such store of arms? Madam, I come, prompt by th’ uneasy pains Caus’d by a wound from you, and want revenge : A borrow’d power was posted on a charm ; A patch—damn’d patch! can patches work such harm ?” He said, then threw a bomb, lay hid within Love’s mortar-piece, the dimple of his chin : Tt miss’d for once :—she lifted up her head, And blush’d a smile that almost struck him dead ; Then cunningly retir’d, but he pursu’d Near to the toilet, where the war renew’d. Thus the great Fabius often gained the day O’er Hannibal, by frequent giving way : So warlike Bruce and Wallace sometimes deign’d To seem defeat, yet certain conquest gain’d. Thus was he laid in midst of Celia’s room, Speechless he stood, and waited for his doom : Words were but vain, he scarce could use his breath, As round he view’d the implements of death. Here dreadful arms in careless heaps were laid In gay disorder round her tumbled bed: He often to the soft retreat would stare, Still wishing he might give the battle there. Stunn’d with the thought, his wand’ring looks did stray To where lac’d shoes and her silk stockings lay And garters which are never seen by day. His dazzled eyes almost deserted light, No man before had ever got the sight. A lady’s garters! earth! their very name, Though yet unseen, sets all the soul on flame. The royal Ned} knew well their mighty charme, Else he’d ne’er hoop’d one round the English arms : Let barb’rous honours crown the sword and lance, Thou next their king does British knights advance, O Garter !—“ Honi soit qui mal y pense.” Oh who can all these hidden turns relate, That do attend on a rash lover’s fate! In deep distress the youth turn’d up his eyes, As if to ask assistance from the skies. The petticoat was hanging on a pin, Which the unlucky swain star’d up within ; His curious eyes too daringly did rove, Around this oval conic vault of love: Himself alone can tell the pain he found, While his wild sight survey’d forbidden ground. He viewd the tenfold fence, and gave a groan, His trembling limbs bespoke lis courage gone: Stupid and pale he stood, like statue dumb, The amber snuff dropp’d from his careless thumb. Be silent here, my muse, and shun a plea, May rise betwixt old Bickerstaff and me, For none may touch a petticoat but he. Damon thus foil’d, breath’d with a dying tone, “ Assist, ye pow’rs of love! else I am gone.” The ardent pray’r soon reach’d the Cyprian grove, Heard and accepted by the queen of love. Fate was propitious too, her son was by, Who, ’midst his dread artillery, did lie Of Flanders lace, and straps of curious dye. On India muslin shades the god did loll, His head reclin’d upon a tinsy roll. The mother goddess thus her son bespoke : “Thou must, my boy, assume the shape of Shock, And leap to Celia’s lap, whence thou may slip Thy paw up to her breast, and reach her lip; Strike deep thy charms, thy pow’rful art display, To make young Damon conqueror to-day. Thou need not blush to change thy shape, since Jove Tried most of brutal forms to gain his love ; Who, that he might his loud Saturnia gull, For fair Europa’s sake inform’d a bull.” She spoke.—Not quicker does the lamp of day Dart on the mountain-tops a gilded ray, Swifter than light’ning flies before the clap, From Cyprus’ isle he reached Celia’s lap ; (1) Edward IIL, king of England, who established the most honourable Order of the Garter. H 50 THE MORNING INTERVIEW. Now fawns, now wags tis tail, and licks her arm; She hugs him to her breast, nor dreads the harm. So in Ascanius’ shape, the god unseen, Of old deceiv’d the Carthaginian queen. So now the subtle Pow’r his time espies, And threw two barbed darts in Celia’s eyes: Many were broke before he could succeed ; But that of gold flew whizzing through her head: These were his last reserve.— When others fail, Then the refulgent metal must prevail. Pleasure produe’d by money now appears, Coaches and six run rattling in her ears. Oh liv’rymen! attendants! household plate ! Court-posts and visits! pompous air and state! How can your splendour easy access find, And gently captivate the fair one’s mind! Success attends, Cupid has play’d his part, And sunk the pow’rful venom to her heart. She could no more, she’s catched in the snare, Sighing, she fainted in an easy chair. No more the sanguine streams in blushes glow, But to support the heart all inward flow, Leaving the cheek as cold and white as snow. Thus Celia fell, or rather thus did rise ; Thus Damon made, or else was made a prize ; For both were conquerors, and both did yield ; First she, now he is master of the field. Now he resumes fresh life, abandons fear, Jumps to his limbs, and does more gay appear. Not gaming heir, when his rich parent dies ; Not zealot reading Hackney’s party lies ; Not soft fifteen on her feet-washing night ; Not poet when his muse sublimes her flight ; Not an old maid for some young beauty’s fall ; Not the long ’tending stibler,' at his call ; Not husbandman in drought when rain descends ; Not miss when Limberham? his purse extends, — F’er knew such raptures as this joyful swain, When yielding, dying Celia calm’d his pain. The rapid joys now in such torrents roll, That scarce his organs can retain his soul. Victor, he’s gen’rous, courts the fair’s esteem, And takes a basin fill’d with limpid stream, ‘Then from his fingers form’d an artful rain, Which rous’d the dormant spirits of her brain, And made the purple channels flow again. She lives, he sings; she smiles and looks more tame : Now peace and friendship is the only theme. The muse owns freely, here she aces not know, If language pass’d between the belle and beau, Or if in courtship such use words? or no. But sure it is, there was a parley beat, And mutual love finish’d the proud debate. Then to complete the peace and seal the bliss, He for a diamond ring receiv’d a kiss Of her soft hand; next the aspiring youth With eager transports press’d her glowing mouth. So by degrees the eagles teach their young To mount on high, and stare upon the sun. A sumptuous entertainment crowns the war, And all rich requisites are brought from far. The table boasts its being from Japan, Th’ ingenious work of some great artisan. China, where potters coarsest mould refine, That rays through the transparent vessels shine; The costly plates and dishes are from thence ; And Amazonia‘ must her sweets dispense— To her warm banks our vessels cut the main, For the sweet product of her luscious cane. Here Scotia does no costly tribute bring, Only some kettles full of Todian spring. Where Indus and the double Ganges flow, On odorif’rous plains the leaves do grow, Chief of the treat, a plant the boast of fame, Sometimes call’d green, bohea’s its greater name. Oh happiest of herbs! who would not be Pythagoriz’d into the form of thee, And with high transports act the part of tea! Kisses on thee the haughty belles bestow, While in thy steams their coral lips do glow; Thy virtues and their flavour they commend, While men, even beaux, with parched lips attend. EPILOGUE. The curtain’s drawn: now gen’rous reader say, Have ye not read worse numbers in a play? Sure here is plot, place, character, and time, All smoothly wrought in good firm British rhyme. I own ’tis but a sample of my lays, Which asks the civil sanction of your praise; Bestow’t with freedom, let your praise be ample, And I myself will show you good example. Keep up your face: although dull critics squint, And ery, with empty nod, “There’s nothing in’t:” They only mean there’s nothing they can use, Because they find most where there’s most refuse. (1) A probationer. (2) A kind keeper. (3) It being alleged that the eloquence of this species lies in the elegance of dress. (4) The River Amazon, in South America. (5) ‘Tod's Well,” which supplies the city with water.— (a.p. 1720.] [May not water in Edinburgh have been called Todds, or Todian? and may not this be the derivative of the name of the famous Scottish compound of whiskey and water, known all over the world as toddy?] THE VISION. [This, one of the finest of Ramsay’s poems, was never avowed by the author, or included in any edition of his works, until after his death. It first appeared in the “Evergreen” (a collection which he edited), under the signature of “Ar, Scor.,” under which he is supposed to have concealed his own name—Allan Ramsay, Scot. The reason of the concealment was obvious to Allan’s friends. He was known to be a Jacobite at heart; but with a canniness common to Scotchmen, though not to poets, he desired “to be all things to all men,” ani to stand well, for worldly reasons, with both parties. ] Bepown the bents of Banquo brae, A curious crove of nature’s craft, My lane I wandert waif and wae, Whilk to me schelter gave: Musand our main mischaunce ; There vexit, perplexit, How be thae faes we are undone, I leant me down to weep; That staw the sacred stane! frae Scone, In brief there, with grief there, And lead us sic a daunce: I dottard owre in sleep. Whyle Ingland’s Edward tak’s our tours, And Scotland first obeys, Here Somnus in his silent hand Rude ruffians ransack royal bours, Held all my senses at command, And Baliol homage pays : While I forgot my care, Throch feidom, our freedom The mildest meid of mortall wichts Is blotit with this skore, Wha pass in peace the private nichts, What Romans’, or no man’s, That wauking finds it rare ; Pith could e’er do before. Sae in saft slumbers did I lye, But not my wakryfe mind, The air grew ruch with bousteous thuds, Whilk still stood watch, and couth espy Bauld Boreas branglit outthrow the cluds, A man with aspect kind, Maist like a drunken wicht ; Richt auld like, and bauld like, The thunder crackt, and flauchts did rift With beird thre quarters skant, Frae the black vissart of the lift ; Sae braif like, and graif like, The forest shook with fricht ; He seem’d to be a sanct. Nae birds abune their wing extend, They durst not bide the blast ; Great daring dartit frae his e’e, Ik beast bedeen bang’d to its den, A braid-sword shogled at his thie, Until the storm was past : On his left arm a targe ; Ik creature, in nature, A shynand spear fill’d his richt hand, That had a spunk of sense, Of stalwart mak’ in bane and brawnd, In need then, with speed then, Of just proportions, large ; Methocht, cry’d in defence. A various rainbow-colourt plaid ; Owre his left spaul he threw, To see a morn in May sae il, = Doun his braid back, frae his whyt heid, I deem’d dame Nature was gane will, The silver wymplers grew. To rair with rackles reil ; Amaisit, I gaisit, Wherefore to put me out of pain, To see, led at command, And skonce my skap and shanks frae rain, A stampant, and rampant, I bure me to a beil ; Fierce lion in his hand. Up ane heich craig that hungit alaft, Out owre a canny cave, Whilk held a thistle in his paw, And round his collar graist I saw (1) The old chair (now in Westminster Abbey) in which the This poesy pat and plain ; assem ey week crowned, wherein there is a piece of “ Nemo me impune lacess- “Ni fallet fatum, Soot, quocunque locatum ” Ht ?— (in Scots) A Nane sall opprese Invenient lapidem, reguare tenentur ibidem.” . “Me, unpunist with pain.” THE VISION. Still shaking, I durst naething say, Till he with kind accent Said, “ Fere, let nocht thy heart affray, I come to hear thy plaint. ; Thy graneing and maneing, Have lately reich’d myne ear, Debar then, affar then, All eiryness or fear. * For I am ane of a hie station, The warden of this antient nation, And can nocht do thee wrang.” I vizyt him then round about, Syne with a resolution stout, Speird, whar he’d been sae lang ? Quoth he, “ Althocht I some forsuke, Because they did me slicht, To hills and glens I me betuke, To them that loves my richt ; Whase minds yet, inclines yet, To damm the rapid spate, Devysing, and prysing, Freedom at ony rate. “Our treachourous peers their tyrants treat, Wha jyb them, and their substance eat, And on their honour stamp : They, puir degenerate! bend their backs, The victor, Langshanks, proudly cracks He has blawn out our lamp: Whyle trew men, sair complainand, tell, With sobs, their silent grief, How Baliol their richts did sell, With small howp of relief; Regretand, and fretand, Ay at his cursit plots, Wha rammed, and crammed, That bargain down their throats. “ Brave gentrie sweir and burgers ban, Revenge is muttert by ilk clan, That’s to their nation trew ; The cloysters come, to con the evil, Mailpayers wiss it to the devil, With its contryving crew : The hardy wald, with hairty wills, Upon dyre vengance fall ; The feckless fret owre heuchs and hills, And echo answers all ; Repetand, and greitand, With mony a sair alace! For blasting, and casting, Our honour in disgrace.” * Waes me!” quoth I, “our case 1s bad, And mony of us are gane mad, Sen this disgraceful paction. We are fell’d and herry’d now by force ; And hardly help for ’t, that’s yit worse, We are sae forfairn with faction. Then, has not he gude cause to grumbie. That’s forced to be a slave; Oppression doth the judgment jumble, And gars a wyse man rave. May chains then, and pains then, Infernal be their hyre, Wha dang us, and flang us, Into this ugsome myre.” Then he, with bauld forbidding look, And stately air, did me rebuke, For being of sprite sae mean : Quoth he, “It’s far beneath a Scot To use weak curses, when his lot May sometimes sour his spleen, He rather suld, mair like a man, Some brave design attempt ; Gif it’s nocht in his pith, what than ? Rest but a whyle content, Nocht feerful, but cheerful, And wait the will of fate, Which mynds to, desygns to, Renew your antient state. “1 ken some mair than ye do all Of what sall afterwart befall, In mair auspicious times ; For aften far abuve the mune, We watching beings do convene, Frae round earth’s utmost climes ; Where ev’ry warden represents Cleerly his nation’s case, Gif famyne, pest, or sword torments, Or vilains hie in place, Wha keep ay, and heap ay, Up to themselves grit store, By rundging, and spunging, The leal laborious poor.” “Say then,” said I, “at your hie sate, Lernt ye ocht of auld Scotland’s fate, Gif e’er she ’el be hersell ?” With smyle celest, quoth he, “I can; But it’s nocht fit ane mortal man Should ken all I can tell: But part to thee I may unfold, And thou may safely ken, When Scottish peers slicht Saxon gold, And turn trew-heartit men ; When knavery, and slavery, Are equally despised, And loyalty, and royalty, Universalie are prized. THE VISION. 53 * When all your trade is at a stand, And cunyie clene forsaiks the land, Whilk will be very sune ; Will priests without their stypends preach ? For nocht will lawyers causes stretch P Faith! that’s nae easy done! All this and mair maun come to pass, To clear your glamour’d sicht ; And Scotland maun be made an ass, To set her judgment richt. They'll jade her, and blad her, Untill she brak her tether, Thoch auld she’s, yet bauld she’s, And teuch like barkit leather. “But mony a corpse sall breathless lie, And wae sall mony a widow cry, Or all rin richt again ; Owre Cheviot prancing proudly north, The faes sall tak’ the field near Forth, And think the day their ain: But burns that day sall rin with blude Of them that now oppress ; Their carcasses be corbies’ fude, By thousands on the grass. A king then, sall ring then, Of wise renoun and brave, Whase puissance, and sapience, Sall richt restore and save.” “The view of freedom’s sweet,” quoth 1, “QO say, great tenant of the sky, How near’s that happie time ? We ken things but by circumstance.” “Nae mair,” quoth he, “I may advance, Lest I commit a crime.” “What e’er ye please, gae on,” quoth I, “T sall not fash ye more, Say how, and where ye met, and why, As ye did hint before ?” With air then, sae fair then, That glanst like rays of glory, Sae godlike, and oddlike, He thus resum’d his story. “ Frae the sun’s rising to his sett, All the pryme rait of wardens met, Tn solemn bricht array, With vehicles of ether clear, Sic we put on when we appeir To sauls rowit up in clay ; There in a wide and splendid hall, Reird up with shynand beams, Whose roof-trees were of rainbows all, And pav’d with starrie gleams, Whilk prinkled, and twinkled, Brichtly beyont compair, Much famed, and named,— A castle in the air. “In midst of whilk a table stood, A spacious oval red as blude, Made of a fyre-flaucht, Around the dazling walls were drawn, With rays by a celestial haun, Full mony a curious draucht. Inferiour beings flew in haist, Without guide or derectour, Millions of miles throch the wild waste, To bring in bowls of nectar : Then roundly, and soundly, We drank like Roman gods, When Jove sae, does rove sae, That Mars and Bacchus nods. “ When Phebus’ heid turns licht as cork, And Neptune leans upon his fork, And limpand Vulcan blethers ; When Pluto glowrs as he were wild, And Cupid (Love’s wee wingit child) Falls down and files his fethers ; When Pan forgets to tune his reed, And flings it careless bye ; And Hermes, wing’d at heels and heid, Can nowther stand nor lye: When staggirrand, and swaggirrand, They stoyter hame to sleep, Whyle senteries, at enteries, Immortal watches keep. “Thus we tuke in the high brown liqaar, And bang’d about the nectar bicker, But ever with this odds— We ne’er in drink our judgments drencu, Nor scour about to seek a wench, Like these auld baudy gods ; But franklie at ilk other ask What’s proper we suld know, How ilk ane has performt the task Assign’d to him below. Our minds then, sae kind then, Are fixt upon our care, Ay noting, and plotting, What tends to their weilfare. “Gothus and Vandal baith lukt bluff, Whyle Gallus sneer’d and tuke a snuff, Whilk made Allmane to stare ; Latinus bad him naething feir, But lend his hand to holy weir, And of cowd crouns tak’ care. Batavius, with his paddock-face, Looking asquint, cry’d, ‘ Pisch ! THE VISION. Your monks are void of sense or grace, T had lure ficht for fisch ; Your schule-men are fool-men, Carv’d out for dull debates, Decoying, and destroying, Baith monarchies and states.’ “Therius, with a gurlie nod, Cry’d, ‘ Hogan,! yes, we ken your god— It’s herrings ye adore !” Heptarchus, as he us’d to be, Can nocht with his ain thochts agre, But varies back and fore ; Ane whyle he says, It is not richt A monarch to resist, Neist breath all royall powir will slicht, And passive homage jest ; He hitches, and fitches, Between the fzc and hoe, Ay jieand, and flieand, Round like a weather-cock. “TJ still support my precedents Abune them all for sword and sense, Thoch I have layn richt now lown ; Whylk was, becaus I bure a grudge At some fule Scots, wha lykd to drudge To princes no their own. Some Thanes their tennants pykt and squeist, And purst up all their rent, Syne wallopt to far courts, and bleist, Till riggs and shaws war spent ; Syne byndging, and whyndging, When thus redust to howps, They dander, and wander About, puir lickmadowps ! “ But now it’s tyme for me to draw My shynand sword against club-law, And gar my lion roar. He sall or lang gie sic a sound, The echo sall be heard around Europe, frae shore to shore. Then let them gather all their strength, And strive to work my fall; Tho’ numerous, yit at the length I will owrecome them all ; and raise yet, and blase yet, _My bravrie and renown, By gracing and placing Aright the Scottish crown. “When my brave Bruce the same sall weir Upon his royal heid, full clear The diadem will shine. Then sall your sair oppression ceaae, His int’rest yours, he will not fleece, Or leave you e’er inclyne : Thoch millions to his purse be lent, Ye’ll ne’er the puirer be, But rather richer, whyle it’s spent Within the Scottish sea. The field then sall yield then To honest husbands’ wealth ; Gude laws then sall cause then A sickly state have health.” Whayle thus he talkt, methocht there came. A wonder fair etherial dame, And to our warden sayd, “Great Callidon, I come in search Of you, frae the hich starry arch : The counsill wants your ayd. Frae every quarter of the sky, As swift as whirl-wynd, With spirits’ speed the chiftains hy, Sum great thing is desygn’d. Owre mountains, be fountains, And round ilk fairy ring, I’ve chased ye; O haste ye, They talk about your king!” With that my hand methocht he shuke, And wischt I happyness micht bruke, To eild by nicht and day ; Syne quicker than an arrow’s flicht He mountit upwarts frae my sicht, Straicht to the milkie way. My mind him follow’d throw the skyes, Untill the brynie stream For joy ran trickling frae myne eyes, And wakit me frae dream. Then peeping, half sleeping, Frae forth my rural bield, It eisit me, and pleisit me, To see and smell the field. For Flora in her clean array, New washen with a showir of May, Lukit full sweet and fair ; While her clear husband frae abuif “hed doun his rayis of genial luve, Hir sweets perfumit the air. The winds war husht, the welkin clear’d, The glumand clouds were fled, And all as saft and gay appear’d As ane Elysian shed ; Whilk heisit and bleisit My heart with sic a fire, (1) (Hogan, or Hogan Mogan—a name of contempt for the Dutch, continually employed by the Jacobites after the landing of King William.) As raises these praises, That do to heaven aspire. 9 GHRISTS KIRK ON THE GREEN. Canto Iver $_4 LONDON, VIRTUE & C° LIMrTrED CHRIST’S KIRK ON THE GREEN. IN THREE CANTOS. [The first canto of this Poem is the composition of James I., king of Scotland, the well-known author of the “ King’s Quair.” The second and third cantos are by Allan Ramsay. Mr. Robert Chambers says, “‘ The scene of the festivities it describes is dubious. Falkland, it may be observed, was a royal residence in Fife, and Peebles was frequently resorted to by the early kings for the enjoyment of hunting in the neighbouring forests. King James is also the supposed author of a poem, much like this, entitled ‘ Peebles at the Play,’ descriptive of certain sports which took place at that town in his time, and which had dwindled down into a horse-race in the last century.’’] CANTO I? Wes nevir in Scotland heard nor sene Sic dansing nor deray,? Nouthir at Falkland® on the grene, Nor Pebillis* at the play ; As wes of wowaris,° as I wene, At Christis Kirk,® on ane day: Thair came out Kitties,? weshen clene, In thair new kirtillis of gray, Full gay, At Christis Kirk of the grene that day. To dans thir damysellis thame dicht,® Thir lasses licht of laitis :° Thair gluvis war of the raffel rycht,! Thair shune war of the Straitis," Thair kirtillis war of Lynkome licht,” Weil prest with mony plaitis ; (1) [The edition of the first canto is here reprinted from that which is given in the “‘ Poetical Remains of James I.,” printed at Edinburgh, 1783; together with the notes of the learned editor. It has not been considered either necessary or expedient to modernize the spelling.} (2) Merriment, riot, disorder.—G. D. From the Fr. deroyer. From the same derivation is the Scotch word royet, or royit, sig- nifying romping, daft, extravagant. (3) One of the royal houses, situated on the north side of the Lomond hills, in the county of Fife. The castle of Falkland, a noble edifice, was habitable in the beginning of the present cen- tury, though now in ruins. (4) Or Peebles, the head town of the county of Tweeddale, situated on the banks of the river Tweed. The annual games of archery, and other pastimes at Peebles, were of very ancient institution. Our poet, King James I., is said to have often re- sorted to that annual festivity. (5) Wooers, suitors. (6) The scene of action of this poem is traditionally said to have been a place of this name, within the parish of Kinethmont, in that part of the county of Aberdeen, near Lesly, called the Garrioch, In its neighbourhood is the hill uf Dunnideer, which rises like a pyramid in the midst of the plain of Garrioch; on the top of which are the remains of a castle, said to have been a honting-seat of the Scottish kings. Allan Kamsay seems to have mistaken the above situatiun for Lesly, in the county of Fife. Thay war sa nyce quhen men thame nicht," Thay squelit lyke ony gaitis,’* Sa loud, At Christis Kirk, &c. Of all thir madynis, myld as meid, Wes nane sa jymp”’ as Gillie: As ony rose hir rude wes reid,!* Hir lyre’? wes lyke the lillie : Fow zellow zellow wes hir heid, Bot scho of lufe wes sillie ; "8 Thot all hir kin had sworn hir deid,'® Scho wald haif bot sweit Willie Alane, At Christis Kirk, &c. Scho scornit Jok, and skrapit at him,” And wurgeonit him” with mokkis ; He wald haif lufit,?? scho wald not lat him, For all his zellow lokkis ; (7) Rustic, romping, country lasses, dressed in their new ap- parel. Bishop Gibson's edition has it— ‘« For there came Kitty washen clean, In her new gown of grey,” &c., which is substituting the proper name of one girl (Kitty, or Katie) in place of the general epithet yiven to the whole country lasses that were assembled on this occasion. (8) Dressed, or prepared for the occasion.—G. D. (9) The context plainly requires ‘‘light-heeled girls :" Jaitis literally signifies joints ; probably derived from the Danish led, a joint, a knuckle. See Wolfe’s Dan. Dict., in vo. Led.—G. C. (10) Probably from the Saxon ra, or rae, a roe-deer, and fell, a skin. (11) Probably a jocal name for a particular kind of leather at that period. (12) Gowns or petticoats of Lincoln manufacture. (13) When men came nigh, or toyed with them. (14) Shrieked like wild goats. (15) Neat, tight, slender. (16) Her colour or complexion was red. (17) Her skin, bosom, or neck. The Jyre, or lure, in vulgar speech, is the breast or bosom. (18) Seile, sede, in our old language, signifies happy.—G. D. Also simple, weak. The reader may take it in either senso. (19) Should have doomed her to death. (20) Scropit, mocked or scorned.—John Knox’s Hist, (21) Made mouths at, or ridiculed him, (22) Loved, 56 CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. He chereist hir, scho bad gae chat him,’ Scho compt him not twa clokkis ;? Sa schamefully his schort goun® set him, His lymis wer lyke two rokkis,* Scho said, At Christis Kirk, &. Tam Lutar wes tnair menstral meit, O Lord, as he could lanss !* He playit sa schrill, and sang sa sweit Quhile Tousy tuke a transs :° Auld Lightfute thair he did forleit,” And counterfuttet Franss ;& He used himself as man discreit, And up tuke Moreiss danss® Full loud, At Christis Kirk, &c. Then Steven cam steppand in with stendis, Na rynk” mycht him arreist ; 1" Platefute he bobit up with bendis, For Mald he maid requiest ; He lap?? quhill he lay on his lendis, But rysand he wes priest, Quhill that be oisted'* at bayth endis, For honour of the feist That day, At Christis Kirk, &c. Syne Robene Roy begouth to revell,' And Downy till him druggit ;% “Let be,” quo Jok, and caw’d him javell,”® And be the taill him tuggit :7 The kensy cleikit * to the eavell, Bot, Lord, than how they luggit. « Thay partit manly with a nevell,”° God wait gif hair wes ruggit Betwixt thame, At Christis Kirk, &e. Ane bent a bow, sic sturt™* coud steir him,* Grit skayth wes’d to haif skard him,” He cheset a flane as did affeir him,™* The toder said “ dirdum dardum !”* Throw baith the cheikis he thocht to cheir him,™ Or throw the erss heif chard him ; Bot be ane aikerbraid it cam not neir him,” I can nocht tell quhat marr’d him, Thair, At Christis Kirk, &c. With that a freynd of his ery’d, “ Fy!” And up ane arrow drew, He forgit** it sa furiously, The bow in flenderis” flew ; Sa wes the will of God, trow [ For had the tre bene trew,®® Men said, that ken’d his archery, That he had slane*! enow That day, At Christis Kirk, &c. Ane hasty hensure,* callit Hary, Quha wes ane archer heynd,** Tilt up* a taikle withouten tary ; That torment sa him teynd,*° (1) Go to the gallows. (2) She reckoned him not worth two clocks, or beetles, (3) A short cloak or gown was the dress of the time, and con- tinued so till the Restoration in 1660. (4) His legs were like two rokkis, or distaffs ; or, according to another Scottish phrase, he was spindle-shanked. : (5) Skip.—G. D. The meaning, as applicable to the minstrel, is explained in the next line, ‘ He playit sa schrill.” (6) A hop or skip. From Lat. probably of transire, to go across. fi (i) Forsake, or desert. This applies to Tousy, the dancer, who scorned to dance, like auld Lightfute, after the Scots fashion, or the reel, a well-known measure. (%) Aped to dance after the French mode. (9) Morrice or Moorish dances, rather of slow solemn move- ment, performed usually by gipsfes after the Moorish manner. (10) A ring formed to prevent intrusion.—Rud. Gloss., G. D., in vo. Renk.—G. C. (11) Stay, or stop. (12) No Scotsman but knows that lap is the perfect of the verb to leap. The obvious sense of the passage is, ‘‘ He lap and capered so high, that he fell at his length.” (13) “ Hosted, or coughed at baith ends (i.e, broke wind) in honour of the feast.” A coarse, though most humorous picture. (14) Began to be riotous. (15) Dragged Downy towards him. (16) Javeller, probably a troublesome fellow, (17) Pulled him by the tail of his cloak. (18) Snatched up; a common Scots phrase. Cavell, or gavell, probably a cudgel or rung, (19) Pulled each other by the ears. (20) A blow with the fist. Most of the above words, being vulgar, are now obsolete, ana not to be found in any glossary. Their meaning, however, may easily be conjectured. (21) Trouble, disturbance, vexation. (22) Move, or provoke him. (23) It would have been dangerous, or attended with skaith, to have stared or hindered him. (24) He choored an arrow, as did effeir, belong to, or was fit for his purpose. (25) The other, in great fright, bawled vut, “dirdum dardum!" —confusion! blood and murder! (26) Cheir and chard are obsolete words. We may conjecture their meaning from the sense of the passage—to bore, or to pierce. (27) The humour here is very arch. (+8, Here forgit means, ‘‘ He drew his bow with great fury.” (29) The bow flew in splinters. (30) [lad the tree, or wood, been sound. (31) That he would or might have slain many a one. Theold Scots frequently use the pluperfect of the indicative, in place of the imperfect of the subjunctive. (32) One expert at throwing a stone, by swinging the arm downwards by the side of the haunch. To hench, to throw a stone in the above manner, in place of swinging the arm upwards by the side of the head.—G. C. (33) Expert, handy.—Rud. Gloss. G. D. (34) Fitted up without delay his tackle—his bow and arrow. (3t) That torment or vexation so angered him. From the old English fene, ov éeen, anger, raga.—Rud. G. D. CHRIST’S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 57 4 wait not quhider his hand could vary, Or the man was his freynd, For he eschapit, throw michts of Mary,! As man that na ill meynd, But gude, At Christis Kirk, &e. Then Lowry, as ane lyon, lap, And sone a flane can feddir,? He hecht? to perss him at the pap, Theron to wed‘ a weddir : He hit him on the wame® a wap, It buft lyk ony bledder ; But sua his fortune wes and hap, His doublit wes maid of ledder, And saift him At Christis Kirk, &e. The buff so boisterously abaift® him, That he to the eard dusht doun,? The uther man for deid then left him, And fled out o’ the toune ; The wyves cam furth, and up they reft him,8 And fand lyfe in the loune ;° Then with three routis! up they reft him, And cur’d him of his soune, Fra hand" that day, At Christis Kirk, &e. A yaip'? young man, that stude him neist, Lous’d aff a schott with yre, He ettlit the bern™ in at the breist, The bolt™ flew ow’r the byre : Ane cry’d “Fy!” he had slane a priest,"* A myle beyond ane myre ; Then bow and bag” fra him he keist, And fled as ferss as fyre Of flint, At Christis Kirk, &. With forks and flails thay lent grit flappis, And flang togidder lyk friggis : With bougars of barnis!® thay beft blew kappis, Quhyle thay of beruis maid briggis ;” The reird® rais rudely with the rapps, Quhen rungis*™ wer layd on riggis ; The wyffis cam furth with cryis and clappis, “Lo, quhair my lyking ligs !” Quo thay, At Christis Kirk, &. Thay gyrnit and lait™ gird with grainis, Ik gossip uder grievit :* Sum strak with stings, sum gatherit stainis Sum fled aud ill mischevit ; 7 (1) Through the power and assistance of St. Mary. A com- mon saying. The foregoing figures are introduced with great humour, and happily varied. Tousie's solemn Moresco; Steven’s entry, or high dance; and Platefute’s fandango with Mauld, his downfall and misbehaviour, are all highly comic. Again, the awkward- uess of the bowmen, showing that they had quite fallen out of the use of managing the bow, is satirised in the keenest strokes of irony. The serious, affected gravity of the poet, particularly in his arch reflection, ‘“ Such was the will of Providence,” &c., are fine ironical touches. The whole shows that the poet was master of every species of humour and ridicule, Whether he takes Cervantes’ serious air, Or laughs and shakes in Rabelais’ easy chair. These great masters of ridicule lived a century later than King James, whose genuine vein of humour flows full and entire from his own native genius, Genius is confined to no age nor clime. (2) And soon feathered an arrow. (3) He eagerly aimed at the pap. (4) To pledge. To wad a wedder, seems to be to pledge or wager a wedder. Hence a wadset, or land given in pledge. It may be conjectured, that when archery was in vogue among the lairds or gentry, it would be a common pastime to shoot at butts for prizes; and that a sheep or wedder, or, in other words a dinner, as at present, might be the common prize or wager. The 1sth act of King James I. (first parliament), alludes probably to such a custom. It enacts ‘that wha uses not archery on the appointed holydays for shooting, the laird of the land, or sheriff, sal) raise of him a wedder.” (5) A well-known Scots phrase for a blow on the belly. A stroke not deadly, making a sound like that made on a blown-up bladder. (8) Stunned, amazed him. (7) Dasht (Engl.), fell suddenly down. (8) Pulled him up. I scarce think our poet would have used the same words in the second verse after this. (9) The rogue, who only feigned himself in a swoon. (10) With three outcries, they raised him up, and brought him out of his pretended swoon. (11) Or out of hand; instantly. The 12th stanza, as above, I have supplied from B, Gibson's edition; I doubt, however, if it is genuine, as it is not in Bana- tyne’s MS. However, as it naturally connects with the former stanza, and the same vein of humour runs through it, I give it to the reader. A few of the words, which Gibson had modernized from the old Scots orthography, I have restored. (12) Or yaip; eager, ready, alert. (13) He tried or aimed to shoot the lad in the breast. (14) Bairn, often for a young man. (15) Shalt, or arrow. (16) The worst or most atrocious of all murders. (17) The quiver which held his arrows. Since the introduction of firearms, the use of the bow in war Js now quite laid aside; and, even as an exercise of sport, may probably be soon forgotten, There remains still one, and only one, society in Scotland where archery is kept up—the Royal Company of Archers, which always did, and at present can boast of having the chief of the Scottish nobility and gentry enrolled amongst its members. Long may this ancient institu- tion flourish, and the manly exercise of the bow, the care of so gallant a monarch as James I., be preserved and transmitted down to latest posterity. (18) #reik is a foolish fellow.—Rud. Gloss. (19) Rafters of barns dang aff blue caps. (20) Made bridges, or stepping-stones (according to the Scots’ phrase), of the derns, or lads that fell down. (21) The reird, or noise. (22) Were laid across their backs, or riggings. (23) Lo, where my love lies! (24) Let drive, or gave a stroke.—G. D. From the Anglo Sax. gerd, to strike with a rod or stick. (25) Companion, grieved or hurt his neighbour. (26) Sore hurt, or bruised. 58 CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN, The menstral wan within twa wainis, That day full weil he previt ;} For he cam hame with unbirst, bainis,? Quhair fechtaris? wer mischievit For evir, At Christis Kirk, &e. Heich Hutchon with a hissil ryss, To red® can throw them rummill, He muddlit® thame doun lyk ony myss, He wes na baity bummil :7 Thoch he wes wight,® he wes nocht wyss With sic jangleurs to jummil, For fra his thowme thay dang a sklyss, Quhile he cryed “ Barlafummil,’ I am slane,” At Christis Kirk, &e. Quhen that he saw his blude sa reid, To fle might na man let?” him ; He weind" it bene for auld done feid, He thocht ane cryed, “ Haif at him!” He gart his feit defend his heid, The far fairer it set him, Quhyle he wes past out of all pleid,* He suld bene swift™ that gat him Throw speid, At Christis Kirk, &e. The town soutar in grief was bowdin,* His wyfe hang" in his waist, His body wes with blud all browdin,”” He grainit lyk ony gaist ; Hir glitterand hair that wes full gowdin, Sa hard in lufe him laist,!® That for hir sake he wes na yowdin,!® Seven myle that he wes chaist, And mair, At Christis Kirk, &e. The millar wes of manly mak, To meit him wes na mowis ;* Thai durst not ten cum him to tak, Sa nowitit™ he thair powis ; The buschment haill” about him brak, And bickert him with bows, Syn traytourly behind his back They hewit him on the howiss* Behind, At Christis Kirk, &e. Twa that wer herdsmen of the herd, Ran upon udderis lyk rammis, Then followit feyvmen™ richt unaffeird, Bet on with barrow trammis : But quhair thair gobbis wer ungeird,” Thay gat upon the gammis ° Quhyle bludy berkit wes thar vairu, As thay had worriet lammis Maist lyk, At Christis Kirk, &. The wyves kest up a hideous yell, When all thir younkeris yokkit ; Als ferss as ony fyre flaughts” fell, Freiks* to the field thay flokit ; The carlis with clubbis cou’d udir quell, Quhyle blude at breistis out bokkit,? Sa rudely rang the common bell, Quhyll all the steipill rokit, For reid, At Christis Kirk, &e. Quhyn thay had berit® lyk baitit bullis, And branewod® brynt in bails, Thay wer als meik as ony mulis That mangit wer with mailis ;* (1) That is, proved himself a cautious man, that kept himself out of the fray. (2) Unbruised bones. (3) Fighters. (4) A hazel rung or sapling. Ryce signifies young, or branch- wood. (6) To separate or part the combatants, he rumbled or rushed through them. (6) Overturned ; drove them down like mice before him. (7) A bumbler or bungler of any piece of work. (8) He was not wise to interfere with such janglers, although he was strong. (9) A Scots phrase, in use among boys at their sports, for a stop or cessation. When one trips or stumbles, they cry barle. Probably from the Fr. word parler, and fumie, a fall. (10) Stop, hinder. (11) He thought or imagined it done in retaliation of some former feid, offence, or ill-will. (12) It se¢ or became him better to take to his heels than to fight. The humour here is extremely arch. (13) Out of all challenge or opposition. (14) He would have been swift of foot that could have laid hold of him. (15) Full of, or swelled with rage.—Rud. Gloss. G+ D., in vo. Bodnyt. (16) Hung at, or clung to his waist. (17) Besmeared or embroidered. (12) Laced. (19) Felden, or yulding, in Tyrwhit’s Gloss. Chan.—G. C. (20) No sport, or jest. (21) He so annoyed their heads.—Rud. Gloss. G. D. vo. Noy. (22) The whole body lay in ambush, and broke forth on him.—G. D. (23) On the howis, or houghs. (24) Unhappy ; mischievous, foolish. (26) When their cheeks or gabs were bare or undefended. (26) They got upon the gammis, or gums. (27) Flashes of lightning. (28) Light-headed, freakish, forward fellows. (29) Vomited. (30) Shook. (31) Or rade, warfare. Hence the ‘raid of Ruthven;" the “raid of the Reid-squair.” Skirmishes or scuffles. (32) Perhaps bearded or baited each other like bulls. (33) Or distempered in their brains. (34) In flames. The phrase seems now quite obsolete.—Rud. Gloss. G. D. vo. Bele. (35) Meek as mules that are tired, and manged or galled with mails, or heavy burthens. J. Stephenson. CHRIST'S KIRK ON TNE GREEN. Canto 2.ver 25. CHRIST’S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 59 For faintness tha forfochtin fulis! Fell doun lyk flauchtir failis ;? And fresch men cam in and hail’d the dulis,’ And dang tham doun in dailis4 Bedene,® At Christis Kirk, &c. Quhen all wes done, Dik with ane aix Cam furth to fell a fuddir : Quod he, “ Quhair ar yon hangit smaix,7 Rycht now wald slane my bruder.” His wyf bad him ga hame, Gib glaiks,® And sa did Meg his muder; He turnit and gaif them bayth thair paikis,9 For he durst ding nane udir, For feir, At Christis Kirk of the grene that day. 1715. CANTO Ii.” Bor there had been mair blood and skaith, Sair harship and great spulie, And mony a ane had gotten his death By this unsonsie tooly, But that the bauld goodwife of Baith, Arm’d wi’ a great kail gully, Came bellyflaught," and loot an aith, She’d gar them a’ be hooly? Fou fast that day. Blyth to win aff sae wi’ hale banes, Tho’ mony had clow’r’d pows, And draggl’d sae ’mang muck and stanes, They look’d like wirrykows : Quoth some, who maist had tint their aynds, “ Let’s see how a’ bowls rows; And quat their brulziement at anes, Yon gully is nae mows, Forsooth this day.” Quoth Hutchon,'4 “I am well content, I think we may do war; *Till this time tomond I’se indent Our claiths of dirt will sa’r ; Wi nevels I’m amaist fawn faint, j My chafts are dung a char.” Then took his bonnet to the bent, And dadit aif the glar, Fou clean that day. Tam Taylor,'® wha in time of battle, Lay as gin some had fell’d him, Gat up now wi’ an unco rattle, As nane there durst a quell’d him: Bauld Bess flew till him wi’ a brattle, And spite of his teeth held him Closs by the craig, and with her fatal Knife shored she would geld him, For peace that day. Syne a’ wi’ ae consent shook hands, As they stood in a ring ; Some red their hair, some set their banas Some did their sark-tails wring ; Then for a hap to shaw their brands, They did their minstrel bring, Where clever houghs like willi wands, At ilka blythsome spring, Lap high that day. Claud Peky was na very blate, He stood na lang a dreigh ; For by the wame he gripped Kate, And gar’d her gi’e a skreigh. “ Had aff,” quoth she, “ye filthy slate, Ye stink o’ leeks, O feigh! (1) These fools that had tired themselves with fighting. (2) Or turfs cast with a spade well known in Scotland, called the flauchter-spade. (3) A well-known phrase at foot-ball. When the ball touches the goal or mark, the winner calls out “‘ Hail!” or it has hailed the due or dail. (4) Dang them down in heaps. (5) Or bedeen, instantly, out of hand. (6) A load or heap. Perhaps from fouth, a vulgar Scots’ word for plenty, or many in number. (7) This epithet is now obsolete. (8) Light-headed, foolish braggadocio. (9) For which he gave the women their patks, or a threatening scold, which is sometimes accompanied with blows; as he durst not ding or encounter any others. (10) The king having painted the rustic squabble, with an uncommon spirit, in a most ludicrous manner, in a stanza of verse the most difficult to keep the sense complete, as he has done, without being forced to bring in words for crambo's sake, where they return so frequently, I have presumed to imitate his majesty, in continuing the laughable scene. Ambitious to imitate so great an original, I put a stop to the war, called a congress, and made them sign a peace, that the world might have their picture in the more agreeable hours of drinking, dancing, and singing. The following cautos were written, the one in 1715, the other in 1718—about 300 years after the first. Let no worthy poet despair of immortality ; good sense will be always the same, In spite of the revolutions of fashion, and the change of language.— ALLAN Ramsay. (11) Came in great haste, as it were flying full upon them with her arms full spread, as a falcon with expanded wings comes soussing upon her prey. (12) Desist immediately. (13) A bowling-green phrase, commonly used when people would examine any affair that is a little ravelled. (14) Vide Canto I. He is brave, and the first man for an henourable peace. (15) Vide Cauto I. He is a coward, but would appear valiant when he finels the rest in peace. 60 CHRIST’S KIRK O¥ THE GREEN. Let gae my hands, I say, be quait ;” And vow gin she was skeigh, And mim that day. Now settled gossies sat, and keen Did for fresh bickers birle ;! While the young swankies on the green Took round a merry tirle. Meg Wallet wi’ her pinky een Gart Lawrie’s heart-strings dirle ; And fouk wad threap that she did green For what wad gar her skirle And skreigh some day. The manly miller, haff and haff,? Came out to shaw good will, Flang by his mittens and his staff, Cried, “Gi’e me ‘Paty’s Mill’ ” He lap bawk-hight,’ and cried, “ Haud aff,” They rees’d him that had skill ; “ He wad do’t better,” quoth a cawff, “ Had he another gill Of usquebay.” Furth started neist a pensy blade, And out a maiden took ; They said that he was Falkland bred,* And danced by the book ; A souple taylor to his trade, And when their hands he shook, Ga’e them what he got frae his dad, Videlicet, the yuke, To claw that day. When a’ cried out he did sae weel, He Meg and Bess did call up ; The lasses babb’d about the reel, Gar’d a? their hurdies wallop, And swat like pownies when they speel Up braes, or when they gallop ; But a thrawn knublock hit his heel, And wives had him to haul up, Haff fell’d that day. But mony a pawky look and tale Gaed round when glowming hous’d them ;° The ostler wife brought ben good ale, And bad the lasses rouze them: “Up wi’ them lads, and I’se be bail They'll lo’e ye and ye touze them.” Quoth gawsie, “This will never fail Wi’ them that this gate wooes them, On sic a day.” Syne stools and forms were drawn aside, And up raise Willy Dadle, A short-hought man, but fou o’ pride ; He said the fiddler play’d ill: “ Let’s hae the pipes,” quoth he, “beside;” Quoth a’, “That is nae said ill.” He fits the floor syne wi’ the bride, To Cuttymun® and Treeladle, Thick, thick, that day. In the mean time in came the laird, And by some right did claim To kiss and dance wi’ Mausie Aird, A dink and dortie dame. But oh! poor Mause was aff her guard. For back gate frae her wame, Beckin she loot a fearfu’ raird, That gart her think great shame, And blush that day. Auld Steen led out Maggy Forsyth, He was her ain good brither ; And ilka ane was unco blyth, To see auld fouk sae clever. Quoth Jock, wi’ laughing like to rive, “What think ye o’ my mither? Were my dad dead, let me ne’er thrive But she wad git anither Goodman this day.” Tam Lutter had a muckle dish, And betwixt ilka tune, He laid his lugs in’t like a fish, And suckt till it was done. His bags were liquor’d to his wish, His face was like a moon ;? But he could get nae place to pish In, but his ain twa shoon, For thrang that day. The letter gae of haly rhyme,® Sat up at the board-head, And a’ he said was thought a crime To contradict indeed ; For in clark lear he was right prime, And cou’d baith write and read,® (1) Contributed for fresh bottles. (2) Half fuddled. (3) So high as his head could strike the loft, or joining of the couples. (4) He had been a journeyman to the king’s tailor, and had seen court dancing. (5) Twilight brought them into the house, (6) A tune that goes very quick. (7) Round, full, and shining. When one is staring full ct drink, he is said to have a face like a full moon. (8) ‘he reader, or chuich precentor, who lets go—é.¢., givae aut the tune to be sung by the rest of the congregation. (9) A rarity in those days. CHRIST’S KIRK And drank sae firm till ne’er a styme He could keek on a bead! Or book that day. When he was strute, twa sturdy chiels, Be’s oxter and be’s collar, Help up frae cowping o’ the creels? The liquid logic scholar. When he came hame his wife did reel, And rampage in her choler, With that he brake the spinning-wheel, That cost a good rix-dollar, ' And mair, some say. Near bed-time now, ilk weary wight Was gaunting for his rest ; For some were like to tine their sight, Wi’ sleep and drinking strest. But ithers that were stomach-tight Cried out, “It was nae best To leave a supper that was dight To brownies, or a ghaist, To eat ere day.” On whomelt tubs lay twa lang dails, On them stood mony a goan, Some fill’d wi brachan, some wi’ kail, And milk het frae the loan. Of daintiths they had routh and wale, Of which they were right fon’ ; But naething wad gae down but ale Wi drunken Donald Don, The smith, that day. Twa times aught bannocks in a heap, And twa good junts of beef, Wy hind and fore spaul of a sheep, Drew whittles frae ilk sheath. Wi’ gravy a’ their beards did dreep, They kempit wi’ their teeth ; A kebbuck syn that maist could creep Its lane pat on the sheaf,‘ In stons that day. The bride was now laid in her bed, Her left leg ho’ was flung ;° ON THE GREEN. And Geordie Gib was fidgen glad, Because it hit Jean Gunn: She was his jo, and aft had said, “Fy, Geordie! haud your tongue, Ye’s ne’er get me to be your bride!” But chang’d her mind when bung, That very day. 61 « Tehee !”® quoth Touzie, when she saw The cathel coming ben ; It piping het ged round them a’ ; The bride she made a fen’, To sit in wylicoat sae braw, Upon her nether en’ ; Her lad like ony cock did craw, That meets a clockin hen,’ And blyth were they. The souter, miller, smith, and Dick, Lawrie, and Hutchon bauld, Carles that keep nae very strict Be hours, tho’ they were auld. Nor cou’d they e’er leave aff that trick ; But where good ale was sald, They drank a’ night, e’en tho’ auld Nick Should tempt their wives to scald Them for ’t niest day. Was ne’er in Scotland heard or seen Sic banqueting and drinkin, Sic revelling and battles keen, Sic dancing and sic jinkin, And unco wark that fell at e’en, ‘Whan lasses were haff winkin, They lost their feet and baith their een, And maidenheads gaed linkin Aff a’ that day. 1718. CANTO IIL® Now frae th’ east nook of Fife® the dawn Speel’d westlines up the lift ; (1) He could not count his beads, after the Roman Catholic Manner, which was the religion then in fashion. (2) From turning topsy-turvy. (3) Many whimsical stories are handed down to us by old women of these brownies. They tell us they were a kind of drudging spirits, who appeared in the shape of rough men: would have lain familiarly by the fire all night, threshed in the barn, brought a midwife at a time, and done many such kind offices ; but none of them have been seen in Scotland since the Reformation, as saith the wise John Brown. (4) A cheese full of crawling mites crowned the feast. (5) The practice of throwing the bridegroom's or the bride’s stocking when they are going to bed is well known: the person whom {t lights on is to be next married of the company. (6) An interjection of laughter. (7) A hatching hen. (8) Curious to know how my bridal folks would look next day after the marriage, I attempted this third canto, which opens with a description of the morning; then the friends come and present their gifts to the new-married couple; a view is taken of one girl (Kirsh) who had come fairly off, and of Mause, who had stumbled with the laird; next a scene of drinking is represented, and the young goodman is creeled; then the character of the smith’s ill-natured shrew is drawn, which leads in the descrip- tion of riding the stang; next Maggy Murdy has an exemplary character of a good wise wife; deep drinking and bloodless quarrels make an end of an old tale-—ALLAN Ramsay. (9) Where day must break upon my company, if, as I have observed, the scene is at Lesly church.—The fact is, that Ram- say was mistaken in supposing that the scene lay near Lesly in Fife, instead of Lesly in Aberdeenshire.—CHALMERS, 62 CHRIST’S KIRK ON THE GREEN. Carles wha heard the cock had craw’n, Begoud to rax and rift, And greedy wives wi’ girning thrawn, Cry’d lasses up to thrift ; Dogs barked, and the lads frae hand Bang’d to their breeks like drift, Be break of day. But some who had been fou yestreen, Sic as the letter-gae, Air up had nae will to be seen, Grudgin their groat to pay.) But what aft fristed’s no forgeen, When fouk has nought to say; Yet sweer were they to rake their een,? Sic dizzy heads had they, And het that day. Be that time it was fair foor days,’ . As fou’s the house could pang, To see the young fouk ere they raise, Gossips came in ding dang; And wi’ a soss aboon the claiths,4 Dk ane their gifts down flang : Twa toop-horn spoons down Maggy lays, Baith muckle mow’d and lang, For kail or whey. Her aunt a pair of tangs fush in, Right bauld she spake and spruce: “Gin your goodman shall make a din, And gabble like a goose, Shorin whan fou to skelp yer skin, Thir tangs may be of use ; Lay them enlang his pow or shin, Wha wins syn may make roose, Between you twa.” Auld Bessie in her red coat braw, Came wi’ her ain oe Nanny, An odd-like wife, they said that saw, A moupin runckled granny : She fley’d the kimmers ane and a’, Word gaed she was na kanny,® Nor wad they let Lucky awa’, Till she was fou wi’ branny, Like mony mae. Steen, fresh and fastin ’mang the rest, Came in to get his morning, ‘Speer’d gin the bride had tane the test, And how she loo’d her corning ? She leugh as she had fan a nest, Said, “Let a be yer scorning.” Quoth Roger, “Fegs! I’ve done my best To gie her a charge of horning,’ As well’s I may.” Kind Kirsh was there, a kanty lass, Black ey’d, black hair’d, and bonny ; Right well red up and jimp she was, And wooers had fow mony. I wat na how it came to pass, She cuddled in wi’ Jonnie, And tumbling wi’ him on the grass, Dang a her cockernonny Ajee that day. But Mause begrutten was and bleer’d, Look’d thowless, dowf, and sleepy ; Auld Maggy ken’d the wyte, and sneer’d, Caw’d her a poor daft heepy : “1t’s a wise wife that kens her weird, What tho’ ye mount the creepy ;® There’s a good lesson may be learn’d, And what the war will ye be To stand a day ? “Or bairns can read, they first maun spell I learn’d this frae my mammy, And coost a legen girth® mysel, Lang or I married Tammy : T’se warrand ye have a’ heard tell Of bonny Andrew Lammy ; Stiffly in love wi’ me he fell As soon as e’er he saw me— That was a day !” Het drink, fresh butter’d caiks, and cheese, That held their hearts aboon, Wi clashes, mingled aft wi’ lies, Drave aff the hale forenoon ; But, after dinner, an ye please, To weary noi o’er soon, We down to e’ening edge wi’ ease Shall loup, and see what’s done T’ the doup o” day. Now what the friends wad fain been at, They that were right true blue, (1) Payment of the drunken groat is very peremptorily de- manded by the common people next morning; but if they frankly confess the debt due, they are passed for twopence, (2) Rub open their eyes. (3) Broad daylight. (4) They commonly throw their gifts of household furniture above the bed-clothes where the young folks are lying. (5) It was reported she was a witch. (6) I do not mean an oath of that name we all have heard of. (7) Is a writ in the Scottish law, charging the debtor to make payment, on pain of rebellion.—N.B. It may be left in the lock hole, if the doors be shut. (8) The stool of repentance. (9) Like a tub that loses one of its bottom hoops. CILRIST’S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 63 Was e’en to get their wysons wat, And fill young Roger fou ;' But the bauld billy took his maut, And was right stiff to bow ; He fairly gae them tit for tat, And scour’d aff healths anew, Clean out that day. A creel bout fou of muckle steins ? They clinked on his back, To try the pith o” his rigg and reins, They gart him carge this pack. Now as a sign he had tane pains, His young wife was na slack, To rin and ease his shoulder-bains, And sneg’d the raips fou snack Wi her knife that day. Syne the blythe carles tooth and nail Fell keenly to the wark, To ease the gantrees of the ale, And try wha was maist stark ; Till boord, and floor, and a’ did fail, WY spilt ale ? the dark ; Gart Jock’s fit slide, he, like a fail, Play’d dad, and dang the bark Aff’s shins that day. The souter, miller, smith, and Dick,3 Et cetera, close sat cockin, Till wasted was baith cash and tick, Sae ill were they to slocken. Gane out to pish in gutters thick, Some fell, and some gaed rockin ; Sawny hang sneering on his stick, To see bauld Hutchon bockin Rainbows that day. The smith’s wife her black deary sought, And fand him skin and birn ; 4 Quoth she, “This day’s wark’s be dear bought.” He damn’d, and gae a girn, Ca’d her a jade, and said she mucht Gae hame and scum her kirn : “ Whisht, ladren! for gin ye say ought. . Mair, I’se wind ye a pirn,® To reel some day.” “Yell wind a pirn! ye silly snool, Wae worth yer drunken saul,” Quoth she, and lap out o’er a stool, And caught him by the spaul- He shook her, and sware muckle dool : “Ye’s thole for this, ye scaul ; Tse rive frae aff yer hips the hool, And learn ye to be baul On sic a day!” “Your tippanizing scant 0’ grace,” Quoth she, “ gars me gang duddy ; Our nibour Pate sin break 0’ day’s Been thumping at his studdy. An it be true that some fowk says, Ye 7ll girn yet in a woody.” Syn wi’ her nails she rave his face, Made a’ his black baird bloody W? scarts that day. A gilpy that had seen the faught, I wat he was nae lang, Till he had gather’d seven or aught Wild hempies stout and strang ; They frae a barn a kabar raught, Ane mounted wi’ a bang, Betwisht twa’s shoulders, and sat straught Upon ’t, and rade the stang® On her that day. The wives and gytlings a’ spawn’d out O’er middings and o’er dykes, Wi mony an unco skirl and shout, Like bumbees frae their bykes ; Thro’ thick and thin they scour’d about, Plashing thro’ dubs and sykes, And sic a reird ran thro’ the rout, Gart a the hale town tykes Yamph loud that day. But, d’ ye see, fou better bred Was mens-fou Maggy Murdy : She her man like a lammy led Hame, wi’ a well-wail’d wordy. Fast frae the company he fled, As he had tane the sturdy ;7 She fleech’d him fairly to his bed Wi’ ca’ing him her burdy, Kindly that day. (4) {Gwas the custom for the friends to endeavour, the next day otter the wedding, to make the new-married man as drunk as possible. (2) For merriment, a creel or basket is bound, full of stones, upon his back; and, if he has acted a manly part, his young wife with all imaginable speed cuts the cords, and relieves him from the burthen; if she does not, he is rallied for a fumbler. (3) Vide Canto II. (4) She found him with all the marks of her drunken husband about him, (5) A threatening expression, when one designs to contrive some malicious thing to vex you. (6) The “riding of the stang” on a woman that has beat her husband is as I have described it, by one’s riding upon a stang, or long piece of wood, carried by two others on their shoulders, where, like a herald, he proclaims the woman’s name, and her offence. (7) A disease among sheep that makes them siddy, and causes them to run off from the rest of the herd. 64 CHRIST’S KIRK ON THE GREEN. But Lawrie ne took out his nap Upon a mow of pease ; And Robin spew’d in’s ain wife’s lap, He said it gae him ease. Hutchon with a three-lugged cap, His head bizzen wi’ bees, Hit Geordy a mislushios rap, And brak the brig 0’ ’s neese Right sair that day. Syne ilka thing gaed arse o’er head— Chanlers, boord, stools, and stowps, Flew thro’ the house wi’ muckle speed, And there was little hopes, But there had been some ill done deed, They gat sic thrawart cowps ; But a’ the skaith that chanc’d indeed, Was only on their dowps, Wi faws that day. Sae whiles they toolied, whiles they drank, Till a’ their sense was smoor’d ; And in their maws there was na mank, Upon the forms some snoor’d ; Ithers frae aff the bunkers sank, WY een like collops scor’d; Some ramm’d their noddles wi’ a clank, H’en like a thick-scull’d lord, On posts that day. The young goodman to bed did clim, His dear the door did lock in; Crap down beyont him and the rim O’er wame he clapt his dock on. She fand her lad was not in trim, And be this same good token, That ilka member, lith and lim, Was souple like a doken, *Bout him that day. (1) Notwithstanding all this my public-spirited pains, I am well assured there are a few heavy heads who will bring down the thick of their cheeks to the side of their mouths, and, richly stupid, allege there are some things in it have a meaning. Well, I own it; and think it handsomer in a few lines to say some- thing, than talk a great deal and mean nothing. Pray is there anything vicious or unbecoming in saying, ‘“‘ Men's liths amd limbs are souple when intoxicated?” Does it not show that ex- cessive drinking enervates and unhinges a man’s constitution, aud makes him incapable of performing divine or natural duties? There is the moral. And, believe me, I could raise many useful notes from every character, which the ingenious will presently find out. “ Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.” Thus have I pursued these comical characters, having gentle- men's heaith and pleasure and the good manners of the vulgar in view : the main design cf comedy being to represent the follies and mistakes of low life in a just light, making them appear as ridiculous as they really are, that each who is a spectator may avoid being the object of laughter Anybody that has a mind to look sour upon it may use their freedom. “Not laugh, beasts, fishes, fowls, nor reptiles can, That's a peculiar happiness of man; When govern’d with a prudent cheerful grace, ‘Tis one of the first beauties of the face.” ALLAN Ramsay. (Allan Ramsay's apology for the indecency of his poem is its condemnation, if there be any truth in the maxim that “gu. S'excuse, s'accuse.” The men of the present day are much more mealy-mouthed than the Scotch or even English writers of Allan’s time, and such language as he employs would not now be tolerated. The publication, however, is necessary to the completeness of the subject, as it came from the author’s mind; and as such the modern reader must accept it.] ee a em, POETICAL EPISTLES. AN EPISTLE TO ALLAN RAMSAY, BY JOSIAH BURCHET, ESQ.! 1721. Wet fare thee, Allan, who in mother tongue So sweetly hath of breathless Addie sung : His endless fame thy nat’ral genius fir’d, And thou hast written as if he inspir’d. Richy and Sandy, who do him survive, Long as thy rural stanzas last, shall live : The grateful swains thou ’st made, in tuneful verse, Mourn sadly o’er their late, lost patron’s hearse. Nor-would the Mantuan bard, if living, blame Thy pious zeal, or think thou ’st hurt his fame, Since Addison’s inimitable lays Give hin an equal title to the bays. When he of armies sang in lofty strains, It seem’d as if he in the hostile plains Had present been; his pen hath to the life Trae’d every action in the sanguine strile. In council now sedate the chief appears, Then loudly thunders in Bavarian ears ; And still pursuing the destructive theme, He pushes them into the rapid stream. Thus beaten out of Blenheim’s neighb’ring fields, The Gallic gen’ral to the victor yields, Who, as Britannia’s Virgil hath observ’d, From threaten’d fate all Europe then preserv’d. Nor dost thou, Ramsay, sightless Milton wrong, By aught contain’d in thy melodious song ; For none but Addie could his thoughts sublime So well unriddle, or his mystic rhyme. And when he deign’d to let his fancy rove Where sunburnt shepherds to the nymphs make love, No one e’er told in softer notes the tales Of rural pleasures in the spangled vales. So much, O Allan! I thy lines revere, Such veneration to his mem’ry bear, That I no longer could my thanks refrain For what thou’st sung of the lamented swain. ANSWER TO JOSIAH BURCHETT. TurrstinG for fame, at the Pierian spring, The poet takes a waught, then ’seys to sing Nature, and with the tentiest view to hit Her bonny side with bauldest turns of wit. Streams slide in verse, in verse the mountains rise ; When earth tums toom, he rummages the skies, Mounts up beyond them, paints the fields of rest, Doups down to visit ilka lawland ghaist. O heartsome labour! wordy time and pains ! That frae the best esteem and friendship gains ; Be that my luck, and let the greedy bike, Stock-job the warld among them as they like. -In blyth braid Scots allow me, sir, to shaw My gratitude, but? fleetching or a flaw. May rowth o’ pleasures light upon you lang, Till to the blest Elysian bowers ye gang, Wha ’ve clapt my head sae brawly for my sang. When honour’d Burchet and his maikes are pleas’d With my corn-pipe, up to the stars I’m heez’d ; Whence far I glow’r to the fag-end of time, And view the warld delighted wi’ my rhyme: That when the pride of sprush new words are laid, I, like the classic authors, shall be read. Stand yond, proud czar! I wadna niffer fame With thee, for a’ thy furs and pauglity name. If sic great ferlies, sir, my muse can do, As spin a three-plait praise where it is due, Frae me there’s nane deserves it mair than you. Frae me ?—frae ilka ane; for sure a breast Sae gen’rous is, of a’ that’s good possest ! Till I can serve ye mair, I’ll wish ye weel, And aft in sparkling claret drink your heal; Minding the mem’ry of the great and good Sweet Addison, the wale of human blood, Wha fell (as Horace anes said to his billy) “ Nulli flebilior quam tibi Virgil.” (1) Secretary of the Admiralty. (2\ Without; ¢.¢. without dattering. a 66 POETICAL EPISTLES. SEVEN FAMILIAR EPISTLES, WHICH PASSED BETWEEN LIEUTENANT HAMILTON, OF GILBERTFIELD, AND THE AUTHOR. EPISTLE I. GILBERTFIELD, June 26th, 1719. O ram’p and celebrated Allan! Renowned Ramsay ! canty callan! There’s nowther Highlandman nor Lawlan, In poetrie, But may as soon ding down Tamtallan,! As match wi’ thee. For ten times ten, and that’s a hunder, I ha’e been made to gaze and wonder, When frae Parnascus thou didst thunder, Wi. wit and skill; Wherefore 1’'ll soberly knock under, And quat my quill. Of poetry the hail quintescence Thou hast suck’d up, left nae excrescence To petty poets, or sic messens, Tho’ round thy stool They may pick crumbs, and lear some lessons At Ramsay’s school. Tho’ Ben? and Dryden of renown Were yet alive in London town, Like kings contending for a crown, *T wad be a pingle, Whilk o’ you three wad gar words sound And best to jingle. Transform’d may I be to a rat, Wer’t in my pow’, but I’d create Thee upo’ sight the laureat® Of this our age, Since thou may’st fairly claim to that As thy just wage. Let modern poets bear the blame, Gin they respect not Ramsay’s name, Wha soon can gar them greet for shame, ‘To their great loss, And send them a’ right sneaking hame By Weeping-cross. (1) An old castle upon the Firth of Forth, (2) Ben Jonson. (3) ‘Scots Ramsay press’d hard, and sturdily vaunted, He’d fight for the laurel before he would want it; But risit Apollo, and cried, Peace there, old stile! Your wit is obscure to one-half of the isle.” B. Sess. of Poets. Wha bourds wi’ thee had need be wary, And lear wi’ skill thy thrust to parry, When thou consults thy dictionary Of ancient words, Which come from thy poetic quarry As sharp as swords. Now tho’ I should baith reel and rotile, And be as light as Aristotle, At E@nburgh we sall ha’e a bottle Of reaming claret, Gin that my half-pay? siller shottle Can safely spare it. At crambo then we’ll rack our brain, Drown ilk dull care and aching pain, Whilk aften does our spirits drain Of true content ; Woy, woy! but we’s be wonder fain, When thus acquaint. Wi’ wine we'll gargarize our craig, Then enter in a lasting league, Free of ill aspect or intrigue ; And, gin you please it, Like princes when met at the Hague, We'll solemnize it. Accept of this, and look upon it With favour, tho’. poor I ha’e done it. Sae I conclude and end my sonnet, Wha am most fully, While I do wear a hat or bonnet, Yours, Wanton WILLY. POSTSCRIPT. By this my postscript I incline To let you ken my hail design Of sic a long imperfect line Lies in this sentence— To cultivate my dull ingine By your acquaintance. Your answer therefore I expect ; And to your friend you may direct At Gilbertfield ;* do not neglect, When ye ha’e leisure, Which I'll embrace with great respect, And perfect pleasure. (4) He had held his commission honourably in Lord Hynd ford’s regiment. “And may the stars who shine aboon, With honour notice real merit, Be to my friend auspicious soon, And cherish ay sae fine e spirit." W. Chalmers. (5) Near Glasgow. POETICAL EPISTLES. 67 ANSWER I. EpINgorGs, July 10th, 1719. Sonse fa’ me, witty, Wanton Willy, Gin blythe I was na as a filly ; Not a fou pint, nor short-hought aly Or wine that’s better, Could please sae meikle, my dear Billy, As thy kind letter. Before a lord and eke a knight, In gossy Don’s by candle-light, There first I saw ’t, and ca’d it right, And the maist feck Wha’s seen ’t sinsyne, they ca’d as tight As that on Heck. Ha, heh! thought I, I canna say But I may cock my nose the day, When Hamilton the bauld and gay Lends me a heezy, In verse that slides sae smooth away, Weel tell’d and easy. Sae roos’d by ane of well-ken’d mettle, Nae sma’ did my ambition pettle, My canker’d critics it will nettle, And e’en sae be’t: This month I’m sure I winna settle, Sae proud I’m wi’t. When I begoud first to con verse, And could your Airdry Whins! rehearse, Where bonny Heck ran fast and fierce, It warm’d my breast ; Then emulation did me pierce, Whilk since ne’er ceast. May I be licket wi’ a bittle, Gin of your numbers I think little, Ye’re never rugget, shan, nor kittle, But blythe and gabby, And hit the spirit to a tittle Of standart Habby.? Ye'll quat your quill !—that were ill-willy ; Ye’s sing some mair yet nill ye will ye: O’er meikle haining wad but spill ye, (1) The last words of ‘Bonny Heck,” of which he was the author. It fs printed in a ‘Choice Collection of Comic and Serious Scots Poems,” by Watson, Edinburgh, 1706. (2) The elegy on Habby Simpson, piper of Kilbarchan, printed In the same collection. (3) Gavin, or Gawn Douglas, the brother of the Earl of Angus, the Bishop of Dunkeld, who, besides several original poems, left a translation of Virgil's ‘‘Aineis” into the Scottish language of his age. He died in 1522. (4) James I. and V. (5) From half an hour hefore twelve at noon, when the music- And gar ye sour; Then up and war them a’ yet, Willy, *Tis in your power. To knit up dollars in a clout, And then to card them round about, Syne to tell up, they downa lout To lift the gear ; The malison lights on that rout, Ts plain and clear. The chiels of London, Cam, and Ox, Ha’e rais’d up great poetic stocks Of Rapes, of Buckets, Sarks, and Locks, While we neglect To shaw their betters ; this provokes Me to reflect On the lear’d days of Gawn Dunkell ;8 Our country then a tale could tell, Europe had nane mair snack and snell At verse or prose ; Our kings‘ were poets too themsell, Bauld and jocose. To Ed’nburgh, sir, whene’er ye come, T’ll wait upon ye, there’s my thumb, Were ’t frae the gill-bells to the drum,é And tak’ a bout, And faith I hope we'll not sit dumb, Nor yet cast out. EPISTLE II. GILBERTFIELD, July 24th, 1719. Dear Ramsay, WuEeEn I receiv’d thy kind epistle, It made me dance, and sing, and whistle ; O sic a fike and sic a fistle I had about it! That e’er was knight of the Scots thistle® Sae fain, I doubted. The bonny lines therein thou sent nie, How to the nines they did content me ! Tho’, sir, sae high to compliment me bells begin to play (frequently called the gid/-bells, from people's taking a whetting dram at that time), to the drum at ten o'clock at night, when the drum goes round to warn sober folks to call for a bill.—Chalmers, (6) The ancient and most noble Order of Knighthood insti- tuted by King Achaius, and renewed by James VII. of Scotland (and II. of England). The ordinary ensign, worn by the knights of the order, is a green riband, to which is appended a thistle of gold with an imperial crown, within a cirole of gold, with this motto— Nemo me tmpune lacesset.” 65 POETICAL EPISTLES. Ye might deferr’d, For had ye but haff well a kent me, Some less wad ser’d. With joyfu’ heart beyond expression, They’re safely now in my possession : O gin I were a winter session Near by thy lodging ! Td close attend thy new profession, Without e’er budging. In even down earnest, there’s but few To vie with Ramsay dare avow, In verse, for to gi’e thee thy due, And without fleetching, Thou’s better at that trade, I trow, Than some’s at preaching. For my part, till I’m better lear’t, To troke with thee I’d best forbear ’t, For an’ the fouk of Ed’nburgh hear ’t, They’ll ca’ me daft ; I’m unco’ eerie, and dirt fear’t I mak’ wrang waft. Thy verses, nice as ever nicket, Made me as canty as a cricket ; L ergh to reply, lest I stick it ; Syne like a coof I look, or ane whose pouch is pickit As bare’s my loof. Heh winsom! how thy saft sweet style, And bonny auld words gar me smile ; Thou’s travell’d surely mony a mile Wi’ charge and cost, To learn them thus keep rank and file, And ken their post. For I maun tell thee, honest Allie, (I use the freedom so to call thee,) I think them 2’ sae braw and walie, And in sic order, I wad nae care to be thy valie, Or thy recorder. Has thou with Rosicrucians wandert, Or through some donsie desart dandert ? That with thy magic, town and landart, For aught I see, Maun a’ come truckle to thy standart Of poetrie. Do not mistake me, dearest heart, As if I charg’d thee with black art ; ’Tis thy good genius, still alert, That does inspire Thee with ilk thing that’s quick and smart To thy desire. F’en mony a bonny nacky tale Braw to sit o’er a pint of ale: For fifty guineas I’ll find bail Against a bodle, That I wad quat ilk day a meal For sic a nodle. And on condition I were as gabby As either thee or honest Habby, That I lin’d a’ thy claes wi’ tabby, Or velvet plush, And then thou’d be sae far frae shabby, Thou’d look right sprush. What tho’ young empty airy sparks May have their critical remarks On thir, my blythe diverting warks ; *Tis sma’ presumption To say they’re but unlearned clarks, And want the gumption. Let coxcomb critics get a tether To tie up a’ their lang loose leather ; If they and I chance to forgether, The tane may rue it; For an’ they winna haud their blether, They’s get a flewet. To learn them for to peep and pry In secret drolls *twixt thee and I, Pray dip thy pen in wrath, and cry, And ca’ them skellums ; I’m sure thou needs set little by To bide their bellums. Wi’ writing I’m sae bleart and doited, That when I raise, in troth I stoited; I thought I should turn capernoited, For wi’ a gird, Upon my bum I fairly cloited! On the cauld eard ; Which did oblige a little dumple Upon my doup, close by my rumple; But had ye seen how I did trumple,. Ye’d split your side, Wi’ mony a lang and weary wimple, Like trough of Clyde. (1) (Cloit, or clyte, to sit down suddenly ; to come down with a swoop, like a bird from the air.} POETICAL EPISTLES. 69 ANSWER IL. EpinsorGi, Awguat 4th, 1719. Dear Hamilton, ye’ll turn me dyver. My muse, sae bonny ye descrive her ; Ye blaw her sae, I’m fear’d ye rive her, For wi’ a whid, Gin ony higher up ye drive her, She’ll rin red-wud, Said I—* Whisht,” quoth the vougy Jade, “ William’s a wise judicious lad, Has havins mair than e’er ye had, TLbred bog-stalker ;* But me ye ne’er sae crouse had craw’d, Ye poor skull-thacker. “Tt sets ye well indeed to gadge !? Ere I? Apollo did ye cadge, And got ye on his honour’s badge, Ungratefw’ beast ! A Glasgow capon and a fadge Ye thought a feast. “ Swith to Castalius’ fountain brink, Dad down a grouf,‘ and tak’ a drink, Syne whisk cut paper, pen, and ink, And do my bidding : Be thankfou, else I’se gar ye stink Yet on a midding.” My mistress dear, your servant humble, Said I, I should be laith to drumble Your passions, or e’er gar ye grumble ; °Tis ne’er by me Shall scandalize, or say ye bummil Your poetrie. Frae what ve tell’d, my friend may learn How sadly I ha’e been forfairn, Td better been ayont side Cairn- amount,® I trow; I’ve kiss’d the taws,® like a good bairn. Now, sir, to you: Heal be your heart, gay couthy carle, Lang may ye help to toom a barrel ; Be thy crown ay unclowr’d in quarrel, When thou inclines To knoit thrawn-gabbit sumphs that snarl At our frank lines. ; (1) The muse, not unreasonably angry, puts me here in mind of the favours she has done, by bringing me from stalking over bogs or wild marshes, to lift my head a little brisker among the polite world, which cozid never have been acquired by the low | movements of a mechanic.—A. R. {2) Lronically she says, it vecomes me mighty well to talk havghtily, and affront my benefactress, by alleging so meamy, that it were possible to praise her out of her solidity.—A. R. Uk good chiel says, ye’re well worth gowd, And blythness on ye’s well bestow’d, *Mang witty Scots ye’r name’s be row’d, Ne’er fame to tine; The crooked clinkers shall be cow’d,? But ye shall shine. Set out the burnt side of your shin,® For pride in poets is nae sin ; Glory’s the prize for which they rin, And fame’s their jo; And wha blaws best the horn shall wir : And wharefore no? Quisquis vocabit nos vain-glorious, Shaws scanter skill than malos mores, Multi et magni men before us Did stamp and swagger : Probatum est, exemplum Horace Was a bauld bragger. Then let the doofarts, fash’d wi’ spleen, Cast up the wrang side o’ their een, Pegh, fry, and girn, wi’ spite and teen, And fa’ a flyting ; Laugh, for the lively lads will screen Us frae back-biting. If that the gipsies dinna spung us, And foreign whiskers ha’e na dung us; Gin I can snifter thro’ Mundungus, Wy boots and belt on, I hope to see you at St. Mungo’s,® Atween and beltan. EPISTLE IT. GILBERTFIELD, August 24th, 1719. Accept my third and last essay Of rural rhyme, I humbly pray, Bright Ramsay, and altho’ it may Seem doilt and donsie, Yet thrice of all things, I heard say, Was ay right sonsie. Wharefore I scarce could sleep or slumber, Til I made up that happy number: The pleasure counterpois’d the cumber (3) A herring, and a coarse kind of leavened bread used by the labouring people. (4) Fall flat on your belly. (5) A hill in Kincardineshire. (6) Kissed the rod. (7) The scribbling rhymers, with their lame versification, shall be cowed, i.e. shorn off.—A. R. (8) As if one would say, “* Walk stately with your toes oat.” An expression used when we would bid a person look brisk.— A.B. (9) “he high church of Glasgow. 70 POETICAL EPISTLES. In every part, The dull draff-drink4 makes me sae dowff, And snoovt away! like three-hand ombre, A’ I can do’s but bark and yowff; Sixpence a cart. Yet set me in a claret howff, Wi’ fouk that’s chancy, Of thy last poem, bearing date My muse may lend me then a gowff Avgust the fourth, I grant receipt ; To clear my fancy. It was sae braw, gart me look blate, *Maist tyne my senses, Then Bacchus-like I’d baw] and bluster, And look just like poor country Kate, And a’ the muses ’bout me muster ; In Lucky Speice’s. Sae merrily I’d squeeze the cluster, And drink the grape, I shaw’d it to our parish priest, *Twad gi’e my verse a brighter lustre, Wha was as blyth as gi’m a feast ; And better shape. He says, thou may ha’d up thy creest, And craw fu’ crouse, The powers aboon be still auspicious The poets a’ to thee’s but jest, To thy achievements maist delicious ; Not worth a souse. Thy poems sweet, and nae way vicious, But blyth and canny, Thy blyth and cheerfw’ merry muse, To see I’m anxious and ambitious, Of compliments is sae profuse, Thy Miscellany. For my good havins dis me roose Sae very finely, A’ blessings, Ramsay, on thee row; It were ill breeding to refuse Lang may thou live, and thrive, and dow, To thank her kindly. Until thou claw an auld man’s pow; : And thro’ thy creed, What tho’ sometimes, in angry mood, Be keeped frae the wirricow When she puts on her barlichood, After thou’s dead. Her dialect seem rough and rude ; Let’s ne’er be fleet, But tak’ our bit when it is good, And buffet wi’t. ANSWER III. For gin we ettle anes to taunt her, And dinna cawmly thole her banter, My trusty TRosan, She’ll tak’ the flings,? verse may grow scanter ; Syne wi’ great shame Epinpurci, Sept. 2, 1719 Thy last oration orthodox, We'll rue the day that we do want her ; Thy innocent auld farren jokes, Then wha’s to blame? And sonsy saw of three, provokes Me anes again, But let us still her kindness culzie, Tod lowrie like,® to loose my pocks, And wi’ her never breed a tulzie ; And pump my brain. For we’ll bring aff but little spulzie In sic a barter ; And she’ll be fair to gar us fulzie, And ery for quarter. By a’ your letters I ha’e read, I eithly scan the man well bred, And soger that, where honour led, Has ventur’d bauld ; ; Wi to t Sae little worth’s my rhyming ware, eee gee pees ths yed, ’ To tend his fauld. My pack I scarce dare apen mair, "Till I tak ee mS the i ted: That bang’ster billy, Crsar July, And a for fear I file the fair? Aint nt: Phssranlia wan’ the tants, n é : tt ‘Aad Bewaieonted, Had better sped had he mair hooly age some, and is affronted by not doing it right ;—mnot a reasonable (1) Whirled smoothly round, ‘ Snooving"” expresses the fear in him. (4) Heavy malt-liquor. action of a top or spindle, &c. (5) Like Reynard the fox, to betake myself to some more of (2) Turn sullen, restive, and kick. my wiles.—A. R. (3) This phrase is used when one attempts to do what is hand- (6) Leaves the martial contention, and retires to a conntry life. POETICAL EPISTLES. 71 Scamper’d thro’ life, And ’midst his glories sheath’d his gooly, And kiss’d his wife. Had he, like you, as well he could,! Upon burn banks the Muses woo’d, Retir’d betimes frae ’mang the crowd, Wha’d been aboon him. The senate’s durks, and faction loud, Had ne’er undone him. Yet sometimes leave the riggs and bog, Your howms, and braes, and shady scrog, And helm a-lee the claret cog, To clear your wit : Be blyth, and let the warld e’en shog As it thinks fit. Ne’er fash about your neist year’s state, Nor with superior pow’rs debate, Nor cantrapes cast to ken your fate ; There’s ills anew To cram our days, which soon grow late ; Let ’s live just now. When northern blasts the ocean snurl, And gars the heights and hows look gurl, Then left about the bumper whirl, And toom the horn; Grip fast the hours which hasty hurl, The morn’s the morn. Thus to Leuconoe sang sweet Flaccus,? Wha nane e’er thought a gillygacus ; And why should we let whimsies bawk us, When joy’s in season, And thole sae aft the spleen to whauk us Out of our reason ? Tho’ I were laird of ten score acres, Nodding to jouks of hallenshakers,’ Yet crush’d wi’ humdrums, which the weaker’s Contentment ruins, Td rather roost wi’ causey-rakers, And sup cauld sowens. I think, my friend, an fowk can get A doll of roast beef piping het, And wi’ red wine their wyson wet, And cleathing clean, And be nae sick, or drown’d in debt, They’re no to mean. I read this verse to my ain kimmer, Wha kens I like a leg of gimmer, Or sic and sic good belly timmer : Quoth she, and leugh, “ Sicker of thae, winter and simmer, Ye’re well enough.” My hearty goss, there is nae help, But hand to nive we twa man skelp Up Rhine and Thames, and o’er the Alp- pines and Pyrenians ; The cheerfw’ carles do sae yelp To ha’e’s their minions. Thy raffan rural rhyme sae rare, Sic wordy, wanton, hand-wail’d ware, Sae gash and gay, gars fowk gae gare4 To ha’e them by them ; Tho’ gaffin they wi’ sides sae sair Cry, “ Wae gae by him!”® Fair fa’ that soger did invent To ease the poet’s toil wi’ print : Now, William, we man to the bent, And push our fortune, And crack wi lads wha’re well content Wi this our sporting. Gin ony sour-mou’d girning bucky Ca’ me conceity keckling chucky, That we, like nags whase necks are yucky, Ha’e us’d our teeth ; T’ll answer fine, Gae kiss yer Lucky,’ She dwells i’ Leith. I ne’er wi’ lang tales fash my head, But when I speak, I speak indeed : Wha ca’s me droll, but ony feed, Tl own I am sae; And while my champers can chew bread, Yours, ALLAN Ramsay. (1) It is well known that Casar could write as well as fight.— A.R. (2) Vide Book I. Ode ii. of Horace. (3) A halien is a fence (built of stone, turf, or a moveable flake of heather) at the sides of the door, in country places, to defend them from the wind. The trembling attendant abouta forgetful great man’s gate or levee, is also expressed in the term hallenshaker. (4) Make people very cautious. (5) It is usual for many, after a full laugh, to complain of sore sides, and to bestow a kindly curse on the author of the jest; but the folks of more tender consciences have turned ex- pletives to friendly wishes, such as this, or “ Sonse fa’ ye," and the like.—A. R. (6) Is a cant phrase, from what rise I know not; but it ix made use of when one thinks it is not worth while to give a direct answer, or think themselves foolishly accused.—A. R, 72 POETICAL EPISTLES. AN EPISTLE TO LIEUTENANT HAMILTON, ON RECEIVING THE COMPLIMENT OF A BARREL OF LOCH FYNE HERRINGS FROM HIM. Your herrings, sir, came hale and feer,! In healsome brine a’ soumin ; Fw fat they are, and gusty gear, As eer I laid my thumb on; Bra sappy fish As ane could wish To clap on fadge or scon ; They relish fine Good claret wine, That gars our cares stand yon. Right mony gabs wi’ them shall gang About Auld Reekie’s ingle, When kedgy carles thmk nae lang, When stoups and trenchers gingle : Then my friend leal, We toss yer heal, And with bald-brag advance, What ’s hoorded in Lochs Broom and Fin? Might ding the stocks of France. A jolly sum to carry on A fishery ’s design’d, Twa million good of sterling pounds, By men of money ’s sign’d. Had ye but seen How unco keen And thrang they were about it, That we are bald, Right rich, and ald- farran, ye ne’er wad doubted. Now, now, I hope we'll ding the Dutch, As fine as a round-robin, Gin greediness to grow soon rich Invites not to stock-jobbing : That poor boss shade Of sinking trade, And weather-glass politic, Which heaves and sets As public gets A heezy, or a wee kick. Fy, fy !—but yet I hope ’tis daft To fear that trick come hither ; (1) Whole, without the least fault or want. (2) “* kin,” Loch Fyne. (3) The royal fishery ; success to which is the wish and hope of every good man.—A. R. Na, we’re aboon that dirty craft Of biting ane anither. The subject rich Will gi’e a hitch T’ increase the public gear, When on our seas, Like busy bees, Ten thousand fishers steer. Could we catch the united shoals That crowd the western ocean, The Indies would prove hungry holes, Compar’d to this our Goshen ; Then let ’s to wark With net and bark, Them fish and faithfu’ cure up ; Gin sae we join, We'll cleek in coin Frae a’ the ports of Europe. Thanks to ye, captain, for this swatch Of our store, and your favour ; Gin I be spar’d, your love to match Shall still be my endeavour. Next unto you, My service due Please gi’e to Matthew Cummin’,* Wha with fair heart Has play’d his part, And sent them true and trim in. TO THE MUSIC CLUB. 1721. Exe on old Shinar’s plain the fortress rose, Rear’d by those giants who durst heav’n oppose, An universal language mankind used, Till daring crimes brought accents more, confus'd ; Discord and jar for punishment were hurl’d On hearts and tongues of the rebellious world. The primar speech, with notes harmonious clear, (Transporting thought !) gave pleasure to the ear: Then music in its full perfection shin’d, When man to man melodious spoke his mind. As when a richly-fraughted fleet is lost In rolling deeps, far from the ebbing coast, Down many fathoms of the liquid mass, The artist dives in ark of oak or brass ; (4) A merchant, and one of the magistrates of Glasgow. POETICAL EPISTLES. 78 Snatches s:me ingots of Peruvian ore, And with his prize rejoicing makes the shore. Oft this attempt is made, and much they find ; They swell in wealth, tho’ much is left behind. Amphion’s sons, with minds elate and bright, Thus plunge th’ unbounded ocean of delight, And daily gain new stores of pleasing sounds To glad the earth, fixing to spleen its bounds ; While vocal tubes and consort strings engage To speak the dialect of the golden age. Then you, whose symphony of souls proclaim Your kin to heaven, add to your country’s fame, And show that music may have as good fate In Albion’s glens, as Umbria’s green retreat ; And with Correlli’s soft Italian song Mix “Cowdenknows,” and “ Winter nights are long :” Nor should the martial “ Pibrough” be despis’d ; Own’d and refin’d by you, these shall the more be priz’d. Each ravish’d ear extols your heav’nly art, Which soothes our care, and elevates the heart ; Whilst hoarser sounds the martial ardours move, And liquid notes invite to shades and love. Hail! safe restorer of distemper’d minds, That with delight the raging passions binds ; Eestatic concord, only banish’d hell, Most perfect where the perfect beings dwell. Long may our youth attend thy charming rites, Long may they relish thy transported sweets.’ AN EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES ARBUCKLE; DESCRIBING THE AUTHOR. Eomsurcu, January, 1719. As errant knight, with sword and pistol, Bestrides his steed with mighty fistle Then stands some time in jumbled swither, To ride in this road, or that ither ; At last spurs on, and disna care for A how, a what way, or a wherefore. Or like extemporary quaker, Wasting his lungs, t’ enlighten weaker Lanthorns of clay, where light is wanting, With formless phrase, and formal canting ; (1) [Allan Ramsay did not excel in English composition, as this ppem abundantly proves. (2) (The celebrated German shoemaker and founder of a sect of religious enthusiasts.] While Jacob Bozhmen’s? salt doth season, And saves his thought frae corrupt reason, Gowling aloud with motions queerest, Yerking those words out which lie nearest. Thus I (no longer to illustrate With similes, lest I should frustrate Design laconic of a letter, With heap of language, and no matter,) Bang’d up my blyth auld-fashion’d whistle, To sowf ye o’er a short epistle, Without rule, compasses, or charcoal, Or serious study in a dark hole. Three times I ga’e the muse a rug, Then bit my nails, and claw’d my lug ; Still heavy—at the last my nose I prim’d with an inspiring dose, Then did ideas dance (dear safe us !) As they’d been daft.—Here ends the preface. Good Mr. James Arbuckle, six, (That ’s merchants’ style as clean as fir,) Ye ’re welcome back to Caledonie,? Lang life and thriving light upon ye, Harvest, winter, spring, and summer, And ay keep up your heartsome humour, That ye may thro’ your lucky task go, Of brushing up our sister Glasgow ; Where lads are dext’rous at improving, And docile lasses fair and loving : But never tent these fellows’ girning, Wha wear their faces ay in mourning, And frae pure dulness are malicious, Terming ik turn that’s witty, vicious. Now, Jamie, in neist place, secundo, To give you what’s your due iz mundo ; That is to say, in hame-o’er phrases, To tell ye, men of mettle praises Uk verse of yours, when they can light on’t, And truth I think they ’re in the right on’t; For there’s ay something sae auld-farran, Sae slid, sae unconstrain’d, and darin’, In ilka sample we have seen yet, That little better here has been yet : Sae much for that.—My friend Arbuckle, I ne’er afore roos’d ane so muckle : Fause flatt’ry nane but fools will tickle, That gars me hate it like auld Nicol ;* But when ane’s of his merit conscious, He’s in the wrang, when prais’d, that glunshes, Thirdly, not tether’d to connection, But rattling by inspir’d direction, (3) Having heen in his native Ireland, visiting his friends. (4) (‘*Old Nick.”] L 74 POETICAL EPISTLES. Whenever fame, with voice like thunder, Sets up a chield a warld’s wonder, Either for slashing fowk to dead, Or having windmills in his head, Or poet, or an airy beau, Or ony twa-legg’d rary-show, They wha have never seen’t are bissy To speer what like a carlie is he. Imprimis then, for tallness, I Am five foot and four inches high, A black-a-vie’d snod dapper fallow, Nor lean, nor overlaid wi’ tallow ; With phiz of a Morocco cut, Resembling a late man of wit, Auld gabbet Spec,' wha was sae cunning To be a dummy ten years running. Then for the fabric of my mind, *Tis mair to mirth than grief inclin’d: I rather choose to laugh at folly, Than show dislike by melancholy ; Well judging a sour heavy face Is not the truest mark of grace. I hate a drunkard or a glutton, Yet I’m nae foe to wine and mutton : Great tables ne’er engag’d my wishes, When crowded with o’er mony dishes ; A healthfu’ stomach sharply set Prefers a back-sey piping het. I never could imagine ’t vicious Of a fair fame to be ambitious : Proud to be thought a comic poet, And let a judge of numbers know it, I court occasion thus to show it. Second of thirdly, pray take heed, Ye’s get a short swatch of my creed. To follow method negatively, Ye ken, takes place of positively : Well then, I’m nowther whig nor tory,? Nor credit give to Purgatory ; Transub., Loretta-house, and mae tricks, As prayers to saints Katties and Patricks ; Nor Asgilite,? nor Bess Clarksonian,* Nor Mountaineer, nor Mugletonian ;° Nor can believe, ant’s nae great ferly, In Cotmoor fowk and Andrew Harlay.’ Neist, Anti-Toland, Blunt, and Whiston, Know positively I’m a Christian, Believing truths and thinking free, Wishing thrawn parties wad agree. Say, wad ye ken my gate of fending— My income, management, and spending ? Born to nae lairdship (mair’s the pity !) Yet denison of this fair city ; I make what honest shift I can, And in my ain house am goodman, Which stands on Edinburgh’s street the sun- side : I theck the out, and line the inside Of mony a douse and witty pash, And baith ways gather in the cash ; Thus heartily I graze and beau it, And keep my wife ay great wi’ poet: Contented I have sic a skair, As does my business to a hair ; And fain wad prove to ilka Scot ‘That poortith ’s no the poet’s lot. Fourthly and lastly baith togither, J’ray let us ken when ye come hither ; There ’s mony a canty carle and me Wad be much comforted to see ye; But if your outward be refractory, Send us your inward manufactory, That when we’re kedgy o’er our claret, We correspond may with your spirit. Accept of my kind wishes, with The same to Dons Butler and Smith; Health, wit, and joy, sauls large and free, Be a’ your fates ;—sae God be wi’ ye! (1) The “ Spectator,” who gives us a fictitious description of his short face and taciturnity ; that he had been esteemcd a dumb “mnan for ten years.—A. R. (2) Ramsay was a zealous Tory from principle. But he was much caressed by Baron Clerk and other gentlemen of opposite principles, which made him outwardly affect neutrality. His “ Vision,” and “* Tale of Three Bonnets,” are sufficient proofs of his zeal as a Jacobite; but, wishing to disguise himself, he pub- lished this, and the ‘“‘ Eagle and Redbreast,” as ancient poems, amid with the fictitious signature of “ A. R. Scor,” whence they are generally attributed to an old poet, Alexarder Scot, of whose compraition there are several pieces in the collection published by Ramsay, called ‘* The Evergreen."—Chalmers. (3) Mr, Asgil, a late member of parliament, advanced (whether in jest or earnest I know not) some very whimsical opinions ; particularly, that people need not die if they pleased, but be translated alive to heaven, like Enoch and Elijah.—A. R. (4) Bessy Clarkson, a Lanarkshire woman. Vide the history of her life and principles. (5) A kind of Quakers, so called from one Mugleton. See Lesiie's ‘ Snake in the Grass."—A. R. (6) A family or two who had a particular religion of their own, valued themselves on using vain repetitions in prayers of six or seven hours long; were pleased with ministers of no kind. Andrew Harlaw, a dull fellow of no education, was head of the party.—A. R. POETICAL EPISTLES. 75 TO THE EARL OF DALHOUSIE. 1721. DaxHovsts of an auld descent, My chief, my stoup, and ornament, For entertainment a wee while, Accept this sonnet with a smile. Setting great Horace in my view, He to Mecenas, I to you; But that my muse may sing with ease, I’ll keep or drap him as I please. How differently are fowk inclin’d, There’s hardly twa of the same mind! Some like to study, some to play, Some on the Links to win the day, And gar the courser rin like wood,! A’ drappin down with sweat and blood: The winner syne assumes a look Might gain a monarch or a duke. Neist view the man with pawky face Has mounted to a fashious place, Inclin’d by an o’erruling fate, He ’s pleas’d with his uneasy state ; Glowr'd at a while, he gangs fu’ braw, Till frae his kittle post he fa’. The Lothian farmer, he likes best To be of good faugh riggs possest, And fen upon a frugal stock, Where his forbears had us’d the yoke ; Nor is he fond to leave his wark, And venture in a rotten bark, Syne unto far aff countries steer, On tumbling waves to gather gear. The merchant wreck’d upon the main, Swears he’ll ne’er venture on ’t again ; That he had rather live on cakes, And shyrest swats, with landart maiks, As rin the risk by storms to have, When he is dead, a living grave. But seas turn smooth, and he grows fain, And fairly takes his word again, Tho’ he should to the bottom sink, Of poverty he downa think. Some like to laugh their time away, To dance while pipes or fiddles play ; And have nae sense of ony want, As lang as they can drink and rant. (1) [Wood or wud, mad.] The rattling drum and trumpet’s tout Delight young swankies that are stout ; What his kind frighted mother ugs, Is music to the soger’s lugs. The hunter, with his hounds and hawks, Bangs up before his wife awakes ; Nor speers gin she has aught to say, But scours o’er highs and hows a’ day, Thro’ moss and moor, nor does he care Whether the day be foul or fair, If he his trusty hounds can cheer To hunt the tod or drive the deer. May I be happy in my lays, And won a lasting wreath of bays, Is a@ my wish; well pleas’d to sing Beneath a tree, or by a spring, While lads and lasses on the mead Attend my Caledonian reed, And with the sweetest notes rehearse My thoughts, and roose me for my verse. If you, my lord, class me amang Those who have sung baith saft and strang, Of smiling love, or doughty deed, To starns sublime I’ll lift my head. Oe eg pt TO MR. AIKMAN. 1721. *Tis granted, sir, pains may be spar’d Your merit to set forth, When there’s sae few wha claim regard, That disna ken your worth. Yet poets give immortal fame To mortals that excel, Which if neglected they ’re to blame ; But you’ve done that yoursel’. While frae originals of yours Fair copies shall be tane, And fix’d on brass to busk our bow’rs, Your mem’ry shall remain. To your ain deeds the maist denied, Or of a taste o’er fine, May be ye’re but o’er right, afraid To sink in verse like mine. The last can ne’er the reason prove, Else wherefore with good will 76 POETICAL Do ye my nat’ral lays approve, And help me up the hill? By your assistance unconstrain’d, To courts I can repair, And by your art my way I’ve gain’d To closets of the fair. Had I a muse like lofty Pope, For tow’ring numbers fit, Then I th’ ingenious mind might hope In truest light to hit. But comic tale, and sonnet slee, Are casten for my share, And if in these I bear the gree, V’'ll think it very fair. = TO SIR WILLIAM BENNET. 1721. WHILE now in discord giddy changes reel, And some are rack’d about on Fortune’s wheel, You, with undaunted stalk and brow serene, May trace your groves, and press the dewy green; No guilty twangs your manly joys to wound, Or horrid dreams to make your sleep unsound. To such as you, who can mean care despise, Nature’s all beautiful ’twixt earth and skies. Not hurried with the thirst of unjust gain, You can delight yourself on hill or plain, Observing when those tender sprouts appear, Which crowd with fragrant sweets the youthful year. Your lovely scenes of Marlefield abound With as much choice as is in Britain found : Here fairest plants from Nature’s bosom start From soil prolific, serv’d with curious art ; Here oft the heedful gazer is beguil’d, And wanders thro’ an artificial wild, While native flow’ry green, and crystal strands, Appear the labours of ingenious hands. . Most happy he who can these sweets enjoy With taste refin’d, which does not easy cloy. Not so plebeian souls, whom sporting fate Thrusts into life upon a large estate, While spleen their weak imagination sours, They’re at a loss how to employ their hours : The sweetest plants which fairest gardens show Are Inst to them, for them unheeded grow. EPISTLES. Such purblind eyes ne’er view the son’rous page, Where shine the raptures of poetic rage ; Nor thro’ the microscope can take delight T’ observe the tusks and bristles of a mite ; Nor by the lengthen’d tube learn to descry Those shining worlds which roll around the sky. Bid such read hist’ry to improve their skill,— Polite excuse! their memories are ill! : Moll’s maps may in their dining-rooms make show, But their contents they ’re not oblig’d to know; And gen’rous friendship ’s out of sight too fine, They think it only means a glass of wine. But he whose cheerful mind hath higher flown, And adds learn’d thoughts of others to his own,— Has seen the world, and read the volume Man, And can the springs and ends of action scan,— Has fronted death in service of his king, And drunken deep of the Castalian spring,— This man can live, and happiest life ’s his due ; Can be a friend—a virtue known to few ; Yet all such virtues strongly shine in you. TO A FRIEND AT FLORENCE) 1721. Your steady impulse foreign climes to view, To study nature, and what art cau show, I now approve, while my warm faucy walks O’er Italy, and with your genius talks : We trace, with glowing breast and piercing look, The curious gall’ry of th’ illustrious duke, . Where all those masters of the arts divine, With pencils, pens, and chisels greatly shine, Immortalizing the Augustan age, On medals, canvas, stone, or written page. Profiles and busts originals express, And antique scrolls, old ere we knew the press. For ’s love to science, and each virtuous Scot, May days unnumber’d be great Cosmus’ lot ! The sweet Hesperian fields you’l] next explore, *Twixt Arno’s banks and Tibev’s fertile shore. Now, now I wish my organs could keep pace, With my fond muse and you these plains to trace ; We'd enter Rome with an uncommon taste, And feed our minds on every famous waste; (1) Mr. Smibert, a painter. Mr. Walpole, in his “ Anecdotes of Painting,” characterises him as an ingenious artist, aud a modest worthy man. He died at Boston, Ma savhusetts, in 1751, Allan Ramsay, the painter, and son of the poet, was @ scholar of Smibert’s. POETICAL EPISTLES. 7 Ampuitheatres, columns, royal tombs, Triumphal arches, ruins of vast domes, Old aerial aqueducts, and strong-pav’d roads, Which seem to ’ve been not wrought by men but gods. These view’d, we’d then survey with utmost care What modern Rome produces fine or rare ; Where buildings rise with all the strength of art, Proclaiming their great architect’s desert. Which citron shades surround and jessamin, And all the soul of Raphael shines within. Then we’d regale our ears with sounding notes Which warble tuneful thro’ the beardless throats, Join’d with the vibrating harmonious strings, And breathing tubes, while’ the soft eunuch sings. Of all those dainties take a hearty meal ; But let your resolution still prevail : Return, before your pleasure grow a toil, To longing friends, and your own native soil: Preserve your health, your virtue still improve, Hence youll invite protection from above. TO R. H. B. 1721. O B—! could these fields of thine Bear, as in Gaul, the juicy vine, How sweet the bonny grape would shine On wau’s where now Your apricots and peaches fine Their branches bow. Since human life is but a blink, Why should we then its short joys sink ? He disna live that canna link The glass about, When warm’d with wine, like men we think, And grow mair stout. The cauldrife carlies clog’d wi’ care, Wha gathering gear gang hyt and gare, If ram’d wi’ red, they rant and rair, Like mirthfu’ men, It soothly shaws them they can spare A rowth to spend. What soger, when with wine he’s bung," Did e’er complain he had been dung, Or of his toil, or empty spung? Na, o’er his glass, Nought but braw deeds employ his tongue, Or some sweet lass. Yet truth ’tis proper we should stint Oursells to a fresh mod’rate pint, Why should we the blyth blessing mint To waste or spill, Since aften when our reason’s tint, We may do ill. Let’s set these hair-brain’d fowk in view, That when they’re stupid, mad, and fow, Do brutal deeds, which aft they rue. For a’ their days, Which frequently prove very few To such as these. Then let us grip our bliss mair sicker. And tap our heal and sprightly liquor, Which sober ta’en, makes wit the quicker, And sense mair keen; While graver heads that’s muckle thicke Grane wi’ the spleen. May ne’er sic wicked fumes arise In me, shall break a’ sacred ties, And gar me like a fool despise, With stiffness rude, Whatever my best friends advise, Tho’ ne’er so gude. *Tis best then to evite the sin Of bending till our sauls gae blin, Lest, like our glass, our breasts grow thin, And let fowk peep At ilka secret hid within, That we should keep. TO MR. JOSEPH MITCHELL, ON THE SUCCESSFUL REPRESENTATION OF a TRAGEDY.? 1721. But jealousy, dear Jos., which aft gives pain To scrimpit sauls, I own myself right vain (1) [Full as 2 cask—up to the bung.] (2) “‘ Fatal Extravagance,” a tragedy, 1721; which Mitchell himself afterwards avowed to have been written by Aaron Hill, Esq., who, with a generosity peculiar to himself, allowed this author, who was himself a tolerable poet, both the reputation and the profits of this piece, to extricate him from some pecuniary embarrassments brought on by his own extravagance; thus in the very title of the piece conveying a gentle reproof, while nv generously relieved him. Mitchell was the author of two volumes of miscellaneous poems; ‘‘ Fatal Extravaganco,” a tragedy, 8vo., 1721; the “ Fatal Extravagance,” enlarged, 12mo., 1725; “* The Highiand Fair," a ballad opera, 8vo.,1731. Mitchell died in 1738.—CHaLmErs, 78 POETICAL EPISTLES. Tc ste a native trusty friend of mine Sae brawly ’mang our bleezing billies shine. Yes, wherefore no, shaw them the frozen north Can tow’ring minds with heav’nly heat bring forth : Minds that can mount with an uncommon wing, And frae black heath’ry-headed mountains sing, As fast as he that haughs Hesperian treads, Or leans beneath the aromatic shades ; Bred to the love of lit’rature and arms, Still something great a Scottish bosom warms ; Tho’ nurs’d on ice, and educate in snaw, Honour and liberty eggs him up to draw A hero’s sword, or an heroic quill, The monstrous faes of right and wit to kill. Well may ye further in your leal design To thwart the gowks, and gar the brethren tine The wrang opinion which they lang have had, That a’ which mounts the stage is surely bad. Stupidly dull!—but fools ay fools will be, And nane’s sae blind as them that winna see. Where’s vice and virtue set in juster light ? Where can a glancing genius shine mair bright? Where can we human life review mair plain, Than in the happy plot and curious scene ? If in themsells sic fair designs were ili, We ne’er had priev’d the sweet dramatic skill Of Congreve, Addison, Steele, Rowe, and Hill; Hill, wha the highest road to fame doth chuse, And has some upper seraph for his muse ; It maun be sae, else how could he display, With so just strength, the great tremendous day-? Sic patterns, Joseph, always keep in view, Ne’er fash if ye can please the thinking few, Then, spite of malice, worth shall have its due. TO ROBERT YARDE, OF DEVONSHIRE. Frat northern mountains clad with snaw, Where whistling winds incessant blaw, In time now when the curling-stane Slides murm’ring o’er the icy plain, What sprightly tale in verse can Yarde Expect frae a cauld Scottish bard, With brose and bannocks poorly fed, In hoden grey right hashly clad, Skelping o’er frozen hags with pingle, Picking up peets to beet his ingle, While sleet that freezes as it fa’s, Thecks as with glass the divot waws Of a laigh hut, where sax thegither Lie heads and thraws on craps of heather P Thus, sir, of us the story gaes, By our mair dull and scornfw’ faes : But let them tauk, and gowks believe, While we laugh at them in our sleeve : For we, nor barbarous nor rude, Ne’er want good wine to warm our blood Have tables crown’d, and heartsome beils And can in Cumin’s, Don’s, or Steil’s, Be serv’d as plenteously and civil As you in London at the Devil! You, sir, yourself, wha came and saw, Own’d that we wanted nought at a’, To make us as content a nation as any is in the creation. This point premis’d, my canty muse Cocks up her crest without excuse, And scorns to screen her natural flaws With ifs, and buts, and dull because ; She pukes her pens, and aims a flight Thro’ regions of internal light, Frae fancy’s field these truths to bring, That you should hear, and she should sing. Langsyne, when love and innocence Were human nature’s best defence, Ere party jars made lawtith less, By cleathing ’t in a monkish dress ; Then poets shaw’d these evenly roads That lead to dwellings of the gods. In these dear days, well kend of fame, Divini vates was their name : It was, and is, and shall be ay, While they move in fair virtue’s way ; Tho’ rarély we to stipends reach, Yet nane dare hinder us to preach. Believe me, sir, the nearest way To happiness is to be gay ; For spleen indulg’d will banish rest Far frae the bosoms of the best; Thousands a year’s no worth a prin, Whene’er this fashious quest gets in: But a fair competent estate Can keep a man frae looking blate ; Say eithly it lays to his hand What his just appetites demand. Wha has, and can enjoy, O wow! How smoothly may his minutes flow! A youth thus blest with manly frame, Enliven’d with a lively flame, Will ne’er with sordid pinch control The satisfaction of his soul. (1) [The Devil Tavern, in Fleet Street.] POETICAL EPISTLES. 79 Poor is that mind, ay discontent, That canna use what God has lent, But envious girns at a’ he sees, That are a crown richer than he’s; Which gars him pitifully hane, And hell’s ase-middins rake for gain ; Yet never kens a blythsome hour, Is ever wanting, ever sour. Yet ae extreme should never make A man the gowden mean forsake : It shaws as much a shallow mind, And ane extravagantly blind, If careless of his future fate, He daftly wastes a good estate, And never thinks till thoughts are vain, And can afford him nought but pain. Thus will a joiner’s shavings bleeze— Their lowe will for some seconds please, But soon the glaring leam is past, And cauldrife darkness follows fast ; While slaw the faggots large expire, And warm us with a lasting fire. Then neither, as I ken ye will, With idle fears your pleasures spill ; Nor with neglecting prudent care, Do skaith to your succeeding heir : Thus steering cannily thro’ life, Your joys shall lasting be and rife. Give a’ your passions room to reel, As lang as reason guides the wheel : Desires, tho’ ardent, are nae crime, When they harmoniously keep time ; But when they spang o’er reason’s fence, We smart for ’t at our ain expense. To recreate us we’re allow’d, But gaming deep boils up the blood, And gars ane at groom-porter’s, ban The Being that made him a man, When his fair gardens, house, and lands, Are fa’n amongst the sharpers’ hands. A cheerfw’ bottle sooths the mind, Gars carles grow canty, free, and kind, Defeats our care, and heals our strife, And brawly oils the wheels of life ; But when just quantums we transgress, Our blessing turns the quite reverse. To love the bonny smiling fair, Nane can their passions better ware ; Yet love is kittle and unruly, And should move tentily and hooly ; For if it get o’er meikle head, *Tis fair to gallop ane to dead: O’er ilka hedge it wildly bounds, And grazes on forbidden grounds, Where constantly like furies range Poortith, diseases, death, revenge : To toom ane’s poutch to dunty clever, Or have wrang’d husband probe ane’s liver. Or void ane’s saul out thro’ a shanker, In faith ’t wad any mortal canker. Then wale a virgin worthy you, Worthy your love and nuptial vow; Syne frankly range o’er a’ her charms, Drink deep of joy within her arms ; Be still delighted with her breast, And on her love with rapture feast. May she be blooming, saft, and young, With graces melting from her tongue ; Prudent and yielding to maintain Your love, as well as you her ain. Thus with your leave, sir, I’ve made free To give advice to ane can gi’e As good again. But as mass John Said, when the sand tald time was done— “Ha’e patience, my dear friends, a wee, And take ae ither glass frae me ; And if ye think there’s doublets due, I shanna bauk the like frae you.” AN EPISTLE FROM MR: WILLIAM STARRAT. AE windy day last owk,! I’ll ne’er forget,— I think I hear the hail-stanes rattling yet,— On Crochan-buss my hirdsell took the lee, As ane wad wish, just a’ beneath my e’e ; I in the bield of yon auld birk-tree side (Poor cauldrife Coly whing’d aneath my plaid) Right cosily was set to ease my stumps, Well hap’d with bountith hose and twa-sol’d pumps; Syne on my four-hours luncheon chew’d my cood, Sic kilter pat me in a merry mood : My whistle frae my blanket nook I drew, And lilted owre thir twa-three lines to you. Blaw up my heart-strings, ye Pierian quines, That gae the Grecian bards their bonny rhymes, And learn’d the Latin lowns sic springs to play, As gars the world gang dancing to this day. In vain I seek your help ;—’tis hootless toil With sic dead ase to muck a moorland soil. —o (1) (Week) 80 POETICAL EPISTLES. Give me the muse that calls past ages back, And shaws proud southern sangsters their mistak’ ; That frae their Thames can fetch the laurel north, And big! Parnassus on the Firth of Forth. Thy breast alane this gladsome guest does fill With strains that warm our hearts like cannel gill, And learns thee, in thy umquhile gutcher’s tongue, The blythest lilts that e’er my lugs heard sung. Ramsay! for ever live! for wha like you, In deathless sang, sic life-like pictures drew ? Not he wha whilome with his harp could ca’ The dancing stanes to big the Theban wa’ ; Nor he (shame fa’s fool head !), as stories tell, Could whistle back an auld dead wife frae hell ; Nor e’en the loyal brooker of bell trees, Wha sang with hungry wame his want of fees ; Nor Habby’s drone could with thy wind-pipe please : When, in his well-ken’d clink, thou manes the death Of Lucky Wood and Spence (a matchless skaith To Canigate), sae gash thy gab-trees gang, The carlines live for ever in thy sang. Or when thy country bridal thou pursues, To red the regal tulzie sets thy muse, Thy soothing sangs bring canker’d carles to ease— Some loups to Lutter’s pipe, some birls babies. But gin to graver notes thou tunes thy breath, And sings poor Sandy’s grief for Adie’s death, Or Matthew’s loss, the lambs in concert mae, And lanesome Ringwood yowls upon the brae. Good God! what tuneless heart-strings wadna twang, When love and beauty animate the sang? Skies echo back, when thou blaws up thy reed In Burchet’s praise for clapping of thy head. And when thou bids the paughty Czar stand yon, The wandought seems beneath thee on his throne. Now, be my saul! (and I have nought behin’, And well I wat fatise swearing is a sin), I'd rather have thy pipe and twa-three sheep, Than a’ the gowd the monarch’s coffers keep ! Coly, look out! the few we have’s gane wrang ; This se’enteen owks I have not play’d sae lang. Ha! Crummy, ha !—trowth, I maun quat my sang; But, lad, neist mirk we’ll to the haining drive, When in fresh lizar they get spleet and rive: The royts will rest, and gin ye like my play, [ll whistle to thee all the live-lang day. (1) Build.) (2) [Adders.] TO MR. WILLIAM STARRAT, ON RECEIV1NG THE FOREGOING. Frae fertile fields where nae curs’d ethers? creep, To stang the herds that in rash busses sleep : Frae where Saint Patrick’s blessings freed the bogs Frae taids, and asks, and ugly creeping frogs ; Welcome to me the sound of Starrat’s pipe— Welcome as westlen winds or berries ripe, When speeling up the hill, the dog-days’ heat Gars a young thirsty shepherd pant and sweat : Thus while I climb the muses’ mount with care, Sic friendly praises give refreshing air. O, may the lasses lo’e thee for thy pains, And may thou lang breathe healsome o’er the plains! Lang mayst thou teach, with round and nooked lines, Substantial skill, that’s worth rich siller mines ; To shaw how wheels can gang with greatest ease, And what kind barks sail smoothest o’er the seas ; How windmills should be made; and how they work The thumper that tells hours upon the kirk ; How wedges rive the aik; how pullisees Can lift on highest roofs the greatest trees— Rug frae its roots the craig of Edinburgh castle, As easily as I could break my whistle ; What pleugh fits a wet soil, and whilk the dry; And mony a thousand useful things forby. I own ’tis cauld encouragement to sing, When round ane’s lugs the blatran hailstanes ring; But feckfu’ folks can front the baldest wind, And slunk thro’ moors, and never fash their mind. Aft have I wid thro’ glens with chorking feet, When neither plaid nor kelt could fend the weet ; Yet blythly wald I bang out o’er the brae, And stend o’er burns as light as ony rae, Hoping the morn might prove a better day. Then let ’s to lairds and ladies leave the spleen, While we can dance and whistle o’er the green. Mankind’s account of good and ill’s a jest, Fancy’s the rudder, and content’s a feast. Dear friend of mine! ye but o’er meikle roose® The lawly mints of my poor moorland muse, Wha looks but blate, when even’d to ither twa, That lull’d the deil, or bigg’d the Theban wa’ ; But trowth, ’tis natural for us a? to wink At our ain fauts, and praises frankly drink : Fair fa’ ye then, and may your flocks grow rife, And may nae elf twine* Crummy of her life. The sun shines sweetly, a’ the lift looks blue, O’er glens hing hov’ring clouds of rising dew: (3) [Praise.] (4) (Deprive.] POETICAL EPISTLES, 81 Maggy, the bonniest lass of a’ our town, (Brent is her brow, her hair a curly brown) I have a tryst with her, and maun away, Then ye’ll excuse me till anither day, When I’ve mair time; for shortly I’m to sing Some dainty sangs, that sall round Crochan ring. TO MR. GAY, ON HEARING THE DUCHESS OF QUEENSBERRY COMMEND SOME OF HIs POEMS.’ Dean lad, wha linkan o’er the lea, Sang “ Blowzalind ” and “ Bowzybee,” And, like the lavrock, merrily Wak’d up the morn, When thou didst tune, with heartsome glee, Thy bog-teed horn. To thee frae edge of Pentland height, Where fawns and fairies take delight, And revel a’ the live-lang night O’er glens and braes, A bard that has the second sight Thy fortune spaes. Now lend thy lug, and tent me, Gay, Thy fate appears like flowers in May, Fresh, flourishing, and lasting ay, Firm as the aik, Which envious winds, when critics bray, Shall never shake. Come, shaw your loof!—ay, there’s the line Foretells thy verse shall ever shine, Dawted whilst living by the nine, And a’ the best, And be, when past the mortal line, Of fame possest. Immortal. Pope, and skilfu’ John,? The learned Leach frae Callidon, With mony a witty dame and don, O’er lang to name, Are of your roundels very fon’, And sound your fame And sae do I, wha roose but few, Which nae sma’ favour is to you ; For to my friends I stand right true, (1) Gay was a great admirer of the poems of Ramsay, par- ttoular:y of his‘ Gentle Shepherd ;” and they afterwards became personally acquainted, when Gay visited Scotland with the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry.— Chalmers. With shanks a-spar ; And my good word (ne’er gi’en but due} Gangs unco fac. Here mettled men my muse maintain, And ilka beauty is my friend ; Which keeps me canty, brisk, and bein, Tk wheeling hour, And a sworn fae to hatefu’ spleen, And a’ that’s sour. But bide ye, boy, the main’s to say: Clarinda, bright as rising day, Divinely bonny, great and gay, J Of thinking even, Whose words, and looks, and smiles disvlay Full views of heaven : To rummage nature for what’s braw, Like lilies, roses, gems, and snaw. Compar’d with hers, their lustre fa’, And bauchly tell Her beauties ; she excels them a’, And’s like hersel’ : As fair a form as e’er was blest To have an angel for a guest ; Lappy the prince who is possest Of sic a prize, Whose virtues place her with the best Beneath the skies. O sonsie Gay! this heavenly born, Whom ev’ry grace strives to adorn, Looks not upon thy lays with scorn ; Then bend thy knees, And bless the day that ye was bora With arts to please. She says thy sonnet smoothly sings, Sae ye may craw and clap your wings, And smile at ethercapit stings, With careless pride, When sae much wit and beauty brings Strength to your side. Lilt up your pipes, and rise aboon Your Trivia, and your Moorland tune, And sing Clarinda late and soon, In tow’ring strains, Till gratefu’ gods cry out, “ Well done,” And praise thy pains. Exalt thy voice, that all around May echo back the lovely sound, Frae Dover cliffs with samphire crown’d, (2) Dr. John Arboeznot 82 POETICAL EPISTLES. To Thule’s shore, Where northward no more Britain ’s found, But seas that roar. Thus sing ; whilst I frae Arthur’s height, O’er Cheviot glow’r with tired sight, And langing wish, like raving wight, To be set down, Frae coach and sax baith trim and tight, In London town. But lang I'll gove and bleer my e’e, Before, alake! that sight I see ; Then (best relief) I'll strive to be Quiet and content, And streek my limbs down easily Upon the bent. There sing the gowans, broom, and trees, The crystal burn and westlin breeze, The bleeting flocks and busy bees, And blythsome swains, Wha rant and dance, with kiltit dees, O’er mossy plains. Farewell !—but ere we part, let’s pray, God save Clarinda night and day, And grant her a’ she’d wish to ha’e, Withouten end.— Nae mair at present I’ve to say, But am your friend. AN EPISTLE TO JOSIAH BURCHET, ON HIS BEING CHOSEN MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT. My Burchet’s name well pleas’d I saw Amang the chosen leet, Wha are to give Britannia law, And keep her rights complete. O may the rest wha fill the House Be of a mind with thee, And British liberty espouse ; We glorious days may see. The name of patriot is mair great Than heaps of ill-won gear ; What boots an opulent estate, Without a conscience clear ? While sneaking sauls for cash wad trock Their country, God, and king ; With pleasure we the villain mock. And hate the worthless thing. With a’ your pith, the like of you, Superior to what’s mean, Should gar the trockling rogues look blue, And cow them laigh and clean. Down with them,—down with a’ that dare Oppose the nation’s right ; Sae may your fame, like a fair star, Through future times shine bright. Sae may kind heaven propitious prove, And grant whate’er ye crave ; And him a corner in your love, Wha is your humble slave. —- > TO MR. DAVID MALLOCH;! ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM SCOTLAND. Since fate, with honour, bids thee leave Thy country for a while, It is nae friendly part to grieve, When powers propitious smile. [ne task assign’d thee’s great and good, To cultivate two Grahams, Wha from bauld heroes draw their blood, Of brave immortal names. Like wax, the dawning genius takes Impressions thraw’n or even; Then he wha fair the moulding maxes, Does journey-work for heaven. The sour weak pedants spoil the mind Of those beneath their care, Who think instruction is confin’d To poor grammatic ware. But better kens my friend, and can Far nobler plans design, To lead the boy up to a man That’s fit in courts to shine. Frae Grampian heights (some may object) Can you sic knowledge bring ? But those laigh tinkers ne’er reflect, Some sauls ken ilka thing, (1) (Malloch afterwards changed his name to Mallett, as being a word more pronounceable in London. An accou.t of him appears in Johnson's *‘ Lives of the Poets." He was the author of the beautiful song, ‘* There's nae luck about the house."} POETICAL EPISTLES. 88 With vaster ease, at the first glance, Than misty minds that plod And thresh for thought, but ne’er advance Their stawk aboon their clod. But he that could, in tender strains, Raise Margaret’s plaining shade,! And paint distress that chills the veins, While William’s crimes are red; Shaws to the world, could they observe, A clear deserving flame : ‘Thus I can reese without reserve, When truth supports my theme. Gae, lad, and win a nation’s love, By making those in trust, Like Wallace’s Achates,? prove Wise, generous, brave, and just. Sae may his grace, th’ illustrious sire, With joy paternal see Their rising blaze of manly fire, And pay his thanks to thee. TO WILLIAM SOMERVILLE,3 OF WARWICKSHIRE. 1728. Sr, I have read, and much admire Your muse’s gay and easy flow, Warmed with that true Idalian fire, That gives the bright and cheerful glow. I conn’d each line with joyous care, As I can such from sun to sun; And, like the glutton o’er his fare Delicious, thought them too soon done. The witty smile, nature, and art, In all your numbers so combine, As to complete their just desert, And grace them with uncommon shine. Delighted we your muse regard, When she, like Pindar’s, spreads her wings, And virtue being its own reward, Expresses by “The Sister Springs.” Emotions tender crowd the mind, When with the royal bard you ge, To sigh in notes divinely kind, “The Mighty fall’n on Mount Gilbo,” Much surely was the virgin’s joy, Who with the Iliad had your lays ; Yor, ere and since the siege of Troy, We all delight in love and praisu. These heaven-born passions, such desire, I never yet could think a crime ; But first-rate virtues, which inspire The soul to reach at the sublime, But often men mistake the way, And pump for fame by empty boast, Like your “ Gilt Ass,” who stood to bray, Till in a flame his tail he lost. Him the incurious bencher hits, With his own tale so tight and clean, That while I read streams gush by fits Of hearty laughter from my een. Old Chaucer, bard of vast ingine ; 4 Fontaine and Prior, who have sung Blythe tales the best ; had they heard inine On Lob, they’d own themselves outdone. The plot’s pursued with so much gice, The too-officious dog and priest, The squire oppress’d, I own for me I never heard a better jest. Pope well describ’d an ombre game, And king revenging captive queen; He merits, but had won more fame, Tf author of your “ Bowling-green.” You paint your parties, play each bow], So natural, just, and with such ease, That while I read, upon my soul, I wonder how I chance to please. Yet I have pleas’d, and please the best ; And sure to me laurels belong, Since British fair, and ’mong the best, * Somerville’s consort likes my song. Ravish’d I heard th’ harmonious fair Sing, like a dweller of the sky, My verses with a Scotian air ; Then saints were not so blest as I. (1) “* William and Margaret,” a ballad, in imitation of the old | dearest friend of the renowned Sir William Wallace, and the manner, wherein the strength of thought and passion is more ancestor of his Grace the Duke of Montrose.—A. R. sbeerved-than a rant of unmeaning words.—A. R. (3) [Author of the well-known poem “ The Chase.’ | (2) The heroic Sir John Graham, the glory of hia name, the (4) [Gentus.] 84 POETICAL: EPISTLES. In her the valued charms unite, While I survey, with ravish’d eyes, She really is what all would seem, This friendly gift,! my valu’d prize, Gracefully handsome, wise, and sweet ; Where sister arts, with charms divine, Tis merit to have her esteem. In their full bloom and beauty shiue, Alternately my soul is blest : Your noble kinsman, her lov’d mate, Now I behold my welcome guest, Whose worth claims all the world’s respect, That graceful, that engaging air, Met in her love a smiling fate, So dear to all the brave and fair: Which has, and must have good effect. Nor has th’ ingenious artist. shown His outward lineaments alone, You both from one great lineage spring, But in th’ expressive draught design’d Both from De Somerville, who came The nobler beauties of his mind ; With William, England’s conquering king, True friendship, love, benevolence, To win fair plains and lasting fame ; Unstudied wit, and manly sense. Then as your book I wander o’er, Whichnour, he left to’s eldest son, And feast on the delicious store That first-born chief you represent ; (Like the lahorious busy bee, His second came to Caledon, Pleas’d with the sweet variety), From whom our Somer’le takes descent. With equal wonder and surprise, I see resembling portraits rise, On him and you may fate bestow Brave archers march in bright array, Sweet balmy health and cheerful fire, In troops the vulgar line the way : As long’s ye’d wish to live below, Here the droll figures slily sneer, Still blest with all you would desire. Or coxcombs at full length appear : There woods and lawns, a rural scene, O sir! oblige the world, and spread And swains that gambol on the green. Tn print those and your other lays ; Your pen can act the pencil’s part, This shall be better’d while they read, With greater genius, fire, and art. And after ages sound your praise i Believe me, bard, no hunted hind I could enlarge; but if I should | That pants against the southern wind, On what you’ve wrote, my ode would run And seeks the streams thro’ unknown ways; Too great a length; your thoughts so crowd, No matron in her teeming days, To note them all I’d ne’er have done. Fer felt such longings, such desires, As I to view those lofty spires, Accept this offering of a muse, Those domes where fair Edina shrouds Who on her Pictland bills ne’er tires ; Her tow’ring head amid the clouds, Nor should, when worth invites, refuse But oh! what dangers interpose ! To sing the person she admires. Vales deep with dirt, and hills with snows, Proud winter-floods, with rapid force, — Forbid the pleasing intercourse. But sure we bards, whose purer clay AN EPISTLE Nature has mixt with less allay, FROM MR. SOMERVILLE. Might soon find out an easier way. Do not sage matrons mount on high, ac And switch their broom-sticks thro’ the sky; Near fair Avona’s silver tide, Ride post o’er hills, and woods, and seas, Whose waves in soft meanders glide, From Thule to the Hesperides ?? I read to the delighted swains And yet the men of Gresham own, Your jocund songs and rural strains. That this and stranger feats are done Smooth as her streams your numbers flow By a warm fancy’s power alone. Your thoughts in varied beauties show, This granted, why can’t you and I Like flow’rs that on her borders grow. Stretch forth our wings and cleave the sky ; (1) Lord Somerville was pleased to send me his own picture, connection with Lord Somerville, probably occasioned his pnetica! «nd Mr. Ramsay's Works.— W. &. correspondence with Ramsay, who was patronised by that nuble In 1730, Somerville concluded a bargain with James Lord | man.—Chalmers. Somerville. for the reversion of his estate at his death. His (2) The Soilly Islands formerly so called. POETICAL EPISTLES. 85 Since our poetic brains, you know, Than theirs must more intensely glow. Did not the Theban swan take wing, Sublimely soar, and sweetly sing? And do not we, of humbler vein, Sometimes attempt a loftier strain, Mount sheer out of the reader’s sight, Obscurely lost in clouds and night ? Then climb your Pegasus with speed, T’ll meet thee on the banks of Tweed ; Not as our fathers did of yore, To swell the flood with crimson gore ; Like the Cadmean murd’ring brood, Each thirsting for his brother’s blood ; For now all hostile rage shall cease, Lull’d in the downy arms of peace, Our honest hands and hearts shall join O’er jovial banquets, sparkling wine. Let Peggy at thy elbow wait, And I shall bring my bonny Kate. But hold :—oh! take a special care T’ admit no prying kirkman there ; I dread the penitential chair. What a strange figure should I make, A poor abandon’d English rake ; A squire well born, and six foot high, Perch’d in that sacred pillory! Let spleen and zeal be banish’d thence And troublesome impertinence, That tells his story o’er again ; Ti-manners and his saucy train, And self-conceit, and stiff-rumpt pride, That grin at all the world beside ; Foul scandal, with a load of lies, Intrigues, rencounters, prodigies, Fame’s busy hawker, light as air, That feeds on frailties of the fair : Envy, hypocrisy, deceit, Fierce party rage, and warm debate ; And all the hell-hounds that are foes To friendship and the world’s repose. But mirth instead, and dimpling smiles And wit, that gloomy care beguiles ; And joke, and pun, and merry tale, And toasts, that round the table sail ; While laugliter, bursting thro’ the crowd Tn volleys, tells our joys aloud. Hark! the shrill piper mounts on high, The woods, the streams, the rocks reply To his far-sounding melody ; Behold each lab’ring squeeze prepare Supplies of modulated air : Observe Croudero’s active bow, His head still nodding to and fro, His eycs, his cheeks with raptures glow: See, see the bashful nyniphs advance, To lead the regulated dance : Flying still, the swains pursuing, Yet with backward glances wooing. « This, this shall be the joyous scene ; Nor wanton elves that skim the green, Shall be so blest, so blyth, so gay, Or less regard what dotards say. My rose shall then your thistle greet, The union shall be more complete ; And in a bottle and a friend, Each national dispute shall end. ALLAN RAMSAY’S ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. Sir, I had yours, and own my pleasure, On the receipt, exceeded measure. You write with so much sp’rit and glee, Sae smooth, sae strong, correct, and free, That any he (by you allow’d To have some merit) may be proua. If that’s my fault, bear you the blame, Wha ’ve lent me sic a lift to fame. Your ain tow’rs high, and widens far, Bright glancing like a first-rate star, And all the world bestow due praise On the collection of your lays ; Where various arts and turns combine, Which even in parts first poets shine : Like Matt aud Swift ye sing with ease, And can be Waller when you please. Continue, sir, and shame the crew That ’s plagu’d with having nought to do; Whom fortune in a merry mood Has overcharg’d with gentle blood, But has denied a genius fit For action or aspiring wit ; Such kenna how t’ employ their time, And think activity a crime. Ought they to either do or say, Or walk, or write, or read, or pray, When money, their factotum, ’s able To furnish them a numerous rabble, Who will, for daily drink and wages, Be chairmen, chaplains, clerks, and pages P Could they, like you, employ their hours In planting these delightful flowers, Which carpet the poetic field, And lasting funds of pleasure yield ; Nae mair they’d gaunt and gove away, Or sleep or loiter out the day, Or waste the night, damning their sauls, Tn deep debauch and bawdy brawls ; 86° POETICAL EPISTLES. Whence pox and poverty proceed, An early eild, and spirits dead. Reverse of you, and him you love, Whose brighter spirit tow’rs above The mob of thoughtless lords and beaux ; Who in his ilka action shows “True friendship, love, benevolence, “Unstudied wit, and manly sense.” Allow here what you ’ve said yoursell, Nought can b’ exprest so just and well To him and her, worthy his love, And every blessing from above, A son is given, God save the boy! For theirs and every Som’ril’s joy. Ye wardens! round him take your place, And raise him with each manly grace ; Make his meridian virtues shine, To add fresh lustres to his line : And many may the mother see Of such a lovely progeny. Now, sir, when Boreas nae mair thuds Hail, snow, and sleet, frae blacken’d clouds ; While Caledonian hills are green, And a’ her straths delight the een; While ika flower with fragrance blows, And a’ the year its beauty shows ; Before again the winter lour, What hinders then your northern tour? Be sure of welcome; nor believe These wha an ill report would give To Ed’nburgh and the land of cakes, That nought what ’s necessary lacks. Here plenty’s goddess frae her horn Pours fish and cattle, claith and corn, In blyth abundance ; and yet mair, Our men are brave, our ladies fair : Nor will North Britain yield for fouth Of ilka thing, and fellows couth, To ony but her sister South. True, rugged roads are cursed dreigh, And speats aft roar frae mountains heigh : The body tires (poor tottering clay), And like with ease at hame to stay ; While sauls stride warlds at ilka stend, And can their widening views extend. Mine sees you, while you cheerfw’ roam On sweet Avona’s flow’ry howm, There recollecting, with full view, These follies which mankind pursue, While, conscious of superior merit, You rise with a correcting spirit, And as an agent of the gods, Lash them with sharp satiric rods : Labour divine !—Next, for a change, O’er hill and dale I see you range After the fox or whidding hare, Confirming health in purest air ; While joy frae heights and dales resounds, Rais’d by the holla, horn, and hounds : Fatigu’d, yet pleas’d, the chase out run, I see the friend, and setting sun, Invite you to the temp’rate bicker, Which makes the blood and wit flow quicker. The clock strikes twelve, to rest you bound, To save your health by sleeping sound. ‘Thus with cool head and healsome breast, You see new day stream frae the east ; Then all the muses round you shine, Inspiring ev’ry thought divine : Be long their aid, your years, and blisses, Your servant Allan Ramsay wishes. AN EPISTLE FROM W. SOMERVILLE TO ALLAN RAMSAY, ON PUBLISHING HIS SECOND VOLUME OF POE “Ms. 1729. Hart! Caledonian bard! whose rural strains Delight the list’ning hills, and cheer the plains; Already polish’d by some hand divine, Thy purer ore what furnace can refine f Careless of censure, like the sun shine forth In native lustre and intrinsic worth. To follow nature is by rules to write, She led the way and taught the Stagyrite : From her the critic’s taste, the poet’s fire, Both drudge in vain till she from heav’n inspire. By the same guide instructed how to soar, Allan is now what Homer was before. Ye chosen youths wha dare like him aspire, And touch with bolder hand the golden lyre, Keep nature still in view; on her intent, Climb by her aid the dang’rous steep ascent To lasting fame.—Perhaps a little art Is needful to plane o’er some rugged part ; But the most labour’d elegance and care T’ arrive at full perfection must despair ; Alter, blot out, and write all o’er again, Alas! some venial sins will yet remain. Indulgence is to human frailty due, Wen Pope lias faults, and Addison a few; But those like mists that cloud the morning ray, Are lost and vanish in the blaze of day. Tho’ some intruding pimple find a place Amid the glories of Clarinda’s face, POETICAL EPISTLES. 87 We still love on, with equal zeal adore, Nor think her less a goddess than before. Slight wounds in no disgraceful scars shall end, Heal’d by the balm of some good-natured friend. In vain shall canker’d Zoilus assail, While Spence! presides, and Candour holds the scale : His gen’rous breast nor envy sours, nor spite ; Taught by his founder’s motto? how to write, Good manners guides his pen; learn’d without pride ; In dubious points not forward to decide; If here and there uncommon duties rise, From flow’r to flow’r he roves with glad surprise; In failings no malignant pleasure takes, Nor rudely triumphs over small mistakes ; No nauseous praise, no biting taunts offend, W’ expect a censor, and we find a friend. Poets improv’d by his correcting care, Shall face their foes with more undaunted air, Stripp’d of their rags, shall like Ulysses shine? With more heroic port and grace divine. No pomp of learning, and no fund of sense, Can e’er atone for lost benevolence. May Wickham’s sons, who in each art excel, And rival ancient bards in writing well, While from their bright examples taught, they sing, And emulate their flights with bolder wing, From their own frailties learn the humbler part, Mildly to judge in gentleness of heart. Such critics, Ramsay, jealous for our fame, Will not with malice insolently blame, But lur’d by praise, the haggard muse reclaim. Retouch each line till all is just and neat, A whole of proper parts, a work almost complete. So when some beauteous dame, a reigning toast, The flow’r of Forth, and proud Edina’s boast, Stands at her toilet in her tartan plaid, And all her richest head-gear trimly clad ; The curious handmaid, with observant eye, Corrects the swelling hoop that hangs awry ; Thro’ every plait her busy fingers rove, And now she plys below, and then above ; With pleasing tattle entertains the fair, Each ribbon smooths, adjusts each rambling hair, Till the gay nymph in her full lustre shine, And Homer’s Juno was not half so fine.* (1) Mr. Spence, Professor of Poetry in Oxford, and Fellow of New College. (2) William of Wickham, founder of New College in Oxford, and of Winchester College. His motto is, ‘Manners maketh man.” {3y Vide Hom, Od., lib. xxiv. (4) Vide Hom. II., lib xiv. RAMSAY’S ANSWER. 1729. Acatn, like the return of day, From Avon’s banks the cheering lay Warms up a muse was well-nigh lost In depths of snow and chilling frost ; But generous praise the soul inspires, More than rich wines and blazing fires. Tho’ on the Grampians I were chain’d, And all the winter on me rain’d; Altho’ half starv’d, my sp’rit would spring Up to new life to hear you sing. take even criticism kind, That sparkles from so clear a mind : Friends ought and may point out a spot, But enemies make all a blot. Friends sip the honey from the flow'r; All’s verjuice to the waspish sour. With more of nature than of art, From stated rules I often start, Rules never studied yet by me; My muse is British, bold and free, And loves at large to frisk and bound Unmankl’d o’er poetic ground. T love the garden wild aud wide, Where oaks have plum-trees by their side ; Where woodbines and the twisting vine Clip round the pear-tree and the pine ; Where mixt jonckeels and gowans grow And roses ’midst rank clover blow, Upon a bank of a clear strand, Its wimplings led by nature’s hand ; Tho’ docks and bramble here and there, May sometimes cheat the gard’ne1’s care, Yet this to me’s a paradise, Compar’d with prime cut plots and nice, Where nature has to art resign’d, Till all looks mean, stiff, and confin’d. May still my notes of rustic turn Gain more of your respect than scorn; 1’ll hug my fate, and tell sour fools, I’m more oblig’d to heaven than schools, Heaven Homer taught: the critic draws Only from him, and such, their laws : The native bards first plunge the deep, Before the artful dare to leap. Ive seen myself right many a time Copied in diction, mode, and rhyme. 88 POETICAL Now, sir, again ret me express My wishing thoughts in fond address ; That for your health, and love you bear To two of my chief patrons! here, You ’d, when the lavrocks rouse the day— When beams and dews make blythsome May, When blooming fragrance glads our isle, And hills with purple heather smile— Drop fancied ails, with courage stout, Ward off the spleen, the stone, and gout. May ne’er such foes disturb your nights, Or elbow out your day delights. Here you wiil meet the jovial train, Whose clangours echo o’er the plain; While hounds with gowls both loud and clear, Well tuned, delight the hunter’s ear, As they on coursers fleet as wind, Pursue the fox, hart, hare, or hind: Delightful game! where friendly ties Are closer drawn, and health the prize. We long for, and we wish you here, Where friends are kind, and claret clear. The lovely hope of Som’ril’s race, Who smiles with a seraphic grace, And the fair sisters of the boy, Will have, and add much to your joy. Give warning to your noble friend ; ¥our humble servant shall attend, A willing Sancho, and your slave, With the best humour that I have, To meet you on that river’s shore, That Britons now divides no more. Autan Ramsay. TO DONALD M‘EWEN, JEWELLER, AT ST. PETERSBURG. How far frae hame my friend seeks fame ! And yet I canna wyte ye, T’ employ your fire, and still aspire By virtues that delyte ye. Should fortune lour, ’tis in your power, If heaven grant balmy health, T’ enjoy ilk hour a saul unsour ; Content ’s nae bairn of wealth. It 1s the mind that ’s not. confined To passions mean and vile, EPISTLES. That ’s never pin’d, v hile thoughts refin’d Can gloomy cares beguile. Then Donald may be e’en as gay On Russia’s distant shore, As on the Tay, where usquehae He used to drink before. But howsoe’er, haste gather gear, And syne pack up your treasure ; Then to Auld Reekie come and beek ye, And close your days with pleasure. TO THE SAME, ON RECEIVING A PRESENT OF A GOLD SEAL, WITH HOMER’S HEAD. Tuayxs to my frank ingenious friend : Your present ’s most genteel and kind, Baith rich and shining as your mind: And that :mmortal laurell’d pow, Upon the gem sae well design’d And execute, sets me on low. The heavenly fire inflames my breast, Whilst I unwearied am in quest Of fame, and hope that ages niest Wil do their Highland bard the grace, Upon their seals to cut his crest, And blythest strakes of his short face. Far less great Homer ever thought (When he, harmonious beggar! sought His bread thro’ Greece) he should be brought Frae Russia’s shore by Captain Hugh,? To Pictland plains, sae finely wrought On precious stone, and set by you. TO HIS FRIENDS IN IRELAND, WHO, ON A REPORT OF HIS DEATH, MADE AND PUBLISHED SEVERAL ELEGIES, &c. 1728. SieHine shepherds of Hibernia, Thank ye for your kind concern a’, When a fause report beguiling, Prov’d a drawback on your smiling : (1) Lord and Lady Somerville. (2) Captain Hugh Eccles, master of a merchant-ship, trading to &t. Petersburg. POETICAL EPISTLES. 89 Dight your een, and cease your grieving, Allan’s hale, and well, and living, Singing, laughing, sleeping soundly, Cowing beef, and drinking roundly ; Drinking roundly rum and claret, Ale and usque, bumpers fair out, Supernaculum but spilling, The least diamond drawing, filling ; Sowing sonnets on the lasses, Hounding satires at the asses, Smiling at the surly critics, And the pack-horse of politics ; Painting meadows, shaws, and mountains, Crooking burns, and flowing fountains ; Flowing fountains, where ilk gowan Grows about the borders glowan, Swelling sweetly, and inviting Poet’s lays and lovers’ meeting ; Meeting kind to niffer kisses, Bargaining for better blisses. Hills in dreary dumps now lying, And ye zephyrs swiftly flying, And ye rivers gently turning, And ye Philomelas mourning, And ye double sighing echoes, Cease your sobbing, tears, and hey-ho’s ! Banish a’ your care and grieving, Allan’s hale, and well, and living ; . Early up on mornings shining, Tika fancy warm refining; Giving ilka verse a burnish, That maun second volume furnish, To bring in frae lord and lady Meikle fame, and part. of ready ;— Splendid thing of constant motion, Fish’d for in the southern ocean ; Prop of gentry, nerve of battles, Prize for which the gamester rattles Belzie’s banes, deceitfu’, kittle, Risking a’ to gain a little. Pleasing Philip’s tunefu’ tickle, Philomel, and king Arbuckle ; Singers sweet, baith lads and lasses, Tuning pipes on hill Parnassus, Allan kindly to you wishes Lasting life and rowth of blisses ; And that he may, when ye surrender Sauls to heaven, in numbers tender Give a’ your fames a happy heezy, And gratefully immortalise ye. —_—_oe—__——_ AN EPISTLE FROM A GENTLEMAN IN THE COUNTRY TO HIS FRIEND IN EDINBURGH. O rrrenp! to smoke and din confin’d, Which fouls your claiths and frets your mind, And makes you rusty look and crabbed, As if you were bep——d or scabbed, . Or had been going thro’ a dose Of mercury to save your nose ; Let me advise you, out of pity, To leave the chatt’ring, stinking city, Where pride and emptiness take place Of plain integrity and grace ; Where hideous screams wad kill a cat, Of wha buys this ? or wha buys that ? And thro’ the day, frae break o’ morning The buzz of bills, protests, and horning ; Besides the everlasting squabble Among the great and little rabble, Wha tear their lungs, and deave your ears, With all their party hopes and fears ; While rattling o’er their silly cant, Learn’d frae the Mercury and Courant, About the aid that comes from Russia, And the neutrality of Prussia; Of France’s tyranny and slavery, Their faithless fickleness and knavery ; Of Spain, the best beloved son Of the old whore of Babylon, The warden of her whips and faggots, And all her superstitious maggots ; Of all our gambols on the green, To aid the bauld Imperial Queen, When the Most Christian shoars to strike, And fasheous Frederic gars her sike ; Of Genoa, and the resistance Of Corsica without assistance ; Of wading var-freging Savona, And breaking fiddles at. Cremona; What jaws of blood and gore it cost, Before a town is won or lost ; How much the allied armies have been a’ Propp’d by the monarch of Sardinia ; Of popes, statholders, faith’s defenders, Generals, marshals, and pretenders ; Of treaties, ministers, and kings, And of a thousand other things ; Of all which their conceptions dull, Suits with the thickness of the skull. Yet with such stuff ane maun be worried, That ’s thro’ your city’s gauntlet hurried. But ah! (ye cry) ridotts and dances, With lasses trig that please your fanciea, N 90 POETICAL For five or six gay hours complete, In circles of th’ assembly sweet ; Wha can forsake so fair a field, Where all to conquering beauty yield? No doubt, while in this am’rous fit, Your next plea’s boxes and the pit ; Where wit and humour of the age Flow entertaining from the stage ; Where, if the drama’s right conducted, Ane ’s baith diverted and instructed.— Well, I shall grant it ’grees wi’ reason ; These have their charms in proper season, But must not be indulg’d too much, Lest they the saften’d saul bewitch, And faculties in fetters bind, That are for greater ends design’d. Then rouse ye frae these dozing dreams, And view with me the golden beams Which Phebus ilka morning pours Upon our plains adorn’d with flow’rs ; With me thro’ howms and meadows stray, Where wimpling waters make their way ; Here, frae the aiks and elms around, Youll hear the saft, melodious sound Of a the quiristers on high, Whase notes re-echo thro’ the sky, Better than concerts in your town, Yet do not cost you half-a-crown : Here blackbirds, mavises, and linnets, Excel your fiddles, flutes, and spinnets ; Our jetty rooks e’en far excels Your strim-strams and your jingling bells, As do the cloven-footed tribes, And rustics whistling o’er the glybes. Here we with little labour gain Firm health, with all its joyful train ; Silent repose, the cheerful smile Which can intruding cares beguile: Here fragrant flow’rs of tinctures bright, Regale the smell, and please the sight, And make the springs of life to flow Through every vein with kindly glow, Giving the cheek a rosy tint Excelling all the arts of paint. Tf cauld or rain keep us within, We’ve rooms neat, warm, and free from din; Where, in the well-digested pages, We can converse with by-past ages ; And oft, to set our dumps adrift, We smile with Prior, Gay, and Swift ; Or with great Newton take a flight Amongst the rolling orbs of light ; With Milton, Pope, and all the rest Who smoothly copy nature best : From those inspir’d, we often find What brightens and improves the mind, EPISTLES. And carry men a pitch beyond Those views of which low souls are fond. This hinders not the jocund smile With mirth to mix the moral style; In conversation this being right, As is in painting shade and light. This is the life poets have sung, Wish’d for, my friend, by auld and young ; By all who would heaven’s favour share ; Where least ambition, least of care Disturbs the mind ; where virtuous ease And temperance never fail to please. Atan Ramsay. Pennyculok, May, 1748. AN EPISTLE TO JAMES CLERK, ESQ.,, OF PENNYCUICK. BiyTHE may ye be wha o’er the haugh, All free of care, may sing and laugh ; Whase owsen lunges o’er a plain Of wide extent, that’s a’ his ain. No humdrum fears need break his rest, Wha’s not with debts and duns opprest ; Wha has enough, even though it’s little, If it can ward fra dangers kittle, That chiels, fated to skelp vile dubs througn. For living are oblig’d to rub through, To fend by troaking, buying, selling, The profit’s aft no worth the telling. When aft’er, in ane honest way, We’ve gained by them that timely pay, In comes a customer, looks big, Looks generous, and scorns to prig,! Buys heartily, bids mark it down, He’ll clear before he leaves the town ; Which, tho’ they say ‘t, they ne’er intend it ; We're bitten sair, but canna mend it. A year wheels round, we ling about : He’s sleeping, or he’s just gane out : If catch’d, he glooms like ony devil, Swears braid, and calls us damn’d uncivil: Or aft our doited lugs abuses, With a ratrime of cant excuses ; And promises they stoutly ban to, Whilk they have ne’er a mind to stand to (1) (To cheapen—to beat down in price; a word that once had the same meaning in England, but that now signifies a petty thief rather than a bad customer.] POETICAL EPISTLES. 91 As lang 's their credit hauds the feet o’t, They hound it round to seek the meat o’t, Till jointly we begin to gaud them, And Edinburgh grows o’er het to haud them : Then aff they to the country scowp, And reave us baith of cash and hope. Syne we, the lovers of fair dealing, Wha deem ill payment next to stealing, Rin wood with care how we shall pay Our bills against the destin’d day ; For lame excuse the banker scorns, And terrifies with caps and horns ; Nae trader stands of trader awe, But zolens volens gars him draw. ’Tis hard to be laigh poortith’s slave, And like a man of worth behave ; Wha creeps beneath a load of care, When interest points he’s gleg and gare, And will at naething stap or stand, That reeks him out a helping hand. But here, dear sir, do not mistake me, As if grace did sae far forsake me, As to allege that all poor fellows, Unblest with wealth, deserv’d the gallows. Nae, God forbid that I should: spell Sae vile a fortune to mysell, Tho’ born to not ae inch of ground, I keep my conscience white and sound ; And tho’ I ne’er was a rich heaper, To make that up I live the cheaper ; By this ae knack I’ve made a shift To drive ambitious care adrift ; And now in years and sense grown auld, In ease I like my limbs to fauld. Debts I abhor, and plan to be Frae shochling trade and danger free, That I may, loos’d frae care and strife, With calmness view the edge of life ; And when a full ripe age shall crave, Slide easily into my grave. Now seventy years are o’er my head, And thirty mae may lay me dead ; Should dreary care then stunt my muse, And gar me aft her jogg refuse ? Sir, I have sung, and yet may sing, Sonnets that o’er the dales may ring, And in gash glee couch moral saw, Reese virtue and keep vice in awe ; Make villainy look black and blue, And give distinguish’d worth its due ; Fix its immortal fame in verse, That men till doomsday shall rehearse. T have it even within my pow’r, Ihe very kirk itself to scow’r, And that you ’ll say ’s a brag right bauld; But did not Lindsay this of auld ? Sir David’s satires help’d our nation To carry out the Reformation, And gave the scarlet whore a box Mair snell than all the pelts of Knox. Thus far, sir, with nae mean design, To you I’ve poured out my mind, And sketch’d you forth the toil and pain Of them that have their bread to gain With cares laborious, that you may, In your blest sphere be ever gay, Enjoying life with all that spirit That your good sense and virtues merit. Adieu, and may ye as happy be As ever shall be wished by me, Your ever obliged, humble servant, Auban Ramsay. Pewnnycuicg, May 9, 1765. TO ALLAN RAMSAY, ON THE POVERTY OF THE POETS. 1728. Deaz Allan, with your leave, allow me To ask you but one question civil ; Why thou ’rt a poet pray thee show me, And not as poor as any devil ? I own your verses make me gay, But as right poet still I doubt ye ; For we hear tell benorth the Tay, That nothing looks like want about ye. In answer then, attempt solution, Why poverty torments your gang P And by what fortitude and caution Thou guards thee from its meagre fang ? Yours, &c., Wel THE ANSWER. Sir, That mony a thriftless poet ’s poor, Is what they very well deserve, *Cause aft their muse turns common whore, And flatters fools that let them starve. 92 POETICAL EPISTLES. Ne’er minding business, they lye, Indulging sloth, in garret couches, And gape like gorblins to the sky, With hungry wames and empty pouches. Dear billies, tak’ advice for anes, If ye ’d hope honour by the muse, Rather to masons carry stanes, Than for your patrons blockheads choose : For there ’s in nature’s secret laws Of sympath and antipathy, Which is, and will be still the cause, Why fools and wits can ne’er agree. A wee thing serves a cheerfu’ mind That is dispos’d to be contented, But he nae happiness can find That is with pride and sloth tormented. Still cautious to prevent a dun, With caps and horns on bills and bands ; The sweets of life I quietly cun, And answer nature’s small demands. Lucky for me, I never sang Fause praises to a worthless wight, And still took pleasure in the thrang Of them wha in good sense delight. To such I owe what gave the rise To ought thou in my verse esteems, And, Phebe like, in darker skies, I but reflect their brighter beams. —_+—_——. AN EPISTLE TO JOHN WARDLAW.' My worthy friend, I here conjure ye, By the respect I ever bure ye, You’ll let me ken, by your neist letter, Why ye ha’e been sae lang my debtor— I charge ye by these royal names, Frae Fergus First to Octave James,? (1) [This poem was not included by Allan Ramsay himself in any collection of his works, having been first printed in the Scots Magazine for 1797, where it is mentioned that Wardlaw was factor fur the laird of Gartshore, and was accustomed an- nually to pay the poet the interest on a bond for £200, due to him by the laird.) (2) [‘‘ Octave James,” an expression wherein Allan, in the familiarity of private intercourse, avows his Jacobite senti- ments, and the favour with which he regarded the Pretender, called James VIII. by his adherents. | As loyalty you still exprest, To mind your friend whan he’s distrest,— Distrest wi’ little trading gawin’, And the dreigh income of what’s awin’, The curst peremptor, London bills, That gif return’d, our credit kills. Then there’s the necessars of life, That crave frae ane that has a wife: House hawding, baith in milk and meal, And mutton, beef, and shanks o’ veal ; Nay, now and than, aff care to syne A sneaker, or a waught o’ wine; And that the getlings prove na fools, They maun be hawden at the schools. All these require the ready down Frae us wha live in borrows town, That neither ha’e nor barn, nor byre Washing, nor elding for our fire ; Nor sheep, nor swine, nor hens, nor geese, Nor sarking lint, nor claithing fleece. Unless that Dubbies-land be staickit By us, we e’en may strutt stark naiket And starve; while ye jouk upo’ lands, Have ilka thing laid to your hands Of whatsoe’er ye stand in need, Of your ain growth and your ain breed. Frae udders of your kine and ewes Your cream, your cheese, your butter flows ; Your eggs and chickens (best o’ fare) Are yours withouten ony care ; The nursing hen asks nae mair pay, But only what ye fling away ; Whane’er you like ye cram your creels W7 trouts, and pikes, and carps, and eels ; Horse-laids of fruit bob on your trees, The honey’s brought you by the bees; Roots for your pot you ha’e in plenty, W? artichokes, and bow-kail dainty ; For gryce and goslings, calves and lamb, Ye’ve mickle mair nor can ye cram; Your bannocks grow upon your strae, Your barley brings you usquebae. From what I’ve said it’s eith to prove You should not filthy lucre love. What use for cash ha’e landwart lairds, Unless to play’t at dyce or cards ? If useless in your pouch, ’t wears less, Until it grows as smooth as glass. Now, since it obvious is and plain, That coin sae worthless is and vain Wi’ such as you, let me advise ye Ne’er let regards for it entice ye, To haud your hands ower hard about it ; And since we canna fend without it, Pray gather’t up, white, yellow, brown, And pack it in to our poor town. POETICAL EPISTLES. 43 Now, either do this same frae hand, Or keep it, and gi’e us the land. Before you e’en set wicked Tray, That barking sat upo’ the strae, Yet couldna mak’ a meal o’ meat o’t, But wadna let poor horsie eat o’t. Wad ye to what I say agree, Ye soon would ken what drinkers dree. Thus tar, sir, I have merry been, As a sworn enemy to spleen, And hearty friends, like us, weel ken, There’s nought ill said that’s no ill ta’en. My proper view, ye’ll eithly find, @ Was mainly to put you in mind; I wad be vex’d, were ye unkind, But never having reason gi’en, 1 hope you’re still what ye ha’e been, As you in mony ways did show it, The friend and patron of your poet, A. R Dated thus :—From my Palace on the Castle-bank of Edinburgh, June 6th, 45 minutes after 6 o'clock at night, a.D. 1736, and of our age the 51st year. FABLES AND TALES. ADVERTISEMENT. 1722—1730. Some of the following are taken from Messieurs La Fontaine and La Motte, whom I have endeavoured to make speak Scots with as much ease as I can; at the same time aiming at the spirit of these eminent authors, without being too servile a translator. If my manner of expressing a design already invented have any particularity that is agreeable, good judges will allow such imitations to be originals formed upon the idea of another. Others, who drudge at the dull verbatim, are like timorous attendants, who dare not move one pace without their master’s leave, and are never from their back but when they are not able to come up with them. Those amongst them which are my own invention, with respect to the plot as well as the numbers, I leave the reader to find out ; or if he think it worth his while to ask me, I shall tell him. If this collection prove acceptable, as I hope it will, I know not how far the love I have for this manner of writing may engage me to be divertingly useful. Instruction in such a dress is fitted for every palate, and strongly imprints a good moral upon the mind. When I think on the “Clock and the Dial,” I am never upon the blush, although I should sit in company ten minutes without speaking. The thought of the “Fox and Rat” has hindered me sometimes from disobliging a person I did not much value. “The Wise Lizard” makes me content with low life. “The Judgment of Minos” gives me a disgust at avarice; and “Jupiter’s Lottery” helps to keep me humble, though I own it has e’en enough ado wi't, &c. A man who has his mind furnished with such a stock of good sense as may be had from those excellent Fables, which have been approved of by ages, is proof against the insults of all those mistaken notions which so mach harass human life: and what is life without serenity of mind P How much of a philosopher is this same moral muse like to make of me !—“ But,” says one, “ay, ay, youre a canny lad, ye want to make the other penny by her.” Positively I dare not altogether deny this, no more than if I were a clergyman or physician; and although all of us love to be serviceable to the world, even for the sake of bare naked virtue, yet approbation and encouragement make our diligence still more delightful. ALLAN RAMSAY. VYABLES AND TALKS. +- —- > Important truths still let your Fables hold. And moral mysteries with art unfold: As veils transparent cover, but not hide ; Such metaphors appear, when right applied. AN EPISTLE TO DUNCAN FORBES, LORD ADVOCATE. Suvr in a closet six foot square, No fash’d with meikle wealth or care, I pass the live-lang day ; Yet some ambitious thoughts I have, Which will attend me to my grave, Sic busked baits they lay. ‘These keep my fancy on the wing, Something that’s blyth and snack to sing, And smooth the runkled brow : Thus care I happily beguile, Hoping a plaudit and a smile Frae best of men, like you. You wha in kittle casts of state, When property demands debate, Can right what is done wrang ; Yet blythly can, when ye think fit, Enjoy your friend, and judge the wit And slidness of a sang. How mony, your reverse, unblest, Whase minds gae wand’ring thro’ a mist, Proud as the thief in hell, Pretend, forsooth, they ’re gentle-fowk, *Cause chance gi’es them of gear the yowk, And better chiels the shell ! I’ve seen a wean aft vex itsel, And greet because it was not tall : Heez’d on a board, O! than, Lord Lansdowne. Rejoicing in the artfu’ height, How smirky look’d the little wight, And thought itsel a man ! Sic bairns are some, blawn up a wee With splendour, wealth, and quality, Upon these stilts grown vain, They o’er the pows of poor fowk stride, And neither are to haud nor bide, Thinking this height their ain. Now should ane speer at sic a puff, What gars thee look sae big and bluff ? 1s’t an attending menzie ? Or fifty dishes on your table ? Or fifty horses in your stable ? Or heaps of glancing cunzie ? Are these the things thou ca’s thysel ? Come, vain gigantic shadow, tell ; If thou sayest yes, I’ll shaw Thy picture ; mean’s thy silly mind, Thy wit ’s a croil, thy judgment blind And love worth nought ava. Accept our praise, ye nobly born, Whom heaven takes pleasure to adorn With ilka manly gift ; In courts or camps to serve your nation, Warm’d with that generous emulation Which your forbears did lift. In duty, with delight, to you Th’ inferior world do justly bow, While you ’re the maist denied ; Yet shall your worth be ever priz’d, When strutting naethings are despis’d, With a’ their stinking pride. 96 FABLES AND TALES. This to set aff as 1 am able, Tl frae a Frenchman thigg a fable, And busk it in a plaid; And tho’ it be a bairn of Motte’s,* When T. have taught it to speak Scots, I am its second dad. FABLE L THE TWA BOOKS. Twa books, near neighbours in a shop, The tane a gilded Turkey? fop; The tither’s face was weather-beaten, And cauf-skin jacket fair worm-eaten. The corky, proud of his braw suit, Curl’d up his nose, and thus cried out :— “Ah! place me on some fresher binks ; Figh! how this mouldy creature stinks ! How can a gentle book like me Endure sic scoundrel company ! What may fowk say to see me cling Sae close to this auld ugly thing, But that I’m of a simple spirit, And disregard my proper merit!” Quoth grey-beard, “ Whisht, sir, with your din; For a’ your meritorious skin, I doubt if you be worth within: For as auld-fashioned as I look, May be I am the better book.” “O heavens! I canna thole the clash Of this impertinent auld hash ; I winna stay ae moment langer.” “My lord, please to command your anger ; Pray only let me tell you that— ” “What wad this insolent be at ? Rot out your tongue! pray, master Symmer, Remove me frae this dinsome rhymer ; If you regard your reputation, And us of a distinguish’d station, Hence frae this beast let me be hurried, For with his stour and stink [’m worried.” Scarce had he shook his paughty crap, When in a customer did pap; He up douse Stanza lifts, and eyes him, Turns o’er his leaves, admires, and buys him: “This book,” said he, “is good and scarce, The saul of sense in sweetest verse.” But reading title of gill cleathing, Cries, “Gods! wha buys this bonny naething * Nought duller e’er was put in print: Wow! what a deal of Turkey’s tint!” Now, sir, ? apply what we’ve invented: You are the buyer represented ; And may your servant hope My lays shall merit your regard, Vl thank the gods for my reward, And smile at ilka fop. - FABLE ITI. THE CLOCK AND THE DIAL. Az day a Clock wad brag® a Dial, And put his qualities to trial ; Spake to him thus :—“ My neighbour, pray Can’st tell me what’s the time of day?” The Dial said, “I dinna ken.” “ Alake! what stand ye there for then P” “T wait here till the sun shines bright, For nought I ken but by his light.” “Wait on,” quoth Clock, “I scorn his help; ‘Baith night and day my lane I skelp: Wind up my weights but anes a week, Without him I can gang and speak; Nor like an useless sumph I stand, But constantly wheel round my hand: Hark! hark! I strike just now the hour, And I am right—ane, twa, three, four.” While thus the Clock was boasting loud, The bleezing sun brak’ thro’ a cloud. The Dial, faithfu’ to his guide, Spake truth, and laid the thumper’s pride “Ye see,” said he, “I’ve dung you fair, *Tis four hours and three-quarters mair. My friend,” he added, “ count again, And learn a wee to be less vain ; Ne’er brag of constant clavering cant, And that your answers never want ; . For you’re not aye to be believed, Wha trusts to you may be deceived. Be counsell’d to behave like me ; For when I dinna clearly see, T always own I dinna ken, And that’s the way of wisest men.” (1) M. la Motte, who has written lately a curious collection of fables, from which the following is imitated.—A. R. €2) [Morocco leather.) (3) {Taunt.] FABLES AND TALES. 9? FABLE JIT. THE RAM AND THE BUCK. A Raw, the father of a flock, Wha’d mony winters stood the shock Of northern winds and driving snaw, Leading his fam’ly in a raw, Through wreaths that clad the laigher field, And drave them frae the lowner bield, To crop contented frozen fare, With honesty on hills blown bare : This Ram, of upright hardy spirit, Was really a horn’d head of merit. Unlike him was a neighbouring Goat, A mean-sauled, cheating, thieving sot, That tho’ possess’d of rocks the prime, Crown’d with fresh herbs and rowth of thyme, Yet, slave to pilfering, his delight Was to break gardens ilka night, And round him steal, and aft destroy Even things he never could enjoy ; The pleasure of a dirty mind, That is sae viciously inclin’d. Upon a barrowing day, when sleet Made twinters and hog-wedders bleet, And quake with cauld; behind a ruck Met honest Toop and sneaking Buck ; Frae chin to tail clad with thick hair, He bade defiance to thin air ; But trusty Toop his fleece had riven When he amang the birns was driven : Half naked the brave leader stood, His look compos’d, unmov’d his mood : When thus the Goat, that had tint a’ His credit baith with great and sma’ Shunn’d by them as a pest, wad fain New friendship with this worthy gain: * Ram, say,! shall I give you a part Of mine? I’ll do’t with all my heart. *Tis yet a lang cauld month to Beltan, And ye ’ve a very ragged kelt on; Accept, I pray, what I can spare, To clout your doublet with my hair.” “No,” says the Ram, “ tho’ my coat ’s torn, Yet ken, thou worthless, that I scorn To be obliged at any price To sic as you, whose friendship ’s vice : I’d have less favour frae the best, Clad in a hatefu’ hairy vest Bestow’d by thee, than as I now Stand but ill dress’d in native woo’. Boons frae the generous make ane smile ; From miscreants, make receivers vile.” (1) [* Ram, say,” 4.e, Ramsay—a personal allusion. ] FABLE IV. THE LOVELY LASS AND THE MIRROR. A nympx with ilka beauty grac’d, Ae morning by her toilet plac’d, Where the leal-hearted Looking-glass With truths address’d the lovely Lass. “To do ye justice, heavenly fair, Amaist in charms ye may compare With Venus’ sel; but mind amaist, For tho’ you ’re happily possest Of ilka grace which claims respect, Yet I see faults you should correct ; I own they only trifles are Yet of importance to the fair : What signifies that patch o’er braid, With which your rosy cheek ’s o’erlaid P Your natural beauties you beguile, By that too much affected sme; Saften that look; move ay with ease, And you can never fail to please.” Those kind advices she approv’d, And mair her monitor she lov’d, Till in came visitants a threave ; To entertain them she maun leave Her Looking-glass.—They fleetching praise Her looks, her dress, and a’ she says, Be’t right or wrang; she’s hale complete, And fails in naething fair or sweet. Sae much was said, the bonny Lass Forgat her faithfu’ Looking-glass. Clarinda, this dear beauty ’s you, The mirror is ane good and wise, Wha, by his counsels just, can show How nobles may to greatness rise. God bless the wark!—If you ’re opprest By parasites with fause design, Then will sic faithfw’ mirrors best These under-plotters countermine. FABLE V. JUPITER’S LOTTERY. Anus Jove, by ae great act of grace, Wad gratify the human race, And order’d Hermes, in his name With tout of trumpet to proclaim 98 FABLES AND TALES. A royal lott’ry frae the skies, Where ilka ticket was a prize. Nor was there need for ten per cent. To pay advance for money lent ; Nor brokers nor stock-jobbers here Were thol’d to cheat fowk of their gear: The first-rate benefits were health, Pleasures, honours, empire, and wealth ; But happy he to whom wad fa’ Wisdom, the highest prize of a’. Hopes of attaining things the best, Made up the maist feck of the rest. Now ilka ticket sald with ease, At altars, for a sacrifice : Jove a’ receiv’d, ky, gaits, and ewes, Moor-cocks, lambs, dows, or bawbee-rows; Nor wad debar e’en a poor droll, Wha nought could gi’e but his parol. Sae kind was he no to exclude Poor wights for want of wealth or blood ; Even whiles the gods, as record tells, Bought several tickets for themsels. When fou, and lots put in the wheel, Aft were they turn’d to mix them weel ; Blind chance to draw Jove order’d syne, That nane with reason might repine. He drew, and Mercury was clark, The number, prize, and name to mark. Now hopes by millions fast came forth, But seldom prizes of mair worth, Sic as dominion, wealth, and state, True friends, and lovers fortunate. Wisdom at last, the greatest prize, Comes up :—aloud clerk Hermes cries, “Number ten thousand; come, let’s see The person blest.” Quoth Pallas, “ Me.” Then a’ the gods for blythness sang, Thro’ heaven glad acclamations rang ; While mankind, grumbling, laid the wyte On them, and ca’d the hale a byte. “ Yes,” cried ilk ane, with sobbing heart “ Kind Jove has play’d a parent’s part, Wha did this prize to Pallas send, While we’re sneg’d off at the wob’s end.” Soon to their clamours Jove took tent, To punish which to wark he went : He straight with follies fill’d the wheel ; In wisdom’s place they did as weel, For ilka ane wha folly drew, In their conceit a’ sages grew: Sae, thus contented, a’ retir’d, And ilka fool himself admir’d. FABLE VIL. THE MISER AND MINOS Snort syne there was a wretched miser, With pinching had serap’d up a treasure; Yet frae his hoords he doughtna take As much would buy a mutton steak, Or take a glass to comfort nature, But scrimply fed on crumbs and water: Tn short, he famish’d ’midst his plenty ; Which made surviving kindred canty, Wha scarcely for him put on black, And only in his loof a plack, Which even they grudg’d: sic is the way Of them wha fa’ upon the prey ; They ’ll scarce row up the wretch’s feet, Sae scrimp they make his winding-sheet, Tho’ he should leave a vast estate, And heaps of gowd like Arthur’s Seat. Well, down the starving ghaist did sink, Till it fell on the Stygian brink ; Where auld Van Charon stood and raught His wither’d loof out for his fraught ; But them that wanted wherewitha’, He dang them back to stand and blaw. The Miser lang being us’d to save, Fand this, and wadna passage crave ; But shaw’d the ferryman a knack, Jump’d in, swam o’er, and hain’d his plack. Charon might damn, and sink, and roar ; But a’ in vain, he gain’d the shore. Arriv’d, the three-pow’d dog of hell Growl’d terrible a triple yell; Which rous’d the snaky sisters three, Wha furious on this wight did flee, Wha’d play’d the smuggler on their coast, By which Pluto his dues had lost ; Then brought him for this trick sae hainous Afore the bench of Justice Minos. The case was new, and very kittle, Which puzzled a’ the court. na little ; Thought after thought with unco’ speed Flew round within the judge’s head, To find what punishment was due For sic a daring crime, and new. Should he the plague of Tantal. feel ? Or stented be on Ixion’s! wheel ? Or stung with bauld Prometheus’ pain ? ‘Or help Sysiph. to row his stane ? (1) (A false quantity in the pronunciation, for which the clas- sical reader must make allowance, and which is scarcely worse than the liberty taken with the name of Tantalus.) FABLES AND TALES. 99 Or sent amang the wicked rout, To fill the tub that ay rins out ? “No, no,” continues Minos, “no; Weak are our punishments below For sic a crime; he maun be hurl’d Straight back again into the world: I sentence him to see and hear What use his friends make of his gear.” FABLE VI. JHE APE AND THE LEOPARD. Tue Ape and Leopard, beasts for show, The first a wit, the last a beau, To make a penny at a fair, Advertis’d a’ their parts sae rare. The tane ga’e out with meikle wind, His beauty ’boon the brutal kind : Said he, “I’m kend baith far and near, Even kings are pleas’d when I appear ; And when I yield my vital puff, Queens of my skin will make a muff; My fur sae delicate and fine, With various spots does sleekly shine.” Now lads and lasses fast did rin To see the beast with bonny skin: His keeper shaw’d him round about ; They saw him soon, and soon came out. But master Monkey, with an air, Hapt out, and thus harangu’d the fair : “Come, gentlemen, and ladies bonny, I'll give ye pastime for your money : I can perform, to raise your wonder, Of pawky tricks mae than a hunder. My cousin Spotty, true he’s braw, He has a curious suit to shaw, And naething mair.—But frae my mind Ye shall blyth satisfaction find : Sometimes I'll act a chiel that’s dull, Look thoughtfu’, grave, and wag my skull ; Then mimic a light-headed rake, When on a tow my houghs I shake; Sometime, like modern monks, I’ll seem. To make a speech, and naething mean. But come away, ye needna spier What ye ’re to pay, I’se no be dear ; And if ye grudge for want of sport, T'll give it back 1’ ye at the port.” (1) [Badger.] The Ape succeeded : in fowk went; Stay’d long, and came out well content. Sae much will wit and spirit please, Beyond our shape, and brawest claiths. How mony, ah! of our fine gallants Are only Leopards in their talents ! a FABLE VIII. THE ASS AND THE BROCK.' Uron a time a solemn Ass Was dand’ring thro’ a narrow pass, Where he forgather’d with a Brock, Wha him saluted frae a rock ; Spier’d how he did? how markets gaed ? What ’s a’ ye’r news? and how is trade ? How does Jock Stot and Lucky Yad, Tam Tup, and Bucky, honest lad P— Replied the Ass, and made a heel, “Wen a’ the better that ye ’re weel : But Jackanapes and snarling Fitty Are grown sae wicked (some ca’s ’t witty), That we wha solid are and grave, Nae peace on our am howms can have ; While we are busy gathering gear, Upon a brae they ’ll sit and sneer. If ane should chance to breathe behin’, Or ha’e some slaver at his chin, Or ’gainst a tree should rub his —, That ’s subject for a winsome farce. There draw they me, as void of thinking ; And you, my dear, famous for stinking ; And the bauld birsy bear, your frien’, A glutton, dirty to the een: By laughing dogs and apes abus’d, Wha is ’t can thole to be sae us’d ?” “Dear me! heh! wow! and say ye sae?™ Return’d the Brock :—“I’m unco’ wae, To see this flood of wit break in : O scour about, and ca’t a sin; Stout are your lungs, your voice is loud, And aught will pass upon the crowd.” The Ass thought this advice was right, And bang’d away wi’ a’ his might : Stood on a knowe, among the cattle, And furiously ’gainst wit did rattle : Pour’d out a deluge of dull phrases ; While dogs and apes leugh,? and made faces, Thus a’ the angry Ass held forth Serv’d only to augment their mirth. (2) [Preterit of laugh.) 100 FABLES AND TALES, FABLE IX. THE FOX AND THE RAT. Tue Lion and the Tiger lang maintain’d A bloody weir: at last the Lion gain’d. The royal victor strack the earth with awe, And the four-footed world obey’d his law. Frae ilka species deputies were sent, To pay their homage due, and compliment Their sov’reign liege, wha’d gart the rebels cower, And own his royal right and princely power. After dispute, the moniest votes agree That Reynard should address his majesty, Ulysses-like, in name of a’ the lave ; Wha thus went on :—“O prince ! allow thy slave To reese thy brave achievements and renown ; Nane but thy daring front should wear the crown, Wha art like Jove, whase thunderbolt can make The heavens be hush, and a’ the earth to shake ; Whase very gloom, if he but angry nods, Commands a peace, and flegs th’ inferior gods. Thus thou, great king, hast by thy conqu’ring paw Gien earth a shog, and made thy will a law. Thee a’ the animals with fear adore, And tremble if thou with displeasure roar ; O’er a’ thou canst us eith thy sceptre sway, As badrans can with cheeping rottans play.” This sentence vex’d the envoy Rottan sair ; He threw his gab, and girn’d; but durst nae mair. The monarch pleas’d with Lowry, wha durst gloom? A warrant’s ordered for a good round sum, Which Dragon, lord chief treasurer, must pay To sly-tongu’d Fleechy on a certain day ; Which secretary Ape in form wrote down, Sign’d, Lion, and a wee beneath, Baboon.— Tis given the Fox.—Now Bobtail, tap o’ kin, Made rich at anes, is nor to haud nor bin: He dreams of nought but pleasure, joy, and peace, Now blest with wealth to purchase hens and geese. Yet in his loof he hadna tell’d the gowd, And yet the Rottan’s breast with anger glow’d. He vow’d revenge, and watch’d it night and day; “He took the tid when Lowry was away, And thro’ a hole into his closet slips, There chews the warrant a’ in little nips. Thus what the Fox had for his flatt’ry gotten, Fen frae a Lion, was made nought by an offended Rottan. FABLE X. THE CATERPILLAR AND THE ANT, A pensy Ant, right trig and clean, Came ae day whidding o’er the green ; Where, to advance her pride, she saw A Caterpillar moving slaw. “ Good e’en t’ ye, mistress Ant,” said he; How’s a’ at hame? I’m blyth to s’ ye.” The saucy Ant view’d him with scorn, Nor wad civilities return ; But gecking up her head, quoth she, “Poor animal! I pity thee ; Wha scarce can claim to be a creature, But some experiment of Nature, Whase silly shape displeas’d her eye, And thus wnfinish’d was flung by. For me, I’m made with better grace, With active limbs, and lively face ; And cleverly can move with ease Frae place to place where’er I please ; Can foot a minuet or a jig, And snoov’t like ony whirligig ; Which gars my jo aft grip my hand, Till his heart pitty-pattys, and—— But laigh my qualities I bring, To stand up clashing with a thing, A creeping thing the like of thee, Not worthy of a farewell t? ye.” The airy Ant syne turn’d awa, And left him with a proud gaffa. The Caterpillar was struck dumb, And never answered her a mum: The humble reptile fand some pain, Thus to be banter’d with disdain. But tent neist time the Ant came by, The worm was grown a butterfly : Transparent were his wings and fair, Which bare him flicht’ring thro’ the air. Upon a flower he stapt his flight, And thinking on his former slight, Thus to the Ant himself addrest : “Pray, madam, will ye please to rest ? And notice what I now advise: Inferiors ne’er too much despise, For fortune may gi’e sic a turn, To raise aboon ye what ye scorn; For instance, now I spread my wing In air, while you’re a creeping thing.” FABLES AND TALES. 101 FABLE XI. THE TWA CATS AND THE CHEESE. Twa Cats anes on a cheese did light, To which baith had an equal right ; But disputes, sic as aft arise, Fell out a sharing of the prize. “Fair play,” said ane, “ye bite o’er thick, Thae teeth of yours gang wonder quick ! Let’s part it, else lang or the moon Be chang’d, the kebuck will be doon.” But wha’s to do’t? they’re parties baith, And ane may do the other skaith. Sae with consent away they trudge, And laid the cheese before a judge : A Monkey with a campsho face, Clerk to a justice of the peace. A judge he seem’d in justice skill’d, When he his master’s chair had fill’d : Now umpire chosen for division, Baith sware to stand by his decision. Demure he looks; the cheese he pales ; He prives, it’s good; ca’s for the scales ; His knife whops throw ’t, in twa it fell; He puts ilk haff in either shell ; Said he, “ We’ll truly weigh the case, And strictest justice shall have place.” Then lifting up the scales, he fand The tane bang up, the other stand: Syne out he took the heaviest haff, And eat a knoost 0’t quickly aff ; And tried it syne; it now prov’d light ; “Friend Cats,” said he, “ we’ll do ye right.” Then to the ither haff he fell, And laid till’t teughly tooth and nail ; Til, weigh’d again, it lightest prov’d. The judge, wha this sweet process lov’d, Still weigh’d the case, and still ate on, Tul clients baith were weary grown; And tenting how the matter went, Cried, “Come, come, sir, we’re baith content.” “Ye fools!” quoth he, “and justice too Maun be content as well as you.” Thus grumbled they, thus he went on, Till baith the haves were near-hand done. Poor pousies now the daffin saw, Of gawn for nignyes to the law; And bill’d the judge, that he wad please To give them the remaining cheese. To which his worship grave replied : “The dues of court maun first be paid.— Now justice pleased, what’s to the fore Will but right scrimply clear your score ; That’s our decreet :—gae hame and sleep, And thank us ye’re win aff sae cheap.” FABLE XTi. THE CAMELEON. Twa travellers, as they were wa’king, *Bout the Cameleon fell a ta’king ; Sic think it shaws them mettled men, To say I’ve seen, and ought to ken. Says ane, “It’s a strange beast indeed! Four-footed, with a fish’s head ; A little bowk, with a lang tail, And moves far slawer than a snail; Of colour like a blawart blue—” Replied his neibour, “That’s no true; For well I wat his colour’s green, If ane may true his ain twa een; For I in sunshine saw him fair, When he was dining on the air.”— “Excuse me,” says the ither blade, “T saw him better in the shade, And he is blue.”—“ He’s green, I’m sure.” — “Ye lied.”—“ And ye’re the son of a whore.” Frae words there had been cuff and kick Had not a third come in the nick, Wha tenting them in this rough mood, Cried, “ Gentlemen, what, are ye wood ? What’s ye’r quarrel, and ’t may be spier’d ?”— “Truth,” says the tane; “Sir, ye shall hear ’t : The Cameleon, I say he’s blue ; He threaps, he’s green: now what say you?”—= “Ne’er fash ye’rsells about the matter,” Says the sagacious arbitrator, “He’s black; sae nane of you are right ; I view’d him well with candle-light ; And have it in my pocket here, Row’d in my napkin hale and feer.’— “Fy,” said ae cangler, “what d’ye mean? Pll lay my lugs on’t that he’s green.” Said th’ ither, “ Were I gawn to death, I'd swear he’s blue, with my last breath.”—- He’s black,” the judge maintain’d ay stout; And to convince them, whop’d him out : But to surprise to ane and a’, The animal was white as snaw; And thus reprov’d them: “Shallow boys! “ Away, away, make nae mair noise ; Ye’re a’ three wrang, and a’ three right ; But learn to own your neibours’ sight As good as yours: your judgment speak, But never be sae daftly weak, T’ imagine ithers will by force Submit their sentiments to yours; As things in various lights ye see, They ’ll ilka ane resemble me.” ed 102 FABLES AND TALES. FABLE XIII. THE TWA LIZARDS. Beyezatn a tree, ae shining day, On a burn bank twa Lizards lay, Beeking themsels now in the beams, Then drinking of the cauller streams. *Wae’s me!” says ane of them to th’ ither, “ How mean and silly live we, brither ! Beneath the moon is aught sae poor, Regarded less, or mair obscure ? We breathe indeed, and that’s just a’; But, fore’d by destiny’s hard law, On earth like worms to creep and sprawl ; Curs’d fate to ane that has a saul! Forby, gin we may trow report, In Nilus giant lizards sport, Ca’d crocodiles ; ah! had I been Of sic a size, upon the green Then might I had my skair of fame, Honour, respect, and a great name ; Andm with gaping jaws have shor’d, Syne like a pagod been ador’d.” “Ah, friend!” replies the ither Lizard, “What makes this grumbling in thy gizzard? What cause have ye to be uneasy ? Cannot the sweets of freedom please ye ? We, free frae trouble, toil, or care, Enjoy the sun, the earth, and air, The crystal spring, and greenwvod shaw, And beildy holes when tempests blaw. Why snould we fret, look blae or wan, Tho’ we’re contemn’d by paughty man? Tf sae, let ’s in return he wise, And that proud animal despise.” “O fy!” returns th’ ambitious beast, “ How weak a fire now warms thy breast It breaks my heart to live sae mean ; Vd like ¢’ attract the gazer’s een, And be admir’d. What stately horns The deer’s majestic brow adorns ! He claims our wonder and our dread, Where’er he heaves bis haughty head. What envy a’ my spirit fires, When he in clearest pools admires His various beauties with delight ; T’m like to drown myself with spite.” Thus he held forth; when straight a pack Of honnds, and hunters at their back, Ran down a deer before their face, Breathless and wearied with the chace: The dogs upon the victim seize, And beugles sound his obsequies. But neither men nor dogs took tent Of ow: wee Lizards on the bent ; While hungry Bawty, Buff, and Tray, Devour’d the paunches of the prey. Soon as the bloody deed was past, The Lizard wise the proud addrest : “ Dear cousin, now pray let me hear How wad ye like to be a deer ?” “Ohon!” quoth he, convine’d and wae, “ Wha wad have thought it anes a-day ? Well, be a private life my fate, T’ll never envy mair the great: That we‘are little fowk, that’s true ; But sae’s our cares and dangers too.” FABLE XIV. MERCURY IN QUEST OF PEACE, Tue gods coost out, as story gaes, Some being friends, some bcing faes, To men in a besieged city : Thus some frae spite, and some frae pity, Stood to their point with canker’d strictness, And leftua ither in dog’s likeness. Juno ca’d Venus whore and bawd, Venus ca’d Juno scaulding Jad : F’en cripple Vulcan blew the low, Apollo ran to bend his bow, Dis shook his fork, Pallas her shield, Neptune his grape began to wield. “ What plague!” cries Jupiter, “hey hoy! Maun this town prove anither Troy ? What, will you ever be at odds, Till mankind think us foolish gods ? Hey! Mistress Peace, make haste, appear.” But madam was nae there to hear. “Come, Hermes, wing thy heels and head, And find her out with a’ thy speed: Trowth, this is bonny wark indeed!” Hermes obeys, and stapna short, But flies directly to the court ; For sure (thought he) she will be found On that fair complimenting ground, Where praises and embraces ran, Like current coin, tween man and man. But soon, alake! he was beguil’d; And fand that courtiers only smil'd FABLES AND TALES. 103 And with a formal flatt’ry treat ye, That they mair sickerly might cheat ye. Peace was no there, nor e’er could dwell Where hidden envy makes a hell. Niest to the ha’, where justice stands, With sword and balance in her hands, He flew; no that he thought to find her Between the accuser and defender ; But sure he thought to find the wench Amang the fowk that fill the bench, Sae muckle gravity and grace Appear’d in ilka judge’s face. Even here he was deceiv’d again, For ilka judge stack to his ain Interpretation of the law, And vex’d themsels with haud and draw. Frae thence he flew straight to the kirk In this he prov’d as daft a stirk, To look for Peace, where never three In ev’ry point could e’er agree: Ane his ain gait explain’d a text Quite contrair to his neighbour next, And teughly toolied day and night To gar believers trow them right. Then sair he sigh’d, “ Where can she be P— Well thought—the university : Science is ane, these maun agree.” There did he bend his strides right clever, But is as far mista’en as ever ; For here contention and ill nature Had runkled ilka learn’d feature : Ae party stood for ancient rules, Anither ca’d the ancients fools ; Here ane wad set his shanks aspar, And reese the man that sang Troy war ; Aniiher ca’s him Robin Kar. Well, she’s no here.—Away he flies To seek her amangst families : Tout! what should she do there, I wonder? Dwells she with matrimonial thunder, Where mates, some greedy, some deep drinkers, Contend with thriftless mates or jinkers ? This says ’tis black ; and that, wi’ spite, Stiffly maintains and threaps ’tis white. Wearied at last, quoth he, “ Let ’s see How branches with their stocks agree.” But here he fand still his mistake ; Some parents cruel were, some weak ; While bairns ungratefu’ did behave, And wish’d their parents in the grave. “Has Jove then sent me ’mang thir fowk,” Cricd Hermes, “here to hunt the gowk P Well 1 have made a waly round, To seek what is not to be found.” Just on the wing—towards a burn, A wee piece aff, his looks did turn ; There Mistress Peace he chanc’d to see Sitting beneath a willow tree. * And have I found ye at the last ?” He cried aloud, and held her fast. “Here I reside,” quoth she, and smil’d, “ With an auld hermit in this wild.’— “Well, Madam,” said he, “TI perceive That ane may long your presence crave, And miss ye still; but this seems plain, To have ye, ane maun be alane.” FABLE XV. THE SPRING AND THE SYKE. Fep by a living Spring, a rill Flow’d easily a-down a hill ; A thousand flowers upon its bank Flourish’d fu’ fair, and grew right rank. Near to its course a Syke did lie, Whilk was in summer aften dry, And ne’er recover’d life again, But after soaking showers of rain ; Then wad he swell, look big and sprush, And o’er his margin proudly gush. Ae day, after great waughts of wet, He with the crystal current met, And ran him down with unco’ dir. Said he, “ How poorly does thou rin! See with what state I dash the brae, Whilst thou canst hardly make thy way.” The Spring, with a superior air, Said, “Sir, your brag gives me nae care, For soon’s ye want your foreign aid, Your paughty cracks will soon be laid: Frae my ain head I have supply, But you must borrow, else rin dry.” FABLE XVI. THE PHG@NIX AND THE OWL, 5 Puantx the first, th’ Arabian lord, And chief of all the feather’d kind, A hundred ages had ador’d The sun, with sanctity of mind, 104 FABLES AND TALES. Yet, mortal, ye maun yield to fate ; He heard the summons with a smile, And, unalarm’d, without regret, He form’d himsel a fun’ral pile. A Howlet, bird of mean degree, Poor, dosen’d, lame, and doited auld, Lay lurking in a neighb’ring tree, Cursing the sun loot him be cauld. Said Pheenix, “ Brother, why so griev’d, To ban the Being gives thee breath ? Learn to die better than thou ’st liv’d; Believe me, there ’s nae ill in death.” * Believe ye that ?” the Owl replied: * Preach as ye will, death is an ill; When young I ilka pleasure tried, But now I die against my will. “For you, a species by yoursel, Near eeldins with the sun your god, Nae ferly ’tis to hear you tell Ye ’re tir’d, and inclin’d to nod. “1t should be sae; for had I been As lang upon the warld as ye, Nae tears should e’er drap frae my een, For tinsel of my hollow tree.” “ And what,” return’d th’ Arabian sage, “Have ye t’ observe ye have not seen? Ae day ’s the picture of an age, *Tis ay the same thing o’er again. “Come, let us baith together die: Bow to the sun that gave thee life, Repent thou frae his beams did flee, And end thy poortith pain and strife. “Thou wha in darkness took delight, Frae pangs of guilt couldst ne’er be free, What won thou by thy shunning light >— But time flies on, I haste to die.” “Ye’r servant, sir,” replied the Owl, “T likena in the dark to lowp: The byword ca’s that chiel a fool, That slips a certainty for hope.” Then straight the zealous feather’d king To’s aromatic nest retir’d, Collected sunbeams with his wing, And in a spicy flame expir’d. Meantime there blew a westlin gale, Which to the Howlet bore a coal; The saint departed on his pile, But the blasphemer in his hole : He died for ever.—Fair and bright The Phcenix frae his ashes sprang. Thus wicked men sink down to night, While just men join the glorious thrang. FABLE XVIL THE BOY AND THE PIG’ Dzzp in a narrow craiged Pig Lay mony a dainty nut and fig. A greedy Callan, half a sot, Shot his wee nive into the pot, And thought to bring as mony out As a’ his fangs could gang about ; But the strait neck o’t wadna suffer The hand of this young foolish truffer, Sae strutted, to return again, Which ga’e the gowkie nae sma’ pain. He gowls to be sae disappointed, And drugs till he has ’maist disjointed His shekelbane.—Anither lad Stood by, wha some mair judgment had ; Said, “ Billy, dinna grip at a’, And you with ease a part may draw.” This same advice to men Id lend; Ne’er for o’er much at anes contend, But take the cannyest gate to ease, And pike out joys by twas and threes. FABLE XVIII. TIE MAN WITH THE TWA WIVES. In ancient tales, there is a story, Of ane had twa Wives, whig and tory. The Carlie’s head was now attir’d With hair, in equal mixture lyart, His Wives (faith ane might well suffic’d) Alternately was ay ill pleas’d: They being reverse to ane another In age and faith, made a curs’d pother Whilk of the twa should bear the bell, And make their man maist like themsel. Auld Meg the tory took great care To weed out ilka sable hair, (1) An earthenware vessel. FABLES AND TALES 196 Plucking out all that look’d like youth, Frae crown of head to weeks of mouth ; Saying that baith in head and face, Antiquity was mark of grace. But Bess the whig, a raving rump, Took figmaliries, and wald jump, With sword and pistol by her side, And cock a-stride a rowing ride On the hag-ridden sumph, and grapple Him hard and fast about the thrapple ; And with her furious fingers whirl Frae youthfw’ black ilk silver curl. Thus was he serv’d between the twa, Till no ae hair he had ava. MORAL, The moral of this fable ’s easy, But I sall speak it out to please ye. *Tis an auld saying and a trow, “ Between twa stools the arse fa’s throw.” Thus Britain’s morals are much plucked, While by two opposites instructed ; Who still contending, have the trick The strongest truths to contradict ; Tho’ orthodox, they ll error make it, If party opposite has spake it. Thus are we keytch’d between the twa, Like to turn deists ane and a’. FABLE XIX. THE FABLE OF THE CONDEMNED ASS. A DREADFUL plague, the like was sindle seen, Cast mony a beast wame upwards on the green : By thousands down to Acheron they sank, To dander ages on the dowie bank, Because they lay unburied on the sward, The sick survivors couldna give them eard. The wowf and tod with sighing spent the day, Their sickly stamacks scunner’d at the prey ; Fowls droop the wing, the bull neglects his love ; Scarce crawl the sheep, and weakly horses move: The bauldest brutes that haunt Numidian glens, Lie panting out their lives in dreary dens. Thick lay the dead, and thick the pain’d and weak, The prospect gart the awfu’ lion quake. He ca’s a council.—“ Ah! my friends,” said he, “Tis for some horrid faut sae mony dic ; Sae heaven pei mits.—Then let us a’ confess, With open breast, our crimes baith mair and less, That the revengefw’ gods may be appeas’d, When the maist guilty wight is sacrifie’d. Fa’t on the feyest: 1 shall first begin, And awn whate’er my conscience ca’s a sin. The sheep and deer I’ve worried, now, alace Crying for vengeance, glowr me i’ the face ; Forby their herd, poor man! to croun my treat, Limb after limb, with bloody jaws I ate : Ah, glutton me! what murders have I done !— Now say about, confess ilk ane as soon And frank as I.’—* Sire,” says the pawky Tod, “ Your tenderness bespeaks you haf a god! Worthy to be the monarch of the grove, Worthy your friends’ and a’ your subjects’ love. Your scruples are too nice: what’s harts or sheep? An idiot crowd, which for your board ye keep ; And where ’s the sin for ane to take his ain ? Faith ’tis their honour when by you theyre slain. Neist, what ’s their herd ?—a man, our deadly fae! Wha o’er us beasts pretends a fancied sway; And ne’er makes banes o’t, when ’tis in his power, With guns and bows our nation to devour.” He said; and round the courtiers all and each Applauded Lawrie for his winsome speech. The tiger, bair, and ev’ry powerfw’ fur, Down to the wilcat and the snarling cur, Confess’d their crimes :—but wha durst ca’ them crimes, Except themsells ? The Ass, dull thing! neist in his turn confest, That being with hunger very sair opprest, In o’er a dike he shot his head ae day, And rugg’d three mouthfu’s aff a ruck of hay: “ But spiering leave,” said he, “some wicked de’il Did tempt me frae the parish priest to steal.” He said; and all at ains the powerfw’ crowd, With open throats, cried hastily and loud, “This gypsie Ass deserves ten deaths to die, Whase horrid guilt brings on our misery!” A gaping wow, in office, straight demands To have him burnt, or tear him where he stands: Hanging, he said, was an o’er easy death ; He should in tortures yield his latest breath. What, break a bishop’s yard! ah, crying guilt! Which nought can expiate till his blood be spilt. The Lion signs his sentence, “ hang and draw :” Sae poor lang lugs maun pay the kane for a’. Hence we may ken, how power has eith the knack To whiten red, and gar the blue seem black : They ’ll start at winlestraes, you never crook, When interest bids, to lowp out o’er a stowk. P FABLES AND TALES, FABLE XX. THE GODS OF EGYPT. Lanesyye in Egypt beasts were gods; Sae mony, that the men turn’d beasts ; Vermin and brutes but house or hald, Had offerings, temples, and their priests. Ae day a Rattan, white as milk, At a Cat’s shrine was sacrifie’d, And pompous on the altar bled : The victim much god Badrans pleas’d. The neist day was god Rattan’s tour ; And that he might propitious smile, A Cat is to his temple brought, Priests singing round him a’ the while Odes, anthems, hymns, in verse and prose, With instruments of solemn sound, Praying the lang-tail’d deity To bless their faulds and furrow’d ground. “QO! plague us not with cats,” they cried, “For this we cut ane’s throat to thee.” * A bonny god indeed!” quoth Puss ; “Can ye believe sae great a lie? “ What am I then that eat your god ? And yesterday to me ye bow’d; This day I’m to that vermin offer’d : God save us! ye’re a senseless crowd.” The close reflection gart them glower, And shook their thoughts half out of joint ; But rather than be fash’d with thought, They gart the ax decide the point. Thus we ’re Egyptians ane and a’ ; Our passions gods, that gar us swither ; Which, just as the occasion serves We sacrifice to ane anither, FABLE XXI. THE SPECTACLES. Ar day when Jove, the high director, Was merry o’er a bowl of nectar, Resolv’d a present to bestow On the inhabitants below. | | Momus, wha likes his joke and wine, Was sent frae heaven with the propine. Fast thro’ the ether fields he whirl’d His rapid car, and reach’d the world : Conven’d mankind, and told them Jove Had sent a token of his love ; Considering that they were short-sighted, That fault should presently be righted. Syne loos’d his wallet frae the pillions, And toss’d out spectacles by millions. There were enow, and ilk ane chose His pair, and cock’d them on his nose ; And thankfully their knees they bended To heaven, that thus their sight had mended. Straight Momus hameward took his flight, Laughing fu’ loud, as well he might. For ye maun ken, ’tis but o’er true, The glasses were some red, some blue, Some black, some white, some brown, some green, Which made the same thing different seem. Now all was wrong, and all was right, For ilk believ’d his aided sight, And did the joys of truth partake, In the absurdest gross mistake. —_ + —__ FABLE XXII. THE FOX TURNED PREACHER. A LEARNED Fox grown stiff with eild, Unable now in open field, By speed of foot and clever stends, To seize and worry lambs and hens ; But Lowry never wants a shift To help him out at a dead lift. He cleath’d himsel in reverend dress, And turn’d a preacher, naething less ! Held forth wi’ birr ’gainst wier unjust, *Gainst theft and gormandizing lust. Clear was his voice, his tone was sweet, In zea] and mien he seem’d complete ; Sae grave and humble was his air, His character shin’d wide and fair. °Tis said the lion had a mind To hear him; but Mess Fox declin’d That honour: reasons on his side Said that might snare him into pride. But sheep and powtry, geese and ducks, Came to his meeting-hole in flocks ; Of being his prey they had nae fear, His text the contrary made clear. “ Curs’d be that animal voracious,” Cried he, “sae cruel and ungracious, FABLES AND TALES. 107 That chooses flesh to be his food, And takes delight in waughting blood !— What, live by murder !—horrid deed ! While we have trees, and ilka mead, Finely enrich’d with herbs and fruits, To serve and please the nicest brutes. We should respect, dearly belov’d, Whate’er by breath of life is mov’d. First, ’tis unjust; and, secondly, *Tis cruel, and a cruelty By which we are expos’d (O sad!) To eat perhaps our lucky dad: For ken, my friend, the saul ne’er dies, But frae the failing body flies ; Leaves it to rot, and seeks anither ; i Thus young Miss Goose may be my mither ; The bloody wowf, seeking his prey, His father in a sheep may slay ; And I, in worrying lambs or cocks, Might choke my grandsire Doctor Fox. Ah! heaven protect me frae sic crimes ; Td rather die a thousand times.” Thus our bob-tailed Pythagoras preach’d, And with loud cant his lungs out-stretch’d. His sermon sounded o’er the dale, While thus he moralis’d with zeal.. His glass spun out, he ceas’d, admir’d By all who joyfully retir’d. But after a’ the lave was gane, Some geese, twa chickens and a hen, Thought fit to stay a little space, To tawk about some kittle case. Lhe doctor hem’d, and in he drew them, Then quiet and decently he slew them ; On whom he fed the good auld way. Those who wan aff, thrice happy they. FABLE XXIII. THE BEE AND THE FLY. Berors her hive, a paughty Bee Observ’d a humble midden Fly,’ And proudly spier’d what brought her there, And with what front she durst repair Amang the regents of the air. “Tt sets ye well,” the Fly replied, “To quarrel with sic saucy pride! They ’re daft indeed has ought to do With thrawin contentious fowk like you.”— (1) [Pronounced “ fiee."] “Why, scoundrel, you!” return’d the Bee, “ What nation is sae wise as we? Best laws and policy is ours, And our repast the fragrant flowers : No sordid nasty trade we drive, But with sweet honey fill the hive ; Honey maist gratefu’ to the taste, On which the gods themsels may feast. Out of my sight, vile wretch! whose tongue Is daily slacking through the dung ; Vile spirits, filthily content To feed on stinking excrement!” The Fly replied in sober way, “ Faith, we maun live as weel’s we may : Glad poverty was ne’er a vice, But sure ill-natur’d passion is. Your honey ’s sweet; but then how tart And bitter ’s your malicious heart ! In making laws you copy heaven, But in your conduct how uneven! To fash at ony time a fae, Ye ’ll never stick ye’rsels to slae, And skaith yoursel mair sickerly Than e’er you can your enemy. At that rate, ane had better have Less talents, if they can behave Discreet, and less their passions’ slave.” er we FABLE XXIV. THE HORSE’S COMPLAINT. “Au! what a wretch’d unlucky corse Am I!” cries a poor hireling horse ; “Toil’d a’ the day quite aff my feet, With little time or aught to eat: By break of day, up frae my bed Of dirt I’m rais’d to draw the sled, Or cart, as haps to my wanluck, To ca’ in coals, or out the muck; Or drest in saddle, howse, and bridle, To gallop with some gamphrel idle, That for his hiring pint and shilling, Obliges me, tho’ maist unwilling, With whip, and spur sunk in my side, O’er heights and hows all day to ride; While he neglects my hungry wame, Till aft I fa’ and make him lame; ‘Who curses me should ban himsel, He starv’d me ;—I with faintness fell. “ How happy lives our baron’s ape That ’s good for nought but girn and gape, Or round about the lasses flee, And hit their coats aboon their knee , FABLES AND TALES. To frisk and jump frae stool to stool, Turn up his bum, and play the fool ; Aft rives a mutch, or steals a spoon, And burns the bairns’ hose and shoon: Yet while I’m starving in the stable, This villain ’s cock’d upon the table, There fed and rees’d by all around him, By foolish chiels, the pox confound them !” “My friend,” says a dowse-headed ox, “ Our knight is e’en like other folks For ’tis not them who labour maist That commonly are paid the best : Then ne’er cast up what ye deserve, Since better ’tis to please than serve.” TIT FOR TAT. Bz-sourH our channel, where ’tis common To be priest-ridden, man and woman A father anes, in grave procession, Went to receive a wight’s confession, Whase sins, lang gather’d, now began To burden sair his inner man. But happy they that can with ease Fling aff sic loads whene’er they please ! Lug out your sins, and eke your purses, And soon your kind spiritual nurses Will ease you of these heavy turses. Cries Hodge, and sighs, “Ah! father ghostly, I lang’d anes for some jewels costly, And staw them frae a sneaking miser, Wha was a wicked cheating squeezer, And much had me and others wrang’d, For which I aften wish’d him hang’d.”— The father says, “I own, my son, To rob or pilfer is ill done ; But I can eith forgive the fault, Since it is only tit for tat.” The sighing penitent gaed furder, And own’d his anes designing murder ; That he had lent ane’s guts a skreed, Wha had gi’en him a broken head. Replies the priest, “ My son, ’tis plain That ’s only tit for tat again.” But still the sinner sighs and sobs, And cries, “Ah! these are venial jobs, To the black crime that yet behind Lies like Auld Nick upon my mind: I dare no name ’t; I’d lure be strung Up by the neck, or by the tongue, As speak it out to you: believe me, The fault you never wad forgive me.” The holy man, with pious care, Intreated, pray’d, and spake him fair ; Conjur’d him, as he hop’d for heaven, To tell his crime, and be forgiven. “Well then,” says Hodge, “if it maun be, Prepare to hear a tale frae me, That when ’tis told, I’m unko fear’d, Ye “ll wish it never had been heard : Ah me! your reverence’s sister, Ten times I carnally have—kist her.” * All’s fair,” returns the reverend brother, “ve done the samen with your mother Three times as aft; and sae for that We’re on a level, tit for tat.” —_» —— THE PARROT. Aw honest man had tint his wife, And, wearied of a dowy life, Thought a parroquet bade maist fair, With tattling to divert his care: For the good woman sair he griev’d ; He had needed nane if she had liv’d. Straight to a bird-man’s shop he hies, Who, stock’d with a that wing the skies, And give delight with feathers fair, Or please with a melodious air ; Larks, gowdspinks, mavises, and linties, Baith hame-bred, and frae foreign countries ; Of parrots he had curious choice, Carefully bred to make a noise ; The very warst had learn’d his tale, To ask a cup of sack or ale; Cry westlin herrings, or fresh salmons, White sand, or Norway nuts like almonds. Delighted with their various claver, While wealth made all his wits to waver, He cast his look beneath the board, Where stood ane that spake ne’er a word: “Pray what art thou stands speechless there ?* Replied the bird, “I think the mair.” The buyer says, “Thy answer ’s wise, And thee I'll have at any price. What must you have ?”—“ Five pounds.”~- “Tis thine The money, and the bird is mine.” Now in his room this feather’d sage Is hung up in a gilded cage, FABLUS AND TALES. 109 The master’s expectations fully Possest to hear him tauk like Tully : But a hale month is past and gane, He never hears a rhyme but ane ; Still in his lugs he hears if rair, “The less I speak I think the mair.”— “Confound ye for a silly sot, What a dull idiot have I got! As dull’s mysell, on short acquaintance, To judge of ane by a single sentence!” ee THE ECLIPSE. Oron his gilded chariot, led by Hours, With radiant glories darting through the air The Sun, high sprung in his diurnal course, Shed down a day serenely sweet and fair. The Earth mair beautiful and fertile grew ; The flow’ry fields in rich array, Smil’d lovely on the beamy day, Delightful for the eye to view ; Ceres, with her golden hair, Displaying treasure ikka where, While useful Plenty made her stalks to bow. A thousand little suns glane’d on the wave ; Nature appear’d to claim the Sun’s respect, All did sae blyth and beauteously behave. “ Ah!” cried the Moon, “too much for him ye deck ; My aching een cannot this glory bear ; This Sun pretends nane in the sky Can shine but him, then where am I ? Soon I the contrary shall-clear : By ae bauld strake, With him I’1l make My equal empire in the Heaven appear. “Tis I that gives a lustre to the night, Then should not I my proper right display And now, even now dart down my silver light ? I give enough, this Sun gives too much day.” The project fram’d, pale Cynthia now to shaw Her shining power, right daftly run Directly ’tween the Earth and Sun. Unwise design! the world then saw Instead of light, the Moon Brought darkness in at noon, And without borrowing, had no light at a’. Thus many empty and imprudent men, Wha to their ain infirmities are blind, Ray yont their reach, and this way let us ken A jealous, weak, and insufficient mind. |THE MONK AND THE MILLER’S WIFE.! Now lend your lugs, ye benders fine, Wha ken the benefit of wine ; And you wha laughing scud brown ale, Leave jinks a wee, and hear a tale. An honest miller won’d in Fife, That had a young and wanton wife, Wha sometimes thol’d the parish priest To mak’ her man a twa-horn’d beast. He paid right mony visits till her, And to keep in with Hab the miller, He endeavour’d aft to mak’ him happy, Where’er he ken’d the ale was nappy. Sic condescension in a pastor, Knit Halbert’s love to. him the faster ; And by his converse, troth ’tis true, Hab learn’d to preach when he was fu’. Thus all the three were wonder pleas’d. The wife well serv’d, the man well eas’d. This ground his corns, and that did cherish Himself with dining round the parish. Bess, the good wife, thought it nae skaith, Since she was fit to serve them baith. When equal is the night and day, And Ceres gives the schools the play, A youth sprung frae a gentler pater, Bred at Saint Andrew’s alma mater, Ae day gawn hameward, it fell late, And him benighted by the gate. To lye without, pit-mirk, did shore him, He couldna see his thumb before him ; But clack, clack, clack, he heard a mill, Whilk led him by the lugs theretill. To tak’ the threed of tale alang, This mill to Halbert did belang ; Not less this note your notice claims, The scholar’s name was Master James. Now, smiling muse, the prelude past, Smoothly relate a tale shall last As lang as Alps and Grampian hills, As lang as wind or water mills. In enter’d James, Hab saw and ken’d him And offer’d kindly to befriend him (L Ramsay borrowed the plot of this tale from “ The Freir of Berwick,” a much superior composition of the fifteenth century, usually attributed to Dunbar. The Benedictine, in the preface to “The Abbot,” intimates the opinion of Scott that the story might probably have been derived by the last-mentioned author from some collection of fabliaux of the thirteenth or fourteenth century.—Robert Chambers. 410 FABLES AND TALES. With sic good cheer as he could make, Baith for his ain and father’s sake, The scholar thought himself right sped, And gave him thanks in terms well bred. Quoth Hab, “I canna leave my mill As yet; but step ye west the kill A bow-shot, and ye ’ll find my hame ; Gae warm ye, and crack with our dame, Till I set aff the mill, syne we Shall tak’ what Bessy has to gi’e.” James, in return, what ’s handsome said, O’er lang to tell, and aff he gaed. Out of the house some light did shine, Which led him till’t as with a line : Arrived, he knock’d, for doors were steekit - Straight through a window Bessy keekit, And cries, “ Wha.’s that gies fowk a fright At sic untimous time of night ?” James, with good humour, maist discreetly Told her his circumstance completely. *T dinna ken ye,” quoth the wife, “ And up and down the thieves are rife ; Within my lane, I’m but a woman, Sae Ill unbar my door to nae man : But since ’tis very like, my dow, That all ye ’re telling may be true, Hae, there ’s a key, gang in your way At the neist door, there ’s braw ait strae ; Streek down upon’t, my lad, and learn They ’re no ill lodg’d that get a barn.” Thus, after meikle clitter clatter, James fand he couldua mend the matter ; And since it might na better be, With resignation took the key ; Unlockt the barn, clam up the mow, Where was an opening near the hou’, Throw whilk he saw a glent of light, That gave diversion to his sight : By this he quickly could discern, A thin wa’ sep’rate house and barn; And through this rive was in the wa’, All done within the house he saw : He saw what ought not to be seen, And scarce gave credit to his een, The parish priest, of reverend fame, In active courtship with the dame! To lengthen out description here Would but offend the modest ear, And beet the lewder youthfu’ flame That we by satire strive to tame. Suppose the wicked action o’er, And James continuing still to glower; Wha saw the wife as fast as able Spread a clean servite on the table, And syne, frae the ha’ ingle, bring ben A piping het young roasted hen, . And twa good bottles stout and clear, Ane of strong ale, and ane of beer. But, wicked luck! just as the priest Shot in his fork in chucky’s breast, Th’ unwelcome miller ga’e a roar, Cried “ Bessy, haste ye ope the door.” With that the haly letcher fled, And darn’d himsell behind a bed; While Bessy huddl’d a’ things by, That nought the cuckold might espy ; Syne loot him in; but, out of tune, Spier’d why he left the mill sae soon. “T come,” said he, “as manners claims, To crack and wait on Master James, Whilk I should do tho’ ne’er sae bissy ; I sent him here, good wife, where is he ? "— “Ye sent him here!” quoth Bessy, grumbling; “Ken’d I this James? a chiel came rumbling, But how was I assur’d, when dark, That he had been nae thievish spark, Or some rude wencher gotten a dose, That a weak wife could ill oppose ? ’— “And what came of him? speak nae langer ;* Cries Halbert, in a Highland anger. “T sent him to the barn,” quoth she; “Gae, quickly bring him in,” quoth he. James was brought in; the wife was bawked; The priest stood close; the miller cracked: Then ask’d his sunkan gloomy spouse, What supper had she in the house, That might be suitable to gi’e Ane of their lodger’s qualitie ? Quoth she, “ Ye may well ken, goodman, Your feast comes frae the pottage-pan ; The stov’d or roasted we afford Are aft great strangers on our board.”— “ Pottage,” quoth Hab, “ye senseless tawpie! Think ye this youth’s a gilly-gawpy ; And that his gentle stamock’s master, To worry up a pint of plaister, Like our mill knaves that lift the lading, Whase kytes can streek out like raw plaiding P Swift roast a hen, or fry some chickens, And send for ale frae Maggie Picken’s.”— * Hout 1,” quoth she, “ve may well ken, *Tis il brought but that ’s no there ben; When but last owk, nae farder gane, The laird got a to pay his kain.” Then James, wha had as good a guess Of what was in the house as Bess, With pawky smile, this plea to end, To please himsell, and ease his friend, First open’d, with a slee oration, His wond’rous skill in conjuration : FABLES AND TALES. ii] Said he, “ By this fell art I’m able To whop aff any great man’s table Whate’er I like to make a meal of, Either in part, or yet the hale of; And, if ye please, I’ll shaw my art.” Cries Halbert, “Faith, with all my heart.” Bess sain’d herself, cried, “Lord, be here!” And near-hand fell a-swoon for fear. James leugh, and bade her naithing dread ; Syne to his conjuring went with speed : And first he draws a circle round, ‘Then utters mony a magic sound Of words, part Latin, Greek, and Dutch, Enow to fright a very witch. That done, he says, “ Now now, ’tis come, And in the boal beside the lum: Now set the board, good wife, gae ben, Bring frae yon boal a roasted hen.” She wadna gang, but Haby ventur’d ; And soon as he the ambrie enter’d, It smell’d sae well he short time sought it, And, wond’ring, ’tween his hands he brouglit it. He view’d it round, and thrice he smell’d it, Syne with a gentle touch he felt it. Thus ilka sense he did conveen, Lest glamour had beguil’d his een: They all in an united body, Declar’d it a fine fat how-towdy. “Nae mair about it,” quoth the miller, “The fowl looks well, and we ’Il fa’ till her.” “Sae be’t,” says James, and, in a doup, They snapt her up baith stoup and roup. “Neist, O!” cries Halbert, “could your skill But help us to a waught of ale, I’d be oblig’d t’ ye a’ my life, And offer to the deil my wife, To see if hell discreeter make her, But that I’m fleed he winna take lier.” Said James, “ Ye offer very fair; The bargain ’s hadden, sae nae mair.” Then thrice he took a willow wand, With kittle words thrice gave command ; That done, with look baith learn’d and grave, Said, “ Now ye’ll get what ye wad have: Twa bottles of as nappy liquer As ever ream’d in horn or bicquer, Behind the ark that hauds your meal Ye’ll find twa standing corkit: well.” He said, and fast the miller flew, And frae their nests the bottles drew ; Then first the scholar’s health he toasted, Whase art had gart him fed on roasted ; His father’s neist, and a’ the rest Of his good friends that wish’d him best, Which were o’er langsome at the time In a short tale to put in rhyme. Thus while the miller and the youth Were blythly slocking of their drowth, Bess fretting, scarcely held frae greeting, The priest inclos’d stood vex’d and sweating. “O wow!” said Hab, “if ane might spier, Dear Master James, wha brought our cheer Sic laits appear to us sae awfv’, We hardly think your learning lawfu’.” “To bring your doubts to a conclu ion,” Says James, “ken I’m a Rosicrucian, Ane of the set that never carries On traffic with black deils or fairies ; There ’s mony a spirit that ’s no deil That constantly around us wheel. There was a sage call’d Albumazor, Whase wit was gleg as ony razor ; Frae this great man we learn’d the skill To bring these gentry to our will; And they appear, when we ’ve a mind, In ony shape of human kind: Now if you ’ll drap your foolish fear, I’ll gar my Pacolet appear.” Hab fidg’d and leugh, his elbuck clew, Baith fear’d and fond a sp’rit to view : At last his courage wan the day, He to the scholar’s will gave way. Bessy by this began to smell A rat, but kept her mind to ’rseil : She pray’d like howdy in her drink, But meantime tipt young James a wink. James frae his e’e an answer sent, Which made the wife right well content ; Then turn’d to Hab, and thus advis’d: “ Whate’er you see, be nought surpris’d ; But for your saul move not your tongue; And ready stand with a great rung, Syne as the sp’rit gangs marching out, Be sure to lend him a sound rout : I bidna this by way of mocking, For nought delytes him mair than knock- ing.” Hab got a kent, stood by the hallan, And straight the wild mischievous callan Cries, “ Rhadamanthus husky mingo, Monk, horner, hipock, jinko, jingo, Appear in likeness of a priest ; No like a deil, in shape of beast, With gaping shafts to fleg us a’ ; Walk forth, the door stands to the wa.’” FABLES AND TALES. Then, frae the hole where he was pent, The priest approach’d, right well content ; With silent pace strade o’er the floor, Till he was drawing near the door, Then, to escape the cudgel, ran ; But was not miss’d by the goodman, ‘Wha lent him on his neck a lounder, That gart him o’er the threshold founder. Darkness soon hid him frae their sight ; Ben flew the miller in a fright ; “1 trow,” quoth he, “T laid well on; But wow! he’s like our ain Mess John.” THE DAFT BARGAIN. At market anes, I watna how, Twa herds between them coft a cow: Driving her hame, the needfw’ hacky, But ceremony, chanc’d to k——y. Quoth Rab right ravingly to Raff, “Gin ye ll eat that digested draff Of Crummy, I shall quat my part.”— “A bargain be ’t, with a’ my heart,” Raff soon reply’d, and lick’d his thumb, To gorble ’t up without a gloom: Syne till’t he fell, and seem’d right yap His mealtith quickly up to gawp, Half done, his heart began to scunner, But lootna on till Rab strak under ; Wha fearing skair of cow to tine, At his daft bargain did repine. “Well, well,” quoth Raff, “tho’ ye was rash T’ll scorn to wrang ye, senseless hash ! Come fa? to wark as I ha’e done, And eat the ither half as soon, Ye’s save ye’r part.”—“ Content,” quoth And slerg’d the rest o’t in his gab. Now what was tint, or what was won, Ts eithly seen; my story ’s done: Yet frae this tale confed’rate states may learn To save their cow, and yet not eat her sharn. — THE TWA CUT-PURSES. Ly borrows-town there was a fair, And mony a landart coof was there Baith lads and lasses busked brawly To glower at ilka bonny waly, And lay out ony ora-bodles On sma’ gimeracks that ;leas’d their noddles, Sic as a jocktaleg, or sheers, Confeckit ginger, plumbs, or pears. These gaping gowks twa rogues survey, And on their cash this plot they lay : The tane, less like a knave than fool, Unbidden clam the high cockstool, And pat his head and baith his hands Throw holes where the ill-doer stands. Now all the crowd with mouth and een Cried out, “ What does this idiot mean?” They glower’d and leugh, and gather’d thick, And never thought upon a trick, Till he beneath had done his job, By tooming pouches of the mob; Wha now possest of rowth of gear, Scour’d aff as lang’s the coast was clear. But, wow! the ferly quickly chang’d, When through their empty fobs they rang’d : Some girn’d, and some look’d blae wi’ grief ; While some cried out, “ Fy! haud the thief.” But ne’er a thief or thief was there, Or could be found in a’ the fair The jip, wha stood aboon them a’ His innocence began to shaw; Said he, “ My friends, I’m very sorry To hear your melancholy story ; But sure where’er your tinsel be, Ye canna lay the wyte on me.” THE LURE. THE sun just o’er the hills was peeping, The hynds arising, gentry sleeping, The dogs were barking, cocks were crawing, Night-drinking sots counting their lawing ; Clean were the roads, and clear the day, When forth a falconer took his way, Nane with him but his she knight-errant, That acts in air the bloody tyrant ; While with quick wing, fierce beak, and claws, She breaks Divine and human laws ; Ne’er pleas’d but with the hearts and livers Of peartricks, teals, moor-powts, and plivers : Yet is she much esteem’d and dandl’d, Clean lodged, well fed, and saftly handI’d. Reason for this need be nae wonder, Her parasites share in the plunder. Thus sneaking rooks about a court, That make oppression but their sport, Will praise a paughty bloody king, And hire mean hackney poets to sing His glories ; while the deil be licket He e’er attempt but what he stictet. FABLES AND TALES. So, sir, as I was gawn to say, This falconer had ta’en his way O’er Calder-moor; and gawn the moss up, He there forgather’d with a gossip ; And wha was ’t, trow ye, but the Deil That had disguis’d himsell sae weel Tn human shape, sae snug and wylie, Jude took him for a burlie-bailie His cloven cloots were hid with shoon, A bonnet coor’d his horns aboon : Nor spat he fire, or brimstone rifted, Nor awsome glower’d; but calmly lifted His een and voice, and thus began : “Good morning t? ye, honest man ; Ye ’re early out; how far gae ye This gate —I’m blyth of company. What fowl is that, may ane demand, That stands sae trigly on your hand ?”— “Wow! man,” quoth Juden, “ where won ye? The like was never spier’d at me! Man, ’tis a hawk, and e’en as good As ever flew, or wore a hood.”— “Friend, I’m a stranger,” quoth auld Symmie, I hope ye “ll no be angry wi’ me ; The ignorant maun ay be spiering Questions, till they come to a clearing. Then tell me mair: what do ye wi’t ? Is ‘t good to sing, or good to eat?” “For neither,” answered simple Juden ; “ But helps to bring my lord his food in: When fowls start up that I wad ha’e, Straight frae my hand I let her gae ; Her hood ta’en aff, she is not langsome In taking captives, which I ransome With a dow’s wing, or chicken’s leg.”— “Troth,” quoth the Deil, “that’s nice; I beg Ye ’ll be sae kind as let me see How this same bird of yours can flee.” — “TT” oblige ye, friend, I winna stand.” Syne loos’d the falcon frae his hand. Unhooded, up she sprang with birr, While baith stood staring after her. “ But how d’ ye get her back?” said Nick. “For that,” quoth Jude, “I have a trick: Ye see this Lure, it shall command Her upon sight down to my hand.” Syne twirl’d it thrice, with whieu, whieu, whieu, And straight upon ’t the falcon flew. “As I’m a simmer,” cries the Deil; T like this pastime wonder weel ; 113 And since ye’ve been sae kindly free To let her at my bidding flee, T’ll entertain ye in my gate.” Meantime it was the will of fate, A hooded Friar (ane of that clan Ye have descriv’d by Father Gawin,! In “ Master-Keys”) came up, good saul! Him Satan cleek’d up by the spaul, Whip’d aff his hood, and without mair, Ga’e him a toss up in the air: High flew the son of Saint Loyola, While startled Juden gave a hola! Bombaz’d with wonder, still he stood, The ferly had maist crudled his blood, To see a monk mount like a facon! He ’gan to doubt if he was wakin : Thrice did he rub his een to clear, And having master’d part o’s fear, “His presence be about us a’!” He cries, “the like I never saw : See, see! he like a lavrock tours ; He ’ll reach the starns in twa ’r three hours Ist possible to bring him back ?”— “ For that,” quoth Nick, “I have a knack: To train my birds I want na Lures, Can manage them as ye do yours: And there ’s ane coming hie gate hither, Soon shall bring down the holy brither.” This was a fresh young landart Lass, With cheeks like cherries, een like glass ; Few coats she wore, and they were kilted, And “John, come kiss me now” she lilted, As she skift o’er the benty knowes, Gawn to the bught to milk the ewes: Her in his hand slee Belzie hint up, As eith as ye wad do a pint-stoup, Inverted, wav’d her round his head ; Whieu, whieu, he whistled, and with speed, Down, quick as shooting starns, the Priest Came souse upon the Lass’s breast. The moral of this tale shows plainly, ‘That carnal minds attempt but vainly Aboon this laigher world to mount, While slaves to Satan ; THE THIMBLE? Wmat god shall I invoke to raise my song? What goddess I of the ceiestial throng ? (1) The Reverend Anthony Gawin, formerly a Spanish Roman Catholic priest, now an Irish Protestant minister; who hath - lately wrote three volumes on the tricks aud whoredoms of the | priests and nuns; which book he names ‘Master-Keys to Popery."— ALLAN Ramsay. (2) (This poem was first published by Mr, Robert. Chambers, g lit Shall bright Apollo lend to me his aid? Shall chaste Lucina bring my muse to bed? Oh! rather, greatest beauty of the sky, [ write for Lydia; hear your vot’ry’s cry ! You gave your charms to her—What can you then deny ? All o’er this globe, where Phcebus darts his rays, What strange variety accosts our eyes! We see how nations variously incline, How different studies favour different men. Some love to chase the fox throughout the day, Others to dance the winter night away ; Unlike to these, some love the trumpet’s sound, And cries of men, when gasping on the ground ; To some, of fancy warm, it gives delight, Instructed by the muses, verse to write Of bards, some generals in fight rehearse ; Others with groves and fountains crowd their verse. Greater than theirs has fallen to my share— A theme sublimer far demands my care : I sing the Thinble—armour of the fair. Hail! heaven-invented engine! gift divine! You keep the tend’rest fingers free from pain. Sing, lofty muse, from whence the thimble sprung— | The thimble—safeguard of the fair and young. In ancient times, ere mortals learnt the trade, Bright Venus for herself her mantles made. As busied once in Cyprian grove she sat, Her turtles fondly sleeping at her feet, With hands alone to sew the goddess tried, Her wand’ring thoughts were otherwise employ’d ; When lo! ber necdle—strange effect of spite— Wounded that skin it could not see so bright ; She starts—she raves—she trembles with the smart ; The point that prick’d her skin went to her heart. Sharp pain would not allow her long to stop ; “My doves,” she cried, “haste to Olympus’ top !” The tim’rous, beauty gets into her car— Her pinion’d bearers swiftly cut the air. As quick as thought they reach’d the sacred ground, Where mighty Jove with Juno sat enthron’d. * What ails my child?” to her then cried the god; “Why thus in tears? What makes you look so odd ? Would you a favour beg?” A while she stood, Her ivory finger stain’d with purple blood ; in his ‘Select Poetical Works of Allan Ramsay,” People’s Edition, 1838. The learned and industrious editor states that it was copied from a privately printed sheet stuck into a copy of Chalmers’s edition of Ramsay, which was formerly the property of Ilarry Guthrie, Esq., W.S., Edinburgh, and then in possession of Mr. Chambers himself. Of ity authenticity, he adds, there fg uo room tor doubt} FABLES AND TALES. Then thus :—“Oh! father of the gods,” she pray’d, “ Grant I may be invulnerable made!” With look sedate, returned the awful sire— “Daughter, you do not know what. you desire , Would you to Pluto’s gloomy regions run ? Would you be dipp’d in Styx, like Thetis’ son ? Could you unfrighted view hell’s dismal shore ? What shall I say then? Go, and stitch no more.” Ashamed—unsatisfied—away she hies To try her fate again beneath the skies. “Shall I,” she said, “ while goddesses well drest, Outshine each other at a birthday feast— Shall I in simple nakedness be brought, Or clothed in rags? Intolerable thought! No! rather may the blood my cheeks forsake, And a new passage through my fingers take!” Tn fertile Sicily, well known to fame, A mountain stands, and Etna is its name. Tremendous earthquakes rend the flinty rock, And vomit forth continual fire and smoke: Here Vulcan forges thunderbolts for Jove— Here frames sharp arrows for the God of Love ; His Cyclops with their hammers strike around-— The hollow caverns echo back the sound. Here Venus brought her pigeons and her coach— The one-eyed workmen ceased at her approach ; When Vulcan thus :—“ My charmer! why so pale? You seem prepared to tell some dismal tale. Does fierce Tydides still his rage pursue ? Or has your son his arrows tried on you?” “Ah no!” “What makes you bleed then? answer quick.” “Oh no! my lord, my husband! Know, a prick Of needle’s point has made me wondrous sick.” “Fear not, my spouse!” said Vulcan, “ne’er again Never shall any needle give you pain.” With that the charming goddess he embraced, Then in a shell of brass her finger cased. “ This little engine shall in future days,” Continued he, “ receive the poets’ praise, And give a fruitful subject for their lays ; This shall the lovely Lydia’s finger grace— Lydia, the fairest of the human race !” He spoke—then, with a smile, the Queen of Love Return’d him thanks, and back to Cyprus drove. When Venus Lydia with beauty blest, She granted her the thimble with the rest ; Yet cannot brass or steel remain for aye— All earthly things are subject to decay. Of Babel’s tow’r, so lofty and so proud, No stone remains to tell us where it stood ; The great, the wise, the valiant, and the just, Cesar and Cato, are return’d to dust ; FABLES AND TALES. 115 Devouring time to all destruction brings, Alike the fate of thimbles—and of kings. Then grieve not, Lydia! cease your anxious care, Nor murmur lest your favourite thimble wear. All other thimbles shall wear out e’er long, All other thimbles, be they e’er so strong, Whilst yours shall live for ever—in my song. THE EAGLE AND THE ROBIN REDBREAST.' Tue Prince of all the feather’d kind, That with spread wings outflees the wind, And tours far out of human sicht, To view the schynand orb of licht : This ryall bird, tho’ braif and great, And armit strang for stern debait, Nae tyrant is, but condescends Aftymes to treit inferiour friends. Ane day, at his command did flock To his hie palace on a rock, The courtiers of ilk various syze That swiftly swim in christal skyis. Thither the valiant Tersals doup, And heir rapacious Corbies croup, With greidy Gleds, and slie Gormahs, And dinsome Pyis, and clatterin’ Daws ; Proud Pecocks, and a hundred mae, Bruscht up thair pens that solemn day, Bow’d first submissive to my lord, Then tuke thair places at bis borde. Mein tyme, quhyle feisting on a fawn, And drinking blude frae lamies drawn, (1) (Contributed by Allan Ramsay to the ‘* Evergreen,” under the signature of Ar. Scotus ] A tunefull Robin trig and zung Hard by upon a bour-tree sung. He sang the Eagle’s ryall lyne, His persing e’e and richt divyne To sway out owre the fetherit thrang, Quha dreid his martial bill and fang : His flicht sublime, and eild renewit, His mind with clemencie endewit ; In safter notes he sang his luve ; Mair hie, his beiring bolts for Jove. The monarch bird with blythness hard The chaunting litil silvan bard, Calit up a buzart, quha was than His favourite and chamberlane. © Swith to my treasury,” quod he, “And to zon canty Robin gie As meikle of our currant geir As may mentain him throw the zeir ; We can weel spair’t, and it’s his due.” He bad, and furth the Judas flew Straight to the bench quhair Robin sung, And with a wickit lieand tung Said, “ Al! ze sing sae dull and ruch, Ze haif deivt our lugs mair than enuch; His majestie hes a nyse eir, And nae mair of zour stuff can beir ; Poke up your pipes, be nae mair scue At court ; I warn ze as a frein.” He spak, quhyle Robinis swelling breist, And drouping wings, his greif exprest: ; The teirs ran happing doun his cheik, Grit grew his hairt, he coud nocht speik,— No for the tinsell of rewaird, But that his notis met nae regard. Straicht to the schaw he spread his wing, Resolvit again nae mair to sing, Quhair princelie bountie is supprest By sic with quhome they are opprest, Quha cannot beir, because they want it, That ocht suld be to merit grantit. THE THREE BONNETS: A TALE. IN FOUR CANTOS. 1722. THE PERSONS. DoniwHistie, father to Joukum, Bristle, and Bawsy. Jounem, in love with Rosie. BRISTLE, a man of resolution. BawsyY, a weaker brother. CANTO I. Barn. ‘Wuen men o’ mettle thought it nonsense To heed that clepping thing ca’d conscience, And by free thinking had the knack O’ jeering ilka word it spak’, And, as a learned author speaks, Employ’d it like a pair o” breeks, To. hide their lewd and nasty sluices, Whilk eith slipt down for baith these uses: Then Duniwhistle, worn wi’ years, And gawn the gate o” his forbears, Commanded his three sons to come, And wait upon him in his room: Bade Bristle steek the door; an’ syne He thus began :— DvNIWHISTLE. Dear bairns 0’ mine, I quickly maun submit to fate, And leave you three a good estate, Which has been honourably won, An’ handed down frae sire to son, But clag or claim, for ages past : Now, that I mayna prove the last, Here’s three permission bonnets for ye, Which your great gutchers wore before ye; (1) One of the least pleasing of Ramsay's poems, and that gonsers no credit on his genius. Bard, @ narrator. Begy, porter to Rosie. Guarst, the ghost of Duniwhistle. Rosie, an heiress. Aw’ if ye’d ha’e nae man betray ye, Let naething ever wile them frae yes But keep the bonnets on your heads, An’ hands frae signing foolish deeds, An’ ye shall never want sic things, Shall gar ye be made o’ by kings But if ye ever wi’ them part, Fw’ sair ye’ll for your folly smart : Bare-headed then ye’ll look like snools, And dwindle down to silly tools. Haud up your hands now, swear an’ say, As ye shall answer on a day, Ye’ll faithfully observe my will, An’ a’ its premises fulfil, Brist1z. My worthy father, I shall strive To keep your name an’ fame alive, An’ never shaw a saul that’s dastara, To gar fowk tak’ me for a bastard: If e’er by me ye’re disobey’d, May witches nightly on me ride. JouKUM. Whae’er shall dare, by force or guue. This bonnet aff my head to wile, For sic a bauld attempt shall rue, And ken I was begot by you: Else may I like a gipsy wander, Or for my daily bread turn pander Bawsy. May I be jyb’d by great an’ sma’, And kytch’d like ony tennis-ba’, THE THREE BONNETS. 117 Be the disgrace 0’ a’ my kin, If e’er-I wi’ my bonnet twin. Barp. Now, soon as each had gi’en his aith, The auld man yielded up his breath ; Was row’d in linen white as snaw, And to his fathers horne awa’. But scarcely he in moss was rotten, Before his test’ment was forgotten, As ye shall hear frae future sonnet, How Joukum sinder’d wi’ his bonnet ; And bought frae senseless billy Bawsy, His, to propine a giglet lassie ; While worthy Bristle, not sae donner’d, Preserves his bonnet, and is honour’d. Thus did Caractacus behave,* Though by the fate o’ war a slave,— His body only, for his mind No Roman pow’r could break or bind: W7 bonnet on he bauldly spak’ ; His greatness gart his fetters crack : The victor did his friendship claim, And sent him wi’ new glories hame. But leave we Briss and simile, And to our tale wi’ ardour flee. Beyond the hills, where lang the billies Had bred up queys, and kids, and fillies, And foughten mony a bloody battle Wr? thieves that came to lift their cattle ; There liv’d a lass kept rary shows And fiddlers ay about her house, Wha at her table fed and rauted, Wi the stout ale she never wanted : She was a winsome wench and waly, And could put on her claes fu’ brawly ; Rumble to ilka market-town, And drink and fight like a dragoon : Just sic like her wha far aff wander’d, To get hersel weel Alexander’d. Rosie had word o’ meikle siller, Whilk brought a hantle o’ wooers till her. Among the rest, young master Jouk She conquer’d ae day wi’ a look. Free that time forth he ne’er could stay. Av same to mind his corn or hay, But grew a beau, and did adorn Himsel wi’ fifty bows 0’ corn; Forby what he took on to rig Him out wi’ linen, shoon, and wig, Snuff-noxes, sword-knots, canes, and washes, And sweeties to bestow on lasses ; Could newest aiths genteelly swear, And nad a course 0’ flaws perquire: * In the original, “ Thus Charactacus did behave.” He drank, and danc’d, and sigh’d to move Fair Rosie to accept his love. After dumb signs, he thus began, And spak’ his mind to ’er like a man. JOUKUM. O tak’ me, Rosie, to your arms, And let me revel o’er your charms ; If ye say na, I needna care For raips or tethers made o’ hair, Penknives or pools I winna need ; That minute ye say na, I’m dead. O let me lie within your breast, And at your dainty teazle feast ; Weel do I like your goud to finger, And fit to her your st-—— singer. While on this sun side o” the brae Belangs to you, my limbs 1’ll lay. Rosiz. I own, sweet sir, ye woo me frankly, But a’ your courtship sars sae rankly O’ selfish interest, that I’m flee’d My person least employs your head. JouKum. What a distinction’s this your making, When your poor lover’s heart is breaking ! W? little logic I can shew That everything you ha’e is you: Besides the beauties 0’ your person, These beds o’ flowers you set your a—e on, Your claiths, your lands, and lying pelf, Are every one your very self, And add fresh lustre to these graces WY which adorn’d your saul and fzce is. Rostz. Ye seem to ha’e a loving flame For me, and hate your native hame ; That gars me ergh to trust you meikle, For fear you should prove false and fickle. JouKUM. In troth my rugged billy Bristle About his gentrie mak’s sic fistle, That if a body contradict him, He’s ready wi’ a durk to stick him ; That wearies me o’ hame, I vow, And fain would live and die wi’ you. Baro. Observing Jouk a wee tate tipsy, Smirking replied the pawky gipsy: Rosiz. I wad be very wae to see My lover tak’ the pet and die ; 118 FABLES AND TALES, Wherefore I am inclin’d to ease ye, And do what in me lies to please ye; But first, ere we conclude the paction, You must perform some gallant action, To prove the truth o’ what you ’ve said, Else, for you, I shall die a maid, JOUKUM. My dearest jewel, gi’e *t a name, That I may win baith you and fame: Shall I gae fight wi’ forest bulls ? Or cleave down troops wi’ thicker skulls ? Or shall I douk the deepest sea, And coral pou for beads to thee ? Penty the pope upon the nose ? Or p— upon a hundred beaus ? Rosiz. In troth, dear lad, I wad be laith To risk your life, or do you skaith; Only employ your canny skill To gain and rive your father’s will, Wr the consent o’ Briss and Bawsy, And I shall in my bosom hawse ye, Soon as the fatal bonnets three Are ta’en frae them and gi’en to me. JOUKUM. Which to preserve I gi’ed my aith. But now the cause is life and death: I must, or wi’ the bonnet part, Or twin wi’ you and break my heart : Sae tho’ the aith we took was awful, To keep it now appears unlawful: Then, love, I’ answer thy demands, And flee to fetch them to your hands. Barp. The famous jilt o’ Palestine Thus drew the hoods o’er Samson’s een And gart him tell where lay his strength, O’ which she twinn’d him at the length ; Then gi’ed him up in chains to rave, And labour like a galley-slave : But, Rosie, mind, when growing hair His loss of pith ’gan to repair, He made of thousands an example, By crushing them beneath their temple. CANTO IL. Bap. THE supper sowin-cogs and bannocks Stood cooling on the sole o’ winnocks, And, cracking at the westlin gavels, The wives sat beeking o’ their navels, When Jouk his brither Bristle found, Fetching his ev’ning wauk around A score o’ ploughmen o’ his ain, Wha blithely whistled on the plain. Jouk three times congee’d, Bristle anes, Then shook his hand, and thus begins :— BRISTLE. Wow! brither Jouk, where ha’e ye been? I scarce can trow my looking een, Ye’re grown sae braw: now weirds defend me Gin that I had nae maist miskend ye. And where gat ye that braw blue stringing, That’s at your houghs and shuthers hinging ? Ye look as sprush as ane that’s wooing; I ferly, lad, what ye’ve been doing. Joukum. My very much respected brither, Should we hide ought frae ane anither, And not, when warm’d wi’ the same blood, Consult ilk ane anither’s good P And be it ken’d t? ye, my design Will profit prove to me and mine. BRISTLE. And, brither, troth it much commends Your virtue, thus to love your friends ; It makes me blithe, for aft I said, Ye were a clever mettl’d lad. JouKUM. And sae, I hope, will ever prove, Gif ye befriend me in my love: For Rosie, bonnie, rich, and gay, And sweet as flow’rs in June or May, Her gear I'll get, her sweets 1’ll rifle, Gif yell but yield me up a trifle; Promise to do ’t, and ye’se be free Wi’ onything pertains to me. BristLe. I lang to answer your demand, And never shall for trifles stand. Joukum. Then she desires, as a propine, These bonnets, Bawsy’s, yours, and mine; And well I wat that’s nac great matter, Gif I sae easily can get her. THE THREE BONNETS, 11S BRist ue. Ha, ha! ye Judas, are ye there ? The deil then nor she ne’er get mair. Is that the trifle that ye spoke 0’? Wha think ye, sir, ye mak’ a mock 0’ ? Ye silly, mansworn scant 0’ grace ! Swith let me never see your face. Seek my auld bonnet aff my head! Faith that’s a bonny ane indeed ! Require a thing 1°ll part wi’ never! She’s get as soon’a lap o’ my liver: Vile whore and jade! the woody hang her! Baro. Thus said, he said nae mair for anger, But curs’d and ban’d, and was nae far Frae treading Jouk amang the glar. While Jouk, wi’ language glibe as oolie, Right pawkily kept aff a toolie. Weel masked wi’ a wedder’s skin, Although he was a tod within, He hum’d and ha’d, and wi’ a cant, Held forth as he had been a saint, And quoted texts to prove we'd bette: Part wi’? a sma’ thing for a greater. JoUKUM. Ah! brither, may the furies rack me Gif I mean ill! but ye mistak’ me. But gin your bonnet’s sic a jewel, Pray gi’e’t or keep’t, sir, as you will; Since your auld-fashion’d fancy rather Lnclines till’t than a hat and feather : But Til go try my brither Bawsy, Poor man, he’s nae sae daft and saucy, Wr empty pride to crook his mov’, And hinder his ain gude, like you. Gif he and I agree, ne’er doubt ye, We’ll mak’ the bargain up without yc ; Syne your braw bonnet and your noddle Will hardly baith be worth a bodle. Bagrp. At this bauld Bristle’s colour chang’d, He swore on Rose to be reveng’d ; For he began now to be fleed, She ’d wile the honours frae his lead ; Syne wi’ a stern and canker’d look He thus reprov’d his brither Jouk : BrisT1ez. Thou vile disgrace o’ our forbears ! Wha lang, wi’ valiant dint o’ weirs, Maintain’d their right ’gainst a’ intrusions O’ our auld faes the Rosicrucians ! Dost thou design at last to catch Us in a girn wi’ this base match, And for the hauding up thy pride, Upo’ thy brithers’ riggins ride ? TU see you hang’d, and her thegither, As high as Haman, in a tether, Ere I wi’ ny ain bomuet quat, For ony borrow’d beaver hat, Whilk I, as Rosie taks the fykes, Maun wear or no just as she likes. ‘Then let me hear nae mair about her, For if ye dare again to mutter Sic vile proposals in my hearing, Ye needna trust to my forbearing ; For soon my beard will tak’ a low, And I shall crack your crazy pow. Bann. This said, brave Bristle said nac mair, But cock’d his bonnet wi’ an air, Wheel’d round wi’ gloomy brows and muddy, And left his brither in a study. CANTO Ill. Barp. Now Sol wi’ his lang whip gae cracks Upon his neighering coursers’ backs, To gar them tak’ th’ Olympian brae, Wi’ a cart-lade o” bleezing day ; The country hind ceases to snore, Bangs frae his bed, unlocks the door, His bladder tooms, and gi’es a rift, Then tentily surveys the lift ; And weary o’ his wife and flaes, To their embrace prefers his clacs. * Scarce had the lark forsook her nest, When Jouk, wha had got little rest, For thinking o’ his plot and lassie, Got up to gang and deal wi’ Bawsie. Awa fast o’er the bent he gaed, And fand him dozing on his bed, His blankets creishy, foul his sark, His curtains trimm’d wi’ spider’s wark , Soot-draps hang frae his roof and kipples, His floor was a’ tobacco spittles : Yet on the antlers o’ a deer Hang mony an auld claymore and spear, Wi coat o’ iron and target trusty, Inch thick o’ dirt, and unco rusty : Enough appear’d to show his billy, That he was lazy, poor, and silly, 220 FABLES AND TALES. And wadua mak’ so great a bustle About his bonnet as did Bristle. Jouk three times rugged at his shoulder, Cried three times laigh, and three times louder : At langrun Bawsy rais’d his een, And cries, “ What.’s that ? what d’ ye mean?” Then looking up, he sees his brither. Bawsy. Good morrow, Jouk, what brings you hither ? You ’re early up, as I’m a sinner I seenly rise before my dinner. Weel, what ’s yer news, and how gaes a’? Ye’ve been an wneo time awa’. JouKuM. Bawsy, I’m blyth to see you weel ; For me, thank God, I keep my heal; Get up, get up, ye lazy mart, I ha’e a seeret to impart, O’ which when I gi’e you an inkling, It will set baith your lugs a tinkling. Barp. Straight Bawsy rises, quickly dresses, While haste his youky mind expresses : Now rigg’d, and morning drink brought in, Thus did slee-gabbet Jouk begin. JouKuM. My worthy brither, weel I wate O’er feckless is your wee estate For sic a meikle saul as yours, That to things greater higher tow’rs ; But ye lie loitering here at hame, Neglectfu’ baith o’ wealth and fame, Though, as I said, ye ha’e a mind That is for higher things design’d. Bawsy. That ’s very true, thanks to the skies ; But how to get them, there it lies, JouKUM. T’ll tell ye, Baws, I’ve laid a plot, That only wants your casting vote, And if you’ll gi’e ’t, your bread is baken ; But first accept o’ this love-taiken : Here tak’ this gowd, and never want Enough to gar you drink and rant ; And this is but an arle-penny To what I afterward design ye; And in return, I’m sure that I Shall naething seek that ye’ll deny. Bawsy. And trouth now, Jouk, and neither will I, Or after never ca’ me billy ; = vw If I refuse, wae light upo’ me. This gowd, O wow! ’tis wonder bonny. JouxKuM. Ay, that it is; ’tis e’en the a’ That gars the plough o’ living draw: *Tis gowd gars sogers fight the fiereer ; Without it preaching wad be scarcer ; *Tis gowd that maks some great men witty, And puggy lasses fair and pretty ; Without it ladies nice wad dwindle Down to a wife that snooves a spindle.— But to the point, and wave digression : I mak’ a free and plain confession That I’m in love, and, as I said, Demand frae you a little aid To gain a bride, that eithly can Mak’ me fu’ blest, and you a man: Gi’e me your bonnet to present My mistress wi’, and your consent To rive the daft auld-fashion’d deed That bids ye wear it on your head. Bawsy. O gosh! O gosh! then, Jouk, ha’e at her; If that be a’, ’tis nae great matter. JouUKUM. These granted, she demands nae mair, To let us in her riches skair ; Nor shall our hirds, as heretofore, Rin aff wi’ ane anither’s store, Nor ding out ane anither’s harns, When they forgather ’mang the kairns ; But freely may drive up and down, And sell in ikka market-town Belangs to her, which soon ye’ll see, If ye be wise, belang to me: And when that happy day shall come, My honest Bawsy, there’s my thumb, That while I breathe I’ll ne’er veguile ye, Ye’se baith get gowd, and be a bailly. Bawst. Faith, Jouk, I see but little skaith In breaking o’ a senseless aith, That is imposed by doited dads, To please their whims, on thoughtless lads. My bonnet ! welcome to my bonnet, And meikle good may ye mak’ on it. Our father’s will, ’se mak’ nae din, Tho’ Rosie should apply ’t behin’. But say, does billy Bristle ken This your design to mak’ us men? JOUKUM. Ay, that he does ; but the stiff ass Bears a hard hatred at the lass, THE THRE# BONNETS. 121 And rattles out a hantla stories O’ blood, and dirt, and ancient glories ; Meaning foul feuds that us’d to be Between ours and her family : Bans like a blockhead that he’ll ne’er Twin wi’ his bonnet for a’ her gear ; But you and T conjoin’d can ding him, And, by a vote, to reason bring him : If we stand close, ’tis unco eith To rive the test’ment spite o’s teeth, And gar him ply, for a’ his clavers, To lift his bonnet to our beavers. Bawsy. Then let the doof delight in drudging ; What cause ha’e we to tent his grudging, Tho’ Rosie’s flocks feed on his fells, If you and I be weel oursels ? Barn. Thus Jouk and Bawsy were agreed, And Briss maun yield, it was decreed.— Thus far I’ve sung, in Highland strains, Q’ Jouk’s amours, and pawky pains, To gain his ends wi’ ilka brither, Sae opposite to ane anither ; O’ Bristle’s hardy resolutions, And hatred to the Rosicrucians ; O’ Bawsy put in slav’ry neck-fast, Selling his bonnet for a breakfast. What follows on’t, o” gain or skaith, V’se tell when we ha’e ta’en our breath. CANTO IV. Barp. Now soon as e’er the will was torn, Jouk, wi’ twa bonnets, on the morn, Frae Fairyland fast bang’d away, The prize at Rosie’s feet to lay ; Wha, sleely, when he did appear, About his success ’gan to spier. JOUKUM. Here, bonny lass, your humble slave Presents you wi’ the things you crave, The riven will and bonnets twa, Which mak’s the third worth nought ava: Our pow’r gi’en up, now I demand Your promis’d love, and eke your hand. Baxp. Rose smil’d to see the lad outwitted, And bonnets to the flames committed. Immediately an awfw’ sound, As ane wad thought, raise frae the ground ; And syne appear’d a stalwart ghaist, Whase stern and angry looks amaist Unhool’d their sauls :—shaking, they saw Him frae the fire the bonnets draw : Then came to Jouk, and wi’ twa rugs Increas’d the length o’ baith his lugs ; And said— GHalIst. Be a’ thy days an ass, An hackney to this cunning lass ; But, for these bonnets, I ’ll preserve them For bairns unborn that will deserve them. Bann. Wy that he vanish’d frae their een, And left poor Jouk wi’ breeks not clean : He shakes, while Rosie rants and capers, And ca’s the vision nought but vapours ; Rubs o’er his cheeks and gab wi’ ream, Till he believes it all a dream: Syne to her closet leads the way, To soup him up wi’ usquebee. Rosts. Now, bonny lad, ye may be free To handle ought pertains to me; And ere the sun, tho’ he be dry, Has driven down the westlin sky, To drink his wamefu’ o’ the sea, There’s be but ane o’ you and me. In marriage ye sall ha’e my hand; But I maun ha’e the sole command In Fairyland to sow and plant, And to send there for aught I want. Barp. Ay, ay, cries Jouk, a’ in a fire, And stiffening into strong desire. JOUKUM. Come, haste thee, let us sign and seal; And let my billies gang to the deil. Barn. Here it wad mak’ o’er lang a tale, To tell how meikle cakes and ale, And beef, and broe, and gryce, and geese, And pies a’ rinning o’er wi’ creesh, Was serv’d upon the wedding-table, To mak’ the lads and lasses able To do, ye ken, what we think shame (Tho’ ilk ane does ’t) to gi’e *t a name But true it is they soon were buckled, And soon she made poor Jouk a cuckold, And play’d her bawdy sports before him, Wy chiels that car’d na tippence for him, R FABLES AND TALES. Beside a Rosicrucian trick She had o’ dealing wi’? Auld Nick ; And whene’er Jouk began to grumble, Auld Nick in the neist room wad rumble. She drank, and fought, and spent her gear Wi dice, and selling o’ the mear. Thus living like a Belzie’s get, She ran hersel sae deep in debt, By borrowing money at a’ hands, That yearly income o” her lands Scarce paid the interest o’ her bands. Jouk, ay ca’d wise behind the hand, The daffin o’ his doings fand : O’er late he now began to see The ruin o’ his family: But past relief lar’d in a midding, He’s now oblig’d to do her bidding. Awa wi strict command he’s sent To Fairyland to lift the rent, And wi’ him mony a caterpillar, To rug frae Briss and Bawsy siller ; For her braid table maun be serv’d, Tho’ fairy fowk should a’ be starv’d. Jouk thus surrounded wi’ his guards, Now plunders hay-stacks, barns, and yards ; They drive the nowt frae Bristle’s fauld, While he can nought but ban and scald. BRIstTLE. Vile slave to a hussy ill-begotten, By mony dads, wi’ claps half rotten! Were ’t no for honour o” my mither, I should na think ye were my brither. JoUKUM. Dear brither, why this rude reflection ? Learn to be gratefu’ for protection ; The Peterenians, bloody beasts ! That gar fowk lick the dowps o’ priests, Else on a brander, like a haddock, Be broolied, sprawling like a paddock : These monsters, lang ere now, had come Wi’ faggots, taz, and tuck o’ drum, And twin’d you o’ your wealth and lives, Syne, without spiering, kiss’d your wives, Had not the Rosicrucians stood The bulwarks 0’ your rights and blood ; And yet, forsooth, ye girn and grumble, And, wi’ a gab unthankfu’, mumble Out mony a black unworthy curse, When Rosie bids ye draw your purse ; When she’s sae gen’rously content With not aboon thirty per cent. BRISTLE. Damn you and her! tho’ now I’m blae, I’m hopefu’ yet to sec the day I'll gar ye baith repent that e’er Ye reav’d by force awa’ my gear, Without. or thanks, or making price, Or ever spiering my advice. JouKUM. Peace, gowk! we naithing do at a But by the letter o’ the law: Then nae mair wi’ your din torment us, Gowling like ane xo compos mentis, Else Rosie issue may a writ, To tie you up baith hand and fit, And dungeon ye but meat or drink, Till ye be starv’d and die in stink. Barp. Thus Jouk and Bristle, when they meu, Wi sic braw language ither tret. Just fury glows in Bristle’s veins, And tho’ his bonnet he retains, Yet on his crest he mayna cock it, But in @ coffer close maun lock it. -Bareheaded thus he e’en knocks under, And lets them drive awa the plunder. Sae have I seen, beside a tow’r, The king of brutes oblig’d to cow’r. And on his royal paunches thole A dwarf to prog him wi’ a pole ; While he wad shaw his fangs, and rage W7 bootless wrangling in his cage.— Now follows that we tak’ a peep, O’ Bawsy looking like a sheep, By Bristle hated and despised, By Jouk and Rosie little priz’d. Soon as the horse had heard Lis brither Joukum and Rose were prick’d thegither, Awa he scours o’er hight and how, Fw’ fidgin fain whate’er he dow, Counting what things he now did mister, That wad be gi’en him by his sister. Like shallow bards, wha think they flee, Because they live sax stories high, To some poor lifeless lucubration Prefixes fleeching dedication, And blithely dream they ’ll be restor’d To alehouse credit by my lord. ‘Thus Bawsy’s mind in plenty row’d, While he thought on his promis’d gowd And baillyship, which he wi’ fines Wad mak’ like the West India mines ; Arrives, wi’ future greatness dizzy, Ca’s, where ’s Mess Jouk ? Buer. Mess Jouk is busy. Bawsy. My Lady Rose, is she at Icisure ? THE THREE BONNETS. 123 Brrr. No, sir; my lady ’s at her pleasure. Bawsy. I wait for her or him, go shew. BEEF. And pray you, master, wha are you? Bawsy. Upo’ my saul this porter ’s saucy ! Sirah, go tell my name is Bawsy, The brither wha made up the marriage. BEEF. And sae I thought by your daft carriage. Between your houghs gae clap your gelding, Swith hame and feast upon a spelding, For there ’s nae room beneath this roof To entertain a simple coof, The like o’ you, that nane can trust, Wha to your ain ha’e been unjust. Barn. This said, he dadded to the yate, And left poor Bawsy in a fret, Wha loudly gowl’d, and made a din, That was o’erheard by a’ within. Quoth Rose to Jouk, Come, let ’s away, And see wha’s yon mak’s a’ this fray, Awa’ they went, and saw the creature, Sair runkling ilka silly feature O his dull phiz, wi’ girns and glooms, Stamping and biting at his thumbs. They tented him a little while, Then came full on him wi’ a smile, Which soon gart him forget the torture Was rais’d within him by the porter. Sae will a sucking weanie yell, But shake a rattle, or a bell, It hauds its tongue ; let that alane, It to its yamering fa’s again ; Lilt up a sang, and straight it’s seen To laugh wi’ tears into its een. Thus eithly anger’d, eithly pleas’d, Weak Bawsy lang they tantalis’d Wi promises right wide extended, They ne’er perform’d, nor e’er intended : But now and then, when they did need him, A supper and a pint they gi’ed him; That done, they ha’e nae mair to say And scarcely ken him the neist day. Poor fallow! now this mony a year, Wi’ some faint hope, and rowth o’ fear, He has been wrestling wi’ his fate, A drudge to Joukum and his mate. While Bristle saves his manly look, Regardless baith o’ Rose and Jouk, Maintains right quietly ’yond the kairns, His honour, conscience, wife, and bairus, Jouk and his rumblegarie wife Drive on a drunken, gaming life, Cause, sober, they can get nae rest, For Nick and Duniwhistle’s ghaist, Wha in the garrets aften tooly, And shore them wi’ a bloody gully. Thus I ha’e sung, in hamelt rhyme, A sang that scorns the teeth o’ time ; Yet modestly I hide my name, Admiring virtue mair than fame. But tent ye wha despise instruction, And gi’es my wark a wrang construction, Frae *hind my curtain, mind I tell ye, [’ll shoot a satire through your belly : But wha wi’ havins jees his bonnet, And says, Thanks t’ ye for your sonnet, He shanna want the praises due To generosity. — Adieu. FABLES AND TALES. THE AUTHOR’S ADDRESS TO HIS BOOK;,! IN IMITATION OF HORACE. | Dear, vent’rous book, e’en take thy will, And scowp around the world thy fill: Wow! ye’re newfangle to be seen, In gilded Turkey clad, and clean. Daft, giddy thing! to dare thy fate, And spang o’er dykes that scar the blate : But mind, when anes ye’re to the bent, Altho’ in vain, ye may repent. Alake! I’m fleed thou aften meet A gang that will thee sourly treat, And ca’ thee dull for a’ thy pains, When damps distress their drowzie brains. I dinna doubt, whilst thou art new, Thou lt favour find frae not a few; But when thou ’rt ruffled and forfairn, Sair thumb’d by ilka coof or bairn, Then, then by age ye may grow wise, And ken things common gi’e na price. Id fret, wae’s me! to see thee lie Beneath the bottom of a pie; Or cow’d out page by page, to wrap Up snuff, or sweeties, in a shap. Awa, sic fears! gae spread my fame, And fix me an immortal name ; Ages to come shall thee revive, And gar thee with new honours live. The future critics, I foresee, Shall have their notes on notes on thee ; The wits unborn shall beauties find That never enter’d in my mind. Now when thou tells how I was bred But hough enough? to a mean trade, To balance that, pray let them ken My saul to higher pitch could sten: And when ye shaw I’m scarce of gear, Gar a’ my virtues shine mair clear : Tell, I the best and fairest please ; = A little man that lo’es my ease, And never thole these passions lang That rudely mint to do me wrang: Gin ony want to ken my age, See Anno Dom.’ on title-page ; This year, when springs, by care and skill, The spacious leaden conduits‘ fill, And first flow’d up the Castle Hill ; When South Sea projects cease to thrive, And only North Sea seems alive, Tell them your author ’s thirty-five. (1) Of Fables and Tales. (2) Very indifferently. of four inches and a half diameter within, and six-tenths of an (3) The first edition of his poems was published in 1721. inch in thickness ; all cast in a mould invented by the ingenious (4) The new lead pipes for conveying water to Edinburgh, Mr. Harding of London.—ALLan Ramsay. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1718. THE CITY OF EDINBURGH’S ADDRESS TO THE COUNTRY. From me, Edina, to the brave and fair, Health, joy, and love, and banishment of care. Forasmuch as bare fields and gurly skies Make rural scenes ungrateful to the eyes, When hyperborean blasts confound the plain, Driving by turns light snow and heavy rain; Ye swains and nymphs, forsake the wither’d grove, That no damp colds may nip the buds of love; Since winds and tempests o’er the mountains ride. Haste here where choice of pleasures do reside ; Come to my tow’rs and leave th’ unpleasant scene, My cheerful bosom shall your warmth sustain. Screen’d in my walls you may bleak winter shun, And for a while forget the distant sun ; My blazing fires, bright lamps, and sparkling wine, As summer’s sun shall warm, like him shall shine. My witty clubs of minds that move at large, With ev’ry glass can some great thought discharge : When from my senate, and the toils of law, T’ unbend the mind from bus’ness, you withdraw With such gay friends to laugh some hours away, My winter ev’n shall ding the summer’s day. My schools of law produce a manly train Of fluent orators, who right maintain: Practis’d t’ express themselves a graceful way, An eloquence shines forth in all they say. Some Raphael, Rubens, or Vandyke admire, Whose bosoms glow with such a god-like fire: Of my own race I have, who shall ere long, Challenge a place amongst th’ immortal throng. Others in smoothest numbers are profuse, And can in Mantuan dactyls lead the Muse: And others can with music make you gay, With sweetest sounds Corelli’s art display, While they around in softest measures sing, Or beat melodious solos from the string. What pleasure can exceed to know what’s great, The hinge of war, and winding draughts of state ? These and a thousand things tl’ aspiring youth May learn with pleasure from the sage’s mouth ; While they full-fraughted judgments do unload, Relating to affairs home and abroad. The gen’rous soul is fir’d with noble flame To emulate victorious Eugene’s fame, Who with fresh glories decks th’ imperial throne, Making the haughty Ott’man empire groan : He’ll learn when warlike Sweden and the Czar, The Danes and Prussians, shall demit the war ; T’ observe what mighty turns of fate may spring From this new war rais’d by Iberia’s king. Long ere the morn from Eastern seas arise To sweep night-shades from off the vaulted skies, Oft love or law in dreams your mind may toss, And push the sluggish senses to their posts ; The hautboy’s distant notes shall then oppose Your phantom cares, and lull you to repose. To visit and take tea, the well-dress’d fair May pass the crowd unrufiled in her chair ; No dust or mire her shining foot shall stain, Or on the horizontal hoop give pain. For beaux and belles no city can compare, Nor shew a galaxy so made, so fair: The ears are charm’d, and ravish’d are the eyes, When at the concert my fair stars arise What poets of fictitious beauties sing, Shall in bright order fill the dazzling ring : From Venus, Pallas, and the spouse of Jove, They ’d gain the prize, judged by the god of love ; Their sun-burnt features would look dull and fade, Compar’d with my sweet white and blushing red. The character of beauties so divine The muse for want of words cannot define. The panting soul beholds, with awful love, Impress’d on clay th’ angelic forms above, Whose softest smiles can powrfully impart Raptures sublime in dumb-show to the heart. The strength of all these charms if ye defy, My court of justice shall make you comply. Welcome, my session, thou my bosom warms, Thrice three times welcome to thy mother’s arms ; 126 Thy father long (rude man!) has left my bed, Thou rt now my guard, and support of my trade; My heart yearns after thee with strong desire, Thou dearest image of thy ancient sire : Should proud Augusta take thee from me too, So great a loss would make Edina how; Pd sink beneath a weight I could not bear, And in a heap of rubbish disappear. Vain are such fears :—I°ll rear my head in state, My boding heart foretells a glorious fate : New stately structures on new streets shall rise, And new-built churches tow’ring to the skies. From utmost Thulé to the Dover-rock, Britain’s best blood in crowds to me shall flock ; A num’rous fleet shall be my Fortha’s pride, While they in her calm roads at anchor ride; These from each coast shall bring what’s great and rare, To animate the brave, and please the fair. 1721. ON THE PRESERVATION OF MR. BRUCE AND HIS SCHOOL-FELLOWS, IN ST. ANDREW'S BAY, ON AUGUST 19, 1710. Srx times the day with light and hope arose, As oft the night her terrors did oppose, While, toss’d on roaring waves, the tender crew Had nought but death and horror in their view: Pale famine, seas, bleak cold, at equal strife, Conspiring all against their bloom of life ; Whilst, like the lamp’s last flame, their trembling souls Are on the wing to leave their mortal goals ; And death before them stands with frightful stare, Their spirits spent, and sunk down to despair. Behold th’ indulgent Providential eye With watchful rays descending from on high ; Angels came posting down the divine beam, To save the helpless in their last extreme: Unseen the heav’nly guard about them flock, Some rule the winds, some lead them up the rock, While other two attend the dying pair, To waft their young white souls thro’ fields of air. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1721. ON CONTENT. “Content is wealth, the riches of the mind; And happy he who can that treasure find: But the base miser starves amidst his store, Broods on his gold, and griping still for more, Sits sadly pining, and believes he’s poor.” DrYven. ‘ Virtue was taught in verse, and Athens’ glory rose.” Prior. WHEN genial beams wade thro’ the dewy morn, And from the clod invite the sprouting corn ; When chequer’d green, wing’d music, new-blown scents, Conspir’d to soothe the mind, and please each sense ; Then down a shady haugh I took my way, Delighted with each flow’r and budding spray ; Musing on all that hurry, pain, and strife, Which flow from the fantastic ills of life. Enlarg’d from such distresses of the mind, Due gratitude to heav’n my thoughts refin’d, And made me, in the laughing sage’s! way, As a mere farce the murm’ring world survey ; Finding imagin’d maladies abound Tenfold for one that gives a real wound. Godlike is he whom no false fears annoy, Who lives content, and grasps the present joy ; Whose mind is not with wild convulsions rent, Of pride, and avarice, and discontent ; Whose well-train’d passions, with a pious awe, Are all subordinate to reason’s law: Then smooth content arises like the day, And makes each rugged phantom fly away : To lowest men she gives a lib’ral share Of solid bliss ; she mitigates our care, Enlarging joys, administering health ; The rich man’s pleasure, and the poor man’s wealth ; A train of comforts on her nod attend, And to her sway profits and honours bend. Hail, blest Content! who art by heav’n design’d Parent of health and cheerfulness of mind; Serene content shall animate my song, And make th’ immortal numbers smooth and strong. Silenus, thou whose hoary beard and head Experience speak, and youth’s attention plead ; Retail thy gather’d knowledge, and disclose What state of life enjoys the most repose. Thus I addrest: and thus the ancient bard :— First, to no state of life fix thy regard : All mortals may be happy if they please Not rack’d with pain, nor ling’ring in disease. (1) Democritus, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 127 Midas, the wretch, wrapt in his patched rags, With empty paunch sits brooding o’er his bags ; Meagre his look, his mind in constant fright, If winds but move his windows in the night ; If dogs should bark, or but a mouse make din, He sweats and starts, and thinks the thief ’s got in; His sleep forsakes him till the dawn appears, Which ev’ry thing but such a caitiff cheers : It gives him pain to buy a farthing light, He jums at home in darkness all the night. What makes him manage with such cautious pain ? °T would break a sum; a farthing spent so vain! It eve he’s pleas’d, ’tis when some needful man Gives ten per cent. with an insuring pawn. Though he’s provided in as much would serve Whole Nestor’s years, he ever fears to starve. Tell him of alms:-alas! he’d rather choose Damnation, and the promis’d bliss refuse.— And is there such a wretch beneath the sun P— Yes, he return’d, thousands instead of one To whom content is utterly unknown.— Are all the rich men such P—He answer’d, no; Marcus hath wealth, and can his wealth bestow Upon himself, his friends, and on the poor ; Enjoys enough, and wishes for no more. Reverse of these is he who braves the sky, Cursing his Maker when he throws the die : Gods, devils, furies, hell, heav’n, blood and wounds, Promiscuous fly in bursts of tainted sounds : He to perdition doth his soul bequeath, Yet inly trembles when he thinks of death. Except at game, he ne’er employs his thought, Till hiss’d and pointed at—not worth a groat. The desp’rate remnant of a large estate Goes at one throw, and points his gloomy fate : He finds his folly now, but finds too late. Ill brooks my fondling master to be poor, Bred up to nought but bottle, game, and whore : How pitiful he looks without his rent! They who fly virtue, ever fly content. Now I heheld the sage look’d less severe, Whilst pity join’d his old satyric leer. The weakly mind, said he, is quickly torn; Men are not gods, some frailties must be borne : Heav’n’s bounteous hand all in their turn abuse ; The happiest men at times their fate refuse, Befool themselves, and trump up an excuse. Is Lucius but a subaltern of foot P His equal Gallus has a coronet. Sterilla shuns a gossiping, and why ? The teeming mother fills her with envy. The pregnant matron’s grief as much prevails, Some of the children always something ails ; One boy is sick, t’ other has broke his head, And nurse is blam’d when little miss is dead. A duchess, on a velvet couch reclin’d, Blabs her fair cheeks till she is almost blind ; Poor Phillis’ death the briny pearls demands, Who ceases now to snarl and lick her hands. The politicians who, in learn’d debates, With penetration carve out kingdoms’ fates, Look sour, drink coffee, shrug, and read gazettcs. Deep sunk in craft of state their souls are lost, And all their hopes depend upon the post : Each mail that’s due they curse the contrair wind ; *Tis strange if this way men contentment find: Though old, their humours [ am yet to learn, Who vex themselves in what they’ve no concern. Ninny, the glaring fop, who always runs In tradesmen’s books, which makes the carcfu duns Often ere ten to break his slumb’ring rest : Whilst with their craving clamours he’s opprest, He frames excuses till his cranny akes, Then thinks he justly damns the cursed sneaks. The disappointed dun, with as much ire, Both threats and curses till his breast’s on fire ; Then home he goes and pours it on his house, His servants suffer oft, and oft his spouse. Some groan through life amidst a heap of cares, To load with too much wealth their lazy heirs. The lazy heir turns all to ridicule, And all his life proclaims his father fool : He toils in spending; leaves a threadbare son, To scrape anew, as had his grandsire done. How is the fair Myrtilla’s bosom fir’d, _ If Leda’s sable locks are more admir’d ; While Leda does her secret sighs discharge, Because her mouth’s a straw-breadth, ah! too large. Thus sung the sire, and left me to invite The scorching beams in some cool green retreat ; Where gentle slumber seiz’d my wearied brain, And mimic fancy op’d the following scene : Methought I stood upon a rising ground, A splendid landscape open’d all around, Rocks, rivers, meadows, gardens, parks, and woods, And domes which hide their turrets in the clouds. To me approach’d a nymph divinely fair, Celestial virtue shone through all her air: A nymph for grace, her wisdom more renown’d, Adorn’d each grace, and both true valour crown’d. Around her heav’nly smiles a helmet blaz’d, And graceful as she mov’d, a spear she gently rais’d, 128 My sight at first the lustre scarce could bear, Her dazzling glories shone so strong and clear ; A majesty sublime, with all that’s sweet, Did adoration claim, and love invite. I felt her wisdom’s charm my thoughts inspire, Her dauntless courage set my soul on fire; The maid, when thus I knew, I soon addrest, My present wishful thoughts the theme suggest :— Of all th’ ethereal pow’rs, thou, noblest maid, To human weakness lend’st the readiest aid: To where Content and her blest train reside, Immortal Pallas, deign to be my guide — With my request well pleas’d, our course we bent To find the habitation of content. Through fierce Bellona’s tents we first advane’d, Where cannons boune’d and nervous horses prane’d : Here Vi-et-armis sat, with dreadful awe And daring front, to prop each nation’s law; Attending squadrons on her motions wait, Array’d in deaths, and fearless of their fate. Here chieftain souls ‘glow’d with as great a fire As his who made the world but one empire : Fen in low ranks brave spirits might be found, Who wanted nought of monarchs but a crown. But, ah! ambition stood a foe to peace, Shaking the empty fob, and ragged fleece ; Which were more hideous to these sons of war Than brimstone, smoke, and storms of bullets are. Here, said my guide, content is rarely found, Where blood and noisy jars beset the ground. Trade’s wealthy warehouse next fell in our way, Where in great bales part of each nation lay : The Spanish citron, and Hesperia’s oil, Persia’s soft product, and the Chinese toil; Warm Borneo’s spices, Arab’s scented gum, The Polish amber, and the Saxon mum ; The orient pearl, Holland’s lace and toys, And tinsel work which the fair nun employs ; From India iv’ry and the clouded cane, And coch’neal from the straits of Magellan ; The Scandinavian rosin, hemp, and tar, The Lapland furs, and Russia caviare ; The Gallic puncheon charg’d with ruby juice, Which makes the hearts of gods and men rejoice ; Britannia here pours from her plenteous horn Her shining mirrors, clock-work, cloths, and corn. Here cent. per cents. sat poring o’er their books, While many show’d the bankrupts in their looks ; Who, by mismanagement, their stock had spent, Curs’d these hard times, and blam’d the govern- ment. The missive letter, and peremptor bill, Forbade them rest, and call’d forth all their skill. Uncertain Credit bore the sceptre here, And her prime ministers were Hope and Fear. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The surly chuffs demanded what we sought P— Content, said I: may she with gold be bought ?— Content! said one; then star’d and bit his thumb, And leering ask’d, if.I was worth a plum ?? Love’s fragrant fields, where mildest western gales, Loaden with sweets, perfume the hills and dales ; Where longing lovers haunt the streams and glades, And cooling groves whose verdure never fades : Thither with joy and hasty steps we strode, There sure I thought our long’d-for bliss abode. Whom first we met on that enchanted plain Was a tall yellow-hair’d young pensive swain ; Him, I address’d :—“O youth! what heav’nly pow’r Commands and graces yon Elysian bow’r ? Sure ’tis Content, else much I am deceiv’d.” The shepherd sigh’d, and told me that I rav’d: “ Rare she appears, unless on some fine day She grace a nuptial, but soon hastes away : | If her you seek, soon hence you must remove, Her presence is precarious in love.” Through these and other shrines we wander’d long, Which merit no description in my song, Till at the last methought we cast our eye Upon an antique temple, square and high, Its area wide, its spire did pierce the sky ; On adamantine Doric pillars rear’d, Strong Gothic work the massy work appear’d ; Nothing seem’d little, all was great design’d, Which pleas’d the eye at once, and fill’d the mind. Whilst wonder did my curious thoughts engage, To us approach’d a studious rev’rend sage ; Both awe and kindness his grave aspect bore, Which spoke him rich with wisdom’s finest store. He asked our errand there :—Straight I replied, “Content : in these high tow’rs does she reside ?”— “Not far from hence,”’ said he, “her palace stands ; Ours she regards, as we do her demands ; Philosophy sustains her peaceful sway, And in return she feasts us ev’ry day.” Then straight an ancient telescope he brought, By Socrates and Epictetus wrought ; Improved since, made easier to the sight, Lengthen’d the tube, the glasses ground more bright ; Through this he show’d a hill, whose lofty brow Enjoy’d the sun, while vapours all below, In pitchy clouds, encircled it around, Where phantoms of most horrid forms abound ; The ugly brood of lazy spleen and fear, Frightful in shape, most monstrous appear. Then thus my guide :— “Your way lies thro’ yon gloom; be not aghast ; Come briskly on, you’ll jest them when they ’re past ; (1) One hundred thousand pounds, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 129 Mere empty specties, harmless as the air, Which merit not your notice, less your care.” Encourag’d with her word, I thus addrest My noble guide, and grateful joy exprest :— “O sacred Wisdom! thine’s the source of light, Without thy blaze the world would grope in night; Of woe and bliss thou only art the test, Falsehood and truth before thee stand confest ; Thou mak’st a double life, one nature gave, But without thine what is it mortals have ? A breathing motion grazing to the grave.” Now, through the damps methought we boldly went, Smiling at all the grins of discontent : Tho’ oft pull’d back, the rising ground we gain’d, Whilst inward joy my wearied limbs sustain’d. Arriv’d the height, whose top was large and plain, And what appear’d soon recompens’d my pain, Nature’s whole beauty deck’d th’ enamell’d scene. Amidst the glade the sacred palace stood, The architecture not so fine as good; Nor scrimp, nor gousty, regular, and plain, Plain were the columns which the roof sustain An easy greatness in the whole was found, Where all that nature wanted did abound : But here no beds are screen’d with rich brocade, Nor fuel-logs in silver grates are laid ; No broken China bowls disturb the joy Of waiting handmaid, or the running-boy ; Nor in the cupboard heaps of plate are rang’d, To be with each splenetic fashion chang’d. A weather-beaten sentry watch’d the gate. Of temper cross, and practis’d in dehate : Till once acquaint with him, no entry here, Though brave as Cesar, or as Helen fair : To strangers fierce, but with familiars tame, And Touchstone Disappointment was his name. This fair inscription shone above the gute, “Fear none but Him, whose will directs thy fate.” With smile austere he lifted up his head, Pointed the characters, and bid us read. We did, and stood resolv’d. The gates at last Op’d of their own accord, and in we past. Hach day a herald, by the queen’s command, Was order’d on a mount to take his stand, And thence to all the earth this offer make: “Who are inclin’d her favours to partake, Shall have them free, if they small rubs can bear Of disappointment, spleen, and bug-bear fear.” Rais’d on a throne within the outer gate, The goddess sat, her vot’ries round her wait; The beautiful divinity disclos’d Sweetness sublime, which roughest cares compos’d : Her looks sedate, yet joyful and serene, Not rich her dress, but suitable and clean ; Unfurrow’d was her brow, her cheeks were smooth, Though old as time, enjoy’d immortal youth ; ° And all her accents so harmonious flow’d, That ev’ry list’ning ear with pleasure glow’d. An olive garland on her head she wore, And her right hand a cornucopia bore. Cross Touchstone fill’d a bench without the door, To try the sterling of each human ore: Grim judge he was, and them away he sent, Unfit t’ approach the shrine of calm Content. To him a hoary dotard, lade’ with bags :— Unwieldy load to one who hardly drags His being !—“ More than seventy years,” said he, “T?ve sought this court, till now unfound by me: Now let me rest.”—“ Yes, if ye want no more : But ere the sun has made his annual tour, Know, grov'ling wretch! thy wealth’s without thy pow.” The thoughts of death, and ceasing from his gain, Brought on the old man’s head so sharp a pain, Which dimm’d his optic nerves, and with the light, He lost the palace, and crawl’d back to night. Poor griping thing! how useless is thy breath, While nothing’s so much long’d for as thy death ? How meanly liast thou spent thy lease of years. A slave to poverty, to toils, and fears! And all to vie with some bleak rugged hill, Whose rich contents millions of chests can fill. As round the greedy rock clings to the mine, And hinders it in open day to shine, Till diggers hew it from the spar’s embrace, Making it circle, stampt with Cesar’s face ; So dost thou hoard, and from thy prince purloin His useful image, and thy country coin; Till gaping heirs have freed th’ imprison’d slave, When, to their comfort, thou hast fill’d a grave. The next, who with a jaunty air approach’d, Was agay youth, who thither had been coach’d: Sleek were his Flanders mares, his liv’ries fine, With ghitt’ring gold his furniture did shine. Sure such, methought, may enter when they please, Who have all these appearances of ease. Strutting he march’d, nor any leave he crav’d, Attempt’ to pass, but found himself deceiv’d. Old Touchstone gave him on the breast a box, Which op’d the sluices of a latent pox ; Then bid his equipage in naste depart. The youth look’d at them with a fainting heart ; He found he could not walk, and bid them stay ; Swore three cramp oaths, mounted, and wheel’d away. : & 130 The Pow’r herself express’d thus, with a smile :— “These changing shadows are not worth our while; With smallest trifles oft their peace is torn, If here at night, they scarcely wait the morn,” Another beau, as fine, but more vivace, Whose airs sat round him with an easy grace, And well-bred motion, came up to the gate; T lov’d him much, and trembled for his fate. The sentry broke his clouded cane ;—he smil’d, Got fairly in, and all our fears beguil’d. The cane was soon renewed which had been broke, And thus the virtue to the circle spoke :— “Hach thing magnificent or gay we grant Co them who’re capable to bear their want.” Two handsome toasts caine next, them well I knew, “heir lovely make the court’s observance drew : Three waiting-maids attended in the rear, Each loaden with as much as she could bear: One mov’d beneath a load of silks and lace, Another bore the off-sets of the face ; But the most bulky burden of the three, Was hers who bore th’ utensils of bohea. My mind indulgent in their favour pled, Hoping no opposition would be made; So mannerly, so smooth, so mild their eye, Enough almost to give Content envy. But soon I found my error: the bold judge, Who acted as if prompted by some grudge, Them thus saluted with a hollow tone :— “You’re none of my acquaintance, get you gone: What loads of trump’ry these!—ha, where’s my cross P I'll try if these be solid ware, or boss.” The China felt, the fury of his blow, And lost a being, or for use, or show ; For use or show no more’s each plate or cup, But all in shards upon the threshold drop. Now ev’ry charm, which deck’d their face before, Gives place to rage, and beauty is no more: The briny stream their rosy cheeks besmear’d, Whilst they in clouds of vapours disappear’d. A rustic hind, attir’d in home-spun grey, With forked locks, and shoes bedaub’d with clay ; Palms shod with horn; his front fresh, brown, and broad; With legs and shoulders fitted for a load : He ’midst ten bawling children laugh’d and sung, While consort hobrails on the pavement rung. Up to the porter 1 1concern’d he came, Forcing along his uffspring and their dame ; Cross Touclistone strove to stop him, but the clown At handy-cuffs him match’d, and threw him down; And spite of lim, into the palace went, Where he was kindly welcom’d by Content. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Two Busbian philosophs put in their claims, Gamaliel and Critis were their names ; But soon’s they had our British Homer seen, With face unruffled, waiting on the queen, Envious hate their surly bosoms fir’d, Their colour chang’d, they from the porch retir’d Backward they went, reflecting with much rage On the bad taste and humour of the age, Which paid so much respect to nat?ral parts, While they were starving graduates of arts. The goddess fell a-laughing at the fools, And sent them packing to their grammar-schools ; Or in some garret elevate to dwell, There, with Sisyphian toil, to teach young beaux to . spell. Now, all this while, a gale of eastern wind And cloudy skies opprest the human mind: The wind set west; back’d with the radiant heams Which warm’d the air, and danc’d upon the streams, Exhal’d the spleen, and sooth’d a world of souls, Who crowded now the avenue in shoals. Numbers in black, of widowers, relicts, heirs ; Of new-wed lovers many handsome pairs ; Men landed from abroad, from camps and seas ; Others got through some dangerous disease ; A train of belles adorn’d with something new; And e’en of ancient prudes there were a few, Who were refresh’d with scandal and with tea, Which, for a time, set them from vapours free; Here from their cups, the lower species flockt ; And knaves with bribes and cheating methods stockt. The Pow’r survey’d the troop, and gave command, They should no longer in the entry stand, But be convey’d into chimera’s tow’r, There to attend her pleasure for an hour. Soon as they enter’d, apprehension shook The fabric; fear was fixt on ev’ry look ; Old age and poverty, disease, disgrace, With horrid grin, star’d full in ev’ry face, Which made them, trembling at their unknown fate, Issue in haste out by the postern gate. None waited out their hour but only two, Who had been wedded fifteen years ago: The man had learn’d the world, and fix’d his mind; His spouse was cheerful, beautiful, and kind; She neither fear’d the shock, nor phantom’s stare ; She thought her husband wise, and knew that he was there. Now while the court was sitting, my fair guide Tuto a fine Elysium me convey’d: I saw, or thought I saw, the spacious fields Adorn’d with all prolific nature yields, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Profusely rich with her most valu’d store : But as m’ enchanted fancy wander’d o’er The happy plain, new beauties seem’d to rise, The fields were fled, and all was painted skies. Pleas’d for a while, I wish’d the former scene ; Straight all return’d, and eas’d me of my pain. Again the flowry meadows disappear, And hills and groves their stately summits rear : These sink again, and rapid rivers flow ; Next from the rivers cities seem to grow. Some time the fleeting scene I had forgot, Jn busy thought entrane’d: with pain I sought To know the hidden charm: straight all was fled, And boundless heav’ns o’er boundless oceans spread. Impatient, I obtest my noble guide, “Reveal this wond’rous secret?” She replied : “We carried on what greatly we design’d, When all these human follies you resign’d, Ambition, lux’ry, and a cov’tous mind: Yet think not true content can thus be bought, There’s wanting still a train of virtuous thought. “When me your leader prudently you choose, And, list?ning to my counsel, did refuse Fantastic joys, your soul was thus prepar’d For true content: and thus I do reward Your gen’rous toil. Observe this wond’rous clime ; Of nature’s blessings here are hid the prime: But wise and virtuous thought, in constant course, Must draw these beauties from their hidden source; The smallest intermissions will transform The pleasant scene, and spoil each perfect charm. *Tis ugly vice will rob you of content, And to your view all hellish woes present : Nor grudge the care in virtue you employ, Your present toil will prove your future joy.” Then smil’d she heav’nly sweet, and parting said, “Hold fast your virtuous mind, of nothing be afraid.” A while the charming voice so fill’d my ears, I griev’d the divine form no more appears: ‘Then to confirm my yet unsteady mind, Under a lonely shadow I reclin’d, To try the virtues of the clime I sought; Then straight call’d up a train of hideous thought ; Famine, and blood, and pestilence appear, Wild shrieks and loud laments disturb mine ear ; New woes and horrors did my sight alarm, Envy and hate composed the wretched charm. Soon as I saw, I dropt the hateful view, And thus I sought past pleasures to renew. To heav’nly love my thoughts I next compose, Then quick as thought the foll’wing sights disclose: 131 Streams, meadows, grottoes, groves, birds carrolling; Calmness, and temp’rate warmth, and endless spring: A perfect transcript of these upper bow’rs, The habitation of th’ immortal pow’rs. Back to the palace ravished I went, Resolved to reside with blest content ; Where all my special friends methought I met, In order *mongst the best of mankind set. My soul, with too much pleasure overchurg’d, The captiv’d senses to their post enlarg’d. Lifting mine eyes, I view’d declining day, Sprang from the green, and homeward bent my way ; Reflecting on that hurry, pain, and strife, Which flow from false and real ills of life. [=e 1720. THE CITY OF EDINBURGH’S SALUTATION TO THE MARQUIS OF CARNARVON} Wetcome, my Lord! Heav’n be your guide, And further your intention, To whate’er place you sail or ride ; To brighten your invention. The book of mankind Jang and wide Is well worth your attention ; Wherefore please some time here abide, And measure the dimension Of minds right stout. O that ik worthy British peer Wad follow your example! My auld grey head I yet wad rear, And spread my skirts mair ample. Should London poutch up a’ the gear ?? She might spare me a sample: In troth his highness should live here, For without oil our lamp will Gang blinkan out. Lang syne, my Lord, I had a cout, And nobles fill’d my cawsy ; But, since I have been fortune’s sport, I look nae half sae gawsy. Yet here brave gentlemen resort, And mony a handsome lassy : Now that your’re lodg’d within my port, How well I wat theyll a’ say, Welcome, my Lord! (1) The eldest son of his Grace the Duke of Chandvis, who, in May, 1720, was at Edinburgh, in his tour through Scotland. (2) Edinburgh too often complained that the north of Rritalao is so remote from the court, and so rarely enjoys the influence of British stars of the first maguitude.—A.R. 132 For you my best cheer I'll produce, T’ll no mak’ muckle vaunting ; But routh for pleasure and for use, Whate’er you may be wanting, You’s ha’e at will to chap and choose, For few things am I scant in; The wale of well-set ruby juice, ‘When you like to be rantin, I can afford. Than I, nor Paris, nor Madrid, Nor Rome, I trow’s mair able, To busk you up a better bed, Or trim a tighter table. My sons are honourably bred, To truth and friendship stable : What my detracting faes? have said, Youll find a feigned fable. At the first sight. May classic lear and letters belle, And travelling conspire, Tk unjust notion to repel, And godlike thoughts inspire ; That in ilk action, wise and snell, Ye may shaw manly fire ; Sae the fair picture of himsel Will give his grace, your sire, Immense delight. ——_e—— 1721. ON THE PROSPECT OF PLENTY, A POEM ON THE NORTH-SEA FISHERY, INSCRIBED TO THE ROYAL BURROWS OF SCOTLAND. THALIA, anes again, in blythsome lays, In lays immortal, chant the North Sea’s praise : Tent how the Caledonians, lang supine, Begin, mair wise, to open baith their een ; And, as they ought, t’ employ that store which Heav’n In sic abundance to their hands has giv’n. Sae, th’ heedless heir, born to a lairdship wide, That yields mair plenty than he kens to guide, Not well acquainted with his ain good luck, Lets ilka sneaking fellow take a pluck ; Till at the lang run, wi’ a heart right sair, He sees the bites grow bein, as he grows bare ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS Then, wak’ning, looks about with glegger glower, And learns to thrive, wha ne’er thought ou’t before. Nae nation in the world can parallel The plenteous product of this happy isle : But past’ral heights, and sweet prolific plains, That can at will command the saftest strains, Stand yont ; for Amphitrite ® claims our sang, Wha round fair Thule‘ drives her finny thrang, O’er shaws of coral and the pearly sands, To Scotia’s smoothest lochs and crystal strands. There keeps the tyrant pike his awfu’ court, Here trouts and salmond in clear channels sport. Wae to that hand that dares by day or night Defile the stream where sporting fries delight.* But herrings, lovely fish, like best to play In rowan ocean, or the open bay ; In crowds amazing thro’ the waves they shine, Millions on millions form ilk equal line: Nor dares th’ imperial whale, unless by stealth, Attack their firm united commonwealth. But artfu’ nets, and fishers’ wily skill, Can bring the scaly nations to their will. When these retire to caverns of the deep, Or in their oozy beds thro’ winter sleep, Then shall the tempting bait, and tented string, Beguile the cod, the sea-cat, tusk, and ling. Thus may our fishery thro’ a’ the year Be still employ’d t’ increase the public gear. Delightfu’ labour! where th’ industrious gains Profit surmounting ten times a’ his pains : Nae pleasure like success; then lads stand bye, Ye ’ll find it endless in the northern sea. O’er lang with empty brag we have been vain Of toom dominion on the plenteous main, While others ran away with all the gain. Thus proud Iberia ® vaunts of sov’reign sway O’er countries rich, frae rise to set of day ; She grasps the shadows, but the substance tines, While a’ the rest of Europe milk her mines. But dawns the day sets Britain on her feet ; Lang look’d-for ’s come at last, and welcome bet; For numerous fleets shall hem Hebudan? rocks ; Commanding seas with rowth to raise our stocks : Nor can this be a toom chimera found, The fabric’s bigget on the surest ground. Sma’ is our need to toil on foreign shores, When we have baith the Indies at our doors: (1) The most choice of fine claret. (2) Those who from prejudice have reproached us with belag rude, inhospitable, and false. ° (3) The wife of Neptune, (4) The northern islands of Scotland are said to be the Thule pf the ancients. (5) There are acts of parliament, which severely prohibit the steeping of lint in running waters, or any other way defiling those rivers where salmon abound. (6) Spain. (7) The Lewis and other western islands, MISCELLANEVUS POEMS. Yet, for diversion, laden vessels may To far aff nations cut the liquid way ; And fraught frae ilka port what’s nice or braw, While for their trifles we maintain them a’. Goths, Vandals, Gauls, Hesperians, and the Moors, Shall a’ be treated frae our happy shores : The rantin Germans, Russians, and the Poles, Shall feast with pleasure on our gusty shoals ; For which deep in their treasures we shall dive : Thus by fair trading north-sea stock shall thrive. Sae far the bonny prospect gives delight, The warm ideas gart the muse take flight ; When straight a gumbletonian appears, Peching fou sair beneath a laid of fears :— “Wow! that’s braw news,” quoth he, “to make fools sain ; But gin ye be nae warlock, how d’ ye ken? Does Tam the Rhymer! spae oughtlings of this? Or do ye prophesy just as ye wish? Will projects thrive in this abandon’d place F Unsonsie we had ne’er sae meikle grace. I fear, I fear, your tow’ring aim fa’ short, Alake we winn o’er far frae king and court! The southerus will with pith your project bauk, They Il never thole this great design to tak’.” Thus do the dubious ever countermine, With party wrangle, ilka fair design. How can a saul that has the use of thought, Be to sic little creeping fancies brought ? Will Britain’s king or parliament gainstand The universal profit of the land? Now when nae sep’rate int’rest eggs to strife, The ancient nations, join’d like man and wife, Maun study closs for peace and thriving’s sake, Aff a’ the wiffen’d leaves of spite to shake. Let’s weave and fish to ane anither’s hands, And never think wha serves or wha commands ; But baith alike consult the common weal, Happy that moment friendship makes us leal To truth and right; then springs a shining day, Shall clouds of sma’ mistakes drive fast away. Mistakes and private int’rest hence be gane ! Mind what they did on dire Pharsalia’s plain, Where doughty Romans were by Romans slain. A meaner phantom neist, with meikle dread, Attacks with senseless fears the weaker head :— “The Dutch,” say they, “will strive your plot to stap, They ’1l toom their banks before you reap their crap : 133 Lang have they ply’d that trade like busy bees, And suck’d the profit of the Pictland seas ; Thence riches fish’d mair, by themselves confest, Than e’er they made by Indies East and West.” O mighty fine and greatly was it spoke! Maun bauld Britannia bear Batavia’s yoke P May she not apen her ain pantry-door, For fear the paughty state should gi’e a roar? Dare she nane of her herrings sell or prive, Afore she say, “ Dear Matkie, wi’ ye’r leave P” Curse on the wight wha tholes a thought sae tame ! He merits not the manly Briton’s name. Grant they ’re good allies, yet it’s hardly wise To buy their friendship at sae high a price: But frae that airth we needna fear great skaith, These people, right auldfarran, will be laith To thwart a nation, wha with ease can draw Up ilka sluice they have, and drown them a’. Ah, slothfw pride! a kingdom’s greatest curse ; How dowf looks gentry with an empty purse! How worthless is a poor and haughty drone, Wha thowless stands a lazy looker-on! While active sauls a stagnant life despise, Still ravish’d with new pleasures as they rise. O’er lang, in troth, have we by-standers been, And loot fowk lick? the white out of our een : Nor can we wyt them, since they had our vote, But now they ’se get the whistle of their groat. Here did the muse intend a while to rest, Till hameo’er spitefw’ din her lugs opprest ; Anither set of the envious kind (With narrow notions horribly confin’d) Wag their boss noddles, syne with silly spite Land ilka worthy project in a bite, They force with awkward girn their ridicule, And ca’ ilk ane concern’d a simple fool, Excepting some wha a’ the lave will nick, And gi’e them nought but bare whop-shafts to lick. Malicious envy! root of a debates, The plague of government and bane of states ; The nurse of positive destructive strife, Fair friendship’s fae, which sours the sweets of life; Promoter of sedition and base fead, Still overjoy’d to see a nation bleed :— Stap, stap, my lass,? forgetna where ye’re gawn, If ye rin on, Heav’n kens where ye may land; Turn to your fishers’ sang, and let fowk ken The north-sea skippers‘ are leal-hearted men, (1) Thomas Learmond, called the Rhymer, lived in the reign of Alexander III., king of Scots, and is held in great esteem by the vulgar for his dark predictions. —A.R. (2) This phrase is always applied when peop-e, with pretence of friendship, do you an ill-turn; as one, licking a mote out o, your eye, makes it blood-shot, (3) The muse. (4) The managers. 184 Vers’d in the eritic seasons of the year, When to ilk bay the fishing-buss should steer, There to haul up with joy the plenteous fry, Which on the decks in shining heaps shall lie, Till carefu’ hands, e’en while they ’ve vital heat,! Shall be employ’d to save their juices sweet ; Strick tent they’ll tak’ to stow them wi’ strange brine,? In barrels tight, that shall nae liquor tite ; Then in the foreign markets we shall stand With upright front, and the first sale demand. This, this our faithfu’ trustees have in view, And honourably will the task pursue ; Nor are they bigging castles in a cloud, Their ships already into action scud.? Now, dear ill-natured billies, say nae mair, But leave the matter to their prudent care : They ’re men of candour, and right well they wate That truth and honesty hauds lang the gate: 4 Shoulder to shoulder let’s stand firm and stout, And there’s nae fear but we ’ll soon make it out; We’ve reason, law, and nature on our side, And have nae bars, but party, sloth, and pride. When 2’ ’s in order, as it soon will be, , And fleets of busses fill the northern sea, What hopefu’ images with joy arise in order rank’d before the muse’s eyes! A wood of masts, well mann’d; their jovial din, Like eydent bees gawn out and coming in: Here half a nation, healthfu’ wise, and stark, With spirits only tint for want of wark, Shall now find place their genius to exert, While in the common good they act their part. These fit for servitude shall bear a hand, And these find government form’d for command. Besides, this, as a nursery, shall breed Stout skill’d marines, which Britain’s navies need. Pleas’d with their labour, when their task is done, They ’ll leave green Thetis to embrace the sun: Then freshest fish shall on the brander bleez, And lend the busy browster wife a heez ; While healthfu’ hearts shall own their honest flame, With reaming quaff, and whomelt to her name, Whase active motion to his heart did reach, As she the cods was turning on the beech. Curs’d poortith! love and hymen’s deadly fae, (That gars young fowk in prime cry aft, ““Oh hey!” And single live, till age and runkles shaw Their canker’d spirits good for nought at a’.) MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Now flit your camp, far frae our confiucs scour, Our lads and lasses soon shall slight your pow’r $ For rowth shall cherish love, and love shall bring Mae men t’ improve the soil and serve the king. Thus universal plenty shail produce Strength to the state, and arts for joy and use. O plenty! thou delight of great and sma’, Thou nervous sinnow of baith war and law! The statesman’s drift, spur to the artist’s skill ; Nor do the very flamens like thee ill ; The shabby poets hate thee :—that’s a lie! Or else they are nae of a mind wi’ me. Plenty shall cultivate ik scawp and moor, Now lea and bare, because the landlord ’s poor. On scroggy braes shall akes and ashes grow, And bonny gardens clad the brecken how. Do others backward dam the raging main,® Raising on barren sands a flow’ry plain? By us then should the thought o’ ’t be endur’d, To let braid tracts of land lie unmanur’d? Unceultivate nae mair they shall appear, But shine with a’ the beauties of the year; Which start with ease frae the obedient soil, And ten times o’er reward a little toil. Alang wild shores, where tumbling billows break, Plenisht with nought but shells and tangle wreck, Braw towns shall rise, with steeples mony a ane, Aud houses bigget a’ with estler stane ; Where schools polite shall lib’ral arts display, And make auld barb’rous darkness fly away. Now Nereus rising frae his wat’ry bed, The pearly drops hap down his lyart head ; Oceanus with pleasure hears him sing, Tritons and Nereids form a jovial ring, And, dancing on the deep, attention draw, While a’ the winds in love, but sighing, blaw. The sea-born prophet sang, in sweetest strain, “ Britons, be blyth; fair queen of isles be fain; A richer people never saw the sun. Gang tightly through what fairly you ’ve begun, Spread a’ your sails and streamers in the wind, For ilka pow’r in sea and air ’s your friend ; Great Neptune’s unexhausted bank has store Of endless wealth, will gar yours a’ run o’er.” He sang sae loud, round rocks the echoes flew, «Tis true,” he said; and they return’d, “’Tis true.” (1) It is a great advantage to cure them immediately after they are taken. (2) Foreign salt. (3) Several large ships are already employed, and took tn twotr salt and barrels a month ago.—A.R. (4) Holds long up its head; longest keeps the highway of gate. (5) ‘The beech is the sea-shore, where they dried the cod and ling. (6) The Dutch have gained a great deal from the seaa—A- MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1715. ON THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, Aprit, 1715. Now do I press among the learned throng, To tell a great eclipse in little song. At me nor scheme nor demonstration ask, That is our Gregory’s? or fam’d Halley’s? task ; *Tis they who are conversant with each star, We know how planets planets’ rays debar ; This to pretend, my muse is not so bold, She only echoes what she has been told. Our rolling globe# will scarce have made the sun Seem half-way up Olympus to have run, When night’s pale queen, in her oft changed way, Will intercept in direct line his ray, And make black night usurp the throne of day. The curious will attend that hour with care, And wish no clouds may hover in the air, To dark the medium, and obstruct from sight The gradual motion and decay of light ; Whilst thoughtless fools-will view the water-pail, To see which of the planets will prevail ; For then they think the sun and moon make war, Thus nurses’ tales oft-times the judgment mar. When this strange darkness overshades the plains, Twill give an odd surprise t? unwarned swains ; Plain honest hinds, who do not know the cause, Nor know of orbs, their motions or their laws, Will from the half-plough’d furrows homeward bend, Tn dire confusion, judging that the end Of time approacheth: thus possest with fear, They ’ll think the geu’ral conflagration near. The traveller, benighted on the road, Will turn devout, and supplicate his God. Cocks with their careful mates and younger fry, As if ’*t were ev’ning, to their roosts will fly. The horned cattle will forget to feed, And come home lowing from the grassy mead. Each bird of day will to his nest repair, And leave to bats and owls the dusky air: The lark and little robin’s softer lay Will not be heard till the return of day. Now tLis will be the great part of Europe’s case, While Phebe’s as a mask on Phcebus’ face. 135. The unlearn’d clowns, who don’t our sera know, From this dark Friday will their ages show ; AS I have often heard old country men Talk of dark Monday, and their ages then. Not long shall last this strange uncommon gloon: When light dispels the ploughman’s fear of doom ; With merry heart he’ll lift his ravish’d sight Up to the leav’ns, and welcome back the light. How just’s the motions of these whirling spheres, Which ne’er can err while time is met by years ! How vast is little man’s capacious soul, That knows how orbs thro’ wilds of zther roll! How great ’s the pow’r of that Omnific Hand, Who gave them motion by His wise command, That they should not, while time had being, stand! ' 1715. THE GENTLEMAN’S QUALIFICATIONS DEBATED. From different ways of thinking comes debate, This we despise, and that we over-rate, Just as the fancy takes, we love or hate: Hence Whig and Tory live in endless jar, And most of families in civil war : Hence, ’mongst the easiest men beneath the skies, Fen in their easy dome, debates arise : _ As late they did with strength of judgment scan Those qualities that form a gentleman. First Tippermalloch pled, with Spanish grace, That gentry only sprung from ancient race, Whose names in old records of time were fix’d, In whose rich veins some royal blood was mix’d. I, being a poet sprung from a Douglas’ loin, In this proud thought did with the doctor join; | With this addition, if they could speak sense, | Ambitious I, ah! had no more pretence. Buchanan, with stiff argument and bold, Pled, gentry took its birth from powerful gold: Him Hector Boece join’d; they argued strong ; Said they, “to wealth that title must belong; If men are rich, they ’re gentle ; and if not, Youll own their birth and sense are soon forgot. (1) Mr. Gregory, protessor of mathematics in Edinburgh. (2) Fellow of the Royal Society, London. (3) According to the Copernican system. (4) By some of the fellows of the Easy Club, a juvenile society of which I am a fellow. From the general antipathy we all emed to have at the ill-humour and contradictions which arise from trifles, especially those which constitute Whig and Tory, without having the grand reason for it; this engaged us to take a pleasure in the sound of an Easy Club. The club, by one ot our special laws, must not exceed twelve; and every gentleman, at his admission, was to take the name of some Scots author, or one eminent for something extraordinary, for obscuring his real name in the register of our lucubrations; such as are named in this debate, Tippermalloch, Buchanan, Hector Boece, &e.—A.R. 186 Pray say,” said they, “how much respectful grace Demands an old red coat and mangled face ? Or one, if he could like an angel preach, If he to no rich benefice can reach ? E’en progeny of dukes are at a stand How to make out bare gentry without land.” But still the doctor would not quit the field, But that rich upstarts should to birth-right yield: He grew more stiff, nor would the plea let go; Said he was right, and swore it should be so. But happy we, who have such wholesome laws, Which, without pleading, can decide a cause. To this good law recourse we had at last, That throws off wrath, and makes our friendship fast ; : In which the legislators laid the plot To end all controversy by a vote. Yet that we more good-humour might display, We frankly turn’d the vote another way : As in each thing we common topics shun, So the great prize nor birth nor riches won. The vote was carried thus :—that easy he Who should three years a social fellow be, And to our Easy Club give no offence, After triennial trial, should commence A gentleman; which gives as just a claim To that great title as the blast of fame Can give to those who tread in human gore, Or those who heap up hoards of coined ore ; Since, in our social friendship, nought’s design’d But what may raise and brighten up the mind; We aiming close to walk by virtue’s rules, To find true humour’s self, and leave her shade to fools. 1721. ON FRIENDSHIP. Tue earth-born clod who hugs his idle pelf, His ouly friends are Mammon and himself. The drunken sots who want the art to think, Still cease from friendship when they cease from drink. (1) A printer's relict, who, with the hawkers, reprinted my pastoral on Mr. Addison, without my knowledge—an ugly paper, fall of errors.x—A. R. (2) One of their incorrect copies was reprinted at London by Barnard Lintot, in folio, before he printed it a second time from MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The empty fop, who scarce for man will pass, Ne’er sees a friend but when he views his glass, Friendship first springs from sympathy of inind, Which to complete the virtues all combine, And only found ’mongst men who can espy The merits of his friend without envy. Thus all pretending friendship ’s but a dream, Whose base is not reciprocal esteem. 1721. THE AUTHOR’S ADDRESS TO THE TOWN-COUNCIL OF EDINBURGH. Your poet humbly means and shaws, That contrair to just rights and laws, I’ve suffer’d muckle wrang, By Lucky Reid! and ballad-singers, Wha thumb’d with their coarse dirty fingers Sweet Adie’s funeral sang; They spoil’d my sense, and staw my cash, My muse’s pride murgully’d ; And printing it like their vile trash, The honest heges whilly’d. Thus undone, to London? It gaed to my disgrace, Sae pimpin and limpin, In rags wi’ bluther’d face. Yet gleg-eyed friends thro’ the disguise Receiv’d it as a dainty prize, For a’ it was sae hav’ren. Gart Lintot take it to his press, And clad it in a braw new dress, Syne took it to the tavern. But tho’ it was made clean and braw, Sae fair it had been knoited, It blather’d buff? before them a’, And aftentimes turn’d doited. It griev’'d me, and reav’d me Of kindly sleep and rest, By carline and gorling To be sae sair opprest. Wherefore to you, ne’er ken’d to guide ill, But wisely haud the good town’s bridle, My case I plainly tell ; a correct copy of my own, with the Honourable Mr. Burchet’y English version of it.—A. R. (3) Spoke nonsense, from words being wanting, and many wrong spelled and changed, such as gras for gars, praise for phrase, &0.—A.R. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And, as your ain,’ plead I may have Your word of weight,? when now I crave To guide my gear mysel. Then clean and fair the type shall be, The paper like the snaw, Nor shall our town think shame wi’ me, When we gang far awa. What’s wanted, if granted, Beneath your honour’d wing, Baith hantily and cautily Your supplicant shall sing 1721. THE PETITION TO THE WHIN-BUSH CLUB‘ Or Crawfurd-Moor, born in Leadhill,® Where min’ral springs Glengoner ° fill, Which joins sweet-flowing Clyde, Between auld Crawfurd-Lindsay’s towers, And where Deneetne rapid pours His stream thro’ Glotta’s tide ; Native of Clydesdale’s upper ward, Bred fifteen summers there, Tho’, to my loss, I am nae laird, By birth, my title ’s fair ; To bend wi’ ye, and spend wi’ ye An evening, and guffaw, If merit and spirit Be found without a flaw. Since dously ye do nought at random, Then take my bill to avisandum ; And if there ’s nae objection, L’ll deem ’t my honour, and be glad, To come beneath your Whin-bush shade, And claim frem it protection, If frae the caverns of a head That’s boss, a storm should blaw, (1) A free citizen. @) To interpose their just authority in my favour, and grant me an act to ward off those little pirates; of which act I grate- fa..y acknowledge the receipt.—A.R. (3) There being abundance of their petitioners who daily oblige themselves to pray. (4) This club consists of Clydesdaleshire gentlemen, who fre- quently meet at a diverting hour, and keep up a good under- standing amongst themselves over a friendly bottle. And, from a charitable principle, easily collect into their treasurer's box a small fund, which has many a time relieved the distresses of Indigent persons of that shire.—A.R. 137 Etling wi’ spite to rive my reed, And give my muse a fa’, When poring and soaring O’er Heliconian heights, She traces these places Where Cynthius delights. cae: Sus SPOKEN TO AOLUS, IN THE HOUSE OF MARLEFIELD, ON THE VIGHT OF A VIOLENT WIND. Way on this bow’r, bluff-cheeked god, Sacred to Phebus, and th’ abode Of Bennet,” his much-dauted son, Say, wherefore makes thou all this din, In dead of night >—Heh ! like a kow, To fuff at winnocks and cry wow !— I have it now,—Juno has seen The fair Bennetas tread the green, And them for bairns of Venus guest, Sae sends thee to disturb their rest. Pray walk your body, if you please, Gae gowl and tooly on the seas ; Thou wants the pith to do them harm : Within we’re safe, and snug, and warm, Kindly refresh’d with healthfw’ sleep, While to my cod my pow I keep, Canty and cosiely I lye, And baith thy bursten cheeks defy. —_—_+__—_ 1721. CLYDE’S WELCOME TO HIS PRINCE. Wuat cheerful sounds from ev’ry side T hear ! How beauteous on their banks my nymphs appear: Got thro’ these massy mountains at my source, O’er rocks stupendous® of my upper course, To these fair plains where [ more smoothly move, Thro’ verdant vales to meet Avona’s? love. (5) In the parish of Crawfurd-Moor, famous for the lead and gold mines belonging to the Earl of Hopetoun, (6) The name of a small river, which takes its rise from the Leadhills, and enters Clyde between the castle of Crawfurd and the mouth of Deneetne, another of the branches of the Clyde. (7) Sir William Bennet, who lived at Marlefield. (8) The river falls over several precipices, such as Corra’s Lin, Stane-byre Lin, &c. (9) The small river Avon, which joins the Clyde rear Hamilton. . Tt 138 Yonder she comes beneath Dondonia’s shade, How blyth she looks, how sweet and gaylie clade ! Her flow’ry bounds bear all the pride of May, While round her soft meanders shepherds play. Hail, lovely Naid! to my bosom large, Amidst my stores, commit thy crystal charge, Aud speak these joys all thy deportment shews, That to old Ocean I may have good news. With solemn voice thus spoke majestic Clyde ; In softer notes lov’d Avon thus reply’d: Great Glotta! long have I had cause to mourn, While my forsaken stream gush’d from my um; Since my late Lord, his nation’s just delight, Greatly lamented sunk in endless night. His hopetui Stem, our chief desire and boast, Expos’d to danger on some foreign coast, Lonely for years L’ve murmur’d on my way, When uark i wept, and sigh’d in shining day. The sire return’d :—Just reasons for thy pains, So long to wind thro’ solitary plains ; Thy loss was mine, I sympathis’d with thee, Since one our griefs, then share thy joys with me. Then hear me, liquid chieftain of the dale, Hush all your cat’racts till I tell my tale, Then rise and roar, and kiss your bord’ring flowers, And sound our joys around yon lordly towers ; You lordly towers, which happy now contain Our brave and youthful Prince, return’d again. Welcome! in loudest raptures cried the flood ; His welcome echo’d from each hill and wood : Enough, Avona; long may they contain The noble youth, safely return’d again. From the green mountain! where I lift my head, With my twin brothers, Annan and the Tweed, To those high arches? where, as Culdees sing, The pious Mungo fish’d the trout and ring ; My fairest nymphs shall on my margin play, And make e’en all the year one holiday : The sylvan powers and watches of each hight, Where fleecy flocks and climbing goats delight, Shall from their groves and rocky mountains roam, To join with us and sing his welcome home. With lofty notes well sound his high descent, His dawning merits, and heroic bent ; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Those early rays which steadfastly shall shine, And add new glories to his ancient line ; A line aye loyal, and fir'd with gen’rous zeal, . The bravest patrons of the commonweal : From him, who plung’d the sword (so muses sine Deep im his breast, who durst defame our king. We'll sing the fire which in his bosom glows, To warm his friends, and scorch his daring foes ; Endow’d with all those sweet, yet manly charms, As fit him for the fields of love or arms: Fixt in an high and independent state, Above to act what ’s little, to be great. Guard him, first Power, whose hand directs the ; sun, And teach him through dark caverns to run; Long may he on his own fair plains reside, And slight my rival Thames, and love his Clyde. 1721. on THE MARQUIS OF BOWMONT’S CUTTING OFF HIS HAIR. Swat Berenice’s tresses mount the skies, And by the muse to shining fame arise ? Belinda’s lock invite the smoothest lays Of him whose merit claims the British bays ? And not, dear Bowmont, beautiful and young, The graceful ringlets of thy head be sung? How many tender hearts thine eyes hath pain’d! How many sighing nymphs thy locks have chain’d! The god of love beheld him with envy, And on Cytherea’s lap began to ery, All drenched in tears, “‘O mother! help your son. Else by a mortal rival I’m undone ; With happy charms h’ encroaches on my sway, His beauty disconcerts the plots I lay, When I’ve made Cloe her humble slave admire, Straight he appears and kindles new desire ; She sighs for him, and all my art beguiles, Whilst he, like me, commands and careless smiles. (1) From the same hill the rivers Clyde, Tweed, and Annan have their rise; yet run to three different seas, viz. the Northern Ocean, the German Ocean, and the Irish Sea. —A.R. (2) The bridge of Glasgow, where, as it is reported, St. Mungo, the patron of that city, drew up a fish that brought him a ring which had been dropt; which miracle Glasgow retains the memory of in the city arms.—A.R. (3) Vide the ingenious Mr. Patrick Gordon's account of this illustrious family, !n his poem on the valiant achievements of our great king Robert, surnamed the Bruce. In the fourth chapter, beginning at this stanza, the prophet speaks to our monarch :— “: Now in thy time (quoth he) there shall arrive A worthy knight, that from his native land Shall fiy, because he bravely shall deprive, In glorious fight, a knight that shall withstand Thy praises due, while he doth thee descrive , Yea, e’en this knight shall with victorious hand Come here; whose name his seed shall eternize, And still thy virtuous line shall sympathize.” —A.F MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 139 Ah me! those sable circles of his hair, Which wave around his beauties red and fair, I cannot bear! Adonis would seem dim, With all his flaxen locks, if plac’d by him.” Venus replied: “No more, my dearest boy, Shall those enchanting curls thy peace destroy ; For ever sep’rate, they shall cease to grow Or round his cheek, or on his shoulders flow: Ill use my sleight, and make them quickly feel Their honour ’s lost by the invading steel : I'l] turn myself in shape of mode and health, And gain upon his youthful mind by stealth ; Three times the sun shall not have rous’d the morn, F’er he consent those from him shall be shorn.” The promise she performed: but labour vain, And still shall prove, while his bright eyes remain ; And of revenge blind Cupid must despair, As long’s the lovely sex are grac’d with hair : They ’li yield the conquering glories, of their heads, To form around his beauty easy shades ; And in return, Thalia spaes, and sings, His lop’d-off locks shall sparkle in their rings. 1721, TO SOME YOUNG LADIES, WHO WERE DISPLEASED WITH A GENTLEMAN FOR TELLING THEM, THAT CONDEMNATION TO A STATE OF VIRGINITY WAS THE GREATEST OF PUNISHMENTS. Wuetuer condemn’d to virgin state, By the superior powers, Would to your sex prove cruel fate, I’m sure it would to ours. From you the numerous nation spring, Your breasts our being save, Your beauties make the youthful sing, And soothe the old and grave. Alas! how soon would every wight 4 Tespise both wit and arms ; To primitive old chaos night, Wed sink without your charms, No more our breath would be our care, Were love from us exil’d; Sent back to heaven with all the fair, This world would turn a wild. Regardless of these sacred ties, Wife, husband, father, son, All government we would despise, And like wild tigers run. Then, ladies, pardon the mistake, And with th’ accus’d agree, I beg it for each lover’s sake, Low hended on my knee: And frankly wish what has been said, By the audacious youth, Might be your thought; but [’m afraid It will not prove a truth : For often, ah! you make us groan, By your too cold disdain ; Then, quarrel with us when we moan, And rave amidst our pain. —=o— 1721. THE POET’S WISH. Fraz great Apollo, poet say, What is thy wish, what wadst thou ha’e, When thou bows at his shrine ? Not Carse 0’ Gowrie’s fertile field, Nor a’ the flocks the Grampians yield, That are baith sleek and fine : Not costly things brought frae afar, As ivory, pearl, and gems ; Nor those fair straths that water’d are With Tay and Tweed’s smooth strvaius, Which gentily, and daintily, Pour down the flow’ry braes, As greatly, and quietly, They wimple to the seas. Whaever by his canny fate Is master of a good estate, That can ilk thing afford, Let him enjoy ’t withoutten care, And with the wale of curious fare Cover his ample board. Mauch dawted by the gods is he, Wha to the Indian plain Successfu’ ploughs the wally sea, And safe returns again, With riches, that hitches Him high above the rest Of sma’ fowk, and a’ fowk, That are wi’ poortith prest. For me, I can be well content To eat my bannock on the bent, And kitchen ’t wi’ fresh air ; 140 Of lang-kail I can make a feast, And cantily haud up my crest, And laugh at dishes rare. Nought frae Apollo I demand, But through a lengthen’d life, My outer fabric firm may stand, And saul clear without strife. May he then, but gie then, Those blessings for my skair ; I'll fairly, and squairly, Quit a’, and seek nae mair. 1724. HEALTH. A POEM INSCRIBED TO THE EARL OF STAIR. Br’t mine the honour once again to hear And see the best of men for me appear ; I'll proudly chant: be dumb, ye vulgar throng! Stair bids me sing ; to him these lays belong ; If he approves, who cau condemn my song ? Of health I sing —O health! my portion be, And to old age I'll sing, if bless’d by thee. Blessing divine! heaven’s fairest gift to man! Sou] of his joys! and length’ner of his span ! His span of life preserv’d with panting breat, Without thy presence proves a ling’ring death. The victor kings may cause wide nations bow, And half a globe with conqu’ring force subdue ; Bind princes to their axletrees, and make The wond’ring mob of staring mortals quake ; Erect triumphal arches, and obtain The loud huzza from thousands in their train : But if her sweetness balmy health denies, Without delight pillars or Aineids rise. Cosmelius may on silky quilts repose, And have a numerous change of finest clothes ; Box’d in his chair, he may be borne to dine On ortolans, and sip fine Tokay wine: His liver if an inflammation seize, Or wasting lungs shall make him cough and wheeze, No more he smiles; nor can his richest toys, Or looking-glass, restore his wonted joys: The rich brocade becomes a toilsome weight, The brilliant gem offends his weakly sight ; Perfumes grow nauseous then, nor can he bear Loud tuneful notes that used to charm his ear: To please his taste the cook attempts in vain, When now each former pleasure gives him pain. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Nor flowing bowls, loud laugh, or midnight freak, Nor smutty tale, delight the roving rake ; When health forsakes him, all diversions tire, There’s notiing pleases, nothing can inspire A blithsome smile; he shuns the shine of light, And broken slumbers make a weary night. If silent sleep attempt to bring him ease, His watching fancy feels the whole disease : He dreams a mountain lies upon his breast, Or that he flies the fury of some beast : Sees at vast distance, gushing from the rocks, The cooling stream, while burning thirst provokes Hin, fainting, to climb up the craggy edge, And drag his linbs through many a thorny hedge; Hangs o’er a precipice, or sinks in waves ; And all the while he sweats, turns, starts, and raves. How mad’s that man, push’d by his passions wild, Who’s of his greatest happiness beguil’d ; Who seems, whate’er he says, by actions low, To court disease, our pleasure’s greatest foe ! From Paris, deeply skill’d in nice ragouts, In oleos, salmagundies, and hogoes, Montanus sends for cooks, that his large beard May all invented luxury afford : Health ’s never minded, while the appetite Devours the spicy death with much delight. Meantime, xiug Arthur’s sav’ry knighted loin Appears a clown, and’s not allowed to join The marinated smelt, and sturgeon jowls, Soup-vermicell, sous’d turbot, cray, and soles, Fowls d-la-daub, and omelet of eggs, The smother’d coney, aud bak’d paddocks’ legs, Pullets a disk, and orangedo pie, The larded peacock, and the tarts de moy, The collar’d veal, and pike in cassorole, Pigs a-la-braise, the tansy and brusole ; With many a hundred costly-mingled dish, Wherein the moiety of flesh or fish Is wholly lost, and vitiate as the taste Of them who eat the dangerous repast, Until the feeble stomach ’s over-cramm’d, The fibres weaken’d, and the blood inflam’d. What aching heads, what spleen, and drowsy eyes, From undigested crudities arise ! But when Montano’s paunch is over-cloy’d, ° The bagnio or emetic wine ’s employ’d: These he imagines methods the most sure, After a surfeit, to complete a cure ; But never dreams how much the balm of life Is wasted by this fore’d unnat’ral strife. Thus pewter vessels must by scouring wear, While plate, more free from dross, continues clei | Long unconsum’d the oak can bear the beams, Or lie for ages firm beneath the streams ; MISCELTANEOUS POEMS. 141 Bat when alternately the rain and rays Now dash, then dry the plank, it soon decays. Luxurious man! altho’ thou’rt blest with wealth, Why should thou use it to destroy thy health ? Copy Mellantius, if you ’d learn the art To feast your friends, and keep their souls alert ; One good substantial British dish, or two, Which sweetly in their natural juices flow, Only appear: and here no danger ’s found To tempt the appetite beyond its bound; And you may eat, or not, as you incline; And, as you please, drink water, beer, or wine. Here hunger’s safe, and gratefully appeas’d, The spleen ’s forbid, and all the spirits rais’d, And guests arise regal’d, refresh’d, and pleas’d. Grumaldo views, from rais’d parterres around, A thousand acres of fat furrow’d ground, And all his own; but these no pleasure yield, While spleen hangs as a fog o’er ev’ry field: The lovely landscape clad with gilded corn, The banks and meads which flow’rs and groves adorn, No relish have; his envious, sullen mind, Still on the fret, complains his fate ’s unkind: Something he wants which always flies his reach, Which makes him groan beneath his spreading beech. When all of nature, silent, seem to shun Their cares, and nod till the returning sun, His envious thoughts forbid refreshing sleep, And on the rack his hopeless wishes keep : Fatigu’d and drumbly from the down he flies, With skinny cheek, pale lips, and blood-run eyes. Thus toil’d with lab’ring thoughts, he looks aghast, And tasteless loaths the nourishing repast : Meagre disease an easy passage finds, Where joy ’s debarr’d, in such corroded minds. Such take no care the springs of life to save, Neglect their health, and quickly fill a grave. Unlike gay Myrtil, who, with cheerful air, Less envious, tho’ less rich, no slave to care, ‘Thinks what he has enough, and scorns to fret, While he sees thousands less oblig’d to fate, And oft’ner from his station casts his eye On those below him, than on those more high: Thus envy finds no access to his breast, To sour his gen’rous joy, or break his rest. He studies to do actions just and kind, Which with the best reflections cheer the mind; Which is the first preservative of health, To be preferr’d to grandeur, pride, and wealth. Let all who would pretend to common sense, ’Gainst, pride and envy still be on defence ; Who love their health, nor would their joys control, Let them ne’er nurse such furies in their soul. Nor, wait on strolling Phimos to the stews, Phimos, who by his livid colour shows Him lade with vile diseases, which are fix’d Upon his bones, and with his vitals mix’d. Does that man wear the image of his God, Who drives to death on such an ugly road ? Behold him clad like any bright bridegroom, In richest labours of the British loom ; Embroider’d o’er with gold, whilst lace, or lawn, ‘Waves down his breast, and ruffles o’er his han’, Set off with art, while vilely he employs In sinks of death, for low, dear-purchas’d joys : He grasps the blasted shadows of the fair, Whose sickly look, vile breath, and falling hair, The flagg’d embrace, and mercenary squeeze, The tangs of guilt, and terrors of disease, Might warn him to beware, if wild desire Had not set all his thoughtless soui on fire. O poor mistaken youth! to drain thy purse, To gain the most malignant human curse! Think on thy flannel, and mercurial dose, And future pains, to save thy nerve and nose: Think, heedless wight !, how thy infected veins May plague thee many a day with loathsome pains When the French foe his woeful way has made, And all within his dire detachments laid ; There long may lurk, and, with destruction keen, Do horrid havoc ere the symptom ’s seen. But learn to dread the poisonous disease, When heaviness aud spleen thy spirits seize ; When feeble limbs to serve thee will decline, And languid eyes no more with sparkles shine ; The roses from thy cheek will, blasted, fade, And leave a dull complexion like the lead: Then, then expect the terrible attack Upon thy head, thy conduit, nose, and back ; Pains thro’ thy shoulders, arms, and throat, and shins, Will threaten death, and damr thee with thy sins, How frightful is the loss, and the disgrace, When it destroys the beauties of the face ! When the arch nose in rotten ruin lies, And all the venom flames around the eyes ; When th’ uvula has got its mortal wound, And tongue and lips form words without a sound When hair drops off, and bones corrupt and bare, Through ulcerated tags of muscles stare ! But vain we sing instruction to his ear, Who’s no more slave to reason than to fear; Hurried by passion, and o’ercome with wine, He rushes headlong on his vile design . The nauseous bolus, and the bitter pill, A month of spitting, and the surgeon’s bill, 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Are now forgot, whilst he—but here ’tis best To let the curtain drop, and hide the rest Of the coarse scene, too shocking for the sight Of modest eyes and ears, that take delight To hear with pleasure Urban’s praises sung, Urban the kind, the prudent, gay, and young ; Who moves a man, and wears a rosy smile, That can the fairest of a heart beguile: A virtuous love delights him with its grace, Which soon he’ll find in Myra’s lov’d embrace, Enjoying health, with all its lovely train Of joys, free from remorse, or shame, or pain. But Talpo sighs with matrimonial cares, His cheeks wear wrinkles, silver grow his hairs, Before old age his health decays apace, And very rarely smiles clear up his face. Talpo’s a fool, there ’s hardly help for that, He scarcely knows himself what he ’d be at; He’s avaricious to the last degree, And thinks his wife and children make too free With his dear idol; this creates his pain, And breeds convulsions in his narrow brain. He’s always startled at approaching fate, And often jealous of his virtuous mate ; Is ever anxious, shuns his friends to save: Thus soon he Il fret himself into a grave ; There let him rot, worthless the muse’s lays, Who never read one poem in his days. I sing to Marlus, Marlus who regards The well-meant verse, and gen’rously rewards The poet’s care. Observe now, if you can, Aught in his carriage does not speak the man: To him his many a winter wedded wife Appears the greatest solace of his life. He views his offspring with indulgent love, Who his superior conduct all approve. Smooth glide his hours; at fifty he’s less old Than some who have not half the number told. The cheering glass he with right friends can share, But shuns the deep debauch with cautious care. His sleeps are sound, he sees the morning rise, And lifts his face with pleasure to the skies, And quaffs the health that’s borne on Zephyr’s wings, Or gushes from the rock in limpid springs. From fragrant plains he gains the cheering smell, While ruddy beams all distant dumps repel. The whole of nature, to a mind thus turn’d, Enjoying health, with sweetness seems adorn’d: To him the whistling ploughman’s artless tune, The bleating flocks, the oxen’s hollow crune, The warbling notes of the small chirping throng, Give more delight than the Italian song. To him the cheapest dish of rural fare, And water cool in place of wine more rare, Shall prove a feast: on straw he ’ll find more ease, Than on the down even with the least disease. Whoever ’s tempted to transgress the line, By moderation fix’d to enliv’ning wine, View Macro, wasted long before his time, Whose head, bow’d down, proclaims his liquid crime. © The purple dye, with ruby pimples mix’d, As witnesses upon his face are fix’d. A constant fever wastes his strength away, And limbs enervate gradually decay ; The gout and palsy follow in the rear, And make his being burdensome to bear: His squeamish stomach loaths the savoury sey," And nought but liquids now can find thei way, To animate his strength, which daily flies, Till the young drunkard ’s past all hope, aud dies. To practise what we preach, O goddess-born! Assist thy slave, lest Bacchanalians scorn Thy inspiration, if the tempting grape Shall form the hollow eye and idiot gape. But let no wretched misers, who repine, And wish there were not such a juice as wine, Imagine here that we are so profane To think that Heav’n gave plenteous vines in vain: No; since there ’s plenty, cups may sparkling flow, And we may drink till our rais’d spirits glow ; They will befriend our health, while cheerful rounds Incline to mirth, and keep their proper bounds. Fools should not drink, I own, who still wish more, And know not when ’tis proper to give o’er. Dear Britons, let no morning-drinks deceive Your appetites, which else at noon would crave Such proper aliments as can support, At even your hearty bottle, health and sport. Next view we sloth (too oft the child of wealth), A seeming friend, but real foe to health. Lethargus lolls his lazy hours away, His eyes ure drowsy, and his lips are blae; His soft, enfeebled hands supinely hing, And shaking knees, unused, together cling: Close by the fire his easy chair too stands, In which all day he snotters, nods, and yawns. Sometimes he ’ll drone at piquet, hoping gain, But you must deal his cards, that’s too much pain. He speaks but seldom, puffs at ev’ry pause, Words being a labour to his tongue and jaws : Nor must his friends discourse above their breath, For the least noise stounds thro’ his ears like death. He causes stop each cranny in his room, And heaps on clothes, to save him from the rheum: (1) The sirloin of beet. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ” Fiee air he dreads as his most dangerous foe, And trembles at the sight of ice or snow. The warming-pan each night glows o’er his shects, Then he beneath a load of blankets sweats ; The which, instead of shutting, opes the door, And lets in cold at each dilated pore. Thus does the sluggard health and vigour waste, With heavy indolence, till at the last, Sciatic, jaundice, dropsy, or the stone, Alternate makes the lazy lubbard groan. But active Hilaris much rather loves, With eager stride, to trace the wilds and groves ; To start the covey, or the bounding roe, Or work destructive Reynard’s overthrow : The race delights him, horses are his care, And a stout ambling pad his easiest chair. Sometimes, to firm his nerves, he ’ll plunge the deep, And with expanded arms the billows sweep : Then on the links, or in the estler walls, He drives the gowff, or strikes the tennis-balls. From ice with pleasure he can brush the snow, And run rejoicing with his curling throw ; Or send the whizzing arrow from the string, A manly game, which by itself I sing.’ Thus cheerfully hell walk, ride, dance, or game, Nor mind the northern blast, or southern flame. East winds may blow, and sudden fogs may fall, But his hale constitution ’s proof to all. He knows no change of weather by a corn, Nor minds the black, the blue, or ruddy morn. Here let no youth, extravagantly given, Who values neither gold, nor health, nor Heaven, Think that our song encourages the crime Of sitting deep, or wasting too much time On furious game, which makes the passions boil, And the fair mean of health a weak’ning toil By violence excessive, or the pain, Which ruin’d losers ever must sustain. Our, Hilaris despises wealth so won, Nor does he love to be himself undone ; But from his sport can with a smile retire, And warm his genius at Apollo’s fire ; Find useful learning in th’ inspired strains, And bless the gen’rous poet for his pains. Thus he by hit’rature and exercise Improves his soul, and wards off each disease. Health’s op’ner foes we ’ve taken care to show, Which make diseases in full torrents flow : But when these ills intrude, do what we will, ‘Then hope for health from Clerk’s? approved skill; (1) A poem on seeing the archers playing at the Rovers (p. 150), (2) Dr. Clerk of Edinburgh, a physician of great ability, and a pupil of Pitcairne. 143 To such, well seen in nature’s darker laws, That for disorders can assign a cause ; Who know the virtues of salubrious plan.s, And what each different constitution wants, Apply for health—But shun the vagrant quack, Who gulls the crowd with Andrew’s comic clack : Or him that charges gazettes with his bills, His anodynes, elixirs, tinctures, pills, Who rarely ever cures, but often kills. Nor trust thy life to the old woman’s charms, Who binds with knotted tape thy legs or arms, Which they pretend will purple fevers cool, And thus impose on some believing fool. When agues shake, or fevers raise a flame, Let your physician be a man of fame, Of well-known learning, and in good respect For prudence, honour, and a mind erect : Nor scrimply save from what ’s to merit due; He saves your whole estate who succours you. Be grateful, Britons, for your temp’rate beams, Your fertile plains, green hills, and silver streams, O’erclad with corn, with groves, and many a mead, Where rise green heights, where herds in millicus feed : , Here useful plenty mitigates our care, And health with freshest sweets embalms the air Upon those shores, where months of circling rays Glance feebly on the snow, and frozen bays; Where, wrapt in fur, the starving Lapland brood Scarce keep the cold from curdling of their blood , Here meagre want in all its pinching forms, Combin’d with lengthen’d night and bleakest storms, To combat joyful health and calm repose, Which from an equal warmth and plenty flows. Yet rather, O great Ruler of the day! Bear me to Weygate, or to Hudson’s Bay, Than scorch me on those dry and blasted plains, Where rays direct inflame the boiling veins Of gloomy negroes, who ’re oblig’d to breathe A thicken’d air, with pestilential death ; Where range out o’er th’ inhospitable wastes, The honger-edg’d and fierce devouring beasts ; Where serpents crawl which sure destruction bring, Or in th’ envenom’d tooth or forked sting ; Where fleeting sands ne’er yield t’ industrious toil, The golden sheaf, or plants for wine and oil : Health must be here a stranger, where the rage Of fev’rish beams forbids a lengthen’d age. Ye Dutch! enjoy your dams, your bulwarks boast And war with Neptune for a sandy coast, Whilst frighted by these deep, tumultuous powers, You scarce dare sleep in your subaqueous bowers: a 144 : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Raise high your beds, and shun your croaking frogs, And battle with tobacco-smoke your fogs ; Soak on your stoves, with spirits charge your veins, To ward off agues and rheumatic pains. Let the proud Spaniard strut on naked hills ; And vainly trace the plain for crystal rills ; Starve on a salad or a garlic head ; Pray for his daily roots, not daily bread ; Be sour, and jealous of his friend and wife, Till want and spleen cut short his thread of life. Whilst we on our auspicious island find Whate’er can please the sense or cheer the mind. Blest queen of isles! with a devout regard, Allow me to kneel down and kiss thy sward, Thy flow’ry sward, and offer Heav’n a vow, Which gratitude and love to thee make due; If e’er I from thy healthful limits stray, Or by a wish, or word, a thought betray Against thy int’rest or thy fair renown, May never Daphne furnish me a crown; Nor may the first-rate judges of our isle Or read, or on my blithesome numbers smile. Thalia here, sweet as the light, retir’d, Commanding me to sing what she ’d inspir’d, And never mind the glooming critics’ bray : ‘The song was hers—she spoke—and I obey. AN ODE ON THE BIRTH OF THE MARQUIS OF DRUMLANRIG. Hep me, some god, with sic a muse As Pope and Granville aft employ, That I may flowing numbers choose, To hail the welcome, princely boy. But, bred up far frae shining courts, Jn moorland glens, where nought I see, But now and then some landart lass, What sounds polite can flow frae me ? Yet, my blithe lass, amang the lave, With honest heart her homage pays ; Tho’ no sae nice she can behave, Yet always as she thinks, she says. Arise, ye nymphs, on Nitha’s plains, And gar the craigs and mountains ring ; Rouse up the sauls of a’ the swains, While you the lovely infant sing. Keep halyday on ilka howm, With gowan garlands gird your bruws; Out o’er the dales in dances roam, And shout around the jovial news. By the good benison of Heav’n, To free you frae the future fright Of foreign lords, a babe is given To guard your int’rest and your right. With pleasure view your prince, who late Up to the state of manhood run, Now, to complete his happy fate, Sees his ain image in a son. A son, for whom be this your pray’r, Ik morning soon as dawn appears: God grant him an unmeasur’d skair Of a’ that grac’d his great, forbeers ; That his great sire may live to see Frae his delightfu’ infant spring A wise and stalwart progeny, To fence their country and their king. Still bless her Grace frae whom he sprung, With blithesome heal her strength reuew, That thro’ lang life she may be young, And bring forth cautioners enow. Watch well, ye tenants of the air, Wha hover round our heads unseen, Let dear Drumlanrig be your care, Or when he lifts or steeks his een. Ye hardy heroes, whase brave pains Defeated aye th’ invading rout, Forsake a wee th’ Elysian plains, View, smile, and bless your lovely sprout. Ye fair, wha ’ve ken’d the joys of love, Aud glow with cheerfu’ heal and youth, Sic as of auld might nurse a Jove, Or lay the breast t? Alcides’ mouth ; The best and bonniest of ye a’ Take the sweet babie in your arms: May he nought f:ae your bosom draw, But nectar to nurse up his charms. Harmoniously the notes express, When singing you his dumps debar, That discord never may impress Upon his blooming mind a jar. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 Sound a’ the poet: in his ears, Wen while he’s hanging at the breast: Thus moulded, when he comes to years, With an exalted gust he ’ll feast On lays immortal, which forbid The death of Douglas’ doughty name; Or in oblivion let lie hid The Hydes, their beauty and their fame. 1728. AN ODE TO GRACE, COUNTESS OF ABOYNE, ON HER MARRIAGE-DAY. In martial fields the hero toils, ind wades thro’ blood to purchase fame ; O’er dreadful waves, from distant soils, The merchant brings his treasures hame. But fame and wealth no joys bestow, If plac’d alane the cypliers stand ; *Tis to the figure Love they owe The real joys that they command. Blest. he who love and beauty gains, Gaius what contesting kings might claim, Might bring brave armies to the plains, And loudly swell the blast of fame. How happy then is young Aboyne! Of how much heav’n is he possest ! How much the care of pow’rs divine, Who lies in lovely Lockhart’s breast ! Gazing in raptures on thy charms, Thy sparkling beauty, shape, and youth, He grasps all softness in his arms, And sips the nectar from thy mouth. If sympathetic likeness crave Indulgent parents to be kind, Each pow’r shall guard the charm they gave, Veuus thy face, Pallas thy mind. O muse! we could—but stay thy flight ; The field is sacred as ’tis sweet : Who dares to paint the ardent night, When ravish’d youth and beauty meet? Here we must draw a veil between, And shade those joys too dazzling clear, By ev’ry eye not to be seen, Not to be heard by ev’ry ear. Still in her smiles, ye Cupids, play ; Still in her eyes your revels keep; Her pleasure be your care by day, And whisper sweetness in her sleep. Be banish’d each ill-natur’d care, Base offspring of fantastic spleen ; Of access here you must despair, Her breast for you is too serene. May guardian angels hover round Thy head, and ward aff all annoy, Be all thy days with raptures crown’d, And all thy nights be blest with joy. AN ODE ON THE MARRIAGE OF ALEX. BRODIE OF BROD.R TO MISS MARY SLEIGH. WaeEn time was young, and innocenze With tender love govern’d this round, No mean design to give offeuce To constancy and truth was found : All free from fraud, upon the dow 'ry sward, Lovers caress’d with fond and chaste regard. From easy labours of the day, Each pair to leafy bowers retir’d ; Contentment kept them ever gay, While kiud connubial sweets conspir’d, With smiling quiet and balmy health, thro’ life To make the happy husband and the wife. Our roodern wits, in wisdom less, With spirits weak, and wavering minds Void of resolve, poorly confess They cannot relish aught that binds. Let libertines of taste sae wondrous nice, ‘Despise to be confin’d in paradise. While Brodie with his beauteous Sleigh, On purest love can safely feast, Quaff raptures from her sparkling eye, And judge of heav’n within her breast. No dubious cloud to gloom upon his joy, Possessing of what ’s good can never cloy. Her beauty might for ever warm, Altho’ her soul were less divine ; U 146 The hrightness of her mind could charm, Did less her graceful beauties shine : But both united, with full force inspire The warmest wish, and the most lasting fire. In your accomplish’d mate, young thane, Without reserve ye may rejoice ; The Heav’ns your happiness sustain, And all that think, admire your choice. Avound your treasure circling arms entwine, Be all thy pleasure hers, and hers be thine. Rejoice, dear Mary, in thy youth, The first of his brave, ancient clan, Whose soul delights in love and truth, And view'd in ev’ry light a man To whom the fates with liberal hand have given Good sense, true honour, and a temper even. When love and reason thus unite An equal pair in sacred ties, They gain the human bliss complete, And approbation from the skies : Since you approve, kind Heaven, upon them pour Te best of blessings to their latest hour. To you who rule above the sun, To you who fly in fluid air, We leave to finish what ’s begun, Still to reward and watch the pair. Thus far the muse, who did an answer wait, And heard the gods name happiness their fate. 1723. THE FAIR ASSEMBLY, A POEM. TO THE MANAGERS. Right Honourable Ladies, How much is our whole nation indebted to your lady- ships for your reasonable and laudable undertaking to introduce politeness among us, Ly a cheerful entertainment, which is high y for the advantage of both body and mind, in all that is becoming in the brave and beautiful; well foreseeing that a barbarous rusticity ill suits them, who, in fuller years, must act with an address superior to the common class of mankind ; and it is un- deniable that nothing pleases more, nor commands more respect, than an easy, disengaged, and genteel manner. What can he more disagreeable than *o see one, with a stupid impudence, say- ing and acting things the most shocking amongst the polite; or others (in plain Scots) blate, and not knowing how to behave? Warmed with these reflections, and the beautifulness of the subject, my thoughts have made their way in the following stanzas, which, with humility, I beg leave to present to your (1) “ The wise for health on exercise depend ; God never made his works for man to mend.”—Dryben. (2) “Since nothing appears to me to give children so much MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ladyships. It is amazing to imagine that any are so Cestitute of good sense and manners as to drop the least unfavourable sentiment against the Fair Assembly. It is to be owned, with regret, that the best of things have been abused. The church has been, and in many countries is, the chief place for assignations that are not warrantable; wine, one of heaven's kindly blessings may be used to one’s hurt; the beauty of the fair, which is the great preserver of harmony and society, has been the ruin of many; learning, wkich assists in raising the mind of man up to the class of spirits, has given many a one’s brain a wrong cast; 80 places, designed for healthful and mannerly dancing, have, by people of an unhappy turn, been debauched by introducing gaming, drunkenness, and indecent familiarities: but will any argue from these that we must have no churches, no wine, no beauties, no literature, no dancing? Forbid it Heaven! Noble and worthy ladies, whatever is under your auspicious conduct must be improving and beneficial in every respect. May all the fair daughters copy after such virtuous and delightful patterns as you have been, and continue to be. That you may be long a blessing to the rising generation, is the sincere prayer of, May it please your ladyships, Your most faithful and humble servant, EprvpurGg, June 28th. ALLAN RAMSAY. Awaxg, Thalia, and defend, With cheerfu’ carolling, Thy bonny care: thy wings extend, And bear me to your spring, That harmony full force may lend To reasons that I bring :— Now Caledonian nymphs attend, For ’tis to you I sing. As lang as minds maun organs wear Compos’d of flesh and blood, We ought to keep them hale and clear With exercise’ and food. Then, but debate, it will appear, That dancing must be good; It stagnant humours sets a-steer, And fines the purple blood. Diseases, heaviness, and spleen, And ill things mony mae, That gar the lazy fret and grane, With visage dull and blae. *Tis dancing can do mair alane, Than drugs frae far away, To ward aff these, make nightly pain, And sour the shining day. Health is a prize—yet meikle mair In dancing we may find; It adds a lustre to the fair, And, when the fates unkind Cloud with a blate and awkward air A genius right refin’d, The sprightly art? helps to repair This blemish on the mind. becoming confidence and behaviour, and so raise them to the conversation of those above their age, as dancing, I think they should be taught to dance as soon as they ara capable of learning MISCELILANEOUS POEMS. 147 How mony do we daily see Right scrmmp of wit and sense,! Who gain their aims aft easily By well-bred confidence ? Then, whate’er helps to qualify A rustic negligence Maun without doubt a duty be, And should give nae offence. Hell’s doctrine ’s dung, when equal pairs Together join their hands, And vow to soothe ilk other’s cares, Tn haly wedlcck’s bands : Sae when to dance the maid prepares, And flush’d with sweetness stands, At her the wounded lover stares, And yields to heaven’s commands. The first command? he soon obeys, While love inspires ilk notion ; His wishing look his heart displays, While his lov’d mate’s in motion: He views her with a blithe amaze, And drinks with deep devotion That happy draught, that thro’ our days Is own’d a cordial potion. The cordial which conserves our life, And makes it smooth and easy ; Then, ilka wanter wale a wife, Ere eild and humdrum seize ye, Whase charms can silence dumps or strife, And frae the rake release ye, Attend th’ Assembly, where there ’s rife Of virtuous maids to please ye. These modest maids inspire the muse, In flowing strains to shaw Their beauties, which she likes to roose, And let th’ envious blaw: That task she canna well refuse, Wha single says them na— To paint Belinda first we choose, With breasts like driven snaw. Like lily-banks see how they rise, With a fair glen between, Where living streams, blue as the skies, Are branching upward seen, To warm her mouth, where rapture lies, And smiles that banish spleen, Wha strikes with love and saft surprise, Where’er she turns her een. Sabella, gracefully complete, Straight as the mountain-pine, Like pearl and rubies set in jet, Her lovely features shine : In her the gay and solid meet, And blended are sae fine, That when she moves her lips or feet, She seems some power divine. O Daphne! sweeter than the dawn, When rays glance o’er the heiglit, Diffusing gladness o’er the lawn, With streaks of rising light. The dewy flowers, when newly blawn, Come short of that delight Which thy far fresher beauties can Afford our joyfu’ sight. How easy sits sweet Celia’s dress ! Her gait how gently free! Her steps throughout the dance express The justest harmony: And when she sings, all must confess, Wha’re blest to hear and see, They ’d deem’t their greatest happiness T’ enjoy her company. And wha can ca? his heart his ain, That hears Aminta speak ? Against Love’s arrows shields are vain, When he aims frae her cheek— Her cheek, where roses free from stain In glows of youdith beek : Unmingled sweets her lips retain, These lips she ne’er should steek. Unless when fervent kisses close That av’nue of her mind, Thro’ which true wit in torrents flows, As speaks the nymph design’d, The brag and toast of wits and beaux, And wonder of mankind ; Whase breast will prove a blest repose, To him with whom she ’ll bind. See, with what gaiety, yet grave, Serena swims alang; She moves a goddess ’mang the lave, Distinguish’d in the thrang. Ye sourocks, hafilins fool, half knave ! Wha hate a dance or sang, To see this stately maid behave, *"T wad gi’e your hearts a twang: it: for though this consists only in outward gracefulness of motion, yet, I know not how, it gives manly thoughts and carriage more than anything.”—Locke. (1) “ It is certain, that for want of a competent knowledge in this art of dancing, which should have been learned when young, the public loses many a man of excellent intellectuals and un. biassed probity, purely for want of that so necessary accomplish. ment, assurance ; while tho pressing knave or fvol shoulders hiw out, and gets the prize.”— Mr. Wiraverk. (2) Dixit cis Deus, foetificate, augescite, ct implete terram, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Your hearts, said I *—troth I’m to blame; T had amaist forgotten, That ye to nae sic organ claim, Or if ye do, ’t is rotten : A saul with sic a thowless flame, Ts sure a silly sot ane ; Ye scandalise the human frame, When in our shape begotten. These lurdanes came just in my light, As I was tenting Chloe, With jet-black een that sparkle bright, She ’s all o’er form’d for joy ; With neck, and waist, and limbs as tight As hers wha drew the boy Frae feeding flocks upon the height, And fled with him to Troy. Now Myra dances :—mark her mien, Sae disengag’d and gay, Mix’d with that innocence that’s seen, In bonny ew-bught May, Wha wins the garland on the green, Upon some bridal day ; Yet she has graces for a queen, And might a sceptre sway. What lays, Calista, can commend The beauties of thy face ? Whase fancy can sae tow ring stend, Thy merits a° to trace P Frae boon the starns some bard descend And sing her ev’ry grace, Whase wond’rous worth may recommend Her to a god’s embrace. A seraph wad our Aikman paint, Or draw a lively wit ? The features of a happy saint, Say, art thou fond to hit ? Or a madonna compliment, With lineaments maist fit ? Fair copies thou need’st never want, If bright Calista sit. Mella the heaviest heart can heeze, And sourest thoughts expel, Her station grants her rowth and ease, Yet is the sprightly belle As active as the eydent bees, Wha rear the waxen cell ; And place her in what light you please, She still appears hersell. Beauties on beauties come in view Sae thick, that I’m afraid I shall not pay to ilk their due, Till Phoebus lend mair aid: But this in gen’ral will haud true, And may be safely said, There’s aye a something shining new In ilk delicious maid. Sic as against th’ Assembly speak, The rudest sauls betray, When matrons, noble, wise, and meek, Conduct the healthfu’ play: Where they appear, nae vice dare keek, But to what ’s good gives way, Like night, soon as the morning creek Has usher’d in the day. Dear Ed’nburgh, shaw thy gratitude, And of sic friends make sure, Wha strive to mak’ our minds less rude, And help our wants to cure ; Acting a gen’rous part and good, In bounty to the poor; Sic virtues, if right understood, Should ev’ry heart allure. Seg ON THE ROYAL ARCHERS SHOOTING FOR THE BOWL, Tue 6TH OF JULY, 1724. Agar the year returns the day, That ’s dedicat to joy and play, To bonnets, bows, and wine. Let all who wear a sullen face, This day meet with a due disgrace, And in their sourness pine ; Be shunn’d as serpents, that wad stang The hand that gies them food: Sic we debar frae lasting sang, And all their grumbling brood. While to gain sport and halesome air, The blithesome spirit draps dull care, And starts frae business free : Now to the fields the Archers bend, With friendly minds the day to spend, In manly game and glee; First striving wha shall win the bowl, And then gar ’t flow with wine: Sic manly sport refresh’d the soul Of stalwart men lang syne. Ere parties thrawn, and interest: vile, Debauch’d the grandeur of our isle, And made e’en brethren faes: MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 14S Syne truth frae tmendship was exil’d, And fause the honest hearts beguil’d, And led them in a maze Of politics.— With cunning craft, The Issachars of state, Frae haly drums first dang us daft, Then drown’d us in debate. Drap this unpleasing thought, dear muse; Come view the men thou likes to roose ; To Bruntsfield Green let ’s hie, And see the royal Bowmen strive, Wha far the feather’d arrows drive, All soughing thro’ the sky: Dk etling with his utmost skill, With artfu’ draft and stark, Extending nerves with hearty will, In hopes to hit the mark. See Hamilton, wha moves with grace, Chief of the Caledonian race Of peers, to whom is due All honours, and a fair renown; Wha lays aside his ducal crown, Sometimes to shade his brow Beneath St. Andrew’s bonnet blue, And joins to gain the prize; Which shaws true merit match’d by few, Great, affable, and wise. This day, with universal voice, The Archers him their chieftain chose : Consenting powers divine, They bless the day with general joy, By giving him a princely boy, To beautify his line ; Whose birthday in immortal sang Shall stand in fair record, While bended strings the Archers twang, And beauty is ador’d. Next Drummond view, who gives their law, It glades our hearts to see him draw The bow, and guide the band ; He, like the saul of a? the lave, Does with sic honour still behave, As merits to command. Blithe be his hours, hale be his heart, And lang may he preside; Lang the just fame of his desert Shall unborn Archers read : How on this fair propitious day, With conquest leal he bore away The bowl victoriously ; With following shafts in number four, Success the like ne’er ken’d before, The prize to dignify, Haste to the garden then bedeen, The rose and laurel pow, And plait a wreath of white and green, To busk the victor’s brow. The victor crown, who with his bow, In spring of youth and am’rous glow, Just fifty years sinsyne, The silver arrow made his prize, Yet ceases not in fame to rise, And with new feats to shine. May every Archer strive to fill His bonnet, and observe The pattern he has set with skill, And praise like him deserve. ON THE ROYAL ARCHERS MARCHING UNDER THE DUKE OF HAMILTON TO SHOOT FOR THE ARROW, THE 4TH OF AvausT, 1724, Apollo! patron of the lyre, And of the valiant Archers’ bow, Me with sic sentiments inspire, As may appear from thee they flow, When, by thy special will and high command, I sing the merits of the Royal Band. Now, like themsells, again the Archers raise The bow, in brave array, and claim our lays. Phebus, well pleas’d, shines from the blue serene, Glents on the stream, and gilds the chequer’d green: The winds lie hush’d in their remotest caves, And Forth with gentle swell his margin laves ; See to his shore the gathering thousands roll, As if one gen’ral spirit inform’d the whole. The bonniest fair of a’ Great Britain’s isle, From chariots and the crowded casements smile ; Whilst horse and foot promiscuous form a lane, Extending far along the destin’d plain, Where, like Bellona’s troops, or guards of love, The Archers in their proper habits move. Their guardian saint, from yon ethereal height Displays th’ auspicious cross of blazing light : While on his care he cheerfully looks down, The pointed thistle wears his ruby crown, And seems to threat, arm’d ready to engage,— “No man unpunish’d shall provoke my rage :” Well pleas’d the rampant lion smooths his maue, And gambols gay upon his golden plain. Like as the sun, when wintry clouds are past, And fragrant gales succeed the stormy blast, 150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Shines on the earth, the fields look fresh and gay, So seem the Arehers on this joyful day ; Whilst with his graceful mien, and aspect kind, Their leader raises ev’ry follower’s mind, Who love the conduct of a youth whose birth To nothing yields but his superior worth ; And happier is with his selected train, Than Philip’s son, who strove a world to gain : That prince whole nations to destruction drove, This prince delights his country to improve. A monarch rais’d upon a throne may nod, And pass among the vulgar for a god; While men of penetration justly blame Those who hang on their ancestors for fame ; But own the dignity of high descent, When the successor’s spirit keeps the bent, Which thro’ revolving ages grac’d the line With all those qualities that brightest shine : The Archers’ chieftain thus, with active mind, In all that’s worthy never falls behind Those noble characters from whom he sprung, In hist’ry fam’d, whom ancient bards have sung, See, from his steady hand and aiming eye, How straight in equal lengths the arrows fly! Both at one end close by the mark they stand, Which points him worthy of his brave command ; That as they to his num’rous merits bow, This victory makes homage fully due. Sage Drummond next the chief, with counsel grave, Becomes his post, instructing all that’s brave : So Pallas seem’d, who Mentor’s form put on, To make a hero of Ulysses’ son. Each officer his character maintains, While love and honour gratify their pains ; No view inferior brings them to the field, To whom great chiefs of clans with pleasure yield. No hidden murmur swells the Archer’s heart, While each with gladness acts his proper part : No factious strife, not plots, the bane of states, Give birth to jealousies or dire debates, Nor less their pleasure who obedience pay, Good order to preserve, as those who sway. O smiling muse! full well thou knows the fair, Admire the courteous, and with pleasure share Their love with him that’s generous and brave, And can with manly dignity behave ; Then haste to warn thy tender care with speed, Lest by some random shaft their hearts may bleed, Yon dangerous youths both Mars and Venus arm, While with their double darts they threat aud charm; Those at their side forbid invading foes, With vain attempt true courage to oppose ; While shafts mair subtle, darted from their eye, Thro’ softer hearts with silent conquest fly. THE POET’S THANKS TO THE ARCHERS, ON BEING ADMITTED INTO THEIR ROYAL COMIsNY Tue restless mind of man ne’er tires, To please his favourite desires, He chiefly that to fame aspires, With soul enlarg’d grasps with delight At every favour which conspires To place him in a fairer light. Such are the followers of the Nine, Who aim at glory for reward, Whose flowing fancies brighter shine, When from the best they meet regard. I, not the least now of that train, Who frae the Royal Archers gain Applause, while lovely ladies deign To take me too beneath their care ; Then tho’ I boast, I am not vain, Thus guarded by the brave and fair: For which kind fate to me this day, First to the Powers Supreme I bow, And next my gratitude I pay, Brave sons of Caledon to you. ALLAN Ramsay, a 1728. ON SEEING THE ARCHERS DIVERTING THEMSELVES AT THE BUTS AND ROVERS. AT THE DESIRE OF SIR WILLIAM BENNET, HIS DEMAND. “Te Rovers and the Buts you saw, And him who gives despotic law ; In numbers sing what you have seen, Both in the garden and the green; And how with wine they clos’d the day, In harmless toasts, both blithe and gay : This to remember be ’t thy care, How they did justice to the fair.” THE ANSWER. Sir, I with much delight beheld The Royal Archers on the field ; Their garb, their manner, and their game, Wakes in the mind a martial flame. To see them draw the bended yew, Brings bygane ages to our view, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. . 15) When ournish’d swords and whizzing flanes Forbade the Norwegans and Danes, Romans and Saxous, to invade A nation of nae foes afraid ; Whase virtue and true valour sav’d Them bravely from their being enslav’d : Esteeming ’t greater not to be, Than lose their darling liberty. How much unlike !—but mum for that, Some beaux may snarl if we should prat. When av’rice, luxury, and ease, A tea-fac’d generation please, Whase pithless limbs in silks o’er-clad, Scarce bear the lady-handed lad Frae ’s looking-glass into the chair, Which bears him to blaflum the fair, Wha by their actions come to ken Sic are but in appearance men. These ill could bruik, without a beild, To sleep in boots upon the field ; Yet rise as glorious as the sun, To end what greatly they begun. Nor could it suit their taste and pride To eat an ox boil’d in his hide; Or quaff pure element, ah me! Without ream, sugar, and bohea. Hail, noble ghosts of each brave sire! Whose sauls glow’d with a god-like fire: If you ’re to guardian posts assign’d, And can with greatness warm the mind; Breathe manly ardours in your race, Communicate that martial grace, By which thro’ ages you maintain’d The Caledonian rights unstain’d ; That when our nation makes demands, She may ne’er want brave hearts and hands. Here, Sir, I must your pardon ask, If 1 have started from my task ; For when the fancy takes a flight, We seldom ken where it will light. But we return to view the band, Under the regular command Of ane’ wha arbitrarly sways, And makes it law whate’er he says: Him honour and true reason rule, Which makes submission to his will Nae slav’ry, but a just delight, Whiles he takes care to keep them right ; Wha never lets a cause depend Till the pursuer’s power ’s at end; Bu’, like a minister of state, He speaks, and there ’s no more debate: (1) Mr. David Prummond, President of the Council. Best government, were subjects sure To find a prince fit for sic pow’r. But drop we cases not desir’d. To paint the archers now retir’d From healthfw’ sport, to cheerfu’ wine, Strength to recruit, and wit refine ; Where innocent and blythsome tale Permits nae sourness to prevail: Here, Sir, you never tail to please, Wha can, in phrase adapt with ease, Draw to the life a’ kind of fowks, Proud shaups, dull coofs, and gabbling gowks, Gielaingers, and each greedy wight, You place them in their proper light ; And when true merit comes in view, You fully pay them what ’s their due. While circling wheels the hearty glass, Well-flavour’d with some lovely lass ; Or with the bonny fruitfu’ dame, Wha brightens in the nuptial flame: My lord, your toast, the preses cries ; To lady Charlotte, he replies : Now, Sir, let ’s hear your beauty bright ; To lady Jean, returns the knight. To Hamilton a health gaes round, Aud one to Eglinton is crown’d. How sweet they taste !—Now, Sir, you sav; Then drink to her that’s far away, The lov’d Southesk.—Neist, Sir, you name ; I give you Basil’s handsome dame. Ist come to me? then toast the fair That ’s fawn, O Cockburn, to thy skair. How hearty went these healths about! How blythly were they waughted out ; To a the stately, fair, and young, Frae Haddington and Hopton sprung; To Lithgow’s daughter in her bloom, To dear Mackay, and comely Home; To Creightons every way divine, To Haldane straight as any pine. O how delicious was the glass Which was perfum’d with lovely Bess! And sae these rounds were flowing gi’en, To sisters Nisbet, Nell, and Jean; To sweet Montgomery shining fair ; To Priestfield twins, delightfw’ pair ; To Katies four of heauteous fame, Stuart and Cochran lady claim, Third Hamilton, fourth Ardress name ; To Peggies Pentland, Bang, and Bell; To Minto’s mate, and lively New; To Gordons ravishingly sweet : To Maule, in whom the graces meet; 159 . MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. To Hepburn, wha has charms in store; To Pringle, harmony all o’er; To the pulite Kinloch and Hay; To Wallace, beautifw’ and gay ; To Campbell, Skeen, and Rutherfoord ; To Maitland fair, the much ador’d; To Lockhart with the sparkling een ; To bonny Crawford ever green ; To Stuarts mony a dazzling bairn, Of Invernytie and Denairn; To gracefu’ Sleigh and Oliphant ; To Nasmith, Baird, Scot, Grier, and Grant ; To Clerk, Anstruther, Frank, and Graham ; To Deans, agreeing with her name. Where are we now ?—Come, to the best In Christendom, and a’ the rest. Dear nymphs unnam’d, lay not the blame On us, or on your want. of fame, That in this hst you do not stand; For heads give way :—but there’s my hand, The neist time we have sic a night, We'll not neglect to do ye right. Thus beauties rare, and virgins fine, With blooming belles, enliven’d our wine, Till a’ our noses ’gan to shine. Then down we look’d upon the great, Who’re plagu’d with guiding of the state ; And pitied each phlegmatic wight, Whose creeping sauls ken nae delight, But keept themselves ay on the gloom, Startled with fears of what’s to come. Poor passion! sure by fate design’d The mark of an inferior mind: To Heav’n a filial fear we awe, But fears nane else a man should shaw. Lads, cock your bonnets, bend your bows, And, or in earnest, or in mows, Be still successful, ever glad, In Mars’s cr in Venus’ bed; Sae bards aloud shall chant your praise, Aud ladies shall your spirits raise. Thus, Sir, P’'ve sung what you requir’d, As Mars and Venus have inspir’d: While they inspire, and you approve, Ill sing brave deeds, and safter love, Till great Apollo say, “ Well done!” And owr me for his native son. 1728. AN ODE TO THE EARL OF HARTFORD, AND THE REST OF THE MEMBERS OF THE SOCIETY OF BRITISH ANTIQUARIES. To Hartford, and his learned friends, Whase fame for science far extends, A Scottish muse her duty sends, From Pictish towers : Health, length of days, and happy ends, Be ever yours. Your gen’rous cares make light arise From things obscure to vulgar eyes. Finding where hidden knowledge lies, T’ improve the mind; And most delightfully surprise, With thoughts refin’d. When you the broke inscription read, Or amongst antique ruins tread, And view remains of princes dead, In funeral piles, Your penetration seems decreed To bless these isles. Where Romans form’d their camps of old, The gods and urns of curious mould, Their medals struck of brass or gold, *Tis you can show, And truth of what ’s in story told, To you we owe. How beneficial is the care That brightens up the classic lear ! When you the documents compare With authors old, You ravish, when we can so fair Your light behold. Without your comments, each old book By all the world would be forsook : For who of thought would deign to look On doubtful works, Till by your skilful hands they ’re struck With sterling marks ? By this your learning men are fir’d, With love of glory, and inspir’d, Like ancient heroes who ne’er tir’d To win a name; And, by their godlike acts, aspiz’d T’ immortal fame. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 153 Your useful labours shall endure, True merit shall your fame secure, And will posterity allure To search about For truth, by demonstration sure, Which leaves no doubt. The muse foresees brave Hartford’s name Shall to all writers be a theme, To last while arts and greatness claim Th’ historian’s skill, Or the chief instrument of fame, The poet’s quill. Pembroke ’s a name to Britain dear For learning and brave deeds of weir ; The genius still continues clear Tn him whose art In your rare fellowship can bear So great a part. Bards yet unborn shall tune their lays, And monuments harmonious raise, To Winchelsea and Devon’s praise, Whose high desert, And virtues bright, like genial rays, Can life impart. Nor want we Caledonians sage, Who read the painted vellum page, No strangers to each antique stage, And Druids’ cells ; And sacred ruins of each age, On plains and fells. Amongst all those of the first rate, Our learned Clerk,! blest with the fave Of thinking right, can best relate These beauties all, Which bear the marks of ancient date, Be-north the wall The wall which Hadrian first begun, And bold Severus carried on, From rising to the setting sun, On Britain’s coast, Our ancestors’ fierce arms to shun, Which gall’d them most. But now no need of walls or towers; Ag’d enmity no more endures, Brave Britain joins her warlike powers, That always dare To open and to shut the doors Of peace and war. (1) Sir John Clerk, of Pennycuick, Bart. Advance, great men, your wise design, And prosper in the task divine ; Draw from antiquity’s deep mine The precious ore, And in the British annals shine Till time’s no more. 1728. ADVICE TO MR. MARRIAGE. ON TLS Aut joy to you and your Amelie, May ne’er your purse nor vigour fail ye: But have a care how you employ Them baith ; and tutor well your joy Frae me, an auld dab, tak’ advice, And hane them baith if ye be wise ; For world’s wasters, like poor cripples, Look blunt with poverty and ripples ; There ’s au auld saw, to ilk ane notun— “ Better to save at braird than bottom.” Which means, your purse and person use, As canny poets do their muse; For whip and spurring never prove Effectual, or in verse or love. Sae far, my friend, in merry stram, I’ve given a douce advice and plain, And honestly discharg’d my conscience, In lines, tho’ hamely, far frae nonsense. Some other chiel may daftly sing, That kens but little of the thing, And blaw ye up with windy fancies, That he has thigit frae romances, Of endless raptures, constant glee, That never was, nor ne’er will be. Alake! poor mortals are not gods, And therefore often fall at odds ; But little quarrels now and than, Are nae great faults ’twéen wife and man: These help right aften to improve His understanding, and her love. Your rib and you, ’bout hours of drinking May chance to differ in your thinking ; But that’s just like a shower in May, That gars the sun-blink seem mair gay. If eer she tak’ the pet, or fret, Be calm, and yet maintain your state ; And, smiling, ca’ her little foolic, Syne with a kiss evite a toolie. This method ’s ever thought the braver, Than either cuffs, or clish-ma-claver : x 154 MISCELLANEOUS POMS, It shaws a spirit low and common, That with ill-nature treats a woman; They ’re of a make sae nice and fair, They must be manag’d with some care : Respect them, they ll be kind and civil; But disregarded, prove the devil. 1728. AN ANACREONTIC ON LOVE. Wuen a’ the world had clos’d their een, Fatigu’d with labour, care, and din, And quietly ilka weary wight Enjoy’d the silence of the night; Then Cupid, that ill-deedy geat, With a his pith rapt at my yeat. Surpris’d, thro’ sleep, I cried “‘ Wha’s that ?” Quoth he, “A poor young wean a’ wat; Ol! haste ye open,—fear nae skaith, Else soon this storm will be my death.” With his complaint my soul grew wee, For, as he said, I thought it sae : I took a light, and fast did rin To let the chittering infant in: And he appear’d to be nae kow, For @ his quiver, wings, and bow. His bairnly smiles and looks gave joy, He seem’d sae innocent a boy. I led him ben but any pingle, And beckt him brawly at my ingle; Dighted his face, his handies thow’d, Till his young cheeks like roses glow’d. But soon as he grew warm and fain, “Let’s try,” quoth he, “if that the rain Has wrang’d aught of my sporting-gear, And if my bow-string ’s hale and fier.” With that his arch’ry graith he put In order, and made me his butt. Mov’d back a-piece, his bow he drew, Fast thro’ my breast his arrow flew. That dune, as if he ’d found a nest, He leugh, and with unsonsie jest, Cried, “ Neibour, I’m right blithe in mind, That in good tift my bow I find: Did not my arrow fly right smart ? Ye ’ll find it sticking in your heart.” AN ADDRESS OF THE MUSE TO GEORGE DRUMMOND, THE LORD PROVOST AND TO THE TOWN-COUNCIL OF EDINBURGH. My Lord, my patron, good and kind, Whose every act of generous care The patriot shows, and trusty friend ; While favours, by your thoughts refin’d, Both public and the private share. To you the muse her duteous homage pays, While Edinburgh’s interest animates her lays Nor will the best some hints refuse : The narrow soul that least brings forth, To an advice the rarest bows ; Which the extensive mind allows, Being conscious of its genuine worth, Fears no eclipse ; nor with dark pride declines A ray from light that far inferior shines. Our reason and advantage call Us to preserve what we esteem ; And each should contribute, tho’ small Like silver rivulets that fall In one, and make a spreading stream. So should a city all her care unite, T’ engage with entertainments of delight. Man for society was made, His search of knowledge has no bound ; Thro’ the vast deep he loves to wade, But subjects ebb, and spirits fade, On wilds and thinly peopled ground. Then where the world, in miniature, employs Its various arts, the soul its wish enjoys. Sometimes the social mind may rove, And trace, with contemplation high, The natural beauties of the grove, Pleas’d with the turtle’s making love, While birds chant in a summer sky. But when cold winter snows the naked fields, The city then its changing pleasure yields. Then you, to whom pertains the care, And have the power to act aright, Nor pains nor prudent judging spare, The Good Town’s failings to repair, And give her lovers more delight. Much you have done, both useful and polite ; Oh! never tire, till every plan’s complete. Some may object, we money want, Of every project soul and nerve. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. *Tis true ;—but sure, the parliament Will ne’er refuse frankly to grant Such funds as good designs deserve. The thriving well of each of Britain’s towns, Adds to her wealth, and more her grandeur crowns. Allow that fifteen thousand pounds Were yearly on improvements spent ; If luxury produce the funds, And well laid out, there are no grounds For murmuring, or the least complaint : Materials all within our native coast, The poor ’s employ’d, we gain, and nothing ’s lost. Two hundreds, for five pounds a-day, Will work like Turkish galley-slaves ; And ere they sleep, they will repay Back all the public forth did lay, For small support that nature craves. Thus kept at work, few twangs of guilt they feel, And are not tempt by pinching want to steal. Most wisely did our city move, When Hope,! who judges well and nice, ‘Vas chosen fittest to improve From rushy tufts the pleasing grove, From bogs a rising paradise. Since earth’s foundation to our present day The beauteous plain in mud neglected lay. Now. evenly planted, hedg’d, and drain’d, Its verdures please the scent and siglit ; And here the fair may walk unpain’d, Her fiowig silks and shoes unstain’d, Round the green Circus of delight ; Which shall by ripening time still sweeter grow, And Hope be fam’d while Scotsmen draw the bow. Ah! while I sing, the northern air, Thro’ gore and carnage gives offence ; Which should not, while a river fair, Without our walls, flows by so near; Carriage from thence but small expense ; The useful corporation too would find, By working there, more health and ease of mind. Then sweet our northern flow’rs would blow, And sweet our northern alleys end ; Sweet all the northern springs would flow, Sweet northern trees and herbs would grow, And from the lake a field be gain’d : 155 Where on the spring’s green margin by the dawn, Our maids might wash, and blanch their lace and ‘lawn. Forbid a aasty pack to place On stalls unclean their herbs and roots, On the high street a vile disgrace, And tempting to our infant race To swallow poison with their fruits.* Give them a station where less spoil’d aud seen, The healthful herbage may keep fresh and clean. Besides, they straiten much our street, When those who drive the hack and dray, In drunk and rude confusion meet, We know not where to turn our feet ; Mortal our hazard every way : Too oft the aged, the deaf, and little fry, Hemm’d in with stalls, crush’d under axles lie. Clean order yields a vast delight, And geniuses that brightest shine Prefer the pleasure of the sight Justly, to theirs who day and night Sink health and active thought in wine. Happy the man that’s clean in house and weed, Tho’ water be his drink, and oats his bread. Kind Fate! on them whom I admire, Bestow neat rooms and gardens fair, Pictures that speak the painter’s fire, And learning which the nine inspire, With friends that all his thoughts may share; A house in Edinburgh, when the sullen storm Defaces nature’s joyous fragrant form. Oh! may we hope to see a stage, Filld with the best of such as can Smile down the follies of the age, Correct dull pride and party rage, And cultivate the growing man; And show the virgin every proper grace, That makes her mind as comely as her face. Nor will the most devout oppose, When with a strict judicious care The scenes most virtuous shall be chose, That numerous are; forbidding those That shock the modest, good, and fair. The best of things may often be abus’d; That argues not, when right, to be refus’d. —_ (1) Mr. Hope of Rankeilour, who has beautifully planted, hedged, and drained Straiton's Meadow, which was formerly the bottom of a lake.—A.R. (2) With the more freedom some thoughts in these stanzas are advanced, because several citizens of the best thinking, both fn and out of the magistracy, incline to, and have such views, if they were not opposed by some of gross old-fashioned notions. Snch will tell you, ‘Oh! the street of Edinburgh is the finest garden of Scotland.” And how can it otherwise be, considering how well it 1s dunged every night! But this abuse we hope to see reformed svon, when the cart and warning-bell shall leave the lazy slattern without excuse, after ten at night.—A.R. 156 Thus, what our fathers’ wasting blood Of old from the South Britons won, When Scotland reach’d to Humber’s flood, We snall regain by arts less rude, And bring the best and fairest down From England’s northern counties, nigh as far Distant from court as we of Pictland are. Thus far, inspir’d with honest zeal, These thoughts are offer’d, with submission, By your own bard, who ne’er shall fail The interest of the common-weal, While you indulge and grant permission To your oblig’d, thus humbly to rehearse His honest and well-meaning thoughts in verse. —__+—__. 1728. TO ALEX. MURRAY OF BROUGHTON,’ ON His MARRIAGE, *Tis conquering love can move The best to all that’s great, It sweetly binds two equal minds, And makes a happy state, When such as Murray, of a temper even, And honour’d worth, receives a mate from Heaven. Joy to you, sir, and joy to her, Whose softer charms can sooth, With smiling power, a sullen hour, And make your life flow smooth. Man’s but unfinisli'd, till, by Hymen’s ties, His sweeter half lock’d in his bosom lies. The general voice approves your choice, All sentiments agree, With fame allow’d, that she’s a good Branch sprung from a right tree. Long may the graces of her mind delight Your soul, and long her beauties bless your sight ! May the bright guard who love reward, With man recoin’d again, In offspring fair, make her their care, In hours of joyful pain ! And may my patron healthful live to see By her a brave and bonny progeny. Let youthful swains who ’tend your plains, Touch the tun’d reed, and sing, While maids advance in sprightly dance, All in the rural ring ; And, with the muse, thank the immortal powers, Placing with joy Euphemia’s name with yours. (1) Afterwards unfavourably celebrated for his connecuom with the Young Pretender and the rising of 1745. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. AN ODE ON THE FALLING OF A SLATE FROM A HOUSE ON THE BREAST OF MRS. M. M———. Was Venus angry, and in spite, Allow’d that stane to fa’, Imagining those breasts so white Contain’d a heart of snaw ? Was her wing’d son sae cankert set, To wound her lovely skin ; Because his arrows could not get A passage farder in P No :—she is to love’s goddess dear, Her smiling boy’s delight.— It was some hag, that doughtna bear Sic charms to vex her sight. Some silly, sour, pretending saint, In heart an imp of hell, Whase hale religion lies in cant, Her virtue in wrang zeal : She threw the stane, and ettled death ; But watching sylphs flew round, To guard dear Madie from all skaith, And quickly cur’d the wound. AN ODE. ALLAN RAMSAY TO HIS SON, ON HIS PAINTING CAPTAIN JAMES FORESTER.? Youne painter, thy attempt is fair ; And mayst thou finish with a grace, The happy smile unmix’d with care, That ever shines in For’ster’s face. So far thy labour, well design’d, May all the outward form display ; But pencils cannot paint the mind, In this to me thou must give way. With glowing colours thou canst stow Th’ embroider’d coat, and nice toupee ; Draw him a first-rate blazing beau, Easy and airy, gay and free. But I can place him in a light, That will his higher merits hit, Display what makes him much more bright, Tis courage, learning, and his wit ; (2) Who was afterwards Colonel Forester, and known in the literary world as the author of an elegant tract, entitled “ Tho Polite Philosopher ;” the purpose of which is to show, that nq bad man can be truly polite. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 157 His sprightly humour, solid sense, And—but lere further ’tis not meet, I should his noted worth advance, Lest I be deem’d a parasite : Yet this let little would-be’s know, That are but apes of so much fire, *Tis the philosopher, not beau, Whom we deservedly admire. Trifle (why not?) with clothes and air, Sing, dance, and joke, whene’er ye please ; These oft our joy and health repair, Acceptable, perform’d with ease. True, art and nature must combine, To combat human cares so rife; And rarely characters can shine So fair, as Forester’s in life. 1728. AN ODE TO THE MEMORY OF LADY MARGARET ANSTRUTIIER. ALL in her bloom the graceful fair, Lucinda, leaves this mortal round : Her loss a thousand mourners share, And beauty feels the cruel wound. Now grief and tears o’er all our joys prevail, Viewing her rosy cheeks all cold and pale. Thus some fair star distinguish’d bright, Which decks the heavens, and guides the main; When clouds obscure its glorious light, It leaves the gloomy world in pain: So sudden death has veil’d Lucinda’s eyes, And left us lost in darkness and surprise. Nor sweetness, beauty, youth, nor wealth, Nor blood, though nobly high it springs ; Nor virtue’s self can purchase health, When death severe his summons brings ; Else might the fair Lucinda, young and gay, Have blest the world with a much longer stay. But say, sweet shade, was it thy choice To leave this low inconstant globe ; Tir’d with its vain, its jangling noise, Thou wisely dropped thy human robe ? Or tell us, guardian angels, tell us true, Did ye not claim her hence as one of you? Yes, well we know it is your way, When here below such beings shine, To grudge us e’en our earthly clay, Which, form’d like her, becomes divine : Such you demand and free from cares and fears, Unmindful of our fruitless sighs and tears. Yet deign, ye friends to human kind, The lonely consort to attend ; O sooth the anguish of his mind, And let his killing sorrows end: Tell him, his sighs and mourning to assuage, Each day she dwelt with him was worth an age, Ye lovely virgins who excel, Ye fair to whom such strains belong, In melting notes her beauties tell, And weep her virtues in a song: See that ye place her merit in true light, For singing hers your own will shine nore bright. Let east, and west, and south, and north, Aloud the mournful music hear, How beauty ’s fallen beyond the Forth; Let Britain’s genius cypress wear. Yet Britain’s happy, who such beauty yields, As fore’d from hers, will grace Elysium’s ficlds. AN ELEGY ON JAMES, LORD CARNEGIE, As poets feign, and painters draw, Love and the Paphian bride ; Sae we the fair Southeska saw, Carnegie by her side. Now sever’d frae his sweets by death, Her grief wha can express? What muse can tell the waefu’ skaith, Or mother’s deep distress ? Sae roses wither in their buds, Killd by an eastern blast ; And sweetest dawns, in May, with clouds, And storms are soon o’ercast. Ah, chequer’d life !—Ae day gives joy, The neist our hearts maun bleed: Heaven caus’d a seraph turn a boy, Now gars us trow he’s dead. Wha can reflect on’s ilka grace, The sweetness of his tongue, His manly looks, his lovely face, And judgment ripe sae young! And yet forbear to make a doubt, As did the royal swain, When he with grief of heart cried out, That “Man was made in vain!” Mortals the ways of Providence But very scrimply scan ; The changing scene eludes the sense And reasonings of man. How many thousands ilka year, Of hopefu’ children crave Our love and care, then disappear, To glut a gaping grave! What is this grave P—A wardrobe poor, Which hauds our rotting duds : Th’ immortal mind, serene and pure, Is claith’d aboon the clouds. Then cease to grieve, dejected fair, You had him but in trust; He was your beauteous son, your heir, Yet still ae half was dust ; The other to its native skies Now wings its happy way; With glorious speed and joy he flies, There blissfully to stray. Carnegie then but changes clay For fair celestial rays ; He mounts up to eternal day, And, as he parts, he says, * Adieu, Mamma, forget my tender fate ! These rushing tears are vain, they flow too late.” This said, he hasted hence with pleasing joy ; I saw the gods embrace their darling boy. ——_o——_ 1728. AN ODE SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ANNE LADY GARLIES, How vain are our attempts to know! How poor, alas! is reason’s skill! We blindly wander here below, Yet fondly search Heaven’s secret will ! Each day we see the young, the great, the small, The good, the bad, without distinction fall, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Yet such as have the rest out-shin’d, We should be faulty to neglect ; Each grace of beauteous Garlia’s mind Deserves the muse’s high respect. But how can she such worth and goodness paiut— A loving daughter, virtuous wife, and saint ? Some seraph, who in endless day With themes sublime employs the lyre, Dart in my breast a shining ray, And all my soul with her inspire : Else sing yourselves so fair a frame and mind, As now supplies a place among your kind. As we the glorious sun admire, Whose beams make ev’ry joy arise, Yet dare not view the dazzling fire, Without much hazarding our eyes ; So did her beauties ev’ry heart allure, While her bright virtues kill’d each thought impure. She breath’d more sweetness than the east, While ev’ry sentence was divine ; Her smiles could calm each jarring breast : Her soul was a celestial mine, Where all the precious veins of virtue lay : Too vast a treasure long to lodge in clay! Tho’ sprung from an heroic race,} Which from the world respect does claim, Yet wanted she no borrow’d grace, Her own demands immortal fame : Worthy as those who shun the vulgar roads, Start from the crowd, and rise among the gods. Such pains as weaker minds possess, Could in her breast no access find ; But lowly meekness did confess A steady and superior mind: Unmov’'d she bore those horiours due the great, Nor could have been depress’d with a more humble fate. As to the fields the huntsman hies, With joyful shouts he wakes the morn; While nature smiles, serene the skies, Swift fly his hounds, shrill blows his horn : When suddenly the thund’ring cloud pours rain, Defaces day, and drives him from the plain. Thus young Brigantius’ circling arms Grasp’d all that’s lovely to his heart, Rejoic’d o’er his dear Anna’s charms, But not expecting soon to part ; When rigid fate, for reasons known above, Snatch’d from his breast the object of his love. (1) She was daughter of the Kar!-Marshal of Scotland. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 159 Ah, Garlies! once the happiest man, Than e’er before Brigantine chief, Now sever’d from your lovely Anne, °Tis hard indeed to stem your grief : Yet mind what you might often from her hear— What Heaven designs submissive we should bear. Oh! ne’er forget that tender care, Those heaven-born thoughts she did employ, To point those ways how you may share Above with her immortal joy: Such a bright pattern of what ’s good and great, Even angels need not blush to imitate. 1722. TO SIR JOHN CLERK, UN THE DEATH OF HIS SON, JOHN CLERK, ESQ. Ir tears can ever be a duty found, *Tis when the death of dear relations wound ; Then you must weep, you have too just a ground. A son whom all the good and wise admir’d, Shining with every grace to be desir’d, Rais’d high your joyful hopes—and then retir’d. Nature must yield when such a weighty load Rouses the passions, and makes reason nod ! But who may contradict the will of God? By his great Author man was sent below, Some things to learn, great pains to undergo, To fit him for what further he’s to know. This end obtain’d, without regarding time, He calls the soul home to its native clime, To happiness and knowledge more sublime. Thus some in youth like eagles mount the steep, Which leads to man, and fathom learning’s deep : Others thro’ age with reptile motion creep; Like lazy streams, which fill the fenny strand, In muddy pools they long inactive stand, Till spent in vapour, or immers’d in sand. But down its flinty channel, without stain, The mountain-rill flows eagerly to gain, With a full tide, its origin, the main. Thus your lov’d youth, whose bright aspiring mind Could not to lazy minutes be confin’d, Sail’d down the stream of life before the wind. Perform’d the task of man so well, so soon, He reach’d the sea of bliss before his noon, And to his memory lasting laurels won. When life’s tempestuous billows ceas’d to roar, And ere his broken vessel was no more, His soul serenely view’d the heav’nly shore ; Bravely resign’d, obeying fate’s command, He fix’d his ‘eyes on the immortal land, Where crowding seraphs reach’d him out the hand Southeska,! smiling cherub, first appear’d, With Garlies’ consort,? who vast pleasures shar’d, Conducting him where virtue finds reward. Think in the world of sp’rits, with how much joy His tender mother would receive her boy, Where fate no more their union can destroy. His good grandsire, who lately went to rest, How fondly would he grasp him to his breast, And welcome him to regions of the blest ! From us, ’tis true, his youthful sweets are gone, Which may plead for our weakness, when we moan The loss indeed is ours, he can have none. Thus sailors with a crazy vessel cross’d, Expecting every minute to be lost, With weeping eyes behold a sunny coast, Where happy land-men safely breathe the air, Bask in the sun, or to cool shades repair, They longing sigh, and wish themselves were there, But who would after death to bliss lay claim, Must, like your son, each vicious passion tame, Fly from the crowd, and at perfection aim. Then grieve no more, nor vex yourself in vain ; To latest age the character maintain You now possess, you "ll find your son again. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT ALEXANDER, OF BLACKHOUSE. Tuov sable-border’d sheet, begone ! Harbour to thee I must: refuse ; Sure thou canst welcome find from none, Who carriest such ungrateful news. (1) James Lord Carnegie; see ante. (2) Lady Garlies; see ante, both his near relations. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Who can attend thy mournful tale, And ward his soul from piercing woe ? In viewing thee, grief must prevail, And tears from gushing eyes o’erflow. From eyes of all that knew the man, And in his friendship had a share, Who all the world’s affections won, By virtues that all nat’ral were. His merits dazzle, while we view ; His goodness is a theme so full, The muse wants strength to pay what’s due, While estimation prompts the will. But she endeavours to make known To farthest down posterity, That good Blackhouse was such an one, As every one should wish to be. AN INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMB OF ALEXANDER WARDLAW. Here lies a man, whose upright heart With virtue was profusely stor’d, Who acted well the honest part Between the tenants and their lord. Between the sand and flinty rock Thus steer’d he in the golden mean, While his blithe countenance bespoke A mind unruffied and serene. As to great Bruce the Flemings prov’d Faithful, so to the Flemings’ heir Wardlaw behav’d, and was belov’d For ’s justice, candour, faith, and care. His merit shall preserve his fame To latest ages, free from rust, *Till the archangel raise his frame To join his soul amongst the just. AN ODE SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ANNE, DUCHESS OF HAMILTON, Way sounds the plain with sad complaint ? Why hides the sun his beams ? Why sighs the wind sae black and cauld? Why mourn the swelling streams P Wail on, ye heights! ye glens, complain! Sun, wear thy cloudy veil! Sigh, winds, frae frozen caves of snaw! Clyde, mourn the rueful tale! She ’s dead !—the beauteous Anna ’s dead!— All nature wears a gloom : Alas! the comely budding flower Is faded in the bloom. Clos’d in the weeping marble vault, Now cauld and blae she lies ; Nae mair the smiles adorn her cheek, Nae mair she lifts her eyes. Too soon, O sweetest, fairest, best, Young parent, lovely mate, Thou leaves thy lord and infant-son, To weep thy early fate! But late thy cheerfw’ marriage-day Gave gladness all around ; But late in thee the youthful chief A heaven of blessings found. His bosom swells, for much he lov’d; Words fail to paint his grief: He starts in dreams, and grasps thy shade, The day brings nae relief. The fair illusion skims away, And grief again returns ; Life’s pleasures make a vain attempt, Disconsolate he mourns. He mourns his loss, a nation’s loss, It claims a flood of tears, When sic a lov’d illustrious star Sae quickly disappears. With roses and the lily buds, Ye nymphs, her grave adorn, And weeping tell—thus sweet she was, Thus early from us torn. To silent twilight shades retire, Ye melancholy swains, In melting notes repeat her praise, In sighing vent your pains. But haste, calm reason, to our aid, And paining thoughts subdue, By placing of the pious fair In a mair pleasing view: Whose white immortal mind now shines, And shall for ever, brigit, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1A} Above th’ insuit of death and pain, By the First Spring of Light. There joins the high melodious thrang, That strike eternal strings : In preference of Omnipotence She now a seraph sings, Then cease, great James, thy flowing tears, Nor rent thy soul in vain: Frae bowers of bliss she ’ll ne’er return To thy kind arms again. With goodness still adorn thy mind, True greatness still improve ; Be still a patriot just and brave, And meet thy saint above. AN ODE TO THE MEMORY OF SIR ISAAC NEWTON. Great Newton ’s dead !—full ripe his fame ; Cease vulgar grief to cloud our song: We thank the Author of our frame, Who lent him to the earth so long. The godlike man now mounts the sky, Exploring all yon radiant spheres ; And with one view can more descry Than here below in eighty years: Though none with greater strength of soul Could rise to more divine a height, Or range the orbs from pole to pole, And more improve the human sight. Now with full joy he can survey These worlds, and ev’ry shining blaze, That, countless in the milky way, Only through glasses show their rays. Thousands in thousand arts excell’d, But often to one part confin’d : While ev’ry science stood reveal’d And clear to his capacious mind. His penetration, most profound, Launch’d far in that extended sea, Where human minds can reach no bound, And never div’d so deep as he. Sons of the east and western world, When on this leading star ye gaze, TO While magnets guide the sail unfurl’d, Pay to his memory due praise. Through ev’ry maze he was the guide; While others crawl’d, he soar’d above; Yet modesty, unstain’d with pride, Increas’d his merit, and our love. He shunn’d the sophistry of words, Which only hatch contentious spive; His learning turn’d on what affords By demonstration most delight. Britain may honourably boast, And glory in her matchless son, Whose genius has invented most, And finish’d what the rest begun. Ye Fellows of the Royal Class, Who honour’d him to be your head, Erect, in finest stone and brass, Statues of the illustrious dead : Although more lasting than them all, (tz e’en the poet’s highest strain, His works, as long as wheels this ball, Shall his great memory sustain. May from your learned band arise Newtons to shine thio’ future times, And bring down knowledge from the skies, To plant on wild barbarian climes. Till nations, few degrees from brutes, Be brought into each proper road, Which leads to wisdom’s happiest fruits, To know their Saviour and their God. ——_e——_ 1728. AN ODE THE MEMORY OF MRS. FORBES OF NEWHALin Au, life! thou short uncertain blaze, Scarce worthy to be wish’d or lov’d, When by strict death so many ways, So soon, the sweetest are remov’d! In prime of life and lovely glow, The dear Brucina must submit ; Nor could ward off the fatal blow, With every beauty, grace, and wit. If outward charms, and temper sweet, The cheerful smile, and shought sublime, Y MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Could have preserv’d, she ne’er had met A change till death had sunk with time. Her soul glanc’d with each heavenly ray, Her form with all those beauties fair For which young brides and mothers pray, And wish for to their infant care. Sour spleen or anger, passion rude, These opposites to peace and heaven, Ne’er pal’d her cheek, nor fir’d her blood ; Her mind was ever calm and even. Come, fairest nymphs, and gentle swains, Give loose to tears of tender love ; Strew fragrant flowers on her remains, While sighing round her grave you move. In mournful notes your pain express, While with reflection you run o’cr: How excellent, how good she was ;— She was, alas !—but is no more !- Yet piously correct your moan, And raise religious thoughts on high, After her spotless soul, that’s gone To joys that ne’er can fade or die. HORACE TO VIRGIL. O Cyprian goddess! twinkle clear, And Helen’s brithers ay appear ; Ye stars wha shed a lucky light, Auspicious ay keep in a sight ; King iol, grant a tidy tirl, But boast the blasts that rudely whirl; Dear ship, be canny with your care, At Athens land my Virgil fair, Syne soon and safe, baith lith and spaul, Bring hame the tae haff o’ my saul. Daring and unco’ stout he was, With heart hool’d in three sloughs of brass, Wha ventur’d first on the rough sea, With hempen branks, and horse of tree ; Wha in the weak machine durst ride Thro’ tempests and a rairing tide. Not clinty craigs, nor hurricane That drives the Adriatic main, And gars the ocean gowl and quake, Could e’er a soul sae sturdy shake. The man wha could sic rubs win o’er, Without a wink at death might glow’r, Wha unconcern’d can take his sleep Amang the monsters of the deep. Jove vainly twin’d the sea and eard, Since mariners are not afraid With laws of nature to dispense, And impiously treat Providence. Audacious men at nougnt will stand, When vicious passions have command : Prometheus ventur’d up, and staw A lowan coal frae heav’n’s high ha’ ; Unsonsy theft, which fevers brought In bikes, which fowks like sybows hought ; Then death, erst slow, began to ling, And fast as haps to dart his sting. Neist Daedalus must contradict Nature forsooth, and feathers stick Upon his back, syne upward streek, And in at Jove’s high winnocks keek ; While Hercules, wi’s timber-mell, Plays rap upo’ the yates of hell. What is’t man winna ettle at? E’en wi’ the gods he’ll bell the cat : Tho’ Jove be very laith to kill, They winaa let his bowt lie still. 1721. AN ODE TO MR. F—. Now gowans sprout, and lav’rocks sing, And weltome west winds warm the spring; O’er hill and dale they saftly blaw, And drive the winter’s cauld awa’. The ships, lang gyzen’d at the pier, Now spread their sails, and smoothly steer; The nags and nowt hate wizen’d strae, And striking to the fields they gae ; Nor hinds wi’ elson and hemp lingle, Sit soleing shoon out o’er the ingle. Now bonny haughs their verdure boast, That late were clad wi’ snaw and frost ; With her gay train the Paphian queen By moonlight dances on the green ; She leads, while nymphs and graces siny, And trip around the fairy ring. Meantime poor Vulcan, hard at thrift, Gets mony a sair and heavy lift, Whilst rinnen down, his haff-blind lads Blaw up the fire, and thump the gads. Now leave your fitsted on the dew, And busk yersel’ in habit new; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1638 Be gratetu’ to tue gusung pow’rs, And blithely spend your easy hours. O canny F-——! tutor time, And live as lang’s ye’re in your prime ; That ill-bred death has nae regard To king or cotter, or a laird; . As soon a castle he’ll attack, As wa’s of divots roof’d wi’ thack ; Immediately we'll a’ tak’ flight, Unto the murky realms of night, As stories gang, with ghaists to roam, In gloomy Pluto’s gousty dome ; Bid fair good-day to pleasure syne Of bonny lasses and red wine. Then deem ilk little care a crime Dares waste an hour of precious time ; And since our life ’s sae unco’ short, Enjoy it a’, ye ’ve nae mair for ’t. 1713. AN ELEGY ON MAGGY JOHNSTOUN.! Autp ReExts, mourn in sable hue, Let fouth of tears dreep like May dew ; To braw tippenny? bid adieu, Which we with greed Bended as fast as she could brew ;— But ah! she’s dead. To tell the truth now, Maggy dang Of customers she had a bang ; For lairds and souters-a’ did gang To drink bedeen : The barn and yard was aft sae thrang, We took the green; (1) Maggy Johnstoun lived about a mile southward of Edin- burgh, kept a little farm, and had a particular art of brewing a small sort of ale, agreeable to the taste, very white, clear, and intoxicating, which made people, who loved to have a good pennyworth for their money, be her frequent customers. And many others of every station, sometimes for diversion, thought it no impropriety to be seen in her barn, or yard.—A.R. (2) She sold.the Scots pint, which is near two quarts English, for twopence.—A.R. (3) He dings, or dang, is a phrase which means to excel or get the better. (4) The fields between Edinburgh and Maggy’s, where the citizens commonly played at the “golf.” (5) A drunken game, or new project to drink and be rich, thus: the gueff or cup is fitied to the brim, then one of the company takes a pair of dice, and after crying ‘ hy-jinks,” he throws them out; the number he casts up points out the person that must drink ; he who threw beginning at himself (number one), and so round till the number of the person agree with that of the dice (which may fall upon himself, if the number be within And there by dizens we lay down, Syne sweetly ca’d the healths around, To bonny lasses, black or brown, As we lo’ed best: Tn bumpers we dull cares did drown, And took our rest. When in our pouch we found some clinks, And took a turn o’er Bruntsfield Links,* Aften in Maggy’s, at hy-jinks,® We guzzled seuds, Till we could scarce, wi’ hale-out drinks, Cast off our duds. We drank, and drew, and fill’d again, O wow! but we were blithe and fain, When ony had their count mista’en : O it was nice To hear us a’ cry, “ Pike ye’r bane,® And spell ye’r dice.” Fw’ closs we us’d to drink and rant, Until we baith did glow’r and gaunt, And pish, and spew, and yesk, and maun: Right swash I trow ; Then of auld stories we did cant, When we were fou. When we were wearied at the gowff, Then Maggy Johnstoun’s was our bowli ; Now a’ our gamesters may sit dowtt, Wi’ hearts like lead ; Death wi his rung rax’d her a yowff,’, And sae she died. Maun we be fore’d thy skill to tine, For which we will right sair repine ? Or hast thou left to bairns of thine The pawky knack Of brewing ale amaist like wine, That gar’d us crack P twelve); then he sets the dice to him, or bids him take them. He on whom they fall is obliged to drink, or pay a small forfeiture in money ; then throws, and so on: but if he forgets to ery “ liy- jinks,” he pays a forfeiture into the bank. Now he on whom it falls to drink, if there be anything in bank worth drawing, gets all if he drinks; then with a great deal of caution he empties his cup, sweeps up the money, and orders the cup to be filled again, and then throws: for if he err in the articles, he loses the privilege of drawing the money. The articles are—1, drink; 2, draw; 3, fill; 4, ery “‘hy-jinks ;” 5, count Just; 6, choose your doublet- man; viz., when two equal numbers of the dice are thrown, the person whom you choose must pay a double of the common for- feiture, and so must you when the dice are in his hand. A rare project this! and no bubble I can assure you; for a covetous fellow may save moyey, and get himself as drunk as he car desire in less than as. hour's time.—A.R. (6) Is a cant phrase; when one leaves a little in the cnp, he is advised to “pick his bone," 4. e. drink it clean out. A.R. (7) Reached her a blow. 164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Sae brawly did a pease-scon toast Biz ? the queff, and flee the frost ;' There we got fou wi’ little cost, And muckle s peed: Now wae worth death! our sport ’s a’ lost, Since Maggy’s dead. Ae summer night? I was sae fou, Amang the riggs I gaed to spew; Syne down on a green bawk, I trow, I took a nap, And soucht a night balillilow, As sound’s a tap. And when the dawn begoud to glow, T hirsl’d up my dizzy pow Frae ’mang the corn like wirrycow, Wy banes sae sair, And ken’d nae mair than if a yow How I came there. Some said it was the pith of broom That she stow’d in her masking-loom ; Which in our heads raised sic a soom; Or some wild seed, Which aft the chaping stoup did toom, But fill’d our head. But now since ’tis sae that we must Not in the best ale put our trust, But when we’re auld return to dust Without remead, Why should we tak’ it in disgust That Magey’s dead? Of worldly comforts she was rife, And lived a lang and hearty life, Right free of care, or toil, or strife, Till she was stale, And ken’d to be a canny wife At brewing ale. Then farewell, Maggy, douce and fell, Of brewers a’ thou bore the bell ; Let a’ thy gossies yelp and yell, And without feid, Guess whether ye’re in heaven or hell,— They’re sure ye’re dead, EPITAPH. “O RARE MAGGY JOHNsTOUN! ” (2) Or fright the frost or coldness out of it. (2) The two following stanzas are a true narrative :— On that slid place where I ’maist brake my banes, To be a warning I set up twa stanes, That nane may venture there as I ha’e done, Ualess wi’ frosted nails he clink’d his shoon.—A.R. THE AULD GOODMAN. Lats in an evening forth I went, A little before the sun gaed down, And there I chanced by accident, To light on a battle new begun. A man and his wife were fa’en in a strife, I canna well tell ye how it began; But aye she wail’d her wretched life, And cried ever, “ Alake my auld goodinan.” “Thy auld goodman that thou tells of, The country kens where he was born, Was but a silly, poor vagabond, And ilka ane leugh him to scorn ; For he did spend, and make an end Of gear that his forefathers wan, He gart the poor stand frae the door, Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman.” “My heart, alake, is liken to break, When I think on my winsome John ; His blinking ee, and gait sae free, Was naething like thee, thou dezen’d drone. His rosy face, and flaxen hair, And a skin as white as ony swan, Was large and tall, and comely withall, And thou It ne’er be like my auld goodman.” ‘Why dost thou ’plain? I thee maintain, For meal and maut thou disna want ; But thy wild bees 1 canna please, Now when our gear ’gins to grow scant. Of houseliold stuff thou hast enough, Thou wants for neither pot nor pan: Of siclike gear he left thee bare, Sae tell nae mair of thy auld goodman,” “Yes, I may tell, and fret mysel’, To think on those blithe days I had, When he and [ together lay In arms into a well-made bed. But now I sigh, and may be sad, 1y courage is cauld, thy colour wan, Thou falds thy feet, and fa’s asleep, And thou ‘lt ne’er ba like my auld goodman.” Then coming was the night sae dark, And gane was a’ the light of day ; The carle was fear’d to miss his mark, And therefore wad nae langer stay ; Then up he gat, and he ran his way, I trow the wife the day she wan; And aye the o’erword of the fray Was ever, “ Alake my auld goodman.”3 - (3) [This admirable satire is commonly attributed to Allan Ramsay.) MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 THE AULD MAN’S BEST ARGUMENT. “O wua’s that at my chamber door ?” “Fair widow, are ye wauking P” “ Auld carle, your suit give o’er, Your love lies a in talking. Gi’e me the lad that’s young and tight, Sweet like an April meadow ; *Tis sic as he can bless the sight And bosom of a widow.” “0 widow, wilt thou let me in, I’m pauky, wise, and thrifty, And come of a right gentle kin; I’m little more than fifty.” “Daft carle, dit your mouth, What signifies how pauky, Or gentle born ye be,—bot youth, In love you’re but a gawky.” . Then, widow, let these guineas speak, That powerfully plead clinkan, And if they fail, my mouth 1’ll steck, And uae mair love will think on.” “These court indeed, I maun confess, I think they make you young, sir, And ten times better can express Affection, than your tongue, sir.”?* —_—o AULD ROB MORRIS. MITHER, Avi Rob Morris, that wins in yon glen, He’s the king of good fellows, and wale of auld men, Has fourscore of black sheep, and fourscore too ; Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo’e. DOCHTER. Hand your tongue, mither, and let that abee, For his eild and my eild can never agree: (1) (The composition of Allan Ramsay, though not included by him in his collected works. The late Mr. Peter Buchan, who employed beggars and itinerant musicians to collect for him the songs and ballads of the Scottish peasantry from oral tradition, recovered in this way the original song of ‘* Widow, are ye waukia,” which is here suhjoined: — HOW, WANTON WIDOW! * How, wanton widow, | Quoth the widow to the man, Are ye waukin yet? “ T maun think awhile; Hey, wanton w.aow, Ye ha’e spoken o’er rash, Are ye waukin yet?” For me first to teli; Quoth the widow to the man, | But ifye be kindly, | “Ye may come in an’ see,” We yet may agree.” Quoth the man to the widow, | Quoth the man to the widow, © Will ye marry me?” “Ye maun marry me.”) They ’Il never agree, and that will be seen; For he is fourscore, and I ’m but fifteen. MITHER, Haud your tongue, dochter, and lay by your pride, For he’se be the bridegroom, and ye’se be the bride : He shall lie by your side, and kiss ye too; Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo’e. DOCHTER. Auld Rob Morris I ken him fu’ weel, His back it sticks out like ony peat-creel, He’s out-shin’d, in-kneed, and wrinkle-eyed too; Auld Rob Morris is the man I’ll ne’er lo’e. MITHER. Tho’ auld Rob Morris be an elderly man, Yet his auld brass it will buy a new pan; Then, dochter, ye shouldna be so ill to shoo, For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo’e. DOCHTER. ut auld Rob Morris I never will ha’e, His back is sae stiff, and his beard is grown grey: I had titter die than live wi him a year ; Sae mair of Rob Morris I never will hear.? 1717. AN ELEGY ON LUCKY WOOD.’ O Canoneate! poor elritch hole, What loss, what crosses dost thou thole ! London and death4 gar thee look drole, And hing thy head ; Wow, but thou hast e’en a cauld coal To blaw indeed. Hear me, ye hills, and every glen, Dk craig, ilk cleugh, and hollow den, And echo shrill, that a’ may ken (2) [An old song, with additions by Allan Ramsay. Burns has a song with the same title, which contains the first two linea of the above, but otherwise bears no resemblance to it.} (3) Lucky Wood kept an alehouse in the Canongate; was much respected for hospitality, honesty, and the neatness huth of her person and house.—A.R. (4) The place of her residence being the greatest sufferer by the loss of our members of parliament, which London now enjoys, many of them having their houses there, being the suburb of Edinburgh nearest the king’s palace: this, with the death of Lucky Wood, are sufficient to make the place ruinous.—A.R, 166 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The waefw’ thud Be rackless Death, wha came unseen! To Lucky Wood. She’s dead, o’er true, she’s dead and gane, Left us and Willie? burd alane, To bleer and greet, to sob and mane, And rugg our hair, Because we ’ll ne’er see her again For ever mair. She gaed as fait as a new preen, And kept her housie snod and been ; Her pewther glane’d upo’ your een Like siller plate: She was a donsie wife and clean, Without debate. It did ane good to see her stools, Her boord, fireside, and facing-tools ;* Racks, chandlers, tangs, and fire-shools, Basket wi’ bread. Poor facers* now may chew vea-hools, Since Lucky’s dead. She ne’er ga’e in a lawin fause, Nor stoups a’ froth aboon the hause, Nor kept dow’d tip within her wa’s, But reaming swats ; She ne’er ran sour jute, because It gi’es the batts. She had the gate sae well to please, With gratis beef, dry fish, or cheese, Which kept our purses ay at ease, And health in tift, And lent her fresh nine gallon trees A hearty lift. She ga’e us aft hale legs o” lamb, And didna hain her mutton-ham ; Then ay at Yule whene’er we came, A braw goose-pie ; And wasna that good belly-baum ? Nane dare deny The writer lads fu’ well may mind her, Furthy was she, her luck design’d her Their common mither ; sure nane kinder Ever brake bread ; She hasna left her mak’ behind her, But now she’s dead. To the sma’ hours we aft sat still, Nick’d round our toasts and sneeshing-mill; Good cakes we wanted ne’er at will, The best of bread! Which aften cost us mony a gill To Aikenhead.® Could our saut tears like Clyde down rin, And had we cheeks like Corra Lin, That a? the world might hear the din Rair frae ilk head ; She was the wale of a’ her kin, But now she’s dead. O Lucky Wood! ’tis hard to bear The loss; but oh! we maun forbear : Yet sall thy memory be dear While blooms a tree And after-ages’ bairns will speer "Bout thee and me. EPITAPH. Beneath this sod Lies Lucky Wood, Whom a’ men might put faith in; Wha was na sweer, While she winn’d here, To cram our wames for naething. 1721. AN ELEGY ON PATIE BIRNIE, The famous fiddler of Kinghorn; Who gart the lieges gawff and girn ay, Aft till the cock proclaim'd the morn. Tho’ baith his weeds and mirth were pirny ;6 He roos’d these things were langest worn, The brown ale was his kirn ay, And faithfully he toom’d his horn, “« And then besides his valiant acts, At bridals he wan many placks.” Has. Simpson. In sonnet slee the man I sing, His rare engine in rhyme shall ring, Wha slaid the stick out o’er the string With sic an art ; Wha sang sae sweetly to the spring, And rais’d the heart. (1) Or unsent for. There is nothing extraordinary in this, ‘t being, his common custom; except in some few instances of late, since the falling of the bubbles, ¢.e. South Sea adven- turers. —A.R. (2) Her husband William Wood. (3) Stoups, or pots and cups, $0 called from the facers. (4) The facers were a club of fair drinkers, who inclined rather to spend a shilling on ale than two-pence for meat. They had their name from a rule which they observed, of obliging them- selves to throw all they left in the cup in their own faces ; where- fore, to save their face and clothes, they prudently sucked the liquor clean out.—A.R. ‘ (5) The ‘Nether-bow porter, to whom Lucky’s customers were often obliged for opening the port for them, when they stayed out till the small hours after midnight.—A.R. (6) When a piece of stuff is wrought unequally, part coarse MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 167 Kinghorn may rue the ruefw’ day That lighted Patie to his clay, Wha gart the hearty billies stay, And spend their cash, To see his snowt, to hear him play, And gab sae gash. When strangers landed,’ wow sae thrang, Fuffin and peghing, he wad gang, And crave their pardon that sae lang He’d been a-coming ; Syne his bread-winner out he’d bang, And fa’ to buming. Your honour’s father,? dead and gane, For him he first wad mak’ his mane, But soon his face? could mak’ ye fain, ‘When he did sough, “O wiltu, wiltu do ’t again!” And grain’d and leugh, This sang he made frae his ain head,® And eke “ The auld man’s mare she’s dead, Tho’ peets and turfs and a’s to lead :” O fie upon her ! A bonny auld thing this indeed, An’t like your honour. After ilk tune he took a sowp, And bann’d wi’ birr the corky cowp® That to the Papists’ country scowp, To lear “ha, ha’s,” Frae chiels that sing hap, stap, and lowp, Wanting the b—s. That beardless capons are na men, We by their fozie springs might ken, But ours, he said, could vigour len’ ‘To men o’ weir, And gar them stout to battle sten’ Withoutten fear. How first he practis’d ye shall hear :— The harn pan of an umquhile mare He strung, and strak sounds saft and clear Out 0” the pow, Which fir'd his saul, and gart his car With ‘gladness glow. Sae some auld-gabbet poets tell, Jove’s nimble son and leckie snell Made the first fiddle of a shell,? On which Apollo With meikle pleasure play’d himsel’ Baith jig and solo. O Johnny Stocks,® what’s come o’ thee? I’m sure thou ’lt break thy heart and die Thy Birnie gane, thou’lt never be Nor blithe, nor able To shake thy short houghs merrily Upon a table. How pleasant was ’t to see thee diddle And dance sae finely to his fiddle, With nose forgainst a lass’s middle, And briskly brag, With cutty steps to ding their striddle, And gar them fag. He catch’d a crishy webster loun At runkling o’ his deary’s gown, And wi’ a rung came o’er his crown, For being there ; But starker Thrums® got Patie down, And knoost him sair. Wae worth the dog! he maist had fell’d him, Revengefw’ Pate aft green’d to geld him, He aw’d amends, and that he tell’d him, And bann’d to do’t; He took the tid, and fairly sell’d him For a recruit. Pate was a carle of canny sense, And wanted ne’er a right bein spence,” And laid up dollars in defence *Gainst eild and gout ; Well judging gear in future tense Could stand for wit. and part fine, of yarn of different colours, we call it * pirny,” from the pirn, or little hollow reed, which holds the yarn in the shuttle.—A.R. (1) It was his custom to watch when strangers went into a public-house, and attend them, pretending they had sent for him, and that he could not get away sooner from other company. (2) It wag his first compliment to one, though he had perhaps never seen him nor any of his predecessors, that ‘* well he ken'd his honour’s father, and been merry with him, and an excellent good fellow he was.” (3) Showing a very particular comicalness in his looks and gestures, laughing and groaning at the same time. He plays, Nngs, and breaks in with some queer tale twice or thrice ere he get through the tune. His beard is no small addition to the diversion.—A.R. - (4) The name of a tune he played upon all occasions. (6) He boasted of being poet as well as musician, (6) Cursed strongly the light-headed fellows who run to Italy to learn soft music, (7) “Tuque testudo, resonare septem Callida nervis.’'—Hor. (8) A man of low stature, but very broad ; a loving friend of his, who used to dance to his music. (9) A cant name for a weaver. (10) Good store of provision; the spence being a little apart- ment for meal, flesh, &c. .68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Yet prudent fouk may tak’ the pet : Anes thrawart porter! wadna let Him in while latter meat was hett, He gaw’d fu’ sair, Flang in his fiadle o’er the yett, Whilk ne’er did mair. But profit may arise frae loss, Sae Pate got comfort by his cross : Soon as he wan within the close, He dously drew in Mair gear frae ilka gentle goss Than bought a new ane. When lying bed-fast, sick and sair, To parish priest he promised fair, He ne’er wad drink fu’ any mair : But hale and tight, He prov’d the auld man to a hair, Strute? ilka night. The haly dad with care essays To wile him frae his wanton ways, And tell’d him of his promise twice : Pate answer’d clever, “Wha tents what people raving says When in a fever?” At Bothwell Brig? he gaed to fight ; But being wise as he was wight, He thought it shaw’d a saul but slight, Daftly to stand, And let gunpowder wrang his sight, Or fiddle hand : Right pawkily he left the plain, Nor o’er his shoulder look’d again, But scour’d o’er moss and moor amain, To Reekie straight, And told how mony whigs were slain, Before they faught. Sae I’ve lamented Patie’s end; But lest your grief o’er far extend, Come dight your cheeks, ye’r brows unbend, And lift ye’r head, For to a’ Britain be it ken’d, He is not dead. 1716. ON WIT. THE TALE OF THE MANTING LAD. My easy friends, since ye think fit This night to lucubrate on wit, And since ye judge that I compose My thoughts in rhyme better than prose,‘ I'll gi’e my judgment in a sang, And here it comes, be’t right or wrang ; But first of a’ I’Il tell a tale, That with my case runs parallel. There was a manting lad in Fife, Wha couldna for his very life, Speak without stammering very lang, Yet never manted when he sang. His father’s kiln he anes saw burning, Which gart the lad run breathless mourning ; Hameward with clever strides he lap, To tell his daddy his mishap. At distance, ere he reach’d the door, He stood and rais’d a hideous roar. His father, when he heard his voice, Stepp’d out and said, “ Why a’ this noise ?” The callant gap’d, and glower’d aboui, But no ae word could he lug out. His dad cried, kenning his defect, “ Sing, sing, or I shall break your neck :” Then soon he gratified his sire, And sang aloud, “ Your kiln ’s a-fire.” Now ye’ll allow there’s wit in that, To tell a tale sae very pat.. Bright wit appears in mony a shape, Which some invent, and others ape. Some show their wit in wearing claiths, And some in coining of new aiths ; There ’s crambo wit in making rhyme, And dancing wit in beating time; There’s mettled wit in story-telling, In writing grammar, and right spelling; Wit shines in knowledge of polities, And, wow, what wit ’s amang the critics ! So far, my mates, excuse me while I play In strains ironic with that heavenly ray, Rays which the human intellect refine, And makes the man with brilliant lustre shine, Marking him sprung from origin divine. (1) This happened in the Duke of Rothes’s time. His Grace was giving an entertainment, and Patrick being denied entry by the servants, he, either from a cunning view of the lucky con- sequence, or in a passion, did what is described.—A.R. (2) Drunk. (3) Upon Clyde, where the famous battle was fought in 1679, for the determination of some kittle points: but I dare not assert that it was religion that carried my hero to the field.—A.R. (4) Being but an indifferent sort of an orator, my friends would merrily allege that I was not so happy in prose as rhyme; it was carried in a vote, against which there is no opposition, and the night appointed for some lessons on wit, I was ordered to give my thoughts in verse.—A.R. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Yet may a well-rigg’d ship be full of flaws, So may loose wits regard no sacred laws : That ship the waves will soon to pieces shake, So midst his vices sinks the witty rake. But when on first-rate virtues wit attends, It both itself and virtue recommends, And challenges respect where’er its blaze extends. A PROLOGUE, SPOKEN AT THE ACTING OF “ THE ORPHAN ” AND “THE CHEATS OF SCAPIN,” BY SOME YOUNG GENTLEMEN, In 1719. Braw lads, and bonny lasses, welcome here ; But wha’s to entertain ye P—Never speer ; Quietness is best ; tho’ we be leal and true, Good sense and wit’s mair than we dare avow. Somebody says to some fowk, we’re to blame ; That ’tis a scandal and black burning shame To thole young callands thus to grow sae snack, And lear—O mighty crimes !—to speak and act! “Stage plays,” quoth Dunce, “are unco’ things indeed !” He said, he gloom’d, and shook his thick boss head. “They ’re papery, papery!” cried his neibour ucist, “ Contriv’d at Rome by some malignant priest, To witch away fowk’s minds frae doing well, As saith Rab Ker, M‘Millan, and M‘Neil.” But let them talk ;—in spite of ilk endeavour, We’ll cherish wit, and scorn their fead or favour. We'll strive to bring in active eloquence, Tho’, for a while, upon our fame’s expense :— I’m wrang—our fame will mount with mettled carles, And for the rest, we *Il be aboon their snarls. Knock down the fools, wha dare with empty rage Spit in the face of virtue and the stage. ’Cause heretics in pulpits thump and rair, Must naething orthodox b’ expected there ? Because a rump cut off a royal head, Must not anither parliament succeed ? Thus, tho’ the drama’s aft debauch’d and rude, Must we, for some are bad, refuse the good ? Answer me that—if there be ony log, That ’s come to keek upon us here zxcog. Anes, twice, thrice—but, now I think on ’t, stay! I’ve something else to do, and must away. This prologue was designed for use and sport, The chiel that made it, let him answer for’t. 169 AN EPILOGUE, AFTER THE ACTING OF ‘THE DRUMMER.” Our plays are done—now criticise and spare not; And tho’ you are not fully pleas’d, we care not. We have a reason on our side, and that is, Your treat has one good property—'tis gratis. We ‘ve pleas’d ourselves; and, if we have good judges, We value not a head where nothing lodges. The generous men of sense will kindly praise us, And, if we make a little snapper, raise us : Such know the aspiring soul at manly dawn Abhors the sour rebuke and carping thrawn ; But rises, on the hope of a great name, Up all the rugged roads that lead to fame. Our breasts already pant to gain renown At senates, courts, by arms, or by the gown; Or by improvements of paternal fields, Which never-failing joy and plenty yields ; Or by deep draughts of the Castalian springs, To soar with Mantuan or Horatian wings. Hey boys! the day’s our ain, the ladies smile Which over recompenses all our toil. Delights of mankind! tho’ in some small parts We are deficient, yet our wills and hearts Are yours ; and, when more perfect, shall endeavour, By acting better, to secure your favour : To spinnets then retire, and play a few tunes, Till we get thro’ our Gregories and Newtons ; And, some years hence, we ’ll tell another tale ; Till then, ye bonny blooming buds, farewell ! A PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY ANTHONY ASTON,’ THE FIRST NIGHT OF HIS ACTING IN WINTER 1726, Tis I, dear Caledonians, blithesome Tony, That oft, last winter, pleas’d the brave and bonny, With medley, merry song, and comic scene : Your kindness then has brought me here again, After a circuit round the Queen of Isles, To gain your friendship and approving smiles. Experience bids me hope; tho’ south the Tweed The dastards said, “He never will succeed : What! such a country look for any good in! That does not relish plays, nor pork, nor pudding!” Thus great Columbus, by an idiot crew, Was ridiculed at first for his just view ; (1) Commonly called Tony Aston. He was bred an attorney, and afterwards became a strolling player of considerable powers ’ in low comedy. He wrote a comedy calle(: * Love in a Hurry,” in 1709. Z 170 Yet his undaunted spirit ne’er gave ground, Till he a new and better world had found. So I—laugh on—the simile is bold, But faith ’tis just: for till this body’s cold, Columbus like, I’ll push for fame and gold. A PROLOGUE, BEFORE THE ACTING OF “ AURENZEBE,” AT HADDINGTON SCHOOL, IN 1727. Be hush’d, ye crowd, who pressing round appear Only to stare ;—we speak to those can hear The nervous phrase, which raises thoughts more high, When added action leads them thro’ the eye. To paint fair virtue, humours, and mistakes, Is what our school with pleasure undertakes, Thro’ various incidents of life, led on By Dryden and immortal Addison. These studied men, and knew the various springs, That mov’d the minds of coachmen, and of kings. Altho’ we ’re young, allow no thought so mean, That any here’s to act the harlequin: We leave such dumb-show mimicry to fools, Beneath the sp’rit of Caledonian schools. Learning ’s our aim, and all our care to reach At elegance and gracefulness of speech, And the address, from bashfulness refin’d, Which hangs a weight upon a worthy mind. The grammar’s good, but pedantry brings down The gentle dunce below the sprightly clown. “Get seven score verse of Ovid’s Trist by heart, To rattle o’er, else I shall make ye smart,” Cry snarling dominies that little ken ; Such may teach parrots, but our Lesly,’ men. —— o—__ AN EPILOGUE, SPOKEN AFTER ACTING “THE ORPHAN” AND “ THE GENTLE SHEPHERD,” IN JANUARY, 1729. Parts speaks. Lire’s but a farce at best, and we to-day Have shown you how the different stations play. Each palace is a stage, each cot the same ; And lords and shepherds differ but in name: In every sphere like passions rule the soul, And love and rage and grief and joy, the whole. (1) Mr. John Lesly, master of the school of Haddington; a gentleman of true learning, who, by his excellent method, most worthily fills his place.x—A.R. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. In these they tally. Yet our fables show There ’s oft vast odds betwixt high life and low; For artful guile, ambition, hate, and pride, Give less disturbance to the inferior side. Monimia falls—while Peggy on the plain Enjoys her wishes with her faithful swain. Thus we can moralise :—the end’s design’d, To firm our look, and brighten up the mind ; To please our beauteous audience, and improve Our art of speech, with all the force to move. We'll sing the rest. Come, knight, and partner fair, Let’s close our entertainment with an air. PatiE sings. (To the tune of ‘Bessy Bell.”) Thus, let us study day and night, To fit us for our station, That, when we ’re men, we parts may play Are useful to our nation. CHORUS. For now’s the time, when we are young, To fix our views on merit, Water its buds, and make the tongue And action suit the spirit. Prcey sings. This all the fair and wise approve, We know it by your smiling ; And while we gain respect and love, Our studies are not toiling. CHORUS. Such application gives delight, And in the end proves gainful ; *Tis but the dull and lifeless wight Thinks labour hard and painful. Sim WILLIAM sings. Then never let us think our time And care, when thus employ’d, Are thrown away; but deem’t a crime When youth ’s by sloth destroy’d. CHORUS. *Tis only active souls can rise To fame, and all that’s splendid ; And favourites of these conquering eyes, *Gainst whom no heart’s defendea. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 1728. THE LAST SPEECH OF A WRETCHED MISER. O poot! and am I fore’d to die, And nae mair my dear siller see, That glane’d sae sweetly in my e’e! It breaks my heart : My goud! my bands! alackanie ! That we should part. For you I labour’d night and day, For you I did my friends betray, For you on stinking chaff 1 lay, And blankets thin ; And for your sake fed mony a flea Upon my skin. Like Tantalus, I lang have stood Chin-deep into a siller flood, Yet ne’er was able for my blood, But pain and strife, To ware ae drap on claiths or food, To cherish life. Or like the wizen’d beardless wights, Wha herd the wives of eastern knights, Yet ne’er enjoy the saft delights Of lasses bonny, Thus did I watch lang days and nights My lovely money. Altho’ my annual rents could feed Thrice forty fowk that stood in need, I grudg’d myself my daily bread ; And if frae hame, My pouch produc’d an ingan head To please my wame. To keep you cosy in a hoord, This hunger I with ease endur’d ; And never dought a doit afford To ane of skill, Wha for a dollar might have cur’d Me of this ill. I never wore my claiths with brushing, Nor wrung 1way my sarks with washing ; Nor ever sat in taverns dashing Away my coin, To find out wit or mirth by clashing O’er dearthfu’ wine. Albeit my pow was bald and bare, { wore nae frizzl’d limmer’s hair, Whicl tak’s of flour to hzep it fair, Frae reesting free, As meikle as wad dine, and mair, The like of me. Nor kept I servants, tales to tell, But toom’d my coodies a’ mysel’ ; To hane in candle I had a spell Baith cheap and bright : A fish-head, when it ’gins to smell, Gives curious light. What reason can I show, quo’ ye, To save and starve, to cheat and lie, To live a beggar, and to die Sae rich in coin ? That ’s mair than can be gi’en by me, Tho’ Belzee’ join. Some said my looks were groff and sour, Fretfu’, drumbly, dull, and dour: I own it wasna in my pow’r, My fears to ding ; 2 Wherefore I never could endure To laugh or sing. T ever hated bookish reading, And musical or dancing breeding, And what’s in either face or claithing, Of painted things ; I thought nae pictures worth the heeding, Except the king’s. Now of a’ them the eard e’er bure, I never rhymers could endure, They ’re sic a sneering pack, and poor, I hate to ken ’em; For ’gainst us thrifty sauls they ’re sure To spit their venom. But waster wives, the warst of a’, Without a yeuk they gar ane claw, When wickedly they bid us draw Our siller spungs, For this and that, to mak’ them braw, _And lay their tongues. Some lo’e the courts, some lo’e the kirks, Some lo’e to keep their skins frae lirks, Some lo’e to woo beneath the birks Their lemans bonny ; For me, I took them a’ for stirks That lo’ed na money. They ca’d me slave to usury, Squeeze, Cleave-the-hair, and Peel-the-flea, Clek, Flay-the-flint, and Penury, And saulless wretch ; But that ne’er skaith’d or troubled me, Gin I grew rich. . 172 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. On profit a? my thoughts were bent, Aud mony thousands have T lent, But sickerly I took good tent, That double pawns, With a cudeigh and ten per cent. Lay in my hands. When borrow’rs brak’, the pawns were rugg; Rings, beads of pearl, or siller jug, I sald them aff, ne’er fash’d my lug With girns or curses : The mair they whing’d, it gart me hug My swelling purses. Sometimes Pd sigh, and ape a saint, And with a lang rat-rhyme of cant, Wad make a mane for them in want; But for ought mair, I never was the fool to grant Them ony skair. I thought ane freely might pronounce That chiel a very silly dunce, That could not honesty renounce, With ease and joys, At ony time, to win an ounce OF yellow boys. When young I some remorse did feel, And liv’d in terror of the de’w— His furnace, whips, and racking-wheel ; But by degrees My conscience, grown as hard as steel, Gave me some ease. But fears of want, and carking care To save my stock, and thirst for mair, By night and day oppress’d me sair, And turn’d my head; While friends appear’d like harpies gare, That wish’d me dead. For fear of thieves I aft lay waking The live-lang night, till day was breaking, Syne thro’ my sleep, with heart sair aching, I’ve aften started, Thinking I heard my windows cracking, When Elspa f——. O gear! I held ye lang thegither ; For you [ starv’d my gude auld mither, And to Virginia sold my brither, And ecrush’d my wife ; But now I’m gaun I kenna whither, T» leave my life. My life! my god! my spirit yearna, Not on my kindred, wife, or bairna, Sic are but’ very laigh concerns Compar’d with thee ; When now this mortal rattle warns Me, I maun die. It to my heart gaes like a gun, To see my kin and graceless son, Like rooks, already are begun To thumb my gear, And cash that has no seen the sun This fifty year. Oh! oh! that spendthrift son of mine, Wha can on roasted moorfowl dine, And like dub-water skink the wine, And dance and sing ; He’ll soon gar my dear darlings dwine Down to naething. To that same place, where’er I gang, O could I bear my wealth alang ! Nae heir should e’er a farthing fang, That thus carouses, Tho’ they should a’ on woodies hang, For breaking houses. Perdition! Satan! is that you? I sink—am dizzy—candle blue !—— Wi that he never mair play’d pew, But with a rair, Away his wretched spirit flew, It maksna where. —_e—___ 1721. THE SCRIBBLERS LASHED. Tuat I thus prostitute my muse On theme so low, may gain excuse ; When following motives shall be thought on, Which have this doggrel fury brought on. I’m call’d in honour to protect The fair, when treat with disrespect ; Besides, a zeal transports my soul, Which no constraint can e’er control : In service of the government, To draw my pen and satire vent, Against vile mongrels of Parnassus, Who through impunity oppress us. *Tis to correct this scribbling crew, Who, as in former reigns, so now MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 173 Torment the world, and load our time With jargon cloth’d in wretched rhyme ; Disgrace of numbers !—earth! I hate them! And as they merit, so Ill treat them. And first, these ill-bred things I lash, That hated authors of the trash, In public spread with little wit, Much malice, rude, and bootless spite, Agamst the sex who have no arms To shield them from insulting harms, Except the lightning of their eye, Which none but such blind dolts defy. Unge’nrous war! t? attack the fair : But, ladies, fear not; ye ’re the care Of ev’ry wit of true descent, At once their song and ornament : They "ll ne’er neglect the lovely crowd ; But ’spite of all the multitude Of scribbling fops, assert your cause, And execute Apollo’s laws: Apollo, who the bard inspires With softest thoughts and divine fires ; Than whom, on all the earth, there ’s no man More complaisant to a fine woman. Such veneration, mix’d with love, Points out a poct from above. But Zanies, void of sense and merit, Love, fire, or fancy, wit, or spirit— Weak, frantic, clownish, and chagrin, Pretending, prompt by zealous spleen, T’ affront your head-dress, or your bone-fenee—- Make printers’ presses groan with nonsense : But while Sol’s offspring lives, as soon Shall they pull down his sister moon. They, with low incoherent stuff, Dark sense, or none, lines lame and rough, Vithout a thought, air, or address, All the whole loggerhead confess. From clouded notions in the brain, They scribble in a cloudy strain ; Desire of verse they reckon wit, And rhyme without one grain of it. Then hurry forth in public town Their serawls, lest they should be unknown: Rather than want a fame, they choose The plague of an infamous muse. Unthinking, thus the sots aspire, And raise their own reproach the higher ; By meddling with the modes and fashions Of women of politest nations. Perhaps by this they ’d have it told us, That in their spirit something bold is, To challenge those who have the skill, By charms to save, and frowns to kill. If not ambition, then ’tis spite Which makes the puny insects write : Like old and mouldy maids turn’d sour, When distant charms have lost their pow’r, Fly out in loud transports of passion, When aught that’s new comes first in fashion; Till by degrees it creeps right snodly, On hips and head-dress of the g—y: Thus they to please the sighing sisters, Who often beet them in their misters With their malicious breath set sail, And write these silly things they rail Pimps! such as you can ne’er extend A flight of wit, which may amend Our morals: that’s a plot too nice For you, to laugh folks out of vice. Sighing “Oh hey!” ye cry, “ Alas ! This fardingale ’s a great disgrace!” And all, indeed, because an ankle Or foot is seen might monarchs mancle ; And makes the wise, with face upriglit, Look up, and bless Heav’n for their sight. In your opinion nothing matches— O horrid sin !—the crime of patches ! *Tis false, ye clowns! Ill make ’t appear, The glorious sun does patches wear : Yea, run thro’ all the frame of nature, Youll find a patch for ev’ry creature : Wen you yourselves, you blacken’d wretehics, To Heliconians are the patches. But grant that ladies’ modes were ills To be reform’d, your creeping skills, Ye rhymers never would succeed, Who write what the polite ne’er read. To cure an error of the fair, Demands the nicest prudent care: Wit utter’d in a pleasant strain, A point so delicate may gain ; But that’s a task as far above Your shallow reach, as I’m from Jove. No more, then, let the world be vex’d With baggage empty and perplex’d ; But learn to speak with due respect Of Peggy’s breasts and ivory neck. Such purblind eyes as yours, ’tis true, Should ne’er such divine beauties view. If Nelly’s hoop be twice as wide, As her two pretty limbs can stride ; What then? will any man of sense Take umbrage, or the least offence, At what e’en the most modest may Expose to Phoebus’ brightest ray ? (1) Oblige them upon occasion, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Does not the handsome of our city, The pious, chaste, the kind, and witty, Who can afford it, great and small, Regard well-shapen fardingale ? And will you, magpies, make a noise ? You grumble at the ladies’ choice ! But leave ’t to them, and mothers wise, Who watch’d their conduct, mien, and guise, To shape their weeds as fits their ease, And place their patches as they please. This should be granted without grudging, Since we all know they’re best at judging, What from mankind demands devotion, In gesture, garb,free airs, and motion. But you, unworthy of my pen! Unwortny to be class’d with men! Haste to Caffar’, ye clumsy sots, And there make love to Hottentots. Another set with ballads waste Our paper, and debauch our taste With endless “larums on the street, Where crowds of circling rabble meet. The vulgar judge of poetry By what these hawkers sing and cry ; Yea, some who claim to wit amiss, Cannot distinguish that from this : Hence poets are accounted now, In Scotland, a mean empty crew, Whose heads are craz’d, who spend their time In that poor wretched trade of rhyme : Yet all the learn’d, discerning part Of mankind own the heav’nly art Is as much distant from such trash As’layed Dutch coin from sterling cash. Others in lofty nonsense write, Incomprehensible’s their flight ; Such magic power is in their pen, They can bestow on worthless men More virtue, merit, and renown, Than ever they cowld call their own. They write with arbitrary power, And pity ’tis they should fall lower ; Or stoop to truth, or yet to meddle With common sense, for crambo diddle. But none of all the rhyming herd Are more encourag’d and rever’d, By heavy souls to theirs allied, Than such who tell who lately died. No sooner is the spirit flown From its clay cage to lands unknown, Than some rash hackney gets his name, And thro’ the town laments the same. An honest burgess cannot die, But they must weep in elegy: Even when the virtuous soul is soaring Thro’ middle air, he hears it roaring. These ills, and many more abuses, Which plague mankind, and vex the muses, On pain of poverty shall cease, And all the fair shall live in peace: And every one shall die contented, Happy when not by them lamented. For great Apollo, in his name, Has order’d me thus to proclaim : “ Forasmuch as a grov’ling crew, With narrow mind, and brazen brow, Would fain to poet’s title mount, And with vile maggots rub affront On an old virtuoso nation, Where our lov’d Nine maintain their station : We order strict, that all refrain To write, who learning want, and brain ; Pedants, with Hebrew roots o’ergrown, Learn’d in each language but their own; Fach spiritless, half-starving sinner, Who knows not how to get his dinner; Dealers in small ware, clinks, whim-whams, Acrostics, puns, and anagrams ; And all who their productions grudge, To be canvass’d by skilful judge, Who can find out indulgent trip, While ’tis in harmless manuscript : But to all them who disobey, And jog on still in their own way, Be ’t ken’d to all men that our will is, Since all they write so wretched ill is, They must dispatch their shallow ghosts To Pluto’s jakes, and take their posts, There to attend till Dis shall deign To use their works—the use is plain.” Now know, ye scoundrels, if ye stand To “huff” and “ha” at this command, The furies have prepar’d a halter, To hang, or drive ye helter skelter Thro’ bogs and moors, like rats and mice, Pursued with hunger, rags, and lice, If e’er ye dare again to croak, And god of harmony provoke: Wherefore pursue some craft for bread, Where hands may better serve than head; Nor ever hope in verse to shine, Or share in Homer’s fate or ——, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. WEALTH, OR THE WOODY :! A POEM ON THE SOUTH SEA. Tuatta, ever welcome to this isle, Descend, and glad the nation with a smile: See frae yon bank, where South Sea ebbs and flows, How sand-blind Chance woodies and wealth bestows : Aided by thee, I'll sail the wond’rous deep, And thro’ the crowded alleys cautious creep. No easy task to plough the swelling wave, Or in stockjobbing press my guts to save; But naething can our wilder passions tame, Wha racks for riches or immortal fame. Long had the grumblers used this murm’ring sound, “Poor Britain in her public debt is drown’d!” At lifty millions late we started a’, And, wow, we wonder’d how the debt wad fa’ ; But sonsy sauls, wha first contriv’d the way, With project deep our charges to defray, O’er and aboon it heaps of treasure brings, That fowk, by guess, become as rich as kings. Lang heads they were that first laid down the plan, Into whose bottom round anes headlang ran, Till, overstock’d, they quat the sea, and fain wad been at land.? Thus, when braid flakes of snaw have clad the green, Aften I have young sportive gilpies seen, The waxing ba’ with meikle pleasure row, Till past their pith it did unwieldy grow. *Tis strange to think what changes may appear, Within the narrow circle of a year ; How can ae project, if it be well laid, Supply the simple want of trifling trade !3 Saxty lang years a man may rack his brain, Hunt after gear baith night and day wi’ pain, And die at last in debt, instead of gain. But, O South Sea! what mortal mind can run Thro’ a’ the miracles that thou hast done ? Nor scrimply thou thysel to bounds confines, But like the sun on ilka party shines— To poor and rich, the fools as well as wise, With hand impartial stretches out the prize. 175 Like Nilus* swelling frae his unken’d head, Frae bank to brae o’erflows ilk rigg and mead, Instilling lib’ral store of genial sap, Whence sun-burn’d gipsies reap a plenteous crap: Thus flows our sea, but with this diffrence wide— But anes a year their river heaves his tide, Ours aft ilk day, t? enrich the common weal, Bangs o’er its banks, and dings Egyptian Nile. Ye rich and wise, we own success your due, But your reverse their luck with wonder view :° How, without thought, these dawted pets of Fate Have jobb’d themselves into sae high a state, By pure instinct sae leal the mark have hit, Without the use of either fear or wit.® And ithers wha last year their garrets kept, Where duns in vision fash’d them while they slept— Wha only durst in twilight, or the dark, Steal to a common cook’s with half a mark, A? their half stock—now, by a canny gale, In the o’erflowing ocean spread their sail ; While they in gilded galleys cut the tide, Look down on fishers’ boats wi’ meikle pride.’ Meantime, the thinkers wha are out of play, For their ain comfort kenna what to say ; That the foundation ’s loose fain wad they show, And thinkna but the fabric soon will fa’ : That ’s but a sham—for inwardly they fry, Vex’d that their fingers werena in the pie: Faint-hearted wights, wha dully stood afar, Tholling your reason great attempts to mar ; While the brave, dauntless, of sic fetters free, Jump’d headlong glorious in the golden sea ;? Where now, like gods, they rule each wealthy jaw, While you may thump your pows against the wa’. On summer’s e’en, the welkin calm and fair, When little midges frisk in lazy air, Have ye not seen thro’ ither how they reel, And time about how up and down they wheel? Thus eddies of stock-jobbers drive about, Upmost to-day, the morn their pipe ’s put out. With pensive face, whene’er the market ’s high, Minutius cries, “Ah! what a gowk was L” (1) The gallows, (2) Land, in the time of this golden moment, was sold at forty-five or fifty years’ purchase. (3) All manner of traffic and mechanics was at that time despised ; subscriptions ana transters were the only commodities. (4) A river which crosses a great part of Africa, the spring head whereof was unknown till of late. In the month of June it swel’s and overflows Egypt: when it rises too high, the inun- dation is dangeruus, and threatens a famine. In this river are the monstrous amphihious animals named crocodiles, of the Same species with the late alligators of the South Sea, which make a prey of and devour all human creatures they can lay hold on. (5) Poor fools! (6) One was reckoned a timorous, thinking fool, who took advice of his reason in this grand affair. (7) Despised the virtuous design of propagating and carry- ing on a fishery,, which can never fail to be a real benefit to Britain. (8) Many of just thinking at that time were vexed to sce themselves trudging on foot, when some others of very indifferent capacities were setting up gilded equipages: notwithstanding all the doubts they formed against it, yet fretted because they were not so lucky as to have some shares. (9) Threw off all the fetters of reason, and plunged gloriously into confusion. 176 Some friend of his wha wisely seems to ken! Events of causes mair than ither men, “ Push for your interest yet, nae fear,” he cries, “ For South Sea will to twice ten hundred rise.” Waes me, for him that sells paternal land, And buys when shares the highest sums demand ! He ne’er shall taste the sweets of rising stock, Which fa’s neist day ;—nae help for ’t, he is broke. Dear Sea, be tenty how thou flows at shams Of Hogland Gad’rens? in their froggy dams, Lest in their muddy bogs thou chance to sink, Where thou mayst stagnate, syne of course maun stink. This I foresee, and time shall prove I’m right, For he’s nae poet wants the second sight ; ‘When autumn’s stores are ruck’d up in the yard, And sleet and snaw dreeps down cauld winter's beard ; When bleak November winds make forests hare, ‘And with splenetic vapours fill the air ; Then, then in gardens, parks, or silent glen, When trees bear naething else, they “ll carry men, Wha shall like paughty Romans greatly swing Aboon earth’s disappointments in a string : Sae ends the tow’ring saul that downa see A man move in a higher sphere than he. Happy that man wha has thrawn up a main, Which makes some hundred thousands a’ his ain, And comes to anchor on so firm a rock, Britannia’s credit, and the South Sea stock : Lk blythsome pleasure waits upon his nod, And his dependants eye him like a god: Closs may he bend champain frae e’en to morn, And look on cells of tippony with scorn: ~ Thrice lucky pimps, or smug-fac’d wanton fair, That can in a’ his wealth and pleasure skair : Like Jove he sits, like Jove, high heav’n’s goodman, While the inferior gods about him stand, Till he permits, with condescending grace, That ilka ane in order take their place: Thus with attentive look mensfou they sit, Till he speak first, and shaw some shining wit ; Syne circling wheels the flattering gaffaw, As well they may, he gars their beards wag a’.3 Imperial gowd! what is *t thou camna grant ? Possess’d of thee, what is *t a man needs want ? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Commanding coin! there ’s nothing hard to thee s I canna guess how rich fowk come to die. Unhappy wretch! link’d to the threedbare niie, The dazzling equipage can ne’er be thine: Destin’d to toil thro’ labyrinths of verse, Dares +? speak of great stock-jobbing as a farce. Poor thoughtless mortal! vain of airy dreams, The flying horse, and bright Apollo’s beams, And Helicon’s wersh-well thou ca’s divine, Are naething like a mistress, coach, and wine. Wad some good patron, whase superior skill Can make the South Sea ebb and flow at will, Put in a stock for me, I own it fair, In epic strain I’d pay him to a hair ; Immortalise him, and whate’er he loves, In flowing numbers I shall sing “ approves :” If not, fox-like, I ll thraw my gab and gloom, And ca’ your hundred thousand a sour plum.‘ THE RISE AND FALL OF STOCKS IN 1720. AN EPISTLE TO LORD RAMSAY. My Lorp, Wirxourten preface or preamble, My fancy being on a ramble, Transported with an honest passion, Viewing our poor bamboozl’d nation Biting her nails, her knuckles wringing, Her cheeks sae blae, her lips sae hinging; Grief and vexation’s like to kill her, For tyning baith her tick and siller. Allow me then to make a comment On this affair of greatest moment, Which has fa’n out, my Lord, since ye Left Lothian and the Edgewell tree : ® And, with your leave, I needna stickle To say we’re in a sorry pickle, Since poortith o’er ilk head does hover Frae Johu-a-Groat’s house south to Dover. Sair have we pelted been with stocks, Casting our credit at the cocks ; (1) With grave faces many at that time pretended they could demonst ate this hoped-for rise of South Sea. (2) The Dutch; whom a learned author of a late essay has endeavoured to prove to be descended after a strange manner from the Gaderens: which essay Louis KIV. was mightily pleased with, and bounteously rewarded the author.—A.R, (3) Feasts them at his own proper cost: hence the proverb, “ "Tis fair in ha’ where beards wag a’.” (4) The fox ia the fable, that despised the grapes he could not reach, is well known. One hundred thousand pounds being called a plum, makes this a right pun; and seme puns des rve not to be classed among low wit, though the generality of them do,—A.R. (5) An oak tree which grows on the side of a fine spring, nigh the castle of Dalhousie; very much observed by the country people, who give out, that before any of the family died, a branch fell from the Edgewell tree, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177 Lang guilty of the highest treasou Against the government of reason ; We madly, at our ain expenses, Stock-jobb’d away our cash and senses. As little bairns frae winnocks high Drap down saip-bells to waiting fry, Wha run and wrestle for the prize, With face erect and watchfu’ eyes ;— The lad wha glegest waits upon it, Receives the bubble on his bonnet, Views with delight the shining beau-thing, Which in a twinkling bursts to nothing ;— Sae Britain brought on a’ her troubles, By running daftly after bubbles. Impos’d on by lang-nebit jugglers, Stock-jobbers, brokers, cheating smugglers, Wha set their gowden girns sae wily, Tho’ ne’er sae cautious, they ’d beguile ye: The covetous infatuation Was smittle out o’er all the nation; Clergy, and lawyers, and physicians, Mechanics, merchants, and musicians ; Baith sexes, of a’ sorts and sizes, Drap ilk design, and jobb’d for prizes ; Frae nobleman to livery varlets, Frae topping toasts to hackney harlots. Poetic dealers were but scarce, Less browden still on cash than verse ; Only ae bard! to coach did mount, By singing praise to Sir John Blunt ; But since his mighty patron fell, He looks just like Jock Blunt himsel’.? Some lords and lairds sell’d riggs and castles, And play’d them aff with tricky rascals, Wha now with routh of riches vapour, While their late honours live on paper: But ah! the difference *twixt good land, And a poor bankrupt bubble’s band. Thus Europeans Indians rifle, And give them for their gowd some trifle ; As dewgs of velvet, chips of crystal, A fa’con’s bell, or baubee-whistle. Merchants’ and bankers’ heads gaed wrag—- : They thought to millions they might spang, Despis’d the virtuous road to gain, And look’d on little bills with pain ; The well-win thousands of some years, In ae big bargain disappears : *Tis sair to bide, but wha can help it, Instead of coach, on foot they skelp it. The ten per cents. wha durstna venture, But lent great sums upon indenture, To billies wha as frankly war’d it, As they out of their guts had spar’d it ; When craving money they have lent, They ’re answer’d, item, “ A’ is spent.” The miser hears him with a gloom, Girns like a brock, and bites his thumb, Syne shores to grip him by the wizen, And keep him a’ his days in prison. “Sae may ye do,” replies the debtor, “But that can never mend the matter ; As soon can I mount Charlewain, As pay ye back your gear again.” Poor Mouldy rins quite by himsel’,® And bans like ane broke loose frae hell, It lulls a wee my mullygrubs, To think upon these bitten scrubs, When naething saves their vital low, But the expenses of a tow. Thus children aft with carefw’ hands, In summer dam up little strands, Collect the drizzle to a pool, In which their glowing limbs they cool; Till by comes some ill-deedy gift,* Wha in the bulwark makes a rift, And with ae strake in ruins lays The work of use, art, care, and days. Even handicraftsmen too turn’d saucy, And maun be coaching’t thro’ the causy ; Syue strut fw’ paughty in the alley, Transferring thousands with some valet ; Grow rich in fancy, treat their whore, Nor mind they were, or shall be, poor : Like little Joves they treat the fair, With gowd frae banks built in the air ; For which their Danaes lift the lap, And compliment them with a clap ; Which by aft jobbing grows a pox, Till brigs of noses fa’ with stocks. Here coachmen, grooms, or pavemcnt trotter, Glitter’d awhile, then turn’d to snotter ; Like a shot starn, that thro’ the air Skits east or west with unco’ glare. But found neist day on hillock side, Nae better seems nor paddock-ride. (1) Vide Dick Francklin’s epistle.—A.R. (2) This is commonly said of a person who is out of countenance ot a disappointment. (3) Mad ; out of his wits. (4) A roguish boy, who is seldom without doing a bad ection. AA 178 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Some reverend brethren left their flocks, And sank their stipends in the stocks ; But tyning baith, like Aisop’s colly, O’er late, they now lament their folly. For three warm months, May, June, and July, There was odd scrambling for the spulzy ; And mony a ane, till he grew tir’d, Gather’d what gear his heart desir’d. We thought that dealer’s stock an ill ane That was not wordy haff a million. O, had this golden age but lasted, And no sae soon been broke and blasted, There is a person! well I ken, Might wi’ the best gane right far ben! His project better might succeeded, And far less labour had he needed : But ’tis a daffin to debate, And aurgle-bargain with our fate. Well, had this gowden age but lasted, And no sae soon been broke and blasted, O wow, my Lord, these had been days, Which might have claimed your poet’s lays ! But soon, alake! the mighty Dagon Was seen to fa’ without a rag on: In harvest was a dreadfu’ thunder, Which gart a’ Britain glow’r and wonder ; The phizzing bout came with a blatter, And dried our great sea to a gutter. But mony fowk with wonder speer, What can become of a’ the gear ? For a’ the country is repining, And ilka ane complains of tyning. Plain answer I had best let be, And tell ye just a simile. Like Belzee’ when he nicks a witch, Wha sells her saul she may be rich ; He, finding this the bait to damn her, Casts o’er her een his cheating glamour : She signs and seals, and he affords Her heaps of visionary hoards ; Bunt when she comes to count the cunzie, *Tis a slate stanes instead of money. Thus we ’ve been trick’d with braw projectors, And faithfu’ managing directors, Wha for our cash, the saul of trade, Bonny propines of paper made ; On footing clean, drawn unco’ fair, Had they not vanish’d into air. (1) Meaning myself, with regard to my printing this volume by subseription.—A.R. (2) “‘ Wealth, or the Woody.” When South Sea tide was at a height, ‘My fancy took a daring flight ;? Thalia, lovely muse, inspur’d My breast, and me with foresight, fir’d ; Rapt into future months, I saw The rich aerial Babel fa’; *Yond seas I saw the upstarts drifting, Leaving their coaches for the lifting : These houses fit for wights gane mad, I saw cramm’d fu’ as they could haud ; While little sauls sunk with despair, Implor’d cauld death to end their care. But now a sweeter scene I view, Time has, and time shall prove it true ; For fair Astrea moves frae heay’n, And shortly shall make a’ odds even: The honest man shall be regarded, And villains as they ought rewarded. The setting moon and rosy dawn Bespeak a shining day at hand ; A glorious sun shall soon arise, To brighten up Britannia’s skies : Our king and senate shall engage To drive the vultures off the stage. Trade then shall flourish, and ilk art A lively vigour shall impart To credit languishing and famish’d, And Lombard Street shall be replenish’d. Got safe ashore after this blast, Britons shall smile at follies past. God grant your Lordship joy and health, Lang days, and rowth of real wealth ; Safe to the land of cakes heav’n send ye, And frae cross accidents defend ye. 1721, THE SATYR’S COMIC PROJECT FOR RECOVERING A BANKRUPT STOCK-JOBBER. On the shore of a low-ebbing sea, A sighing young jobber was seen, Staring wishfully at an old tree, Which grew on the neighbouring green. There ’s a tree that can finish the strife And disorder that wars in my breast ; What need one be pain’d with his life, When a halter can purchase him rest ? (3) From the beginning to the twentieth line, sing to the tune of “Colin's Complaint.” From the twenty-first line, where the satyr begins to speak, sing to the tune of ‘* The kirk wad let me be.” MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179 Sometimes he would stamp and look wild, Then roar out a terrible curse On bubbles that had him beguil’d, And left ne’er a doit in his purse. _A satyr that wander’d along, With a laugh to his raving replied ; The savage maliciously sung, And jok’d while the stock-jobber cried. To mountains and rocks he complain’d, His cravat was bath’d with his tears; The satyr drew near like a friend, And bid him abandon his fears : Said he, Have ye been at the sea, And met with a contrary wind, That you rail at fair Fortune so free ? Don’t blame the poor goddess, she’s blind. Come, hold up thy head, foolish wight, I’ll teach thee the loss to retrieve ; Observe me this project aright, And think not of hanging, but live. Hecatissa conceited and old, Affects in her airs to seem young, Her jointure yields plenty of gold, And plenty of nonsense her tongue. Lay siege to her for a short space, Ne’er mind that she’s wrinkled or grey ; Extol her for beauty and grace, And doubt not of gaining the day. In wedlock you fairly may join, And when of her wealth you are sure, Make free with the old woman’s coin, And purchase a sprightly young w—. 1720. BAGPIPES NO MUSIC: BEING A SATIRE ON SCOTS POETRY. As Dryden justly term’d poetic sound, A pacing Pegasus on carpet ground: Roscommon’s nervous sense your verses yield, A courser bounding o’er the furrow’d field : The track pursue, that thinking Scots may see The comprehensive English energy. Scotch Maggy may go down at Aberdeen, Where bonnets, bag-pipers, and plaids are seen ; But such poor gear no harmony can suit, Mauch fitter for a Jew’s trump than a lute. Low bells, not lyres, the Highland cliffs adorn, Maclean’s loud halloo, or Macgregor’s horn. Sooner shall china yield to earthenware, Sooner shall Abel teach a singing bear, Than English bards let Scots torment their ear. Who think their rustic jargon to explain, For anes is once; lang, long; and two is twain; Let them to Edinburgh foot it back, And add their poetry to fill their pack ; While you, the fav’rite of the tuneful Nine, Make English deeds in English numbers shine : Leave Ramsay’s clan to follow their own ways, And while they mumble thistles, wear the bays. Joun Cowren. ae GRUB STREET NAE SATIRE: AN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. Dear Jou, what ails ye now ?—lie still: Hout man! what need ye take it ill, That Allan buried ye in rhyme, May be a start afore ye’r time ?? He’s naething but a shire daft lick And disna care a fiddlestick, Altho’ your tutor Curl and ye Should serve him sae in elegy. Doup down, doild ghaist, and diuna fash us, ‘With “carpet ground,” and “nervous” clashes ; Your Grub Street jargon Dryden wounds, When mix’d with his poetic sounds. You pace on Pegasus! take care, He ’ll “bound o’er furrow’d fields” of air, And fling ye headlong frae the skies, Never a second time to rise: With sic a fa’, alake! yell e’en a’ Dash into sherds like broken china : China and men the same fate skair, Ah me! baith bruckle earthenware. Lang serv’d ye in a mettl’'d station, The foremost beagle of our nation, ‘ For scenting out the yielding creature, Wha used to play at what’s-the-matter : But now, O fie for shame! to trudge Mun Curl’s poor hackney scribbling drudge, “To fill his pack,” while you, right fair, Gain title braw, “his singing bear.” But, John, wha taught ye ilka name, That shines sae bonnily in fame, Roscommon, Stanhope, Ramsay, Dryden, Wha back of winged horse could ride on? A’ them we ken; but wha the de’il Bade you up hill Parnassus speel ? You Ramsay make a feckfu’ man, Ringleader of a hearty clan : (1) See John Cowper’s Elegy, p. 164. 180 Good faith it sets ye well to fear him, For gin ye etle anes to steer him, Hell gloom ye dead :—in “ rustic” phrase, He’ll gar his “ thistles” rive your “ bays.” Pare Brryts. a 1728. REASONS FOR NOT ANSWERING THE HACKNEY SCRIBBLERS. Turse to my blyth indulgent friends, Dull faes nought at my hand deserve : To pump an answer’s a? their ends; But not ae line if they should starve.. Whae’er shall with a midding fight, Of victory will be beguil’d ; Dealers in dift will be to aight, Fa’ they aboon or *neath they ’re fil’d. It helps my character to heez, When I’m the butt of creeping tools ; The warld, by their daft medley, sees That I’ve nae enemies but fools. But sae it has been, and will be, While real poets rise to fame, Sic poor Macflecknos will let flee Their venom, and still miss their aim. Should ane like Young or Somer’le write, Some canker’d coof can say, ’tis wrang ; On Pope sic mungrels shaw’d their spite, And shot at Addison their stang. But well, dear Spec, the feckless asses, To weist insect even’d and painted, Sic as by magnifying glasses Are only ken’d when thro’ them tented. The blundering fellows ne’er forget, About my trade to feed their fancies, As if, forsooth, I wad look blate, At what my honour maist advances. Auld Homer sang for’s daily bread ; Surprising Shakspeare fin’d the wool ; Great Virgil creels and baskets made ; And famous Ben employ’d the trowel. Yet Dorset, Lansdown, Lauderdale, Bucks, Stirling,? and the son of Angus,? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Even monarchs, and of men the wale, Were proud to be inrow’d amang us. Then, hackneys, write till ye gae wood, Drudge for the hawkers day and night ; Your malice cannot move my mood, And equally your praise I slight. I’ve gotten mair of fame than’s due, Which is secur’d amang the best ; And should I tent the like of you, A little saul wad be confest. Nae mastiff minds a yamphing cur; A craig defies a frothy wave ; Nor will a lion raise his fur, Altho’ a monkey misbehave. NAM SATIS EST EQUITEM MINI PLAUDEHE, 1728. THE GENERAL MISTAKE: INSCRIBED TO LORD ERSKINE. Tue finish’d mind in all its movements bright, Surveys the self-made sumph in proper light, Allows for native weakness, but disdains Him who the character with labour gains: Permit me then, my Lord (since you arise With a clear saul aboon the common size), To place the following sketches in your view ; The warld will like me if I’m rees’d by you. Is there a fool, frae senator to swain ? Take ilk ane’s verdict for himself—there ’s nane. A thousand other wants make thousands fret, But nane for want of wisdom quarrels fate. Alas! how gen’ral proves the great mistake, When others thro’ their neighbours’ failings rake Detraction then by spite is borne too far, And represents men warse than what they are. Come then, Impartial Satire, fill the stage With fools of ilka station, sex, and age ; Point out the folly, hide the person’s name, Since obduration follows public shame : Silent conviction calmly can reform, While open scandal rages to a storm. Proceed; but, in the list, poor things forbear, Who only in the human form appear, (1) The translator of Virgil. (2) William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, the author of many dramatic pieces. (3) Gawin Douglas, Bishop of Dunkeld, the celebrated trans lator of Virgil's Aineid. He was son of Archibald, sixth Rar) of Angus. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 18] Scarce animated with thaé heav’nly fire Which makes the soul with boundless thoughts aspire : Such move cur pity—nature is to blame; *Tis fools, in some things wise, that satire claim ; Such as Nugator—mark his solemn mien, Staid are his features, scarcely move his een, Which deep beneath his knotted eye-brows sink, And he appears, as ane wad guess, to think ; fiven sae he does, and can exactly shaw How many beans make five, take three awa: Deep read in Latin folios four inch thick, He probes your crabit points into the quick ; Delights in dubious things to give advice, Admires your judgment, if you think him wise; And stiffly stands by what he anes thought right, Altho’ oppos’d with reason’s clearest light : On him ilk argument is thrown away, Speak what you will, he tents not what you say ; He hears himsel’, and currently runs o’er All on the subject he has said before ; Till glad to ease his jaws and tired tongue, Tl’ opponent rests ;—Nugator thinks him dung. Thou solemn irifler! ken thou art despis’d, Thy stiff pretence to wisdom naething priz’d, By sic as can their notions fause decline, When truth darts on them with convicting shine. How hateful’s dull opinion, propp’d with words That nought to any ane of sense affords, But tiresome jargon !—Learn to laugh, at least, That part of what thou says may pass for jest. Now turn your eye to smooth Chicander next, In whom good sense seems with good humour mix’d ; But only seems :—for envy, malice, guile, And sic base vices, crowd behind his smile ; Nor can his thoughts beyond mean quirks extend ; He thinks a trick nae crime that gains his end: A crime! no, ’tis his brag; he names it wit, And triumphs o’er a better man he’s bit. Think shame, Chicander, of your creeping slights, True wisdom in sincerity delights ; The sumphish mob, of penetration shawl, May gape and ferly at your cunning saul, And make ye fancy that there is desert Tn thus employing a’ your sneaking art ; But do not think that men of clearer sense Will e’er admit of sic a vile pretence, To that which dignifies the human mind, And acts in honour with the bright and blind. Reverse of this fause face, observe yon youth, A strict plain-dealer, aft o’er-stretching truth ; Severely sour, he’s ready to reprove The least wrang step in those who have his love; Yet what’s of worth in them he overrates ; But much they ’re to be pitied whom he hates ; Bere his mistake, his weakest side appears, When he a character in pieces tears, He gives nae quarter, nor to great or sma’, Even beauty guards in vain, he lays at a’. This humowr, aften flowing o’er due bounds, Too deeply mony a reputation wounds ; For which he’s hated by the suffering crowd, Who jointly ’gree to rail at him aloud, And as much shun his sight and bitter tongue, As they wad do a wasp that had them stung. Censorious! learn sometimes at faults to wink, The wisest ever speak less than they think : Tho’ thus superior judgment you may vauut, Yet this proud wormwood show,o’t speaks a want , A want in which your folly will be seen, ‘Till you increase in wit, and have less spleen. Make way there, when a mortal god appears ! Why do ye laugh ?—King Midas wore sic ears. How wise he looks !—Well, wad he never speak, People wad think him neither dull nor weak : But ah! he fancies, ’cause he’s chos’n a tool, That a furr’d gown can free him frae the fool ; Straight he with paughty mien and lordly glooms, A vile affected air, not his, assumes ; Stawks stiffly by when better men salute, Discovering less of senator than brute. Yet is there e’er a wiser man than he P— Speer at himsel’; and, if he will be free, He’ll tell you, nane.— Will judges tell a lie? But let him pass, and with a smile observe Yon tatter’d shadow, amaist like to starve; And yet he struts, proud of his vast engine : He is an author, writes exquisite fine ; Sae fine, in faith, that every vulgar head Cannot conceive his meaning while they read. He hates the world for this: with bitter rage He damns the stupid dullness of the age. The printer is unpaid: booksellers swear Ten copies will not sell in ten lang year ; And wad not that sair fret a learned mind, To see those should be patrons prove sae blind, Not to approve of what cost meikle pains, Neglect of bus’ness, sleep, and waste of brains ? And 9 for nought but to be vilely used, As pages are whilk buyers have refus’d. Ah! fellow-lab’rers for the press, take heed, And force nae fame that way, if ye wad speed; Mankind must be, we ha’e nae other judge, And if they are displeas’d, why should we grudge ? If happily you gain them to your side, Then boldly mount your Pegasus and ride: Value yoursel’ what only they desire ; What does not take, commit it to the fire, Next him a penman, with a bluffer air, Stands ’tween his twa best friends that lull his care, 182 Nam’d “Money in baith Pouches ;’—with three lines, Yclept a bill, he digs the Indian mines ; Jobs, changes, lends, extorses, cheats, and grips, And no ae turn of gainfu’ us’ry slips, Till he has won, by wise pretence and, snell, As meikle as may drive his bairns to hell, His ain lang hame.—This sucker thinks nane wise, But him that can to immense riches rise : Lear, honour, virtue, and sic heavenly beams, To him appear but idle airy dreams, Not fit for men of business to mind, That are for great and golden ends design’d. Send for him, de’il!—Till then, good men, take care To keep at distance frae his hook and snare ; He has nae rewth, if coin comes in the play, He’ll draw, indorse, and horn to death his prey. Not thus Macsomno pushes after praise, He treats, and is admir’d in all he says; Cash well bestow’d, which helps a man to pass For wise in his ain thinking, that’s an ass : Poor skybalds! curs’d with more of wealth than wit, Blyth of a gratis gaudeamus, sit With look attentive, ready all about, To give the laugh when his dull joke comes out : Accustom’d with his conversation bright, They ken, as by a watch, the time of night, When he’s at sic a point of sic a tale, Which to these parasites grows never stale, Tho’ often told. Like Lethe’s stream, his winc Makes them forget—that he again may shine. “Fie! satire, haud thy tongue, thou art too rude To jeer a character that seems sae good : This man may beat the poet bare and clung, That rarely has a shilling in his spung.” Hang him! there’s patrons of good sense enew, To cherish and support the tuneful few, Whose penetration ’s never at a loss In right distinguishing of gold frae dross : Employ me freely if thou’d laurels wear, Experience may teach thee not to fear. But see anither gives mair cause for dread, He thraws his gab, and aft he shakes his head ; A slave to self-conceit and a’ that’s sour, T’ acknowledge merit is not in his pow’r. He reads, but ne’er the author’s beauties minds, And has nae pleasure where nae faults he finds. Much-hated gowk! tho’ vers’d in kittle rules, To be a wirrykow to writing fools. They sell the greatest, only learn’d in words, Which naething but the cauld and dry affords ; Dar’st thou of a’ thy betters slighting speak, That have nae gruttem aae meikle, learning Greek ? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Thy depth ’s well ken’d, and a’ thy silly vaunts, To ilka solid thinker shaw thy wants. Thus cowards deave us with a thousand lies Of dang’rous vict’ries they have won in pleas : Sae shallow upstarts strive with care to hide Their mean descent, which inly gnaws their pride, By counting kin, and making endless faird, If that their granny’s uncle’s oye’s a laird. Scarcrows! hen-hearted! and ye meanly born! Appear just what you are, and dread nae scorn; Labour in words, keep hale your skins: why not? Do well, and nane your laigh extract will quote, But to your praise. Walk aff, till we remark. Yon little coxy wight that makes sic wark With tongue and gait: how crously does he stand His taes turn’d out, on his left haunch his hand The right beats time a hundred various ways, And points the pathos out in a’ he says. Wow! but he’s proud, when amaist out of breath, At ony time he clatters a man to death, Wha is oblig’d sometimes ¢’ attend the sot, To save the captiv’d buttons of his coat, Thou dinsome jackdaw! ken ’tis a disease This palsy in thy tongue that ne’er can please : Of a? mankind, thou art the maist mistane, To think this way the name of sage to gain. Now, lest I should be thought too much like thee, I’ll give my readers leave to breathe a wee ; If they allow my picture’s like the life, Mae shall be drawn; originals are rife. —_e—_— AN ADDRESS OF THANKS FROM THE SOCIETY OF RAKES, TO THE PIOUS AUTHOR OF AN ESSAY UPON IMPROVING AND ADDING TC THE STRENGTH OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND BY FORNICATION. We Noblemen, Barons, and Burgesses of the foresaid class, to the Rey. Dr. Puitosark, greeting : Tanks and renown be ever thine, O daring, sensible divine! Who in a few learn’d pages, Like great Columbus, now discovers A pleasing warld to a young lovers, Unken’d to by-past ages. Down, down with the repenting-stools, That gart the younkers look like fools Before the congregation, Since thou, learn’d youth of rising fame, Prov’st that there’s neither sin nor shame In simple fornication, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 Now lads, laugh a’, and tak’ your wills, And scowp around like tups and bulls, Have at the bonny lasses : For conscience has nae mair to say, Our clergyman has clear’d the way, And proven our fathers asses. Our dotard dads, snool’d wi’ their wives ‘To girn and scart our wretched lives, Till death bound to a fix’d ane; But now as free as cocks and sparrows, We lawfully may shift our marrows, And wheel round to the next ane. Thus any mettled man may have, Between his cradle and his grave, By lawful fornication, Bairns mony mae, with far less din, Thus free, and be mair useful in His day and generation. Thus we may patriotism shaw, And serve our country ane and a’, By fruitful propagation : Thus will we bravely man our fleet, Thus make our regiments a’ complete, And clear frae debts the nation. Hence shall we never mair hear tell Of lasses leading apes in hell, Like them wha aften harl’d Ane useless life up to fourscore, Leal maids, and scarcely kent wherefore They were sent to the warld. The mimmest now, without a blush, May speer if any billy sprush Has fancy for her beauty : For since the awband’s tane away The bonny lass has nought to say Against a moral duty. Adultery is the warst of crimes, And calls for vengeance on these times, As practis’d in this nation ; But that vile sin can be no more, When marriage is turn’d out of door By franker fornication. Peace be to you in dochters rife, Since nane needs now to be a wife, Their tochers winna fash ye; That universal ane of Cramond, That gaes alang wi’ a good gammon, Will set aff ilka lassie. Yet some by your new light will lose, For those wha kirk affairs engross, Their session-books may burn all ; Since fornication’s pipe’s put out, What will they have to crack about, Or jot into their journal ? Even fell K. T. that gart us ban, And eke that setting-dog his man, May turn Italian singers, Or use a teugh St. Johnston ribbon, For now the gain they were so glib on, Is slipp’d out thro’ their fingers. Nae mair at early hours and late Shall they round bawdy-houses wait, Like cats for straggling mice ; Departed is that fund of fending, When fornicators for offending They gart pay ony price. Rejoice ye lads of little rent, Wha lo’ed the game, but did lament Your purses being skranky ; The dearth of forny’s now away, Since lawfu’, ye have nought to pay, But welcome and we thank ye. Poor fornicators now grown auld, Whase blood begins to creep but cauld, Will grumble with reflection, To think what fashery they gaed through, Dear Doctor, wanting ane like you To give them right direction. What say ye for yourselves, ye priests, For naming kind whoremasters beasts,’ When using of their freedom ? We hope ye’ll cease to take offence At worthy wives like Lucky Spence, Or useful mother Needham. Look up, ye matrons, if ye can, And bless the reverend pious man, Who proves that your procuring Is now sae far frae being a crime, That devotees, when past their prime, May lend a hand to whoring. The fair ane frighted for her fame, Shall for her kindness bear nae blame, Or with kirk-censure grapple ; Whilk gart some aft their leeful lane, Bring to the warld the luckless wean, And sneg its infant thrapple : 183 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. For which by rude, unhallow’d fallows, They were surrounded to the gallows, Making sad ruefw’ murgeons ; «Till their warm pulse forgot to play, “They sang, they swang, and died away,” Syne were gi’en to the surgeons. O leader! see that ye be sure That ’tis nae sin to play the whore; For some in haly station The contrair threep, and sair abuse ye; But we'll aft drink your health and reese ye, For reesing fornication. We might foresee the canker’d clergy Wad with vile heterodoxy charge ye, And cast you out frae ’mang them ; But that has been the common fate Of a’ reformers wha debate, Or struggle to o’ergang them. But letna their ill word disturb ye, *Tis but a blast, they canna curb ye, Or cramp your new devotions : A Briton free thinks as he likes, And as his fancy takes the fykes, May preach or print his notions. Be satisfied, your doctrine new Will favour find with not a few, It being sae inviting ; And tho’ they kick ye frae their kirk, For that sma’ skaith ye need not irk, We'll make you a bra’ meeting. O had we fifty vacant kirks, By pith, or slight, or ony quirks, And we ereeted patrons, Then should you see the Patron Act Demolish a’ the narrow pack, And sessions rul’d by matrons. The fattest stipend should be thine, Thou pious and maist pure divine, Thy right is back’d wi’ reason ; For wha can doubt your care of sauls, Wha loudly for mair bodies calls, Tn this degenerate season. But nine and forty pulpits still Would then remain for you to fill With men of mighty gifts ; Then, students, there were hopes for you Wha’re of the learn’d freethinking crew, And now are at your shifts. Your essay shaws your eloquence, Your courtly style and flow of sense ; And tho’ some say ye blunder, Ye do them sae with Scripture pelt, They will be fore’d. to thumb your belt At last, and a’ knock under. Your scheme must take; for Jet me tell ye "Tis a good trade that fills the belly, The proverb proves it plainly : And to say goodness is not good, Wad shaw a mind extremely rude To argue so profanely. Thou well deservest high promotion, Wha ’st wrote with sic a lively motion Upon multiplication : To enrich a kingdom’s better far Than that curs’d business of war, That ushers desolation. Doctor, farewell: O never stint, For love’s sweet sake, to preach and print, Tho’ some with Bedlam shore ye ; Do not sma’ punishment regard, Since virtue has its ain reward, In persecution, glory. 1721. CUPID THROWN INTO THE SOUTH SEA. Myrriia, as like Venus’ sel’ As e’er an egg was like anither, Ance Cupid met upon the Mall, And took her for his bonny mither. He wing’d his way up to her breast : She started; he cried, ‘‘ Mam, ’tis me.” The beauty, in o’er rash a jest, Flang the arch gytling in South Sea. Frae thence he raise wi’ gilded wings, His bow and shafts to gowd were chang’d; “De'il’s ? the sea,” quoth he, “it dings :” Syne back to Mall and Park he rang’d. Breathing mischief, the god look’d gurly, With transfers a’ his darts were feather’d ; He made a horrid hurly-burly, Where beaus and belles were thickest gather’ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 185 He tentily Myrtilla sought, And in the thrang Unange Alley got her: He drew his bow, and quick as thought, With a braw new subscription shot her. —— 1721. ON A GOLD TEAPOT. Arter the gaining Edinburgh’s prize, The day before, with running thrice, Me Milncraig’s rock most fairly won, When thrice again the course he run: Now for diversion ’tis my share To run three heats and please the fair. — 1721. ON A PUNCH-BOWL. Cuaxce me with Nantz and limpid snring, Let sour and sweet be mixt ; Bend round a health, syne to the king, To Edinburgh’s captains next, Wha form’d me in sae blyth a shape, And gave me lasting honours, Take up my ladle, fill, and lape, And say, Fair fa’ the donors. —o——-. SPOKEN TO THREE YOUNG LADIES. Mz, anes three beauties did surround, And ilka beauty gave a wound, Whilst they with smiling eye, Said, “Allan, which think ye maist fair ? “ Gi’e judgment frankly ; never spare.”— “ Hard is the task,” said I. But added, seeing them sae free, “ Ladies, ye maun say mair to me, And my demand right fair is; First, like the gay celestial three, Shaw a’ your charms, and then ha’e wi’ ye, Faith, I shall be your Paris.” 1721. THE ROSE-TREE. Wits awe and pleasure we behold thy sweets; Thy lovely roses have their pointed guards ; Yet, tho’ the gath’rer opposition meets, The fragrant purchase all his pain rewards. But hedg’d about and watch’d with wary eyes, O plant superior, beautiful, and fair! We view thee like yon stars which gem the skies, But equally to gain we must despair. Ah! wert thou growing on some secret plain, And found by me, how ravish’d would I meet All thy transporting charms to ease my pain, And feast my raptur’d soul on all that’s sweet. Thus sung poor Symon.—Symon was in love, His too-aspiring passion made him smart ; The rose-tree was a mistress far above The shepherd’s hope, which broke his tender heart. ———_o——_ 1721. SPOKEN TO TWO YOUNG LADIES. TO THE FIRST. Upon your cheek sits blooming youth. TO THE OTHER, Heaven sparkles in your eye. TO BOTH. There’s something sweet about each mouth Dear ladies, let me try. ON RECEIVING A PRESENT OF AN ORANGE FROM MISS G. LOCKHART, NOW THE GOUNTESS OF ABOYNE, Now, Priam’s son, thou mayst be mute, For I can blythly boast with thee ; Thou to the fairest gave the fruit, The fairest gave the fruit to me. BB 186 1728. TO MR. POPE. Tree times I’ve read your Iliad o’er: The first time pleas’d me well; New beauties unobserv’d before, Next pleas’d me better still. Again I tried to find a flaw, Examin’d ilka line ; The third time pleas’d me best of a’, The labour seem’d divine. Henceforward I’Il not tempt my fate, On dazzling rays to stare, Lest I should tine dear self-conceit, And read and write nae mair. WROTE ON LADY SOMERVILLE’S BOOK OF SCOTS SANGS. Gaz, canty book, and win a name; Nae lyrics e’er shall ding thee : Hope large esteem, and lasting fame, If Somervilla sing thee. If she thy sinless faults forgive, Which her sweet voice can cover, Thou shalt, in spite of critics, live Still grateful to each lover. AN EPIGRAM. Minerva wand’ring in a myrtle grove, Accosted thus the smiling queen of love: ‘Revenge yourself, you’ve cause to be afraid, Your boasted pow’r yields to a British maid: She seems a goddess, all her graces shine ; Love leads her beauty, which eclipses thine. Each youth, I know (says Venus), think’s she’s me; Immediately she speaks, they think she’s thee : Good Pallas, thus you’re foil’d as well as I. Ha! ha! (cries Cupid) that’s my Mally Sleigh. ——- MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1728. ON THE MARQUIS OF ANNANDALE’S CONVEYING ME A PRESENT OF GUINEAS IN MY SNOF? BOX, AFTER HE HAD TAKEN ALL THE SNUFF. Tue Chief requir’d my snishing-mill, And well it was bestow’d; The Patron, by the rarest skill, Turn’d all the snuff to gowd. Gowd stampt with royal Anna’s face, Piece after piece came forth : The pictures smil’d, gi’en with such grace, By ane of so much worth. Sure thus the patronising Roman Made Horace spread the wing ; Thus Dorset, by kind deeds uncommon, Rais’d Prior up to sing. That there are patrons yet for me, Here’s a convincing proof; Since Annandale gives gowd as free As T can part with snuff. TO MRS. M. M-—- ON HER PAINTING, To paint his Venus, auld Apelles Wald a’ the bonny maids of Greece: Thou needs nae mair but paint thysel’, lass, To ding the painter and his piece. —_—e—_—_ ON MR DRUMMOND’S BEING APPOINTED A COMMISSIONER OF THE CUSTOMS. THe good are glad when merit meets reward, And thus they share the pleasure of another ; While little minds, who only self regard, Will sicken at the success of a brother. Hence I am pleas’d to find myself right class’d, Even by this mark, that’s worthy of observing; It gives me joy, the patent lately pass’d In favour of dear Drummond, most deserving. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ON THE DUKE OF HAMILTON’S SHOOTING AN ARROW THROUGH THE NECK OF AN EEL, As from a bow a fatal flane, Train’d by Apollo from the main, In water pierc’d an eel ; Sae mae the patriot’s power and art Sic fate to souple rogues impart, That drumble at the commonweal : Tho’ they as ony eels are slid, And thro’ what’s vile can scud, A bolt may reach them, tho’ deep hid, They skulk beneath their mud. TO CALISTA. Awzs wisdom, majesty, and beauty, Contended to allure the swain, Wha fain wad pay to ik his duty, But only ane the prize could gain. Were Jove again to redd debate, Between his spouse and daughters twa, And were it dear Calista’s fate To bid among them for the ba’; When given to her, the shepherd might Then with a single apple serve a’ ; Since she’s possess’d of a’ that’s bright, In Juno, Venus, and Minerva. A CHARACTER. Or judgment just, and fancy clear, Industrious, yet not avaricious ; No slave to groundless hope and fear ; Cheerful, yet hating to be vicious. From envy free ; tho’ prais’d, not vain; Ne’er acting without honour’s warrant Still equal, generous, and humane, As husband, master, friend, and parent. So modest, as scarce to be known By glaring, proud, conceited asses, Whose little spirits aften frown On such as their less worth surpasses. 187 Ye’ ll own he’s a deserving man, That in these outlines stands before ye ; And trowth the picture I have drawn Is very like my friend ——.' 1726. VERSES ON THE LAST LEAF OF THE BANNATYNE MANUSCRIPT IN THE ADVOCATES’ LIBRARY. In seventeen hundred twenty-four, Did Allan Ramsay keen- Ly gather from this book that store, Which fills his Fvergreen. Thrice fifty and sax towmonds neat, Frae when it, was collected ; Let worthy poets hope good fate, Thro’ time they ’ll be respected. Fashion of words and wit may change, And rob in part their fame, | And make them to dull fops look strange, But sense is still the same; And will bleez bright to that clear mind That loves the ancient strains, Like good Carmichael, patron kind, To whom this book pertains. FINIS quod ALLAN RAMSAY. SPOKEN TO MRS. N——. A Porm wrote without a thought, By notes may to a song be brought, Tho’ wit be scarce, low the design, And numbers lame in ev’ry line ; But when fair Christy this shall sing In concert with the trembling string, O! then the poet’s often prais’d, For charms so sweet a voice hath rais’d. (1) The character, though true, has something in itso great that my too modest friend will not allow me to set his name to it —A.R. 188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 1737. ADDRESS OF ALLAN RAMSAY, To the Honourable Duncan Forbes, of Culloden, Lord President of the Session, and all our other Judges, who are careful of the honour of the government, and the property of the subject: © Humbly means and shows, To you, my Lords, whase elevation Makes you the wardens of the nation, While you with equal justice stand, With Lawtie’s balance in your hand; To you, whase penetrating skill Can eithly redd the good frae ill, And ken them well whase fair behaviour Deserve reward and royal favour, As like you do, these stonkerd fellows, Wha merit naething but the gallows : To you, with humble bow, your bard, Whase greatest brag is your regard, Begs leave to lay his case before ye, And for an outgate to implore ye. Last year, my Lords, nae farrer gane, A costly wark was undertane By me, wha had not the least dread An act wad knock it on the head: A playhouse new, at vast expense, To be a large, yet bein defence, In winter nights, ’gainst wind and weet, To ward frae cauld the lasses sweet, While they with bonny smiles attended, To have their little failures mended ; Where satire, striving still to free them, Hauds out his glass to let them see them. Here, under rules of right decorum, By placing consequence before ’em, I kept our troop, by pith of reason, Frae bawdy, atheism, and treason ; And only preach’d, frae moral fable, The best instruction they were able While they by doctrine linsey-woolsey, Set aff the utile with dulce. And shall the man to whom this task falls, Suffer amang confounded rascals, That, like vile adders, dart their stings, And fear nae God, nor honour kings ? (1) [In the year 1736 Ramsay entered into a speculation for auilding a theatre in Carubbers Close, Edinburgh. An Act for licensing the stage, which was passed in 1737, crushed the poet’s hopes of profit from this source. ‘The rulers of Edinburgh,” says Mr. Chalmers, “ thinking very differently from our dramatist as to the mode and the matter of the instruction to be given to the citizens who were intrusted to their care, shut up the playhouse, leaving the undertaker without relief.” The poem to the Lord President, first printed in the Gentleman's Magazine, tells the whole histxgy of the poet's disappointment. } Shall I, wha for a tract of years Have sung to commons and to peers, And got the general approbation Of all within the British nation, At last be twin’d of all my hopes By them who wont to be my props ?— Be made a loser, and engage With troubles in declining age ; While wights, to whom my credit stands For sums, make sour and thrawin demauds ? Shall London have its houses twa, And we be doom’d to ‘ve nane awa? Ts our metropolis, anes the place Where longsyne dwelt the royal race Of Fergus, this gate dwindled down T’ a level with ilk clachan town, While thus she suffers the subversion Of her maist rational diversion ? When ice and snaw o’ercleads the isle, Wha now will think it worth their while To leave their gowsty country bowers, For the anes blithesome Edinburgh’s towers, Where there’s no glee to give delight, And ward frae spleen the langsome night ? For which they ’l] now have uae relief, But sonk at hame, and cleck mischief. Is there ought better than the stage To mend the follies of the age, If manag’d as it ought to be, Frae ilka vice and blaidry free ? Which may be done with perfect ease, And nought be heard that shall displease, Or give the least offence or pain, If we can hae’t restor’d again. Wherefore, my Lords, I humbly pray Our lads may be allow’d to play, At least till new-house debts be paid off, The cause that I’m the maist afraid of ; Which laide lies on my single back, And I maun pay it ilka plack. Now, it’s but just the legislatur Should either say that I’m a fauter, Or thole me to employ my bigging, Or of the burthen ease my rigging, By ordering, frae the public fund, A sum to pay for what I’m bound; Syne, for amends for what I’ve lost, Edge me into some canny post, With the good liking of our king, And your petitioner shall—sing. 4°) SONGS. —-+—_ {Allan Ramsay never published a separate collecticn of his own songs, but issued, in 1724, the first two volumes of the “ Tea-Table Miscellany,” including all the lyrics that had appeared in the “ Gentle Shepherd,” several new and old songs of his own composition, and many others by ancient and modern Scottish writers that were popular at the time. The collection was afterwards extended to four volumes of “ Choice Songs, Scots and English,” inclusive of all the English songs and parodies that had been introduced by Gay into the then favourite “‘ Beggar’s Opera,” and many others that have no claim to a place in Ramsay’s works. Tn making a new classification and arrangement of the songs, and omitting, as not necessary to be repeated, the lyrics in the “ Gentle Shepherd,” the editor has extracted from the “‘ Tea-Table Miscellany,” and placed together the whole of the songs of which Ramsay claimed the authorship. All the remainder of the “ Songs” in that collection, which have any pretence to a Scottish origin, and which bear more or less the marks of his hand as editor, collector, or improver, follow apart, under the title which Ramsay gave them.] DEDICATION TO “Ilka lovely British lass, Frae ladies Charlotte, Anne, and Jean, Down to ilk bonny singing Bess Wha dances barefoot on the green.” Tzar Lasszs, Your most humble slave, Wha ne’er to serve you shall decline, Kneeling wad your acceptance crave, When he presents this sma’ prope: Then take it kindly to your care, Revive it with your tunefu’ notes ; Its beauties will look sweet and fair, Arising saftly thro’ your throats. The wanton wee thing will rejoice, When tented by a sparkling e’e, The spinnet tinkling with her voice, Tt lying on her lovely’ knee. While kettles dringe on ingles dour, Or clashes stay the lazy lass, Their sangs may ward ye frae the sour, And gaily vacant minutes pass. E’en while the tea’s fill’d reeking round, Rather than plot a tender tongue, Treat a? the circling lugs wi’ sound, Syne safely sip when ye have sung. May happiness haud up your hearts, And warm ye lang with loving fires! May powers propitious play their parts, In matching you to your desires ! Epinuurou, January 1, 1724. A, Ramsay. YE WATCHFUL GUARDIANS OF THE FAIR. Ye watchful guardians of the fair, Who skiff on wings of ambient air, Of my dear Delia take a care, And represent her lover With all the gaiety of youth, With honour, justice, love, and truth; Tul I return her passions soothe, For me in whispers move her. Be careful no base sordid slave, With soul sunk in a golden grave, Who knows no virtue but to save, With glaring gold bewitch her ; Tell her for me she was design’d, For me who know how to be kind, And have more plenty in my mind Than one who’s ten times richer. Let all the world turn upside down, And fools run an eternal round, In quest of what can ne’er be found, To please their vain ambition ; Let little minds great charms espy, In shadows which at distance lie, Whose hop’d-for pleasure, when come nigh, Proves nothing in fruition : But cast into a mould divine, Fair Delia does with lustre shine, Her virtuous soul’s an ample mine, Which yields a constant treasure. Let poets in sublimest lays Employ their skill her fame to raise ; Let sons of music pass whole days, With well-tun’d reeds, to please her. 190 1721, LOOK UP TO PENTLAND’S TOWERING TOP. — Loox up to Pentland’s towering top, Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw, O’er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap, As high as ony Roman wa’. Driving their baws frae whins or tee, There’s no nae gowter to be seen, No dousser fowk wysing a-jee The byast bouls on Tamson’s green. Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs, And beek the house baith butt and ben ; That mutchkin stoup it hauds but dribs, Then let ’s get in the tappit hen. Good claret best keeps out the cauld, And drives away the winter soon; It makes a man baith gash and bauld, And heaves his saul beyond the moon. Leave to the gods your ilka care, If that they think us worth their while, They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fasheous fears beguile. But what they have a mind to do, That will they do, should we gang wood ; If they command the storms to blaw, Then upo’ sight the hailstanes thud. But soon as e’er they ery, “ Be quiet,” The blatt’ring winds dare nae mair move, But cower into their caves, and wait The high command of supreme Jove. Let neist day come as it thinks fit, The present minute ’s only ours ; On pleasure let’s employ our wit, And laugh at fortune’s feckless powers. Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o’er a rung. Sweet youth’s a blithe and heartsome time ; Then, lads and lasses, while it’s May, Gae pu’ the gowan in its prime, Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delight, When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, SONGS. And kisseg, laying a’ the wyte On you, if she keep ony skaith. “ Haith, ye’re ill-bred,” she ’ll smiling say, ~“Ye’ll worry me, you greedy rook ;” Syne frae your arms she’ rin away, And hide hersel’ in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place Where lies the happiness you want, And plainly tells you to your face, Nineteen nay says are haff a graut. Now to her heaving bosom cling, And sweetly toolie for a kiss, Frae her fair finger whop a ring, As taiken of a future bliss. These benisons, 1’m very sure, Are of the gods’ indulgent grant ; Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear To plague us with your whining cant. A BALLAD ON BONNY KATE, Czas, poets, your cunning devising Of rhymes that low beauties o’er-rate ; They all, like the stars at the rising Of Phebus, must yield to fair Kate. We sing, and we think it our duty To admire the kind blessings of fate, That has favour’d the earth with such beauty, As shines so divinely in Kate. In her smiles, in her features, and glances, The graces shine forth in full state, While the god of love dang’rously dances On the neck and white bosom of Kate. How straight, how well-turn’d, and genteel are Her limbs! and how graceful her gait ! Their hearts made of stone or of steel are, That are not adorers of Kate. But ah! what a sad palpitation Feels the heart, and how simple and blate Must he look, almost dead with vexation, Whose love is fix’d hopeless on Kate ? Had I all the charms of Adonis, And galeons freighted with plate, As Solomon wise, I’d think none is So worthy of all as dear Kate. THE LASS OF PAVIES MOLL. LONDON. VIRTUE & C° LaaTeD SONGS. 191 Ah! had she for me the same passion, I’d tune the lyre early and late ; The sage’s song on his Circassian Should yield to my sonnets on Kate. His pleasure each moment shall blossom Unfading, gets her for his mate ; He’ll grasp ev’ry bliss in his bosom, That ’s linked by Hymen to Kate. Pale envy may raise up false stories, And hell may prompt malice and hate; But nothing shall sully their glories Who are shielded with virtue like Kate. “This name,” say ye, “ many a lass has, And t’ apply it may raise a debate ;” But sure he as dull as an ass is That cannot join Cochran to Kate. TO DR. J.C., WHO GOT THE FOREGOING TO GIVE THE YOUNG LADY. — Hers, happy Doctor, take this sonnet Bear to the fair the faithful strains ; Bow, make a leg, and doff your bonnet ; And get a kiss for Allan’s pains. For such a ravishing reward, The Cloud-Compeller’s self would try To imitate a British bard, And bear his ballads from the sky. AN ODE ON DRINKING. Hence every thing that can Disturb the quiet of man! Be blithe, my soul, In a full bowl Drown thy eare, And repair The vital stream : Since life’s a dream, Let wine abound, And healths go round, We'll sleep more sound ; And let the dull unthinking mob pursue Each endless wish, and still their care renew. THE LAST TIME I CAME O’ER THE MOOR. Ture last time I came o’er the moor, L left my love behind me: Ye pow’rs! what pain do I endure When soft ideas mind me! Soon as the ruddy morn display’d The beaming day ensuing, I met betimes my lovely maid, In fit retreats for wooing. Beneath the cooling shade we lay, Gazing and chastly sporting ; We kiss’d and promis’d time away, Till night spread her black curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies, Fen kings, when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes, Which could but ill deny me. Should I be call’d where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me; Or cast upon some foreign shore, Where dangers may surround me; Yet hopes again to see my love, To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses. In all my soul there’s not one place To let a rival enter ; Since she excels in ev’ry grace, In her my love shall centre. Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, Their waves the Alps shall cover, On Greenland ice shall roses grow, Before I cease to love her. The next time I go o’er the moor, She shall a lover find me; And that my faith is firm and pure, Tho’ I left her behind me: Then Hymen’s sacred bonds shall chain My heart to her fair bosom ; There, while my being does remain, My love more fresh shall blossom. THE LASS OF PATIE’S MILL Tue lass of Patie’s mill, So bonny, blithe, and gay, In spite of all my skill, She stole my heart away. 192 When tedding of the hay, Bare-headed on the green, Love ’midst her locks did play, nd wanton’d in her een. Her arms white, round, and smooth, Breasts rising in their dawn, To age it would give youth To press them with his hand: Thro’ all my spirits ran An ecstasy of bliss, When I such sweetness fan’ Wrapt in a balmy kiss. Without the help of art, Like flowers which grace the wild, She did her sweets impart Whene’er she spoke or smil’d. Her looks they were so mild, Free from affected pride, She me to love beguil’d ; I wish’d her for my bride. O had I all the wealth Hopetoun’s high mountains? fill, Insur’d lang life and health, And pleasure at my will; I’d promise and fulfil, That none but bonny she, The lass of Patie’s mill, Should share the same wi’ me. THE YELLOW-HAIR’D LADDIE. In April, when primroses paint the sweet plain, And summer approaching rejoiceth the swain, The yellow-hair’d laddie would oftentimes go To wilds and deep glens where the hawthorn-trees grow. There, under the shade of an old sacred thorn, With freedom he sang his loves ev’ning and morn; He sang with so soft and enchanting a sound, That sylvans and fairies unseen danc’d around. The shepherd thus sung:—“Tho’ young Maia be fair, Her beauty is dash’d with a scornful proud air ; But Susie was handsome, and sweetly could sing, Her oreath like the breezes perfum'd in the spring. “That Maia in all the gay bloom of her youth, Like the moon was inconstant, and never spoke truth ; SONGS. But Susie was faithful, good-humour’d, and free, And fair as the goddess who sprang from the sea. «That mamma’s fine daughter, with all her great dow’y, Was awkwardly airy, and frequently sour .”— Then sighing, he wish’d, would but parents agree, The witty sweet Susie his mistress might be. : 1721. WINE AND MUSIC. SYMON. O Corin! how dull is’t to be, When a soul is sinking wi’ pain, To one who is pained like me; My life’s grown a load, And my faculties nod, While I sigh for cold Jeanie in vain. By beauty and scorn IJ am slain, The wound it is mortal and deep, My pulses beat low in each vein, ‘And threaten eternal sleep. COLIN. Come, here are the best cures for thy wounds O boy, the cordial bowl! With soft harmonious sounds ; Wounds! these can cure all wounds, With soft harmonious sounds, And pull of the cordial bowl. O Symon! sink thy care, and tune up thy drooping soul, Above the gods beinly bouze, When round they meet in a ring, Then cast away care and carouse Their nectar while they sing, Then drink and cheerfully sing. Then make the blood circle fine, - Strike up the music, The safest physic, Compounded with sparkling wine! ————-—__ NANNY-O, WHILE some for pleasure pawn their health *Twixt Lais and the bagnio, [’ll save myself, and without stealth Kiss and caress my Nanny-O. She bids more fair to engage a Jove Than Leda did or Danae-O :* Were I to paint the queen of love, None else should sit but Nanny-O. (1) Thirty-three miles south-west of Edinburgh, where the Eae’ of Hopetoun’s mines of gold and lead are.—A. R. (2) Two beauties to whom Jove made love; to one in the gm of a swan, to the other ina golden shower.—A. R, THE YVYELLOW-HAIR’D LADDIE. LONDON:VIRTUE & C° LDOwITED. How joyfully my spirits rise, When dancing she moves finely-O ; I guess what heav’n is in her eyes, Which sparkle so divinely-O. Attend my vow, ye gods, while I Breathe in the blest Britannio, None’s happiness I shall envy, As long’s ye grant me Nanny-O. CHORUS. My bonny, bonny Nanny-O, My loving, charming Nanny-O, LT care not tho’ the world do know How dearly I love Nanny-O. —_e —_. BONNY JEAN. Love’s goddess, in a myrtle grove, Said, “Cupid, bend thy bow with speed, Nor let the shaft at random rove, For Jeanie’s haughty heart must bleed.” The smiling boy, with divine art, From Paphos shot an arrow keen, Which flew unerring to the heart, And kill’d the pride of bonny Jean. No more the nymph, with haughty air, Refuses Willie’s kind address ; Her yielding blushes show no care, But too much fondness to suppress. No more the youth is sullen now, But looks the gayest on the green, Whilst every day he spies some new Surprising charms in bonny Jean. A thousand transports crowd his breast, He moves as light as fleeting wind, His former sorrows seem a jest, Now when his Jeanie is turn’d kind. Riches he looks on with disdain, The glorious fields of war look mean, The cheerful hound and horn give pain, If absent from his bonny Jean. The day he spends in amorous gaze, Which, e’en in summer, shorten’d seems ; When sunk in down, with glad amaze, He wonders at her in his dreams. Al! charms disclos’d, she looks more bright Than Troy’s fair prize, the Spartan queen: With breaking day he lifts his sigh, And pants to he with bonny Jean. SONGS. 193 AULD LANG SYNE. SHovutp auld acquaintance be forgot, Tho’ they return with scars P These are the noblest hero’s lot, Obtain’d in glorious wars. Welcome, my Varo, to my breast, Thy arms about me twine, . And make me once again as blest As I was lang syne. Methinks around us on each bough A thousand Cupids play ; Whilst thro’ the groves I walk with you, Each object makes me gay. Since your return, the sun and moon With brighter heams do shine, Streams murmur soft notes while they run, As they did lang syne. Despise the court and din of state ; Let that to their share fall, Who can esteem such slav’ry great, While bounded like a ball : But sunk in love, upon my arms Let your brave head recline ; We’ll please ourselves with mutual charms, As we did lang syne. O’er moor and dale with your gay friend You may pursue the chase ; And after a blithe bottle, end All cares in my embrace: ‘ And in a vacant rainy day, You shall be wholly mine ; We’ll make the hours run smooth away, And laugh at lang syne. The hero, pleas’d with the sweet air, And signs of gen’rous love, Which had been utter’d by the fair, Bow’d to the pow’rs above. Next day, with glad consent and haste, They approach’d the sacred shrine, Where the good priest the couple blest, And put them out of pine. THE PENITENT. Tune—“ The Lass of Livingston.” Patn’p with her slighting Jamie’s love, Bell dropp’d a tear, Bell dropp’d a tear, The gods descended from above, Well pleas’d to hear, well pleas’d to hear, cc 194 SONGS. They heard the praises of the youth From her own tongue, from her own tongue, Who now converted was to truth; And thus she sung, and thus she sung; “ Blest days, when our ingenuous sex, More frank and kind, more frank and kind, Did not their lov’d adorers vex, But spoke their mind, but spoke their mind.” Repenting now, she promis’d fair, Would he return, would he return, She ne’er again would give him care, Or cause to mourn, or cause to mourn. ‘Why lov’d I the deserving swain, Yet still thought shame, yet still thought shame, When he my yielding heart did gain, To own my flame, to own my flame ? Why took I pleasure to torment, And seem’d too coy, and seem’d too coy ? Which makes me now, alas! lament My slighted joy, my slighted joy. “Ye fair, while beauty ’s in its spring, Own your desire, own your desire, While love’s young power with his soft wing Fans up the fire, fans up the fire. O do not with a silly pride, Or low design, or low design, Refuse to be a happy bride, But answer plain, but answer plain.” Thus the fair mourner wail’d her crime, With flowing eyes, with flowing eyes; Glad Jamie heard her all the time, With sweet surprise, with sweet surprise ; Some god had led him to the grove, His mind unchang’d, his mind unchang’d— Flew to her arms, and cried, “ My love, I am reveng’d, I am reveng’d.” LOVE’S CURE. Tune—“ Peggy, I must love thee.” As from a rock, past all relief, The shipwreck’d Colin spying His native home, o’ercome with grief, Half sunk in waves, and dying; With the next morning sun he spies A ship, which gives unhoped surprise ; New life springs up, he lifts his eyes With joy, and waits her motion; So when, by her whom I long lov’d, I scorn’d was and deserted, Low with despair my spirits mov’d, To be for ever parted : Thus droop’d I, till diviner grace I found in Peggy’s mind and face ; Ingratitude appear’d then base, But virtue more engaging. Then now since happily I’ve hit, I’ll have no more delaying; Let beauty yield to manly wit, We lose ourselves in staying : i’ll haste dull courtship to a close, Since marriage can my fears oppose, Why should we happy minutes lose, Since, Peggy, I must love thee ? Men may be foolish, if they please, And deem’t a lover’s duty To sigh, and sacrifice their ease, Doating on a proud beauty : Such was my case for many a year, Still hope succeeding to my fear, False Betty’s charms now disappear, Since Peggy’s far outshine them. BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. O, Bessy Bett and Mary Gray! They are twa bonny lasses, They bigg’d a bower on yon burn-brae, And theek’d it o’er wi’ rashes : Fair Bessy Bell 1 lo’ed yestreen, And thought I ne’er could alter, But Mary Gray’s twa pawky een They gar my fancy falter. Now Bessy’s hair’s like a lint tap She smiles like a May morning, When Pheebus starts frae Thetis’ lap, The hills with rays adorning: White is her neck, saft is her hand, Her waist and feet ’s fu’ genty, With ilka grace she can command, Her lips, O wow! they’re dainty. And Mary’s locks are like the craw, Her eyes like diamonds glances; She’s ay sae clean redd up, and braw, She kills whene’er she dances : Blithe as a kid, with wit at will, She blooming, tight, and tall is; And guides her airs sae gracefu’ still, O Jove! she’s like thy Pallas. SONGS. Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, Ye unco’ sair oppress us, Our fancies jee between ye twa, Ye are sic bonny lasses : Wae’s me! for baith I canna get, To ane by law we’re stented; Then I’ll draw cuts, and tak’ my fate, And be with ane contented. THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDIN- BURGH KATY. Now wat ye wha I met yestreen, Coming down the street, my jo? My mistress, in her tartan screen, Fw’ bonny, braw, and sweet, my jo. “My dear,” quoth I, “thanks to the night, That never wish’d a lover ill; Since ye’re out of your mother’s sight, Let’s tak’ a walk up to the hill. “O Katy! wiltu gang wi’ me, And leave the dinsome town a while? The blossom’s sprouting frae the tree, And a’ the summer’s gawn to smile; The mavis, nightingale, and Jark, The bleating Jambs, and whistling hind, In ilka dale, green shaw, and park, Will nourish health, and glad yer mind. * Soon as the clear gudeman of day Does bend his morning draught of dew, We'll gae to some burn-side and play, And gather flow’rs to busk yer brow. We'll pu’ the daisies on the green, The lucken gowans frae the bog; Between hands, now and then we’ll lean, And sport upo’ the velvet fog. “There ’s up into a pleasant glen, A wee piece frae my father’s tower, A canny, saft, and flow’ry den, Which circling birks has form’d a bower; Whene’er the sun grows high and warm, We'll to the cal’er shade remove ; There will I lock thee in mine arms, And love and kiss, and kiss and love.” 195 KATY’S ANSWER. My mither’s ay glowerin’ o’er me, Tho’ she did the same before me, I canna get leave To look to my love, Or else shell be like to devour me. Right fain wad I take yer offer, Sweet Sir, but I’ll tine my tocher, Then, Sandy, ye’ll fret, And wyte yer poor Kate, Whene’er ye keek in your toom coffer. For tho’ my father has plenty Of siller, and plenishing dainty, Yet he’s unco’ sweer To twine wi’ his gear ; And sae we hae need to be tenty, Tutor my parents wi’ caution, Be wily in ilka motion; Brag well o” yer land, And there’s my leal hand, Win them, I’ll be at your devotion. MARY SCOTT. Haprpy’s the love which meets return, When in soft flames souls equal burn; But words are wanting to discover The torments of a hopeless lover. Ye registers of heav’n, relate, If looking o’er the rolls of fate, Did you there see, mark’d for my marrow, Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow ? Ah no! her form’s too heav’nly fair, Her love the gods above must share, While mortals with despair explore her, And at a distance due adore her. , O, lovely maid! my doubts beguile, Revive and bless me with a smile; Alas! if not, you’ll soon debar a Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow. Be hush, ye fears! I’ll not despair, My Mary’s tender as she’s fair ; Then Ill go tell her all my anguish, She is too good to let me languish. With success crown’d, I *ll not envy The folks who dwell above the sky ; When Mary Scott’s become my marrow, We'll make a paradise on Yarrow, 96 SONGS. If sne admire a martial mind, 3 O’ER BOGGIE. I’ll sheath my limbs in armour; a If to the softer dance inclin’d, [ wit awa’ wi? my love, With gayest airs I “ll charm her; I will awa’ wi’ her, If she love grandeur, day and night Tho’ a? my kin had sworn and said, Ill plot my nation’s glory, I'll o’er Boggie wi’ her. Find favour in my prince’s sight, IfI can get but her consent, And shine in future story. I dinna care a strae ; Tho’ ilka ane be discontent, Beauty can wonders work with ease, Awa’ wi’ her I'll gae. Where wit is corresponding, I will awa’, &c. And bravest men know best to please, With complaisance abounding. For now she’s mistress of my heart, My bonny Maggy’s love can turn And worthy of my hand, Me to what shape she pleases, And well I wat we shanna part, If in her breast that flame shall burn For siller or for land. Which in my bosom bleezes. Let rakes delight to swear and drink, And beaux admire fine lace, But my chief pleasure is to blink On Betty’s bonny face. TLL NEVER LEAVE THEE. I will awa’, &e. es There a’ the beauties do combine, one Of colour, traits, and air— Tuo’ for seven years and mair honour should reaye The saul that sparkles in her een me Makes her a jewel rare; To fields where cannons rair, thou needna grieve Her flowing wit gives shining life thee ; To a? her other charms ; For deep in my spirit thy sweets are indented, How blest 1’ll be when she’s my wife, And love shall preserve ay what love has imprinted, And lock’d up in my arms. Leave thee, leave thee! Ill never leave thee, 1 will awa’, &e. Gang the warld as it will, dearest, believe me. There blithely will 1 rant and sing, ReUN: While o’er her sweets I range, O Johnny, I’m jealous whene’er ye discover I'll cry, Your humble servant, king, My sentiments yielding, ye “ll turn a loose rover; Shame fa’ them that wad change, And nought ? the warld wad vex my heart sairer, A kiss of Betty and a smile, If you prove inconstant, and fancy ane fairer. Albeit ye wad lay down Grieve me, grieve me! Oh, it wad grieve me, The right ye ha’e to Britain’s isle, A’ the lang night and day, if you deceive me! And offer me your crown. I will awa’, &. JOENNY: My Nelly, let never sic fancies oppress thee, For while my blood’s warm 1’ll kindly caress ye: Your blooming saft beauties first beeted love’s fire, Your virtue and wit make it flame ay the higher. Leave thee, leave thee! I ’ll never leave thee, Gang the warld as it will, dearest, believe me. O'ER THE MOOR TO MAGGIE. Anp I'll o’er the moor to Maggy, NELLY. Her wit and sweetuess call me, Then, Johnny, I frankly this minute allow ye Then to my fair Ill show my mind, | To think me your mistress, for love gars me trow Whatever may befall me: ye; If she love mirth 1’ll learn to sing; And gin ye prove fause, to yersel’ be it said then, Or likes the Nine to follow, Ye ’ll win but sma’ honour to wrang a kind maiden. I'll lay my lugs in Pindus’ spring, Reave me, reave me! heav’ns! it wad reave me And invocate Apollo. Of my rest night and day, if ye deceive me! SONGS. 197 JOHNNY, Bid icicles hammer red gauds on the studdy, And fair simmer mornings nae mair appear ruddy ; Bid Britons think ae gate; and when they obey ye, But never till that time, believe I’ll betray ye: Leave thee, leave thee! I’ll never leave thee, - The stars shall gang withershins ere I deceive thee. POLWART ON THE GREEN. At Polwart on the green If you’ll meet me the morn, Where lasses do convene To dance about the thorn, A kindly welcome ye shall meet Frae her wha likes to view A lover and a lad complete— The lad and lover you. Let dorty dames say na, As lang as e’er they please, Seem caulder than the snaw, While inwardly they bleeze; But I will frankly show my mind, And yield my heart to thee; Be ever to ihe captive kind, That langs na to be free. At Polwart on the green, Among the new-mown hay, With sangs and dancing keen, We'll pass the heartsome day : At night, if beds be o’er thrang laid, And thou be twin’d of thine, Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad, To take a part of mine. =~ JOHN HAY’S BONNY LASSIE. By smooth-winding Tay a swain was reclining, Aft eried he, *O hey! maun I still live pining MyseP thus away, and darena discover To my bonny Hay, that I am her lover. “Nae mair it will hide, the flame waxes stronger, If she ’s not my bride, my days are nae longer ; Then Ill take a heart, and try at a venture, May he, ere we part, my vows may content her. “She’s fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora, When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good morrow ; The sward of the mead enamell’d with daisies, Looks wither’d and dead when twin’d of her graces. “ But if she appear where verdures invite her, The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the sweeter : *Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing, Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glowing. “The mair that I gaze the deeper I’m wounded— Struck dumb with amaze, my mind is confounded ; T’m all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye, For a’ my desire is Hay’s bonny lassie.” — -o—— GENTY TIBBY AND SONSY NELLY Trpsy has a store of charms, Her genty shape our fancy warms, How starkly can her sma’ white arms Fetter the lad wha looks but at her ! Frae ancle to her slender waist, These sweets conceal’d invite to dawt her, Her rosy cheek and rising breast Gar ane’s mouth gush bowt fu’ o’ water. Nelly’s gawsy, saft, and gay, Fresh as the lucken flowers in May, ik ane that sees her cries, “ Ah hey! She’s bonny, O, I wonder at her!” The dimples of her chin and cheek, And limbs sae plump invite to dawt her, Her lips sae sweet, and skin sae sleek, Gar mony mouths beside mine water. Now strike my finger in a bore, My wizen with the maiden shore,! Gin I ean tell whilk I am for, When these twa stars appear thegither. O love! why dost thou gi’e thy fires Sae large, while we’re oblig’d to nither Our spacious sauls’ immense desires, And ay be in a hankerin swither ? Tibby’s shape and airs are fine, And Nelly’s beauties are divine ; But since they canna baith be mine, Ye gods! give ear to my petition— Provide a good lad for the tane, But let it be with this provision, I get the other to my lane, Tn prospect plano and fruition. (1) Divide my windpipe with the mafden. The maiden was an engine for beheading, formerly used in Scotland; it was of a construction similar to that of the guillotine, 198 UP IN THE AIR. Now the sun’s gane out o’ sight, Beet the ingle, and snuff the light ; In glens the fairies skip and dance, And witches wallop o’er to France , Up in the air, On my bonny grey mare, And I see her yet, and I see her yet, Up in, &c. The wind’s drifting hail and snaw O’er frozen hags like a foot-ba’; Nae starns keek thro’ the azure slit, It’s cauld and mirk as ony pit; The man 7 the moon Is carousing aboon, D’ ye see, d’ ye see, d’ ye see him yet P The man, &. Take your glass to clear your een, *Tis the elixir hales the spleen, Baith wit and mirth it will inspire, Aad gently puff the lover’s fire ; Up in the air, It drives away care, Ha’e wi’ ye, ha’e wi’ ye, and ha’e wi’ ye, lads, yet. Up in, &c. Steek the doors, keep out the frost, Come, Willy, gi’e’s about yer toast ; Till’t lads, and lilt it out, And let us ha’e a blithesome bout; Up wi’t there, there, Dinna cheat, but drink fair ; Huzza! huzza! and huzza! lads, yet. Up wi't, &. TO MRS. E. C. Now Pheebus advances on high, No footsteps of winter are seen; The birds carol sweet in the sky, And lambkins dance reels on the green. Thro’ groves, and by rivulets clear, We wander for pleasure and health ; Where buddings and blossoms appear, Giving prospects of joy and of wealth, View every gay scene all around, That are, and that promise to be; Yet in them all nothing is found . So perfect, Eliza, as thee. SONGS. Thine eyos the clear fountams excel ; Thy locks they out-rival the grove ; When zephyrs these pleasingly swell, Each wave makes a captive to love. The roses and lilies combin’d, And flowers of most delicate hue, By thy cheek and thy breasts are out-shin’d, Their tinctures are nothing so true. What can we compare with thy voice, And what with thy humour so sweet ? No music can bless with such joys ; Sure angels are just so complete. Fair blossom of every delight, Whose beauties ten thousands outshine, Thy sweets shall be lastingly bright, Being mix’d with so many divine. Ye powers! who have given such charms To Eliza, your image below, O save her from all human harms, And make her hours happily flow. TO CALISTA. Suz sung; the youth attention gave, And charms on charms espies, Then, all in raptures, falls a slave Both to her voice and eyes ! So spoke and smil’d the eastern maid— Like thine, seraphic were her charms— That in Circassia’s vineyards stray’d, And blest the wisest monarch’s aris. A thousand fair of high desert Strove to enchant the amorous king, But the Circassian gain’d his heart, And taught the royal hand to sing. Calista thus our sang inspires, And claims the smooth and highest lays ; But while each charm our bosom fires, Words seem too few to sound her praise, Her mind in ev’ry grace complete, To paint, surpasses human skill ; Her majesty, mix’d with the sweet, Let seraphs sing her if they will: Whilst wond’ring, with a ravish’d eye, We all that’s perfect in her view, Viewing a sister of the sky, To whom an adoration’s due. LOCHABEIR NO MORE. LONDOW, VIRTUE & C° LIMITED SONGS. GIVE ME A LASS WITH A LUMP OF LAND. —_— Grs me a lass with a lump of land, And we for life shall gang thegither ; Tho’ daft or wise I’ll never demand, Or black or fair, it maksna whether. I’m aff with wit, and beauty will fade, And blood alane is no worth a shilling ; But she that is rich her market’s made, For ilka charm about her is killing. Gie me a lass with a lump of land, And in my bosom 1°11 hug my treasure ; Gin I had anes her gear in my hand, Should love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. Laugh on wha likes, but there’s my hand, I hate with poortith, tho’ bonny, to meddle ; Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land, They’se never get me to dance to their fiddle. There ’s meikle good love in bands and bags, And siller and gowd’s a sweet complexion ; Rut beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags, Have tint the art of gaining affection. Love tips his arrows with woods and parks, And castles, and riggs, and moors, and meadows ; And naething can catch our modern sparks, But weel-tocher’d lasses, or jointur’d widows. LOCHABER NO MORE. FareweEtt to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I’ve mony day been; For Lochaber uo more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed, they are a’ for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir, Tho’ borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. Tho’ hurricanes arise, and rise ev’ry wind, They “ll ne’er make a tempest like that in my mind; Tho’ loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That’s naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain’d ; By ease that'’s inglorious no fame can be gain’d ; And beauty and love’s the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. 199 Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse ; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse P Without it I ne’er can have merit for thee, And without thy favour I’d better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, Ill bring a heart to thee with love running o’er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. pe VIRTUE AND WIT. THE PRESERVATIVE OF LOVE AND BEAUTY. — Conress thy love, fair blushing maid ; For since thine eyes consenting, Thy safter thoughts are a’ betray’d, And nasays no worth tenting. Why aims thou to oppose thy mind, With words thy wish denying ? Since nature made thee to be kind, Reason allows complying. Nature and reason’s joint consent Make love a sacred blessing ; Then happily that time is spent That’s wared on kind caressing. Come then, my Katie, to my arms, I'll be nae mair a rover, But find out heav’n in a’ thy charms, And prove a faithful lover. SHE. What you design, by nature’s law Is fleeting inclination ; That willy-wisp bewilds us a’ By its infatuation : When that gaes out, caresses tire, And love’s nae mair in season ; Syne weakly we blaw up the fire, With all our boasted reason. HE, The beauties of inferior cast May start this just reflection ; But charms like thine maun always last, Where wit has the protection. Virtue and wit, like April rays, Make beauty rise the sweeter ; The langer then on thee I gaze, My love will grow completer. 200 ADIEU FOR A WHILE, MY NATIVE GREEN PLAINS. —_— HE. Aptev for a while, my native green plains, My nearest relations, and neighbouring swains ; Dear Nelly, frae these I’d start easily free, Were minutes not ages while absent frae thee. SHE. Then tell me the reason thou dost not obey The pleading of love, but thus hurries away : Alake! thou deceiver, o’er plainly I sec, A lover sae roving will never mind me. HE. The reason unhappy is owing to fate, That gave me a being without an estate ; Which lays a necessity now upon me, To purchase a fortune for pleasure to thee. SHE. Small fortutte may serve where love has the sway, Then, Johnny, be counsell’d nae langer to stray ; For while thou proves constant in kindness to me, Contented 1’ll ay ‘find a treasure in thee. HE. Cease, my dear charmer, else soon Ill betray A weakness unmanly, and quickly give way To fondness, which may prove a ruin to thee, A pain to us baith, and dishonour to me. Bear witness, ye streams, and witness, ye flow’rs, Bear witness, ye watchful invisible pow’rs, If ever my heart be unfaithful to thee, May nothing propitious e’er smile upon me. AND VLL AWA’ TO BONNY TWEED-SIDE. — Anp I'll awa’ To bonny Tweed-side, And see my deary come throw, And he sall be mine, Gif sae he incline, For I hate to lead apes below. While young and fair, I'll make it my care To secure mysel’ in a jo; SONGS, I’m no sic a fool, To let my blood cool, And syne gae lead apes below. Few words, bonny lad, Will eithly persuade, Tho’ blushing, I daftly say no ; Gae on with your strain, And doubt not to gain, For I hate to lead apes below. Untied to a man, Do whate’er we can, We never can thrive or dow; Then I will do well, Do better wha will, And let them lead apes below. Our time ia precious, And gods are gracious, That beauties upon us bestow ; *Tis not to be thought We got them for nought, Or to be set up for a show. *Tis carried by votes, Come kilt up your coata, And let us to Edinburgh go; Where she that’s bonny May catch a Johnny, And uever lead apes below. THE WIDOW. —— Tue widow can bake, and the widow can brew, The widow can shape, and the widow can sew, And mony braw things the widow can do, Then have at the widow, my laddie : With courage attack her baith early and late ; To kiss her and clap her ye maunna be blate : Speak well, and do better; for that’s the best gate To win a young widow, my laddie. The widow she’s youthfu’, and never ae hair The waur 0” the wearing, and has a good skair Of everything lovely; she’s witty and fair, And has a rich jointure, my laddie. What could ye wish better, your pleasure *o crown, Than a widow the bonniest toast in the town, With naething but draw in your stool and sit down, And sport with the widow, my laddie. SONGS. 202 Then till her, and kill her with courtesy dead, Tho’ stark love and kindness be all ye can plead ; Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed With a bonny gay widow, my laddie. Strike iron while ’tis het, if ye ’d have it to wald; For fortune ay favours the active and bauld, But ruins the wooer that’s thowless and cauld, Unfit for the widow, my laddie. —~* THE STEP-DAUGHTER’S RELIEF. I was anes a well-tocher’d lass, My mither left dollars to me But now I’m brought to a poor pass, My step-dame has gart them flee. My father he’s aften frae hame, And she plays the de’il with his gear ; She neither has lawtith nor shame, And keeps the hale house in a steer. She’s barmy-fac’d, thriftless, and bauld, And gars me aft fret and repine, While hungry, haff-naked, and cauld, I see her destroy what ’s mine. But soon I might hope a revenge, And soon of my sorrows be free, My poortith to plenty wad change, If she were hung up on a tree. Quoth Ringan, wha lang time had lo’ed This bonny lass tenderly, T’ll take thee, sweet May, in thy snood, Gif thou wilt gae hame with me. *Tis only yoursel’ that I want; Your kindness is better to me Than a’ that your step-mother, scant Of grace, now has taken frae thee. Tm but a young farmer, ’tis true, And ye are the sprout of a laird; But I have milk-cattle enow, And rowth of good rucks in my yard: Ye shall have naething to fash ye; Sax servants shall jouk to thee: Then kilt up thy coats, my lassie, And gae thy ways hame with me. The maiden her reason employ’d, Not thinking the offer amiss, Consented ; while Ringan o’erjoyed, Receiv’d her with mony a kiss. And now she sits blithely singing, And joking her drunken step-dame, Delighted with her dear Ringan, That makes her goodwife at hame BONNY CHIRSTY. — How sweetly smells the simmer green ! Sweet taste the peach and cherry ; Painting and order please our eeu, And claret makes us merry : But finest colours, fruits, and flowers, And wine, tho’ I be thirsty, Lose a’ their charms and weaker powers, Compar’d with those of Chirsty. When wand’ring o’er the flow’ry park, No nat’ral beauty wanting, How lightsome is ’t to hear the lark, And birds in concert chanting ! But if my Chirsty tunes her voice, I’m wrapt in admiration, My thoughts with ecstasies rejoice, And drap the hale creation, Whene’er she smiles a kindly glance, I take the happy omen, And aften mint to make advance, Hoping she ll prove a woman ; But dubious of my ain desert, My sentiments I smother, With secret sighs I vex my heart, For fear she love another. Thus sang blate Edie by a burn, His Chirsty did o’erhear him ; She doughtna let her lover mourn, But, ere he wist, drew near him. She spake her favour with a look, Which left nae room to doubt her : He wisely this white minute took, And flang his arms about her. My Chirsty !—witness, bonny stream, Sic joys frae tears arising! I wish this may not be a dream : O love the maist surprising ! Time was too precious now for tauk ; This point of a’ his wishes He wad na with set speeches bauk, But war’d it a’ on kisses. THE SOGER LADDIE. —— My soger laddie is over the sea, And he will bring gold and money to me; And when he comes hame, he’Il make me a lady ; My blessing gang with my soger laddie. pp 202 My doughty laddie is handsome and brave, And can as a soger and lover behave ; True to his country, to love he is steady, There ’s few to compare with my soger laddie. Shield him, ye angels, frae death in alarms, Return him with laurels to my langing arms ; Syne frae all my care ye’ll pleasantly free me, When back to my wishes my soger ye gi’e me. O! soon may his honours bloom fair on his brow, As quickly they must if he get his due; For in noble actions his courage is ready, Which makes me delight in my soger laddie. THE BONNY SCOT. Tune—“ The Boatman.” Ye gales that gently wave the sea, And please the canny boatman, Bear me frae hence, or bring to me My brave, my bonny Scotman. In haly bands We join’d our hands, Yet may not this discover, While parents rate A large estate, Before a faithful lover. _ But I lure choose in Highland glens To herd the kid and goat—man, Ere I could for sic little ends Refuse my bonny Scotman. Wae worth the man Wha first began The base ungenerous fashion, Frae greedy views, Love’s art to use, While strangers to its passion. Frae foreign fields, my lovely youth, : Haste to thy longing lassie, Wha pants to press thy bawmy mouth, And in her bosom hawse thee. Love gi’es the word, Then haste on board ; Fair winds, and tenty boatman, Watt o’er, waft o’er, F'rae yonder shore, My blithe, my bonny Scotman, SONGS LOVE INVITING REASON. WueEn innocent pastime our pleasure did crown, Upon a green meadow, or under a tree, Eve Annie became a fine lady in town, How lovely, and loving, and bonny was she! Rouse up thy reason my beautifu’ Annie, Let ne’er a new whim ding thy fancy a-jee ; QO! as thou art bonny, be faithfw’ and canny, And favour thy Jamie, wha doats upon thee. Does the death of a lintwhite gi’e Annie the spleen? Can tyning of trifles be uneasy to thee? , Can lap-dogs and monkeys draw tears frae these ecn, That look with indifference on poor dying me? Rouse up thy reason, my beautifu’ Annie, And dinna prefer a paroquet to me ; O! as thou art bonny, be prudent and canny And think on thy Jamie, wha doats upon thee. Ab! should a new gown, or a Flanders-lace head, Or yet a wee coatie, tho’ never sae fine, Gar thee grow forgetfu’, and let his heart bleed, That anes had some hope of purchasing thine Rouse up thy reason, my beautifw’ Annie, And dinna prefer your fleegeries to me ; O! as thou art bonny, be solid and canny, And tent a true love that doats upon thee, Shall a Paris edition of new-fangle Sanny, Tho’ gilt o’er wi laces and fringes he be, By adoring himself, be admir’d by fair Annie, And aim at these benisons promis’d to me ? Rouse up thy reason, my beautifu’ Annie, And never prefer a light dancer to me O! as thou art bonny, be constant and canny, Love only thy Jamie, wha doats upon thee. O! think my dear charmer, on ilka sweet hour, That slade away saftly between thee and me, Ere squirrels, or beaus, or fopp’ry had power To rival my love, and impose upon thee. Rouse up thy reason, my beautifu’ Annie, And let thy desires be a’ centr’d in me; O! as thou art bonny, be faithfu’ and canny, And love him wha’s langing to centre in thee THE BOB OF DUNBLANE. Lasstg, lend me your braw hemp heckle, And I'll lend you my thripling kame ; For fainness, deary, 1’ll gar ye keckle, If ye’ll go dance the Bob of Dunblane. - THE WOOD LADDIE. TVHeOUGEI Missing Page Missing Page 204 SONGS. Gin thou ll gae alang I ’ll dawt thee gaylie, And gi’e my thumb 1°ll ne’er beguile thee. O my dear lassie, it is but daffin To haud thy wooer up ay niff-naffin : That nae, nae, nae, I hate it most vilely ; ") say yes, and I’ll ne’er beguile thee — e—___ THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. Tire Lawland lads think they are fine, But oh, they ’re vain and idly gaudy : How much unlike that gracefu’ mien, And manly looks of my Highland laddie ! O my bonny, bonny Highland laddie ! My handsome, charming Highland laddie! May heaven still guard, and love reward, Our Lawland lass and her Highland laddie ! If I were free at will to choose To be the wealthiest Lawland lady, I’d take young Donald without trews, With bonnet blue, and belted plaidie. O my bonny, &. The brawest beau in borrows town, In a’ his airs with art made ready, Compar’d to him he’s but a clown ; He’s finer far in’s tartan plaidie. O my bonny, &c. O’er benty hill with him I'll run, And leave my Lawland kin and daddy ; Frae winter’s cauld and summer’s sun, He’ll screen me with his Highland plaidie. O my bonny, &e. A painted room and silken bed May please a Lawland laird and lady, But I can kiss and be as glad Behind a bush, in’s Highland plaidie. O my bonny, &c. Few compliments between us pass, I ca’ him my dear Highland laddie ; And he ca’s me his Lawland lass, Syne rows me in his Highland plaidie, O my bonny, &e. Nae greater joy Ill e’er pretend, Than that his love prove true and steady, Like mine to him, which ne’er shall end, While heaven preserves my Highland laddic. O my bonny, &e. THE COALIER’S DAUGHTER. _— THE coalier has a daughtez, And oh, she’s wonder bonny ! A laird he was that sought her, Rich baith in lands and money. The tutors watch’d the motion Of this young honest lover ; But love is like the ocean, Wha can its depths discover ? He had the art to please ye, And was by a’ respected ; His airs sat round him easy, Genteel, but unaffected. The coalier’s bonny lassie, Fair as the new-blown lily, Aye sweet and never saucy, Secur’d the heart of Willy. He lov’d beyond expression The charms that were about her, And panted for possession ; His life was dull without her. After mature resolving, Close to his breast he held her, In saftest flames dissolving, He tenderly thus tell’d her: “My bonny coalier’s daughter, Let naething discompose ye, "Tis not your scanty tocher Shall ever make me lose ye ; For I have gear in plenty, And love says, ’tis my duty To ware what heaven has lent me Upon your wit and beauty ” THE MILL, MILL-O. Berwzats a green shade I fand a fair maid Was sleeping sound and still-O, A’ lowing wi’ love, my fancy did rove Around her with good will-O Her bosom I press’d, but, sunk in her rest, She stirr’d no my joy to spill-O : While kindly she slept, close to her I crept, And kiss’d, and kiss’d her my fill-O. Oblig’d by command in Flanders to land, T’ employ my courage and skill-O, Frae ’er quietly I staw, hois’d sails and awa’, For wind blew fair on the hill-O. SONGS. 206 Twa years brought me hame, where loud-frasing fame Told me with a voice right shrill-O, My lass, like a fool, had mounted the stool," Nor ken’d wha’d done her the ill-O. Mair fond of her charms, with my son in her arms, I ferlying speer’d how she fell-O : Wi’ the tear in her eye, quoth she, “Let me die, Sweet sir, gin I can tell-O.” Love ga’e the command, I took her by the hand, And bade her a’ fears expel-O; And nae mair look wan, for I was the man Wha had done her the deed mysel’-O. My bonny sweet lass, on the gowany grass, Beneath the Shilling-hill-O ;? Lf I did offence, Ise make ye amends, Before I leave Peggy’s mill-O. O! the mill, mill-O, and the kill, kill-O, And the cogging of the wheel-O, The sack and the sieve, a’ thae ye maun leave, And round with a soger reel-O. COLIN AND GRISY PARTING. Wire broken words and downcast eyes, Poor Colin spoke his passion tender, And parting with his Grisy, cries, Ah! woe’s my heart that we should sunder. To others I am cold as snow, But kindle with thine eyes like tinder ; From thee with pain I’m fore’d to go, It breaks my heart that we should sunder. Chain’d to thy charms, I cannot range, No beauty new my love shall hinder, Nor time nor place shall ever change My vows, tho’ we’re oblig’d to sunder. The image of thy graceful air, And beauties which invite our wonder, Thy lively wit, and prudence rare, Shall still be present, tho’ we sunder. Dear nymph, believe thy swain in this, You ’ll ne’er engage a heart that’s kinder ; Then seal a promise with a kiss, Always to love me, tho’ we sunder. {1) Of repentance. .2) Where they winnow the chaff from the corn. Ye gods! take care of my dear lass, That as I leave her I may find her, When that blest time shall come to pass, We’ll meet again, and never sunder. ———_e-—__. TO L. L. IN MOURNING. Tune—‘* Where Helen Lies.” Au! why those tears in Nelly’s eyes? To hear thy tender sighs and cries, The gods stand list’ning from the skies, Pleas’d with thy piety To mourn the dead, dear nymph, forbear, And of one dying take a care, Who views thee as an angel fair, Or some divinity. O! be less graceful, or more kind, And cool this fever of my mind, Caus’d by the boy severe and blind, Wounded I sigh for thee ; While hardly dare I hope to rise To such a height by Hymen’s ties, To lay me down where Helen lies, And with thy charms be free. Then must I hide my love and die, When such a sovereign cure is by ? No, she can love, and Ill go try, Whate’er my fate may be. Which soon I'll read in her bright eyes ; With those dear agents I'll advise, They tell the truth, when tongues tell lies The least believ’d by me. —_e— - A SCOTS CANTATA. Music by L. Boccut. RECITATIVE. Brats Johnny faintly told fair Jean his mind ; Jeany took pleasure to deny him lang ; He thought her scorn came frae a heart unkind, Which gart him in despair tune up this sang ATR. O bonny lassie, since ’tis sae, That I’m despis’d by thee, I hate to live; but oh, I’m wae And unco’ sweer to die. Dear Jeany, think what dowy howrs I thole by your disdain ; Ah! should a breast sae saft as yours Contain a heart of stane? 206 RECITATIVE, These tender notes did a’ her pity move; With melting heart she listen’d to the boy: O’ercome, she smil’d, and promis’d him her love; He in return thus sang his rising joy. ATR. Hence frae my breast, contentious care! Ye’ve tint the power to pine; My Jeany’s good, my Jeany’s fair, And a’ her sweets are mine. O! spread thine arms, and gi’e me fowth Of dear enchanting bliss, . A thousand joys around thy mouth, Gre heaven with ilka kiss. Soe ah es 2 at, THE TOAST. Come, let ’s ha’e mair wine in, Bacchus hates repining, Venus lo’es nae dwining, Let’s be blithe and free. Away with dull! here t’ ye, Sir; Ye’r mistress, Robie, gi’e ’s her; We'll drink her health wi’ pleasure, Wha’s belov’d by thee. Then let Peggy warm ye, That ’s a lass can charm ye, And to joys alarm ye ; Sweet is she to me: Some angel ye wad ca’ her, And never wish ane brawer, If ye bare-headed saw her, Kiltet to the knee. Peggy a dainty lass is, Come let’s join our glasses, And refresh our hauses With a health to thee. Let coofs their cash be clinking. Be statesmen tint in thinking, While we with love and drinking Give our cares the lie —_+——_. A SOUTH-SEA SANG. Tune—* For our lang biding here.” Wuen we came to London town, We dream’d of gowd in gowpings here, And rantinly ran up and down, In rising stocks to buy a skair : SONGS. We daftly thought to row in rowth, But for our daffin paid right dear; The lave will fare the waur introuth, For our lang biding here. But when we fand our purses toom, And dainty stocks began to fa’, We hang our lugs, and wi’ a gloom, Girn’d at stock-jobbing ane and a’. If we gang near the South-Sea house,- The whillywhas will grip ye’r gear, Syne a’ the lave will fare the war, For our lang biding here. HAP ME WITH THY PETTICOAT, O Bett! thy looks have kill’d my heart, I pass the day in pain, When night returns I feel the smart, And wish for thee in vain. I’m starving cold, while thou art warm; Have pity and incline And grant me for a hap that charm- ing petticoat of thine. My ravish’d fancy in amaze * Still wanders o’er thy charms; Delusive dreams ten thousand ways Present thee to my arms: But waking, think what I endure, While cruel you decline Those pleasures which can only cure This panting breast of mine. T faint, T fail, and wildly rove, Because you still deny The just reward that’s due to love, And let true passion die. O! turn and let compassion seize That lovely breast of thine ; Thy petticoat could give me ease, If thou and it were mine; Sure heaven has fitted for delight That beauteous form of thine, And thou ’rt too good its laws to slight By hind’ring the design. May all the powers of love agree At length to make thee mine; Or loose my chains, and set me free. From ev’ry charm of thine. FY GAR RUB HER O’ER WI STRAE. — Gry ye meet a honny lassie, Gie her a kiss, and let her gae; But if ye meet a dirty hussy, Fy gar rub her o’er wi’ strae. Be sure ye dinna quat the grip Of ilka joy, when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o’er a rung. Sweet youth’s a blithe and heartsome time; Then, lads and lasses, while ’tis May, Gae pw’ the gowan in its prime, Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delight, When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, And kisses, laying a’ the wyte On you, if she kepp ony skaith. Haith, ye’re ill-bred,” she ’ll smiling say, “Yell worry me, ye greedy rook.” Syne frae your arms she’ll rin away, And hide herself in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place, Where lies the happiness ye want, And plainly tell you to your face, Nineteen na-says are half a grant. Now to her heaving bosom cling, And sweetly toolie for a kiss ; Frae her fair finger whoop a ring, As taiken of a future bliss. These benisons, I’m very sure, Are of the gods’ indulgent grant: Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear To plague us with your whining cant. THE CORDIAL. HE. Wuere wad bonny Anne lie ? Alane ye nae mair maun lie : Wad ye a goodman try ? Is that the thing ye ’re laking ? SHE. Can a lass sae young as I Venture on the bridal tie, SONGS. 207 Syne down with a goodman lie? I’m fleed he ’d keep me wauking, HE. Never judge until ye try, Mak’ me your goodman, I Shanna hinder you to lie, And sleep till ye be weary. SHE. What if I should wauking lie, When the hautboys are gawn by Will ye tent me when I cry, My dear, I’m faint and iry P HE. In my bosom thou shall lie, When thou waukrife art or dry, Healthy cordial standing by, Shall presently revive thee. SHE, To your will I then comply, Join us, priest, and let me try How Ill wi’ a goodman lie, Wha can a cordial gi’e me. ALLAN WATER. Waar numbers shall the muse repeat, What verse be found to praise my Annie ? On her ten thousand graces wait, Each swain admires, and owns she’s bonny. Since first she trod the happy plain, She set each youthful heart on fire ; Each nymph does to her swain complain, That Annie kindles new desire. This lovely darling, dearest care, This new delight, this charming Annie ; Like summer’s dawn she’s fresh and fair, When Flora’s fragrant breezes fan ye. All day the am’rous youths convene, Joyous they sport and play before her ; All night, when she no more is seen, In blissful dreams they still adore her. Among the crowd Amyntor came, He look’d, he lov’d, he bow’d to Annie ; His rising sighs express his flame, His words were few, his wishes many. With smiles the lovely maid replied, Kind shepherd, why should I deceive ye? Alas! your love must be denied, This destin’d breast can ne’er relieve ye. 208 Young Damon came with Cupid’s art, His wiles, his smiles, his charms beguiling, He stole away my virgin heart ; Cease, poor Amyntor, cease bewailing. Some brighter beauty you may find, On yonder plain the nymphs are many; Then choose some heart that’s unconfin’d, ‘And leave to Damon his own Aunie. O MARY! THY GRACES AND GLANCES. O Mary! thy graces and glances, Thy smiles so enchantingly gay, And thoughts so divinely harmonious, Clear wit and good humour display. But say not thou ’lt imitate angels . Ought farrer, tho’ scarcely (ah me !) ‘an be found, equalising thy merit, 4 match amongst mortals for thee. Thy many fair beauties shed fires May warm up ten thousand to love, Who, despairing, may fly to some other, While I may despair, but ne’er rove. What a mixture of sighing and joys This distant adoring of thee Gives to a fond heart too aspiring, Who loves in sad silence like me? Thus looks the poor beggar on treasure ; And shipwreck’d on landscapes on shore: Be still more divine, and have pity; T die soon as hope is no more. For, Mary, my soul is thy captive, Nor loves nor expects to be free ; Thy beauties are fetters delightful, Thy slavery ’s a pleasure to me. THIS IS NO MY AIN HOUSE. Tuts is no mine ain house, I ken by the rigging o’t; Since with my love I’ve changed vows, . I dinna like the bigging o’t: For now that I’m young Robie’s bride, And mistress of his fire-side, Mine ain house [ll like to guide, Aud please me with the trigging o’t. Then farewell to my father’s house, I gang where love invites me ; SONGS. , The strictest duty. this allows, When love with honour meets me, When Hymen moulds us into ane, My Robie’s nearer than my kin, And to refuse him were a sin, Sae lang ’s he kindly treats me. When I’m in mine ain house, True love shall be at hand ay, To make me still a prudent spouse, And let my man command ay; Avoiding ilka cause of strife, The common pest of married life, That makes ane wearied of his wife, And breaks the kindly band ay. MY DADDY FORBAD, MY MINNY FORBAD. Wuen I think on my lad, I sigh and am sad, For now he is far frae me: My daddy was harsh, My minny was warse, That gart him gae yout the sea: Without an estate, That made him look blate, And yet a brave lad is he: Gin safe he come hame, In spite of my dame, He’ll ever be welcome to me. Love speers nae advice Of parents o’erwise, That have but ae bairn like me, That looks upon cash As naething but trash, That shackles what should be tree. And tho’ my dear lad Not ae penny had, Since qualities better l.as he, Albeit I’m an heiress, I think it but fair is To love him, since he loves me. Then my dear Jamie, To thy kind Jeanie Haste, haste thee in o’er the sea, To her wha can find Nae ease m her mind, Without a blithe sight of thee. Tho’ my daddy forbad, And my minny forbad, Forbidden 1 will not be: CLOUT THE CALDRON. For since thou alone My favour hast won, Nane else shall e’er get it for me. Yet them Ill not grieve, Or without their leave, Gi’e my hand as a wife to thee : Be content with a heart That can never desert, Till they cease to oppose or be: My parents may prove Yet friends to our love, When our firm resolves they see; Then I with pleasure Will yield up my treasure, And a’ that love orders, to thee. STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER GAWN. O stEeER her up and haud her gawn, Her mither ’s at the mill, jo; But gin she winna tak’ a man, Hen let her tak’ her will, jo. Pray thee, lad, leave silly thinking, Cast thy cares of love away ; Let ’s our sorrows drown in drinking, *Tis daffin langer to delay. See that shining glass of claret, How invitingly it looks! Take it aff, and let’s have mair o’t, Pox on fighting, trade, and books. Let’s have pleasure while we ’re able, Bring us in the meikle bowl, Place ’t on the middle of the table, And let wind and weather gowl. Call the drawer, let him fill it Fw’ as ever it can hold: O tak’ tent ye dinna spill it, *Tis mair precious far than gold. By you’ve drunk a dozen bumpers, Bacchus will begin to prove, Spite of Venus and her mumpers, Drinking better is than love. CLOUT THE CALDRON. “ FAvE you any pots or pans, Or ary buvken chandlers ? I am a tinkier to my trade, And newly come frae Flanders : SONGS. 309 “ As scant of siller as of grace, Disbanded, we ’ve a bad run; Gae tell the lady of the place, I’m come to clout her caldron. Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. * Madam, if you have wark for me, I'll do’t to your contentment, And dinna, care a single flea For any man’s resentment : For, lady fair, tho’ I appear To every ane a tinkler, Yet to yoursel’ I’m bauld to tell, I am a gentle jinker. Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. * Love Jupiter into a swan Turn’d, for his lovely Leda; He like a bull o’er meadows ran To carry off Europa : Then may not I as well as he, To cheat your Argos blinker, And win your love, like mighty Jove, Thus hide me in a tinkler ? Fa adrie, didle, didle,” &c, “Sir, ye appear a cunning man, But this fine plot you ’ll fail in, For there is neither pot nor pan Of mine you’ll drive a nail in. Then bind your budget on your back, And nails up in your apron, For I’ve a tinkler under tack, That ’s us’d to clout my caldron, Fa adrie, didle, didle,” &c. THE MALTMAN. THE maltman comes on Monday, He craves wonder fair, Cries, Dame, come gi’e me my siller Or malt ye sall ne’er get mair. I took him into the pantry, And gave him some good cock-broo, Syne paid him upon a gantree, As hostler wives should do. When maltmen come for siller, And gaugers with wands o’er soot., Wives, tak’ them a’ down to the cellar, And clear them as I have done. This bewith, when cunzie is feanty, Will keep them frae making din, The knack I learn’d frae an auld aunty, The snackest of a’ my kin. — EE 210 The maltman is right cunning, But I can be as slee, And he may crack of his winning, ‘When he clears scores with me: For come when he likes, I’m ready ; But if frae hame I be, Let him wait on our kind lady, She ’ll answer a bill for me, BONNY BESSY. Bzssy’s beauties shine sae bright, Were her many virtues fewer, She wad ever give delight, And in transport make me view her Bonny Bessy, thee alane Love I, naething else about thee ; With thy comeliness I’m tane, And langer cannot live without thee. Bessy’s bosom ’s saft and warm, Milk-white fingers still employ’d ; He who takes her to his arm, Of her sweets can ne’er be cloy’d. My dear Bessy, when the roses Leave thy cheek, as thou grows aulder Virtue, which thy mind discloses, Will keep love frae growing caulder, Bessy’s tocher is but scanty, Yet her face and soul discovers These enchanting sweets in plenty Must entice a thousand lovers. It’s not money, but a woman Of a temper kind and easy, That gives happiness uncommon ; Petted things can nought but teaze ye. THE QUADRUPLE ALLIANCE. Swirt, Sandy, Young, and Gay, Are still my heart’s delight, I sing their sangs by day, And read their tales at night. If frae their books I be, Tis dulness then with me ; But when these stars appear, Jokes, smiles, and wit shine clear. Swift, with uncommon stile, And wit that flows with ease, SONGS. Instructs us with a smile, And never fails to please. Bright Sandy greatly sings Of heroes, gods, and kings : He well deserves the bays, And ev’ry Briton’s praise. While thus our Homer shines, Young, with Horacian flame, Corrects these false designs We push in love of fame. Blithe Gay, in pawky strains, Makes villains, clowns, and swains Reprove, with biting leer, Those in a higher sphere. Swift, Sandy, Young, and Gay, Long may you give delight ; Let all the dunces bray, You’re far above their spite : Such, from a malice sour, Write nonsense, lame and poor, Which never can succeed, For who the trash will read P THE COMPLAINT. Wuen absent from the nymph I love, I’d fain shake off the chains I wear ; But whilst I strive these to remove, More fetters I’m oblig’d to bear : My captiv’d fancy, day and night, Fairer and fairer represents Belinda, form’d for dear delight, But cruel cause of my complaints. All day I wander thro’ the groves, And, sighing, hear from every tree The happy birds chirping their loves, Happy compar’d with lonely me. When gentle sleep with balmy wings To rest fans ev’ry wearied wight, A thousand fears my fancy brings, That keep me watching all the night. Sleep flies, while like the goddess fair, And all the graces in her train, With melting smiles and killing air, Appears the cause of all my pain. Awhile my mind delighted flies O’er all her sweets with thrilling joy, Whilst want of worth makes doubts arise, That all my trembling hopes destroy. SONGS. Thus while my thoughts are fix’d on her, I’m all o’er transport and desire, My pulse beats high, my cheeks appear All roses, and mine eyes all fire. When to myself I turn my view, My veins grow chill, my cheeks look wan: Thus whilst my fears my pains renew, T scarcely look or move a man. TIE CARLE HE CAME O’ER THE CROFT. Tue carle he came o’er the croft, And his beard new shaven, He look’d at me as hed been daft, The carle trows that I wad ha’e him. Hoot awa’! I winna ha’e him, Nae forsooth I winna ha’e him, For a’ his beard ’s new shaven, Ne’er a bit will I ha’e him. A siller brooch he ga’e me neist, To fasten on my curchee nooked ; I wor’t awee upon my breast, But soon, alake! the tongue o’t crooked; And sae may his: I winna ha’e him, Nae forsooth I winna ha’e him ; Ane twice,a bairn’s a lass’s jest ; Sae ony fool for me may ha’e him. The carle has nae fault but ane, For he has land and dollars plenty ; But waes me for him! skin and bane Is no for a plump lass of twenty. ‘Hoot awa’! I winna ha’e him, Nae forsooth I winna ha’e him : What signifies his dirty riggs And cash, without a man with them ? But should my canker’d daddy gar Me tak’ him ’gainst my inclination, I warn the fumbler to beware, That antlers dinna claim their station. Hoot awa’! I winna ha’e him, Nae forsooth I winna ha’e him ; I’m fley’d to crack the haly band, Sae Lawty says I shouldna ha’e him, 211 O MITHER DEAR! I ’GIN TO FEAR. CHORUS, Up stairs, down stairs, Timber stairs fear me ; I’m laith to lie a’ night my lane, And Johnny’s bed sae near me. *O mither dear! I ’gin to fear, Tho’ I’m baith good and bonny, I winna keep; for in my sleep I start and dream of Johnny. When Johnny then comes down the glen To woo me, dinna hinder ; But with content gi’e your consent, For we twa ne’er can sinder. “ Better to marry than miscarry, For shame and skaith’s the clink o’t; To thole the dool, to mount the stool, I downa bide to think o’t: Sae while ’tis time, I'll shun the crime, That gars poor Epps gae whinging, With hainches fu’, and een sae blue, To a’ the bedrals bindging. “Had Eppy’s apron bidden down, The kirk had ne’er a ken’d it ; But when the word’s gane thro’ the town, Alake ! how can she mend it ? Now Tam maun face the minister, * And she maun mount the pillar ; And that’s the way that they maun gae, For poor folk have nae siller.” “Now haud ye’r tongue, my daughter youn, Replied the kindly mither, “Get Johnny’s hand in haly band, Syne wap your wealth together I’m o’ the mind, if he be kind, Ye ’ll do your part discreetly, And prove a wife will gar his life And barrel run right sweetly.” A SONG. June—* Busk ye, my bonny bride.” Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bride ; Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny marrow ; Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bride, Busk, and go 1o the braes of Yarrow; 212 There will we sport and gather dew, Dancing while lav’rocks sing the morning ; There learn frae turtles to prove true : O Bell! ne’er vex me with thy scorning. To westlin breezes Flora yields, And when the beams are kindly warming, Blitheness appears o’er all the fields, And nature looks mair fresh and charming Learn frae the burns that trace the mead: Tho’ on their banks the roses blossom, Yet hastily they flow to Tweed, And pour their sweetness in his bosom. Haste ye, haste ye, my bonny Bell, Haste to my arms, and there I'll guard thee ; With free consent my fears repel, I’ll with my love and care reward thee. Thus sang I saftly to my fair, Wha rais’d my hopes with kind relenting. O queen of smiles! I ask nae mair, Since now my bonny Bell ’s consenting. THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. Tur Lawland maids gang trig and fine, But aft they ’re sour and unco’ saucy ; Sae proud they never can be kind, Like my good-humour’d Highland lassie O my bonny, bonny Highland lassie, My hearty, smiling Highland lassie, May never care make thee less fair, But bloom of youth still bless my lassie. Than ony lass in borrows-town, Wha mak’ their cheeks with patches motty, 1’d tak’ my Katie, but a gown, Barefooted, in her little coatie. O my bonny, &. Beneath the brier or brecken-bush, Whene’er I kiss and court my dawtie, Happy and blithe as ane wad wish, My flichtering heart gangs pit-a-pattie. O my bonny, &c. O’er highest heathery hills I'll sten, With cockit gun and ratches tenty, To drive the deer out of their den, To feast my lass on dishes dainty. O my bonny, &c. There ’s nane shall dare, by deed or word ’Gainst her to wag a tongue or finger, SONGS. While I can wield my trusty sword, Or frae my side whisk out a whinger, O my bonny, &c. The mountains, clad with purple bloom And berries ripe, invite my treasure To range with me; let great folk gloom, While wealth and pride confound their pleasure. O my bonny, &. “WHEN BEAUTY BLAZES.” TO MRS. A. C. WHEN beauty blazes heavenly bright, The muse can no more cease to sing, Than can the lark, with rising light, Her notes neglect with drooping wing. The morning shines, harmonious birds mount high ; The dawning beauty smiles, and poets fly. Young Annie’s budding graces claim The inspir’d thought, and softest lays, And kindle in the breast a flame, Which must be vented in her praise. Tell us, ye gentle shepherds, have you seen Fer one so like an angel tread the green ? Ye youth, be watchful of your hearts, When she appears, take the alarm ; Love on her beauty points his darts, And wings an arrow from each charm. Around her eyes and smiles the graces sport, And to her snowy neck and breast resort. But vain must every caution prove; When such enchanting sweetness shines ; The wounded swain must yield to love, And wonder, tho’ he hopeless pines. Such flames the foppish butterfly should shun ; The eagle’s only fit to view the sun. She’s as the opening lily fair, Her lovely features are complete ; Whilst heaven indulgent makes her share, With angels, all that’s wise and sweet. These virtues which divinely deck her mind, Exalt each beauty of th’ inferior kind. Whether she love the rural scenes, Or sparkle in the airy town, O! happy he her favour gains ; Unhappy, if she on him frown. | The muse unwilling guits the lovely theme, | Adieu! she sings, and thrice repeats her name. SONGS. 218 I HAVE A GREEN PURSE, AND A WEE PICKLE GOWD. eed 1 HAVE a green purse, and a wee pickle gowd. A bonny piece land and planting on’t, lt fattens my flocks, and my bairns it has stow’d; But the best thing of a’s yet wanting on ’t; To grace it, and trace it, And give me delight ; To bless me, and kiss me, And comfort my sight With beauty by day, and kindness by night, And nae mair my lane gang saunt’ring on’t. My Christy she’s charming, and good as she’s fair, ‘Her een and her mouth are enchanting sweet ; She smiles me on fire, her frowns gi’e despair ; L love while my heart gaes panting wi’t. Thou fairest, and dearest, Delight of my mind, Whose gracious embraces By heaven were design’d For happiest transports, and blisses refln’d, Nae lauger delay thy granting sweet. For thee, bonny Christy, my shepherds and hinds Shall carefully make the year’s dainties thine : Thus, freed frae laigh care, while love fills our minds, Our days shall with pleasure and plenty shine. Then hear me, and cheer me With smiling consent, Believe me, and give me Nae cause to lament ; Since I ne’er can be happy till thou say, Content, I’m pleas’d with my Jamie, and he shall be mine, ON THE MARRIAGE OF LORD G. AND LADY K. C. —— Tune—* The Highland Laddie.” BRIGANTIUS. Now all thy virgin swects are mine, And all the shining charms that grace thee ; My fair Melinda, come, recline Upon my breast, while I embrace thee, And tell, without dissembling art, My happy raptures on thy bosom: Thus will T plant within thy heart A love that shall for ever blossom. CHORUS. O the happy, happy, brave, and bonny Sure the gods well pleas’d behold ye ; Their work admire, so great, so fair, And will in all your joys uphold ye. MELINDA. No more I blush, now that I’m thine, To own my love in transport tender ; Since that so brave a man is mine, To my Brigantius I surrender. By sacred ties I’m now to move As thy exalted thoughts direct me ; And while my smiles engage thy love, Thy manly greatness shall protect me. CHORUS. O the happy, &e. BRIGANTIUS. Soft fall thy words, like morning dew New life on blowing flowers bestowing : Thus kindly yielding, makes me bow To heaven, with spirit grateful glowing. My honour, courage, wealth, and wit, Thou dear delight, my chiefest treasure, . Shall be employ’d as thou thinks fit, As agents for our love and pleasure. CHORUS. O the happy, &. MELINDA. With my Brigantius I could live In lonely vot, beside a mountain, And nature’s easy wants relieve With shepherds’ fare, and quaff the fountain. What pleases thee—the rural grove, Or congress of the fair and witty— Shall give me pleasure with thy love, In plains retir’d, or social city. CHORUS. O the happy, &c. BRIGANTIUS. How sweetly canst thou charm my soul, O lovely sum of my desires ! Thy beauties all my cares control, Thy virtue all that’s good inspires. Tune every instrument of sound, Which all the mind divinely raises, Till every height and dale rebound, Both loud and sweet, my darling’s praises. CHORUS. O the happy, &e. 214 SONGS. MELINDA. Thy love gives me the brightest shine, My happiness is now completed, Since all that’s gen’rous, great, and fine, In my Brigantius is united ; For which Ill study thy delight, With kindly tale the time beguiling; And round the change of day and night, Fix throughout life a constant smiling. CHORUS. O the happy, &e. JENNY NETTLES. Saw ye Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles ; Saw ye Jenny Nettles, Coming frae the market ; Bag and baggage on her back, Her fee and bountith in her Jap Bag and baggage on her back, And a baby in her oxter ? I met her ayont the cairnie Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, Singing till her bairnie, Robin Rattle’s bastard. To flee the dool upo’ the stool, And ilka ane that mocks her, She round about seeks Robin out, To stap it in his oxter. Fie, fie! Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle ; Fie, fie! Robin Rattle, Use Jenny Nettles kindly : Score out the blame, and shun the shame, And without mair debate o’t, Take hame your wean, make Jenny fain, The leel and leesome gate o’t. FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. ens 5, For the sake of somebody, For the sake of somebody, L could wake a winter night For the sake of somebody. I am gawn to seek a wife, I am gawn to buy a plaidie T have three stane of woo’, Carline, is thy daughter ready ? For the sake, &c. Betty, lassie, say ’*t thysel’, Tho’ thy dame be ill to shoo, First well buckle, then we ’ll tell, Let her flyte and syne come to: What signifies a mither’s gloom, When love and kisses come in play ? Should we wither in our bloom, And in simmer mak’ nae hay ? For the sake, &e. SHE. Bonny lad, I carena by, Tho’ I try my luck with thee, Since ye are content to tie The half-mark bridal band wi’ me: [’ll slip hame and wash my feet, And steal on linens fair and clean, Syne at the trysting-place we Il meet, To do but what my dame has done. For the sake, &c. HE. Now my lovely Betty gives Consent in sic a heartsome gate, Tt me frae a’ my care relieves, And doubts that gart me aft look blate : Then let us gang and get’ the grace, For they that have an appetite Should eat ; and lovers should embrace ; If these be faults, ’tis nature’s wite. For the sake, &c. THE GENEROUS GENTLEMAN. Tune—“ The Bonny Lass of Branksome.” As I came in by Tiviot side, And by the braes of Branksome, There first I saw my bonny bride, Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome : Her skin was safter than the down, And white as alabaster ; Her hair a shining wavy brown; In straightness nane surpass’d her. Life glow’d upon her lip and cheek, Her clear een were surprising, And beautifully turn’d her neck, Her little breasts just rising : a 8 Nae silken hose with gussets fine, Or shoon with glancing laces, On her fair leg forbad to shine Well-shapen native graces. Ac little coat, and bodice white, Was sum of a’ her claithing,— Even these o’er meikle,—mair delight She’d given, clad wi’ naething. She lean’d upon a flow’ry brae, By which a burnie trotted ; On her I glower’d my saul away, While on her sweets I doated. A thousand beauties of desert Before had scarce alarm’d me, Till this dear artless struck my heart And but designing, charm’d me. Hurried by love, close to my breast I grasp’d this fund of blisses ; Wha smil’d, and said, “ Without a priest, Sir, hope for nought but kisses.” T had nae heart to do her harm, And yet I couldna want her; What she demanded (ilka charm Of her’s plead) I should grant her. Since heaven had dealt to me a routh, Straight to the kirk I led her, There plighted her my faith and troth, ‘And a young lady made her. o THE COCK LAIRD. A cock laird fou cadgie, With Jenny did meet, He haws’d her, he kiss’d her, And ca’d her his sweet. “Wilt thou gae alang Wi’ me, Jenny, Jenny ? Thouse be my ain leman, Jo Jenny,” quoth he. “Tf I gae alang wi’ ye, Ye maunna fail To feast me with caddels And good hacket-kail.” “The de’il’s in your nicety, Jenny,” quoth he; “ Mayna bannocks of bear-meal Be as good for thee P” * And T maun ha’e pinners With pearling set round, A skirt of puddy, And a waistcoat of brown.” “ Awa? with sic vanities, Jenny,” quoth he, * For curchees and kirtles Are fitter for thee. SONGS, 218 “ My lairdship can yield me As meikle a year, As haud us in pottage And good knockit beer : But having nae tenants, O Jenny, Jenny ! To buy ought I ne’er have A penny,” quoth he. The borrows-town merchants Will sell ye on tick, For we maun ha’e braw things, A’beit they should break. When broken, frae care The fools are set free, When we make them lairds In the Abbey,” quoth she. ——_« -—— LET MEANER BEAUTIES USE THEIR ART. Let meaner beauties use their art, And range both Indies for their dress ; Our fair can captivate the heart In native weeds, noz look the less. More bright unborrow’d beauties shine, The heartless sweetness of each face Sparkles with lustres more divine, When freed of every foreign grace. The tawny nymph, on scorching plains, May use the aid of gems and paint, Deck with brocade and Tyrian stains Features of ruder form and taint : What Caledonian ladies wear, Or from the lint or woollen twine, Adorn’d by all their sweets, appear Whate’er we can imagine fine. Apparel neat becomes the fair, The dirty dress may lovers cool, But clean, our maids need have no care, Tf clad in linen, silk, or wool. T’ adore Myrtilla who can cease ? Her active charms our praise demand, Clad in a mantua, from the fleece Spun by her own delightful hand. Who can behold Calista’s eyes, Her breast, her cheek, aud snowy arms, And mind what artists can devise To rival more superior charms P Compar’d with those, the diamond’s dull, ' Lawns, satins, and the velvets fade, The soul with her attractions full Can never be by these betray’d. 316 Sappira, all o’er native sweets, Not the false glare of dress regards ; Her wit her character completes, Her smile her lover’s sighs rewards, When such first beauties lead the way, The inferior rank will follow soon ; Then arts no longer shall decay, But trade encouraged be in tune. Millions of fleeces shall be wove, And flax that on the valleys blooms, Shall make the naked nations love And bless the labours of our looms. We have enough, nor want from them But trifles hardly worth our care ; Yet for these trifles let them claim What food and cloth we have to spare. SONGS. How happy ’s Scotland in her fair ! Her amiable daughters shall, By acting thus with virtuous care, Again the golden age recall : Enjoying them, Edina ne’er Shall miss a court ; but soon advance In wealth, when thus the lov’d appear Around the scenes, or in the dance. Barbarity shall yield to sense, And lazy pride to useful arts, When such dear angels in defence Of virtue thus engage their hearts. Blest guardians of our joys and wealth ! True fountains of delight and love! Long bloom your charms, fix’d be your health, Till, tir’d with earth, you mount above. THE EVERGREEN ; BEING A COLLECTION OF SCOTS POEMS, WROTE BY THE INGENIOUS BEFORE 1600. « Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, Above the reach of sacrilegious hands, Secure from flames, from Envy’s fiercer rage, Destructive War and all-devouring Age.” Porg. TO HIS GRACE JAMES, DUKE OF HAMILTON, &c., CAPTAIN-GENERAL, AND THE REST OF THE HONOURABLE MEMBERS OF THE ROYAL COMPANY OF ARCHERS. My Lorps anD GENTLEMEN, Wuewn the more eminent concerns of life, or the agreeable diversion of the Bow, do not employ your leisure time, the following old bards present you with an entertainment that can never be disagree- able to any Scotsman, who despises the foppery of admiring nothing but what is either new or foreign, and is a lover of his country. Such the Royal Company of Archers are, and such every good man should strive to be. The spirit of freedom that shines through both the serious and comic performances of our old poets, appears of a piece with that love of liberty that our ancient heroes contended for, and maintained, sword in hand. From you then, my Lords and Gentlemen, who take pleasure to represent our brave ancestors, these poets claim regard and patronage ; they now make a demand for that immortal fame that tuned their souls some hundred years ago, which is in your power, by countenancing to bestow. They do not address you with an indigent face, and a thousand pitiful apologies, to bribe the good will of the critics. No! ’tis long since they were superior to the spleen of these sour gentlemen. Every one who has generosity, and is not biassed with a mistaken prejudice, will allow, that good sense, sharp satire, and witty mirth, may be expressed with a true spirit, although in antiquated words and phrases. When one bestows but a very small pains to enter into the authors’ manner, then ’tis not to be doubted but the Royal Company will receive and approve of these valuable remains, and have a due regard to the memory of these meritorious authors, and accept this dedication from, My Lorps and GENTLEMEN, Their faithful Publisher, And your most humble and devoted Servant, Enrvuunen, Octover 15, 1724. ALLAN RAMSAY, BE PREFACE. [ wave observed that readers of the best and most exquisite discernment frequently complain of our modern writings, as filled with affected delicacies and studied refinements, which they would gladly exchange for that natural strength of thought and simplicity of style our forefathers practised : to such, 1 ope, the following collection of poems will not be displeasing. When these good old bards wrote, we had not yet made use of imported trimming upon our clothes, nor of foreign embroidery in our writings. Their poetry is the product of their own country, not pilfered and spoiled in the transportation from abroad. Their images are native, and their landscapes domestic— copied from those fields and meadows we every day behold. The morning rises (in the poet’s description) as she does in the Scottish horizon. We are not carried to Greece or Italy for a shade, a stream, or a breeze. The groves rise in our own valleys, the rivers flow from our own fountains, and the winds blow upon our own hills. I find not fault with those things as they are in Greece or Italy, but with a northern poet for fetching his materials from these places, in a poem, of which his own country is the scene—as our hymners to the spring and makers of pastorals frequently do. This Miscellany will likewise recommend itself by the diversity of subjects and humour it contains, The grave description and the wanton story, the moral saying and the mirtlful jest, will illustrate and alternately relieve each other. The reader whose temper is spleened with the vices and follies now in fashion, may gratify his humour with the satires he will here find upon the follies and vices that were uppermost two or three hundred years ago. ‘The man whose inclinations are turned to mirth, will be pleased to know how the good fellow of a former age told his jovial tale ; and the lover may divert himself with the old-fashioned sonnet of an amorous poet in Queen Margaret’s and Queen Mary’s days. In a word, the following collection will be such another prospect to the eye of the mind, as to the outward eye is the various meadow, where flowers of different hue and smell are mingled together in a beautiful irregularity. I hope also the reader, when he dips into these poems, will not be displeased with this reflection, that he is stepping back into the times that are past, and that exist no more. Thus the manners and customs then in vogue, as he will find them here described, will have all the air and charm of novelty; and that seldom fails of exciting attention and pleasing the mind. Besides, the numbers in which these images are conveyed, as they are not now commonly practised, will appear new and amusing. The different stanza and varied cadence will likewise much soothe and engage the ear, which in poetry especially must be always flattered. However, I do not expect that these poems should please everybody ; nay the critical reader must needs find several faults, for I own that there will be found in these volumes two or three pieces whose antiquity is their greatest value, yet still I am persuaded there are many more that shall merit approbation and applause than censure and blame. The best works are but a kind of miscellany, and the cleanest corn is not without some chaff, no not after often winnowing ; besides, dispraise is the easiest part of learning, and but at best the offspring of uncharitable wit. Every clown can see that the furrow is crooked, but where is the man that will plough me one straight ? There is nothing can be heard more silly than one’s expressing his ignorance of his native language; get such there are, who can vaunt of acquiring a tolerable perfection in the French or Italian tongues, if they have been a fortnight in Paris or a month in Rome. But show them the most elegant thoughts in a Scots dress, they as disdainfully as stupidly condemn it as barbarous. But the true reason is obvious: every one that is born never so little superior to the vulgar, would fain distinguish themselves [himself] from them by some manner or other, and such, it would appear, cannot arrive at a better method. But this affected class of fops give no uneasiness, not being numerous; for the most part of our gentlemen, who are generally masters of the most useful and politest languages, can take pleasure (for a change) to speak and read their own. It was intended that an account of the authors of the following collection should be given; but not being furnished with such distinct information as tould be wished for that end at present, the design is THE EVERGREEN. 219 delayed until the publishing of a third or fourth succeeding volume, wherein the curious stall he satisfied, in as far as can be gathered, with relation to their lives and characters, and the time wherein they ' flourished. The names of the authors, as we find them in our copies, are marked before or after their oems. I cannot finish this preface without grateful acknowledgments to the Honourable Mr. William Car- michael, of Stirling, brother to the Earl of Hyndford, who with an easy beneficence, that is inseparable rom a superior mind, assisted me in this undertaking with a valuable number of poems, in a large manu- script book in folio, collected and wrote by Mr. George Bannyntine in anno 1568, from which manuscript the most of following are gathered ; and if they prove acceptable to the world, they may have the pleasure of expecting a great many more, and shall very soon be gratified. ALLAN RAMSAY. THE EVERGREEN. een [The collection of poems entitled ‘The Evergreen,” included, as originally published by Allan Ramsay, the first canto of “Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” by King James, Allan Ramsay’s own magnificent poem “The Vision,” and the smaller piece, ‘The Eagle and the Robin Redbreast. As “ Christ’s Kirk on the Green,” With the two cantos added by Ramsay, together with “The Vision” and “The Eagle and the Robin Redbreast,” have been inserted among Allan Ramsay's undoubted productions in previous portions of this volume, they are not repeated here. With this exception, the reprint of ‘‘ The Evergreen ” is complete as published by its first editor in two volumes, The third and fourth volumes, which he designed to add to them, were never issued. ] THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE. A POEM IN HONOUR OF MARGARET, DAUGHTER TO HENRY VII. OF ENGLAND, QUEEN TO JAMES IV., KING OF SCOTS. The Thistle and the Rose O’er flowers and herbage green By Lady Nature chose, Brave king and lovely queen. QuueEN Merch with variand winds was overpast, And sweit Apryle had with his silver showers Tane leif of nature, with an orient blast, And lusty May,' that mudder is of flowrs, Had maid the birds begin be tymous hours ; Amang the tendir odours reid and quhyt, Quhois harmony to heir was grit delyt. In bed at morrow, sleiping as I lay, Methocht Aurora with her rubie ene, In at my window lukit by the day,? And halsit? me, with visage pale and grene, Upon her hand a lark sang frae the splene— Luvers, awake out of your slumbering, Se how the lusty morning dois upspring. Methocht fresh May before my bed upstood, In weid depainted of ilk diverse hew, Sober, benyng, and full of mensuetude,* In bright atyre of flowrs, all forgit new, Of heavenly colour quhyt, reid, brown, and blew, (1) Lusty May, desirable May. Lusty through these poems is an epithet frequently used in this sense ; also in our language it expresses youthful, blooming, large, jolly. (2) Lukit by the day, looked in at my window by day or the dawning. (3) Aalsit, hailed or saluted. ‘4) Mensuetude, wildness, or good humour. Balmit in dew, and gilt with Phebus beims, Quhyle all the house illumynt with her leims. Slugart, scho said, awake annon, for schame, And in my honour sumthing thou gae wryte; The lark has done, the merry day proclaim, Luvers to rais with comfort and delyte, Will nocht increase thy courage to indyt ; Quhase heart sometyme has glad and blissful bene, Sangs oft to mak under the brenches grene. Quherto, quoth I, sall I upryse at morrow, For in thy month few birds haif I hard sing, Thay haif mair cause to weip and plein their sorrow: Thy air it is not holsum nor benyng, Lord Eolus dois in thy season ring, Sae bousteous ar the blasts of his shill horn, Amang thy bews to walk I haif forborn. With that the lady soberly did smyle, And said, Upryse and do thy observance :5 Thou did promist in Mayis lusty qubyle, Then to diseryve the Rose of most plesance. Go see the Birdis how they sing and dance, And how the skyes iluminat ar bricht, Enamylt richly with new azure licht. Quhen this was said, away then went the quene, And entert in a lusty garden gent ; And then methocht, full hastylie besene, In sark and mantle after her I went Into this garth most dulce and redolent, Of herb and flowir, and tender plants most sweit, And grene leivs doing of dew doun fleit. (5) Do thy observance, perform thy duty or respects. Here it is proper we take notice of the cadency of such words, many in that age being pronounced long that now are expressed short; but our union with France, and French auxiliaries so often in Scotland at that time, cun easily account for that manner of pro- nunciation. THE EVERGREEN. The pourpour sun, with tender rayis reid, In orient bricht as angel did appeir, Throu golden skys advancing up his heid, Whose gildet tresses schone sae wonder cleir, That all the warld tuke comfort far and neir, To luke upon his fresh and blissful face, Doing all sable frae the heavenis chace. And as the blissful sun drave up the sky, All nature sang throu comfort of the licht ; The minstrells wingd with open voyces cry, O luvers now is fled the dully nicht, Come, welcome day, that comforts every wicht. Hail May, hail Flora, hail Aurora shene, Hail Princess Nature, hail luves hartsome’ quene. Dame Nature gave an inhibition ther To Neptune ferss and Eolvs the bauld, Not to perturb the water nor the air, That nowther blashy shower, nor blasts mair cauld Suld flowirs effray nor fowles upon the fauld. Scho bad eik Juno, goddes of the sky, That scho the heaven suld keep amene and dry. Als scho ordaind that every bird and beist Before her hieness suld annone compeir, And every flowir of virtue maist and leist, And every herb in fair feild far and neir, As they had wont in May frae yeir to yeir : To hir thair quene to mak obediens, Full law inclynand with dew reverens.? With that annone scho sent the swift fute roe. To bring in alkind beist frae dale and doun, The restless swallow ordert scho to go, And fetch all fowl of small and grit renown, And to gar flowirs appeir of all fassoun : Full craftely conjurit she the Yarrow. Quhilk did forth swirk as swift as ony arrow. All brocht in were, in twynkling of an ee, Baith beist and bird and flowir before the quene ; And first the lyon greatest of degre Was summond ther, and he, fair to be sene, With a full hardy countenance and kene, Before Dame Nature came, and did inclyne, With visage bauld, and courage leonyne.? This awful beist was terrible of cheir, Persing of luke, and stout of countenance, 22] Right strong of corps, of fasson fair, bot feir, Lusty of shape, licht of deliverance, Reid of his colour, as the ruby glance: In feild of gold he stude full rampantly, With flowr-de-lyces circlet plesantly.* This lady liftit up his cluves sae cleir, And lute® him listlie lein upon hir knee, And crownit him with diadem full deir, Of radyous stanes maist ryall there to see, Saying, The king of all beists mak I thee, And the protector cheif in wodes and schaws, Go furth, and to thy leiges keip the laws. Justice exerce, with mercy and consciens, And let nae small beist suffir skaith nor skorns, Of greater beists that bein of more pusiance. Do law alyke to apes and unicorns, And lat na bowgle with his bousteous horns Oppress the meik pluch-ox, for all his pryd, But in the yok go quietly him besyd. When this was said, with noyse and sound of joy, All kynd of quadrupeds in thair degree, Attains eryd, Laud, and then, Vive le Roy ; Syne at his feit fell with humility ; To him they all made homage and feiltie ; And he did them resaif with princely laits, Whose noble yre his greitness mitigates. Syne crownit scho the eagle king of fowls ; And sharp as darts of steil scho made his penns, And bad him to be just to whawps and owls, As unto peakoks, papingos, or crans, And mak ane law for wicht fowls and for wrens, And let nae fowl of rapine do affray, Nor birds devore but his own proper prey. Then callt scho all the flowirs grew in the feil ', Discryving all thair fassons and effeirs, Upon the awfull Thistle she beheld, And saw him guarded with a bush of speirs, Considdering him sae able for the weirs, A radiant crown of rubies scho him gaif, And said, In feild go forth, and fend the laif. And sen thou art a king, be thou desereit, Herb without value hald not of sic pryce, As herb of vertew and of odour sweet, And let no netle vyle and full of vyce Hir fallow with the gudly flowr-de-lyce, (1) [Cordial] (2) Obediens and reverens, as observed before in the words observance and plesance, must be accented long. (p) Courage leonyne. This perhaps may be smiled at, but thewe’s as much reason to laugh at the modern phrase of one's lnvkisig like himself. (4) If one were to comment and illustrate every poetical beauty that strikes our imaginations so agreeably, and come so frequent. he would swell the notes too much, and rob the reader of a plea- sure which is his own property ; wherefore such annotations shall pe declined. When folks are ravished with any pleasure, though it be obvious to every bystander, yet they cannot help expressing what delights them many times over, when there is not the least occasion for information. This was just my case, on reading this excellent description of the Lion and the Scots arms, never so blazoned. (6) [Did let.] 229 Nor let no wyld weid, full of churlishness, Compare hir to the lillys nobilness. Nor hald nane other flowir in sic denty As the fresh Rose, of colour reid and quhyt ; For if thou dois,’ hurt is thyne honesty, Considdering that no flowir is sae perfyte, Sae full of plesans, vertue, and delyte, Sae full of blissfull angellyke bewtie, Imperial birth, honour and dignitie. Then to the Rose scho did her visage turn, And said, O lusty dochter most benyng, Abofe the lilly thou art ilusterous born, Frae ryal linage rysing fresh and yung, But ony spot? or macull doing sprung : Cum, blume of joy, with richest jems be crownd, For owre the laif thy bewtie is renound. A costly crown with stanes clarified bricht, This comely quene did on hir heid inclose, Quhyle all the land illumynat of licht; . Quhairfor methocht, the flowirs did all rejose, Crying attaines, Haill to the fragrant Rose, Hail empress of the herbs, fresch quene of flowirs, To the be glore and honour at all hours! Then all the birds thay sang with voice on hicht, Whose mirthfull sound was marvellous to heir ; The mavys sang, Hail Rose, most rich and richt, That does upfluriss under Phebus sphere; Hail plant of youth, hail princes dochter deir, Hail blosome breking out of blude ryal, Quhois precious vertew is imperial! The merlc scho sang, Hail Rose of most delyt, Hail of all flowres the sweit and soverain quene : The lark scho sang, Hail Rose baith reid and quhyt,3 Most plesand flowir of michty colours twain ; Nichtingails sang, Hail nature’s suffragane, In bewty, nurture, and each nobilness, In rich array, renown and gentilness. The common voice upraise of birdis small, Upon this ways, O blissit be the hour That thou was chose to be our principal ! Welcome to be our princes crownd with powir, Our perle, our plesance, and our paramour, Our peace, our play, our plain felicity : Chryst the conserve from all adversity. Then all the consort sang with sic a shout, That I anone awakent quhair I lay, THE EVERGREEN. And with a braid I turnit me about To se this court, but all wer gone away ; Then up I leint me, halflings in affray, Callt to my muse, and for my subjeck chose To sing the ryal Thistle and the Rose. Quod Mr. WILLIAM DUNBAB A PANYGYRICK ON SIR PENNY. Ricut fain wald I my qwaintance mak Sir Penny with, and wate ye quhyP He is a man will undertak A lairdship of braid lands to buy ; Thairfoir methink richt fain wald I With him in fellowship repair, Because he is in company A noble gyde baith late and air. Sir Penny for till hald in hand, His company they think sae sweit ; Sum does not care to sell thair land, With gude Sir Penny for to meit, Because he is of a noble spreit. A furthy man and a forseiand ; There is no mater ends compleit, Till he set to his seil and hand. Sir Penny is a valiant man, Of mekle strenth and dignitie, And evir sen this warld began, In this land autoreist is he; The king or quene ze may not see, They still so tenderlie him trete, That ther can nathing endit be, Without his company ze get. Sir Penny is a man of law, And (witt ye weil) baith wyse and war ; He mony reasons can furth schaw, Quhen he is standing at the bar, Is nane sae sharp that can him scar, Quhen he propons furth ony pley ; Nor zit sae hardy man as dar Sir Penny tyne or disobey. Sir Penny is baith leird and wyse, The kirk to steir he taks in hand, Disponer of ilk benefice In this realm, throu all the land ; (1) Quhois, dais, hir, &c., whose, does, her. The e in many such words is supplied with z. (2) But ony spot, without spot. (83) That the house of York and Lancaster (the White and Red rose) were united in the persor of our queen, is well known. THE EVERGREEN. 293 Js nane sae wicht dar him gainstand, Sae wysely can Sir Penny wirk ; And als Sir Symonie his servand, That now is gydar of the kirk. Gif to the court thou mak repair, And ther haif matters to proclame, Thou art unable weil to fair, Sir Penny gif thou leif at hame, To bring him furth think thou nae schame ; I do thee weil to understand, Into thy bag biar thou his name, Thy matter cums better to hand. Sir Penny now is maid an owll, They wirk him mekle tray and tene,! They hald him in till he hair-moull,? And maks him blind of baith his ene; Thirout he is but sindle sene, Sae fast tharin they can him steik, That commons pure cannot obtain Ane day to byd with him and speik. VERTUE AND VYCE. A POEM, ADDREST TO JAMES V., KING OF SCOTS, BY THE FAMOUS AND RENOWN’D CLERK, MR. JOHN BELLENTYNE, ARCH-DEAN OF MURRAY. QuuEN silver Diane full of beims bricht, Frae dark eclips was past this uther nicht, And to the crab hir proper mansion gane ; Artophilax contending with his micht In the grit eist to set his visage richt ; I mene the leider of the Charle-wane ; Aboif our heid then was the Ursis twain, Quhen starris small obscure grew to our sicht, And Lucifer left twinkling him alane. The frosty nicht with her prolixit hours, Her mantle quhyt spred on the tender flowrs ; When ardent labour has addressit me, Translate the tale of our progenitours, Thair greit manheid, wisdom, and hie honours, Quhair we may cleir, as in a mirrour, see The furious end somtymes of tyranie; Somtymes the gloir of prudent governours, Tk state apprysit in thair facultie. My weary spreit desiring to repress My emptive pen of fruteless bissiness, Awalkit forth to tak the recent air, (1) Tray and tene, anger. (2) Aair-moull, grown hoary with mouldiness. When Priapus ° with stormy weid oppzess, Requeistit me, in his maist tenderness, To rest a while amids his gardens bare. But I no maner coud my mynd prepare To set asyde unplesant havyness On this and that contempling solitare. And first occurrt to my remembering, How that I was in service with the king, Put to his grace in zeirs tenderest, Clerk of his compts, althocht I was inding, With heart and hand, and evry uther thing, That micht him pleise in ony manner best, While envy grit me from his service kest, By them that had the court in governing, As bird bot plumes is herryt of her nest. Our lyfe, our gyding, and our aventuris, Dependance have on thir celest creaturis, Apperandly by some necessitie ; For thocht a man wald set his bissy curis, Sae far as labour and his wisdom furis, To flie hard chance of infortunitie, Tho’ he eschew it with difficultie, The cursid weird yet ithandly enduris, Gien to him first in his nativitie. Of eardlie state bewailing thus the chance Of fortune gude I had nae esperance, Sae lang I had swomt in bir seis sae deip, That sad avysing with her thochtfull lance Coud find nae port to anker her firmance, Till Morpheus, the dreiry god of sleip, For very rewth did on my cures weip, And set his slewth and deidly countenance, With snorand vains to throw my body creip. Methocht I was into a plesand meid, Quhair Flora made the tender bluims to spreid Throw kindly dew, and humours nutrative, Quhen golden Titan with his flamis sae reid, Aboif the seis upraist his glorious heid, Defounding down his heit restorative To evry fruit that nature maid to live, Whilk was afore into the winter deid, With stormis cauld, and har-frost penetrive. A silver fountain sprang with watir cleir Into that place, quhair I approchit neir ; Quhair I did sone espy a fellon reird Of courtly gallants in thair gayest weir, Rejoycing them in season of the zeir, As it had bene of Mayis sweit day the feird, Their gudelie havings made me nocht affeird ; With them I saw a crownit king appeir, With tender downs arrising on his beird. (8) Priapus, who presides over gardens. 224. THE EVERGREEN Thir courtly gallants settand thai~ intents To sing and play on divers struments ; According to this princis appetyte, Twa ladyis fair came pransand owre the bents, Thair costly cleathing shawd thair mighty rents, Quhat heart micht wish, they wanted not a myte, The rubies shone upon thair fingers quhyt : And finaly I knew by thair consents This Vertue was, that uther hecht Delyte. Thir goddesses arrayt in this fine ways, As reverence and honour list devyse, Afore this prince fell down upon thair kneis, Syne drest themsells into thair best avyse, Sae far as wisdom in thair powir lyes, To do the thing that micht him best appleise, Quhair he rejoyced in his heavenly gleis, And him desyret that for his emperyss, Ane of them twa unto his lady cheis. And first Delyte unto the prince said thus, Maist valiant knycht, in actions amorous, And lustyest that evir nature wrocht, Quha in the flowr of zouth mellyfluous, With notes sweit, and sang mellodious, Awalketh heir amang the flowirs soft, Thou has nae game, but in thy mirry thocht, My heavenly bliss is so delicious, All wealth in eard bot it availeth nocht. Tho’ thou had France, and all beyont the Po, Spain, Ingland, Pole, with uther kingdoms moe, And reign oure them in state most glorious, Thy pussiant empyre is not worth a stro, Gif it unto thy pleisurs is a foe, Or pains thy mind with cares so dolourus ; Ther is nathing may be sae odious To man, as leif in misery and woe, Defrauding God of nature Genius. Dress thee thairfor with all thy bissy cure, That thou in joy and pleisure may endure ; Be sicht of thir four bodyis elementar, Twa gross and heavy, twa are licht and pure, Thir elements be working of nature, In uther change ; and tho’ they be richt far Frae uther twind, with qualitys contrair, Of them are made all creatures eard eir bure, And finaly in them resolvit ar. The fyre in air, the air in watter cleir, In eard the watter turns withouten weir, The eard in watter it turns ower again; Sae furth in order nochts consumed heir, And man new born begins sone to appeir Ane uther figure than afore was tane, Quhen he is deid, the matter does remain, Tho’ it resolve into sum new manner, Naething is new, nocht but the form is gane, Thus naething is in eard but fugitive, Passand and command spreiding successive; And as a beist, so is a man consave Of seid infusd in members genitive, And furth his tyme in plesoure does out dryve As chance him leids, till he be laid in grave; Thairfor thy hevin and plesour now resave, Quhile thou art heir into this present lyve, For after death thou sall no plesour haif. The rose, the lilly, and the violet, Unpult, sone wither, and with winds owreset, Wallout falls down bot ony fruit, I wiss, Thairfore I say, sen that naething may let, But thy bricht hew maun be with zeirs all fret (For every thing but for a season is), Thou may not haif a mair excellent bliss Than ly all nicht into my arms plet, To hals and brais with mony a lusty kiss. And haif my tender body by thy syde, So proper set, quhilk nature has provyde With every plesour, that thou mayst divyne, Ay quhile my tender zeirs be overslyde ; Then gif thou pleis that I thy brydel gyde, Thou maun allways from agit men declyne, Syne dress thy hairt, thy courage and ingyne, To suffer nane sall in the house abyde, But gif thay will unto thy lust inclyne. Gif thou desyres into the seis to fleit Of hevinly bliss, than me thy lady treit ; For it is said by clerks of fair reuown, Thair is nae pleasour in this eard so grit, As quhen a luver dois his lady meit, To raise his lyf frae many a deidlie soun, As hiest plesour but comparisoun. I sall the geif in thy zeirs zoung and sweit, A lusty halk with mony plumes full broun. Quhilk sall be found sae joyous and plesant, Gif thou into her mirry flichts sall hant, Of evry bliss that may in eard appeir, As hairt will think thou sall nae plenty want, Quhile zeirs swift with qvheils properant, Consume thy strenth, and all thy bewtie cleir. And quhen Delyt had said on this maner, As rage of zowtheid thocht maist relivant ; Then Vertew spake, as after ye sall heir. ston RS Hast. My lands full braid with mony a plenteous shyre, Sall gif thy hieness (gif thou list disyre), Triumphant glore, hie honour, fame divyne, With sic puissance, that them nae furious yre, THE EVERGREEN, 225 Nor weirand age, nor flames of birnand fyre, Nor bitter death may bring unto rewyne, But thou maun first ensuffer meikle pyne, Abune thy self, that thou may haif empyre, Then sall thy fame and honour haif no fyne. , Amang my faes my realms set ar all, Quhilk haif with me a weir continual, And ever still dois on my border ly : And tho’ thay may nae ways me overthrawl, Thay ly in wait, gif ony chance may fall, Of me sumtyme to get the victory. Thus is my lyfe an ithand chevalry, And labour halds me strong as ony wall, And nathing breks me but vyl slugardy. Nae fortune may against me ocht avail, Tho’ scho with cloudy storms me aft assail. I brek the streim of sharp adversity, In wedder lown, and maist tempestous hail, Bot any dreid I beir an equal sail : My ship’s sae strong, that I may never die, Wit, reason, manheid governs me sae hie, Nae influence of starns can eir prevail To rigne owre me with infortunitie. The rage of zouth can never dantit be, Bot grit distress and sharp adversity, As be this reason is experience ; The fynest gold or silver that we se, May not he wrocht to our utility, Without kein flames and bitter violence ; The mair distress, the mair intelligence. Quha eir sails lang in hie prosperity, Ar sune owreset, gainst storms have nae defence. This fragill lyfe, as moment induring, Bot dout sall thee and all the warld bring To sicker bliss, or then eternal wae. Gif thou by honest labour dois a thing, Thy labour vaniesis bot tarrying ; Howbeit thy honest warks thay do not sae. Gif thou does ocht of lust be nicht or day, The shamefull deid, withont dissevering, Continues still when plesour is away. As carvell ticht, fast tending throw the sie, Leives nae imprent amang the wallis hie ; As swiftest birds with mony a bissy plume Persis the air, and wates not quhair thay flie, Sicklyks our lyfe without activitie ; lt giffes na fruit, howbe it a shadow blume. Quha dois thair lyfe in ydleness consume, Bot vertews deids, thair fame and memorie Sall vanise soner than the reiky fume. As watter purges and maks bodys fair : As fyre-ascends be nature in the air, And purefies wiih heit that’s vehement : As flowir does sincll, as fruit is nurisare + As precious balmes reverts the things ar sair, And maks them of the rot impatient : As spyce maist sweit, and rose maist redolent: As stern of day by motion circulair, Chaises the nicht with beims resplendent. Sicklyke my warks thay perfyt every wicht, In fervent luve of maist excellent licht, And maks a man into this eard bot peir, And does the saul frae all disorder dicht, With odour dulce, and maks it still mair bricht Than Diane full, or zet Apollo cleir, Syn raises it into the hiest sphere, Immortally to shine in God’s awin sicht, His chosen creature, and as spous maist deir, This uther wretch that clipit is Delyte, Involves mankynd be sensual appityte, In every kind of vyce and miserie, Because nae wit nor reason is perfyte Quhair she is gyde, but skaith that’s infinyt ; With dolour, shame, and urgent povertie ; For scho sprang frae the licht froth of the se. Quhilk signifies his plesour venomit, Is minglit ay with shairp adversitie. Duke Hannibal, as mony authors wrait, Throw Spenzie came be mony a passage strait ; To Italy in furor bellical, Brak down hie walls, and hiest mountains sluit, And to his army made an open gait, And victories had on the Romans all. At Capua by plesour sensual, The duke was made sae saft and delicate, That by his faes he was sone overthrawll. Or ferss Achill the weirly deids sprang, In Troy and Greice, quhyle he in Vertue rang, Hou lust him slew it is but rewth to heir: Siclyk the Trojans with thair knichts strane, The valiant Greiks furth frae thair ruins dang, Victoriously exercit mony a zeir ; That nicht they went to thair lust and plesour, The fatal horss did throw thair walls fang, Quhais pregnant sydes wer full of men of weir. Sardanapall, that prince efeminat, Frae deids of knichts basely, degenerat, ‘Twynand the threid of whyt or purpour lint, With fingers saft amang the ladyis sat, And with his lust couth not be satiate, Till frae his faes came last the bitter dint, Quhat nobil men and ladyis haif bene tint, Quhen they with lust have bene intoxicat, To schaw at Jenth my tung wald nevir stint, bw 226 But brave Camil, the valiant chevalier, (When he the Gauls had dantint be his weir), Of heritage wald haif nae recompence ; For gif his bairns, his kin and friends maist deir Were verteous, they could not fail ilk zeir To haif enough, be Roman providence. Gif they wer given to vyce and insolence, It was not neidfull he sould conqueiss geir, To be the cause of thair incontinence. Sum nobil men, as poets list declair, Wer deifeit, sum made gods of the air, Sum of the Heaven, as Kolus, Vulcan, Apollo, Saturn, Hermes, Jupiter, Mars, Hercules, and uther men preclair, That Fame imortall in this warld wan : Quhy wer thir people called gods than? Because they had a Vertue singulair, Excellent hie abune the ingyne of man. And uthers are in reik sulphurious, As Ixion, and weiry Sysyphus, Eumenides, the furys odibil, The proud gyants, and thristy Tantalus, With ugly drink, and fude maist vennomus, Quhair flames bauld, and mirkness ar sensibil : Quhy ar thir folk in pains sae terribil ? Because they were but shrews maist vicious Into thair lyfe, with deids maist horribil. And tho’ nae fruit wer after consequent Of mortall lyfe, but for this warld present Tk man to half allenerlie respect ; Zet Vertue sould frae Vice be different, As quick frae deid, as rich frae indigent ; That ane to hiest honour does direct, This uther saul and body does neglect ; That ane of reason maist intelligent, This uther of beists following the effect. For he that nold? against his vyl lusts stryve, But lives as beists of knawlege sensityve, Grows fast to eild, and death him sone owrehails ; Thairfor the mule is of a langer lyfe Than the staind horse; also the barrand wyfe Zouthfull appeirs, when that the brudie fails ; We also se when Nature nocht prevails, Tie pain and dolour ar sae pungityve, Nae medycyne the patient then avails. Sen our intents baith we haif shawn thee thus, Cheis of us twae the maist delicious, Or to sustene a sharp adversitie, Danting the rage of zouth-heid furious, And syn posses triumphs innumerous, (1) Nold, would not, THE EVERGREEN. With hie empyre, and lang felicitie ; Or haif ane moment sensualitie Of fulish zouth, in lyf voluptous, And all thy days full of sad miserie. Phebus be this his fyrie cart did wry, Frae south to west declynand bissyly To dip his steids into the westlin main; When rysing damps owresaild his visage dry With vapours thick, and cluddet all the sky, And Notus brym, the wind meridian, With wings donk, and fedders full of rain, Awakent me, that I coud not espy Quhilk of the twa was for his lady tane. But sone I knew they were the goddesses That came in sleip to valiant Hercules, Whien he was zung, and free of every lore, To lust or honour, purtith or riches, Quhair he contempnit lust and idleness, That he in Vertue micht his lyfe decore ; Then warks he did of maist excellent glore The mair incresst his painfull bissiness, His hie triumphs and loving was the more. A BYTAND BALLAT. A bytand Ballat on warlo wives, That gar thair men live pinging lives, Bz merry, brethrene, ane and all, And set all sturt aside ; And every ane togither call To God to be our gyd; For as lang lives the mirry man, As dois the wretch for ocht he can, When Deid him strakes, he wats na whan, And charges him to byde. The rich then sall not spared be, Thocht they haif gold and land, Nor zit the feir, for their bewty Cannot that charge gainstand. Tho’ wicht or weak wald flee away, Nae doubt but all maun ransom pay, Quhat place or quhare can nae man say, Be se or zit be land. The mirryest man that leives on lyfe, He sails upon the se; For he knaws neither sturt nor stryfe, But blyth and glad is he: But he that has an evil wyfe, Has sour and sorrow all his lyfe, And that man quilk leives ay in stryf, How can he mirry be? ROBIN AND MAKYNE. Stanza 16, THE EVERGREEN. . 227 Ane evil wyfe is the warst aught That ony man can haif ; For he may nevir sit in saught, Unless he be her slaif : But of that sort I knaw nane uther, Except a cuckald or his bruther ; ee ee ee ee Because thair wyves haif maistery, That they dar naeways cheip, But gif it be in privity, Quhen they are fast asleip ; Ane mirry in thair company, To them is worth baith gold and fie: A menstrell neir coud dairthful be, Thair mirth if he coud beit. But of that sort whilk I report, I knaw nane in this ring: But we may all baith grit and small, Glaidly baith dance and sing. Quha lists not here to make gude cheir, Perchance his guids an uthir yeir Be spent, quhen he is brought to beir, Quhen his wyfe taks the fling. It has bene sene, that wyse women, After their husband’s deid, Has gotten men has gart them ken If they could bear a laid. With a grene sting, hes gart them bring The geir that won was by a dring; And syne gart all the bairnies sing, “ Ramukloch” in their bed. Then wad scho say, Alake this day, For him that wan this geir! Quhen I him had, I skairsly said, My heart anes mak gude cheir. Or I had letten him spend a plak, I lure haif witten him brake his bak, Or els his craig had gotten a crak, Ower the hicht of the stair. Ze niggarts than example tak, And leir to spend your awn, And with gude freynds ay mirry mak, That it may well be knawn, That thou art he quha wan this geir ; Finis, quod I, quha sets not by? The ill wyves of this toun, Tho for dispyte with me wald flyte, Gif thay micht put me doun.? Gif they wald ken quha maid this sang, Quhidder they will him heid or hang, Flemying’s his name quhair eir he gang, In country and in toun. Quod FLEMING, ROBIN AND MAKYNE. A PASTORAL, Rosty sat on the gude grene hill, Keipand a flock of fie, Quhen mirry Makyne said him till, O Robin, rew on me. I haif thee luivt baith loud and still, Thir towmonds twa or thre; My dule in dern® but gif thou dill,+ Doubtless bot dreid I die. Robin replied, Now by the rude, Naithing of luve I knaw, But keip my sheip undir yon wod, Lo quhair they raik on raw.® Quhat can have mart thee in thy mude, Thou Makyne to me schaw ? Or quhat is luve, or to be lude? Fain wald I leir that law. The law of luve gin thou wald leir, Tak thair an A, B, C; Be keynd, courtas, and fair of feir,® Wyse, hardy, kind and frie, Sae that nae danger do the deir, What dule in dern thou drie; Press ay to pleis, and blyth appeir, Be patient, and privie. Robin he answert her again, I wat not quhat is luve, But I haif marvell uncertain Quhat maks thee thus wanrufe. The wedderis’ fair, and I am fain; And for thy wyfe se thou nocht spair, My sheip gaes hail abuve, With blyth freynds ay to make repair, Gif we sould play us on the plain, Sae sall thy worth be shawn. They wald us baith repruve. (1) Sets not by, does not value. (2) Put doun, murder. (1) Wedderis, weather’s. It is to be noticed that our elders (8) Dule in dern, sorrow in secret. (4) Dill, still, calm, or mitigate. (5) Hatk on raw, go apace in a row. (6) Fair of feir, of a fair and healthful look. never apostrophised, yet by this one may judge that in every like case they pronounced as if such vowels were cut off with an apostrophe: without allowing this, many of their:lines will not be numbers, THE EVERGREEN. Robin, tak tent unto my tale, And do all as I reid; And thou sall haif my heart all hale, Eik and my maidenheid : Sen God he sends bute for bale, And for murning remeid. I dern with thee, but give I dale, Doubtless I am but deid. Makyne, the morn be this ilk tyde, Gif ye will meit me heir, May be my sheip may gang besyde, Quhyle we have liggd full neir ; But maugre haif I, gif I byde, Frae thay begin to steir, Quhat lyes on heart I will nocht hyd, Then, Makyn, mak gude cheir. Robin, thou reivs me of my rest; T luve but thee alane. Makyne, adieu, the sun goes west, The day is neir-hand gane. Robin, in dule I am so drest, That luve will be my bane. Makyne, gae luve quhair eir ye list ; For lemans I luid nane. Robin, T stand in sic a style, I sich, and that full sair. Makyne, I have bene heir this quyle, At hame I wish I were. Robin, my hinny, talk and smyle, Gif thou will do nae mair. Makyne, sum uther man heguyle ; For hameward I will fare. Syne Robin on his ways he weat, As light as leif on tree : But Makyne murnt and made lament, Scho trow’d him neir to see. Robin he brayd attowre the bent.’ Then Makyne cryd on hie, Now may thou sing, for I am shent! Quhat can ai] luve at me? Makyne went hame withouten fail, And weirylie could weip ; Then Robin in a full fair dale Assemblit all his sheip ; Be that somepart of Makyns ail, Outthrow his heart coud creip, Hir fast he followt to assail, And till her tuke gude keip.? (1) Brayd attowre the bent, hasted over the field, (2) Zuie gude keip, keep a close eye upon her. Abyd, abyd, thou fair Muakyne, A word for ony thing ; For all my luve it sall be thyne, Withoutten departing, All hale thy heart for till have myne, Is all my coveting; My sheip quhyle morn till the hours nyne, Will mister nae keiping Robin, thou has heard sung and say, In jests and storys auld, “The man that will not when he may, Sall have nocht when le wald.” I pray to heaven baith nicht and day, Be eikd their cares sae cauld, That presses first with thee to play, Be forrest, firth or fauld. Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry, The wether warm and fair, And the grene wod richt neir hand by To walk attowre all where: There may nae janglers us espy, That is to luve contrair, Therin, Makyne, baith you and I, Unseen may mak repair. Robin, that warld is now away And quyt brocht till an end, And neir again thereto perfay, Sall it be as thou wend; For of my pain thou made but play, I words in vain did spend; , As thou has done sae sall I say, Murn on, I think to mend. Makyne, the hope of all my heal, My heart on thee is set ; Tl evermair to thee be leil, Quhile I may live but lett, Never to fail as uthers feil, Quhat grace so eir I get. Robin, with thee I will not deal ; Adieu, for this we met. Makyne went hameward blyth enough, Outowre the holtis hair. Pure Robin murnd and Makyne leugh ; Scho sang, and he sichd sair: Scho left him in baith wae and wreuch, In dolor and in care, Keipand his herd under a heuch, Amang the rashy gair. Finis quod MR. ROB. HENRYSON. TUE EVERGREEN. ADVICE TO MAN TO ENJOY HIS AIN. Man, sen thy lyfe is ay in weir, And deid is ever drawing neir, The tyme unsiker and the place, Thyne ain gude spend quhile thou has space. Gif it be thyne, thyself it uses, Gif it be not, thee it refuses, Another of thee profit has, Then spend thy ain quhile thou has space. Thou may to-day have gude to spend In haist to-morn may from it wend, And leive an uther thy baggs to brace, Then spend thy ain quhile thou has space. Quhile thou has space, se thou dispone That for thy geir ; quhen thou art gone, Nae wicht ane other slay or chace, Enjoyt thy self quhile thou has space. Sum all his days dryves owre in vain, Ay gatherand geir with greif and pain, Is nevir glade at Zule nor Pais ; Thyne ain gude spend quhile thou has space. Syne cums ane blythsome of his sorrow, That for him prayd nor even nor morrow, And fangs it all with merryness ; Then spend thy ain quhile thou has space. Sum gathers gude, and ay it spares, And after him cum braw young airs, That his auld thrift sets on an ace, And sendst a sheiring in short space. Its just all thyne that here thou spends, And not all that on thee depends, But his to spend it that has grace ; Then spend thyn ain quhyle thou has space. Trust not anndther will do ye to, It that thy self wald nevir do; For gif thou dois, strange is thy cace ; Thine ain gude spend quhyle thou has space. Luke how the bairn dois to the mother, And tak example be nane uther, That it not after be thy case; Sae spend thy ain quhyle thou has space. Quod DUMBAR. (1) The minister, Beaton. (2) Had scho bene * *** In such places ag are so suilied or toro in our copies, thut they cannot be read, we chouse rather to g20 GRISSELL SANDYLANDS. The defens of Grissell Sandylands For using of hir self contrair the Ten Commands, Being in ward for playing of the Joun . With every ane liat gife hir half « croun, Prrniriovs people, partial in despyte, Susanna’s judges, sawers of sedition, Zour cankert council is the cause and wyte, Bowstert with pryde, and blinded with ambition, Finding nae cryme, nor haifing a comission To hurt Dame Venus virgins as ze do; Gif ge sae rashly rin upon suspition, Ze may put others on the pannell too. To Sandylands ze war ower-sair {o schame hir, Sen ze with council quietly might command hir; Grit fulis ze war with fallows to defame hir, Haifing nae cause, but common fame and sklander, Quhen finding no man in the house neir hand hir, Exept a clerk? of godly conversation; Quhat gif besyde John Duries self ye fand hir, . Dar ze suspect the haly congregation. Zour fleshly consciens gars zou tak this feir, Believe ze virgins will be won sae sune; Na, God forbid, but men may bourd as neir, And women be nae war, quhen that is done, Had scho bene * * * *? That war a perelous play, ane micht suspect them, But lads and lasses will meit after none, When Dick and Durie baith dow not correct them Sen drunkards, gluttons, and contentious men, Scheders of blude, and subjects given to greid, May not possess, or heaven’s high hall get ben, As in the Byble daylie we may reid: Let thir be weyd alyke, till every leid, Syne fornication placit amang the laif, Exempt zour selves throu all the toun in deid, Then luke how mony zou unmarkid haif. Gif ye belife not Betoun be his word, In hir defens, it cannot be refusit ; Let him that follows fecht it with the sword, Ane auntient law quhen ladyis are accusit. Are ministers sic men to be abusit, ‘That knaw the Scripture and the Ten Commands ? Tho’ he and scho wer in a house inelusit, That says not he fell foul on Sandylands. As for the rest, I knaw not thair vocation, Thair lyfe and manners; but I heir folk name them leave a blank than fll them up, tho’ they sums be supplicd with small difficulty. 230 Catholick virgins of the congregation, Syne were 1o tyne them, if ze wald obtein them: * & & &* * & Ze cative clerks, that colege ze frequentit Quhen ze were wanflers of the wanton band, Now ze are laimt frae labour, I lamment it, Zour pistols tuimt, and backsprent like a wand, Snap wark, adieu frae * * * And warse than that, ze want zour pryming powder; Then Consciens cums with crukit staff in hand, Greitand for bygane bowing back and shouder. Remember first zour former quality, And wrak nae virgins with zour wilfull weir ; But gif ze do, then our regality Has power plainly then to replege them heir, Micht they win to the girth, I tak nae feir, Doun by the Canno-Croce I pray zou send them, Where Bannatyn! has promist to compeir, With lawfull reason ready to defend them. Ane cause there is, thay cannot be convick, Ze bad nae power after the sun was set. The provost gave nae charge to Gilbert Dick ; The special thing that sould not bein forzet, They were not theives, nor yet condemt in dett, Nor red-hand tane, then was nae cause ze knaw, But ze let rukes and gleds rin throu the nett, And saikless daws make subject to the law.? Zour partial juge we may declyne him to, But set me doun the parson Pennycuik, Or Sanders Guthrie see quhat he can do: He kens the law, and keips zour ain court-buke . For men of law, I wait not quhere to luke: James Banantyne was anes a man of skill; And gif he comes not there, I wish we tuke, To keip our dyet, Mes David Makgill. Quhat kimmer casts the formest stane, let’s se, At thae poor queans, ze wrangfully suspeck For sklenting bouts; now better war let be, Than to begin and get zour selves a geck, The greatest falt I find in this effect ; They baith tuke pay, and put themselves in schame; But quhen the court cums to the town, quhat reck, We sall restore them to their stock again. In zour tolbuith sic prisoners to plant, Will be received richt weil, ye may consider, Gude Captane Adam will not let them want Bedding, howbeid they sould lig all togidder. (1) Mr. Patrick. (2) “ —_Little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy tbe world in state.” THE EVERGREEN. As for his wife, 1 wald ye sould forbid her, Hir eyndling toits, I true ther be nae danger, Because his back is larbour groun and lidder, Bot understanding now to treit a stranger. The greatest greif I find, ze haif defamed Thir luvers leil, and done their friends but lack, Because thair bands were just to be proclaim, Partys had met, and made a fair contrack : But now alas! the men are loppen back ; For oppen sklander callt a speikand deil, In grit affairs ze had not bein sae snack, About the ruleing of the common-weil. To punish part is partiality, To punish all is hard to do indeid ; But send them heir to our regality, And we sall see gif we can serve their neid. This rural ryme whaever likes to reid, To Dick and Dury ’tis directed plain ; Quhere I offend them in my landwart leid, I sall be ready to reform again. Quod SEMPLE, THE BATTLE OF HARLAW, FYOUGHTEN UPON FRIDAY, JULY 24, 1411, against DONALD OF THE ISLES. Frau Dunideir as I cam throuch, Doun by the hill of Banochie, « Allangst the lands of Garioch ; Grit pitie was to heir and se The noys and dulesum hermonie, That evir that dreiry day did daw, Cryand the Corynoch on hie, Alas! alas! for the Harlaw. I marvlit quhat the matter meint, All folks war in a fiery fairy : I wist nocht quha was fae or friend ; Zit quietly I did me carrie. But sen the days of auld King Hairy, Sic slauchter was not hard nor sene, And thair I had nae tyme to tairy, For bissiness in Aberdene. Thus as I walkit on the way, To Inverury as I went, I met a man and bad him stay, Requeisting him to mak me quaint, Of the beginning and the event, That happenit thair at tlhe Harlaw ; Then he entreited me tak tent, And he the truth suuld to me schaw. "HOVNOWOD JZHL DNIABO THE EVERGREEN. 231 Grit Donald of the Yles did claim, Unto the lands of Ross sum richt, And to the governour? he came, Them for to haif gif that he micht : Quha saw his interest was but slicht ; And thairfore answerit with disdain ; He hastit hame baith day and nicht, And sent nae bodward back again. But Donald richt impatient Of that answer Duke Robert gaif, He vowed to God omnipotent, All the hale lands of Ross to haif, Or ells be graithed in his graif. He wald not quat his richt for nocht. Nor be abusit lyk a slaif, That bargin sould be deirly bochit. Then hastylie he did command, That all his weir-men should convene, Tik an well harnisit frae hand, To meit and heir quhat he did mein ; He waxit wrath and vowit tein, Sweirand he wald surpryse the north, Subdew the brugh of Aberdene, Mearns, Angus, and all Fyfe, to Forth. Thus with the weir-men of the Yles, Quha war ay at his bidding bown, With money maid, with forss and wyls, Richt far and neir baith up and doun: Throw mount and muir, frae town to town, Allangst the land of Ross he roars, And all obey’d at his bandown, Evin frae the north to suthren shoars, Then all the countrie men did zield ; For nae resistans durst they mak, Nor offer battill in the feild, Be forss of arms to beir him bak ; Syne they resolvit all and spak, That best it was for thair behoif, They sould him for thair chiftain tak, Believing weil he did them luve. Then he a proclamation maid All men to meet at Inverness, Throw Murray land to mak a raid, Frae Arthursyre unto Spey-ness. And further mair, he sent express, To schaw his collours and ensenzie, To all and sindry, mair and less, Throchout the boundis of Boyn and Enzie. And then throw fair Strathbogie land, His purpose was for to pursew, And quhasocevir durst gainstand, That race they should full sairly rew. Then he bad all his men be trew, And him defend by forss and slicht, And promist them rewardis anew, And mak them men of mekle micht. Without resistans as he said, Throw all these parts he stoutly past, Qubair sum war wae, and sum war glaid, But Garioch was all agast. Throw all these feilds he sped him fast, For sic a sicht was never sene ; And then, forsuith, he langd at last To se the Bruch of Aberdene. To hinder this prowd enterprise, The stout and michty Erle of Marr * With all his men in arms did ryse, Even frae Curgarf to Craigyvar, And down the syde of Don richt far, Angus and Mearns did all convene To fecht, or Donald came sae nar The ryall Bruch cf Aberdene. And thus the martial Erle of Marr, Marcht with his men in richt array, Befoir the enemie was aware His banner bawdly did display. For weil enewch they kend the way, And all their semblance weil they saw, Without all dangir, or delay, Came haistily to the Harlaw. With him the braif Lord Ogilvy, Of Angus sherriff principall, The constabill of gude Dunde, The vanguard led before them all. Suppose in number they war small, Thay first richt bauldlie did pursew, And maid their faes befoir them fall, Quha then that race did sairly rew. And then the worthy Lord Salton, The strong undoubted Laird of Drum, The stalwart Laird of Lawristone, With ilk thair forces all and sum. Panmuir with all his men did eum, The provost of braif Aberdene, With trumpets and with tuick of drum, Came schortly in thair armour schene. These with the Erle of Marr came on, In the reir-ward richt orderlie, (1) Governour, Robert Duke of Albany, uncle to King James I. The accuunt of this famous battle may be seen in our Scots His- (2) Marr, Alexander Earl of Mar, son of Alexander the puver- tories. | nor’s brother, THE EVERGREEN. Thair enemivs to sett upon; In awfull manner hardily, Togither vowit to live and die, Since they had marchit mony mylis For to suppress the tyrannie Of douted Donald of the Yles. But he in number ten to ane, Richt subtilie alang did ryde, With Malcomtosch ond fell Maclean, With all thair power at thair syde, Presumeand on thair strenth and pryde, Without all feir or ony aw, Richt bauldlie battill did abyde, Hard by the town of fair Harlaw. The armies met, the trumpet sounds, The dandring drums alloud did touk, Baith armies byding on the bounds, ‘Till ane of them the feild sould bruik. Nae help was thairfor, nane wald jouk, Ferss was the fecht on ilka syde, And on the ground lay mony a bouk Of them that thair did battill byd. With doutsum victorie they dealt, The bludy battil lastit lang, Each man his nibours forss thair felt ; The weakest aft-tymes gat the wrang: Thair was nae mowis thair them amang, Naithing was hard but heavy knocks, That eccho maid a dulefull sang, Thairto resounding frae the rocks. But Donald’s men at last gaif back ; For they war all out of array. The Earl of Marris men throw them brak, Pursewing shairply in thair way, Thair enemys to tak or slay, Be dynt of forss to gar them yield, Quha war richt blyth to win away, And sae for feirdness tint the feild. Then Donald fled, and that full fast, To mountains hich for all his micht ; For he and his war all agast, And ran till they war out of sicht ; And sae of Ross he lost his richt, Thocht mony men with him he brocht, Towards the Yles fled day and nicht, And all he wan was deirlie bocht. This is (quod he) the richt report Of all that I did heir and knaw, ‘uocht my discourse be sumthing schort, Tak this to be a richt suthe saw ; Contrairie God and the king’s law, Thair was spilt mekle Christian blude, Into the battil of Harlaw, This is the sum, sae I conelude. But zit a bony quhyle abyde, And I sall mak thee cleirly ken Quhat slauchter was on ilkay syde, Of Lowland and of Highland men, Quha for thair awin haif evir bene: These lazie lowns micht weil be spaird, Chessit lyke deirs into their dens, And gat thair waiges for rewaird. Malecomtosh, of the clan heid cheif, Macklean with his grit hauchty heid, With all thair succour and relief, War dulefully dung to the deid : And now we are freid of thair feid, They will not lang to cum again; Thousands with them without remeid, On Donald’s syd that day war slain. And on the uther syde war lost, Into the feild that dismal day, Chief men of worth (of mekle cost) To be lamentit sair for ay. The Lord Saltoun of Rothemay, A man of micht and mekle main; Grit dolour was for his decay, That sae unhappylie was slain. Of the best men amang them was, The gracious gude Lord Ogilvy, The sheriff-principal of Angus; Renownit for truth and equitie, For faith and magnanimitie ; He had few fallows in the field, Zit fell by fatall destinie, For he nae ways wad grant to zield. Sir James Scrimgeor of Duddap, knicht, Grit constabill of fair Dunde, Unto the dulefull deith was dicht, The kingis cheif banner man was he, A valziant man of chevalrie, Quhais predecessors wan that place At Spey, with gude King William frie, Gainst Murray and Macduncan’s race. Gude Sir Allexander Irving, The much renownit Laird of Drum, Nane in his days was bettir sene, Quhen they war semblit all and sum; To praise him we sould not be dumm, For valour, witt, and worthyness, THE EVERGREEN. 233 To end his days he ther did cum, Quhois ransom is remeidyless. And thair the knicht of Lawriston Was slain into his armour schene, And gude Sir Robert Davidson, Quha provest was of Aberdene, The Knicht of Panmure, as was sene, A mortall man in armour bricht, Sir Thomas Murray stout and kene, Left to the warld thair last’ gude nicht. Thair was not sen King Keneth’s days Sic strange intestine crewel stryf In Scotland sene, as ik man says, Quhair mony liklie lost thair lyfe ; Quhilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe, And mony childrene fatherless, Quhilk in this realme has bene full ryfe : Lord help these lands, our wrangs redress. In July, on Saint James his even, That four and twenty dismall day, Twelve hundred, ten score and eleven Of zeirs sen Chryst, the suthe to say: Men will remember as they may, Quhen thus the veritie they knaw, And mony a ane may murn for ay, The brim Battil of the Harlaw. BALLAT. —— Ane ballat of the fenziet frier of Tungland,! How he fell in the myre fleand to Turkland. —_— As zung Auror with chrystal hail, In orient schewd hir visage pail, A swenyng swyth did me assail, Of sonis of sathanis seid ; Methocht a Turk of Tartary, Come throw the bounds of Barbary, And lay forloppin in Lombardy Full lang, in watchman’s weid. Frae baptasing for to eschew, Thair a religious man he slew, And cled him in his habeit new, For he couth wryte and reid, (1) An sccount of this friar, who was an Italian, may be seen in Mr. Lesly’s History. King James IV. made him Abbot of Tungland. He pretended and attempted to make gold out of other metals; but failing of that, he next gave out that he could fly, and very boldly appointed the day and place, which was from Stirling Castle, where the king and many spectators saw him throw him- self with his large wings from the rock, and break his thigh bone. Quhen kend was his dissiniuance, And all his cursit governance ; For feir he fled, and come in France, With litill Lombard leid. To be a leiche he fenyt him thair, Quhilk mony micht rew evirmair, For he left nowthir sick nor sait Unslane, or he hyne zed : Vane-organs he full cleinly carvit, Quhen of his straik sae mony starvit, Dreid he had got quhat he aesarvit, He fled away gude speid. In Scotland then the narrest way He come, his cunning till assay ; To sum men thair it was nae play, The preiving of his sciens. In pottingrie he wrocht grit pyne, He murdreis. mony in medecyne, The Jew was of a grit engyne, « And generit was of gyans. In leich craft he was nomecyd, He wald haif for a nicht to byd, A haiknay and the hurtmans hyd, Sae mekle he was of myauce. His yrons was rude as ony rawchter, Quhair he leit blude, it was nae lauchter ; Full mony an instrument for slauchter Was in his gardevyance. He couth gif cure for laxatyve, To gar a wicht horse want his lyfe, Quha eir assay wald man or wyfe, Thair hipps zied hiddy-giddy. His practicks neir war put to preif, Bot sudden deid or grit mischief : He had purgation to mak a thief To die without a widdy. Unto nae mess eir prest this prelat, For sound of sacring bell nor skellat, As blacksmyth brukit was his pallat, For batting at the study. Thocht he come hame a new maid channoun, He had dispensit with Matynis cannoun. On him come nowdir stole nor fanuoun, For smuking of the smydy. Methocht seir fassonis he assailziet To mak the quintessance, and failziet ; And when he saw that nocht availziet, A fedrem on he tuke: And schupe in Turkie for to flie, And qguhen that he did mont on hie, All fowl ferliet quhat he sould be, That did ~pon him luke. 234 THE EVERGREEN, - Sum held he had been Dedalus, Some the Minotour marvellous, And sum the smyth of Mars, Vuleanus, And sum Saturnus kuke. And ay the cuschetts at lum tuggit, The ruiks him rent, the ravyns druggit ; The hudit craws his hair furth ruggit, The hevin he micht not bruke. The mytane and Saint Martyn’s fowl Wend he had bene the hornit howle ; They set upon him with a zowle, And gaif him dynt for dynt. The golk, the gormaw, and the gled, Beft him with buffets till he bled ; The spar-halk to the spring him sped, As ferss as fyre off flint. ° The tarsall gaif him tug for tug, A stanchell hang in ilka lug, The pyot furth his pens did rug, The stork straik ay bot stynt. The bissart bissy bot rebuke, Scho was sae cleverous of her cluke, * * & * # & Thick was the cloud of kayis and crawis, Of marlzeons, mittains, and of mawis, That bikkirt at his baird and blawis, In battil him about. They nybillt him with dinsome ery, The rerd of them raise to the sky, And evir he eryd on fortune, Fy, His lyfe was into dowt. The jae him skrippit with a skryke, And skornit him as it was lyk, The egill strong at him did stryk, And rawcht him mony a rout. For feir uncunnandly he cawkit, Quhyle all his penns wer drownt and drawkit, He maid a hundreth nolt all hawkit, Beneath him with a spowt. He schure his feddreme that was schene, And slippit out of it full clene, And in a myre, up to the ene, Amang the glar did glyd. The fowlis all at the fedreme dang, As at a monster, them amang, Quhyle all the penns of it outsprang Intill the air full wyde. And he lay at the plunge eirmair, Sae langs he hard a ravin rair ; ‘he craws him socht with crys of cair In every schaw besyde. Had he reveild bette to the ruiks, They had him riven with thair cluiks s Thre days in dubs amang the duiks, He did with dirt him byde. The air was dirkint with the fowls, That came with zawmers and with zowls, With skryking, skryming, and with scouls To tak him in the tyde. I walknit with the noyss and schout, Sic hydious beir was me about, Sensyne I curst that cankirt rout, Quaireir I gang or ryde. Finie quod DUNBAR, TYDINGS FRAE THE SESSION. A MURELANDS man of uplands mak, At hame thus to his nychbour spak, What tydings, gossip, peice or weir ; The tother rounit in his eir, I tell zou this under confession, But laitly lichtit aff my meir, I come of Edinburgh frae the session, Quhat tydings hard ze thair, I pray zou ? The tother answert, I sall say zou, Keip this all secreit, gentil brothir, Is nae man thair that trests ane uther: A common doer of transgression, Of innocents preveins a futher : Sic tydings hard I at the session. Sum with his maik, rowns him to pleis, That envyous wald byt aff his neis ; His fae him by the oxter leids ; Sum patters with his mouth on beids, That has his mynd all on oppression : Sum becks full law, and schaws bair heids, Wald luke full heich war uot the session. Sum bydand law, lays land in wed; Sum superexpendit gaes to bed; Sum speids, cause he in court has meins, Sum of partiality compleins, How feid and favour fleims disereticn : Sum speiks full fair and falsly feins ; Sie things I hard and saw at session. Sum summonds casts, and sum excepts, Sum stand besyd and skaild law kepps ; Sum is delayd, sum wins, sum tynes ; Sum maks him merry at the wynes ; Sum is put out of his possession ; Sum herrit, and on credance dynes ; Sic tydings hard I at the session, Til EVERGREEN, Sam sweirs, and gies clein up with God, Sum in a lamb-skin is a tod, Sum in his tung his kyndness turses, Sum cuts at throats, and sum pyks purses: Sum gaes to gallows with procession ; Sum sains the seit, and sum them curses; Sic tydings hard I at the session. Religious men of divers places, Cum thair to wou, and see fair faces, Baith Carmelites and Cordiliers, To gemer cum, and get mae friers, Unmindful of thair chest profession, The zunger at the elder leirs ; Sic tydings hard J at the session. Thair cums zung monks of hie complexion, Of mynd devote, luve and affection ; And in the court thair het flesh dant, Full father-lyk, with pech and pant: They are sae humble of intercession, Thair errand all kynd women grant : Sic tydings hard I at the session. Sum honest lords adorn the bench, Sum mynds nocht but his wyne and wench ; Sum has law learning of his awin, Sum wants and lippens to his man, In ilka cause to get a lesson; Sum cankirt girns, be party thrawin, And fleims fair justice frae the session. The advocates I may nocht wyte, Nor vet the lads that lybalds wryte ; For its thair craft, and they maun fen, This has nae spevie in his pen, Nor that a palsie in expression ; But weil I wate an of ilk ten, Micht very weil gane all the session. Quod DUNBAR. A GENERALL SATYRE. Devonrit with dreim devising in my slumber, How that this realm with nobles out of number, Gydit, provydit sae mony years has bene; And now sic hunger, sic cowarts and sic cumber, Within this land was nevir hard nor sene, Sic pryd with prelats, sae few to preich and pray ; Sic hunt of harlots, with them baith nicht and day, They that sould have ay their God afore their ene, Sue nyce in array, sae strange to their abay, Within this land was nevir hard or sene, Sae mony preists cled up in secular weid, With blasing breists, casting thair clais abreid ; It is no neid to tell of quhome I mem, To quhome the Creid and Testament to reid Within this land was nevir hard nor sene. Sae mony maisters, sae mony gowckit clerks, Sae mony waisters, to God and all his warks, Sic fyrie sparks, dispytful frae the splene, Sic losin sarks, sae mony glengore marks, ~ Within, &. Sae mony lords, sae mony naturale fules, That better accords, to play them at the trules, Nor seis the dules, that commons did sustene. New tane frae schules, sae mony anis and mules, Within, &. Sae meikle treasson, sae mony partial saws, Sae little reason, to help the common cause, That all the laws are not set by ane bene, Sic fenziet flaws, sae money wastit waws, Within, &c. Sae mony theivs and murderers weil kend, Sae grit releivs of lords them till deffend, Because they spend the pelf them betwene, Sae few till wend this mischeif till amend, Within, &. This to correct, they shore with mony cracks, But small the effect of speir or bartar ax, Quhen courage lacks, that suld the corss mak kein, Sae mony Jacks, and brats on beggars baks, Within, &c. Sic vant of woustours, with hearts in sinful satures, Sic brawland bosters, degenerate frae their natures, And sic regratours, the pure man to prevene ; Sae mony traytors, sae mony rubeators, Within, &c. Sae mony juges, and lords new made of late, Sae small refuges, the pure man to debate; Sae mony estate, for common weil sae quhene, Owre all the gate, sae mony theives sa tait, Within, &e. Sae mony a sentance retreitit for to win Geir and aquentance, or kyndness of thair kin ; Thay think nae sin, quhair proffit cums betwene Sae mony a gin, to hast them to the pin, Within, &. Sic knavis and crakkars, to play at cards and dyce, Sic Haland-shakers, quhilk ate Cowkelhys grycc, 234 THE EVERGREEN. Ar halden of pryce, when lymers do convene ; Sic store of vyce, sae mony witts unwyse, Within, &e. Sae mony merchands, sae mony ar mensworne, Sae pure tennands, sic cursing ein and morn, Quhilk slays the corn, and fruit that grows grene; Sie skaith and skorn, sae mony paitlaits worn, Within, &e. Sae mony rackets, sae mony ketch pillars, Sic balls, sic nackets, and sic tutivilaris, And sic ill-willars, to speik of king and quene, Sic pudding-fillars, descending doun frae millars, Within, &c. Sic fardingails on flags as fat as quhails, Fattit lyk fouls, with hatts that nocht avails, And sic foul tails, to sweip the causy clene, The dust up sails, sae mony with uck sails, Within, &c. Sae mony a Kitty, drest up in golden chenze, Sae few witty, that weil can fables fenze, With apil renze ay shawand her golden chene; Of sathans senzie sure sic an unsall menzie Within this land was nevir hard nor sene. Quod DUNBAR. WISE SAYINGS. Ir that I gife, I haif, Té that I len, I craif, It that I spend, is myne, It that I leif, I tyne. Get and saif, and thou salt haif, Len and grant, and thou salt want ; Wha in this plenty taks not heid, He sall haif falt in tyme of neid: When eir I lend, I am a friend, And whan I craif, I am unkynd ; Thus of my friend, I mak a fae, I shrew me, gif I mair do sae. A zung man chiftane, wittles, A pure man spendar, gettles, Ane auld man trechour, truthless, A woman lowpar, landless ; Be gude Saint Giel, fall nevir ane of thir do well. —— THE COMPLAINT, AN EPISTLE TO HIS MISTRESS, ON THE FORCE OF LUVE. —_—_ Quuarr luve is kendlit comfortless, Ther is nae fever half sae fell, Frae Cupid keist his dart begess, I had nae hap to saif my sell, Lyk as my wofull heart can tell, My inwart pains and siching sair ; For weil I wat the pains of Hell Unto my pain can necht compair. For ony malledy, ze ken, Except peuir luve, or than stark deid, Help may be had frae hands of men, ‘Throw medicines to mak remeid ; For harms of body, hands, or heid, The pottingars will purge the pains; But all the members are at feid, Quhair that the law of luve remains, _As Tantalus in watter stands, To stanche his thristy appetyte, Bewailing body, heid, and hands, The river feis him im dispyte, Sae does my lusty lady qwhyte, She fleis the place where I repair : To hungry men is smal delyte To twitch the meit, and eit nae mair. The nar the flame, the hetter fyre, The mair I pyne, zet I persew, The mair enkendlis my disyre, Frae I behald her heavenly hew; Pure Piramus himself he slew, Made saul and body to dissaver, He diet but anes, farwel, adiew, I daylie die, and zet dies never. Zit Jason did enjoy Medea, And Theseus gat his Adriane, Dido dissaved was with Enea, And Demophoy his lady wan; Gif women trowd sic traytors than, For till enjoy the fruits of luve, Quhy wald ze slay zour saikles man. Quha never mynds for to remuve. Thoeht ferss Achil, that worthie knicht, Was slain for luve, the suthe to say, Leander on a stormy nicht Diet fleitand on the billous gray; "SSITIMNVAL-HLNON ISNIVOV DNINDIZANI SNVEI GINW JHL THE EVERGREEN. 937 Thocht Troyalus he langourt ay, Still waitand for his luve’s return, Had not sic pyne (thairs was but play) As daylie does my body burn. As pol to pylatts does appeir Far brichtar than the stars about, Sae does zour visage shine as cleir As rose amang the raskal rout ; War Paris leivand now, bot dout, And had the golden ball to serve, I wate he wald sune wail zou out, And leif baith Venus and Minerve. Now paper pas, and at her speir, Gif pleise her prudence to imprint it ? My faithfull heart I send it heir, In signe of paper I present it; « Wald God my body war fornent it, That I micht serve hir grace bot glammer, To be hir knaif I am contentit, Or smallest varlet of her chammer. Quod King HENRY STEWART. CUPID QUARELD FOR HIS TYRANIE, BLINDNES, AND INJUSTICE. Qorome sould I wyt for my mischance, But Cupid, king of variance, Thy court, without considerance, Quhen I it knew, Or evir made the observance, Richt sair I rew. Thou and thy law ar instruments Of diverss inconveniments ; Thy service mony sair repents, Knawing the quarrell, Quhen body, fame and substance shents, And saul in perel. Quhat is thy manrent but mischeif, Sturt, anger, grunching, yre and greif, Ii lyfe, and langour bot releife Of wounds sae wan, Displisour, pain, and hie repreife Of God and man. Thou luves all them that loudest leis, And follows fastest them that fleis ; Thou lichtlies all trew properties Of luve express, And marks quhen neir a styme thou seis, F And hits begess. Blind buk! but at the bound thou shutes, And them forbeirs that the rebutes ; Thou ryves thair hearts ay frae the rutes Quilk ar thy awin, And cures them that cares not three cutes To be misknawn. Thou art in friendship with thy fae, And to thy best friends fremit ay, Thou fleims all faithful men thee frae Of stedfast thocht, Regarding nane but them perfay That cures the nocht. Thou chirreiss them that with thee chyds, And banniess them with thee abyds: Thou hes thy horn ay in thair syds That cannot flie ; Thay furder warst in thee confyds, I say for me. — Quod ALEX. SCOT. THE AULD MAN’S INVEIGHING AGAINST MOUTH-THANKLESS, Avyz agit man twyce fourty zeirs, After the haly days of Zule, I hard him carp amang the freirs, Of order gray, makand grit dule, Richt as he war a furious fule ; Aft-tymes he sicht, and said Alace ! Be Claud my care may nevir cule, That I servt evir Mouth-thankless. Throch ignorance, and folly, zouth, My preterit tyme I wald ueir spair, Plesance to put into that mouth, Till aige said, Fule, let be thy fare. And now my heid is quhyt and liair, For feiding of that fowmart face, Quhairfor I murn baith late and air, That I servt evir Mouth-thankless. Silver and gold that I micht get Beisands, brotches, robes and rings, Frelie to gife, I wald nocht let, To pleise the mulls attour all things. ’ Right as the swan for sorrow sings, Before her deid a little space, Richt sae do 1, and my hands wrings, That I servt evir Mouth-thankless. Bettir it were a man to serve With honour brave beneath a sheild, Nor her to pleis, thocht thou sould sterve, That will not luke on the in eild, 238 THE EVERGREEN. Frae that thou has nae hair to heild Thy heid frae harming that it hes, Quhen Pen and purse and all ar peild, Tak then a meis of Mouth-thankless. It may be in example sene, The grund of truth wha understude, Frae in thy bag thou beirs thyne een,’ Thou gets nae grace but for thy gude, At Venus closet, to conclude, Call ze not this a cankert case : Now God help and the haly rude, And keip all men frae Mouth-thankless. O brukil zouth in tyme behald, And in thy heart thir words gae graif, Or thy complexion gather cauld, Amend thy miss, thy self to saif, The bliss abune gif thou wald haif, And of thy gilt remit and grace. All this I hard an auld man raif, After the zule, of Mouth-thankless. Quod KENNEDY. THE SOUTAR DESCRYVIT BY THE TAILZIOR. Trou leis loun, thou leis, thou leis, Zone are soutars that thou seis, Kneiland full lawly on thair kneis, Thair gods till adorn. Be Saint Girnega, that grim ghaist, To hale ther hairnesses on haist, Of moltin tauch thay tak a test On Monandays at morn. To hald them halesome at the heart, Some of fat ulie spews a quart, Uthers a pynt for thair awn part, Of foul soutars blek, Thus sum sits, and sum sews, Sum byts the birs, sum uly spews, And he keips ay best his kews, Spouts in his nichbour’s nek. Of tauch or aly when they want, Sir Girnega will give a gant, And bok a pynt at ilka pant, And dr— them roset rowth. Wald man and wyf all do as 1, When eir we saw them we sould cry, Ty on them, fich! and fy! fy! fy! ‘They fyte the wind in trowth. (2) Makes use of spectacles. THE SOUTAR’S ANSWER TO THE TAILZIOR. Fase clatterand kensy, kuckold knaif, Blasphemand baird in thy backbyting, Of me thou sall an answer haif, Fumart cum forth, and face my flyting, Warse than a warlo in thy wryting ; Thou sathans seid ay set to evil, Mandrag, memerkyn, mismade myting, I sall the conjure lyk the devil. Fy on the taylzior never trew, Frae claith weil can thou cleik a clout, Of stomoks stown baith red and blew, And bag fou anes thou bore about. They followt thee with cry and shout, Hey, hald the thief that staw the claith ; Thou wilt be hangt, haif thou nae dout, For mony presumptous forsworn aith. Amang the wyves it sall be witten Thou was ane knakat in the way, For lousy seims that thou hast bitten, Thy gumes ar giltin grein and gray; Thy couch is on a sonk of strae, Peild prick-louse of a pudding price, Breik boutcher on a suny brae ; Wae worth thee, wirryar of guhyt lyce. Thou zeid with elwand, sheir and thymbill, Full mony a day seikand thy craft ; For halfpenies thy hand zeid nimble, Grit blads and bitts thou staw full aft ; Quha delt with thee they wer full daft, For on thy back, as all men kens, Were broken mony a gude ax shaft, For wrangus geir of uther mens. Thy wyfe scho wont a man she gat Of thee, quhen that thou was weil brankit, And scho gat but ane cur knakat, A foul taid carle, all tailzior shankit. For clais that thou mismade and mankit, Thou dar not dwell wher thou was born; Zet afterwart thou sall be hankit Betwixt Kirkaldy and Kingorne. Quod STEWART Betwix twa tods a crawing cok, Betwix twa friers a maid in her smok, Betwix twa cats a ious, Betwix twa tayiziors a lous ; Schaw me, gude sir, not as a stranger, Quh Ik of thir four’s in gritest danger P THE EVERGREEN. 239 ANSWER, Foxis ar fell at crawing coks, Friers are fers at maids in thair smoks, Cats ar cautelus in taking myce, Tailziors ar tyrrans in killing lyce. ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF LIFE AND FEAR OF DEATH, oR A LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF THE POETS. Ovr pleasance heir is all vain glory, This warld false but transatory ; The flesh is bruckle, the feynd is slie, Timor mortis conturbat me. The state of man dois change and vary, Now sound, now seik, now blyth, now sary, Now dansand merry, now lyk to die, Timor, §e. No state in all the eard stands sicker, But as the west wind wavis the wicker, Sae wanes this warldly vanity, Timor, &e. Doun to the death gois all estates, Princes, prelates, and potentates, Baith rich and pure of all degree, Timor, §c. He taks the knichts into the feild, Enarmed under helm and sheild, The victor is at all mellie, Timor, §e. That strang invynsable tyrrand Taks, on the muther’s breist suckand, The babe, full of benignitie, Timor, &e. He taks the campion in the stour, The captain closd within the towir, The lady in bowre, full of bewtie, Timor, §e. He spares no lord for his pusiance, Nor clerk for his intelligence ; His awful] strake may no man flee, Timor, Fe. Art magicians and astrologs, Rethoris, logitians, theologs, Get help frae nae conclusions slee, Timor, 5c. Jn medecyne the most practitians, Leiches, surrigians, and phesitians, Themselves frae death may not supplie, Timor, Se. I see the makkars, mang the laif, Plays here thair padzians, syne gois to graif’; Not spairt is thair sweit facultie, Timor, Sc. He has done petously devore, The nobil Chawser? of makkars flowir, The Monk of Berry and Gower, all thre, Timor, §e. The gude Sr Hew of Eglintoun, Etrick, Heriot, and Winton, He has tane out of this countrey, Timor, &e. That scorpion fell has done insek, Maister John Clerk and James Affleck, Frae ballat making and tragedy, Timor, §c. Holand and Barbor he has bereft, Allace! that he not with us left Sr Mungo Lockhart of the Lie, Timor, &c. Clerk of Tranent eik he has tane, That made the aventers of Sir Gawane, Sr Gilbert Gray endit has he, Timor, §e. He has Blind Hary and Sandy Trail Slain with his shot of mortall hail, Quhilk Patrick Johnson micht not flie, Timor, §c. He has reft Mersar his indyte, That did in luve so lyflie wryte, So schort, so quick, of sentens hie, Timor, &e. He has tane Rowl of Aberdene, And gentle Rowl of Corstorphyne ; Twa bettir fallows did no man sie, Timor, Fe. In Dumfermling he has tane Broun, With gude Mr. Robert Henryson ; Sr John the Ross imbraist has he, Timor, Fe. (1) *Tis worthy of natice how generously Mr. Dunbar pays his tespects to the memory of the renowned Chaucer, Gower, and Lidgate, before ae names bis own country poets. 240 THE EVERGREEN. And he has now tane, last of aw, The gentle Stobo and Quintene Schaw, Of quhome all wichts has grit pitie, Timor, Fe. And Mr. Walter Kennedy In poynt of death lyes werely ; Grit rewth it wer that so sould be, Timor, &c. Sen he has all my brethren tane, He will not let me leive alane ; On forss I maun his nixt prey be, Timor, Fe. Sen for the death remeid is none, Best is that we for death dispone ; Aftir our death, that live may we, Timor mortis conturbat me. POSTSCRIPT. Suthe I forsie, if spae-craft had, Frae hethir-muirs sall ryse a Lad, Aftir twa centries pas, sall he Revive our fame and memorie. Then sall we flourish Evir Grene; All thanks to carefull Bannantyne, And to the Patron! kind and frie, Quha lends the Lad baith them and me. Far sall we fare, baith eist and west, Owre ilka clyme by Scots possest ; Then sen our warks sall nevir die, Timor mortis non turbat me. Quod DUNBAR, THE WIFE OF AUCHTERMUCHTY. In Auchtermuchty dwelt a man, An husband, as I heard it tawld, Quha weil coud tipple out a can, And nowther luvit hungir nor cauld, Till anes it fell upon a day, He zokit his plewch upon the plain ; But schort the storm wald let him stay, Sair blew the day with wind and rain. (1) Patron, Mr. William Carmichael, brother to the Karl ot Hynd- ford, who lent A.B. that curious MSS., collected by Mr. George Baonantyne, Anno 1568, from whence these Poems are pnnted. He lowsd the plewch at the land’s end, And dralfe his owsen hame at ene ; Quhex he came in he blinkit ben, And saw his wyfe baith dry and clene, Set beikand by a fyre full bauld, Suppand fat sowp, as I heard say: The man being weary, wet and cauld, Betwein thir twa it was nae play. Quod he, Quhair is my horses’ corn, My owsen has nae hay nor strae? Dame, ye maun to the plewch the morn, T sall be hussy gif I may. This seid-time it proves cauld and bad, And ze sit warm, nae troubles se; The morn ze sall gae with the lad, And syne zeil ken what drinkers drie. “Gudeman, quod scho, content am I To tak the plewch my day about, Say ye rule weil the kaves and ky, And all the house baith in and out: And now sen ze haif made the law, Then gyde all richt and do not break ; They sicker raid that neir did faw, Therefore let naithing be neglect. But sen ye will hussyskep ken, First ye maun sift and syne sall kned; And ay as ze gang butt and ben, Luke that the bairns dryt not the bed: And lay a saft wysp to the kiln, We haif a dear farm on our heid; And ay as ze gang forth and in, Keip weil the gaislings frae the gled. The wyfe was up richt late at ene, I pray luck gife her ill to fair, Scho kirn’d the kirn, and skumt it clene, Left the gudeman but bledoch bair: Then in the morning up scho gat; And on hir heart laid hir disjune, And pat as mekle in hir lap, As micht haif serd them baith at nune. Says Jok, Be thou maister of wark, And thou sall had, and I sal ka, Ise promise thee a gude new sark, Either of round claith or of sma. Scho lowst the ousen aught or nyne, And hynt a gad staff in her hand : Up the Gudeman raise aftir syne, And saw the wyfe had doue command. He draif the gaislings forth to feid, Thair was but sevensum of them aw, And by thair comes the greidy gled, And lickt up five, left him but twa: TIIE EVERGREEN. $41 Then out he ran in all his maue, How sune he hard the gaislings cry ; But than or he came in again, The kaves brak louse and suckt the ky. The kaves and ky met in the loan, The man ran with a rung to red, Than by came an illwilly roan, And brodit his buttoks till they bled : Syne up he tuke a rok of tow, And he sat down to sey the spinning ; He loutit doun our neir the low, Quod he, This wark has ill beginning. The leam up throu the lum did flow, The sute tuke fyre it flyed him than, Sum lumps did fall and burn his pow; I wat he was a dirty man; Zit he gat water in a pan, Quherwith he slokend out the fyre : To soup the house he syne began, To had all richt was his desyre. Hynd to the kirn then did he stoure, And jumblit at it till he swat, Quhen he had rumblit a full lang hour, The sorrow crap of butter he gat ; Albeit uae butter he could get, Zit he was cummert with the kirn, And syne he het the milk sae het, That ill a spark of it wad zyrne. ‘Then ben thair cam a greidy sow, I trow he cund hir litle thank : For in scho shot hir mekle mow, And ay scho winkit, and ay scho drank. He tuke the kirnstaff be the schank, And thocht to reik the sow a rout, The twa left gaislings gat a clank, That straik dang baith thair harns out. Then he bure kendling to the kill, But scho start all up in a low, Quhat eir he heard what eir he saw, That day he had nae will to * * Then he zied to take up the bairns, Thocht to have fund them fair and clene ; The first that he gat in his arms, Was a bedirtin to the ene. The first it smellt sae sappylie, To touch the lave he did not grein ; The deil cut aft thair hands, quoth he, That cramd zour kytes sae strute zestrein. He traild the foul sheits down the gate, Thocht to haif wush them on a stane, The burn was risen grit of spait, Away ftae him the sheits has tane. Then up he gat, on a know-heid, On hir to cry, on hir to schout ; Scho hard him, and scho hard him not, But stoutly steird the stots about. Scho draif the day unto the nicht, Scho lowst the plewch, and syne came hame; Scho fand all wrang that sould bene richt, I (row the man thocht mekle schame. Quoth he, My office I forsake, For all the hale days of my lyfe; For I wald put a house to wraik, Had I been twenty days gudewyfe. Quoth scho, Weil mot ze bruke your place, For truely I sall neir accept it. Quoth he, Feynd fa the lyar’s face, But zit ze may be blyth to get it. ' Then up scho gat a mekle rung, And the gudeman made to the dore, Quoth he, Dame, I sal hald my tung, For and we fecht I’ll get the war. Quoth he, When I forsuke my plewch, I trow I but forsuke my skill : Then I will to my plewch again; For I and this house will nevir do weil. Quod MOFFAT, THE BORROWSTOUN MOUS, AND THE LANDWART MOUS. Easop relates a tale weil worth renown, Of twa wie myce, and they war sisters deir, Of quhom the elder dwelt in Borrowstoun, The zunger scho wond upon land weil neir, Richt solitair beneth the buss and breir, Quhyle on the corns and wraith of labouring men, As outlaws do, scho maid an easy fen. ‘The rural mous, unto the winter tyde, Thold cauld and hunger aft, and grit distress : The uther mous that in the burgh can byde, Was gilt-bruther, and made a frie burges, Tol frie, and without custom mair or less, And friedom had to gae quhair eir scho list, Among the cheis and meil in ark or kist. Ane tyme when scho was full, and on fate fair, Scho tuke in mynd her sister up on-land, And langt to ken her weilfair and her cheir, And se quhat lyf scho led under the wand: Bare-fute alane, with pykstaff in her’ hand, As pilgrim pure scho past out of the toun To seik her sister, baith in dale and doun, 242 Throw mony wilsum ways then couth scho walk Throw mure and moss throwout bank, busk and breir, Frae fur to fur, cryand frae balk to balk, Cum furth to me, my awin sweit sister deir, Cry, peip anes,—with that the mous couth heir, And knew her voce, as kindly kinsmen will, Scho hard with joy, and furth scho came her till. Thair hearty cheir was plesand to be sene, Quhen thir twa sisters kind with blythness met, Quhilk aften syss was shawin them twa betwein ; For quhyls they leuch, and quhyls for joy they grat, Quhyls sweitly kist, and quhyls in arms they plet - And thus they fure, till sobirt was thair meid, Syne fute for fute they to thair chalmer zeid. As I hard say, it was a semple wane Of fog and fern, full fecklesly was maid, A silly sheil, under a eard-fast stane, Of quhilk the entrie was not hie nor braid ; Into the same they went bot mair abaid, Withouten fyre or candle birnand bricht, For commonly sic pykers luves not licht. Quhen thus wer lugit thir twa silly myce, The zungest sister to her butrie hyed, And brocht furth nuts and peis insteid of spyce, And sic plain cheir as scho had her besyde ; The burges mous sae dynk and full of pryde, Sayd, Sister myne, is this zour daylie fude ? Quhy not, quod scho, think ze this mess not gude? Na, be my saul, methink it but a scorn. Madame, quod scho, ye be the mair to blame : My moder said, aftir that we wer born, That ze and I lay baith within her wame; T keip the richt auld custom of my dame And of my syre,—livand in povertie, For lands and rents nane is our propertie. My sister fair, quod scho, haif me excust, ‘his dyet rude and I can neir accord ; With tender meit my stomock still is ust, For quhy, I fair as weil as ony lord: Thir withert nuts and peis, or they be bord, Will brek my chafts, and mak my teith full sklender, Quhilk has bein ust before to meit mair tender. Weil sister, weil then, quoth the rural mous, Gif that ze pleis, sic things as ze se heir, Baith meit and drink, and herbouray and hous, Sall be zour awin, will ze remain all zeir, Ze sall it haif with blyth and hairtly cheir ; And that sould mak the messes that ar rude, Still amang friends richt tender, sweit and gude. THE EVERGREEN. Quhat plesans, is in feists mair dilicate, The quhilk ar given with a gloumanu brow ? A gentle heart is better recreate With usage blyth, than seith to him a cow; Ane modicum is better, zeill allow, Sae that gude-will be carver at the dess, Than a thrawn vult, and mony a spycie mess. For all this moral doctrine, ticht and soun, The burges mous had little will to sing, But hevely scho kest her visage doun, For all the daintys scho couth till her bring ; Zit at the last scho said, half in hie thing, Sister, this vittell and zour royal feist May weil suffice for sic a rural beist. Let be this hole, and cum unto my place, I sall zou schaw, by gude experience, That my Gude-Fryday’s better than zour Pase, And a dish licking worth zour hale expence ; Houses I haif enow of grit defence, Of cat, nor fall, nor trap, I haif nae dreid ! This said,—that was convinced,—and furth they zeid. In skugry ay throw rankest gras and corn, And wonder slie full prively they creip: The eldest was the gyde, and went beforn, The zunger to her futesteps tuke gude keip: On nicht they ran, and on the day did sleip, Till on a morning, or the lavrock sang, They fand the toun, and blythly in couth gang. Not far frae thyne, on till a worthy wane, This burges brocht them sune quhair they sould ba, Without God-speid,—thair herboury was tane Intil a spence, wher vittel was plenty, Baith cheis and butter on lang skelfs richt hie, With fish and flesh enough baith fresh and salt, And pokks full of grots, barlie, meil, and malt. Quhen afterwart they wer disposd to dyne, Withouten grace they wush and went to meit, On every dish that cuikmen can divyne, Muttone and beif cut out in telzies grit, Ane erles fair thus can they counterfitt, Except ane thing,—they drank the watter cleir Instead of wyne, but zit they made gude cheir. With blyth upcast and merry countenance, The elder sister then speird at her gest, Gif that scho thocht be reson differance Betwixt that chalmer and her sary nest ; Zea dame, quoth scho? but how lang will this lest ? For evermair 1 wate, and langer to. Gif that be trew ze ar at eise, quoth scho, THE EVERGREEN, 243 To eik the cheir, m plenty furth scho brocht A plate of grots, and a large dish of meil, A threfe of caiks, I trow scho spairt them nocht, Abundantlie about her did scho deill ; Furmage full fyne scho brocht insteid of geil, A candle quhyt out of a coffer staw, Insteid of spyce, to creish thair teith with a. Thus made they mirry, quhyle they micht nae mair, And hail Zule! hail! they all cryt up on hie. But after joy ther aftertymes comes cair, And trouble after grit prosperitie : ’ Thus as they sat in all thair solitie, The spens came on them with keis in his hand, Apent the dore, and them at dinner fand. They tarriet not to wash, ze may suppose, But aff they ran, quha micht the formost win; The burges had a hole, and in scho gaes, Her sister had nae place to hyde her in; To se that silly mous it was grit sin, Sae disalait and will of all gude reid, For very feir scho fell in swoun, neir deid, But, as Jove wald, it fell a happy case, The spensar had nae laisar lang to byde Nowthir to force, to seik, nor skar nor chese, But on he went, and kest the dore upwyde ; This burges then this pasage weil has spyd, Out of her hole scho came, and cryt on hie, How! sister fair, ery, peip, quhair eir thou be. The landwart mous lay flatlings on the ground, And for the deid scho was full sair dreidand, For to her heart strak mony a waefull stound, As in a fever trymblit scho fute and hand ; And when her sister in sic plicht her fand, For very pitie scho began to greit ; Syne comfort gaif, with words as huny sweit. Quhy ly ze thus? Ryse up, my sister deir, Cum to zor meit, this perell is owre-past. The uther answert, with a hevy cheir, I may nocht eit sae sair I am agast : I lever had this fourtie lang days fast, With watter kail, and gnaw dry beins and peis, Then haif zour feist with this dreid and waneise. With tretie fair, at last, scho gart her ryse, To burde they went, and down togither sat ; But skantly had they drunken anes or twyce, Quhen in came hunter Gib, the joly cat, And bad God-speid—The burges up scho gat And till her hole scho fled lyk fyre frae flint ; but badrans be the back the uther hint. Frae fute to fute he kest her to and frae, Quhyls up, quhyls doun, als tait as ony kid; Quhyls wald he let her ryn beneth the strae, Quhyls wald he wink and play with her bukhid; Thus to the silly mous grit harm he did; Till at the last, throw fair fortune and hap, Betwixt the dressour and the wall scho crap. Syne up in haste behind the pannaling, Sae hie scho clam, that Gibby might not get her, And be the cluks sae craftylie can hing, Till he was gane, her cheir was all the better. Syne down scho lap, quhen ther was nane to let her. Then on the burges mous alloud did ery, Sister, fairweil, heir I thy feist defy. Wer I anes in the cot that I cam frae, For weil nor wae I sould neir cum again. With that scho tuke her leif, and furth can gae, Quhyles throw the riggs of corn, quhyles ow1e the plain, Quhen scho was furth and frie, her heart was fain, And merrylie she linkit owre the mure. Needless to tell how afterwart scho fure. But this in schort she reikt her eisy den, As warm as on suppose it was not grit, Full beinly stuffit it was baith butt and ben, With peis, and nuts, and beins, and ry, and quheit When eir scho lykt scho had eneuch of meit, In eise and quiet, withouten sturt and dreid, But till her sister’s feist nae mair she zeid. THE MORALITIE. Heir ze may find, my friends, gif ze tak heid Unto this fable, a gude Moralitie, As fitches minglit are with noble seid, Sae interwoven is adversitie With eardly joy, so that nae state is free, Withoutten trouble and aft grit vexation, And namelie thay that wrestle up maist hie, And not contentit ar of small possesion. Blissit be symple lyfe, withoutten dreid, Blissit be sober feist in quietie ; Quha has eneuch of nae mair has he neid, Thocht it be litle into quantitie, Aboundance grit and blind prosperitie Maks aftentymes a very ill conclusion : The sweitest lyfe therefore in this countrie is sickerness and peace with small possesion, 244 THE EVERGREEN. O wanton man quhilk uses ay to feid Thy wame, and maks it maist thy God to be, Luke to thyself, I warn thee weil on deid; For the cat cums, and to the mous has ee, Quhat does avail thy feist and ryelty, With dreidfull hairt, and endless tribulation. Therefore best thing on eard, I say for me, It is a merry mynd and small possesion. Freind, thy awin fyre, thocht it be but ane gleid, Will warm the weil, and is worth gold to thee; And Salamon the sage, says (gif ze reid), “ Under the Hevin I can nocht better se, Then ay be blyth, and leif in honestie.” Quhairfore I may conclude me with this reason, Of eardly bliss it beirs the best degree, Blythness of hairt in peace with small possesion. Quod MR. R. HENRYSON. ADVICE TO HIS ZOUNG KING. PrEcELAND prince, haffing prerogatyve, Of royal richt in this region to ring, I thee beseik against thy lust to stryve, And luve thy Gop aboif all uther thing, And him implore now in thy zeirs zing To grant thee grace thy subjects to defend, Quhilk he has given to thee in governing In peice and honour to thy lyves end. And sen thou stands in sic a tender age, That nature zit to thee wisdome denys ; Therefore submit unto thy council sage, And in all manner work as they devyse : But ower all things keip thee frae covetyse, To princely honour gif thou wald pretend, Be liberal ay, then sall thy fame upryse, And win thee honour to thy lyfes end. Gif that thou gives dilyver quhen thou hechts, And nevir let thy hand thy hecht delay ; For then thy hecht and thy diliverance fechts, Far bettir war thy hecht had biden away ; He awis me nocht that schortly says me nay ; But he that hechts, and causes me attend, Syne gives me not, I may repute him ay, Ane untrue dettor to my lyves end. Better is the gut in feit, than cramp in hands, The falt of feit with horse thou may support ; Bat quhen thy hands are bundin up with bands, Nae surrigiane may cure them, nor comfort ; But thou them open payntit as a port, And freily give sic gudes as God dois send, Then may they mend within a season schort, And win the honnour to thy lyfes end. Give every man aftir his faculty, And with discration still dispone thy geir ; Give not to fules, and cunning men ower slie, Tho fules sould roun and flattir in thine eir, Give not to them that dois thy saws sweir, Give to them that are true and constant kend ; Then ower all quhair thy fame they sall forth beir And win the honnour to thy lyves last end. Sen thou art heid, thy leiges members all, Given by God unto thy governance, Luke that thou rule the rute originall, That throw thy falt no limb make other grivance. For quha cannot himself gyde and advance? Quhy suld a provence upon him depend, To gyde himself that has nae purveance, With peice and honnour to his lyves last end? Dreid God, do council, of thy leiges leil Reward gude deid, punish all wrang and vyce Thoch that thy saw be sicker as thy seil, Fleme frawd and be deffender of justice. Honour all time thy noble genterice, © Obey the kirk; gif thou does miss, amend, Sae sall thou win a place in Paradyce, And mak on eard an honnorable end. Quod HEN, STEWART. ON CONSCIENS. QuHEN doctors preicht to win the joy eternal, Into the heavens, aftir our Lord’s ascens They justice taucht bot bud or favour carnal, And caust be punisht fleshly vy! offens, Gave benefice to clerks of Consciens ; And sae the feynd had sic envy thereon. Away he gart frae Consciens scrape the Cou And then behind was of4“"""Sciens. Oy may Then were allg” 2 Sci siens sune promovit, And them 4° ap “study maist apply : But zit the fey 9 sseltd was comuvit, And gart frae sciens scrape away the Sci. Sae only Ens was left by his slie envy Quhilk ay suld be for gold and geir expont, -’ Quhairby benefices are now dispont But Consciens or Sciens to sell and buy. THE EVERGREEN, 245 O sovyaign Lord, and maist excellent King, Gar put the Con and Sci again to Ens, And rule thy realm with justice in thy ring ; Give benifice to clerks of Consciers, With truth and honour to stand thy defence : Sae in thy court that Consciens be clene, For vyle corruption or thy days has bene, Against justice, with uthir great offens. Quod STEWART. ON THE CREATION AND PARADYCE LOST. Gop by his Word his wark began, To form this eard and hevin for man, The sie and watter deip ; The sun, the mune, and stars sae briclit, The day devydit from the nicht, Thair courses just-to keip ; The beists that on the grund do muve, And fishes in the sie; Fowls in the air to flie abuve, Of ilk kind formed He: Sum creiping, sum fleiting, Sum fleing in the air, Sae heichly, sae lichtly In muving heir and thair. Thir warks of gret magnificence, Prefytit by His providence, According to His will: Nixt He made man; to gife him glore, Did with His image him decore, Gaife Paradyse him till ; Into that garden hevinly wrocht, With pleasures mony a one, The beists of every kynd wer broeht, Thair names he suld expone; These kenning and nameing, As them he list to call, For eising and pleising Of man, subdued them all. In heavenly joy man sae possest, To be alane God thocht not best, Made Eve to be his maik ; Bad them increass and multiplie, And of the fruit frae every tree Thair pleasure they suld take, Except the tree of gude and ill ‘’hat in the midst dois stand, Forbad that they suld cum thertill, Or twitch it. with thair hand; ~ Lest luking and plucking, Baith they and all thair seid, Seveirly ; awsteirly, Suld die without remeid. Now Adam and his lusty Wife In Paradyce leidand thair lyfe, With pleasures infineit ; Wanting nae thing suld do them ease, The beists obeying them to pleise, As they could wish in spreit : Behald the serpent sullenlie Envyand man’s estate, With wicket craft and subtiltie Eve temptit with desait ; Nocht feiring, but speiring, Qulhy scho tuke not, her till, Tn using and chusing The fruit of gude and ill? Commandit us, scho said, the Lord, Noways therto we suld accord, Undir eternall pain; But grantit us full libertie To eit the fruit of every tree, Except that tree in plain. No, no, nocht sae, the serpent said, Thou art desaifet therin ; Eit ze therof, ze sall be made In knawledge lyke to him, In seiming and deiming Of everything aricht, As dewlie, as trewly, As ze wer gods of micht. Eve thus with these fals words allurit, Eit of the fruit, and syne procurit Adam the same to play: Behald, said scho, how precious, Sae dilicate and delicious, Besyde knawlege for ay: Adam, pult up in wardly glore, Ambition and high pryd, Eit of the fruit; allace therfore, And sae they baith did slyd; Neglecting, forzetting, The eternall God’s command, Quha scurged and purged Them quyt out of that land. Quhen they had eiten of that fruit, Of joy then war they destitute, And saw their bodys bare ; Annon they past with all thair speid, Of leives to mak themselves a weid, To cleith them, was thair care : 246 THE EVERGREEN. During the tyme of innocence, Nae sin or schame they knew, Frae tyme they gat experience, Unto ane buss they drew, Abyding and hyding, As God suld not them see, Quha spyed, and eryed, Adam, quhy hyds thou thee ? I being naikit, Lord, throu feir, For schame I durst not to compeir, And sae I did refuse. Had thou not eiten of the tree, That knawledge had not bein in thee, Nor zit nae sic excuse. The helper, Lord, thou gaife to me, Has cawsit me to transgress. Sayd scho, The serpent subtillie, Persuaded me nae less, Intreiting, be eiting, That we suld be perfyte, Me fylit, begylit ; In him lyes all the wyte. Jehove that evir juged richt, Bringing his justice to the licht, The serpent first did juge : Because the woman thou begylt, For evir thou sall be exylt, Said he, without refuge ; Betwixt her seid and thy offspring Nae peace nor rest sall be, And hir seid sall thy heid doun thring, ' For all thy subtiltie; Abhorred, deformed, Thou on thy breist sall gang, In feiding and leiding Thy lyfe the beists amang. The woman nixt, for her offence, Did of the Lord resave sentence : Her sorrow suld encrease, With wae and pain her childrene beir, Subdewt to man, under his feir, No libertie possess : For Adam’s falt he cursd the erth, That barrane it suld be, Without labour suld zield nae birth Of corns, nor herb, nor tree; Bot working and irking For evir suld remain, And being in doing, In erth returnd again. O cruel serpent venemous, Dispytful and seditious, The gruxd of all our care ; Thou fals-bound slave unto the devil, Thou first inventar of this evill Of bliss, quhilk made us bare; O devlish slave, did thou believe, Or hon had thou sie grace, Therby for evir thou micht live Abuve into that place: Thy grudging gat scrudging, And sae God lute the se, Desavers no cravers Of his reward suld be. O damty dame, with eirs bent That harkent to that fals serpent, Thy bains we may sair ban ; Without excuse thou art to blame, Thou justly has obtaint that name, The very wo of man: With teirs we may bewail and greit That wickit tyme and tyde, Quhen Adam was obligit to sleip, And thou tane off his syde. No sleiping bot weiping Thy seid has fund sensyne, Thy eiting and sweiting, Is turn’d to wo and pyn. Adam, thy part, quha can excuse, With knawlege thou that did abuse Thyne awn felicitie. The serpent his inventing fals, The woman’s sune consenting als, Was nocht sae wicketly. God did prefer thee to this day, And them subdewt to thee, Sae all that they culd mein or say, Suld not have moved thee To brecking, abjecting That hie command of lyfe Quhilk gydid, provydit The ay to live bot stryf. Behald the state that man was in, And als how it he tynt throw sin, And lost the same for ay ; Zet God his promise dois perform, Sent his Son of the Virgin born, Our ransome deir to pay. To that great God let us give glore, To us has bein sae gude, Quha be his grace did us restore, Quherof we were denude ; Not careing nor sparing His body to be rent, Redeiming, releiving Us quhen we wer all schent. Quod Stn RICHD- MAITLAND, OF LETHINGTOUN, KN AS AA AR SN AN WE Vallance THE DEVILS ADVIGE. (The Goldsmith.) LONDON. VIRTUE & 0? THY EVERGREEN, 247 THE DEVIL’S ADVICE To ALL AND SUNDRY OF HIS BEST FRIENDS. Tus nicht in sleip I was agast, Methocht the Deil was tempand fast People with aiths of crueltie, Sayand as throw the fair he past, Renunce zour God, and cum to me. Methocht, as he went forth the way, A Preist sweirt braid be God verry, Quhilk at the alter ressavit he : Thou art my clerk, the deil can say, Renunce thy creid, and cum to me. Then swore a Courtier of grit pryd, Be Chryst’s woundis bludy and wyd, And be his harmis was rent on tree. Then spak the deil hard him besyd, Renunce thy creid and cum to me. A Merchant as he geir did sell, Renuncit his part of heaven for hell: The Deil eryd, Welcome mot thou be, Thou sall be merchand for my sell, Renunce thy creid, and cum to me. A Goldsmith said, This goldis sae fyne, That all the warkmanship I tyne, The feind ressaife me, gif I lie: Think on, quod Nik, that thou art myne ; Renunce thy creid, and cum to me. A Tailzior said, In all this town, Be thair a bettir weil made gown, I gife me to the feynd all frie : Gramercy, tailzeor, said Mahoun, | Renunce thy creed, and cum to me. A Soutar said, In gude effeck, Nor I be hangit be the neck, Gif better butes of lether be : Fy, quoth the Deil, thou sawrs of blek, Gae clenge the clene, and cum to me. A Baxter said, I quat with God, And all his warks baith even and od, Gif fyner stuff ther neids to be: The Devil leuch, and gae him a nod, Renunce thy creid, and cum to me. The Fleshour swore be sacrament, And be the blude maist inocent, Neir fattir flesh man saw with ee: The Deil said, Hald on thy intent, Renunce thy creid, and cum to me. The Maltman says, I bliss forsake, And may the Deil of Hell me taik, Give ony better malt may be, And of this kill I haif inlaik : Says Sathan, Cum thy ways to me. A Browster swore the malt was ill, Baith reid and reikit on the kill, It will be nae ale worth a flie ; A boll will not sax gallons fill: Mahoun cryis, Cum and mask with me. The Smith he swore be rude and raip, Intill a gallows mot I gaip, Gif I ten days win pennies three : For laik of ale I water laip : Quod Nie, Thou’ll get far les with me. A Minstrel said, The feynd me ryve, Gif I do ocht but drink and yve. The Deil said, Hardly mot it be, Exerce that craft throu all thy lyfe, And thouill be sure to cum to me. A Dycer bad, with words of stryf, The Deil cum stick him with a knyf, But he kest up fair syces three : The Deil said, Endit is thy lyfe, Renunce thy creid, and cum to me. A Theif said, Ill that eir I chaip, Nor a stark woddy gar me gaip, But I in hell for geir wald be: The Deil said, Welcom in a raip, Gae lift a cow, and cum to me. The fish-wyves flet, and swore with granes, And to Auld Nick sauld flesh and banes, And gaif them with a schout on hie: The Deil cryd, Welcome all attaines, Sling by zour creils, and cum to me. Methocht the deils as blak as pik, Solisand were as beis thick, Ay tempand folk with ways slie, Rounand to Robin and to Dick, Renunce zour creid, and cum to me. Quod DUNBAR, 248 THE EVERGREEN, THE CLAITH-MERCHANT, oR, A Batiat maDE on Jonet Rui, Jean Vioxer, anp Anna Wuryt, BEING SLICHT WOMEN AND TAVERNERS. — OF collours cleir, Quha lykes to weir, Are mony sorts into this toun, Green, zellow, blew, And ilka hew, Baith Paris black, and Inglis broun ; Braw London sky, Quha lykes to buy, Colour de Roy is clene laid down, And Dunde gray This mony a day Ts lichtlyt baith be lad and loun. But stanch my fyking, And stryd my lyking, .\re seimly hews for simmer play ; Din dipt in zellow For ilka gude fallow, As Will of Quhyt-hauch bad me say ; I will not deny it To them that will buy it, For silver nane sall be said nay ; Ze neid not plense, _ It will not stenzie, Suppose ye weit it nicht and day. And I have Quhyt Of great delyt, And Violet quha lykes to weir, Weil wearand Reid Till ze be dead ; It sall not failzie, tak ze no feir. The Quhyt is gude, And richt weil lued, But zit the Reid is twice as deir : The Violet syne, Baith fresh and fyne, Sall serve ze hoseing for a zeir. The Quhyt is teuch, And fresh enouch, Saft as the silk, as all men seis. The Reid‘is bonny, And, socht be mony ; They hyve about the house lyke beis. My Violet saft, Quhen ye have coft, Will ply lyk satin to zour theis ; Sure be my witting : Not burnt in the litting, Suppose baith lads and limmers leis; Or thir thrie hews T haif left clews, To be our court-men winter weid, Weill twynt and smal, The best of them all May weir the claith for woul and threil; But in the wawk-mill, The wedder is ill: These are not drying days indeid ; And gif it be wat, I hecht for that, It tuggs in holes and gaes abreid. Zit its weil wawkit, Cardit and cawkit, As warm a weid as weir the dule, Weil wrocht in luims, With wobsters guims, Baith thick and nymble gaes the spule; Cottond and shorn, The mair it be worn, Ze will find zour sell the greater fule, Zit bony forsuith, Cum buyit in my buith, To mak ze garments against zule. Thir mixt togither, Zour sell may consider, Quhat fyner colour can there be fund, And namely for breiks, Gif ony man seiks, Heill purchace the pair ay for a pund: Abeit it be skant, Nae wowars sall want, That to my bidding will be bund, Weil may they bruik it, They neid not luke it, But grape it mirklyns be the grund. Our court men heir, Has made my claith deir, Raisd it twall-penies of ilka ell, Zit is my claith sure, Best sadles to cure, Suppose the hale session shoud ryd themsel. The Violet certain, Was maid at Dumbartain ; The Reid was wawkit at Dunkell: The Quhyt has bein dicht In mony mirk nicht, But tyme and place I cannot weil tell. THE EVERGREEN. 249 Now gif ye work wyslic, And shape it precyslie ; The cllwand * * * Gif the bys be wyde, Gar lay it on syde; And say ze cannot weil gae wrang ; _And for the lang list, It wald be sewd fast, And care not by how deip ze gang; But want ze quhyt threid, Ye will not cum speid, Black wuluway maun be zour sang. And tho’ it be auld, And twenty tymes sald, Zit will the freprie ot mak ze fain, With oyls to renew it, And mak it weil hewt, And gar it glans lyk silk in grain; Syne with the sleik stains, That servis for the nains, They raise the pyle quhen it falls plain: With mony braid aith, We sell this same claith, To gar the buyers cum fast again. Now is my wob wrocht, And arlet and bocht, Cum lay the payment in my hand ; And gif my claith felzie, Zeis not pay a melzie, The wob sall be at zour command. The market is thrang, And will not last lang; They buy fast in the border land; Abeit I haif tinsel ; Zit maun I tak handsell, To pay my buith-mail and my stand. My claith wald be lude Be great men of gude, Gif lads and lowns wald let me be, Zit maun I excuse them; How can I refuse them, Sen all men’s penny maks him frie f The best and gay ot, My self tuke a sey ot, A wylie-coat I will nocht lie, Quhilk did me nae harm, But held my cost warm, A symple merchant ye may see. This far to relive me, That nane may reprive me, In Jedbrugh at the justiceair, This sang of thrie lasses Was made abune glasses, That tyme that they wer tapsters thair. The first was a Quhyt, A lass of delyte : The Violet was baith gude and fair : Keip Reid frae all skaith. Scho is wordie them baith ; Sae to be short [ say nae mair. Quod SEMPLE. THE LYON AND THE MOUS. In midst of June, that jolly season sweit, Quhen Phebus fair, with his warm beams sae bricht, Had dryit frae dale and dawn the dewy weit, And all the land made with his leiming licht, In a gay morn, betwixt mid-day and nicht, I raise and put all slouth and sleip on syde, And went allone untill a forrest wyde. Sweit was the smell of flowirs, blae, quhyt, und reid, The noyse of birds was maist melodious, The bobing bews bluimd braid abune my heid, The ground growand with grass maist verderous, Of all pleisance that place was plenteous, With sweit odour and birds saft hermonie, The morning myld increasd the mirth and glee. The roses reid arrayt the rone and ryss, The primrose and the purpure violae ; To heir it was a poynt of paradyce, ‘ Sic mirth the mavis and the merle couth mae; __ The blosoms blyth brak up on bank and brae, The smell of herbs, and the wing-minstrell ery, Contending quha sould haif the victory. Me to conserve frae the sun’s birning heit, Undir the schadow of an awthorn grene, T leant me doun amangs the flowirs sweit, Syn made a eross, and closed baith myne een ; On sleip I fell amang the bewis bein, And in my dream methocht came throw the schaw The fairest man that eir before I saw. His goun was of a claith as quhyte as milk, His chymers wer of chamelet purpure broun, His hude of scarlet, borderit round with silk In hekle ways, untill his girdle doun ; Of the auld fassoun was his bonnat roun, His heid was quhyt, his een was grene and gray, With lokar hair, quhilk owre his shulder lay. KK 250 THE EVERGRIEN, A row of paper in his hand he bair, A swan’s quhyt pen stickand beneth his eir, Ane inkhorn with a pretty gilt pennair, A bag of silk, all at his belt he weir ; Thus was he gudely grathit in his geir, Of stature large, and with a feirfull face, To quher I lay he came with sturdy pace. And sayd, God-speid, my son; and I was fain Of that couth word, and of his company ; With reverence I salutet him again, Welcome, fader; and he set doun by me. Displeis zou not, my gude master, tho’ I Demand zour birth, zour facultie and name, Quhat brings ze hier, and quher ze dwell at hame P My sen, he sayd, I am of gentle blude, My natall land is Rome, withouten nay, And in that toun first to the schulis I zied, And studyt sciens ther full mony a day, And now my winning is in heaven for ay ; Esope I hecht, my wryting and my wark, Ts couth and kend to many a cunnand clark. O Maister Esope, poet and laureat, God wate ze are full deir welcome to me; Are ze not he that all thir fables wrat, Quhitk in effect, altho they fenziet be, Are full of prudence and moralitie ? Fair son, he sayd, I am the samyne man. My flichterand heart I wate grew mirry than. Esope, said I, my maister venerable, I heartily zou beseik, for cheritie, Ze wald dedene to tell a pritty fable, Conciudand with a gude moralitie. Schekand his heid, he sayd, My son, let be, For quhat ist worth to tell a fenziet tale, Quhen hale preiching may naithing now avail ? Now in this warld methinks richt few or nane To haly Scripture has the leist regaird ; The eir is deif, the hairt is hard as stane, They nevir mynd punition or rewaird, That lukes inclynand allways to the eard ; Sae roustet is the warld with canker black, That all my tales may little succour mak. Zit, gentle sir, sayd I, for my requiest, Not to displeis zour fatherheid I pray, Undir the figure of sum brutal beist, - A moral fable ze wald grant to say ; Quha kens nor I may leir and beir away Sumthing therby, heraftir may avail. I graut, quoth he, and thus began his tale. A lyon at his prey weiry forran, To recreate his limbs and tak his rest, Beikand his breist and bellie at the sun, Undir a tree lay in the fair forest ; Then came a trip of myce out of thair nost | Richt tait and trig, all dansand in a gyss, And owre the Lyon lansit twyss or tlryss, He lay sae still, the myce was not affeird, But to and frae atowre him tuke thair trace; Sum tirlt at the whiskers of his beird, Sum did not spare to claw him on the face : Merry and glade thus dansit they a space, Till at the last the nobil lyon wouk, And with his paw the maister mous he tuk, He gaif a cry, and all the laif agast, Their dansing left, and hid them heir and thair; He that was tane cryit out and weipit fast, And sayd, Allace for now and evermair ! Now am I tane a wofull prisoner, And for my gilt believes incontinent Jugement to thole, and unto death be sent. Then spak the lyon to that carefull mous, Thou catyve wretch, and vyle uwordy thing, Owre malapert and owre presumpteous Thou was to mak atowre me thy tripping; Know thou not weil I was baith lord and king Of all the beists 9—This (quod the mous) I knaw, But I misknew, because ze lay sae law. Lord, I besiek thy princely ryaltie, Heir quhat I say, and tak in patience ; Considder first my simple povertie, and syne thy mighty high magnificence ; Se als how things that is done by negligence, Not frae malicious thocht, or ill desynd, Sould gain remission frae a kingly mynd. With gret aboundance we wer all repliet Of alkynd fude, sic as to us affeird, And us to dans, provokit the season sweit, And mak sic mirth as nature to us laird ; Ze lay sae still and law upon the eard, That, be my saul, we weind ze had bein deid, Ells wald we not haif dansit owre zour heid. Thy false excuse, the lyon sayd again, Sall not avail a myt, I undertae ; I put the case, had I bene deid or slain, And syne my skin bene stapit full of strae, Thocht thou had found my figure lyand sae, Because it bare the prent of my persoun, Thou sould for dreid on kneis haif falen down. THE EVERGREEN. 251 Now for thy eryme thou can mak nae defence, My ryal person thus to vylipend, Nowther by forss nor thyne oun negligence, For till excuse thou can nae cause prettend ; Therfore thou suffer sall a schamefull end, And deid, sic as to tresson is decreit, To be hung on a gallows be the fiet. O mercy, lord! at thy gentrice I ass, As thou art king of all beists corronat, Sobir thy wrath, and let thyn yre owrepass, And mak thy mynd to mercy inclynat ; I grant offens is done to thy estate, Therfore I wirdy am to suffir deid, But gif thy kingly mercy reik remeid. In evry juge mercy and rewth suld be, As assessors and collaterall ; Without mercy, justice is crewelltie, As said is in the law spirituall : When rigour sits upon the hygh tribunall, The equitie of law quha may sustain ? Richt few or nane bot mercy gae betwein. Besyds ze knaw the honour triumphs zeild, ‘To every victor, on the strength depends Of his compeir, quhilk manly in the feild, Throw jepordy of arms he lang deffends ; Quhat pryce or lowding, quhen the battle ends, Is said of him that overcomes a man, Him to deffend that nowther dow nor can ? A thousand myce to murder and devore, Is litle manheid in a lyon strang : Full litle worship can ze win thairfore, To quhose vast strenth is nae compareson : It will degrad sum part of zour renown To slay a mous that can mak nae deffence, But askand mercy at zour excellence. Also it not becomes zour celsitude, That uses daylie meit delicious, To fyle zour lipps or grinders with my blude, Quhilk to zour stomak is contagious ; Unhalesom melteth is a sairy mous, And namely to a nobil lyon strang, W ont to be fed with gentil venison. M, lyfe is litle, and my deid far less ; Zit, gif I live, I may peraventure Supplie zour highnes being in distress : For aft is sene a man of small stature Reskewed has a lord of hygh honnour, Kept that has bene in poynt to be owrethrawn, Throu fortune’s falt ; sic case ay ve zour aw. Quhen this was said, the generous lyon pausit, And thocht this arguing did not reason want ; His yre asswageit, and his kynd mercy causit Him to the mous a full remission grant, Opent his paw; he on his kneis doun bent, And baith his hands unto the heaven upheild, Cryand, Almichty Jove give zou lang eild. Quhen he was gane, the lyon zeid to hunt, For he had nocht, but livd upon his prey, And slew baith tame and wyld, as he was wont, And in the countrie made a grit deray ; Till at the last the people fand the way This crewell lyon with a girn to tak, Of hempin cords richt strang netts coud they mak. And in a road quhair he was wont to rin, With raips rude frae trie to trie it band, Syne custe a raing on raw the wod within, With blasts of horns and cauits fast calland ; The lyon fled, and throu the Rone rinnand Fell in the net, and hankit fute and heid, For all his strenth he coud mak nae remeid. Roland about with hydious rowmissing, Quhyles to quhyles frae, gif he micht succor get; | But all in vain, that velziet him naething, The mair he flang, the faster he was knit : The raips rude about him sae was plet On every syde, thut succor saw he nane, . But still lyand, thus murnand maid his mane. O sair lameit lyon, liggand heir sae law, Quhair is the micht of thy magnificence, Of quhom all brutal beist in eard stand aw, And dreid to luke on thy gret excellence ; Bot hope or help, but succor or defence, In strang hemp-bands heir maun I Jy, allace | Tul I be slain, I se nae uther grace. Ther is nae joy that will my harms wraik, Nor creature to do comfort to my crown, Quha sall me bute? Quha sall thir bands brek ? Quha sall me put frae pain of this prison ? Be that he had his lamentation done, Perchance the litle pardond mous came neir, And of the lyon hard the pityous beir. And suddainly it came intill his mynd That it suld be the lyon did him grace, And sayd, Now wer I fals and richt unkynd, Bot gif I quit sum part thy gentilness Thou did to me. And on with that he gaes To all his maiks, and on them fast did cry, Cum help, cum help! and they came all on by. 252 Lo, quoth the mous, this is our ryal lord, Quha gaif me grace quhen I was by him tane, And now is fast heir fanklet in a cord, Wrekand his hurt with murning sair and mane, Bot we him help, of suplie kens he nane; Cum help to quyt ane gude turn with annither. Sae beit, cryd all; syn fell to wark togither. They tuke nae knyf, thair teith wer sherp enewgh ; To se that sicht forsuith it was grit wonder, How that they ran amang the halters tewgh, Before, behind, sum zeid abune, sum under, And schure the raips with the maist eiss in sunder. Syn bad him ryse,—and he start up annone, And thankit them; syn to the bent is gane. Now dois the lyon frie of danger skour, Lowse, and delivert till his libertie, By litle animals of smallest power, As ze haif hard, because he had pitie. Quoth I, Maister, is ther moralitie Into this fable? Sou, sayd he, richt gude. I pray zou giest, quoth I, or ze conclude. THE MORALITIE. We may suppose this lyon of renoun May signifie ane emperour or king, Or ony potestate that weirs a croun, That sould be wakryfe in his governing, But of his peple taks slicht noticeing, To rule and steir the land, and justice keip, But lazy lyes in lustie slouth and sleip. The forest fair with blossoms lown and lie, The singand birds and flowirs sae ferly sweit, Ar but this warld, and his prosperitie, As pleisands fals mingillit with care repleit, Richt, as the rose with frost and winter weit, Wallous; sae dois the warld and them desaif That confidence in lusty pleasures haif. Thir litle myce ar comonalitie, Wanton, unwyse, without corection due ; Sic lords and princes, quhen they chanss to se That execute, the richteous laws on few, They dreid naithing, but with rebellious brow Dar disobey; for quhy? they stand nae aw, That maks them aft their soverains to misknaw. And be this fable, lords of prudent sence Considder may the virtue of pitie, And suld remit sumtyme a grit offence, And mercy metigate with crueltie ; Aftymes is seue a man of small degree Has quit a common baith for gude and ill, As lords has rigour done, or grace him till, THE EVERGREEN. Quha wates how sune a lord of grit renoun, Rowand in warldly lust and vain pleisance, May be owrthrawin, distroyed, or put doun Throu fortune fals, that of all variance Is hale mistres, and leader of the dance To lusty men, and hinds them up sae soir, That they nae perell can provyd befor. Thir crewell men that stentit has the net In quhilk the lyou suddenlie was tane, Waited allway that they a mends micht get ; For hurt, men wryts with steil in marblestane, Mair till expone, as now, I let alane: But king and lord may weil wate what I mein, The figure hereof aftymes has bein sene. | Quhen this was said, quoth Esop, My fair cliyld, Persuade the kirkmen eydentlie to pray, That treason off this countrie be exyld, That justice ring, and nobles keip thair fay Unto thair soverain lord baith nicht and day; And with that word he vaneist, and I woke, Syne throu the schaw my jurney hamewart tuke. Quod MR. Ro. HENRYSON, oN ANE’S BEING HIS OWN ENEMY. He that has gold and riches great, And may live at a merry rate ; And gladness dois frae him expell, And lives into a wretched state ; He worketh sorrow to himsell, He that may be bot sturt and stryf, And live a lusty lightsome lyfe, And syne with marriage dois him mell, And buckles with a wicked wyfe, He worketh sorrow to himeell. He that has for his awin genzie A plesand prop bot mank or menzie, And shutes syne at an uncow schell, And is forfairn with fleis of Spenzie. He worketh sorrow to bimsell. And he that with gude life and treuth, Bot variance or other slewth, Dois evir with a master dwell, That nevir of him will have rewth, He worketh sorrow to himsell, THE EVERGREEN 258 Now all this tine let us be merry, And set not by this warld a cherry, Now quhyle thair is gude wyne to sell; . The cheil that dois on dry breid wirry, I give them to the devil of hell. Quod DUNBAR. THE BENIFITE OF THEM WHO HAVE LADIES WHA CAN BE GUDE SOLICITERS AT COURT. Tarr ladys fair, that mak repair, And at the court are kend, In three days thair, they will do mair, Ane matter for till end, Than ther gude-men will do in ten, For any craft they can, Sae weil they ken, what time and quhen, Thair manes they suld mak than. With little noy they can convoy A matter finally, Richt myld and moy, and keip it coy, On evens sae quietly ; They do no miss, but gif they kiss, And keip colation, Quhat reck of this, thair matter is Brocht to conclusion. Then wit ye weil, they haif grit feil, And mater to solist, Trest as the steil, syne neir a deil, Quhen they come hame are mist. Thir lairds they are, methink richt far, Sic wyves behalden to, That sae weil dar gae to the bar, Quhen there is ocht to do. Therefore I reid, gif ze haif pleid, Or matter in the play, To mak remeid, send in zour steid Zour ladys graitht up gay; They can deffend, even to the end, And matters forth express ; Suppose they spend, it is unkend, Thair geir is nocht the less. In quiet place, gin they have space, Within less than twa hours, They can percase, purchase sum grace, At the compositours ; Thair composition with full remission, Thair finally is endit, With expedition, and full condition, Thair seals then are to pendit. ‘All hale almost they make the cost, With sober recompence, ~ Richt little lost, they get indorst, All hale their evidence, Sic ladys wyse, they are to pryze, To say the verity, Sae can devyse, and not surpryze Thame not thair honesty. Quod DUNBAR. JOK UP-A-LAND’S COMPLAINT AGAINST THE COURT IN THE KING'S NONAIGE, Now is the king in tender aige, O Chryst! conserve him in his eild, To do justice to man and page, That gars our land ly lang unteild, Thochit we do double pay thair wage; Pure commons presentlie ar peild. They ryde about in sic a rege, Be firth and forrest, muir and feild, With bow buckler and brand. Lo quahir they ryde intill the ry, The deil mot sane the company, I pray it frae my heart trewly, This said Jok Up-a-land. He that was wont to beir the barrows, Betwixt the bakehous and the brewhous On twenty shilling now he tarrows, To ryd the heigait by the plewis ; But were I king, and haif gude fallows, In Norroway they sould heir of newis, I sould him tak, and all his marrows, And hing them hich upon zon hewis, And thairto plichts my hand. And all thir lordis and barronis grit, Upon ane gallows suld I knit, That this doun treddit has our quhit. This said Jok Up-a-land. But wald ilk lord that our Jaw leids, To husbands ressone do with skill, To chak thir chiftains be the heids, And hing them heich upon ane hill ; Then husbands labour micht their steids, And priests micht pattir and pray their fill; For husbands sould nocht haif sic pleids, And scheip and nolt micht ly full still, And stakis and rukis micht stand; For sen they raid amang our dorrs, With splent on spald and jousty spurrs, Thair grew nae fruit intill our furrs : This said Jok Up-a-land. Tak a pure man a scheip or twae, For hungir or for falt of fude, To five or sax wie bairns or mae, They will him hang in halters rude, But gif an tak a flok or sae, A bow of ky, and lat them blude, Full saifly may he ryd or gae: I wait nocht gif thir laws be gude, I schrew them first them fand. O Jesu, for thy haly passioun, Grant to him grace that weirs the crown, To ding thir mony kings all doun, This said Jok Up-a-land. Quod KENNEDY. THE GARMENT OF GUDE LADYIS. Watp my gude lady lufe me best, And work aftir my will, I sould a garment gudliest, Gar mak her body till. Of honour hie sould be her hude, Upon hir heid to weir, Garnist with governance sae gude, Nae demyeng sould hir deir. Hir sark sould be, bir body nixt, Of chastitie sae quhyte, With schame and dreid togither mixt, The sume sould be perfyt. Hir kirtle of the clene constance, Doun laist with lesum luve ; The melzies of continuance, For nevir to remuve. Hir goun sould be of gudlienes, Weil riband with renown, Purfillt with plesour in ilk place, And furt with fyne fassoun. Hir belt sould be of benignitie, About her midil meit, Her mantil of humilitie, To tholl baith wind and weit. THE EVERGREEN. Hir hat sould be of fair having, Hir tipat of the truth ; Hir paitlet of ay gude pausing, Hir hals ribon of rewth. Hir sleives sould be of esperance, To keip hir frae dispair ; Hir gluves of the best governance, To hyd hir fingers fair. Hir shune sould be of sickerness, In time that scho nocht slyd ; Hir hose of honesty express, I sould for hir provyde. Wald scho put on this garment gay, I durst sweir be my seill, That scho wore nevir grene nor gray, That set hir half so weil. Quod MR. Roz, HENBYSON, to THE HONOUR OF THE LADYIS, AND THE FORTIFICATION OF THEIR FAME. Just to declair the hie magnificence, And bountie grit that in the ladyis is, The wirdyness and verteus excelence, The laud, the truth, the bewtie, and the bliss, My barbir tung unworthy is I wiss ; But nocht the less my pen I will apply, To say the suth, thoch eloquence I miss, Of Femenyne the Fame to fortify. Thocht doctors auld addresses thair delyt, To dyt of ladyis defamation, Wae worth the wicht sould set his appityte, To reid sic rolls of reprobation ; But tittar mak plain proclamation, To gather all sic lybills bisselie, And in the fyre mak thair location, Of Femenyne the Fame to fortifie. For quho sae list the richt trew to reherse, To humane glore they mak habilitie ; Quhen men ar sad at them solace they ferss, As habitickles of all humanity, They bring grit weirs aft to tranquilitie Malice of men they meis and pacifie, To saul and body baith utilitie ; . Therefore all men thair fame sould fortifie. THE EVERGREEN. 255 Althocht a man had as much gude to spend, As all the empyres of this globe around; Her women wanting weil-fare were at end, Without thair comfort care sould him confound, Quhair they abyde thair bliss does ay abound, And quhair they flie felicetie gaes by; Bot thair solace nae sage may be eir sound ; Dhairfore all men thair fame sould fortifie. Sen Gop has grantit them sie gudliness, And formid them after sae fyne fassoun, Syne put sic bluming bewtie in thair face, Quhy sould not men hald them of grit renown ? Sen God has given to them sae grit guerdoun, And with sic meiknes does them magnifie, Quhy suld men mak to them comparisone, But owre all quhair thair fames to fortifie Of Mary myld, the maid imaculate, To fortifie of Femenyne the Fame, Chryst was incarnate and incorporate, And nurist was nyn months within hir wame ; And aftir born, and bocht us frae the blame Of Bellial, that brint us bitterlie ; That heavenly honour saves the sex frae shame, And owre all quhair thair fame dois fortifie. Quod STEWART. THE DAUNCE. Or Februar the fiftein nicht, Richt lang before the dayis licht, T lay intill a trance, And then I saw baith Heaven and Hell, Methocht amang the feynds fell Mahoun gart cry a daunce, Of shrewis that war nevir schrevin Against the feist of fasterns evin, To mak their observance ; He bad galands gae graith a gyis, And cast up gamonds to the skyes, That last came out of France. Let see, quod he, now quha begins. With that the foull seven deadly sius Begouth to leip attains ; And first of all the daunce was Pryde, With hair wyld back, bonnet on syde, Lyk to mak waistie wains ; And round about him as a quheil, Hang all in rumples to his heil His kethat for the nains : Mony proud trumpour with him trippit Throw skaldan fyre, ay as they skipit, They girnd with hydious granes. Hellie harlots on hawtane ways Came in with mony sindry gyis, Zit nevir leach Mahoun, Till preists came with bare schaven necks, Then all the feynds leuch and made gecks, Black-wame and bawsy-broun. Then Yre came in with stuart and stryfe, His hand was ay upon his knyfe, He brandiest lyk a beir ; Boasters, braggers, and barganers, Aftir him passd in be pairs, All boddin in feir of weir; Tn jacks, stripps, and bonnets of steil, Their leggs wer chenziet to the heil, Frawart was thair affeir ; With brands sum on uther beft, Sum jagit uthers to the heft With knives that scheip coud schen. Next followd in the daunce, Envy, Filld full of feid and fellony, Hid malyce and dispyt ; For privy hate that traytor trembled, Him followd mony freik, dissembled With fenzied words quhyte, And flatterers into men’s faces, And back-byters of sundry races ; To lie that had delyte, With rownars vyle of false leisings Allace! that courts of nobil kings Of sic can neer be quhyte. Nixt him in daunce came Covetyce, Rute of all ill, and grund of vyce, That neir could be content ; Catyvs, wretches, and ockerars, Hud pykes, hurders, and gatherers, All with that Warlo went : Out of their throts they shot on uther, Het molten gold methocht a futher, As fyre-flaucht maist fervent ; Ay as they tuimt themsells of schot, Feynds filld them weil up to the throt With gold of all kynd prent. Syne Sweirnes at the second bidding Came lyk a sow out of a midding, Full sleipy was his grunzie ; Mony sweir bumbard belly huddron, Mony slut, daw, and sleipy duddron, Him served ay with sounzie : He drew them furth intill a chenzie, And Belial with a bridall renzie, Ay lashit them on the lunzie. In daunce they were sae slaw of feit, They gaif them in the fyre a heit, Made them quicker of cunzie. 256 Then Lechery, that Jaithly corss, Berand lyk a bagit horss, And ydleness did him leid ; Ther was with him ane ugly sort, And mony a stynkand foull tramort That had in sin bene deid : Quhen they wer enterit in the daunce They wer full strange of countenance, Lyk Turkas burnand reid ; Allled they uther by the —~ Suppose they fyket with thair —— It micht be nae remeid. Then the foull monster, Gluttony, With wame unsatiate and greidy, To daunce syn did him dress ; Him followit mony a foull drunkart With can and colep, cop and quart, In surfet and excess ; Full mony a waistless wally drag, With wames unwyldy did forth wag In creish, that did incress ; Drink, ay they cryd, with mony a gaip, The feynds gave them het lead to laip, Thair lovery was nae less, Nae minstralls playd to them bot dout, For glie-men ther war haldin out Be day and eik by nicht ; Except a minstrall that slew a man, Sae till his heritage he wan, Entert be breif of richt. Then cryd Mahoun for a Earse padzean, Syn ran a feynd to fetch Macfadzean, Far northward in a nuke ; Be he the correnoch did schout, Earse men so gatherit him about In Hell grit rume they tuke : That tarmagants with tag and tatter, Full loud in Earse begoud to clatter And rowp lyk ravin and rowk ; The deil sae deivt was with thair yell, That in the deipest pot of Hell He smorit them all with smuke. THE SOUTAR AND TAILZIOR. Betwisut the twelt hour and elevin, I dreamd an angel came frae heaven, With pleasand stevin sayand on hie, Tailziors and soutars blist be ze. THE EVERGREEN. High up for zou is ordained a place, Abune all saints in great solace, Tn happyness and dignity, Tailziors and soutars blist be ze. The cause to you is not unkend, Nature’s neglect ye do amend, Be craft and great agility, Tailziors and soutars blist be ze. Soutars with schune weil made and meit Ze mend the faults of illfard feit. Quherfore to heaven zour sauls will flie, Soutars and tailziors blist be ze. Ther is not in this fair a flyrock, That has upon his feit a wyrock, Knoul taes, or mouls in nae degre, But ze can hyde them, blist be ze. And tailziors ze with weil made clais, Can mend the warst made man that gaes, And mak him seimly lyke to see, Tailziors and soutars blist be ze. Thocht ane suld haif a broken back Haif he a tailzior gude, quhat-rak, Heill cover it richt carftely, Tailziors and soutars blist be ze. Of all great kindes may ze claim, The cruke backs, and the criple, lame, Ay howdrand faults with zour suplie, Tailziors and soutars blist be ze. In eard ze kyth sic ferlys heir, In heavin ze sall be saints full cleir, Tho’ ze be knaves in this countrie, Soutars and tailziors blist be ze. Quod DUNBAB THE LOVER’S MANE THAT DARES NOT ASSAY. QuuEN Flora had owrfrett the firth, In May of ilka moneth quene, Quhen merle and mavis sings with mirth, Sweit melling in the schaws sae schene, When lovers all rejosit bene, And maist disyrous of thair prey, I hard a lusty lover mene, lL love, but I dare not assay | THE EVERGREEN. 257 Strang ar the pains I daylie pruve, But zit with patience I sustene, Lam sae fettert in the luve, Only of my sweit lady schene, Quhilk for her bewtie micht be quene, Nature sae craftily alway, Has done depaint that sweit serene, Quhom I luve, and dare not assay. Scho is sae bricht of hyd and hew, I love but hir allone I wene, Is nane hir luve that may eschew, That blenks sae of that dulce amene ; Sae comelie cleir at hir twa ene, That scho mae luvers does effrey, Then eir of Greice did fair Helene, Quhome I luve, and dare not assay. Quod STEWART ANE LITLE INTERLUDE OF THE DROICHS. Hirry, hary, hobbilschow, Se ze not quha is cum now, But zit wate I nevir how, Brocht with the quhirlwind ; A sargeand out of Soudoun land, A gyane strang in limbs to stand, That with the strength of my awin hand May bairs and bugles bind. Quha is then cum heir, but I, A bauld and bowsteous bellomy, Amang zou all to ery a ery With a maist michty soun ? 1 generit an: of gyans kynd, Frae hardy Hercules be strynd, Of all the Occident and Yud, My elders woir the croun. My fore grandsyre heicht Fynmackoull, Quha dang the deil, and gart him zoul, The skyes raind fludes when we wald skoul, He trublit all the air. He gat my gudsyre Gog Magog, He, when he daunst, the warld wald schog, Then thousand ells zied in his frog Of highland plaids, and mair. Sic was he quhen of tendir zouth, But aftir he grew mair at fouth, Elevin myle wyd met was his mouth, His teith was ten myles squair : He wald upon his tais upstand, And tak the starns doun with his hand, And set them in a gold garland, Abuve his wyfe’s hair. His wyfe so mekle was of clift, Her heid wan heicher than the lift, The hevin reirdit when scho did rift, The lass was naithing sklender : Scho spat Lochlowmond with her lips, Thunder and fyre flew frae her hips, Quhen scho was crabbit, the sun thold clips ; The feynd durst nocht offend hir. For cauld scho tuke the fever tartane, For all the claith in France and Bartane Wald not be to her leg a gartane, Thocht scho was zung and tender : * * * * * *# Ane thing written of hir I find, In Yrland quhen scho blew behind, On Norway coist scho raist the wind, And grit schips drownit thair : Then scho fischt all the Spainzie seis, With hir sark lap betwixt her theyis, And thre days sailing tween hir kneis It was esteemd and mair. The hingan braes on adir syde Scho powtert with hir lymms sae wyde ; Lasses micht lair at hir to stryde, Wald gae to luvairs lair. Scho markit to the land with mirth, Scho quhirrd fyve quhails into the firth, Had croppun on hir geig? for girth, Walterand amang the wair. My fader mekle Gow Macmorne, Out of his moder’s wame was schorne, For littleness scho was forlorn, Sican a kemp to beir : Or he of age was zeirs thre, He wald stap owre the ocean se, The mone sprang neir abune his knie, The heavens had of him feir. Ane thousand ziers ar past frae mynd, Sen I was generit of this kynd, Far furth in desarts of the Ynd, Amang lyon and beir ; Worthy King Arthur and Gawane, And many a bauld bairn of Bartane Ar deid, and in the wars are slain, Sen I could weild a speir. (1) A kind of old-fashioned net used now for catching of spouie. LL THE EVERGREEN The Sophie and the Sowdoun strang, With battles that haif lastit lang, Out of thair bounds has maid me gang, And turn to Turkie tyte. The King of Francis grit armie Has brocht a derth in Lombardie, That in the countrie I and he Can nocht dwell baith perfyte. Swadrick, Danmark, and Noraway, Nor in the steids I dar not gae, For ther is nocht but burn and slae, Cut thropples and mak quyte. Yrland for ay I haif refusit, All wyse men will bald me excusit ; For neir in land wher Earse is usit, To dwell had I delyt. I haif bene foremost ay in feild, And now sae lang haif born the scheild, That TI am crynit in for eild This litle, as ze may se: I haif bene banistt under the lynd This lang tyme, that nane could me fynd Quhyle now with this last eistin wynd, Iam cum heir perdie. My name is Welth, therefore be blyth, I am cum comfort zou to kyth, Suppose ilk wretch suld wail and wryth, All derth I sall gar die: For certainly the truth to tell, I cum amang ze now to dwell, Far frae the sound of Curphour Bell, To live I neir sall drie. Now sen I am sic quantitie Of gyans cum, as ze may se, Quhair will be gotten a wyfe for me, Of sicklyk breid and hicht? Tn all this bour is not a bryde Ane hour I wate dar me abyde, Zet trow ze ony heir besyde Micht suffer me all nicht. Adew a quhyle, for now I gae, But I will not lange byde ze frae, I wisch ze be conserft from wae, Baith maiden, wyfe, and man: God bless them and the haly rude, Gif me a drink, se it be gude, And quba trows best that I do lude Skink first to me the kan. AULD KYNDNESS QUITE FORZET QUBEN ANE GROWS PURE. Tats warld is all but fenziet fair, And as unstable as the wind, And faith is flemit I wat not quhair, Trest fallowship is ill to find, Gude consciences is all made blind, And charity thairs nane to get; Leil luve and lawty lys behind, And auld kynduness is quite forzet. Quhyle I had ony thing to spend, And stuffit weil with warlds wrack, Amang my friends I was weil kend ; Quhen I was proud and had a pack, They wad me be the oxter tak; And at the hich buird I was set, But now they let me stand aback, Sen auld kyndness is quite forzet. Now I can find but friends few, Sen I was prized to be pure, They hald me now but for a shrew; Of me they tak but little cure ; All that I do is but injure ; Thocht I be bair I may not bett, They let me stand upon the flure, Sen auld kyndness is quite forzet. Suppose I mein I am nocht mendit, Sen I held part with povertie, Away sen that my pack was spendit, Adieu all liberality. The proverb now is trew I see, Quha may not give will little get ; Therefore to say the verity, Now auld kyndness is quite forzet. They wald me hals with hude and hat, Quhyle I was rich and had enouch, About me friends enow I gat ; Richt blythly then on me they leuch, But now they mak it wonder teuch, And lets me stand before the zet. Therefoir this warld is very freuch, And auld kynduness is quite forzet. As lang as my ain cap stude even, I zied but seindle myne allane, I squyrit was with sax or sevin, Ay quhyle I gave them twa for ane; But suddenly frae that was gane, They passd me by with hands plett, With puirtith frae I was oertane, Then auld kyndness was quite forzet. THE EVERGREEN, 259 Now let us sing, our cares to ding, And mak a gladsome sound, With an O and ane I: Now are we further bound, Drink thou to me, and I to thee, And let the cap go round. Into this warld suld nae man trow, Thou may weil see the reason quhy ; For ay but gif thy hand be fou, Thou art but little setten by, Thou art not tane in company, Bot ther be fund fish in thy net: Therefore this false warld I defy, Sen auld kyndness is quite forzet. Quha understude, suld have his gude, Or he were closd in clay, Sum in thair mude they wald ga wid, And die lang or thair day ; Not worth a hude, or an auld snude Thou shall bear hence away ; Wretch be the rude, now to conclude, Full few sall for the pray, With an O and ane I, Gude fallows as langs we may, Be merry and free, syne blyth let us be, And sing on tway and tway. Quod JO. BLYTH. Sen that nae kyndness kepit is, Into this warld that is present, Gif thou wald cum to heavins bliss, Thyself appleist with sober rent, Live weil and give with gude intent, To every man his proper debt, Quhat eir God send hald thee content, Sen auld kyndness is quite forzet. ADVICE TO BE LIBERAL AND BLYTH. T maxz it kend, he that will spend, A And luve God late and air, ° NEW YEIR GIFT TO QUEEN MARY, He will him mend, and grace him send, Quhyle catives shall have care : WHEN SHE CAME FIRST HAME, 1562. But praise weil pend, sall him comend, es That of his rowth can spare ; We knaw the end, that all maun wend Away nakit and bare, With an O and an I, And a wretch sall haif nae mair. But a schort sheit at heid and feit, We cu, illustrat lady, and our quene, Welcum our lyone with the floure-de-lyce ; Welcum our thistle with the Loraze grene, Welcum our rubent rose upon the ryce, Welcum our jem, and joyfull gentryce; Welcum our beil of Albion to beir ; Welcum our plesand princes maist of pryce, God give you grace agains this gude new zeir. For all his wrak and ware. For all the wrak a wretch can pack, And in his bags embrace, Zit deid sall tak him be the back, And gar him cry Alace ! Than sall he swak, away with lak, And wate not to what place, Then will they mak, at him a knack, That maist of his geir hes ; With ane O and an I, Quhyle we haif tyme and space, Mak we gude cheir, quhyle we are heir And thankful be for grace. This gude new zeir we hope with grace of God, Sall be of peace, tranquility and rest ; This zeir sal richt and reason rule the rod, Quhilk sae lang season has bene sair suprest ; This zeir firm faith sall freily be confest, And all eronious questions put arreir To labour that this lyfe amang us left, God give zou grace agains this gude new zeiv. Heirfore address thee duely to decore, And rule thy regne with hie magnificence ; Begin at God to gar set forth his glore, And of his gospel get experience ; Cause his true kirk be had in reverence, So sall thy name and fame spreid far anu neir, Now this thy det to do with diligence, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeix Were there a king to rax and ring, Amang gude-fallows crownd, Wretches wad wring, and mak murning, For dule they sould be drownd. Qulia finds a dring, or auld or zing, Gar hoy him out and hound, ~ | 1 260 Found on the first four vertues cardinall, On wisdom, justice, force, and temperance, Aplaud to prudent folk, and principal Of vertuous lyfe, thy worship to advance: Wey justice equal without discrepance, Strengthen thy state, with stedfastness to steir, To temper tyme with true continuance, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. Cast thy consate by council of the sage, And cleave to Chryst has kept thee weil in cure, Attinget now to twenty zeirs of age, Preservand thee from all misaventure. Wald thou be served and thy countrie sure Still on the common-weil haif eye and eir, Press ay to be protectrix of the pure, Say God sall gyde thy grace this gude new zeir. Gar stanche all stryfe, and stable thy estates, In constance, concord, charity and luve : Be bissy now to banish all debates, That twixt kirk-men and tempral men dois muve, The pulling doun of policy repruve, And let perversed prelates live perquier, To do the best beseikand God abuve, To give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. At cross gar cry be opin proclamation, Undir grit pains, that nowther he nor scho Of haly writ have ony disputation, But letterd men or learned clerks therto ; For lymmer lads and little lasses lo, Will argue baith with bishop, preist, and frier : To danton this thou has enouch to do, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. But wyte the wickit pastors wald not mend Their vicious living, all the warld prescryves They tuke nae tent their traik sould turn till end, They were sae proud of thair prerogatyves, For wantones they wald not marrie wyves, Nor zit live chast, but chop and change their cheir; Now to reform their lecherous leud lyves, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. They brocht thair bastards with the skrufe they skraip To blande their blude with barrons by ambition, They purchest pithless pardons frae the Paip, To cause fond fuils confyde he hes fruition, As God, to give for sins a full remission, And sauls to saif from suffering sorrow seir : To set asyde sic sort of superstition, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. They benifice and pention tint that marriet ; On Frydays quha eit flesh was fyr-fangt ; It made nae miss quhat maydens they miscarriet, On fasting days they were not brunt or hangt. THE EVERGREEN. Licence for lechry frae their lord belangt, To give indulgence as the deil did leir, To mend that menzie has sae mony mangt, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. They lute the leiges pray to stocks and stanes, And paintit papers, wats nocht quhat they mein; They bad them beck and binge to deid men’s banes, Offer on kneis to kiss, syne saif their kin, Pilgrims and palmers past with them between, Sanct Blais, sanct Boit, blate bodies ene to bleir, Now to forbid this grit abuse hes bene, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. They tyart God with trifles tume and trantals, And deivd him with their daft and daylie dargeis, | With owklie abits to augment their rentals, Mantand, mort, mumbeling, mixt with mony lies, Sic sanctitude was Sathan’s sorceries, | Chryst’s silly sheip and sobir flock to smeir, To ceise all sindrie sects or heresieis, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. With mess and mattins nae ways will I mell, To juge them justly passes my ingyne, They gyde not ill that governs weil themsell, And honestly on lawtie lays their lyne, Doubts to discus, for doctors are divyne, Cunning in clergie to declair them cleir: To order this the office now is thyne, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. As beis tak wax and honey of the floure, So does the faithful of God’s word tak fruit, As wasps receive frae aff the same but sour, Sae reprobates the Scripture dois rebute. Words without warks availeth not a cute, To seis thy subjects sae in luve and feir, That richt and reason in thy realm my rute, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. The epistles and evangells now are preicht, Bot sophestrie or ceremonys vain ; Thy people, maist part, truely now are teicht To put away idolatrie prophane, But in sum hearts is graven new again, An image callit cursd covetice of geir, Now to expell that idol stands up plain, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. For sum are sene at sermons sum sa haly, Singand Sanct David’s psalter on their buiks And are but biblists fairsing full their belly, Backbytand nybours noying them in nuiks, Ruggand and reivand up kirk rents lyke rukes , Lyke very wasps against God’s word mak weir ; Now sic Christians to kiss with chanters kuiks God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. THE EVERGREEN. Dewtie and detts are driven by doubleness, And folks are flemit frae zong faith professors The greatest ay the greidyar I gess, To plant quhere preists and parsons were posses- sors, Teinds are uptane by Testament transgressors, Credence is past of promise thocht they sweir, To punish palmers, and reproach oppressors, God give thee grice agains this gude new zeir. Puir folk are famist with their fassions new, They fail for falt that had before at fouth, Leil labourers lament and tennants trew, That they ar hurt and herriet north and south: The heidsmen have cor mundum in their mouth, But nevir mynd to give the man his meir, To quench thir quent calamities so cowth, God give thee grace agains this gude new zeir. Protestands tak the friers auld antetewme, Ready resavers, but to render nocht, So lairds uplift men’s leiving, ower thy rewme, And are richt crabit quhen they crave them ocht. Be they unpaid, thy pursevants are socht, To pund pure commons corn and cattle keir, To vissy all thir wrangous warks are wrocht, God give thee grace agains this gude new Zeir. Paul bids nane deal with thing idolatheit, Nor quhair hypocrasie hes bene committit ; But kirk-men’s cursed substance aft seims sweit, Till land-men that with leud bird lyme are lyttit. Gif thou persave sum senzior it has smittit, Solist them saftly not to perseveir ; Hurt not their honour, tho thy hieness wit it, But graciously forgive them this new zeir. Forgivnes grant with gladness and gude will. Gratis to all mto zour parliament, Syne stablish statutes, stedfast to stand still, That barone, clerk, and burges be content, Thy nobles, earls, and lords in consequent, Treit tender to obtain their hearts inteir, That they may serve, and be obedient Unto thy grace this new and mony a zeir. Sen sae thou sits in seat superlative, Cause every state to their vocation go Scolastie men the scriptures to discryve, And majestrates to use their sword also, Merchands to trade and trafick to and fro, Mechanicks work, husbands to saw and sheir ; So sall be wealth and weilfare without woe, Be grace of God agains this gude new zeir. Let all thy realme be now in readyness, With costly cleathing to decore thy corss, Zung gentlemen for dauncing them address, With courtlie ladys coupled in consors, 261 Frak feirce gallands the field games to enforss, Enarmed knychts at lists with schield and speir, To feicht in barrows baith on fate and horss, Agane thy grace get a gude-man this zeir. This zeir sall be embassies heir belyve, For marriage, from great princes, dukes, and kings, This zeir within thy region sall aryse Rowts of the rankest that in Europe rings ; This zeir baith blythness and aboundance brings, Navies of schips outhrow the sea to sneir, With riches, rayments, and all royal things, Agane thy grace get a gude-man this zeir. Gif saws be suthe' to schaw thy celsitude, Quhat bairn sould bruke all Britain be the sie, The prophecie expresly dois conclude, The French wyfe of the Bruecis blude sould be, Thou art the lyne frae him the nynth degree, And was King Francis partie maik and peir. Sae by descent the same sould spring of thee, By grace of God agane this gude new zeir. | Now to conelude, on Chryst cast thy comfort, And eherish them that thou has under charge, Supone maist sure he sall send thee support, And len the lusty liberos at large, Believe that lord can harbary so thy bairge, To mak braid Britain blyth as bird on brier, And thee extol with his triumphand targe, Vietoriously again this gude new zeir. LEnvoy. Prudent, maist gent, tak tent, and prent the words, Intill this bill, with will, them still, to face, Quhilk ar, not skar, to bar, on far, frae baurds, But seal, bot feal, may heal, avael thy grace, Sen lo, thou show, this to, now do, has place, Receive and saif, and haif, ingrave it heir, This now, for prow, that you, sweit dow, may brace Lang space, with grace, solace and peace this zeir. LecToRi. Fresch, fulgent, flurist, fragrant, flower formose Lantern to luve, of ladys lamp and lot, Cherry, maist chast, cheif carbuncle and choise, Sweit smyling sovraign shining bot a spot. Blest, beautiful, benygn, and best begot, To this indyte please to inelyne thine eir, Sent be thy simple servant Sanders Scot, Greiting great God to grant thy grace gude zeir. Quod ALEX. SCOT. (1) Gif saws be suthe. By this verse it appears that the pro- phecy of James VI. succeeding to the crown of England, and being the first King of Great Britain, was not, as some would allege, made after his accession ; this poem being wrote in 1562, some years before his birth. 262 THE EVERGREEN. TO HIS HEART, RetvuENn hamewart my heart again, And byde quhair thou was wont to be; Thou art a fule to suffer pain, For luve of her that luves not thee ; My heart let be sic fantesie, Luve nane but quhair thou has gud cause, An let her seik a heart for thee, For feynd a crum of thee scho faws. To quhat effect sould thou be thrall, But thank sen thou has thy free will; My heart be nocht sae bestial, But knaw quha dois thee gude or ill; At hame with me then tarry still, And se then quha playis best their pawis, And let the fillock fling her fill, For feynd a crum of thee scho faws. Thocht scho be fair I will not fenzie, Scho is the kynd with utheris mae; For quhy thair is a fellon menzie, That seimeth gude, and are not sae: My heart tak nowther pain nor wae For Meg, for Marjory, or Mawis ; But be thou glad, and let her gae, For feynd a crum of thee scho faws. Remember how that Medea Wyld for a sicht of Jason zeid, Remember how that Cressida Left Troilus for Diomede. Remember Helen, as we reid, Brocht Troy from bliss unto bare waws, _ Then let her gae quhair scho may speid, For feynd a crumb of thee scho faws. Because I find scho tuke in ill, At hir departing mak nae care: But all beguyld, go quhair scho will, A schrew the heart that mane makes mair ; My heart be mirry late and air, This is the final end and clawse, And let her feid and fullzie fair, For feynd a crum of thee scho faws. Neir dunt again within my breist, Neir let hir slichts thy courage spill, Nor gie a sob abeit scho sneist, Schois fairest payd that gets her will; (1) The chronology of the poems contained in this selection is not to be expected, some of older date having come to hand after ethers, some hundred years later, have been printed, besides most of them having no dates: the endeavouring to place them accord- Scho gecks as gif I meind her ill, Quhen scho glaiks pauchty in hir braws, Now let hir snirt, and fyk hir fill, For feynd a crum of thee scho faws. Quod ALEX. SCOR A BRASH OF WOUING. In secret place this hinder nicht, T heard a bairn say till a bricht, My hinny, my howp, my heari, my heil, I haif been lang zour luivar leil, And can of zou get comfort nane, How lang will ze with danger deil ? Ze brek my heart, my bony ane. His bony baird was kemd and cropit, But all with kail it was bedropit, Comich he was, fulish and goukit, He clapit fast, he kist, he chukit, As with the glaicks he were oergane, Zit be his feirs he wald have Ze brek my heart, my bony ane. Quod he, my heart, sweit as the hinny, Sen that I born was of my minny, J nevir wouit an uther but zou, My wame is of your luve sae fou, That as a ghaist I glowr and grane, I trymil sae ze wadna trow, Ze brek my heart, my bony ane. Tehei, quod scho, and gae a gawf, Be still my cowfyne, and my cawf, My new spaind howphyn frae the souk, And all the blythness of my bouk, My swanky sweet, saif thee alane, Nae leid have I luvid all this owk, Fow leis me on that gracles gane. Quod he, my claver, my curledody, My hinnysopps, my sweit possody, Be not owre bowstrous to your billy, Be warm hertit, not illwilly ; Zour hals as whyt as quhalis bane, Gars rise on loft my quilly-lillie, Ze brek my heart, my bony ane. Quod scho, my clip, my unspaynd lam, With mither’s milk zit in your gam, ing to the order of time they were wrote in, and incidents to which they related, was judged as useless as it would have proven dif- ficult. THE EVERGREEN. My belly hudrom, my hurle bawsy, My honneyguks, my siller tawsy, Zour pleins wad perss a heart of stane ; Tak comfort, my great headed gawsy, Fou leis me on zour gracless gane. Quod he, My kid, my capercalzeane, My bony bab with the ruch brilzeane, My tender girdil, my wally gowdy, My tirly mirly, my sowdy mowdy, Quhen that our mouths do meit in ane, Pe Ze brek my heart, my bony ane. Quod scho, Then tak me be the hand, Welcom my golk of Maryland, My chirry and my maikless mynzion, My sucker sweit as ony unzeon, My strummil stirk zit new to spane, I am applyd to your opinzion, Fou leis me on that gracles gane. He gaif till hir ane aple ruby, Gramerce, quod scho, my kind cowhubby, Syne thay twa till a play began, Quhilk that they call the dirrydan, Quhile baith their fancies met in ane, O wow! quoth she, quhair will ye man, Leil leis me on that gracles gane. Quod CLERK. THE GOLDIN TERGE:.' Ricut as the stern of day began to schyne, Quhen gone to bed was Vesper and Lucyne, I rise, and by a roseir did me rest ; Upsprang the goldin candill maculyne, With cleir depurit beims christalyne, Glading the mirry fowlis in thair nest, Or Phebus was in purpure kaip revest ; Up sprang the lark, the hevenis minstral syne, In May intill a morrow mirthfullest. Full angelyk thir birdis sang thair hours, Within thair courtings grene within thair bours, Apperellit quhyte and reid with blumys sweit, Enamalit was the feild with all collours, The perlit. dropis schuke in silver schours, (1) The finding of this poem amongat the old manuscripts gives 8 great pleasure, it being particularly quoted by Sir David Lind- say in his prologue to the Complaint of the Papingo, where he mentions many of the old poets. In commendation of Mr. Dun- bar, he says— * Or of Dunbar quha language had at large, As may be sene into his Golden Terge.” 263 Quhyle all in balm did brench and levis fl.et : Depairt frae Phebus did Aurora greut, Hir cristal teirs I saw hing on the flours, Quhilk he for lufe drank up with all his heit. For mirth of May with skippis and with hopps, The birdis sang upon the tendir cropps, With curious nottis as Venus chapell clarks ; The rosses reid, now spreiding aff thair knopps, Wer powderit full bricht with hevinly dropps, With rayis reid, lemying as ruby sparks, The skyis rang with schouting of the larks, The purpure hevin owre skailt in silver slopps ; Owre gilt the treis branchis leivs and barks. Doun throwch the ryss an river ran, quhois streims So lustely upon the lykand leims, That all the laik as lamp did leim of licht, Quhilk schadowit all about with twinkland gleims, The bewis bathit wer in secound beims, Throw the reflex of Phebus visage bricht, On every syde the ege raise on hicht: The bank was grene, the sun was full of beims, The streimers cleir as sternis in frosty nicht. The cristal air the saphier firmament, The ruby skyes of the reid orient, Kest berial gleims on emerant bewis grene, The rosy garth depaynt and redolent, With purpore, asure, gold, and gowlis gent, Arrayit was be Dame Flora the. quene, Sae nobilie that joy was for to sene, The roche against the river resplendant, As low illuminate the levis schene. Quhat throw the mirry fowls’ saft harmony, Quhat throw the river’s sound that ran me by, On Flora’s weid I slepit quhair I lay, Quhair sune into my dreimand fantisy, I saw approche agane the orient sky, Ane schip on sail as blosome on the spray, With mast of gold, bricht as the stern of day, Quhilk tendit to the land full lustely, With swiftest motion throu a chrystal bay. And hard on burd unto the blumit meids, Amangs the grene rispies and the reids, Aryvit scho quheir frae anon thair lands, Ane hundreth ladies lustie intill weids, Als fresh as flours that in the May upspreids, In kirtills grene, withouten kell or bands, Thair shynand hair hang glitterand on the strand In tresis cleir wypit with goldin threids, With pawps guhyte, and middils small as wands. Discryve I wald but quha coud weil indyte, How all the flours with all the lillies quhyt, 264 Depaint was bricht, quhilk to the hevin did gleit, Nocht Homer thou als fair as thou couth wryte, For all thy ornat style the maist perfyte, Nor zet thou Tullus, quhais oratiouns sweit In rethorick did intill terms fleit, Zour aureat tungs had baith bene all to lyte, For to compyle that paradyce compleit. There saw I Nature, and als Dame Venus quene, Aurora fresh, and Lady Flora schene, Juno, Latona, and Proserpina, Diana, the goddess of chest and wods grene, My Lady Clio, that help of Makers bene, Thetis se grene and prudent Minerva, Fair faynt fortune, and lemand Lucina, Thir michty quenis, with crownis micht be sene, With beims bricht, and blyth as Lucifera. Thair saw I May of mirthfull moniths quene, Betwix April and June, her sisters schene, Within the garden walkand up and doun, Quhom of the fowls resaif gladness bedene, Scho was full tendir in hir ziers grene ; Thair saw I nature give till her a goun, Rich to behald, and noble of renown, Of ilka hew that undir hevin has bene Depaynt and braid be gude proportioun. Full lustiely thir ladyis all in feir, Enterit into this park of maist pleseir, Quhair that I lay heilit with leivs rank, The mirry birds blisful of cheir ; Nature salust methocht in thair maneir, And every blume on brench and on the bank, Openit and spred thair balmy levis donk, Full law inclynand to thair quene full eleir, Quhom for thair noble nurising they thank. Syne to Dame Flora, on the samyne ways, They salust and they thank a thousand syis, And to sweit Venus neist, luvis bony quene, They sang ballatis of luve, as was the gyis, With amorous nottis maist lusty to devyis, As that they had luve in thair heartis grene, Thair hony throtts they openit frae the splene, With warbills sweit they perst the hevinly skyis, Quhyle loud resount the firmament serene. Ane uther court thair saw I subsequent Cupid the king, with bow in hand ay bent, And dreidfull arrows grundin sherp and squhair, hair saw I Mars the god armipotent, Awful and stern, braid, strong and corpulent. Thair saw I crabit Saturn auld and hair, His luke was lyke for to perturb the air, Thair was Mercurius, wyse and eloquent Of rethorick that fand the flouris sae fair. THE EVERGREEN. Thair was the god of gardens, Priapus, Thair was the god of wildernes, Phanus, And Janus, god of entries delectable. Thair was the god of oceans, Neptunus : Thair was the god of winds, bauld Eolus, With variand blasts lyke to an lord unstable, Thair was blyth Bachus, glader of the table ; Thair Pluto was, that elritch Incubus, In cloke of grene, his court was clade in sable, And every ane of thir in grene arrayt, An harp and lute full mirreyly they playt, And ballats sang with michty nottes cleir : Ladys to daunce full sobirly assyit, Endlang to trotting river so they mayit ; Thair observance richt hevinly was to heir ; Then crap I throw the brenches and drew neir, Quhair that I was richt suddenly affrayit, All throw a luke that I haif coft full deir And schortlie for to speik, by luve’s fair quene I was espyit, scho bad hir archers kene Go me areist ; and they nae tyme delayit ; Then ladies fair lute fall thair mantils grene With bowis big, in trassit hairs schene, Richt suddenly they had a feild arrayit : And zit richt gritly was I nocht affrayit ; The party was sae plesand to be sene, A wondir lusty bikar me assayit. And first of all with bow in hand ay bent, Came bewty’s dame richt as scho wald me schent, Syne followit all her damosells in feir, With mony divers awfull instrument, Into the preiss fair Having with hir went, Syne Portrator, Plesance, and lusty Cheir, Then Resoun came with Schield of Gold so cleir, In plait of mail as Mars armipotent, Defendit me that nobil chevalier. Syne tendir Zouth came with her virgin’s zing, Grene Innocence and schamefull Abasing, And quaking Dreid, with humbyl Obedience, The Goldin Terge it armit them naithing, Courage in them was nocht begun to spring ; Full sune they dreid to do a violence: Sweit Womanheid I saw come in presence, A warld of artelzie scho did in bring, And servit ladyis full of reverance. Scho with hir led Nurtour and Lawlieness, Continuance, Pacience, gude Fame, and Stedfastness, Discration, Gentilness, Considderans, Leful Company, and honest business, Benign Luke, myld Cheir, and Sobirness, All thir bure genzies to do me grivans ; THE EVERGREEN. But Resoun bure the Terge with sic constans, Thair scharp assay micht do me no deirance, For all their preis and awful ordinans. Unto the preiss pursewit Hie Degrie, Hir followit ay Estait and Dignitee, Comparison, Honour, and nobill Array, Will, Wantoness, Renown, and Libertie, Riches, and Freedome, and Nobility ; Wit ze they did thair banner hie display. A clud of flanes lyke hail-schot lowsit they, And schot till wastit was thair artelzie, Syne went abak rebutit of the prey. Quhen Venus had persavit this rebute, Scho bad Dissemblance gae mak a persute With all her power to press the Goldin Terge ; And scho that was of doubleness the rute, Askit hir choiss of archers in refute: Venus the best bad hir to wale at lerge ; Scho tuke Presence plicht anker of the berge ; And Fair Calling that weil a flane can schute, And Cherrissing for to compleit hir charge. Dame Hameliness scho tuke in company, That hardy was and heynd in archery, And brocht in Bewtie to the feild again, With all the choise of Venus chevelly, They came and bikkart unabaisitly : The showris of arrows roppit on lyke rain, Perrelus Presence that mony a syre has slain ; The battil brocht of bordour hard me by, The assalt was all the sairer suth to sane. Thick was the schot, of grundin arrows kene, But Ressoun with the Goldin Schield sae schene, Weirly deffendit quhoseir assayit ; The awfull schower he manly did sustene, Till Presence kest powdir in his ene, And then as drunken man he all forwayit, Quhene he wes blind, the fule with him they playit, And bannist him amang the bewis grene ; That sicht sae sair me suddenly affrayit. Then was I woundit, till the deth full neir, And zoldin as ane woefull prisoneir, To Lady Bewtie, in a moment’s space, Methocht scho seimit lustyer of cheir, Aftir that Ressoun had tynt his ene cleir, Than of befoir, and lovarly of face ; Quhy was thou blindir, Ressoun? quby ? allace! And gart ane hell my Paradyce appeir, And mercy seim quhair that I fand nae grace. Dissimulance was bissy me to assyle, And Fair Calling did aft upon me smyle, “And Cherissing me fed with words fair, Acquentance new embrasit me a quhyle, And favyourt me till men micht gae a myle, 265 Syne tuke hir lief, I saw her nevir mair ; Then saw I Denger towart me repair, I cowth eschew hir presence be nae wyle, On syde scho lukit with a fremit fare. And at the last deperting couth hir dress, And me deleverit unto Havyness For to remane, and scho in cure me tuke ; Be this the lord of winds with fell wodness, God Eolus his bougill blew I gess, That with the blast the aiks in forest schuke, And suddenlie in the space of a luke, All was hyne went, there was but wilderness, Thair was nae mair but bird and bank and bruke. In twynckling of an ee to schip they went, And swift up sail unto the tap they stent, And with swift course out owre the flude they frak; They fyrit their guns with powder violent, Til that the reik raise to the firmament, The rochis all resoundit with the rak, For reid it semit that the rain-bow brak; With spreit affrayit upon my feit I sprent Amangs the clewis, sae cairfull was the crak. And as I did awake of this swowning, The joyfull minstralls mirryly did sing, For mirth of Phebus tendir beims schene ; Sweit wer the vapouris, saft the morrowing, Hailsum the vail, depayut with flowirs zing, The air atemperit, sobir and amene ; In quhyte and reid was all the eard besene, Throw nature’s nobill fresch enamling, In mirthfull May of every moneth quene. O reverend Chawser,! rose of rethouris all, As in our toung the flowir imperiall, That evir raise in Brittane, quha reids richt, Thou beirs of makars the triumphs ryall, The fresch enamallit termes celestiall ; This matter thou couth haif ilumint bricht, Was thou not of our Inglis all the licht ? Surmounting every toung terrestrial, As far as Mayis fair morning dois midnicht. O morale Gower and Lidgate laureat, Zour suggart toungs and lipps aureat Bene till our eirs cause of grit delyte ; Zour mouths angelick, maist mellifiuat, Our rude language hes cleir illumynat, And has owre-gilt our speich, that imperfyte Stude, or zour goldin pens did schupe to wryt, This yle befoir was bair and disolate Of rethorick, or lusty fair indyte. (1) This panegyric on Chaucer, as ’tis perfectly generous and handsome from a Scots poet, it likewise shows that the Lowland Scots language and the English at that time were the same. Mh 266 THE EVERGREEN. Thou litie quair be evir obedient, Humbyl subject, and semple of intent, Befoir the face of every cunning wicht, I knaw what thou of rethorick has spent, Of hir maist lystie roses redolent Is nane into thy garland set on hicht ; O schame thairfor, and draw the out of sicht : Rude is thy weid, bare, destitute and rent, Weil aucht thou be affeirit of the licht. Quod DUNBAR, LORGES, LERGES, ETC. Lorges, Lerges, Lorges ay, Lerges of this new zeir’s day Fist Lerges of the king my chief, Quhilk came as quitely as ane thief, And in my hand slaid schillings twae, To put his lergnes to the preif, For Lerges of this new zeir day. Syne Lerges of my Lord Chancelar, Quhen I to him ane ballat bare, He sonziet not, nor said me nay, But gaif me quhile I wald had mair, For Lerges of this new zeir day. Of Gallaway the bischop new, Forth of my hand ane ballat drew, And me delivert bot delay. A fair hacknay bot hyd or hew, For Lerges of this new zeir day. And syne of Croce the abbot zing, I did to him ane ballat bring ; But or I past a piece him frae, I gat nae less than deil a thing, For Lerges of this new zeir day. The secretar, baith war and wyse, Hecht me a cast of his office ; And for to reid my bill alsway He said for him that micht suffice, For Lerges of this new zeir day. The treasurer and comptrollair, They bad me cum I wait not quhair, And they wald gar, I wait not quhae, Gife me, I wait not quhat, full fair, For Lerges of this new zeir day. Now Lorges of my lordis all Baith temporall state and spiritual, My self sall evir sing and say, T haif them fund sae liberall Of Lerges on this new zeir day. Foul fa this frost that is sae snell, It hes the wyt, the trewth to tell, Baith hands and purss it binds up sae, They may gife naithing bye themsell, For Lerges of this new zeir day. Now Lerges of my Lord Bothwell, The quhilk in fredome did excell; He gaif to me a cursour gray Worth all this sort, that I with mell, For Lerges of this new zeir day. Grit God releif Margaret our quene, For gif scho wer as scho hes bene, Scho wald be lerger of lufray Than all the laif that I of mene, For Lerges of this new zeir day. Quod STEWART DUMBAR’S DREGY ; MADE TO KING JAMES V. BEING IN STIRVLING. We that are heir in heaven’s glory, To zou that are in purgatory, Commends us on your hearty ways, I mean we folk in Paradyce, In Edinburg with all mirryness, To zou in Stirling in distress, Quhair nowther pleasance nor deiyt is, Thus pittying ane Apostle wryts. O ze hermits and hankersaidlis, That tak zour penance at zour tables, And eit nae meit restorative, Nor drink the wyne comfortative, But ale that is baith thin and small, With but few courses in zour hall, Bot company of lords or knychts, Or ony uther guidly wichts, Solitar walkand zour alane, Seing naething but stock or stane Out of zour painful purgatory, To bring you to the bless of glory: Of Edinburgh the mirry toun We sall begin a carefull soun, Ane dregy kynd, devout and meik, The blest abune we sall beseik Zou to delyvir out of zour noy, And bring zou sune to Edinburgh’s joy Thair to be mirry amang zour freins, And sae the dregy thus begins, THE EVERGREEN. 267 Lectio I. The "Oe * The mirthful Mary, virgin chast, Of angels all the orders nyne, And all the heavenly court: divyne, Sune bring ze frae the pyne and wae, Of Stirvling, ilka court mans fae, Again to Edinbrugh’s joy and bliss, Quhair worschip, wealth, and weilfare is, Play, pleasance, and eik honesty, Say ze Amen, for charity, Responsio, tu autem Domine. Tak consolation in zour pain ; In tribulation, tak consolation, Out of vexation cum hame again, Tak consolation in zour pain ; Jube Dom. benedicite. Out of distress of Stirvling toun To Edinbrugh bless God mak ze boun. Lectio II. Patriarchs, prophets, and apostles deir, Virgins, confessouris, martyris cleir, And all the seat celestiall, Devoutely we upon them call, That sune out of zour pains fell, Ze may in heavin heir with us dwell, To eat cran, pertrick, swan, and pliver, And every fisch that swyms in river, To drink with us the new fresch wyne That grew upon the river Ryne, Fresch fragrant clarits out of France, Of Angiers and of Orliance, With mony comforts of grit dainty, Say ze Amen, for charity. Responsum, tu autem Dom. God and Sanct Jeil heir zou convoy Baith sune and weil, God and Sanct Jeil, To sonce and seil, solace and joy, God and Sanct Jeil heir zou convoy, Out of Stirvlings pains fell, In Edinburgh joy sune mot ze dwell. Lectio III. We pray to all the saints in heaven, That ar abune the starns seven, Zou to bring out of zour pennance, That ze may sune sing, play, and daunce In Edinburg heir and mak gude cheir, Quher wealth and weilfare is bot weir ; And I that do zour pains diseryve Intend to vissy zou belyve, In desart not with zou to dwell, But as the angel Saint Grabriell Dois go betwein frae heavens glory, To them that ar in purgatory, Sum consolation them to give, Quhyle they in tribulation live, And schaw them, quhen thair pains ar past, They sall cum up to heaven at last; How nane deserves to haif sweitness, That nevir tastit bitterness ; And therfor hou suld ze considder Of Edinburgs bless, quhen zou cum hidder: But gif ze tastit had befoir Of Stirvling toun, the pains soir, And therfore tak in patience Zour pennance and zour abstinence, And ze sall cum or Zule begin Into the bless that we ar in; Quhilk grant me pray to all on hy, Say ze Amen, for charity. Respons. tu autem Dom. Cum hame and dwell nae mair in Stirvling, Frae hydious hell cum hame and dwell, Quhair fisch to sell are nane but spirrling, Cum hame and dwell nae mair in Stirvling. Et ne nos inducas in temptationem de Stirvling, Sed libera nos a mallo illius. Regiam Edinburgi dona iis, Domine, Et lux ipsius luceat iis ; A porta tristicie de Stirvling. Orna, Domine, animas eorum : Credo gustare statim vinum Edinburgi, In villa Vinentium, Requiescant Edinburgi. Amen. Deus, qui justos in corde humiles Ex omnium eorum tribulatione liberare dignatus es, Libera famulos tuos apud villam Stirling versantes, A penis & tristitiis ejusdem, Et ad Edinburgi gaudia eos perducas, Ut requiescat Strivling. Amen. THE FLYTING OF DUNBAR AND KENNEDIE. The flyting of Dunbar and Kennedie Hereafter follows, jocund and merrie. Sr John the Ross, ane thing ther is compyld In generall be Kennedie and Quinting, Quhilk has themselfs abune the sterns styld ; But had they made of menace ony mynting In special, then sic stryfe suld ryse bot stynting: 268 Howheit with boist thair bosoms wer as bendit As Lucifer, quha frae the heavens descendit ; Hell suld not hyd thair harnis frae harms hynting. The eard suld tremble, firmament suld schake, And all the air invenomt sudden stink, And all the deils in Hell for redour quake To heir quhat I suld wryte with pen and ink ; For gif I flyt, sum sage for schame suld sink, The se suld burn, the mune suld tholl eclips, Roches suld ryve, the warld suld hald nae grips, Sae loud of care the common bell suld clink. But wonder laith wer I to be a baird, Flyting to use, for gritly I eschame ; Sen it is nowther winning nor rewaird, But tinsel! baith of honour and of fame, Increase of sorrow, sklander and ill name ; Zit micht they be sae bauld in thair back-byting To gar me ryme and raise the feynd with flyting, And throw ilk place and kinrick them proclaim. Quod DUNBAR To KENNEDIE. KENNEDIE TO DUNBAR. Dirten Dunbar, on quhome blaws thou thy boist ? Pretendant thee to wryte sic scaldit skrows, Thou raw-moud rebald, fall doun at the roist, My laureat liems at thee, and I lows, Mandrag, mymmerkin, maid maister but in mows, Thou thryce scheild trumpir, with a threid-bare goun, Say Deo mercy, or I cry the doun, And leave thy ryming, rebald, and thy rows. Dreid, dirtfast dearch, that thou has disobeyt My cousin Quintine, and my commissar, Fantastick fule, trust weil thou sall be fleyt, Ignorant elf, ape, owl, irregular, Skaldit skaitbird and common skandelar : Wansuckit funnling, that nature maid an yrle, Baith John the Ross and thou sall squell and skirle, Gif eir I heir ocht of zour making mair. Here I put silence to thie in all parts, Obey and ceise the play that thou pretends; Weak waly-draig and werlot of the carts, Se sune thou mak my commissar amends, And let him lay sax leischis on thy lends, Meikly in zecompenceing of thy scorn, Or thou sall bon the tyme that thou was born, For Kennedie to thee this schedule sends. Quod KENNEDIE unto DUNBAR. Judge in the nixt quha gat the war. THE EVERGREEN. DUNBAR TO KENNEDIE, Ersch brybour baird, vyle beggar with thy bratts, Sunt-bittin Kennedie, coward of kynd, Ill-fart and dryit, as Densman on the ratts, Lyk as the gledds had on thy gule snowt dynd; Monster mismaid, ilk mune out of thy mynd, Rebald, renounce thy ryming, thou but royis, Thy trechour tung has tane a Heland strynd; A Lawland erse wald make a better noyis. Riven, raggit ruke, and full of rebaldrie, Scart scorpion, scaldit in seurilitie, T se the haltane in thy harlotrie, And into uther science nothing slie, Of every vertew wyd, as men may se; Quyt claim with clergy, cleik to thee a club, Blasphemar baird, in brybrie ay to be; Wisdom and wit a wisp frae thee may rub. Dastard, thou speirs, Gif I dare with thee fecht ? Ze Dagone, dowbart, therof haif thou nae dout ; Quhair eir we meit therto, my hand I hecht To redd thy rebald ryming with a rout: Throw Britain braid it sall be blawn about, Hou that thou, poysond pelour, gat thy paiks With a dog-leisch, I schepe to gar the schout, And nowther to thee tak knyfe, swerd, or aix. Thou crop and rute of traytor treasonable, Fader and muder of morthor and mischeif, Deceitfull tyrand, serpent tung’d, unstable, Cuckald, cradoun, couard, and common theif; Thou purposd anes to undo our lord ana chief In Paislay, with a poyson that was fell, For quhilk brybour zit sall thou thole a breif ; Pelor, I sall it prieve on thee my sell. Tho I wald lie, thy frawart phisnomy Dois manifest thy malice to all men; Fy, traytour thief, fy, glengore loun, fy, fy! Fy, feyndlyke front, far fouler than a fen, My freynds thou hast reprovit with thy pen, Traytour thou leis, quhilk I sall on thee preive ; Suppose thy heid wer armit tymis ten, Thou sall reeryit, or I thy crown sall cleive. Or thou durst move thy mynd malitious, Thou saw the sail abune my heid updraw ; But Eolus full wid, and Neptunus, Mirk and muneless, was met with wind and waves, And mony a hundreth myles hynd coud us blaw By Holand, Zetland, and the Northway coast, In deserts vast, quhair we wer famist aw, Zit cum I hame, fals baird, to lay thy boast. THE EVERGREEN. I'nou callis thee rethory with thy goldin lipps : Na, glowrand, gapeand fule, thou art begyld, Thou art but Glunschoch with the giltit hipps, That for thy lounrie mony a leisch has fyld ; Vain widdifow, out of thy wit gane wyld, Laithly and lowsy, lathand as a leik, Sen thou of worschip wad sae fain be styld: Hail, sovraign schir, * * * Forworthin fule, of all the warld refuse, Quhat ferly is thocht thou rejoyce to flyt? Sic eloquence as they in Earsry use In sic is set thy trawart appityte ; Thou has full litle feil of fair indyte, I haif on me a pair of Lowthiane hipps, Sall fairer Inglis mak, and mair perfyte, Than thou can bleber with they Carrick lipps. Bettir thou gains to leid a dog to skomer, Pynd pyck-purse pelour, than with thy maister pingle ; Thou lay richt prydles in the peis this sommer, And fain at evin for to bring hame a single, Syne rubbd it at ane uther auld wyfis ingle: In winter now for purtith thou art trakit, Thou has nae breiks to let thy hawlocks gingle ; Gae beg a club, for bard thou sall gae nakit. Lean, lounger, lowsy, baith in lisk and lunzie, Fy, skowdert skyn, thou art but skyre and skrumple ; For he that rosted Lawrance had thy grunzie, And he that hid Saint John’s een with a wimple, And he that dang Saint Augustyne with a rumple, Thy foul front had he that Bartilmo flayd ; The gallows gapes after thy graceles gruntle, As thou wald for a haggies, hungrey gled. Comerwald crawdon, nane compts the a kerss, Sweir swapit, swanky swyne, kepar ay for swats : Thy commissar Quintyne bidsthe * * * He lykes not sic a forlane loun of laits ; He says, thou skaffs and begs mair beir and aits, Nor ony criple in Carrick land about : Uther pure beggars thole with thee debates, Carlings decript on Kennedie cry out. Matter enough I haif, I heid not fenzie, ‘Thocht thou foul trumper has upon me lied, Carrion corrupt, hich sall I cry thy senzie ; Thinks thou not hou thou came into grit neid, Greitand in Gallaway, lyke Gallow breid, Ramand and rowpand, beggand ky and. ox, I saw thee there into thy watchman’s weid, \ Quhilk was not worth a pair of auld gray socks. 269 Ersch Katherene with thy polk, breik and rilling, Thou and thy quean as greidy gleds ze gang With polks to mill, and begs baith meil and schilling, Thair is but lyce and lang nails zou amang, Foul heggerbald, for hens this will ze hang. Thou has a perilus face to play with lambs ; A thousand kids wer they in falds full strang, Thy limmer luke wald fley them and thair dams. Tntill a glen thou has, out of repair, A laithly ludge that was the lipper mens, With thee a soutar’s wyfe of bliss as bair, Ze lyke twa stalkers steils in cocks and hens. Thou pluks the poultry, scho pulls aff the pens. All Carrick crys, God gin this dowf wer drownd; And quhen thou heirs a guse quaik in the glens, Sweiter thou thinkst than mattins bell of sound. Thou Lazarus, thou laithly lein tramort, To all the warld thou may example be, To luke upon thy gryslie pitious port, For hydious, how and holkit is thine ee, Thy cheik bane bair, and blaikint is thy blie, Thy chop, thy chol, gars mony men live chaste, Thy gane it gars us mynd that we maune die; [ conjure thee, thou hungert Hyland ghaist. The larbar lukes of thy lang leinest craig, Thy pure pynd throple peilt, and out of ply, Thy skoldirt skin, hewd lyke a saffron-bag, Gars men dispyt thair flesch, thou spreit of gy: Fy! feyndly front, fy! tyks face, fy! O fy! Ay loungand, lyke a lock-man on a ladder. Thy ghastly luke fleys folks that pas thee by, Lyke a deid theif that’s glowrand in a tedder. Nyse nagus, nipeaik, with thy schulders narrow, Thou lousy lukes, and tume of lumis aw, Hard hurcheon, hirpland, hippit like an harrow ; Thy rig-bane ratles, and thy ribs on raw, Thy hanches hurklis with hukebanes harsh and haw, Thy laithly lymms are lein as ony treis: Obey, theif bard, or I sall brek thy gaw, Foul carrybald, ery mercy on thy kneis. Thou scowry hippit, ugly averil, With hurkland banes ay howkand throu thy hyde, Roistit and erynd, as hangit man on hill, And aft beswakit with an owre hie tyde, Quhilk brews richt meikle barret to thy bryd, Hir care is all to clenge thy cabroch hows, Quhair thou lies sawfly in saffron back and syde, Powdert with primrose, swarmand all with clows. 270 Worlin Wanworth, I warn thee it is written, Thow skyland skarth, thou has the hurle behind, Wan wraigland wasp, mae worms thou has * * * Than there is grass on ground or beist on lind ; Tho thou did first sic folly to me find; Thou sall again with mae witnes than I, Thy gulschoch gane does on thy back it bind, Thy wholstand hipps let neer thy hose be dry. Thou held the burch lang with a borrowit gown, And an caprowsy barkit all with sweit; And quhen the lads saw thee sae like a loun, They bickert thee with mony a bae and bleit, Now upland thou lives rife on rubit quhiet, Aft for ane cause thy burdclaith neids nae spredding, For thou has nowther for to drink or eit, But like a berdless bard that had nae bedding. Strait Gibbon’s air, that neir owrestrade a horse, Blae barefut bairn, in bare tyme was thou born; Thou brings the Carrik clay to Edinburgh Cross, Upon thy boetings hobbland hard as horn, Strae wisps hing out quhair that the wats ar worn ; Cum thou again to skar us with thy straes, We sall gar skale our schulis all thee to skorn, And stane thee up the cawsy as thou gaes. The boys of Edinburgh, as the beis outthraws, And ay crys out, “Heir cums our awin quier clerk ;” Then fleis thou lyk a houlat chaist with craws, Qubyle all the bitches at thy buitings bark. Then carlings cry, Keip curches in the merk, Our gallows gapes, lo quhair a graceless gaes : Anither says, I se him want a sark, I red ye kimmer tak in your linning clais. Then rins thou down the gate, with gild of boys, And all the town-tykes hingand at thy heils ; Of lads and louns ther ryses sic a noyse, Quhle wenches rin away with cards and quheils, And cadgers avers cast baith coals and creils ; For reird of thee, and rattling of thy butes. Fish wyves cry fy, and cast down skulls and skeils, Sum clashes thee, some clods thee on the cutes. Loun lyke Mahoun, be boun me till obey ; Thief, now in grief, mischief sall betyde, Cry grace, tyks face, or I thee chase and fley, Owl, rair and zoul, I sall defoul thy pryde ; Peild gled, baith fed and bred of bitches syde, Sae lyke a tyke, purspyke, quhat man sets by thee, * * * * * Climb ledder, fyle tedder, foul edder, I defy thec. THE. EVERGREEN. Mauch mutton, byle button, percht glutton, air to hillhouse ; Rank beggar, oyster-dregar, foul fleggar in the fleit ; Chitter-lillmg, ruck-rilling, lick-schilling in the mill house : Bawd rehator, thief of nature, false traytor, peynds get, Filling of tauch, rak sauch, cry crauch thou art owreset ; Mutton dryver, girnal ryver, zad skyvar foul fell thee; Herityck, lunatyck, purspyk, carlines pet, Rotten crok, dirten dok, ery cok, or I sall quell thee. KENNEDIE’S ANSWER TO DUNBAR. DorHane deil’s son, and dragon dispytous, Abiram’s birth, and bred with Belial. Wod werwouf worm and scorpion vennemous Lucifer’s laid, and foul feynd’s face infernal ; Thou Sodomite separate frae saints celestal ; Put I not silence to the shiphird knave, Gin thou of new begins to ryme and rave, Thou sall be made baith blate and bleir eied bestial. How thy forbeirs are come, I have a feil, Of Cockburns-Peth the writ makes me awar, Generit betwixt a scho beir and a deil ; Sae he was calld Deilber and not Dunbar: This Deilber generit of a meir of Mar. Corspatrick Earl of Merch, and be illusion, The first that eir pat Scotland in confusion, Was that false traytor, firmly say I dare. Quhen Bruce and Baliol differs for the croun, Scots lords could not obey the Inglis laws ; This Corspatrick betrayed Berwick Town, And slew seven thousand Scots within thae waws : The battle syne of Spottsmuir he gart cause, And came with Edward Langshanks to the field, Where twelve thousand true Scottish men were killd, And Wallace chaist, as the chronicle shaws. Scots lords and chiftains he gart hald and chesson, In firmance fast, till all the feild was done, Within Dunbar that auld spelunk of treason ; Sae Inglis tykes in Scotland was abune; Then spulziet they the haly stane of Scone; The cross of Halyroodhouse, and sic jewells ; He birns in hell, body, banes and bowells, This Corspatrick that Scotland has undone. THE EVERGREEN. 271 Wallace gart cry an counsale into Perth, And calld Corspatrick traytor be his style, But that damnd Dragon drew him in diserth, And said he kend but Wallace king in Kyle, Out of Dunbar that thief he made exyle, Unto Edward.and Inglis ground again: Serpents and taids and tigers sall remain, In Dunbar waws, tods, woufs, and beists vyle. Nae fowles of effect, now amange thae binks, Biggs nor abydes, for nothing that may be, Thy stanes of treason as the bruntstane stinks, Of Deilber’s mother casten in the se. The variet aple of the forbidden tree, That Adam eit quhen he tint paradyce, Scho eit envennom’d like a cockatryce, Syne marryt with the deil for dignitie. Zit of new treason I can tell the tales, That cums on nicht by vision in my sleip, Archbauld Dunbar betrayed the house of Hales, Because the zung lord had Dunbar to keip, Throu that pretendand to their rowms to creip ; Richt crewely his castle purseuet, Broucht him forth boundin, and the place reskewt, Set him in fetters in a dungeon deip. It were against baith nature and gude reason, That Deilher’s bairn were true to God or man, Quhilk were baith gotten, born and bred in treason, Belzebubb’s oys and curst Corspatrick’s clan. Thou was prescryvt and ordaind be Sathan, Now to he born to do thy kin defame, And gar me shaw thy antecessors’ schame, Thy kin that lives may wary thee and ban. Sen thou on me thus lymmer leis and trattlis, And sends sic sentence foundit of envy ; Thy elders banes ryse ilka nicht and rattle ; And on thy corss, vengance, vengance they cry. Thou art the cause they may not rest or ly; Thou says for them few Paters, salms, or creids, But gars me tell their rentells and misdeids, And thair auld sin with new schame certefy. Insenswat sow, ceis fals Kustace’s air, And knaw, kein scald I hald of Alathia, And gar me not the cause lang to declair, Of thy curst kin Deilber and his Alia; Cum to the corss on kneis and mak a Cria, Confess thy cryme, hald Kennedie thy king, And with a hawthorn scourge they sell and ding, Thus drie thy pennance dele quisti guia. Pass to my Commissar and be confest, Before him cour on kneis and cum in will; And syne gar Stobo for thy lyfe protest : Renunce thy rymes, baith ban and burn thy bill, Heive to the heaven thy hands and hald tlice still. Do thou not this brigane thou sall be brint With pik, tar, fyre, gunpowder, and lint, On Arthur-sate, or ony hicher hill. T haif ambulate on Parnaso the mountain, Inspyrt with Hermes frae his golden sphere, And dulcely drunk of eloquence the fountain, Quhen purifeet with frost, and flowand cleir, And thou hast cum in Merch or Februeir, There till ane pule, and drunk the padock rude, That gars thee ryme in terms of sence denude, And blaber things that wyse men hate to heir. Thou luves nae Erish, elf, I understand, But it suld be all true Scotismen’s beid ; It was the first gude language of this land, And Scota gart it multyplie and spreid, Till Corspatrick that we of treason reid, Thy forefader, made Ersche and Erschmen thin, Throu his treason brocht Inglis fassouns in, Sae wald thysell, micht thou to him succeed. Fule ignorant, in all thy mowis and makks, It may be verryfeit thy wit is thin, Quhen thou wryts Densmen dryd upon the ratts, Densmen of Denmark are of the king’s kin, * * * * * * * * * * Therefore, fals harlot hure-son, hald thy tung; Delbier thou deives thy deil thy eme with din. Quhairas thou says, that I steil hens and lamms, I let thee wit I haif land store and staks, Thou wald be fain to gnaw law with thy gamms Under my burde frush banes behind dogs back. Thy purse its tume, I haif baith steids and caiks, Thou tint the sok, I coulter haif and pleuch ; Thy geir and substance is a widdy teuch, On Saltone Mount, about thy craig to rax. And zit Mount Saltone gallows is owre fair, For to be fleyt with sic a frontless face ; Cum hame and hing under an trie of Air, To eard thee under it, I sall purchase grace, To eit thy flesh the dog shall haif nae space. Ravens sall ryve naething but thy tung rutes ; For thou sic malice of thy master mutes, It is weil set that thou sic barret brace. 272 A small fynance amang thy freinds thou beggit, To stanche thy skorne with haly mulds thou lost Thou faild to get a dowkar for to dreggit ; Tt lyes closd in a clout on Northway coast, Sic revel gars thee be servt with cauld roast, And aft sit supperless beyond the se, Cryand at doris, Charitas amore Dei, Breikles, barefute, and all in duds up dost. Deilber has nocht ado with a Dunbar; The Earls of Murray bure that surname rieht, That to their king ay true and constant war ; Of that kin came Dunbar of Westfield knicht. That succession is hardy, wyse, and wicht ; And has naithing ado now with the deil, But Deilber is thy kin, and kens thee weil, And has in hell for thee a chalmer dicht. Curst crupand craw, I sall gar crop thy tung, And thou sall cry Cormundum on thy kneis, Derch I sall ding thee till I gar thee dung, And thou sall lick thy lipps and sweir thou lies : I sall degrad the gracless of thy greis, Scald thee for skorn, and scor thee af thy sule, Gar round thy heid transform thee as a fule, And with treason gar trone thee on the treis. Rawmoud rebald, and renegald rehator, My lynage and forbeirs war evir leil, Tt cums aft to thy sell to be a traytor, To ryde by nicht, to rin, to reive and steil, Quhen thou puts poyson to me I appeil Thee in that place, and prive it on thy person, Claim not to clergy, I defy thee, Garsoun, Thou sall buy it deir enouch, derch of the deil. In Ingland, owl, sould be thy habitation ; Homage to Edward Langshanks made thy kin, Into Dunbar resaivt him thy fals nation : They sould be exylt Scotland mair and myn, Ane stark gallows, » widdy and a pin: The neid poynt of thy elders’ arms are Written abune in poysie, Hang Dunbar, Quarter and draw, and make that surname thin. I am the king’s blude, fus trew and special clerk, That nevir zit imagind his offence, Constant in mynd, in thocht, in word, and wark, Dependand only on his excellence, Trestand te have of his magnificence, Gwairdoun, reward, and benyfice bedein, Quhair that the ravins sall ryve out baith thy ein And on the rattis sall be thy residence. THE EVERGREEN. Frae Atrick forest forward to Domfreise, Thou beggit with a pardon in all kirks, Collaps, cruds, butter, meil, grots, gryce, and geis, And undernicht quhyles thou stall staigs and stirks, Because now Scotland of thy begging irks, Thou shaips in France to be knicht of the feild, Thou has thy clam shells and thy burdoun keild, Tlk ways unhonest, wolrun, that thou works. Thou may not pass Mount Bernard for wild beists, Nor win throw Mount Scarpary for the snaw, Mount Nicholas, Mount Godard, thee arreists, Sic beis of briggand blinds them with a blaw. In Paris with thy Master Burreau, Abyde and be his prentise neir the bank, And help to hang Fripons for half a Frank, And at the last thyself maun thole the law. Thou haltand harlot neir a gude thou hais, For falt of pussance, peilor, thou may pak thee; Thou drank thy sark, and als wedset thy clais ; There is nae lord in service that wid tak thee. A pack of flae-skins fynance for to mak thee, Thou sall receive at Danskyn of my tailzie, With de profundis set thee and that failzie, And I sall send the black deil for to bak thee. Into the Katherine thou made a foul kahute; For thou bedrait hir doun frae stern to steir, Upon her sydes was sein that thou could schute, The dirt cleaves till hir tows this twenty zeir, The firmament nor firth was never cleir, Quhile thou, deils birth Deilber, was on the sie, Ilk Saul had sunkin throu the sin of thee, War not the people made sae mickle prayer. * * * * * * * * * * Throw Ingland theive, and tak thee to thy fute, And bound to haif with thee a fals botwand, Ane horsmanshell thou call thee at the mute, And with that craft convoy thee throw the land ; Be naithing airch, but fairly tak in hand; Happen thou to be hangit in Northumber, Then all thy kin are weil quit of thy eumber, For that maun be thy dume I understand. Hie soverain lord, let neir this sinful sot Do schame frae hame unto zour nation ; Let neir again sic an be calld a Scot, A rotten cyok lowse of the dok ther doun. Frae honest folk devyde the laithly loun, On sum wyld desert quhair ther is no repair, For fyling and infecting of the air, Carry this cankert corrupt carion. THE EVERGREEN. 973 Thou was consavit in the grit eclipps, Ane monster made be grit Mercurius, Nae hald-again or ho is on thy hipps, Infortune, curst, false and furious, Ill-schriven, wan-thriven, not clein nor curious, A myting for flyting, the flurdome maist lyke, A crabbit, scabbit, ill-facit messen tyke, A ——, bot wit, schrewt and injurious. Greit in the glaiks, gude Maister Gwiliane Gowkks, Maist imperfyte in poetrie and prose, All closs under the cloud of nicht thou coukks ; Rymes thou of me, of rethory the rose ! Lonatic lymmar, luschabald, lous thy hose, That I may touch thy tung with tribulation, In recompensing of thy conspiration, Or turss thee out of Scotland, tak thy choice. A benefice quha wald give sic a beist, But gif it were to jingle Judas bells, Tak thee a fiddle or a flute to jest, Undocht thou art, ordaind for naithing ells, Thy clouted cloak, thy scrip and clam-schells, Cleik on thy cross, and fair on into France, And cum thou neir again without mischance ; The feynd fair with the forward ower the fells. Cankert cayne, tryd trowane, ¢ute-villous, Marmadin, mynmerkin, monster of all men, I sall gar bake thee to the Laird of Hillhouse, To swelly thee instead of a pullt hen ; Fazart fowmart, fostert in filth and fen, Foul frontit feynd, fule upon physnomy, * * * * * a Curst conspirator, cockatrice, hell’s ka, Turk, trumper, traytor, tyranne, intemprate, Thon yrefull attercap, pylot, Apostata, Judas, Jew, janglor, lollard lawreat, Sarazen, Symonite, proud pagan, pronunceat, Mahomeit, mansworn, atheist abominable, Deil dampint dog, in vyce insatiable ; With Gog and Magog greit glorificat. Nero thy nevoy, Goliah thy grandsyre, Pharo thy fader, Egyppa thy dame, Deilbeir thir ar, the cause that I conspyre Gainst thee, and ilka sutie deil thy eme; Belzebub thy full brudder he will claim To be thy air, and Cayphas thy sector, Pluto heid of thy kin and thy protector, To leid the doun to hell frae licht and leme. Deilbeir, thy speir of weir, bot feir, thou zeild, Hangit, mangit, edder-stangit, stryndie Stultorum, To me, maist hie, Kennedie, and flie the field, Picket, wicket, stricket, convickit, lump /udlar- dorun, Defamit, schamit, blamit, primus paganorum ; Out out, I schout upon that snout that snevils, Tale-teller, rebeller, indweller with the divels ; Spink, sink, with stink ad Tartara termagonum. TESTAMENT OF MR. ANDRO KENNEDY. The merry testament of Master Andro Kennedy. Maid by Master William Dunbar. when he was like to dy, I Master Andro Kennedy, A curio quando sum vocatus, Begotten with sum incuby, Or with sum freir ixfatuatus ; I cannot, faith, tell redely, Unde aut ubi fui natus, But this in truth I trow trewly, Quod sum diabolus incarnatus. Cum nihil stt certius morte, We maun all die quhen we haif done, Nescimus quando, vel qua forte, Nor blind allane wait of the mone; Lego patior in pectore, Throw nicht I could not sleip a wink, Licet ager in corpore, Zit wald my mouth be wat with drink. Nune condo testamentum meum, I leave my saul for evirmair, Per omnipotentem Deum, Into my lordis gude wyne cellar, Semper tbi ad remanendum Till Dumesday cum without dissever, Bonum vinum ad bibendum, With sweit Cuthbert that luved me nevis. Ipse est dulcis ad amandum, He wald aft ban me in his braith, Det mihi modo ad potandum, And I forgave him laith and wraith, Quia in cellar cum servisia, I had leur ly baith air and late, Nudus solus in camisia, That in my lord’s braw bed of state. A barrell being at my bosom, Of warldly gude I bad nae mair, Et corpus meum ebriosum, I leif unto the toun of Air. In a draff midding eir and ay, Ut ibi sepelire queam ; Quhair drink and draff may ilka day Be custen super faciem mean. NN 274 THE EVERGREEN. I leif my heart that neir was sicker, Sed semper variabile, That evirmair wad flow and flicker, Consorti meo Jacobi; Thoch I wald bind it with a wicker, Verum Deum renui, But and I hecht to tume a bicker, Hoe pactum semper tenut. Syne leif I the best aucht I bocht, Quod est Latinum propter cape To my kin-heid, but waite I nocht, Quis est ille, than schrew my skape : I tald my lord my heid but hiddle, Sed mille alii hoe sciverunt, We wer as sib as sive and riddle, In una silva que creverunt. Quia mea solatia, They wer but leising all and ane, Cum omni fraude & falacia, T leif the maister of Sanct Anthane, To William Gray ein sine gratia, My ain deir cusine, as I wene, Qui nunquam fabricat mendacia, But quhen the holand-tree grows grene. My fenzeing and my false winning, Relinguo falsis fratribus, For that’s conform to God’s ain bidding, Disparsis dedit pauperibus ; For men’s sauls they say and sing, Mentientes pro muneribus, Now God give them an evil ending; Pro suis pravis operibus. To Jok the fule, my folly frie, Lego post corpus sepultum, In faith I am mair fule than he, Licet ostendo bonum multum, Of corn and cattle, gold and fie, Ipse habet valde multum, And zit he bleiris my lordis ee, Fingendo eum fore stultum. To Master Johny Clerk syne, Do & lego intime, God’s braid maleson and myne, Nam ipse est causa mortis mee, Wer I a dog, and he a swyne, Multi mirantur super me, But I suld gar that lurdane quhryne, Scribendo dentes sine D. Residuum omnium bonorum Rests to dispone my lord sall haif, Cum tutela puerorum, Baith Edie, Ketie, and all the laife ; In faith I will nae langer raife, Pro sepultura ordino, On the new gyse, sae God me saif, Non sicut more solito. In die mee sepulture, I will haif nane but our ain gang, Et duos rusticos de rure, Bearand ane barrell on a stang, Drinkand and playand cap-out evin, Stcut egomet soiebam, Singand and greitand with the stevin, Potum meum cum fletu miscebam. I will nae priests for me shall sing, Dies illa dies tre, Nor zit nae bells for me to ring, Sicut semper solet fieri, But a bag-pyp to play a spring Ht unum ale-wisp ante me, Instead of torches for to bring, Quatuor lagunas cervisia, Within the grave to set sic thing In modum crucis jurta me, To fley the feynds, than hardly sing De terra plasmasti me DISCRATION IN ASKING. OF every asking follows nocht Reward, but gif sum cause were wrocht : And quhair cause is men weil may se, And quhair nane is, it will be thocht In asking suld discration be. Ane fule, thocht he haif cause or nane, Cryis ay, Gife me unto a drene ; And he that dronis ay lyke and bie, Suld haif ane heirar dull as stane ; In asking suld discration be. Sum askis mair than he deservs, Sum askis far less than he servs, Sum schames to ask, and braids of me, And all without reward he sterves ; In asking suld discration be. To ask bot service hurts gude fame, To ask for service nane suld blame, To serve and leif in beggartie, To man and maister baith is schame ; In asking suld discration be. THE EVERGREEN. 275 He that dois all his best servyis, May spill it all with crakks and cryis, And be foul importunitie ; For fewest words may serve the wyis ; In asking suld discration be. Nocht neidfull is men suld be dum, Nathing is gotin without words sum, Nocht speids bot diligence we se, For nathing it alane will cum ; Tn asking suld discration be. Asking wald haif convenient place, Convenient tyme, laisor and space, Bot haist or preis of grit menzie, Bot heart abaist, bot tung reckles ; Tn asking suld discration be. Sum micht haif “ze” with little cure, That hes aft “nay” with grit labour, All for that tyme not byde can he, And tyns baith eirand and honour ; In asking suld discration be. Suppose the servand be lang unquit, The lord sumtyme reward will it, Gif he dois not quhat remedie ; To fecht with fortune is nae wit; In asking suld discration be. DISCRATION IN GIVING. To speik of gifts or almous deids, Sum gives for merit, sum for meids, Sum warldlie nonour to up hie, Gifes aft to them that nathing neids ; In giving suld discration be. Sum gives for pryd and glory vain, Sum gives with grudging and with pain, Sum gives in prattick for supplie, Sum gives for twyis as gude again; In giving suld discration be. Sum gives for thank, sum cheritie, Sum money gives, and sum gives meit, And sum give words baith fair and slie; But gifts frae sum can nae man treit ; In giving suld discration be. Sum gives so littil full wretchetly, That all his gifts ar not set by, And for a hude-pyk haldin his he, That all the warld cryis on him, “ Fy!” In giving suld discration be. Sum in his giving is sae large, That all owre-laidin is his berge, Throw vyce and prodigalitie ; Thairof his honour dois discharge ; In giving suld discration be. Sum to the rich man gives his geir, That micht his gifts richt weil forbeir, Zit thocht the pure for salt suld die, His ery nocht enteris in his eir ; In giving suld discration be. Sum gives to strangeris with face new That zisterday frae Flanderis flew, And auld servands lists not se, Wer they neir of sic grit vertew ; In giving suld discration be. Sum gives to them can ask and pleuzie, Sum gives to them can fleich and fenzie, Sum gives to men of honestie, And halds all jangelars at disdenzie ; In giving suld discration be. Thair sum gets gifts and rich arrayis, To sweir all that his maister sayis, Thocht all the contrair weil kens he; Ar mony sic now in our dayis ; In giving suld discration be. Sum gives gude men for thair gude kewis, Sum gives to trumpers and to schrews ; Sum gives to schaw his auctoritie ; But in thair office gude foundin few is ; In giving suld discration be. Sum gives parochines full wyde, Kirks of Saint Bernard and Saint Bryde, To teich, to rule, and to owresie, To sum richt skant of grace to gyde , In giving suld discration be. FOLLOWS DISCRATION IN TAKING. Now after giving I speik of taking, But littill of ony gude forsaiking ; Sum taks owre scrimp autoritie, And sum owre-mekle, and that is glaiking , In taking suld discration be. The clerks tak benifices with brawls, Sum of Saint Peter, sum of Saint Pauls, Take he the rents, nae cair hes he, Abeit the deil tak all thair sauls ; In taking suld discration be,° 276 ON DETRACTION AND DEMING. THE EVERGREEN, Barons tak frae thair tennants pure All fruit that grows upon the feure, In mails and gersomes raist owre hie, And gars them beg frae dore to dore; In taking suld discration be. And sum tak uther men’s takks, And on the pure oppression maks, And nevir mynds that he maun die, Quhyle that the gallows gar him rax ; In taking suld discration be. Sum taks be sie and sum be land, And nevir frae taking hald thair hand Till they be tyit up to a trie; And syn they gar them understand In taking suld discration be. Sum wald tak all his nichbour’s geir, Had he of man as little feir, As he hes dreid that God him se, To tak them suld he nevir forbeir ; In taking suld discration be. Sum wald tak all this warld’s breid, And zet nocht satisfiet thair neid, Throw heart unsatiable and greidie, Sum wald tak littil, and cannot speid ; In taking suld discration be. Grit men for taking and oppression, Ar sett full famous at the Session, Quhile pure takkars are hangit hie, Schamit for evir and thair succession ; In taking suld discration be. Sum taks the makkaris ruising kynd, But a rewaird dois nevir mynd, Few pairts with pelf for poetry, That gars my poutch be aft ill lynd; In taking suld discration be. The foregoing three quod Mz. W. DUNBAR. Musrne alane this hinder nicht, Of mirry day, quhen gane was licht, Within a garth undir a trie, ~ I hard ane voce that said on hicht, May nae man now undemit be: For thocht I be an crownit king, Zit sall I not eschew deming ; Sum calls me gude, sum says [I lie, Sim craifs to God to end my ring, Sae sall I not undemit be. Be [a lord, and not lord lyke, Than every pelour and purse-pyke, Says, Land wer better waird on me, Thocht he dow nocht to leid a tyke, Zit can he not let deming be. Be I a lady fresch and fair, With gentleman makand repair, Then will they say baith scho and he, That I am japit late and air ; Thus sall I not undemit be. Be I an courtman or a knycht, Honestly cled that sets me richt, Ane prydfull man syne call they me: But God send them a widdy wicht, That cannot let sic deming be. Be I but little of stature, They call me cative, droich ertature, And be [ of large quantity, They call me monsterous of nature ; Thus can they not let deming be. And be I ornat in my speich; Then Towsy sayis I am sae streich, I speik not lyke thair house menzie, Suppose her mouth misters a leich, Zit can scho not let deming be. But wist thir folk that uther deims, How that their saws to uthers seims, Thair vicious words and vainity, Thair trattling tungs that all furth teims, Tharis sum wald let thair deming be. Gude James the Ferd our nobill king, Quhen that he was of zeirs zing, In sentence laid full subtilie, “ Do weil and set nocht by deming, For nae man sall undemit be.” And sae I sall with God his grace, Keip his command into that case, Besickand ay the Trinity, In Hevin that I may haif a place, For thair sall no man demit be. Quod Mr. W. DUNBAR SONS EXYLT BY PRYDE. Sons hes bene ay exylit far out of sicht, Sen ilka knaif was cled in silken goun, Welfare and welth ar gane without gude nicht, And in their rowms remains dull derth and neid, Pryd is amang us enterit, bot God speid, THE EVERGREEN. 277 And leird our lords to gang now less and mair, With silken gouns, and cellars tume and bair. Now a small Baron’s rich abulzement, In silkin furrings, chenzies, and sic geir, Micht furniss fourty into Jack and splent, Weil bodin at his back with bow and speir Tt wer full meit gif it happens be weir, That all tass prvd of silk wer quyt laid doun. And changit in Jack Knapska and Abergown. Wald all the lords lay up thair rich arrays, And gar unsulziet keip them clene and fair, And weir them but on hie triumphand days, And quhen strangers do in this realme repair, They neid not buy silk rayments mair, This twenty zeir for them, and thair succession, Gif sinfull pryde nocht blindit thair discretion. Thair men also maun be bot smyt or smot, Frae his caprousy be with ribbons laist, With velvet bord about his threid-bare coit ; On woman wayis weil tyit about his waist, His hat on syde set up for ony haist, For hichtines the culroun dois misken, His awin maister as weil as uther men. Quha sinns in pryd, does first to God grivance, Quha out of Hevin to Hell gaif it a fall; Syne of himself westis fast his substance, Sae lerge, that it owrepasses his rentall, His teunants pure he dois oppress with all ; His coistly gown, with tail sae wyde outspred, His nakit farmours gars hungry gae to bed. Quod CLERK. SATYRE ON COVETOUSNESS. Frewom, honour, and nobillness, Meid manheid, mirth, and gentilness, Ar now in court repute as vyce, And all for cause of Covetyce. All weilfare, welth, and wantoness, Ar changit into wretchetness, And play is set at little pryce, And all for cause of Covetyce. Halking, hunting, and swift horse rinning, Ar changit all in wranous winning, Thair is nae play but cards and dyce, And all for cause of Covetyce. Hearty house-halding is all laid down, A laird has with him but a loun, That leids him after his devyce, And all for cause of Covetyce. In burghs to landwart and to sie, Quhair plesour was and grit plentie, Venison wyld-foul, wyn, and spyee, Ar now decayd throw Covetyee. Husbands that grangis had full greit, Cattle and corn to sell and eit, Hes now nae beists but eats and myce, And all throw cause of Covetyce. Honest zemen in every toun, Quha wont to weir baith red and broun, Ar now arrayt in raggs with lyce, And all throw cause of Covetyce. And lairds in silks harle to the deil, For quhilk thair tennants sald summer meil, And lives on ruits under the ryss, And all for cause of Covetyce. Quha that dois deids of pietie, And lives in pece and cheritie, Ts haldin a fule, and that full nyce, And all for cause of Covetyce. And quha can reive uther men’s rowms, And upon pure men gadder sowms, Is thoeht an active man and wyse, And all for cause of Covetyce. Man, pleis thy Maker, and be merry, And value nocht this warld a cherry ; Work for a place in Paradyce, For thairin rings nae Covetyce. THE CHERRIE AND THE SLAE.' Compylt into Scottis meeter by Captain Alexander Montgomery, Axourt an bank with balmy bewis, Quhair nychtingales thair notis renewis With gallant goldspinks gay ; The mavis, merle, and progne proud, The lintquhyt, lark, and laverock loud, Salutit mirthful May. (1) This Edition is taken from two curious old ones, the first printed hy Robert Walgrave, the king’s printer, in 1597, according to a copy corrected by the author himself, the other by Andro Hart, printed 1615, said on the title page to be newly altered, perfyted, and divided into one hundred and fourteen quatuorzeims, not long before the author's death, THE EVERGREEN, ‘Quhen Philomel had sweitly sung, To progne scho deplord, How Tereus cut out hir tung, And falsly her deflourd ; Quilk story so sorie To schaw hir self scho semit, To heir hir so neir hir, I doubtit if I dreimit. The cushat crouds, the corbie crys, The coukow couks, the prattling pyes, To geck hir they begin : The jargoun or the jangling jayes, The craiking craws, and keckling kays, They deavt me with thair din. The painted pawn with Argos eyis, Can on his mayock call; The turtle wails on witherit tries, And eccho answers all, Repeting with greiting, How fair Narcissus fell, By lying and spying His schadow in the well. 1 saw the hurcheon and the hare In hidlings hirpling heir and thair, To mak thair morning mange. The con, the cuning, and the cat, Quhais dainty downs with dew were wat, With stif mustachis sirange. The hart, the hynd, the dae, the rae, The fulmart and false fox; The beardit buck clam up the brae, With birssy bairs and brocks ; Sum feiding, sum dreiding The hunter’s subtile snairs, With skipping and tripping, They piayit them all in pairs. The air was sobir, saft, and sweit, Nae misty vapours, wind nor weit, But quyit, calm and clear, ‘To foster Flora’s fragrant flowris, Quhairon Apollo’s paramouris, Had trinklit mony a teir ; ‘The quhilk lyke silver schaikers shynd, Embroydering bewtie’s bed, Quhairwith their heavy heids declynd, In Mayis collouris cled, Sum knoping, sum droping, Of balmy liquor sweit, Excelling and smelling, Throw Phebus hailsum heit. Methocht an heavenlie heartsum thing, Quhair dew lyke diamonds did hing, Owre twiukling all the treis, To study on the flurist twists, Aduiring nature’s alchymists, Laborious bussie bies, Quhairof sum sweitest honie sochit, To stay thair lyves frae sterve, And sum the waxie veschells wrocht, Thair purchase to preserve ; So heiping, for keiping It in thair hyves they hyde, Precisely and wysely, For winter they provyde. To pen the pleasures of that park, How every blossom, branch, and bark, Against the sun did shyne, [ pass to poetis to compyle, In hich heroick staitlie style, Quhais muse surmatches myne. But as I lukit myne alane, I saw a river rin Outowre a steipie rock of stane, Syne lichtit in a lin, With tumbling and rumbling Amang the roches round, Devalling and falling, Into a pit profound. Throw rowting of the river rang, The roches sounding lyke a sang, Quhair das kane did abound ; With triple, tenor, counter, mein, And ecchoe blew a base betwene, In diapason sound, Set with the C-sol-fa-uth cleif, With lang and large at list ; With quaver, crotchet, semibreif, And not an minum mist, Compleitly mair sweitly Scho fridound flat and schairp, Nor muses that uses To pin Apollo’s harp. Quha wald haif tyrt to heir that tune, Quhilk birds corroborate ay abune, With lays of luvesum larks, Quhilk clim sae high in chrystal skys, Quhyle Cupid walkens with the crys Of nature’s chappel clerks, Quha leving all the hevins abuve, Allichted on the eird. Lo how that little lord of luve, Before me thair appeird, Sae myld lyke and chyld lyk, ‘With bow three quarters scant, Syne moylie and coylie, He lukit lyk ane sant. THE EVERGREEN. 279 Ane cleinly crisp hang owre his eyis, His quaver by his nakit thyis Hang in an silver lace ; Of gold betwixt his schoulders grew, Twa pretty wings quhairwith he flew, On his left arm ane brace. ‘This God sone aff his geir he schuke, Upon the grassie grund ; I ran als lichtly for to luke, Quhair ferlies micht be fund; Amasit I gasit To see his geir sae gay, Persaifing myne haveing, He countit me his prey. His zouth and stature made me stout, Of doubleness I had nae doubt, But bourded with my boy: Quod I, How call they thee, my chyld? Cupido, Sir, quod he, and smyld, Please you me to imploy ; For I can serve you in your suite, If you please to impyre, With wings to flie, and schafts to schute Or flamis to set on fyre. Mak choice then of those then, Or of a thousand things, But crave them and have them. With that I wowd his wings. Quhat wald thou gif my friend, quod he, To haif thir wanton wings to flie, To sport thy sprit a quhyle; Or quhat gif I suld lend the heir, Bow, quaver, schafts, and schuting geir, Sum body to begyle: That geir, quod he, cannot be bocht, Zit I wald have it fain ; Quhat gif, quod he, it cost thee nocht, But rendering all again: His wings then he brings then, And band them on my back; Go flie now, quod he, now, And sae my leif I tak. I sprang up with Cupidoe’s wings, Quha bow and schuting geir resigns, To lend me for a day: As Icarus with borrowit flicht, I mountit hichar nor I micht, Owre perrelous ane play : Then furth I drew that double dart Quhilk sumtyme schot his mother, (gunairwith I hurt my wanton hairt, In hope to hurt ane uther : It hurt me or burnt me, Quhyle either end I handill ; Cum see now in me now The butter-flie and candill. As scho delyts into the low, Sae was I browdin of my bow, Als ignorant as scho; And as scho flies quhyl scho be fyrt, Sae with the dart that I desyrt, My hand has hurt me to; As fulish Phaeton be sute His father’s cart obtaind, Sae langt I in lufis bow to schute Not marking quhat it meind ; Mair wilfull than skilfull, To flie I was sae fond, Desyring, aspyring ; And sae was sene upond. Too late I knew quha hewis to hie. The spail sall fall into his eie, Too late I went to schuils ; Too late I heard the swallow preich Too late experience dois teich, The schuil-maister of fuils : Too late to fynd the nest I seik, Quhen all the birds ar flowin ; Too late the stabil-dore I steik, Quhen all the steids are stowin ; Too late ay their state ay, All fulish folk espy, Behind sae, they find sae Remeid, and sae do I. Gif I had ryplie bene advyst, I had not raschly enterpryst, To soir with borrowit penns ; Nor zit had seyd the archer-craft, To schute mysell with sik a schaft, As reason quyte miskenns : Frae wilfullness gaif me my wound, I had nae force to flie, Then came I grainand to the ground: Friend, welcum hame, quod he ; Quhair flew ze? Quhome slew zeP Or quha brings hame the buiting P I se now, quod he, now, Ze haif bene at the schuting. As skorne cums commonlie with skaith, Sa I behuift to byde them baith, Sae stakkering was my stait ! That undir cure I gat sik chek, Qubilk I micht nocht remuif nor nek, But eyther stail or mait ; THE EVERGREEN. My agony was sae extreme, I swelt and swound for feir, But or I walkynt of my dreme, He spulziet me of my geir; With flicht then on hicht then Sprang Cupid in the skyis, Forzetting and setting At nocht my cairfull cryis. Sae lang with sicht I followit him, Quhyle baith my dazelit eyis grew dim With stairing on the starns, Quhilk flew sae thick befoir my ein, Sum reid, sum zellow, blew, sum grene, Quhilk trublit all my harns, That every thing apperit twae To my barbulziet brain, But lang micht I ly luiking sae, Or Cupid came again ; Quhais thundering, with wondering, I hard up throw the air, Throw cluds so he thuds so, And flew I wist not quhair. Then frae I saw that God was gane, And I in langour left allane, And sair tormentit to ; Sumtyme I sicht, quhyl I was sad, Sumtyme I musit and maist gane mad, I wist not quhat to do; Sumtyme I ravit, half in a rage, As ane intu dispair, To be opprest with sic a page, Lord gif my heart was sair ; Lyke Dido, Cupido, I widdill and I warie, Quha reft me and left me In sic a feirie-farie. Then felt I Curage and Desyre Inflame my heart with uncouth fyre, To me befoir unknawn ; But now nae blude in me remains Unbrunt and boyld within my vaines, By luve his bellies blawin ; To quench it or I was devorit, With sichs I went about, But ay the mair I schupe to smorit, The baulder it brak out ; Ay preising bot ceising, Quhy] it micht breik the bounds, My hew so furth schew so The dolour of my wounds. With deidly visage, pail and wan, Mair lyke an atomy than man, I widdert clein away, As wax befoir the fyre, I felt My heart within my bosom melt. And peice and peice decay, My veines with brangling lyk a brek, My punsis lap with pith ; Sae fervency did me infek, That I was vext thairwith ; My heart ay did start ay, The fyrie flamis to flie, Ay howping, throw lowping, To leap at libertie. But, O alace! it was abusit, My cairfull corps keipt it incluist, In presoun of my breist ; With sichs sae sowpit and owre-set, Lyk to ane fisch fast in the net, In deid thraw undeceist. Quha thochi in vain scho siryve by strenth For to pull out hir heid, Quhilk profits naething at the length, But haistning to bir deid ; With wristing and thirsting, The faster still is scho, Thair I so did ly so, My death advancing to. The mair I wrestlit with the wind, The faster still myself I find, Nae mirth my mynd micht meise ; Mair noy, nor I, had nevir nane, I was sae altert and owre-gane, Throw drowth of my diseise : Zit weakly as I micht I raise, My sicht grew dim and dark, I stakkerit at the windill-straes, Nae takin I was stark ; Baith sichtles and michtles I grew allmaist at ains, In angwische I langwische, With mony grievous grains. With sober pace I did approche Hard to the river and the roche, Quhairof I spak befoir ; The river sic a murmur maid, As to the sea it saftly slaid, The craig hich, stay and schoir : Then pleasure did me sae provok 'Thair partly to repair, Betwixt the river and the rock, Quhair Houp grew with Dispaire ; A trie than I sie than Of Cherries on the braes, Belaw to I saw to Ane buss of bitter slaes. I'HE EVERGREEN. 28) The cherries hang abune my heid, Lyke twynkland rubies round and reid, Sae hich up in the hewch, Quhais schaddowis in the river schew, Als graithly glancing as they grew On trimbling twistis, and tewch, Quhilk bowed throw burding of thair birth, Declyning doun thair toppis, Reflex of Phebus aff the Firth, New colourit all thair knoppis ; With dansing and glansing, In tyrles dornik champ, Quhilk streimed and leimed. Throw lichtness of that lamp. With earnest eie, quhyl I espy The fruit betwixt me and the sky, Half-gaite almaist to hevin ; The craig sae cumbersum to clim, The trie sae tall of growth, and trim, As ony arrow evin: J calld to mynd how Daphne did Within the laurell schrink, Quhen from Appollo scho hir hid A thousand tymes I think ; That trie thair to me thair ; As he his laurell thocht, Aspyring, bot tyring, To get that fruit I socht. To clim the craig it was nae buit, Let be to preiss to pull the fruit In top of all the trie; I saw nae way quhairby to cum, Be ony craft to get it clum, Appeirandlie to me: The craig was ugly, stay, and dreich, The trie lang, sound, and small, I was affrayd to clim sa hich, For feir to fetch a fall ; Affrayit to say it, I lnikit up on loft, Quhyls minting, quhyls stinting, My purpose changit oft. Then Dreid, with Danger, and Dispair, Forbad my minting onie mair To rax abune my reiche ; Quhat, tusche, quod Curage, man go to, He is but daft that has to do, And spairs for every speiche: For I haif aft hard suith men say, And we may see oursells, That fortune helps the hardy ay, And pultrones plain repells ; Then feir nocht nor heir nocht, Dreid, Danger, or Dispair, To fazarts hard hazarts, Is deid or they cum thair. Quba speids, but sic as heich aspyris, Quha triumphs nocht, but sic as tryes To win a nobill name; Of schrinking, quhat but schame succeids, Then do as thou wald haif thy deids In register of fame: I put the cais thou nocht prevaild, Sae thou with honour die; Thy lyfe, but not thy courage, faild, Sall poets pen of thee: Thy name than from fame than Sall nevir be cut aff, Thy graif ay sall haif ay That honest epitaff. Quhat can thou loss, quhen honour lives ? Renown (thy vertew) ay revives, Gif valiauntlie thou end: Quod Danger, Huly, freind, tak heid, Untymous spurring spills the steid ; Tak tent quhat ze pretend : Thocht Courage counsell thee to clim, Beware thou kep nae skaith, Haif thou nae help but Hope and him, They may begyle thee baith : Thysell now may tell now The counsell of thae clerks, Quhairthrow zit I trow zit Thy breist dois beir the marks. Brunt bairn with fyre the Danger dreids, Sa I belief thy bosome bleids, Sen last that fyre thou felt : Besyds that, seindle tymes thou seis That evir Courage keips the keis Of knawledge at his belt ; Thocht he bid fordwart with his guns, Small powder he provyds, Be not ane novice of that nunnes, That saw nocht baith the syds ; Fule haist ay almaist ay, Owre-sails the sicht of sum, Quha huigs not, nor luiks not Quhat eftirward may cum. Zit wisdom wisches thee to wey This figure is philosophy, A lessoun worth to leir, Quhilk is in tyme for to tak tent, And not guhen tyme is past, repent, And buy repentance deir ; Is thair nae honour eftir lyfe, Except thou slay thysell, Quhairfoir his Atropos that knyfe ? I trow thou cannot tell: THE EVERGREEN. Quha bot it wald cut it, Quhilk Clotho skairs has spun, Destroying thy joying Befoir it be begun. All owres ar repute to be vyce, Owre hich, owre law, owre rasch, owre nyce, Owre het or zit owre cauld ; Thou seims unconstant, be thy signs, Thy thocht is on a thousand things, Thou wats not quhat thou wald; Let fame hir pitie on the poure, Quhen all thy banes ar brokin, Zon Slae, suppose thou think it soure, May satisfie to slokkin Thy drouth now, of zouth now, Quhilk dryes thee with desyre, Asswage than thy rage, man, Foul watter quenches fyre. Quhat fule art thou to die of thrist, And now may quench it, gif thou list, Sae easylie bot pain ; Mair honour is to vanquisch ane Than feicht with tensum and be tane, And owther hurt or slain: The prattick is to bring to pas, And not to enterpryse, And als gude drinking out of glas As gold in ony ways; I levir haif evir A foul in hand or tway, Nor sieand ten fliand About me all the day. Luke quhair thou licht befoir thou lowp, And slip na certainty for howp, Quha gyds thee but begess. Quod Courage, Cowards tak nae cure To sit with schame, sae they be sure, I lyk them all the less ; Quhat plesure purchest is bot pain, Or honour win with eise, : He will not ly quhair he is slain, That douttis befoir he dies : For Feir then I heir then, But ony ane remeid, Quhilk latt is, and that is For to cut aff the heid. Quhat is the way to heil thy hurt ? Quhat is the way to stay thy sturt ? Quhat meins may mak thee merrie ? Quhat is the comfort that thou craivs ? Suppose thir sophists thee desaivs ; Thou knaws it is the Cherrie + Sen for it only thou but thrists The Slae can be but buit ; In it also thy helth consists, And in nae uther fruit ; Quhy quaiks thou, and schaiks thou ? And studys at our stryfe, Advyse thee, it lyes thee, On nae less than thy lyfe. Gif any patient wald be panst, Quhy suld he lowp quhen he is lanst, Or schrink quhen he is schorn ; For I haif hard chirurgians say, Aftymes defferring of a day, Micht not be mend the morn. Tak tyme, in tyme, or tyme be tint ; For tyme will not remain: Quhat forces fyre out of the flint, But als hard match again, Delay not, and fray not, And thou sall sie it sae, Sic gets ay, that setts ay Stout stomaks to the brae. Thocht all beginings be maist hard, The end is plesand afterward ; Then schrink not for a schowre; Frae anes that thou thy greining get, Thy pain and travel is forzet, The sweit exceids the soure ; Gae to then quicklie, feir not thir, For Howp gude hap hes hecht, Quod Danger be not sudden, sir, The matter is of wecht ; First spy baith, and try baith, Advysement does nane ill, I say then, ye may then, Be willful quhen ze will. But zit to mynd the proverb call, * Quha uses perrils perish sall,” Schort quhyle thair lyfe them lasts, And T haif hard, quod Howp, that he Sall nevir schaip to sail the se, That for all perrills casts. How mony throw dispair are deid, That nevir perils preivt ? How mony also, gif thou reid, Of lyves have we releivt P Quha being evin dieing, Bot danger, but dispaird ; A hunder, I wonder, But thou hast hard declaird. Gif we twa hald not up thy heart, Quhilk is the chief and noblest part, THE EVERGREEN. 283 Thy wark wald not gang weil, Considering thae companions can Diswade a silly simple man, To hasard for his heil, Suppose they haif desavit sum, Or they and we micht meit ; They get nae credence quhair we cum, With ony man of spreit, By reasoun their treasoun Be us is first espyt, Reveiling thair deiling, Quhilk dow not be denyt. With sleikit sophisms seiming sweit, As all thair doings war discreit, They wish thee to be wyse, Postponing tyme frae hour to hour, But faith, in underneath the flowr, The lurking serpent lyes ; Suppose thou seis her not a styme, Till that scho stings thy fute: Persaivs thou nocht quhat precious tyme Thy slewthing does owreschute. Allace, man! thy case man, In lingring I lament, Go to now and do now, That courage be content. Quhat gif melancholy cum in, And get ane grip or thou begin, Than is thy labour lost ; For he will hald thee hard and fast, Till tyme, and place, and fruit be past, And thou give up the ghost : Than sall be graivd upon the stane, Quhilk on thy graif is laid, Sumtyme thair lived sic a ane; But how sall it be said? Here lyes now, bot pryse now Into dishonour’s bed, An cowart as thou art, That from his fortune fled. Imagyne, man, gif thou wer laid In graif, and syne micht heir this said, Wald thou not sweit for schame P Yes, faith I doubt nocht but thou wald : Therefoir gif thou has ene behald, How they wald smoir thy fame. Gae to and mak nae mair excuse, Or lyfe and honour lose, And outher them or us refuse, There is nae uther chose. Consider togidder, That we can nevir dwell, At length ay by strenth ay Thae pultrones we expell. Quod Danger, Sen I understand, That counsell can be nae command, I have nae mair to say, ‘Except gif that he thocht it good ; Tak counsell zit or ze conclude Of wyser men nor they. They are but rackless, zung, and raschie. Suppose they think us fteid ; Gif of our fellowschip zou fasche, Gang with them hardly beit. God speid zou, they leid zou, That has not meikle wit. Expell us, zeil tell us, Heiraftir comes not zit. Quhyle Danger and Dispair retyrt, Experience came in and speirt Quhat all the matter meind ; With him came Reason, Wit, and Skill, And they began to speir at Will, Quhair mak ze to my friend ? To pluck zone lusty cherrie loe, Quod he, and quyte the slae: Quod they, is thair nae mair ado, Or ze win up the brae ? But to it, and do it, Perforce the fruit to pluck, Weil, brother, sum uther Were better to conduct. We grant ze may be gude aneuch ; But zit the hazard of zon heuch, Requyris ane graver gyde, As wyse as ze are may gae wrang ; Thairfore tak counsail or ze gang Of sum that stand besyde. But quha war zon three ze forbad Zour company richt now ; Quod Will, three prechours to perswad The poysond slae to pow. They trattlit and prattelit, A lang half hour and mair ; Foul fall them, they call them Dreid, Danger, and Dispair. They are mair faschious nor of feck, Zon fazards durst not for thair neck Clim up the craig with us ; Frae we determinit to die, Or else to clim zon cherrie trie, They baid about the buss. They are conditiond lyk the cat, They wald not weit thair feit, But zit gif ony fisch ze gat, They wald be fain to eit. 284 THE EVERGREEN. Thocht they now, I say now, To hazard haif nae heart, Zit luck we and pluck we, The fruit they wald haif part. But frae we get our voyage wun, They sall not than a cherrie cun, That wald not enterpryse ; Weil, quod Experience, ze boist ; But he that counts without his oist, He aftentymes counts twyse. Ze sell the beir’s skin on his back, But byde quhyle ze it get; Quhen ze have done, its tyme to crack Ze fish befoir the net. Quhat haist, sir, ze taist, sir, The cherry or ze pou it; Bewar zit, ze ar zit Mair talkative nor trowit. Call danger back again, quod Skill, To se quhat he can say to Will, We see him schod sae strait : We may nocht trow quhat ilk ane tells, Quod Courage, we conclnded ells, He servis for our mait ; For I can tell zou all perqueir His counsail or he cum: Quod Will, Quhairto soud he cum heir, He cannot hald him dum ; He speiks ay, and seiks ay, Delay of tyme be drifts ; He grievis us, and devis us, With sophistries and schifts : Quod. Reasoun, Quhy was he debard ? The tale is ill may not be hard, Zet let us heir him anis. Then Danger to declair began, How Hope and Courage took the man, To leid him all thair lams; © For they wald haif him up the hill, Byt owther stap or stay: And quha was welcomer than Will, He wald be formost ay ; He could do, and sould do, Quha evir wald or nocht, Sic speiding proceiding Unlyklie was I thocht. Thairfor I wisht them to bewar, And rashly not to run owre far, Without sic gyds as ze. Quod Courage, Freind, I heir zou fail, Tak bettir tent unto zour tale, Ze said it could not be; Besydis that ze wald not consent, That evir we suld clim: Quod Will, For my pairt I repent, We saw them mair than him: For they are the stayer Of us, as weil as he; I think now they schrink now, Go forwart let them be. Go, go, we naithing do but gucks ; They say the voyage nevir luks, Quhair ilk ane has a vote. Quod Wisdom gravely, Sir, I grant, ‘We were nae warse zour vote to want, Sum sentance heir I note. Suppose ze speak it but begess, Sum fruit thairin I fynd ; Ze wald be forward I confess, And cums aftymis behynd. It may be that they be Desavit that nevir doutit ; Indeid, sir, that heid, sir, Has mekle wit about it. Then willfull Will began to rage, And sware he saw naithing in age, But anger, yre, and grudge; And for mysell, quod he, I sweir To quat all my companzions heir, Gif they admit zou judge, Experience is grown sae auld, That he begins to rave; The laif but Courage are sae cauld, Nae hazarding they haif ; For Danger, far stranger Has made them than they war, Gae frae then, we pray then, That nowther dow nor dar. Quby may not these three leid this ane, T led an hunder myne alane, Bot counsal of them all. I grant, quod Wisdom, ze haif led ; Bot I wald speir how mony sped, Or furdert bot a fall. But owther few or nane, I trow, Experience can tell ; He says, the man may wyte but zou The first time that he fell. He kens then, quhais penns then, Thou borrowit him to flee; His wounds zet, that flounds zet, He gat them then throu thee. That, quod Experience, is trew ; Will flatterit him quhen first he flew; Will set him in a low. THE EVERGREEN. 285 Will was his counsell and convoy, To borrow frae the blindit boy Baith quaver, wings, and bow; Quhairwith before he seyd to shute, He nowther zield to zouth, Nor zet had neid of ony fruit, To quencl his deidlie drouth. Quhilk pyus him and dwyns him To deid, I wat not how, Gif Will then did ill then, Himself remembers now. For I Experience was thair Lyke as I use to be all quhair, Quhat tyme he wytit Will To be the grund of all his grief, As I myself can be a preif And witness thairuntill : Thair are nae bounds but I haif bene, Nor hidlings frae me hid, Nor secret things that I haif sene That he or ony did: Thairfoir now, no moir now, Let him think to conceild : For quhy now even I now Am det bound to reveild. My custome is for to declair, The truth, and nowther eik nor pare, For ony man a jot: Gif wilful Will delyts in leis, Example in thy self thou seis How he can turn his coat ; And with his language wald alure Thee zet to brek thy bains : Thou knaws thyself, gif he was sure, Thou usd his counsell anes, Quha wald zet be bauld zet, To wrak thee war not we, Think on now of zon now, Quod Wisdom then to me. Weil, quod Experience, gif he Submits himself to you and me, I wate quhat I sould say, Our gude advyse he sall not want, Provyding always that he grant To put zon Will away, And banisch baith him and Dispair, That all gude purpose spills ; Sae he will mell with them nae mair, Let them twa flyte thair fills. Sic coissing bot lossing, All honest men may use ; That change now were strange now, Quod Reason, to refuse. Quod Will, I’y on him quhen he flew, That poud not cherries than anew, For to haif stayd his sturt. Quod Reason, Thocht he bear the blame, He nowther saw nor neidit them, Till he himself had hurt : First quhen he mistert not, he micht, He neids and may not now Thy foly quhen he had his flicht Empashed him to pow. Baith he now and we now Persaive thy purpose plain, To turn him, and burn him, And blaw on him again. Quod Skill, Quhy suld we langer stryve ? Far better late than never thrive, Cum let us help him zit ; Tint tyme we may not get again, We wast but present tyme in vain. Beware, with that quod Wit: Speik on, Experience, let’s se, We think ze hald ze dum. Of byganes I haif hard, quod he, I knaw not things to cum. Quod Reason, The season With slowthing slyds away, First tak him and mak him A man gif that ze may. Quod Will, Gif he be not a man, I pray zou, sirs, quhat is he than P He lukes like ane at, leist. Quod Reason, Gif he follow thee, And mynd not to remain with me, Nocht but a brutal beist : A man in schape doth not consist, For all zour taunting tales, Thairfoir, Sr Will, I wald ze wist Zour metaphysick fails ; Gae leir zit a zeir zit Zour logick at the schulis, Sum day then ze may then Pass master with the mulis. Quod Will, I marvell quhat ze mein, Suld not I trow my ain twa een, For all zour logick schulis, If I did not I war not wysé : Quod Reason, I haif tald zou thryse, Nane ferlies mair than fulis ; Thair be mae sences than the sicht, Quhilk ze owre-hale for haste, To wit, gif ze remember richt, Smell, heiring, touch, and taste, THE EVERGREEN. All quick things haif sie things, I mein baith man and beist, By kynd then, we fynd then Few laks them in the leist. Sae be that consequens of thyne, Or syllogism said lyke a swyne, A cow may teach thee lair ; Thou uses only but thyne eies, Scho touches, tastes, smells, heirs, and seis, Quhilk matches thee and mair : But since to triumph ze intend, As presently appeirs, Sir, for zour clergie, to be kend, Tak ze twa asses eirs, Nae myter perfyter Gat Midas for his meid, That hude, sir, is gude, sir, To hap zour brain-sick heid. Ze haif nae feil for to defyne, Thoch ze half cunning to declyne A man to be a mule. With litle wark zit ze may vowd To grow a galant horse and gude, To ryde thairon at zule. But to our ground quhair we began, For all zour gustless jests, I must be master to the man, But thou to brutal beists ; Sae we twae maun be twae, To cause baith kynds be knawn, Keip thyne then frae myne then, And ilk ane use thair awin. Then Will, as angrie as an ape, Ran ramping, sweiring, rude, and rape, Saw he none other schift ; He wald not want an inch of will, Quhither it did him gude or ill, For thirty of his thrift ; He wald be formoist in the feild, And maister gif he micht, Yea, he suld rather die than zield, Though Reason had the richt : Shall he now mak me now His subject or his slaif, Na rather, my father Sail anick gang to his graif. I hecht him quhyle my heart is heal, To perisch first or he prevail, Cum after quhat so may: Quod Reason, Dout ze not indeed, Ze hit the nail upon the heid, It sall be as ze say. Suppose ze spur for to aspyre, Zour brydle wants a bit, That meir may leif zou in the myre, As sicker as ze sit. Zour sentance, repentance, Sall learn zou, I believe, And anger zou langer, Quhen ze that prattick prieve. As ze haif dyted zour decreit, Zour prophesie to be complete, Perhaps, and to zour pains, It has bein said, and may be sae, A wilfull man wants nevir wae, Thocht he gets litle gains. But sen ze think it easy thing To mount aboif the mune, Of our awin fidle tak a spring, And daunce quhen ze haif done ; If than, sir, the man, sir, Lykes of zour mirth, he may, But speir first and heir first Quhat he himself will say. Then all togither they began To say, Cum on, thou martyrit man, Quhat is thy will, advyse ? Abaisd a bony quhyle I baid, And musd or I my answer maid, I turnd me anes or twyse, Behalding ilky ane about, Quhais motions muved me maist, Sum seimd assurd, sum dred for dout, Will ran reid-wod for haist, With wringing and flinging, For madness lyk to mang ; Dispair to, for care to, Wald neids himsell gae hang. Quhilk quhen Experience persavit, Quod he, Remember gif we ravit, As Will alledgt of lait, Quhen that he sware he naithing saw In age, but anger, slak and slaw, And cankert of consait ; Ze could not luck as he aledgt, That all opinions speirt, He was sae frak and fyrie edgt, He thocht us four but feirt : Quha pansis, quhat chansis, Quod he, nae worschip wins ; To sum best sall cum best That hap weil rak weil rins. Zit, quod Experience, behald, For all the tales that he has tald, How he himsell behaifs, THE EVERGREEN. 237 Because Dispair could not cum speid, Lo quhair he hangs all but the heid, And in a widdy waifs : Gif zou be sure anes thou may se, To men that with them mells, Gif they had hurt or helpit thee, Considder be themsells. Then chuse thee to use thee, By us, or sic as zone, Sae sone now, haif done now, Mak owther aff or on. Persaves thou not quhairfrae proceids The frantick fantasie that feids, Thy furious flaming fyre, Quhilk dois thy bailfull breist combuir, That nane but we, quod they, can cuir Or help thy heart’s disyre : The persing passion of thy spreit That waists thy vital breath, Has holit thy heavy heart with heit, Desyre draws on thy death, Thy puncis renouncis All kynd of quiet rest, That fever has ever Thy person sae opprest. Coud thou cum anes acquaint with Skill, He kens quhat humours dois thee ill, And how thy cair contracks ; He knaws the ground of all thy greife, And recipies for thy releife : All medicines he maks. Cum on, quod Skill, content am I To put my helping hand, Provyding always he apply To counsell and command ; Quhyle we than, quod he, than, Ar mindit to remain, Gife place now, in case now, Thou get us not again. Assure thysell, gif that we sched, Thou sall not get thy purpose sped, Tak tent, we haif thee tald : Haif done, and dryve not aff the day, The man that will not quhen he may, He sall not quhen he wald. Quhat wald thou do, I wald we wist, Accept or gife us owre : Quod I, I think me mair than blist To find sic famous four Besyde me, to gyde me, Now quhen [ haif to do, Considdering the swiddering Ze fand me first into. Quhen Courage craift a stamok stouf, And Danger draif me into Dout, With his companzion Dreid : Quhyls Will wald up aboif the air, Quhyls I was dround in deip Dispair, Quhyls Hope held up my heid: Sic pithy resouns and replys On ilka syde they schew, That I quha was not verie wyse Thocht all thair tales wer trew, Sae mony and bony Auld problemes they propond Baith quicklie and lyklie, I marvled mekle ond. Zit Hope and Courage wan the feild, Thocht Dreid and Danger neir wald zeild, But fled to find refuge ; Swa, fra zou four met, they wer fain, Because ze gart us cum again, They greind to get ze juge: Quhair they wer fugitive befoir, Zou maid them frank and fre, To speik and stand in aw nae moir, Quod Reason, Swa suld be: Aft tymes now, bot crymes now, But even per force it falls The strang ay, with wrang ay, Put weaker to the walls. Quhilk 1s a fault ze maun confess, Strength is not ordaind to oppress With rigour, bye the richt ; But on the contrair, to sustein The waik-anes that owreburdent bein, Als mekle as they micht. Sae Hope and Courage did, quod I, Experimented lyke Schaw skilld and pithie resouns quhy That Danger lap the dyke. Quod Dreid, Sir, tak heid, sip, Lang speiking part maun spill, Insist not, ze wist not, We went against our will. With Courage ze wer sae content, Ze nevir socht our small consent, Of us ze stude nae aw: Thair logick lessons ze allowt, Ze wer determined to trowit, Alledgence past for law ; For all the proverbs we perusd, Ze thocht them skantly skilld, Our reasons had bein als weil rusd, Had ze bein als weil willd 288 Till our syde as zour syde, Sae trewlie I may term it, We see now in thee now Affection dois affirm it. Experience then smyrkling smyld, We are na bairns to be begyld, Quod he, and schuke his heid ; For authors quha alledges us, They wald not gae about the buss To foster deidlie feid : For we are equall for ze all, Nae person we respect, We haif bene sae, ar zit, and sall Be found sae in effect. Gif we wer as ze wer, We had cumd unrequyrd, But we now, ze see now, Do naithing undesyrd, Thair is a sentence said be sum, Let nane uncalld to counsell cum That welcum weins to be ; Zea I haif hard anither zit, Quha cum uncallt, unservd suld sit, Perhaps, sir, sae may ze. Gudeman, gramercy for zour geck, Quod Hope, and lawly louts, Gif ze wer sent for, we suspect, Because the doctour douts : Zour zeirs now appeir now With wisdom to be vext, Rejoycing in glossing, Till ze haif tint zour text. Quhair ze wer sent for, let us se Quha wald be welcomer than we, Pruve that, and we are payd. Weill, quod Experience, beware, Ze ken not in quhat case ze are, Zour tung has zou betrayd: The man may ablens tyne a stot, That cannot count his kinsch, In zour awin bow ze are owre-schot Be mair than half an inch: Quha wats, sir, if that, sir, Be sour, quhilk seimeth sweit ; I feir now ze heir now A dangerous decreit. Sir, by that sentence ze haif sayd, I pledge, or all the play be playd, That some sall lose a laike ; Sen ze but put me for to pruve, Sic heids as help for my behuve, Zour warrand is but waik : THE EVERGREEN. ‘Speir at the man zour self, and se, Suppose ye stryve for state, Gif he regarded not how he Had learnd my lesson late ; And granted he wanted Baith Reason, Wit, and Skill, Compleining and meining Our absence did him ill. Confront him furder face to face, Gif zit he rews his rackles race, Perhaps, and ze sall heir ; For ay since Adam and since Eve, Quha first thy leisings did believe, I sald thy doctrine deir ; Quhat has bein done, even to this day I keip in mynd allmaist, Ze promise furder than ze pay, Sir, hope for all zour haist ; Promitting, unwitting, Zour hechts zou nevir huiked, I schaw zou, I knaw zou, Zour byganes I haif buiked. I could, in case a count wer craivt, Schaw thousands thousands thou desaivt, Quhair thou was trew to ane ; And by the contrair I may vaunt, Quhilk thou maun, thocht it greive thee, grant, I trumpit nevir a man, But trewly tald the nakit truth To men that melld with me, For nowther rigour nor for reuth, But only laith to lie: To sum zit, to cum zit, Thy suckour will be slicht, Quhilk I then maun try then, And register it richt. Ha, ha! quod Hope, and loudlie leuch, Ze are but a prentise at the pleuch, Experience ye prieve ; Exppose all byganes as ze spak, Ze are nae prophet worth a plak, Nor I bund to believe. Ze suld not say, sir, till ze se, But quhen ye se it say; Zit, quod Experience, at thee Mak mony mints | may, By signs now, and things now Quhilk ay befoir me beirs, Expressing by guessing The perril that appeirs. Then Hope replyd, and that with pith, And wyselie weyd his words thairwith, Sententiously and short : THE EVERGREEN. 289 Quod he, I am the anchor grip That saifs the sailours and thair ship, Frae perril to thair port. Quod he, Aft times the anchor dryves, As we haif fund befoir, And loses mony thousand lyves, By shipwrack on the shore. Zour grips aft, but slips aft Quhen men haif maist to do, Syne leivs them and reivs them Of thy companzions to. Thou leifs them not thy self alane, But to thair grief quhen thou art gane, Gars courage quhat them als ; Quod Hope, I wald ze understude, I grip fast gif the grund be gude, And fleit quhair it is false ; Ther suld nae fault with me be fund; Nor I accusd at all, Wyte sic as suld haif plumd the grund, Befoir the anchor fall, Their leid ay at neid ay, Micht warn them if they wald, Gif they thair wald stay thair, Or haif gude anchor hald. Gif ze reid richt it was not I, But only ignorance quhairby Thair carvells all were cloven. I am not for a trumper tane. All, quod Experience, is ane, I haif my process proven, To wit, that we wer calld ilk ane, To cum before we came ; That now objection ze haif nane, Zourself may say the same : Ze are now owre far now, Cum forward for to flie ; Persave then ze haif then, The warst end of the trie. Quhen Hope was gawd into the quick, Quod Curage, kicking at the prick, We let ze weil to wit. Mak he zou welcomer than we, Then byganes, byganes, fareweil he, Except he seik us zit: He understands his awn estate, Let him his chiftains chuse ; But zit iis battill will be blate, Gif he our forss refuse ; Refuse us or chiuse us, Our counsell is he clim ; But stay he or stray he, We haif nae help for him. Except the cherrie be his chose ; Be ze his friends we are his foes ; His doings we dispyte ; Gif we persaif him settled sae, To satisfie him with the slae, His companie we quyte ; Then Dreid and Danger grew full glad, And wont that they had won; They thocht all seild that they had said, Sen they had first begun ; They thocht then they moucht then, Without a party pleid, But zet thair, with wit thair, They wer dung doun with speid. Sirs, Dreid and Danger then, quod Wit, Ze did zour sells to me subunit, Experience can proife. That, quod Experience, I past, Thair awin confessions make them fast, They may nae mair remoife ; For gif I richt remember me, This maxime then they made, To wit, the man with wit sould wey Quhat philosops haif said, Quhilk sentance repentance Forbad him deir to buy, They knew then how trew then, And pressd not to reply. Thoch he dang Dreid and Danger doun, Zit courage could not be owrecum ; Hope hecht him sic a hyre; He thocht himsell, how sone he saw His enemies were laid sae law, It was nae tyme to tyre: He hit the yron quhyle it was het, In case it sould grow cauld ; For he esteemt his faes defate, Quhen anes he fand them fald ; Thoch we now, quod he now, Haif bein sae frie and frank, Unsocht zit he mocht zit, For kyndness cund us thank Suppose it sae as thou hast said, That unrequird we proffert aid, At leist that came of luve. Experience ze start owre sone, Ze naithing dow till all be done, And then perhaps ze pruve Mair plain than pleasant to perchance, Sum tell that have zou tryt, As fast as ze zour sell advance; Ze cannot weil denyt : PP THE EVERGREEN. Abyde then zour tyde then, And wait upon the wind, Ze knaw, sir, ze aw, sir, To hald ze ay behind. Quhen ze haif done sum duchtie deids, Syne ze suld se how all succeids, To wryt them as they wer. Friend, huly, hast not half sae fast, Leist, quod Experience, at last, Ze buy my doctrine deir ; Hope puts that haste into zour heid, Quhilk boyls zour barmy brain ; Howbeit fulis haste cums huly speid, Fair hechts will mak fulis fain. Sic smyling begyling Bids feir not ony freits ; Zit I now deny now, That all is gold that gleits. Suppose not silver all that shynes, Aftymes a tentless merchand tynes, For bying geir begess ; For all the vantage and the winning, Gude buyers get at the beginning, Quod Courage nocht thie less, Quhyls as gude merchants tynes as wins, Gif auld men’s tales be trew; Suppose the pack cum to the pins, Quha can his chance eschew. Then, gude sir, conclude, sir, Gude buyers haif done baith, Advance then, tak chance then, As sundrie gude ships hath. Quha wist quhat wald be cheip or deir, Should nei to traffique but a zeir, Gif things to cum were kend: Suppose all bygane things be plain, Zour prophesie is but prophane, Ze had best behald the end; Ze wald accuse me of a cryme, Almaist befoir we met, Torment zou not befoir the tyme, Since dolour pays nae det, Quhat’s bypast that I past, Ze wot gif it was weil, To cum zit by dume zit, Confess ze haif nae feil. Zit, quod Experience, qubat then, Quha may be meitest for the Man, Let us his answer haif; Quhen they submitted them to me, To Reason I was fain to flie, His counsell for to eraif. Quod he, Since ze zourselves submit, To do as I decreit, I sall advyse with Skill and Wit; Quhat they think may be meit. They cryd then, we byde then, At Reason for refuge ; Allow him and trow him, As governour and juge. Then said they all with ane consent, Quhat he concludes we are content His bidding to obey; He hath authoritie to use, Then tak his choice quhom he will chuse, And langer not delay: Then Reason raise and was rejoysd ; Quod he, Myne heart’s cum hidder, I hope this pley may be composd, That we may gang togidder ; To all now I sall now His proper place assign, That they heir sall say heir, They think nane uther thing. Come on, quod he, companzion, Skill, Ze understand baith gude and ill, In physick ze are fyne; Be mediciner to the man, And schaw sic cunning as ze can, To put him out of pyne; First gaird the grund of all his grief Quhat sicknes ze suspect, Syn luke quhat laiks for his relief, Or furder he infeck. Comfort him, exhort him, Give him zour gude advyce, And pance not, nor skance not, The perril nor the pryce. Thoch it be cummersom, quhat reck, Find out the cause by the effect, And working of his veins ; Zit quhyle we grip it to the grund, Se first quhat fashion may be fund, To pacifie his pains : Do quhat ze dow to haif him haile, And for that purpose preise, Cut aff the cause, the effect maun fail, Sae all his sorrows ceise. His fever sall nevir Frae thencefurth haif a furss, Then urge him to purge him, He will not wax the warse. Quoth Skill, His sences are sae sick, I knaw na liquor worth a leik To quench his deidlie drouth, THE EVERGREEN, 291 Except the cherry help his heit, Quhais sappy slokniag sharp and sweit, Micht melt into his mouth, And his melancholie remuve, To mitigate his mynd, Nane hailsomer for his beluve, Nor of mair cooling kyud. Nae Nectar directar, Could all the gods him give, Nor send him to mend him, Nane lyke it, I believe. For drouth decays, as it digests ; Quhy then, quod Reason, naithing rests ; But how it may be had? Maist trew, quod Skill, that is the scope, Zit we maun haif sum help of Hope. Quod Danger, I am red ; His hastyness bred us mishap ; Quhen he is highlie horst ; I wiss we lukit or we lap. Quod Wit, That wer not warst. I mein now convein now The counsell ane and all, Begin then, call in then. Quod Reason, Sae I sall. Then Reason raise with gesture grave, Belyve conveining all the lave, To heir quhat they wald say, With silver scepter in his hand, As chiftain chosen to command, And they bent to obey. He pansed lang befoir he spak, And in a studie stude, Syne he began and silenss brak ; Cum on, quod he, conclude Quhat way now we may now Zon cherrie cum to catch, Speik out, sirs, about, sirs, Haif done, let us dispatch. Quoth Courage, Skurge him first that skars, Much musing memorie but mars, I tell you myne intent. Quod Wit, Quha will not partlie panse, In perils perishes perchanse, Owre rackles may repent. Then, quod Experience, and spak, Sir, I have sein them baith, In braidieness and lye aback, Escape and cum to skaith; But quhat now of that now, Sturt follows all extreams ; Retain then the mein then, The surest way it seims. Quhair sum has furderd, sum has faild ; Quhair part has perisht, part prevaild, Alyke all cannot luck ; Then owther venture with the ane, Or with the uther let alane, The cherrie for to pluck ; Quod Houp, for feir folk maun not fash ; Quod Danger, let not licht : Quod Wit, be nowther rude nor rash; Quod Reason, ze haif richt : The rest then thocht best then, Quhen reason said it sae, That roundlie and soundlie They suld togidder gae. To get the cherrie in all hast, As for my saftie serving maist, Tho Dreid and Danger feird, The perril of that irksome way, Lest that thairby I sould decay, Quha then sae weak appeird : Zit Hope and Courage hard besyde, Quha with them wont contend, Did tak in hand us all to gyde, Unto our journey’s end, Implaidging and waidging Baith twa thair lyves for myne, Provyding the gyding To them were granted syne. Then Dreid and Danger did appeal, Alledging it could neir be weil, Nor zit wald they agrie ; But said they sould sound thair retreit, Because they thocht them nae ways meil Conducters unto me; Nor to no man in myne estate, With sickness sair opprest ; For they tuke ay the ueirest gate, Omitting of the best. Thair neirest perqueirest, Is always to them baith, Quhair they, sir, may say, sir, -Quhat recks them of zour skaith, But as for us twa now we sweir Be him befoir we maun appeir, Our full intent is now, To haif ze hale, and always was, That purpose for to bring to pass, Sae is not thairs I trow: Then Hope and Courage did attest, The gods of baith these parts, Gif they wroclit not all for the best, Of me with upricht hearts : THE EVERGREEN. Our chiftain then liftan His scepter did enjoyn Nae moir thair uproir there , And sae there stryfe was done. Rebuiking Dreid and Danger sair, Suppose they meint weil evirmair To me, as they had sworn; Because thair nibours they abusit, In swa far as they had accusit Them, as ze hard beforn. Did he not els, quod he, consent The Cherrie for to pou? Quod Danger, we are weil content, But zit the manner how ? We sall now, evin all now, Get this Man with us thair, It rests then, and’s best then Zour counsell to declair. Weil said, quod Hope and Courage, now We thairto will accord with zou, And sall abyde by them ; Lyk as befoir we did submit, Sae we repeit the samyn zit, We mynd not to reclaime; Quhome they sall chuse to gyde the way. We sall them follow straight. And furder this man, quhat we may, Because we haif sae heelit ; Promitting, bot flitting, To do the thing we can, To pleise baith, and eise baith This silly, sickly man. Quhen Reason heard this, then, quod he, I se zour chiefest stay to be, That we haif namd nae gyde: The worthy counsell hath therfoir, Thocht gude that Witt suld gae befoir, For perrils to provyde. Quod Witt, Ther is but ane of three, Quhilk I sall to ze schaw, Quhairof the first twa cannot be, For ony thing I knaw ; The way heir sae stey heir, Is that we cannot clim, Evin owre now, we four now, That will be hard for him. The next, gif we gae doun about, Quhyle that this bend of craigs rin out, The streim is thair sae stark, And also passeth waiding deip, And braider far than we do leip, It sula be ydle wark « It grows ay braider to the sea, Sen owre the lin it came, The rinning deid dois signifie The deipness of the same: I leive now to deive now, How that it swiftly slyds, As sleiping and creiping, But nature sae provyds. Our way then lyes about the lin, Quhairby I warrand we sall win, It is sae straight and plain, The watter allso is sae schald, We sall it pass, evin as we wald, With plesour, and bot pain: For as we se a mischief grow Aft ef a feckles thing, Sae lykways dois this river flow Forth of a prettie spring ; Quhois throt, sir, I wot, sir, Ze may stap with zour neive, As zou, sir, I trow, sir, © Experience can preive. That, quod Experience, I can, And all ze said sen ze began, I ken to be a truth. Quod Skill, The samyn I apruve. Quod Reason, Then let us remuve, And sleip nae mair in sleuth; Witt and Experience, quod he, Sall gae befoir a pace, The Man sall cum with Skill and me Into the second place ; Attowre now zou four now Sall cum into a band, Proceiding and leiding Tlk uther be the hand. As Reason ordert, all obeyd, Nane was owre rasch, nane was affrayd, Our counsell was sae wyse, As of our journey, Wit did note, We fand it trew in ilka jot, God bliss the enterpryse : Tor evin as we came to the tree, Quhilk as ze heard me tell, Could not be clum, thair suddeulie, The fruit, for rypeness, fell ; Quhilk haisting and taisting, I fand myself relievd Of cairs all and sairs all That mynd and body grievd. Praise be to God my Lord thairfoir, Quha did myne helth to me restoir, Being sae lang tyme pynd; THE wVERGREEN. 293 And blessed be His haly name, Quha did frae deith to lyfe reclaim, Mo quha was sae unkynd. All nations allso magnifie, This evirliving Lord, Lat me with zou, and zou with me, To laud Him ay accord ; Quhois luve ay we pruve ay To us abune all things, And kiss Him and bliss Him, Quhois glore eternall rings. THE JUSTING AND DEBATE UP AT THE DOUN, BETWIXT WILLIAM ADAMSON AND JOHN SYM. Tue grit debate and turnament, Of truth nae tongue can tell, Was for a lusty lady gent, Betwixt twa frieks sae fell ; For Mars the god armipotent Was not sae ferss himsell, Nor Hercules, that aiks uprent, And dang the deil of hell With horns that day. Doubtles was not sic duchty deids Amangst the dowsy peirs, Nor zit nae clerk in story reids Of sae triumphand weirs ; To se hou stoutly on their steids, The stalwart knychtis steirs ; Quhyle bellies bair with brodding bleids With spurs as scherp as breirs, And kene that day. Up at the Doun the day was set, And fixed was the feild, Quher baith thir noble chiftains met Enarmit under schield ; They were sae hasty and sae het, That nane of them wad zield, But to debait, or be doun bait, And in the quarrel] kield, Or slane that day. There was ane better and ane worss, I wald that it were wittin, For William wichtar was of corss Than Sym, and better knittin. Sym said, He set nocht by his forss, But hecht he suld be hittin, And he micht counter Will on horss, For Sym was better sittin Nor Will that day. To see the stryfe came zonkers stout, And mony a galziart man, All dainties deir was thair bot dout, The wyne on broch it ran: Trumpetts and schalims, with a schout, Play’d or the rink began, And equal juges sat about To see quha tint or wan The field that day. With twa blunt truncher-speirs squair, It was thair interprise, To fecht with baith their faces bair, For luve, as is the gyse ; A friend of theirs, throu hap cam thair, And heard the roumor ryse, He stall away their stings baith clair, And hid in secret wayes, For skaith that day. Strang men of armes and meikle micht, Wer set them for to furdir : The harald cryd, God schaw the richt, Syn bad them go togidder. Quhair is my speir? says Sym the knicht, Sum man go bring it hidder ; But wald they tarry thair all nicht, Thair launces came too lidder And slaw that day. Sym flew as fery as a fown, Down frae the horse he slaid, Says, He sall rew my staff has stown, For I sall be his deid. William his vow plicht to the powin, For favour or for feid, Als gude the trie had nevir grown, Quherof my speir was maid To just this day. Thir vows now maid to sun and mune, They raikit baith to rest, Them to refresch with their disjune, And aff their armour kiest ; Not knawing of the deid was done, Quhen they suld haif fawn best, The fyre was pischt out lang or nune, Their denner sald haif drest, And dicht up at the Doun that day. THE EVERGREEN. Then wer they movit out of mynd, Far mair than of beforne, They wist not hou to get him pynd, That them had driven to scorn: Ther was nae death micht be devynd, But braid aiths haif they sworn, He suld deir buy be they had dynd, And ban that he was born, Up at the Doun that day. Then to Dalkieth they maid them boun, Reid-wod of this reproach, Thair was baith wyne and venison, And barrells ran on brotch. They band up kyndnes in that toun, Nane frae his feir to fotch, For there was nowther lad nor loun Micht eat a bakin-lotch For fowness, up at Dalkieth that day. Syne after denner raise the din, And all the tonn on steir, William was wyse, and held him in, For he was in a feir. Sym to haif bargain could not blin, But bukkit Will on weir, Says, Gif thou wald this lady win, Cum furth and break a speir With me, up at Dalkieth this day. Thus still for bargin Sym abydes, And schoutit Will to schame, Will saw his faes on baith the sydes, Full sair he dred for blame : Will schortly to his horse he slydes, And says to Sym be name, Better we baith were buyand hydes And wedder skins at hame, Nor here, up at Dalkieth this day. Now is the grume that was sae grim Richt glad to live in lie, Fy, thief, for schame, cryes litle Sym, Wilt thou not fecht with me! Thou art mair large of lyth and lim, Nor Lam be sic thrie: And all the field eryd, Fy on him, Sae cowardly tuke the flie For feir, up at Dalkieth that day. Then every man gave Will a mock, And said, he was owre miek. Says Sym, Scud for thy brither Jock, I sall not be to siek ; For were ze foursum in a flock, I compt ze not a leik, Tho I had naithing but a rok To gar zour rumples reik Behind, up at Dalkieth this day, There was richt nocht but haif and gae, With lauchter loud they leuch, Quhen they saw Sym sic courage tae, And Will make it sae teuch : Sym lap on horseback lyk a rae, And ran him till a heueh, Says, William, cum ryde down this brae, Thocht ze suid brek a beugh, For lufe, up at Dalkieth this day. Syne down the brae Sym braid lyke thunder And bad Will follow fast ; To grund, for feircenes, he did funder, Be he mid-hill had past, William saw Sym in sic a blunder, To gae he was agast ; For he affeird, it was nae wonder, Fis cursor suld him cast, And hurt him up at Dalkieth that day. Then all the zonkers bad him zicld, Or doun the glen to gang; Sum cryd the couard suld be kield, Sum doun the cleuch they thrang ; Sum ruschd, sum rumbled, and sum reild, Sum be the bewis hie hang: Thair avers fyld up all the field, They were sae fou and pang, With eise, up at Dalkieth that day. Then jelly John came in a jak, To field quhair he was feid it, Abune his brand a buckler black, Bail fell the bairn that baid it ; He slipit swiftly to the slak, And rudly doun he raid it, Before his curpall was a crak, Could nae man tell quha maid it, For lauchter, up at Dalkieth that day. Be than the bougil gan to blaw, For nicht had them owretane : Alace, said Sym, for faut of law, That bargin get L nane. Thus hame with mony a crack and flaw, They passed every ane, Syne partit at the Potter-Raw, And sindry gaits are gane, To rest them within the town that nicht. A ee ay Wh C Cousen JOHNNIE ARMSTRONG. the Evergreen. p.355.v.2. LONDON VIRIUR, &C® LImMirep. THE EVERGREEN. This Will was he beguild the May, And he did hir marriage spill; He promist hir to let him play, Hir purpose to fulfill ; Frae scho fell fow, he fled away, And came nae mair hir till; Quherfore be tint the feild that day, And tuke him to a mill, To hyde him as a coward false of fay. Finis, quod SCOT. ON MAY. May is a month ma'st amene For them in Venus’ service bene, To recreate their heavy hearts: May causes courags frae the splene, And evry thing in May reverts. In May the pleasant spray upspr‘ugs, In May the mirthful maveis sings, And now in May to maidens falls, With tymmer wechts to trip and rings, And to play upcoil with the balls. In May gois gullants bring in symmer, And trymmly occupy their tymmer, With hunt up evry morning plaid : In May gois gentlewomen gymmer, In gardens grene their grumes to glade. In May quhen men zied everichone, With Robene Hoid and Littil John, To bring in bows and birkin bobbyns ; Now all sic game is fastlings gone, But gif it be amangs clovin Robbyns. Abbotts by rule, and lords bot reason, Sic senzeors tymes owerweil this season, Upon thair vyce war lang to waik; Quhen falsit feibleness and treason, Has rung thryss owre this zodiack. In May begins the gowk to gail ; In May deir draw to doun and dale, In May men mells with famynie, And ladys meit their luvairs leil, Quhen Phebus is in gemini. Butter, new cheise, and beir in May, Connans, cockles, cruds and whey, Lapsters, lempets, mussels in shells, Greinleiks, and all sic men may sey, Suppose sum of them sourly smells. 295 In May grit men within thir bounds, Sum halks the walters, sum with hounds, The hares out throw the forest catches, Syne after them thair ladeis sounds, To scent the rynning of the ratches. In May frank archers will affix Ane place to meit, syne marrows mix, To schute at butts, at banks and braes, At revers sum, sum at the prikks, Sum laich and to beneth the clais. In May men of amours suld gae To serve their ladies and nae mae ; Sen thair relief in ladies lyes ; For sum may cum in favour sae, To kiss their luve on Buchan ways. In May gois damosells and dams In gardens grein to play lyke lamms ; Sum at the bars imbrace lyke billers ; Sum rin at barlabreiks like rams, Sum round about the standing pillars. In May gois maidens till La Reit, And hes their mynzeons on the streit, To horse them quhair the gate is ruch : Sum at Inchbuckling-brae they meit, Sum in the mids of Musslebrugh. So May and all thir moneths three, Are het and dry in thair degrie; Therefore ye wanton men in zouth, For health of body now haif ze, Not aft to mell with thankles mouth. Sen evry pastyme is at pleasure, I council you to sport with measure, And namely now, May, June, and July, Delyt not lang in luver’s leasure, But weit your lipps and labour huly. Quod ALEX. SCOT. —_——_—_¢—_—_ JOHNIE ARMSTRANG.! Sum speiks of lords, sum speiks of lairds, And siclyke men of hie degrie, Of a gentleman I sing a sang, Sumtyme calld laird of Gilnockie. (1) This is the true old ballad, never printed before, of the famous John Armstrang, of Gilnockhall, in Liddisdale, a head of @ numerous clan and faction, who used to pass over in troops to England, making continual incursions, and taking much plunder in the bordering parts. See an account of his being ‘aken and executed, with many of his followers (in his own country, not contending with his prince at Edinburgh, as the vulgar ballad falsely narrates), in Buchanan’s ‘‘ History of James V.,” about the year 1530. This I copied from a gentleman’s mouth of the name of Armstrang, who is the sixth generation from this John. He tells me this was ever esteemed the genuine balla, the common one false. THE EVERGREEN. The king he wrytes a luving letter With his ain hand sae tenderly, And he hath sent it to Johny Armstrang, To cum and speik with him speidily. The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene ; They were a gallant company, © Weill ryde and meit our lawfull king, And bring him safe to Gilnockie. Make kinnen and capon ready then, And venison in great plenty, Weiil welcome hame our royal king, LT hope heil dyne at Gilnockie.” They ran their horse on the Langum Hown, And brake their speirs with mekle main ; The ladys lukit frae their loft windows, “God bring our men weil back again.” Quhen Johny came before the king, With all his men so brave to see, The king he movit his bonnet to him He weind he was a king as well as he. “May I find grace, my sovereign liege, Grace for my loyal men and me; For my name it is Johny Armstrang, And subject of zours, my liege,” said he. “ Away, away, thou traytor Strang, Out of my sicht thou mayst sune be, I grantit nevir a traytor’s lyfe, And now Vl not begin with thee.” “ Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king, And a bony gift I will give to thee, Full four and twenty milk whyt steids, Were a foald in a zeir to me. Vl gie thee all these milk whyt steids, That prance and nicher at a speir, With as mekle gude Inglis gilt, As four of their braid backs dow beir.” “ Away, away, thou traytor,” &e. * Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king, And a bony gift T’ll gie to thee, Gude four and twenty ganging mills, That gang throw a the zeir, to me, These four and twenty mills complete, Sall gang for thee throw all the zeir, And as mekle of gude reid quheit, As all thair happers dow to beir.” “ Away, away, thou traytor,” &e. “ Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king, And a great gift I'll gie to thee, Bauld four and twenty sisters’ sons, Sall for thee fecht tho all sould flec.” “ Away, away, thou traytor,” &c. “Grant me my lyfe, my liege, my king, And a brave gift I'll gie to thee ; All betwene heir and Newcastle town, Sall pay thair zeirly rent to thee.” “ Away, away, thou traytor,” &e. “ Ze leid, ze leid now, king,” he says, “ Althocht a king and prinee ze be ; For I luid naithing in all my lyfe, I dare well sayit but honesty : But a fat horse and a fair woman, Twa bony dogs to kill a deir; But Ingland suld haif found me meil and malt, Gif I had livd this hundred zeir. “Scho suld haif fund me meil and malt, And beif and mutton in all plentie ; But neir a Scot’s wyfe could haif said, That eir I skaithd her a pure flie. To seik het water beneath cauld yee, Surely it is a great folie; I haif asked grace at a graceless face, But there is nane for my men and me. “But had I kend or I came frae hame, How thou unkind wadst bene to me, I wad haif kept the border syde, In spyte of all thy force and thee. Wist England’s king that I was tane, O gin a blyth man wald he be; For anes I slew his sister’s son, And on his breist-bane brak a tree.” John wore a girdle about his midle, Imbroidered owre with burning gold, Bespangled with the same mettle, Maist beautifull was to behold. Ther hang nine targats at Johny’s hat, And ilk an worth three hundred pound ; “What wants that knave that a king suld haif, But the sword of honour and the crown.” “© quhair gat thou these targats, Johnie, That blink sae brawly abune thy brie?” “T gat them in the field fechting, Quher, cruel king, thou durst not be. Had I my horse and my harness gude, And ryding as I wont to be, It sould haif bene tald this hundred zeir, The meiting of my king and me. “God he withee, Kirsty, my brither, Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun ; Lang mayst thou dwell on the border-syde, Or thou se thy brither ryde up and doun, And God be withee, Kirsty, my son, Quhair thou sits on thy nurse’s knee ; But and thou live this hundred zeir, Thy father’s better thou’lt never be THE EVERGREEN. Fareweil, my bonny Gilnockhall, Quhair on Esk syde thou standest st out, Gif I had lived but seven zeirs mair, I wald have gilt thee round about.” John murdred was at Carlinrigg, And all his galant companie ; But Scotland’s heart was never sae wae, To se sae mony brave men die. Because they savd their country deir Frae Englishmen ; nane were sae bauld, Quhyle Johnie livd on the border-syde, Nane of them durst cum neir his hald. ADVYCE TO A HEADSTRONG ZOUTH. Of heidstrang zouth ill to command, Advysd to keip a hank in hand. O eattants all, I cry and call, Keip strenth, quhyle that ze haif it, Repent ze sall, quhan ze are thrall, Frae tyme the dub be lavit. With wanton zouth tho’ ze be cowth, With courage hie on loft ; Suppose great drouth cum in zour mouth, Beware, drink not owre aft. Tak but a list, suppose ze thrist, Zour mouth at leasure cule, Zour mynd solist weil to resist, Langer lests zeir than zule. Tho ze ryd saft, cast not owre aft Zour speir into the reist, With stuff uncoft, set. upon loft, “ Hnouch is even a feist.” In Cupid’s grace suppose ze trace, Thinkand zour sell abune, Ze may percase cast Daweis ace, And sae be lotchit sune. Frae tyme se stank into the bank, And drypoynt cumis in play ; Ze tyne the thank, man, hald a hank, Or all be past away. Frae thou rin tume, as I presume, Thou has baith skaith and scorn, Thee to consume with fyre allume, That bourd may be forborn. Far iv tu-t play, I suthly say, Gude will is not allowit ; Gif thou nocht may, gae way, gae way, Then art thou all forhowit. Considderance has no luvance, Frae thon be bair thairben, At that sem lance, is no plesance, Quhen pith les grows thy pen. Quhen thou has done thy det abune, Forfochten in the feild, Scho will say, sune get the an spune: Adieu, baith speir and sheild. Frae thou inlaiks to lay on straiks, Frae hyne, my son, adieu; That thy roum vaiks, an uther takes That solace to persue. Quhyle brauus are big, abune to lig, Gude is in time to ceise : To tar and tig, syn grace to thig, That is a pityous preis. Therefore bewar, hald the on far, Sic chafwair for to prys, To tig and tar, then get the war, It is ill merchandyse. Mak thou nae vaunt, owre aft to hant In places dern thair doun, Frae tyme thou want, that stuff is scant To borrow in the toun. Few honour wins into that inns, For shuiting at the schells, Out of zour shins the substance rins, They get no genzell ells. In tyme let be, I counsell thee, Use not that offerand stok : Quhen thee they see, they bleir thyne ee, And imak at thee a mok. Tho thou suppose haif at thy chois, T red thee for the nains ; Keip stuff in pose, tyne not thy hois, Wair not all in that wains. Frae tyme scho see under thiyne ee, The brawn away it munts : Thy game and glee gains noclit for thee, Thou maun let be sic hunt: Frae thou luke chest, adieu that faist, To hunt into that schaw, Quhen on that beist at thy requeist, Thy kennets will not kaw, Within that stoup frae tyme thou sowp, And wirdis to be sweir, And makes a stop, when they sould hop Adieu the thrissil deir. Therfore albeit thy hounds haif speid To rin owre alt let be, In thy maist neid sometyme bot dreid, They wil rebuted be ; QQ 298 THE EVERGREEN, Owre aft to hound in uncouth ground, Thou may tak up unbatit : Therfore had bound thocht scho be found, Or dreid thy dogs be slaitit. Scho is not fll that sitteth still, Persewed in the sait, That beist scho will give thee thy fill, Till thou be even chakmait. Suppose thou range owre all the Grange, And seik baith syke and sewch ; Still will scho menge, and make it strenge, And give thee even eneuch. Therwith advyse, suppose scho ryse, Laich underneth thy fute ; But be thou wyse, scho will surpryse Thy hounds and them rebute. In tyme abyde, the fields are wyde, I counsell thee, gude bruther ; Ill is the gyde that sails bot tyde, Syne rackless is the ruther. Hunters, adieu, gif ze persue To hunt at evry beist, Ze will it rew, ther is anew, Thairto haif ze no haste. With an O and an J, ze hunters all and sum, Quhen best is play, pass hame away, Or dreid, war after cum. Quod BALNEVIS, THE BLATE LUVAIR THAT FAIN WAD, BUT FEIRS TO SPEIK. My heart is lost only for luve of one. For laik of speich, and all for shamefulness, 1 dare not speik my purpose to propone, Nor wat not how my purpose I sall dress ; Speik I till hir and scho be mercyless, And denzie not again to speik to me, Then haif I tint my speiking mair and less, And unsped speich had better unspoken be. I dar not speik for dreid that scho dispyt My rural terms, and say I do but raif And speik I not unto my lady quhyte, Withouten speich hir luve I cannot haif: But gif I speik, quhat can I of hir eraif P I spare to speik for laik of eloquence : O couth scho without speich my synis persaif I wald nocht speik to hir magnificens. | Fain wald I speik, gif speiking micht avail, Gif scho for speich wald speik to me again: I spare to speik for spilling of my tale, Then I my speiking spendit: haif in vain : To speik and speid not is an lestand pain, How sall I speik ? I dare not speik for dreid; Be it gude or ill, scho speiks to me again, Zit. sall I speik, unspoken can nocht speid. Quhat sall I speik, sen I maun speik on forss To hir that is of speich maist eloquent ? Then I sall speik, how that my cairful corss Throw laik of speich tholes day and how torment Cause I cannot tell hir my hail intent, For want of speich and ornat termis plain, Beseiking hir with speiking reverent, That scho wald speik to comfort me again. Quod STEWART. LUVE A LEVELER. Luve prysis, bot comparison, The gentill and the sempill all, And of free-will gives wareson, As fortune chances to befall ; For luve maks nobill ladyis thrall To baser men of birth and blude, Sae luve gars sobir women small Find favour with grit men of gude. Firm luve for favour, feir or feid, Of rich nor pure to speik suld spair; ~ For luve to hienes hes nae heid, Nor lichtlys lawliness ane hair, But puts all persons in compair ; This proverb plainly for to pruve, That men and women, less and mair, Ar cumd of Adam and of Five. Sae thocht my liking wer a lady, And I nae lord, zit nocht the less, Scho suld my service find als redy, As duke to dutches docht him dress; For as hie princely luve express, Is to haif soverenitie, Sae service cums of simpilness, And lielest luve of law degrie. So luvaris lair no leid suld lak, A lord to luve a sempill lass, A lady als for luve to tak Ane proper page hir tyme to pass THE EVERGREEN. For quhy, as bricht bene birnist brass, As silver wrocht in all devyce, And als gude drinking out of glass As gold, thocht gold gife gritter pryce. Quod SCOT, Simi atic: THE FLOURE OF WOMANHEID. Tuov well of vertew, floure of womanheid, And patroness of heviuly patiens, Lady of lawty baith in word and deid, Sobir, serene, full of meik eloquens, Baith gude and fair: to zour magnificens I recommend, as I haif done befoir, My sempill heart for now and evirmoir. For evirmoir I sall zou service mak, Sen, as befoir, into my mynd I made, Sen first I knew your ladyschip, bot lak, All bewtie, zouth and womanheid ze had, Withouten rest my heart couth not evade. Thus I am zours, and ay sensyne haif bene Commandit therto by zour twa fair ene. Zour twa fair ene maks me aft syis to sing, Zour twa fair ene maks me to sich also, Zour twa fair ene maks me grit comforting, Zour twa fair ene is wyt of all my wo, Zour twa fair ene will not ane heart let go, But links him fast that gets a sicht of them, Of every vertue bricht ze beir the name. Ze beir the name of gentilness of blude, Ze beir the name, that mony for ze dies, Ze beir the name, ze are baith fair and gude, Ze beir the name of every sweit can pleis, Ze beir the name, fortune and zou agreis, Ze beir the name of lands of lenth and breid, The well of vertew and floure of womanheid. ig DONALD OWYR’S EPITAPH. In vyce maist vicious he excells, That with the vyce of treason mells, Thocht he remission Haif for prodission, Schame and suspission Ay with him dwells. He evir odious as ane howle, The falt sae filthy is and foul, Horrible to nature Is ane traytour, As feynd in Frater Undir a coul. | | 299 Quha is a traytour or a tueif, Upon himsell turns the mischeif ; His fraudfull wylis Himsell begylis, As in the ylis Is now a preif. The fell strong traytour Donald Owyr, Mair falset had nor udir four, Round ylis and seis, In his suplies, On gallow treis, Zit dois he glowir. Falset nae feit hes, nor defens Be practick, powir nor pussiens, Thocht it frae licht Be smoird frae sicht, God schawis the richt With soir vengens. Of the fals fox dissimulator Kynde, is ilka theif and traytour, After respyte To mak despyte, Mair appytyte He has of nature. Wer the tod tane a thousand faud, And grace him given as aft for fraud; Wer he on plane, All wer in vain, Frae henns again Micht nane him had. The murtherer ay murther mais, And ay till he be slane he slays ; Wyvis thus mak mokks Spynand on roks. Ay rynns the fox Quhyle he fute hes. Quod DUNBAR. THE SOLSEQUIUM, OR THE LOVER COMPAIRING HIMSELF TO THE SUN-FLOWIR. Lyx as the dum Solsequium with cair owrecum Dois sorrow, quhen the sun gois out of sight Hings doun his heid, and droupis as deid, and will not spreid, But luiks his levis throw langour all the nicht, 500 Till fulisch Phaeton aryse with quhip in hand To purge the christal skyis, and licht the land. Birds in thair bower wait on that hour, And to thair king ane glade gudemorrow gives, Frae than that flowir lists not to lour, But lauchs on Phebus lowsing out his leivs. Swa stands with me, except I be quhair I may se My lamp of licht, my lady and my luve, Frae scho depairts, a thousand dairts in sindry airts Thirle thruch my heavy heart, bot rest or ruve My countenance declairs my inward grief, And howp almaist dispairs to find releif. I die, I dwyne, play dois me pyne, T loth on every thing I luke, allace ! Till Titian myne upon me schyne, That I revive thruch favour of hir face. Frae scho appeir, into hir sphere begins to cleir, The dawing of my lang desyrit day, Then courage crys on howp to rise, quhen he espyis The noysum nicht of absens went away ; No noyis, frae I awalke, can me impesche, But on my staitly stalk I flurische fresche, I spring, I sprout, my leivs ly out, My collour changis in ane hairtsum hew ; Na mair I lout, but stand up stont, As glad of hir for quhome I only grew. O happy day! go not away, Apollo stay Thy chair frae going doun unto the west, Of me thou mak thy Zodiak, that I may tak My plesour to behald quhome I luve best : Thy presence me restoris to lyfe from deth, Thy absens lykways schoris to cut my breth ; I wiss in vain thee to remain, Sen primum mobile says me always nay, At leist they wane bring sune again, Fareweil with patiens per forss till day. Quod MONTGOMERY. COMPARISONE. Tus bramble growis, althocht it be obscure, Quhylis montane ccderis tholes the bousteous winds, And myld Plebyan spirits may leif secure, Quhylis michty tempestis toss imperial mynds. THE EVERGREEN. THE FIRST PSCHALME. Writ is the man, Zea blisit than, Be grace that can Eschew ill counsale and the godless gaits, Quha walks not in The way of sin, Nor dois begin To sit with mokkaris in thair schamefull saits, But in Jehovah’s law Delyts aricht, And studys it to knaw Baith day and nicht. That man sall be lyke to an tre That plantit by the ryning river grows, Quhilk fruit dois beir in tyme of zeir, Quhais levis sall nevir fade, nor rute unlowse. His actions all Ay prosper sall: So sall not fall To wicket men ; but as the calf and sand, Quhilk day by day Winds dryve away: Thairfore I say The wicket in thair jugment sall not stand, Nor sinners cum nae mair, Quhome God disdains, In the assembly quhair The just remains. For quhy? The Lord quha beirs record, He knaws the richteous conversation ay, But godles gaits, quhilk He so haits, Sall quickly perreiss, and bot dout decay. —oe—__ THE TWENTY-THIRD PSCHALME. Tue Lord maist hie, I knaw will be, An hird to me, I cannot lang haif stress, nor stand in neid ; He makes my lair, In feilds maist fair, Quhair I bot cair, Reposing at my pleasure safely feid. He sweitly me convoyis To pleisand springs, Quhair naething me anoyis, But pleasour brings ; He brings my mynd, fit to sic kynd, That forss or feir of fae cannot me grieve: He dois me leid in perfyt freid, And for His name He will me nevir leive. THE EVERGREEN. 301 Thocht I wald stray, Ik day by day, In deidly way, Zit will I not dispair, I feir none ill; For quhy, Thy grace, In every place, Dois me imbrace, Thy rod and shiphird’s cruke comfort me still. In dispyt of my foes, My tabill grows, Thou balmis my heid with joy, My cup owreflows. Kyndness and grace, mercy and peice, Sall follow me for all my wretched days, And me convoy to endless joy —- In Hevin, quhair I sall be with 'Thee always. These two Pschalmes quod MONTGOMERY. A DISCRIPTION OF PEDDER COFFES. TITEIR HAVING NO REGARD TO HONESTY IN THEIR VOCATION. Ir is my purpose to discryve This holy perfyte genologie Of pedder knaves superlatyve, Pretendand to authoritie, That wate of nocht but beggartie : Ze burges’ sons, prevene thir louns, That wald distroy nobilitie, And baneiss it all borrows towns. They are declarit in seven parts, Ane stroppit coffe, quhen he begins, Ay sornand all and sindry arts, To buy up hens reidwod he rins; Syne locks them up into his inns, Waiting a derth, and sells their eggs, Regretandly on them he winns, And secondly his meit he beggs. Ane swyngeor coffe amangst the wyves, In landwart dwells with subtile meins, Exponand to them auld saints’ lives, And sains them syne with deid men’s bains ; Like Rome-rakers with awsterne grains, Speikand cur-lyke ilk an till uther, Peipaxd puirly with pityous manes, Lyke fenzeit Symmie and his brother. Thir currish coffes that sails owre sune, And thretiesum about a pack, With bair blew bonnets and hoheld shune, And beir bannocks with them they tak, The schameless schrews, God gie them lak, At nune qulen merchants make guid cheir, Steil doun and ly behind a sack, Drinkand but dreggs and barmy beir. Knavatick coffe miskens himsell, Quhen he gets on a furrit goun ; But Lucifer, the laird of hell, Ts not less haly than that loun ; As he cumes brankand throw the toun, With his keis clinkand on his arme, That calf clovin-futted fleid custroun, Will wed nane but a burges’ bairn. Ane dyvour coffe, that worry-hen, Distroys the honnour of our uation, Taks guids a frist frae fremit men, And breaks with them his obligation, Quhilk does our merchants defamation, They are reprievt for that regratour ; Therefore we give our declaration To hang and draw that common traytour. A curleous coffe, that hege-scraper, He sits at hame quhen that they bake ; That pedder brybour, that sheip-keipar, He tells them ilk ane cake by cake, Syne locks them up, and taks a faik Betwixt his doublet and his jacket, And eits them in the buith that smaik, Tl than he mort into a rakket. ; A codroch coffe, he is owre rich, And hes nae hap his gude to spend, But lives lyke ony wareit wretch, And trests never till take an end, With falsheid ever does him defend, Proceiding still in avarice, And leaves his saul nae gude commend, But walks a wilsome way I wiss. I zou exhort all that this heir, And reids this bill, ze wald it schaw Unto the provost, and him require, That he would give thir coffes the law, And banish them the burges raw ; And to the shoe-streit gar them sten, Syne cut their lugs that we may knaw Thir vedder knaifs be burges men. Quod LINDSAY 302 THE EVERGREEN, JOCK’S ADVYCE. The fyne advyce Jock gied his ded, Ze ken quhen ze thir lynes haif red. “Jock,” quod his ded, “quhat will me eisy make ? With standing my legs tyre, and quhen I kneil My kneis are pynd, ganging gars my feit ake; Lying irks my back, and gif I sit I feil My hipps ar hurt; and lein I neir sae weil, My elbuck smarts.” Quod Jock, “ Pain to exyle Since all these eise not, best ein hing a quhyle.” ANSWER. “J THANK ze, Jock, for zour advyce, My kyndly cock, I thank ze, Jock, Weil have ze spoke and councild nyce ; I thank ze, Jock, for zour advyce.” THE BALLAT OF THE REID-SQUAIR, FOUGHT ON 7TH JULY, 1576, On July seventh, the suthe to say, At the Reid-Squair the tryst was set, Our wardens they affixt the day, And as they promist, sae they met: Allace! that day I'll neir forzet, Was sure sae feird, and then sae fain, They came ther justice for to get, Will nevir grein to cum again. Carmichaell was our warden then, He causit the countrey to convene, And the laird Watt, that worthy man, Brocht in his surname weil be sene : The Armstrangs that ay aif bene A hardy house, but not a hail ; The Eliots honours to mentain, Brocht in the laif of Liddisdail. Then Twidail came to with spcid, The Scherif broclit the Douglas doun, With Cranstane, Gladstane, gude at neid, Baith Rewls-Watter and Hawick Town. Beangeddert bauldly maid him boun, With all the Trumbulls strang and stout ; The Rutherfuirds, with grit renoun, Convoyt the toun of Jedbruch out. With uther clanns I can nocht tell, Because our wairning was nocht wyde, Be this our folk hes tane the fell, And plantit pallions thair to byde: We lukit doun the uther syde, And saw cum breisting owre the brae, And Sr George Foster was thair gyde, With fyftene hundrid men and mae, It greivt him sair that day I trow, With Sr John Hinrome of Schipsydehouse, Because we wer not men enow, He counted us not worth a souse; Sr George was gentill, meik and douse, But he was hail, and het as fyre : But zit, for all his cracking crouse, He rewd the raid of the Reid Squyre. To deil with proud men is but pain, For ether ze maun ficht or flie, Or els nae answer mak again, But play the beist, and let him be. It was nae wonder tho he was hie, Had Tyndall, Redsdaile at his hand, With Cucksdaile, Gladsdaile on the lie, Auld Hebsrime and Northumberland. Zit was our meiting meik enough, Begun with mirrines and mows, And at the brae abune the heugh The clerk sat doun to call the rows. And sum for ky and sum for ewis, Callit in of Dandrie, Hob and Jock, I saw cum merching owre the knows, Fyve hundred Fennicks in a flock. With jack and speir and bowis all bent, And warlick weaponis at thair will ; Howbeit we were not weil content, Zit be my trowth we feird nae ill: Sum zeid to drink, and sum stude still, And sum to cairds and dyce them sped, Quhyle on ane farstein they fyld a bill, And he was fugitive that fled, Carmichaell bad them speik out plainly, And cloke nae cause for ill nor gude, The uther answering him full vainly, Begouth to reckon kin and blide. He raise and raxd him quhair he stude, And bad him match him with his marrows; Then Tyndall hard these resouns rude, And they lute aff a flicht of arrows. Then was ther nocht but bow and speir, And ilka man pullit out ane brand, A Schaften and a Fennick their, Gude Symmigtoun was slain frae hand. The Scotismen cryd on uther to stand, Frae tyme they saw John Kobson slain: Quhat suld they cry! The king’s command Culd cause nae cowards turn again. THE BALLAT OF THE REID-SQUEIR. Voll page 302. THE EVERGREEN. 303 Up raise the laird to red the cumber, Quhilk wald not be for all his boist, Quhat suld we do with sic a number, Fyve thousand men into ane hoist ? Then Henrie Purdie proud hes cost, And verie narrowlie had misch‘efd him, And ther we had our Warden lost, Wart not the grit God he relivd him. Ane uther throw the breiks him bair, Quhyle flatlines to the ground he fell : Then thocht I, we had lost him thair, Into my heart it struk a knell; Zit up he raise, the truth to tell, And laid about him dunts full dour, His horsemen they faucht stout and snell, And stude about him in the stour. Then raisd the slogan with ane schout, Fy, Tyndall to it, Jedbrugh heir: I trow he was not half sae stout, But anes his stomak was a steir, With gun and genzie, bow and speir, He micht se mony a crackit crown, But up amang the merchant geir The bussie wer as we were down. The swallowtail frae teckles flew, Fyve hundred slain into the flicht, But we had pestellets anew, And schot among them as we micht. With help of God the game gade richt, Frae tyme the foremost of them fell; Hynd owre the know, without gude nicht, They ran with mony a schout and zell. And after they had turned backs, Zit Tyndall men they turnd again, And had not bene the merchant packs, There had bene mae of Scotland slain : But Jesu gif the folk was fain To put the bussing on thair theis, And sae they fled with all thair main, Doun owre the brae lyke clogged beis. Sr Francis Russell tane was thair, And hurt, as we heir men reherse ; Proud Wallingtoun was woundit sair, Albeit he was a Fennick ferss. But gif ze wald a souldier serche Amang them all was tane that night, Was nane sae wordie of our verse As Colingwood, that courteous knicht. Zung Henrie skapit hame, is huct, A souldier schot him with a bow, Scotland has cause to mak grit sturt, For laiming of the laird of Mow. The laird Watt did weil indeid, His friends stude stoutly by himsell, With litle Gladstane, gude in neid, Tor Gretein kend not gude be ill. The Scheriff wantit not gude-will, Howbeit he micht not ficht sae fast : Beanjeadart, Hundlie, and Hunthill, Three, on they laid weil at the last, Exept the horsemen of the gaird ; If I could put men to avail, Nane stoutlier stude out for thair laird, Nor did the lads of Liddisdail. But litle harnise had we thair, But auld Badrule had on a jack, And did richt weil, [ zou declair, With all the Trumbulls at his back. Gude Ederstane was not to lack, With Kirktoun, Newtoun, nobill-men. Thir is all the specialls I haif spak, Forby them that I could nocht ken. Quha did invent that day of play, We neid nocht feir to find him sune, For Sr John Foster, I dare weil say, Maid us that noysome afternune : Nor that I speik preceisly out, That he supposd it wald be perrill, But pryde and breaking out, but dout, Gart Tyndall lads begin the quarrell. HAY TRIX, TRYME GO TRIX. Tue paip, that pagane full of pryde, He hes us blindit lang, For quhair the blind the blind dois gyde, Na wonder they ga wrang: Lyke prince and king he led the ring Of all iniquitie, Hay trix, tryme go trix, under the grene wod trie. Bot his abhominatioun The Lord hes brocht to licht, His popische pryde and thrinfald crowne Almaist hes lost thair micht. His plak pardounis ar but lardounis, Of new found vanitie, Hay trix, tryme go trix, &e. THE EVERGREEN. His cardinallis hes caus to murne, His bischoppis borne aback ; His abbotis gat ane uncouth turne, Quhen schavelingis went to sack, With burges’ wyfis thay led thair lyvis, And sure better nor we, Hay trix, tryme go trix, &e. His Carmelites and Jacobinis, His Dominiks had greit do, His Cordeleiris and Augustinis, Sanct Frances ordour to; Thay sillie freiris mony zeiris, With babling blerit our ee, Hay trix, tryme go trix, &. The sisteris gray, befoir this day, Did crune within thair cloister, They feit ane freir their keyis to beir, The feind ressave thie foster : Syne in the mirk sae weill coud wirk, And kittill them wantounlie, Hay trix, tryme go trix, &. The blind bischop he culd nocht preiche, For playing with the lassis ; The syllie freir beluffit to fleiche, For almous that he assis ; The curat his creid he culd nocht reid, Schame fall the cumpanie, Hay trix, tryme go trix, &. The bischop wald nocht wed ane wyfe, The abbote not persew ane, Thinkand it was ane lustie lyfe, lk day to have ane new ane, In everie place ane uncouth face, His lust to satisfie, Hay trix, tryme go trix, &. The persoun wald nochit have ane hure, Bot twa, an thay war bony ; The vicar (thocht le was pure) Behuiffit to have als mony ; The pareis priest, that brutall beist, He polit thame privelie, Hay trix, tryme go trix, &. Of Scotland well, the freiris of Faill, The lymmerie lang hes lestit, The monkis of Melros maid gude kaill On Frydayis, quhen they fastit ; The sillie nunnis keist up thair bunnis, And heisit thair hippis on hie, Hay trix, tryme go trix, under the grene wod trie. * * * & * ON THE MES. Kwaw ze not God omnipotent, He creat man and maid him fre, Quhill he brak his commandement, And eit of the forbiddin tre ; Had not that blissit barne bene borne, Sin to redres, Lowreis zour lyves had bene forlorne, For all zour mes. Sen we war all to sin maid sure, Throw Adamis inobedience, (Saif Christ) thair was na creature, Maid sacrifice for our offence ; Thair is na sanct may save zour saull, Fra ze transgres, 3 Suppois Sanct Peter and Sanct Paull Had baith said mes. Knawing thair is na Christ bot ane, Quhilk rent was on the rude with rodais ; Quhy give ze glore to stock and stane, In worschipping of uther goddis ? Thir idoles that on alteris standis, Ar fenzeitnes, Ze gat not God amang zour handis, Muniling zour mes. And sen na sanct zour saull may save, Perchance ze will speir at me than, How may the paip thir pardounis have, With power baith of beist and man ? Throw nathing bot ane fenzeit faith, For halynes Inventit wayis to get them graith, Lyke as the mes, Of marriage ze maid zou quyte, Thinking it thraldome to refraine Wanting of wyffis is appetyte, That courage micht incres againe ; Thay honny lippis, ze did persew, Grew gal] I gess, Thinking it was contritioun trew, To dance ane mes. Gif God was maid of bittis of breid, Hit ze not ouklie sax or sevin, As it had bene a mortall feid, Quhill ze had almaist heryit hevin, Als mony devilis ze maun devoir, Quhill hell grow les, Or doutles we dar nocht restoir Zou to zour mes. THE EVERGREEN. 305 Gif God be transubstantiall In breid, with hoc est corpus meum, Quhy war ze sa unnaturall, As tak him in zour teith and sla him ? Tripairtit and devydit him At zour dum dres, Bot God knawis how ze gydit him Mumling zour mes. Ze partit with dame povertie, Tuke propertie to be zour wyfe, Fra charitie and chastitie, With licharie ze leid zour lyfe ; That raisit the mother of mischief, Zour gredynes, Beleving ay to get relief For saying mes. O wickit vaine venerienes, Ze are not sanctis (thocht ze seme haly), Proude poysonit Bpicuriens, Quhilk had na god bot zour awin bellie, Beleve, ze lownis, the Lord allowis Zour idilnes, Lang or the sweit cum owir zour browis For saying mes. Had not zourself begun the weiris, Zour stepillis had bene standand zit : Jt was the flattering of zour freiris That ever gart Sanct Frances flit ; Ze grew sa superstitious In wickitues, It gart us grow malicious, Contrair zour mes. Our bischoppis ar degenerate, Thocht thay be mountit upon mulis, With huredome clene effeminate, _ And freiris oft-tymes previs fulis ; For dustifit and bob at evin, Do sa incres, Hes drevin sum of them to teine, For all thair mes. Christ keip all faithfull Christianis From perverst pryde and papistrie ; God grant thame trew intelligens Of his law, word, and veritie ; God grant thay may thair lyfe amend, Syne blis posses, Throw faith on Christ all that depend, And nocht on mes. Sen mes is nathing ellis to say, Bot ane wickit inventioun, Without authoritie, or stay, Of scripture, or fundatioun : Gif kingis wald mes to Rome hence dryve With hailstines, Suld be the meane to have belyve Ane end of mes. ON PURGATORIE. Or the fals fyre of purgatorie, Is nocht left in ane sponk ; Thairfoir sayis Gedde, ‘‘ Wayis me, Gone is preist, freir, and monk.” The reik sa wounder deir thay solde For money, gold, and landis, Quhill have the riches on the molde, Is seasit in thair handis. Thay knew nathing bot covetice And lufe of parainouris, And lat the saulis burne and bis Of all thair foundatouris. At corps presence thay wald sing, For ryches, to slokkin the fyre: Bot all pure folk that had nathing Was skaldit vaine and lyre. Zit sat they heich in parliament, Lyke lordis of greit renowne, Untill now that the New Testament Hes it and thame brocht downe. And thocht thay fuffe at it, and blaw Ay quhill thair bellyis ryve, The mair thay blaw, full weill they knaw The mair it dois misthryve. A COLLECTION OF BY ALLAN SCOTCH PROVERBS, RAMSAY. A BEGUN turn is half ended. A blate cat makes a proud mouse. A black hen lays a white egg. A blyth heart makes a blooming look. A bit is oftner better gi’en than eaten. A bonny bride is soon busked, And a short horse is soon whisked. A borrowed len shou’d gae laughing hame. A bread house never skail’d. A black shoe makes a blyth heart. A cock’s aye crouse on his ain midding. A cramb’d kite makes a crazy carcase. A daft nurse makes a wise wean. A denk maiden, a dirty wife. A dog winna yowl if ye strike him with a bane. A dog’s life, muckle ease muckle hunger. A dry summer ne’er made a dear peck. A duck winna dabble aye in ae hole. A dumb man wins nae law. Ae beggar’s wae that anither by the gate gae. Ae bird in hand is worth ten fleeand. Ae good turn deserves anitlier. Ae good turn may meet anither, if it were at the brigg of London. Ae half of the warld kenna how the ither half live. Ae hour’s cauld will suck out seven years’ heat. Ae hour in the morning is worth twa after noon. Ae man may lead a horse to the water, but four and twenty winna gar him drink. Ae man’s meat is anither man’s poison. Ae scabbed sheep will smit the hale hirdsell. Ae year a nurse and seven year a daw. A fair maiden tocherless will get mae wooers than husbands. A fool and his money are soon parted. A fool’s bolt is soon shot. A fool may speer mae questions than a doctor can answer. A fool may give a wise man counsel. A friend in need is a friend indeed. Affront your friend in mows, and tine him in earnest. A friend’s dinner’s soon dight. Aft ettle, whiles hit. Aft counting keeps friends lang togither. Aft times the cautioner pays the debt. After meat mustard. After a storm comes the calm. A fou man and a hungry horse make haste hame. A fou purse never lacks friends. A gawn foot’s aye getting. A gentle horse shou’d be sindle spurr’d. A gi’en horse shou’d na be look’d in the mouth. A gi’en game was never won. A good beginning makes a good ending. A good goose may have an ill gansel. A good face needs nae band, and an ill ane deserves nane. A good tongue’s a safe weapon. A good word is as soon said as an ill. A good tale is no the waur to be twice tald. A good name is sooner tint than won. A good fellow is a costly name. A graining wife and a grunting horse ne’er fail’d their master. A green wound is half hale. A green yule makes a fat kirk-yard. A great rooser was never a good rider. A greedy eye never got a good pennyworth, A great cry and little woo, Quoth the deil when he clippet the sow. A handfou of trade is worth a gowpen of gowd. A hasty man’s never lasty. A horse hired never tired. A horse with four feet may snapper. A horn spoon hauds nae poison. A houndless hunter and a gunless gunner see aye rowth of game. A hungry man smeli> meat afar. A hungry louse bites sair. A hungry man’s aye angry. A kiss and a drink of water is but a wersh disjune. A lass that has mony wooers oft wales the warst. A lang gather’d dam soon rins out. A leaky ship lacks muckle pumping. (1) Insipid breakfast, SCOTCH PROVERBS. Ale sellers shou’d na be tale-tellers. A liar shou’d have a good memory. Alike ilka day makes a clout on Sunday. A light purse makes a heavy heart. A’ o’ers are ill, except o’er the water and o’er the hill. A fails that fools think. A’ the truth shoud na be tald. A’ the corn’s no shorn by kempers. A’ the men of the Mearns can do nae mair than they may. A’ the winning’s in the first buying. A’ cracks are not to be trow’d. A’ that’s said in the kitchen shou’d ua be tald in the ha’. A’ cats are gray in the dark. A’ the keys hang not at your belt. A’s no tint that’s in hazard. A’s fish that comes in the net. A’s not at hand that helps. A’ things wytes that no well fares. A’s well that ends well. A’ things are good untried. A man’s mind is a mirk mirror. A man’s aye crouse in his ain cause. A man canna bear a’ his kin on his back. A man of mony trades may beg his bread on Sunday. A man at five may be a fool at fifteen. A man may see his friend in need, that winna see his pow bleed. A man may woo where he will, but wed where his wierd is. A man may be kind and gi’e little o” his gear. A man of words and not of deeds, is like a garden fou of weeds. A man is well or wae, as he thinks himself sae. A man has nae mair goods than he gets good of. A misty morning may be a clear day. A mouthfw’ of meat may be a townfu’ of shame. A muffled cat was ne’er a good hunter. An auld mason makes a good barrow-man. An auld tout in a new horn. An auld sack craves muckle clouting. An ill shearer never gat a good hook. An illwilly cow shou’d have short horns. An ill cow may have a good calf. An ill plea shou’d be well pled. An ill cook shou’d have a good cleaver. An ill lesson is soon lear’d. An ill wife and a new kindled candle shou’d ha’e their heads hadden down. An ill turn is soon done. An il] servant ne’er proved a good master. An ill life makes an ill end. Aun ill won penny will pu’ down a pound. An inch of a nag is worth a span of an aver. An inch off a miss is as good as a span. An inch of good fortune is worth a fathem of forecast. 307 An olite mother maxes a sweer daughter. An ounce of mother-wit is worth a pound of clergy. An unlucky man’s cart is eith tumbled. Ane of the court but nane of the council. Ane does the skaith, and anither gets the wyte. Ane never tines by doing good. Ane beats the bush and anither grips the gaine. Anes paid never craved. Ane may bind a sack before it be fu’. Ane may lo’e the kirk well enough, yet no be aye riding on the rigging o’t. Ane may lo’e a haggis that wadna ha’e the bag bladed in his teeth. Ane is not sae soon heal’d as hurt. Ane gets sma’ thanks for tining his ain. Ane canna wive and thrive baith in ae year. Aue will gar a hundred lie. A. new besom sweeps clean. A nod of an honest man is enough. April showers bring May flowers. A party pot never play’d even. A poor man gets a poor marriage. A poor man is fain of little. A pound of care winna pay an ounce of debt. A proud heart ina poor breast has meikle dolor todree, A ragged colt may prove a good gelding. A reeky house and a girning wile, Will make a man a fasheous life. A reproof is nae poison. A rowing stane gathers nae fog. As a carle riches he wretches. As broken a ship bas come to land. As day brak butter brak. As fain as a fool of a fair day. As fu’ of mischief as an egg’s fu’ of meat. As good may haud the stirrup as he that lowps on, As good a fellow as ever toom’d a bicker. As good merchants tine as win. As lang runs the fox as he feet has. As lang lives the merry man as the sad. As lang as the bird sings before Candlemas it greets after it, As lang as ye serve the tod ye maun bear up his tail. As mony heads as mony wits. As mickle-upwith as mickle downwith. As ready as the king has an egg in his pouch. As sair fight wrens as cranes. As soon gangs the lamb’s skin to the market as the auld sheep’s. As sair greets the bairn that’s paid at e’en, as lie that gets his whawks in the morning. As tired as a tyke is of langkale. As the sow fills the draff sowres. As the auld cock craws the young cock lears. As the wind blaws seek your bield. As the fool thinks the bell clinks. As the market gaugs wares maun sell. 308 As well be hang’d for a wedder as for a lamb. As ye Jo’e me look in my dish. As ye lead your ain life ye judge your neighbours. As ye make your bed sae ye maun lie down. A saft aver was never a good horse. A safe conscience makes a sound sleep. A scawd head is eith to bleed. A sheaf off a stouk is enough. A short tree stands lang. A sillerless man gangs fast through the market. A silly man will be sleely dealt with. A sinking master makes aft a rising man, A slothfu’ band makes a slim fortune. A sorrowfu’ heart’s aye drouthy. A sooth bourd is nae bourd. A spur in the head is worth twa on the heel. At open doors dogs gae ben. A tale-teller is waur than a thief. A tarrowing bairn was never fat. A taking hand will never want. A tale never tines in the telling. A thrawin question should have a thrawart answer. A threed will tye an honest man better than a rape will a knave. A tocherless dame sits lang at hame. A toolying tike comes limping hame. A toom purse makes a tartling mercliant. A toom pantry makes a thriftless goodwife. A coom hand is nae lure for a hawk. A turn well done is soon done. A twapenny cat may look at a king. A vanter and a liar are right sib. A wad is a fool’s argument. A wee bush is better than nae bield. A wee mouse can creep under a great corn stack. A wee house well fill’d, a wee piece land well till’d, a wee wife well will’d, will make a happy man. A wee house has a wide mouth. A wee spark maks meikle wark. A wee thing puts your beard in a bleeze. A wee thing fleys cowards. A wight man never wanted a weapon. A wife is wise enough that kens her good man’s breeks frae her ain kirtle. A wilfu’ man never wanted wae. A wilfu’ man shou’d be unco wise. A woman’s mind is like wind in a winter night. Auld men are twice bairns. Auld sparrows are ill to tame. Auld springs gi’e nae price. Auld sins breed new shame. Auld wives and bairns make fools of physicians. A yeld sow was never good to grices. A yule feast may be quit at pasch. Bairns are certain care, but nae sure joy. Bare backs mak burnt shins. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Bare gentry, braggand beggars. Bastard brood are aye proud. Be a friend to yoursell and others will. Be lang sick that ye may be soon hale. Be it better, be it worse, be ruled by him that has the purse. Be thou well, be thou wae, thou wilt not be aye sae. Be the thing ye wad be ca’d. Bear wealth well, poortith will bear it sell. Before ye chuse a friend eat a peck of saut wi’ him. Begin with needles and prins and end with horn’d nowt. Beg frae beggars, you'll never be rich. Beggars breed, and gentry feed. Beggars dow bear nae wealth. Begyars shou’d na be choosers. Better a bit in the morning than fast a’ day. Better a clout in than a hole out. Better a dog fawn on you than bark at you. Better a finger aff than aye wagging. Better a fair foe than a fause friend. Better a good fame than a fine face. Better a laying hen than a lying crown. Better a mouse in the pot than nae flesh. Better a shameless eating than a shamefu’ living. Better a tocher in her than wi’ her. ~ Better a toom house than an ill tenant. Better a thigging mother than a riding father. Better a wee ingle to warm you than a mickle fire to burn you. Better auld debts than auld sairs. Better bairns greet than bearded men. Better be blyth with little than sad with mickle. Better be envied than pitied. Better be alane than in ill company. Better be idle than ill employed. Better be out of the warld than out of the fashion. Better be sonsy than soon up. Better be the lucky man than the lucky man’s son. Better be unkind than cumbersome. Better buy than borrow. Better day the better deed. Better eat gray bread in youth than in eild. Better flatter a fool than fight wi’ him. Better find iron than tine siller. Better gi’e the slight than take it. Better guide well than work sair. Better haud by a hair than draw with a tether. Better haud with the hound than rin with the hare. Better hain at the braird than at the bottom. Better hand loose than in an ill tethering. Better hap at court than good service. Better kiss a knave than cast out wi’ him. Better keep the de’il without the door than drive him out of the house. Better keep well than make well. Better lang something than soon nathing. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Better late thrive than never do weel. Better lear frae your neighbour’s skaith than your ain. Better leave to my faes than beg frae my friends. Better live in hope than die in despair. Better marry o’er the midding than o’er the moor. Better my bairns seek frae me than I beg frae them. Better my friend think me fremit than fasheous. Better ne’er begun than ne’er ended. Better rough and sonsy than bare and donsy. Better saught with little aught, than care with mony a cow, Better say here it is than there it was. Better short and sweet than lang and lax. Better sit still than rise up and fa’. Better sit idle than work for nought. Better skaith saved than mends made. Better sma’ fish than nae fish. Better spared than ill spent. Better the ill ken’d than the good unken’d. Better the end of a feast than the beginning of a fray. Better thole a grumph than a sumph. Better to haud than draw. Better twa skaiths than ae sorrow. Better unborn than untaught. Better wade back mid-water than gae forward and drown. Better wait on the cook than the doctor. Better wear shoon than sheets. Between three and thirteen, Thraw the wand when it is green. Bid a man to the roast and stick him with the spit. Birds of a feather flock together. Birth’s good, but breeding’s better. Black will take no other hue. Blaw the wind ne’er sae fast, It will lown at the last. Blind men should na judge of colours. Blood’s thicker than water. Boden gear stinks. Break my head and syne draw on my bow. Broken bread makes hale bairns. Burnt bairns dread the fire. Buy athief frae the gallows, and he’ll help to hang you. By chance a cripple may grip a hare. By guess, as the blind man fell’d the dog. Can do is eithly born about. Canny chiels carry cloaks when ’tis clear, The fool when ’tis foul has nane to wear, Careless fowk are aye cumbersome. Cast na out the dow’d water till ye get the fresh. Cats and carlius sit in the sun. Cauld cools the love that kindles o’er het. ‘Changes are lightsome. Come a’ to Jock Fool’s house, and ye’se get bread and cheese. 309 Come unca’d sits unserv’d. Come not to council unbidden. Comes to my hand like the bowl of a pint stowp. Come it air, come it late, in May comes the cow quake. Come with the wind, and gae with the water. Confess’d faut is half amends. Confess debt and crave days. Count again is no forbidden. Count siller after a’ your kin. Count like Jews and gree like brethren. Courtesy is cumbersome to them that ken it no. Counsel is nae command. Crab without a cause and mease without amends. Credit is better than ill won gear. Curses make the fox fat. Cut your cloak according to your claith. Daffin and want of wit maks auld wives donnard. Dawted bairns dow bear little. ; Daylight will peep through a sria’ hole. Deal sma’ and serve a’. Dear bought and far sought is meet for ladies. Death and marriage make term-day. Death at ae door, and hardship at the other. Death defies the doctor. Deed shaws proof. Ding down the nest, and the rooks will flee away. Dirt bodes luck. Do on the hill as ye wad do in the ha’. Do your turn well, and nane will spear what time ye took. Do well and dread nae shame. Do well and doubt nae man, do ill and doubt a’ men. Do as the lasses do, say no and take it. Do not meddle with the de’il and the laird’s bairns. Do not talk of a rape to a chiel whase father was hanged. Dogs will redd swine. Dolor pays nae debt. Double drinks are good for drouth. Double charges rive cannons. Drive a cow to the ha’, she’ll run to the byre. Drink and drouth come not aye together. Drink little that ye may drink lang. Drunken at e’en, and dry in the morning. Eat in measure, and defy the mediciner. Eat: your fill, but pouch nane. Eats meat and never fed, Wears claiths and never clad. Eating and drinking want but a beginning. Hith learning the cat to the kirn. Lith learn’d soon forgotten. Eith working when will’s at hame. Hither prove a man or a mouse. Hither win the horse or tine the saddle. $10 F’ening red and a morning gray, Is a token of a good day. F’en as ye win’t sae ye may wear’t. Enough’s as good as a feast. Ever busy ever bare. Every ane kens best where his ain slioe nips him. Every ane lowps the dyke where it is laighest. Every craw thinks its ain bird whitest. Every dog has his day. Every man wears his belt his ain gate. Every man can guide an ill wife well but he that has her. Every man bows to the bush he gets bield frae. Every man’s blind in his ain cause. Every man to his mind, as the man said when he kiss’d his ain cow. e Every man’s tale is good till another’s be told. Every man’s no born with a siller spoon in his mouth. Every man has his ain draff pock. Every miller wad wyse the water to his ain mill. Every shoe fits not every foot. Every thing has an end, and a pudding has twa. Experience teaches fools. Faint heart never won fair lady. Fair heights make fools fain. Fair fa’ the wife, and weel may she spin, That counts aye the lawing with a quart to come in. Fair fa’ good ale, it gars fowk speak as they think. Fair exchange is nae robbery. ~ Fair maidens wear nae purses. Fair hair may have foul roots. Fair words hurt ne’er a bane, But foul words break mony a ane. Fair and foolish, black and proud, Lang and lazy, little and loud. Fanw’d fires and forced love ne’er did weel. Fancy flees before the wind. Far away fowls have fair feathers. Farewell frost, fair weather niest. Far frae court far frae care. Varmers faugh gar lairds laugh. Fast bind fast find. Fat flesh freezes soon. Fat paunches bode lean pows. Vause fowk shou’d hae mony witnesses. Fidlers’ dogs and flesh-flies come to feasts unca’d. Fight dog fight bear, wha wins de’il care. Fine feathers make fine birds. Fire and water are good servants, but ill masters. First come first served. Fleas and a girning wife are wakerife bedfellows. Fleshers lo’e nae collops. Fleying a bird is no the gate to grip it. Flee never sae fast your fortune will be at your tail. Vlitting of farms makes mailings dear. Fools’ haste is nae speed SCOTCH PROVERBS. Fools are aye fain of flitting. Fools shou’d na see wark that’s haff done. * Fools make feasts, and wise fowk eal, them ; The wise make jests, aud fools repeat them. Fools are fain of naething. For want of steek a shoe may be tint. For fashion’s sake, as dogs gang to the market. Fortune favours fools. Fortune helps aye the hardy. Force without forecast aften fails. Fore-warn’d, haff arm’d. For faut of wise fowk fools sit on binks. Foul water slockens fire. Friendship canna stand aye on ae side. Vriends gree best sindry. Frost and fawshood have baith a dirty waygang. Gae to bed with the lamb, and rise with the lav’rock. Gane is the goose that laid the great egg. Gauuting bodes wanting. Gayly wad be better. Gear is easier gain’d than guided. Gentle paddocks have lang taes. Get your rock and spindle, and God will send tow. Get the word of soon rising, and you may lie in your bed a’ day. Giff gaff makes good friends. Girn when ye bind and laugh when you loose. Give a bairn its will, aud a whelp its fill, Nane of them will e’er do well. Give a dog an ill name, and he’ll soon be hang’d. Give a carle your finger, and he’ll take your hale hand. Give a gawn man a drink, and a quarrelsome chicl a cuff. Give a thing and take a thing, That’s the ill man’s gowd ring. Give o’er when the play’s good. Give them tow enough and they’ll hang themsells. Give the de’il his due. God be with auld lang syne, when our gutchers ate their trenchers. God help great fowk, the poor can beg. God’s help is nearer than the fair e’en. God ne’er sent the mouth but he sent the meat wi’t. God send water to that well that people think will never run dry. God sends us claiths according to our cauld. God sends meat, but the de’il sends cooks. God sends you mair wit and me mair siller. God shapes the back for the burthen. Good ale needs nae wisp. Good cheer and good cheap ca’s mony customers. Good fowk are scarce, take care of ane. Good forecast furthers the wark. Good fishing in drumly waters. Good will shou’d be taue in part payment. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Good words cost nathing. Great barkers are nae biters. Great. words fley cowards. Great winning makes wark easy. Greedy fowk have lang arms. Gut nae fish till ye get them. Ha’ binks are sliddery. Had ye sic a shoe on ilka foot it wad gar you shaghle. Haud a hank in your ain hand. Haff acres bear good corn. Hang a thief.when he’s young, and he’ll no steal when he’s auld. Hankering and hinging on is a poor trade. Handle the pudding while it is het. Hang hunger and drown drouth. Hap and a halfpenny is gear enough. Happy the wife that’s married to a motherless son. Happy for the son when the dad goes to the de’il. Hardships sindle come single. Haste makes waste. Have ye gear, have ye nane, Tine heart, and a’s gane. He begs frae them that borrowed frae him. He brings a staff to break his ain head. He can haud meal in his mouth and blaw. He comes aftner with the rake than the shool. He complains early that complains of his kail. He can hide his meat and seek mair. He does na aye ride when he saddles his horse. He does ua like his wark that says zow when it is done. He gangs away in an ill time that never comes again. He gangs lang barefoot that wears dead men’s shoon. He gat his kail in a riven dish. He has brought his pock to a braw market. He has mickle prayer but little devotion. He has come to good by misguiding. He has an eye in his neck. He has a bee in his bonnet lug. He has gotten a bite of his ain bridle. He has the best end of the string. Lle has faut of a wife that marries mam’s pet. He ‘has mair wit in his little finger than ye have in a’ your bonk. He has coosten his cloak on the other shoulder. He has feather’d his nest, he may flee when he likes, He has need of a lang spoon that sups with the de’il. He has cowped the meikle dish into the little. He has a hole aneath his nose that will ne’er let him be rough. He has wit at will that with an angry heart can sit still. He has licket the butter aff my bread. He has a slid grip that has an ee] by the tail. 311 ' He has a good judgment that does not lippen to his ain. He has a hearty hand for giving a hungry mealtith. He has a crap for a’ corn. He has need to ha’e a clean pow, That ca’s his neighbour nitty know. He hears with his heels, as geese do in harvest. He kens na a B by a bull’s foot. He kens his ain groats among other fowk’s kail. He kens whilk side his cake is butter’d on. He’ll mend when he grows better, like sour ale in summer. He’ll not let grass grow at his heels. He'll tell’t to nae mae than he meets. He loo’s me for little that hates me for nought. He'll wag as the bush wags. He looks like the far end of a French fiddle. He’ll soon be a beggar that canna say nay. He loo’d mutton well that lick’d where the ewe lay. He'll have enough some day when his mouth’s fou of mools. He may well swim that has his head hadden up. He maun be soon up that cheats the tod. He maun hae leave to speak that canna had his tongue. He may find faut that canna mend. He may laugh that wins. He never did a good darg that gade grumbling about it. He never lies but when the holin’s green. He needs maun run that the de’il drives. He never tint a cow that grat for a needle. He rides sicker that ne’er fell. He’s a fool that forgets himsell. He’s better fed than nurtur’d. He’s a man of a wise mind, That of a fae can make a friend. He’s gane to the dog drave. He’s wise that kens whan he’s well, and can haud himsell sae. He’s lifeless that’s faultless. He’s a gentle horse that never coost his rider. He’s silly that spares for ilka speech. He’s a fool that marries at yule, For when the bairn’s to bear the corn’s to shear. He’s at his wit’s end. Hfe’s wise that’s timely wary. He’s as welcome as water in a riven ship. He’s like a fiee in a blanket. He’s no sae daft as he lets on. He’s sairest dung that’s paid with his ain wand. He’s a sairy beggar that canna gae by ae door. He’s o’er soon up that’s hanged ere noon. He’s poor enough that’s ill loo’d. He’s a sairy cook that mayna lick his ain fingers. He’s a silly chiel that can neither do nor say. He’s a wise bairn that kens his ain father. 312 H{e’s unko fou in his ain house that canna pike a bane in his neighbour’s. He’s a proud horse that winna bear his ain pro- vender. He’s well worthy of sorrow that buys it. He’s like the singed cat, better than he’s likely. He’s a worthless goodman that’s no miss’d. He’s a good horse that never stumbled, And a better wife that never grumbled. He’s a weak beast that downa bear the saddle. He sleeps as dogs do when wives sift meal. He speaks in his drink what he thought in his drouth. He sits fou close that has a riven breek. He stumbles at a strae and lowps o’er a wonlyne. He that aught the cow gangs nearest her tail. He that blaws best let him bear the horn. He that’s born to be hang’d will never be drown’d. He that’s born under a tippenny planet will ne’er be worth a groat. He that buys land buys stanes, And he that buys beef buys banes. He that counts a’ cost will ne’er put plough in the eard. He that cheats me anes shame fa’ him, if he cheat me twice shame fa’ me. He that clatters to himsell tawks to a fool. He that canna make sport shou’d mar nane. He that canna do as he wou’d maun do as he may. He that comes unca’d sits unserved. He that counts before the ostler counts twice. He that does his turn in time sits half idle. He that does bidding deserves na dinging. He that deals in dirt has aye foul fingers. He that forecasts a’ perils will win nae worship. He that fa’s in a gutter, the langer he lies the dirtier he is. He that fishes before the net, Fishes lang or he fish get. He that gets gear before he gets wit will die ere he thrive. He that gets, forgets, but he that wants, thinks on. He that gangs a borrowing gahgs a sorrowing. He that gi’es a’ his gear to his bairns, Take up a bittle and ding out his harns. He that gi’es all wad gi’e nathing. He that gets anes his nives in dirt can hardly get them out. Fle that has twa hoards will get a third. Tle that has a good crop may thole some thistles. Ue that has nae siller in his purse shou’d ha’e silk on his tongue. He that hides can best find. He that has mickle gets aye mair. Fle that has mickle wad aye ha’e mair. He that has a dog of his ain may gang to the kirk with a clean breast. SCOTCH PROVERBS. He that has a mickle nose thinks ilka ane speaks o’t. He that’s ill to himsell will be good to naebody. He that in bawdry wastes his gear, Baith shame and skaith he will endure. He that kens what will be cheap or dear, Needs be a merchant but for ae year. He that keeks through a hole may see what will vex him. He that lives well lives lang. He that lacks my mare wad buy my mare. He that laughs at his ain joke spills the sport o’t. He that laughs alane will make sport in company. He that lives upon hope has a slim diet. He that looks to freets, freets follow him. He that marries or he be wise will die or he be rich. He that meddles with toolies comes in for the red- ding streak. He that never rade never fell. He that never eats flesh thinks harigalds a feast. He that shaws his purse bribes the thief. He that sleeps with dogs maun rise with fleas. He that slays shall be slain. He that steals can hide. He that strikes my dog wad strike mysell if he durst. He that spends his gear before he gets’t will get little good o’t. He that seeks mctes gets motes. He that speers all opinions comes ill speed. He that speaks what he should not, Will hear what he would not. He that spares to speak spares to speed. He that sells ware for words maun live by the wind. He that speaks with a drawnt and sells with a cant, Is right like a snake in the skin of a saint. He that teaches himsell has a fool for his master, He that will cheat in play winna be honest in earnest. He that winna when he may, shanna when he wad. He that wad eat the kimel maun crack the nut. He that will to Cupar will to Cupar. He that’s welcome fares well. He that well bides well betides. He that will not thole, maun flit mony a hole. He was the bee that made the honey. He was scant of news that tald his father was hanged. He wears twa faces beneath ae coul. He was mair fleyd than hurt. Help is good in a’ play. Hens are aye free of horse corn. Highest in court the nearest the widdy. His wit gat wings and would have flown, But pinching poortith pu’d him down. His auld brass will buy a new pan. His bark is waur than his bite. His egg has aye twa yowks. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Flis geese are a’ swans. Ilis room’s better than his company. His pipe’s out. Honesty hauds lang the gate. Honesty’s the best craft. Hooly and fair gangs far in a day. Horses are good of a’ hues. Hunger will break throw stane wa’s. Hunger’s hard upon a heal heart. Hunger is good kitchen. Hunger thou me and I'll harry thee. Hungry dogs are blyth of bursten puddings. Hungry stewards wear mony shoon. L anes gae a dog his handsell, and he was hanged ere night. 1 bake nae bread by your shins. I canna sell the cow and sup the milk. J have gi’en a stick to break my ain head. Thad rather gae by your door than o’er your grave. I have gotten an ill kame for my ain head. IT have seen mair than I have eaten. I ken by my cogue wha milks my cow. 1 ken how the warld wags, He’s honor’d maist has mouniest bags. I ken him as well as I had gane through him with a lighted candle. Dll gie ye a bane to pike that will haud your teeth gawn. J’ll gar his ain gartens tie up his ain hose. T’'ll never dirty the bonnet I’m gawn to put on. Vl keep my mind to my sell and tell my tale to the wind. T’ll never loup sae laigh and lift sae little. Tl never put the carl aboon the gentleman. Tl never keep a dog and bark my sell. Pll never live poor to die rich. Yl never buy a blind bargain, or a pig in a pock. T’ll never brew drink to treat drunkards. T’mo’er auld a cat to draw a strae before. I’m no sae blind as I’m blear-eyed. I’m flyting free with him. T’m no sae scant of clean pipes as to blaw with a brunt cutty. I’m no every man’s dog that whistles on me. T’m neither sma’ drink thirsty, nor gray bread hungry. I may come to break an egg in your pouch. I never liked a dry bargain. I spake but ae word, gi’e me but ae strake. I took him aff the moor for God's sake, and he begins to bite the bairns. I wad be scant of claith to sole my hose with dockens. T wadna ca’ the king my cousin. I wad rather see’t than hear tell o’t. I wadna be deaved with your keckling for a’ your eggs. 313 T winna make fish of ane and flesh of anither. I wish you readier meat than a running hare. I wish you as muckle good o’t as dogs get of grass. If ae sheep lowp o’er the dyke a’ the lave will follow. If a lie could worry you, ye wad have been choked langsyne. Tf a man’s gawn down the brae ilk ane gie’s him a jundie. If e’er I find his cart tumbling I’se gie’t a put. If he be not a souter he’s a good shue-clouter. If I canna kep geese I’ll kep gaislins. If I canna do’t by might I'll do’t by flight. If it can be nae better, it is well it is nae warse. 1f it winna be a good shoe, let it gang down i’ the heel. If it serve me to wear, it may serve you to look to. If marriages be made in heaven, ye have had few friends there. if the de’il be laird ye’ll be tenant. If things were to be done twice ilka ane wad be wise. If the de’il find you idle he’ll set you to wark. If we hae little gear we hae less care. If ye dinna like what I can gie, Take what ye brought w’ye. If ye can spend muckle, put the mair to the fire. If ye brew well ye’ll drink the better. If ye wad be a merchant fine, Beware of auld horses, herring, and wine. lf ye sell your purse to your wife, give her your breeks to the bargain. Tf you tell your servant your secret, you make him your master. If ye had as little money as ye have manners, ye wad be the poorest man of your kin. If ye do a wrang make amends. If ye do nae ill dinna ill like, If ye steal no my kale, break na my dyke. ‘If ye wad live for ever, wash the milk frae your liver. If ye wad be haly, healthy, and wealthy, rise soon in the morning. Ill bairns are best heard at hame. Il comes upon waur’s back. Ill counsel will gar a man stick his ain mare. Ill doers are aye ill dreaders. Tl deem’d haff hang’d. Ill getting let water frae ‘neath cauld ice. Til herds make fat foxes. Ill news are aft o’er true. Ill payers are aye good cravers. Ill weeds wax well. Ill-won gear winna enrich the third heir. Iil-won as ill ware’d. It canna rain, but it pours. It gangs in at the ae lug and out at the other. It is a baugh brewing that’s no good in the newing. It is a bare moor that ye gang throw and uo get a heather cow. 85 314 Tt is a good game that fills the wame. Ii is a good tongue that says nae ill. It is a hard task to be poor and leal. It is an ill wind that blaws naebody good. It is an ill pack that’s no worth the custom. It is an ill cause that the lawyer thinks shame of. It is a lamb at the up-taking, but an auld sheep or ye get it aff. Jt is a mean mouse that has but ae hole. It is a stinking praise comes out of ane’s ain mouth. If is a sin to lie on the de’il. It is a shame to eat the cow and worry on the tail. It is a sair field where a’s slain. It is a sooth dream that’s seen waking. It is a silly flock where the ewe bears the bell. It is a sairy hen that canna scrape for ae bird. It is a’ tint that’s done to auld fowk and bairns. It is a? tint that fell by. It is best ganging with a horse in ane’s hand. It is better to sup with a cutty than want a spoon. It is by the head that the cow gie’s milk. It is clean about the wren’s door where there is nought within. It is dear cost honey that’s licked aif a thorn. It is eith erying yool on anither man’s stool. lt is eith finding a stick to strike a dog. It is fair in ha’ where beards wag a’. It is good to dread the warst, the best will be the welcomer. It is good to be good in your time, ye kenna how lang it may last. It is good to be merry and wise, Quoth the miller when he mouter’d twice. It is good to have our cogue out when it rains kail. 1t is good to hae twa strings to your bow. It is hard to gar an auld mare leave flinging. It is hard to sit in Rome and strive with the Pope. It is hard for a greedy eye to have a leal heart. It is hard baith to have and want. It is ill to be ca’d a thief and aye found piking. It is ill crooking before cripples. It is an ill kitchen than keeps the bread away. It is ill to bring out of the flesh what’s bred in the bane. It is ill to lear the cat to the kirn, It is ill taking corn frae geese. It is ill bringing butt what’s no there benn. It ill sets a haggise to be roasted. It is ill meddling between the bark and the rhind. It is ill making a silk purse of a sow’s lug, or a tout- ing-horn of a tod’s tail. Tt is ill putting a blyth face on a wae heurt. It is kittle shooting at corbies and clergy. {t is kittle for the cheeks when the hurl-barrow gaes o’er the brig of the nose. It is kittle to waken sleeping dogs. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Tt is lang or the de’il be found dead at a dyke side. It is lang or ye cry shoo to an egg. It is muckle gars the tailor laugh, but souters girn aye. It is needless to pour water on a drown’d mouse. It is no the cowl that makes the friar. It is nae sin to take a good price, but in gi’eing ill measure. It is nae mair to see a woman greet than to see a goose gae barefoot. It is nae play when ane laughs and anither greets. It is no the way to grip a bird to fling your bounet at it. It is not what is she, but what has she. It is well ware’d that wasters want. It is well that our fauts are not written on our face. [t is time enough to skreigh when ye’re strucken. It is time enough to make my bed when I’m gawn to lie down. It is the best spake in your wheel. It keeps his nose at the grindstane. It maun be true that a’ fowk says. It sets a sow well to wear a saddle. It was never for nathing that the gled whistled. It will be a het day gars you startle. It will set his beard in a bleeze. It will be a feather out of your wing. Kail hains bread. Kame sindle, kame sair. Kamesters are aye crishy. Keek in the stowp was ne’er a good fellow. Keep hame, and hame will keep you. Keep woo and it will be dirt, keep lint and it will be silk. Keep out of his company that cracks of his cheatery. Keep your ain fish guts to feed your ain sea maws. Keep your kill-dry’d taunts to your mouldy-hair’d maidens. Keep your tongue within your teeth. Keep the staff in your ain hand. Keep your breath to cool your crowdie. Keep your mouth close and your een open. Ken yoursell and your neighbours winna misken you, Ken when to spend and when to spare, And ye needna be bissy and ye’ll never be bare. Kindness comes wi’ will; it canna be colt. Kindness will creep where it canna gang. Kindness canna stand aye on ae side. Kings and bears aft worry their keepers. Kissing gaes by favour. Kiss ye me till I be white, and that will be an ill web to bleach. Kyth in your ain colours that fowk may ken you. Lacking breeds laziness, praises breed pith. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Laith to bed and laith to rise. Lang mint little dint. Lang look’d for comes at last. Lang or ye cut Falkland wood with a penknife. Lang standing and little offering makes a poor priest. Lang straes are nae motes. Lang tarrying tines thank. Lang sports turn to earnest. \ Langest at the fire soonest finds cauld. Langer lasts year than yule. Law’s costly, take a pint and ’gree. Law-makers should na be law-breakers. Laugh at leisure, ye may greet ere night. Leal heart never lied. Leave welcome behind ye. Leave aff as lang as the play’s good. Learn young, learn fair. Learn the cat to the kirn and she’ll aye be lickin. Letna the plough stand to slay a mouse. Let alane makes mony a lown. Let a friend gang with a fae. Let byganes be byganes, and fairplay in time to come. ‘Let him take a spring on his ain fiddle. Let him cool in the skin he het in. Let him that’s cauld blaw up the ingle. Let his ain wand ding him. Let it fa’ upon the feyest. Let the horns gang with the hide. Let the morn come and the meat wi’t. Let the kirk stand in the kirk yard. Let them laugh that win. Let them care that come behind. Lie for him and he'll swear for you. Light suppers make lang life days. Light winning makes a heavy purse. Lightly come lightly gane. Light burdens break nae banes. Like a Scots man ye take your mark frae an ill hour. Likely lies aft in the mire, when unlikely wins thro’. Lik’d gear is haff bought. Like hens, ye rin aye to the heap. Like the wife, that never cries for the ladle till the pot rins o’er. Lik the cat, fain fish wad ye eat, But ye are laith to weet your feet. Like the wife with the mony daughters, the best comes hindmost. Lippen to me but look to your sell. Little can a lang tongue lien. Little kenn’d the less cared for. Little gear the less care. Little wats the ill-willy wife what a dinuer may haud in’t. Little odds between a feast and a fou’ wame, 315 Little said is soon mended, little gear’s soon spended. Little wit in the head makes muckle travel to the feet. Little meddling makes fair parting. Little may an auld nag do that mauna nicher. Little dogs have lang tails. Little mense to the cheeks to bite aff the nose. Live and let live. Live upon love as lav’rocks do on leeks. Look before ye lowp, ye’ll ken the better how to light. Lordships change manners. Love and lordships like nae marrows. Love and raw peas break the heart and burst the wame. Love’s as warm among cotters as courtiers. Love me, love my dog. Love me lightly, love me lang. Love o’er het soonest cools. Love o’erlooks mony fauts. Maidens should be mild and meek, Quick to hear and slow to speak. Maidens’ bairns are aye well bred. Maidens’ tochers and ministers’ stipends are aye less than ca’d. Mair by luck than good guiding. Mair haste the war speed, Quoth the tailor to the lang threed. Make ae wrang step and down ye gue. Mair hamely than welcome. Make the best of an ill bargain. Make your hay when the sun shines. Malice is aye mindfu’. Man propones but God dispones. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Marry aboon match and get a master. Mealy mou’d maidens stand lang at the mill. Measure twice, cut but anes. Meat feeds, and claith cleads, but manners mak« the man. __ Messengers shou’d neither be headed nor hanged. Mickle fails that fools think. Mickle corn mickle care. Mickle wad aye hae mair. Mickle spoken, part spilt. Mickle power makes mony faes. Mickle may fa’ between the cup and the lip. Mickle water rins by that the miller wats not of Mickle pleasure some pain. Mickle about ane, quoth the de’il to the coluer Might o’ercomes right. Mint ere ye strike. Misterfow’ fowk mauna be mensfou . Money is welcome in a dirten clout. Money makes money. 316 Mony hands make light wark. Mony a ane kisses the bairn for love of the nurice. Mony hounds may soon worry ae hare. Mony heads are better than ane. Mony purses haud friends lang together. Mony fair promises at marriage make few at tocher good paying. Mony lack what they wad hae in their pack. Mony dogs die ere ye fa’ heir. Mony ane’s coat saves his doublet. Mony ways to kill a dog tho’ ye dinna hang him. Mony cooks ne’er make good kail. Mony sma’s make ae great. Mony a ane makes an errand to the ha’ to bid the lady good-day. Mony irons in the fire part maun cool. Mony ane opens their pack and sells nae wares. Mony a ane speers the gate they ken fu’ well. Mouths are nae measure. Mows may come to earnest. Moyen does mickle, but money does mair. Marder will out. Must is a king’s word. My son’s my son aye till he get a wife, My daughter’s my daughter a’ the days of her life. My niest neighbour’s skaith is my present peril. Nae butter sticks to his bread. Nae fool to an auld fool. Nae friend to a friend in need. Nae fleeing without wings. Nae great loss but there’s some sma’ advantage. Nae langer pipe nae langer dance. Nae man has a tack of his life. Nae man can thrive unless his wife let him. Nae man can live langer in peace than his neighbour likes. Nae mair haste than good speed. Nae safe wading in unco waters. Nae weather’s ill if the wind be still. Nathing freer than a gift. Nathing comes fairer to light than what has been lang hidden. Nathing’s baulder than a blind mare. Nathing enters into a closs hand. Nathing sae crouse as a new washen louse. Nathing’s ill to be done when will’s at hame. Nathing to be done in haste but gripping of fleas. Nathing venture nathing win. Nane ferlies mair than fools. Nane sae well but he hopes to be better. Nane can make a bore but ye’ll find a pin till’t. Nane can play the fool sae well as a wise man. Narrow gather’d widely spent. Nearest the heart nearest the mouth. Nearer the e’en the mae beggars, SCOTCH PROVERBS. Necessity has nae law. Need makes men of craft. Need will gar an auld wife trot and a naked man rin, Neither sae sinfu’ as to sink, nor sae haly as to saunt, New lords have new laws. Never a barrel better herrings. Never break out of kind to gar your friends ferly at you. Never draw your durk when a dunt will do’t. Never fine faut with my shoon unless ye pay my cobbler. Never gae to the de’il with a dish-clout about your head. Never let on you, but laugh in your ain sleeve. Never meet never pay. Never marry a widow unless her first man wa3 hang’d. Never put a sword in a wud man’s hand. Never put the plough before the owsen. Never quat certainty for hope. Never o’er auld to learn. Never scaud your lips in other fowk’s kail. Never seek a wife till ye ken what to do wi’ her. Never show your teeth unless ye can bite. - Never strive against the stream. Never venture never win. Nineteen nay-says of a maiden are haff a grant. Now’s now, and yule’s in winter. Nobility without ability is like a pudding without suet. O’er braw a purse to put a plack in. Q’er mickle of ae thing is good for nathing. O’er mickle hameliness spills good courtesy. O’er mickle cookery spills the brachan. O’er mickle loose leather about your chafts. O’er narrow counting culzies nae kindness. O’er rackless may repent. ; O’er strong meat for your weak stomack. Of a’ sorrow a fou sorrow’s best. Of a little take a little, when there’s novght take a’. Of bairns’ gifts ne’er be fain, Nae sooner they give but they seek them again. Of ill debtors men get aiths. Of twa ills choose the least. Open confession is good for the saul. Our sins and debts are aften mair than we think of Out of debt out of danger. Out of the peat pot into the gutter. Out of God’s blessing into the warm sun. Pay him home in his ain coin. Penny wise and pound fool. Pennyless sauls may pine in purgatory. Placks and bawbees grow pounds. Play’s good while it is play. Please your kimmer and )e’ll easily guide your gossip. SCOTCH PROVERBS. 317 Plenty makes dainty. Poor fowk’s friends soon misken them, Poor fowk are fain of little. Poortith parts good company. Poortith with patience is less painfw’, Possession is eleven points of the law. Pride and grace dwell never in ae place. Pride ne’er leaves its master till he get a fa’. Pride and sweerness take mickle uphadding. Provision in season makes a bien house. Put a coward to his mettle and he'll fight the de’il. Put twa pennies in a purse and they’ll creep together. Put the saddle on the right horse. Put your hand nae farther than your sleeve will reach. Put your hand twice to your bonnet for anes to your pouch. Put your finger in the fire and say it was your fortune. Quality without quantity is little thought of. Quick at meat, quick at wark. Quick, for you’ll never be cleanly. Quick returns make rich merchants. Rackless youth makes a ruefu’ eild. Raise nae mae de’ils than ye’re able to lay. Rather spill your joke than tine your friend. Red wood makes good spindles. Remove an auld tree and it will wither. Remember, man, and keep in mind, A faithfw’ friend is hard to find. Rich fowk have rowth of friends. Right mixture makes good mortar. Right wrangs nae man. Rob Peter to pay Paul. Robin that herds on the height, Can be as blyth as Sir Robert the knight. Rome was not a’ bigged in ae day. Roose the ford as ye find it. Roose the fair day at e’en. Royet lads may make sober men. Rue and thyme grow baith in ae garden. Rule youth well, for eild will rule itsell. Sae mony men sae mony minds. Sain your sell frae the de’il and the laird’s bairns. Sair cravers are aye ill payers. Sathan reproving sin. Saw wheat in dirt and rye in dust. Say well’s good, but do well is better. Scant of grace hears lang preachings. Scant of cheeks makes a lang nose. Scorn comes commonly wi’ skaith. Seeing’s believing a’ the warld over. See for love and buy for money. Seek your saw where ye get your ail, And beg your barm where ye buy your ale. Seek mickle and get something, seek little and get nought. Second thoughts are best. Send you to the sea ye’ll no get saut water. Serve yoursell till your bairns come to age. Set a beggar on horseback he’ll ride to the de’il. Set that down on the back-side of your count-book. Set a knave to grip a knave. Shame’s past the shade of your hair. Sharp stamocks make short graces. Shoal waters make maist din. She that gangs to the well with ill will, Either the pig breaks or the water will spill. She looks as if butter wadna melt in her mou. She'll keep her ain side of the house, and gang up and down in yours. She hauds up her head like a hen drinking water. She that takes gifts, hersell she sells, And she that. gi’es them does nought else. She’s better than she’s bonny. Shod in the cradle and barefoot on the stibble. Short fowk are soon angry, their heart’s soon at their mouth, Sie man sic master, sic priest sic offering. Sic as ye gi’e sic will ye get. Sic reek as is therein comes out of the lum. Silence grips the mouse. Silks and satins put out the kitchen fire. Sindle seen soon forgotten. Slaw at meat, slaw at wark. Slander leaves a slur. Smooth waters run deep. Sma’ fish is better than nae fish. Soon enough to cry chuck when it is out of the shell. Soon ripe soon rotten, soon het soon cauld. Soon enough if well enough. Some have hap and some stick in the gap. Sorrow is soon enough when it comes. Sorrow and an ill life make soon an auld wife. Sorrow and ill weather come unsent for. Spare when you’re young and spend when you’re auld. Speak the truth and shame the de’il. Spend and God will send, spare and aye be bare. Speak good of pipers, your father was a fiddler. Speak of the de’il and he’ll appear. Spilt ale is waur than water. Standers-by see mair than gamesters. Standing dubs gather dirt. Stay nae langer in your friend’s house than ye are welcome. Strike as ye feed, and that’s but soberly. Strike the iron as lang as it is het. Stuffing hauds out storms. Sudden friendship sure repentance. Supp’d out wort was ne’er good ale, Surfeits slay mae than swords. 318 Some ha’e a hantla fauts, ye are only a ne’er-do-well. Sour plumbs, quoth the tod when he couldua clim the tree. Souters and tailors count hours. Souters shou’dna ga’e ayont their last. Souters shou’dna be sailors that can neither steer nor row. Spare at the spigot and let out at the bung. Spae well and hae well. Speer at Jock thief if I be a leal man. Speak when you’re spoken to and drink when you’re drunken to. Stown dints are sweetest. Sturt follows a’ extremes. Sturt pays nae debt. Swear by your burnt shins. Sweet at the on-taking, sour in the aff-putting. Sweer to bed and sweer up in the morning. Spit on a stane, and it will be wet at last. Stay and drink of your ain browst. Sticking gangs na by strength, but by right guid- ing of the gooly. Take it a’ and pay the merchant. Take a spring of your fiddle, and dance when ye have done. Take the bit and the buffet wi’t. Take a pint and gree, the law’s costly. Take your ain will and then ye’ll no die of the pet. Take time ere time be tint. Take your venture as mony good ship has done. Take your thanks to feed your cat. Take wit in your anger. Take care of the man that God has marked. Take a hair of the dog that bit you. Take part of the pelf when the pack’s a dealing. Take a man by his word and a cow by her horn. Take me not up before I fa’, Tell nae tales out of the school. Tell not your fae when your foot’s sleeping. That’s but ae doctor’s opinion. That’s for the father but no for the son. That’s for that and butter’s for fish. That?’s my tale, where’s yours. That’s the piece a step-bairn never gat. That which God will give the de’il canna reeve. The auld aver may die waiting for new grass. The auld dog maun die in somebody’s aught. The bairn speaks in the field what he hears at the fire-side. The bird maun flichter that flees with ae wing. The bird that can sing and winna sing shou’d be gart sing. The best is aye best cheap. The better day the better deed. The book of maybe’s is very braid. The banes of a great estate are worth the picking. SCOTCH PROVERBS. The banes bear the beef hame. The blind man’s peck shou’d be well measured. The cow may want her ain tail yet. The cure may be warse than the disease. The cow that’s first up gets the first of the dew. The de’il bides his day. The de’il was sick, the de’il a monk wou’d be, The de’il grew hale, syne de’il a monk was he. The de’il’s aye good to his ain. The de’il’s bairns have de’il’s luck. The day has een and the night hears. The de’il’s aye busy- with his ain. The de’il will take little ere he want a’. The de’il drives aye his hogs to an ill market, The de’il does ria aye show his cloven cloots. The de’il’s aye good to beginners. The e’ening red and the morning gray, Is a good sign of a fair day. The farthest way about is aft the nearest gate hame, The foremost hound grips the hare. The foot at the cradle and the hand at the reel, Is a sign of a wife that means to do weel. The farther in the deeper. The first dish is best eaten. The grace of a gray banuock is in the baking o’t. The good or ill hap of a good or ill life, Is the good or ill choice of a good or ill wife. The gray mare may be the best horse. The greatest burthens are not the maist gainfu’. The gravest fish is an oyster, The gravest bird is an owl, The gravest beast is an ass, And the gravest man is a fool. The greatest clerks are not the wisest men. The happy man canna be herried. The hen’s egg gangs to the ha’, To bring the goose’s egg awa’. The higher up the greater fa’. The higher the hill the laigher the grass. The hurt man writes with steel on marble stane. The king’s errand may come in the cadger’s gate. The lazy man’s the beggar’s brother. The lucky pennyworth sells soonest. The langest day will have an end. The mother of a’ mischief is nae mair than a midge wing. The mair cost the mair honour. The mawt is aboon the meal wi’ him. The mair noble the mair humble. The mother’s breath is aye sweet. The master’s eye makes the horse fat. The mair mischief the better sport. The name of an honest woman’s muckle worth. The poor man’s aye put to the warst. The reek of my ain house is better than the fire of my neighbour’s. The strongest horse lowps the dyke, SCOTCH PROVERBS. The still sow eats up a’ the draff. The stowp that gangs aft to the well comes hame broken at last. The subject’s love is the king’s life guard. The smith’s mare and the souter’s wife’s aye warst shod. The thing that’s done is no to do. The thing that’s fristed is not forgi’en. The thing that lies not in your gate breaks not your shins. The thrift of you was the death of your good-dame. The tod ne’er sped better than when he gade his ain errand. The tod’s whelps are ill to tame. The tree does na fa’ at the first strake. The water will never reeve the widdy. The warse luck now the better another time. The weakest gangs to the wa’. The worth of a thing is best ken’d by the want o’t. There is mony a true tale tald in a jest. There is nane sae blind as them that winna see. There is nathing ill said that’s no ill tane. There is nae sport where there is neither auld fowk nor bairns. There was aye some water where the stirk drown’d. There was never enough where nathing was left. There was never a silly Jocky but there was as silly a Jenny. There was never a thrifty wife with a sheet about her head. There is skill in gruel making. There is nae fence against a flail. There is a time to gley and a time to look even. There is a great differ amang market days. There is little wit in his pow that lights the candle at the low. There is an end of an auld sang. There is a teugh sinew in an auld wife’s heel. There is aye a life for a living man. There is an act in the laird of Grant’s court, that no aboon eleven speak at anes. There are mae ways to the wood than ane, There are mae working days than life days. There is ae day of reckoning and another of payment. There came never ill after good advisement. There is a sliddery stane before the ha’ door. There’s a difference between will ye buy and will ye sell. There’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out 0’t. There is a great difference between fenn and farewell. There is a hole in the house. There is life in a mussel as lang as she cheeps. There is little for the rake after the shool. They are well guided that God guides. They are aye good that are far away They are lightly herried that have a’ their ain. They are sad rents that come in with tears. 319 They complain early that complain of their kail. They have need of a cannie cook that have but ae egg to their dinner. They loo me for little that hate me for nought. They never saw great dainties that think a haggis a feast. They shou’d kiss the goodwife that wou’d win the goodman. They speak of my drinking that never think of my drouth. They that get a word of soon rising may lie in their bed a’ day. They that laugh in the morning may greet ere night. They that give you hinder you to buy. They that live langest fetch wood farthest. They that see your head see not your height. They that hae rowth of butter may lay it thick on their scon. They were scant of bairns that brought you up. They were never fain that fidged, nor fou that lick’d dishes. They wist as well that didna speer. They were never first at the wark that bid God speed the wark. They never gae with the speet but they gat with the laddle. Thistles are a salad for an ass. Three is aye sonsy. Three can keep a secret if twa be away. Time o’ day to find the nest when the birds are flown. Time tint is ne’er to be found. Time and thinking tame the strongest grief. Time and tide will tarry for nae man. Time tries a’, Tine heart and a’s gane. Tine book tine grace. Tine thimble tine thrift. Touch na me on the sair heel. Tramp on a snail and she’ll shoot out her horns. True blue will never stain. Truth and honesty keep the crown of the causey. True love kyths in time of need. Try your friend ere you need him. Try before you trust. Twa hungry meals make the third a glutton. Twa blacks makes na ae white. Twa things ane shou’d not be angry at, what he can help and what he canna help. Twa fools in a house are a couple o’er mony. Twa words maun gang to that bargain. Twa wits are better than ane. Take nae mair on your back than you’re avle to bear. Take your will you’re wise enough. Take up the next ye find. Tam tell truth is nae courtier. 320 That powt came never out of your bag. The back and the belly hauds every ane busy. The black ox ne’er tred on your taes. The cat wou'd fain fish eat, But she is laith to weet her feet. The de’il’s good when he’s pleas’d. The father buys, the son biggs, The oye sells, and his son thiggs. The greedy man and the gielainger are well met. The greatest tochers make not the greatest testa- ments. The kirk’s muckle, but ye may say mass in the end o’t. The laird may be laird and need his hind’s help. The man may eithly tine a stot that canna count his kinsh. The mae the merrier, the fewer the better cheer. The meal cheap and the shoon dear, That souters’ wives like well to hear. The pains o’ergang the profit. The poor man’s shilling is but a penny. The scholar may waur the master. The simple man’s the beggar’s brother. The warst warld that ever was some man wan. The weeds o’ergrow the corn. The warld is bound to nae man. The unsonsy fish gets the unlucky bait. There is mair knavery amang kirk men than there is honesty amang courtiers. There is a measure in a’ things. There is muckle to do when burghers ride. There is mair room without than within. There is nae remedy for fear but cut aff the head. There was never a fair word in flyting. There is steel in the needle point tho’ little o’t. There are twa enoughs, and he has gotten ane of them. There are mae married than good house hadders. There’s a bonny reason with a rag about the foot o’t. There came never sic a gloff to a daw’s heart. There is fey blood in your head. There grows nae grass at the cross. There is little to sew when tailors are true. They are not a’ saints that get haly water. They ’gree like butter and mells. They may ken by your beard what has been on your board. They never beuk a good cake but may bake an ill ane. They that see you a’ day winna break the house for you at night. They that hain at their dinner, will hae the mair to their supper. They that buri you for a witch lose a’ their coals. They that lie down for love shou’d rise for hunger. They that eat till they sweat and work till they’re cauld, Sic servants are fitter to-hang than to hald. They that bourd with cats maun count upo’ scarts. SCOTCH PROVERBS. They are eith hindered that are not very furdersome, Twa dogs striving about a bane and the third ran awa’ wi't. Twa conveniences sindle times meet, What’s good for the plant is ill for the peat. Take as ye to-come. Tarry breeks pay nae fraught. Tell your gleyd good-dame that. That’s a tee’d ba’. That’s a tale of twa drinks. The bag to the auld stent, and the belt to the yule hole. The cause is good, and the word fa’ on. The death of ae bairn winna skail a house. The dorty dame may fa’ in the dirt. The e’ening brings a’ hame. The flesh is aye sairest that’s farthest frae the bane. The gait gi’es a good milking, but dings it down with her feet. The langer we live we see the mae ferlies. The neist time ye dance tent wha ye take by the hand. The piper wants muckle that wants his nether- chafts. The poor man pays for a’. The thacker said to his man, Let us raise this ladder, if we can. The thrift of you and the woo of a dog wou’d make a braw web. The tod never fares better than when he’s bann’d. There was never a good town but there was a dub at the end o’t. There was never a cake but it had its maik. There is little mair between the poor and the rich but a piece of an ill year. They have been born as poor as you that have come to a pouchfu’ of green pease ere they died. They that drink langest live langest. Thoughts beguiled the lady. Thoughts are free, tho’ I mayna sae mickle I can yerk at: the thinking. Till other tinklers ill met ye ’gree. Touch a gawd horse on the back and he’ll fling. Trot father, trot mother, how can the foal amble. Twine tow, your minny was a good spinner. Untimeous spurring spills the steed. Unseen, unrued. Under water dearth, under snaw bread. Up hill spare me, down hill take tent to thee. Up starts a carle and gather’d good, And thence came a’ our gentle blood. Use makes perfytness. Wad ye gar us trow that the moon’s made of green cheese, or that svade-shafts bear plumbs ? Wage will get a page. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Wae’s the wife that wants the tongue, but well’s the man that gets her. Want of wit is waur than want of wealth. War makes thieves, and peace hangs them. Wark bears witness of wha well does. Wealth gars wit waver. Weans maun creep ere they gang. Well kens the mouse when the cat’s out of the house. Well’s him and wae’s him that has a bishop in his kin. Welcome is the best dish in the kitchen. Well worth a’ that gars the plough draw. Well is that well does. Were it not for hope heart wad break. We'll never ken the worth of the water till the well gaes dry. We can drink of the burn when we canna bite of the brae. We'll meet ere hills meet. We can uve without our kin, but no without our neighbours. We'll bark oursells ere we buy dogs sae dear. We canna baith sup and blaw. We maun live by the living, but no by the dead. We are bound to be honest and no to be rich. We may ken your meaning by your mumping. Wedding and ill wintering tame baith man and beast. We are aye to lear as lang as we live. We caz poind for debt, but no for unkindness. We may ken your eild by the runkles of your horn. Wha wats wha may keep sheep another day. Wha uses perils, perish shall. What ye win at that, ye may lick aff a het girdle. What better is the house that the daw rises soon. Wha can haud what will away ? Wha comes aftener and brings you less? Wha dare bell the cat ? Wha can help misluck ? Wha canna gi’e will little get. What the eye sees na the heart rues na. What’s nane of my profit shall be nane of my peril. What if the lift fa’, then ye may gather lav’rocks. What’s gotten o’er the de’il’s back will gang away under his belly. What raks the feud where the friendship dow not. What winna do by might do by flight. What’s my case the day may be yours the morn, What’s war than ill luck ? What may be done at ony time will be done at nae time. What put that in your head that didua put the sturdy wi’t P What need a.rich man be a thief? What said Pluck? the greater knave the greater luck. What may be, may not be. What canna be cured maun be endured. 321 When ae door steeks anither opens. When a’ men speak nae man hears. When drink’s in wit’s out. When friends meet hearts warm. When Adam delved and Eve span, Where was a’ our gentry than? When my head’s down my house is theeked. When the tod preaches take tent of the lambs. When thieves reckon leal fowk comes to their gear. When the bags are fou’ the dron gets up. When the tod wins to the wood he cares not how many keek in his tail. When the cup’s fou carry it even. When poverty comes in at the door, friendship flies out at the window. When lairds break carles get land. When a fool finds a horse-shoe He thinks aye the like to do. When a’ fruit fa’s, then welcome haws. When I’m dead make me a cawdel. When ilka ane gets their ain the thief will get the widdy. When a ewe’s drown’d she’s dead. When the goodman drinks to the goodwife, a’ wad be well. When the goodwife drinks to the goodman, a’ is well. When the heart’s fou’ of lust the mouth’s fou’ ot leasing. When your neighbour’s house is in danger, take care of your ain. When you are served a’ the geese are water’d. When wine sinks words swim. When the barn’s fou you may thresh before the door. When ye’re gawn and coming the gate’s no toom. Wnen the heart’s fou the tongue will speak. When he dies for age ye may guake for fear. When ye are well. haud yoursell sae. When the well’s fou it will rin o’er. Whe the pot’s o’er fou it will boil o’er and bleeze in the ingle. When the steed’s stown steck the stable door. Where the buck’s bound there he maun bleet. Where the deer’s slain some of the blood will lie. Where the dyke’s laighest it is eithest to lowp. Where there is o’er muckle courtesy there is little kindness. Where there is nathing the king tines his right. Where drums beat laws are dumb. Where the pig’s broken let the sherds lie. Where there are gentles there is aye aff-fawing. Where gat ye that, gif a body may speer? I gat it where it was, and where leal fowk get gear. Where will ye get a park to keep your yeld kye im, Where the heart gangs let the tail fallow. TT 522 While the grass grows the steed starves. Whitely things are aye tender. Whom God will help nane ean hinder. Will a fool’s feather in my cap gar my pot play. Wipe with the water and wash with the towel. Wise men may be whilly’d with wiles. Wives and wind are necessary ills. Wee things fleys cowards. Widdy haud thy ain. Wiltw’ waste makes waefu’ want. Wiles help weak fowk. Will and wit strive wi’ ye. Win’t and wear’t. Winter thunder bodes summer hunger. Wink at wee fauts, your ain are muckle. Wishers and wadders were never good house hauders. Wit bought makes fowk wise. Wit bought is worth twa for nought. Women and bairns lein what they ken not. Woman’s wark’s never done. Wood in a wilderness, moss on a mountain, And wit in a poor man are little thought on. Words are but wind, but dunts are out of season. Woo sellers ken aye woo buyers. Work for nought makes fowk dead sweer. Wrang has nae warrant. Wrang count is nae payment. Wad ye gar me trow that my head’s cow’d when ne’er a shear’s came on’t. Wae to the wame that has a wilfu’ master. Wae’s them that has the cat’s dish and she aye mewting. Water stowps had nae ale. Wealth in the widow’s house, kail but saut. Well worth a’ good takeus. We are as mony Johnstons as ye are Jardines. We hounds slew the hare, quoth the. bleer’d messan. Wha invited you to the roast ? Wha can court but cost. Wha made you a gentleman that didna cut the lugs out of your head to ken you by. What ye do when you’re drunk ye may pay for when you’re dry. What ye want up and down ye have hither and yont. Ye breed of the tod, you grow gray before you grow ood. Ye aed of the miller’s dog, ye lick your lips ere the pock be opened. Ye breed of Macfarlane’s geese, ye have mair mind of your play than your meat. Ye breed of the cow’s tail, you grow backward. Ye breed of nettle kail and cock lairds, ye need muckle service. Ye breed of the gowk, ye have never a rhyme but ane. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Ye breed of foul weather, ye come unsent Ye breed of Saughton swine, your neb’s ne’e of an ill turn. Ye breed of auld maidens, ye look sae high. Ye breed of the chapman, ye’re aye to handsell. Ye breed of our laird, ye’ll do nae right nor take nae wrang. Ye breed of good mawt, ye’re lang a coming. Ye breed of the beggars, ye’re never out of your gate. Ye breed of the butcher, that seeks his knife when it is in his teeth. Ye breed of the leek, ye have a white head arda green tail. Ye breed of lady Mary, when ye’re good ye’re o’er good. Ye breed of the miller’s daughter, that speer’d what tree groats grew on. Ye breed of the goodman’s mither, ye’re aye in the gate. Ye breed of the witches, ye can do nae good to your sell. Ye breed of the herd’s wife, ye busk again e’en. Ye breed of the baxters, ye loo your neighbour’s browst better than your ain batch. Ye crack crowsly with your bonnet on. Ye cut before the point. Ye come a day after the fair. Ye cut lang whangs out of other fowks’ leather. Ye come aftener with the rake than the shool. Ye canna make a silk purse of a sow’s lug. Ye canna see wood for trees. Ye can never fare well but you cry roast-meat. Ye came a clipping time. Ye cangle about uncost kids. Ye canna preach out of your ain poupit. Ye canna get leave to thrive for thrang. Ye ca’ hardest at the nail that drives fastest. Ye canna do but ye o’er do. Ye drive the plough before the owsen. Ye dinna ken where a blessing may light. Ye drew not sae well when my mare was in the mire. Ye feik it away like an auld wife baking. Ye gat your will in your first wife’s time, and ye’se no want it now. Ye glowr’d at the moon and fell on the midding. Ye gang about by Lanerk, for fear Linton dogs bite you. Ye glowr like a wild-cat out of a whin bush. Ye get o’er muckle of your will, and that’s no good for you. Ye gae far about seeking the nearest. Ye have run lang on little ground. Ye have aye mind of your meat tho’ ye have ill luck til’t. Ye have a ready mouth for a ripe cherry. Ye have a saw for ilka sair. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Ye have brought the pack to the pms. Ye have given the wolf the wedder to keep. Ye have tied a knot with your tongue that ye canna loose with a’ your teeth. Ye have been bred about a mill, ye have mouped a your manners. Ye have o’er foul feet to come sae far benn. Ye have a stawk of carle hemp in you. Ye have gotten a revel’d hesp o’t. Ye have a crap for a’ corn. Ye have tane the measure of his foot. Ye have o’er muckle loose leather about your chafts. Ye have tint your ain stomach and found a tike’s. Ye have put a toom spoon in my mouth. Ye have fasted lang, and worried on a midge. Ye have tint the tongue of your trump. Ye have staid lang, and brought little wi’ ye. Ye have gi’en baith the sound thump and the loud skirl. Ye have aye a foot out of the langle. Ye have tane’t upon you as the wife did the dancing. Ye have good manners, but ye bear them not aye about wi’ you. Ye have the wrang sow by the lug. Ye ken nathing but milk and bread when it is mool’d in to you. Ye ken what drinkers dree. Ye kenna wha may cool your kail yet. Ye live at the lug of the law. Yelping curs will raise mastives. Ye live on love as lav’rocks do on leeks. Ye’ll neither dance nor laud the candle. Ye’ll get nae mair of the cat but the skin. Ye look like let me be. Ye look as sharp as a Lochaber-axe new come frae the grindstane. Ye’L no sell your hen on a rainy day. Ye’ll get as mickle for ae wish this year as for twa fern year. Ye’ll gar me seek the needle where I didna stick it. Ye’ll never cast sawt on his tail. Ye look like a Lammer-moor lion. Ye’ll let nathing be tint for want of seeking. Ye’ll no harry yoursell with your ain hands. Ye look like the de’il in daylight. Ye look liker a thief than a bishop. Ye’ll ne’er make a mark in your testament by that bargain. Ye’ll let little gae by you unless it be the swallow. Ye may tine the father seeking the son. Ye may drive the de’il into a wife, but ye’ll ne’er ding him out of her. Ye may be greedy, but ye’re no greening. Ye may gang farther and fare warse. Ye may be heard where ye’re no secn. Ye may gang thro’ a’ Egypt without a pass. 225 Ye may hae a good memory, but your judgment winna gi’e mickle. Ye maun take the will for the deed. Ye mauna think to win thro’ the warld on a feather-bed. Ye mauna be mealy mow’d. Ye mete my pease by your ain peck. Ye look like a runner, quoth the de’il to the lobster. Ye’ll be made up at the sign of the wind. Ye'll play at sma’ game before ye stand out. Ye’ll beguile nane but them that lippens to you. Ye'll mend when,ye grow better. Ye'll never be sae auld with sae mickle hones*y. | Ye never saw green cheese but your e’en reel’d. | Ye never want a good whittle at your belt. Ye never heard a fisher ery stinking fish. Ye needna think shame to take it, your teeth’s langer nor your beard. Ye put at the cart that’s aye ganging. Ye’re as daft as ye’re days auld. Ye’re o’er auld farran to be fley’d for bogles. Ye’re a good seeker but an ill finder. Ye ride a bootless errand. Ye’re like the wife with the mony daughters, the best comes last. Ye’re nae chicken for a’ your cheeping. Ye’re come of blood, and sae is a pudding. Ye’re come to a peel’d egg. Ye’re a widdy-fou’ against hanging time. Ye’re as lang a tuning your pipes as ane wad play + spring. Ye’re good enough but ye’re no braw new. Ye’re no sae poor as ye peep. Ye’re well away if ye bide, and we're well quat. Ye’re of sae mony minds ye’ll never be married, Ye’re come to fetch fire. Ye’re sae well in your wooing ye watna wkere to wed, Ye’re never pleased fou nor fasting. Ye’re black about the mouth for want of nwking of, Ye’re welcome, but ye winna win ben. Ye’re unco good and ye’ll grow fair. Ye’re sair fash’d hadding nathing together. Ye’re not fed with deaf nuts. Ye’re sick but no sair handled. Ye’re busy seeking a thing that’s no tint. Ye’re good for carrying a propine, ye can make muckle of little. Ye’re like the hens, ye rin aye to the heap. Ye’re fear’d for the day ye never saw. Ye’re bonny enough to them that loo you, and o’er bonny to them that loo you and canna get you. Ye’re o’er bird-mouth’d. Ye’re new risen and your young heart’s nipping. Ye’re a sweet nut if you were well cracked. Ye’re no light where ye lean a’, Ye’re mair fley’d than hurt, 324 Ye’re Davy do a’ thing, and good at nathing. Ye seek grace of a graceless face. Ye sell the bear’s skin on his back. Ye served me as the wife did the cat, Coost me in the kirn and syne harl’d me out. Ye may dight your neb and fly up. Ye’ll never die on your ain assize. Ye’ll drink before me. Ye’ll find him where ye left him. Ye'll get the cat with the twa tails. Ye’re the greatest liar of your kin except your chief that wan his meat by’t. Ye’re mistane of the stuff, it is haff silk. Ye’s no want while I hae, but look well to your aia. Ye soon weary cf well-doing. Ye’se get your brose out of the lee side of the pot. Ye shanna be niffer’d but for a better. Ye sleep like a dog in a mill. Ye shape shoon by your ain shachled feet. Ye take mair in your gab than your cheeks can haud. Ye take the first word of fleyting. Ye tine the ladle for the licking. Your tongue’s nae slander. Your tongue runs aye before your wit. Ye wad make mickle of me if I were yours. Ye watna what wife’s ladle may cogue your kail. Ye wad be a good midwife, gin ye had the grip ye get. Ye wad be good to fetch the de’il a drink. Ye wad ferly mair if the craws bigged in your cleavding and flew away with the nest. Ye watna where a blessing may light. SCOTCH PROVERBS. Young fowk may die and auld fiwk maun die. Young ducks may be auld geese. Yule’s young on yule e’en. Youth and eild never sowder well. Your meal’s a’ deagh. Your bread’s haken, ye may hing by your girdle. Your head’s nae sooner up than your stamock’s yapin. Your wind shakes nae corn. Your head will never fill your father’s bonnet. Your trumpeter’s dead. Your thrift’s as good as the proftt of a yeld hen. Your winning is no my tinsel. Your wit winna worry ye. Your mind’s chasing mice. Your gear will ne’er o’ergang you. Your ininnie’s milk is no out of your nose yet. Your een’s no marrows. Ye have sitten your time as mony a good hen has done. Ye have nathing to do but suck and wag your tail. Ye promise better than ye pay, your hechts ye never rooked. Ye’re ane of snaw-ba’s bairn-time. Ye’re here yet and your belt’s hale. Ye spill unspoken to. Ye was set aff frae the oon for nipping the pies. Ye was never born at that time of year. Ye was sae gare ye wadna bide the blessing. Your wame thinks your wyson’s cutted. Your purse was steeked when that was paid for. Your neck’s youking for a St. Johnston ribbon. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. PREFACE. AttHoveH it be acknowledged that our Scots tunes have not lengthened varicty of music, yet they have an agreeable gaiety and natural sweetness, that make them acceptable wherever they are known, not only among ourselves, but in other countries. They are, for the most part, so cheerful, that on hearing thei well played or sung, we find a difficulty to keep ourselves from dancing. What further adds to the esteem we have for them is, their ant‘quity, and their being universally known. Mankind’s love for novelty would appear to contradict this reason; but will not when we consider, that for one that can tolerably entertain with vocal or instrumental music, there are fifty that content themselves with the pleasure of hearing, and singing without the trouble of being taught. Now, such are not judges of the fine flourishes of new music imported from Italy and elsewhere, yet will listen with pleasure to tunes that they know, and can join with in the chorus. Say that our way is only an harmonious speaking of merry, witty, or soft thoughts, after the poet has dressed them in four or five stanzas; yet undoubtedly the-e must relish best with people who have not bestowed much of their time in acquiring a taste for that downright perfect music which requires none, or very little, of the poet’s assistance. My being well assured how acceptable new words to known good tunes would prove, engaged me to the making verses for above sixty of them, in this and the second volume: about thirty more were done by some ingenious young gentlemen, who were so well pleased with my undertaking that they generously lent me their assistance ; and to them the lovers of sense and music are obliged for some of the best songs in the collection. The rest are such old verses as have been done time out of mind, and only wanted to be cleared from the dross of blundering transcribers and printers; such as “The Gaberlunzie Man,” “ Muirland Willie,” &c., that claim their place in our collection for their merry images of the low chavacter. This twelfth edition in a few years, and the general demand for the book by persons of all ranks, wherever our language is understood, is a sure evidence of its being acceptable. My worthy friend Dr. Bannerman tells me from America— “ Nor only do your lays o’er Britain flow : Round all the globe your happy sonnets go; Here thy soft verse, made to a Scottish air, Are often sung by our Virginian fair. Camilla’s warbling notes are heard no more, But yield to ‘Last time I came o’er the moor ;’ Hydaspes and Rinaldo both give way To ‘Mary Scott,’ ‘ Tweed-side,’ and ‘ Mary Gray.’” From this and the following volume, Mr. Thomson (who is allowed by all to be a good teacher and singer of Scots songs) culled his Orpheus Caledonius—the music for both the voice and flute, and the words of the songs, finely engraven in a folio book, for the use of persons of the highest quality in Britain, and dedicated to the late queen. This, by-the-bye, I thought proper to intimate, and do myself that justice which the publisher neglected ; since he ought to have acquainted his illustrious list of subscribers that the most of the songs were mine, the music abstracted. In my compositions and collections I have kept out all smut and ribaldry, that the modest voice and ear of the fair singer might meet with no affront; the chief bent of all my stu lies being to gain their good graces; and it shall always be my care to ward off those frowns that would prove mortal to my muse. Now, little books, go your ways! Be assured of favourable reception wherever the sun shines on the free-born, cheerful Briton. Steal yoursclves into the ladies’ bosoms. Happy volumes! you are to live, 326 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. too, as long as the song of Homer in Greek and English, and mix your ashes only with the odes of Horace! Were it but my fate, when old and rufiled, like you to be again reprinted, what a curious figure would I appear on the utmost limits of time, after a thousand editions! Happy volumes! you are secure, but I must yield! Please the ladies, and take care of my fame. In hopes of this, fearless of coming age, T’'ll smile through life ; and when for rhyme renown’d, Tl calmly quit the farce, and giddy stage, And sleep beneath a dow’ry turf full sound. ALLAN RAMSAY. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY, “ Behold and Jisten, while the tair Breaks in sweet sounds the willing air; And with her own breath fans the fire Which her bright eyes.do first inspire: What reason can that love control Which more than one way courts the soul?” THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR." Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me: Tho’ thus I languish, thus complain, Alas! she ne’er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded, never move her ; At the bonny bush aboon Traquair, *Twas there I first did love her. That day she smiled, and made me glad, No maid seem’d ever kinder ; I thought myself the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her. I tried to soothe my am’rous flame In words that I thought tender ; If more there pass’d, I’m not to blame, I meant not to offend her. Yet now she scornful flees the plain, The fields we then frequented ; [f e’er we meet she shows disdain, She looks as ne’er acquainted. The bonny bush bloom’d fair in May, Its sweets 1’ll aye remember ; (G) [By Robert Crawford. ‘The Bush aboon Traquair,” says Mr, R. Chambers, “was a small grove of birches that formerly adorned the west bank of the Queen’s Water, in Peeblesshire, about a mile from Traquair House, the seat of the Earl of Traquair. Rut only a few spectral-looking remains now denote the spot, so tong celebrated in the popular poetry of Scotland.”} E. WALLER, But now her frowns make it decay, It fades as in December. Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me P Oh! make her partner in my pains, Then let her smiles relieve me. Tf not, my love will turn despair, My passion no more tender, I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, To lonely wilds 1’ wander. S329 THOUGH BEAUTY, LIKE THE ROSE. Tune—‘ Polwart on the Green.” Tuoueu beauty, like the rose, That smiles on Polwart Green, In various colours shows, As ’tis by fancy seen, Yet, all its different glories he United in thy face, And virtue, like the sun on high, Gives rays to ev'ry grace. So charming is her air, So smooth, so calm her mind, That to some angel’s care Each motion seems assign’d : But yet so cheerful, sprightly, gay, The joyful moments fly, 328 As if for wings they stole the ray She darteth from her eye. Kind am’rous Cupids, while With tuneful voice she sings, Perfume her breath and smile, And wave their balmy wings : But as the tender blushes rise, Soft innocence doth warm, The soul in blissful ecstasies Dissolveth in the charm. TWHEED-SIDE. Wuat beauties does Flora disclose ? How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ? Yet Mary’s still sweeter than those ; Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed gliding gently thro’ those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant ev’ry bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring, We’ll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather’d folks sing. How does my love pass the long day ? Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? Do they never carelessly stray, While happily she hes asleep ? Tweed’s murmurs should lull her to rest ; Kind nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast, I’d steal an ambrosial kiss. *Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her may compare ; Love’s graces all round her do dwell, She’s fairest, where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? Oh! tell me at noon where they feed : Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the 'Tweed ?* THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. IS HAMILLA THEN MY OWN? Tune—“ Woe’s my heart that we should sunder.’ Is Hamilla then my own? O! the dear, the charming treasure: Fortune now in vain shall frown; All my future life is pleasure. See how rich with youthful grace, Beauty warms her ev’ry feature ; Smiling heaven is in her face, Allis gay, and all is nature. See what mingling charms arise, Rosy smiles, and kindling blushes ; Love sits laughing in her eyes, And betrays her secret wishes. Haste, then, from th’ Idalian grove, Infant smiles, and sports, and graces ; Spread the downy couch for love, And lull us in your sweet embraces. Softest raptures, pure from noise, This fair happy night surround us ; While a thousand sp’ritly joys Silent flutter all around us. Thus, unsour’d with care or strife, Heaven still guard this dearest blessing ! While we tread the path of life, Loving still, and still possessing. MUIRLAND WILLIE. Hearxen, and I will tell you how Young Muirland Willie came to woo, Tho’ he could neither say nor do; The truth I tell to you. But aye he cries, “ Whate’er betide, Maggy, I’se ha’e her to be my bride.” “With a fal dal, &. On his grey yad as he did ride, With dirk and pistol by his side, lle prick’d her on wi’ meikle pride, Wi?’ meikle mirth and glee. Out o’er yon moss, out o’er yon muir, Till he came to her daddy’s door. With a fal dal, &c. (1) [+The romantic appellation of the ‘ Flower of Yarrow? was, in later days, conferred (for the second time) on Miss Mary Lilias Scott, the last of the elder branch of the Bowen family. The wathor well remembers the talent and spirit of this latter Flower of Yarrow, though age had then impaired those charms which procured her the name. The words usually sung to the tune of *Tweed-side,’ beginning ‘ What beauties does Flors disclose,’ were composed in her honour.”—S1R WaLTER Scort. Notes to the Second Canto of “ Marmion.” )] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 323 * Goodman,” quoth he, “be ye within? “ A kilnfu’ of corn Ill gi’e to thee, I’m come your daughter’s love to win, Three soums of sheep, twa good milk-kye, I care no for making meikle din ; Ye ’s ha’e the wedding-dinner free ; What answer gi’e ye me?” Troth, I dow do nae mair.” “Now, wooer,” quoth he, “would ye light down, “Content,” quo’ he, “a bargain be’t: I'll gi’e ye my daughter’s love to win. T’m far frae hame; make haste, let’s do ’t.” With a fal dal, &e. With a fal dal, &c. “ Now, wooer, sin ye are lighted down, The bri ; ; 2 : e bridal day it came to pass, a do : rs yes bat iia With mony a blithesome lad and lass ; 0 ~ et A oF a “oo But sicken a day there never was, DSB BS YE: Sic mirth was never seen. The wooer he stepp’d up the house, This winsome couple straked hands And wow! but he was wond’rous crouse. : ; 2 : Mess John tied up the marriage bands, With a fal dal, &c. With: # fal dal &e “T have three owsen in a pleugh, Twa good ga’en yads, and gear eneugh, The place they ca’ it Cadeneugh ; I scorn to tell a lie: And our bride’s maidens were nae few, Wi tap-knots, lug-knots, a’ in blue, Frae tap to tae they were braw new, Besides, I had frae the great laird And blinked bonnily. A peat-pat, and a lang kail-yard.” Their toys and matches were sae clean, With a fal dal, &e. They glanced in our ladses’ een, With a fal dal, &c. The maid put on her kirtle brown, She was the brawest in a’ the town ; Sic hirdum-dirdum, and sic din, I wat on him she didna gloom, Wi’ he o’er her, and she o’er him ; But blinked bonnily. The minstrels they did never blin’, The lover he stended up in haste, Wy? meikle mirth and glee. And gripped her hard about the waist. And aye they bobbit, and aye they beck’d, With a fal dal, &c. And aye they reel’d, and aye they set.! With a fal dal, &e. “To win your love, maid, [’m come here: I’m young, and ha’e eneugh o’ gear ; And for mysel’ you needna fear, Troth, try me, when ye like.” He took aff his bonnet, and spat in his chew, He dighted his gab, and he prie’d her mow’. THE PROMISED JOY. With a fal dal, &c. temas Tune—“ Carle and the king come.” The maiden blush’d, and bing’d fu’ low, She hadna will to say him nae, WHEN we moet again, Phely, But to her daddy she left it a’, When we meet again, Phely, As they twa could agree. Raptures will r eward our pain, The lover he ga’e her the tither kiss, And loss result in gain, Phely. Syne ran to her daddy, and tell’d him this : Long the sport of fortune driv’n, With a fal dal, &c. To despair our thoughts were giv’n, Our odds will all be ev’n, Phely, “ Your daughter wadna say me na, When we meet again, Phely, &e. But to yersel’ she has left it a’, As we could ’gree between us twa; Now in dreary distant groves, Say, what ll ye gi’e me wi’ her ?” Tho’ we moan like turtle-doves, “Now, wooer,” quo’ he, “TI ha’e no meikle, Suffering best our virtue proves, But sic’s I ha’e ye’se get a pickle. And will enhance our loves, Phely. With a fal dal, &c. When we meet again Phely, &. (1) [In the “Tea-Table Miscellany” the last line of this song | scarcely suits modern ideas of propriety, the version to be found differs from that given above ; but as the line, though graphic, | in Chambers’s “Songs of Scotland ” is substituted.] UD 330 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Joy will come in a surprise ; Till its happy hour arise, Temper well your love-sick sighs, For hope becomes the wise, Phely. When we meet again, Phely, When we meet again, Phely, Raptures will reward our pain, And loss result in gain, Phely. THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERD. Tune—* Auld Lang Syne.”? Wuen flow’ry meadows deck the year, And sporting lambkins play, When spangled fields renew’d appear, And music wak’d the day ; Then did my Chloe leave her bow’r, To hear my am’rous lay, Warm’d by my love, she vow’d no pow’r Should lead her heart astray. The warbling choirs from ev’ry bough Surround our couch in throngs, And all their tuneful art: bestow, To give us change of songs : Scenes of delight my soul possest, I bless’d, then hugg’d, my maid; I robb’d the kisses from her breast, Sweet as a noon-day’s shade. Joy transporting never fails To fly away as air, Another swain with her prevails To be as false as fair. What can my fatal passion cure ? I?ll never woo again ; All her disdain I must endure, Adoring her in vain. What pity *tis to hear the boy Thus sighing with his pain ; But time and scorn may give him jy, To hear her sigh again. Ah! fickle Chloe, be advis’d, Do not thyself beguile, A faithful lover should be priz’d; Then cure him with a smile. THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWES:.! How blithe ilk morn was I to see The swain came o’er the hill ! He skipp’d the burn, and flew to me: I met him with good will. O the broom, the bonny bonny broom, The broom of Cowdenknowes ; I wish I were with my dear swain, With his pipe and my ewes. (1) [The hill of Cowdenknowes, about a mile and a half from Drygrange, between Melrose and Dryburgh Abbey, is still noted for its “bonny broom.” ‘The place has been celebrated in many ballads, of which it is difficult to trace the original; but all tell the same story, with but slight variations. In the “Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland,” collected by Peter Buchan (Edinburgh, 1828), there is a version differing, in many parti- culars, from that given by Sir Walter Scott in his “ Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,” and from which the following stanzas are extracted. The ballad, as it appears either in Buchan or Scott, is warcely fit to be quoted entire. TIE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWES. *Twas on a misty day, a fair maiden gay Went out to the Cowdenknowes, Lang, lang she thought, ere her ewes would bught, Wi’ her pail for to milk the ewes. Chorus. O the broom, the bonny bonny broom, The broom of the Cowdenknowes, And aye sae sweet as the lassie sang In the ewe-bught milking her ewes. And aye as she sang, the greenwoods rang, Her voice was sae loud and shrill, They heard the voice o’ this well-far’d maid At the other side o’ the hill. O the broom, &c. “My mother she is an ii woman, And an ill woman is she, Or then she might have got some other maid To milk her ewes without me. O the broom, &c. “My father was once a landed laird, As mony mair have been, But he held on the gambling trade, Till a’s free lands were done. O the broom, &c. “My father drank the brandy and beer, My mother the wine sae red, Gars me, poor girl, gang maiden lang, For the lack 0’ the tocher gude.” O the broom, &c. There was a troop of merry gentlemen Came riding alang the way, And one o’ them drew the ewe-bughts unto, At the voice o’ this lonely May. O the broom, &c. “0 well may you sing, my well-far’d maid, And well may you sing, I say, For this is a mirk and a misty night, And I’ve ridden out o’ my way.” O the broom, &c. “Ride on, ride on, young man,” she said, “ Ride on the way ye ken, But keep frae the streams o’ the Rock-river, Tor they run proud and vain. O the broom, &c. {* ke “SAIMONWNOTMOD » selon y THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 33h { neither wanted ewe nor lamb While his flock near me lay: He gather’d in my sheep at night, And cheer’d me a’ the day. O the broom, &e. He tuned his pipe and read sae sweet, The birds stood list’ning by : F’en the dull cattle stood and gaz’d, Charm’d with his melody. O the broom, &c. While thus we spent our time by turns Betwixt our flocks and play: T envied not the fairest dame, Tho’ ne’er sae rich and gay. O the broom, &c. Hard fate, that I should banish’d be, Gang heavily and mourn, Because I lov’d the kindest swain That ever yet was born! O the broom, &c. He did oblige me every hour: Could I but faithfu’ be ? He staw my heart: could I refuse Whate’er he ask’d of me? O the broom, &c. My doggie, and my little kit That held my wee soup whey, My plaidie, brooch, and crooked stick, May now lie useless by. O the broom, &e. Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adiea, Farewell a’ pleasures there ! Ye gods, restore me to my swain, Is a’ I crave or care! O the broom, the bonny bonny broom, The broom of Cowdenknowes ; i wish I were with my dear swain, With his pipe and my ewes. TO CHLOE. Tune—“I wish my love were in a mire.” O LoveLy maid! how dear’s thy pow’r? At once I love, at once adore: With wonder are my thoughts possest, While softest love inspires my breast. This tender look, these eyes of mine, ~ Confess their am’rous master thine ; These eyes with Strephon’s passion play, First make me love, and then betray. Yes, charming victor, I am thine: Poor as it is, this heart of mine Was never in another’s power, Was never piere’d by love before. In thee I’ve treasur’d up my joy, Thou canst give bliss, or bliss destroy ; And thus I’ve bound myself to love, While bliss or misery can move. O should I ne’er possess thy charms, Ne’er meet my comfort in thy arms; “Ye winna want boys for meat, kind sir, And ye winna want men for fee; It sets not us, that are young women, To show young men their way.” O the broom, &c. “O winna ye pity me, fair maid, O winna ye pity me? O winna ye pity my poor steed Stands trembling at yon tree?” O the broom, &c. “ Ride on, ride on, ye rank rider, Your steed ’s baith stout and strang, For out o’ the ewe-bught I winna come, For fear that ye do me wrang. O the broom, &c. “For well ken I, by your high-cull’d bat, And by your gay gowd ring, That ye ’re the Earl o’ Rock-rivers, That beguiles a’ our young women.” O the broom, &c “0 1’m not the Earl o’ Rock-rivers, Nor ever thinks to be, : But I am ane o’ his finest knights, Rides aft in his companie. O the broom, &c. “T know you well by your lamar-beads, And by your merry winking e’e, That ye are the Maid o’ the Cowdenknowes, And may very well seem to be.” O the broom, &c. * * * * * * * s¢Win up, win up, fair maiden,” he said, “Nae langer here ye’ll stay, This night ye’se be my wedded wife, Without any more delay.” O the broom, &c. He lighted aff his milk-white steed, And set the lassie on, “ Ca’ in your kye, auld man,” he said, “Sho ll ne’er ca’ them in again. O the broom, &c. “T am the Earl o’ the Rock-rivers, Ha’e fifty pleughs and three, And am sure I’ve chosen the fairest maid That ever my eyes did see.” O the broom, &c. Then he stripp’d off the robes o’ grey, Dress’d her in the robes o’ green, And when she came to her lord’g ha’ They took her to be some queen, O the broom, &o.} THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Were hopes of dear enjoyment gone, Still would I love, love thee alone! But, like some discontented shade, That wanders where its body’s laid, Mournful I’d roam with hollow glare, For ever exiled from my fair. Seer) SONG FOR A SERENADE. Tune—“ The Broom of Cowdenknowes.” Tzacu me, Chloe, how to prove My boasted flame sincere : *Tis hard to tell how dear I love, And hard to hide my care. Sleep in vain displays her charms, To bribe my soul to rest, Vainly spreads her silken arms, And courts me to her breast. Where can Strephon find repose, If Chloe is not there ? For ah! no peace his bosom knows, When absent from the fair. What tho’ Phoebus from on high Withholds his cheerful ray, Thine eyes can well his light supply, And give me more than day. TO MRS. A. H., ON SEEING HER AT A CONCERT. Tune—*‘ The bonniest Lass in a’ the Warld.” Loox where my dear Hamilla smiles, Hamilla! heavenly charmer ! See how with all their arts and wiles The Loves and Graces arm her. A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks, Fair seats of youthful pleasures, There Love in smiling language speaks, There spreads his rosy treasures. O fairest maid, I own thy power, I gaze, I sigh, and languish, Yet ever, ever will adore, And triumph in my anguish ! But ease, O charmer, ease my care, And let my torments move thee ; As thou art fairest of the fair, So I the dearest love thee ! SCORNFU’ NANCY. Nancy’s to the greenwood gane, To hear the gowd-spink chatt’ring, And Willie he has followed her, To gain her love by flatt’ring : But a’ that he could say or do, She geck’d and scorned at him ; And aye when he began to woo, She bid him mind wha gat him. “What ails ye at my dad,” quoth he, “My minny or my aunty? With crowdy-mowdy they fed me, Lang-kail and ranty-tanty ; With bannocks of good barley-meal, Of thae there was right plenty ; With chapped stocks fou butter’d well, And was not that right dainty ? * Altho’ my father was nae laird (Tis daffin to be vaunty), He keepit aye a good kail-yard, A ha’ house and a pantry: A good blue bonnet on his head, An o’erlay *bout his craggy ; And aye until the day he died, He rade on good shanks’ nagey. “ Now wae and wonder on your snout, Wad ye ha’e bonny Nancy ? Wad ye compare yersel’ to me— A docken till a tansie ? I have a wooer of my ain, They ca’ him Souple Sandy, And well I wat his bonny mou’ Is sweet like sugar-candy.” “Wow, Nancy, what needs a’ this din? Do [ not ken this Sandy ? 1’m sure the chief of a’ his kin Was Rab, the beggar randy : His minnie Meg upo’ her back Bare baith him and his billy ; Will ye compare a nasty pack To me, your winsome Willie? “ My gutcher left a good braidsword, Tho’ it be auld and rusty, Yet ye may tak’ it on my word, It is baith stout and trusty ; And if I can but get it drawn, Which will be right uneasy, I shall lay baith my lugs in pawn, That he shall get a heezy.” THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Then Nancy turn’d her round about, And said, “Did Sandy hear ye, Ye wadna miss to get a clout, 1 ken he disna fear ye : Sae haud yer tongue and say nae.mair, Set somewhere else your fancy ; For as lang ’s Sandy’s to the fore, Ye never shall get Nancy.” ———_+ ~—__ SLIGHTED NANCY. Tune,—“ The Kirk wad let me be.” *Tis I have seven braw new gowns, And ither seven better to mak’, And yet for a’ my new gowns, My wooer has turn’d his back. Besides I have seven milk-kye, And Sandy he has but three ; And yet for a’ my good kye, The laddie winna ha’e me. My daddy’s a delver of dykes, My mither can card and spin, And I am a fine fodgel lass, And the siller comés linkin in: The siller comes linkin in, And it is fou fair to see, And fifty times wow! O wow! What ails the lads at me ? Whenever our Baty does bark, Then fast to the door I rin, To see gin ony young spark Will light and venture but in: But never a ane will come in, Tho’ mony a ane gaes by, Syne far ben the house I rin; And a weary wight am I. When I was at my first prayers, I pray’d but ance ?’ the year, I wish’d for a handsome young lad, And a lad with muckle gear. When I was at my neist prayers, I pray’d but now and than, I fash’d nae my head about gear, IfI got a handsome young man. Now when I’m at my last pray’rs, I pray on baith night and day, And O! if a beggar wad come, With that same beggar Id gae. 333 And O! and what ’ll come o’ me? And O! and what’ll I do? That sic a braw lassie as I Should die for a wooer, I trow. LUCKY NANCY. Tune—* Dainty Davie.” Waite fops in fast Italian verse Ik fair ane’s een and breast rehearse, While sangs abound and sense is scarce, These lines I have indited : But neither darts nor arrows here, Venus nor Cupid shall appear, And yet with these fine sounds I swear, The maidens are delighted. I was aye telling you, Lucky Nancy, lucky Nancy, Auld springs wad ding the new, But ye wad never trow me. Nor snaw with crimson will I mix, To spread upon my lassie’s cheeks ; And syne th’ unmeaning name prefix— Miranda, Chloe, or Phillis. I'll fetch nae simile frae Jove, My height of ecstasy to prove, Nor sighing—thus—present my love With roses eke and lilies. I was aye telling you, &c. But stay,—I had amaist forgot My mistress and my sang to boot, And that’s an unco’ faut I wat : But, Nancy, ’tis nae matter. Ye see I clink my verse wi’ rhyme, And ken ye, that atones the crime ; Forbye, how sweet my numbers chime, And slide away like water. I was aye telling you, &e. Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair, Thy runkled cheeks and lyart hair, Thy half-shut een and hodling air, Are @ my passion’s fuel. Nae skyrin gowk, my dear, can see, Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee ; Yet thou hast charms anew for me, Then smile, and be nae cruel. Leeze me on thy snawy pow, Lucky Nancy, lucky Nancy, Driest wood will eithest lowe, And, Nancy, sae will ye now. (1) [The authorship of this song was unknown to Allan Ramsay. Mr. Chambers was informed on good authority that it was the composition of a Mr. Ainslie, a small farmer in Dumfries- shire. In his opinion it presents w just, as well as grapbic, picture of the food and dress of the people of Scotland at the time of its composition.] 334 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Troth, I have sung the sang to you, Which ne’er anither bard wad do; Hear then my charitable vow, Dear venerable Nancy. But if the world my passion wrang, And say, ye only live in sang, Ken I despise a sland’ring tongue, And sing to please my fancy. Leeze me on, &c. ———« MAGGY’S TOCHER. Tue meal was dear short syne, We buckled us a’ thegither ; And Maggy was in her prime, When Willie made courtship till her : Twa pistols charg’d by guess, To gi’e the courting shot ; And syne came ben the lass, W? swats drawn frae the butt. He first speer’d at the gudeman, And syne at Giles the mither, « An’ ye wad gie’s a bit land, We’d buckle us e’en thegither.” “ My daughter ye shall ha’e, I'll gi’e you her by the hand ; But 1’ll part wi my wife by my fae, Or I part wi my land. Your tocher. it shall be good, There’s nane shall ha’e its maik, The lass bound in her snood, And Crummie, wha kens her stake ; With an auld bedding o” claiths Was left me by my mither, They ’re jet-black o’er wi’ flaes, Ye may cuddle in them thegither.” * Ye speak right well, gudeman, But ye maun mend your hand, And think o’ modesty, | Gin yell not quat your Jand: We are but young, ye ken, And now we’re gaun thegither, A house is but and ben, And Crummie will want her fodder. The bairns are coming on, Astd they ’ll cry, ‘O their mither !’ We have nouther pat nor pan, But four bare legs thegither.” * Your tocher’s be good eneugh, - Far that you needna fear, Twa good stilts to the pleugh, And ye yersel’ maun steer: Ye shall ha’e twa good pocks That ance were o’ the tweel, The tane to haud the grots, The ither to haud the meal: With ane auld kist made of wands, And that shall be your coffer, W? aiken woody bands, And that may haud your tocher.” “Consider well, gudeman, We ha’e but borrow’d gear, The horse that I ride on Is Sandy Wilson’s mare : The saddle’s none of my ain, And thae’s but borrow’d boots, And whan that I gae hame, I maun tak’ to my coots : The cloak is Geordie Watt’s, That gars me look sae crouse. Come fill us a cog of swats, We’ll mak’ nae mair toom ruse.” “T like you well, young lad, For telling me sae plain ; I married when little I had O’ gear that was my ain. But sin that things are sae, The bride she maun come forth, Tho’ a’ the gear she'll hae, Tt ’ll be but little worth. A bargain it maun be, Fie cry on Giles the mither.” “ Content am I,” quoth she, «Wen gar the hizzie come hither.” The bride she gaed till her bed, The bridegroom he came till her ; The fiddler crap in at the fit, And they cuddl’d it a’ thegither. LEAVE KINDRED AND FRIENDS. —_ Tune—* Blink dver the burn, sweet Betty.” Leave kindred and friends, sweet Betty, Leave kindred and friends for me ; Assur’d thy servant is steady To love, to honour, and thee. The gifts of nature and fortune May fly by chance, as they came : They ’re grounds the destinies sport on, But virtue is ever the same. Altho’ my fancy were roving, Thy charms sac heavenly appear, That, other beauties disproving, T’d worship thine only, my dear. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. And should life’s sorrows embitter The pleasure we promis’d our loves, To share them together is fitter, Than moan asunder like doves. Oh! were I but once so blessed, To grasp my love in my arms ! By thee to be grasp’d and kissed ! And live on thy heaven of charms !— I’d laugh at fortune’s caprices, Should fortune capricious prove ; Tho’ aeath should tear me in pieces, I’d die a martyr to love. —-e— CELESTIAL MUSES. Tune—* The bonny grey-eyed Morning.” CELESTIAL muses, tune your lyres, Grace all my raptures with your lays, Charming, enchanting Kate inspires, In lofty sounds her beauties praise : How undesigning she displays Such scenes as ravish with delight ; Th¢ brighter than meridian rays, They dazzle not, but please the sight. Blind god, give this, this only dart, I neither will nor can her harm ; I would but gently touch her heart, And try for once if that could charm. Go, Venus, use your fav’rite wile, As she is beauteous, make her kind, Let all your graces round her smile, And soothe her till I comfort find. When thus, by yielding, I’m o’erpaid, And all my anxious cares remov’d, In moving notes Ill tell the maid, With what pure lasting flames I lov’d. Then shall alternate life and death, My ravish’d, flutt’ring soul possess, The softest, tend’rest things I’ll breathe Betwixt each am’rous, fond caress. SUBJECTED TO THE POWER OF LOVE. Tune— The Broom of Cowdenknowes.” SuBsecteD to the power of love, By Nell’s resistless charms, The fancy fix’d no more can rove, Or fly soft love’s «larms. 335 Gay Damon had the skill to shun All traps by Cupid laid, Until his freedom was undone By Nell, the conquering maid. But who can stand the force of love, ‘When she resolves to kill ? Her sparkling eyes love’s arrows prove, And wound us with our will. O happy Damon, happy fair, What Cupid has begun, May faithful Hymen take a care To see it fairly done ! Gi Giseeme TELL ME, HAMILLA. Tune—* Logan Water.” “VITAS HINNULEO ME SIMILIS, CHLOS.” Tet me, Hamilla, tell me why. Thou dost from him that loves thee run? Why from his soft embraces fly, And all his kind endearments shun ? So flies the fawn, with fear oppress’d, Seeking its mother everywhere ; It starts at ev’ry empty blast, And trembles when no danger ’s near. And yet I keep thee but in view, To gaze the glories of thy face, Not with a hateful step pursue, As age, to rifle every grace. Cease then, dear wildness, cease to toy, But haste all rivals to outshine, And, grown mature, and ripe for joy, Leave mamma’s arms, and come to mine. SONG COMPLAINING OF ABSENCE. Tune—“ My Apron Deary.” Au, Chloe! thou treasure, thou joy of my breast Since I parted from thee, I’m a stranger to rest, I fly to the grove there to languish and mourn, There sigh for my charmer, and long to return : The fields all around me are smiling and gay, But they smile all in vain—my Chloe’s away} The field and the grove can afford me no ease— | But bring me my Chloe, a desert will please. ' 336 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. No virgin I see that my bosom alarms : I’m cold to the fairest, though glowing with charms, In vain they attack me, and sparkle the eye ; These are not the looks of my Chloe, I cry,— These looks where bright love, like the sun sits enthron’d, And, smiling, diffuses his influence round. *Twas thus I first view’d thee, my charmer, amaz’d ; Thus gaz’d thee with wonder, and lov’d while I gaz’d. Then, then the dear fair one was still in my sight, It was pleasure all day, it was rapture all night ; But now by hard fortune remov’d from my fair, In secret I languish, a prey to despair ; But absence and torment abate not my flame, My Chloe’s still charming, my passion the same ; O! would she preserve me a place in her breast, Then absence would please me, for I should be blest. Se BRIGHT CYNTHIA’S POWER. Tune—“ TI fixed my fancy on her.” Bricut Cynthia’s power divinely great, What heart is not obeying? A thousand Cupids on her wait, And in her eyes are playing. She seems the queen of love to reign ; For she alone dispenses Such sweets as best can entertain The gust ol all the senses. Her face a charming prospect brings, Her breath gives balmy blisses ; I hear an angel when she sings, And taste of heaven in kisses. Four senses thus she feasts with joy, From nature’s richest treasure : Let me the other sense employ, And I shall die with pleasure. TELL ME, TELL ME. Tune—“T lo’ed a bonny Lady.” Tri me, tell me, charming creature, Will you never ease my pain? Must I die for every feature ? Must I always love in vain? The desire of admiration Is the pleasure you pursue ; Pray thee, try a lasting passion, Such a love as mine for you. Tears and sighing could not move you; For a lover ought to dare : When I plainly told I lov’d you, Then you said I went too far. Ave such giddy ways beseeming ° Will my dear be fickle still Conquest is the joy of women, Let their slaves be what they will. Your neglect with torment fills me, And my desperate thoughts increase ; Pray consider, if you kill me, You will have a lover less. If your wand’ring heart is beating For new lovers, let it be: But when you have done coquetting, Name a day, and fix on me. THE REPLY. In vain, fond youth; thy tears give o’er; What more, alas! can Flavia do? Thy truth I own, thy fate deplore : All are not happy that are true. Suppress those sighs, and weep no more; Should heaven and earth with thee combine, °*Twere all in vain, since any power, To crown thy love must alter mine. But if revenge can ease thy pain, T’ll soothe the ills I cannot cure : Tell that I drag a hopeless chain, And all that I inflict, endure. THE ROSE IN YARROW. Tune—* Mary Scott.” ‘Twas summer, and the day was fair, Resolved a while to fly from care, Beguiling thought, forgetting sorrow, I wander’d o’er the braes of Yarrow ; Till then déspising beauty’s power, I kept my heart, my own secure ; But Cupid’s art did there deceive me, And Mary’s charms do now enslave me. Will cruel love no bribe receive ? No ransom take for Mary’s slave ? Her frowns of rest and hope deprive me} Her lovely smiles like light revive me. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. No bondage may with mine compare, Since first I saw this charming fair : This beauteous flower, this Rose of Yarrow, Tn Nature’s gardens has no marrow. Had I of heaven but one request, T’d ask to lie in Mary’s breast ; There would I live or die with pleasure, Nor spare this world one moment’s leisure ; Despising kings and all that’s great, I’d smile at courts and courtiers’ fate ; My joy complete on such a marrow, I’°d dwell with her, and live on Yarrow. But though such bliss I ne’er should gain, Contented still Ill wear my chain, In hopes my faithful heart may move her ; For leaving life I’ll always love her. What doubts distract a lover’s mind? That breast, all softness, must prove kind ; And she shall yet become my marrow, The lovely, beauteous Rose of Yarrow. DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. Wuen trees did bud, and fields were green, And broom bloom’d fair to see ; When Mary was complete fifteen, And love laugh’d in her e’e; Blithe Davie’s blinks her heart did move To speak her mind thus free— ‘Gang down the burn, Davie, love, And I shall follow thee.” Now Davie did each lad surpass, That dwelt on this burnside, And Mary was the bomniest lass, Just meet to be a bride. Her cheeks were rosy, red and white, Her een were bonny blue ; Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew. As down the burn they took their way, And through the flowery vale, His cheek to her’s he aft did lay, And love was aye his tale ;— 337 With “© Mary, when shall we return, Sic pleasure to renew ?” Quoth Mary, “Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you.” AH! CHLORIS, COULD I NOW BUT SIT. Tune—* Gilderoy.” Aun! Chloris, could I now but sit As unconcern’d as when Your infant beauty could beget No happiness nor pain! When I this dawning did admire, And prais’d the coming day, I little thought that rising fire Would take my rest away. Your charms in harmless childhood lay, As metals in a mine: Age from no face takes more away, Than youth conceal’d in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection press’d, So love as unperceiv’d did fly, And centred in my breast. My passion with your beauty grew, While Cupid at my heart Still, as his mother favour’d you, Threw a new flaming dart. Each gloried in their wanton part : To make a lover, he Employ’d the utmost: of his art,— To make a beauty, she.? YE SHEPHERDS AND NYMPHS. Tune—“ The yellow-haired Laddie.” * Yz shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain, Approach from your sports, and attend to my strain. Amongst all your number a lover so true Was ne’er so undone, with such bliss in his view. Was ever a nymph so hard-hearted as mine ? She knows me sincere, and she sees how I pine: ()) [The three lines in italics were written by Burns, instead vf a sianza and a half, somewhat too broad for Burns’ day, and much more so for ours.] (2) [This song, to the tune of “Gilderoy,” has hitherto found @ place in most Scottish collections that have been made since the days of Allan Ramsay. Popular tradition long ascribed its author- suip to Presiden! Forbes, of Culloden, and affirmed the heroine to be the beautiful Mary Rose, of Kilravock, whom the Presideat afterwards married. But the song is neither Scottish im itself. nor the production of a Scottish bard, but is proved to have been written by Sir Charles Sedley, and introduced into his play cf The Mulberry Tree, printed in 1675, ten years before President Forbes was born.] 335 She does not disdain me, nor frown in her wrath, But calmly and mildly resigns me to death. She calls me her friend, but her lover denies ; She smiles when I’m cheerful, but hears not my sighs : A bosom so flinty, so gentle an air, Inspires me with hope, and yet bids me despair! T fall at her feet, and implore her with tears : Her answer confounds, while her manner endears ; When softly she telis me to hope no relief, My trembling lips bless her in spite of my grief. By night while I slumber, still haunted with care, I start up in anguish, and sigh for the fair : The fair sleeps in peace, may she ever do so! And only when dreaming imagine my woe. Then gaze at a distance, nor farther aspire, Nor think she should love, whom she cannot admire ; Hush all thy complaining, and dying her slave, Commend her to heaven, and thyself to the grave. DUMBARTON’S DRUMS. Dumparton’s drums beat bonny—O, When they mind me of my dear Johnny—O, How happy am I, When my soldier is by, While he kisses and blesses his Annie—O ! °Tis a soldier alone can delight me—O, For his graceful looks do invite me—O ; While guarded in his arms, I’ll fear no war’s alarms, Neither danger nor death shall e’er fright me—O. My love is a handsome laddie—O, Genteel, but ne’er foppish nor gaudy—O: Though commissions are dear, Yet [ll buy him one this year ; For he shall serve no longer a cadie—O. A soldier has honour and bravery—O, Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery—O ; He minds no other thing But the ladies or the king ; For every other care is but slavery—O. Then I’ll be the captain’s lady—O, Farewell, all my friends and my daddy—O; I’ll wait no more at home, But T’ll follow with the drum, And whene’er that beats, I ’ll be ready—O. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY, Dumbartou’s drums sound bonny—O, They are sprightly like my dear Johnny—O; How happy shall I be, When on my soldier’s knee, And he kisses and blesses his Annie—O!! MY DEARY, IF YOU DIE. Love never more shall give me pain, My fancy ’s fix’d on thee ; Nor ever maid my heart shall gam, My Peggy, if thou die. Thy beauties did such pleasure give, Thy love’s so true to me: Without thee I shall never live, My deary, if thou die. If fate shall tear thee from my breast, How shall I lonely stray ? In dreary dreams the night 1’ll waste, In sighs the silent day. T ne’er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection see : Then I?ll renounce all womankind, My Peggy, after thee. No new-blown beauty fires my heart With Cupid’s raving rage, But thine which can such sweets impart, Must all the world engage. *Twas this that like the morning sun Gave joy and life to me ; And when its destined day is done, With Peggy let me die. Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, And in such pleasure share : You who its faithful flames approve, With pity view the fair. Restore my Peggy’s wonted charms, Those charms so dear to me: Oh! never rob them from those arms: I’m lost, if Peggy die. (1) [“Dumbarton’s drums were the drums belonging to 8 British regiment, which took its name from the officer whe com- manded it, to wit, the Earl of Dumbarton. He suppressed the rebellion of Argyle, in 1685. At the Revolution be chose to accompany James II. to France, where he died in 1602." R. CHAMBERS. ] TUE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY, MY JO JANET. “Swner sir, for your courtesy, When ye come by the Bass then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a keeking-glass then.” “ Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet, And there ye ’ll see yer bonny sel’, My jo Janet.” “ Keeking in the draw-well clear, What if I should fa’ in, Syne a’ my kin will say and swear, I drown’d mysel’ for sin.” * Haud the better be the brae, Janet, Janet ; Haud the better be the brae, My jo Janet.” “Good sir, for your courtesy, Coming through Aberdeen then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a pair of shoon then.” “Clout the auld, the new are dear; Janet, Janet ; Ae pair may gain ye half a year, My jo Janet.” “But what if dancing on the green, And skipping like a maukin, If they should see my clouted shoon, Of me they will be talking.” “Dance aye laigh, and late at e’en, Janet, Janet ; Syne a’ their fauts will no be seen, My jo Janet.” “ Kind sir, for your courtesy, When ye gae to the cross then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a pacing horse then.” «Pace upo’ your spinning-wheel, Janet, Janet ; Pace upo’ your spinning-wheel, My jo Janet.” * My spinning-wheel is auld and stiff, The rock o’t winna stand, sir, To keep the temper-pin in tiff, Employs aft my hand, sir.” “Make the best o’t that ye can, Janet, Janet ; But like it never wale a man, My jo Janet.”? —_—_—~_- (1) [The author of this excellent song is unknown. It has been supposed—but there is oo evidence to warrant the supposition— 339 WHAT MEANS THIS NICENESS ? Tune—* John Anderson my jo.” Wuat means this niceness now of late, Since time that truth does prove? Such distance may consist with state, But never will with love. *Tis either cunning or disdain That does such ways allow; The first is base, the last is vain: May neither happen you. For if it be to draw me on, You over act your part : And if it be to have me gone, You need not half that art : For if you chance a look to cast, That seems to be a frown, I'll give you all the love that’s past, The rest shall be my own. AS SYLVIA IN A FOREST LAY. Tune—“ Rothes’s Lament ;” or, “ Pinky-house.”” As Sylvia in a forest lay To vent her woe alone; Her swain Sylvander came that way, And heard her dying moan, * Ah! is my love,” she said, “to you So worthless and so vain ? Why is your wonted fondness now Converted to disdain P You vowed the light should darkness turn Fer you’d exchange your love ; In shades now may creation mourn, Since you unfaithful prove. Was it for this I credit: gave To ev’ry oath you swore ? But, ah! it seems they most deceive, Who most our charms adore. Tis plain your drift was all deceit, The practice of mankind : Alas! I see it, but too late, My love had made me blind. For you, delighted I could die: But, oh! with grief I’m fill’d, To think that credulous, constant I Should by yourself be kill’d.” that it is either the composition of Allan Ramsay, or that ita groatly retouched and improved it.] 340 This said—all breathless, sick, and pale, Her head upon her hand, She found her vital spirits fail, And senses at a stand. Sylvander then began to melt : But e’er the word was given, The heavy hand of death she felt, And sigh’d her soul to heaven. ¥ KATHARINE OGIE. As walking forth to view the pla, Upon a morning early, While May’s sweet scent did cheer my brain, From flowers which grow so rarely, I chane’d to meet a pretty maid, She shined tho’ it was foggy ; T ask’d her name: “ Sweet sir,” she said, “My name is Katharine Ogie.” I stood awhile, and did admire, To see a nymph so stately ; So brisk an air there did appear In a country maid so neatly : Such natural sweetness she display’d, Like a lily in a bogie ; Diana’s self was ne’er array’d Like this same Katharine Ogie. Thou flower of females, beauty’s queen, Who sees thee, sure must prize thee ; Tho’ thou art dress’d in robes but mean, Yet these can not disguise thee: Thy handsome air, and graceful look, Far excels any clownish roguie ; Thou ’rt match for laird, or lord, or duke, My charming Katharine Ogie. O were I but some shepherd swain, To feed my flock beside thee, At bughting-time to leave the plain, In milking to abide thee: Id think myself a happier man, With Kate, my club, and doggie, Than he that hugs his thousands ten, Had I but Katharine Ogie! (1) [I agree with you that the song ‘ Katharine Ogie’ is very poor stuff and unworthy, altogether unworthy of so beautiful an air. I tried to mend it, but the awkward sound ‘ Ogie’ occurring so often in the rhyme spoils every attempt at introducing senti- ment into the piece.”—ROBERT BuRNS to GEORGE THOMPSON. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Then I’d despise th’ imperial throne, And statesmen’s dangerous stations: I’d be no king, 1’d wear no crown, I’d smile at conquering nations, Might I caress and still possess This lass, of whom I’m vogie ; For these are toys and still look less, Compar’d with Katharine Ogie. But I fear the gods have not decreed For me so fine a creature, Whose beauty rare makes her exceed All other works in nature. Clouds of despair surround my love That are both dark and foggy : Pity my case, ye powers above, Else [ die for Katharine Ogie.' AN THOU WERE MY AIN THING? Or race divine thou needs must be, Since nothing earthly equals thee ; For heaven’s sake, oh! favour me, Who only lives to love thee. An thou were my ain thing, I would love thee, I would love thee; An thou were my ain thing, How dearly would I love thee ! The gods one thing peculiar have, To ruin none whom they can save ; Oh! for their sake, support a slave, Who only lives to love thee. An thou were, &. To merit I no claim can make, But that I love, and for your sake, What man can name I’ undertake, So dearly do I love thee. An thou were, &c. My passion, constant as the sun, Flames stronger still, will ne’er have done Till fates my thread of life have spun, Which breathing out, I'll love thee. An thou were, &c. x. The world has reason to be satisfied with the discontent of Burns, for it led him to compose to the same air the beautiful song of “ Highland Mary.”] (2) [Six stanzas were added to this song by Allan Ramsay: they will be found, under the same title, on p. 203.) THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 341 FOR THE LOVE OF JEAN. Jocxy said to Jeanie, “ Jeanie, wilt thou do’t ?” “Ne’er a fit,” quo’ Jeanie, “for my tocher-good, For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee.” “ Wen’s ye like,” quo’ Johnny, “ ye may let it be. “T hae gowd and gear, I ha’e land eneugh, T ha’e seven good owsen ganging in a pleugh ; Ganging in a pleugh, and linking o’er the lea, And gin ye winna tak’ me, I can let ye be “T ha’e a good ha’-house, a barn and a byre, A stack afore the door, I’ll make a rantin’ fire : I’ll make a rantin’ fire, and merry shall we be ; And gin ye winna tak’ me, I can let ye be.” Jeanie said to Jocky, “ Gin ye winna tell, Ye shall be the lad, I’ll be the lass mysel’. Ye ’re a bonny lad, and I’m a lassie free, Ye’re welcomer to tak’ me than to let me be.” =z. Se. COLIN’S COMPLAINT. Tune—“ Peggy, I must love thee.” BewzatH a beech’s grateful shade Young Colin lay complaining ; He sigh’d and seem’d to love a maid, Without hopes of obtaining : For thus the swain indulg’d his grief, “Tho? pity cannot move thee, Tho’ thy hard heart gives no relief, Yet, Peggy, I must love thee. “Say, Peggy, what has Colin done, That thus you cruelly use him? Tf love’s a fault, ’tis that alone, For which you should excuse him: *Twas thy dear self first rais’d this flame, This fire by which I languish ; *Tis thou alone can quench the same, And cool its scorching anguish. “For thee I leave the sportive plain, Where every maid invites me ; For thee, sole cause of all my pain, For thee that only slights me : This love that fires my faithful heart By all but thee’s commended. Oh! would thou act so good a part, My grief might soon be ended. © That beauteous breast, so soft to feel, Seem’d tenderness all over, Yet it defends thy heart like steut, *Gainst thy despairing lover. Alas! tho’ it should ne’er relent, Nor Colin’s care e’er move thee, Yet till life’s latest breath is spent, My Peggy, 1 must love thee.” THE GABERLUNZIE MAN, Tue pauky auld carle came o’er the lea, Wi’ many good e’ens and days to me, Saying, “ Goodwife, for your courtesy, Will you lodge a silly poor man?” The night was cauld, the carle was wat, And down ayont the ingle he sat ; My daughter’s shoulders he ’gan to clap, And cadgily ranted and sang. “OQ wow!” quo’ he, “were I as free, As first when I saw this country, How blithe and merry wad I be ! And I wad never think lang.” He grew canty, and she grew fain But little did her auld minnie ken What thir slee twa togither were saying, When wooing they were sae thrang. “ And O!” quo’ he, “an ye were as black As e’er the crown of my daddy’s hat, Tis L wad lay thee by my back, And awa’ wi’ me thou should gang.” “ And O!” quo’ she, ‘‘an I were as white As e’er the snaw lay on the dyke, I’d clead me braw, and lady-like, And awa’ wi’ thee 1’d gang.” Between the twa was made a plot ; They raise awee before the cock, And wilily they shot the lock, And fast to the bent are they gane. Up the morn the auld wife raise, And at her leisure put on her claise ; Syne to the servant’s bed she gaes, To speer for the silly poor man. She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, The strae was cauld, he was away ; She clapp’d her hand, cried “ Wal-a-day, For some of our gear will be gane!” Some ran to coffers, and some to kists, But nought was stown that could be mised ; She dane’d her lane, cried, “ Praise be bless'd, T have lodg’d a leal poor man! 342 “ Since naething ’s awa’, as we can learn, The kirn’s to kirn, and milk to earn, Gae ’bout the house, lass, and waken my bairn, And bid her come quickly ben.” The servant gaed where the daughter lay, The sheets were cauld, she were away, And fast to her goadwife can say, “ She’s aff with the Gaberlunzie man !” “O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin, And haste ye find these traitors again ; For she’s be burnt, and he’s be slain, The wearifu’ Gaberlunzie man.” Some rade upo’ horse, some ran afit, The wife was wud, and out o’ her wit: She couldna gang, nor yet could she sit, But aye she curs’d, and aye she ban’d. Meantime, far hind out o’er the lea, Fw’ snug in a glen, where nane could see, The twa, with kindly sport and glee, © Cut frae a new cheese a whang : The prieviug was good, it pleas’d them baith, To lo’e her for aye, he ga’e her his aith. Quo’ she, “To leave thee I will be laith, My winsome Gaberlunzie man. “QO ken’d my minnie I were wi’ you, Iil-far’dly wad she crook her mou’; Sic a poor man she’d never trow, After the Gaberlunzie man.” “My dear,” quo’ he, “ye’re yet o’er young, And havena lear’d the beggar’s tongue, To follow me frae town to town, And carry the Gaberlunzie on. “Wi cauk and keel Ill win your bread, And spindles and whorles for them wha need, Whilk is a gentle trade indeed, To carry the Gaberlunzie-O. I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee, And draw a black clout o’er my e’e, A cripple or blind they will ca’ me, While we shall be merry and sing.”' EWE-BUGHTS, MARION, Will ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion, And ware in the sheep wi’ me ? The sun shines sweet, my Marion, But nae half so sweet as thee. (1) [This famous ballad has long been attributed to King James V., but there is no authority for the fact except tradition. The king was noted for his gallant adventures, and loved to roam about the country after the fashion of Haroun Al Raschid, and if not the author of the songs attributed to him, was possibly the hero of muny of them.] (4) [One hundred and fifty years ago. when hoops and not THE THA-TABLE MISCELLANY. O Marion ’s a bonny lass, And the blithe blinks in her e’e; And fain wad I marry Marion, Gin Marion wad marry me. There ’s gowd in your garters, Marion,® And silk on your white hauss-bane ; Fw’ fain wad I kiss my Marion, At e’en when I come hame. There’s braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion, Wha gape and glower with their e’e, At kirk when they see my Marion; But nane of them lo’es like me. I’ve nine milk-ewes, my Marion, A cow and a brawny quey, I’ll gi’e them a’ to my Marion, Just on her bridal day ; And ye’se get a green sey apron, And waistcoat of the London brown, And wow but ye will be vap’rin, Whene’er ye gang to the town. 1’m young and stout, my Marion, Nane dances like me on the green; And gin ye forsake me, Marion, I'll e’en gae draw up wi’ Jean: Sae put on your pearlins, Marion, And kirtle of the cramasie ; And soon as my chin has nae hair on, I shall come west, and see ye. THE BLITHESOME BRIDAL. Fy let us a’ to the bridal, For there will be lilting there ; For Jocky’s to be married to Maggy, The lass wi’ the gowden hair. And there will be lang-kail and pottage, And bamnocks of barley-meal ; And there will be good saut-herring, To relish a cog of good ale. Fy let us a’ to the bridal, &c. And there will be Sawny the souter, And Will wi’ the meikle mow’ ; And there will be Tam the blutter, With Andrew the tinkler, I trow; crinolines were in fashion, and when ladies danced with more spirit than they do in the present day, it was customary, as we learn. from Mr. R. Chambers’ “Traditions of Edinburgh,” for the fair sex in Scotland to wear finely embroidered garters “for exhibition.” In dancing, the hoop often shelved aside, and exposed the teg te thet height.] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. And there will be bow’d-legged Robbie, With thumbless Katie’s gudeman ; And there will be blue-cheeked Dowbie, And Lawrie, the laird of the land. Fy let us a to the bridal, &. And there will be sow-libber Patie, And plouky-fac’d Wat Y the mill, Capper-nosed Francie and Gibbie, That wins in the howe of the hill; And there will be Alaster Sibbie, Wha in with black Bessy did mool, With snivelling Lilly and Tibby, The lass that stands aft on the stool. Fy let us a’ to the bridal, &e. And Madge that was buckled to Steenie, And coft him grey breeks to his ——, Wha after was hanged for stealing, Great mercy it happen’d nae warse : And there will be gleed Geordie Janners, And Kirsh with the lily-white leg, Wha gaed to the south for manners, And bang’d up her wame in Mons-Meg. Fy let us a to the bridal, &. And there will be Judan Maclawrie, And blinkin’ daft Barbara Macleg, W? flae-lugged, sharny-faced Lowrie, And shangy-mou’d, halucket Meg. And there will be happer—— Nancy, And fairy-fac’d Flowrie by name, Muck Madie, and fat-hipped Grisy, The lass wi’ the gowden wame. Fy let us a’ to the bridal, &. ‘And there will be Girn-again-Gibbie, With his glaikit wife, Jenny Bell, And missle-shinn’d Mungo Macapie, The lad that was skipper himsel’. There lads and lasses in pearlins Will feast in the heart o’ the ha’, On syebows, and rifarts, and carlings, That are baith sodden and raw. Fy let us a’ to the bridal, &. And there will be fadges and brachen, With fouth of gude gabbocks of skate ; Powsowdie, and drammock, and crowdie, And caller nowt-feet on a plate: 34g And there will be partens and buckics, And whytens and speldins enew, With singit sheep-heads, and a haggis, And scadlips to sup till ye spew. Fy let us a’ to the bridal, &. And there will be lapper’d-milk kebbucks, And sowens, and farles, and bapa, With swats, and weel-scraped painches, And brandy in stoups and in caups : And there will be meal-kail and castocks, With skink to sup till ye rive, And roasts to roast on a brander, Of flouks that were taken alive. Fy let us a’ to the bridal, &e. Serap’d haddocks, wilks, dulse and tangle, And a mill of good snishing to prie ; When weary with eating and drinking, We'll rise up and dance till we die. Then fy let us a’ to the bridal, For there will be lilting there, For Jocky’s to be married to Maggy, The lass wi’ the gowden hair.! Ze THE POOR SHEPHERD’S MOURNFUL FATE. AH! Tune—* Galashiels.” Au! the poor shepherd’s mournful fate, When doom’d to love, and doom’d to languish, To bear the scornful fair one’s hate, Nor dare disclose his anguish. Yet eager looks, and dying sighs, My secret soul discover, While rapture trembling, thro’ mine eyes, Reveals how much I love her. The tender glance, the red’ning cheek, O’erspread with rising blushes, A thousand various ways they speak A thousand various wishes. For oh! that form so heavenly fair, Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush, and modest air, So fatally beguiling ; Thy every look, and every grace, So charm whene’er I view thee ; Till death o’ertakes me in the chase, Still will my hopes pursue thee. (1) [The signature of Z shows that the authorship of this song was unknown to Allan Ramsay. It appeared previously in Wat~- son’s Collection, 1706, and is attributed to Francis Semple, of Bel~ trees. It is full of humour, and affords a liveiy picture of the manners of a rude but genial age, and of a hearty, unaffected people. G. Thomson, in one of his letters to Burns, declared thir song to be so coarse and vulgar, as only fit to be sung in a company of drunken colliers. A modernised version by Jeanna Baillie ia included in the collected poems of that lady. } Then when my tedious hours are past, Be this last blessing given, Low at thy feet to breathe my last, And die in sight of heaven.! FIENT A CRUMB OF THEE SHE FAWS. Return hameward, my heart, again, And bide where thou was wont to be, Thou art a fool to suffer pain ~ For love of ane that loves not thee : My heart, let be sic fantasy, Love only where thou hast good cause ; Since scorn and liking ne’er agree, The fient a crumb of thee she faws. To what effect should thou be thrall ? Be happy in thine ain free will, My heart, be never beastial, But ken wha does thee good or ill: At hame with me then tarry still, And see wha can best play their paws, And let the silly fling hersel’, For fient a crumb of thee she faws. Tho’ she be fair, I will not fenzie, She’s of a kind with mony mae; For why, they are a felon menzie That seemeth good, and are not sae. My heart, take neither sturt nor wae For Meg, for Margery, or Mause, But be thou blithe, and let her gae, For fient a crumb of thee she faws. Remember how that Medea Wild for a sight of Jason yied, Remember how young Cressida Left Troilus for Diomede ; Remember Helen, as we read, Brought Troy from bliss unto bare wa’s : Then let her gae where she may speed, For fient a crumb of thee she faws. Because she said I took it ill, Foi her depart my heart was fair, But was beguil’d; gae where she will, Beshrew the heart that first takes care : THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. ts But be thou merry tate and air, This is the final end and clause, And let her feed and fooly fair, For fient a crumb of thee she faws. Ne’er dunt again within my breast, Ne’er let her slights thy courage spill, Nor gi’e a sob, altho’ she sneest, She’s fairest paid that gets her will. She gecks as gif I mean’d her ill, When she glaiks paughty in her braws; Now let her snirt and fyke her fill, For fient a crumb of thee she faws.? “OMNIA VINCIT AMOR.” As I went forth to view the spring Which Flora had adorned In raiment fair (now everything The rage of winter scorned), I cast mine eye, and did espy A youth, who made great clamour And drawing nigh, I heard him ery, © Ah! omnia vineit amor.” Upon his breast he lay along, Hard by a murm’ring river, And mournfully his doleful song With sighs he did deliver. “Ah! Jeanie’s face has comely grace, Her locks that shine like lammer, With burning rays have cut my days, ‘For omnia vineit amor. “Her glancing een like comet’s sheen, The morning sun out-shining, Have caught my heart in Cupid’s net, - And make me die with pining. Durst I complain, nature ’s to blame, So curiously to frame her, Whose beauties rare make me with care, Cry, omnia vincit amor. : “ Ye crystal streams that swiftly glide, Be partners of my mourning ; Ye fragrant fields and meadows wide, Condemn her for her scorning : Let every tree a witness be, How justly I may blame her ; Ye chanting birds, note these my words, Ah! omnia vincit amor. (1) [By W. Hamilton of Gilbertfield, known as “the Lieu- tenant,” and not W. Hamilton of Bangour, as stated by Mr. Chauibers. Mr. Hamilton was the friend and correspondent of Ramsay, and has written some other pieces of considerable merit. See unte—his Epistles to Allan Ramsay. ‘‘Ah! the poor shep- berd’s mournful fa'e,?” says Bu 1s, in his first letter to Thomson, % you vanuot mend.’”, (2) [The authorship of this song was unknown to Allan Ramsay, Mr. R. Chambers says that it is to a later and more accurate editor, Mr. David Laing, of Edinburgh, that we are indebted for the author’s name, Alexander Scott. He tived in the reign of Queen Mary, and on account of the amatory nature of his poetry he has been called the Scottish Anacreon.] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 345 * Tiad she been kind as she was fair, She long had been admir’d, And been ador’d for virtues rare, Who of life now makes me tir’d.” Thus said, his breath began to fail, He could not speak, but stammer ; He sigh’d full sore, and said no more, But “ Omnia vincit amor.” When I observ’d him near to death, T ran in haste to save him; But quickly he resign’d his breath, So deep the wound love gave him. Now for her sake this vow I’ll make— My tongue shall aye defame her, While on his hearse 1’ll write this verse, “© Ah! omnia vincit amor.” Straight I consider’d in my mind Upon the matter rightly, And found, tho’ Cupid he be blind, He proves in pith most mighty. For warlike Mars, nor thund’ring Jove, And Vulcan with his hammer, Did ever prove the slaves of love, For omnia vincit amor. Hence we may see th’ effects of love, Which gods and men keep under, That nothing can his bonds remove, Or torments break asunder : - Nor wise, nor fool, need go to school, To learn this from his grammar ; His heart ’s the book where he’s to look For omnia vincit amor. —e— THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE. THERE was a wife won’d in a glen, And she had dochters nine or ten, That sought the house baith but and ben, To find their mam a snishing. The auld wife beyont the fire, The auld wife aneist the fire, The auld wife aboon the fire, She died for lack of snishing. Ker mill into some hole had fa’n, “What recks,” quoth she, “ let it be gone, For I maun ha’e a young gudeman Shall furnish me with snishing.” The auld wife, &. Her eldest dochter said right bauld, “ Hie, mother! mind that now ye’re auld, And if ye with a younker wald, He’ll waste away your snishing.” The auld wife, &c. The youngest dochter gave a shout, *O mother dear! your teeth’s a’ out, Besides half blin’, you have the gout, Your mill can haud nae snishing.” The auld wife, &c. “Ye lied, ye limmers,” cries auld mump, “For I ha’e baith a tooth and stump, And will nae langer live in dump, By wanting of my snishing.” The auld wife, &c. “Thole ye,” says Peg, that pauky slut, “ Mother, if you can crack a nut, Then we will a’ consent to it, That you shall have a snishing.” The auld wife, &. The auld ane did agree to that, And they a pistol bullet gat ; She powerfully began to crack, To won hersel’ a snishing. The auld wife, &e. Braw sport it was to see her chow ’t, And ’tween her gums sae squeeze and row 't While frae her jaws the slaver flow’d, And aye she curs’d poor stumpy. The auld wife, &e. At last she ga’e a desperate squeeze, Which brak’ the lang tooth by the neeze, And syne poor stumpy was at ease, But she tint hopes of snisning. The auld wife, &c. She of the task began to tire, And frae her dochters did retire, She lean’d her down ayont the fire, And died for lack of snishing. The auld wife, &c. Ye auld wives, notice well this truth: As soon as ye’re past mark of mouth, Ne’er do what’s only fit for youth, And leave aff thoughts of snishing ; Else like this wife beyont: the fire, Your bairns against you will conspire ; Nor will ye get, unless ye hire, A young man with your snishing,' (1) Snishing in its literal meaning is snuff made of tobacco but in this song it means sometimes contentmert, a hushantl, love, money, &c.—A.R. = 346 I’LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. My dear and only love, I pray, That little world of thee Be govern’d by no other sway But purest monarchy : For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, I'll call a synod in my heart, And never love thee more. As Alexander i will reign, And I will reign alone ; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all. But I will reign, and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will, And all to stand in awe : But ’gainst my batteries if I find Thou storm or vex me sore, As if thou set me as a blind, I’ never love thee more. And in the empire of thy heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part, Or dare to share with me: Or committees if thou erect, Or go on such a score, I'll smiling mock at thy neglect, And never love thee more. But if no faithless action stain Thy love and constant word, I’ll make thee famous by my pen, And glorious by my sword. I’ll serve thee in such noble ways, As ne’er was known before ; I'll deck and crown thy head with bays, And love thee more and more. THE BLACKBIRD. Upon a fair morning for soft recreation, I heard a fair lady was making her moan, With sighizg and sobbing, and sad lamentation, Saying, “ My blackbird most royal is flown. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. My thoughts they deceive me, Reflections do grieve me, And I am o’erburthen’d with sad misery ; Yet if death should blind me, As true love inclines me, My blackbird I’ll seek out, wherever he be. “Once into fair England my blackbird did flourish, He was the chief flower that in it did spring ; Prime ladies of honour his person did nourish, Because he was the true son of a king: But since that false fortune, Which still is uncertain, Has caused this parting between him and me, His name I’ll advance In Spain and in France, And seek out my blackbird, wherever he be. “The birds of the forest all meet together, The turtle has chosen to dwell with the dove; And I am resolved in fair or foul weather, Once in the spring to seek out my love. He’s all my heart’s treasure, My joy and my pleasure ; And justly, my love, my heart follows thee, Who art constant and kind, And courageous of mind ; All bliss on my blackbird, wherever he be. “In England my blackbird and I were together, Where he was still noble and generous of heart ; Ah! woe to the tirhe that first he went thither, Alas! he was forced from thence to depart. In Scotland he’s deem’d, And highly esteem’d, In England he seemeth a stranger to be ; Yet. his fame shall remain, In France and in Spain ; All bliss to my blackbird, wherever he be. “What if the fowler my blackbird has taken, Then sighing and sobbing will be all my tune; But if he is safe I’ll not be forsaken, And hope yet to see him in May or in June. For him through the fire, Through mud and through mire, I'll go; for I love him to such a degree, Who is constant and kind, And noble of mind, Deserving all blessings, wherever he be. “Tt is not the ocean can fright me with danger, Nor tho’ like a pilgrim I wander forlorn ; I may meet with friendship of one is a stranger, More than of one that in Britain is born. (1) [This beautiful song has long been attributed to the celebrated James Graham, first Marquis of Montrose, but has been traced to an earlier English pen. The last four lines of the second stanza have bewa so often quoted as to have almost attained the dignity of a proverb. It appeared, prior to its publication in the ‘ Tea- Table Miscellany,” in Watson’s “ Choice Collection of ScotsPoems”” (Edinburgh, 1711), where is also given what is‘ called a Second Part, but much inferior. It was sung to the tune of “ Chevy Chase.” fHE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. I pray heaven so spacious, To Britain be gracious, Tho’ some there be odious to both him and me; Yet joy and renown, And laurels shall crown My blackbird with honour, wherever he be.”? ——+ — TAK? YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. ° In winter when the rain rain’d cauld, And frost and snaw on ilka hill, And Boreas, with his blasts so bauld . ‘Was threat’ning a’ our kye to kill: Then Bell, my wife, wha loves nae strife, She said to me right hastily, “Get up, gudeman, save Crummie’s life, And tak’ your auld cloak about ye. “ My Crummie is an useful cow, And she is come of a good kin’ ; Aft has she wet the bairn’s mov’, And I am laith that she should tine ; Get up, gudeman, it is fu’ time, The sun shines in the lift sae high ; Sloth never made a gracious end, Go tak’ your auld cloak about ye.” “My cloak was ance a good grey cloak, When it was fitting for my wear ; But now it’s scantly worth a groat, For I have worn ’t this thirty year ; Let’s spend the gear that we have won, We little ken the day we’ll die: Then I’ll be proud, since I have sworn To have a new cloak about me.” “Tn days when our king Robert rang, His trews they cost but half-a-crown ; He said they were a groat o’er dear, And call’d the tailor thief and loun. He was the king that wore a crown, And thou the man of laigh degree, *Tis pride puts a’ the country down, Sae tak’ thy auld cloak about thee.” “ Rvery land has its ain laugh, Tk kind of corn it has its hool: I think the warld is a’ run wrang, When ilka wife her man wad rule ; 347 Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, As they are girded gallantly, While I sit hurklen in the ase : I’ll have a new cloak about me.” * Gudeman, I wat ’tis thirty years Since we did ane anither ken, And we have had between us twa, Of lads and bonny lasses ten ; Now they are women grown and men, I wish and pray well may they be; And if you prove a gude husband, Wen tak’ your auld cloak about ye.” Bell, my wife, she loves nae strife ; But she wad guide me, if she can, And to maintain an easy life I aft maun yield, tho’ I’m gudeman: Nought’s to be won at woman’s hand, Unless ye give her a’ the plea; Then 171 leave aff where I began, And tak’ my auld cloak about me.? THE SHEPHERD ADONIS. Tue shepherd Adonis Being wearied with sport. He for a retirement To the woods did resort. He threw by his club, And he laid himself down ; He envied no monarch, | Nor wish’d for a crown. He drank of the burn, And he ate frae the tree, Himself he enjoy’d, And frae trouble was free. He wish’d for no nymph, Tho’ never so fair ; Had nae love for ambition, And therefore no care. But as he lay thus In an ev’ning sae clear, A heavenly sweet voice Sounded saft in his ear ; Which came frae a shady Green neighbouring grove, Where bonny Aminta Sat singing of love. (1) [A Jacobite song. The “Blackbird” was a name given to the Pretender, from the darkness of his complexion. It is the only Jacobite song admitted by Allan Ramsay into his collection.) (2) [This song, like many others of the age of Elizabeth and James I., was common both to England and Scotland, but there can be no doubt that it was originally Scotch. In Othello, Shak- t spere makes Iago sing the fourth stanza, but substitutes (in accond- ance with the English version, which Percy has preserved in his “ Reliques”’) the name of the English king, Stephen, for that of the Scottish king, Robert. Percy’s version of the song is evidently a cerruption: it abounds too much in Scottish words and phrases to permit of any doubt as to its Scottish origin.) 348 He wander’d that way, And found wha was there; He was quite confounded To see her sae fair : He stood like a statue, Not a foot could he move, Nor knew he what griev’d him, But he fear’d it was love. The nymph she beheld him With a kind modest grace : Seeing something that pleased her Appear in his face, With blushing a little She to him did say, “Oh, shepherd! what want ye, How came you this way ?” His spirits reviving, He to her replied, “T was ne’er sae surpris’d At the sight of a maid : Until I beheld thee From love I was free ; But now I’m ta’en captive, My fairest, by thee.” Zz LADY ANNE BOTHWELL’S LAMENT.' Batow, my boy! lie still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep : If thou ’lt be silent, I’ll be glad, Thy mourning makes my heart full sad. Balow, my boy! thy mother’s joy! Thy father bred me great annoy. Balow, my boy! lie still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep. Balow, my darling! sleep awhile, And when thou wak’st then sweetly smile ; THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. But smile not as thy father did, To cozen maids; nay, God forbid! For in thine eye his look I see, The tempting look that ruin’d me. Balow, my boy, &c. When he began to court my love, And with his sugar’d words to move, His tempting face, and flatt’ring cheer, That time to me did not appear ; But now I see that cruel he Cares neither for his babe nor me. Balow, my boy, &c. Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth That ever kiss’d a woman’s mouth! Let never any after me Submit unto thy courtesy : For, if they do, oh! cruel thon Wilt her abuse, and care not how. Balow, my boy, &. I was too cred’lous at the first To yield thee all a maiden durst : Thou swore for ever true to prove, Thy faith unchang’d, unchang’d thy love; But quick as thought the change is wrough . Thy love’s no more, thy promise nought. Balow, my boy, &c. I wish I were a maid again, From young men’s flattery I’d refrain ; For now unto my grief I find They all are perjur’d and unkind : Bewitching charms bred all my harms, Witness my babe lies in my arms. Balow, my boy, &c. I take my fate from bad to worse, That I must needs be now a nurse, And lull my young son on my lap! From me, sweet orphan, take the pap. Balow, my child! thy mother mild Shall wail as from all bliss exiled. Balow, my boy, &c. (1) Dr. Percy once thought this pathetic ballad might relate to fhe Earl of Bothwell and his desertion of his wife, Lady Jean Gordon, to make room for his marriage with Queen Mary. But he afterwards found reasons to change his opinion—one of them being that the Earl of Bothwell, who was upwards of sixty years of age at the time, was not likely to be the object of so warm a passion as this elegy supposes. A young lady of the name of Bothwell, or Boswell, having been deserted with her child by her lover, “composed,” says Percy, “these affecting lines herself.” Mr. Chambers, by “the assistance of a valued antiqua- rian friend,” was enabled to confirm the supposition of Dr. Percy, and to state more positively who the lady was. “Lady Annu Bothwell,” he says, “was no other than the Hon. Anne Both- well, daughter of Bothwell, Bishop of Orkney at the Reforma- tion who was afterwards raised to a temporal peerage under the title of Lord Holyrood-house. The young tady, who is said te have possessed great beauty, was betrayed into a disgraceful con- nection by the Hon. Sir Alexander Erskine, third son of John, seventh Earl of Mar. Sir Alexander was considered the hand- somest man of his age, and his good looks are to this day testified by a portrait of him by Jamieson, now in the possession of James Erskine of Cambus, Esq.” No information of the fate of the unfortunate Miss Bothwell has been discovered ; but her faithless lover, after having become a colonel in the French service, was prevailed upon by the Covenanters to undertake the command of one of their regiments. He lost his life, along with the Earl of Haddington, and about eighty other persons of distinction, at the explosion of the powder magazine of the Castle of Dunglass, in Berwickshire. “It was the general sentiaient of the time, and long a traditionary notice in his family, that he came to this THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY, 349 Balow, my boy! weep not for me, Whose greatest grief’s for wronging thee, Nor pity her deserved smart Who can blame none but her fond heart ; For, ton soon trusting latest finds With fairest tongues are falsest minds. Balow, my boy, &c. Balow, my boy! thy father’s fled, When he the thriftless son has play’d : Of vows and oaths forgetful, he Preferr’d the wars to thee and me; But now perhaps thy curse and mine Make him eat acorns with the swine. Balow, my boy, &e. But curse not him ; perhaps now he, Stung with remorse, is blessing thee : Perhaps at death, for who can tell Whether the Judge of heaven and hell, By some proud foe has struck the blow, And laid the dear deceiver low ? Balow, my boy, &c. 1 wish I were into the bounds, Where he lies smother’d in his wounds, Repeating, as he pants for air, My name, whom once he call’d his fair ! No woman’s yet so fiercely set, But she’ll forgive, tho’ not forget. Balow, my boy, &c. If linen lacks, for my Yove’s sake, Then quickly to him would I make My smock, once for his body meet, And wrap him in that winding-sheet. Ah me! how happy had I been, Tf he had ne’er been wrapp’d therein. Balow, my boy, &e. Balow, my boy! I’ll weep for thee ; Tho’ soon, alack, thou ’lt weep for me! Thy griefs are growing to a sum, God grant thee patience when they come: Born to sustain thy mother’s shame A hapless fate, a bastard’s name. Balow, my boy! lie still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep. JOHN OCHILTREE. “Honest man, John Ochiltree, Mine ain auld John Ochiltree, Wilt thou come o’er the moor to me, And dance as thou was wont to do?” * Alack, alack! I wont to do! Ohon, ohon! I wont to do! Now wont to do’s away frae me, Frae silly auld John Ochiltree.” Honest man, John Ochiltree, Mine ain auld John Ochiltree, dreadful end on account of his treatment of the unhappy lady who Where’er he go, where’er he ride, indited the ‘Lament.’” The version given by Percy in his My love with him doth still abide : “Reliques” differs in many respects from that given by Allan In weal or woe, where’er he go, Ramsay ; and that given by Mr. Chambers is a composite of the My love can ne’er depart him fro. two. Percy’s version, which is shorter and more beautiful in some Balow, my babe, &c. i a ca La “ But do not, do not, pretty mine, “ Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep, To feignings false thine heart incline! It grieves me sair to see thee weep; Be loyal to thy lover true, If thou’st be silent, I’se be glad, And never change her for a new; Thy moaning makes my heart full sad. If good or fair, of her have care, Balow, my babe, thy mother’s joy, For woman’s banning ’s wond’rous sair. Thy father bred me great annoy; Balow, my babe, &c. Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep, “ ji 7 7 It grieves me sair to see thee weep. Bairn, since thy cruel father’s gane, Thy winsome smiles maun ease my pain: ** When he began to court my love, My babe and I’ll together live, And with his sugar’d words to move, He "ll comfort me when cares do grieve; His feignings false, and flattering cheer, My babe and I right saft will lie, To me that time did not appear: And quite forget man’s cruelty. But now I see, most cruel he Balow, my babe, &c. Cates neither for my: babe nor ms. “ Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth Balow, my babe, &e. That ever kiss’d a woman’s mouth! “ Lie still, my darling, sleep awhile, I wish all maids be warn’d by me, And when thou wakest, sweetly smile ; Never to trust man’s courtesy ; But amile not as thy father did, For if we do but chance to bow, To cozen maids; nay, God forbid! They’ll use us then they care not how. But yet I fear thou wilt go near, Balow, my babe,” &c. Thy father’s heart and face to bear. Balow, my babe, &c. There is no authority beyond that of internal evidence for tha supposition of Percy, that the lines were the composition of the “I cannot choose, but ever will unfortunate lady herself. Be loving to thy father still ; THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Come ance out o’er the moor to me, And do but what thou dow to do.” ** Alack, alack! I dow to do! Wal-a-ways! I dow to do! To whost and hirple o’er my tree, My bonny muir-pout, is a” I may do.” * Wal-a-ways! John Ochiltree, For mony a time I tell’d to thee, Thou rade so fast by sea and land, And wadna keep a bridle hand, Thou’d tine the beast, thysel’ wad die, My silly auld John Ochiltree.” “Come to my arms, my bonny thing, And cheer me up to hear thee sing ; And tell me o’er a’ we ha’e done, For thoughts maun now my life sustain.” * Gae thy ways, John Ochiltree : Ha’e done! it’s nae sae sair wi’ me, I'll set the beast in thro’ the land, She ’ll maybe fa’ in a better hand ; Even sit thou there, and drink thy fill, For I’ll do as I wont to do still.” OF ALL THE BIRDS. Tune—* What ye wha I met yestreen.” Or all the birds whose tuneful throats Do welcome in the verdant spring, I far prefer the starling’s notes, And think she does most sweetly sing. Nor thrush, nor linnet, nor the bird Brought from the far Canary coast, Nor can the nightingale afford Such melody as she can boast. When Phebus southward darts his fires, And on our plains he looks askance, The nightingale with him retires, My starling makes my blood to dance. In spite of Hyems’ nipping frost, Whether the day be dark or clear, Shall I not to her health entoast, Who makes it summer all the year P Then by thyself, my lovely bird, I'll stroke thy back, and kiss thy breast ; And if you ll take my honest word, As sacred as before the priest, I'll bring thee where I will devise Such various ways to pleasure thee, The velvet fog thou wilt despise, When on the downy hills with me. IN JANUARY LAST, fn January last, On Munanday at morn, As through the fields I past, To view the winter corn, I looked me behind, And saw come o’er the knowe, Ane glancing in her apron, With a bonny brent brow. J said, “ Good morrow, fair maid,’ And she right courteous!” Return’d a beck, and kindly said, “Good day, sweet sir, to you.” I speer’d, “ My dear, how far awa’ Do ye intend to gae?” Quoth she, “I mean a mile or twa Out o’er yon broomy brae.” HE, “ Fair maid, 1’m thankfu’ to my fate, To have sic company ; For I’m ganging straight that gate, Where ye intend to be.” When we had gane a mile or twain, I said to her, “ My dow, May we not lean us on this plain, And kiss your bonny mow’ ?” SHE. “Kind sir, ye are a wee mistaen, For I am uane of these ; I hope ye some mair breeding ken, Than to ruffle women’s claiths : For maybe I have chosen ane, And plighted him my vow, Wha may do wi’ me what he likes, And kiss my bonny mov’.” HE. “Nae, if ye are contracted, I ha’e nae mair to say: Rather than be rejected, I will gi’e o’er the play; And choose anither will respect My love, and on me rew; And let me clasp her round the neck, And kiss her bonny mou’.” SHE. “Oh, sir! ye are proud-hearted, And laith to be said nay, Eise ye wad ne’er a started For ought that I did say; THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. For women in their modesty At first they winna bow; But if we like your company, We'll prove as kind as you.” SS GENERAL LESLIE’S MARCH TO LONGMASTON MOOR. Marcu, march, Why the diel dinna ye march ? Stand to your arms, my lads, Fight in good order! Front about, ye musketeers all, Till ye come to the English border. Stand till’t, and fight like men, True gospel to maintain, The parliament ’s blithe to see us a-coming : When to the kirk we come, We'll purge it ikka room Frae popish relics, and a’ sic innovations, That a? the world may see, There ’s nane i’ the right but we, Of the auld Scottish nation. Jenny shall wear the hood, Jocky the sark of God ; And the kist fu’ of whistles, That make sic a cleiro, Our pipers braw, Shall ha’e them a’ ! Busk up your plaids, my lads, Cock up your bonnets ! March, march, &ec.! ONE DAY I HEARD MARY SAY. Tune—“T°ll never leave thee.” Owe day I heard Mary say, “ How shall I leave thee ? Stay, dearest Adonis, stay, Why wilt thou grieve me? Alas! my fond heart will break, If thou should leave me! I’l live and die for thy sake, Yet never leave thee. “Say, lovely Adonis, say, Has Mary deceived thee ? 351 Did e’er her young heart betray New love, that has griev’d thee P My constant mind ne’er shall stray, Thou may believe me : I'll love the lad night and dsy And never leave thee. “ Adonis, my charming youth, What can relieve thee ? Can Mary thy anguish soothe P This breast shall receive thee. My passion can ne’er decay, Never deceive thee: Delight shall drive pain away, Pleasure relieve thee. “But leave thee, leave thee, lad! How shall I leave thee ? Oh! that thought makes me sad: T’ll never leave thee. Where would my Adonis fly ? Why does he grieve me? Alas! my poor heart will die, If I should leave thee.’’? —--« SLEEPY BODY, DROWSY BODY. SOMNOLENTE, queso repente Vigila, vivat, me tange. Somnolente, queso repente Vigilia, vive, me tange. Cum me ambiebas, Videri solebas Amoris negotiis aptus ; At factus maritus. In lecto sopitus Somno es, haud amore, tu captus. O sleepy body, And drowsy body, O wiltu nae waken and turn thee: To drivel and drant, While I sigh and graunt, Gives me good reason to scorn thee. When thou shouldst be kind, Thou turns sleepy and blind, And snotters and snores far frae me. Wae light on thy face, Thy drowsy embrace Is enough to gar me betray thee! (1) [Upon this song Sir Walter Scott modelled his more cele- brated composition, ‘“‘ March! march! Ettrick and Tiviotdale,” or, ** all the blue bonnets are over the border,” which has long been a populer favourite, and is likely to remain so.] (2) [“‘One day I heard Mary say’ is a fine song, but for con- sistency’s sake alter the name of ‘Adonis.’ Was there ever such banns published as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary ?”—ROoOBERT BuRNS to GEORGE THOMSON. ] 352 CROMLET’S LILT, Sryce all thy vows, false maid, Are blown to air, And my poor heart betray’d To sad despair, Into some wilderness, My grief I will express, And thy hard-heartedness, O cruel fair ! Have I not graven our loves On every tree In yonder spreading groves, Tho’ false thou be ? Was not a solemn oath Plighted between us both— Thou thy faith, I my troth, Constant to be ? Some gloomy place I’ll find, Some doleful shade, Where neither sun nor wind Per entrance had : Into that hollow cave, There will I sigh and rave, Because thou dost behave So faithlessly. Wild fruit shall be my meat, I’ll drink the spring, Cold earth shall be my seat ; For covering Ill have the starry sky My head to canopy, Until my soul on high Shall spread its wing. I’ll have no funeral fire, Nor tears for me: THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. No grave do I desire, Nor obsequy : The courteous red-breast, he With leaves will cover me, And sing my elegy With doleful voice. And when a ghost ) am, I'l) visit thee, O thou deceitful dame, Whose cruelty Has kill’d the kindest heart That e’er felt Cupid’s dart, And never can desert Frae loving thee !* WILLIAM AND MARGARET, AN OLD BALLAD. *Twas at the fearful midnight hour, When all were fast asleep, In glided Margaret’s grimly ghost, And stood at William’s feet. Her face was pale like April morn ; Clad in a wintry cloud ; And clay-cold was her lily hand That held her sable shroud.. So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew ; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. (1) [Burns, in his Notes to “Johnson’s Museum,” says :—“ The following interesting account of this plaintive dirge was communi- cated to Mr. Riddel by Alexander Frazer Tytler, Esq., of Wood- house-Lee. In the latter end of the sixteenth century, the Chisholms were proprietors of the estate of Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to a daughter of Stirling of Ardoch, commonly known by the name of ‘ Fair Helen of Ardoch.’ At that time the opportunities of meeting betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequenlly more sought after, than now; and the Scotch Jadies, far from priding themselves on extensive literature, were thought sufficiently book-learned if they could make out the Scriptures in their mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line of female education. At that period, most of our young men of family sought a fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromlecks, when he went abroad to the war, was obliged to leave the management of his correspondence with his mistress to a lay brother of the Monastery of Dumblain, in the immediate neigh- bourhood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of Helen’s charms, He artfully prepossessed ‘ner with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlechs, and, by the mis- interpreting and keeping up the letters and messages entrusted to his care, he entirely irritated both. AJ connexion was broken off betwixt them. Helen was inconsolable, and Cromlecks has left behind him, in the ballad called ‘ Cromlet’s Lilt,’ a proof of the elegance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. When the artful monk thought time had sufficiently softened Helen’s sorrow, he proposed himself as a lover. Helen was obdurate; but at last, overcome by the persuasion of her brother— with whom she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one children, was probably very well pleased to get her off his hands —she submitted, rather than consented, to the ceremony; but there her compliance ended. And when forcibly put into bed, she started quite frantic from it, screaming out that, after three gentle taps on the wainscot, at the bed-head, she heard Cromlecks’ voice crying, ‘Helen, Helen, mind me!’ Cromlecks soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was discovered, her marriage disannulled, and Helen became Lady Cromleck.” This song is usually sung to the fine old melody claimed by the Irish and the Scotch, and known to the one as “ Aileen Aroon,” and to the other as ‘Robin Adair.” ] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 353 But love had, like the canker-worm, Consum’d her early prime: The rose grew pale, and left her cheek ; She died before her time. “ Awake!» she cried, “ thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave ; Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refus’d to save. “This is the dumb and weary hour When injur’d ghosts complain, And aid the secret fears of night, To fright the faithless man. * Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath, And give me back my maiden-vow, And give me back my troth. “How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake P How could you win that virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break ? “Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep ? Why said you that my eyes were bright, Yet left these eyes to weep ? “ How could you swear my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale ? And why did I, young witless maid, Believe the flatt’ring tale ? That face, alas! no more is fair ; These lips no longer red ; Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. “The hungry worm my sister is, This winding-sheet I wear ; And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. * But hark! the cock has warn’d me hence— A long and late adieu ! Come see, false man, how low she lies, That died for love of you.” The lark sung out, the morning smiled, And rais’d her glist’ring head: Pale William quak’d in every limb, Then, raving, left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place ‘Where Margaret’s body lay, And stretch’d him o’er the green grass turf That wrapp’d her breathless clay. And thrice he call’d on Margaret’s name, And thrice he wept- full sore : Then laid his cheek on her cold grave, And word spoke never more.! I TOSS AND TUMBLE. Tune—“ Montrose’s Lines.” I toss and tumble through the night, And wish th’ approaching day, Thinking when darkness yields to light, Ill banish care away : But when the glorious sun doth rise, And cheers all nature round, All thoughts of pleasure in me dies, My cares do still abound. My tortur’d and uneasy mind Bereaves me of my rest; My thoughts are to all pleasure blind, With care I’m still oppress’d : But had I her within my breast, Who gives me so much pain, My raptur’d soul would be at rest, And softest joys regain. I’d not envy the god of war, Blest with fair Venus’ charms, Nor yet the thund’ring Jupiter In fair Alemena’s arms : Paris, with Helena’s beauty blest, Would be a jest to me ; If of her charms I were possess’d, Thrice happier would I be. But since the gods do not ordain Such happy fate for me, I dare not ’gainst their will repine, Who rule my destiny. With sprightly wine 1’ll drown my care, And cherish up my soul ; Whene’er I think on my lost fair, I’ll drown her in the bowl. (1) [Though called an “old ballad” by Allan Ramsay, this ballad, written by his friend David Mallet, or Malloch, was new at the time of its appearance in the “‘Tea-Table Miscellany.’ For Allan’s opinion of it see his poetical address “to Mr. David Mal- loch on his departure from Scotland,” ante, pp. 82. 83.1 Ze 354 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. THE DECEIVER. Wrru tuneful pipe and hearty glee, Young Watty wan my heart ; A blither lad ye couldna see— All beauty without art. His winning tale Did soon prevail To gain my fond belief; ' But soon the swain Gangs o’er the plain, And leaves me full of grief. Tho’ Colin courts with tuneful sang, Yet few regard his mane : The lasses a ’round Watty thrang, While Colin’s left alane ;: In Aberdeen Was never seen A lad that gave sic pain, He daily woos, And still pursues, Till he does all obtain. But soon as he has gained the bliss, Away then does he run, And hardly will afford a kiss To silly me undone : Bonny Katty, Maggy, Betty, Avoid the roving swain ; - His wily tongue, Be sure to shun, Or you like me will be undone. ——e- —- SWEET SUSAN. Tune—“ Leader haughs.” TuE morn was fair, saft was the air, All nature’s sweets were springing ; The buds did bow with silver dew, Ten thousa.d birds were singing : When on the bent, with blithe content, Young Jamie sang his marrow, Nae bonnier lass e’er trod the grass On Leader-haughs and Yarrow. How sweet her face, where every grace In heavenly beauty planted ; Her smiling een, and comely mein, That nae perfection wanted. 11) [This song is sometimes ascribed to Robert Crawturd, author of “ Bash aboon Traquair,”) I’ll never fret, nor ban my fate, But bless my bonny marrow ; If her dear smile my doubts beguile, My mind shall ken nae sorrow. Yet tho’ she’s fair, and has full share Of every charm enchanting, Each good turns ill, and soon will kill Poor me, if love be wanting. Oh, bonny Jass! have but the grace To think e’er ye gae further, Your joys maun flit, if ye commit The cryimg sin of murder. My wand’ring ghaist will ne’er get rest, And night and day affright ye ; But if ye’re kind, with joyful mind I'll study to delight ye. Our years around with love thus crown’d, From all things joys shall borrow ; Thus none shall be more blest than we On Leader-haughs and Yarrow. Oh, sweetest Sue! ’tis only you Can make life worth my wishes, If equal love your mind can move To grant this best of blisses. Thou art my sun, and thy least frown Would blast me in the blossom : But if thou shine, and make me thine, T’ll flourish in thy bosom.’ COWDENKNOWES. WHEN summer comes, the swains on Tweed Sing their successful loves ; Around the ewes and lambkins feed, And music fills the groves. But my lov’d song is then the broom So fair on Cowdenknowes ; For sure so sweet, so soft a bloom Elsewhere there never grows. There Colin tuned his oaten reed, And won my yielding heart ; No shepherd e’er, that dwelt on Tweed Could play with half such art. He sang of Tay, of Forth, and Clyde, The hills and dales all round, Of Leader-haughs and Leader-side— Oh! how I bless’d the sound. MUS chell J Mit ES OW NK cow DI D LONDON. VIRTUE &C? LIMITE THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 355 Yet more delightful is the broom So fair on Cowdenknowes ; For sure so fresh, so bright a bloom Elsewhere there never grows. Not Tiviot braes so green and gay May with his broom compare; Not Yarrow banks in flow’ry May, Nor the bush aboon Traquair. More pleasing far are Cowdenknowes, My peaceful, happy home, Where I was wont to milk my ewes At even among the broom. Ye powers that haunt the woods and plains Where Tweed with Tiviot flows, Convey me to the best of swains, And my loved Cowdenknowes !! SANDY AND BETTY. Sanpy in Edinburgh was born, As blithe a lad as e’er gaed thence : Betty did Staffordshire adorn, With all that’s lovely to the sense. Had Sandy still remain’d at hame, He had not blink’d on Betty’s smile ; For why, he caught the gentle flame’ On this side Tweed full many a mile. She, like the fragrant violet, Still flourish’d in her native mead: He, like the stream, improving yet The further from the fountain-head. The stream must now no further stray ; A fountain fix’d by Venus’ power In his clear bosom, to display The beauties of his bord’ring flower. When gracious Anna did unite Two jarring nations into one, She bade them mutually unite, And make each other’s good their own. Henceforth let, each returning year, The rose and thistle bear one stem : The thistle be the rose’s spear, The rose the thistle’s diadem. (1) [By Wiliam Crawford.] (2; (Query: Mrs, Alan Ramsay. The song is not included The queen of Britain’s high decree The queen of Love is bound to keep : Anna, the sovereign of the sea— Venus, the daughter of the deep. NOW SPRING BEGINS. TO MRS. A, R.2 Tune— Love’s Goddess in a Myrtle Grove.” Now spring begins her smiling round, And lavish paints th’ enamell’d ground ; The birds now lift their cheerful voice, And gay on every bough rejoice : The lovely Graces hand in hand Knit fast in love’s eternal band, With early step, at morning dawn, Tread lightly o’er the dewy lawn. Where’er the youthful sisters move, They fire the soul to genial love : Now, by the river’s painted side, The swain delights his country bride ; While pleas’d she hears his artless vows, Each bird his feather’d consort woos Soon will the ripen’d summer yield Her various gifts to every field. The fertile trees, a lovely show! With ruby-tinctur’d birth shall glow; Sweet smells, from beds of lilies borne, Perfume the breezes of the morn: The smiling day and dewy night To rural scenes my fair invite, With summer sweets to feast her eye; Yet soon, soon, will the summer fly. Attend, my lovely maid, and know To profit by the th’ instructive show. Now young and blooming thou appears All in the flourish of thy years : The lovely bud shall soon disclose To every eye the blushing rose ; But now, the tender stalk is seen With beauty fresh, and ever green. But when the sunny hours are past, Think not the cozening scene will last ; Let not the flatt’rer, Hope, persuade,— Ah! must I say, that it will fade ? For see, the summer flies away, Sad emblem of our own decay ! in Allan Ramsay's collected works, and is probably b7 anouses hand. ] 3 6 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Now winter from the frozen north Drives swift his iron chariot forth! His grizly hands in icy chains Fair Tweda’s silver stream constrains Cast up thy eyes, how bleak and bare He wanders on the tops of Yare ! Behold, his footsteps dire are seen Confess’d o’er ev’ry with’ring green ; Griev’d at the sight, when thou shalt see A snowy wreath to clothe each tree. Frequenting now the stream no more, Thou flies, displeas’d, the frozen shore, When thou shall miss the flowers that grew But late, to charm thy ravish’d view ; Then shall a sigh thy soul invade, . And o’er thy pleasures cast a shade : Shall I! ah, horrid! wilt thou ;—say! Be like to this some other day ? Yet when in snow and dreary frost The pleasure of the fields is lost, Lo blazing hearths at home we run, And fires supply the distant sun : In gay delights our hours employ, And do not lose, but change our joy. Happy! abandon every care, To lead the dance, to court the fair. To turn the page of sacred bards, To drain the bowl, and deal the cards ; In cities thus with witty friends In smiles the hoary season ends. But when the lovely white and red From the pale ashy cheek is fled, Then wrinkles dire, and age severe, Make beauty fly, we know not where. The fair, whom fates unkind disarm, Ah! must they never cease to charm? Or is there left some pleasing art To keep secure a captive heart ? Unhappy love! may lovers say, Beauty, thy food, does swift decay ; When once that short-lived stock is sent, What is’t thy famine can prevent ? Lay in good sense with timeous care, "That love may live on wisdom’s fare : Tho’ ecstasy with beauty flies, Esteem is born when beauty dies. Happy the man whom fates decree Their richest gift in giving thee ; Thy beauty shall his youth engage, Thy wisdom shall delight his age. TO W. D. HORACE, BOOK I. ODE JI. Tune—“ Willy was a wanton Wag.” WILLY, ne’er enquire what end The gods for thee or me intend; How vain the search, that but bestows The knowledge of our future woes: Happier the man that ne’er repines, Whatever lot his fate assigns, Than they that idly vex their lives With wizards and enchanting wives. Thy present years in mirth employ, And consecrate thy youth to joy ; Whether the fates to thy old score Shall bounteous add a winter more, Or this shall lay thee cold in earth That rages o’er the Pentland Firth, No more with Home the dance to lead, — Take my advice, ne’er vex thy head. With blithe intent the goblet pour, That ’s sacred to the genial hour ; In flowing wine still warm thy soul, And have no thoughts beyond the bowl. Behold, the flying hour is lost, For Time rides ever on the post, Even while we speak, even while we think, And waits not for the standing drink. Collect thy joys each present day, And live in youth, while best you may ; Have all your pleasures at command, Nor trust one day in Fortune’s hand. Then, Willy, be a wanton wag, If ye wad please the lasses braw, At bridals then yell bear the brag, And carry aye the gree awa’. --———— JOCKY, BLITHE AND GAY. Burne Jocky, young and gay, Is all my heart’s delight ; He’s all my talk by day, And all my dreams by night. If from the lad I be, Tis winter then with me;- But when he tarries here, *Tis summer all the year. When I and Jocky met First on the flow’ry dale, THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 35 Right sweetly he me treat, And love was all his tale. “You are the lass,” said he, That staw my heart frae me; Oh! ease me of my pain, And never show disdain !” Well can my Jocky kythe His love and courtesy, He made my heart full blithe When he first spake to me. His suit I ill denied, He kiss’d, and I complied : Sae Jocky promis’d me, That he wad faithful be. I’m glad when Jocky comes, Sad when he gangs away ; *Tis night when Jocky glooms, But when he smiles ’tis day. When our eyes meet, I pant, I colour, sigh, and faint ; What lass that wad be kind, Can better tell her mind?! HAUD AWAY FROM ME, DONALD. O coME away, come away, Come away wi’ me, Jenny ; Sic frowns I canna bear frae ane Whase smiles ance ravish’d me, Jenny ! Tf you’ll be kind, you’ll never find That aught shall alter me, Jenny For you’re the mistress of my mind, Whate’er you think of me, Jenny. First when your sweets enslav’d my heart, You seem’d to favour me, Jenny But now, alas! you act a part That speaks inconstancy, Jenny. Inconstancy is sic a vice, *Tis not befitting thee, Jenny ; It suits not with your virtue nice To carry sae to me, Jenny. JENNY’S ANSWER. O HaUuD away, haud away, Haud away from me, Donald ; Your heart is made too large for ane, It is not meet for me, Donald! Some fickle mistress you may find Will jilt as fast as thee, Donald ; =a To ilka swain she will prove kind, And nae less kind to thee, Donald. But I’ve a heart that’s naething such, °Tis fil’d with honesty, Donald ; I'll ne’er love money, I’ll love not much, I hate all levity, Donald. Therefore nae mair, with art, pretend Your heart is chain’d to mine, Donald; For words of falsehood I’ll defend, A roving mind like thine, Donald. First when you courted, I must own I frankly favour’d you, Donald ; Apparent worth and fair renown Made me believe you true, Donald. Tk virtue then seem’d to adorn The man esteem’d by me, Donald ; But now, the mask fall’n off, I scorn To ware a thought on thee, Donald. And now, for ever, haud away, Haud away from me, Donald ; Gae seek a heart that’s like your ain, And come nae mair to me, Donald: For Ill reserve mysel’ for ane, For ane that’s liker me, Donald ; If sic a ane I canna find, I’ll ne’er lo’e man, nor thee, Donald. DONALD. Then I’m the man, and false report Has only told a lie, Jenny ; To try thy truth, and make us sport, The tale was rais’d by me, Jenny. JENNY. When this ye prove, and still can love, Then come away to me, Donald ; I’m well content, ne’er to repent That I have smil’d on thee, Donald.? TODLIN BUT, AND TODLIN BEN. Wuen I’ve a sixpence under my thumb, Then I get credit in ilka town ; But aye when I’m poor they bid me gang by. O, poverty parts good company ! Todlin hame, todlin hame, Couldna my love come todlin hame. (1) [An old song, with emendations by Allan Ramsay.} (2) [Au old song, with emendations by Allan Ramsay.] 358 Fair-fa’ the gudewife, and send her gude sale, She gi’e us white bannocks to relish her ale, Syne that her tippenny chance to be sma’, We'll take a good scour o’t, and ca’t away’. Todlin hame, todlin hame, As round as a neep came todlin hame. My kimmer and I lay down to sleep, And twa pint-stoups at our bed’s feet ; And aye when we waken’d, we drank them dry ; What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? Todlin but, and todlin ben, Sae round as my love comes todlin hame. Leeze me on liquor, my todlin-dow, Ye ’re aye sae good-humour’d when weeting your requ’; When sober sae sour, ye ’ll fight wi’ a flea, hat ’tis a blithe sight to the bairns and me, When todlin hame, todlin hame, ‘When round as a neep ye come todlin hame.' THE PEREMPTORY LOVER. Tune—“ John Anderson my jo.” *Tts not your beauty, nor your wit, That can my heart obtain ; For they could never conquer yet Hither my breast or brain : For if you’ll not prove kind to me, And true as heretofore, Henceforth I’l scorn your slave to be, Nor doat upon you more. Think not my fancy to o’ercome By proving thus unkind ; No smoothed sight, nor smiling frown, Can satisfy my mind. Pray, let Platonics play such pranks, Such follies I deride ; For love, at last, I will have thanks, And something else beside. Then open-hearted be with me, As I shall be with you, And let our actions be as free As virtue will allow. If you’ll prove loving, I’ll prove kind, If true, I’ll constant be ; (1) (“ This,” says Burns, “is perhaps the first (finest) bottle wong that ever was composed,”—an eulogium in which few will now be found to agres.] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. If fortune chance to change your mind, I'll turn as soon as you. Since our affections well ye know In equal terms do stand, *Tis in your power to love or no, Mine’s likewise in my hand. Dispense with your austerity, Inconstancy abhor, Or, by great Cupid’s deity, I’ll never love you more. WHAT’S THAT TO YOU? Tune—“ The glancing of her Apron.” My Jeanie and I have toil’d The live-lang simmer day, Till we almost were spoil’d At making of the hay - Her kerchie was of holland clear, Tied on her bonny brow, I whisper’d something in her ear; But what’s that to you? Her stockings were of kersey green, As tight as ony silk ; Oh! sic a leg was never seen, Her skin was white as milk! Her hair as black as ane could wish, And sweet, sweet was her mou’! Oh! Jeanie daintily can kiss ; But what’s that to you ? The rose and lily baith combine To make my Jeanie fair ; There is nae benison like mine, I have amaist nae care : Only I fear my Jeanie’s face May cause mae men to rue, And that may gar me say, alas! But what’s that to you? Conceal thy beauties, if thou can Hide that sweet face of thine, That I may only be the man Enjoys these looks divine. Oh! do not prostitute, my dear, Wonders to common view, And I with faithful heart will swear For ever to be true.? (2) [There is another verse to this song, which has been omitted as not adding to the argument, while it offenda gocd taste and decency.] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 358 A PASTORAL SONG. Tune—“ My Apron Deary.” JAMIE, Wauuz our flocks are a-feeding, And we’re void of care, Come, Sandy, let’s tune To praise of the fair : For, inspir’d by my Susie, I'll sing in such lays, That Pan, were he judge, Must allow me the bays. SANDY. While under this hawthorn We lie at our ease, By a musical stream, And refresh’d by the breeze Of a zephyr so gentle, Yes, Jamie, I’ll try For to match you and Susie, Dear Katie and I. JAMIE. Oh! my Susie so lovely, She’s without compare, She’s so comely, so good, And so charmingly fair : Sure, the gods were at pains To make so complete A nymph, that for love There was ne’er one so meet. SANDY. Oh! my Katie’s so bright, She’s so witty and gay; Love, join’d with the graces, Around her looks play. In her mein she’s so graceful, Tn her humour so free : Sure the gods never fram’d A maid fairer than she. JAMIE. Had my Susie been there When the shepherd declar’d For the lady of Lemnos, She had lost his regard ; And, o’ercome by a presence More beauteously bright, He had own’d her undone, As the darkness by light SANDY. Not fair Helen of Greece, Nor all the whole train, Either of real beauties. Or those poets feign, Could be match’d with my Katie, Whose every sweet charm May conquer best judges, And coldest hearts warm. JAMIE. Neither riches nor honour, Or any thing great, Do I ask of the gods, But that this be my fate : That my Susie to all My kind wishes comply ; For with her would I live, And with her I would die. SANDY. If the fates give me Katie, And her I enjoy, I have all my desires, Nought can me annoy; For my charmer has every Delight in such store, She ’ll make me more happy Than swain e’er before. ROB’S JOCK. A VERY OLD BALLAD. Ros’s Jock came to woo our Jenny, On ae feast day when we were fu’; She brankit fast and made her bonny, And said, “ Jock, come ye here to woo?” She burnish’d her baith breast and brow, And make hér clear as ony clock : “Then spak’ her dame, and said, “I trow Ye come to woo our Jenny, Jock.” Jock said, “ Forsooth, I yearn fu’ fain To luk my head, and sit down by you.” Then spak’ her minnie, and said again, “My bairn has tocher eneugh to gi’e you.” “Tehee!”? quo’ Jenny, “keek, keek! J see you Minnie, yon man makes but a mock.” “De’il ha’e the liars !—fu’ leeze me o’ you, I come to woo your Jenny,” quo’ Jock. “My bairn has tocher of her awn : A guse, a gryce, a cock and hen, A stirk, a staig, an acre sawn, A bakebread and a bannock-stane ; A pig, a pot, and a kirn there-ben, A kame-but, and a kaming-stock ; With cogs and luggies nine or ten: Come ye to woo our Jenny, Jock ? 360 “A wecht, a peat-creel, and a cradle, A pair of clips, a graip, a flail ; An ark, an ambry, and a ladle, A milsie, and a sowen-pail ; A rousty whittle to shear the kail, And a timber-mell the bear to knock, Twa shelfs made of an auld fir-dale : Come ye to woo our Jenny, Jock? “A furm, a furlet, and a peck, A roke, a reel, and a wheel-band; A tub, a barrow, and a seck, A spurtle braid, and an ellwand.” Then Jock took Jenny by the hand, And cried, “A feast!” and slew a cock, And made a bridal upo’ land. “Now I have got your Jenny,” quo’ Jock. “Now, dame, I have your dochter married, And tho’ ye mak’ it ne’er sae tough, [ let you wit she’s nae miscarried, It’s well ken’d I hae gear eneugh : Ane auld gaw’d gleyde fell owre a hengh, A spade, a speet, a spur, a sock ; Withouten owsen I have a pleugh: May that no sair your Jenny,” quo’ Jock ? “ A treen truncher, a ram-horn spoon, Twa buits of barkit blasint leather ; A graith that ganes to cobble shoon, And a thraweruik to twine a tether ; Twa croks that moop amang the heather, A pair of branks, and a fetter-lock ; A teugh purse made of a swine’s blather, To haud your tocher, Jenny,” quo’ Jock. “Good elding for our winter fire, A cod of caff wad fill a cradle ; A rake of iron to claut the byre, A deuk about the dubs to paddle ; The pannel of an auld led-saddle, And Rob my eem hecht me a stock ; Twa lusty lips to lick a ladle : May thir no gain your Jenny,” quo’ Jock ? ‘A pair of haims, and brechame fine, And without bits a bridle-renzie ; A sark made of the linkome twine, A gay green cloak that will not stenzie ; Mair yet in store—I needna fenzie— Five hundred flaes, a fendy flock ; And are not thae a wakrife menzie, To gae to bed with, Jenny and Jock? THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. “ Tak’ thir for my part of the feast, It is well known I am well bodin : Ye need not say my part is least, Were they as meikle as they ’re lodin.” The wife speer’d gin the kail was sodin, “When we have done, tak’ hame the brok!* The rost was teugh as raploch hoddin With which they feasted Jenny and Jock.' THE COUNTRY LASS. AutHo’ I be but a country lass, Yet a lofty mind I bear—O, And think mysel’ as good as those That rich apparel wear—O. Aitho’ my gown be hame-spun gray, My skin it is as soft—O, As them that satin weeds do wear, And carry their heads aloft—O. What tho’ I keep my father’s sheep, The thing that must be done—O, With garlands of the finest flowers, To shade me from the sun—O; When they are feeding pleasantly, Where grass and flowers do spring—O, Then on a flow’ry bank at noon, I set me down and sing—O. My Paisley pigey,? cork’d with sage, Contains my drink but thin—O, No wines do e’er my wits enrage, Or tempt my brain to sm—O. My country curds, and wooden spoon, I think them unco’ fine—O, And on a flow’ry bank at noon, I set me down and dine—O. Altho’ my parents cannot raise Great bags of shining gold—O, Like them whase daughters, now-a-days, Like swine are bought and sold—O ; Yet my sair body it will keep An honest heart within—O ; And for twice fifty thousand crowns, I value not a prin—O. I use nae gums upon my hair, Nor chains about my neck—O, Nor shining rings upon my hands, My fingers straight to deck—O ; (1) [A somewhat different version of this humourous song appears in Watson’s Collection, published twelve years before Allnn Bumsay’s. The inventory of the effects on both sides is highly amusing. There are many other versions of this song, one of which can be traced back as far as 1568 in the Bannatyne MSS.) (2) [An earthenware bottle.] H.cCanton. ARSA. cia a W™ Rofte WALY WALY GIN LOVE BE BONNY. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. But for that lad to me shall fa’, And I have grace to wed—O, T’ll keep a jewel worth them a’, I mean my maidenhead—O. If canny fortune give to me The man I dearly love—O, Tho’ we want gear, I dinna care, My hands I can improve—O ; Expecting for a blessing still Descending from above—O ; Then we ’ll embrace, and sweetly kiss, Repeating tales of love—O. 1 WALY, WALY, GIN LOVE BE BONNY. O waty, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side, Where I and my love wont to gae. T lean’d my back unto an aik, And thought it was a trusty tree, But first it bow’d, and syne it brak’, Sae my true love did lightly me. O waly, waly, but love is bonny, A little time while it is new, But when ’tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like morning dew. Oh! wherefore should I busk my head ? Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? For my true love has me forsook, And says he’ll never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne’er be fil’d by me, Saint Anton’s well shall be my drink, Since my true love’s forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? Oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come ? For of my life I am weary. *Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blowing snow’s inclemency ; 361 *Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love’s heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see ; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel’ in cramasie. But had I wist before I kiss’d That love had been so ill to win, Id lock’d my heart in a case of gold, And pinn’d it with a silver pin. And oh! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse’s knee, And I mysel’ were dead and gane, Wi the green grass growing over me !} THE LOVING LASS AND SPINNING-WHEEL. As I sat at my spinning-wheel, A bonny lad was passing by : I view’d him round, and liked him weel, For troth he had a glancing eye. My heart, new panting, ’gan to feel, But still I turn’d my spinning-wheel. With looks all kindness he drew near, And still mair lovely did appear ; And round about my slender waist He clasp’d his arms, and me embrac’d: To kiss my hand, syne down did kneel, As I sat at my spinning-wheel. My milk-white hands he did extol, And prais’d my fingers lang and small, And said, there was nae lady fair That ever could with me compare. These words into my heart did steal, But still I turn’d my spinning-wheel. Altho’ I seemingly did chide, Yet he wad never be denied, But still declar’d his love the mair, Until my heart was wounded sair, That I my love could scarce conceal : Yet still I turn’d my spinning-wheel. (1) [This song, one of the most beautiful and affecting in all the range of Scottish literature, was once supposed to relate to an incident in the life of one of the ladies of the court of Queen Mary, at Holyrood. Mr. Motherwell, in his “ Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern” (Glasgow, 1827), drew attention to a version of it, dis- covered in the Pepysian Library at Cambridge, from which it appears that the heroine was Lady Barbara Erskine, daughter of John, ninth Earl of Mar, who was divorced from her husband in consequence of some unfounded scandals that were spread abroad concerning her. It had previously been supposed to relate to the deeper woes of one who loved not wisely but too well. The song appears as originally given in the “Tea-Table Miscellany,” with the sole exception of the last line, which has been substituted, as amore modern and perhaps equally authentic version, for the line— “For a maid again Ill never be,” which is neither so beautiful and pathetic in itself, or so accordant witb modern taste and propriety.) BA 362 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. My hanks of yarn, my rock and reel, My winnels and my spinning-wheel, He bid me leave them all with speed, And gang with him to yonder mead : My yielding heart strange flames did feel, Yet still I turn’d my spinning-wheel. About my neck his arm he laid, And whisper’d, “Rise, my bonny maid, And with me to yon hay-cock go, Ill teach thee better wark to do.” T° troth, I lo’ed the notion weel, And loot alane my spinning-wheel. Among the pleasant cocks of hay, Then with my bonny lad T lay : What lassie, young and saft as I, Could sic a handsome lad deny ? These pleasures I cannot reveal, That far surpass’d the spinning-wheel. ADIEU, YE PLEASANT SPORTS ! Tune—* Woes my heart that we should sunder.” ADIEU, ye pleasant sports and plays ! Farewell each song that was diverting ! Love tunes my heart to mournful lays, I sing of Delia and Damon’s parting. Long had he lov’d, and long concealed The dear, tormenting, pleasant passion, Till Delia’s mildness had prevail’d On him to show his inclination. Just as the fair one seem’d to give A patient ear to his love story, Damon must his Delia leave, To go in quest of toilsome glory. Half-spoken words hung on his tongue, Their eyes refus’d the usual meeting ; And sighs supplied their wonted song, These charming souls were chang’d to weeping. . “Dear idol of my soul, adieu! Cease to lament, but ne’er to love me: While Damon lives, he lives for you, No other charms shall ever move me.” “Alas! who knows, when parted far From Delia, but you may deceive her ? The thought destroys my heart with care, Adieu, my dear! I fear for ever.” “Tf ever I forget my vows, May then my guardian angel leave me: And more to aggravate my woes, Be you so good as to forgive me.” O’ER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY, Jocxy met with Jenny fair, Aft be the dawning of the day ; But Jocky now is fu’ of care, © Since Jenny staw his heart away : Altho’ she promis’d to be true, She proven has, alack ! unkind ; Which gars poor Jocky aften rue That he e’er lo’ed a fickle mind. And its o’er the hills and far away, Its o’er the hills and far away, . Its o’er the hills and far away, The wind has blown my plaid away. Now Jocky was a bonny lad, As e’er was born in Scotland fair ; But now, poor man, he’s e’en gane wud," Since Jenny has gart him despair. Young Jocky was a piper’s son, And fell in love when he was young : But a’ the springs that he could play, Was “O’er the hills and far away.” And its o’er the hills, &. He sung—“ When first my Jenny’s face I saw, she seem’d sae fu’ of grace, With meikle joy my heart was fill’d, That’s now, alas! with sorrow kill’d. Oh! was she but as true as fair, *Twad put an end to my despair : Instead of that she is unkind, And wavers like the winter’s wind. And its o’er the hills, &c. “ Ah! could she find the dismal wae, That for her sake I undergae, She couldna choose but grant relief, And put an end to a’ my grief: But, oh! she is as fause as fair, Which causes a’ my sighs and care,— But she triumphs in proud disdain, And takes a pleasure in my pain. And its o’er the hills, &e. * Hard was my hap to fa’ in love With ane that does sae faithless prove ; Hard was my fate to court a maid That has my constant heart betray’d! FEI es cS =, ‘sy THE LOVING LASS & SPINNING WHEEL. THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 363 A thousand times to me she sware, She wad be true for ever mair But, to my grief, alack, I say, She staw my heart and ran away! And its o’er the hills, &c. Since that she will nae pity take, I maun gae wander for her sake, And, in ilk wood and gloomy grove, I'll sighing sing, adieu to love ! Since she is fause whom I adore, I'll never trust a woman more ; Frae a’ their charms 1°ll flee away, And on my pipe I'll sweetly play, O’er the hills and dales and far away, Out o’er the hills and far away, Out o’er the hills and far away, The wind has blown my plaid away. JOCKY’S FOU AND JENNY’S FAIN. Jocxy fou, Jenny fain, Jenny was nae ill to gain, She was couthie, he was kind, And thus the wooer tell’d his mind. “Jenny, I ’ll nae mair be nice Gi’e me love at any price ; I winna prig for red or white, Love alane can gi’e delight. “ Others seek they kenna what, In looks, in carriage, and a’ that ; Give me love, for her I court : Love in love makes a the sport. “ Colours mingled unco’ fine, Common motives lang sinsyne, Never can engage my love, Until my fancy first approve. “Tt isna meat, but appetite That makes our eating a delight : Beauty is at best deceit ; Fancy only kens nae cheat.”’? LEADER-HAUGHS AND YARROW Wuen Phebus bright the azure skies With golden rays enlight’neth, He makes all Nature’s beauties rise, Herbs, trees, and flowers he quick’neth - Amongst all those he makes his choice, And with delight goes thorow, With radiant beams and silver streams, Are Leader-haughs and Yarrow. When Aries the day and night Tn equal length divideth, And frosty Saturn takes his flight, Nae langer he abideth : Then Flora queen, with mantle green, Casts aff her former sorrow, And vows to live with Ceres sel’ In Leader-haughs and Yarrow. Pan playing on his aiten reed, And shepherds him attending, Do here resort their flocks to feed, The hills and haughs commending ; With cur and kent upon the bent, Sing to the sun, “ Good morrow,” And swear nae fields mair pleasures yield Then Leader-haughs and Yarrow A house there stands on Leader-side, Surmounting my descriving, With rooms sae rare, and windows fair, Like Dedalus’ contriving : Men passing by do often cry, In sooth, it hath nae marrow, It stands as sweet on Leader-side As Newark does on Yarrow. A. mile below wha lists to ride, They ’l hear the mavis singing ; Into St. Leonard’s banks she’ll bide, Sweet birks her head o’erhanging ; The lint-white loud, and prognie proud, With tuneful throats and narrow Into St. Leonard’s banks they sing, As sweetly as in Yarrow. (1) [A line of this ancient song, somewhat altered, is pre- erved in the nursery rhymes both of England and Scotland :— “ Tom, Tom, the piper’s son, Stole a pig and away he run; And all the tunes that he could play, Was ‘ O’er the hills and far away.’”’] (2) [In Johnson’s “Musical Museum,” this song appears with the addition of a stanza, inserted after the third stanza of Ausa Ramsay’s version. The stanza is— “ Let love sparkle in her e’e, Let her love nae man but me; That’s the tocher gude I prize, There the lover’s treasure lies.” It bas been suggested that this stanza was added by Robert Burne.) The lapwing lilteth o’er the lea, With nimble wing she sporteth, But vows shell flee far frae the tree Where Philomel resorteth : By break of day, the lark can say, “T'll bid you a good morrow ; I’ll streek my wing, and mounting sing, O’er Leader-haughs and Yarrow.” Park, Wanton-waws, and Wooden-cleugh, The east and western Mainses, The wood of Lauder’s fair eneugh, The corns are good in Blainshes, Where aits are fine, and sald be kind, If that ye search all thorow Mearns, Buchan, Mar, nane better are Than Leader-haughs and Yarrow. In Burn-Mill bog and Whiteslade shaws, The fearful hare she haunteth, Brig-haugh and Braidwoodsheil she knows, And Chapelwood frequenteth : Yet when she irks, to Kaidsly birks She rins and sighs for sorrow, That she should leave sweet Leader-haughs, And cannot win to Yarrow. What sweeter music wad ye hear Than hounds and beagles crying ? The started hare rins hard with fear, Upon her speed relying. But yet her strength, it fails at length, Nae bielding can she borrow In Sorrel’s field, Cleckman, or Hag’s, And sighs to be in Yarrow. For Rockwood, Ringwood, Spotty, Shag, With sight and scent pursue her, Till, ah! her pith begins to flag, Nae cunning can rescue her.’ O’er dub and dyke, o’er seugh and syke, She’ll rin the fields all thorow, *Till, fail’d, she fa’s in Leader-haughs, And bids farewell to Yarrow. Sing Erslington and Cowdenknowes, Where Homes had ance commanding ; THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. And Drygrange, with thy milk-white ewes, *Twixt Tweed and Leader standing : The bird that flees through Reedpath trees, And Gledswood banks ilk morrow, May chant and sing, “ Sweet Leader-haughs, And bonny howmes of Yarrow!” But mmstrel Burne cannot assuage His grief, while life endureth, To see the changes of this age, That fleeting time procureth ; For mony a place stands in hard case, Where blithe folk ken’d nae sorrow With Homes that dwelt on Leader-side, And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow.’ NORLAND JOCKY AND SOUTH. LAND JENNY A soUTHLAND Jenny that was right bonny, Had for a suitor a norland Johnny ; But he was siccan a bashfu’ wooer, That he could scarcely speak unto her, Till blinks of her beauty, and hopes o’ her siller, Fore’d him at last to tell his mind till her: “My dear,” quoth he, “well nae langer tarry, Gin ye can lo’e me, let’s o’er the march and marry.” SHE. Come, cone away, then, my norland laddie, Tho’ we gang neatly, some are mair gaudy; And albeit I have neither gowd nor money, Come, and 1°ll ware my beauty on thee. HE. Ye lasses of the south, ye’re a’ for dressing ; Lasses of the north, mind milking and threshing ; My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad my daddie, Should I marry ane as dink as a lady ; For I maun ha’e a wife that will rise in the morning, Crudle a’ the milk, and keep the house a-scaulding, Toolie with her neebours, and learn at my minnie : A norland Jocky maun ha’e a norland Jenny. (1) [* This song is little better than a string of names of places, yet there is something so pleasing in it, especially to the ear of a *south-country man,’ that it has long maintained its place in our collections. We all know what impressive verse Milton makes out of mere catalogues of localities. The author, Niel Burne, is supposed to have been one of the last of the old race of minstrels. In an old collection of songs, in their original state of Ballants, I have seen his name printed as ‘Burne the Violer, which seems to indicate the instrument upon which he was in the practice of accompanying his recitations. I was told by an aged person at Earlston. that there used to be a portrait of him in Thirlsiane Castle, representing him as a douce old man, leading a cow by a straw-rope. Thirlstane Castle, the seat of the Earl of Lauderdale, near Lauder, is the castle of which the poet speaks in such terms of admiration. It derives the massive beauties of its architecture from the Duke of Lauderdale, who built it, as the date above the doorway testifies, in the year 1674: the song must, therefore, have been composed since that era. It was printed in the ‘ Tea- Table Miscellany ;’ which, taken in connection with the last stanza, seems ‘o point out that it was written at some of the periods of national commotion between the reigns of the last Charles and the first George—probably the Union. The ‘ Blainshe oats’ are still in repute, being used in many places for seed; and Lauderdale still boasts of all the other pleasant farms and estates which are here so endearingly commemorated by the poet.”—R. CHAMBERS, “ Scottish Songs,” vol. ii.] TIIE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 365 SHE. My father’s only daughter and twenty thousand pound, Shall never be bestow’d on sic a silly clown: For a’ that I said was to try what was in ye. Gae hame, ye norland Jock, and court your norland Jenny.’ THE HAPPY CLOWN. How happy is the rural clown, Who, far remov’d from noise of town, Contemns the glory of a crown, And in his safe retreat Is pleased with his low degree, Is rich in decent poverty, From strife, and care, and business free, At once baith good and great ! No drums disturb his morning sleep, He fears no danger of the deep; Nor noisy law nor courts ne’er heap Vexation on his mind: No trumpets rouse him to the war, No hopes can bribe, no threats can dare ; From state intrigues he holds afar, And liveth unconfin’d. Like those in golden ages born, He labours gently to adorn His small paternal fields of corn, And on their product feeds : Each season of the wheeling year, Industrious he improves with care ; And still some ripen’d fruits appear, So well his toil succeeds. Now by a silver stream he lies, And angles with his baits and flies ; And next the sylvan scene he tries, His spirit to regale ; Now from the rock or height he views His fleecy flock, or teeming cows, Then tunes his reed, or tries his muse, That waits his honest call. Amidst his harmless easy joys, No care his peace of mind destroys, Nor does he pass his time in toys Beneath his just 1egard : He’s fond to feel the zephyr’s breeze, To plant and sned his tender trees ; And for attending well his bees, Enjoys the sweet reward. (1) [There is good wholesome satire in this song, applicable at ubis day both to north and south.] The flow’ry meads, and silent coves, The scenes of faithful rural loves, And warbling birds on blooming groves, Afford a wish’d delight : But, oh! how pieasant is this life, Blest with a chaste and virtuous wife, And children prattling, void of strite, Around his fire at night ! WILLY WAS A WANTON WAG. WILLY was a wanton wag, The blithest lad that e’er I saw, At bridals still he bore the brag, And carried aye the gree awa’. His doublet was of Zetland shag, And wow! but Willy he was braw, And at his shouther hung a tag That pleas’d the lasses best of a’. He was a man without a clag, His heart was frank without a flaw ; And aye whatever Willy said, It was still hauden as a law. His buits they were made of the jag, When he went to the weapon shaw, Upon the green nane durst him brag, The fient a ane amang them a’. And was not Willy well worth gowd? He wan the love of great and sma’; For after he the bride had kiss’d, He kiss’d the lasses halesale a’. Sae merrily round the ring they row’d When be the hand he led them a’, And smack on smack on them bestow’d, By virtue of a standing law. And wasna Willy a great loun, As shyre a lick as e’er was seen? When he danc’d with the lasses round, The bridegroom speer’d where he had Seen: Quoth Willy, “I’ve been at the ring: With bobbing, faith, my shanks are sair! Gae ca’ your bride and maidens in, For Willy he dow do nae mair.” “Then rest ye, Willy, 1’ll gae out, And for a wee fill up the ring.” But, shame light on his souple snout, He wanted Willy’s wanton fling. Then straight he to the bride did fare, Says, “ Well’s me on your bonny face, With bobbing Willy’s shanks are sair, And I am come to fill his place.” 355 “ Bridegroom,” she says, “ you’ll spoil the dance, And at the ring you’ll aye be lag, Unless like Willy ye advance (Oh! Willy has a wanton leg) ; For wi’t he learns us a’ to steer, And foremost aye bears up the ring; We will find nae sic dancing here, If we want Willy’s wanton fling.”' CLELIA’S REFLECTIONS ON HERSELF, FOR SLIGHTING PHILANDER’S LOVE. Tune—* The Gallant Shoemaker.” Youne Philander woo’d me lang, But I was peevish, and forbad him ; T wadna tent his loving sang, But now I wish, I wish I had him. Tk morning when I view my glass, Then I perceive my beauty going ; And when the wrinkles seize the face, Then we may bid adieu to wooing. My beauty, ance so much admir’d, I find it fading fast, and flying ; My cheeks, which coral-like appear’d, Grow pale, the broken blood decaying : Ah! we may see ouxselves to be Like summer fruit that is unshaken ; When ripe, they soon fall down and die, And by corruption quickly taken! Use then your time, ye virgins fair, Employ your day before ’tis evil ; Fifteen is a season rare, But five and twenty is the devil. Just when ripe, consent unto ’t, Hug nae mair.your lanely pillow; Women are like other fruit, They lose their relish when too mellow. If opportunity be lost, You ll find it hard to be regain’d ; Which now I may tell to my cost, Tho’ but mysel’ nane can be blam’d: If, then, your fortune you respect, Take the occasion when it offers ; Nor a true lover’s suit neglect, Lest you be scoff’d for being scoffers. (1) [Contributed by the author, W. Walkinshaw of Walkin- slaw, to the “ Tea-Table Miscellany.” It is the only song in the collection with that signature. } THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. I, by his fond expressions thought That in his love he’d ne’er ptove changing; But now, alas! ’tis turn’d to naught, And, past my hope, he’s gane a-ranging. Dear maidens, then, take my advice, And letna coyness prove your ruin - For if ye be o’er foolish nice, Your suitors will give over wooing. Then maidens auld you named will be, And in that fretfu’ rank be number’d, As lang as life ; and when ye die, With leading apes be ever cumber’d : A punishment, and hated brand, With which nane of us are contented ; Then be not wise behind the hand, That the mistake may be prevented. THE YOUNG LADIES’ THANKS TO TIE REPENTING VIRGIN, FOR HER SEASONABLE ADVICE. On, virgin kind! we canna tell How many, many thanks we owe you, For pointing out to us sae well Those very rocks that did o’erthrow you ; And we your lesson sae shall mind That e’en tho’ a’ our kin had swore it, Ere we shall be an hour behind, ” We'll take a year or twa before it. We’ll catch all winds blow in our sails, And still keep out our flag and pinnet ; If young Philander ance assails To storm Love’s fort, then he shall win tt : We may indeed for modesty Present our forces for resistance ; But we shall quickly lay them by, And contribute to his assistance. JEANIE, WHERE HAS THOU BEEN ? “Ou, Jeanie, Jeanie! where hast thou been ? Father and mother are seeking of thee ; Ye have been ranting, playing the wanton, Keeping of Jocky company.” ‘Oh, Betty! I’ve been to hear the mill clack, Getting meal ground for the family, THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. As Yu’ as it gade, I brang hame the sack, For the miller has taken nae mouter frae me.” “ Ah! Jeanie, Jeanie, there’s meal on your back, The miller’s a wanton billie, and slee ; Tho’ victual’s come hame again hale, what-reck, I fear he has taken his mouter aff thee.” “ And, Betty, ye spread your linen to bleach, When that was done, where could you be ? Ha, lass! I saw you slip down the hedge, And wanton Willy was following thee.” “Ay, Jeanie, Jeanie, ye gade to the kirk ; But when it skail’d, where could you be ? Ye came nae hame till it was mirk, They say the kissing clerk came wi’ ye. Oh, silly lassie! what wilt thou do? Tf thou grow great, they "Il heeze thee high.”’ “Look to yersel’ ; if Jock prove true, The clerk frae creepies will keep me free.””! YE BLITHEST LADS. Tune— Last time I came o’er the Moor.” Y= blithest lads, and lasses gay, Hear what my sang discloses : As I ae morning sleeping lay Upon a bank of roses, Young Jamie whisking o’er the mead, By good luck chane’d to spy me; He took his bonnet aff his head, And saftly sat down by me. Jamie, tho’ I right meikle priz’d, Yet now I wadna ken him ; But with a frown my face disguis’d, And strave away to send him: But fondly he still nearer press’d, And by my side down lying, His beating heart thumped sae fast, T thought the lad was dying. But still resolving to deny, And angry passion feigning, I aften roughly shot him by, With words full of disdaining. 367 Poor Jamie balk’d, nae favour wins, Went aff much discontented ; But I in truth for a’ my sins Ne’er half sae sair repented. THE ARCHERS’ MARCH. Sotnp, sound the inusic, sound it, Let hills and dales rebound it, Let hills and dales rebound it, In praise of archery Its origin divine is, The practice brave and fine is, Which generously inclines us To guard our liberty. Art by the gods employed, By which heroes enjoyed, By which heroes enjoyed The wreaths of victory ! The deity of Parnassus, The god of soft caresses, Chaste Cynthia and her lasses, Delight in archery ! See, see yon bow extended! Tis Jove himself that bends it, Tis Jove himself that bends it, O’er clouds on high it glows. All nations, Turks and Parthians, The Tartars and the Scythians, The Arabs, Moors, and Indians, With bravery draw their bows. Our own true records tell us, That none could e’er excel us, That none could e’er excel us In martial archery : With shafts our sires engaging, Oppos’d the Roman raging, Defeat the fierce Norwegian, And spar’d few Danes to flee. Witness Largs? and Loncarty, Dunkeld and Aberlemno, Dunkeld and Aberlemno, Roslin and Bannockburn, (1) [An old song, partly re-written by Allan Ramsay.] (2) Largs, where the Norwegians, headed by their valiant king, Haco, were, A.D. 1263, totally defeated by Alexander ITIL., king of Scots; the heroic Alexander, great-steward of Scotland, com- manded the right wing. Loncarty, near Perth, where King Kenneth III. obtained the victory over the Danes, which was principally owing to the valour and resolution of the first brave Hay, and his two sons. Dunkeld; here, and in Kyle, and on the banks of Tay, our great «ing, Corbredns Galdus, in three battles overthrew thirty thousand Romans in the reign of the Emperor Domitian. Aberlemno, four miles from Brechin, where King Malcolm II. obtained a glorious victory over the united armies of Danes, Nor- wegians, Cumbrians, &c., commanded by Sueno, king of Den- mark, and his warlike son, Prince Canute. Roslin, about five miles south of Edinburgh, where ten thousand Scots, led by Sir John Cuming and Sir Simon Fraser, defeated in three battles, in one day, thirty thousand of their enemies, A. D. 1303. The battles of Bannockburn, Cheviot, &c., are so well known that they require no notice here.—Notes by ALLAN RAMBAY. 368 The Cheviots—all the border, Where bowmen in brave order Told enemies, if further They mov’d, they’d ne’er return. Sound, sound the music, sound it, Let hills and dales rebound it, Let hills and dales rebound it, In praise of archery ! Used as a game it pleases, The mind to joy it raises, And throws off all diseases Of lazy luxury. Now, now our care beguiling, When all the year looks smiling, When all the year looks smiling, With healthful harmony : The sun in glory glowing, With morning dew bestowing, Sweet fragrance, life, and growing, To flowers and every tree. *Tis now the archers royal, A hearty band and loyal, A hearty band and loyal, That in just thoughts agree, Appear in ancient bravery, Despising all base knavery, Which tends to bring in slavery Souls worthy to live free. Sound, sound the music, sound it, Fill up the glass, and round wi’t, Fill up the glass, and round wi’t! Health and prosperity T’ our great chief and officers, T’ our president and councillors : To all who, like their brave forbears, Delight in archery!? —— HARDYKNUTE. A FRAGMENT OF AN OLD HEROIC BALLAD? Sratety stept he east the wa’, And stately stept he west, Full seventy years he now had seen, With scarce seven years of rest; He n#d when Britain’s breach of faith Wrought Scotland meikle wae: THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY, And aye his sword tauld to their coet He was their deadly fae High on a hill his castle stude, With halls and towers a height, And gudely chambers fair to see, Where he lodg’d mony a knight. His dame sae peerless ance and fair, For chaste and beauty deem’d, Nae marrow had in all the land, Save Eleanor the queen. Full thirteen sons to him she bare, All men of valour stout : In bluidy fight, with sword in hand, Nine lost their lives bot doubt ; Four yet remain, lang may they live To stand by liege and land : High was their fame, high was their migil, And high was their command. Great love they bare to Fairly fair, Their sister saft and dear ; Her girdle show’d her middle jimp, And gowden glist her hair. What waefu’ wae her beauty bred ? Waefw’ to young and auld, Waefu’ I trow to kith and kin, As story ever tauld! The king of Norse in summer tide, Puffd up with power and might, Landed in fair Scotland the isle, With mony a hardy knight: ~ The tidings to our gude Scots king Came, as he sat at dine, With noble chiefs in brave array, Drinking the bluid-red wine. “To horse, to horse, my royal liege, - Your faes stand on the strand ! Full twenty thousand glittering spears, The king of Norse commands!” “ Bring me my steed Madge, dapple grey,” Our gude king raise and cried ; * A trustier beast in all the land A Scots king never seyd. “ Go, little page, tell Hardyknute, That lives on hills so high, To draw his sword, the dread of faes, And haste and follow me.” (1) [See ante—Miscellaneous Poems, p. 148, the ode on the has since his time been suggested that to this accomplished “Royal Company of Archers shooting for the Bowl, July 6th, person the world is indebted not only for “ Hardyknute,” but for 1724."] the more beautiful ballads of “Sir Patrick Spens,” “ Edward! (2) [Percy, im his “Reliques,” mentions the name of Lady Edward 1” and many others, long supposed to be of far remoter Wardlaw, but throws doubts on her authorship of this ballad, It | antiquity than her time.] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY 369 The httle page flew swift as dart Flung by his master’s arm : “ Come: down, come down, Lord Hardyknute, And rid your king frae harm !” Then reid, reid grew his dark-brown cheeks, Sae did his dark-brown brow; His looks grew keen, as they were wont In dangers great to do; He has tane a horn as green as grass, And gi’en five sounds sae shrill, That trees in greenwood shook thereat, Sae loud rang ilka hill. His sons in manly sport and glee Had pass’d the summer’s morn, When lo! down in a grassy dale, They heard their father’s horn. “That horn,” quoth they, “ne’er sounds in peace, We have other sport to bide!” And soon they hied them up the hill, And soon were at his side. “Late, late yestreen I ween’d in peace To end my lenthen’d life, My age might wéel excuse my arm Frae manly feats of strife ; But now that Norse does proudly boast Fair Scotland to enthral, It’s ne’er be said of Hardyknute He fear’d to fight or fall! “ Robin of Rothsay, bend thy bow, Thy arrows shoot so leal, Mony a comely countenance They have turn’d to deidly pale. Brave Thomas, tak’ ye but your lance, Ye need nae weapons mair, Gif ye fight wi’ it as ye did ance *Gainst Westmoreland’s fierce heir. “ Malcolm, light of foot as stag That runs in forest wild, Get me my thousands three of men Well bred to sword and shield: Bring me my horse and barnisine, My blade of mettle clear.” (If faes ken’d but the hand it bare, They soon had fled for fear.) “Fareweel, my dame, sae peerless good,” (And took her by the hand), “Fairer to me in age you seem, Than maids for beauty fam’d! My youngest son sall here remain To guard these stately towers, And shut the silver bolt that keeps Sae saft your painted bowers.” And first she wet her comely cheeks, And then her boddice green, Her silken cords of twirtle twist, Weel plet with silver sheen ; And apron set with mony a dyce Of needlewark sae rare, Wove by nae hand, as ye may guess, Save that of Fairly fair. And he has ridden owre muir and moss, Owre hills and mony a glen, When he came to a wounded knight Making a heavy mane: “Here maun I lie, here maun I die, By treachery’s false guiles ; Witless I was that e’er gave faith To wicked woman’s siniles.” “Sir knight, gin ye were in my bower To lean on silken seat, My lady’s kindly care you’d prove, Wha ne’er ken’d deidly hate ; Herscif wad watch ye all the day, Her maids a-deid of night ; And Fairly fair your heart wad cheer, As she stands in your sight. “ Arise, young knight, and mount your stced, Full lowns the shynand day, Choose frae my menzie whom ye please ‘Y'o lead ye on the way.” With smileless look and visage wan, The wounded knight replied, “Kind chieftain, your intent pursue, For here I maun abide. “To me nor after day nor night Can e’er be sweet or fair, But soon beneath some drapping tree, Cauld death sall end my care.” With him nae pleading might prevail ; Brave Hardyknute to gain, With fairest words and reason strang, Strave courteously in vain. Syne he has gane far hind attour Lord Chattan’s land sae wide : That lord a worthy wight was aye, When faes his courage seyd ; Of Pictish race by mother’s side, When Picts rul’d Caledon, Lord Chattan claim’d the princely wait, When he sav’d Pictish erown. Now with his fierce and stalwart tram, He reach’d a rising height, Where braid encamped on the dale, Norse army lay in sight : 3B 370 “ Yonder, my valiant sons and sirs, Our raging reivers wait, On the unconquer’d Scottish sward, To try with us our fate. Mak’ orisons to him who sav’d Our sauls upon the rood, Syne bravely show your veins are fill’d With Caledonian bluid !” Then forth he drew his trusty glaive, While thousands all around, Drawn frae their sheaths, glane’d in the sun, And loud the bugles sound. To join his king abune the hill In haste his march he made, While play and pibrochs, minstrels meet, Afore him stately strade. “Thrice welcome, valiant stoup of war, Thy nation’s shield and pride ! Thy king nae reason has to fear When thou art by his side.” ‘When bows were bent and darts were thrown, For thrang scarce could they flee, The darts clove arrows as they met, The arrows dart the tree. Lang did they rage and fight full fierce, With little skaith to man, But bluidy, bluidy was the field, Or that lang day was done. The king of Scots that sindle bruik’d The war that look’d like play, Drew his braid sword, and brake his bow, Sin’ bows seem’d but delay. Quoth noble Rethsay, “ Mine I’ll keep, I wat it’s bled a score.” “ Haste up, my merry men!” cried the king, As he rade on before. The king of Norse he sought to find, With him to mense the fight, But on his forehead there did light A sharp unsonsie shaft ; As he his hand put up to find The wound, an arrow keen, Oh, waefu’ chance! there pinn’d his hand In midst between his een. “Revenge, revenge!” cried Rothsay’s heir, “Your mail coat shall not bide The strength and sharpness of my dart Then sent it through his side. Another arrow weel he mark’d, It piere’d his neck in twa; His hands then quat the silver reins, Ile laigh as eard did fa’. 1» THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. “Sair bleeds my liege; sair, sair he bleedy!” Again with might he drew And gesture dreid his sturdy bow, Fast the braid arrow flew. Wae to the knight he ettled at, Lament now, queen Elgried ; High dames, too, wail your darling’s fall, His youth and comely meid. “ Take aff, take aff, his costly jupe ” (OF gold well was it twin’d, Knit like the fowler’s net, thro’ which His steely harness shin’d) ; “Take, Norse, that gift frae me, and bid Him ’venge the blood it bears ; © Say, if he face my bended bow, He sure nae weapon fears.” Proud Norse, with giant body tall, Braid shoulders and arms strong, Cried, “‘ Where is Hardyknute sae fam’d, And fear’d at Britain’s throne ? The Britons tremble at his name, I soon shall make him wail That e’er my sword was made sae sharp, Sae saft his coat of mail!” That brag his stout heart couldna bide, It lent him youthful might : “T’m Hardyknute! this day,” he cried, “To Scotland’s king I hecht To lay thee low as horse’s hoof : My word I mean to keep.” Syne with the first stroke e’er he straek, He garr’d his body bleed. Norse, e’en like grey goshawks, star’d wild, He sigh’d with shame and spite : “ Disgrac’d is now my far-fam’d arm That left thee power to strike!” Then gave his head a blow sae fell, It made him down to stoop, As low as he to ladies us’d In courtly guise to loot Full soon he rais’d his bent body, His bow he marvell’d sair, Sin’ blaws till then on him but darr’d As touch of Fairly fair : Norse ferlied, too, as sair as he To see his stately look ; Sae soon as e’er he straek a fae, Sae soon his life he took. Where, like a fire to heather set, Bauld Thomas did advance, A sturdy fae, with look enrag’d, Up towards him did prance ; + OW. ¢ f R AIR “y OF § Ee BIRA | u THE THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY, 371 He spurr’d his steed thro’ thickest rank, The hardy youth to quell, Wha stood unmov’d at his approach His fury to repell. “That short brown shaft sae meanly trimm’d, Looks like poor Scotland’s gear, But dreidful seems the rusty point And loud he laugh’d in jeer. “ Aft Britain’s bluid has dim’d its shine, This point cut short their vaunt !” Syne piere’d the boaster’s bairded cheek, Nae time he took to taunt. 1 Shortwhile he in his saddle swang, His stirrup was nae stay, Sae feeble hung his unbent knee, Sure taken he was fey: Swith on the hardcn’d clay he fell, Right far was heard the thud; But Thomas look’d not as he lay All weltering in his bluid. With careless gesture, mind unmov’d, On rade he north the plain, His seim in thrang of fiercest strife, When winner aye the same : Nor yet his heart dame’s dimpled cheek, Could meise saft love to brook, Till vengeful Ann return’d his scorn, Then languid grew his look. In throes of death, with wallow’d cheek, All panting on the plain, The fainting corps of warriors lay, Ne’er to arise again ; Ne’er to return to native land, Nae mair with blithesome sounds, To boast the glories of the day, And show their shining wounds. On Norway’s coast the widow’d dame May wash the rocks with tears ; May lang look owre the shipless seas, Before her mate appears. Cease, Emma, cease to hope in vain, Thy lord lies in the clay ; The valiant Scots nae reivers thole To carry life away. There on a lea where stands a cross, Set up for monument, Thousands full fierce that summer’s day Fill’d keen war’s black intent. Let Scots, while Scots, praise Hardyknute, Let Norse the name aye dreid, Aye how he fought, aft how he spar’d, Sall latest ages read. Loud and chill blew westlin wind, Sair beat the heavy shower, Mirk grew the night ere Hardyknute Wan near his stately tower ; His tower that us’d with torches bleeze To shine sae far at night, Seem’d now as black as mourning weed : Nae marvel sair he sigh’d. “ There ’s nae light in my lady’s bower, There’s nae light in my hall ; Nae blink shines round my Fairly fair, Nor ward stands on my wall. What bodes it? Robert, Thomas, say!” Nae answer fits their dreid. “Stand back, my sons, 1’ll be your guide ;” But by they pass’d with speed. ‘As fast as I have sped owre Scotland’s faes—” There ceas’d his brag of war, Sair sham’d to mind aught but his dame, And maiden Fairly fair. Black fear he felt; but what to fear He wist not, yet with dreid Sair shook his body, sair his limbs, And all the warrior fled. * * * oe * * THE BRAES OF YARROW. ‘* Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And let us leave the braes of Yarrow.” “Where got ye that bonny bonny bride, Where got ye that winsome marrow ?” “T got her where I durst not well be seen, Pouing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. “Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow, Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pouing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.” “Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride P Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? And why dare ye nae mair well be seen Pouing the birks on the braes of Yarrow ?” “Lang must she weep, lang must she, must she weep, Lang must she weep with dole and sorrow, And lang must I nae mair well be seen Pouing the birks on the braes of Yarrow, 372 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. “For she has tint her lover, lover dear, Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow ; And I have slain the comeliest, swain That ever poued birks on the braes of Yarrow. “Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid ? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why you melancholious weeds, Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? “What ’s yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood P What’s yonder floats ? Oh, dole and sorrow! Oh! ’tis the comely swain I slew Upon the doleful braes of Yarrow ! * Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears of dole and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the braes of Yarrow! “Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in woeful wise, His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. “ Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that piere’d his breast, His comely breast on the braes of Yarrow “Did I not warn thee not to, not to love, And warn from fight? but to my sorrow, Too rashly bold, a stronger arm Thou met’st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow. “Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow’s braes the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. “Flows Yarrow sweet, as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple from its rocks as mellow. “Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love, In flow’ry bands thou didst him fetter ; Tho’ he was fair, and well belov’d again, Than me he never lov’d thee better. * Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, then busk,; my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lo’e me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.” ‘How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow ? How lo’e him on the banks of Tweed That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow ? “Qh, Yarrow fields! may never, never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was vilely kill’d my love, My love as he had not been a lover ! “The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, ’twas my ain sewing : Ah! wretched me, [I little, little knew, He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dole and sorrow, But ere the toofal of the night, He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. “ Much I rejoie’d that woeful, woeful day, I sung, my voice the woods returning; But lang ere night the spear was flown That slew my love, and left me mourning. “What can my barbarous, barbarous father d), But with his cruel rage pursue me? My lover’s blood is on thy spear ; How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me ? “My happy sisters may be, may be proud; With cruel and ungentle scoffing, May bid me seek on Yarrow’s braes My lover nailed in his coffin. “My brother Douglas may upbraid, And strive with threat’ning words to move me ; My lover’s blood is on thy spear, How canst thou ever bid me love thee? “Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal sheets my body cover; Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband lover ! “But who the expected husband, husband is? His hands, methinks, are bath’d in slaughter. Ah me! what ghastly spectre’s yon, Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding, after ? “Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow! Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds, And crown my careful head with yellow. “Pale tho’ thou art, yet best, yet: best belov’d, Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee, THE TEA-TABLE. MISCELLANY. Ye ’t lie all night between my breasts : No youth lay ever there before thee ! “Pale, indeed, oh, lovely, lovely youth ! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts, No youth shall ever lie there after.” Return, return, oh, mournful, mournful bride ! Return and dry thy useless sorrow; Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs, He lies a corpse in the braes of Yarrow.! FAREWELL, MY BONNY MAGGY. Farewe 1, my bonny, bonny, witty, pretty Maggy, And a’ the rosy lasses milking on the down: Adieu the flow’ry meadows, aft sae dear to Jocky, The sports and merry glee of Edinboro’ town ! Since French and Spanish louns stand at bay, And valiant lads of Britain hold ’em play, My reap-hook I maun cast quite away, 373 And fight too like a man, Among ’em for our royal queen Anne. Each carle of Irish mettle battles like a dragon : The Germans waddle, and straddle to the drum: The Italian and the butter bowzy Hogan Mogan : Good-faith then, Scottish Jocky mauna lie at hame! For since they are ganging to hunt renown, And swear they ’Il quickly ding auld Monsiew down, I’1 follow for a pluck at his crown, To show that Scotland can Excel ’em for our royal queen Anne. Then welcome from Vigo, And cudgelling Don Diego, With strutting rascallions, And plundering the galleons : Fach brisk valiant fellow Fought at Rondondello, And those who did meet With the Newfoundland fleet ; When for late successes Which Europe confesses, (1) [By William Hamilton of Bangour: one of the most beau- tiful'and pathetic ballads ever written, and a composition which enshrines the name of Yarrow with a glory for evermore. The following older composition, with the same title, and which appears to have been the prototype of all the ballads in celebration of the tragedy of Yarrow, appears in Buchan’s Collection :— THE BRAES 0’ YARROW. Ten lords sat drinking at the wine Intill the morning early; There fell a combat them amang, It must be fought—nae parly. “O stay at hame, my ain gude lord, O stay, my ain dear marrow.” “Sweetest min’, I will be thine, And dine wi’ you to-morrow.” She ’s kissed his lips and comb’d his hair, As she had dune before O, Gied him a brand down by his side, And he is on to Yarrow. As he gaed ower yon dowie knowe, As aft he’d dune before O, Nine armed men lay inaden ° Upo’ the braes o’ Yarrow : “0 came ye here to hunt or hawk, Ags ye ha’e dune before 0? Or came ye here to weil your brand Upo’ the braes o’ Yarrow?” “T came nae here to hunt nor hawk, As I ha’e dune before O, Bnt I came here to wiel my brand Upo’ the braes o’ Yarrow.” Four he hurt, and five he slew, Till down it fell himsel’ O, There stood a fause lord him behin’, Who thrust him thro’ body and mell 0. “ Gae hame, gae hame, my brother John, And tell your sister sorrow, Your mother to come take up her son Aff o’ the braes o’ Yarrow.” As he gaed ower yon high high hill, As he had dune before O, There he met his sister dear, Came rinnin fast to Yarrow. “IT dreamt a dream last night,” she says, “T wish it binna sorrow ; I dreamt I was pouing the heather green Upo’ the braes o’ Yarrow.” “Tl read your dream, sister,” he says, “Tl read it into sorrow: Ye’re bidden gae take up your love, He’s sleeping sound on Yarrow.” She’s torn the ribbons frae her head, They were baith thick and narrow; She’s kilted up her clean claithing, And she’s awa’ to Yarrow. She’s ta’en him in her arms twa, And gi’en him kisses thorough ; And wi? her tears she bath’d his wounas, Upo’ the braes o’ Yarrow. Her father looking ower his castle wa’, Beheld his daughter’s sorrow : “O haud your tongue, daughter,” he says, * And let be a’ your sorrow: I'll wed you wi’ a better man Than he that died on Yarrow.” “OQ haud your tongue, father,” she says, “ And let be till to-morrow, A better lord there couldna be Than he that died on Yarrow.” She kissed his lips and comb’d his hair, As she had dune before 0; Then wi’ a crack her heart did braek, Upo’ the braes o’ Yarrow. ] a74 At land by our gallant commanders, The Dutch in strong beer, Should be drunk for a year, With their general’s health in Flanders.! ETTRICK BANKS. On Ettrick banks, in a summer’s night, At gloamin when the sheep drave hame, I met my lassie braw and tight, Come wading, barefoot, a’ her lane: My heart grew light, I ran, I flang My arms about her lily neck, And kiss’d and clapp’d her there fu’ lang ; My words they werena mony feck. T said, “My lassie, will ye gae To the Highland hills, the Earse to learn? T’ll baith gi’e thee a cow and ewe, When ye come to the brig of Earn. At Leith auld meal comes in, ne’er fash, And herrings at the Bromielaw, Cheer up your heart, my bonny lass, There ’s gear to win we never saw. All day when we have wrought enough, When winter frosts and snaw begin, Soon as the sun gaes west the loch, At night when you sit down to spin, T’ll screw my pipes and play a spring : And thus the weary night will end, Till the tender kid and lamb-time bring Our pleasant summer back again. “Syne when the trees are in’their bloom, And gowans glent o’er ilka field, 1’ll meet my lass amang the broom, And lead you to my summer shield Then far frae a’ their scornfu’ din, That make the kindly hearts their sport, We'll laugh and kiss, and dance and sing, And gar the langest day seem short.”’? (1) [On the 12th of October, 1702, Admiral Sir George Rooke, with the confederate fleet, attacked the French fleet commanded by Admural Chateaurenaud, and the Spanish galleons, in the port of Vigo. The English captured four galleons and five large ships of war, and the Dutch—whom the author of the song calls the “ butter bowzy Hogan Mogans ”—five galleons, and one man- of-war. Six other galleons, and fourteen men-of-war of the enemy, were destroyed, and a large quantity of booty was taken by the Dutch and English. The Duke of Ormond, with his lend forces, greatly contributed to the victory, and on the 13th of November following, both he and Admiral Rooke received the thanks of parliament. The French settlements of Newfoundlana were destroyed ubout the same time by Captain, aflerwards Admiral Leake, who took upon the occasion twenty-nine sail of the enemy’s vessels, and burned twenty-two more.] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. Tue smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tuneful birds to sing; And while they warble from the spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them, improve the hour that flies ; And in soft raptures waste the day Among the birks of Invermay. For soon the winter of the year, And age, life’s winter, will appear: At this thy living bloom will fade, As that will strip the verdant shade : Our taste of pleasure then is o’er, The feather’d songsters are no more; And when they droop, and we decay, Qs Adieu the birks of Invermay! a The lav’rocks now and lint-whites sing, The rocks around with echoes ring , The mavis and the blackbird vie In tuneful strains to glad the day; The woods now wear their summer suits; To mirth all nature now invites : Let us be blithesome then and gay Among the birks of Invermay. Behold, the hills and vales around With lowing herds and flocks abound ; The wanton kids and frisking lambs Gambol and dance about their dams ; The busy bees with humming noise, And all the reptile kind rejoice : Let us, like them, then sing and play About the birks of Invermay. Hark, how the waters, as they fall, Loudly my love to gladness call ; The wanton waves sport in the beams, And fishes play throughout the streams ; The circling sun does now advance, And all the planets round him dance: Let us as jovial be as they Among the birks of Invermay.® (2) [No clue has been discovered to the authorship of this favourite pastoral song. It has not been claimed by Ramsay him- self. In the “ Musical Museum,” the fourth line of the first stanza, so nationally characteristic, has been unnecessarily altered into— “ While wandering thro’ the mist her lane.’’] (8) [The beautiful air to which this song is sung was, prior to the appearance of the “Tea-Table Miscellany,” known as “The Birks of Endermay;” but, as there is no place of this name in Scotland, it was appropriately altered to Invermay—a beautiful spot, richly wooded, where the little stream, the May, tlows into the Earn, about five miles from the Bridge of Earn, and nine from Perth. The first two stanzas are the composition of David Mal- loch, ar Mallet; the last three were added by the Rev. Dr. Bryce, of Kuknewton; but neither of the rhymers has succeeded in ‘A fe Neg et THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 375 RARE WILLY, DROWN’D IN YARROW. “Wuty’s rare, and Willy’s fair, And Willy ’s wond’rous bonny ; And Willy hecht to marry me, Gin e’er he married ony. “Yestreen 1 made my bed fu’ braid, This night I’ll make it narrow ; For a’ the live-lang winter night Tlie twin’d of my marrow. *O came you by yon water-side, Pou’d you the rose or lily? “Or came you by yon meadow green P Or saw you my sweet Willy ?” She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow ; Syne in the cleaving of a craig She found him, drown’d in Yarrow.! en SWEET WILLIAM’S GHOST. THERE came a ghost to Marg’ret’s door, With many a grievous groan, And aye he tirled at the pin, But answer made she none. “Ts that my father Philip, Or is’t my brother John ? Or ist my true love Willy, From Scotland new come home ?” “Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John ; But ’tis thy true love Willy, From Scotland new come home. ‘Oh, sweet Marg’ret ! Oh, dear Marg’ret ! I pray thee speak to me; Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret, As I gave it to thee.” “Thy faith and troth thou’se never get, Nor yet will I thee lend, Till that thou come within my bower, Aud kiss my cheek and chin.” doing justice to the melody. Mallet’s share of the labour is, how- ever, far preferable to that of the Reverend Doctor, who may have been a good preacher, but who certainly was no poet. It is difficult to imagine 4 worse song, or @ lamer specimen of versifivation. The stanzas may be “ words,” as musical composers delipht in calling sungs, but they are words without sense in them.] “Tf 1 should come within thy vower, T am no earthly man ; And should I kiss thy rosy lips, Thy days will not be lang. “Oh, sweet Marg’ret ! Oh, dear Marg’ret ! I pray thee speak to me ; Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret, Ce I gave it to thee.” “Thy faith and troth thou’s never get, Nor yet will I thee lend, Till you take me to yon kirk-yard, And wed me with a ring.” “My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard, Afar beyond the sea ; And it is but my spirit, Marg’ ret, That ’s now speaking to thee.” She stretch’d out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best, “Ha’e there’s your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul good rest.” Now she has kilted her robes of green A piece below her knee, And a’ the live-lang winter night The dead corpse followed she. “Ts there any room at your head, Willy ? Or any room at your feet ? Or any room at your side, Willy, Wherein that I may creep ?” “There ’s no room at my head, Marg’ret, There’s no room at my feet, There ’s no room at my side, Marg’ ret, My coffin’s made so meet.” Then up and crew the red, red cock, And up then crew the grey : ‘Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ ret, That you were going away.” No more the ghost to Marg’ret said, But with a grievous groan, Evanish’d in a cloud of mist, And left her all alone. “Oh stay, my own true love, stay |” The constant Marg’ret. cried : Wan grew her cheeks, she clos’d her een, Stretch’d her soft limbs, and died.? (1) [One of the numerous compositions, of little merit, excited by the old and tragic story of the ‘‘ Braes o’ Yarrow.”)} (2) [Another version of this wild and weird ballad appears in Motherwell’s Collection under the title of “ William and Marjorie ” The reader will also find it, varied in many lines and stanzaa, io the collection of Mr. Robert Chambers.] 376 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. UNGRATEFUL NANNY. Dip ever swain a nymph adore, As I ungrateful Nanny do ? Was ever shepherd’s heart so sore, Or ever broken heart so true ? My cheeks are swell’d with tears, but she Has never wet a cheek for me. If Nanny call’d, did e’er I stay, Or linger when she bid me run ? She only had the word to say, And all she wish’d was quickly done. I always think of her, but she Does ne’er bestow a thought on me. To let her cows my clover taste, Have I not rose by break of day ? Did ever Nanny’s heifers fast, If Robin in his barn had hay? Tho’ to my fields they welcome were, T ne’er was welcome yet to her. If ever Nanny lost a sheep, I cheerfully did give her two; - And I her lambs did safely keep Within my folds in frost and snow ; Have they not there from cold been free ? But Nanny still is cold to me. When Nanny to the well did come, *Twas I that did her pitchers fill ; Full as they were, I brought them home: Her corn I carried to the mill ; My back did bear the sack, but she Will never bear a sight of me. To Nanny’s poultry oats I gave, I’m sure they always had the best ; Within this week her pigeons have Eat up a peck of pease at least. Her little pigeons kiss, but she Will never take a kiss from me. Must Robin always Nanny woo, And Nanny still on Robin frown ? Alas! poor wretch! what shall I do, If Nanny does not love me soon ? If no relief to me she’ll bring, T’ll hang me in her apron-string !} (1) [The author of this pastoral—which is more English than Scottish in its character—was Charles Hamilton, Lord Binning, eldest son of the Earl of Haddington, born 1696, died 1736.] WATTY AND MADGE. IN IMITATION OF “ WILLIAM AND MARGARET,” *Twas at the shining niid-day hour When all began to gaunt, That hunger rugg’d at Watty’s breast, And the poor lad grew faint. His face was like a bacon ham That lang in reek had hung, And horn-hard was his tawny hand That held his hazel-rung. So wad the saftest face appear Of the maist dressy spark, And such the hands that lords wad ha’e, Were they kept close at wark. His head was like a heathery bush Beneath his bonnet blue ; On his braid cheeks, frae lug to lug, His bairdy bristles grew. But hunger, like a gnawing worm, Gade rumbling through his kyte, And nothing now but solid gear Could give his heart delight. He to the kitchen ran with speed, To his lov’d Madge he ran, Sunk down into the chimney-nook With visage sour and wan. . “Get up,” he cries, “my creshie love, Support my sinking saul ; With something that is fit to chew, Be’t either hot or caul. “ This is the howe and hungry hour, When the best cures for grief Are oog-fu’s of the lithy kail, And a good junt of beef.” “Oh Watty, Watty,” Madge replies, “T but o’er justly trow’d Your love was thowless, and that ye For cake and pudding woo’d. “ Bethink thee, Watty, on that night, When all were fast asleep, How ye kiss’d me frae cheek to cheek, Now leave these cheeks to dreep. “ How could ye ca’ my hurdies fat, And comfort of your sight ? THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. How could ye roose my dimpled hand, Now all my dimples slight ? “Why did you promise me a snood, To bind my locks sae brown ? Why did you me fine garters hecht, Yet let my hose fa’ down ? “Qh, faithless Watty! think how aft I ment your sarks and hose! For you how many bannocks stown, How many cogs of brose ! “ But hark !—the kail-bell rings, and I Maun gae link aff the pot; Come see, ye hash, how sair I sweat, To stech your guts, ye sot!” The grace was said, the master serv’d, Fat Madge return’d again, Blithe Watty raise and rax’d himsel’, And fidg’d, he was sae fain. He hied him to the savoury bench, Where a warm haggis stood, And gart his gully thro’ the bag, Let out its fat heart’s blood. And thrice he cried, “Come, eat, dear Madge, Of this delicious fare!” Syne claw’d it aff most cleverly, Till he could eat nae mair. WERE NOT MY HEART LIGHT, I WAD DIE. THERE was ance a May, and she lo’ed no men, She biggit her bonny bower down in yon glen, But now she cries “ Dool! and well-a-day ! Come down the green gate, and come here away.” But now she, &c. “ When bonny young Johnny came over the sea, He said he saw naething sae lovely as me; He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things ; And werena my heart light I wad die. He hecht, &c. “He had a wee titty that lo’ed no me, Because I was twice as bonny as she ; She rais’d such a pother ’twixt him and his mother, That werena my heart light I wad die. She rais’d, &e. “The day it was set, and the bridal to be, The wife took a dwam, and lay down to die ; She main’d and she grain’d out of dolour and pain, Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. She main’d, &c. “ His kin was for ane of a higher degree, Said, what had he to do with the like of me P Albeit I was bonny I wasna for Johnny ; And werena my heart light I wad die. Albeit I was, &c. “ They said, 1 had neither cow nor calf, Nor dribbles of drink rin thro’ the draff, Nor pickles of meal rin thro’ the milLeye , And werena my heart light I wad die. Nor pickles of, &c. “ His titty she was baith wily and slee, She spied me as I came o’er the lea; And then she ran in and made a loud din; Believe your ain een, an’ ye trow na me. And then she, &c. “His bonnet stood aye fu’ round on his brow, His auld ane looks aye as well as some’s new : But now he lets ’t wear ony gate it will hing, And casts himsel’ dowie upon the corn-bing. But now he, &. “ And now he gaes drooping about the dykes, And a’ he dow do is to hound the tykes : The live-lang night he ne’er steeks his e’e, And were na my heart light I wad die. The live-lang, &. “Were I young for thee, as I ha’e been, We should ha’e been galloping down on yon green, And linking it on the lily-white lea; And wow! gin I were but young for thee.. And linking, &.”? —_e——_ OH, MY HEAVY HEART! Tune—“ The Broom of Cowdenknowes.”” Ou, my heart, my heavy, heavy heart, Swells as ’t would burst in twain ! No tongue can e’er describe its smart, Nor I conceai its pain ! (1) [This popular song was written by the Lady Grizzel Baillie, daughter of Patrick, Earl of Marchmont, and wife of George Baillie, Esq., of Jerviswood. She died in 1746. Her Memoirs, written by her daughter, Lady Murray of Stanhope, were published in the present century.} 36 373 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. Blow on, ye winds, descend, soft rains, To sooth my tender grief ; Your solemn music lulls my pains, And yields me short relief. Oh, my heart! &e. Iv some lone corner would I sit, Retired from human kind, Since mirth, nor show, nor sparkling wit, Can ease my anxious mind. Oh, my heart! &. The sun, which makes all nature gay, Torments my weary eyes, And in dark shades I pass the day, Where echo sleeping lies. Oh, my heart! &. The sparkling stars which gaily shine, And glittering deck the night, Are all such cruel foes of mine, T sicken at their sight. Qh, my heart! &c. The gods themselves their creatures love, Who do their aid implore ; Oh, learn of them, and bless the nymph Who only you adore !” Oh, my heart! &. The strongest passion of the mind, The greatest bliss we know, Arises from successful love, If not the greatest woe. Oh, my heart! &. BONNY BARBARA ALLAN. Ir was in and about the Martinmas time, When the green leaves were a-falling, That Sir John Greme in the west country Fell in love with Barbara Allan. He sent his men down through the town, To the place where she was dwelling— “‘O haste and come to my master dear, — Gin ye be Barbara Allan.” O hoolie, hoolie rose she up, To the place where he was lying, And when she drew the curtain by— “Young man, 1 think you’re dying.” “Oh, it’s I’m sick, and very very sick, And ’tis a’ for Barbara Allan.” “Q the better for me ye’se never be, Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spilling. “Oh, dinna ye mind, young man,” said she, “When ye was in the tavern a-drinking, That ye made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan ?” He turn’d his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealing . “ Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allan.” And slowly, slowly raise she up, And slowly, slowly left him ; And sighing, said, “She couldua stay, Since death of life had reft him.” She hadna gane a mile bot twa, When she heard the dead bell ringing, And every jow that the dead-bell gied, It cried, “ Woe to Barbara Allan!” “Oh, mother, mother! make my bed, Oh, make it saft and narrow, Since my love died for me to-day, I’ die for him to-morrow! ””! THE BONNY EARL OF MURRAY. Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands, Oh! where have you been? They have slain the Earl of Murray, And they laid him on the green! They have, &. , Now wae be to thee, Huntly, And wherefore did you sae ? I bade you bring him wi’ you, But forbade you him to slay. I bade, &c. He was a braw gallant, And he rode at the ring ; And the bonny Earl of Murray Oh! he might have been a king. And the, &c. He was a braw gallant, And he play’d at the ba’; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the flower amang them 2’, And the, &c. (1) (Another version of this ballad, under the title of “ Barbara Allan’s Cruelty,” appears in Percy’s “ Reliques.” The catastrophe and the main points of the story are the same.] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. He was a braw gallant, And he play’d at the glove; And the bonny Earl of Murray Oh! he was the queen’s love. And the, &c. Oh! lang will his lady Look o’er the castle down, Fer she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding thro’ the town F’er she, &c.? THE FUMBLER’S RANT? Come carles a’ of fumblers ha And I will tell you of our fate, Since we have married wives that’s braw, And canna please them when ’tis late : A pint we’ll take, our hearts to cheer ; What fauts we have, our wives can tell: Gar bring us in baith ale and beer, The auldest bairn we ha’e’s oursel’. Christ’ning of weans we are redd off, The parish priest ’tis he can tell, 379 We owe him naught but a grey groat, The offering for the house we dwell. Our bairn’s tocher is a’ paid, We’re masters of the gear oursel’ ; Let either weal or wae hetide, Here’s a health to a’ the wives that’s ycll. Our neibour’s auld son and the lass, Into the barn amang the strae, He grips her in the dark beguess, And after that comes meikle wae. Repentence aye comes afterbin’. It cost the carl baith corn and hay ; We’re quat of that with little din, Sic crosses haunt ne’er you nor I. Now merry, merry may we be, When we think on our neibour Robbie, The way the carl does, we see, W? his auld son and his daughter Magey : Boots he maun ha’e, pistols why not ? The hussy maun ha’e corkit shoon ! We are no sae; gar fill the pot, We’ll drink to a’ the hours at e’en. Here’s a health to John Mackay well drink, To Hughie, Andrew, Rob, and Tam; (1) [The tradition on which this ballad is founded is thus related by Sir Walter Scott, in “The Tales of a Grandfather :”— “ The Earl of Huntly, head of the powerful family of Gordon, had chanced to have some feudal differences with the Earl of Murray, in the course of which John Gordon, a brother of Gordon of Cluny, was killed by a shot from Murray’s Castle of Darnaway. This was enough to make the two families irreconcilable enemies, even if they had been otherwise on friendly terms, About 1591-2, an accusation was brought against Murray for having given some countenance or assistance to Stewart, Earl of Bothwell, in a recent treasonable exploit. King James, without recollecting, perhaps, the hostility between the two earls, sent Huntly with a commis- sion to bring the Earl of Murray to his presence. Huntly probably rejoiced in the errand, as giving him an opportunity of revenzing himself on hisfeudal enemy. He beset the house of Dunnibrissle, on the northern shore of the Forth, and summoned Murray to swrender. In reply a gun was fired, which mortally wounded one of the Gordons. He afterwards proceeded to set fire to the house, when Dunbar, sheriff of the county of Moray, said to the earl, ‘Let me not stay to be burned in the flaming house; I will go out foremost, and the Gordons, taking me for your lordship, will kill me, while you escape in the confusion.’ They rushed out among their enemics accordingly, and Dunbar was slain, but his death did not save his friend, as he had generously intended. Murray indeed escaped for the moment, but as he fled towards the rocks of the sea-shore, he was traced by the silken tassels at- tached to his head-piece, which had taken fire as he broke out among the flames. By this means his pursuers followed him down amongst the cliffs near the sea, and Gordon of Buckie, who is said to have been the first that overtook him, wounded him mortally. As Murray was gasping in the last agony, Huntly came up; and it is alleged by tradition that Gordon pointed his dirk against the person of his chief, saying, ‘By heaven, my lord, you shall be as deep in as I!’ and so he compelled him to wound Murray whilst he was dying. Huntly, with a wavering band, struck the expiring earl in the face. Thinking of his superior beauty, even in that moment of parting life, Murray stammered out the dying words, ‘ You have spoiled a better face than your own.’ “ After this deed of violence, Huntly did not choose to return to Edinburgh, but departed for the north. He took refuge, for the moment, in the Castle of Ravenscraig, belonging to the Lord Sinclair, with a mixture of Scottish caution and hospitality that he was welcome to come in, but would have been twice as welcome to have passed by. Gordon, when a long period had passed by, avowed his contrition for the guilt he had incurred. “Tt is a strange circumstance, but characteristic of the times, that this Gordon of Buckie was the person selected by Huntly to go over to Edinburgh to inform the king of the transaction. He did so, and escaped without being seized. The botlies of the earl and the sheriff of Moray lay for several months exposed in the Church of Leith. Their friends refused to bury them till their murder should be avenged, but they were never gratified in their wish. ‘Forty-three years afterwards, when advanced to extreme old age, Gordon testified his contrition for the murder of Murray, on a very remarkable occasion. Being one of the jury at the trial of Balmerino, for lease making, on which occasion it was calculated that he would be sure to vote against the accused, he disappointed the expectations of all concerned, by rising up as soon as the assize was enclosed, and implored them to consider well what they were about before giving an unfavourable verdict. ‘It was a matter of blood,’ he said, ‘and if they determined to shed that, they might feel the weight of it as long as they lived. He him- self had been drawn in to shed blood in his youth; he had obtained the king’s pardon for the offence. but it cost him more to obtain God’s grace. It had given him many sorrowful hours.’ As he said this, the tears ran over his face. Burnet records, in his gossiping history, that the speech of the old man struck a damp into the rest of the assize, though it did not prevent them from finding Balmerino guilty. It must have assured many a strange sight, to see this hoary murderer, who had been marked as a man sure to obey the tyrannical dictates of a court, rise up, and, with tears in his eyes, implore the gentler personages around hiin to pause, before shedding innocent blood.” ] (2) [In this song may be found .e germ of Burns's ** Wile brew’d a peck of maut.’’] THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. We'll sit and drink, well nod and wink, It is ower soon for us to gang. Foul fa’ the cock, he’s spilt the play, And I do trow he’s but a fool; We'll sit awhile, ’tis land to day, For a’ the cocks they rave at Yule. Since we have met, we ’ll merry be, The foremaist hame shall bear the mell ; I'll set me down, lest I be fee, For fear that I should bear ’t mysel’. “ And I,” quoth Rob, and down sat he, “The gear shall never me outride; But we’ll tak’ a sowp of the barley-bree, And drink to our yell fire-side.” ——»——_ SMIRKY NAN. Tune—“ Nanny 0.” “ An, woe’s me!” poor Willy cried, “See how I’m wasted to a span ? My heart I lost, when first I spied The charming, lovely milk-maid, Nan. I’m grown sae weak, a gentle breeze, Of dusky Roger’s winnowing fan Would blow me o’er yon beachy trees, And all for thee, my smirky Nan. “The ale-wife misses me of late, I us’d to take a hearty can ; But I can neither drink nor eat, Unless ’tis brew’d and baked by Nan. The baker makes the best of bread, The flour he takes, and leaves the bran ; The bran is every other maid, Compar’d with thee, my smirky Nan. “ But Dick of the Green, that nasty loun, Last Sunday to my mistress ran: He snatch’d a kiss; I knock’d him down, Which hugely pleas’d my smirky Nan. But hark! the roaring soger comes, And rattles tantarra-tarran : She leaves her cows for noisy drums, Woe’s me, I’ve lost my smirky Nan!” —e— HODGE OF THE MILL AND BUXOM NELL. Youne Roger of the mill, One morning very soon, Put on his best apparel, New hose and clouted shoon ; And he a-woomg came ? To bonny buxom Nell : “ Dear lass,” cries he, “couldst fancy me ? I like thee wondrous well. “My horses I have dress’d, And gi’en them corn and hay, Put on my best apparel: And having come this way, Let’s sit and chat awhile With thee, my bonny Nell. Dear lass,” cries he, “couldst fancy me ? T’se like thy person well.” “Young Roger, you’re mistaken,” The damsel then replied, “JT am not in such a haste To be a ploughman’s bride ; Know, I then live in hopes To marry a farmer’s son!” “Tf it be so,” says Hodge, “I’ll go; Sweet mistress, I have done.” “Your horses you have dress’d, Good Hodge, I heard you say, Put on your best apparel ; And being come this way, Come sit and chat awhile.” *Q no, indeed, not I! I'll neither wait, nor sit, nor prate, I’ve other fish to fry. “Go take your farmer’s son, With all my honest heart : What tho’ my name be Roger, That goes at plough and cart, I need not tarry long, I soon may gain a wife! There’s buxom Joan, it is well known She loves me as her life.” “ Pray what of buxom Joan ? Can’t I please you as well ? For she has ne’er a penny, And I am buxom Nell; And I have fifty shillings.” The money made him smile : “Oh then, my dear, I °ll draw a chair, And chat with thee awhile.” Within the space of half an hour This couple a bargain struck, Hoping that with their money They both would have good luck. “To your fifty I’ve forty, With which a cow we’ll buy ; We'll join our hands in wedlock’s bands, Then who but. you and I?” THE 'TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. TARRY WOO’. TaRry woo’, tarry woo’, Tarry woo’ is ill to spin ; Card it well, card it well, Card it well ere you begin. When ’tis carded, row’d, and spun, Then the work is hafiens done ; But when woven, dress’d, and clean, It may be cleading for a queen. Sing, my bonny harmless sheep, That feed upon the mountains steep, Bleating sweetly as ye go Thro’ the winter’s frost and snow. Tart and hind, and fallow deer, No by half sae useful are ; Frae kings to him hauds the plough, Are all oblig’d to tarry woo’. Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip, O’er the hills and valleys trip ! Sing up the praise of tarry woo’, Sing the flocks that bear it too! Harmless creatures without blame, That clead the back, and cram the wame, Keep us warm and hearty fu’ ; Leeze me on the tarry woo’. How happy is a shepherd’s life, Far frae courts, and free of strife, While the gimmers bleat and bae, And the lambkins answer mae No such music to his ear, Of thief or fox he has no fear ; Sturdy kent, and collie too, Well defend the tarry woo’. He lives content and envies none, Not even a monarch on his throne : Tho’ he the royal sceptre sways, He has not sweeter holidays. Who'd be a king? can ony tell, When a shepherd sings sae well ; Sings sae well, and pays his due, With honest heart and tarry woo’.' 381 HENRIETTA’S RECOVERY. Tune—“ My deary, if thou die.” Ir heaven, its blessings to augment, Call Henny to the skies, Hence from the earth flies all content, The moment that she dies : For in this earth there is no fair Can give such joy to me; How great must then be my despair, My Henny, an’ thou die ? But now pale sickness leaves her face, And now my charmer smiles ; New beauty heightens ev’ry grace, And all my fear beguiles : The bounteous powers have heard the prayers I daily made for thee ; Like them be kind, and ease my cares, Else I myself must die. BUTTERY. MAY. In yonder town there wons a May, Snack and perfyte as can be ony, She is sae jimp, sae gamp, sae gay, Sae capernoitie, and sae bonny: She has been woo’d and lo’ed by mony, But she was very ill to win; She wadna ha’e him except he were bonny, Tho’ he were e’er sae noble akin. Her bonniness has been foreseen In ilka town baith far and near, And when she kirns her minnie’s kirn, She rubs her face till it grows clear ; But when her minnie she did perceive Sic great inlack amang the butter— “Shame fa’ that filthy face of thine, *Tis creesh that gars your grunzie glitter.” There’s Dunkyson, Davyson, Robbie, Carniel, The lass with the petticoat dances right weel, Sing stidrum, stouthrum, stuthrom, stony, An ye dance ony mair, we’se tell Mess Johnny. Sing, &. (1) [ Tarry Woo’,” says Burns, “is a very pretty song, but I fancy that the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, are much older than the rest of the words.” Burns was probably right in his conjecture. There is a couplet in Sir John Clerk’s song of the “ Miller,” borrowed from “ Tarry Woo’ :”— “ Who'd be a king ?—a petty thing, ‘Witen a miller lives so happy.” This is very similar to the close of the last verse— “ Who'd be a king? can ony tell, When a shepherd sings sae well?” It may interest many readers in the present song when they know that it was Sir Walter Scott’s almost only one. His voice as a singer belonged to that large class of human voices denominated timber-toned ; and when called on for a song at a convivial meet- ing, he generally got off by striking up averse xf “Tarry Woo’.”— ALEXANDER WHITELAW.) 382 THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY THERE GOWANS ARE GAY. THERE gowans are gay, my joy, There gowans are gay, They gar me wake when I should sleep, The first morning of May. About the fields as I did pass, There gowans are gay, 1 chane’d to meet a proper lass, The first morning of May. Right busy was that bonny maid, There gowans are gay, T halst her, syne to her I said, The first morning of May: “O lady fair, what do you here!” There gowans are gay ; “ Gathering the dew, what need ye speer, The first morning of May?” “The dew,” quoth I, “what can that mean?” There gowans are gay ; Quoth she, “To wash my mistress clean The first morning of May.” asked farder at her syne, There gowans are gay, Gif to my will she wad incline, The first morning of May. She said, her errand was not there, Where gowans are gay, Her maidenhood on me to ware, The first morning of May. Then like an arrow frae a bow, There gowans are gay, She skipp’d away out o’er the knowe, The first morning of May ; And left me in the garth my lane, There gowans are gay, And in my heart a twang of pain, The first morning of May. The little birds they sang full sweet, There gowans are gay, Unto my comfort was right meet, The first morning of May. And thereabout I pass’d my time, There gowans are gay, Until it was the hour of prime, The first morning of May. And then returned hame bedeen, There gowans are gay, Pausand what maiden that had been, The first morning of May. SLIGHTED LOVE SAIR TO BIDE. I Hap a heart, but now heartless I gae; I had a mind, but daily was oppress’d ; [ had a friend that’s now become my fae ; : I had a will that now has freedom lost ; What have I now? Naething I trow, But grief where I had joy: What am I than A heartless man ? Could love me thus destroy ! L love, I serve ane whom 1 much regard, Yet for my love disdain is my reward. Where shall I gang to hide my weary face ? Where shall I find a place for my defence ? Where my true love remains the fittest place, Of all the earth that is my confidence. She is my heart, *Till I depart, Let her do what she list ; I cannot mend, But still depend, Aud daily to insist, To purchase love, if love my love deserve ; If not for love, let love my body starve. O lady fair! whom 1 do honour most, Your name and fame within my breast I hare; Let not my love and labour thus be lost, But still in mind I pray thee to engrave, That I am true, And sall not rue Ane word that I have said : Iam your man, Do what you ean, When all these plays are play’d. Then save your ship unbroken on the sand, Since man and goods are all at your command CAST AWAY CARE. Care away gae thou frae me, For I am nae fit match for thee! Thou bereaves me of my wits, Wherefore I hate thy frantic fits : JE i Donald. RSA GOWANS SAE GAY. LONDON, VIRTUE & C° 3 Smith THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. 383 Therefore I will care no more, Since that in care comes no restore, But I will sing hey-down-a-dee, And cast doilt care away frae me. If I want, [ care to get, The more I have, the more I fret ; Love I much, I care for more; The more I have I think I’m poor: Thus grief and care my mind oppress, Nor wealth nor wae gives no redress ; Therefore I’ll care no more in vain, Since care has cost me meikle pain. Is not this world a sliddery ball ? And thinks men strange to catch a fall ? Does not the sea baith ebb and flow, And fortune ’s but a painted show? Why should men take or grief, Since that by these comes no relief? Some careful sow what careless reap, And wasters ware what niggards scrape. Well then, aye learn to know thyself, And care not for this worldly pelf: Whether thy state be great or small, Give thanks to God whate’er befall ! Sae sall thou then aye live at ease, No sudden grief shall thee displease ; Then mayest thou sing hey-down-a-dee, When thou hast cast all care frae thee. THE FAIREST OF HER DAYS. Wuoe’er beholds my Helen’s face, And says not that good hap has she ; Who hears her speak, and tents her grace, Sall think nane ever spake but she. The short way to resound her praise, She is the fairest of her days. Who knows her wit, and not admires, He maun be deem’d devoid of skill ; Her virtues kindle strong desires In them that think upon her still. The short way, &c. Her red is like unto the rose Whase buds are opening to the sun, Her comely colours to disclose, The first degree of ripeness won. The short way, &c. And with the red is mix’d the wnite, Like to the sun or fair moonshine, That does upon clear waters light, And makes the colour seem divine. The short way to resound her praise, She is the fairest of her days. ANDREW AND HIS CUTTY GUN. Buitss, blithe, blithe was she, Blithe was she but and ben; And weel she lo’ed a Hawick gill, And laugh’d to see a tappit hen. She took me in, and set me down, And hecht to keep me lowm-free ; But, cunning carlin that she was, She gart me birle my bawbie. We lo’ed the liquor weel enough ; But wae’s my heart, my cash was done Before that I had quench’d my drouth, And laith I was to pawn my shoon. When we had three times toom’d our stoup, And the neist chappin new begun, In started, to heeze up our hope, Young Andrew with his cutty gun. The carlin brought her kebbuck ben, With girdle-cakes well toasted brown ; Well does the canny kimmer ken They gar the scuds gae glibber down. We ca’d the bicker aft about ; Till dawning we.ne’er jee’d our bun, And aye the cleanest drinker out Was Andrew with his cutty gun. He did like ony mavis sing, And as I in his oxter sat, He ca’d me aye his bonny thing, And mony a sappy kiss I gat. I ha’e been east, I ha’e been west, T ha’e been far ayont the sun ; But the blithest lad that e’er I saw, Was Andrew with his cutty gun. JOHNNY FAA, THE GIPSY LADDIE. THE gipsies came to our good lord’s gate, And wow but they sang sweetly ; They sang sae sweet, and sae very complete That down came the fair lady. 384 And she came tripping down the stair, And a’ her maids before her ; As soon as they saw her well-far’d face, They coost the glamour o’er her. “ Gae tak’ frae me this gay mantile, And bring to me a plaidie, For if kith and kin and a’ had sworn, I’ll follow the gipsy laddie. “Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed, And my good lord beside me ; This night I’ll lie in a tenant’s barn, Whatever shall betide me.” “Come to your bed,” says Johnny Faa, “Oh come to your bed, my deary! For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword, That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.” “T’ll go to bed to my Johuny Faa, I’ll go to bed to my deary ; For I vow and swear by what pass’d yestreen, That my lord shall nae mair come near me. “T?ll mak’ a hap to my Johnny Faa, And T’ll make a hap to my deary, And he’s get a’ the coat gaes round, And my lord shall nae mair come near me.” And when our lord came hame at e’en, And speer’d for his fair lady, The tane she cried, and the other replied, “ She’s awa’ with the gipsy laddie.” “ Gae saddle to me the black, black steed, Gae saddle and make him ready ; Before that I either eat or sleep I'll gae seek my fair lady.” THE TEA-TABLE MISCELLANY. And we were fifteen well-made men, Altho’ we were nae bonny ; And we were a’ put down for ane, A fair young wanton lady.! DUNT, DUNT, PITTIE, PATTIE, Tune—“ Yellow-hair’d Laddie.”” On Whit Sunday morning I went to the fair, My yellow-hair’d laddie Was selling his ware ; He gied me sic a blithe blink With his bonny black e’e, And a dear blink and a sair blink It was unto me. I wist not what ail’d me When my laddie came in, The little wee starnies Flew aye frae my een ; And the sweat it dropp’d down Frae my very eye-brie, And my heart play’d aye Dunt, dunt, dunt, pittie, pattie. 1 wist not what ail’d me When I went to my bed, I tossed and tumbled, And sleep frae me fied. Now it’s sleeping and waking He is aye in my eye, And my heart play’d aye Dunt, dunt, dunt, pittie, pattie. (1) [Between the second and third verses of this song, as it appears in Allan Ramsay’s collection, there are two others which are commonly sung, and which are inserted in Finlay’s and Chambers’ collections. They are here subjoined, and seem necessary to the completion of the story :— «“ «© come with me,’ says Johnny Faa, *O come with me, my deary! For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword, That your lord shall ne’er come near ye.’ «Then she gied him the gude white bread, And he gied her the ginger ; But she gied him a better thing-- The gowd ring aff her finger.” Tradition asserts that the ballad is founded on an incident in the lustory of the noble family of the Earls of Cassilis. John, the sixth earl, a “stern Covenanter,” had married the Lady Jane Hamilton without obtaining her affections. The lady had in early youth been beloved by Sir John Faa, uf Dunbar, and never relinquished her love for that person. After she had been married for some years, Sir John Faa took the opportunity, when the Earl of Cassilis was in Edinburgh attending the “ General Assembly,” to appear at Cassilis Castle, on the banks of the Doon, four miles from Maybole, disguised as a gipsy, with fifteen real or pretended gipsies in his train. He carried off the willing countess, but the earl, having received notification of the treachery, intercepted him and his party, and took them all prisoners. Exercising the feudal authority of the time, he hung Johnny Faa and the whole of his companions on the “Dule Tree,” a plane, still standing in front of the castle gate. The lady, as we learn from the “ Pictures of Scotland,” vol. i., quoted by Mr. Chambers, was removed to a house at Maybole, belonging to the family, ‘‘ which. was fitted for her reception by the addition of a projecting staircase, upon which were carved heads, representing those of her lover and his band. Here she was confined for the remainder of her life, the earl in the meantime marrying another wife. One of her daughters was afterwards married to the celebrated Gilbert Burnet. The family fortunately was not continued by her progeny, but by that of her husband’s second wife. While confined in Maybole, she is said to have wrought u prodigious quantity of tapestry, so as comyletely to have covered the walls of her prison.”] THE POETICAL WORKS OF HECTOR MACNEILL, MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. Hector Macweitt, whose fame rests upon a few songs, and not upon his poems, was born at Rosebank, near Roslin, in 1746, the son of respectable parents, by whom he was sent, at the proper age, to the Grammar School of Stirling. Here he formed a strong attachment to his preceptor, the Rev. Dr. David Doig, which lasted till late in life, and which he manifested by the dedication of his poem of ‘‘ Will and Jean,” and by a tribute to his memony after death. At the age of fourteen, having received all the schooling that his parents could afford to give him, he was removed to Bristol to the care of his cousin, a captain of a vessel trading to the West Indies, by whom he was taken a voyage to St. Christopher’s. At this place he obtaincd a situation in a merchant’s office, which he did not long retain,—partly, it is alleged, in conse- quence of some youthful indiscretion that was not to be forgiven by his employers, but more probably because he disliked the drudgery of the desk, and longed for more active or more congenial employment. He remained in the West Indies for upwards of a quarter of a century, under circumstances that have not been very fully explained, though it appears that he was for a considerable period employed as the overseer or manager of a sugar plantation in Jamaica, in which capacity he published a pamphlet on the treatment of the negroes in that island, in which he vindicated the planters from the charges of cruelty and oppression which had been brought against them. His health having failed him, he returned to his native country in 1788, and devoted himself for a while to literary pursuits. In the following year he published in Edinburgh “ The Harp; a Legendary Tale,” that met with little or no success. For the next eleven years he divided his time between ‘Jamaica and Edinburgh, and published the poems and songs which have given him so respectable a place in Scottish literature, but with no very favourable result upon his worldly fortunes. He found a friend, however, in the person of his former employer, Mr. John Graham, a planter at Three Mile River, in Jamaica, who, at his death, in 1800, left Macneill, then in his fifty-fourth year, ‘an annuity of £100 per annum. Being now in much easier circumstances than he had ever before known, he returned once more to Edinburgh, and increased his income by systematic literary efforts, by the editor- ship of the Scots’ Magazine, and by the production of two or three indifferent, novels, which are now forgotten. He died in 1818, having attained the age of seventy-two. His principal title to fame lies in his well-known songs, ‘“‘Saw ye my wee thing,” ‘‘My boy Tammie,” ‘‘ Come under my plaidie,” and a few others, that share the popularity of those of Robert Burns, and have taken a permanent place in Scottish literature. THE POETICAL WORKS OF HECTOR MACNKEILL. TO JAMES CURRIE, M.D. THE FOLLOWING POEMS, IN TESTIMONY OF AFFECTION AND ESTEEM, ARE INSCRIBED, BY HIS SINCERE FRIEND, EDINBURGH, 25th June, 1801. H. MACNEILL. THE AUTHOR’S PREFACE. Some of the poems in the following collection the public have already seen, and received with flattering attention, others have occasionally appeared in different periodical publications in a very incorrect state, while many of the songs set to music have for a number of years back been exposed to sale in the music shops. As a few of the most popular and important pieces have for some time past been out of print, and are, it seems, still in request, I have at length yielded to the repeated solicitations of the Edinburgh booksellers, and selected all the poetical productions I mean to acknowledge, with the view of their being printed in two volumes, which, 1 am told, are shortly to be presented to the public. A considerable part of the English pieces inserted in the present collection were written at a time of life when imagination too often triumphs over judgment, and passion rejects the sober aid of criticism. Apology for insignificant productions written at an early period has nothing to do with this observation, since to present fruits that are insipid or ill-flavoured merely on account of their immaturity is surely a sorry compliment to the taste of a discerning public. On the present occasion I am apprehensive I have been influenced more by a gratification of my own taste than an anxiety to gratify that of others. There are certain events in the early stages of life which, on a retrospect, interest and charm perhaps beyond any other. Among these, scenes and circumstances annexed to youth and passion cannot fail to be remembered with peculiar pleasure, while the occasional and unpremeditated effusions which commemorate the joys that are past and the friends that are no more, become, even with their faults, the children of our affection. These, however, have been examined with some care, and I would fain hope with some impartiality. Many, with a sigh, have been consigned to oblivion, but on a general review of my poetical offspring, I cannot deny that, while I fancied some puny and unpromising, I was incapable of excluding them from the last and only protection I had to offer. If in this parental weakness 1 have been in fault, it is hoped that the error will be attributed to no other cause. The cacoethes carpendi cannot surely attach to one who has so long resisted solicitations to collect, far less the silly vanity of exhibiting to the world, what diffidence has so long taught him to conceal. SCOTLAND’S SCAITH author concealing himself, by ascribing his work to ; the pen of a friend, is a species of literary. fraud OR THE HISTORY 0’ WILL AND JEAN. which, as it implies neither vanity nor ambition, may OWRE TRUE A TALE! be easily overlooked; but to dedicate, without per- mission, a performance which has obtained uncom- “ So shall thy poverty come, as one that travelleth; and thy * * * eedom which. a eas anarnsd ia PROe mon proofs of public approbation, is a fr ’ perhaps, by the illiberal, might be imputed, not to an impulse of affection, but to a confidence of success. I trust, however, that you and I know one another too well to require the formality of ceremony to My Dear Sir, : secure our friendship; or laboured apology to evince After having taken one liberty with you, which | our motives of regard. It, therefore, only rests with your indulgent friendship induced you to excuse, you | me at present to inform the public, that by this sce I am determined to put your good nature tothe | address my object is not to solicit a patron to what test, by taking another. ‘The harmless artifice of an | has already been so liberally patronised, but to com- TO DAVID DOIG, LL.D., F.8.8.A., Master of the Grammar School, Stirling. POEMS OF UKCTOR MACNEILL. municate a fact which I cannot in justice prevail on myself to conceal; namely, that without the kind interference and friendly assistance of Dr. Doig, the poem of Scotland’s Scaith, in all likelihood, would never have been published. My motives for having depicted, and yours in publishing this too faithful portrait of modern de- pravity, were the same. Impressed with the baneful rensequences inseparable from an inordinate use of ardent spirits among the lower orders of society, and anxious to contribute something that might at least terd to retard the contagion of so dangerous an evil, it was conceived, in the ardour of philanthropy, that a natural, pathetic story, in verse, calculated to enforce moral truths in the language of simplicity and passion, might probably interest the uncorrupted; and that a striking picture of the calamities incident to idle debauchery, contrasted with the blessings of in- dustrious prosperity, might (although insufficient to reclaim abandoned vice) do something to strengthen and encourage endangered virtue. Visionary as these fond expectations may have been, it is pleasing to cherish the idea; and if we may be allowed to draw favourable inferences from the sale of ten thousand copies in the short space of five months, why should we despair of success ? Having said so much on s0 trivial a subject, allow me, in conclusion, to add a few words to the person who has been the chief cause of the present publica- tion. On this opportunity, I must confess, I am strongly tempted to say much; but the recollection of a modesty as remarkable as the genius and erudi- tion of its possessor, restrains the fervour of friend- ship, and withhulds the just tribute of applause. A more lively and more pleasing recollection of virtues, which are superior to all that literature or talents an bestow, inclines me, however, to think that, indifferent as you have long been to the “‘obstreperous trump of fame,’ the “stillsmall voice”’ of gratitude and esteem will not be unpleasant to your ear; and that you will believe me to be, without farther pro- fession, My dear Sir Your affectionate and most obedient Servant, WECTOR MACNEILL. EDINBURGH July’, 1795. PART I. Waa was auce like Willie Gairlace, Wha in neeboring town or farm ? .Beauty’s bloom shone in his fair face, Deadly strength was in his arm! Wha wi’ Will could rin or wrastle ? Throw the sledge or toss the bar ? Han what would he stood a castle, Or for safety, or for war. 387 Warm his heart, and mild as manfu; Wi’ the bauld he bauld could be ; But to friends wha had their handfu’ Purse and service aye were free. When he first saw Jeanie Miller, Wha wi’ Jeanie could compare ? — Thousands had mair braws and siller, But were ony half sae fair ? Saft her smile raise like May morning, Glinting owre Demait’s' brow: Sweet! wi’ opening charms adorning Strevlin’s? lovely plain below ! Kind and gentle was her nature ; At ilk place she bare the bell ;— Sic a bloom, and shape, and stature! But her look nae tongue can tell! Sic was Jean, when Will ficst mawing, Spied her on a thraward beast ;, Flew like fire, and just whan fa’ing Kept her on his manly breast. Light he bare her, pale as ashes, Cross the meadow, fragrant, green . Placed her on the new-mawn rashes, Watching sad her opening een. Sie was Will, when poor Jean fainting Drapt, into a loyer’s arms ; Waken’d to his saft lamenting ; Sigh’d, and blush’d a thousand charms Soon they loo’d, and soon were buckled ; Nane took time to think and rue. Youth and worth and beauty coupled: Luve had never less to do. Three short years flew by fu’ canty, Jean and Will thouglit them but ane; Ilka day brought joy and plenty, Ilka year a dainty weans Will wrought sair, but aye wi’ pleasure; Jean the hale day span and sang ; Will and weans her constant treasure, Blest wi’ them, nae day seem’d lang ; Trig her house, and oh! to busk aye lk sweet bairn was a’ her pride !— But at this time NEWs aND WHISKY Sprang nae up at ilk road-side. (1) One of the Ochil Hills, near Stirling.—Dun-ma-chit (Qaellu' the hill of the good prospect. It is pronounced De-myit. (2) The ancient name of Stirling. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL, Luckless was ihe hour when Willie Hame returning frae the fair, O’ertook Tam, a neebor billie, Sax miles frae their hame and mair; Simmer’s heat had lost its fury ; Calmly smiled the sober e’en; Lasses on the bleachfield hurry Skelping bare-fit owre the green ; Labour rang wi’ laugh and clatter, Cauty Hairst was just begun, And on mountain, tree, and water Glinted saft the setting sun. Will and Tam wi’ hearts a lowpin Mark’d the hale, but could nae bide; Far frae hame, nae time for stoppin, Baith wish’d for their ain fireside : On they travell'd, warm and drouthy, Cracking owre the news in town ; The mair thay crack’d, the mair ilk youthy Pray’d for drink to wash news down. Fortune, wha but seldom listens To poor merit’s modest pray’r, And on fools heaps needless blessins, Harken’d to our drouthy pair. In a howm, wha’s bonnie burnie Whimperin row’d its crystal flood, Near the road, where trav’llers turn aye, Neat and bield a cot-house stood ; White the wa’s, wi’ roof new theekit, Window broads just painted red ; Lown ’mang trees and braes it reekit, Haflins seen and haflins hid ; Up the gavel end thick spreading Crap the clasping ivy green, Back owre, firs the high craigs cleading, Raised a’ round a cozy screen ; Down below, a flowery meadow Join’d the burnie’s rambling line ;~ Here it was, that Howe the Widow This sam day set up her sign. Brattling down the brae, and near its Bottom, Will first marvellin sees “Porter, Ale, and British Spirits,” Painted bright between twa trees. * Godsake ! Tam, here’s walth for drinking ;— Wha can this new comer be ? ” “Hoot?” quo’ Tam, “there’s drouth in thinking— Let’s in, Will, and syne we'll see.” Nae mair time they took to speak or Think o’ ought but reaming jugs ; Till three times in humming liquor Ik lad deeply laid his lugs. Slocken’d now, refresh’d and talking, In came Meg (weel skill’d to please). “ Sirs! ye’re surely tired wi’ walking ;— Ye maun taste my bread and cheese.’ “Thanks,” quo’ Will; “I canna tarry, Pick mirk night is setting in; Jean, poor thing’s! her lane and eery— I maun to the road and rin.” “Hoot!” quo’ Tam, “ what’s a’ the hurry ? Hame’s now scarce a mile o’ gate— Come! sit down—Jean winna wearie : Lord! I’m sure it’s no sae late!” Will, o’ercome wi’ Tam’s oration, Baith fell to and ate their fill. “Tam ;” quo’ Will, “in mere discretioa, We maun hae the Widow’s gill.” After ae gill cam anither— Meg sat cracking ’tween them twa; Bang! cam in Mat Smith and’s brither, Geordie Brown and Sandie Shaw. Neebors wha ne’er thought to meet here, Now sat down wi’ double glee, Ilka gill grew sweet and sweeter !— Will gat hame ’tween twa and three. Jean, poor thing ! had lang been greetin ; Will, neist morning, blamed Tam Lowes ; But ere lang, an owkly meetin Was set up at Maggie Howe’s. PART II. Mast things hae a sma’ beginnin, But wha kens how things will end? Owkly clubs are nae great sinnin, Gin folk hae enough to spend. But nae man o’ sober thinkin Wer will say that things can thrive, Tf there’s spent in owkly drinkin What keeps wife and weans alive. Drink maun aye hae conversation, Ilka social soul allows; “ST Ty 7eq ov se atllLaiA NOCUNOTL “NVAP GNY TIM POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. 339 But, in this reformin nation, | Wha can speak without the news ? News, first meant for state physicians, Deeply skill’d in courtly drugs , Now when a’ are politicians, Just to set folks by the lugs. Maggie’s club, wha could get nae light On some things that should be clear, Found ere lang the fau’t, and ae night Clubb’d and gat the Gazetteer.’ Twice a week to Maggie’s cot-house, Swith! by post the papers fled ! Thoughts spring up like plants in hot-house, Every time the news are read. Tk ane’s wiser than anither,— “Things are no ga’en right,” quo’ Tam, “Let us aftencr meet thegither ; Twice a owk’s no worth a d—n.” See them now in grave convention To mak a’ things “square and even;” Jr at least wi’ firm intention To drink sax nights out 0” seven. Mid this sitting up and drinkin, Gatherin a’ the news that fell; Will, wha was nae yet past thinkin, Had some battles wi’ himsel. On ae hand, drink’s deadly poison Bare ilk firm resolve awa ; On the ither, Jean’s condition Rave his very heart in twa. Weel he saw her smother’d sorrow ! Weel he saw ner bleaching cheek ! Mark’d the smile she strave to borrow, When, poor thing, she could nae speak! Jean, at first, took little heed o” Owkly clubs mang three or four, Thought, kind soul! that Will had need o’ Heartsome hours when wark was owre. But when now that nightly meetings Sat and drank frae sax till twa; Whan she fand that hard-earn’d gettings Now on drink were thrown awa ; Saw her Will, wha ance sae cheerie Raise ilk morning wi’ the lark, (1) The Edinburgh Gazetteer, a violent opposition van" pub- dished in 1793-4. Now grown mauchless, dowf and sweer aye To look near his farm or wark ; Saw him tyne his manly spirit, Healthy bloom, and sprightly ee ; And o’ luve and hame grown wearit, Nightly frae his family flee : Wha could blame her heart’s complaining ? Wha condemn her sorrows meek ? Or the tears that now ilk e’ening Bleach’d her lately crimson’d cheek ! Will, wha lang had rued and swither’d, (Aye ashamed o’ past disgrace) Mark’d the roses as they wither’d Fast on Jeanie’s lovely face ! Mark’d—and felt wi? inward rackin A’ the wyte lay wi’ himsel,— Swore neist night he’d mak a breakin,— D—n’d the club and news to heil! But, alas! whan habit’s rooted, Few hae pith the root to pw’; Will’s resolves were aye nonsuited, Promised aye, but aye gat fou; Aye at first at the convening Moralised on what was right,— Yet on clavers entertaining Dozed and drank till brade daylight. Things at length draw near an ending, Cash rins out; Jean quite unhappy Sees that Will is now past mending, Tynes a’ heart, and taks a—drappy ! Ilka drink deserves a posey ; Port maks men rude, claret civil ; Beer maks Britons stout and rosy, Whisky maks ilk wife—a devil. Jean, wha lately bare affliction Wi’ sae meek and mild an air, School’d by whisky, learns new tricks svon, Flytes, and storms, and rugs Will’s hair. Jean, sae late the tenderest mither, Fond o’ ilk dear dauted wean ! Now, heart harden’d a’thegither, Skelps them round frae morn till e’en. Jean, wha vogie, loo’d to busk aye In her hame-spun, thrifty wark ; Now sells a? her braws for whisky To her last gown, coat, and sark ! 390 POEMS OF HEC1IOR MACNEILL. obin Burns, in mony a ditty, Loudly sings in whisky’s praise ; Sweet his sang !—the mair’s the pity Fer on it he war’d sic lays. O’ a the ills poor Caledonia F’er yet pree’d, or e’er will taste, Brew’d in hell’s black Pandemonia, Whisky’s ill will scaith her maist ! * Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace, Wha in neeboring town or farm ? Beauty’s bloom shone in his fair face, Deadly strength was in his arm ! “ Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller, Wha wi’ Jeanie could compare ? Thousands had mair braws and siller, But ware ony half sae fair ?” See them now—how changed wi’ drinking ! A? their youthfu’ beauty gane !— Daver’d, doited, daized and ofnkng Worn to perfect skin and bane, In the cauld month o’ November (Clatse, and cash, and credit outs Cow’ring owre a dying ember, Wi’ ilk face as white’s a clout: Bond and bill, and debts a’ stoppit, Ilka sheaf selt on the bent; Cattle, beds, and blankets roupit Now to pay the laird his rent ; No anither night to lodge here! No a friend their cause to plead ! He ta’en on to be a sodger, She wi’ weans to beg her bread! “© a’ the ills poor Caledonia Fer yet pree’d, or e’er will taste, Brew’d in hell’s black Pandemonia, Whisky’s ill will scaith her maist!” (1) The following verses possess such uncommon morit, and are 60 fine w tribute to the memory of a deceased and favourite Scottish poet, that rather than withhold them from the lovers of genuine poetry, the author thus subjects himself to the imputae tion of vanity in publishing the elegant, though unmerited com- pliment they contain.—H. M. VERSES ADDRESSED TO HECTOR MACNEILL, ESQ., ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT BURNS. The daisy-flower may blaw unseen On mountain-tap—in valley green! The rose alane, in native sheen, Its head may raise! Nae musing bardie now, I ween, To sing their praise! Nae pensive minstrel wight we see Gang saunt’ring o’er the claver lee! The fireflaughts dartin’ frae his ee The wilds amang! Wha native freaks wi’ native glee Sae sweetly sang! His was the gift, wi? magic power, To catch the thought in happy hour ; To busk his verse wi’ ilka flower O’ fancy sweet! Av’ paint the birk or brushwood bower, Whar lovers meet! But now he fills his silent ha’! My sweetest minstrel’s fled awa!— Yet shall his weel-won laurels blaw Through future days, Till weary time in flenders a? The warld lays! Such was the dowie plaint 0? wae Which Scotia made by bank an’ brae, Whan Burns—(puir Burns !) was ta’en away And laid at rest !— (Green grow the grass !—light lie the clay Upon his breast!) But now she draps the waefu’ tale, And notes o’ transport fill the gale ; Nae langer down the silent vale She lanely mourns, And to her cheek, ance lily pale, The rose returns! The streaks o’ joy glint in her face, Thy steps, Macneill, sweet bard! to trace, To mark wi’ nature’s peerless grace Thy blossoms blaw! Happy to see thee fill the place O’ him awa! How sairlie does her bosom beat At puir misfortune’s wretched state! While tracing WILL through poortith great And prospects drear! And at thy JEANIE’s hapless fate She draps a tear! Then mark, sweet minstrel o’ the day Thy Scotia’s sons an’ maidens gay ; Her deep wild glens ; her mountains grey, Wi? misty head ; And eke her ilka sunny brae Wi? flow’rs o’erspread! What time alane thou may’st retire, May these thy fairy thoughts inspire, And set thy manly saul on fire In Scotia’s praise ; And mak thee strike thy native lyre To saftest lays! To wake the pangs Despair maun dree, When driven houseless o’er the lee ; To stnke the strings o’ Sympathie Whan griefs combine ; To start the tear in Pity’s ee— The task be thine. RICHARD GALT, Edinburgh, October 11, 1799. POEMS OF HECTOR. MACNEILLL. 391 THE WAES O’ WAR: OR, THE UPSHOT O’ THE HISTORY O° WILL AND JEAN. IN FOUB PARTS. » —Felices ter et amplius Quos adversa docet Sors sapientiam.””—BoETH. “ Thrice happy pair, Wha wit frae luckless Fortune lear!” PART I. Ou! that folk wad weel consider What it is to tyne a—name, What this warld is a’thegither, If bereft o’ honest fame! Poortith ne’er can bring dishonour ; Hardships ne’er breed sorrow’s smart, If bright conscience taks upon her To shed sunshine round the heart : But wi’ a’ that walth can borrow, Guilty shame will aye look down; What maun then shame, want, and sorrow Wandering sad frae town to town! Jeanie Miller, ance sae cheerie ! Ance sae happy, good, and fair, Left by Will, neist morning drearie Taks the road o’ black despair ! Cauld the blast !—the day was sleeting ; Pouch and purse without a plack! In ilk hand a bairnie greeting, And the third tied on her back. Wan her face! and lean and haggard ! Ance sae sonsy! ance sae sweet ! What a change !—unhoused and beggar’d, Starving without claise or meat! Far frae ilk kent spot she wander’d, Skulking like a guilty thief; Here and there, uncertain, daunder’d, Stupified wi’ shame and grief : But soon shame for bygane errors Fled owre fast for ee to trace, When grim death, wi’ a’ his terrors, Cam owre ilk sweet bairnie’s face ! Spent wi’ toil, and cauld and hunger, Baith down drapt! and down Jean sat! Daised and doited now nae langer ; Thought —and felt—and bursting grat. Gloaming, fast wi? mirky shadow Crap owre distant hill and plain ; Darken’d wood, and glen, and meadow, Adding fearfu’ thoughts to pain! Round and round, in wild distraction, Jeanie turn’d her tearfu’ ec! Round and round for some protection !— Face nor house she could na see ! Dark, and darker grew the night aye ; Loud and sair the cauld winds thud !— Jean now spied a sma bit lightie Blinking through a distant wood : Up wi’ frantic haste she started ; Cauld, nor fear, she felt nae mair ; Hope, for ae bright moment, darted Through the gloom o’ dark despair ! Fast owre fallow’d lea she brattled ; Deep she wade through bog and burn ; Sair wi steep and craig she battled, Till she reach’d the hoped sojourn. Proud, ’mang scenes o’ simple nature, Stately auld, a mansion stood On a bank, wha’s sylvan feature Smiled out-owre the roaring flood : Simmer here, in varied beauty, Late her flowery mantle spread, Whar auld chestnut, ake, and yew-tree Mingling, lent their friendly shade ; Blasted now, wi’ winter’s ravage ; A’ their gaudy livery cast ; Wood and glen, in wailings savage, Sough and howl to ilka blast ! Darkness stalk’d wi’ fancy’s terror ;— Mountains moved, and castle rocked ! Jean, half dead wi’ toil and horror, Reach’d the door, and loudly knock’d. “Wha thus rudely wakes the sleeping ? ” Cried a voice wi’ angry grane. “ Help! oh help!” quo’ Jeanie, weeping, “Help my infants, or they’re gane! “Nipt wi’ cauld!—wi’ hunger fainting ! Baith lie speechless on the lea! Help!” quo’ Jeanie, loud lamenting, “ Help my lammies! or they’ll die!” POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Whia’s this travels cauld and hungry, WY young bairns, sae late at e’en? “Beggars!” cried the voice, mair angry, “ Begears! wi’ their brats, I ween.” “Beggars now, alas! wha lately Helpt the beggar and the poor !” “Fye! gudeman!” cried ane discreetly, “Taunt nae poortith at our door. “Sic a night, and tale thegither, Plead for mair than anger’s din :— Rise, Jock!” cried the pitying mither, “Rise! and let the wretched in.” “ Begoars now, alas! wha lately Helpt the beggar and the poor “ Enter!” quo’ the youth fu’ sweetly, While up flew the open door. 122 “ Beggar, or what else, sad mourner ! Enter without fear or dread; Here, thank God! there’s aye a corner To defend the houseless head! “ Vor your bairnies cease repining ; If in life, ye’ll sce them soon.” — Aff he flew; and brightly shining, Through the dark clouds brak the moon. PART 11. Here, for ae night’s kind protection, Leave we Jean and weans awhile; Tracing Will in ilk direction, Far frae Britain’s fostering isle ! Far frae scenes 0’ saftening pleasure, Love’s delights and beauty’s charms ! Far frae friendship’s social leisure,— Plunged in murdering waz’s alarms ! Is it nature, vice, or folly, Or ambition’s feverish brain, That sae aft wi melancholy Turns, sweet Peace! thy joys to pain? Strips tlice o’ thy robes o” ermine, (Emblems o’ thy spotless life), And in war’s grim look alarmin Arms thee wi’ the murd’rer’s kuife ! A’ thy gentle mind upharrows! Hate, revenge, and rage uprears ! And for hope and joy, twin marrows, Leaves the mourner drown’d in tears ! Willie Gairlace, without siller, Credit, claise, or ought beside, Leaves his ance loo’d Jeanie Miller, And sweet bairns to warld wide! Leaves his native cozy dwellin, Shelter’d haughs, and birken braes ; Greenswaird hows, and dainty mealin, Ance his profit, pride, and praise ! Deckt wi’ scarlet, sword, and musket, Drunk wi’ dreams as fause as vain ; Fleetch’d and flatter’d, roosed and buskit, Wow! but Will was wond’rous fain ! Rattling, roaring, swearing, drinking, How could thought her station keep ? Drams and drumming (faes to thinking) Dozed reflection fast asleep. But when midst o’ toils and dangers, W? the cauld ground for his bed, Compass’d round wi’ faes and strangers, Soon Will’s dreams o’ fancy fled. Led to battle’s blood-dyed banners, Waving to the widow’s moan ! Will saw glory’s boasted honours End in life’s expiring groan! Round Valenciennes’ strong waa’d city, Thick owre Dunkirk’s fatal plain, Will (tho’ dauntless) saw wi’ pity Britain’s valiant sons lie slain! Fired by freedom’s burning fever, Gallia strack death’s slaughtering knell ; Frae the Scheld to Rhine’s deep river, Britons fought—but Britons fell ! Fell unaided! though cemented By the faith o’ friendship’s laws ;— Fell unpitied—unlamented ! Bluiding in a thankless cause !? In the thrang o’ comrades deeing, Fighting foremost o’ them a’ ; Swith! fate’s winged ball cam fleeing, And took Willie’s leg awa :— Thrice frae aff the ground he started, Thrice to stand he strave in vain ; Thrice, as fainting strength departed, Sigh’d—and sank ’mang heaps o’ slain.— (1) Alluding to the conduct of the Dutch. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. (hn a cart wi? comrades bluiding, Stiff wi? gore, and cauld as clay ; Without cover, bed or bedding, Five lang nights Will Gairlace lay ! In a sick-house, damp and narrow (Left behint wi? hundreds mair), See Will neist, in pain and sorrow, Wasting on a bed o” care. Wounds, and pain, and burning fever, Doctors cured wi’ healing art ;— Cured! alas!—but never! never ! Cool’d the fever at his heart ! For when « were sound and sleeping, Still and on, baith ear’ and late, Will in briny grief lay steeping, Mourning owre his hapless fate ! A’ his gowden prospects vanish’d !— A’ his dreams o” warlike fame !— A’ his glittering phantoms banish’d! Will could think o’ nought but—hame! Thiak o’ nought but rural quiet, Rural labour, rural ploys, Far frae carnage, bluid, and riot, War, and a’ its murd’ring joys. PART III. Back to Britain’s fertile garden Will’s returned (exchanged for faes), Wi? ae leg, and no ae farden, Friend, or credit, meat, or claise. Lang through county, burgh, and city, Crippling on a wooden leg, Gathering alms frae melting pity; See! poor Gairlace forced to beg !— Placed at length on Chelsea’s bounty, Now to langer beg thinks shame, Dreams ance mair o’ smiling plenty ;— Dreams o’ former joys, and hame! Hame! and a’ its fond attractions Fast to Will’s warm bosom flee ; While the thoughts 0’ dear connections Swell his heart, and blind his ee. “Monster! wha could leave neglected ‘Three sma’ infants and a wife, Naked—starving—unprotected !— Them, too, dearer ance than life ? Villain! wha wi’ graceless folly Ruin’d her he ought to save P— Changed her joys to melancholy, Beggary, and—perhaps, a grave !” Starting !—wi remorse distracted,— Crush’d wi? grief’s increasing load, Up he bang’d; and sair afflicted, Sad and silent took the road ! Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin, Sometimes helpit, Will gat forfn; On a cart, or in a waggon, Hirpling aye towards the north. Tired ae e’ening, stepping hooly, Pondering on his thraward fate, In the bonny month o’ July, Willie, heedless, tint his gate. Saft, the southlan breeze was blawing, Sweetly sough’d the green ake wood ! Loud the din o’ streams fast fa’ing. Struck the ear wi’ thundering thud ; Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleeting ; Linties sang on ilka tree ; Frae the wast, the sun, near setting, Flamed on Roslin’s towers! sae hie! Roslin’s towers ! and braes sae bonny! Craigs and water, woods and glen! Roslin’s banks! unpeer’d by ony Save the muses’ Hawthornden! * Ilka sound and charm delighting, Will (tho’ hardly fit to gang) Wander’d on through scenes inviting, List’ning to the mavis’ sang. Faint at length, the day fast closing, On a fragrant straeberry steep, Esk’s sweet stream to rest composing, Wearied nature drapt asleep. “ Soldier, rise !—the dews 0’ e’ening, Gathering fa’ wi’ deadly scaith !— Wounded soldier, if complaining, Sleep nae here and catch your death. “Traveller, waken !—night advancing Cleads wi’ grey the neeboring hill !— Lambs nae mair on knowes are dancing — A’ the woods are mute and still!” — (1) Roslin Castle. (2) The ancient seat of the celebrated poet, William Drum mond, who flourished in 1585. 3a 394 POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. What hae I,” cried Willie, waking, “What hae I frae night to dree’ 9— Morn, through clouds in splendor breaking, Lights nae bright’ning hope to me! “House, nor hame, nor farm, nor stedding, Wife nor bairns hae I to see! House, nor hame! nor bed, nor bedding— What hae I frae night to dree’ ?” “Sair, alas! and sad and many Are the ills poor mortals share !— Yet, tho’ hame nor bed ye hae nae, Yield nae, soldier, to despair ! “ What’s this life, sae wae and wearie, If Hope’s brighit’ning beams should fail !— See !—tho’ night comes dark and eerie, Yon sma’ cot-light cheers the dale! “There, tho’ walth and waste ne’er riot, Humbler joys their comforts shed, Labour—health—content and quiet ! Mourner ! there ye’ll find a bed. “ Wife! *tis true, wi’ bairnies smiling, There, alas! ye needna seek— Yet there bairns, ilk wae beguiling, Paint wi’ smiles a mither’s cheek ! “ A? her earthly pride and pleasure Left to cheer her widow’d lot! A’ her warldly walth and treasure To adorn her lanely cot ! “ Cheer, then, soldier! midst affliction Bright’ning joys will aften shine ; Virtue aye claims Heaven’s protection— Trust to Providence divine !” PART IV. Sweet as Rosebank’s ' woods and river Cool whan simmer’s sunbeams dart, Cam ilk word, and cool’d the fever That lang brunt at Willie’s heart. Silent stept he on, poor fellow ! Listening to his guide before, Owre green knowe, and flowery hallow, Till they reach’d the cot-house door. Laigh it was; yet sweet, tho’ humble! Deckt wi’? hinnysuckle round ; Clear below, Esk’s waters rumble, Deep glens murmuring back the sound. (1) Rosebank, near Roslin ; the author’s place of nativity. Melville’s towers,” sae white and stately, Dim by gloamin glint to view; Through Lasswade’s dark woods keek sweetly Skies sae red, and lift sae blue! Entering now, in transport mingle Mither fond, and happy wean, Smiling round a canty ingle, Bleising on a clean hearth-stane. “Soldier, welcome !—come, be cheery !— Here ye’se rest, and tak your bed— Faint, waes me! ye seem, and weary, Pale’s your cheek, sae lately red !” “Changed I am,” sigh’d Willie till her ; “Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be! Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller Nought 0’ Willie Gairlace see !” Hae ye markt the dews o’ morning Glittering in the sunny ray, Quickly fa’, when without warning Rough blasts cam, and shook the spray? Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing Drap, when pierced by death mair fleet ? Then, see Jean, wi’ colour deeing Senseless drap at Willie’s feet ! After three lang years’ affliction (A’ their waes now hush’d to rest), Jean ance mair, in fond affection, Clasps her Willie to her breast. Tells him a’ her sad, sad sufferings ! How she wander’d, starving poor, Gleaning pity’s scanty offerings Wy? three bairns frae door to door! How she served—and toil’d—and fever’d, Lost her health, and syne her bread; How that grief, when scarce recover’d, Took her brain, and turn’d her head! How she wander’d round the county Mony a live-lang night her lane! Till at last an angel’s bounty Brought her senses back again : Gae her meat, and claise, and siller ; Gae her bairnies wark and lear ; Lastly, gae this cot-house till her, Wi? four sterling pounds a year! (2) Melville Castle, the seat of the Right Honourable Henry Dundas, THE WAES © WAR. Fart IV, Stanza $§. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Willie, harkening, wiped his een aye; “Oh! what sins hae I to rue! But say, wha’s this angel, Jeanie ?” “Waa,” quo’ Jeanie, “ but—Buccleuch ! ' Here, supported, cheer’d, and cherish’d, Nine blest months I’ve lived, and mair; Seen these infants clad and nourish’d ; Dried my tears, and tint despair ; Sometimes serving, sometimes spinning, Light the lanesome hours gae round ; Lightly, too, ilk quarter rinning Brings yon angel’s helping pound!” * Hight pounds mair,” cried Willie, fondly, “Bight pounds mair will do nae harm! And, O Jean! gin friends were kindly, Eight pounds soon might stock a farm. There, ance mair, to thrive by plewin, Freed frae a’ that peace destroys, [dle waste and drucken ruin! War and a’ its murdering joys ! ” Thrice he kiss’d his lang-lost treasure, Thrice ilk bairn; but cou’dna speak: Tears 0” luve, and hope, and pleasure Stream’d in silence down his cheek ! —_o— TO ELIZA, ON HER MARRIAGE, You’Re now, Eliza, fix’d for life ; In other words, you’re now—a wife ; And let me whisper in your ear, A wife, though fix’d, has cause to fear ; For much she risks, and much she loses, If an improper road she chooses. Yet think not that I mean to fright you, My plan, az contraire’s to delight you; To draw the lines where comfort reaches ; Where folly flies; where prudence teaches. In short, Eliza, to prevent you From nameless ills that may torment you: And ere bright Hymen’s torch burns faintly, From nuptial glare conduct you gently, Where (cured of wounds from Cupid’s quiver) A milder lustre beams for ever! First, then, Eliza, change your carriage, Courtship’s a different thing from marriage ; 395 And much I fear (by passion blinded) This change at first is seldom minded. The miss who feasts on rich romances, And love-sick sonnets, wisely fancies That all the end of ardent wooing Ts constant killing, constant cooing. The nymph again, whom caution teaches To doubt the truth of rapt’rous speeches, She whom experience oft has school’d, And shown how husbands may be—ruled, Laughs at the whims of fond sixteen, And thinks that wedlock stamps—a queer. Now I (though ne’er, alas! contracted) Consider both as half distracted ; And will predict that endless strife Must be the lot of either wife. Not that I would infer from hence That men of feeling, worth, or sense, Could ever try to wound or pain A tender breast with cold disdain ; Or e’er descend to storm and battle At fondly-foolish female prattle. Yet if sweet madam, without reason, Will fret and fume, and mutter treason, Plaguing her plain, unpuffing spouse, About his former oaths and vows, And tender sighs, and soft expressions, With various comments and digressions, I will not swear that mere connection Will guard the husband’s warm affection ; And when affection cools, they say The husband’s apt to—go astray. Maids, praised and flatter’d all their lives, Expect as much when they are wives ; And think when husbands cease palav’ring, That love (sweet souls!) is surely wav’ring : Then hey! for pets, and cold distrust, Doubt’s sullen brow, and dreams accurst :—~ The game goes on, ma’am’s in the dumps, And jealousy at last is trumps. For thee, fair flower! of softest dye, That caught so late each vagrant eye, Still breathing sweets, still blooming gay, Beauteous in winter as in May: For thee this truth the muse has penn’d. The muse—but more thy anxious friend : ““Woman’s bright charms were given to lure us, They catch, ’tis true, but can’t secure us.” Sage Solomon, who paints with beauty A virtuous woman’s worth and duty, Compares her to a ship of trade, That brings from far ler daily bread.? (1) Ths Duchess of Buccleuch, the unwearied potroness and supporte: o? the afflicted and the poor. (2) “She is like the merchant ships, she bringeth her food from afar.” —Prov. xxxi, v. 14. 396 This may be true; but as for me, Pll draw a plainer simile, And call a virtuous wife a gem, Which for its worth we ne’er contemn, Though soon its water, size, and hue, Grow quite familiar to the view. What then ensues? Why, faith, Pll tell ye; We think of nothing but—the value Yet take this gem and lay it by From the possessor’s careless eye , Conceal its lustre, dazzling bright, From beaming daily on his sight, I'll take you any bet at pleasure, Whene’er he views this tempting treasure, With eager bliss and sparkling eyes He'll mark each new-born charm arise, And with the joy of first possession, Admire and rave, sans intermission ! If women, therefore, would be wise, Instead of murmurs, tears, and sighs, And sullen moods, and scolding frays, When lovie’s absent for some days, Let ev’ry female art conspire To drive him from the parlour fire. Of all the plagues in wedded life, To teaze or to torment a wife, There’s none more likely to increase The bane of matrimonial peace, Than the tame husband always by With prying and suspicious eye. Mark then, when * * * * goes to town, Smile thou, when other wives would frown; He only goes (nay, don’t be angry) To take a walk to make him hungry ; To taste awhile, unknown to care, A change of exercise and air; Observe the pert, the bold, the witty— How diff’rent from his own sweet Betty! Return impatient to his home, No husband, but a fond bridegroom. Lastly, Eliza, let me say That wives should rather yield than sway ; To thwart a husband’s fixt opinion Is not the way to gain dominion, For kisses order, tears reprove,! And teach us rev’rence, fear, and love !— Ob! born to soothe and guide the heart With native softness, void of art ! Thou, whom nor pride nor fashion sways, Unchanged by flatt’ry’s giddy praise , And thou, to whom a trem’lous youth First spoke the tale of love and truth, (1) Leurs ordres sont des caresses, leurs menaces sunt des pleurs.—ROUBSEAU. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Blending with passion’s fond alarms The bright’ning beam of virtue’s charms— Ab! lend not now a careless ear !— Yet, yet attend to truth sincere ! These lines at least with smiles receive, The last, perhaps, thy bard shall give. Whue pleasure spreads her gawdy train, To lure the trifling and the vain ; While fashion kills the tedious day With shopping, concert, cards, and piay ; While female love and youth’s fair charms Shrinks from pure passion’s ardent arms, And cling to splendor’s fancied bliss, With withering age and wretchedness, Be thine, Eliza, more refined, The pleasures of the virtuous mind! Be thine the transports of the heart Which love and goodness still impart ; The tender glance, the tranquil smile, A husband’s sorrows to beguile; The blush of joy divinely meek, That paints a mother’s glowing cheek ; The balm that friendship still bestows ; The tear that drops for human woes! These, these, Eliza! light the way, And cheer when other charms decay; Conduct through care and worldly gloom, And whisper joys—beyond the tomb. pag DONALD AND FLORA. A BALLAD, ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND KILLED AT THE BATTLA OF SARATOGA. 1778. WHEN many hearts were gay, Careless of aught but play, Poor Flora slipt away Sadd’ning to Mora.? Loose flow’d her yellow hair, Quick heaved her bosom bare, As thus to the troubled air She vented her sorrow : * Loud howls the stormy west, Cold, cold is winter’s blast :-— Haste then, O Donald, haste! Haste to thy Flora! Twice twelve long months are o’er Since on a foreign shore You promised to fight no more, But meet me in Mora. (2) A retreat so named by the lovezs, POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. « © Whore now is Donald dear?’ Maids ery with taunting sneer ; ‘Say, is he still sincere To his loved Flora?’ Parents upbraid my moan ; Each heart is turn’d to stone ;— Ah, Flora! thou’rt now alone, Friendless in Mora ! **Come then, oh, come away ! Donald, no longer stay !— Where can my rover stray From his loved Flora ? Ah, sure he ne’er could be False to his vows and me !— Oh heav’ns ! is not yonder he, Bounding o’er Mora !” * Never, oh, wretched fair,” Sigh’d the sad messenger, “ Never shall Donald mair Meet his loved Flora! Cold as yen mountain snow Donald thy love lies low! He sent me to soothe thy woe, Weeping in Mora. “ Well fought our valiant slain On Saratoga’s plain ; Thrice fled the hostile train From British glory. But al! though our foes did flee, Sad was each victory. Youth, love, and loyalty, Fell far from Mora! “© Here, take this love-wrought plaid, Donald expiring said, * Give it to yon dear maid Drooping in Mora. Tell her, O Allan, tell, Donald thus bravely fell, And that in his last farewell He thought on his Flora.’ ” Mute stood the trembling fair, Speechless with wild despair, Then striking her bosom bare, Sigh’d out ‘“ Poor Flora ! Ah, Donald !—ah, well-a-day !” Was all the fond heart could say. At length the sound died away Feebly on Mora. 397 AN ELEGY On the sudden death of a beautiful young boy in Jamaica, attended by the singular occurrence of a nightingale perching on the tree under which he was interred, and singing sweety - during the funeral service. WRITTEN IN JAMAICA IN 1788. RetentiEss Death !—ah! why so soon Cut down the flow’ret fair to view! Pale gleam’d the light of yonder moon, When pest’lence shed her deadly dew! 1 The morn arose serene and clear, The sun refulgent glow’d at noon ; But nought the drooping flower could cheer. Ah! wherefore droop’d the flower so soon! By yonder tree (his fav’rite shade, Where late he joy’d with sports and play) They dig his grave; there, lowly laid, Sleeps CawpeBEtt’s silent senseless clay ! Ah! what avails the tear and sigh, That close, loved boy, thy funeral gloom ! Tke doleful dirge, and frantic ery Of Afric’s mourners round thy tomb ! 4 Ah! what avails !—But cease the strain; Ye weeping parents, dry the tear. See! Philomela joins the train, And chants a requiem o’er his bier. Sweetly she warbles, perch’d on high, Far from her mate and haunts of even; She comes, an herald from the sky, To greet the cherub soul to heaven! Yet here should pensive pilgrim stray At soft’ning eve, or fervent noon, Here may he heave the sigh and say, “Ah! wherefore droop’d the flow’r so soon!? —_e—_ TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A BOTTLE OF IRISH USQUEBA ." H. “ Sine Cerere et Baccho friget Venus.” In spite of all that poets tell us (For poets are but lying fellows) Of Cupid’s flames, and Cupid’s darts, And all his soft bewitching arts, (1) He died of a putrid sore throat, occasioned by unwholesome night damps. (?) In Jamaica it was customary, in Mr, Macniell’s time, on the des th of a white person, for all the domestic negroes to attend the funeral, If the deceased had been a particular favourite, it was usual for the female slaves to raise after the interment a funera dirge over the grave. This consisted of loud and dismal lamenta- tions, chiefly expressive of the good qualities of the deceased such as, “ Oh, my good massa!” “ Oh, my dear massa!” accom panied with clapping of hands and violent gesticulations of sorrow. 398 POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. That teach the stubborn keart to move, And tune the rudest speech to love, I cannot say I recollect One single instance, proof, or fact, Where freedom, wit, or common sense, F’er flow’d from true love eloquence. For me (should love-sick qualins attack us), T’ve much more faith in honest Bacchus, And can’t help thinking master Cupid Oft makes us mad; but oftener stupid: At least, if one may judge from action, And looks that border on distraction, The man who. really feels love’s passion, Acts, speaks, and reasons—out of fashion. “This may be true,” 1 hear you cry, “Yet bards, you say, can sometimes lie ; And since you choose the present time To vent ’gainst love your spleen, in rhyme, Produce your proofs, or cease to rail.’”— With all my heart !—I’ll tell a tale. When sprightly Daphne went a-maying And all the loves and graces playing Around her beauteous face were seen To deck the bloom of fair nineteen, Young Strephon met her on the green. Struck with her charms—to speak afraid, By love enthrall’d, by love dismay’d— The senseless Strephion (keep from laughter !) Had not the power to follow after ; But gazed, and gaped, with transports swelling, Nor ask’d her name, nor mark’d her dwelling. Siz months, six torturing months and more, Did Streplon loud his loss deplore ; And often ranged the fields in vain To find the lovely maid again ; And often cursed his fluttering folly, And often groan’d with melancholy ; When Love and Fun one night agree, The youthful pair should meet at—tea. Soon as our rapt’rous swain had ventured The parlour door to ope, and enter’d, And saw his Daphne’s dazzling charms, He lost the power of legs and arms. His foot that whilom used to glide Along the floor with graceful slide, Now rudely strikes his tumblaig cane, Which, trying to obtain again, His luckless skull salutes a chair, And fearful stands his injuted hair !— Behold now Strephon in his place, With “blushing honours ’ on his face ; The tea’s to hand; he cannot fail To tread on harmless ‘Tabby’s tail ; To ease her pain, puss squalls and kicks, And in his leg her talons sticks ; And tears the hose, and eke the skin, . Till streams run down poor Strephon’s shis ; Stung with the smart, I do assure ye He roar’d and caper’d like a fury ; And in his gambols (dire mishap !) Dropt cup and tea in Daphne’s lap. You loathe the sot with liquor muddy, Eyes all inflamed, and face all ruddy ; Yet never once conclude with me That Strephon was as drunk as he; The man who speaks things out of season, Or acts as if bereft. of reason, 1 must consider just as bad As he who’s drunk, or he who’s mad. “ Pray, sir, a truce with moralising, And answer this without disguising : Did Strephon e’er his flame discover ? ” No—never while a downright lover. In vain each night he frames with art Some speech to melt his Daplne’s heart ; Whene’er he tries to ope his lips, Away! each soft idea skips, And leaves him nought but hems and hahs, And stamm’rings to fill up each pause ; And blushes, groans, and palpitation— (A pretty kind of conversation !). “ What then! did Strephon never win her ?'* Never, till one blest day at dimer. “ At dinner say you !—how—when—where ? ?~ How keenly curious women are! I would be brief—I hate great talkers— You’re so particular !—well !—at Walker’s.’ One morning, Strephon’s ask’d to dine, To meet at four, to part at nine; The party choice !—for reasons shown him He went, and drank his magnum bonum.? Behold him now, a jovial boy! No fluttering fears !—no trembling joy ; And, all his groans and blushes over, Mark how he breathes the ardent lover. Struck with amaze, sweet Daphne hears New accents reach her ravish’d ears: “ And, fairest of thy sex!” he cries (While passion sparkles in his eyes), “Oh, source of ev’ry chaste delight ! My thought by day; my dream by night ; My ev’ry hope; my ev’ry care ; My joy; my comfort; my—despair : Al! wherefore should I still conceal ‘What all can feign, what few can feel !°3 (1) A noted tavern in Edinburgh. (2) A bottle of claret contaming two English quarta. (3) Cartwright, POEMS OF HECTOR MACNETUL. 399 Since first these heav’nly charms were seen By luckless Strephon on the green ; Since first with smiles and spirits gay You hail’d the merry morn of May, What fluttering hopes have fired my brain! What fears of torture, doubts of pain! What pangs, what sorrows, ne’er to find By speech, or look, my Daphne kind, But cold and senseless to my anguish, Still left a wretch to droop and languish ! ”— “My God!” the wond’ring fair replies (While tears of rapture fill her eyes), “ How—how could Daphne ever know Her Strephon’s love, her Strephou’s woe! Till this soft tale, so sweetly sung, I never heard your tuneful tongue ; Till this fond hour, I never found These eyes but downcast on the ground ;— You still were silent, absent, cool :— T took you, Strephon, for—a fool.” Now, Mira, that my tale is ended, I hope [’ve proved what I intended, To wit, that without gen’rous wine A youth may sigh, and groan, and whine, But never talk in strains divine. For what is love, or what is beauty, If lovers cannot do their duty ? Or what are flames, or inclination, Without the fire of inspiration P— All, all must end in strange confusion, Without the gift of elocution. For me, who never had much brass, I find vast courage in a glass ; And now that blushing’s out of fashion, Or drink I must, or breathe no passion. And sure, if strains like mine have charm’d one When half-seas o’er, there’s no great harm done. And though last night, when first we met, You frown’d, and fretted in a pet, Withdrew your hand, with face averted, And thrice for me your chair deserted, Yet, warm’d by wine, I well remember, Unehill’d by looks, cold as December, I prattled wit from jovial quaffing, Till, quite o’ercome, at length, with laughing, You pardon smiled ; and, gen’rous hearted, Gave me your hand before we parted ; Nay, once delighted, almost swore I ne’er talk’d half so well before. Charm’d with the good effects of wine, I next day hurried to Gavine,! And straightway bought (e mervetlle pas /) A bottle of his Usquebaugh. (1) A famous distiller of liquears near Edinburgh, Which now send you, with this rule, That when J trifle like a fool, Or silent grow, or lose my temper, For God’s sake! fill me up a bumper! Till head, and heart, and tongue improve, And make me say whate’er you love! Oh, could its virtues but inspire This breast with true poetic fire, To sing, in numbers strong and clear, Thy friendship, ardent and sincere, Thy humour, sprightly, social, free, Thy temper’s blest serenity ! Oh, could its virtues but impart The language of thy feeling heart, To paint in accents sweetly mild The duties of a tender child; And every art and virtue rare That soothes an aged father’s care ; In faith, dear Mira, to be plain (Though much I dread your cold disdain), In spite of all you’d think or say, Td drink till tipsy every day. Se THE WHIP; oR, A TOUCH AT THE TIMES. SENT TO MISS D. OF LINSTED, WITH A WHIP MADB OF A RHINOCEROS’S SKIN. 1784. “ Que fuerant vitia mores sunt.”—-SENECA. Ere modest virtue lost her way Among the profligate and gay, Few modes were used for travel ; Unknown to whip, or spur, or boot, Each hardy Briton trudged on foot, Through mud, bog, dust, and gravel. *Twas then the fair, as story tells, (Ah! how unlike our modern belles !) Knew neither coach nor saddle ; No female Phaetonians then Surpass’d the boldest of our men In gesture, look, and straddle. But form’d by nature’s artless hand, Blushes, ’tis said, at her cemmand Oft stole o’er beauty’s features : No wife then scorn’d domestic sweets ; No daughter Jehu scour’d the streets ; Good lad! what simple creatures ! Emerged at length from gothie rules, Our fair ones, train’d in happier schools, For blushes, now give fashion ; POFMS OF HECTOR MACNEILLUU. Each modest virtue thrown aside, Behold! like men, erect, astride! They drive !—they whip !—they dash on! Oh! may the glorious day arrive, When each bold lass her nag shall drive O’er hedges, gates, and ditches! Nespise the housewife’s hateful lot, And change the useless petticoat For boots and buckskin breeches . Yet, heterogeneous as they are, Half man, half woman, half centaur, Some grave folks dread infection : See! virtue trembling flies the land! Alas! ’gainst furious four-in-hand No common whip’s protection ! Struck with the thought, I reason’d long,— * liza, poor thing’s! far from strong, And yet she loves a canter ; —Some fierce virago, high in blood, May lay her sprawling in the mud, Or in a hedge-row plant her! “What then remains the weak to shield? Must freedom thus her charter yield P—- Has beauty no defender ? —Alas! no bosom swells with rage !— There’s nought in this bold dashing age, But flogging to befriend her! “Since lashing’s then the ton, the tip, And vict’ry now turns on the Whip, The toughest whip should win; And as we know in each hard bout, The ‘toughest hide holds longest out,’ Vl find—a whip of skin.” Pleased with the fancy, swift I sped, Mad with the project in my head, IT ranged half India o’er ; But hides well beat are seldom tough : At last a bit of precious stuff I found on Afrie’s shore. There, by his streams and tangling groves, The huge rhinoceros careless roves, Though growls each savage nigh ; Undaunted, arm’d with horn and hide, To ball and dart he turns his side, Unheeded as they fly. But what’s the arm’d, the bold, the strong, (Again we moralise our song), Tf treacherv aims the blow P Ev’n Samson fell by female wit, And see! in subtle treachery’s pit The mighty beast lies low. Thus fall’n by cunning’s sneaking plot, With joy they strip his horny coat; (Twas wond’rous to behold!) “By heavens!” I cried, “at length I’ve found A skin that’s proof ’gainst mortal wound! *Tis worth its weight in gold!” Torn from the side it lately graced, A slice I cut with eager haste; A tough, tenacious slip! And hurrying home to British land, Gave it to Kelly in the Strand,’ Who form’d it to a whip. Thus arm’d, with virtue on your side, Unconquer’d reign, undaunted ride, Nor fear e’en Lade or Archer.” Some dame indeed may whoop and crack, But let rhinoceros touch her back, It will both blue and starch her. Ob, could its virtues but repair The lungs of thy half-winded mare, How great would be thy glory! From Linsted town thy fame would trot Fen to the house of Johnny Grot, In many a marv’lous story. Then should we hear in clam’rous boast, How one young fair one ruled the roast, As Pitt now rules the nation ; Made female jockeys bounce and skip, And by the pow’r of one famed Whip, Floge’d vice from freedom’s station ! But since, alas! no cure we know, Since Phill? must puff, or you move slow, Mark well a friend’s direction. Hold fast the reins of female pride, Whip ev’ry coxcomb from your side, To listen is—infection. Yet should the man, of worth possess’d, Fair candour glowing at his breast, Confess thy pow’r of charms ; List to his tale, be frank, be kind, Unfashion’d blush to love refined, And whip—into his arms! —_— (1) Whip-maker to the Prince of Wales. (2) Sir John Lade and Lady Archer, two of the most cele- brated phaeton-drivers in England, (8) Eliza’s mare. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. 4ul TO MISS JEAN AND MISS ISABELLA M****, WITIL TWO BOTTLES OF THE OTTO OF ROSES, Tost rudely round this whirling sphere, Estranged from all he valued dear ; Shut out from beauty’s bright’ning ray ; The social night, the tranquil day ; Involved in tumult’s wild uproar, And dropp’d on India’s burning shore ; Behold a woe-worn wand’rer roam, Far from his friends and native home ! “Thus ’scaped from storm and battle’s rage,’ Shall I,” he cried, “ new ills engage ! Shall I, by care and fortune cross’d, Droop sorrowing on a foreign coast ; And whelm’d at last in hopeless gloom, Sink unlamented to the tomb!” Perish the thought!” a seraph cries, (A seraph wafted from the skies.) 2 “ Perish the thought! a softer ray Yet comes to guide thy wilder’d way. What though rude mirth and tempests roar, And fortune frowning locks her store ; What though no converse reigns refined, And loved Miranda’s left behind ; A brighter morn will yet appear, To chase the gloom and gild the year ; A milder dawn o’erspread the grove, A warmer theme attune to love ; When freedom’s sun bright o’er the main Ilumes fair AtBion’s cliffs again ; And glittering high on mountain hoar, Proclaims afar loved Scotta’s shore ; Where friendship waits in smiles array’d, To bind the wound that fate has made ; And sympathy, with melting eye, To catch the tale and heave the sigh ; And mild oblivion, kind, to cast A dark’ning shade on suff’rings past. Meanwhile,” she said, “ this gift receive, And henceforth, wand’rer, cease to grieve ; For know, in this a virtue rare, (A passport likewise to the fair), Can cheer dejection’s languid gloom, And rich, to beauty yield perfume! Guard then this treasure, and when fate Conducts thee safe, or soon or late, (1) Alluding to the last naval engagement between Sir Edward Where Fortha’s wanderings gently glide Through fields that wave their cultured pride, There, while again thou wander’st o’er Each dear loved spot, oft trod before ; Or from Strevlina’s height serene Survey’st around the pictured scene, Or view’st sublime her castled towers From A———’s sheltering bowers. Where social mirth wan care beguiles, *Midst female virtues, female smiles ; While hope’s fond joys past sorrows heal, Let breasts like thine fresh ardour feel, To mark each virtue as it springs, And as the muse impassion’d sings, On maids of worth this gift bestow, A REE 9 SIE a Mite Charm’d with the tale, with sighs I prest The welcome treasure to my breast ; Here dwell, I cried, till fate once more Conducts me safe to Scotia’s shore ! Till free from tumult’s maddening strife, Once more I taste a poet’s life ; And female smiles to soothe and cheer, And love to cheat the lingering year: Here rest, I cried, till heaven bestows Your ###s, your #865 your Musee, | The seraph smiled, and instant flew ! The canvas spread, Eolus blew ! From India’s shores and burning skies, O’er waves the “Gibraltar ” flies. Blow, blow, ye breezes! oft I said, While seas the lingering voyage delay’d ; Blow, blow, ye breezes! oft J cried, While sleep her balmy rest denied : Yet midst my watclings, cares, and rest, Still clasp’d the treasure to my breast ! Relieved from cares that lately spread A tempest round a wanderer’s head, Arrived at length, where tumults cease And all within is hope and peace, ‘The warning seraph whispers low, “ Remember Worth, and each M**#* 1”? Go! partner of my throbbing heart ! To gentler breasts thy balm impart ! Go !—to yon social bowers repair, Far softer forms thy sweets shall share | Go! aud while odours from thee break Round Jane’s or Bella’s snowy neck, Tell them from me, no sweets refined Can match the tender female mind; Nor Persia’s rose, that blooms so fair, With virtue’s charms can e’er compare ; (2) See the author’s address to the Scottish muse. (3) The otto is made from the roses of Persia. Hughes and Admiral Suffrein in the East Indies, during which the author was on bosrd his Majesty’s ship the Gibraltar. oF 402 No! nor rich Ceylon’s spicy gales, Nor famed Arabia’s scented vales, A balm so grateful can diffuse, To wake and animate the muse, As that which, shook from Friendship’s wing, Attunes the lyre’s according string, And prompts e’en bards like me to sing ! THE HARP, A LEGENDARY TALE. IN TWO PARTS. “Smeirg a loisgeadh a thiompan ria.” TO THE READER. Tue writer of the present poem thinks it necessary to acquaint the public that it is founded on a short traditionary story, which reached him by the follow- ing accidental circumstance. A gentlemen in Perth- shire, well known for his researches into antiquity and national character,! chancing while on a tour to the Hebrides to hear some person say, “I'll never burn my harp for a woman,’? took occasion to ask the meaning of the proverb. He received for answer a simple unadorned tale, somewhat similar to the groundwork of the present poem; the singularity of which struck him so forcibly, that he committed it to writing. On a visit, some years ago, to a friend® who had accidentally seen the manuscript, he related this little artless story to the author, and, with his usual glow of colouring, diffused such an air of novelty and passion over it, as to suggest an idea that something interesting might be made of it in verse. The first part was written shortly after, but the author’s sudden departure for Europe put a stop for some time to any further attempt; although ho must confess, inclination repeatedly disposed him to finish what he had begun. A tedious passage home furnished him with ample opportunities to gratify this propensity—his residence in Britain since his arrival has enabled him to receive the opinion of his friends, and to avail himself of their strictures. Having given this short account of his Harp, the author now presents it to the world, with that mix- ture of hope and diffidence which the partiality of friends and the uncertainty iof public approbation naturally excite. Of its merits he shall say nothing. In an age, and in a country, however, so highly cul- tivated as the present, one observation may not be improper. Should the poem in some instances appear too irregular and abrupt in its construction, the author begs it may not be imputed to inadvertency, (1) Mr. Ramsay, of Auchertyre. (2) “ Smeirg a loisgeadh a thiompan ria,” (3) The late Mr. Graham, of Gartmore. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. but design. His aim was to render his tale rather interesting than regular, and animated rather than correct. Nature and passion, indeed, were his chief objects; and as these can never derive such energy from descriptive as from dramatic composition, it is almost unnecessary for him to observe that the Ancient Ballad has been his model. EDINBURGH, April 15, 1789. PART L. Sritv’p is the tempest’s blust’ring roar ; Hoarse-dash the billows of the sea ;— But who on Kilda’s dismal shore Cries, “Have I burnt my Harp for thee!” *Tis Col, wild raving to the gale, That howls o’er heath and blasted lea ; Still as he eyes the lessening sail, Cries, “ Have I burnt my Harp for thee! ” —Bright was thy fame in Bara’s isle, Sweet bard! where many a rival sung; Oft hadst thou waked the tear and smile As soft thy Harp melodious rung: Oft hadst thou touch’d the female heart, (To love I ween! and pity true), Till Mora came to hear thy art ;— Mora, with eye of softening blue. The maid he prized above the throng That press’d to hear his raptured strain ;— The maid, who melted at the song, But trifled with a lover’s pain: Long had he borne the treach’rous smile That cherish’d hope, and left despair ; The promised bliss which female guile As oft dispersed in empty air ; Till shunn’d by ev’ry constant maid ; Condemmn’d by friends ; by kindred prest ; Deceitful thus, in smiles array’d, Mora the sorrowing youth addrest : “Too long, O Col! in plaintive moan Thou’st strung thy Harp to strains divine ;—~ Add but two strings of varied tone, This heart, this yielding heart, is thine.” Two strings the youth, with anxious care, Half doubtful, to his Harp applies ; And oft, in vain, he turns each air, And oft each varying note he tries ; POEMS OF HECTOR MACNELUL. 403 At length (unrivall’d in his art !) With new-born sounds the valley rings ;- Col claims his Mora’s promised heart As deep he strikes the varied strings ! Three moons, three honied moons, are past Since Col, enraptured, laugh’d at care ; And oft the tuneful Harp he blest That won a nymph so good and fair : Till mindful of those tender ties That fashion’s sons would blush to name; With soften’d voice, and melting sighs, He thus accosts his peerless dame : “Three months, dear partner of my bliss! Three fleeting months have shed their charms, Since first I snatch’d the bridal kiss, And clasp’d perfection to my arms : “Yet happiness, however true, Must fade if selfish or confined ;— Your friends now claim affections due; The kindred transports of the mind! Bach parent mourns our cold delay ; They think of Mora with a tear: The gale invites—at early day To Cana’s sea-beat shore we steer.” The morn blush’d fair ; mild blew the gale; The lark to heaven light warbling springs ; Col smiles with love, spreads quick the sail, And sweeps with ravish’d heart the strings ! But ah! how short the transient gleams That light with joy the human breast !— The tempest raves, and wildly screams Each frighted sea fowl to her nest. High rage the billows of the deep That lately roll’d serenely mild, And dash’d near Kilda’s awful steep ; Col clasps his love with horror wild. For cold’s the form o’er which he hung With raptured eye the morn before ; And mute and tuneless is the tongue That charm’d so late on Bara’s shore ; And pale and lifeless is the cheek That glow’d so late with rosy hue ; The eye that melting joys could speak Is closed !—the eye of soft’ning blue. Hard with the furious surge he strove, His Love and fav’rite Harp to save ; Till deep in Crona’s sea-worn cove, He bears them safe from storm and wave. But cove, nor love’s assiduous care Could ebbing life’s warm tide restore !— Pale, wet, and speechless lay the fair On Kilda’s bleak and stormy shore. Oft, oft her breathless lips of clay With frantic cries he fondly prest ; And while a senseless corse she lay, He strain’d her madly to his breast. But who can paint with pencil true The scene, when sighs first struggling stole (Which thus by magic love he drew), Deep lab’ring from her fluttering soul! “She breathes !—she lives!” the minstrel cried, “ Life has not fled this beauteous form !— Protecting heaven! some aid provide !— Shield—shield my trembler from the storm ! “No roof its friendly smoke displays !— No storm-scaped faggot, turf, nor tree— No shrub to yield one kindly blaze, And warm my love to life and me! “Dark grows the night !—and cold and sharp Beat wind, and hail, and drenching rain ! Nought else remains—I’ll burn my Harp!” He cries, and breaks his Harp in twain. “For thee, O Mora! oft it rung, To guard thee from each rival’s art ; And now, though broken and unstrung, It guards from death thy constant heart.” Bright flamed the fragments as he spoke ; One parting sigh his Harp he gave: The storm-drench’d faggots blaze thro’ smoke, And snatch Lis Mora from the grave. PART II. Now heedless raved the stormy night, For instant terror frown’d no more, And cheerful blazed the spreading light Round Kilda’s dark and dismal shore ; And cheerful smiled the grateful pair, And talk’d of death and dangers past, When loud the voice of wild despair Came rushing on the midnight blast. 404 Chill horror seized each lover’s heart. “Ah me! what dismal sounds draw near ! — Defend us, heaven!” with sudden start Cried Mora, thrill’d with frantic fear. One hand supports his trembling wife, The other grasps his trusty glaive ; “My Harp,” he cries, “has given thee life, And ¢his that precious life shall save!” “No danger comes,” deep sigh’d a form, As near the cave it shiv’ring stood ; * A stranger shipwreck’d by the storm Implores the gen’rous and the good ; “No danger comes—ah me! forlorn ! A wretch by woes and tempests tost! From love, from friends, and kindred torn, And dash’d on Kilda’s frightful coast ! “Restless with grief, at op’ning day For Lewis’ isle £ spread the sail ; Sweet rose the lark with cheerful lay, And sweetly blew the flatt’ring gale ! * Ah fate relentless! thus to cheat With baneful lure and treacl’rous smile!— Were human suff’rings not complete Till wreck’d on Kilda’s desert isle ! “ Lured by the light that gleams afar, With fainting steps these cliffs 1 prest :— Oh! may it prove a polar star, And guide to pity’s shelt’ring breast ! ” Quick from his grasp the falchion flies As Col each opening arm extends ; “ Approach, ill-fated youth!” he cries, “ Here—here are none but suff’ring friends! “ Like thee, we hail’d the matin song, The flatt’ring gale, and faithless tide !— How sweet! by zephyrs borne along, My Harp and Mora by my side! “Why starts the youth ?—approach—draw near ; Behold the wreck of storm and wave.— *Tis all that’s left !—my Harp so dear I burn’d, that fair one’s life to save!” First pale, then crimscn grew his cheek, And sorely shook his manly frame ! His falt’ring tongue refused to speak, Save to repeat his Mora’s name— A name which oft had charm’d his ear, And e’en from childhood grew more sweet ; POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL, A name which love had render’d dear, And sorrow taught him to repeat. Long had he nursed the kindling flame, Long, long possess’d the virgin heart ; But party feuds and discord came, And forced the tend’rest pair to part. Torn hapless thus from all he loved, The wretched wand’rer left his home; From isle to isle incessant roved ;— His only wish—to idly roam ! Oft had he braved the tempest’s war, Unaided in his slender bark ; Oft lonely steer’d by some faint star That glimmer’d through th’ involving dark ; Oft, off uncertain whether driven Or near some rock, or breaker borne; He’d quit his helm to guiding heaven, And sigh his cheerless lot till morn . Oft had the wild heath been his bed, On some lone hill, or craggy steep ; While light’nings flash’d avound his head, And eagles screan’d his woes asleep. Thus pass’d his wand’ring life away, “A wretch by woes and tempests tost,” Till fortune, in her changeful play, Wreck’d him on Kilda’s fatal coast. Al! little thought he while he strove *Gainst whelming wave and rocky shore, Yon sight would guide him to his love, For whom these ceaseless ills he bore! “Why starts the youth?—approach—draw near Behold the wreck of storm and wave !— Tis all that’s left !—my Harp so dear I burn’d, that fair one’s life to save!” A glance from Mora’s speaking eye Half calm’d the fond youth’s labouring breast The tale goes round—the bleak winds sigh, And Col mistrustless sinks to rest. Ah! how could cold distrust possess A breast so gen’rous, kind, and true! A heart still melting to distress, To love—false fair one! and to—you. The morn arose with aspect drear, The waves still dash with sullen roar. Col starts from rest—no Mora’s near,— The treach’rous pair are far from shore ! POEMS OF HECTOR MACNELLL. From Kilda’s cliff thal towers on high, He spies the white sail far at sea ; And while the big tear fills each eye, Cries, “ Have I burn’d my Harp for thee ! ” “Oh most ungrateful of thy kind! And most unjust to love and me !— Oh woman! woman! light as wind, Pll ne’er burn Harp again for thee! ” THE WEE THING ; OR, MARY OF CASTLE-CARY. A BALLAD. “Saw ye my wee thing ? Saw ye my ain thing P Saw ye my true love down on yon lea? Cross’d she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming ? Sought she the burnie where flow’rs the haw trec ? “Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it is milk-whitc; Dark is the blue o’ her saft rolling ee ; Red, red her ripe lips! and sweeter than roses !— Where could my wee thing wander frae me?” “T saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea; But I met my bonny thing late in the gloaming, Down by the burnie where flow’rs the haw tree. “ Her hair it was lint-white; herskin it was milk-white; Dark was the blue o’ her saft rolling ee ; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses : Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me!” “Tt was nae my wee thing, it was nac my ain thing, It was nae my true love ye met by the tree: Proud is her leel heart! modest her nature ! She never loo’d ony, till ance she loo’d me. “Her name it is Mary; she’s frae Castle-Cary : Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee :-— Fair as your face is, war’t fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne’er would gie kisses to thee!” “It was then your Mary ; she’s frae Castle-Cary ; It was then your true love I met by the tree: Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me.” Sair gloom’d his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, Wild flash’d the fire frae his red rolling ee !— “Ye’s rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning ; Defend ye, fause traitor ! fu’ loudly ye lie.” 405 “ Awa wi’ beguiling,” cried the youth, smiling. Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks fiee ; The belted plaid sa’ing, her white bosom showing, Fair stood the loved maid wi’ the dark rolling ce ! “Ts it my wee thing! is it my ain thing! Is it ny true love here that I sce!” “O Jamie, forgie me; your heart’s constant to me- Pll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!” —-o—— TO J. W. ON HIS BIRTHDAY. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN SEVENTY-TWO AND TWENTY-SEVEN, M. AxotHER year to banish gloom, And still my friend retains his bloom !— Still laughs, and jokes, and tell his tale ; Eats heartily ; drinks home-brew’d ale ; Enjoys good health ; is fat and stout, Though sometimes tortured with the gout. W. The gout / young man !—come, come—refrain You know, Macneill, ’tis but a sprace ;— A random step—a heedless tread.— You smile, I see, and shake your head— —Well! be it so—with all my heart— You know the truth—1 know the smart ! M. Be thankful, sir! in life’s dull round Few W——-s are to be found: Oppress’d with want, perplex’d with care, Diseased, or madd’ning with despair, The poor or wealthy rarely find Sound health conjoin’d with tranquil mind. Now these, you know, have blest you long, But yet, my friend! you’re not still young; And ’twixt us two, were truths all told, You think the gout sounds plaguy o/d.— Arrived at years full threescore ten— W, Who told you that ?——Jf, Why, there again The sound is old—pox on this tongue ! I wish to God you still were young! —If I am wrong I ery you mercy ; My proofs, I own, are only—hearsay— But tell the truth and I'll engage, sir— W. —I’m not obliged to tell my age, sir. Af, Well, be it seventy, more or less, I say your lot is happiness. True, once a year that stomach spruin A month or longer gives you pain. The fault’s your own; I can assure you ‘In half the time a child might cure you. W. Dear Mac! the meansP——M. Why then I'll tell ye, Stay more at home; please less the belly. Mark now, my friend, and then complain, Pray what is e’en a month of pain ? Unknown to fever, gout, or stone, The passing year glides smoothly on ; And while life frets and discomposes Hear how you spread your bed of roses. Esteem’d by all, by some adored, You often grace your neighbour’s board ; They give whate’er you prize as best, Old wine—old joke—old ale—old jest, Yet mix a charm that all surpasses !|— ¥. What’s that, you rogue?——M. Young bonny lasses ! Some hours in social converse blest, What say you to a game at whist ? Agreed—cut in—you get the worst, Tl not aver he will be cursed, But for his shuflings, cuts, and dealings, I would not own them for—some shillings.! At supper next I see you sit Replete with glee and social wit ; With some fair nymph you laugh and sport, Your feast an egg ; your liquor port. The toast goes round, you ask a song, “The medley, Mac—if not too long.” To sing, you know, I ne’er refuse, (My song is readier than my muse) ; But let me warble what I’m able, You're still the blithest at the table. Temp’rate and wise, at early day You spring from rest refresh’d and gay ; And sallying forth from six hours’ nap, Away you stroll in gown and cap: Old honest James,” with ruddy cheek And hobbling gait, you need not seek ; He’s still at hand to banish sorrow, To doff his hat and bid good morrow; For “ weel,” he says, “round ilka spot He likes to see your honour stot.” Here, on some green-inviting walk, With him you jest, with him you talk ; Mark how each vernal beauty blows, How fresh the pink, how sweet the rose ; POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. How nature’s op’ning charms advance, And sigh for him who calls it—chance. Here, too, on ev’ry blossom’d spray The thrush and linnet yield their lay; Around the house the cooing dove Or flutt’ring flies, or woos his love, And many a fowl with ardour keen Greet their kind patron on the green, While Rover mild, and Trap* in high glee, . Caper and frisk whene’er they spy ye. Some time in study next ensues, Then off go slippers; on go shoes ; From crimson cap and nightgown gay, A three-tail’d wig, and coat of grey. Should friends arrive, they’ll get pot-luck ; A cod’s head stew’d, or roast veal pluck.4 Should none appear—* Why, be it so, For bere comes Davis, Jzn, and Joz ; With friends like these I’m ne’er alone,” You cry—but where’s your favourite, Joun ?* Ah! stop, brisk muse, a little while ; A sudden pang has check’d the smile. Ye sportive rhymes—effusions gay— Ye trifling jests—hence! hence—away ! For other tasks for me remain. The pensive thought ; the plaintive strain ; The frequent sigh; the throbbing breast That beats for friendship—late possess’d ! That droops for mirth’s enliv’ning string, Wit’s attic zest, without its sting; Genius that glow’d with sense refined, And worth that charm’d and bless’d mankind! And thou, poor muse, whose rambling song In artless numbers roll’d along; Heedless I ween of critic sneer When candid, skilful Joun was near To watch thy flight, and guide thy way, And prune thy wild excessive lay !— Ah me! no more on soaring wing Thy careless notes thou dar’st to sing! Tim’rous and sad now flutt’ring fly !— Tis strains like ¢hese thou now must try! Yes, wretched thing! go—vent thy moan, Thy friend—thy early guide—is gone !° (1) Alluding to his constant practice of commenting on his partner’s shuffling, cutting, and dealing the cards whenever he chanced to have a bad hand. (2) An old gardener remarkable for a peculiar phraseology. (3) Two favourite dogs. (4) Two favourite dishes. (5) His danghter and three sons. (6) The excellent person here mentioned was one of the most dear and intimate friends the author ever had. He was a man who (independently of the most amiable virtues) possessed great penius ; but, like many others of distinguished abilities. too indo- lent to prosecute or apply his talents to advantage. His memory was so extraordinary, that he could get by rote eight hundred lines of poetry in a day without the omission of a word; and he once offered, in the author’s presence, to lay a considerable bet that without any assistance whatever he would in three days play over every move in Philidore’s Treatise on Chess. He was an admirable critic, and no contemptible poet, both of which arts he cultivated with care; and his excellence in painting, had it been encouraged, would have entitled him to eminence. He likewise possessed an exquisite taste in music; and what renders the character more singular is, that with these gifts of genius, mathematics, calculation, and abstract science seemed to be his forte. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. 407 To ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa. OF GARTMORE, On hearing he had praised one of the Author’s Poems, and written the following elegant lines on a copy sent to Miss BUCHANAN of Leny.' Waite strains like these beguile a wand’rer’s care, And fancy’s smile unfetters fortune’s frown, Oft will reflection doubt with anxious air If e’er one sprig this wand’rer’s head shall crown. And oh!” she cried, “whate’er his breast may fire, Whether of love or patriot zeal he sings, Ne’er may ambition prompt the low desire To feed on flatt?ry wheresoe’er it springs. “ Yet should the voice of taste and sense refined Applaud what some may love, and all may hear ; And bursting from an elegance of mind Steel sweetly grateful on a poet’s ear ; “Welcome! the meed to fire the coming muse And add fresh ardour to the patriot strain ! Nor virtue blush, nor modestly refuse To gather flow’rs at truth’s unspotted fane! ” Fame heard the prayer, and pointing to the bays, Deep in yon tablet graved no vulgar name ; “Behold!” she cried, “the bard who yields his praise ; ” The wand’rer doubting gazed, and found it— GRaHaM. gees ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT.-GEN. SIR RALPH ABERCROMBY, KiLLeD AT THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA, IN EGYPT, 21st MaRcuH, 1801. From carnaged fields bedrench’d with gore, How long must Pity shrink with pain ; Turn, shuddering pale, from shore to shore, Aud weep her patriot heroes slain! (1) “ TEaTH* heard the strain, and heard the youth, As round her verdant meads he stray’d, Still boast his LAURA and his truth, Regardless of her fav’rite maid ; “And as he wove achaplet gay, And ev’ry flow’ret cull’d with care, She snatch’d the rosy wreath away, And twined it round BucHawan’s hair.” " The river Teath, near Leny. Touch’d at her tears that streaming flow, (Just tribute to the good and brave), Britannia, wrapt in sable woe, Bends o’er her ABERCROMBY’S grave. “And could not age,” she sorrowing cries, “From blood protect thy final doom P Gild thy last eve with milder skies, And lay thee gently in the tomb?” Rock’d in the cradle of alarms, Nursed in the school where glory’s won, Rejoicing in the din of arms, Soon Valour hail’d her darling son : Foresaw the bright, the guiding beam That led to Honour’s splendid goal ; Saw, flash’d round Pompzy’s Pruzar, gleam The parting light’nings of his soul! Yet, in the warrior’s dauntless breast Fond Hope with mellowing pencil drew ; Pourtray’d the scene when laurel’d rest, In peace, enjoys the fav’rite few !— Vain dream !—with war’s indignant frown Fame twined the cypress with the bay ;— “Be this,” she cried, “the laurel crown To deck my hero’s parting day! ‘Sunk in the shade of still repose, Unhonour’d drop the valiant dead ;— Bright as his day shall beam the close— He dies in Glory’s patriot bed! ” “He lives!” Britannia warm replies, As high the trophied urn she rears ; ‘He lives in Virruz’s bursting sighs, His Covuntry’s praiss!—his Country’s TEARS!” ae LINES On ADMIRAL LorD NELSO’s sending, in the hour of Vic tory, a Flag of Truce to stop the further effusion of blood in ‘ha memorable Naval Engagement off Copenhagen, April 2nc, 1801, Acaln the tide of rapture swells ; Britannia sees new trophies rise ; Again the trump of vict’ry tells That with the brave compassion lies ! Tn vain the carnage of the field ! In vain the conquest of the main ! 408 The brave may bleed—the brave may yield, *Tis Mercy binds the brave again! True to the dictates of the heart That melts to pity’s godlike glow, Homaniry arrests the dart, Half wing’d, to lay the vanquish’d low ; Swift through the battle’s thund’ring storm ; See! deck’d in smiles she takes her stand; Assumes her NEtson’s fav’rite form, And lifts her egis o’er the land! Struck with the radiance of her shield, Returning Friendship warms the Dane !— The brave may fight !—the brave may yield ! Mexrcy unites the brave again. THE LINKS O’ FORTH ; OR, A PARTING PEEP AT THE CARSE O° STIRLING. “ He woo’d the muse, and sung the pensive strain ; He loved meek solitude, and soften’d gloom.” STERLING’S Cambuscan, v. 304. Tue succeeding Poem was printed during the Author’s absence abroad. The following Preface, explanatory of his motives for writing it, having been accidentally omitted, he now thinks it proper to subjoin it, for the information of the Reader. “The following production the Author, previously to his departure from Britain, leaves in the posses- sion of a friend, careless of its future fate, although not insensible of its imperfections. Lest, however, it may hereafter chance to meet the public eye, it may not be improper to observe that having, at an early period in life, written and injudiciously pub- lished a poetical performance on the same subject, which a more mature judgment taught him to con- demn, he was desirous of substituting something in its stead, less exceptionable to good taste, and more characteristic of the scenes he has attempted to delineate. Should this be considered as an awkward apology for defects, let it be remembered that the POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. ‘Parting Peep at the Carse of Stirling’ was executed under various disadvantages;—that, while it was composed amidst the gloom of sickness and solitude, to mitigate distress, it received no fostering sunshine to cherish or to cheer ;—that it never met the eye of criticism, nor the kindly strictures of a friend; and that while it may, without a violation of metaphor, be called the offspring of pain and of pensiveness, it was, amidst other trials, produced under the addi- tional depression of leaving a country to which the author has every reason to predict he never will return. “ With regard to the language in which the present poem is written (and for which perhaps an apology is likewise necessary) the author can only say, that he made choice of the Scottish dialect, not only on account of its superior poetical pathos and simplicity to any other with which he is acquainted,! but, in his opinion, as the most appropriate to the scenes de- scribed, and particularly to the historical events he has ventured to introduce. Farther he has nothing to say. Praise, should it ever come, will in all likelihood never reach his ear; and censure, after what has already been advanced in extenuation, must recoil on the unfeeling and fastidious.” EDINBURGH, October, 1796. Au! winding Forra !—smooth wandering tide! O’ Strevlin’s peerless plain the pride; How pleased alang thy verdant side, Where floweries spring, The muse her untaught numbers tried, And learnt to sing! When ardent youth, wi’ boiling blood, Ilk trace o’ glowing passion loo’d, How aft aside thy silver flood, Unseen, alane, The bardie, rapt in pensive mood, Has pour’d the strain! To beauteous Laura, aft and lang, His artless lyre he trembling strang ;— Close to his beating heart it hang, While glen, and grove, And craig, and echoing valley, rang Wi fervent love. (1) In support of this assertion some proof perhaps may be expected ; but as any dissertation on this subject might lead to an unwarrantable length, we shall extract the following judicious remarks of an anonymous, though good critic, on some of the peculiar advantages of the Scottish language for subjects of poetry. “Tt contains a number of vocables peculiarly expressed, and purely its own, . Many of them are monosyllables, and yet they convey an extent and an energy of meaning which most of the modern languages can but imperfectly collect, even by circum- Jocution. Its powers of termination, especially in diminutives and expressions of endearment, are far from being inconsiderable, and in many instances it appears to be little inferior to that of the Italian. 1t possesses w considerable portion of that rustic sim- plicity so much admired in the Doric dialect of the Greeks, and not a little also of the smoothness of the Ionic. Like the former, it drops final consonants, substitutes one for another, and converts many of the vowels and diphthongs of English words into A and I; and, like the latter, it delights to throw out the consonants, to produce a concourse of vowels, to soften the sound, and promote the flow of those harsher terms which less easily combine in versification, It abounds in terms and phrases connected with domestic and social life, with rural scenery, sentiments and occupations, and hence is peculiarly fitted for pastoral poetry, the lighter ode, and the description of external nature, It surpasses in humorous representation, and is far from being unsuitable te the plaintive and the tender,” POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Poor, fond enthusiast! whither stray ? By wimpling burn or broomy brae ? Wasting, I ween, the live-lang day In am’rous rhyme ;— The hour will come, thou’lt sigh, and say, What loss o’ time ! Yet, wherefore shou’d nae youth engage in pleasures suited to its age? To catch the tids 0’ life is sage, Some joys to save; Wha kens the fights he’s doom’d to wage This side the grave ! To sport on fancy’s flowery brink, And beek a wee in love’s warm blink, Is wiser far, I’m sure, than think O’ distant harm, When eild and cauld indiff’rence shrink, Frae pleasure’s charm. Then strike, sweet muse, the trembling lyre, Ance mair do thou the sang inspire ;— Ak! check nae yet the glowing fire, Though health divine, And youth, and pleasure’s fond desire Fast, fast decline ! Attune the lay! when nature’s harm First seized his bosom fluttering warm ; Ere care yet came, wi’ dread alarm, Or friendship’s guile ; Or fortune, wi’ uplifted arm, And treacl’rous smile. Attune the lay that should adorn Ik verse descriptive o’ the morn; When round Forth’s Links 0’ wa ing corn At peep o’ dawn Frae broomy knowe to whitening thorn He raptured ran : Or fragrant where, at opening day, The whins bloom sweet on Ochil brae ; There, when inspired by lofty lay, He’d tak his flight ; And towering climb, wi’ spirits gay, Demyit’s! height. Oh! grander far than Windsor’s brow ! And sweeter too the vale below! Where Forth’s unrivall’d windings flow / Through varied grain, Brightening, I ween, wi’ glittering glow Strevlina’s plain ! (1) One of the highest of the Ochil hills that bound the Carse ot Stirling to the east. 409 There, raptuved trace (enthroned on hie) The landscape stretching on the e’e Frae Grampian heights down to the sea, (A dazzling view !) Corn, meadow, mansion, water, tree, In varying hue.— Owre lofty here, ilk charm to trace That decks, sweet plain! thy cultured face ; Aft down the steep he’d tak a race, Nor, rinning, flag, Till up he’d climb, wi’ rapid pace, Yon “ abbey craig.” There seated, mark, wi’ ardour keen, The skelloch? bright ’mang corn sae green, The purpled pea, and speckled bean ; A fragrant store ! And vessels sailing, morn and e’en, To “ Stirling shore.” But aftner far, he’d, late and air, To yonder castled height? repair, Where youth’s gay sports, relax’d frae care, Cheat learning’s toils, And round her Doig’s‘ classic chair Fond genius smiles , *Twas here, O Forth! for luve o’ thee, Frae wine, and mirth, and cards he’d flee ; Here too, unskill’d, sweet Poesy ! He woo’d thy art— Alas! nor skill nor guide had he, Save warmth o’ heart! Yet feckless as his numbers fell,, Nae tongue his peacefu’ joys can tell, When, crooning quietly by himsel, He framed the lay On Gowland’s whin-beflowered hill And rocky brae. How richly then the landscape glow’d As fast the welcome numbers flow’d! How smooth the plying bargie® row’d Frae shore to shore | How saft the kye in King’s Park® low’d, At milking hour! (2) The wild mustard. (8) The castle hill of Stirling, from which the finest view of the Carse is seen. (4) Dr. David Doig, master of the grammar school, where Le taught near forty years. A man whose uncommon erudition and genius deserved a higher station. (5) The abbey ferry-boat. (6) “Upon the south-west of the castle lies u large park, inclosed with a stone wall, called the King’s Park, where tne court used to divert themselves with hunting of the deer whict 3G 410 And ah! how sweet the murmur rang Frae busy labour’s rural thrang ! That sta’ the upland heights amang, And echoing spread Owre Castle, Butts, and Knott, alang The Backwalk shade. Dear, peacefw’ scenes! how sweet to sing! When youth and luve are on the wing ; When morn’s fresh gales their fragrance bring, Wi? balmy sough, And e’ening paints (how green in spring !) The “braes o’ Tough!” But sweet, thro’ a’ the varying year Will Airthrie’s banks and woods appear ; And crouse Craigforth, and princely Keir, That crowns the scene ; And Allan water, glittering near Its bleaching green. And Blair, half hid in silvan shade, Where Taste and Home! delighted stray’d ; What time? when Lare and Genius fled Frae bar and town, To Teath’s clear stream, that babbling play’d By Castle Doun. And Shaw-park, gilt wi’ e’ening’s ray ; And Embro’ castle, distant grey ;? Wi? Alva, screen’d near Ochil brae, >Mang grove and bower! And rich Clackmannan, rising gay, Wr’ woods and tower ; —These, aft he traced, fond nature’s child! But maist at e’ening blushing mild, As owre the western cliffs sae wild O’ Lomond’s? height The sun in setting glory smiled W7 purple light! *Twas then, by gloaming’s sober hour, He’d court some solitude obscure ; POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Or round Cam’skenneth’s* ancient tower, Where winds Forth’s stream He’d wander, meditate, and pour This moral theme :— “How still and solemn steals the gloom Mild owre the garden’s fading bloom ! Dim flits the bat athwart the tomb, On leathern wing ;— —Hark! what bemoan’d the slaughter’d doom O’ Scotia’s king P "Twas but the dove that woos his mate, Unmindfw’ 0’ the monarch’s fate : Where, Grandeur, now thy regal state P— Unmark’d !—and gane! Nor sculptured verse records thy date, Nor moss-grown stane ! Yet regal pomp, and courtly show, Aft graced yon castle’s® princely brow, Whan Scotland’s kings, wi’ patriot glow, Delighted, woo’d Strevlina’s fertile fields below, And winding flood ! Sublime retreat! beloved! admired! Whase rural charms sae aft conspired To calm the raging breast, when fired *Gainst lawless power, And yield, ’mid social sweets retired Liife’s happier hour ! To sheathe in peace war’s slaughtering sword ; To drap the king at friendship’s board ; To draw frae luve’s delicious hoard Her honey’d sweet! And chain fierce valour’s lofty lord At beauty’s feet. Or join the chase, at purple morn, Owre lawns, and heath-bloom’d mountains borne ; Wi’ hound, and hawk, and bugle horn, And shouting thrang ; While Sauchie’s glens, beflower’d wi’ thorn, The notes prolang ; were kept in it. At the east end of the park lie the royal gardens; vestiges of the walks and parterres, with a few stumps of fruit trees, are still visible. In the gardens is a mound of earth, in form of a table, called the king’s knott, with benches of earth round it, where, according to tradition, the court sometimes held féles champetres. Around the gardens, too, are vestiges of a canal, upon which the royal family and court used to divert them- selves in pleasure boats."—Mimmo's History of Stirlingshire, pp. 250, 251. (1) Henry Home, Lord Kames, one of the senators of the College of Justice, and author of many ingenious and learned performances. (2) Edinburgh Castle, though distant thirty-five miles from Gtirling, is seen from the castle hill in a favourable day. (3) Ben Lomond, the highest of the Grampian mountains thet Lound the Carse of Stirling to the north-west, (4) The abbey of Cambuskenneth, founded by David I., King of Scotland, anno 1147. (5) The castle of Stirling, on account of its beautiful situation and delightful prospect, was the favourite residence of our Scot- tish kings, particularly of the James’s. James III, was so attached to it, that he built a paiace with an elegant chapel in it. To procure funds for the support of a dean, prebends, a numer- ous band of singers, musicians, and other officers, he suppressed the oo of Coldingham, and endowed his chapel with the which produced the rebellion that diode tiers occasioned the tragical “oath of that mild and un fortunate monarch. POEMS OF HECTOR MauNnEILL. Or break the lance, and couch the spear At tilts and tournaments 0’ weir, Where mony a valiant knight and pcer Display’d their skill, To courtly beauty, blushing near, On Ladies’ Hill. Thus, tuned to pastime’s peacefw’ string, Strevlina’s craigs and valley ring ; Blithe was the courtier and the king By Fortha’s flood, Till Faction soar’d on raven wing, Bedrapt wi’ blood ! *Twas then ilk sport and rural charm Fled court, and plain, and cheerless farm !— Rebellion loud, wi’ dread alarm, Skreigh’d wild her cry, And imuwder dark, wi dagger’d arm, Stood watching by ! O Treason !—ranc’rous, ruthless fae! Sad source o’ Scotland’s wars and wae ! Not guiltless power, here changed to clay,* Could calm thy strife, Nor ward thy boiling bloody fray And butchering knife ! Alas! nor he,* whase youthfu’ bloom Lang felt oppression’s tyrant doom ; Though science, mid the captive gloom, And genius bright, And fancy, at her fairy loom, Shot radiant light !— (1) “In the castle hillis a hollow called the Valley, comprehend- ing about an acre of ground, and having all the appearance of an artificial work, which was used for tilts and tournaments, with other feats of chivalry; and closely adjoining to this valley upon the south, is a small rocky mount, rising in form of a pyramid, called the Ladies’ Hill, upon which the ladies of the court took their station to behold those exercises.””—Mimmo's Hist. p. 252. (2) James III., murdered in the village of Bannockburn, after fhe battle fought with his rebellious nobles, under the command of the Duke of Rothsay, his own son. He was buried near the remains of his queen, in the abbey church of Cambuskenneth, 1488, (8) James I, of Scotland. (4) “ James I, of Scotland was one of the most accomplished and amiable princes that ever filled a throne. He was likewise one of the most unfortunate, After upwards of eighteen years’ captivity in England, and encountering many difficulties on his return to his native kingdom, he was, in the prime of life, mur- dered by barbarous assassins in the Carthusian monastery of Perth. In the monument of genius, James has been almost equally un- fortunate. No vestiges are now remuining of his skill in archi- tecture, gardening, and painting, though we are well assured, by one who was well acquainted with him,* that in all these arts he excelled. Many of the productious of his pen have also perished ; for he tells us himselft that he wrote much; and we know of only three of his poems that are now extant, viz. Christ’s Kirk on * Scotichron. lib. 16. cap. 30. t King’s Quair, cant. 1. stan. 13. All Insatiate fiend! could nought allay The rebel rage ’gainst regal sway !— Not Flodden-Field, whase fatal day : Brought dool and care, When Scotland’s Flowers were wed sway,5 To bloom nae mair. Nor Solway’s heart-break, and disgrace,8 Nor Mary’s? tears, nor beauteous face, Could stop, fell fae! thy furious pace, Bestain’d wi’ crime, Till Stuart’s royal, luckless race! Fled Scotia’s clime. Dark gloom’d the morn, owre land and sea, Whan Scotia, sad, wi’ tearfu’ ee, Saw, frae her pine-waved cliffs on hie, And aiken bowers, Her king, and independence flee Strevlina’s towers ! Not sae the morn, that beaming shed A blaze round Wallace’ helmed head, As bold in freedom’s cause he led His patriot train, And dyed these blood-drench’d furrows red Wi?’ hostile slain! Nor yet, O Bruce !* the morn that shone Bright, bright! when (Hdward’s host ow’rthrowny the Green, Peebles to the Play, and the King’s Quair, which was lately discovered by Mr. Warton, and since published by William Tytler of Woodhouseiee, Esq.” (Henry's Hist.) ‘He was,” con- tinues Henry, “not only the most learned king, but one of the most learned men of the age in which he flourished ; and seems to have been born to excel in every art to which he applied his mind.” Independently of his other singular accomplishments, James particularly excelled in music, not only as a performer, but as a composer ; and it is to his admirable genius that the musical world is so much indebted for the invention (amidst the gloom of solitude and confinement) of that sweet and plaintive Scotch and Italian melody, which, as the above mentioned author justly remarks, “has given pleasure to millions in every succeed ing age.” In connection with this we may mention that Alexandro Tassoni speaks of James, King of Scotland, having, of himself, invented a new kind of music, plaintive and melancholy, different from all others, in which he was imitated by Carlo Gesualdo, Prince of Venosa, who in our age (says Parsoni) has improved music with new and admirable inventions. As the Prince of Venosa imitated King James, the other musicians of Italy imitated the Prince of Venosa. ‘The most noble Carlo Gesualdo, the prince of musicians in our age” (says Sir John Hawkins, vol. iii. p. 212), “ introduced such a style of modulation, that other musicians yield the preference to him ; and all singers and players on stringed instruments, laying aside that of others, everywhere embraced his,” (5) Alluding to the beautiful and pathetic ballad of the “ Flowers of the Forest.” (6) James V. was so affected with the unfortunate and dis- graceful affair at Solway Frith, near the river Esk, that he died a few days afterwards, literally of a broken heart. (7) Mary Queen of Scotland. (8) ¥‘g Robert the Bruce, A412 High, on yon proud hill’s Standard Stone,' Thy banners flew ; While Freedom, loud, in raptured tone Her clarion blew! Exchanting morn! whase magic reign Brak forging thraldom’s galling chain ; Led Ceres, wi’ her laughing train And gowden store Round Bannockburn’s ensanguined plain, And Carron’s shore. Round ‘ Carun’s stream,’ o’ classic name, Where Fingal fought, and aye ow’rcame ;? Where Ossian waked, with kindling flame, His leav’n-taught lays, And sang his Oscar’s deathless fame At Dunipace ! Names, gratefw’ to the patriot’s ear ! Which Scotia’s sons delight to hear !— Names, that the brave will lang revere WY valour’s sigh ! Dear to the Muse !—but doubly dear To Liberty!” Thus (blind to prudence’ warning light) Aft sigh’d and sang the pensive wight! — Reckless, alas! o’ fortune’s blight, Or warldly blame, He’d muse, and dream, till dark midnight, Then daunder hame\ Ye flowering plains and winding stream! Ye stately towers! where morn’s first beam Mild glittering glints with gowden gleam ! Yours was the crime: Ye first enticed hig youth to dream In thriftless rhyme ! Ye first unlock’d the secret door That led to nature’s varied store ; And taught him early to adore Her tempting smile, Whether on India’s pictured shore Or Britain’s isle.— Ye classic fields, where valour bled ! Where patriots strave, but never fled! Ye plains, wi’ smiling plenty clad, A lang adieu! A dark’ning cloud wi’ ills ow’rspread Obscures the view ! (1) The stone where Bruce’s standard was fixed during the memorable battle of Bannockburn. It may still be seen on an eminence near the village of St, Ninians, with a hole in the centre POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. A warning voice, sad owre the main Cries, Haste ye !—haste !—break off the stram »~ STREVLINA’s towers and peerless plain Ye'll ne’er review !— Dear haunts 0’ youth, and luve’s saft pain, A last adieu! — ~~ COME UNDER MY PLAIDY; oR, MODERN MARRIAGE DELINEATED. Air—Johnnie Macgill. “Come under my plaidy, the night’s gaun to fa’ ; Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw Come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me; There’s room in’t, dear lassie, believe me, for twa. Come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me, I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw: Oh! come under my plaidy, and sit down beside me, There’s room iw’t, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.” “ Gae ’wa wi’ your plaidy ! auld Donald, gae ’wa, I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw; Gae ’wa wi’ your plaidy! I'll no sit beside ye; Ye may be my gutcher : ?—auld Donald, gae ’wa. I’m gaun to meet Johnnie, he’s young and he’s bonny ; He’s been at Meg’s bridal, sae trig and sae braw! Oh, nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu’, sae tightly . His cheek’s like the new rose, his brow’s like the snaw |” “ Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa’, Your Jock’s but a gowk, and has naithing ava; The hale o’ his pack he has now on his back, He’s thretty, and I am but threescore and twa. Be frank now and kindly; [’ll busk you aye finely; To kirk or to market they’ll few gang sae braw ; A bien house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, 39 And flunkies to tend ye as aft as ye ca’. “ My father’s aye tauld me, my mither and a’, Ye’d mak’ a gude husband, and keep me aye braw; It’s true I loo Johnnie, he’s gude and he’s bonny, But wae’s me! ye ken he has naething ava! T hae little tocher; you’ve made a gude offer ; I’m now mair than twenty ; my time is but sma’! Sae gie me your plaidy, I’ll creep in beside ye, I thought ye’d been aulder than threescore and twa.” where the end of the standard was fixed, and thence named the bore stone.” (2) Vide the war of Caros, and the beautiful poem, Comala, 48) (Goodsire, or grandfather]. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEIUL. 413 She erap in ayont him, aside the stane wa’, Where Johnnie was list’ning, and heard ber tell a’ ; The day was appointed!—his proud heart it dunted, And strack ’gainst his side as if bursting in twa. He wander’d hame weary, the night it was dreary! And thowless, he tint his gate deep’mang the snaw ; The howlet was screamin’, while Jolnnie cried «Women Wad marry auld Nick if he’d keep them aye braw.” Oh, the deil’s in the lasses! they gang now sae braw, They’ll lie down wi? auld men o’ fourscore and twa: The hale o’ their marriage is gowd and a carriage ; Plain luve is the cauldest blast now that can blaw! 6a ge TO C. L. ESQ. WITH A PRESENT OF A LARGE BOTTLE OF OLD JAMAICA RUM. Deak, honest-hearted, canty Curaruiz ! To whom I'd trust baith late and early; Accept in token o’ regard, Frae nervous Mac, your friend and bard, A gift to raise on Sunday’s even Your mind frae earthly thoughts to heaven; Or what’s far mair, to keep frae uaking Thy graceless saul for Sunday-breaking, As reckless aye o’ prayer or kirk Ye ply your sinfu’ wark till mirk, Grunting owre deeds 0’ black rascality In SEsston Courts and ADMIRALITY ; Till tired 0” oruing aud memorial, Ye turn frae tricks to things corporeal ; For lang law draughts, take ane tlat’s shorter, (I mean a draught 0’ Skae’s good porter) ; For desperate debts and pleas unlucky, Sit down and carve your roasted chucky, And helping round ilk friend and cousin, That mak, at least, a round half dozen, Wi’ crack, and joke, and steeve rum toddy, Lord! but ye turn a dainty body ! Now, Charles, without a Sunday’s blessing, Wi’ a’ your want o’ Sunday’s dressing ; Wi hair unkaim’d, and beard unshorn, And slip-shod bachles, auld and torn ; Coat, that nae decent man wad put on, And waistcoat aft without a button, And breeks (let sans culottes defend them), T hope in God, ye’ll change, or—mend them. [ say, wi’ all these black transgressions (The fruits 0’ your curst courts and sessions), There’s yet sic sparks 0” grace about you; Sic radiant truth that shines throughout you ; Sie friendship firm ; sic qualms o’ honour When sneaking rascals mak you sconner, That (pon my faith! [ canna help it, Though for’t ilk time I should be skelpit) T find a secret, inward greeting O” peace at ilka Sunday meeting ; And feel, ye hash, wi’ a’ your du ls on, For you attractions like a loadsto ie; That warm the heart wi’ glows diviner Than e’er I find for chiels that’s (ner. Come, Charlie, then, my friend and briti er, When neist we a’ convene thegither To crack and joke in converse happy, Pfaith! we’se hae a hearty drappy ; And though I dinna like to buckle W7’ hours owre late, or drink owre muckle, Nor think it a? thegither right To keep folk up on Sunday night, Tam resolved, be’t right or sinfw’, To hae at least—“a ae skinfw’ ;” WY heart and hand keep friendship waking, And trust to heaven for Sunday-breaking. And sure, if bounteous heaven tak pleasure In harmless mirth and social leisure, And grant us aye the power to borrow Some thoughtless hours to banish sorrow, To crack, and laugh, and drink, nae sin is Wi’ modest worth and Jamie I——s; After a Sunday’s feast—or pascal, Wy? you, ye kirkless canty rascal. Mind, then, when honest trusty Peter (Aboon a’ praise in prose or metre) Removes ilk dish, where late, fu’ dainty, Stcod roasted hen, and collops plenty ; And roddickins, and penches too, And mussels pickled nice wi’ broo; And haddies caller at last carting, Or rizzer’d sweet by Mrs. Martin! —WY kipper (brander’d het and brown), A present sent frae Stirling town ;— I say, when Pate wi’ solemn face Removes ilk thing wi’ steady pace, And brings the reeking burn and bowl To cheer ilk Presbyterian soul ;? When ance that ye, a’ fidging fain Draw the first cork wi’ mony a grane, And sometimes girning, sometimes blawin, Examine gin it’s rightly drawn ; When three times round the port wine passes, And ilka friend has drank three glasses ; Nae langer grane, nor fyke, nor daidle, But brandish ye the—langshank’d ladle, That magic wand that has the knack aye To mak us a’ sae pleased and cracky ; (1) An old man-servant. (2) The Sunday supper was called the Presbyterian suymer, 414 That Moses’ rod that weets ilk mouthie And maks streams gush for hearts that’s drowthie, And has the double power, sae curious ! To mak some chiels baith pleased and furious. Now, as I’ve heard some hair-brain’d hempy Growl when your chappiz bottle’s empty,' And roar, and swear, wi’ aiths that’s sinfw’ For what’s aye ca’d “ anither spoonfw’ ;” To satisfy sic maws rapacious, I herewi’ send, 0’ size capacious, A bottle, primed, my dainty callan, W?’ somewhat mair than half a gallon O’ precious gear, I’ve lang beea huntin, Till caught at last frae Waris Br. N. Fill then !—and drink /—and banish dread O’ after sair wame, or sair head ; There’s naithing here, our harns to daver, But rare auld stuff to mak us claver ; For here 1 swear in rhyming letter, D—n me! if e’er ye tasted better ! pg TO THE MEMBERS OF THE SOBER SOCIETY. SENT TO THE SAME WITH AN ENGRAVING.? Dear sober emptyers o’ the glass! Behold your goddess—wife, or lass, De’il hae me gin I ken; But weel I wat gin a’ be true That here she speaks, ye select few Are unco kind o’ men! To me (as frankly in a crack The ither night the jillet spak Right cheery owre a glass), Though hid frae unpoetic brain, These hieroglyphics speak as plain As e’er did Balaam’s ass. Ik sober brither sure has seen The moon and seven stars at e’en Glittering in spangled heaven ; What mean then saa?—the meaning’s clear :— Through a your meetings in the year Ye’re fou sax times in seven. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Yet mair—by yonder horned moon, Its clear ye’re a’ hornmad as soon As clocks Beate fix ;3 How sweet the sounding warning comes ! And sitting down on stubborn bums Ye a’ turn—tlunaties, Then! then, ’tis said, in os croon A writer chiel ca’d L . Wy? crack and snuff grows cheery; And dealing round strong punch and joke, Good-humour’d mad near twa o’clock Turns a’ things tapsilteery ! Here wad I stap, nor langer keek Into thae soderiugs ilka week, And hide what I’m no able; But yon d *d fingers—up and down, Proclaim when some are in the moon, Some lie aneth the table. In these bless’d French perverted days, When virtue’s blamed, and vice gets praise, And folk wi? words are sae bit, Nae wonder sober stands for fou, And drinkers roar out while they spew, “Virtus TANDEM VIGEBaT.” TAK TENT AND BE WARY. * Hach! lass, but ye’re canty and vogie! Wow! but your een look pauky and roguie ! What war ye doing, Kate, down in yon bogie, Up in this morning sae airy and grey?” “T’ve been wi’ somebody /—what need ye to speer ? I’ve been wi’ young Jamie!—I’ve been wi’ my dear! —God save me! my mither will miss me, I fear!— D’ye ken, lass! he’s courting me a’ the lang day!” “O Kate, tak tent and be wary ! Jamie’s a sad ane—he never will marry ; Think o’ poor Tibby ;—he’s left her to carry Black burning shame till the day that she’ll die!” “T carena for Tibby—a glaiket young quean ! Her gaits wi’ the fallows we a’ ken lang syne !— The heart o’ my laddie I zever can tyne! He promised to marry me down on yon lea (1) The usual modicum. (2) This engraving had been at some period thrown off for the use of a Literary Society in London, likewise called the SOBER SocirTy. The representation was a female figure with the finger of one hand pointing to the moon (horned) and six stars over head; and the finger of the other hand pointing to the groun4, with this motto—VIRTUS TANDEM VIGEBAT. (3) One of the rules of the Sober Club was, that the bill should be called and paid at eleven o’clock; after which hour every one might do as he inclined; §. ¢. retire or remain as long as he chose; and as this last liberty was generally productive of sober happiness, it was called the BEATE. (4) These lines were written during the commencement of Robespierre’s reign of justice, virtue, and humanity POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. “GQ no! 1 need na be wary !— Yes! yes! he means for to marry ! Wi’ mony sweet kisses he ca’d me his deary, And swore he wad tak me afore Beltan day.” *O Kate! Kate! he’ll deceive ye! (The deil tak the chiel! he does naithing but grieve me!) He’s fou o’ deceit !—gin ye like to believe me, The fause loon last night tald the same tale to me.” “Dear Jean! but ye’re unco camstary ! Ye’ll ne’er let a bodie trou ever they'll marry !— Ye’ve now gi’en me something that’s no light to carry, *T will lie at my heart till the day that I die!” She gaed awa sighing! she gaed awa wae; Her mither flet sair for her biding away! She sat down to spin !—ne’er a word could she say, But drew out a thread wi’ the tear in her ee. “QO yes !—it’s time to be wary ! Jamie’s a sad ane !—he ne’er means to marry !— He may rise in the morning, and wait till he’s wearie! He’s no see my face for this year and a day!” She raise wi’ the lavrock! she milked her cow; Sat down by her leglin and ’gan for to rue :— Young Jamie cam by—her heart lap to her mou! Amd she trou’d ilka word that the fause loon did say ! —Hech! sirs! how lasses will vary ! Sometimes they’re doubtfu’—'tis then they are wary; But when luve comes louping, they aye think we’ll marry, And trust, like poor Kate, to what fause loons will say. = 5 OH TELL ME HOW FOR TO Woo. Air—* Bonny Dundee.” “Ox! tell me, bonny young lassie ! Oh tell me how for to woo! Oh tell me, bonny sweet lassie ! Oh tell me how for to woo ! Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning ? Lips like the roses fresh moisten’d wi’ dew ? Say, maun I roose your een’s pawkie scorning P— Oh! tell me how for to woo! “ Far hae I wander’d to see the dear lassie ! Far hae I ventured across the saut sea ! Far hae I ventured owre moorland and mountain, Houseless, and weary, sleep’d cauld on the lea! 415 Ne’er hae I tried yet to mak luve to onie; For ne’er loo’d I onie till ance [ loo’d you: Now we’re alane in the greenwood sae bonny, Oh! tell me how for to woo!” “What care I for your wand’ring, young laddie! What care I for your crossing the sea! It was na for naithing ye left poor young Peggy;-—~ It was for my tocher ye cam to court me ;— Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gawdie? Ribbans, and perlins, and breast-knots enew! A house that is canty, wi’ walth in’t, my laddie ? Without this ye never need try for to woo.” “T hae na gowd to busk ye aye gawdie ! I canna buy ribbans and perlins enew ! Pve naithing to brag, 0’ house, or o’ plenty! T’ve little to gie but a heart that is true— I cam na for tocher—I ne’er heard 0’ onie; I never loo’d Peggy nor e’er brak my vow.— T’ve wander’d, poor fool! for a face fause as bonny? J little thought this was the way for to woo!” “ Hae na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning! Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou! Hae na ye come owre sea, moor, and mountain, What mair, Johnnie, need ye to woo ? Far hae ye wander’d, I ken, my dear laddie ! Now that ye’ve found me, there’s na cause to rue ; WY health we’ll hae plenty—I’'ll ne’er gang gawdie, I ne’er wish’d for mair than a heart that is true.” She hid her fair face in her true lover’s bosom ; The saft tear o” transport fill’d ilk lover’s ee ; The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit, And sweet sang the mavis aboon on the tree.— He clasp’d her, he press’d her, and ca’d her his hinny, And aften he tasted her hinny-sweet mou ! And aye’tween ilk smack she sigh’d to her Johunie— “Qh! laddie! weel can ye woo!” ——+——— I LOO’D NH’ER A LADDIE BUT ANE. —_— Air— My lodging is on the cold ground.” I Loo’p ne’er a laddie but ane, He loo’d ne’er a lassie but me; He’s willing to mak me his ain, And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rocklay o’ blue And a pair 0’ mittens o’ green ; The price was a kiss o’ my mou, And I paid lim the debt yestreen. 416 Let ithers brag weel o’ their gear, Their land, and their lordly degree ; I carena for ought but my dear, For he’s ilka thing lordly to me: His words are sae sugar’d, sae sweet ! His sense drives ilk fear far awa! [ listen, poor fool! and I greet, Yet oh! how sweet are the tears as they fa’! “ Dear lassie,” he cried, wi’ a jeer, “Ne’er heed what the auld anes will say ; Though we’ve little to brag o’—ne’er fear; What’s gowd to a heart that is wae ? Our laird has baith honours and wealth, Yet see how he’s dwining wi’ care ; Now we, though we’ve naithing but health, Are canty and leil evermair. *O Marion! the heart that is true Has something mair costly than gear ; Ik e’en it has naithing to rue, Ik morn it has naething to fear. Ye wardlings! gae, hoard up your store, And tremble for fear ought ye tyne; Guard your treasures wi’ lock, bar, and door, While here in my arms I lock mine! ” He ends wi’ a kiss and a smile— Wae’s me! can I tak it amiss ? My laddie’s unpractised in guile, He’s free aye to daut and to kiss ! Ye lassies wha loo to torment Your wooers wi’ fause scorn and strife, Play your pranks—I hae gi’en my consent, And this night I am Jamie’s for life. TO GET A MAN. Tus warld is a lottery, as ilk ane may ken; There are prizes for women as weel as for men: But as far as my faither and mither can see, Though the’re prizes for some, there are aye blanks for me. Though black, I am comely; my een’s like a slae! Odd! I’m sure they’re far better than een that are grey P Yet the lads they court Katie as fast as they can, While my father aye tells me—I’U/ xe’er get a man. Tm held down wi’ wark frae morning till e’en, My claise aye unsnod, and my face seldom clean! How the sorrow on me can our lads ever look When J gang aye sae thief-like, as black as the crook! POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. For fairs and for preachings T hae but ae gown! (Lord! T wish I was busk’d like our queans in the town !) Yet whene’er I stay late—how my father le’ll ban, WY a “ Divil confound ye! ye’ll ne’er get a man!” My mither aye thinks I’m to sit still and spin : When the sogers gae by, were I fell’d, I maun rin, Then she roars, and she flytes (though the sam’s done by Kate), Wi’ a “Sorrow be on ye! ye’ll gang agrey gate!” I fain wad hae Jamie—but then he loos Jean; And [’de’en tak lean Pattie, tho’ just skin and bane ; But my faither and mither tauld baith him and Dan That I'm three years owre young yet to bae a gudeman! A usage sae barb’rous nae mortal can bear ! Odd! they'll drive me to madness with perfect despair ! If I canna get Jamie, nor yet Dan nor Pate, Faith I'll e’en tak the first chiel that conies in my gate. Gley’d Sawnie, the haivrel, he met me yestreen, He roosed first my black hair, and syne my black een! While he dawted and kiss’d, though I ken he’s a fool, Lord! 1 thought that my heart wad hae lowpt out 0’ hool ! : Quo’ he, “Bonny Maggy, gin ye were mine ain, 1 hae house and plenty, for wife and for wean, And when my auld daddy staps aff to the grave, Faith! we'll then haud our head up as high asthe lave.” I dinna like Sawnie—he’s blind o’ an ee; But then he’s the first’s talk’d 0’ marriage to me; And when folk are ill used they maun do what they can, Sae I’ll mak them a’ Hars, and tak a GUDEMAN. —-———_ MALLY AIKEN. AN OLD SONG REVIVE). Air—Gaelic. O tisten! listen and T’ll tell yet How this fair maid’s play’d her part: — First she vow’d and promised to me, Now she strives to break my heart! Eirin O! Mally Aiken, Eirin O s’dhu ma rin. (1) This verse is all the author ever heard of the original.— The meaning of the Gaelic chorus is, ‘‘Q Mally Aiken, thou art my love.” POEMS OF HECTOR MACNELLL. 1 coft you silken garters, Mally, And sleeve-knots for your tartan gown ; I coft you a green necklace, Mally, To busk you when you gade to town: You gae me kisses sweet as hinny ! You gae me words mair sweet than true; You swore you loo’d me best 0’ ony ; Ah! why then, Mally, break your vow ? Kirin O! Mally Aiken, Kirin O s’dlu ma rin. Yon auld man came wi’ wiles sae bonny, He brage’d o’ land and walth 0’ gear ; He promised braws mair fine than Johnnie To busk ye for the kirk and fair ; He gae up tocher to your daddy ; Your mither sigh’d and thought o’ me; But Mally wish’d to be a dady, And changed true luve for—high degree! Kirin O! Mally Aiken, Kirin O s’dhu ma rin. He’s ta’en you hame; he’s made you gaudie, He’s busk’d you for the kirk and fair ; But you had better ta’en your laddie, For Aappiness you'll ne’er see mair! You may gang to kirk and fair, my Mally ; Your face and braws catch ilka ee,— But happiness you'll ze’er see, Mally, For breaking o’ your vows to me! Hirin O! Mally Aiken, firin O s’dhu ma rin. LASSIE WI’ THE GOWDEN HAIR. Air—Gaelic. “Lassig wi’ the gowden hair, Silken snood, and face sae fair ; Lassie wi’ the yellow hair, "Think nae to deceive me| Lassie wi’? the gowden hair, Flattering smile, and face sae fair ; Fare ye weel! for never mair Johnnie will believe ye! Oh no! Mary bawn, Mary bawn, Mary bawn,? Oh no! Mary bawn, ye’ll nae mair deceive me! “Smiling, twice ye made me troo, Twice (poor fool!) I turn’d to woo ; Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow, Now I’ve sworn to leave ye! (1) Bawn (Guelic), fair, white, generally applied to the hair. (4) Dow (Gaelic), black, generally applied to the hair. miles (3) This is an attempt to show that many of our Scottish airs 417 Twice, fause maid! ye brak your vow, Twice, poor fool! I’ve learn’d to rue !— Come ye yet to mak me troo ? Thrice ye'll ne’er deceive me ! No, no! Mary bawn, Mary bawn, Mary bawn ! Oh no! Mary bawn! ¢hrice yell ne’er deceive me.” Mary saw him turn to part ; Deep his words sank in her heart ;— Soon the tears began to start— “Johnnie, will ye leave me?” Soon the tears began to start, Grit and gritter grew his heart !— “Yet ae word before we part, Luve cou’d ne’er deceive ye! Oh no! Johnnie dow, Johnnie dow, Johnnic dow,» Oh no! Johnnie dow, luve cou’d we’er deceive ye.” Johnnie took a parting keek, Saw the tears hap owre her cheek! Pale she stood, but coudna speak ! Mary’s cured o’ smiling. Johnnie took anither keek— “ Beauty’s rose has left her cheek |— Pale she stands, and canna speak. This is nae beguiling. Oh no! Mary bawn, Mary bawn, dear Mary bawn, No, no! Mary bawn—Louve has nae beguiling.” Poet Gee ae O JOHNNIE! CAN YOU PITY ONY. Air— Katie, will ye marry Patie,” 8 O Jonnwie! can ye pity ony ? Ts your heart yet turn’d to stane P Can ye calmly hear that MENrE Ne’er will see your face again? Here I’ve wander’d wae and weary ; Here D’ve fought wi’ wind and rain ; Here I’ve sworn your ance loo’d deary Ne’er will see your face again. Owre lang hae I pined in sorrow ! Owre lang hae I sigh’d in vain ; Hearts, though leal, can sometimes borrow Pride when treated wi’ disdain ! Then tak your smiles and fause deceiving, Gie them to a heart mair true! Mine, alas! is changed wi’ grieving ! Torn by faithless luve and you. hitherto accounted lively are (if sung slow and accompanied with appropriate words) likewise favourable for the tender or tbe pathetic. 3H 418 POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. ; , Yet ae word before our parting, (Since for ever mair we part), In the midst 0’ pleasure—starting, Menie’s wrangs will wring your heart !— For Johnnie gin ye pity ony, Gin your heart’s no turn’d to stane, Ye maun rue the cause that Menie Ne’er will see your face again. THE LAMMIE. “ WuereE hae ye been a’ day, my boy Tammy ? Where hae ye been a’ day, my boy Tammy ?” “T’ve been by burn and flowery brae, Meadow green and mountain grey, Courting o’ this young thing, Just come frae her mammy.” “Aud where gat ye that young thing, My hoy Tammy ? ” “T gat her down in yonder howe, Smiling on a broomy kuowe, Herding ae wee lamb and ewe For her poor mammy.” “What said ye to the bonny bairn, My boy Tammy ?” “T praised her een, sae lovely blue, Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou ;— I pree’d it aft, as ye may trou !— She said, she’d tell her mammy. “T held her to my beating heart, ‘My young, my smiling Lammie! T hae a house, it cost me dear, I’ve walth o’ plenishing and gear ; Ye’se get it a war’t ten times mair, Gin ye will leave your mammy.’ “The smile gade aff her bonny face— ‘I maun nae leave my mammy ; She’s gien me meat, she’s gien me claise She’s been my comfort a’ my days :— My father’s death brought mony waes— I canna leave my mammy.’ « «We'll tak her hame and mak her fain My ain kind-hearted Lammie ! We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise, We'll be her comfort a’ her days.’ The wee thing gie’s her hand and says,— ‘There! gang and ask my mammy.’” ‘‘ Has she been to kirk wi’ thee, My boy Tammy?” “She has been to kirk wi’ me, And the tear was in her ee,— But oh! she’s but a young thing Just come frae her mammy.” JEANIE’S BLACK EE; oR, “THA MI *N AM CHODAL, ’SNA DUISGIBH MI.” Air—“ Cauld Frosty Morning.” THE sun raise sae rosy, the grey hills adorning! Light sprang the lavrock and mounted sae hie ; When true to the tryst 0” blythe May’s dewy morning My Jeanie cam linking out owre the green lea To mark her impatience, I crap ’mang the brakens, Aft, aft to the kent gate she turn’d her black ee ; Then lying down dowylie, sigh’d by the willow tree, “ Hame mohitel na dousku me.”* Saft through the green birks I sta’ to my jewel, Streik’d on spring’s carpet aneath the saugh tree! ‘Think na, dear lassie, thy Willie’s been cruel.” “ Ha me mohdtel na dousku me.” “WY luve’s warm sensations I’ve mark’d your im- patience, Lang hid ’mang the brakens I watch’d your black ee. Yow’re no sleeping, pawkie Jean! open thae lovely een!” “ Ha me mohdtel na dousku me.” “Bright isthe whin’s bloomilk green knoweadorning! Sweet is the primrose bespangled wi’ dew! Yonder comes Peggy to welcome May morning! Dark waves her haffet locks owre her white brow! Oh light ! light she’s dancing keen on the smooth gowany green, Barefit and kilted half up to the knee! While Jeanie is sleeping still, I’ll rin and sport my fill.’— “ T was asleep, and ye’ve waken’d me!” “Tl rin and whirl her round; Jeanie is sleeping sound ; Kiss her frae lug tolug; nae ane can see! Sweet! sweet’s her hinny mou! ”— Will, ’m no sleeping now, I was asleep, but ye waken’d me.” Laughing till like to drap, swith to my Jean I Jap, Kiss’d her ripe roses and blest her black ee ! And aye since whene’er we meet, sing, for the sound is sweet, “ Ha me mohdtel na dousku me.” (1) “I am asleep, do not waken me.”—The Gaelic chorus is pronounced according to the present orthography. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNELLL. 419 THE PLAID AMANG THE HEATHER. Air.— Highland Laddie.” TE wind blew hie owre muir and lea, And dark and stormy grew the weather ; The rain rain’d sair ; nae shelter near But my luve’s plaid amang the heather : O my bonny Highland lad! My winsome, weel-fared Highland laddie! Wha wad mind the wind and rain Sae weel row’d in his tartan plaidie ? Close to his breast he held me fast ;— Sav cozy, warm, we lay thegither ! Nae simmer heat was half sae sweet As my luve’s plaid amang the heather! O my bonny, &e. Mid wind and rain he tald his tale ; My lightsome heart grew like a feather ; it lap sae quick I cou’dna speak, But silent sigh’d amang the heather! O my bonny, &c. The storm blew past ; we kiss’d in haste ; I hameward ran and tald my mither ; She gloom’d at first, but soon confess’d The bowls row’d right amang the heather ! O my bonny, &c. Now Hymen’s beam gilds bank and stream Where Will and I fresh flowers will gather ; Nae storms I fear, I’ve got my dear Kind-hearted lad amang the heather ! O my bonny Highland lad! My winsome, weel-fared, Highland laddie ! Should storms appear, my Will’s aye near To row me in his tartan plaidie. 2 eee ON THE DEATH OF DAVID DOIG, LL.D. MASTER OF THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL, STIRLING. He’s gane !—he’s gane !—ah! well-a-day ! The spirit’s flown that warm’d the clay! The light has fled that cheer’d the way Through lear’s mirk page ; Fired the young breast wi’ fancy’s ray, And charm’d the sage! The sun has set that beam’d sae bright ! Nae radiance shines on Srrevui’s height ! Nae star glints now wi’ saften’d light On fancy’s bower ! But dark and silent is the night In Dote’s tower ! In Doig’s tower, where aft and lang The mingling notes o’ learning rang ; And aft her fav’rite minstrel sang In varied key ; Wi’ Horace saft! wi? Homer strang, Wi Pindar hie! In Doig’s tower, where late and air Ik bud o’ genius blossom’d fair ; Nursed by the fostering hand o” care, They sprang to view; Burst into sweets, and far and near The fragrance flew ! He’s gane !—he’s gane !—Strevlina, mouru { Ah! drag the saut tear on his urn! The light again will ne’er return That cheer’d ye a’; The fire that bleized nae mair will burn In yonder ha’! GRANDEUR. AN ODE. “ Sepius ventis agitatur ingens Pinus ; et celsz graviore casu Decidunt turres, feriuntque summos Fulmina montes.”—Hor. How varied lies the chequer’d scene !— Dvuxmait capt with snow ; While humbler smiles, in vernal green, The sun-clad vale below : Gay Spring her cheering task performs, Regardless of the wintry storms That sweep proud Ochil’s lofty side ; And, shelter’d from the whirling gale, Secure, smooth glides the winding sail Down Forth’s meandering tide. Alas! how like the chequer’d state Of man’s contrasted lot ! The storms that whirl round Grandeur’s gate ; The peasant’s shelter’d cot ; Disdainful Pride, with wintry brow ; Rough Labour, jocund at his plough, Still cheer’d by health’s unclouded beam; (1) The grammar school, erected on the castle hill of Stirling, 420 While safe trom luxury’s whelming tide, Peace, hope, and resignation glide Down life’s untroubled stream. To meditation’s musing mind Still moral pictures rise : Ambition, dash’d hy fortune’s wind, When tow’ring to the skies ; Exalted beauty, doom’d to move In climes unwarm’d by genial love, Tost by the storms of sordid strife !— While nurtured in some vale obscure, ‘Tne humbler fair one blooms secure The mistress and the wife ! But late, in strength and beauty’s prime, The tow’ring Plane arose; Proud, o’er Strevlina’s height sublime It waved its mantling boughs. What time mild evening gilds her star, The trav’ller spied it from afar, And, raptured, wonder’d where it grew ;— Fond fancy placed its magic height Mid regions streak’d with golden light Through Heav’n’s ethereal blue !— Embosom’d in the bank below, That courts the southerr breeze, The humbler Hawthorn’s doom’d to blow Mid kindred shrubs and trees ! Obscure, its balmy sweets diffuse, Unmark’d, save by the moral muse, That nightly breathes the rich perfume !— Ah! what is Grandeur’s splendid show !— Ambition, mark !—the Plane laid low !" The Hawthorn left to bloom. TO MRS. PLEYDELL, WITII A POT OF HONEY, JURING THE FERMENT OCCASIONED BY THE POPISH BILL OF TOLERATION, 1779.2 Removen, thank God! from fierce contentions ; Unknown to parties or CONVENTIONS ; Alike averse to rage and folly, And foe to gloomy melancholy ; POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILLL. Amid confusion, war, and zeal, Accept these lines from bard Macneil. When morning comes, my breakfast down Composed and wrapp’d in flannel gown, Till Andrew* comes my brains to muddy, I dedicate some hours to study. Behold me then, in elbow chair, Turn o’er a leaf with serious air ; Or, seized with strong poetic fit, Compose some precious scrap of wit :+= Fired by the Muses’ melting strain, I rise, sit down, get up again ; When ’midst my raptures, frisks, and capers, Bounce! in comes Christy* with—the papers. With some regret I drop the quill. Well! what’s the news ?—the Popisit But. Is Keppel tried ?—a dull essay From fierce I. A. to sly John Hay ;° Has d’Estaing sail’d P—* To show the better What papists are, this day a letter, Just from the press, which well explains What hellish laws that sect maintains !” Where’s Byron ?—‘ Murders! popish tricks , No faith! no faith, with herctics ! Ashamed; provoked in every page, I curse the papers in a rage ; Start up and ring with all my might ; Here! take this nonsense from my sight! Scarce have I banish’d raving faction Till in bolts J. y® in distraction. “ All—all is lost! d’Listaing’s gone forth! God curse that headstrong blockhead, North No scheme succeeds—we’ve no invention ! This nation’s ruin’d past redemption! Our fleets are beat! our ¢rade is gone— We'll be invaded ten to one. Ecod ! the French may come to-morrow— It won’t cause universal sorrow. They’ve many friends in this wise nation— The Poris Binz or ToLeRation.” “Stop, Doctor, stop!”— Why should I stop, pray?” “Tm really sick of bill of Popery.” “The deuce you are !—your reasons !—eh ! ” “Some other time—some other day.” Thus, doubly teased ’twixt saint and sinner, An invitation comes to dinner : (1) The cutting down of this beautiful tree (a circumstance that gave general dissatisfaction) occasioned the present ode. (2) This bill, so harmless, and indeed laudable in its principles, oocasioned, through fanaticism and intolerance, the burning of the Popish chapel in Edinburgh, and the dreadful conflagration ip, London. (3) The hairdresser. (4) The maid-servant. (5) A nonjuring clergyman and a Roman pmiest. These two gentlemen kept up for some months a daily warfare in the public prints, which, together with advertisements of Procestant associa- tions, and pamphlets for and against Popery, generally occupied nearly two-thirds of the newspapers, (6) A mad politician. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNELLL. 491 To dress I run—thank heaven, I cry, Some pious hearts are often dry ; A cheerful glass may work a wonder ; May still, perhaps, this papal thunder. Oh, grant us, Bacchus, wine that’s strong ! Raise, Orpheus, raise the blithesome song! Let PLEYDELL come, serenely gay ! And social mirth shall crown the day. Flush’d with fond hope, away I haste— (Alas! why must I tell the rest !)— In spite of dishes, nice and rare, In spite of wit,—for you were there,— In spite of ale, punch, port, and sherry, Though S—n sang, we ne’er were merry. Ask you the cause P ’twas indigestion From one cursed sauce each dish was drest in ; For while we ate and drank our fill, Still in our stomachs stuck the—Bill. Tis now, methinks, five weeks at least, Since first I sought some tranquil feast ; Where wholesome food and converse kind Might please the stomach, cheer the mind ; Make folks good-humour’d, frank, and civil, And banish Popery to—the devil! I sought, I say ; nay, rack’d my brain, To find this feast, but all in vain ; When t’other morn, in elbow chair, Untied my shoes, uncomb’d my hair, Two hours from bed, and breakfast o’er, Rap! went the knocker at the door. Up started Christy from the wheel. “Ts this the house o’ Squire Macneill ?” “ Yes,—what is that ?”—‘“ A can, my queen, Just come to Leith frae Aberdeen ; The freight a shilling—carriage twa— The weight I’m sure is far frae sma’— I wonder what the sorrow’s in’t, It maun be /eed or stane o” flint ! The deel be on’t! it?s hurt my heed, It’s surely fill’d with stanes or leed! ” The chattering rogue received his money, The stones and lead turn’d out good Honey ; Pure, rich, and sparkling as you see; The product of th’ industrious bee : A balmy gift from shrub and flower ! The fruits of many a toilsome hour. Struck with the prospect of my treasure, ] felt, methought, unusual pleasure ; A sudden charm, a joy refined Shed peace and comfort o’er the mind ; Each sound of Popery died sway, And thus I said—or meant to say— In past’ral days, when wants were few, When iove beat strong and friendship true, Our fathers, nurtured in content, A calm unruffled lifetime spent Mid herds and flocks (their only care), A feast like this was oft their fare. Here, by the streamlet’s bubbling side, Unknown to controversial pride, The oaten pipe and rural lay Chased spleen and rane’rous hate away. Unskill’d in schoolme:’s mystic dance, Untrain’d in dark IvroLerancr, No zealous phrenzy fired the breast ; No fears fanatic break their rest ; By ature taught, they still pursued What whispering conscience said was good Nor could their social minds approve Of aught that sever’d peace and love ! Harass’d with zea!, and frantic passion, And for the ¢imes—quite out of fashion ; I can’t help sighing for repose, Envying the life our fathers chose. At morn and eve whene’er I spy My warning can with placid eye, In midst of fierce reliyious splutter, I spread, with smiles, my bread and butter ; Draw near my feast of sparkling brown, Lay thick the charm, then—gulp it down ; Experience joys serenely still, Nor pass one thought on Popisu Bit. Take, then, dear Pleyvell, take this treasure, The source of soothing peace and pleasure ; When dark and dismal qualms attack you, Or fears of Popish priests distract you, Observe the rule I herewith give you, And take my word it will relieve you. When Sol through curtains pops his head And wakes sweet Acey still in bed, Or Vesper mild through whispering groves Lures Mary? to the haunts she loves ; When cups are ranged, and muflins hot, And green or congo in the pot; Instead of Popery’s dismal gloom, Pour out a dish of rich perfume : Dismiss your fears—be frank—be funny— Produce with smiles your Can or Honey. Glance o’er these lines ("twill be an honour Conferr’d upon the happy donor) ; Excuse whate’er you think is said ill ;— In short, be—just blithe Mus. PLeypun.. (1) Two young ladies who at the time resided with Mra Pleydell, 422 MAY-DAY; OR, THE DISCOVERY. A PASTORAL. IN THE MANNER OF CUNNINGHAM. Sze! rcbed in new beauties, young May clieers the lawn! Ye virgins, how charming her air! {laste! cull her fresh flow’rets dew-droppivg at dawn, And chaplets entwine for your hair! Yes! weave the gay garland; each moment improve! Youth’s pleasures like spring fleet away !— Life has its soft season—that season is Love. Ah! taste its fond joys while ’tis May. But lately I winded yon mountain’s green side ;— How bless’d! for Miranda was by; { mark’d as she welcomed the Spring’s opening pride The rapture that beam’d in her eye: Her fav’rite young Jambkins ran bleating around (Their fleeces were whiter than snow!), The cliffs crown’d with oakwood return’d the soft sound ; The still lake gleam’d placid below. “How happy,” she cried, “in some shelter’d retreat With lambkins and flocks bleating nigh ; Inmystraw-cover’d cottage, though lumble, yet neat, I could Jive—and contented would die! This oak-waving mountain would ward winter’s blast ; Yon lake teach complaint to be still; Health, mirth, peace, and temperance crown the repast, And freedom bound light o’er the hill! ” A glance that escaped the dear maid at the time Half whisper’d a wish was untold ;— “ And would my fair shepherdess deem it a crime If Edwin were guard to the fold?” “T told my soft wishes,”! she sweetly veplied, (Ye virgins, her voice was divine !) “T’ve rich ones rejected, and great ones denied, But take me, fond shepherd !—I’m thine.” Her look was so artless! her accent so mild! Her candour so sweetly express’d! ! gazed on her beauties as blushing she smiled, And clasp’d the loved maid to my breast !— The primrose in clusters breathed fragrance around, And witness’d the vows that were given ;— (1} Cunninghams Content. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. The lark, that sat listening, soar’d swift from tne ground And warbled the contract in heaven ! Yon cottage where woodbines so fondly entwine, We’ve chose for our humble retreat, Where Teath’s soften’d murmurs raise musings divine, *Tis there my love’s lambkins shall bleat ! There friendship shall lure modest worth to our door, And shelter from care’s wintry blast ; Content, deck’d in smiles, spread her pastoral store, And Miranda prepare the repast ! ; Thus fix’d, what imports it, ye great ones and vain, Though splendour withholds her false gleam, If pleased with our little, and strangers to pain. Life glides placid by like yon stream ? While health, heav’nly goddess! smiles buxom and gay, Shall we murmur that wealth comes not nigh ? When thy charms, Independence! thus prompts the free lay, Aud the muse, lark-like, soars to the sky! PROLOGUE. WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE MANAGERS OF THS PUBLIC KITCHEN AT EDINBURGH, FOR THE BENEFIT 07 THE Poor, 1800. WHEN discord first, with hate infuriate, hurld Their baneful influence o’er a suffering world; Broke the firm bands of kindred joys asunder, And left in want the wretch to weep, and wonder ; Thrill’d with despair ;—unfriended, and oppress’d, With haggard eye; pale Poverty, distress’d, Roani’d the lone wild, a wretched life to save, And shivering sunk in Famine’s darkening cave !— There, sad, she pined, and wail’d her hopeless moan, Earth her damp pillow! and her bed—cold stone ! Till Cuanrry (from Heaven’s fair lineage sprung, Nymph of the melting heart and soothing tongue) Swift from yon starry vault’s ethereal blue, To want’s dark cell with pitying ardour flew! Cheer’d with celestial rays that chased the gloom, ‘lhe fainting mourner waked—as from the tomb ; Saw the sweet harbinger of joy again Steal on soft tip-toe to the bed of pain ; O’er the cold breast her mantling vestments spread ; Wipe the damp brow, and raise the drooping head ; Pour the rich cordial, trickling to the heart ; Brace the lax fibre, and new strength impart ; Jsindle fond hope ; and beck’ning with a smile, Lure, while she flew to Brrratn’s fostering isle! POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. To Britain’s isle! where, cherish’d by her care, The poor, if virtuous, never know despair : Warm’d by her beams, each bosom learns to glow, And throb, and feel—the sympathy of woe ! From ocean’s gen’rous sons (in fame enroll’) To Scotia’s mountains, and her patriots bold— Alike her magic power o’er land and wave— The flame of pity ever warms the brave! Oh! could its light but harmonise the breast, And guide again the jarring world to rest ! Spread with mild radiance far from shore to shore, Till friendship binds, and discord’s heard no more! Till candour starts at reason’s temperate call, And mercy wafts humanity—to all! This night, where charity’s celestial flame Gilds in mild lustre Scotia’s annal’d fame ; Beams in each conscious eye, and, heav’nly meek, Glows in soft blushes on each fair one’s cheek ; This night, indeed, would mock the flowers of rhyme! And stamp an era for recording time ! Enough for us, who claim no higher care Than aid the wretched and repel despair, To light the lamp in poverty’s dark cell, And lend new strength to those who struggle well ; Enough for us, expiring worth to save, And cheer the path of virtue to the grave ! THE SCOTTISH MUSE. “ Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night: Methought it did relieve my passion much; More than light airs, and recollected terms Of these more brisk and giddy paced times,””—SHAKSPEARE. ADVERTISEMENT. Unver the influence of a distressing state of health, which had continued unabated for six years, the following poem was composed in the island of Jamaica, whither the author went with the view of trying the effects of a tropical climate. If it possesses no other merit, it may at least lay claim to simplicity of sentiment and diction, and to a faithful represen- tation of events during a life of vicissitude, of which the present piece may be considered as a poetical epitome. These, it is true, furnish little to excite astonishment or rouse imagination; and consequently, perhaps, little to procure public approbation. They may, however, tend to illustrate an important truth to the afflicted, namely, that in the human mind there are resources which, if called into action, can amuse and solace in the hour of adversity, when all the allurements of pleasure and all the luxuries of wealth will fail; for often “Ingenium res adverse nudare solent celare secunde.” 423 On wetcome, simple soothing treasure ! In midst o’ pain my lanely pleasure ! Tutor’d by thee, and whispering leisure, I quit the thrang, And, wrapt in bless’d retirement, measure Thy varied sang! Kind, leal companion! without thee, Ah well-a-day ! what should I be!? When jeer’d by fools, wha canna see My inward pain, Aneath thy sheltering wing I flee And mak my mane. There seated, smiling by my side, For hours thegither wilt thou bide, Chanting auld tales o’ martial pride , And luve’s sweet smart! Till glowing warm thy numbers glide Streight to the heart. °Tis then wi’ powerfu’ plastic hand Thou wav’st thy magic-working wand ; And stirring up ideas grand That fire the brain, Aff whirl’st me swith to fairyland *Mang fancy’s train. Scared by disease when balmy rest Flees trembling frae her downy nest ; Starting frae horror’s dreams opprest, I see thee come Wi’ radiance mild that cheers the breast And lights the gloom ! Heart’ning thou com’st, wi? modest grace, Hope, luve, and pity in thy face, And gliding up wi’ silent pace My plaints to hear, Whisper’st in turn thae soothing lays Saft in my ear :— IlL-fated wand’rer! doom’d to mane! Wan sufferer ! bleach’d wi’ care and pain! How changed, alas! since vogie vain, Wi spirits light, Ye hail’d me first in untauglit strain On StREvLIN’s height ! (1) The author’s complaints were such, that, unable either to read or to write above a few minutes without distress, his only amusement was to compose by the help of memory alone, It may, perhaps, be worth mentioning that “Will and Jean,” the “Waes o’ War,” the “ Links o’ Forth,” and the present poem, were all composed by memory, previously to the commitment of a single line to paper, 424 Ar me! how stark! how blithe! how bauld Ye brattled then tarough wind and cauld! Reckless, by stream, by firth and fauld, Ye held your war ; By passion ruled, by luve enthrall’d, Ye pour’d the lay. *Twas then, entranced in am’rous sang, I mark’d you midst the rural thrang ; Ardent and keen, the hale day lang Wy Nature tane, Slip frae the crowd and mix amang Her simple train. *Twas then I saw (alas! owre clear!) Your future thriftless, lost career ! And while I blamed, wi’ boding fear, The tunefw’ art, Your moral pride and truth sincere Aye wan my heart. He ne’er can lout (I musing said), To ply the fleeching, fawning trade ; Nor bend the knee, nor bow the head To walth or power ! But backward turn wi’ scornfu’ speed Frae flatt’ry’s door. He'll never learn his bark to steer "Mid passion’s sudden, wild career ; Nor try at times to tack or veer To int’rest’s gale, But hoist the sheet, unawed by fear, Though storms prevail. Owre proud to ask—owre bauld to yield, Where will he find a shelt’ring beild ? When poortith’s blast drifts cross the field Wi? wintry cauld, Where will he wone—poor feckless chield ! When frail and auld P Year after year in youtheid’s prime, Wander he will, frae clime to clime, Sanguine wi’ hope on wing sublime Mount heigh in air! But then—wae’s me! there comes a time O’ dool and care! There comes a time, or soon or late, O’ serious thought ‘and sad debate ; When blighted hope and adverse fate Owrespread their gloom, And mirk despair, in waefu’ state, Foresees the doom ! POEMS OF HECTOR MACNFILU And maun he fa’ (I sighing cried) Wi’ guardian honour by his side ! Shall fortune frown on guiltless pride And straits owretake him! Weel! blame wha like—whate’er betide L’se ne’er forsake him ! Ardent I spake! and frae the day Ye hail’d me smiling, youthfw’ gay, On Ochil’s whin-flower’d fragrant, brae, I strave to cheer ye! Frae morn’s first dawn to e’en’s last ray I aye was .mear ye, Frae west to east!—frae isle to isle, To India’s shore and sultry soil ; *Mid tumult, battle, care, and toil, T following flew ; Aye smooth’d the past, and waked the smile To prospects new. When warfare ceased its wild uproar To Elephanta’s? far-famed shore T led ye ardent to explore, WY panting heart, Her idol monuments o’ yore, And sculptured art. Sweet flew the hours (the toil your boast) On smiling Salsett’s cave-wrought coast !— Though hope was tint, though a? was cross’d,* Nae dread alarms Ye felt—fond fool !—in wonder lost And nature’s charms ! Frae east to west, frae main to main, ‘To Carib’s shores return’d again ; In sickness, trial, hardship, pain, Ye ken yoursell ; Drapt frae the muse’s melting strain, Peace balmy fell. Fell sweet! for as she warbling flew Hope lent her heav’n’s refreshing dew ; Fair virtue close, and closer drew, To join the lay, While conscience bright, and brighter grew And cheer’d the way ! Whether to east or westward borne (Or flush’d wi? joy, or wae-forlorn), Ye hail’d the fragrant breath o’ morn Frae orange flower, Or cassia-bud, or logwood thorn, Or Guava bower: (1) West and East Indies. (2) See the author’s account of the caves of Elephanta, Canary, and Aibola, published in the eighth volume of the Archzologia. (3) By an unforeseen change in administration, the author lest a lucrative appointment in India, which in a short time would have yielded an ample fortune. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Or frac the mist-capp’d mountain blue Inhaled the spicy gales that flew Rich frae Pimento’s' groves that grew In deep’ning green, Crown’d wi’ their flowers o’ milk-white hue In dazzling sheen ! Whether at midnoon? panting laid, Ye woo’d coy Zephyr’s transient aid Under the Banyan’s pillar’d shade,8 On plain or hill, Or Plantain green, that rustling play’d Across the rill: Or ’neath the tam’rind’s shelt’ring gloom, Drank coolness wafted in perfume, Fresh frae the shaddack’s golden bloom, As flutt’ring gay Humm’d saft the bird o’ peerless plume,‘ Frae spray to spray ! 425 Whether at eve, wi’ raptured breast, The shelving palm-girt beach ye prest, And e’ed, entranced, the purpling west Bepictured o’er,® As ocean murm’ring, gently kiss’d The whitening shore : Whether at twilight’s parting day Ye held your solemn musing way, Where through the gloom in myriad ray The fire-flies gleam ;* And ’thwart the grove in harmless play The light’nings stream! Or, by the moon’s bright radiance led, Roam’d late the Guinea-verdured glade? Where tower’d the giant Ceiba’s shade ;° And, loftier still, The cabbage? rears it regal head Owre palm-crown’d hill. (1) “The pimento trees grow spontaneously, and in great abundance, in many parts of Jamaica, but more particularly on hilly situations near the sea, on the northern side of the island, where they form the most delicious groves that can possibly be imagined, filling the air with fragrance, and giving reality, though in a very distant part of the globe, to our great poet’s descriptions of those balmy gales which convey to the delighted voyager ‘Sabean odours from the spicy shore Of Araby the bless’d. Cheer’d with the grateful smell, old ocean smiles.’ I do not believe that there is, in all the vegetable creation, a tree of greater beauty than a young pimento, The trunk, which is of @ grey colour, smooth and shining, and altogether free of bark, rises to the height of fifteen or twenty feet. It then branches out on all sides, richly clothed with leaves of a deep green, some- what like those of the bay tree; and these, in the months of July and August, are beautifully contrasted and relieved by an exube- trance of white flowers. It is remarkable that the leaves are equally fragrant with the fruit; and, I am told, yield in distilla- tion a delicate odoriferous oil, which is very commonly used in the medical dispensaries of Europe for oil of cloves.” --Edwards’s Hist. of the West Indies, 8vo., vol, ii. p. 297. (2) “ Seems another mor Ris’n on midnoon.”—MILTon. (3) “This monarch of the woods,” says Mr. Edwards, in his elegant history, “‘ whose empire extends over Asia and Africa, as well as the tropical parts of America, is described by our divine poet with great exactness. ‘The fig-tree, not that kind for fruit renown’d, But such as at this day to Indians known In Malabar and Decan, spreads his arms, Branching so broad and long, that in the ground The bearded twigs take root, and daughters grow Above the mother tree ; a pillar’d shade High over-arch’d, and echoing walks between.’ Paradice Lost, book ix. It is called in the East Indies the ‘banyan tree.’ Mr. Marsden gives the following account of the dimensions of one near Mangee, twenty miles west of Patna in Bengal. Diameter, 363 to 875 feet; circumference of the shadow at noon, 1116 feet; circum- ference of the several stems, in nuniber fifty or sixty, 921."°—Iist. Sumaira, p. 131. (6) “The humming bird, the most beautiful as well as the most diminutive of the feathered race, is fond of building its nest in the tamarind, orange, or bastard cedar-trees, on account, I should suppose, of the superabundance of their shade. The nest is made with particular art and beauty. The workmanship, indeed, is ne less exquisite than wonderful, and seems to be, in an essential manner, adapted as the residence of this interesting and lovely bird.”—Beckford’s Descriptive Account of the Island of Jamaica.— For a more particular description, see vol. i., p. 863, 8vo, edition, of the same work. (5) The following very animated, though inflated description of a tropical sky at sunset, is taken from the same author :—“ Of the picturesque representation of the clouds in Jamaica, there is an almost daily and unspeakable variety; and the sunset of that climate has charms to arrest the regard, and fix the attention, of every beholder. At this period, when the sunbeams linger on the mountains, and seem reluctantly to withdraw their glories from the plain; when they just begin to die away in the horizon, or glitter by reflection upon the trembling wave ;—what delightful appearances, or glowing with lustre, or softened by shade, may not be imagined or lamented in the evanescent clouds of that warm and vapoury region! What imaginary islands, with all the discriminations of hill and dale, of light and gloom, of bays and promontories, of rocks and woods, of rivers and seas, may not be traced in the transcendently beautiful skies of that fervent climate, and treasured up for embellishmeuts, by those who study nature, and who delight to copy her charms, not only in het elevation, but decline.”—Vol. i. p. €0. (6) “Inthe mountainous and interior parts of the larger islands innumerable fire-tlies abound at night, which have a surprising appearance to astranger. They consist of different species, some of which emit a light, resembling a spark of fire, from a globular prominence near each eye; and others from their sides, in the act of respiration, They are far more luminous than ihe glew-worm, and fill the air on all sides, like so many living stars, to the great astonishment of a traveller unaccustomed to the country.” —Edwards’s Hist., vol. i. p. 8. (7) Guinea grass pasture, See Edwards’s Hist., 8vo., vol. i. p. 186, (8) “ What European forest has ever given birth to a stem equal to that of the ceiba (or wild cotton tree), which alone, simply rendered concave, has been known to produce a boat capable of containing one hundred persons? ”—Edwards’s Hist., vol. i. p. 15. (9) The palmeto royal, or mountain cabbage, from 150 to 200 feet in height; atree, says Mr. Edwards, which, without doubt is among the most graceful of all the vegetable creation. 31 426 POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Still following close, still whisp’ring near, The muse aye caught your list’ning ear ; *Mid tempest’s rage and thunder’s rair Aye cheering sang :— Touch’d by her hand (unchill’d by fear) The harp-strings rang. Return’d at last frae varied clime, Where youth and hope lang tint their time, Ance mair to Strevlin’s height sublime We wing’d our way; Ance mair attuned the rural rhyme On Ochil brae. *Twas then my native strains ye lear’d? For passion spake while fancy cheer’d ; A while wi’ flaunting airs ye flared And thought to shine ; But nature—judging nature sneer’d, And ca’d it—jine / Stung wi’ the taunt, ye back recoil’d, Pensive ye mused ; I mark’d and smiled; Daund’ring depress’d’mang knows flower’d wild My aten reed Ye faund ae bonny morning mild *Tween Ayr and Tweed. *Tween past’ral Tweed and wand’ring Ayr, Where unbusk’d nature blooms sae fair! And mony a wild note saft and clear Sings sweet by turns, Tuned by my winsome Allan’s*® ear And fav’rite Burns. Trembling wi’ joy ye touch’d the reed,— Doubtfw’ ye sigh’d and hang your head ; Fearfw’ ye sang till some agreed The notes were true; When grown mair bauld, ye gae a screed That pleased nae few.* By Forth’s green links bedeck’d wi’ flowers,® By Clyde’s clear stream and beechen bowers ;° Heartsome and healthfu’ flew the hours In simple sang, While Lossit’s braes and Kden’s’ towers The notes prolang ! Thae times are gane!—ah! well-a-day ! For health has flown wi’ spirits gay ; Youth, too, has fled! and cauld decay Comes creeping on: October’s sun cheers na like May That brightly shone! Yet antumn’s gloom, though threat’ning bleak, Has joys, gin folks calm joys wad seek ; Friendship and worth then social cleek And twine thegither. And gree and crack by ingle cheek Just like twin-brither. *Tis then (youth’s vain vagaries past, That please a while, but fash at last), Serious, our ee we backward cast On bygane frays, And, marvelling, mourn the thriftless waste O’ former days ! Then, too, wi’ prudence on our side, And reas’ning virtue for our guide, Calmly we view the restless tide O’ warldly care, And cull, wi’ academic pride, The flow’’s o’ lare. And while, wi? sure and steady pace, Coy science’ secret paths we trace, And catch fair nature’s beauteous face In varied view, Ardent, though auld, we join the chase, And pleased pursue. *Tis sae through life’s short circling year, The seasons change, and, changing, cheer ; Journeying we jog, unawed by fear : Hope plays her part ! Forward we look, though in the rear Death shakes the dart. Catch then the dream; nor count it vam, Hope’s dream’s the sweetest balm o’ pain: Heav’n’s unseen joys may yet remain, And yet draw near ye: Meanwhile, ye see, I hear your mane, 7 And flee to cheer ye. (1) The second part of “ The Harp” was composed during the author’s first passage home from Jamaica. (2) The author’s first attempts in Scottish poetry were the composing of simple words to some of our most simple pastoral and Gaelic airs. The success induced him afterwards to attempt in the same dialect subjects of more importance, (3) Allan Ramsay. (4) Alluding to the uneommon sale of “ Will and Jean,” which, in less than seven weeks after publication, went through five editions of 1,600 copies each. Fourteen editions were thrown olf before the expiration of a twelvemonth. (5) Stirling. (6) Glasgow. (1) Lossit, in Cantyre, Argyleshire, where some of the songs, from their resemblance to the Gaelic, were particularly relished, They were afterwards set to music and published in Edinburgh. POEMS OF HECTOR MACNEILL. Ane too’s at hand, to whom ye fled Frae Britain’s cauld, frae misery’s bed ; Owre seas tempestuous shivering sped To Friendship’s flame ; Where kindling warm, in sunbeams clad, She hails her Graham.’ W? him (let health but favouring smile) Ance mair ye'll greet fair Albion’s flew, In some calm nook life’s cares beguile Atween us twa: Feed the faint lamp wi’ virtue’s oill— Then—slip awa! —The flatterer ceased, and smiled adieu, Just waved her hand, and mild withdrew ! Cheer’d with the picture (fause or true) I check’d despair, And frae that moment made a vow To—mourn nae mair, (1) John Graham, Esq., of Three Mile River, Jamaica, under whose kin:d and hospitable roof the present poem was composed. (2) This amiable, honourable, and accomplished man, was unfortunately killed in the mistaken defence of a character which no calumny could have injured; and by a ruffian whose slander uo man ut worth ought to have regarded.—H. MJ 427 EPITAPH. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES GRAHAM, ESQ, LATE OF THE PARISH OF WESTMORELAND, JAMAICA. | In testimony of Affection, and as a tribute to the Virtues cf the best of Men, and the kindest of Brothers, THIS MAUSOLEUM IS ERECTED BY JOHN GRAHAM, OF THREE MILE RIVER, JAMAICA. ANNO. 1798, Accept, loved shade! of him whose breathless clay No sigh returns to aught that grief can say ; Accept, loved shade! this monument of woe: The last sad gift thy friend can now bestow !— For him, alas! ’tis left to raise the tomb, Steal from the crowd, and court sepulchral gloom, Clasp to his heart thy cold untimely urn,? And weep thy virtues—never to return! Nor can the muse (that muse thou lovedst to hear) Repress the sigh, or check the starting tear ; From Britain’s shore—across the Atlantic wave. She comes, to vent her sorrows at thy grave ; With trembling hand inscribe thy funeral stone, And with a brother’s woes record her own THE POEMS AND SONGS OF WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. Lirrzz is known of the history of William Hamilton of Bangour, except the meagre facts that he lived, and loved, and wrote, and died. He was the second son of John Hamilton, of Bangour, and grandson of James Hamilton, a descendant of the Hamiltons of Brentwood and Mungwell. He was born in 1704, but the day and place of his birth have escaped the researches of his biographers. It is, however, probable that he was born at the paternal estate, in the parish of Uphill, Linlithgowshire. The first we hear of him is in connection with his academical studies, which ‘‘he appears” to have pursued (thus uncertainly do his biographers speak of him) in the University of Edinburgh. He displayed, while yet a boy, a marked predilection for poetry, writing verses to a number of imaginary young ladies—a habit which he preserved through life. At the age of twenty he contributed to Ramsay’s Tea-Zuble Miscellany, embellishing it with his finest poem, ‘‘ The Braes of Yarrow,” the only poem he ever wrote in the Scotch dialect. At twenty-two he wrote ‘The Maid of Gallowshiels,” a fragment which he never completed, and a poetical ‘‘ Address to the Countess of Eglintoun,”’ on sending her a copy of Ramsay’s ‘ Gentle Shepherd.” Hamilton’s poetry was more distinguished for chasteness and refinement than for originality. It exhibited at once his amiable qualities and his scholarly attainments, and showed to what advantage he had studied the great poets of antiquity. Some of his translations and adaptations from Horace are graceful productions, and his translation from Homer is worthy of notice. He possessed the merit of being the first Scotch poet who wrote in the English language, properly so called; but it may perhaps reasonably be deplored in these days that Hamilton did not leave English verse alone. As an English poet he has not taken by any means a first place, whereas it is presumable, from the specimen he has left, that as a Scotch bard he might have sat side by side with Burns and Ramsay in the temple of the Scottish muse. A single stanza of the exquisite and thoroughly original ballad, the ‘‘Braes of Yarrow,” is worth many volumes of such poems as “Contemplation,” in which the ‘‘ Triumph of Love” is set forth in verses, elegant it is true, but such as any amiable country gentleman might indulge in who had plenty of time at his disposal, combined with literary taste. The year 1743 is one of great importance in the life of Hamilton. In this year he meta lady to whom, for the first time probably in his experience, he found it impossible to write verses. Falling seriously in love, he married the daughter of Sir James Hall, of Dun- glass, with whom his union proved extremely happy, though unfortunately but of short duration. In 1745, after only two years of wedded life, Mrs. Hamilton fell iil, thereby POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 429 preventing her husband (who was as staunch a Jacobite as he was a faithful friend), from joining the standard of the Pretender. Some say that the poet actually fought at the battle of Culloden; put this has been denied. However this may be, it is certain that after his wife’s death, in October, 1745, his implication with the cause of the Pretender compelled him to seek refuge in France, where he remained for several years in exile. About.the year 1750 he appears to have returned to Scotland, where he took possession of the family estate as heir to his elder brother, who died unmarried. Up to 1751 he is supposed to have lived chiefly in Edinburgh, where he indulged in his old love of poetry and fictitious mistresses. Somewhere about this time his amatory passion again took a serious turn, and he married a lady (maiden-name unknown) who survived him twenty-five years, ‘dying in her own house” in the Canongate of Edinburgh, in September, 1779. The poet himself died at Lyons (whither he had gone for the benefit of his health) on the 25th of March, 1754. His body was brought home to his native land, and buried in the once great Walhalla of Scottish history and genius, the Abbey Church of Holyrood. His contemporaries thought highly of his poetic gifts. The Caledonian Merewry, in announcing his death, informed the Scottish and English world, and all who had not the happiness of personal acquaintance with the deceased, ‘‘ that in all the relations of life, as a son, 2 brother, a husband, a father, and a friend, he was dutiful, tender, steady, and affec- tionate ; as a gentleman polite, humane, generous, and communicative; and as a man, a citizen, and a Christian, honest, brave, pious, and benevolent. The endowments of his mind in regard to genius and learning his own inimitable works can alone express, and whoever peruses them with judgment and impartiality will acknowledge that in point of language, sentiment, and numbers, Scotland boasts in Hamilton a poet little, if at all, inferior to a Dryden, an Addison, or even a Pope.” Posterity has not confirmed this flattering verdict, but consigned him to the second, if not to the third rank, in the poetical hierarchy. His popularity, however, has been great enough to justify the issue of several editions of his poems. The first appeared in 1748, three years after his death; the second in 1749; the third in 1758; the fourth in 1760; the fifth in 1794, and the sixth in 1808. He was also included in “‘ Anderson’s British Poets ?— a large and not very select c-llection of the rhymers and versifiers, as well as of the pocts, from the time of Chaucer to the close of the eighteenth century. The best and most complete edition appeared in 1850 under the editorship of Mr. James Paterson, and included several poems, previously unpublished, found in a MS. volume in the poet’s own handwriting. 430 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1760. (BY LORD ESKGROVE.) TO THE READER. Tue public, or those who had not occasion to be acquainted with the author of the following poems, may, perhaps, desire to know something more of him than his name. To gratify this reasonable curiosity, it is proper the reader should know that William Hamilton of Bangour, Esq., was a gentleman of an opulent fortune, and of an ancient and honourable family. He was born in 1704, and had all the advantages of a liberal and polite education. His taste, like his studies, was unconfined, but his peculiar genius for poetry appeared at an early time of life. It was improved by a lively imagination, an exquisite delicacy of sentiment, an extensive acquaintance with the belles lettres, and a thorough knowledge of the world. As he wrote entirely for his own amusement, and that of his particular friends, few, if any, of his pieces were prepared for the press by himself. A collection of several of them was first published at Glasgow in 1748 (and afterwards reprinted), not only without his name, but without his consent, and even without his knowledge. He was then abroad, and it was hoped the appearance of that collection would have drawn from him a more perfect edition. But though, after his return, he corrected many errors of the Glasgow copy, occasioned by the inadvertency of transcribers, and considerably enlarged some of the poems, he did not live to make a new and complete publication. The improvements he made are, however, carefully inserted in the present posthumous edition, with the addition of a great many valuable pieces taken from his own original manuscripts. Mr. Hamilton possessed the social virtues in an eminent degree. His writings breathe the passions which he felt, and are seldom cold or inanimated. ‘The qualities of his heart and head were equally remarkable; and, in short, he was, in the proper sense of the word, a fine gentleman. He was twice married into families of distinction, and by his first lady, daughter of Sir James Hall, Bart., left an only child, a promising youth, who inherits his estate. Mr. Hamilton was of a delicate constitution, and in his later years his health was greatly impaired. This decay made him again try the benefit of a warmer climate, in which he had formerly passed a considerable part of his time. It had not, however, the desired effect. He died at Lyons on the 25th of March, 1754, in the 50th year of his age. His corpse was brought to Scotland, and interred in the Abbey Church of Holyrood House. : The reader is left to the perusal of Mr. Hamilton’s works for the forming an adequate opinion of his merits asa poet. It is oped such of his poems as are here first published will appear equally beautiful with those which, in their former more careless dress, and even without a name, were received with the highest approbation. Though the author’s finishing hand has been wanting to many, the same admirable genius shines through tie whole; and the editor is persuaded that in making this edition as complete as possible, he has performed an acceptable service to the public. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 431 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. (BY DR. ADAM SMITH.) No writings of this kind ever had a better claim to the indulgence of the public than the following poems; as this collection is published, not only without the author’s consent, but without his knowledge, and therefore in justice to him, the editors must take upon themselves any faults or imperfections that may be found in it. It is hoped that the many beauties of language and sentiment which appear in this little volume, and the fine genius the author everywhere discovers, will make it acceptable to every reader of taste, and will in some measure atone for our presumption in presenting the public with poems, of which none have had the author’s finishing hand, and many of them only first essays in his early youth. One inducement to print them was to draw from the author a more perfect edition when he returns to this country, and if our faulty attempt shall be the occasion of producing a work that may be an honour to this part of the kingdom, we shall glory in what we have done. What brought us at first to think of this little undertaking was the concern some of the author’s friends expressed to us, at the imperfect edition of his noble pocm of Contemplation, lately published from an incorrect manuscript ; this determined us to give an edition of it, less unworthy of the author, and to join to it every little piece of his that had been printed at different times; and we prevailed likewise on a friend of his, though with some difficulty, to give us asmall number of pieces thal had never before been printed, some of which had been banded about in manuscript, and might have been printed with the transcribers’ errors by others. 1t is owing to the delicacy of this friend of the author’s that this edition is not enriched with many original poems, and some beautiful translations from Pindar and other ancient poets, both Greek and Roman, that are in his possession, but which he would not permit to be published. GLasaow, December 21, 1748. TO THE MEMORY OF MR. WILLIAM CRAUFURD, MERCHANT IN GLASGOW, THE FRIEND OF MR. HAMILTON, Wuo to that exact frugality, that downright probity and plainness of manners so suitable to his profession, joined a love of learning and of all the ingenious arts, an openness of hand and a generosity of heart that was free both from vanity and from weakness, aud a maguanimity that could support, under the prospect of approaching and unavoidable death, the most torturing pains of body with an unalterable cheerfulness of temper, and without once interrupting, even to his last hour, the most manly and the most vigorous activity in a variety of business : ; This Edition of the Works of a Gentleman for whom he, who was candid and penetrating, circumspect and sincere, always expressed the highest and the most affectionate esteem, is inscribed by the Editors, as tne only monument which it is in their power to raise of their veneration and of their regret. THE POETICAL WORKS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR, —_—— ——— HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XI, IMITATED. To Miss ERsKINE. Inquire not, Erskine fair, what end The gods for thee or me intend ; How vain the search, that but bestows The knowledge of our future woes ? Far happier they, who ne’er repine To draw the lots their fates assign ! Then be advised, and try not thou What spells and cunning men can do. In mirth thy present years employ, And consecrate thy charms to joy ; Whether the fates to thy old score Propitious add a winter more ; dr this shall lay thee cold in earth, Now raging o’er Edina’s firth. Let youth, while yet it blooms, excite To mirth and wit and gay delight. Nor thou refuse the voice that calls To visits and to sprightly balls. For time rides ever on the post, Ev’n while we speak the moment’s lost. Then call each joy in to this day, And spend them now while now you may; Have every pleasure at command, Fools let them lie in fortune’s hand. a TO A LADY, ON HER TAKING SOMETHING ILL THAT MR. H. SAID. Wuy hangs that cloud upon thy brow? That beauteous heav’n erewhile serene ? Whence do these storms and tempests blow, Or what this gust of passion mean ? And must then mankind lose that light, Which in thine eyes was wont to shine, And lie’obscured in endless night For each poor silly speech of mine ? Dear child, how could I wrong thy name? Thy form so fair and faultless stands, That could ill tongues abuse thy fame, Thy beauty could make large amends. Or if 1 durst profanely try Thy beauty’s pow’rful charms t? upbraid, Thy virtue well might give the lie, Nor call thy beauty to its aid. For Venus every heart t’ ensnare, With all her charms las deck’d thy face, And Pallas, with unusual care, Bids wisdom heighten every grace. Who can the double pain endure ? Or who must not resign the field To thee, celestial maid, secure With Cupid’s bow and Pallas’ shield ? If, then, to thee such pow’r is given, Let not a wretch in torment live, But smile, and learn to copy heaven; Since we must sin ere it forgive. Yet pitying heaven not only does Forgive th’ offender and the offence, But even itself appeased bestows, As the reward of penitence. UPON HEARING HIS PICTURE WAS IN A LADY’S BREAST — Ye gods! was Strephon’s picture blest With the fair heaven of Chloe’s breast Move softer, thou fond flutt’ring heart ; Oh gently throb—too fierce thou art. (1) [These lines appear to have been originally addressed to W. D. Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind, the first line beginning “ Willy ne’er inquire what end,” and were For Strephon was the bliss design’d ? frinted in the “ Tea-Table Miscellany.” Tuey appear as above— ? 1 ; iddressed to Miss Erskine—in the edition of Hamilton’s Poema, F OF Strephon’s sake, dear charming maid, 4760.) Didst thou prefer his wand’ring shade P POEMS OF HAMILTON OF RANGOUR. And thou, blest shade, that sweetly art Lodged so near my Chloe’s heart, For me the tender hour improve, And softly tell how dear I love. Ungrateful thing! it scorns to hear Its wretched master’s ardent prayer, Fngrossing all that beauteous heaven, That Chloe, lavish maid, has given. I cannot blame thee: were I lord Of all the wealth those breasts afford, I'd be a miser too, nor give An alms to keep a god alive. Oh smile not thus, my lovely fair, On these cold looks, that lifeless air, Prize him whose bosom glows with fire, With eager love aud soft desire. *Tis true thy charms, O powerful maid, To life can bring the silent shade ; Thou canst surpass the painter’s art, And real warmth and flames impart. But oh! it ne’er can love like me— I’ve ever Joved, and loved but thee. Then, charmer, grant my fond request, Say thou canst love, aud make me blest. —_+——__ THE MAID OF GALASHIELS. IN TWELVE BooKs.! “ Aut credite factum. Vel, si credites, facti quoque credite poenam.”—Oy. MET. Myvwy dee, Gea, Tydrniddew ” AxrAjos OvAopévyy—Hoo. In. i. Boox I. THE ARGUMENT: THE FIDDLER CHALLENG£S THE PIPER TO A TRIAL OF SKILL. At a fuir in Gallowshiels, the Fiddler endeavours to free himself from the accusation of having seduced the Maid of Gallowshiels from the Piper, who was her first lover, and to engage in a trial of skill,—the Maid to be the judge, and the prize of the con- queror, The Piper sustains his charge against him, and consents to his proposal. Then Thomas, a carter, throws cross and pile who shall begin. The lot falls upon the Piper, who, as he is pre- paring, is interrupted by the Fiddler, who demands his genealogy, with the relation of which the Piper concludes the book. Tue wrath of Elspet, Gallowshiels’s Fair— The fatal cause of all a Piper’s care— How by her changeful heart the dame misled, Received a wand’ring Fiddler to her bed; (1) [From a MS. volume in the possession of David Laing, Esq., Edinburgh. First printed in Paterson’s edition of Hamilton's poems, Edinburgh, 1850.] 433 Forgetful she of all her former vows, Her spotless fame and plighted Piper spouse; Who, persevering in his early faith, Wept her misdeed, and sorrow’d unto death, Till plunged in woes, and withering in her prime, By late repentance she atoned her crime. So did almighty destiny fulfil The purposed counsels of his sovereign will. Gracious, O muse! the mournful tale relate, And warn the sex to shun the crime and fates, For on that day when all the youths repair From every quarter round to Gala’s fair, Industrious of gain, their wares to vend, Aud copious mercats o’er the fields extend; Where sprightly youths and virgins in the flow’r Congenial meet, and hope the bridal hour ; With artful zeal the spacious tent they frame, And to the linen dome invite the dame ; Or wait impatient for the setting light, Behind the hedge to pass in joys the night. To these, as circling in a ring they stand, The Fiddler stretch’d the fiddle bearing hand. “Ye men of Gallowshiels, attentive hear, Wives, matrons, widows, virgins, all give ear. Unjustly blamed by a licentious tongue, First let me speak, who first have suffer’d wrong. No fault of mine your Piper’s vengeance draws: On me he throws the guilt of nature’s laws. True, in his dome, by friendly favours graced, I joyful lived a fiddler and a guest ; What time rejoicing on the banks I stood Of Gala’s stream, and drank its unknown flood. * ek For not to us, to love or hate is given The appointment of our fates, and doom of heaven ke eR Doom’d to the reaper’s meal or bridal hour, Who better brews the ale or kneads the flour, Or who with her in needlework can vie, Or swifter bid the whirling spindle fly ? Say, Piper, then, ill-judging as thou art, Could I refuse so fair a damsel’s heart ? Was [ from offer’d blessings to abstain, For that it gave my former host some pain? But hear attentive what my thought decrees, And set thy heart from idle fears at ease: Ye men of Gallowshiels, attentive hear, Maids, widows, wives, and matrons, all give ear ; A conquest got with ease my soul disdains, He’s worse than conquer’d that but cheaply gains, Before the fair let then our cause be tried, And who her happy choice herself decide ; Sole in her breast the fav’rite youth shall reign, Whose hand shall sweetest wake the warbled stra‘n ; And if to me th’ ill-fated Piper yield, As sure I trust this well-contended field, 3K 434 High in the sacred dome his pipes I raise, The trophy of my fame to after days ; That all may know, as they the pipes survey, The Fiddler’s deed, and this the signal day : But if the Fates, his wishes to fulfil, Shall give the triumph to his happier skill, My fiddle his, to him be praises paid, And joined with those the long cortested maid.” All Gallowshiels the daring challenge heard, Full blank they stood, and for their Piper fear’d ; Fearless, alone he rose in open view, And in the midst his sounding bagpipe threw ; In act to speak, surveys with downward eye The well-known instrument of melody : Then on the maid he cast a mournful look, He smote his breast, and sigh’d, while thus he spoke :-— “ Alas for me that ever I was born! Bred up to woes and to my Elspet’s scorn! For three long circling years, compell’d by fate, My constant love has won her constant hate. Can then so soft a mind so savage prove, And is disdain a recompense for love ? Condemn’d, unblest, to waste my youthful prime, Alas that constancy was e’er a crime ! Yet once, yet once, for happier days I knew, She heard with pity then the sighs I drew. In her soft breast consenting flames combined, Each look confess’d the union of our mind. But now these flames no more her heart inspire, Far, far away my hours of joy retire. The hours of youth and joy fly first and fast, To weeping and to age decreed the last. These once consumed, no more delights bestow, But still remembrance keeps alive their woe. Thus every joy exists before my mind { shared ere yet my Elspet was unkind, Ere yet the Fiddler, by insidious art, Forced me from the possession of her heart ; By crafty lies seduced her easy youth, (So much has flattery the odds of truth); And now the more to aggravate the offence, He styles his guilt the crime of Providence. Base, to misname the gracious power above, The Sire of Hate, who is the source of love; He, all that we can boast from his dispose, Or cheers with joys, or plunges us in woes. Unerring he his bounties to misplace, Our misery is a debt, our joys a grace. Davr’st thou then say he prompts us from within, Or draws aside from good, or drives to sin P Oh, impious thought of an abandoned mind ! That daring tongue shall no just limits bind ; The seandal of thy kind and kindred born, That treats thy Maker and his priests with scorn , Opprobrious with thy base-born thoughts to load, To rindicate thy wrong, the man of God. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. For this I hope to see thee mounted high, Before the assembled church renounce the lie, Where, clothed in sackcloth weeds, the failing dame 2 Her short-lived joys repays with long-lived shame, Unable to endure his angry look, The scoff of crowds, and suffering dire rebuke. But would’st thou purge thyself of foul offence, Thy surest pleader had been innocence ; For innocence to all commits its cause, And, for it does no ill, it fears no laws. But when the solid power of justice fails, Then eloquence with gaudy show assails Essays the hollow artifice of art, And cheats the judgment, while it woos the heart. My tongue shall speak but what my heart arreads, Nor varnish use to blacken more thy deeds ; Nor shall I treat thy valued gifts with scorn, But praise the talents that a foe adorn, Thy lay of grief the mirthful bosom wounds, None wakes the Fiddler to more sprightly scunds; This to thy fame stern justice bade me say, Then in the other scale thy vices lay. Thy broken trust, thy false deceitful lies, Dissembled fears, and real perjuries ; Skill’d sore in wicked arts, a treacherous part, Thou soothed my fair, and poison’d all her heart. Twas not for this 1 took thee to my dome, A wandering stranger from thy native home ; Fool that I was! had it been given to know + What woes from thee were mine to undergo, No power had from my vengeance set tlice free, Plunged in a well, or hang’d on a tree, [mounted] I with thy naked limbs had strewn the plains, Or mingled with the flinty rock thy brains. But ’tis decreed, by heaven’s disposing will, Unknown to us, arrives our good or ill; Nor heaven, in pity to his griefs, bestows On man the fatal science of his woes, But know, vain youth! thy falsehood I disdain, Ingratitude be to itself a pain. Suffice it not that with felonious hate, Base and ungrateful, thou drove on my fate, In secret wrong’d me, when I could not hear, And stopp’d to my complaint my Elspet’s ear. Yet, now more impudent, thou dar’st to prove Tnjurious, to accuse my want: of love. Ah! had I ne’er the fatal passion known, Blest had I been, nor by the fair undone ; Then still with pity had she seen my tears Still sweet my bagpipe sounded in her ears. Yet thus unhappy, thus supremely cursed, In woes and misery decreed the first. Yet this I owe, O Fiddler, to thy pride, I once again may win the blooming bride, T once again that tender strain essay, That, bent on swiftest speed, has woo’d her stay, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. When, by her mother sent at noon to bring The limpid current from the distant spring, Won by the song, until the golden light Descending slow, resigned its place to night. Pleased, from her honey lip then would I gain A kiss, the sweet reward of all my pain. But wert thou in my stead condemn’d to bear Her constant hate, abandon’d to despair ; Sole in her heavenly smiles if favour’d I, Td not provoke again the doubtful die, Of all my fortune could bestow, secure With her, and her alone, I’d live obscure. But I too long from the expected scene Myself and thee and those around detain. Then haste thee, youth, begin thy loftiest lay, The next be mine—in me is no delay.” The Piper ceased, then sadly silent sate, > And secret in his mind revolved his fate. When slowly rising from the polished stone That at the threshold fix’d like marble shone, Where their fair vestures laughing damsels lay To bleach and whiten in the solar ray, Thomas, the carter, grave of look, arose, He loved the Piper much, and mourn’d his woes. He now had seen three race of men decay; Pleased with the first he pass’d his youth away ; Their sons he taught to drive the cart with skill, And brush the well-shunn’d goal with winged wheel ; : Dext’rous the double-pointed fork to ply, And rear with ease the golden sheaf on high. That glory past, now mix’d he with the young, They heard, revered the counsels of his tongue. Though full of years, yet still enjoy’d the sage A youthful vigour and a green old age. He thus to the contending youths address’d The artful words that labour’d in his breast :— “ Hear me, O youths! whose now impending fates © The extreme of joy or misery awaits, Or still to mourn your unavailing vows, Or victor in the strife enjoy the spouse. S Then who shall first begin the important lay - Let lots determine, and those lots obey. This coin, ordain’d through Scotia’s realm to pass, The monarch’s face refulgent on the brass ; Fair, on the side opposed, the thistle rears Its wand’ring foliage and its bristly spears. This, from my hand flung upwards in the sky, In countless circles whirls its orb on high ; If, when descended on the level ground, The monarch’s awful visage upward’s found, Then thou, O Fiddler, shall thy skill employ The first, to try the song of grief or joy. [f, undeprised upon the blushing green [ts chance directs, the thistle’s front is seen, The Piper first the sweet melodious strain Shall urge, and finish or increase his pam. 43K But thou, O Elspet, fair beyond the rest, Whose fatal beauty breeds the dire contest, Oh, heedful of advice, attentive hear My faithful counsels with no careless ear. Fair (though) thou art, yet fairer have there been, Such as of old these aged orbs have seen. Lives there a maiden now that can compare With Agnew’s downy breasts and amber hairP =~ Oh, when shall I again the match behold Of sprightly Henny, and her cheeks of gold! Or her, adorn’d with every blushing grace, Sweet Marion, comely as the Gentle’s race ! If these in younger years I could engage, Then blush not thou to hear my words of age. View both the combatants with equal eyes, Thyself at once the judge, at once the prize. Oh, dread to load thy tender soul with sin, For love, I fear, corrupts the judge within. for if misjudging, thou award’st the day To him inferior in the sweet essay, Each tongue shall rank thee with the worst of names, Deep pierces scandal when ’tis truth that blames. The perjury shall every age prolong, To fright the changeful mind from doing wrong. But if thy sentence speak an upright heart, Where pride and female error has no part, Thy name remember’d in the feasting days, The youths shall chant sweet ballads in thy praise, The lover shall his faithless fair upbraid, And quote the example of the Piper’s Maid. Then Elspet, Maid of Gallowshiels, take heed, For infamy or fame attends thy deed.” This said, the mark of fate he upward threw, Whirl’d round and round, thro’ yielding air it flew; Hach, pale, belolds it hov’ring in the skies, Fach hopes his rival sign with ardent eyes. Scarce could they frame the wish, when swift and prone The joyful Piper views the lot his own. Exulting thus: “O thou who deign’st to bless My sorrows with this omen of success ; By me, thy plant uninjured, ne’er shall feel The treading footsteps nor the piercing steel ; O plant, that with perpetual verdure crown’d, Wreathes our victorious monarch’s temples round.” The carter took the word: ‘“ Thy fate foreshows A happy issue to thy tedious woes. Oh may thy hopes enjoy their due success, And heav’n still bless thee, that begins to bless!” No answer to the friendly speech return’d The youth, but inly for the trial burn’d. He rear’d his pipes from earth, where dumb they lay, But soon melodious, to speak ferth the lay ; Then, us he tied the fair machine around, To his strong arm, by gilded leather bound, While all with secret joy and wonder gaze, The Fiddler spoke in words of winged vhrase. 436 Thus far indeed their way thy wishes find, But flatt’ring shows do oft deceive the blind; When skill superior shall thy hopes destroy, Thou’lt mourn the chance of fate and short-lived joy. Long labour yet, and various, thee remains, If bold to vie with me in rural strains. But now one moment let’s suspend the day, Nor join we yet in the harmonioas fray. By blood descending from a gentle race, With thee contending I my kind disgrace ; Unless an equal birth renown thy name, To conquer, not my glory, but my shame. I, born where Tine her silver current pours, And winds encircling round Hadina’s towers. A parson’s daughter there retiring lay, And pluck’d the springing flower in wanton play. A lord, my sire, her in his walks beheld, And to the pleasing deed of love compell’d. Hence I. Disclose thou, Piper, if thy veins The blood of nobles or of thieves contains ; Say what thy ancestors in days of yore, What sire begot thee, and what mother bore ?” “Vain are the tales of birth,” the youth replies ; “Vain he who on the empty boast relies. The good man on himself alone depends, His virtues and his merits are his friends. The worthy oft lament the perish’d grace, And wept the fool descending through the race. Oft too, the son, the glory of his name, Wipes from the tainted house the father’s shame, Fortune to noblest heights the low one brings, And simple pipers have been sires of kings. Their race, as heaven decrees to fate must yield, In after times, the labourers of the field. Say, what avails it then, or to be born The poor man’s envy, or the rich man’s scorn ; Since death, when once the race of life is past, Demands the piper and the king at last ; Equal condemn’d to share their destined lot, Alike the sceptre and the pipe’s forgot. Though the surviving friends lamenting tell Who ruled with wisdom and who piped with skill, And spread their glory wide from shore to shore, Their praises charm the unconscious dead no more. But for thou think’st thy ancestry divine Diminish’d, if thou match thy skill with mine, Then hear my tongue a faithful tale unfold, Which but for thee had rested still untold. Not great ones in the humble roll I call, But honest swains and simple pipers all ; Nor yet unknown: To these our fame resounds, Who drink of Glotta in their western bounds ; Or near the rising hills of Santry born, Plough Preston fields, or thrash Tantallon corn. Or even remote, where, far in northern lands, Famed Tolnny Groat’s house and (its) table stands, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Reverend and peaceful o’er his sons he shined, Twelve sons he shared that at one table dined. The first famed author of our ancient race ns Was Colin hight, and this his native place. 3 He the best piper Gallowshiels e’er saw, The first who sung thy battle, Harry-Law. For when, of old, by mad ambition fired, The island chief to Scotia’s rule aspired,’ Whien bold in arms against his prince he stood, And Harlaw’s field dyed purple with his blood. As to inspire his train to noble deeds, Where raged the batile, and the mighty bleeds, He play’d, and threw each thought of life behind, And all on glory ran his restless mind, Urged by the muses, for a sounding stone Drove on his thigh, and crack’d the shatter’d bone. Prone fell the youth, extended on the plain, Yet still his slack’ning hands the pipes retain, Still daring in the neighbourhood of death, His labouring elbow roused the harmonious breath ; And safe returning to his native land, He instituted games, and sports ordain’d. With matchless art thy battle, Harlaw, sung, Till Gallowshiels through all her echoes rung. The wondrous skill did all his offspring grace, From son to son transmissive through the race. These oft have heard, and hearing can declare, Tn the gay art each son the father’s heir. But far, oh, far beyond the rest, he shone Unrivalled, all the glorious art his own. Long flourishing, the love of all he shared, In youth regarded, and in age revered ; Till to the silent grave descending late Of years and honours full, he bowed to fate. Three sons and one fair daughter blest their sire, The eldest warmed with all his father’s fire ; But, hapless youth! a dire disease invades His heart, and sunk him to forgetful shades. The second, sent a sailor to the main, The storms o’ertook, and ne'er returned again. Naked on some far distant shore he lies, Bewailed, unconscious of his sister’s sighs. His blooming sister, rich in beauty’s charms, Refulgent glowed, and blessed a webster’s arms. He taught the web to shine with matceliless art, The matchless web allured the virgin’s heart ; Nor knew, while she the workmanship approved, The helpless maid, that she the workman loved. The last a boy, by Gala’s waters fed His father’s flocks, and in his art. was bred. But when the years of manhood he beheld, His sire succeeding as his sire excelled, No son was his: for so the fates ordain, Those fates that cause our happiness or pain. (1) Donald of the Isles, in King James the First’s reign, 3 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR One only daughter soothed a father’s care, Her mother’s likeness, and his fortune’s heir. From distant shires the am’rous youth repaired, With her the dance, with her the feast they shared. With gentle words and blandishments the dame soft they assault, to raise an equal flame. Not all their words or blandishments could move ; Stubborn she stood, inflexible to love. Oft would her sire essay the softest art, Persuasive speech, to molify ler heart ; Oft would adjure her by her virgin fears, Her mother’s ashes, and his aged years. What grief was his, her’s what immortal shame, If by her fault should end the Pipex’s name ! He once of Gallowshiels the best delight, Nor yet forgot, so famed from Harlaw fight ; How, would he say, tl’ harmonious founder mourn, Would cruel fate release him from his urn, Ill-fated to behold his pipes to grace A foreign hand, the alien of his race. This urged the father, but the nymph withstood, Resolved and obstinate in virginhood. The father urged in vain, averse she fled The pleasing love-rights of the marriage bed. But disobclient to thy chaste desires, Thy form withstands, and wakes the lover’s fires. Thy wish unhappy! by thy wishes crost, Thyself opposes what thou seek’st the most ; Severe thy bliss, thy beauty undecrees,: Thou would’st not be beloved, and yet must please. Her loved a lord, and fired by heavenly charms, Tle sought to gain the damsel to his arms. In vain to win her heart the youth assailed, But force accomplished where his passion failed. As with returning step at eve of day, She from the finished revels shaped her way, _ Clandestine in a secret arbour laid, ; He stood, resolved to seize the passing maid. ; The passing maid, unknowing of th’ event, Securely paced and trod the deep descent. Instant the youth his destined victim seized, Compelled by strength, and with his victim pleased, Swift to his chamber bore the ravished maid, And drew her gently to the genial bed; There in his arms the blushing fair comprest, He held her panting, and was fully blest ; ‘There mixing frequent, till a beauteous boy She brought, the fruit of sweet forbidden joy. For when the moon that monthly grows and fades, Nine times renewed her light and changed her shades, Born in her secret bower, the babe she laid Soft in the ready cradle’s silken shade. But fortune, envious of her happy state, Now shook the box, and threw another fate ; The stolen ax»ur, until that hour concealed, The infant’s cries to the stern sire revealed ; 434 Stern and resolved, the moody sire prepares To wreck his rage, and plunge her soul in cares. The youth foresaw, and fearful of her woes, Dismissed the damsel when the fury rose. O’er various fields she passed, and various floods, And unknown mountains crown’d with sounding woods, Till a far distant land concludes her toil, Where Devern’s waves enrich fair Bamfa’s soil, But when twelve years had run their destined race, A strong desire to see his natal place Impels the youth ; then instant wand’ring home, He seeks, with hopes erect, his father’s dome. He then, to share the sweets of nuptial bed, A virgin equal to his birth had led, Yet not unmindful of the hidden joy, The pleasing rapture that produced the boy, His wrathful sire and spouse he reconciles, And meets the child with fond paternal smiles ; To him bestows, the witness of his care, A house, defenceful of the piercing air, Where Gala’s waters run a blushing mead, Where twenty sheep in plenteous pasture feed, The youth, his filial virtue to approve, Recalls his mother to the gifts of love. Her, an unhappy exile, long -vithheld From Gallowshiels’s domes and native field, A mason weds, and blest in all those charms That pleased a lord, succeeded to her arms. A numerous issue of the manly race, And blooming girls, confess each soft embrace ; These sole survive. For, as in wanton play, On Gala’s bank in a fair summer’s day, Her noble-born on pastime bent, divides With naked limbs the pure translucent tides, Foredoomed to view his mother’s face no more, Fate sunk him helpless ere he reached the shore. Great grief resounded loud through Gallowshicls, Each social mourns, and for the damsel feels. The damsel wastes in woes her youthful prime, And helpless died, nor lived out half her time. Raised by high hopes, and by ambition swayed, Her son, the first of all his race that strayed, To nobler glory the fond youth aspires, And scorned the humble arts that fanned his fires. A merchant vent’rous o’er the pathless main, Tn foreign realms pursues the thirst of gain. Scarce to his native land restored by fate, He mourued his folly, but he mourned too late ; No consort blessed his bed. A lovely bov, The manly increase of his brother’s joy, Heired the famed pipes. He spoused a pleasing fair, But still the dismal hour that caused his care He to his death bewailed ; for, fierce and bold, The female sex ne’er bred so great a scold. Abroad he roamed—the wise and happiest choice— She persecuted so the dome with noise. 438 Full sore he toiled to please the clam’rous dame, And all love’s buckets plied to quench her flame. To please her pride, mortgaged his house and land, Nay, e’en the pipes—the far-famed pipes—she pawned ! Thus cursed, till death brought the long-wish’d relief, The patient youth sustained all, dumb and deaf But when descending to the worms a feast, He from the ill-meant blessing was releast. Though not forgetful of his first estate, He boldty dared to draw a second fate ; A gentle virgin she ; the son she bore With wisdom did his sinking race restore. For, learned in frugal arts, the youth regaine, The fated pipes, the pledge of debts detained, But pow’rless yet his fortunes to repair, Sunk by neglect and want of thrifty care, The griping usurer claims his destined prey, In prison dire his life to waste away, Unless a slave; his hard commands he bears, No wage demanded three revolving years : The youth consents, and in his chains he mourned, Till o’er his head three circling years returned. But when old time, with softly stealing pace, Had full of sorrows run the measured race, The monster’s daughter, of sweet gentle mind, Bloomed far the fairest of the fairest kind ; Constrained by love he to the virgin bore, He plights his service for six winters more. In labours long and dire divides his toil, To delve the glebe, to tw the furrowed soil. No labour e’er so great he reckoned hard, Her love the motive and the sweet reward. But when his tedious months of bondage past, The days of liberty looked out at last. Struck by tke hand of fate, the miser dies, The youth possessed his wealth and blooming prize; Who, warm in years, and faithful to his fires, Blest his embraces with my grandsire’s sires. In good old age submitting to the grave, Safe to his so the pipes redeemed he gave; The pipes redeemed, he to my sire consigned. The shining gift, he dying, left behind To the dear guardian of my tender age, Whose faith in strictest ties he did engage. He, studious of his charge, when years began To shoot ir sfrength, and blossom up to man, On me the pipes bestowed, preserved with care, And dying, hlessed me with his latest prayer. These, treasured in my dome, I still retain, Nor fear shall rob, or hopes of greatest gain But if with me the glorious purchase ends, Or to my son the pledge of fate descends, Heaven suffers not my ignorance to know, Dr whether it decrees me joy or woe. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. But now in empty words no more contend, Words rise on words, and wrangling has no end. Instant commence I then the stern debate, And leave the event to Elspet and to fate. He said; and all around the shouts arise, The joint applauses mingle in the skies, Boox II. THE ARGUMENT: THE TRIAL OF SKILL. The Piper takes his pipes to play. The several songs are par« ticularly described. The Fiddler is entirely confounded with tha dexterity of his antagonist, and not being able to perform any- thing, gives it up. The Maid of Gallowshiels, however, gives him the preference, and retires with him. The Piper's lamenta- tion on his misfortunes. Now in his artful hand the bagpipe held, Elate, the Piper wide surveys the field. O’er all he throws his quick discerning eyes, And views their hopes and fears alternate rise. Old Glenderule, in Gallowshiels long famed For works of skill, the perfect wonder framed ; His shining steel first lopped with dext’rous toil, From a tall spreading elm, the branchy spoil: The clouded wood he next divides in twain, And smoothes them: equal to an oval plain ; Six leather folds, in still connected rows, To either plank conformed, the sides compose, The wimble perforates the bass with care, A destined passage opening to the air, But once enclosed withiu the narrow space, The opposing valve forbids the backward race ; Fast to the swelling bag two reeds combined Receive the blasts of the melodious wind ; Round from the turning loom, with skill divine Embossed, the joints in silver circles shine ; In secret prison pent the accents lie, Until his arm the lab’ring artist ply ; Then duteous they forsake their dark abode, Fellows no more, and wing a separate road ; These upwards through the narrow channel glide, In ways unseen, a solemn murmuring tide ; Those through the narrow path their journey bend, Of sweeter sort, and to the earth descend ; O’er the small pipe at equal distance lie Hight shining holes, o’er which his fingers fly ; From side to side the aerial spirit: bounds, The flying fingers form the passing sounds, That issuing gently through the polished door, Mix with the common air, and charm no more. This gift long since old Glenderule consigned, The lasting witness of his friendly mind, To the famed author of the Piper’s line. Each empty space shone rich in fair design ; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR Himself appears high in the sculptured wood, As bold in the Harlean field he stood, Serene, amidst the dangers of the day, Full in the van you might behold him play ; There in the humbler mood of peace he stands, Before him pleased are seen the dancing bands; In mazy rounds the flying ring they blend, So lively framed they seem from earth ¢? ascend. Four gilded straps the artist’s arm surround, Two knit by clasps, and two by buckles bound His artful elbow. Now the youth essays A tuneful squeeze, to wake the sleeping lays. With labouring bellows thus the smith inspires, To frame the polished lock, the forge’s fires ; Concealed in ashes lie the flames below, Till the resounding lungs of bellows blow ; Then mounting high, o’er the illumined room Spreads the brown light, and gilds the dusky gloom. The bursting sounds, in narrow prison pent, Rouse in their cells, loud-rumbling for a vent ; Rude tempests now the deafened ear assail, Now gently sweet is breathed a sober gale. As when the hawk his mountain nest forsakes, Fierce for his prey, his rustling wings he shakes, The air, impetled by the unharmonious shock, Sounds clatt’ring and abrupt through all the rock ; But as he flies, he shapes, to smoother pace, His winnowing vans, and swims the aerial space.! * * * # * a ee EPITAPH ON LORD BINNY.? BeneateH this sacred marble ever sleeps For whom a father, mother, consort weeps ; Whom brothers’, sisters’ pious griefs pursue, And children’s tears with virtuous drops bedew . The Loves and Graces grieving round appear, E’en Mirth herself becomes a mourner here ; The stranger who directs his steps this way Shall witness to thy worth, and wond’ring say Thy life, tho’ short, can we unhappy call! Sure thine was blest, for it was social all : Oh, may no hostile hand this place invade, For ever sacred to thy gentle shade, Who knew in all life’s offices to please, Join’d taste to virtue, and to virtue ease ; With riches blest did not the poor disdain, Was knowing, humble, friendly, great, humane, By good men honour’d, by the bad approved, And loved the Muses, by the Muses loved ; Hail! and farewell, who bore the gentlest mind, For thou indeed hast been of human kind. (1) [Left unfinished by the author.] (2) Charles, Lord Binning, eldest son of Thomas, sixth Earl of Haddington, died at Naples, tho 27th December, 1732, in his 36th year. 433 EPITAPH ON LORD BARGANY.* Go hence instructed from this early urn, Wise as you weep, and bitter as you mourn ; This urn, where titles, fortune, youth repose, How vain the fleeting good that life bestows ! Learn Age, when now it can no more supply, To quit the burden, and consent to die; Secure, the truly virtuous never tell, How long the part was acted, but how well ; Youth, stand convicted of each foolish claim, Each daring wish of lengthen’d life and fame, Thy life a moment, and thy fame a breath, The natural end, oblivion and death ; Hear then this solemn truth, obey its call, Submit, adore, for this is mankind’s all. ——- @_ EPITAPH ON SIR JAMES SUTTIE:' Tus unambitious stone preserves a name To friendship sanctified, untouch’d by fame, A son this raised, by holy duty fired, These sung a friend, by friendly zeal inspired. No venal falsehood stain’d the filial tear, Unbought, unask’d, the friendly praise sincere ; Both for a good man weep; without offence Who led his days in ease and innocence, His tear rose honest ; honest rose his smile, His heart no falsehood knew, his tongue no guile ; A simple mind with plain, just notions fraught, Nor warp’d by wit, nor by proud science taught, Nature’s plain light still rightly understood, That never hesitates the fair and good— Who view’d self balanced from his calm retreat, The storms that vex the busy and the great, Unmingling in the scene, whate’er befel, Pitied his suff’ring kind, and wish’d them well ; Careless if monarchs frown’d or statesmen smiled, His purer joy, his friend, his wife or child; Constant to act the hospitable part, Love in his look, and welcome in his heart, Such unprized blessings did his life employ, The social moment, the domestic joy, A joy beneficent, warm, cordial, kind, That leaves no doubt, no grudge, no sting belund : The heart-born rapture that from Virtue springs, The poor man’s portion, God withheld from kings ; This life at decent time was bid to cease, ~ Finish’d among his weeping friends in peace ; Go, traveller, wish his shade eternal rest, Go, be the same, for this is to be blest. (3) James, fourth Lord Bargany, born 29th November, 1710, suc. ceeded his father in 1712, and died unmarried at Edinburgh, 1736, (4) Sir James Suttie of Balgone,. East Lothian died 4ih May, 1736, 440 EPITAPH ON LORD NEWHALL.’ To fame let Flatt’ry the proud column raise, And guilty greatness load with venal praise; This monument, for nobler use design’d, Speaks to the heart, and rises for mankind ; Whose moral strain, if rightly understood, Invites thee to he humbie, wise and good. Learn here of life, life’s evry sacred end, Hence form the father, husband, judge, and friend ; Here wealth and greatness found no partial grace, The poor look’d fearless in th’ oppressor’s face ; One plain good meaning through his conduct ran, And if he err’d, alas! he err’d as man. If then unconscious of so fair a fame Thou read’st without the wish to be the same, ‘Tho’ proud of titles, or of boundless store, By blood ignoble, aud by wealth made poor, Yet read; some vice perhaps thou may’st resign, Be e’en that momentary virtue thine ; Heaven in thy breast here work its first essay, Think on this man, and pass unblamed one day. EPITAPH ON MR. BAILLIE OF JERVISWOOD.* Tue pious parents raised this hallow’d place, A monument for them, and for their race. Descendants, be it your successive cares, That no degen’rate dust e’er mix with their’s. CONTEMPLATION: OR THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. TO A YOUNG LADY WITIL THE FOLLOWING POEM. Reap here the pangs of unsuccessful love, View the dire ills the weary sufferers prove, When Care in every shape has leave to reign, And keener sharpens ev’ry sense of pain: No charm the cruel spoiler can control, He blasts the beauteous features of the soul ; With various conflict rends the destined breast, And lays th’ internal fair creation waste : The dreadful demon raging unconfined, To his dire purpose bends the passive mind, Gloomy and dark the prospect round appears, Doubts spring from doubts, and fears engender fears, Hope after hope goes out in endless night, And all is anguish, torture, and affright. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Oh! beauteous friend, a gentler fate be thine ; Still may thy star with mildest influence shine ; May heaven surround thee with peculiar care, And make thee happy, as it made thee fair ; That gave thee sweetness, unaffected ease, The pleasing look, that ne’er was taught to please, True genuine charms, where falsehood claims no part, Which not alone entice, but fix the heart : Aud far beyond all these, supreme in place, The virtuous mind, an undecaying grace, till may thy youth each fond endearment prove Of tender friendship and complacent love ; May love approach thee in tie mildest dress, And court thee to domestic happiness ; And bring along the pow’r that only knows To heighten human joys anc soften woes ; For woes will be in life ; these still return, The good, the beauteous, and the wise must mourn; Doubled the joy that friendship does divide, Lessen’d the pain when arm’d the social side: But ah! how fierce the pang, how deep the groan, When strong affliction finds the weak alone! Then many a friend still guard thy shelter’d days, And guide thee safe through Fortune’s mystic ways ; The happy youth, whom most thy soul approves Friend of thy choice and husband of thy loves, . Whose holy flame heav’n’s altar does inspire, That burns through life one clear unsullied fire, A mutual warmth that glows from breast to breast, Who loving is beloved, and blessing blest. Then all the pleasing scenes of life appear, The charms of kindred and relations dear, The smiling offspring, Love’s far better part, And all the social meltings of the heart: Then harlot Pleasure, with her wanton train Seduces from the perfect state in vain ; In vain to the lock’d ear the syren sings, When angels shadow with their guardian wings, Such, fair Monrmta, be thy sacred lot, When ev’ry memory of him forgot, Whose faithful muse inspired the pious fray’r, And wearied heaven to keep thee in its care ; That pleased it would its choicest influence show’r, Or on thy serious, or thy mirthful hour ; Conspicuous known in ev’ry scene of life, The mother, sister, daughter, friend, and wife ; That joy may grow on joy, and constant last, And each new day rise brighter than the past. O voice divine, whose heavenly strain No mortal measure may attain, O powerful to appease the smart, That festers in a wounded heart (1) Sir Walter Pringle, Lord Newhall, was promoted to the Bench in 1718, and died 1736. (2) George Baillie of Jerviswood, Esq., died at Oxforl. 6th August, 1738, aged 75. 30 S s ES E < oO Ke N. CONTEMPLATIO Loems by Hamilton of Bangour LONDON, VIRTUE & C° LIMITED POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 44] Whose mystic numbers can assuage The bosom of tumultuous Rage, Can strike the dagger from Despair, And shut the watchful eye of Care. Oft lured by thee, when wretches call, Hope comes, that cheers or softens all ; Expell’d by thee, and dispossest, Envy forsakes the human breast. Full oft with thee the bard retires, And lost to earth, to heaven aspires ; How nobly lost! with thee to rove Thro’ the long deep’ning solemn grove Or underneath the moonlight pale, To Silence trust some plaintive tale, Of nature’s ills, and mankind’s woes, While kings and all the proud repose ; Or where some holy, aged oak, A stranger to the woodman’s stroke, From the high rock’s aerial crown, In twisting arches bending down, Bathes in the smooth pellucid stream, Full oft he waits the mystic dream Of mankind’s joys right understood, And of the all-prevailing good. Go forth invoked, O voice divine, And issue from thy sacred shrine ; Go search each solitude around, Where Contemplation may be found, Where’er apart: the goddess stands With lifted eyes and heaven-raised hands ; If rear’d on Speculation’s hill Her raptured soul enjoys its fill Of far transporting Nature’s scene Air, ocean, mountain, river, plain; . Or if with measured step she go Where Meditation spreads below In hollow vale her ample store, Till weary Fancy can no more; Or inward if she turn her gaze, And all th’ internal world surveys ; With joy complacent sees succeed In fair array, each comely deed. She hears alone thy lofty strain, All other music charms in vain ; In vain the sprightly notes resound, That from the fretted roofs rebound, When the deft minstrelsie advance To form the quaint and orbed dance ; In vain unhallow’d lips implore, She hearkens only to thy lore. Then bring the lonely nymph along, Obseyuious to thy magic song ; Bid her to bless the sacred bow’r And heighten Wisdom’s solemn hour Bring Faith, endued with eagle eyes, That joins this earth to distant skies ; Bland Hope that makes each sorrow less, Still smiling calm amidst distress ; And bring the meek-eyed Charitie, Not least, though youngest of the three. Knowledge the sage, whose radiant light Darts quick across the mental night ; And add warm Friendship to the train, Social, yielding, and humane ; With Silence, sober-suited maid, Seldom on this earth survey’d : Bid in this sacred band appear, That aged venerable seer, With sorrowing pale, with watchings spare, Of pleasing yet dejected air, Him, heaveuly Melancholy hight, Who flies the sons of false delight ; Now looks serene thro’ human life, Sees end in peace the moral strife ; Now to the dazzling prospect blind, Trembles for heaven and for his kind ; And doubting much, still hoping best, Late with submission finds his rest : And by his side advance the dame All glowing with celestial flame, Devotion, high above that soars, And sings exulting, and adores ; Dares fix on heav’n a mortal’s gaze, And triumph ’midst the seraph’s blaze : Last, to crown all, with these be join’d The decent nun, fair Peace of Mind, Whom Innocence, ere yet betray’d Bore young in Eden’s happy shade Resign’d, contented, meek and mild, Of blameless mother, blameless child. But from these woods, oh, thou retire ! Hood-wink’d Superstition dire: Zeal that clanks her iron bands, And bathes in blood her ruthless hands , Far hence, Hypocrisy, away, With pious semblance to betray, Whose angel outside fair, contains A heart corrupt, and foul with stains ; Ambition mad, that stems alone The boist’rous surge, with bladders blown; Anger, with wild disorder’d pace ; And Malice pale of famish’d face ; Loud-tongued Clamour, get thee far Hence, to wrangle at the bar; With opening mouths vain Rumour bung ; And Falsehood with her serpent tongue ; Revenge, her bloodshot eyes on fire, And hissing Envy’s snaky tire ; With Jealousy, the fiend most fell Who bears about his inmate hell, Now far apart with haggard mien To lone Suspicion list’ning seen : 31 443 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Now in a gloomy band appears Of sallow doubts, and pale-eyed fears, Whom dire Remorse of giant kind Pursues with scorpion lash behind ; And thou, Self-love, who tak’st from earth With the vile crawling worm, thy birth, Untouch’d with others’ joy or pain, ‘Yhe social smile, the tear humane, Thyself thy sole intemperate guest, Uneall’d thy neighbour to the feast, As if heaven’s universal heir “T'was thine to seize and not to share: With these away, base wretch accurst, By pride bezot, by madness wurst. Impiety! of harden’d mind, Gross, dull, presuming, stubborn, blind, Unmoved amidst this mighty all, Deaf to the universal call: In vain above the systems glow, In vain earth spreads her charms below, Confiding in himself to rise, He hurls defiance to the skies, And steel’d in dire and impious deeds, Blasphemes his feeder whilst he feeds. But chiefly Love, Love far off fly, Nor interrupt my privacy ; *Tis not for thee, capricious pow’r, Weak tyrant of a feverish hour, Fickle, and ever in extremes, My radiant day of reason beams, And sober Contemplation’s ear Disdains thy syren’s song to hear. Speed thee on changeful wings away, To where thy willing slaves obey ; Go herd amongst thy wonted train, The false, th’ inconstant, lewd and vain : Thou hast no subject here, begone ; Contemplation comes anon. Above, below, and all around, Now nought but awful quiet’s found The feeling air forgets to move, No zephyr stirs the leafy grove ; The gentlest murmur of the rill Struck by the potent charm is still ; Each passion in this troubled breast, So toiling once, lies hush’d to rest. Whate’er man’s bustling race employs, His cares, his hopes, his fears, his joys, Ambition, pleasure, interest, fame, Each nothing of important name, Ye tyrants of this restless ball, This grove annihilates you all. O power unseen, yet felt, appear ! Sure something more than nature’s here, Now on the flow’ring turf I lie, My soul conversing with the sky. Far lost in the bewild’ring dream I wander o’er each lofty theme; Tour on Inquiry’s wings on high, And soar the heights of Deity ; Fain would I search the perfect laws That constant bind ti’ unerring cause, Why all its children, born to share Alike a father’s equal care— Some weep by partial Fate undone, The ravish’d portion of ason; Whilst he whose swelling cup o’erflows, Heeds not his suff’ring brother’s woes ; The good, their virtues all forgot, Mourn need severe, their destined lot ; While Vice, invited by the great, Feasts under canopies of state. 4h! when we see the bad preferr’d, Was it eternal justice err’d ? Or, when the good could not prevail, How could almighty prowess fail ? When, underneath the oppressor’s blow, Afflicted innocence lies low, Has not the all-seeing eye beheld ? Or has a stronger arm repell’d ? When death dissolves this brittle frame, Lies ever quench’d the soul’s bright flame ? Or shall the ethereal breath of day Resume once more this living ray ? From life escape we all in vain P Heaven finds its creature out again, Again its captive to control, And drive him to another goal. When Time shall let his curtain fall, Must dreary Nothing swallow all? Must we the unfinish’d piece deplore, - Per half the pompous piece be o’er? In his all-comprehensive mind, Shall not the Almighty Poet find Some reconciling turn of fate To make his wond’rous work complete, To finish fair his mingled plan, And justify his ways to man ? But who shall draw these veils that lie Unpierced by the keen cherub’s eye? Cease, cease, the daring flight give o’er, Thine to submit and to adore. Learn then: into thyself descend, To know thy being’s use and end, For thee what nature’s kind intent, Or on what fatal journey bent. Is mean self-love the only guide ? Must all be sacrificed to pride P What sacred fountains then supply The feeling heart and melting eye? Why does the pleading look disarm The hand of rage with slaughter warm ? POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 443 Or in the battle’s generous strife, Does Britain quell the lust of life? Next the bold inquiry tries To trace our various passions’ rise ; This moment hope exalts the breast, The next it sinks by fear deprest ; Now fierce the storms of wrath begin, Now all is holy calm within. What strikes ambition’s stubborn springs, What moves compassion’s softer strings ; How we in constant friendship join, How in constant hates combine ; How nature, for her favourite man, Unfolds the wonders of her plan; How, fond to treat her chosen guest, Provides for every sense a feast ; Gives to the wide excursive eye The radiant glories of the sky ; Or bids each odorous bloom exhale His soul, to enrich the balmy gale; Or pour upon the enchanted ear The music of the opening year ; Or bids the limpid fountain burst, Friendly to life, and cool to thirst ; What arts the beauteous dame employs To lead us on to genial joys, When in her specious work we join To propagate her fair design, The virgin face divine appears In bloom of youth and prime of years, And ere the destined heart’s aware, Fixes Montmia’s image there. Ah me! what helpless have I said? Unhappy by myself betray’d ! I deem’d, but, ah! I deem’d in vain, From the dear image to refrain ; For when I fix’d my musing thought, Far on solemn views remote ; When wandering in the uncertain round Of mazy doubt, no end I found; Oh, my unblest and erring feet! What most I sought to shun, yet meet. Come then, my serious maid, again : Come and try another strain ; Come and nature’s dome explore, Where dwells retired the matron hoar ; There her wondrous works survey, And drive the intruder Love away. °Tis done. Ascending heaven’s height, Contemplation take thy flight : Behold the sun, through heaven’s wide space, Strong as a giant, run his race ; Behold the moon exert her light, As blushing bride on her love-night : Behold the sister starry train, Her bridemaids, mount the azure plain. See where the snows tneir treasures keep; The chambers where the loud winds sleep; Where the collected rains abide Till heaven set all its windows wide, Precipitate from high to pour, And drown in violence of shower : Or, gently strain’d, they wash the eart’, And give the tender fruits a birth. See where thunder springs his mine ; Where the paths of lightning shine. Or, tired those heights still to pursue, From heaven descending with the dew, That soft impregns the youthful mead, Where thousand flowers exalt the head, Mark how nature’s hand bestows Abundant grace on all that grows, Tiages, with pencil slow unseen, The grass that clothes the valley green; Or spread the tulip’s parted streaks, Or sanguine dyes the rose’s cheeks, Or points with light Monrmta’s eyes, And forms her bosom’s beauteous rise. Ah! haunting spirit, art thou there ? Forbidden in these walks to appear. I thought, O love! thou would’st disdain To mix with wisdom’s black, staid train. But when my curious searching look A nice survey of nature took, Well pleased, the matron set to show Her mistress’ work on earth below. Then fruitless knowledge turn aside ; What other art remains untried This load of anguish to remove, And heal the cruel wounds of love P To friendship’s sacred force apply, That source of tenderness and joy— A joy no anxious fears profane— A tenderness that feels no pain Friendships shall all these ills appease, And give the tortured mourner ease. The indissoluble tie that binds In equal chains, two sister minds ; Not such as servile interests choose, From partial ends and sordid views ; Nor when the midnight banquet fires, The choice of wine-inflamed desires, When the short fellowships proceed From casual mirth and wicked deed, Till the next morn estranges quite The partners of one guilty night ; But such as judgment long has weigh’d, And years of faithfulness have tried ; Whose tender mind is framed to share The equal portion of my care ; Whose thoughts my happiness employs Sincere, who triumphs in my joys; £44 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. With wnon. iz raptures I may stray, Through stndy’s long and pathless way ; Obsourely blest in joys—alone— To the excluded world unknown. Forsook, the weak fantastic train Of flattery, mirth, all false and vain; On whose soft and gentle breast My weary soul may take her rest, While the still tender look and kind, Fair springing from the spotless mind, My perfected delights insure To last immortal, free and pure. Grant heaven—if heaven means bliss for me-— Monimta such, and long may be! Hear, hear again! how just my fear! Love ever finds admittance here ; The cruel sprite intent on harm, Has quite dissolved the feeble charm ; Assuming friendship’s saintly guise, Has pass’d the cheated sentry’s eyes, And once attain’d his hellish end, Displays the undissembled fiend. Oh say, my faithful fair ally, How didst thou let the traitor by ? T from the desert bade thee come,! Invoked thee from thy peaceful home, More to sublime my solemn hour, And curse this demon’s fatal power! Lo! by superior force opprest, Thou these three several times hast blest. Shall we the magic rites pursue, When Love is mightier far than thou ? Yes, come, in blest enchantment skill’d, Another altar let us build; Go forth as wont, and try to find Where’er devotion lies reclined ; Thou her fair friend, by heaven’s decree, Art one with her, and she with thee. Devotion come with sober pace, Full of thought and full of grace ; While humbled on the eartli I lie, Wrapt in the vision of the sky, To noble heights and solemn views Wing my heaven-aspiring muse ; Teach me to scorn, by thee refined, The low delights of human kind: Sure thine to put to flight the boy Of laughter, sport, and idle joy. Oh plant these guarded groves about, And keep the treacherous felon out ! Now soe! the spreading gates unfold, Display’d the sacred leaves of gold. (1) Numb. xxiil Let me with holy awe repair: To the solemn house of prayer; And as I go, oh thou, my heart, Forget each low and earthly part: Religion enter in my breast, A mild and venerable guest ! Put off, in contemplation drown’d, Each thought impure in holy ground, And cautious tread, with awful fear, The courts of heaven—for God is were, Now my grateful voice I raise : Ye angels swell a mortal’s praise, To charm with your own harmony The ear of Him who sits on high! Grant me, propitious heavenly Power, Whose love benign we feel each hour, An equal lot on earth to share, Nor rich, nor poor, my humble prayer, Lest I forget, exalted proud, The hand supreme that gave the good ; Lest want o’er virtue should prevail, And I put forth my hand and steal : But if thy sovereign will shall grant The wealth IL neither ask nor want— May I the widow’s need supply, And wipe the tear from sorrow’s eye; May the weary wanderer’s feet From me a blest reception meet! But if contempt and low estate Be the assignment of my fate, Oh, may no hope of gain entice To tread the green broad path of vice ! And, bounteous, oh vouchsafe to clear The errors of a mind sincere. Illumine thou my searching mind, Groping after truth and blind. With stores of science be it fraught That bards have dreamed, or sages taugnt; And, chief, the heaven-born strain im part, A muse according to thy heart ; That, wrapt in sacred ecstasy, I may sing and sing of thee: Mankind instructing in thy laws, Blest poet in fair virtue’s cause, Her former merit to restore, And make mankind again adore, As when conversant with the great, She fixed in palaces her seat. Before her all-revealing ray Each sordid passion should decay : Ambition shuns the dreaded dame, And pales his ineffectual flame ;? Wealth sighs her triumphs to behold, And offers all his sums of gold ; (2) Hamint, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 445 She in her chariot seen to ride, A noble train attend her side : A cherub first, in prime of years, The champion Fortitude appears ; Next Temperance, sober mistress, seen With look composed, and cheerful mien ; Calm Patience, still victorious found, With never-fading glories crowned ; Firm Justice last the balance rears, The good man’s praise, the bad man’s fears; While chief in beauty as in place, She charms with dear Monrmta’s grace. Monimzta still! here once again ! O fatal name! O dubious strain ! Say, heaven-born virtue, power divine, Are all these various movements thine ? Was it thy triumphs, sole inspired My soul, to holy transports fired ? Or say, do springs less sacred move ? Ab! much 1 fear ’tis human love. Alas! the noble strike is o’er, The blissful visions charm no more ; Far off the glorious rapture flown, Monit rages here alone. In vain, love’s fugitive, I try From the commanding power to fly ; Though grace was dawning on my soul, Possess’d by heaven sincere and whole, Yet still in fancy’s painted cells The soul-inflaming image dwells. Why didst thou, cruel love, again Thus drag me back to earth and pain ? Well hoped I, love, thou would’st retire Before the blest Jessean lyre. Devotion’s harp would charm to rest The evil spirit in my breast ; But the deaf adder fell disdains, Unilist’ning to the chanter’s strains. Contemplation, baffled maid ! Remains there yet no other aid ? Helpless and weary, must thou yield To love supreme in every field ? Let Melancholy last engage, Rev’rend, hoary-mantled sage. Sure, at his sable flag’s display Love’s idle troop will flit away ; And bring with him his due compeer, Silence, sad, forlorn, and drear. Haste thee, Silence, haste and go, To search the gloomy world below. My trembling steps, O sybil, lead Through the dominions of the dead ; Where Care, enjoying soft repose, Vays down the burden of his woes ; Where meritorious Want no more Shivering begs at Grandeur’s door ; Unconscious Grandeur, sealed his eyes, On the mouldering purple lies. In the dim and dreary round, Speech in eternal chains lies bound. And see a tomb, its gates displayed, Expands an everlasting shade. Oh, ye inhabitants that dwell Each forgotten in your cell, Oh say, for whom of human :ace Has fate decreed this hiding place ? And hark! methinks a spirit calls, Low winds the whisper round the walls; A voice, the sluggish hair that breaks, Solemn amid the silence speaks. Mistaken man, thou seek’st to know What known will but afflict with woe; There thy Monrmzia shall abide, With the pale bridegroom rest a bride ; The wan assistants there shall lay, In weeds of death, her beauteous clay. Oh, words of woe! what do I hear ? What sounds invade a lover’s ear ? Must then thy charms, my anxious care, The fate of vulgar beauty share P Good heaven retard (for thine the power) The wheels of time, that roll the hour. Yet, ah! why swells my breast with fears ? Why start the interdicted tears ? Love, dost thou tempt again? depart, Thou devil, cast out from my heart. Sad 1 forsook the feast, the ball, The sunny bower and lofty hall, And sought the dungeon of despair ; Yet thou overtakest me there. How little dreamed I thee to find In this lone state of human kind! Nor melancholy can prevail, The direful deed, nor dismal tale. Hoped I for these thou would’st remove ? How near akin is grief to love! Then no more I strive to shun Love’s chains. O heaven, thy will be done! The best physician here J find, To cure a sore diseased mind, For soon this venerable gloom Will yield a weary sufferer room ; No more a slave to love decreed— At ease and free among the dead. Come then, ye tears, ne’er cease to flow In full satiety of woe: Though now the maid my heart alarms, Severe and mighty in her charms, 446 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Doumed to obey, in bondage prest, Bid her each breathing sweet dispense, The tyrant Love’s commands unblest ; “And robe in her own innocence. Pass but some fleeting moments o’er, This rebel heart shall beat no more; My wish is given: the spells begin; Then from my dark and closing eye The ideal world awakes within ; The form beloved shall ever fly. The lonely void of still repose The tyranny of love shall cease, Pregnant with some new wonder grows ; Both laid down to sleep in peace ; See, by the twilight of the skies, To share alike our mortal lot, The beauteous apparition rise ; Her beauties and my cares forgot.’ Slow, in Monrmta’s form, along Glides to the harmony of song. But who is he the virgin leads, : Whom high a flaming torch precedes, ODE I.—TO FANCY. In a gown of stainless lawn, : O’er each manly shoulder drawn Who, clad in robe of scarlet grain, The boy that bears her flowing train ? Fancy, bright and winged maid ! In thy night-drawn car conveyed, O’er the green earth and wide-spread main, Behind his back a quiver hung, A thousand shadows in thy train, A bended bow across is flung ; A varied, air-embodied host, His head and heels two wings unfold, To don what shapes thou pleasest most ; The azure feathers girt with gold. Brandish no more thy scorpion stings Hymen! ’tis he who kind inspires Joys unfeign’d and chaste desires. And thou, of Love, deceitful child! With tiger-heart, yet lamb-like mild, Fantastic by thyself, in vain, But seemly seen in Hymen’s train; Around the destined couch of kings ; Nor in rebellion’s ghastly size A. dire gigantic spectre rise: Cease, for a while, in rooms of state To damp the slumbers of the great ; In merit’s lean-looked form to appear, If Fate be to my wishes kind, And holloa traitor in their ear: Oh! may I find ye ever join’d; Or freedom’s holier garb belie, But if the Fates my wish deny, While justice grinds her axe fast by: My humble roof come ye not nigh. Nor o’er the miser’s eyelids pour The unrefreshing golden shower ; The spell works on: yet stop the day Whilst, keen the unreal bliss to feel, While in the house of sleep 1 stay. His breast bedews the ruffian steel. About me swells the sudden grove, The woven arbourette of Love; With these (when next thou tak’st thy round) Flow’rs spring unbidden o’er the ground, The thoughts of guilty pride confound : And more than nature plants around. These swell the horrors and affright Fancy, prolong the kind repose ; Of conscience’ keen condemning night. Still, still th’ enchanting vision glows ; For this (nor, gracious power ! repine) And now I gaze o’er all her charms, A gentler ministry be thine : Now sink transported in her arms. Whate’er inspires the poet’s theme, Oh, sacred energy divine ! Or lover’s hope-enlivened dream. All these enraptured scenes are thine. Monimia’s mildest form assume ; Hail! copious source of pure delight; Spread o’er thy cheeks her youthful bloom ; All hail! thou heaven-revealed rite ; Unfold her eyes’ unblemished rays, Endearing Truth thy train attends, That melt to virtue as we gaze; And thou and meek-eyed Peace are friends: That envy’s guiltiest wish disarm, Closer entwine the magic bower ; And view benign a kindred charm: Thick rain the rose-empurpled shower ; Call all the graces from thy store, The mystic joy impatient flies Till thy creative power be o’er ; Th’ unhallow’d gaze of vulgar eyes. (1) This poem was written in or before 1739. According to | is, perhaps, the most laboured of all his productions. Jt was Lord Woodhouselee, it was submitted to the critical examination published anonymously, at Edinburgh, in 1747.—JamES Pat of his friends, Home and Crawford, and was much altered. It | TERSON. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 44? Unenvied let the rich and great Turmoil without, and parcel Fate, Indulging here, in bliss supreme, Might 1 enjoy the golden dream: But, ah! the rapture must not stay; For see! she glides, she glides away. O Fancy! why did’st thou decoy My thoughts into this dream of joy, Then to forsake me all alone, To mourn the fond delusion gone P Oh! back again, benign, restore The pictured vision as before. Yes, yes: once more I fold my eyes; Arise, ye dear deceits, arise. ~ Ideas bland! where do ye rove? Why fades my visionary grove P Ye fickle troop of Morpheus’ train, Then will you, to the proud and vain, From me, fantastic, wing your flight, T’ adorn the dream of false delight ? But now, seen in Monrm1a’s air, Can you assume a form less fair, Some idle Beauty’s wish supply, The mimic triumphs of her eye ? Grant all to me this live-long night, Let charms detain the rising light ; For this one night my liv’ries wear, And I absolve you for the year. What time your poppy-crowned God Sends his truth-telling scouts abroad, * Ere yet the cock to matins rings, And the lark with mounting wings, The simple village swain has warn’d To shake off sleep by labour earn’d; Or on the rose’s silken hem, Aurora weeps her earliest gem ; Or beneath the opening dawn, Smiles the fair-extended lawn. When in the soft encircled shade Ye find reclined the gentle maid, Each busy motion laid to rest, And all composed her peaceful breast : Swift paint the fair internal scene, The phantom labours of your reign: The living imag’ry adorn With all the limnings of the morn, With all the treasures nature keeps Conceal’d below the foaming deeps ; Or dress’d in the rich waving pride, That covers the green mountain’s side, ~ Or blooms beneath the am’rous gale In the wide embosom’d vale. Let powerful Music too essay The magic of her hidden lay : While each harsh thought away shall fly Down the full stream of harmony, Compassion mild shall fill their place, Each gentle minister of grace; Pity, that often melts to Love, Let weeping Pity, kind improve The soften’d heart, prenared to take Whate’er impressions suove shall make. Oh! in that kind, that sacred hour, When Hate, when Anger have no power; When sighing Love, mild simple boy, Courtship sweet, and tender joy, Alone possess the fair one’s heart, Let me then, Fancy, bear my part. Oh goddess! how I long t’ appear ; The hour of dear success draws near : See where the crowding shadows wait ; Haste and unfold the iv’ry gate: Ye gracious forms, employ your aid, Come in my anxious look array’d, Come Love, come Hymen, at my prayer, Led by blythe Hope, ye decent pair By mutual confidence combined, As erst in sleep 1 saw you join’d. Fill my eyes with heart-swell’d tears, Fill my breast with heart-born fears, Half-utter’d vows, and half-suppress’d, Part look’d, and only wish’d the rest ; Make sighs, and speaking sorrows prove, Suffering much, how much I love ; Make the Muse’s lyre complain, Strung by me in warbled strain ; Let the melodious numbers flow Powerful of a lover’s woe, Till, by the tender Orphean art, I through her ear shall gain her heart. Now, Fancy, now the fit is o’er; I feel my sorrows vex no more: But when condemn’d again to mourn, Fancy, to my aid return. ODE II. BEGonE, pursuits so vain and light, Knowledge, fruitless of delight ; Lean Study, sire of sallow Doubt, I put thy musing taper out : Fantastic all, a long adieu; For what has Love to do with you? For lo, I go where Beauty fires, To satisfy my soul’s desires ; For lo, I seek the sacred walls Where Love, and gentle Beauty, calle; For me she has adorn’d the room P For me has shed a rich perfume : 448 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR, Has she not prepared the tea? The kettle boils—she waits for me. I come, nor single, but along Youthful sports a jolly throng. Lhoughtless joke, and infant wiles ; Harmless wit, and virgin smiles ; Tender words, and kind intent ; Languish fond, and blandishment ; Yielding curtsy, whisper low: Silken blush, with cheeks that glow; Chaste desires, and wishes meet; Thin-clad Hope, a footman fleet ; Modesty, that turns aside, And backward strives her form to hide; Healthful Mirth, still gay and young, And Meekness with a maiden’s tongue ; Satire, by good humour dress’d In a many-colour’d vest : And enter leaning at the door Who send’st thy flaunting page before, The roguish boy of kind delight, Attendant on the lover’s night. Fair his ivory shuttle flies Through the bright threads of mingling dies, As swift his rosy fingers nove To knit the silken cords of Love. And stop, who softly stealing goes ? Occasion, high on her tiptoes, Who Youth with watchful look espies, To seize the forelock ere she flies, Ere he her bald pate shall survey, And well-plied heels to run away. But, anxious Care, be far from hence ; Vain surmise, and alter’d sense ; Misshapen doubts, the woes they bring ; And Jealousy, of fiercest sting ; Despair, that solitary stands, And wrings a halter in his hands ; Flatt?ry, false and hollow found, And Dread, with eye still looking round ; Avarice, bending under pelf ; Conceit, still gazing on herself. O Love! exclude high-crested Pride, Nymph of Amazonian stride : Nor in these walls, like waiting-maid, Be Curiosity survey’d, That to the key-hole lays her ear, List’ning at the door to hear ; Nor Father Time, unless he’s found In triumph led by Beauty bound, Forced to yield to Vigour’s stroke, His blunted scythe ard hour-glass broke. But come, all ye who know fo please ; Tuviting glance, and downy euse ; The heart-born joy, the gentle care; Soft-breath’d wish, and power of prayer The single vow, that means no ill; | Believing Quiet, submissive Will; Constancy of meekest mind, That suffers long, and still is kind; All ye who put our woes to flight; All ye who minister delight ; Nods, and wreaths, and becks, and tips ; Meaning winks, and roguish trips ; Fond deceits, and kind surprises ; Sudden sinks and sudden rises ; Laughs, and toys, and gamesome sights ; Jolly dance, and girds, and flights ; Then, to make me wholly blest, Let me be there a welcome guest, MISS AND THE BUTTERFLY, A FABLE. IN THE MANNER OF THE LATE Mh. 34% A TENDER Miss, whom mother’s care Bred up in wholesome country air, Far from the follies of the town, Alike untaught to smile or frown; Her ear unused to flatt?ry’s praise, Unknown in woman’s wicked ways ; Her tongue from modish tattle free, Undipp’d in scandal and Bohea; Her genuine form and native grace Were strangers to a looking-glass : Nor cards she dealt, nor flirted fan, And valued not quadrille or man ; But simple lived, just as you know Miss Chloe did——some weeks ago. As now the pretty innocent Walked forth to taste the early scent, She tripp’d about the munn’ring stream, That oft had lul?’d her thoughtless dream. The morning sweet, the air serene, A thousand flowers adorn’d the scene ; The birds rejoicing round appear To choose their consorts for the year; Her heart was light and full of play, And, like herself, all nature gay. On such a day, as sages sing, A Butterfly was on the wing ; From bank to bank, from bloom to bloom He stretch’d the gold-bespangled plut.c : Now skims along, and now alights As smell allures, or grace invites ; Now the violet’s freshness sips ; Now kiss’d the rose’s scarlet lips ; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 449 Becomes anon the daisy’s guest ; Then press’d the lily’s snowy breast ; Nor long to one vouclisafes a stay, but just salutes, and flies away. The virgin saw with rapture fired ; She saw, and what she saw desired, The shining wings, and starry eyes, And burns to seize the living prize : Her beating oreast and glowing face Betray her uative love of dress, And all the woman full exprest First flutters in her little breast. Ensnared by empty outward show, She swift pursues the. insect-beau : O’er gay parterres she runs in haste, Nor heeds the garden’s flow’ry waste. Long as the sun, with genial power Increasing, warim’d the sultry hour, The nymph o’er every border flew, And kept the shining game in view: But when, soft-breathing through the trees, With coolness came the evening breeze ; As hov’ring o’er the tulip’s pride He hung with wing diversified, Caught in the hollow of her hand, She held the captive at command. Flutt’ring in vain to be released, He thus the gentle nymph address’d: “ Loose, gen’rous virgin, loose my chain: From me what glory canst thou gain P A vain, unquiet, glitt’ring thing, My oaly boast a gorgeous wing ; From flower to flower I idly stray The trifler of a summer’s day: Then let me not in vain implore, But leave me free again to soar.” His words the little charmer moved, She the poor trembler’s suit approved. His gaudy wings he then extends, And flutters on her fingers’ ends: From thence he spoke, as you shall hear, In strains well worth a woman’s ear: “When now thy young and tender age Is pure, and heedless to engage ; When in thy free and open mien No self-important air is seen ; Unknowing all, to all unknown, Thou liv’st, or praised, or blamed by none. But when, unfolding by degrees The woman’s fond desire to please, Studious to heave the artful sigh, Mistress of the tongue and eye, Thou sett’st thy little charms to show, And sports familiar with the beau; Forsaking then the simple plain, To mingle with the courtly train, Thou in the midnight ball shalt see Things apparell’d just like me; Who round and round, without design, Tinsell’d in empty lustre shine : As dancing through the spacious dome, From fair to fair the friskers roam, If charm’d with the embroider’d pride, The victim of a gay outside, From place to place, as me just now, The glitt’ring gewgaw you pursue, What mighty prize shall crown thy pains ? A Butterfly is all thy gains!” ODE IV. ON THE NEW YEAR M.DCC.XXXI1X, Janus, who with sliding pace, Run’st a never-ending race, And driv’st about, in prone career, The whirling circle of the year, Kindly indulge a little stay, I beg but one swift hour’s delay. Oh! while th’ important minutes wait, Let me revolve the books of fate ; See what the coming year intends To me, my country, kind, and friends. Then may’st thou wing thy flight, and go, To scatter blindly joys and woe ; Spread dire disease, or purest health, And, as thou lists, grant place or wealth. This hour, withheld by potent charms, F’en Peace shall sleep in Power’s mad arnusy Kings feel their inward torments less, And for a moment wish to bless. Life now presents another scene, The same strange farce to act again; Again the weary human players Advance, and take their several shares : Clodius riots, Czsar fights, Tully pleads, and Maro writes, Ammon’s fierce son controls the globe, And Harlequin diverts the mob. To Time’s dark cave the year retreats, These hoary unfrequented feats ; There from his loaded wing he lays The months, the minutes, hours, and days Then flies, the seasons in his train, ‘lo compass round the year again. See there, in various heaps combined, ‘Lhe vast designs of human kind: 3M 450 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR Whatever swell’d the statesman’s thought, The mischiefs mad ambition wronght, Public revenge, and hidden guilt, The blood by secret murder spilt, Friendships to sordid interest given And ill-match’d hearts, ne’er pair’d in heaven; What Avarice, to crown his store, Stole from the orphan, and the poor ; Or Luxury’s more shameful waste, Squander’d on the unthankful feast. Ye kings, and guilty great, draw near, Before this awful court appear : Bare to the Muse’s piercing eye The secrets of all mortal lie ; She, strict avenger, brings to light Your crimes conceal’d in darkest night; As conscience, to her trust most true, Shall judge between th’ oppress’d and you. This casket shows, ye wretched train, How often Merit sued in vain. See, there, undried the widow’s tears ; See, there, unsooth’d the orphan’s fears : Yet, look, what mighty sums appear, The vile profusion of the year. Could’st thou not, impious Greatness, give The smallest alms, that Want might live ? And yet, how many a large repast Pall’d the rich glutton’s sickly taste ! One table’s vain intemp’rate load, With ambush’d death and sickness strow’d, Had bless’d the cottage, peaceful shade, And given its children health and bread : The rustic sire, and faithful spouse, With each dear pledge of honest vows, Had, at the sober-tasted meal, Repeated oft the grateful tale ; Had hymn’d, in native language free, The song of thanks to heaven and thee; A music that the great ne’er hear, Yet sweeter to the eternal ear Than any soft, seducing note Per thrill’d from Farinelli’s throat. Let’s still search on—this bundle’s large. What’s hereP *Tis Science’ plaintive charge. Hear Wisdom’s philosophic sigh (Neglected all her treasures lie), That none her secret haunts explore, To learn what Plato taught before ; Her sons, seduced to turn their parts To Flattery’s more thriving arts, Refine their better sense away, And join Corruption’s flag for pay, See his reward the gamester share, Who painted moral virtue fair ; Inspired the minds of gen’rous youth To love the simple mistress, Truth ; The patriot path distinctly show’d, That Rome and Greece to glory trode ; That self-applause is noblest fame, And kings may greatness link to shame, While Honesty is no disgrace, Aud Peace can smile without a place. Hear, too, Astronomy repine, Who taught unnumber’d worlds to shine ; Who travels boundless gether through, And brings the distant orbs to view. Can she her broken glass repair, Though Av’rice has her all to spare ? What mighty secrets had been found, Was Virtue mistress of five pound ? Yet see where, given to wealth and pride, A bulky pension lies beside. Avaunt, then, Riches; no delay ; I spurn th’ ignoble heaps away. What though your charms can purchase all The giddy honours cf this ball ; Make nature’s germans at! Jivide, And haughty peers renounce their pride; Can buy proud Flavia’s sordid smile, Or, ripe for fate, this destined isle. Though Greatness condescends to pray, Will time indulge one hour’s delay, Or give the wretch intent on pelf One moment’s credit with himself? Virtue, that true from false discerns, The vulgar courtly phrase unlearns, Superior far to Fortune’s frown, Bestows alone the stable crown, The wreath from honour’s root that springs, That fades upon the brows of kings. ——_e——— EPITAPH ON MRS. KEITH. Wuatr’sr all-giving nature could impart, Whate’er or charm’d the eye, or warm’d the heazt, Beauty, by candid Virtue still approved, Virtue, by Beauty render’d most beloved ; Whate’er kind Friendship, or endearing Truth, For blest old age, had treasured up in youth; What blest old age, in its last calm adieu, Might with applause and conscious joy review, Reposes here, to wake in endless bliss, Too early ravish’d from a world like this ! Where fair examples strike, but not inspire To imitate the virtues all admire : Yet listen, virgins! to this saving strain, If she had lived—Let her not die in vain. (1) Margaret Cuninghame, wife of Robert Keith, Esq., ¢I Craige, died in child-bed, January, 1741. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. EPITAPH ON MRS. HEPBURN.’ Stay, passenger ; this stone demands thy tear ; Here rest the hopes of many a tender year : Our sorrow now—so late our joy and praise ! Lost in the mila aurora of her days. What virtues might have graced her fuller day ! “But ah! the charm just shown and snatch’d away.” Friendship, Love, Nature, all reclaim in vain ; Heaven, when it wills, resumes its gifts again. —o——. ON THE DEATH OF MR. BASIL HAMILTON.’ Tuls verse, O gentle Hamilton, be thine, (Each softer grace bedew thy darling shrine) ; Nature to thee did her best gifts impart, The mildest manners and the warmest heart ; Honour erected in thy breast its throne, And kind Humanity was all thy own. Yet when thy country’s wrong to action moved, You rose to save, and left that ease you loved ; For this she grieves thy early fate to see; And ’midst her sufferings finds a tear for thee. But thou, perhaps, hast well escaped her doom, Thy eyes are closed, nor sees her ills to come ; Abaudon’d o’er, to shameless men a prey, And slow, deceiving friends, far worse than they The kindred triumph of thy noble blood, Thy name enroll’d amidst the few that stood. Fair, beaming clear, through life, the patriot flame, And deaf to honours that begun in shame ; Each duty paid that friendship could demand ; Each nobler deed to save a destined land. An age, corrupt amidst the civil storm, Would suffer struggling Virtue to perform; To fix his country, ever free, he tried— Found the brave labour vain, resign’d, and died. AN ODE ON THE BATTLE OF GLADSMUIR, 1745.’ As over Gladsmuir’s blood-stain’d field, Scotia, imperial goddess, flew, Heer lifted spear and radiant shield Conspicuous blazing to the view; (1) Mrs. Hepburn, wife of William Hepburn, Esq., of Baads, died in July, 1742, in her seventeenth year. (2) Basil Hamilton, Esq., of Baldoon, M.P. for the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright, died in November, 1742. (3) This Ode was printed, and copies of it distributed, soon after the battle of Gladsmuir, which was fought on the 21st 451 Her visage lately clouded with despair, Now reassumed its first majestic air. Such seen, as oft in battle warm, She glow’d through many a martial age ; Or mild to breathe the civil charm, In pious plans and counsel sage : For, o’er the mingling glories of her face, A manly greatness heighten’d female grace. Loud as the trumpet rolls its sound, Her voice the power celestial raised ; Whilst her victorious sons around In silent joy and wonder gazed : The sacred Muses heard the immortal lay, And thus to earth the notes of Fame convey :— “Tis done, my sons ! ’tis nobly done! Victorious over tyrant power ; How quick the race of fame was run! The work of ages in one hour: Slow creeps th’ oppressive weight of slavish reigns; One glorious moment rose and burst your chains. “ But late, forlorn, dejected, pale, A prey to each insulting foe, I sought the grove and gloomy vale, To vent in solitude my woe: Now to my hand the balance fair restored ; Once more I wield on high the imperial sword. * What arm has this deliverance wrought ? *Tis he! the gallant youth appears ; Oh, warm in field, and cool in thought, Beyond the slow advance of years! Haste, let me, rescued now from future harms, Strain close the filial virtue in my arms. “ Karly I nursed this royal youth, Ah! ill detain’d on foreign shores ; I fill’d his mind with love of truth, With fortitude and wisdom’s stores: For when a noble action is decreed, Heaven forms the hero for the destined deed. “ Nor could the soft seducing charms Of mild Hesperia’s blooming soil, E’er quench his noble thirst of arms, Of generous deeds and honest toil : Fired with the warmth a country’s love imparts, He fled their weakness, but admired their arts. September, 1745. For obvious reasons, it was not printed in any of the editions of Hamilton’s Poems. It appeared, however, in the Edinburgh Magazine and Review, in 1773; alsa in the Scots Magazine of the same year, where it is mentioned that the Ode had been set to music at the time by Macgibbon, a well-kncwy composer.—JAMES PATTERSON, 452 “ With him I plough’d the stormy main ; My breath inspired the auspicious gale ; Reserved for Gladsmuir’s glorious plain, Through dangers wing’d his daring sail ; Where, form’d with inborn worth, he durst oppose His single valour to a host of foes. “He came! he spoke! and all around, As swift as heaven’s quick-darted flame, Shepherds turn’d warriors at the sound, And every bosom beat for fame: They caught heroic ardour from his eyes, And at his side the willing heroes rise. “ Rouse, England! rouse, Fame’s noblest son, Tn all thy ancient splendour shine ; If I the glorious work begun, Oh, let the crowning palm be thine: I bring a prince, for such is heaven’s decree, Who overcomes but to forgive and free. “So shall fierce wars and tumults cease, While Plenty crowns the smiling plain ; And Industry, fair child of Peace, Shall in each crowded city reign: So shall these happy realms for ever prove The sweets of union, liberty, and love.” —+—— EPITAPH.’ Cou p this fair marble to the world impart Half of the woes that rend a husband’s heart, Could it be taught to look with nature’s eye, Like friendship could it breathe the tender sigh, With each dear rapture bid the bosom glow, Love e’er could taste, or tenderness bestow, Then might it tower unblamed amid the skies, And not to vanity, but virtue rise ; In noblest pomp the humble eye endure, And pride, when most it swell’d, here find a cure Cease then——nor at the sovereign will repine, It gives, we bless; it snatches, we resign: To earth what came from earth returns again, Heaven framed the immortal part above to reign. —_——_e—_ — A SOLILOQUY. IN IMITATION OF HAMLET, My anxious soul is tore with doubtful strife, And hangs suspended betwixt death and life; Life! death! dread objects of mankind’s debate ; Whether superior to the shocks of fate, (1) On Katherine, daughter of Sir James Hall, of Dunglass, died in October, 1745, The first wife of the author: POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. To bear its fiercest ills with steadfast mind, To Nature’s order piously resign’d, Or, with magnanimous and brave disdain, Return her back tl’ injurious gift again. Ob ! if to die, this mortal bustle o’er, Were but to close one’s eyes, and be no mare; From pain, from sickness, sorrows, safe withdrawn In night eternal that shall know no dawn ; This dread, imperial, wondrous frame of man, Lost in still nothing, whence it first began : Yes, if the grave such quiet could supply, Devotion’s self might even dare to die. But fearful here, though curious to explore, Thought pauses, trembling on the hither shore, Lest, hapless victors in the mortal strife, Through death we struggle but to second life. What scenes may rise, awake the human fear; Being again resumed, and God more near; If awful thunders the new guest appal, Or the soft voice of gentle mercy call. This teaches life with all its ills to please, Afflicting poverty, severe disease ; To lowest infamy gives power to charm, And strikes the dagger from the boldest arm. Then, Hamlet, cease ; thy rash resolves forego God, Nature, Reason, all will have it so; Learn by this sacred horror, well supprest, Each fatal purpose in the traitor’s breast. This damps revenge with salutary fear, And stops ambition in its wild career. Till virtue for itself begin to move, And servile fear exalt to filial love. Then in thy breast let calmer passions rise, Pleased with thy lot on earth, absolve the skies. The ills of life see Friendship can divide ; See angels warring on the good man’s side. Alone to virtue happiness is given, On earth self-satisfied, and crown’d in heaven. ——_.—_ — BEGINNING OF THE FIRST GEORGIC OF VIRGIL. Wuar crowns rejoicing fields with golden grain, Under what star to turn the furrow’d plaix - The time, Mecornas, suitable to join To the supporting elm the clustering vine; The care and culture of the woolly breed; The lowing heifer and the bounding steed ; How nature to the frugal bee imparts Experienced wisdom and ambrosial arts, I sing; ye radiant Powers that rule the sphere, And lead around the slow revolving year, Bacchus and Ceres boon, your gifts I sing, The ripen’d autumn and the red’ning spring. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. You first taught fields with golden gifts to glow, And gave the ruddy vintage first to flow, Sheu oaks no more did human wants supply, And the cool stream received a purple die.' Seng i A SOLILOQUY. WRITTEN IN JUNE, M.DCC.XLVL Mysterious inmate of this breast, Eukindled by thy flame ; By thee my being’s best exprest, For what thou art I am. With thee I claim celestial birth, A spark of heaven’s own ray ; Without thee sink to vilest earth, Inanimated clay. Now in this sad and dismal hour Of multiplied distress, Flas any former thought the power To make thy sorrows less : When all around thee cruel snares Threaten thy destined breath, And every sharp reflection bears Want, exile, chains, or death ? Can ought that past in youth’s fond reign Thy pleasing vein restore ; Lives beauty’s gay and festive train Jn memory’s solt store ? Or does the Muse? *Tis said her art Can fiercest pangs appease, Can she to thy poor trembling heart Now speak the words of peace ? Yet she was wont at early dawn To whisper thy repose, Nor was her friendly aid withdrawn At grateful evening’s close. Friendship, ’tis true, its sacred might May mitigate thy doom; As lightning shot across the night A moment gilds the gloom. O God! thy providence alone Can work a wonder here, Can change to gladness every moan, And banish all my fear. Thy arm all powerful to save, May every doubt destroy; And from the horrors of the grave, New raise to life and joy. ‘From this, as from a copious spring, Pure consolation flows ; Makes the faint heart midst sufferings sing, And midst despair repose. (1) [From Mr. Laing’s MS. volume, where it is stated to have peen translated at Glasgow, in January, 1746. First printed in Patterson’s editiun.} 453 Yet from its creature, gracious heaven, Most merciful and just, Asks but for life and safety given, Our faith and humble trust. TO LADY MARY MONTGOMERY. Say, thou, with endless beauty crown’d, Of all the youth that sigh arouna, Thy worshippers, and anxious wait From thy bright eyes their future fate, Say, whom do most these eyes approve P Whom does Montgomery choose to love P Not him who strives to build a name From ruins of another’s fame: Who proud in self-conceit throws down His neighbowr’s wit, to raise his own. Should the vain man expect success, The fcol of compliment and dress ? Thy eyes undazzled can behold The gaudy nothing deckt in gold ; Thy wise discernment soon descries Where folly lurks in wit’s disguise ; ‘Traced through each shape in which ’tis seen, Through the grave look, the solemn mien : The proud man’s front, the vain man’s walk, The foplin’s dress, the coxcomb’s talk. A large estate, and little sense, ‘Yo charms like thine have no pretencs, Shalt thou, O insolent! prevail ? Heaven never meant its goods for sale Beauty, the pearl of price, is given, Not bought,—tis the free grace of heaven. The happy youth, with arts refined, Simple of heart, of steadfast mind : Whom thirst of gain could never draw To trespass friendship’s sacred law : Whose soul the charms of sense inspire ; Who loves, where reason bids admire Cautious to shun, with wise disdain, The proud, the airy, and the vain; Him whom these virtues shall adorn Thou, fair Montgomery, will not scorn, Of all the gifts of heaven possest, To him thou yield’st thy willing breast ; For him the blush, with modest grace, Glows rosy, o’er thy blooming face: For him thy panting bosom swells, And on thy lips such sweetness dwells, Crown’d with success, the happy boy Shall revel in excess of joy. While in thy presence heaven appears In sweets laid up for many years. The beau and witling then sha fly, The fop in secret corner sigh ; 454 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Condemn’d to cry in love’s despair, Ah! why so wise who was so fair ? Did thy example, beauteous maid The rest of womankind persuade, Nor injured merit would complain, That it way love, and love in vain; Nor flatt’ry false, and impudence, Usurp the room of bashful sense ; No more at midnight ball appear, To gain on beauty’s list’ning ea. Beauty would hear the vows of truth ; Nor love would speak with folly’s mouth. Yet some there are, the better few, Wise thy example to pursue ; Whio, rich in store of native charms, Employ no artificial arms, Such heavenly Charlotte,’ form divine ! Love’s universal kingdom’s thine. Anointed Queen; all unconfined, Thine is the homage of mankind: Thy subjects, wii*ag to obey, Bless thy mild rule, and gentle sway ; With royal mind each zealous pays His tribute duteous to thy praise. Yet nought to greatness dost thou owe ; Thy merit from thyself does flow ; Alike our wonder and our theme, In beauty or in place supreme. Such thy fair sister, framed to please, Of aspect gay, and graceful ease. Pure flows her wit, and unrestrain’d ; By envy, and by hate unstrain’d : Not as the rushing torrent pours, Increased by snows and wintry show’rs, Involving in its furious sway The labouring hinds, a helpless prey ; Now wide o’erspreads the watery scene, And now decreased, no more is seen: But as a constant river leads Tts winding stream through purple meads, That, through the blushing landscape roll’d, Refleets the bordering flowers in gold, And burne along with gentle force, Distributes wealth through all its course ; Nor does the faithful spring deny The alimental just supply. Thou Douglas,? too, in whom combine A spirit and a noble line, Engaging looks, that mild inspire Fond delight and young desire ; All winning sweetness, void of pride, Thou has no faults for art to hide. Maria such, whose opening bloom Foreshows the pregnant: fruits to come. O blest, for whom the season’s fligis Ripens that harvest of delight ; To whom the autumn shall resign To press the rich luxuriant vine ! Unwounded, who can thee espy, Maid of the black and piercing eye? Too rashly bold, we take the field Against thy shafts with wisdom’s shicld Pierced helpless in our guarded side, We fall the victims of our pride. Nor Erskine less the song demands, Not least in beauty’s blooming bands. Erskine! peculiar care of heaven, To whom the power of sound is given ; Artist divine! to her belong The heavenly lay and magic song. How do we gaze with vast delight Her fingers’ swift harmonious flight, When o’er the obedient keys they fly, To waken sleeping harmony ! Whene’er she speaks, the joy of all, Soft the silver accents fall; Whene’er she looks, in still amaze, The eyes of all enamour’d gaze ; Each word steals gently on the ear; *Tis heaven to see! ’tis heaven to hear ! In everlasting blushes seen, Such Pringle shines, of sprightly m.en- To her the power of love imparts, Rich gift, the soft successful arts ; The best the lover’s fires provoke, The lively step, the mirthful joke, The speaking glance, the amorous wile, The sportful laugh, the winning smile; Her soul, awakening every grace, Is all abroad upon her face ; In bloom of youth still to survive, All charms are there, and all alive! Fair is the lily, sweet the rose, That in thy cheek, O Drummond, glows! Pure is the snow’s unsullied white That clothes thy bosom’s swelling height ! Majestic looks her soul express, That awe us from desired access ; Till sweetness soon rebukes the fear, And bids the trembling youth draw near. See how sublime she does advance, And seems already in the dance ; Exalted how she moves along, Ten thousand thousand graces stroug. Such Marchmont’s daughter, unreproved The maid by men of sense beloved ; Who knows with modesty to scorn The titles that may fools adorn : (1) Lady Churlotte Hamilton, daughter of James, fourth Duke of Hamilton, married to Charles Edwin of Dunraven, in Glamor- ganshire. (2) Lady Jane Douglas, the nnfortunate sister of Archibsid Duke of Douglas, married to Sir John Stewart, of Grandtully. Tart. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 455 Sie claims no merit from her blood, Her greatest honour to be good. Heedless of pomp, with open heart, Well has she chose the better part. Such Hamilla’s luoks divine, Earth’s wonder, Tinnegham, and thine! Her soul uii tenderness and love ; Gentle as the harmless dove : Who, artless, charms without design, She of the modest look benign. Eliza,’ young, in beauty bright, Though new to every soft delight, Yet soon her conquests shall extend, Soon shall the sprightly maid ascend, The rival of each kindred name, And triumph to her mother’s fame. Full in the pleasing list appears Robertoun, in prime of years; With skill she does her smiles bestow, For Pallas bends her Cupid’s bow: Wisely she shuns to entertain The designing and the vain ; To these ’tis all forbidden ground, Prudence, a cherub, guards her round With flaming sword, fools to expel— In Paradise fools must not dwell. Strike again the golden lire, Let Hume the notes of joy inspire. Oh, lovely Hume! repeat again, My lyre, the ever-pleasing strain ! Dear to the muse, the muse approves Each charm, the muse the virgin loves : The muse preserves in lasting lays The records of soft beauty’s praise ; In vain would triumph beauty’s eye, Unsung these triumphs soon would die; Fate o’ercomes the fair and strong, But has no power o’er sacred song ; Verse the dying name can save, And make it live beyond the grave. ‘Thus Hume shall unborn hearts engage, Her smile shall warm another age ; Her race of mortal glory past, ‘The immortal fame shall ever last ; Last shall the look that won my heart— The pleasing look sincere of art. Oh, powerful of persuasive face, Adorned and perfected in grace, What joys await joys in excess, The youth whom thou decrees to bless ! Ordained thy yielding breast to move, Thy breast yet innocent of love! But who is she, the general gaze Ot sighing crowds, the world’s amaze, (1) Lagy Betty Montgomerie, daughter of Alexander, ninth Eucl of Eghntoun, and sister, by his last wife, to Lady Mary. Who looks forth as the blushing morn On mountains of the east new born P Is it not Cochrane fairP Tis she, The youngest grace of graces three The eldest fell to death a prey, Ah! snatch’d in early flower away ; The second, manifold of charms, Blesses a happy husband’s arms ; The third a blameless form remaius, O’er all the blooming victor reigns ; Where’er she gracious deigns to move, The public praise—the public love ! Superior these shall still remain, The lover’s wish, the poet’s strain ; Their beauties shall all hearts engage, Victorious over spite and age. As thee, Montgomery, shall they shine, And charm the world with arts like thine! ON SEEING THE LADY MARY MONTGOMERY SIT TO HER PICTURE. IN IMITATION OF SPENSER’S STYLE. —— Wuew Lindsay drew Montgomery, heavenly maid, And gazed with wonder on that angel face, Pleased I sat by, and joyfully survey’d The daring pencil image every grace. When as the youth, each feature o’er and o’er Careful retouch’d with strict observant view, Eftsoons I saw how charms unseen before Swell’d to the sight, and with the picture grew. With milder glances now he arms her eyes, ‘The red now triumphs to a brighter rose ; Now heaves her bosom to a softer rise, And fairer on her cheek the lily blows. Last glow’d the blush, that, pure of female wile, I whilom knew, when so my stars decreed ; My pipe she deign’d to laud in pleasing smile, All undeserving I such worthy meed. The whiles I gazed, ah! felice art, thought I, Ab! felice youta that doen it possess ; Couth to depaint the fair so verily, True to each charm, and faithful to each grace. Sythence she cannot emulate your skill, Ne envy will the Muse her sister’s praise ; Then for the deed O let her place the will, And to the glowing colours join her lays. . 456 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Yet algates would the Nine, that high on hill Parnasse, sweet imps of Jove, with Jove reside, Give me to rein the fiery steed at will, And with kind hand thy lucky pencil guide. Then, certes, mought we fate misprise, of praise Secure, if the dear maid in beauty’s bloom Survived, cr in thy colours or my lays, Joy of this age and joy of each to come. THE FLOWER OF YARROW. TO LADY MARY MONTGOMERY. Go, Yarrow Flower, thou shalt be blest, To lie on beauteous Mary’s breast ; Go, Yarrow Flower, so sweetly smelling, Is there on earth so soft a dwelling ? Go, lovely flower, thou prettiest flower, That ever smiled in Yarrow bower ; Go, daughter of the dewy morning, With Alves’ blush the fields adorning. Go, lovely rose, what dost thou here ? Ling’ring away thy short-lived year ; Vainly shining, idly blooming, Thy unenjoyed sweets consuming. Vain is thy radiant Garlies! hue, No hand to pull, no eye to view; What are thy charms, no heart desiring! What profits beauty, none admiring ? Go, Yarrow Flower, to Yarrow maid, And on her panting bosom laid, There all thy native form confessing, The charm of beauty is possessing. Come, Yarrow maid, from Yarrow field ; What pleasure can the desert yield ? Come to my breast, O all excelling! Ts there on earth so kind a dwelling ? Come, my dear maid, thou prettiest maid That ever smiled in Yarrow shade ; Come, sister of the dewy morning, With Alves’ blush the dance adorning. Come, .ovely maid, love calls thee here, Linger no more thy fleeting year ; Vainly shining, idly blooming, Thy unenjoyed sweets consuming. (1) Lady Catharine Cochrane, Lady Garlies, afterwards Countess of Gulloway. Vain is thy radiant Garlies hue, No hand to press, no eye to view; What are thy charms, no heart desiring P What profits beauty, none admiring P Come, Yarrow maid, with Yarrow rose, Thy maiden graces all disclose ; Come, blest by all, to all a blessing, The charm of beauty is possessing. —_—e—— THE FLOWERS.—A FRAGMENT. THE care of gardens, and the garden’s pride To rear the blooming flowers, invites the Muse: A grateful task! To thee,O Humu, she sings Well pleased amid the verdant walks to stray With thee, her chief delight, when summer smiles, Come now, my love, nor fear the winter’s rage; For see, the winter’s past, the rains are gone: Behold the singing of the birds is now, Season benign, the joyous race prepare Their native melody, and warbling airs Are heard in ev’ry grove: the flowers appear, Karth’s smiling offspring, and the beauteous meads Are clothed in pleasant green: now fruitful trees Put forth their tender buds that soon shall swell With rich nectareous juice, and woo thy hand To pluck their ripen’d sweets. Forsake a while The noise of cities, and with me retire To rural solitude. Lo! for thy head I weave a garland, deck’d with vernal flowers, Violet, and hyacinth, and blushing rose Of ev’ry rich perfume ; here in this calm And undisturb'd retreat content to dwell Secluded from mankind, with thee and love, Sweetner of human cares. But thou perhaps Delight’st 10 hear the voice that bids thee come Yo festival and dance; tliou long’st to meet The raptured youth, that at assembly hour Awaits thy coming: haste, adoin’d in all Thy native softness, fresh as breathing flowers Sweet smelling in the morning dew, and fire His soul, ill able to resist such charms, Won with attractive smiles: while I far off Bemoan thy absence, and thy image form In every thicket and each secret grove, To soothe my longing mind by fancy’s aia, Pleasing resemblance ! until thou thysclf, Oh, fairest among women, deign tc grace The bower that love prepares, from me to learn The care and custure of the flowery kind. * » * @ * *« * POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 45 THE EPISODE OF LAUSUS AND MEZENTIUS. FROM THE TENTH BOOK OF VIRGIL’S NEAS, BEGINNING LINE 689. Now Jove inflames Mezeutius, great in arms, His ardour rouses, and his courage warms ; Fired by the god, to Turnus he succeeds ; Beneath his arm the Trojan battle bleeds. The Tuscan troops invade their common foe, Alike in hate, their kindling bosoms glow, Fierce to destroy, on him alone they pour Darts following darts, a thick continued shower. But he undaunted all the storm sustains, And scorns the united fury of the plains: As some hugh rock high towering midst the waves, Of seas and skies the mingling tumult braves, On its eternal basis fixed is found, Though tempests rage, and oceans foam around. First by his arm unhappy Hebrus bled, The issue of famed Dvlicaon’s bed ; Then Latagus submits to fate: his way Adverse he took ; the chief, with furious sway, Uprear’d a ponderous rock,—the shatter’d brain, Confused with blood and gore, o’erspreads the plain. At flying Palmus next his dart he threw, The speedy dart o’ertook him, as he flew ; Full in the ham he feels the smarting wound, Left by the victor grovelling on the ground: His arms surround his Lausus’ manly breast, The waving plume adorns his shining crest ; Evas and Mimas, both of Trojan seed, By the same arm were mingled with the dead; Mimas, companion of the youthful cares Of Paris, and the equal of his years: For, big with fancied flames, when Phrygia’s queen Brought forth the cause of woes but ill foreseen, To extend his blooming race, that self-same night, The spouse of Amycus, Theano bright— That night so fatal to the peace of Troy— Blest her loved husband with a parent’s joy. But fate to different lands their deaths decreed : This in his father’s town was doomed to bleed; Unthinking Mimas, by Mezentius slain, Now rolls his carcass o’er the Latian plain. And as a tusky boar, whom dogs invade, Of Vesulus, bred in the piny shade, Or near Laurentia’s lake, with forest mast, His feasts obscene, supplied in wild repast ; Roused from his savage haunt—a deep retreat— A length of years his unmolested seat ; When once in toils enclosed, no flight appears, Turns sudden, foaming fierce, his bristles rears ; All safe at distance stand, and none is found Whose valour dares inflict a nearer wound : Dreadless, meanwhile, to every side he turns, His teeth he gnashes, and with rage he burns ; aa The united vengeance of the field derides, A forest rattles as he shakes his sides ; So fare the Tuscan troops ; with noisy rage And shouts in the mixed tumult they engage ; All from afar their missive weapons throw, Fearful in equal arms to meet the foe. Next Grecian Acron rush’d into the plain, Who came from Coritus’s ancient reign ; Him thirst of fame to warlike dangers led, The joys untasted of the bridal bed ; From far Mezentius eyed him with delight, In arms refulgent, as he mixed in fight ; Full o’er his breast, in gold and purple known, The tokens of his love conspicuous shone. Then, as a lion thirsting after blood, (For him persuades the keen desire of food), of, or a frisking goat he chance to view, Or branching stag, that leads the stately crew ; Rejoices, gaping wide, he makes his way Furious, and clings incumbent on the prey, That helpless pants beneath his horrid paws, The blood o’erflowing laves his greedy jaws: So keen Mezentius rushes on each foe, Unhappy Acron sinks beneath his blew. Mad in the pangs of death, he spurns the ground, The blood distains the broken spear around. Then fled Orodes shameful from the fight, The victor scorn’d the advantage of his flight ; But fired with rage, through cleaving ranks he ran, And face to face opposed, and man to man; Not guileful from behind his spear to throw A wound unseen, but strikes an adverse blow Then with his foot his dying foe he press’d, Lean’d on his lance, and thus his friends address’d- “Lo! where Orodes gasps upon the sand, His death was due to this victorious hand, Large portion of the war!” Exulting cries Ascend amain, and ring along the skies. To whom the vanquished, with imperfect sound, All weak and faint, and dying of the wound: “Nor long my ghost shall unrevenged repine, Nor long the triumph of my fall be thine ; Thee equal fates, insulting man, remain, Thee death yet waits, and this the fatal plain.” Him, as he rolled in death, Mezentius spied, He smiled severe, and thus contemptuous cried ; Die thou the first ; as he thinks fit, for me, The sire of heaven and earth, let Jove decree.” He said, and pulled the weapon from the wound, The purple life ebbed out upon the ground; Death’s clay-cold hand shut up the sinking light, And o’er his closing eyes drew the dark mist ot night. By Cedicus’ great arm Alcathous fell; Sacrator sent Hydaspes down to hell ; Parthenius dies by Rapo, slain-in fight; And Orses vast, of more than mortal miguat. 3N 458 Next sunk two warriors, Clonius the divine, And Ericetes, of Lycaon’s line ; The issue of the god, their deaths renown’d, Whose forked trident rules the deep profound. His courser, inobedient to the rein, Great Ericetes tumbled to the plain. Trone as he lay, swift fled the thirsty dart, And found the mortal passage to his heart. Then lights the victor from his lofty steed, And foot to foot engaged, made Clonius bleed. Then Lycian Agis, boastful of his might, Frovoked the bravest foe to single fight ; Him boldly Tuscan Valerus assail’d, And in the virtues of his sire prevail’d. By Salius’ arm the swift Antronius bled ; Nealces’ javelin struck the victor dead; Nealces, skill’d the sounding dart to throw, And wing the treacherous arrow to the foe. Mars, raging god, and stern, the war confounds Equals the victor’s shouts and dying sounds. Encountering various on the embattled field, Now fierce they rush, now fierce retreating yield. With equal rage each adverse battle glows, Nor flight is known to these, nor known to those. Tysiphone enjoys the direful sight, Pale, furious, fell, and storms amidst the fight. The gods, from Jove’s immortal dome, survey Each army toiling through the dreadful day; With tender pity touched, lament the pain That human life is destined to sustain : On either side two deities are seen Jove’s awful consort, and soft Beauty’s queen; The wife of Jove the conqueror’s palm implores, Soft Beauty’s queen her Trojan’s loss deplores. Again his javelin huge Mezentius wields, Again tumultuous he invades the fields ; ‘Large as Orion, when the giant stalks, A bulk immense! through Nereus midmost walks ; Secure he cleaves his way, the billows braves, His sinewy shoulders tower above the waves : Bearing an ash, increased in strength with years, That hugh upon the mountain’s height appears ; He strides along, each step the earth divides, In clouds obscure his lofty head resides ; In stature huge, amidst the war’s alarms, Such shone the tyrant in gigantic arms. Him, as exulting in the ranks he stood, At distance seen, and rioting in blood, Eneas hastes to meet; in all his might He stands collected, and awaits the fight; First measuring, as he stood in act to throw, With nice survey, the distance of his foe : “This arm, this spear,” he cried, “assert my might, ; These are my gods, and these assist in fight; His armour from the boastful robber won, Shall tewer a trophy to my conquering son.” POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. He said, and flings tue dart with dreadful force, The dart drove on, unerring from the course. lt reached the shield, the shield the blow repell’d, Nor fell the javelin guiltless on the field ; But piercing ’twixt the side and bowels, tore The famed Anthores, and deep drank the gore: He, in his lusty years, from Argos sent With famed Alcides, on his labours went ; Tired with his toils, a length of woes o’erpast, In the Evandrian realm he fixed at last ; Called back again to war, where glory calls, Unhappy, by a death unmeant, he falls: To heaven his mouruful eyes the dying throws, In his last thoughts his native Argos rose. Straight then his beaming lance the Trojan threw, Swift, hissing on tle wind, the weapon flew ; The plates of threefold brass were forced to yield, And three bull’s hides that bound the solid shield: Deep in his lower groin, an arm so strong Drove the sharp point, but brought not death along. Then joyful, as the Trojan hero spied / The spouting blood pour down his wounded side, Like lightning, from his thigh his sword he drew And furious on the astonished warrior flew. As Lausus saw, full sore he heaved the sigh ; The ready tear stood trembling in his eye ; His father’s danger touched the youthful chief, With pious haste he ran to his relief : Nor shall thou sink unnoted to the tomb, Unsung thy noble deed and early doom; If future times to such a deed will give Their faith, to future times thy name shall live. Disabled, trembling for a death so near, The father, slow receding, drags the spear ; Just, in that moment, as suspended high, The flaming sword shone adverse to the sky, The daring youth rushed in and fronts the foe, And fiom his father turns the impending blow: His friends, with joyful shouts, reply around, Through all their echoes all the hills resound ; As, wondering, they beheld the wounded sire, Protected by the son, from fight retire. A dark’ning flight of singing shafts annoy, From every quarter poured, the Prince of Troy ; He stands against the fury of the field, And rages, covered with his mighty shield. And as when stormy winds encountering loud, Burst with rude violence the bellowing cloud ; Precipitate to earth, the tempest pours The vexing hailstones, thick in sounding showers: The deluged plains then every ploughman flies And every hind and traveller shelter’d lies ; Or, where the rock high overarch’d impends, Or, where the river’s shelving bank defends, That, powerful o’er the storm, when bright the ray Shines forth, they each may exercise the day. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Loud sounds the gather’d storm, o’er all the field The cloud of war pours thundering on his shield ; Yet still he tried, with friendly care, to save The unhappy youth, unfortunately brave ! “Ah! whither dost thou urge thy fatal course, In daring deeds, unequal to thy force ? Too pious in thy love, thy love betrays, Nor such the vigour crowns thy youthful days.” Not thus advised, the youth still fronts the foe, Exulting, and provokes the lingering blow: For now, his martial bosom all on fire, The Trojan leader’s tide of rage swelled higher ; For now, the sisters viewed the fatal strife, And wound up the last threads of Lausus’ life. Deep pluuged the shining falchion in his breast, Pierced his thin armour and embroidered vest, That, rich in ductile gold, his mother wove With her own bands, the witness of her love. His breast was filled with blood, then sad and slow, Through air resolved, the spirit fled below ; As, ghastly pale, the chief the dying spied, His hands he stretch’d to heaven, and pitying sigh’d ; His sire Anchises rose, an image dear, Sad in his soul, and forced the tender tear. “ What praise, O youth! unhappy in thy fate, What can Aineas yield to worth so great ? Worth that distinguished in thy deed appears, Ripe in thy youth and early m thy years ? Thy arms, once pleasing objects of thy care, Inviolate from hostile spoil I spare ; Thy breathless body on thy friends bestow, To mitigate thy pensive spirit’s woe ; If aught below the separate soul can move, Solicitous of what is done above. (Yet in the grave, perhaps, from every care Released, vor knowledge nor device is there), That, gathered to thy sires, thy friends may mourn Thy hapless fall, and dust to dust return : This to thy solace in the world below, *Twas I, the great Aineas, struck the blow.” He said, and beckoning, chides his friends’ delay, And pious to assist, directs the way, To rear him from the ground, with friendly care, Dishonour’d foul with blood his comely hair. The wretched father now, by Tiber shore, Washed from his streaming thigh the crimson gore: Pained with his wound, and weary from the fight, A tree’s broad trunk supports his drooping weight; A bough, his helmet beaming far, sustains ; His heavier armour rests along the plains : Panting and sick, his body downward bends, And to his breast his length of beard descends : He leans his careful head upon his hand ; Around him wait a melancholy band: Much of his Lausus asks, and many sent To warn him back—a father’s kind intent. 459 How vainly sent! for, breathless from the field They bear the youth, extended on his shield! Loud wailing, mourn’d him slain ia early bloom Mighty, and by a mighty wound o’ercome. Far off the sounds of woe the father hears He trembles in the foresight of his fears : With dust, the hoary honours of his head Sad he deforms, and cleaves unto the dead. Then both his hands to heaven aloft, he spread, And thus, in fulness of his sorrows, said : “Could then this lust of life so warp my mind, That I could think of leaving thee behind, Whom I begot, unhappy in my stead To meet the warrior, and for me to bleed Now fate severe has struck too deep a blow; Now first I feet a wretched exile’s woe. And is it thus I draw this wretched breath, Saved by thy wound, and living by thy death P I too, my son, with horrid guilt, profaned Thy sacred virtues, and their lustre stained ; Outcast ! abandoned by the care of heaven ! From empire and paternal sceptres driven ! My people’s hatred and insulting scorn, The merit of my crimes I’ve justly born: To thousand deaths this wicked soul could give, Since now ’tis crime enough that I can live— Can yet sustain the light, and human race! Wretched as I am!—But short shall be the space.’ He said, and as he said, he rear’d from ground His fainting limbs, yet staggering from the wound; But whole and undiminish’d still remains His strength of soul, unbroke with toil and pains. He calls his steed, successful from each fight, With whom he marched, his glory and delight ; With words like these his conscious steed address’d, That mourn’d as with his master’s ills oppress’d ; “ Rhe:bus, we long have lived, in arms combined, If long the frail possessions of mankind ; This day thou shalt bring back, to crown our toils, The Trojan hero’s head and glittering spoils, Torn from the bloody nian; with me shall take A dear revenge, for murder’d Lausus’ sake : If strength shall fail to ope the destined way, Together fall, and press the Latian clay ; For after me, I trust, thou wilt disdain A Trojan leader, and an akin rein.” He said; the steed receives his wonted weight, The tyrant armed, and furious for the fight : His blazing helmet formidably graced With nodding horse-hair bright’ning o’er the crest With deathful javelins next he fills his hands, And spurs his steed, and seeks the fighting bands . Grief mix’d with madness, shame of former flight And love by rage inflamed to desperate height, And conscious knowledge of his valour, wrought Fierce in his breast, and boiled in every thought. 460 He calls Hnvas thrice; Aineas heard The weicome sound, and thus his prayer preferr’d : “May Jove, supreme of gods, who rules on high, And he to whom ’tis given to gild the sky, Far-shooting king! inspire thee to draw near Swift to thy fate, and grant thee to my spear.” ‘But he—my Lausus, ravish’d from my sight— Me with vain words, O cruel! would’st affright. With age, with watchings, and with labours worn, Death is below my fear, and gods I scorn! I come resolved to die; but ere I go, Receive this dart, the present of a foe!” He said; the javelin hiss’d along the skies, Another after, and another flies, Thick and incessant, as he rides the field, Still all the storm sustains the golden shield. Firm as Aineas stood, thrice rode he round, Urging his darts, the compass of the ground ; Thrice wheeled Aineas, thrice his buckler bears About, a brazen wood of rising spears : Press’d in unrighteous fight, with just disdain To wrench so many darts, and wrench in vain, Much pondering in his mind, the chief revolved Each rising thought ; at last he springs resolved. Full at the warrior steed the hostile wood He threw, that pierced his brain and drank the blood : Stung with the pain, the steed uprear’d on high His sounding hoofs, and lash’d the yielding sky ; Prone fell the warrior from his lofty height, His shoulders broad received the courser’s weight. From host to host the mingling shouts rebound Deep echoing, all in fire, the heavens resound. Unsheathed his flaming blade, Aineas flies, And thus address’d the warrior as he lies : “Say, where is now Mezentius, great and bold, That haughty spirit, fierce and uncontroll’d?” To whoin the Tuscan with recover’d breath, As faint he view’d the skies, recalled from death : “ Dost thou the stroke, insulting man, delay ? Haste, let thy vengeance take its destined way ; Death never can disgrace the warrior’s fame, Who dies in fight ; nor conquest was my aim; flain, savage, by thy hand in glorious strife, Not so my Lausus bargain’d for my life ; Deprived of him, sole object of my love I seek to die—for joy is none above ! Yet, piteous of my fate, this grace allow— If pity to the vanquish’d foe be due— Suffer my friends my gather’d bones to burn, And decent lay me in the funeral urn. Full well I know, my people’s hate, decreed Against the living, will pursue the dead ; My breathless body from their fury save ! And grant my son the partner of my grave.” He said ; and steadfast eyed the victor foe, Then gave his breast, undaunted to the blow. POEMS OF HAMILTUN OF BANGUUR. The rushing blood distain’d his arms around; The soul indignant sought the shades profound !* THE EPISODE OF THE THISTLE Friowexs, Boox I, Nor to the garden sole, where fair resides As in her court the scarlet Queen, amid Her train of flow’ry nymphs, does Nature boon Indulge her gifts: but to eace nameless field, When the warm sun rejoicing in the year Stirs up the latent juice, she scatters wide Her rosy children. Then innumerous births, As from the womb spring up, and wide perfnme Their cradles with ambrosial sweets around. Far as the eye can reach all nature smiles, Hill, dale, or valley, where a lucid stream Leaps through the level down, his silver maze, Gliding, with even pace, direct, as one On journey bent; and now meandering fair, Unnumber’d currents to and fro convolved, His pastime, underneath the azure green The wanton fishes sport; and round his banks, Sole or in consort, the aerial kind Resound in air with song: the wild thyme here Breathes fragrance, and a thousand glittering flowers Art never sow’d. Even here the rising weed The landscape paints—the lion’s yellow tooth, Th’ enamell’d daisy, with its rose adorn’d— The prickly briar, and the thistle rude, An armed warrior, with his host of spears. Thrice happy plant! fair Scotia’s greatest pride, Emblem of modest valour, unprovoked That harmeth not, provoked that will not bear Wrong unrevenged. What though the humble root Dishonour’d erst, the growth of every field Arose unheeded through the stubborn soil Jejune : though softer flowers, disdainful, fly Thy fellowship, nor in the nosegay join, Ill-match’d compeers ; not less the dews of heaven Bathe thy rough cheeks, and wash thy warlike mail. Gift of indulgent skies! the lily pure And rose of fragrant leaf, best represent Maria’s snowy breast and ruddy cheek Blushing with bloom: though Ormond’s laurel rear Sublimer branch, indulging loftier shade To heaven-instructed bard, that strings beneath, Melodious, his sounding wire, to tales Of beauty’s praise, or from victorious camps Heroes returning fierce. Unenvied may (1) In Mr, Laing’s MS. volume, the foregoing is said to have been “written in 1719,” the author being then only in his fifteenth year. It was printed in the editions of his Poems, with a few emendations, chiefly verbal —JAMES PATERSON. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. The snowy lily flourish round the brow Of Gallia’s king: the thistle, hvppier far, Exalted into nobler fame, shall rise Triumphant o’er eacn fiower, to Scotia’s bards Subject of lasting song, their monarch’s choice ; Who, bounteous to the lowly weed, refused Each other plant, and bade the thistle wave Embroider’d, in his ensigns, wide display’d Along the mural breach : how oft, beneath Its martial influence, has Scotia’s sons Through every age with dauntless valour fought On every hostile ground? while o’er their breast, Companion to the silver star, blest type Of fame unsullied and superior deed, Distinguish’d ornament ! their native plant Surrounds the sainted cross, with costly row Of gems, emblazed, and flame of radiant gold, A sacred mark, their glory and tleir pride. But wouldst thou kuow how first th’ illustrious plant Rose to renown: hear the recording muse, While back through ages that have roll’d she leads The inquiring eye, and wakens into life Heroes and mighty kings, whose god-like deeds Are now no more, yet still the fame survives Victor o’er time, the triumph of the muse. As yet for love of arts and arms renown’d, For hoary sires with gifts of wisdom graced, Unrivall’d maids in beauty’s bloom, desire Of every eye, and youthful gallant chiefs For courage famed and blest with sacred song, Flourish’d, sublime, the Pictish throne ; and shared, Rival of Scotia’s power, fair Caledon. Equals in sway, while both alike aspired To single rule, disdaining to obey : Oft led by hate and thirst of dire revenge For ravish’u beauty, or for kindred slain, Wide-wasting others’ realms with inroads fierce. Until the second Kenneth, great in arms, Brandish’d the avenging sword, that low in dust, Humbled the haughty race: yet oft, of war Weary, and havoc dire, in mutual blood Imbrued, the nations join’d in leagues of peace, Short space enjoy’d; when nice suspicious fears, By jealous love of empire bred, again With fatal breath blew the dire flame of war, Rekindling fieree. Thus when Achaius reign’d, By the disposing will of gracious heaven Ordain’d the Prince of Peace, fair Ethelind, Grace of the Pictish throne, in rosy youth, Of beauteous bloom, in his young heart inspired Spousal desires, soft love, and dove-eyed peace, Her dowry. Then, his hymeneal torch, Concord, high brandish’d ; and in bonds of love Link’d the contending race. But ah! how vain Hopes mortal man, his joys on earth to last Perpetual and sincere ; for Athelstane, 461] Fierce from the conquest of great Alured, Northumbrian ruler, came. On Tweda’s shore Full twenty thousand brazen spears he fixt, Shining a deathful view; dismay’d the brave Erst undismay’d: even he, their warlike ciief, Hungus, in arms, a great and mighty name, Felt his fierce heart suspended, if to meet Ti’ ow'rageous Saxon, dreadful in the ranks Of battle disarray’d. Suppliant of help, He sues the Scottish race, by friendly ties Adjured and nuptial rites and equal fears. Led by their gallant prince, the chosen train Forsake their native walls. The glad acclaim Of shouting crowds, and the soft virgin’s wish Pursue the parting chiefs to battle sent, With omens not averse. Darkness arose O’er heaven and earth, as now but narrow space Sunder’d each hostile force. Sole in his tent The youthful chief, the hope of Albion, lay Slumb’ring secure, when in the hour of sleep A venerable form, St. Andrew, seen Majestic, solemn, grand, before his sight In vision stood. His deep and piercing eye Looked wisdom, and mature sedateness weigh’d To doubtful counsels ; from his temples flow’d His hair, white as the snowy fleece that clothes The Alpine ridge; across his shoulders hung A baldric, where some heavenly pencil wrought Th’ events of years to come prophetic drawn, Seasons and times: in his right hand he held A cross, far beaming through the night; his left A pointed thistle rear’d. “ Fear not,” he cried, “Thy country’s early pride; for lo, to thee Commision’d, I, from heaven’s eternal King, Aithereal messenger of tidings glad, Propitious now am sent. Then be thou bold, To-morrow shall deliver to thy hand The troops of Athelstane. But oh! attend, Instructed from the skies, the terms of fate, Conditional, assign’d ; for if misled By cursed lust of arbitrary sway, Thou, or of thee to come, thy race, shall wage Injurious war, unrighteous to invade His neighbour’s realms, who dares the guilty deed Him heaven shall desert in needful hour Of sad distress, deliver’d o’er a prey To all the nations round. This plant I bear, Expressive emblem of thy equal decd. This, inoffensive in its native field, Peaceful inhabitant, and lowly grows ; Yet who with hostile hands its bristly spears Unpunish’d may provoke? And such be thou, Unprompt t’ invade and active to defend ; Wise fortitude! but when the morning flames, Secure, in heaven, against yon hated host Go up and overcome. When home return’d With triumph crown’d, grateful to me shall reer 462 A rising temple on the destined space, With lofty towers and battlements adorn’d, A house where God shall dwell.” The vision spoke And mixed with night, when starting from his couch The youth from slumber waked. The mingled cries Of horse, and horsemen furious for the day, Assail his ears. And now both armies closed, Tempestuous fight. Aloud the welkin roars, Resounding wide, and groans of death are heard Superior o’er the din. ‘The rival chiefs Each adverse battle gored. Here Athelstane, Horrent in mail, rear’d high his moony shield With Saxon trophies charged and deeds of blood, Horrid achievement! Nor less furious there Hungus, inflamed with desp’rate rage, and keen Desire of victory ; and near him join’d, With social valour, by the vision fired, The hopes of Caledon, the Scottish oak Plies furious, that from the mighty’s blood Return’d not back unstain’d. Thus when the seeds Of fire and nitrous spume and grain adust, Sulphureous, distend earth’s hollow womb, Sicilian Atna labours to disgorge Dreadful eruption, from the smoking top Flows down the molten rock in liquid ore, A threefold current to the wasted plain, Each ravaging a sep’rate way: so fought Desp’rate the chiefs. Nine hours in equal scale The battle hung; the tenth the angel rear’d The tutelary cross, then disarray Fell on the Saxon host. Thus when of old The Amalekite in vale of Rephidim, Against the chosen race of Judah set The battle in array, and various chance Alternate ruled, when as the sun went down, Aaron and Hur upstaid the failing hands Of Moses, to sustain the potent rod, Till Israel overthrew: thus sore that day The battle went against the numerous hosts Of Athelstane, impure; the daring chief, Far from the slaughter borne, a swelling stream By sudden rains high surging o’er its banks, Impervious to his flight, forever sunk, Nunber’d amongst the dead. Then rout on rout, Confusion on confusion, wild dismay, And slaughter raging wide, o’erturn’d the bands Lrewbile so proud array’d. Amazed they fled Before the Scottish sword; far from the sword, From the drawn sword, they fied, tle bended bow, The victor’s shout, and honour of the war. The royal youth, thus victor of his vows, Leads to his native land, with conquest crown’d, His warring powers; nor of the heavenly dream Unmindful, bade the promised towers aspire With solemn rites made sacred to the name Of him in vision seen. Then to inspire POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Love of heroic worth, and kindle seeds Of virtuous emulation in the soul Rip’ning to deed, he crown’d his manly breast With a refulgent star, and in the star, Amidst the rubies’ blaze, distinguish’d shines The sainted cross, around whose golden verge The embroider’d thistle, blest enclosure! winds A warlike foliage of ported spears Defenceful ! last, partakers of his fame, He adds a chosen train of gallant youths, Ulustrious fellowship! above their peers Exalted eminent: the shining band, Devote to fame, along the crowded streets Are led, exulting, to the lofty fane, With holy festival and ritual pomp Install’d, of solemn prayer, and offer’d vows Inviolate, and sacred, to preserve The ordinance of heav’n, and great decree. Voice of the silent night: Oh ill foreseen, Oh judgments ill forewarn’d and sure denounced Of future woes and cov’nants broke in blood, That children’s children wept: how didst thou grieve, Oh virgin daughter, and what tears bedew’d The cheek of hoary age, when, as the fates, Trangress’d the high command, severely will’d, The hapless youth, as the fierce lion’s whelp, Fell in the fatal snare ? that sacred head Where late the graces dwelt, and wisdom mild Subdued attention, ghastly, pale, deform’d, Of royalty despoil’d, by ruthless hands Fixt on a spear, the scoff of gazing crowds, Mean triumph, borne : then first the radiant cross Submitted in the dust, dishonour foul, Her holy splendours ; first, the thistle’s spears Broke by a hostile hand, the silver star Felt dim eclipse, and mourn’d in dark sojourn A tedious length of years, till he, the fifth Triumphant James, of Stuart’s ancient line, Restored the former grace, and bade it shine, With added gifts adorn’d. To chosen twelve, Invested with the ornaments of fame, Their sovereign’s love, he bounteous gave to wear, Across their shoulders flung, the radiant brede Of evening blue, of simple faith unstain’d, Mysterious sign and loyalty sincere. Approven chiefs! how many sons enroll’d In the fair deathless list, has Scotia seen, Or terrible in war for bold exploit ? Best champions! or in the mild arts of peare Lawgivers wise, and of endanger’d rights Firm guardians in evil times, to death Asserting virtue’s cause, and virtue’s train? Blest patronage! nor these, with envy, view Th’ embroider’d garter to surround the knee Of military chiefs of Brutus’ blood; With equal honours graced, while monarchs bear POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 463 The consecrated cross, and happy plant, Bright on the regal robe; nor valued more Th’ anointing vil of heaven. In Britain’s shield The northern star mingles with George’s beams, Consorted light, and near Hibernia’s harp, Breathing the spirit of peace and social love, Harmonious power, the Scottish thistle fills Distinguish’d place, and guards the English Rose. SONG. Wovtp’st thou know her sacred charms Who this destined heart alarms, What kind of nymph the heavens decree The maid that’s made for love and me. Who pants to hear the sigh sincere, Who melts to see the tender tear, From each ungentle passion free ; Such the maid that’s made for me. Who joys whene’er she sees me glad, Who sorrows when she sees me sad; For peace and me can pomp resign, Such the heart that’s made for mine. Whose soul with gen’rous friendship glows; Who feels the blessing she bestows ; Gentle to all, but kind to me, Such be mine, if such there be. Whose genuine thoughts devoid of art, Are all the natives of her heart ; A simple train, from falsehood free, Such the maid that’s made for me. Avaunt, ye light coquets, retire, Whom glittering fops around admire ; Unmoved your tinsel charms I see, More genuine beauties are for me. Should Love, fantastic as he is, Raise up some rival to my bliss ; And should she change, but can that be P No other maid is made for me. A SONG, BY A YOUNG LADY ON READING THE FOREGOING. Ir you would know, my dearest friend, The man whose merit may pretend To gain my heart, that yet is free, Him that’s made for love and me: His mind should be his chiefest care, All his improvements centre there, From each unmanly passion free ; That is the man who’s made for me. Whose generous bosom goodness warms, Whom sacred virtue ever charms, Who to no vice a slave will be; This is the man who’s made for me. Whose tongue can easily impart The dictates of his honest heart, In plain gocd sense ; from flatt’ry free ; Such he must be who’s made for me. He alone can love inspire, Who feels the warmth of friendship’s fire ; Humane and gen’rous, kind and free ; That is the man who’s made for me. If such an one, my friend, e’er tries To make me his by strictest ties, The study of my life shall be To please the man so dear to me. Ye powder’d beaux, from me retire, Who only your dear selves admire ; Though deck’d in richest lace you be, No tinsell’d fop has charms for me. GLasGow. ——— REPLY BY MR. HAMILTON. “Sed que legat ipsa Lycoris.”—ViRG@. O GENTLE maid! whoe’er thou art, That seek’st to bless a friendly heart ; Whose muse and mind seem framed to prove The tenderness of mutual love: The heart that flutters in his breast, That longs and pants to be at rest, Roam’d all around thy sex, to find A gentle mate, and hoped her kind, I saw a face—and found it fair; I search’d a mind—saw goodness there : Goodness and beauty both combined ; But heaven forbade her to be kind. To thee for refuge dare I fly, The victim of another eye? Poor gift ! a lost, rejected heart, Deep wounded by a foreign dart. From this inevitable chain, Alas! T hope to ’scape in vain. Is there a power can set me lree. A power on earth—or is it thee? 464 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Yet were thy cheek as Venus fair; Bloom’d all the Paphian goddess there, Such as she bless’d Adonis’ arms ; Thou couldst but equal Laura’s charms. Or were thy gentlest mind replete With all that’s mild, that’s soft, that’s sweet ; Was all that’s sweet, soft, mild, corebined, Thou couldst but equal Laura’s mind. Since beauty, goodness, is not found Of equal force to soothe his wound, Ah! what can ease my anguish’d mind? Perhaps the charm of being kind. Canst thou transported view the lays That warble forth ancther’s praise, Indulgent to the vow unknown, Well pleased with homage not thy own ? Canst thou the sighs with pity hear, That swell to touch another’s ear ? Canst thou with soft compassion see The tears that fall, and not for thee ? Canst thou thy blooming hopes resign, The vow sincere, so dearly thine; All these resign, and prove to me What Laura would not deign to be P When at thy feet I trembling fall, My life, my soul, my Laura call ; Wilt thou my anxious cares beguile, And o’er thy face spread Laura’s smile. Perhaps Time’s gently stealing pace May Laura’s fatal form efface, Thou to my heart alone be dear, Alone thine image triumph here. Come then, best ange.! to my aid; Come, sure thou’rt such, the gentlest maid: {f thou canst work this cure divine, My heart henceforth is wholly thine. EDINBURGH. THE YOUNG LADY’S ANSWER. Your Laura’s charms I cannot boast ; For beauty I ne’er was a toast ; T'm not remarkable for sense P To wit I’ve not the least pretence. If gold and silver have the power To charm, no thousands swell my dower; No shining treasures I possess, To make the world my worth confezs. An honest, plain, good-natured lass (The character by which [ pass), I doubt will scarcely have the art To drive your Laura from your heart. But, sir, your having been in love Will not your title to me prove: Far nobler qualities must be In him who’s made for love and me. *Tis true, you can with ease impart The dictates of your honest heart, In plain good sense, from flatt’ry free : But this alone won’t answer me. Once more peruse my lines with care ; Try if you find your picture there: For by that test you'll quickly see If you’re the man who’s made for me. GLAsGow. TO A GENTLEMAN GOING TO TRAVEL. “Trahit sua quemque voluptas.” Wet sung of old, in everlasting strains, Horace, sweet lyrist! while the Roman harp He strung by Tiber’s yellow bank, to charm, Tuscan Mecenas, thy well-judging ear ; How, in life’s journey, various wishes lead Through different roads, to different ends, the raco Diverse of human kind. The hero runs, Careless of rest, of sultry Lybian heat Patient, and Russian cold, to win renown, Mighty in arms and warlike enterprise ; Vain efforts! the coquettish nymph still flies Her swift pursuit, and jilts ambitious hope. At home, this man, with ease and plenty bless’d, The towering dome delights, and gardens fair, And fruitful fields with sylvan honours crown’d, Stretch’d out in wide extent; the gay machine, Dear to the female race, the gilded coach, With liveried servants in retinue long, Adorn’d with splendid robes, the pompous train Of pageantry and pride. His neighbour sits _Inmured at home, a miser dire, nor dares To touch his store, through dread of fancied want ; Industrious of gain, he treasures up POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Large heaps of wealth, to bless a spendthrift heir, That wastes in riot, luxury, and misrule, The purchase of his want ; nought shall he reck Gis father’s pine, when lavish he ordains The feast in pillar’d hall or sunny bower, Vith lust-inflaming wine, and wicked mirth Prolong’d to morning hour, and guilty deed. Others again, the woods of Astery Love to inhabit, or where down the Mount, Sky-climbing Parnass, her sweet-sounding wave Castalia pours, with potent virtues bless’d ; Powerful to charm the ear of furious wrath, To close the eye of anguish, or to strike The lifted dagger from despairing breast. Such Addison, and such with laurel crown’d Immortal Congreve, such the muses grace Meonian Pope; nor do the nine refuse To rank with these Fergusian nightingale, Untaught with wood-notes wild, sweet Allan hight ; Whether on the flower-blushing bank of Tweed, Or Clyde or Tay’s smooth winding stream his muse Chooseth to reside, or o’er the snowy hills, Benlomond or proud Mormount, all the day Clad in Tartana varied garb she roves, To hear of kings’ and heroes’ godlike deeds ; Or, if delighted on the knee she lies Of lovely nymph, as happy lap-dog graced, Intent to soothe the Scottish damsel’s ear, Cochrane or Hamilton, with pleasing song Of him who sad beneath the wither’d branch Sat of Traquhair,' complaining of his lass ; Or the fond maid, that o’er the watery brink Wept sleepless night and day, still wafting o’er Her flying love from Aberdour’s fair coast. Others, again, by party rage inflamed. Blindfolded zeal, and superstition dire, Offspring of ignorance, and cloister-born, With undistinguish’d violence assault Both good and bad. Chief of these art thou, Ill-fated Wodrow, who, with leaden pen, By furies dipped in gall of Stygian lake, Writ’st numerous follies; numerous as thy saints Who or at Pentland or at: Bothwell fought For blind opinion, and laid down their lives Near where the Cross its unicorn head Erects aloft, and proudly shines adorn’d On Brunswick’s day, or where her weekly sale Grassmarket sees of horses, have harangued From theatres of wood, the listening saints Below assembled, sad and discontent. There is, who, studious of his shape and mien, On dress alone employs his care to please, Aspiring with his outward show ; who, vain Of flaxen hair perfumed and Indian cane, Embroider’d vest, and stocking silver-clock’d, 465 Walks through the admiring train of ladies bright, Sole on himself intent; best liken’d to The painted insect, that in summer’s heat Flutters the gardens round with glossy wing, Distinct with eyes; him oft the tender Miss, Escaped from sampler and the boarding-school, Pursues with weary foot from flower to flower, Tulip or lily bright, or rubied rose, And often in the hollow of her hand Retains-him captive, sweet imprisonment ! But, ah! how vain the joys the beau can boast ; A while he shines in tavern, visit, dance, Unrivall’d, clad_in rich refulgent garb, ‘i Laced or brocaded, till the merchant bold, With messenger conspiring mortal dire, Of merciless heart, throw him in dungeon deep, Recluse from ladies. What avaiis him then The love of women, or the many balls He made to please the fair ? there must he lie Irremediless, if not by pity won, Fair Cytherea, sea-begotten dame, By spousal gifts from sooty Vulcan earn Fallacious key, as erst, by love o’ercome, He forged celestial arms to grace her son, Anchises-born, and in the borrowed form Of longing widow, or of maiden aunt (While sly Cyllenius, with opiate charm Of Ceres, the still watching Argus eyes Of keeper drench in sleep profound), release The captive knight from the enchanted dome. Thus others choose, their choice affects not me; For each his own delight, with secret force Magnetic, as with links of, love, constrains. Behoves me then to say what bias rules My inclinations, since desire of fame Provokes me not to win renown in arms, Nor at Pieria’s silver spring to slake The insatiate thirst; to write on the coy nymph Love-labour’d sonnet, nor in well-dress’d beau To please the lovely sex. For me at Keith’s? Awaits a howl. capacious for my cares ; There will I drown them all; no daring thought Shall interrupt my mirth, while there I sit Surrounded with my friends, and envy not The pomp of needless grandeur, insolent. Nor shall alone the bowl of punch delight, Compounded fluid! rich with juicy spoil Of fair Iberia’s sunny coast, combined With the auxiliar aid of rack or rum, Barbade or Sumatra, or Goan-born, The luscious spirit of the cane, that in Fermenting cups, with native element Of water mix’d, pure limpid stream! unite Their social sweets. For us her ruddy soul The Latian grape shall bleed, nor will thy hills, (1) “ The Bush aboon Traquair.””—Ballaa. (2) Keith's—a celebrated coffee-house. 30 466 Far-flowing Rhine, withhold their clustering vines ; Haste, then, to friendship sacred let us pour The exhilarating flood, while, as our hands {n union knit, we plight our mutual hearts Close as the loving pair, whom holy writ Renowns to future times, great Jonathan Ard Jesse’s son. Now this delights my soul ! There was a time we would not have refused Mazdongal’s lowly roof, the land of ale ; Flowing with ale, as erst Canaan is said To flow with honey. There we often met, And quaff’d away our spleen, while fits of mirth Frequent were heard; nor wanted amorous song Nor jocund dance ; loud as in Edin town, Where the tired writer pens the livelong day Summons and horning, or the spousal band Of Strephon, and of Cloe, lovely lass, Spent with his toil, when thirsty twilight falls, He hies him gladsome to the well-known place, Bull-cellar, or, O Johnstoun’s, thine! where fond Of drink and knowledge, erst: philosophers Have met; or Coutts’s dark cymerian cell, Full many a fathom deep: from far he hears The social clamour through the dome resound, He speeds amain to join the jovial throng. So we delighted once. The bowl, meanwhile, Walked ceaseless still the round, to some fair name Devoted. Thine, Maria, toasted chief, With duty obsequious, and thy looks benign Miss’d not their due regard. Dundasia fair Claim’d next the kindred lay ; nor didst thou pass, Constance, uncelebrated or unsung, Hail, sacred three! hail, sister-minds! may heaven Pour down uncommon blessings on your heads ! Thus did our younger years in pleasing stream Flow inoffensive ; friendship graced our days, And dream of loving mistress blessed our night. Now from these joys convey’d (so fate ordains), Thou wanderest into foreign realms, from this Far, far sejoin’d ; no more with us to drain The ample bowl; or when in heaven sublime The monthly virgin, from full-gather’d globe, Pours down her amber streams of light, till wide The ether flame, with choral symphony Of voice, attemper’d to sweet hautboy’s breath, Mix’d with the violin’s silver sound, below The window of some maid beloved, shall ply The nightly serenade. To other joys Thou now must turn, when on the pleasing shore Of mild Hesperia thou behold’st, amazed, The venerable urns of ancient chiefs, Who stern in arms, and resolute to dare, Tn freedom’s cause have died, or glorious lived : Camillus, Brutus, great from tyrant’s blood ; Coriolanus, famous in exile ; Laurelled Zamean Scipio, the scourge POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Of Punic race, or liberty’s last hope, Self-murder’d Cato ; consecrate to fame, They live forever in the hearts of men, Far better monument than costly tomb Of Egypt’s kings. Time, with destructive hand, Shall moulder into dust the piled up stone With all its praises! Ah! how vain is fame! With virtue then immortalise thy life. But these, so potent nature’s will decrees, Delight not me, on other thoughts intent ; Not studious at midnight lamp to pore The medal, learned coin, where laurel wreathes The sacred head of kings, or beauty bright Of kings’ sweet paramour, the letter’d sage Or prudent senator, by eating time Defaced injurious, the faithless trust Of human greatness. Nor do I incline To pass the Firth that parts from Gallia’s reign My native coast, solicitous to know What other lands impart; all my delights Are with my friends in merry hour at Steel’s Assembled, while unrespited the glass Swift circles round the board, charged with fair name, Erskine, or Pringle thine, until the sun That, setting, warned us to the friendly cups, Awake, and view our revels incomplete. But if the heaven’s disposer of our fate Force me, unwilling, shift my native land, Oh, in whatever soil my weary feet Are doomed to stray, oh might 1 meet my friend! Or, if the rising sun shall gild my steps On fruitful fields of Ind. Bengalia’s shore, Spice-bearing Tidor’s Isle, or where at eve, Near western Califurn, beneath the main He sinks in gold; or on vine-fostering hills Of nearer Latium, nurse of kings and gods. Oh, might I view thee on the flowery verge Of Tiber stream renown’d in poet’s song, Or in the Romian streets, with curious eye Studying the polish’d stone, or trophied arch Trajan or Antonin, not long content With toil unprofitable; thee I’d lead, Well-pleased, to Horace’ tomb, dear laughing bard, Where the Falernian vintage should inspire Sweet thoughts of past delight, the goblet rough With sculptured gold, rosy from Chio’s Isle, Should warm our hearts, sacred to Pringle’s cheek Still glowing, and to sweet Humeia’s lip, To Drummond’s eye, Maria’s snowy breast Soft heaving, or to lovely Erskine’s smile; While on the wounded glass the diamond’s path Faithful shall show each favourite virgin’s name, Not without verse and various emblem graced : The Latian youth, at merry revels met, In fancy shall admire the Scottish maid, Bright as the ruddy virgin Roman born; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 467 Nor with their native dames refuse to join, Impartial, their health beloved : and would The nine inspire me equal to my choice, Tn lays such as the Roman swan might sing, Fair as Horatian Lydia should my Hume Forever flourish, or Nera bright Of soft Tibullus’ muse the lovely theme. Nor should alone, in melancholy strains Of cruel nymph and constant vows refused, Gallus complain, when on the flinty rock, Or wailing near earth-diving Arethuse, Sicilian stream, he made to woods his moan, Despairing of his loves. Maria’s scorn, Clothed in the style of Mantua, should shine As thine, Lycoris, theme of future song Surviving as itself. Maria’s scorn Forever 1 endure; ah! hard return To warmth like mine! Nathless, the mourning muse Must praise the maid still beauteous in her eye, Crown’d with each lovely grace and warm in bloom ; Though sullen to my suit, her ear be shut Against my vows, ungracious to my love. But this as time directs; thy health demands The present care, and joys within our power : Nor shall we not be mindful of thy love, Met in our festivals of mirth; but when Thou to thy native Albion shall return, From whate’er coast, or Russia’s northern bear, Inclement sky! or Italy the blest Indulgent land, the muse’s best beloved, Over a wondrous bowl of flowing punch We'll plight our hands anew at Don’s or Steel’s, Who bears the double keys, of plenty sign ; Or at facetious Thom’s, or Adamson, Who rears alone—what needs she more P—the vine, Emblem of potent joys! herself with looks Suasive to drink, fills up the brimming glass, Well-pleased to see the sprightly healths go round! Hail, and farewell! may heaven defend thee safe, And to thy natal shore and longing friends Restore thee, when thy destined toils are o’er, Polish’d with manners and enrich’d with arts. i TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER SINGING. Sucu, skill’d the tender verse to frame, And softly strike the golden lyre ; A stranger to the softening flame, And new to ev’ry mild desire. Sweets that crown the budding year, Pour’d from the zephyr’s tepid wing Saw Sappho in the grove appear, The rival of the vocal spring. To try the heart-subduing strains, Anon the vernal scenes impel O’er lofty rocks and rilly plains - Soft warbled from th’ Eolian siell. Or such as in the bright abodes, The youngest muse with glories crown'd, To whom the sire of men and gods Gave all the enchanting power of sound. As at the banquet of the sky, Freed from the giant’s impious arms, She drew each heavenly ear and eye, With beauty mingling music’s charms. Had such a voice sure to prevail, Soft, warbled from the syren strand, What wonder, if each amorous sail Spontaneous sought the tuneful land. Even thou who cautious wing’st thy way, Had given thy tedious wand’rings o’er - By Julia’s all-persuading lay Fix’d ever to the pleasing shore. A face so sweet had sure prevail’d With wisdom’s self to hear the voice, Whilst both the yielding heart assail’d, Here wisdom might have fix’d his choice. SONG. Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale Where Yarrow streams along, Forsake your rural toils and join In my triumphant song. She grants, she yields ; one heavenly smile Atones her long delays, One happy minute crowns the pains Of many suffring days. Raise, raise the victor notes of joy, These suffermg days are o’er, Love satiates now his boundless wish From beauty’s boundless store ; No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears This rising calm destroy, Now every prospect smiles around All opening into joy. The sun with double lustre shone That: dear consenting hour, Brighten’d each hill, and o’er each vale New colour’d every flower ; The gales their gentle sighs withheld, No leaf was seen to move, 468 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. The hov’ring songsters round were mute, And wonder hush’d the grove. The hills and dales no more resound The lambkin’s tender cry, Without one murmur Yarrow stole In dimpling silence by ; All nature seem’d in still repose Her voice alone to hear, That gently roll’d the tuneful wave, She spoke and blest my ear. Take, take, whate’er of bliss or joy You fondly fancy mine, Whate’er of joy or bliss I boast Love renders wholly thine; The woods struck up, to the soft gale The leaves were seen to move, The feather’d choir resumed their voice, And wonder fill’d the grove. The hills and dales again resound The lambkin’s tender cry, With all his murmurs Yarrow trill’d The song of trinmph by ; Above, beneath, around, all on Was verdure, beauty, song, I snatch’d her to my trembling breast, All nature joy’d along. —_. —_ SONG. Jo, plaintive sounds! and to the fair My secret wounds impart, Tell all I hope, tell all I fear, Each motion in my heart. But she, methinks, is list’ning now, To some enchanting strain, The smile that triumphs o’er her brow Seems not to heed my pain. Yes, plaintive sounds, yet, yet delay, Howe’er my love repine, — Let that gay minute pass away, The next, perhaps, is thine. Yes, plaintive sounds, no longer crost, Your griefs shall soon be o’er, Her cheek, undimpled now, has lost The smile it lately wore. Yes, plaintive sounds, she now is yours, *Tis now your tithe to move; Essay to soften all her pow’rs, And be that softness, love. Cease, plaintive sounds, your task is done, That anxious tender air Proves o’er her heart the conquest won I see you melting there. Return, ye smiles, return aga, Return each sprightly grace, I yield up to your charming reign _All that enchanting face. I take no outward suow amiss, Rove where they will, her eyes, Still let her smiles each shepherd bless, So she but. hear my sighs. SONG. You ask me, charming fair, Why thus I pensive go, From whence proceeds my care, What nourishes my woe? Why seek’st the cause to find Of ills that I endure ? Ah! why so vainly kind Unless resolved to cure ? It needs no magic art To know whence my alarms ; Examine your own heart, Go read them in your charms. Whene’er the youthful quire, Along the vale advance, To raise, at your desire, The lay, or form the dance, Beneficent to each, You some kind grace afford, Gentle in deed or speech, A smile or friendly word. Whilst on my love you put No value ;—or the same, As if my fire was but Some paltry village flame. At this my colour flies, My breast with sorrow heaves, The pain I would disguise Nor man nor maid deceives. My love stands all display’d, Too strong for art to hide, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. How soon the heart’s betray’d With such a clue to guide! How cruel is my fate : Affronts I could have borne, Found comfort in your hate, Or triumph’d in your scorn ; But whilst I thus adore I’m driven to wild despair ; Indifference is more Than raging love can bear. —o— SPEECH OF RANDOLPH. Brucr, Boox II. Demann’st thou, mighty Bruce! to know from whence My lineage I derive ; then hear a tale Well-known through fair Stirlina’s fruitful bounds, My native land. Of ancient Scottish kings, Thy royal ancestry, O Bruce, am I Undoubted offspring: and, forgive the boast, From the same fount my blood united flows, Allied to thine. As yet. Cameldoun’s walls By Forth, delightful stream! encircled stood The seat of Edenuther, Pitish king ; To whose destruction, eager to revenge The breach of faith and hospitable laws Insulted. His embattled host Fierce Corbred led: for, from Dunstaffnage towers Pretending love, and hymeneal rite, The treacherous Pict, with meditated force, Bore Ethelind, her country’s justest pride, Peerless and fair; a thousand heroes fought For her to death, fierce raging rouad the walls Of lofty Cameldoun. The guilty prince Had dearly paid the price of faith forsworn ; But, studious of new frauds, within his walls H’ invites the Scottish train, friendly to meet In amicable talk, fair Ethelind To be the pledge of future peace, and join The warring nations in eternal league Of love connubial: the unwitting king Enter’d the hostile gates ; with feast ana song The towers resound, till the dark midnight hour Awake the murderers : in sleep he fell With all his peers, in early life, and left His vow’d revenge, and sister unredeem’d. Now was the royal virgin left exposed To the fell victor’s lust, no friend to aid ; Her brother slain, and fierce and mighty chiefs That warr’d in her defence: how could, alas! Unshelter’d, helpless innocence resist 469 Th’ infernal ravisher? With stedfast mind She scorn’d his proffer’d love ; by virtue’s aid Triumphing o’er his lust. In vain, with tears And rough complaint, that spoke a savage heart, Strove he to gain and woo her to his will: In vain, enraged and ruthless in his love, He threaten’d. Death disdain’d, force was the last, But that her arm opposed, resolved to strike The poignard in her breast, her virtue’s guard. All arts thus tried in vain, at last incensed, Deep in a dungeon, from the cheerful light Far, far removed, the wretched maid he threw Deplorable ; doom’d in that dwelling drear To waste her anxious days and sleepless nights. Anguish extreme! ah, how unlike these hours That in her father’s palace wont to pass In festival and dance. Her piteous shrieks Moved her stern keeper’s heart ; secret he frees The imprison’d maid, and to the king relates Her death, dissembling. Then with fell despite And rage, inflamed for unenjoyed love, The monarch storm’d, he loathed his food and fled All human converse, frustrate of his will, Meanwhile the nymph forsakes the hostile walls, Flying by night ; through pathless wilds unknown Guileless she wanders ; in her frighted ears Still hears the tyrant’s voice ; in fancy views His form terrific, and his dreaded front Severe in frowns ; her tender heart is vex’d With every fear, and oft desires to die. Now day return’d and cheerful light began T’ adorn the heavens ; lost in the hills she knew No certain path ; around the dreary waste Sending her weeping eye, in vain required Her native fields, Dunstaffnage well-known tow’rs, And high Edesta’s walls, her father’s reign. Three days the royal wanderer bore the heat Intensely fervent, and three lonesome nights, Wet with the chilling dews; the forest oak Supplied her food, and at the running stream, . Patient, she slaked her thirst ; but when the fourth Arose, descending from the Ochil height, The flow’ry fields beneath she wander’d long Erroneous, disconsolate, forlorn. Jerne’s stream she pass’d, a rising hill Stood ou the bank opposed, adorn’d with trees, A sylvan scene! Thither she bent her flight O’ercome with toil, and gently laid her down In the embow’ring shade: the dew of sleep Fell on her weary eyes; then pleasing dreams Began to lay the tempest in her mind, Calming from troubled thoughts : to regal pomp She seems restored, her brother’s fate revenged, The tyrant slain. She dream’d till morn arose, The fifth that rose, since from Cameldoun’s walls She bent her flight ; the cheerful day invites From fair Dundalgan’s ever sunny towers, 470 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Mildred t arise, who oft in fields of death Victorious led the Picts’ embattled race. Tilustrious chief! He to the hilly height, His morning walk, pleased with the season fair, Betakes him musing. There it was he saw Fair Ethelind, surprised as Hengist’s son Elfred asleep beheld, when as she fled From Saxony, to shun a step-dame’s rage That sought her life, he with prevailing words Woo'd the consenting maid: nor less amazed The Pictish leader saw the beauteous form. Fixt in surprise and ardent gaze, he stood Wondring ! his beating heart with joy o’erflow’d He led her blushing from the sacred grove In bashful modesty, and doubting joy Chastised with fear, alternate in her breast, Poor lovely mourner! To his parents show’d The beauteous stranger ; they, in age revered, Lift up their trembling hands and blest the maid, Best workmanship of heaven! The youthful chief, Transported, every day his guest beheld, And every day beheld with new delight Her winning graces mild, and form divine, That drew with soft attraction, kindling love, Inflamed his soul: still new delays he frames . To gain a longer stay, ere he restore The beauteous exile to her native land, His promised faith. The story of her woes He o’er and o’er demands ; she pleased relates Her past adventures sad, but, prudent, kept Unknown her royal race. The ardent youth Hangs on the speaker’s lips, still more and more Enamour’d of her charms ; by courtly deed He sought the virgin’s love; by prayers and vows Won to consent; the nuptial day arose, Awaked by music’s sounds ; the gods invoked To bless the hallow’d rite, and happy night That to his arms bestow’d the much-loved maid, The gift of heaven: then gladness fill’d his heart Unspeakable, as when the sapient king, The son of David, on the happy day Of his espousals, when his mother bound His brow in regal gold, delighted saw » His fair Egyptian bride adorn’d with all Perfection, blooming in celestial sweets. While thus the royal exile lived remote In Hymen’s softest joys, the Scottish chiefs Prepare for battle, studious to redeem Their captive queen, unknowing of her fate ; With just success unbless’d, discomfited They fell in ruthless fight, their mighty men, Unworthy bondage! helpless exiles sold To foreign lands. The Pictish king, enraged, Collects a host, embattled as the sands Along the Solway coast, from all the bounds Of his wide empire; Bricca’s rising towers, And Jeda’s ancient walls, once seat of kings, With Edin, raised on rocks, and Cameldoun, Send forth their chiefs and citizens to war, Pour’d through their lofty gates. What anguish then, O royal virgin! vex’d thy tender heart, To see thy husband of thy country’s foes Enroll’d their leader ? Much didst thou adjure By nuptial ties, much by endearing love, To spare thy country in the waste of war, He, too, the youthful chief, long doubting stood *Twixt love and duty, unresolved of choice ; Hard conflict! To Dunstaffnage walls he flies, And left the weeping fair, intent to drown The voice of love, soft pleading in his heart, In sounds of battle; but in vain! His wife, A beanteous form, still rises to his thoughts In supplicating tears; he grieves to see The mingling hosts engage, and dreads tu find Amidst the slain, his kindred new allied. But now the Pictish king, with mighty chiefs Selected from his peers, pursues his way To raze the Scottish walls ; Dundalgan’s towers Receive their monarch, proud to entertain The mighty guest: exults the haughty king With savage joy, when first his eyes beheld The maid so lately lost, again restored, Sad victim to his lust. What could she do, Hopeless of aid! or how, alas! avert The dire event that from the monarch’s lust Her fears presaged? “T'was heaven her thoughts inspired In hour of sad extreme ; she flies the dome With two alone of all her menial train, Companions of her flight. The king, meanwhile, Fierce with desire, and violent to enjoy, Him nor the bow] delights, nor sprightly mirth, Nor tale of martial knight in ancient time Recited: the unfinish’d feast he leaves With wine inflamed, and ill-persuading lust, Worst counsellor! A secret way he found That to the queen’s apartment led unseen ; Thither he flies through many a lofty hall, Where heroes oft have met in grave consult, Elate in thought ; but, heavens! what fell despite, What raging pain, tore his distracted mind, When first he knew the royal fair was fled ? Desperate in rage, he hopes his absent prey, Intent to ravish. Hurrying to the camp, He sought the general’s tent, begirt around With noble Picts ; there weeping Ethelind, In soft’ned anguish, on the hero’s breast He found reclining sad. He would have seized The trembling fair one from her lover’s arms, Her surest refuge, miserably torn, Victim to lust obscene, had not the youth . Withstood the dire attempt of sovereign sway Haughty. The monarch raged, and called his chiets To aid; his chiefs refuse th’ unjust command. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. “hen impotent of mind he storm’d, he raved, Outrageous im his ire: then wild uproar, Tumult and martial din sound o’er the camp, While these assist the king, and these the youth, By fearless friendship led: the clash of swords Through the still night, beard on the Scottish walls, Alarms the chiefs, in midnight council met. The boldest of their warrior train they choose For secret ambush ; sheathed in jointed mail, Th’ intrepid band, beneath a bending hill, Await the rising dawn. Mildred they seized, The royal exile and their social train, Flying the monarch’s rage. The beauteous queen Rejeices to behold her native walls, So long exiled: her peers with lifted hands Extoll’d the bounteous gods, their queen return’d, The wondrous work of fate. Now she relates Her direful tile, the audience melt in tears. Meanwhile the monarch, raging in the camp, Forsook of all his peers, for fierce assault Prepared, attended with a desperate crew Of men, that: shared in partnership of crimes, March’d forward to his fate. The ambush’d foe Rise sudden; round them spread the slaughter’d dead ; Himself, as furious in the front he warr’d, Bled by a well-aim’d spear ; to punish’d ghosts Of kings perfidious, fled his guilty soul. The monarch slain, the Pictish chiefs that late Forsook the noisy camp, convene within The Scottish walls; the princes joyful plight In leagues of mutual peace. In every fane Each grateful altar blazed; to heaven they paid Their vows, their queen restored, and with her peace, The purchase of her love. Through all the town Public rejoicings reign’d ; the voice of mirth Was heard in every street, that blazing shone, Illuminated bright. The diadem, Instarr’d with diamond, gems, and flaming gold, Magnificent ! by Scotia’s monarchs worn From olden times, upon her beauteous brow Placed by a mitred priest, in rich array Encircling, shines ; her native peers around, Mix’d with the Pictish chiefs, admiring stand, Pleased with her heavenly smiles, her gentle look, The type of softer rule. Then next they gave The sceptre to her hands ; the precious stones Blazed on the beaming point. Hail! Queen of Scots, Joyful they cry ; hail, to thy own return’d, Safe from a thousand toils, beyond our hopes Crown’d where thy fathers reign’d. ‘hus pass’d the night In celebrated rites; when morn arose The assembled senate partner of her throne Elect the noble youth ; in times of peace To aid by counsel, and in war to lead Her marshall’d chiefs: thus ended all her woes. 471 Bless’d in her husband’s and her subjects’ love, Peace flourish’d in her reign. Three sons she bore, All men of valour known ; well could they bend The bow in time of need. Her eldest, graced With all the train of virtues that adorn A prince, succeeded to the Scottish rule, His mother’s kingdom. In his happy day The Scottish prowess twice o’erthrew the Dane In bloody conflict, from our fatal shore Repulsed with ignominious rout, disgraced Her second hope, born to unluckier fate, Matchless in fight and every gallant ueea, The terror of his foes, his country’s hope, In ruthless battle, by ignoble hands, Fell in the prime of youth forever wept, Forever honoured. Athingart, the last, For prudence far renown’d, Elgidra’s charms The hero fired, as in her father’s court A peaceful legate by his brother sent To Pictland’s monarch; there the royal youth, Graceful, in warlike tournament above His equals shone, and won the princely maid, Courted by rival kings. From that embrace Descend a thousand chiefs, that lineal heired The virtues of their sire ; witness the fiélds Of Loncart, and the streams that purple ran With stain of Danish blood. The brazen spears And crested helms, and antique shields, the spoils Of chiefs in battle slain, hung on the roof, Eternal trophies of their martial deeds, From son to son preserved with jealous care. My father in his country’s quarrel met A glorious fate, when godlike Wallace fought He, firm adherer to the nobler cause, Shared all his toils, and bled in all his fights, Till Falkirk saw him fall; with Graham he fell, Wallace his bold compeer, whom, great in arms, Wallace alone surpass’d. With martial thoughts He fired my youthful mind, and taught betimes To build my glory on my country’s love, His great example! To thy native reign, If thee, by fate propitious to the good Restored, he enjoin’d me to unite my force, From foreign victors to retrieve again Thy ravish’d kingdom. Then this sword he gave, In dangers ever faithful to his arm, Pledge of paternal love ; nor shall the foe Exult, I ween, to find the dastard son Degenerate from his sire, to wield in vain A father’s gift. In me, O Bruce, behold A willing warrior: from Bodotria’s stream T lead my native bands, hardy and bold, In fight distinguished by superior deed. He said, and ceased ; the arm’d assembly stood Silent in thought, till from his lofty seat Great Bruce arose. O, noble youth! he cried, Descended from a line of noble sires, 472 Accept thy monarch’s thanks! Welcome thyself ; Welcome thy sequent chiefs; thy country, sore Oppress’d by dire usurpers, now demands Warriors like thee, where death and bloodshed reign In conflict stern. Do thou approve thy might Above thy fellows, by transcendant acts To fame endear’d. She, on thy praise well-pleased Constant to dwell, shall rear thee up on high The loftiest branch, t’ adorn thy ancient stem. He spake, and gave the youth his plighted hand, Pledge of benevolence and kind intent ; The chiefs around embrace, and glad receive “Tne youthful champion. worthy of his race.! DOVES.—A FRAGMENT. Or Doves, sweet gentle birds, the heaven-born muse Prepares to sing, their manners, and what law The blameless race obey, their cares and loves. O sacred virgin, that, to me unseen Yet present, whispers nightly in my ear Love-dited song or tale of martial knight, As best becomes the time, and aidful grants Celestial grace implored, O, bounteous, say What fav’rite maid in her first bloom of youth Wilt choose to honour? Seem I not to see The laurel shake, and hear the voice divine Sound in mine ear: ‘“ With Erskine best agrees The song of doves: herself a dove, well pleased, Will listen to the tale benign, and hear How the chaste bird with words of fondling love, Soft billing, woos his mate, their spousal joys, Pure and unstain’d with jealous fear of change ; How studious they to build their little nests, Nature’s artificers ! and tender, breed Their unfledged children, till they wing their flight, Each parent’s care.” Come, as the muse ordains, O thou of every grace, whose looks of love, Erskine, attractive, draw all wond’ring eyes Constant to gaze ; and whose subduing speech Drops as the honeycomb, and grace is pour’d Into thy lips: forever thee attends Sweetness, thy handmaid, and, with beauty, clothes As with the morning’s robe invested round : O come, again invoked, and smiling lend Thy pleased attention, whilst in figured silk Thy knowing needle plants th’ embroider’d flower As in its native bed: so may’st thou find (1) The foregoing is a fragment part of acontemplated poem, to have been eutitled “The Brvce.” It is rather remarkable how many of our poets—inclusive 0. Burns—have entertained similar intentions and abandoned them. Nothing worthy the name of POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Delight perpetual and th’ inclining ear Of heaven propitious to thy maiden vow, When thcu shalt seek from love a youth adorn’d With all perfection, worthy of thy choice, To bless thy night of joy and social care. O happy he for whom the vow is made. a ee ee ee THE WISH. Tr join’d to make up virtues glorious tale, A weak, but pious aid can aught avail, Each sacred study, each diviner page That once inspired my youth, shall soothe my age. Deaf to ambition, and to interest’s call ; Honour my titles, and enough my all ; No pimp of pleasure, and no slave of state, Serene from fools, and guiltless of the great, Some calm and undisturb’d retreat I’ll choose, Dear to myself and friends. Perhaps the muse May grant, while all my thouglits her charms employ, Tf not a future fame, a present, joy, Pure from each feverish hope, each weak desire ; Thoughts that improve, and slumbers that inspire, A steadfast peace of mind, raised far above The guilt of hate or weaknesses of love, Studious of life, yet free from anxious care, To others candid, to myself severe, Filial, submissive to the sovereign will, Glad of the good, and patient of the ill. Vl work in narrow sphere, what heaven approves, Abating hatreds, and increasing loves ; My friendship, studies, pleasures, all my own, Alike to envy and to fame unknown: Such in some blest asylum let me lie, Take off my fill of life, and wait, not wish to die. A SERIOUS THOUGHT. Tnroven life’s strange mystic paths, how mankind strays, A contradiction still in all their ways ; In youth’s gay bloom, in wealt!.’s insulting hour ; As heaven all was, they live secure, Yet full of fears, and anxious doubts expire, And in the awful judge forget the sire. Bruce or Wallace has hitherto been produced hy the muse of Scotland, save, perhaps, the well-known ode by Burns. The frug- ment by Hamilton appeared in the editions of his poems 1748 aud 1760.—J. PATEBSON. ; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR 473 Fair virtue then with faithful steps pursue, Thy good deeds many, thy offences few ; That at the general doom thou may’st appear With filial hope to soothe thy conscious fear ; Then to perpetual bliss expect to live, Thy Savicur is thy judge, and may forgive. —e—. PALINODE. O wapry youth, who, now possest Of my Maria’s smiles, art blest, Think not thy joys will constant prove, How many changes are in love! I once was happy, too, like thee, The sun of beauty shone on me: In darkness ever to deplore, The sun is set to shine no more ; Doom’d ne’er to view the rising light, But weep out love’s eternal night. When first I spread the lover’s sail, Love blew from shore a friendly gale ; Sweet appear’d th’ enchanting scene, All calm below, above serene : Joyous J made before the wind, Heedless of what I left behind ; Nor rocks, nor quicksands, did I dread, No adverse winds to check my speed: No savage pirate did I fear, To ravish all my soul held dear; Far off my treasure to convey, And sell in foreign lands away : Maria’s hand unfurl’d the sails, Her prayers invoked the springing gales ; *Twas calm whate’er her eyes survey’d ; Her voice the raging storm obey’d ; And o’er the bosom of the tides, Her will the ruling rudder guides. But ah! the change, she flies away, And will vouchsafe no longer stay. See now the swelling seas arise, Loud storming winds enrage the skies, All weak the tempest to withstand, Trembling and pale I put to land. Wet from the tossing surge, aghast, I thank the gods, the danger’s past ; And swear to venture out no more Secure upon the safer shore : Yet should the swelling seas subside, And rose serene a silver tide ; Yet should the angry tempest cease, And gently breathe a gale of peace ; Much, much I fear, I’d dare again A second shipwreck on the main. EPITAPH ON MRS. COLQUHOUN OF LUSS. UnsBiamep, O sacred shrine, let me draw near, A sister’s ashes claim a brother’s tear, No semblant arts this copious spring supply, *Tis nature’s drops, that swell in friendship’s eye ; O’er this sad tomb, see kneeling brothers bend, Who wail a sister, that excell’d a friend: A child like this each parent’s wish engage, Grace of his youth and solace of his age : Hence the chaste virgin learns each pious art Who sighs sincere to bless a virtuous heart, The faithful youth, when heaven the choice inspires, Such hope the partner of his kind desires. Oh early lost! yet early all fulfill’d Each tender office of wife, sister, child : All these in early youth, thou hadst obtain’d ; The fair maternal pattern yet remain’d, Heaven sought not that—else heaven had bid ta spare, To thine succeeds now Providence’s care— Amidst the pomp that to the dead we give To soothe the vanity of those that live, Receive thy destined place, a hallow’d grave, Tis all we can bestow, or thou canst crave. Be these the honours that embalm thy name, The matron’s praise, woman’s best silent fame, Such to remembrance dear, thy worth be found, When queens and flatterers sleep forgot around, *T ill awful sounds shall break the solemn rest, Then wake amongst the blest, forever blest. Meanwhile upon this stone thy name shall live, Sure heaven will let this pious verse survive. —>— ON A SUMMER-HOUSE IN MY OWN GARDEN. Wuitst round my head the zephyrs gently play, To calm reflection I resign the day ; From all the servitudes of life releast I bid mild friendship to the sober feast, Nor beauty banish from the hallow’d ground’ She enters here to solace, not to wound ; All else excluded from the sacred spot, One half detested, and one half forgot: All the mad human tumult, what to me P Here, chaste Calliope, I live with thee. 3 P 474 EPITAPH ON MISS SETON, INTERRED IN THE CHAPEL OF SETON-HOUSE. In these once hallow’d walls’ negiected shade, Sacred to piety and to the dead, Where the long line of Seton’s race repose, Whose tombs to wisdom or to valour rose ; Though now a thankless age, to slav’ry prone, Past fame despising, careless of its own, Records no more! each public virtue fled, Who wisely counsell’d, or who bravely bled. Though here the warrior shield is hung no more, But every violated trophy tore, Heaven’s praise, man’s honour, share one shameful lot, God and his image both alike forgot.! To this sweet maid a kindred place is due, Her earth shall consecrate these walls anew, The muse that listens ta desert alone, Snatches from fate, and seals thee for her own. EPITAPH ON MR. CUNINGHAME OF CRAIGENDS. A son, a wife, bade the plain marble nse; Beneath the sacred shade a good man lies, In Britain’s senate long unblamed he sat, And anxious trembled for her doubtful fate. Above all giddy hopes, all selfish ends, His country was his family and friends. Children! weep not, thus cruelly bereft ; The fair example of his life is left : Another far more lasting, safe estate Than e’er descended from the rich and great ; _ Theirs fall to time or fortune soon a prey ; Or the poor gift of kings, kings snatch away : Your blest succession never can be less, Still as you imitate you still possess. HORACE, BOOK I., ODE V., IMITATED. Wuart happy youth, Maria, now Breathes in thy willing ear his vow P With whom thou spend’st thy evening hours Amidst the sweets of breathing flowers, (1) In allusion to the plundering and defacing of Seton House and Chapel in 1716. (2) Grace, daughter of George Lockhart of Carnwarth (author of the “ Memoirs”), by Lady Euphemia Montgomerie, daughte: , POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR For whom, retired to secret shade, Soft on thy panting bosom laid, Thou sett’st thy looks with nicest care, And bind’st in gold thy flowing hair ? O, neatly plain! How oft shall he Bewail thy false constancy ? Condemn’d perpetual frowns to prove, How often weep thy alter’d love P Who thee, too credulous, hopes to fird, as now, still golden, and still kind, Unheedless now of fortune’s power, Sets far away the evil hour? How oft shall thou, ill-starr’d, bewail Thou trusted to the faithless gale! When unaccustom’d to survey The rising winds and swelling sea ; When clouds shall rise on that dear face, That shone adorn’d in ev’ry grace; That yet untaught in wicked wiles, Was wont t’ appear to thee in smiles. Wretched they to whom thou shin’st, untried, Thy shifting, calm, and treacherous tide ; For me, safe shipwreck’d on the shore, I venture out my bark no more. HORACE, BOOK I., ODE VIL, IMITATED. TO THE EARL OF STAIR. Let others, in exalted lays, The lofty dome of Hopetoun praise ; Or where of old, in lonely cell, The musing Druid wont to dwell: Or with the sacred sisters roam Near holy Melrose, ruin’d dome. There are who paint with all their might The fields where Fortha’s streams delight ; That winding through Stirlina’s plain, Beauteous seeks the distant main. Or faithful to the farmer’s toil, Extol fair Lothian’s fertile soil; Where Ceres her best gift bestows, And Edin town her structures shows. Nor me delight those sylvan scenes, Those chequer’d bowers and winding greens; Where art and nature join to yield Unnumber’d sweets to Marlefield : Nor yet that soft and secret shade Where fair Aboyne asleep is laid ;? Where gay in sprightly dance no more She dreams her former triumphs o’er. of Alexander, sixth Earl of Eglintoun. She married, let, Joho, third Earl of Aboyne; 2ndly, James Lord Down, afterwards Earl of Moray; and died from fright, owing to the predictions of a fortune-teller, POEMS OF HAMILTON Or BANGOUR. 475 These scenes can best entice my soul, Where smooth Blancatria’s waters roll ; Where beauteous Hume, in smiling hour, Plucks the green herb or rising flower ; Pleased on the borders to behold The apple redden into gold. But whate’er place thy presence boast, Let not, O Stair! one hour be lost : When the rough north and angry storm Nature’s lovely looks deform ; The south restores the wonted grace, And wipes the clouds from heaven’s face. So thou, to finish all thy care, The flask of brisk champagne prepare ; Invite thy friends, with wise design, And wash the ills of life with wine : Whether beneath the open sky, Stretch’d in the tented couch to lie, Thy fate ordains ; to shine again Great on some future Blenheim’s plain ; Higher to raise thy deathless name Triumphant to sublimer fame : Or, if secure from feverish heat, Newliston cover thy retreat ; Where wit conspires with love’s delights, To grace thy days and bless thy niglits. When Fergus led, in days of yore, His exiled bands to Scotia’s shore ; The godlike founder of our state, Sustain’d the shocks of adverse fate : Yet brave, disdaining to repine, Around his brows he bound the vine: Let’s follow still, without delay, Wherever fortune shows the way ; Courage, my lads, let none despair, When Fergus leads, ’tis base to fear : With better auspice shall arise Our empire in the northern skies, Beauty and valour shall adorn Uur happy offspring yet unborn ; Now fill the glass, come fill again, To-morrow we shall cross the main. HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXII. TO BR. 8S. —_—— Tux man sincere, and pure of ill, Needs not with shafts his quiver fill, Nor point the venom’d dart ; er him no weapon can prevail, Clad in the firmest coat of mail, A brave and honest heart. Secure in innocence he goes, Through boiling firths and highland snows Or if his course he guide To where the far-famed Lomond’s waves Around his islands winding, laves Buchanan’s hilly side. For in Glendouglas as I stood And sung my Erskine to the wood, Unheeding of my way, Light of my cares, forsook behind, And all on Erskine ran my mind, It chanced my steps to stray. When lo! forth rushing from behind, A savage wolf, of monstrous kind, Fierce shook his horrid head ; Unarm’d I stood, and void of fear, Beheld the monstrous savage near, And me unarm’d he fled. A beast of such portentous size, Such hideous tusks and glaring eyes, Fierce Daunia never bred; Nor Juba’s land, without control, Where angry lions darkling how], His equal ever fed. Place me where the summer breeze Does ne’er refresh the weary trees, All on the gloomy plain ; Which side of earth offended heaven To the dominion foul has given, Of clouds and beating rain. Place me beneath the blaze of day, Near neighbour to the burning ray, Yet there the maid shall move ; There present to my fancy’s eyes, Sweet smiling Erskine will I prize, Sweet speaking Erskine love. HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXIII. TO MISS DALRYMPLE. TELL me, Maria, tell me why Thou dost from him that loves thee run; Why from his fond embraces fly, And every soft endearment shun ? So, through the rocks or dewy lawn, With plaintive cries its dam to find, Flies, wing’d with fears, the youngling fawn, And trembles at each breath of wind. 476 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Ah! stop thy flight, why shouldst thou fly ! What canst thou in a lover fear P No angry boar nor lion I, Pursue thy tender limbs, to tear. Cease then, dear wild one, cease to toy ; But haste all rivals to outshine, And grown mature and ripe for joy, Leave mamma’s arms and come to mine. aaaeee cee: HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXIV., IMITATED. TO A YOUNG LADY ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER. 1. Wuar measure shall affliction know ? What bounds be set to such a woe, That weeps the loss of one so dear ? Come, muse of mourning ! haste, ordain The sacred melancholy strain : When virtue bids, ’tis inipious to forbear. 2. Thy voice, with powerful blessings fraught, Inspires the solemn, serious thought ; A heav’nly sorrow’s healing art, That, whilst it wounds, amends the heart. A far more pleasing rapture thine, When bending over friendship’s shrine, Than mirth’s fantastic varied lay, Deceitful, idle, fluttering, vain, Still shifting betwixt joy and pain, Where sport the wanton, or where feast the gay. 3. In dust the good and friendly lies. Must endless slumber seal those eyes P— Oh! when shall modest worth again, Integrity, that knows no stain, Thy sister, Justice, free from blame, Kind Truth, no false affected name, To meet in social union, find So plain, so upright, and so chaste a mind? 4, By many good bewail’d, he’s lost ; By thee, O beauteous virgin! most. Thou claim’st, ah pious! ah, in vain! Thy father from the grave again. Not on those terms, by dooming heaven, His loan of mortal life was given. The equal lot is cast on all, Obedient to the universal call. Ev’n thou, each decent part fulfilPd, Wife, sister, mother, friend, and child, Must yield to the supreme decree, And every social virtue weep for thee. 5. What though thou boasts each soul-subduing art, That rules the movements of the human heart ; Though thine be every potent charm, The rage of envy to disarm : Thus far heav’n grants, the great reward Of beauty, under virtue’s guard : Yet all in vain ascends thy pious prayer, To bid the impartial Power one moment spare ; That Power who chastens whom he dearest loves, Deaf to the filial sorrows he approves : Seal’d sacred by th’ inviolable fates, Unlocks no more the adamantine gates, When once th’ ethereal breath has wing’d its way, And left behind its load of mortal clay. 6. Severe indeed! yet cease the duteous tear ; °Tis nature’s voice that calls aloud, ‘“ Forbear. See, see, descending to thy aid, Patience, fair celestial maid : She strikes through life’s dark gloom a bright’ning ray, And smiles adversity away. White-handed Hope advances in ner train, Leads to new life, and wakens joy again ; She renders light the weight of human woes, And teaches to submit when ’tis a crime t’ oppose. HORACE, BOOK I., ODE XXXII, IMITATED. TO HIS LYRE, Ir e’er with thee we fool’d away, Vacant beneath the shade, a day, Still kind to our desire, A Scottish song we now implore, To live this year and some few more ; Come, then, my Scottish lyre. First strung by Stuart’s cunning hand, Who ruled fair Scotia’s happy land, A long and wide domain ; Who bold in war, yet whither he Relieved his wave-beat ship from sea, Or camp’d upon the plain. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. The joys of wine, and muses young, Soft Beauty and her page he sung, That still to her adhere ; Margaret, author of his sighs, Adorn’d with comely coal-black eyes, And comely coal-black hair. O thou, the grace of song and love, Exalted to the feasts above, The feast’s supreme delight ; Sweet balm, to heal our cares below, Gracious on me thy aid bestow, “If thee I seek aright. ge HORACE, BOOK L, ODE XXIIL., IMITATED. TO A GENTLEMAN IN LOVE. Wey dost thou still in tears complain, Too mindful of thy love’s disdain ? Why still in melancholy verse Unmeek Maria’s hate rehearse ? That Thirsis finds, by fate’s decree, More favour in her sight than thee ? The love of Cyrus does enthral Lycoris fair, with forehead small ; Cyrus declines to Pholoe’s eyes, Who unrelenting hears his sighs : But wolves and lambs shall sooner join, Than they in mutual faith combine. So seemeth good to Love, who binds Unequal forms, unequal minds ; Cruel in his brazen yoke, Pleased with too severe a joke. Myself, in youth’s more joyous reign, My laundress held in pleasing chain ; When, pliable to love’s delights, My age excused the poet’s flights ; More wrathful she than storms that roar Along the Solway’s crooked shore. HORACE, BOOK II., ODE IV., IMITATED. T0 THE EARL MARSHAL OF SCOTLAND.! “Ne sit ancille tibi amor pudori.” 1. What though unknown her humble name, Unchronicled in records old, Or tale by flati’ring poets told: She to her beauties owes her noblest fame, Her noblest honours to thy love. 2. Know Cupid scorns the trophied shield, Vain triumph of some guilty field, Where dragons hiss and lions roar, Blazon’d with argent and with or, His heraldry is hearts for hearts, He stamps himself o’er all, and dignifies his darts. 3. Smote by a simple village maid, See noble Petrarch night and day Pour his soft sorrows through the shade ; Nor could the muse his pains allay. What though with hands pontific crown’d, With all the scarlet senate round ; He saw his brows adorn the living ray, Though sighing virgins tried each winning art, To cure the gentle poet’s love-sick heart : Cupid, more pow’rful than them all, Resolved his tuneful captive to enthral, Subdued him with a shepherdess’s look ; He wreathes his verdant honours round her crook, And taught Vall Clusa’s smiling groves To wear the sable liveries of his loves. 4. But this example scarce can move thy mind, The gentle power with verse was ever join’d: Then hear, my Lord, a dreadful tale, Not known in fair Arcadia’s peaceful vale, Nor in the Academic grove, Where mild philosophy might dwell with love; But poring o’er the mystic page, Of old Stagira’s wond’rous sage, In the dark cave of syllogistic doubt, Where neither muse, nor beauty’s queen, Nor wand’ring grace was ever seen. Love found his destined victim out, And put the rude militia all to rout: For whilst poor Abelard, ah! soon decreed Love’s richest sacrifice to bleed, Unwitting drew the argumental thread, A finer net the son of Venus spread : 477 Avow, my noble friend, thy kind desires, If Phillis’ gentle form thy breast inspires, Nor glory, nor can reason disapprove ; Involving in his ample category, With all his musty schoolmen round, Th’ unhappy youth, alike renown’d In philosophic and in amorous story. ~~ (1) The Jacobite forfeited earl, 478 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 5. Inflexible and stern the Czar, Amidst the iron sons of war, With dangers and distress encompass’d round, In his large bosom deep received the wound. No Venus she, surrounded by the Loves, Nor drawn by cooing harness’d doves ; *Twas the caprice love to yoke, Two daring souls, unharness’d and unbroke. When now the many-laurell’d Swede, The field of death his noblest triumph fled, And forced by fate, but unsubdued of soul, To the fell victor left the—conquest of the pole. 6. Henry, a monarch to thy heart, In action brave, in council wise, Felt in his breast the fatal dart, Shot from two snowy breasts, and two fair lovely eyes ; Though Gallia wept, though Sully frown’d Though raged the impious league around, The little urchin entrance found, And to his haughty purpose forced to yield The virtuous conqueror of Coutra’s field. 7. Who knows but some four-tail’d Bashaw May hail thee, Peer, his son-in-law, Some bright Sultana, Asia’s pride, Was grandame to the beauteous bride: For sure a girl so sweet, so kind, Such a sincere and lovely mind, Where each exalted virtue shines, Could never spring from vulgar loins. No, no, some chief of great Arsaces’ line, Has form’d her lineaments divine ; Who Rome’s imperial fasces broke, And spurn’d the nation’s galling yoke, Though now, oh! sad reverse of fate, The former lustre of her royal state, She sees injurious Time deface, And weeps the ravish’d sceptres of her race. 8. Her melting eye and slender waist, Fair tap’ring from the swelling breast, All nature’s charms, all nature’s pride, Whate’er they show, whate’er they hide, £ owe.—But swear, by bright Apollo, Whose priest I am, nought, nought can follow ; Suspect not thou a poet’s praise, Unhurt I hear, uninjured gaze: Alas! such badinage but ill would suit A married man, and forty years to boot. HORACE, BOOK II., ODE XVI, IMITATED. TO THE EARL OF MARCHMONT. Ease from the gods the sailor prays, O’ertaken in the Aigean seas, When storms begin to roar ; When clouds wrap up the moon from sight, Nor shine the stars with certain light, ‘Yo guide him safe to shore. Ease, fierce the Russian in war's trade: Ease, graceful in his tartan plaid, The Highlander demands, Rich prize, not to be bought or sold, For purple, precious gems, or gold, Or wide and large command. For nor can wealth, nor golden mace, Borne high before the great in place, Make cares stand out o’ the way; The anxious tumults of the mind, That round the palace unconfined, Still roam by night and day. Rich he lives on small, whose board Shines with frugal affluence stored, The wealth his sire possest ; Nor fear to lose creates him pain Nor sordid love of greater gain, Can break his easy rest. Why do we draw too strong the bow, Beyond our end our hopes to throw, For warm with other suns Why change our clime? To ease his toil, What exile from his native soil From self an exile runs ? For vicious care the ship ascends, On the way-faring troop attends First of the company: Swifter than harts that seek the floods, Swifter than roll wind-driven cloud Along the middle sky. Glad in the present hour, the mind Disdains the care beyond, assign’d To all, content at heart ; Tempers of life the bitter cup, With sweet’ning mirth, and drinks it up, None blest in every part. Dwindled thy sire in slow old age, Young Kimerjem from off this stage Was ravish’d in his prime : POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 479 The hour perhaps benign to me, Will grant what it denies to thee, And lengthen out my time. A numerous herd thy valleys fills, The cattle on a thousand hills, That low around, are thine. The well-pair’d mares, thy gilded car, Draw, in proud state, thyself from far, In richest silks to shine, Conspicuous seen: To me my fate, Not much to blame, a small estate, Of rural acres few : A slender portion of the muse Bounteous besides, the grace allows, To scorn th’ ill-thinking crew. HORACE, BOOK III., ODE XXL, IMITATED. TO A CASK OF TWENTY-YEAR-OLD BEER, O Born with me, when Anna reign’d, And prudent Warrender sustain’d The rights of Edin town ;* Come now, good fellow, and descend, Decreed to entertain a friend, *Tis Ramsay calls thee down. Whate’er thy pregnant belly bears, Or wit to set us by the ears ; Or if more kind it keeps The whining loyer’s fond complaint, Or street amours, or kind intent, And honest drunken sleeps. Whate’er it be, no dull delay, Thou canst descend a better day ; Here at this table set, We honest twain shall by and by Let forth thy soul to liberty, And drain thee “ téte-a-téte.” Nor so phlegmatic will be found My friend, though deep the youth be drown’d In Lord of Shaftesbury’s schemes : An hour or two he will, by stealth, Forsake for thee and Pringle’s health, His Plato and his dreams. Oft pious prelates have been known To have their sense by drink o’erthrown, As story could make clear; (1) Provost.George Warrender, a inerchant in Edinburgh. His motto was “Industria.” He was crented a baronet, June 2, 1713. Oft Fletcher® the severe is said To have warm’d his virtue and his head With stout October beer. Beer quickens up the dead and dull, And pulleys high the heavy soul, To the third firmament ; It makes the bashful lover prattle, And Greeme of Gorthy turn a rattle, As Forbes eloquent. Thou from the look profoundly wise Pull’st off the grave and quaint disguise, And naked dost expose ; Thou open’st up the secret seal, And dost kirk polities reveal When Robin Steuart’s jocose. Thou to the sad, desponding heart, Bring’st back Hope, on wing to part, And Mirth and Jollity : Thy powerful call affliction hears, Strong to repel the poor man’s fears, And rear his horn on high. Who, after thee, but brave contemns, The gold, the pearl, the shining gems In rich Britannia’s crown P Or heeds the unhallow’d rap of duns, Kirk treasurer’s rage, or Bushel’s guns, George Drummond’s smile or frown. Thee, if the jolly god of wine, And laughter-loving Venus join, And sister graces three, Dancing blithe, aye hand in hand, Loth to untie the filial band, Add their sweet company. Then, when the monarch of the day, No more shall gild the aerial way, But put his lustre out, While regent tapers shall supply His throne, a flaming ministry, Send Mary’s health about. Till, blazing from the eastern main, The sun exert his light again, Then, by drink o’ercome, Hanging the emptied cask on high, The monument of victory, Reel drunk and staggering home. (2) Fletcher of Saltoun. (3) Duncan Forbes, of Culloden, Lord President of the Court of Session, 480 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. HORACE, BOOK IV., ODE L, IMITATED. Venvs ! call’st thou once more to arms P Sound’st thou once more thy dire alarms ; Annoy’st my peaceful state again P— Oh! faith of treaties sworn in vain! Seal’d with the signet of thy doves, And ratified by all the loves. Spare, goddess! I implore, implore! Alas ! thy suppliant is no more What once he was in happier time, (Illustrated by many a rhyme), When skill’d in every ruling art, Good A****s sway’d his yielding heart : Love’s champion then, and known to fame, He boasted no inglorious name. Now, cruel mother of desires ! That doubts and anxious joys inspires, Ah why, so long disused, again Leviest thou thy dreadful train ; That, when in daring fights he toil’d, So oft his youthful ardour foil’d ? Oh! let thy hostile fury cease, Thy faithful veteran rest in peace, In the laborious service worn, His arms decay’d and ensigns torn. Go, go, swan-wing’d! through liquid air, Where the bland breath of youthful prayer Recalls thee from the long delay, And, weeping, chides thee for thy stay. My lowly roof, that knows no state, Can’t entertain a guest so great : In P*****th’s! dome, majestic queen, With better grace thou shalt be seen, If worthy of the Cyprian dart, Thou seek’st to pierce a lovely heart ; For he to noble birth has join’d A graceful form and gentle mind; And to subdue a virgin breast The youth with thousand arts is blest ; Nor silent in his country’s cause, The anxious guardian of her laws. He, in thy noblest warfare tried, Shall spread thy empire far and wide ; Confirm the glories of thy reign ; Aud not a glance shall fall in vain. Then, when each rival shall submit The prize of beauty and of wit. And riches yield to fair desert, The triumph of a female heart, Grateful thy marble form shall stand, Fair breathing from thy sculptor’s hand, Below the temple’s pillar’d pride, Fust by a sacred fountain’s side. (1) Probably Polwarth, Lord Marchmont’s son, Where Tweed sports round each wind’ sp maze, There song shall warble, incense blaze ; Nor dumb shall rest the silver lyre, To animate the festive choir. There twice a-day fond boys shall come, And tender virgins in their bloom, (With fearful awe and infant shame), To call upon thy hallow’d name, As thrice about the wanton round With snowy feet they lightly bound. For me no beauty now invites, Long recreant to the soft delights. Lost to the charming arts that move, Ah, dare I hope a mutual love! The fond belief, of pleasing pain, That hopes, fears, doubts, and hopes again, No wreaths upon my forchead bloom, Where flow’rs their vernal souls consum, No more the reigning toast I claim: I yieid the fierce contended name, Though daring once to drink all up, While Bacchus could supply the cup. “Farewell, delusive, idle power! Welcome, contemplation’s hour. Now, now | search, neglected long, The charms that lie in moral song, How to assuage the boiling blood, The lessons of the wise and good ; Now with fraternal sorrows mourn ; Now pour the tear o’er friendship’s urn: Or higher raise the wish refined, The generous pray’r for human kind ; Or, anxious for my Britain’s fate, To freedom beg a longer date, To calm her more than civil rage, And spare ber yet one other age ; These, these the labours I pursue: Fantastic Love! a long adieu.” —Yet why. O teauteous ******, why Heaves the loug-lorgotten sigh ? Why down my cueeks, when you appear, Steals drop by drop the unbidden tear ? Once skill’d to breathe the anxious vow, Why fails my tongue its master now, And falt’ring, dubious strives in vain ‘lhe tender meaning to explain? Why, in the visions of the night, Rises thy image to my sight ? Now seized, thy much-loved form I hold, Now lose again the transient fold; Unequal, panting far behind, Pursue thee fleeter than the wind, Whether the dear delusion strays Through fair Hope-park’s enchanting maze Or where thy cruel phantom glides Along the swiftly running tides. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGUUR. HORACE, BOOK II., ODE XVII, IMITATED. INSCRIBED TO MR. JAMES CRalIG,! 1. Ax! why dost thou my bosom tear, Why vex me with thy friendly fear ? Thy fond complaint give o’er; Nor heaven, alas! nor I consent That thou, my guide and ornament, Good James, should die before. 2. If thee, before my destined day, A riper fate should snatch away, My soul’s far better portion gone, Ah, why do T still linger on ? Ah, why the worser part survive, Not half so dear, nor—all alive P That day shall ruin bring to both. T’ve sworn no false, perfidious oath : Whenever thou the way shall lead, We go, we go, prepared to tread The path that leads to death’s secure abode, And jog companions of the darksome road. 3. Me from that loved companion’s side No face of danger shall divide ; Should all these hideous forms appear, That fancy e’er begot on fear— Should weeping children round me fall, Or faithful spouse, I’d spurn them all: On, on, behold me fix’d to go, The pow’rful fates would have it so. 4, Whether, propitious at my birth, The balance shone serene on earth, Or if the scorpion’s angry power Sway’d potent at my natal hour, Let others judge who read the skies ; Gur stars consent in wondrous wise ; At one appointed hour of fate, We each escaped a danger great. 5. When time that runs with prone career, Whirl’d round thy three-and-sixtieth year, Thee with malignant eye survey’d: Thy genius for his charge afraid, (1) (From Mr. Laing’s MS. volume, First printed in Paterson's edition of Hrmilton’s Poems.) 481 Studious the moments to prolong, Shone forth with opposition strong: Renew’d life’s lease (the danger o’er) For twenty merry winters more. 6. That day to me had fatal proved ; I came, I saw, alas! and loved. Then had 1 sigh’d in fruitless pain, A slave for seven long years again, Had not the Pow’r, a pow’r indeed, Well known in our poetic creed, Guardian of us mercurial men, Who drain the bowl, or dip the pen, Propitious whisper’d in my ear, (1 hear him yet), “ Rash man, forbear ; Leave Jeanie to her knight or peer Extinguish thou the ambitious fire, Nor hope to gain, uor wish to admire; Be thine life’s each familiar end, A verse, a bottle——or a friend ; The sober Muse’s rapturous love, Kind to allay, or wise t’ improve.” Since fate must work its destined way, I heard submissive and obey. 7. Then let us pay our vows; for thee, The teeming hogshead sets thee free ; Whose racy womb the harvest yields, Of sunny Gallia’s viny fields. My humble fortunes shall afford The bowl with gen’rous spirits stored, That swells, such potent joys it brings, Beyond the excising power of kings, Then send the foaming glass about, We'll see it most devoutly out. PART OF THE ELEVENTH EPISTLE oF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE IMITATED. WueEn through the world fate led the destined way Tell me, my Mitchell, in the broad survey, What country pleased thy roving fancy most ? Say, wast thou smit with Baia’s sunny coast ? Or wish’d thou rather weary to repose In some cool vale where peaceful Arno flows ? Or in Ombrosa dream the lonely hour, Where high-arch’d hills the Etrurian shades embow’r; Where plenty pours her golden gifts in vain, That dubious swell for Carlos or Lorraine ? 34 482 Or charm’d thee more the happy viny plains, And lofty towers, where mighty Louis reigns ? Say, is it true what travellers report, Of glories shining in the Gallic court ? Or, do they all, though e’er so pompous, yield To the thatch’d cottage in my native field ? But hark, methinks I hear thee anxious say That thou at Palestine would’st choose to stay. Yes, Palestine; I know the place full well, Where holy dotards riot in each cell, Tae hapless peasant pines with want and sorrow, And all unpeopled as a royal burrow : Yet there forever would thy friend remain, Rather than change once more the frantic scene, And distant hear the rollings of the main ; Unenvied, calm, enjoy a peaceful lot, My friends rememb’ring, nor by them forgot. HORACE, BOOK I., EPISTLE XVIII, IMITATED. Dzar Ramsay, if I know thy soul aright, Plain-dealing honesty’s thy dear delight : Not great, but candid born; not rich, but free ; Thinks kings most wretched, and most happy me, Thy tongue untaught to lie, thy knee to bend, I fear no flatt?rer where I wish a friend. As the chaste matron’s tender look and kind, Where sits the soul to speak the yearning mind, From the false colouring of the wanton slows The unhallow’d roses and polluted snows, A glare of beauty, nauseous to the sight, Gross but to feed desire, not raise delight : So differs far, in value, use, and end, The praising foe from the reproving friend. Such distance lies between, nay, greater far Who bears an honest heart, or bears a star. A fault there is, but of another sort, That aims by nastiness to make its court ; By downright rudeness would attempt to please, And sticks his friendship on your lips in grease : With him (for such were Sparta’s rigid rules) All the polite are knaves ; the cleanly, fools ; Good humour for impertinence prevails ; So strangely honest,—he’ll not pare his nails. Know, virtuous Sir, if not indeed a slave, Yet, sordid as the thing, thou art a knave; Virtue, its own, and every plain man’s guide, Serenely walks with vice on every side, Keeps its own course, to its own point does bend, To follies deaf that call from either end. This simple maxim should a statesman doubt, Two characters shall make it plainly out. The first is his (the opposite of proud), By far more humble than a Christian should, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Pursues, distasteful of plain sober cheer, Th’ inhospitable dinner of a peer ; Usurps, without the task of saying grace, The poor starved chaplain’s perquisites and place ; To vice gives virtue, to old age gives youth ; So well bred he—he never spoke one truth : With watchful eyes sits full against my lord; And catches, as it falls, each heavy word; That, echo’d back, and sent from lungs more able, Assumes new force, and bandies round the table. All stare: “Was ever thing so pretty spoke?” You'd almost swear it was his grace’s joke. Yet such as these divide the great man’s store, And flatter out the friendless and the poor. Nor less the fool our censure must engage, Whom every trifle rouses into rage. He arms for all, so fierce the wordy war, Labeo far less tenacious at the bar ; Words heaped on words so fast together drive, Like clust’ring bees that darken from the hive, He fights; alas! what mortal dares confute him? With tongue, hand, eyes, and every inch about him? Deny me this; ah! rather than comply A thing so plain—I'd sooner starve or die. But pray, what all this mighty fury draws ? Say, raves the patriot o’er expiring laws ? Say, on th’ oppressor does his anger fall ? Pleads he for the distress’d, like good Newhall ? Against corruption does his vengeance rise ? The army? or the general excise ? On trifling themes like these our man is mute, As § ., if fee-less you present your suit. More sacred truths his zealous rage supply; What all acknowledge, or what all deny : If rogues in red are worse than rogues in lawn ; Or *** be as great a dunce as ——; Or if our Hannibal’s famed Alpine road, Be thirty foot, or five-and-thirty broad. The vicious man, though in the worst degree, His neighbour thinks more vicious still than he. Is there whom lawless love should bring to gallows? He cries, “What vengeance waits on perjured fellows!” Ruchead, who pined amidst his boundless store, Could wonder why rich Selkirk wish’d for more: The youthful knight, who squanders all away, On whores, on equipage, on dress, and play ; The man who thirsts and hungers after gold ; The tricking tradesman, and the merchant bold, Whom fear of poverty compels to fly Through seas, excisemen, rocks, oaths, perjury ; Start at each other’s crimes with pious fright, Yet think themselves forever in the right. But above all, the rogue of wealth exclaims, And calls the poorer sinner filthy names ; Though his foul soul, discolour’d all within, Has deeper drank the tincture of each sin: POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Or else advises, as the mother sage Rebukes the hopes and torment of her age, And saith (though insolent of wealth, in this Methinks, good friend, he talks not much amiss), “Yield, yield, O fool, to my superior merit, Without a sixpence thou, and sin with spirit ? For me those high adventures kept by fate ; For crimes look graceful with a large estate : Then cease, vain madman, and contend no more : Heaven meant thee virtuous when it made thee poor.” But crimes like these to gold we can forgive ; What boots it how they die or how they live ? Then weep, my friend, when wicked wealth you find, To change the species of the virtuous mind. You’ve doubtless heard how ’twas a statesman’s way, Whene’er he would oblige, that is, betray, invited first the destined prey to dine, ‘Then whisper’d in his ear, “ You must be fine: Fine clothes, gay equipage, a splendid board Give youth a lustre, and become a lord. Why loiter meanly in paternal grounds, To neighbours owe thy ease, thy health to hounds ? Go roam about, in gilded chariot hwI’d; Make friends of strangers, child, and lear the world: | These kind instructors teach you best of any, The wise Sir William and the good Lord Fanny.” Guiltless he hears of pension and of place, ‘Then sinks in honour as he swells in lace ; Each hardy virtue yields, and, day by day, Melts in the sunshine of a court away. At first (not every manly thought resign’d) He wonders why he dares not tell his mind ; Feels the last footsteps of retiring grace, And virtuous blushes lingering on his face : The artful tempter plies the slavish hour, And works the gudgeon now within his power ; Then tips his fellow statesman, “ He’ll assume New modes of thinking in the drawing-room ; See idle dreams of greatness strike his eyes, See pensions, ribbons, coronets arise.” “The man, whom labour only could delight, Shall loiter all the day, and feast all night : Who, mild, did once the kindest nature boast, Unmoved shall riot at the orphan’s cost ; To pleasures vile, that health and fame destroy, Yield the domestic charm, the social joy. See, charm’d no more with Maro’s rural page, He slumbers over Lucan’s free-born rage. Each action in inverted lights is seen ; Meanness, frugality ; and freedom, spleen; How foolish Cato! Caesar how divine! In spite of Tully, friend to Catiline.” Thus to each fair idea long unknown, The slave of each man’s vices and his own, Enroll’d a member of the hireling tribe, He towers to villany’s last act, a bribe, 483 And turns to make his ruin’d fortunes clear, Or gamester, bully, jobber, pimp, or peer ; Till, late refracted through a purer air, The beams of royal favour fall elsewhere : Lo, vile, obscure, he ends his bustling day, All stain’d the lustre of his orient ray ; And envies, poor, unpitied, scorn’d by all, Marchmont the glories of a gen’rous fall. Such sad examples can this land afford ! Why, ’tis the history of many a lord. But you, perhaps, think odd whate’er I say; Yet drink with such originals each day. Then censure me no more, too daring friend, Whom “scandalum magnatum ” may offend. How poor a figure should a poet make, ‘Ta’en into custody for scribbling’s sake ? Ah how (you know the muses never pay) With all his verses earn five pounds a-day ? Leave we to Pope each knave of high degree, Sing we such rules as suit or you or me. Then, first, into no other’s secrets pry ; To such be deaf your ear, be blind your eye: Of these, unask’d, why should you claim a share P But keep these safe entrusted to your care : For this, beware the cunning low design, That takes advantage of your rage or wine ; For rage no pause of cooler thought affords, Is rash, intemp’rate, headlong in its words. Lock fast your lips, then guard whate’er you say, Lest in the fit of passion you betray ; And dread the wretch, who boasts the fatal power To cheat in friendship’s unsuspecting hour. There is a certain pleasing force that binds, Faster than chains do slaves, two willing minds. Tempers opposed each may itself control, And melt two varying natures in one soul. This made two brothers different humours hit, Though one had probity, and one had wit. Of sober manners this, and plain good sense, Avoided cards, wine, company, expense : Safe from the tempting fatal sex withdrew, Nor made advances farther than a bow. A diff’rent train of life his twin pursues ; Loved pictures, books (nay, authors write), tLe stews, A mistress, opera, play, each darling theme ; To scribble, above all, his joy supreme. Must these two brothers always meet to scold, Or quarrel, like to Jove’s famed twins of old? Fach yielding, mutual, could each other please, And drew life’s yoke with tolerable ease : This, thinking mirth not always in the wrong, Would sometimes condescend to hear a song ; And that, fatigued with his exalted fits, ‘His beauties, gewgaws, whirligigs, and wits, Would leave them all, far happier to regale With prose and friendship o’er a pot of ale. 484 Then to thy Miend’s opinion sometimes yield, And seem to lose, although thou gain’st the field ; Nor, proud that thy*superior sense be shown, Rail at his studies, and extol your own. For when Aurora weeps the balmy dew, (And dreams, as rev’rend dreamers tell, are true), Sir George my shoulder slaps, just in the time When some rebellious word consents to rhyme : Sudden my verses take the rude alarm, New-coin’d, and from the mint of fancy warm : I start, I stare, I question with my eyes ; At once the whole poetic vision flies. “Up, up,” exclaims the knight ; “the season fair ; See how serene the sky, how calm the air ; Hark! from the hills the cheerful horns rebound, And echo propagates the jovial sound ; The certain hound in thought his prey pursues, The scent lies warm, and loads the tainted dews, I quit my couch, and cheerfully obey, Content to let the younker have his way ; I mount my courser, fleeter than the wind, And leave the rage of poety behind, But when, the day in healthful labour lost, We eat our supper earn’d at common cost ; When each frank tongue speaks out without control, And the free heart expatiates o’er the bowl ; Though all love prose, my poetry finds grace, And, pleased, J chant the glories of the chase. Of old, when Scotia’s sons for empire fought, Ere avarice had debased each generous thought, Ere yet, each manlier exercise forgot, One half had learn’d to dose, one half to vote, Each hardy toil confirm’d their dawning age, And mimic fights inspired to martial rage : >Twas theirs with certain speed the dart to send, With youthful force the stubborn yew to bend; O’ercame with early arm the fiercest floods, Or ranged midst chilling snows the pathless woods ; Toiled for the savage boar on which they fed: *Twas thus the chief of Bannockburn was bred ; That gave (not polish’d then below mankind) Strength to the limbs, and vigour to the mind. The smiling dame, in those victorious days, Was wooed by valour, not seduced by praise ; Who ne’er did fears, but for her country, feel ; And never saw her lover, but in steel ; Could make a Douglas’ stubborn bosom yield, And send her hero raging to the field ; Heard kind the honest warrior’s one-tongued vow, Pleased with a genuine heart, as H**** is now. How would the generous lass detest to see An essenced fopling puling o’er his tea; Ah! how distasteful of the mimic show, Disdain the false appearance as a foe? To greet, unfolding every social charm, Her soldier from the field of glory waxm. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. But now, alas! these generous aims are o’er. Each foe insults, and Britain fights no more. Yet humbler tasks may claim the patriot’s toil : Who aids her laws no more, may mend her soil, Since, to be happy, man must ne’er be still, The internal void let peaceful labours fill ; When kind amusements hours of fame employ, The working mind subsides to sober joy. Behold, in fair autumnal honours spread, The wheaten garland wreath the laurell’d head ; Where stagnant waves did in dull lakes appear Rich harvests wave, the bounty of the year ; In barren heaths, where summer never smiled, The rural city rises o’er the wild; Along the cool canal, or shooting grove, Disport the sons of mirth and gamesome love. It now remains I counsel, if indeed My counsel, friend, can stand thee ought in stead, Judge well of whom you speak ; nor will you find It always safe to tell each man your mind. Even honesty regard to safety owes ; Nor need it publish all it thinks and knows. The eternal questioner shun: a certain rule, There is no blab like to the questioning fool ; Even scarce before you turn yourself about, Whate’er he hears his leaky tongue runs out; The word elanced no longer we control, Once sallied forth, it bursts from pole to pole. Guard well your heart; ah! still be beauty-proof, Beneath fair friendship’s venerable roof ; What though she shines the brightest of the fair, A form even such as Wallace’ self might wear ? What though no rocks nor marble arm her breast, A yielding Helen to her Trojan guest! The dangerous combat fly; why wouldst thon gain A shameful conquest won by years of pain P For know, the short-lived guilty rapture past, Reflection comes, a dreadful judge at last : *Tis that avenges (such its pointed stings) The poor man’s cause on statesmen and on kings. To praise aright is sure no easy art; Yet prudence here directs the wise man’s part. Let long experience then confirm the friend, Dive to his depth of soul, ere you commend. Should you extol the fool but slightly known, Guiltless you blush for follies not your own. Alas! we err; for villains can betray, And gold corrupt the saint of yesterday, Then yield, convicted by the public voice, And frankly own the weakuess of your choice ; So greater credit shall your judgment gain, When you defend the worth that knaves arraign; Whose soul secure, confiding in your aid, Hopes the kind shelter of your friendly shade ; When envy on his spotless name shall fall, Whose venom’d tooth corrupts and blackens all; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 485 This mutual help the kindred virtues claim, For calumny eats on from fame to fame. When o’er thy neighbour’s roof the flames aspire, Say, claims it not thy care to quench the fire? When envy rages, small the space betwixt, In worth allied, thy character is next. Fired at the first with what the great impart, Frank we give way, and yield up all the heart. How sweet the converse of the potent friend ! How charming when the mighty condescend ! The smile so affable, the courtly word!— And, as we would a mistress, trust a lord. Tl’ experienced dread the cheat; with prudent care Distrust alike the powerful and the fair. Thou, when thy vessel flies before the wind, Think on the peaceful port thou left behind ; Though all serene, yet bear a humble sail, Lest veering greatness shift the treacherous gale. How various man! yet such are nature’s laws, With powerful force each different humour draws : The grave the cheerful hate; these hate the sad; Your sober wise man thinks the wit quite mad ; He, happy too in wit’s inverted rule, Thinks every sober wise man more than fool; Whose active mind from toil to toil can run, And join the rising to the setting sun, Like Philip’s son, for fame pursuing gains, While yet one penny unsubdued remains ; Admircs how lovers waste th’ inactive day, Sigh, midst the fair, their gentie souls away. The tuneful bard, who boasts his varied strains, Shares with the lark the glory of the plains, Whose life th’ impression of no sorrow knows, So smooilily calm, he scarcely feels it flows. In vocal woods each fond conceit pursues, | Pleased with the jingling bauble of a muse ; Pities the toiling madmau’s airy scheme, When greatness sickens o’er the ambitious dream ; Each boon companion, who the night prolongs, In noise and rapture, festivals and songs, Condemns the graver mortal for an ass, Who dares refuse his bumper and his lass ; Still urging on, what boots it that you swear You dread the vapours and nocturnal air ; Yet grant a little to the social vine, Full on the friend with cloudless visage shine, Oft sullen silence speaks a want of sense, Or folly lurks beneath the wise pretence. Is there severe, who baulks the genial hour ? He’s not so sober, were he not so sour. But, above all, I charge thee o’er and o’er, Fair peace through all her secret haunts explore ; Consult the learn’d in life (these best advise), The good in this more knowing than the wise ; Their sacred science learn, and what the art To guard the sallies of the impetuous heart ; Withtemper due th’ internal poise to keep, Not soaring impudent, nor servile creep ; How sure thyself, thy friends, thy God to please, Firm health without, within unshaken peace ; Lest keen desire, still making new demands, Should raise new foes unnumber’d on thy hands , Or hope, or fear, inspire th’ unmanly groan, For things of little use, perhaps of none. Who best can purchase virtue’s righteous dower, The sage with wisdom, or the king with power: Or if the mighty blessing stands confined To the chaste nature and the heaven-taught mind And chief the important lesson wise attend, What makes thee to thyself thyself’s best friend : If gold a pure tranquillity bestows, Or greatness can insure a night’s repose ; Or must we seek it in the secret road That leads through virtue to the peaceful God ; A shaded walk, where, separate from the throng, We steal through life all unperceived along. For me, afraid of life’s tempestuous gale, T make to port, and crowd on all my sail Soon may the peaceful grove and shelter’d seat Receive me weary in the kind retreat ; Blest if my **** be the destined shade, Where childhood sported, of no ills afraid, Ere youth full-grown its daring wing display’d. That often cross’d by life’s intestine war, Foresaw that day of triumph from afar, When warring passions mingling in the fray, Had drawn the youthful wanderer from his way: But recollecting the short error, mourn’d, And duteous to the warning voice return’d. No more the passions hurrying into strife, My soul enjoys the gentler calms of life. Like Tityrus, bless’d among the rural shades, Whose hallow’d round no guilty wish invades ; No joy tumultuous, no depressing care ; All that I want is Amaryllis there ; Where silver Forth each fair meander leads Through breathing harvests and empurpled meads ; Whose russet swains enjoy the golden dream, And thankful bless the plenty-giving stream. There youth, convinced, foregoes each daring claim, And settling manhood takes a surer aim; Till age accomplish late the fair design, And calm possess the good, if age be mine. What think’st thou, then, my friend, shall be my cares, My daily studies, and my nightly prayers ? Of the propitious Power this boon I crave, Still to preserve the little that I have ; Nor yet repugnance at the lot express, Should fate decree that little to be less ; That what remains of life to heaven I live, If life, indeed, has any time to give: Or, if the fugitive will no longer stay, To part as friends should do, and slip away - 486 Thankful to Heaven, or for the good supplied, To Heaven submissive for the good denied, Renounce the household charm, a bliss divine ! Heaven never meant for me, and I resign; In other joys th’ allotted hours improve, And gain in friendship what was lost in love: Some comfort snatch’d, as each vain year return’d, When nature suffer’d, or when friendship mourn’d, Of all that stock so fatally bereft, Once youth’s proud boast, alas! the little left ; These friends, in youth beloved, in manhood tried, Age must not change through avarice or pride. For me let wisdom’s sacred fountain flow, The cordial draft that sweetens every woe; Let fortune kind the “just enough ” provide, Nor dubious float on hope’s uncertain tide ; Add thoughts composed, affections ever even.— Thus far suffices to have asked of Heaven, Who, in the dispensations of a day, Grants life, grants death; now gives, now takes away ; To scaffolds oft the ribbon’d spoiler brings ; Takes power from statesmen, and their thrones from kings ; From the unthankful heart the bliss decreed— But leaves the man of worth still bless’d indeed. Be life Heaven’s gift, be mine the care to find Still equal to itself the balanced mind ; Fame, beauty, wealth forgot, each human toy, With thoughtful quiet pleased, and virtuous joy ; In these, and these alone, supremely blest, When fools and madmen scramble for the rest. PINDAR’S OLYMPIA. ODE I. TRANSLATED. Water, great principle whence nature springs, The prime of elements, and first of things, Amidst proud riches’ soul-inflaming store, As through the night the fiery blaze Pours all around the streaming rays, Conspicuous glows the golden oar. But if thee, O my soul, a fond desire To sing the contests of the great, Calls forth t? awake th’ etherial fire, What subject worthier of the lyre, Olympia’s glories to relate ! Full in the forehead of the sky, The sun, the world’s bright radiant eye, Shines o’er each lesser flame ; On earth what theme suffices more To make the Muses’ offspring soar, Than the Olympian victor’s fame ? But from the swelling column, where on high It peaceful hangs, take down the Doric lyre, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. If with sweet love of sacred melody, The steeds of Hiero thy breast inspire. When borne along the flowery side, Where smooth Alpheus’ waters glide, Their voluntary virtue flies, Nor needs the driver’s rousing cries, But rapid seize the dusty space, To reap the honours of the race, The merit of their speed ; And bind with laurel wreath the manly brows Of him the mighty King of Syracuse, Delighting in the victor’s steed. Far sounds his glory through the winding coast Of Lydia, where his wand’ring host From Elis, Pelops led to new abodes ; There prosper’d in his late found reign, Loved by the ruler of the main; When at the banquet of the gods, In the pure laver of the Fates again, Clotho, the youth to life renew’d, With potent charm and mystic strain, When by his cruel father slain, With ivory shoulder bright endow’d. Of fables with a fond surprise, When shaded o’er with fair disguise The wand’ring mind detain; Deluded by the kind deceit, We joy more in the skilful cheat, Than in truth’s faithful strain. But chief to verse these wond’rous powers belong, Such grace has Heaven bestow’d on song; Blest parent! from whose loins immortal joys, To mitigate our pain below, Soft’ning the anguish of our woe, Are sprung, the children of its voice: Song can o’er unbelief itself prevail, The virtue of its magic art, Can make the most amazing tale, With shafts of eloquence assail, Victorious, the yielding heart : But time on never-ceasing wings Experienced wisdom slowly brings, And teaches mortal race Not to blaspheme the Holy One, | That deathless fills the heavenly throne. Inhabiting eternal space. Therefore, O son of Tantalus, will I In other guise thy wond’rous tale unfold, And juster to the Rulers of the sky, With lips more hallow’d than the bards of old. For when thy sire the gods above, To share the kind return of love, Invited from their native bowers, To his own loved Sipylian towers, The trident power, by fierce desire Subdued, on golden steeds of fire, Thee bore aloft to Jove on high; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Where since young Ganymede, sweet Phrygian boy, Succeeded to the ministry of joy, And nectar banquet of the sky. But when no more on earth thy form was seen, Conspicuous in the walks of men, Nor yet to soothe thy mother’s longing sight, The searching train sent to explore Thy lurking-place, could thee restore, The weeping fair’s supreme delight : Then Envy’s forked tongue began t’ infest And wound thy sire’s untainted fame, That he to each etherial guest Had served thee up a horrid feast, Subdued by force of all-devouring flame ; But, the blest Powers of heav’n t’ accuse, Far be it from the holy Muse, Of such a feast impure ; Vengeance protracted for a time, Still overtakes the sland’rer’s crime; At Heaven’s slow appointed hour. Yet certain, if the Power who wide surveys, From his watch-tower, the earth and seas, Fer dignified the perishable race ; Him, Tantalus, they raised on high, Him, the chief fav’rite of the sky, Exalted to sublimest grace. But his proud heart was lifted up and vain, Swell’d with his envied happiness, Weak and frail his mortal brain, The lot superior to sustain : He fell degraded from his bliss. For on his head th’ Almighty Sire, Potent in his kindled ire, Hung a rock’s monstrous weight : Too feeble to remove the load, Fix’d by the sanction of the god, He wander’d erring from delight. The watchful synod of the skies decreed His wasted heart a prey to endless woes, Condemn’d a weary pilgrimage to lead, On earth secure, a stranger to repose. Because, by mad ambition driven, He robb’d the sacred stores of heaven : Th’ ambrosial vintage of the skies Became the daring spoiler’s prize, And brought to sons of mortal earth The banquet of celestial birth, With endless blessings fraught, And to his impious rev’lers pour’d the wine, Whose precious sweets make blest the powers divine Gift of the rich immortal draught. Foolish the man who hopes his crimes may lie Unseen by the supreme all-piercing eye ; He, high enthroned above all heaven’s height The works of men with broad survey, And as in the blazing flame of day, Beholds the secret deeds of night. 487 Therefore his son th’ immortals back again Sent to these death-obnoxious abodes, To taste his share of human pain, Exiled from the celestial reign, And sweet communion of the gods. But when the fleecy down began To clothe his chin, and promise man ; The shafts of young desire, And love of the fair fémale kind, Inflamed the youthful hero’s mind, And set his amorous soul on fire. Won by fair Hippodamia’s lovely eyes The Pisan tyrant’s blooming prize, High in his hopes he purposed to obtain ; O’ercome her savage sire in arms, The price of her celestial charms : For this the Ruler of the main Invoking in the dreary solitude, And secret season of the night ; Oft, on the margin of the flood Alone, the raging lover stood, Till to his long-desiring sight, From below the sounding deeps, His scaly herds where Proteus keeps, The fav’rite youth to please, Dividing swift the hoary stream, Refulgent on his golden team, Appear’d the trident-scepter’d King of Seas, To whom the youth: “If e’er with fond delight, The gifts of Venus could thy soul inspire, Restrain fell Oenemaus’ spear in fight ; And me, who dare advent’rous to aspire, Me grant, propitious, to succeed, Enduing with unrivall’d speed ' The flying car, decreed to gain The laurel wreath, on Elis’ plain, Victorious o’er the father’s power ; Who, dire, so many hapless lovers slain, Does still a maid the wondrous fair detain, Protractive of the sweet connubial hour. Danger demands a soul secure of dread, Equal to the daring deed ! Since, then, th’ immutable decrees of Fate, Have fix’d, by their vicegerent, Death, The limits of each mortal breath, Doom’d to the urn, or soon or late: What mind resolved and brave would sleep away His life, when glory warms the blood, Only +? enjoy some dull delay, Inactive to his dying day, Not aiming at the smallest good ? But the blooming maid inspires My breast to far sublimer fires, To raise my glory to the skies ; Gracious, O saving Power, give ear, Indulgent to my vow sincere, Prosp’ring the mighty enterprise.” 488 So pray’d the boy: nor fell his words in vain, Unheeded by the ruler of the main ; A golden car, earth’s shaking Power bestow’d, And to the glittering axle join’d Unrivall’d steeds, fleet as the wind. Glad of the present of the god, The ardent youth demands the promised fight ; In dust the haughty parent laid, Neptune fulfils the youth’s delight, And wings his chariot’s rapid flight, To win the sweet celestial maid. She with six sons, a fair increase, Crown’d the hero’s warm embrace, Whom virtuous love inspired ; Upright to walk in virtue’s ways, The surest path to noblest praise, The noblest praise the youth acquired. Now by Alpheus’ stream, meand’ring fair, Whose humid train wide spreads the Pisan plains ; A sepulchre, sublimely rear’d in air, All, of the mighty man that was, contains. There frequent in the holy shade, The vows of stranger chiefs are paid, And on the sacred altar lies The victim, smoking to the skies, When heroes, at the solemn shrine, Invoke the Powers with rites divine, From every distant soil, And drive about the consecrated mound The sounding car, or on the listed ground Urge the fleet racers, or the wrestlers toil. Happy the man whom fav’ring Fate allows The wreaths to Pisa to surround his brows ; All wedded to delight, lis after days In calm and even tenor run, The noble dower of conquest won, Such conscious pleasure flows from praise. Thee, Muse, great Hiero’s virtue to prolong, It fits, and to resound his name: Exalting o’er the vulgar throng, In thy sweet Eolian song, His garland of Olympian fame. Nor shalt thou, O my Muse! e’er find A more sublime or worthier mind, To better fortunes born : On whom the gracious love of God, The regal power has kind bestow’d, And arts of sway, that power t’ adorn. Still may thy God, O potent King! employ His sacred ministry of joy, Solicitous with tutelary care, To guard from the attacks of fate Thy blessings lasting as they’re great, The pious poet’s constant prayer. Then to the mighty bounty of the sky, The Muse shal] add a sweeter lay, With wing sublime when she shall fly, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Where Cronius rears his cliffs on high, Smote with the burning shafts of day; If the Muse’s quiver’d god Pave for song the even road, With sacred rapture warm, A further flight aloft in air Elanced shall wing my tuneful spear More vigorous from the Muse’s arm. To many heights the daring climber springs, Ere he the highest top of power shall gain ; Chief seated there the majesty of kings ; The rest at different steps below remain: Exalted to that wondrous height, T’ extend the prospect of delight, May’st thou, O Hiero! live content, On the top of all ascent. To thee, by bounteous fates, be given T’ inhabit still thy lofty heaven ; To me, in arts of peace, Still to converse with the fair victor host, For graceful song, an honourable boast, Conspicuous through the realms of Greece. = ~=2= PINDAR’S OLYMPIA. ODE II O sov’rEIGN hymns! that powerful reign In the harp, your sweet domain, Whom will ye choose to raise ; What god shall now the verse resound ; What chief, for godlike deed renown’d, Exalt to loftiest praise ? Pisa is Jove’s: Jove’s conqu’ring son First the Olympic race ordain’d : The first fair fruits of glory won The haughty tyrant’s rage restrain’d. He first the wond’rous game bestow’d When breathing from Augean toils, He consecrates the dreadful spoils, An offering to his father-god. Thereon, his virtues to approve, And imitate the seed of Jove, Th’ Olympic laurel claims, Whose swift-wheel’d car has borne away The rapid honours of the day, Foremost among the victor names. Therefore for Theron praise awaits, For him the lyre awakes the strain, The stranger welcomed at his gates With hospitable love humane. Fix’d on the councils of his breast, As on the columns lofty height Remains secure the building’s weight, The structure of his realm may rest. Of a fair stem, himself a fairer flower, Who soon transplanted from their native soil, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Wander’d many climates o’er, Till after long and various toil, (On the fair river’s destined bank they found Their sacred seat, and heaven-chose ground : ‘Where stood delightful to the eye The fruitful beauteous Sicily, And could a numerous issue boast, That spread their lustre round, and flourish’d o’er the coast. The following years all took their silver flight, With pleasure wing’d and soft delight, And every year that flew in peace, Brought to their native virtues, store Of wealth and power, a new increase, Fate still confirm’d the sum, and bounteous added more. But son of Rhe’ and Saturn old, Who dost thy sacred throne uphold On high Olympus’ hill ; Whose rule the Olympic race obeys, Who guid’st Alpheus’ winding maze, In hymns delightful still ; Grant, gracious to the godlike race, Their children’s children to sustain, Peaceful through time’s ne’er-ending space, . The sceptre and paternal reign. For Time, the aged sire of all, The deed impatient of delay, Which the swift hour has wing’d away, Just or unjust, can ne’er recall. But when calmer days succeed, Of fair event, and lovely deed, Our lot serene at last ; The memory of darker hours, When heaven severe and angry lowers, Forgotten lies and past, Thus mild, and lenient of his frown, When Jove regards his adverse fate, And sends his chosen blessings down, To cheer below our mortal state : Then former evils, odious brood, Before the heaven-born blessings fly, Or trodden down, subjected lie, Soon vanquish’d by the victor-good. With thy fair daughters, Cadmus ! best agrees The Muse’s song ; who, after many woes At last on golden thrones of ease, Enjoy an undisturb’d repose. No more they think of Cadmus, mournful swain! Succeeding joys dispel his former pain. And Semele, of rosy hue, Whom the emoracing Thund’rer slew, Exalted now to heaven’s abodes, Herself a goddess blythe, dwells with immortal gods: Bath’d in the ambrosial odours of the sky, Her long dishevell’d tresses fly : 489 Her, Minerva still approves ; She is her prime and darling joy: Her, heaven’s Lord supremely loves ; As does his rosy son, the ivy-crowned boy. Thou, Ino, too, in pearly cells, Where Nereus’ sea-green daughter dwells, Enjoy’st a lot divine : No wore of suff’ring mortal strain, An azure goddess of the main, Eternal rest is thine. Lost in a maze, blind feeble man, Knows not the hour he sure foresees, Nor with the eyes of nature can Pierce through the hidden, deep decrees ; Nor sees he if his radiant day, That in meridian splendour glows, Shall gild his ev’ning’s quiet close, Soft smiling with a farewell ray. As when the ocean’s refluent tides, Within his hollow womb subsides, Is heard to sound no more ; Till rousing all its rage again, Flood roll’d on flood it pours amain, And sweeps the sandy shore : So Fortune, mighty queen of life, Works up proud man, her destined slave, Of good and ill the stormy strife, The sport of her alternate wave ; Now mounted to the height of bliss, He seems to mingle with the sky ; Now looking down with giddy eye, Sees the retreating waters fly, And trembles at the deep abyss. As, by experience led, the searching mind Revolves the records of still-changing fate, Such dire reverses shall he find, Oft mark the fortunes of the great! Now, bounteous gods, with blessings all divine, Exalt on high the sceptred:- line, Now the bright scene of laurell’d years, At once, quick-shifting, disappears : And in their radiant room succeeds A dismal train of ills, and tyrannous misdeeds, Since the curst hour the fateful son Plunged in the guilt he sought to shun, And saw beneath his hasty rage The hoary king, heaven’s victim, bleed; Deaf to a father’s pleading age. His erring hands fulfill’d what guilty fate decreed. Erynnis, dreadful fury! saw The breach of nature’s holiest law, She mounts her hooked car Through Phocis’ death-devoted ground She flew, and gave the nations round To the wide waste of war :— By mutual hands the brothers died, Furious on mutual wounds they run ; 3R 490 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Sons, fathers, swell the sanguine tide ; Fate drove the purple deluge on. Thus perish’d all the fated brood, Thus Eris wrought her dreadful will; When sated vengeance had its fill, Thersander closed the scene of blood. He, sprung from beauteous Argea, shone, The glory of Adrastrus’ throne, When fierce in youthful fire, He raged around the Theban wall, And saw the sevenfold city fall A victim to his sire. From him, as from a second root, Wide spreading to the lofty skies, The sons of martial glory shoot, And clust’ring chiefs on chiefs arise. There in the topmost boughs display’d, Great Theron sits with lustre crown’d, And verdant honour bloom around, While nations rest beneath his shade. Awake the lyre! Theron demands the lays, Yet all too low! Call forth a nobler strain! Decent is ev’n the excess of praise: For Theron strike the sounding lyre again, Olympia’s flowing wreath he singly wears ; The Isthmian palm his brother shares. Delphi resounds the kindred name, The youths contend alike for fame, Fair rivals in the glorious chase, When twelve times darting round; they flew the giddy space. Thrice blest ! for whom the Graces twine Fame’s brightest plume, the wreath divine : Lost to remembrance, former woes No more reflection’s sting employ ; With triumph all the bosom glows, Pour’d through the expanding heart, the impetuous tide of joy. Riches, that singly are possest, Vain pomp of life! aspecious waste, But feed luxurious pride: Yet when with sacred virtues crown’d, Wealth deals its liberal treasures round, *Tis nobly dignified. To modest worth, to honour’s bands, With conscious warmth he large imparts ; And in his presence smiling stands Fair Science, and her handmaid, Arts. As in the pure serene of night, Throned in its sphere, a beauteous star Sheds its blest influence from afar, At once beneficent and bright. But hear, ye wealthy, hear, ye great, T sg the fix’d decrees of fate, What after death remains, Prepared for the unfeeling kind Of cruel unrelenting mind, A doom of endless pains ! The crimes that stain’d this living light, Beneath the holy eye of Jove, Meets in the regions drear of night, The vengeance but delay’d above. There the pale sinner, drear, aghast Impartial, righteous, and severe, Unawed by power, unmoved by prayer, Eternal justice dooms at last. Far otherwise, the souls whom virtue guides Enjoy a calm repose of sacred rest, Nor light nor shade their time divides, With one eternal sunshine blest. Emancipated from the cares of life, No more they urge the mortal strife : No more, with still-revolving toil, They vex a hard, ungrateful soil ; Nor plough the surges of the main, Exchanging holy quiet for false, deceitful gain. But to these sacred seats preferr’d, With gods they lived, as gods revered, And tears are wiped from every eye ; While banish’d from the happy reign, The guilty souls in darkness lie, And weary out the frightful ministers of pain. So heaven decrees. The good and just, Who, true to life’s important trust, Have well sustain’d the field ; Whose souls, undaunted, undismay’d, Nor flattering pleasure could persuade, Nor passions taught to yield ; These through the mortal changes past, Still listening to the heavenly lore, Find this sublime reward at last, The trial of obedience o’er. Then bursting from the bonds of clay, Triumphant tread the heaven-paved road That leads to Saturn’s high abode, And Jove himself directs the way. There, where the blest reside at ease, Bland zephyrs breathe the sea-born breeze, O’er all the happy isle: Unnumber’d sweets the air perfume, *Tis all around one golden bloom, All one celestial smile. By living streams fair trees ascend, Whose roots the humid waters lave ; The boughs with radiant fruitage bend, Rich produce of the fruitful wave. Thus sporting in celestial bowers, The sons of the immortal morn, Their heads and rosy hands adorn, With garlands of unfading flowers. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 491 Their Rhadamanth, who great assessor reigns To Rheea’s son, by still unchanging right, Awarding all. To vice, eternal chains ; To virtue opes the gates of light. Kha! who high in heaven’s sublime abodes Sits throned, the mother of the gods. Cadmus to this immortal choir Was led; and Peleus’ noble sire! And glorious son! since Thetis’ love Subdued, with prayer, the yielding mind of Jove. Who Troy laid prostrate on the plain, His country’s pillar, Hector, slain; By whom unhappy Cycnus bled ; By whom the Ethiopian boy, That sprung from Neptune’s godlike bed, The aged Tithon’s, and Aurora’s highest joy. What grand ideas crowd my brain! What images! a lofty train In beauteous order spring: As the keen store of feather’d fates Within the braided quiver waits, Impatient for the wing : See, see, they mount! the sacred few Endued with piercing flight, Alone through darling fields pursue The aerial regions bright. This nature gives, her chiefest boast ; But when the bright ideas fly, Far soaring from the vulgar eye, To vulgar eyes are lost. Where nature sows her genial seeds, A liberal harvest straight succeeds, Fair in the human soil ; While art, with hard laborious pains, Creeps on unseen, nor mucii attains, By slow progressive toil. Resembling this, the feeble crow, Amid the vulgar winged crowd, Hides in the darkening copse below, Vain, strutting, garrulous, and loud: While genius mounts the ethereal height, As the imperial bird of Jove On sounding pinions soars above, And dares the majesty of light. Then fit an arrow to the tuneful string, O thou, my genius! warm with sacred flame ; Fly swift, ethereal shaft! and wing The godlike Theron unto fame. I solemn swear, and holy truth attest, That‘sole inspires the tuneful breast, That, never since the immortal sun His radiant journey first begun, To none the gods did e’er impart A more exalted mind, or wide-diffusive heart. Fly, Envy, hence, that durst invade Such glories, with injurious shade ; Still, with superior lustre bright, His virtues shine, in number more Than are the radiant fires of night, Or sands that spread along the sea-surrounding shore. TO H. H. IN THE ASSEMBLY. (EDINBURGH. | WHILE crown’d with radiant charms divine, Unnumber’d beauties round thee shine, When Erskine leads her happy man, And Johnstoun shakes the fluttering fan ; When beauteous Pringle smiles confest, And gently heaves her swelling breast, Her raptured partner still at gaze, Pursuing through each winding maze ; Say, youth, and canst thou keep secure Thy heart from conquering beauty’s power P Or hast thou not, how soon! betray’d The too-believing country maid ? Whose young and inexperienced years From thee no evil purpose fears ; But yielding to love’s gentle sway, Knows not that lovers can betray? How shall she curse deceiving men? How shall she e’er believe again ? For me, my happier lot decrees The joys of love that constant please ; A warm, benign, and gentle flame, That. clearly burns, and still the same ; Unlike those fires that fools betray, That fiercely burn, but swift decay, Which warring passions hourly raise, A shorf and momentary blaze. My Hume, my beauteous Hume constrains My heart in voluntary chains ; Well pleased for her my voice I raise, For daily joys claim daily praise. Can I forsake the fair, complete In all that’s soft and all that’s sweet, When heaven has in her form combined The scattered graces of her kind ? Has she not all the charms that lie In Gordon’s blush and Lockhart’s eye ; The down of lovely Haya’s hair, Kinlochia’s shape or Cockburn’s air ? Can time to love a period bring Of charms forever in their spring ? °Tis death alone the lover frees, Who loves so long as she can please. (1) Henry Home, Lord'Kames, 492 INTERVIEW OF GLAUCUS AND DIOMED BETWEEN THE GRECIAN AND TROJAN ARMIES. Homer’s Iniap, Book VI. Now paused the battle (godlike Hector gone), When daring Glaucus and great Tydeus’ son Between the armies met. The chiefs from far Observed each other, and had marked for war ; Near as they drew, ‘Tydides thus began : “ What art thou, boldest of the race of man P Our eyes, till now, that aspect ne’er beheld, Where fame is reaped amid the embattled field ; Yet far before the troops thou darest appear, And meet a lance the fiercest heroes fear. Unhappy they, and born of luckless sires, Who tenpt our fury, when Minerva fires ! But if from heaven celestial thou descend, Know with immortals we no more contend. Not long Lycurgus viewed the golden light, That daring man, who mixed with gods in fight ; Bacchus, and Bacchus’ votaries, he drove With brandish’d steel from Nyssa’s sacred grove, Their consecrated spears lay scatter’d round, With curling vines and twisted ivy bound ; While Bacchus headlong sought the briny flood, And Thetis, armed, received the trembling god. Nor failed the crime the immortals’ wrath to move (The immortals blest with endless ease above), Deprived of sight by their avenging doom, Cheerless he breathed, and wander’d in the gloom; Then sunk unpitied to the dire abode, A wretch accursed, and hated by the gods! I brave not heaven. But if the fruits of earth Sustain thy life, and human be thy birth; Bold as thou art, too prodigal of breath, Approach, and enter the dark gates of death.” “ What, or from whence [ am, or who my sire,” (Replied the chief), “can Tydeus’ son inquire ? Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies, They fall successive, and successive rise : So generations in their course decay, So flourish these, when those sre past away. But if thou still persist to search my birth, Then hear a tale that fills the spacious earth.” He spoke, and transport filled Tydides’ heart ; In earth the generous warrior fixed his dart, Then friendly thus the Lycian prince address’d ; “ Welcome, my brave hereditary guest ! Thus ever let us meet, with kind embrace, Nor stain the sacred friendship of our race. Know, chief, our grandsires have been friends of old, (neus the strong, Bellerophon the bold; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Our ancient seat his honour’d presence graced, Where twenty days in genial rites he pass’d The parting heroes mutual presents left ; A golden goblet was my grandsire’s gift ; CEneus a belt of matchless work bestow’d, That rich with Tyrian dye refulgent glow’d. (This from his pledge I learned, which, safely stored Among my treasures, still adorns my board ; For Tydeus left me young, when Thebes’s wall Beheld the sons of Greece untimely fall). Mindful of this, in friendship let us join, If heaven our steps to foreign lands incline, My guest in Argos thou, and I in Lycia thine. Enough of Trojans to this lance shall yield, In the full harvest of yon ample field ; Enough of Greeks shall dye thy spear with gore, But thou and Diomed be foes no more. Now change we arms, and prove to either host We guard the friendship of the line we boast.” Thus having said, the gallant chiefs alight, Their hands they join, their mutual faith they plight ; Brave Glaucus then each narrow thought resign’d, Jove warmed his bosom, and enlarged his mind; For Diomed’s brass arms, of mean device, For which nine oxen paid (a vulgar price), He gave his own, of gold divinely wrought, A hundred beeves the shining purchase bought. INTERVIEW OF MISS DALRYMPLE AND MISS SUTTIE BETWEEN THE PILLARS AT THE EDINBURGH ASSEMBLY. IN IMITATION OF HOMER’S ILIAD, BOOK V1! Now paused the dance (retired fair Wemyss’s beauty), Godlike Dalrymple, and divine Miss Suttie, Between the pillars met. The nymphs from far Observed each other and had marked for war. Near as they drew, Miss Suttie thus began: “What art thou, bolder than the boldest man? Our eyes, till now, ne’er saw that form advance, Where fame is reaped amid the embattled dance ; Yet far before the rest thou dar’st appear, And meet an eye the brightest beauties fear. When Venus crowns me with superior ray, All come ill-fated here, to fade away ; But if a goddess in that shape descend, Submiss I yield, nor will with heaven contend, Lest poor unhappy Gordon’s fate be mine, Who braved the goddesses of number nine ; Fool to divide the myrtle from the vine. (1) [In Mr, Laing’s MS. volume. First printed in Faterson’s ‘|! edition of Hamilton’s Poems. } : POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Nor failed the crime the immortals’ wrath to move, Who, sportful in the Mint, iaugh, dance, and love. Ah! wretched youth, what scoffs are thine to come, For Maitland fixed the irrevocable doom ! Condemn’d in the dull scommer’s chair to sit, And thresh for life an empty sheaf of wit ; Egyptian darkness in thy works shall reign, Without one inch of Goshen in thy brain ; Dull, genuine night, without one straggling spark, But thoughts meet thouglits, and jostle in the dark. In foggy weather, as two Dutchmen stray, Thy rhymes shall shock, or wander from their way. Such was his fate. I war not with the skies; But if of earth, and mortal be those eyes— If woman, as a woman ought to be, Thou deal’st in scandal, and has sipt Bohea— If Atalantis thou hast learned by rote," Or minuet steps, new fashiou’d by Lamott ; Whoe’er thou art—prude be’st thou or coquette— Approach, this moment shall decide thy fate.” “ What, or from whence I am, or whom my sire,” (Replied the chief), “can Suttie’s tongue inquire ? Like leaves on trees, frail beauty’s race is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground, Extoll’d in song, or toasted deep in wine, A while, like lovely Jeanie Stewart, shine ; But swift decays the perishable grace, And Lady Orbieston scarce knows the face. Another year does other toasts restore, And Tibby charms, when Jeanie charms no more. Then hear my wondrous birth, a tale revered, Far as John Jolly’s sounding bells are heard.” Graceful the beauteous warrior spoke, and ceased ; A generous joy sprung warm in Suttie’s breast ; Keen burst no more the lightnings from her eye, And on her lips the angry accents die. With air benign she furl’d her threatening fan, And smiled a smile she never smiled on man; Then thus the Dalmahoian queen address’d— “ Welcome, my fair hereditary guest ! Know, beauty (oft I have the tale been told), Our mothers were familiar friends of old; In the same childish games their days they led, And at one dancing-school they both were bred. By mutual gifts, alternate, they exprest The sacred friendships of each glowing breast. T ately found, as I review’d my stock, My mother’s present was a shuttlecock, That from my infant arm along the skies On snowy pinions oft was seen to rise; Thine gave a patcb-box, when constrain’d to part, Studded with gold, and shaped into a heart. If to East Lothian fate thy steps shall draw, Gladly ’ll meet thee at. North-Berwick-Law ; (1) Mrs. Manley’s scandalous and indecent book, formerly so popular with women of almost every stamp. (See Pope's “ Rape ef the Lock.”)—PATEBSON, 493 If mine to stray to Dalmahoia’s bowers, You'll from thy windows point me Hatton’s towers. Enough of beaux to either’s charms shall yield, In the full harvest of this ample field; Longas those eyes shall glance, those cheeks shall glow, Let not Dalrymple be Miss Suttie’s foe ; Let it around to either host be seen, We fight for fame and glory, not for spleen , Exchange some gift on this important day, Take thou my bard, and give me Rothemay.” She said. Dalrymple’s generous breast was fired. Joyful she sprung, and gave the boon desired. All gazed with wonder, who the deed survey’d, For Venus of her senses robb’d the maid. For Suttie’s bard, of mean and poor device, For whom five groats was much too dear a price, She gave her Rothemay, a gallant dear, Who weigh’d full fifteen thousand merks a-year. THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. FROM THE SIXTH ILIAD OF HOMER, TRANSLATED LITERALLY. Beginning verse 407. Aaiudre, POice ce rd cov pévos. “O parine thou! to thy own strength a prey, Nor pity moves thee for thy infant son, Nor miserable me, a widow soon ! For, rushing on thy single might, at once The Greeks will overwhelm thee. Better far T had been wrapt in earth, than live, of thee Forlorn, and desolate! if thou must die, What further comfort then for me remains, What solace, but in tears? No father mine, Nor mine no venerable mother’s care. Noble Achilles’ hand my father slew, And spread destruction through Cilicia’s town, Where many people dwelt, high-gated Thebes. He slew Action, but despoil’d him not, For inly in his mind he fear’d the gods; But burnt his body with his polish’d arms, And o’er him rear’d a mound; the mountain nymphs, The daughters fair of Egis-bearing Jove, Planted with elms around the sacred place. Seven brothers flourisl’d in my father’s house ; All in one day descended to the shades, All slain by great Achilles, swift of foot, Midst their white sheep, and heifers flexile-hoofed: My motlier, woody Hypoplacia’s queen, ‘Brought hither, number’d in the victor’s spoils ; Till loosed from bands, for gifts of mighty price. By chase-delighting Dian’s dart she fell, Smote in my father’s house. But Hector, thou Thou art my sire, my hoary mother thou, 494 My brother thou, thou husband of my youth! Ah! pity, Hector, then; and in this tower With us remain, nor render by thy fall Him a sad orphan, me a widow’d wife. Here at this fig-tree station, where the town Is easiest of ascent, and low the walls, Here thrice the bravest of the foes have tried To pass; each Ajax, brave Idomeneus, The Atride too, and Tydeus’ warlike son; Whether some seer, in divination skill’d, Prompted the attempt, or their own valour dared To execute a deed their wisdom plann’d.” To whom plume-nodding Hector thus replied : “These, woman, are my care; but much I fear The Trojan youth, and long-gown’d Trojan dames, Tf, coward-like, I shun afar the fight. Not so my courage bids ; for I have learnt Still to be brave, and foremost to defend My father’s mighty glories, and my own. For well I know, and in my mind foresee, A day will come, when sacred Ilion sinks, Old Priam perishes, the people too Of Priam aspen-spear’d. Yet not so much The woes the Trojans yet in after-times Must undergo, not Hecuba herself, Nor princely Priam, nor my brothers dear, Who, numerous and brave, fall’n in dust, Below the boasting foe, distract my soul, As thou. Then when some brazen-coated Greek, In the sad day of thy distress, shall drag Thee weeping ; or in Argos, breathing sad, To some imperious mistress handmaid, thou Shalt weave the web, or fetch the water’s weight From Messeis or Hyperia’s springs, against Thy will, but hard necessity compels ; Then shall he say, who sees thee sunk in tears, ‘Lo, Hector’s wife! who far the chief of all The Trejan steed-subduing rage excell’d Who fought at Ilion’? Thus shall they say. But thee new pangs shall seize ; on thee shall come Desire of such a husband, to repel The evil hour: but may I low beneath The monumental earth be laid to rest, Nor thy soft sorrows, nor the melting voice Of thy captivity, e’er reach my ear.” So saying, the illustrious Hector stretch’d His hands to reach his child; the child averse, In the soft bosom of the fair-zoned nurse, Weeping, fell back, abhorrent, from his sire Of warlike aspect: for he fear’d the shine Of armour, and the horse-hair horrid crest That nodded dreadful on the helmet’s top, The loving father smiled, the mother smiled 3 Straight from his head the illustrious Hector took His helm, and placed it blazing on the ground; Then fondled in his arms, his much-loved son He took: thus praying Jove and all the gods ; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. “Jove, and ye other goas, grant this my son, Grant he may too become, as I am now, The grace of Troy, the same in martial strength, And rule his Ilion with a monarch’s sway ; That: men may say, when he returns from fight, ‘This youth transcends his sire.’ Then may he beat The bloody spoils aloft of hostile chiefs In battle slain, and joy his mother’s heart.” He said: and to his much-loved spouse resign’d His child; she on her fragrant bosom lull’d, Smiling through tears, received him: at the sight, Compassion touch’d her husband’s heart; her check With gentle blandishment he stroked, and spoke ; *O best beloved! oh, sadden not thy heart With grief beyond due bounds. I trust no hand Shall send me down to shades obscure, before My day of doom decreed ; for well I ween No man of mortal men escapes from death, Fearful or bold: whoe’er is born must die. But thou returning to thy home, attend The spindle, and the loom, thy peaceful cares, And call thy duteous maidens round to share Their tasks by thee assign’d; for war belongs To men, and chief to me, of Ilion’s sons.” This said, illustrious Hector seized his helm, And to her home return’d his much-loved spouse, Oft looking back, and shedding tears profuse. Then sudden at the lofty deme arrived, With chambers fair adorn’d, where Hector dwelt, The godlike Hector! There again she wept! In his own house the living Hector wept ; For now foreboding in their fears, no more They hoped to meet him with returning step From battle, ’scaped the rage and force of Greece. TO A SWALLOW. FROM ANACREON—ODE TWELFTH. Maticiovs bird! what punishment Due to thy crimes can love invent ? Or clip thy wings, or cut thy tongue, And spoil thy flight and future song ? That thus, unseasonable guest ! Thou darest disturb a lover’s rest, And tear the maid profuse of charms, My fair Maria, from my arms. —e —_— TO A DOVE. FROM ANACREON—ODE NINTH. Say, beauteous dove, where dost thou fly ? To what new quarter of the sky POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 495 Dost thou with silken plumes repair, To scent with sweets the ambient air? Stav, gentle bird, nor thou refuse To bear along a lover’s vows. O tell the maid, of me beloved, O tell how constant I have proved ; How she to me all nymphs excell’d, The first my eyes with joy beheld ; And, since she treats me with disdain, The first my eyes beheld with pain. Yet, whether to my wishes kind, She hear my prayer with gracions mind, Or, unrelenting of her will, Her hot displeasure kindle still, I, in her beauty’s chains bound fast, Shall view her with indifference last. Fly swift, my dove, and swift return, With answer back to those that mourn ; O, in thy bill bring soft and calm A branch of silver-flowering palm! But why should I thy flight delay ? Go fleet, my herald, speed away. THE NINETEENTH ODE OF ANACREON. Fair Niobe old times survey’d, In Phrygian hills a marble maid. Changed, Pandion! to the swallow’s hue, On swallow’s wings thy daughter flew. But I a looking-glass would be, That thou might’st see thyself in me. No; I would be a morning gown, That so my dear might put me on. But I a silver stream would flow, To wash thy skin, as pure as snow. I would myself in ointment pour, To bathe thee with the fragrant shower. But I would be thy tucker made, Thy lovely swelling bosom’s shade. I would a diamond necklace deck The comely rising of thy neck. I would thy slender feet enclose, To tread on me, transform’d to shoes. THE TWENTY-FIRST ODE OF ANACREON. Fit, with Bacchus’ blessing’s fraught, Ye virgins, fill a mighty draught ; Tong since dried up by heat, f faint, I scarcely breathe, and feverish pant. O, with these fresher flowers, renew The fading garland on my brow, For oh! my forehead’s raging heat Has rifled all their graces sweet ; The rage of thirst I yet can quell, The rage of heat I can repel ; But love, thy heat, which burns my soul, What draughts can quench! what shades can cool, THE TWENTY-SECOND ODE OF ANACREON. Come sit beneath this shade with me, My lovely maid! how fair the tree! Its tender branches wide prevail, Obedient to each breathing gale ; Summer’s loom industrious weaves In mazy veins the silken leaves, Soft as the milky veins I view, O’er thy fair breast, meandering blue ; Hard by a fount, with murmuring noise, Runs a sweet persuasive voice ; What lover—say, my lovely maid !— So foolish as to pass this shade ? LOVE TURNED TO DESPAIR. Tis past! the pangs of love are past, T love, 1 love no more ; Yet who would think I am at last More wretched than before ? How blest, when first my heart was freed From love’s tormenting care, Tf cold indifference did succeed, Instead of fierce despair ! But, ah! how ill is he released, Though love a tyrant reigns, When the successor in his breast Redoubles all his pains ! In vain attempts the woeful wight That would despair remove ; Its little finger has more weight Than all the loins of love. Thus the poor wretch that left his dome, With spirit foul accurst, Found seven, returning late at home, More dreadful than the first. Well hoped I once that constancy Might soften rigour’s frown, Would from the chains of hate set free, And pay my ransom down ; But, ah! the judge is too severe, I sink beneath his ire; The sentence is gone forth to bear Despair’s eternal fire. The hopes of sinners, in the day Of grace, their fears abate , But every hope flies far away, When mercy shut’s her gate, The smallest alms could oft suffice Love’s hunger to assuage ; Despair, the worm that never dies, Still gnaws with ceaseless rage. THE RHONE AND THE AAR. Two rivers in famed Gallia’s bounds are known, The gentle Aar and the rapid Rhone ; Through pleasing banks, where love-sick shepherds dream, Mild Aar softly steals her lingering stream— Her wave so still, the exploring eye deceives, That sees not if it comes, or if it leaves— With silver graces ever dimpled o’er, Reflects each flower, and smiles on every shore ; Each youth with joy the enchanting scene surveys, And thinks for him the amorous stream delays ; While the sly nymph above unseen to flow, To her own purpose true, steals calm below. More rapid rolls the Rhone, tumultuous flood, All raging, unwithheld and unwithstood ; In vain or fertile fields invite its stay, Tn vain or roughest rocks oppose its way ; It bounds o’er all, and, insolent of force, Still hurries headlong on, a downward course. Sometimes, ’tis true, we snatch with painful sight, Across the working foam a moment’s light ; The momentary vision snatch’d again, The troubled river boils and froths amain. To whieh of these, alas, shall I confide ? Say, shall 1 plunge in Rhone’s impetuous tide, And by the various eddies roll’d about, Just as the whirlpools guide, suck’d in, cast out ? Till, through a thousand giddy circles toss’d, In the broad ocean’s boundless floods I’m lost? Or, tell me, friend—less venturous, shall I lave My glowing limbs in Aar’s gentle wave ? In whose fair bosom beauteous prospects rise, The earth in verdure, and in smiles the skies. With thouglitless rapture every charm explore, Heaved by no breeze, or wafted to no shore ; Till, teusting credulous to the false serene, I sink to ruin in the pleasing scene. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. FIRST SCENE OF THE PHILOCTETES OF SOPHOCLES. (ULYSSES SPEAKS.) Sow of Achilles! brave Neoptolemus, You tread the coast, of seaesurrounded Lemnos, Where never mortal yet his dwelling rear’d. Here, in obedience to the Grecian chiefs, I erst exposed the son of noble Pxan, Consuming with his wounds, and wasting slow In painful agonies ; wild from despair, He fill’d the camp with lamentations loud, And execrations dire. No pure libation, No holy sacrifice, could to the gods Be offer’d up: ill-omen’d sounds of woe Profaned the sacred rites. But this no more— Should he discover my return, ’twere vain The plan my wakeful industry has wove, Back to restore yet to the aid of Greece This most important chief. ’Tis thine, brave youth, To ripen into deed what I propose. Cast round thy eyes: if thou by chance mayst find The double rock, where from the winter’s cold He shrouds his limbs, or when the summer glows Amid the cool, the zephyrs gentle breath Lulls him to his repose ; fast on the left Flows a fresh fountain; if the hero sees This living light, one of the attendant train Speeds with the hour to glad my listening ears, If in that savage haunt he harbours yet, Or in some other corner of this isle ; © ‘Then farther T’ll disclose, what chief imports Our present needs, and claims our common care. KING LEAR’S SPEECH TO EDGAR. TAKING A VIEW OF MAN FROM THE SIDE OF HIS MISERIES. “Ts man no more than this? consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat nc perfume. Ha! here’s three of us are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings; come, unbutton here.—SHAKESPEARE. See where the solitary creature stands, Such as he issued out of nature’s hands, No hopes he knows, no fears, no joys, no cares, Nor pleasure’s poison, nor ambition’s snares ; But shares, from self-forged chains of life released, The forest kingdom with his fellow beast. Yes, all we see of thee is nature’s part; Thou art the creature’s self—the rest is art. POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. For thee, the skilful worm of specious hue, No shining threads of ductile radiance drew ; For thee, no sun the ripening gem refined ; No bleating innocence the fleece resign’d : The hand of luxury ne’er taught to pour, O’er thy faint limbs, the oil’s refreshing shower : His bed the flinty rock; his drink, his food, The running brook, and berries of the wood. What have we added to this plain account ? What passions ? what desires ? A huge amount! Clothed, fed, warm’d, cool’d, each by his brother’s toil, We live upon the wide creation’s spoil. Quit, monarch, quit thy vain superfluous pride; Lay all thy foreign ornaments aside : Bid art no more its spurious gifts supply : Be man, mere man; thirst, hunger, grieve, and die. VERSES TO BE PUT BENEATH MRS. C[UNINGHAME] OF C[RAIGEND]’S PICTURE. By various youths admired, by all approved, By many sought, by one sincerely loved, Chief of Edina’s fair [ flourish’d long, First in the dance, the visit, and the song ; Beauty, good-nature, in my form combined, My body ore adorned, and one my mind. When youthful years, a foe to lonely nights, Impels young hearts to Hymen’s chaste delights, I view’d the admiring train with equal eye, True to each hope, and faithful to each sigh ; The happy hours of admiration past, The hand of nuptial love was given at last ; Not to the faithful youth my charms inspired, Nor those who sought my charms, nor who admired ; He not preferr’d for merit, wit, or sense, Not chose, but suffer’d with indifference, Who neither knew to love, or be beloved, Approved me not, and just not disapproved, Nor warmth pretended, nor affection show’d ; Asked, not implored ; I yielded, not bestow’d. Without or hopes, or fears, I join’d his side, His mistress never, and but scarce his bride. No joys at home, abroad was ouly show ; T neither gain’d a friend, nor lost a foe ; For, lost alike to pleasure, love, and fame, My person he enjoys, and I his name. Yet patient still I lead my anxious life, Pleased that I’m called my formal husband’s wife. (1) The foregoing appears in the edition of 1760 without any nile. In Mr. Laing’s MS. volume, however, it is entitled as above. 497 THE YOUNGEST GRACE. A LOVE ELEGY, ADDRESSED TO A LADY WHO HAD JUST FINISHED HER FIFTEENTH YEAR. “His saltem accumulem donis et fungar inani Munere- Vira. Aneid vi. — As beauty’s queen, in her aerial hall, Sublimely seated on a golden throne, Before her high tribunal summon’d all Who or on earth, sea, air, her empire own. First came her son, her power, her darling boy Whose gentlest breath can raise the fiercest flame, Oft working mischief, though his end be joy, And though devoid of sight, yet sure of aim. With him, his youthful consort, sad no more, Psyche, enfranchised from all mortal pain, Who, every trial of obedience o’er, Enjoys the blessings of the heavenly reign. Next, as it well beseem’d, the tuneful nine, Daughters of memory, and dear to Jove, Who, as they list, the hearts of men incline To wit, to music, poetry, or love. She who with milder breath inspiring fills, Than ever zephyr knew, the heart-born sigh, Or else from nature’s pregnant source distils The tender drops that swell the love-sick eye. Or she who from her copious store affords, Whien love decrees, the faithful youth to bless, The sacred energy of melting words, In the dear hour, and season of success. Last in the train, two sisters fair appear’d, Sorrowing they seem’d, yet seem’d their sorrow sweet ; Nor ever from the ground their eyes they rear’d, Nor tripp’d, as they were wont, on snowy feet. The Cyprian goddess cast her eyes around, And gazed o’er all, with ever-new delight So bright a host was nowhere to be found : Her heart dilates, and glories in its might. But when, without their loved companion dear, Two solitary graces hand in hand Approach’d, the goddess inly ’gan to fear What might befal the youngest of the band. “Ah! whither is retired my darling joy, My youngest grace, the pride of all my reign ? First in my care, and ever in my eye, Why is she now the lag of all my train ? Ah me! some danger threats my Cyprian state, Which, goddess as I am, I can’t foresee ; Some dire disaster labours (ah, my fate !) To wrest love’s sceptre from my son and me.” She wept; not more she wept, when first her eyes Saw low in dust her Ilion’s towery pride ; Nor from her breast more frequent burst the sighs, When her loved youth, her dear Adonis, died. 3s 495 “Yet, yet,” she cried, “I will a monarch reign! In my last deed my greatness shall be seen: Ye loves, ye smiles, ye graces, all my train, Attend your mother, and obey your queen. Wisdom’s vain goddess weaves some treacherous wile, Or haughty Juno, heaven’s relentless dame; Haste! bend each bow; haste! brighten every smile, And launch from every eye the lightning’s flame.” Then had fell discord broke the golden chain That does the harmony of all uphold, And where these orbs in beauteous order reign, Brought back the anarchy of chaos old: When Cupid keen unlocks his feather’d store, When Venus burns with more than mortal fire, Mortals, immortals, all had fled before The loves, the graces, and the smiles in ire: In vain, to avert the horrors of that hour, Anxious for fate, and fearing for his sky, The sire of gods and men had tried his power, And hung his golden balances on high : Had not the eldest grace, serene and mild, Who wish’d this elemental war might cease, Sprung forward, with persuasive look, and smiled The furious mother of desires to peace. “Ah! whence this rage, vain child of empty fear ?” With accent mild thus spoke the heavenly maid ; “What words, O sovereign of hearts! severe, Have pass’d the roses of thy lips, unweigh’d ? Think not mankind forsake thy mystic law: Thy son, thy pride, thy own Cupido reigns ; Heard with respect, and seen with tender awe ; Mighty on thrones, and gentle on the plains. Rememberest not how in the blest abodes Of high Olympus an ethereal guest, Mix’d with the synod of the assembled gods, Thou shared’st the honours of the ambrosial feast ? Celestial pleasures reigning all around, Such as the powers who live at ease enjoy, The smiling bowl with life immortal crown’d, By rosy Hebe, and the Phrygian boy : Hermes, sly god! resolved thy spleen to hit, Thy spleen, but, of itself, too apt to move ; Prone to offend with oft-mistaking wit, That foe perverse to nature and to love. Much glozed he spiteful, how rebellious youth, Lost to thy fear, and recreant from thy name, False to the interest of the heart, and truth, On foreign altars kindles impious flame. Much glozed he tauntful, how to nobler aims The youth awakening from each female wile, No longer met in love’s opprobrious ‘lames, Slaves to an eye, or vassals to a smile. Now fifteen years the still-returning spring With flowers the bosom of the earth has sow’d, As oft the groves heard Philomela sing, And trees have paid the fragrant gilts they owed, POEMS OF HAMILION OF BANGOUR. Since our dear sister left the heavenly bowers : So will’d the fates, and such their high command, She should be born in high Edina’s towers, To thee far dearer than all other lands. There, clad in mortal form, she lies conceal’d, A veil more bright than mortal form e’er knew; So fair was ne’er to dreaming bard reveal’d, Nor sweeter e’er the shadowing pencil drew. Where’er the beauteous heart-compeller moves, She scatters wide perdition all around: Bless’d with celestial form, and crown’d with loves, No single breast is refractory found. Vain Pallas now the unequal conflict shuns ; Vain are the terrors of her Gorgon shield : Wit bends—but chief Apollo’s yielding sons— To thy fair doves Juno’s proud peacocks yield. No rival powers thy envied empire share ; Revolted niortals crowd again thy shrine ; Duteous to love, and every pleasing care, All hearts are hers, and all her heart is thine. So mild a sway the willing nations own; By her thou triumph’st o’er this subject ball; Whilst men (the secret of the skies unknown) The beauteous apparition Laura call.” THE CORYCIAN SWAIN. FROM GEORG. IV., LINE 116. But were I not, before the favouring gale, Making to port, and crowding all my sail, Perhaps 1 might the garden’s glories sing, The double roses of the Prstan spring ; How endive drinks thie rill, and how are seen Moist banks with celery forever green ; How, twisted in the matted herbage, lies The bellowing cucumber’s enormous size ; What flowers Narcissus late, how nature weaves The yielding texture of acanthus’ leaves ; Of ivy pale the culture next explore, And whence the lover-myrtle courts the shore. For 1 remember, where Galesus yields His humid moisture to the yellow fields, And high Oebalia’s towers o’erlook the plain, I knew in youth an old Corycian swain ; A few and barren acres were his share, Left and abandon’d to the good man’s care ; Nor these indulged the grassy lawn, to feed The fattening bullock, uor the bounding stee l, Nor gave to cattle browse, nor food to kine, Bacchus, averse, refused the mantling vine. What happy nature to his lands denied, An honest, painful industry supplied ; For, trusting pot-herbs to his bushy ground, For bees, fair candid lilies flourish’d round, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR Vervain for health, for bread he poppies plants, With these he satisfied all nature’s wants ; And late returning home from wholesome toil, Enjoy’d the frugal bounty of the soil. His mind was royal in a low estate, And dignified the meanness of his fate. He first in spring was 3een to crop the rose, In autumn first to unload the bending boughs ; For every bud the early year bestow’d, A reddening apple on the branches glow’d. Even in the midst of winter’s rigid reign, When snow and frost had whiten’d o’er the plain, When cold had split the rocks, and stripp’d the woods, And shackled up the mighty running floods, He then, anticipating summer’s hopes, The tendrils of the soft acanthus crops ; His industry awaked the lazy spring, And hasten’d on the zephyr’s loitering wing. For this with pregnant bees he chief was known To abound—the balmy harvest all his own. Successive swarms reward his faithful toil ; None press’d from richer combs the liquid spoil. He crown’d his rural orchard’s plain design With flow’ring lime-trees, and a wealth of pine. He knew, in graceful order, to dispose Large-bodied elms, transplanted into rows. Hard pear-trees flourish’d near his rustic dome, And thorns already purple with the plum ; Broad planes arose to form an ample bower, Where mirth’s gay sons refresh’d the sultry hour. But I this grateful subject must discard, The pleasing labour of some future bard. SONG. TO A LADY WHO RIDICULED THE AUTHOR'S LOVES. 1. A FEMALE friend advised a swain, Whose heart she wish’d at ease, Make love thy pleasure, not thy pain, Nor let it deeply seize. 2. Beauty, where vanities abound, No serious passion claims ; Then, till a pheenix can be found, Do not admit the flames. 3. But grieved, she finds all his replies (Since prepossess’d when young), Take all their hints from Silvia’s eyes, None from Ardelia’s tongue. 499 4, Thus, Cupid, all their ain tney miss, Who would unbend thy bow ; And each slight nymph a pheenix is, If thon wouldst have it so. MITHRIDATES. ACT I., SCENE L AFTER THE MANNER OF THE FRENCH DRAMATIC RHYME OF RACINE. XIPHARES—ARBATES. XIPHARES. *T1s true, Arbates, what all tongues relate, Rome triumphs, and my father yields to fate : He whose wide empire stretch’d from shore to shora, The mighty Mithridates is no more. Pompey, wide scattering terror and affright, Surprised his prudence in the shades of night ; Through all his camp a sudden ruin spread, And heap’d it round with mountains of the dead: On broad Euphrates’ bank the monarch lies,— His diadem is fallen the victor’s prize. Thus he whom Asia forty years beheld Still rising nobler from each well-fought field, Who bold avenged, high-raised on valour’s wings, The common cause of empire and of kings, Dies, and behind him leaves, by fortune cross’d, Two sons, alas! in mutual discords lost. ARBATES., _ How, prince! so soon does fell ambition move To break the union of fraternal love ? XIPHARES, Far, far such guilt be from Xiphares’ breast, Far such ambition, which the good detest ; Nor glory shines so tempting in my eye, Nor rate I empire at a price so high; True to the kindred honours of my name, I recognise a brother’s juster claim ; Nor further does my highest wish aspire, Than those fair kingdoms left me by my sire; The rest without regret I sce become His valour’s purchase, or the gift of Rome. ARBATES. The gift of Rome, say’st P can Pharnaces owe— Can Mithridates’ son P—— XIPHARES. Arbates, know, Tn vain Pharnaces veils himself ir art, Long since become all Roman at the hear’; 500 POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Lost to his father’s glories and his own, He longs to mount a tributary throne : Whilst I, more desperate from my father’s fate, Nourish within my breast immortal hate. But yet, not all the rage that hatred breeds, Not all the jealousies ambition feeds, Not all the glories Pontus’ realms can boast, Not these divide our wretched bosoms most. ARBATES. What nearer care Xiphares’ fear warms ? XIPHARES. Then hear astonish’d, friend! Monimia’s charms, Whom late our father honour’d with liis vows, And now Pharnaces with bold zeal pursues—— ARBATES. Monimia ? XIPHARES. I love, nor longer will conceal A flame which truth and honour bid reveal : Nor duty further binds my tongue, since here I now no rival but a brother fear. Nor is this flame the passion of a day, A sudden blaze that hastens to decay ; Long in my breast I pent the rising groan, Told it in secret to my heart alone. Oh, could I, faithful to its rage, express Its first uneasiness, my last distress ! But lose not now the moments to disclose The long, long story of my amorous woes. Suffice it thee to know, that ere my sire Beheld this beauteous object of desire, I saw and felt the charmer in my heart, And holy passion dignified the dart. My father saw her too, nor sought to move With vows that she and virtue could approve ; Haughty of sovereign rule, lie hoped to find An easy conquest o’er a woman's mud: But when he found, in honour resolute, She scorn’d indignant his imperious suit, T'was then he sent, in Hymen’s sacred name, His diadem, the pledge of purer flame. Judge then, my friend! what agonising smart Tore up my senses, and transfix’d my heart, When first from fame the dreadful tale I heard, The fair Monimia to his throne preferr’d, And that Arbates with his beauteous prey Shaped for Nymphea’s walls the destined way. *Twas then, the more to aggravate my doom, My mother listen’d to the arts of Rome: Whether by her great zeal for me misled, Or stung with rage for her deserted bed, Betray’d to Pompey (impotent of mind) The fort and treasures to her charge consign’d. How dreadful did my mother’s guilt appear ! Soon as the fatal tidings reached my ear, No more I saw my rival in my sire, My duty triumph’d o’er my fond desire ; Alone in the unhappy man survey’d The father injured, and the king betray’d. My mother saw me, prodigal of breath, In every field encounter every death ; Keen to redeem the honours of my name, Repair her wrongs, and disavow her shame. Then the broad Euxine own’d my futher’s sway, 1 made the raging Hellespont obey ; His happy vessels flew without conirol, Wherever winds could waft, or oceans roll. My filial duty had attempted more, Even hoped his rescue on Euphrates’ shore ; Sudden 1 heard, amid the martial strife, A hostile arm had cut his thread of lile. *Twas then, I own, amid my various woes, Monimia dear to my remembrance rose: I fear’d the furious king, the dire excess Of amorous rage, and jealous tenderness ; Hither I flew, some mischief to prevent, With all the speed presaging passion leut ; Nor less my fears sinister omens drew, When in these walls Pharnaces struck my view. Pharnaces, still impetuous, haughty, boli, Rash in design, in action uncontroll’d, Solicits the fair queen, again renews His interrupted hopes, and former vows, Confirms his father’s death, and longs to move Her gentle bosom to more equal love. T own, indeed, whilst Mithridates reign’d, My love was by parental law restrain’d ; Revered submissive his superior power, Who claim’d my duty from my natal hour. Enfranchised by his death, it scorns to yield, To any other’s hopes so dear a field. Either Monimia, adverse to my claim, Rejects—ah, heaven forbid !—my tender claim; Or—but whatever danger’s to be run, *Tis by my death alone the prize is won. *Tis thine to choose, which of the two to save, Thy royal master’s son, or Pompey’s slave. Proud of the Romans who espouse his cause, Pharnaces proudly thinks to dictate laws ; But let him know, that here that very hour My father died, 1 knew no rivai power. The realms of Pontus own his sovereign sway, Him Colchus and its provinces obey. And Colchus’ princes ever did maintain The Bosphorus a part of their domain, ARBATES. My lord, what power I boast you justly claim, My duty and affection are the same ; POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. 501 Arbates has but cze plain point in view, To honour and his royal master true. Had Mithridates reign’d, nor force nor art Had e’er seduced this faithful, loyal heart ; Now by his death released, my duteous care, His royal will declared, awaits his heir ; The self-same zeal I to your succour bring, Witi which I served your father, and my king. Had heaven Pharnaces’ impious purpose sped, J the first victim of his rage had bled; These walls so long his entrance which withstood, Ere this had redden’d with my odious blood. Go, to the blooming queen your suit approve, And mould her gentle bosom to your love; Affianced in my faith, dismiss your fear, Either Arbates has no credit here, Or else Pharnaces, by my arts o’ercome, Elsewhere shall boast him of the aids of Rome. HORACE, EPISTLE I., BOOK L., IMITATED. Stewart! whose smiles inspire my present lays, Whose smiles shall brighten up my latest praise ; My earliest had been thine, but that too long Thy charms delay’d to ripen on my song: The faithful ardours now return the same, For gentle Alvos differ’d but in name. Ah! why, unequal to the lover’s part, No more, alas! the master of my art, Wouldst thou involve me in the amorous strife ? See, e’en Blair-Drummond’s self now weds a wife ; In peace at length concludes his gentle toils, And loads one woman with her sex’s spoils. PSALM LXV. IMITATED. Trice happy he! whom thy paternal love Allows to tread the radiant courts above, To range the climes where pure enjoyments grow, Where blessings spring, and endless pleasures flow. Awful in majesty, thy glories shine, Thy mercy speaks its author all divine. Thy tender and amazing care is own’d Whiere’er old ocean walks his wavy round ; Those that explore the terrors of the main, Embroil’d with storms, in search of paltry gain, Where tides encounter with tumultuous roar, Derive their safety from thy boundless power ; Within their stated mounds thy nod contains The lawless waves, where headlong tumult reigns ; At thy despotic call the rebels cease, Sink to a smiling calm—and all is peace. Those that inhabit earth’s remotest bound, Trembling survey thy terrors all around, When kindling meteors redden in the air, And shake thy judgments from their sanguine hair ; at thy command fair blushes lead the day, And orient pearls glow from each tender spray, Night with ner solemn gloom adores a God, And spreads her sable horrors at his nod, Whole nature, cheerful, owns her Maker’s voice, Each creature smiles, and all his works rejoice. Thy bounty streams in soft descending showers, And wakens into bloom the drooping flowers. Pregnant on high thy cloudy cisterns move, And pour their genial treasures from above ; Earth smiles, array’d in all her youthful charms, Her flowery infants ope their blushing arms, And kindling life each vernal blossom warms. Thus the glad year with circling mercies crown’d, Enjoys thy goodness in an endless round. Whene’er thou smilest, fresh beauties paint the earth, And flowers awaken’d vegetate to birth ; The dreary wilds, where no delights are found, Where never spring adorn’d the sterile ground, At thy command a pompous dress assume, Fair roses glow, and opening lilies bloom: Here verdant hills arise on every side, And shoot their tops aloft with conscious pride ; There lowing herds adorn the fertile soil, And crown with fleecy wool the shepherd’s toil ; While tender lambs their infant voices raise, And sweetly bleat the almighty Giver’s praise. Here loaded valleys smile with waving corn, And golden prospects every field adorn ; They shout for joy, and lowly bending sing, With sweet harmonious notes, their gracious king. AN EPITAPH ON THE AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS, WRITIEN BY HIMSELF IN THE YEAR 1738. Doss greatness splendid villany allure ? Go search in Walpole’s trial for a cure. Blest with enough, wouldst thou increase it still ? Examine Charters’ life and Ruchead’s will. True to thy party, wouldst thou blunder thorough f Cant be thy guide, and Culross be thy borough. Wouldst thou be happy? then its rule receive, Read this verse gratis, and thy soul shall live. Learn from this man, who now lies five feet deep, To drink when doubting, and when tempted sleep. This led him safe through life’s tempestuous steerage, Poor by no place, ignoble by no peerage ; 602 An easy mind, by no entails devised ; An humble virtue, by no kings excised ; Stated no law case, and no Bible quoted ; Spoke what he thought; ne’er swore, and never voted. Courts he abhorr’d, their errors, their abuses, St. James’, Versailles—all, all, but Sancte Crucis ;' There, where no statesman buys, no bishop sells— A virtuous ‘palace, where no monarch dwells, With kind Bargany, faithful to his word, Whom heaven made honest, social, and—a lord ; The cities view’d of many-languaged men, Popes, pimps, kings, gamesters ; and saw all was vain. With gentlest Alves did these hours employ, Wisdom unblushing yields to youthful joy. In the chaste virgin the fond wife foretold The household charm, the rich exchange for gold. Virtue to charm, and sweetness to endear, A dowerless beauty that could please no peer. From Hume learn’d verse with sense to criticise ; From Mein endeavour’d to be good and wise ; With Craig oft friendship’s holy vigil kept, Oft on the genial hearth with Waughton slept ; With Ramsay nature mused, or nature’s power, Or saunter’d contemplation’s faithful hour. Enjoy’d, what Hopetoun’s groves could never yield, The philosophic rapture of the field! Nor ask’d, nor fear’d. His life, and humble lays, No critics envy, and no flatterers praise. Sure those who know how hard to write, and live, Would judge with candour, pity and forgive. Known but to few, as if he ne’er had been, He stole through life unheeded and unseen. Envied no wit, with patience bore a dunce ; Saw Cochrane never, and not wish’d it once. And often erring, broke no social duty ; Unbribed by statesmen, and unhurt by beauty. INSCRIPTION ON A DOG. Cam though not mean, courageous without rage, Serious not dull, and without thinking sage ; (l) Holyrood House, POEMS OF HAMILTON OF BANGOUR. Pleased at the lot that nature has assign’a, Snarl as I list, and freely bark my mind, As churchman wrangle not with jarring spite, Nor statesman-like caressing whom I bite ; View all the canine kind with equal eyes, I dread no mastiff, and no cur despise. True from the first, and faithful to the end, I baulk no mistress, and forsake no friend. My days and nights one equal tenor keep, Fast but to eat, and only wake to sleep. Thus stealing along life I live ineog., A very plain and downright honest dog. ON A DIAL IN MY GARDEN. Once at a potent leader’s voice it stay’d, Once it went back when a good monarch pray’d. Mortals, howe’er we grieve, howe’er deplore, The flying shadow shall return no more. ON AN OBELISK IN MY GARDEN, ‘Vrew all around the works of power divine, Inquire, explore, admire, extol, resign ; This is the whole of human kind below, ‘Tis only given beyond the grave to know. EPIGRAM ON A LION ENRAGED AT SEEING A LAD IN Tus HIGHLAND DRESS. Cam and serene the imperial lion lay, Mildly indulging in the solar ray ; On vulgar mortals with indifference gazed, All unconcern’d, nor angry, nor amazed ; But when the Caledonian lad appear’d, Sudden alarm’d, his manly mane he rear’d, Prepared in fierce encounter to engage The only object worthy of his rage. THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. Rosert Frrevsson—one of those unfortunate men of genius whose very virtues and geniality of disposition are made the causes of their social overthrow, and whose melancholy history points the ancient moral, that no talents are available, however great, to make their possessor happy, without worldly prudence, and cautious self-control—was born in Edinburgh on the 5th of September, 1751. His father, William, was a native of Aberdeen, whence he removed to Edinburgh in 1746 in search of employment as a mercantile clerk. After a serics of struggles, he obtained a situation in the service of the ‘‘ British Linen Company,” by whom he was employed as accountant. By his wife, Elizabeth Forbes, he had two sons, of whom Robert was the younger, and two daughters. Robert was so weakly and delicate a child, that until he had attained his fifth year his parents scarcely conceived it possible to rear him. At the too early age of six he was sent to a day school in Niddy’s Wynd, where he soon attracted the attention of his teachers by his extraordinary aptitude for learning, and his passion for books of romance, of poetry, and of adventure. His parents, with a feeling that was then, as it is now, widely spread among the humbler classes of the Scottish people, no sooner observed the cleverness of the child than they destined him for the Church, and at the age of thirteen— after some preliminary schooling at the High School of Edinburgh, and at Dundee—he entered as a student at the University of St. Andrew’s, where his father had influence enough to procure him a “bursary,” or exhibition, endowed by a gentleman of the name of Fergusson, for the. benefit of poor persons of the same clan or patronymic. ‘‘ At St. Andrew’s,” says his friendly biographer, Mr. Peterkin, ‘‘he became conspicuous for the respectability of his classical acquirements, and for those uncommon powers of conversation which, in his more advanced years, fascinated the associates of his convivial hours. The study of poetry seems also to have attracted his regard, more than the scholastic and mathematical branches of science. It was during his residence at St. Andrew’s that he first ‘committed the sin of rhyme.’ His juvenile verses were thought to possess considerable merit; and even the professors, it is said, took particular notice of them. It has not been ascertained what was the first object that awakened his fancy, and gave a poetical impulse to his genius; but it is believed the first inspirations of his muse were poured forth in satirical castigation of his instructors, and in the commonplace trifles such as a boy usually writes. The abilities of young Fergusson secured him the regard of Dr. Wilkie, author of the ‘ Epigoniad,’ and at that time professor of natural philosophy in the University.”” Some censure passed upon him by his academical superiors for a youthful frolic, led in after times to the publication of a statement that he had been actually expelled; but such does not appear to have been the case, for he enjoyed his bursary to the full period of four years for which it was granted. His father had died two years previously, leaving his mother in poverty ; and when the little income of his bursary was no longer available for his support at college, he had no resources left by which to continue his studies, and no alternative but to return to his mother, and renounce the cherished idea of entering the Church. But he did not return to be a burden upon her poverty, and to pass a life of hopel »ss inactivity, and had 504 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. scarcely paid her the tribute of his filial respect, when he set ouc on foot from Edinburgh to Aberdeen to pay a visit to her brother—one John Forbes—who had acquired a considerable fortune in trade, and was reputed to be a man of literary taste, and of some learning. To him Fergusson looked for some help, either to procure him immediate employment suitable to the education he had received, or to enable him to tide over the probationary period of struggle through which youthful poverty is doomed to pass ere a footing can be obtained in the world’s good opinion. The uncle received him with kindness, was amused with his conversation, and gave him bed and board in his house for several months. But bed and board were the limits of his generosity, and when the clothes and shoes of the young man were worn out, he never offered to give him a new outfit, but took advantage of the general shabbiness of his attire to tell him that he was unfit to sit at the table of a gentleman. “Deeply wounded in his spirit by such unworthy treatment,” says Mr. Peterkin, “he retired from the inhospitable dwelling to a petty alehouse in the neighbourhood. In a letter to his uncle from this place, he gave vent to the feelings of his heart, in a strain of reproach, indignation, and independence, worthy of the pride and sensibility of a poet. He had scarcely left-the house, when his uncle felt the qualms of compunction: a messenger was despatched after the exiled Fergusson, with a few shillings to defray his expenses on the homeward road. This peace-offering the poor boy was constrained to accept, in order to avoid the more terrible alternatives of begging, or of perishing for want.” After a fatiguing journey on foot from Aberdeen, which he had accomplished under the united tortures of mortification, resentment, and despondency, he reached his mother’s house in Edinburgh. His bodily fatigue, and the chagrin arising from disappointed hopes, confined him to bed for several days after his arrival. On his recovery from the shock which his feelings had received, he found a temporary alleviation of his sufferings in writing verses, ‘‘On the Decay of Friendship,” and ‘‘ Against repining at Fortune.” How long he remained in com- pulsory idleness in Edinburgh after this sore disappointment is not stated by his biographers ; but he managed after an interval to procure the appointment of assistant or supernumerary clerk in the office of the Commissary Clerk of Edinburgh, in which he continued during the remainder of his short life, with the exception of a few months, during which he found more lucrative but less congenial employment in the office of the Sheriff Clerk. Like the youth immortalised by Pope, “ Condemned his father’s soul to cross, Who penned a stanza when he should engross,” Fergusson’s heart was in poetry, and not in his business. He meditated a great poem on the life and exploits of the Scottish hero, Sir William Wallace, and became a constant contributor to Ruddiman’s Weekly Magazine—a popular and respectable miscellany of the day—for which he received much praise, but no pay, and became well known to the leading literati of Edin- burgh. As time wore on, his dislike to business and his love of literature increased. He sang, as well as wrote, Scottish songs, and sang so sweetly and so readily that his society was courted by all the wit, wealth, and fashion of the Scottish metropolis. Upon the fatal rock of conviviality he at dastmade shipwreck. ‘‘ His unassuming manners, his wit, and his convivial talents, gave pleasure to all, but chiefly to the young and the gay. He was ingenuous, affable, manly, and generous. His conversation was that of a gentleman and a scholar; his wit the spontaneous and captivating offspring of genius; his song was that simple but powerful melody which, as its energies are directed, arouses, or ravishes, or subdues. ‘l'avern parties and clubs were the spheres which his wit and song too frequently enlivened ; and these at length undermined his constitution, sullied his respectability, and disordered his reason.” For nearly six years he led this life, and men who had it in their power to befriend him, and push his literary fortunes, were contented to enjoy his society, and to do nothing for him but to pay for the drink which excited his imagination, added pungency to his wit, and breadth to his humour, and made him for the time more capable of administering to their selfish POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 505 amusement. And one vice, as is but too common, brought others in its train, and poor Fergusson experienced the first premonitory symptoms of delirium tremens. But the warning was in vain and too late. A deplorable accident, the consequence of his own excess, expedited the final catastrophe. On returning home from a tavern party, where his wit and vocal powers had charmed the selfish circle that had congregated to feast him, he fell down a stone staircase, and received so serious an injury on his brain that he never recovered from it. The incipient insanity became fully developed. When carried to his mother’s house, he could give no account of the manner in which the accident had befallen him, and seemed totally insensible of his deplorable condition. He soon arrived at a state of the most frantic madness, and his poor mother, neither having the means to nurse him at home nor to pay for him elsewhere, procured his admission, after two months of difficulties, to the pauper lunatic asylum, where he shortly afterwards expired. Wee Let us draw the pitying veil over the melancholy details of his last hours, and let he who is without sin, and h€‘dnly, dare to throw a stone or a slur at his memory, or do other than heave a sympathetic sigh after the perusal of the short, sad story of a life that might have been so happy if it had been cast in a time when intoxication was not fashionable, and in a state of society less coarse than that of Edinburgh in the latter portion of the eighteenth century. Fergusson died on the 15th of October, 1774, a few weeks after he had completed his twenty- fourth year, and was buried in the churchyard of the Canongate. His sad story made a deep impression on one youthful mind. Robert Burns, then in his fifteenth year, pondered the fate of Fergusson, and thirteen years afterwards (1787), in the full flush of his own genius and popularity, made a pilgrimage to the undistinguished grave of his brother poet, uncovered his head reverently, and kneeling down upon the sod, kissed the earth that concealed the sacred dust of a man of genius, in whose history he saw something like the foreshadowing of his own. He had obtained possession of a considerable sum of money by the fortunate issue of his one poetical venture—an advantage that had never befallen Fergusson—and obtained permission to erect, at his own expense a simple monument over the grave. On one side of the stone is engraved, from Burns’ own pen, the following lines :— “HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. BORN SEPTEMBER 5, 1751. DIED OCTOBER 15, 1774. “No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, ‘No storied urn nor animated bust,’ This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way, To pour her sorrows o’er her Poet’s dust.” And on the other :— *°BY SPECIAL GRANT OF THE MANAGERS To Rozert Burns, WHO ERECTED THIS STONE, THIS BURIAL-PLACE I8 EVER TO REMAIN SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT FERGUSSON.” Fergusson published a small collection of his poems the year before he died ; and after his death, a fuller collection, including some posthumous pieces, was published; but it was not until 1807, when Peterkin’s edition appeared, that adequate justice was done to his literary character. More need not be said of him— “ For shall the bard alone Have all his follies known, Dug from the misty past to spice a needless book P That Envy may exclaim, At mention of his name, The greatest are but small, however great they look.” 506 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. The following verses were written under a portrait of Fergusson by Robert Bur.is, in a copy of that writer’s works, presented to a young lady in Edinburgh, in March, 1787 :— “ Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the Muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate! Why is the bard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?" The evil that there may be in poets’ lives should be interred with their bones, if the good that is done by their writings survives to shed a glory upon literature. Fergusson’s writings testify to his genius, and it is almost enough to secure him affectionate remembrance that his fate should have inspired such a poet as Burns with sympathy, and left such a monument, as ennobling to the memory of the one poet to receive as to that of the other to bestow. (eh ete ee THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. LYRICAL PIEOES. — ODE TO HOPE. Hors! lively cheerer of the mind, _ In lieu of real bless design’d, Come from thy ever verdant bower, To chase the dull and lingering hour : Oh! bring, attending on thy reign, All thy ideal fairy train, To animate the lifeless clay, And bear my sorrows hence away. Hence, gloomy-featured, black Despair, With all thy frantic furies, fly, Nor rend my breast with gnawing care, For Hope in lively garb is nigh. Let pining Discontentment mourn, Let dull-eyed Melancholy grieve ; Since pleasing Hope must reign by turn, And every bitter thought relieve. O smiling Hope! in adverse hour, T feel thy influencing power. Though frowning Fortune fix my lot In some defenceless lonely cot, Where Poverty, with empty hands, In pallid meagre aspect stands ; Thou canst enrobe me ’midst the great, With all the crimson pomp of state, Where Luxury invites his guests To pall them with his lavish feasts. What cave so dark, what gloom so drear, So black with horror, dead with fear, But thou canst dart thy streaming ray, And change close night to open day ? Health is attendant in thy radiant train, Round her the whispering zephyrs gently play; Behold her gladly tripping o’er the plain, Bedeck’d with rural sweets and garlands gay! When vital spirits are deprest, And heavy languor clogs the breast, With more than Esculapian power Endued, bless’d Hope! ’tis thine to cure; For oft thy friendly aid avails, When all the strength of physic fails. Nay, ev’n though Death should aim his dart, I know he lifts his arm in vain, Since thou this lesson canst impart, Mankind but die to live again. Deprived of thee must banners fall : But where a living Hope is found, The legions shout at danger’s call, And victors are triumphant crown’d. Come then, bright Hope ! in smiles array’d, Revive us by thy quickening breath ; Then shall we never be afraid To walk through danger and through death. THE RIVERS OF SCOTLAND. AN ODE. SET To Music BY MR. COLLETT. O’rr Scotia’s parch’d land the Naiads flew, From towering hills explored her shelter’d vales, Caused Forth in wild meanders please the view, And lift her waters to the zephyr’s gales ; Where the glad swain surveys his fertile fields, And reaps the plenty which his harvest yields. Here did these lovely nymphs, unseen, Oft wander by the river’s side, And oft unbind their tresses green, To bathe them in the fluid tide ; 508 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Yhen to the shady grottoes would retire, And sweetly echo to the warbling choir ; Or to the rushing waters tune their shells, To call up Echo from the woods, Or from the rocks or erystal floods, Or from surrounding banks, or hills, or dales. CHORUS. Or to the rushing waters tune their shells, To call up Echo from the woods, Or from the rocks or crystal floods, Or from surrounding banks, or hills, or dales. When the cool fountains first their springs forsook, Murmuring smoothly to the azure main, Exulting Neptune then his trident shook, And waved his waters gently to the plain. The friendly Tritons on his chariot borne, With cheeks dilated, blew the hollow-sounding horn. Now Lothian and Fifan shores, Resounding to the mermaid’s song, Gladly emit their limpid stores, And bid them smooilly sail along To Neptune's empire, and with him to roll Round the revolving sphere from pole to pole, Yo guard Britannia from her envious foes ; To view her angry vengeance hurl’d In awful thunder round the world, And trembling nations bending to uer viows. CHORUS. To guard Britannia from her envious foes, To view her angry vengeance hurl’d Jn awful thunder round the world, And trembling nations bending to her blows. High towering on the zephyr’s breezy wing, Swift fly the Naiads from Fortha’s shores, And to the southern airy mountains bring Their sweet enchantment and their magic powers. Each nymph her favourite willow takes; The earth with fev’rous tremor shakes ; The stagnans lakes obey their call ; Streams o’er the grassy pastures fall. Tweed spreads her waters to the lucid ray , Upon the dimpled surf the sunbeams play. On her greeu banks the tuneful shepherd lies, Charm’d with the music of his reed, Amidst the wavings of the Tweed ; Krom sky-reflecting streams the river nymphs arise. CHORtS. On her green banks the tuneful shepherd lies, Charm’d with the music of his reed, Amidst the wavings of the Tweed: From sky-reflecting streams the river nymphs arise, The listening Muses heard the shepherd’s play : Fame with her brazen trump proclaim’d his name, And to atterd the easy, graceful lay, Pan from Arcadia to Tweeda came. Fond of the change, along the banks he stray’d, And sung unmindful of the Arcadian shade. (AIB— Tweedside.) Attend every fanciful swain, Whose notes soitly flow-from the reea ; With harmony guide the sweet strain, To sing of the beauties of Tweed. Where the music of woods and of streams In soothing sweet melody join, To enliven your pastoral themes, And make human numbers divine. CHORUS. Ye warblers from the vocal grove, The tender woodland strain approve, While Tweed in smoother cadence glides O’er flowery vales in gentle tides ; And as she rolls her silver waves along, Murmurs and sighs to quit the rural song. Scotia’s great genius in russet clad, From the cool sedgy bank exalts her hizad; In joyful rapture she the change espies ; Sees living streams descend, and groves arise, (AIR— Gilderoy.) As sable clouds at early day Oft dim the shining skies, So gloomy thoughts create dismay, Aud lustre leaves her eyes. “Ye powers! are Scotia’s ample fields With so much beauty graced, To have those sweets your bounty yields By foreign toes defaced ? “O Jove! at whose supreme command The limpid fountains play, O’er Caledonia’s northern land Let restless waters stray. “ Since from the void creation rose, Thou’st made a sacred vow, That Caledon to foreign foes Should ne’er be known to bow.” POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. The mighty thunderer on his sapphire throne, Tr mercy’s robes attired, heard the sweet voice Of female woe,—suft as the moving song Of Philomela ’midst the evening shades ; And thus return’d an answer to her prayers :— * Where birks at Nature’s call arise ; Where fragrance hails the vaulted skies ; Where my own oak its umbrage spreads, Delightful ’midst the woody shades ; Where ivy-mouldering rocks entwines ; Where breezes bend the lofty pines : There shall the laughing Naiads stray, *Midst the sweet banks of winding Tay.” From the dark womb of earth Tay’s waters spring, Ordain’d by Jove’s unalterable voice ; The sounding lyre celestial muses string ; The choiring songsters in the groves rejoice. Each fount its crystal fluids pours, Which from surrounding mountains flow ; The river bathes its verdant shores ; Cool o’er the surf the breezes blow. Let England’s sons extol their gardens fair ; Scotland may freely boast her generous streams ; Their soil more fertile, and their milder air ; Her fishes sporting in the solar beams. Thames, Humber, Severn, all must: yield the bay To the pure streams of Forth, of Tweed, and ‘lay. CHORUS. Thames, Humber, Severn, all must yield the bay To the pure streams of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay. O Scotia! when such beauty claims A mansion near thy flowing streams, Ne’er shall stern Mars, in iron car, Drive his proud coursers to the war ; But fairy forms shall strew around Their olives on the peaceful ground ; And turtles join the warbling throng, To usher in the morning song ; Or shout in chorus all the live-long day, From the green banks of Forth, of ‘Tweed, and Tay. When gentle Pheebe's friendly light in silver radiance ciothes the night, Still Music’s ever-varying strains Shall tell the lovers, Cynthia reigns ; And woo them to her midnight bowers, Among the fragrant dew-clad flowers, Where every rock, and hill, and dale, With echoes greet the nightingale, Whose pleasing, soft, pathetic tongue, To kind condolence turns the song ; And often wins the love-sick swain to stray, To hear the tender variegated lay, Through the dark woods of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay. Hail, native streams, and native groves, Oozy caverns, green alcoves ! Retreats for Cytherea’s reign, With all the graces in her train : Hail, Fancy, thou whose ray so bright Dispels the glinmering taper’s lighi ! Come, in aerial vesture blue, Ever pleasing, ever new ; In these recesses deign to dwell With me in yonder moss-clad cell: Then shall my reed successful tre the lay, In numbers wildly warbling as they stray Through the glad banks of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay. ODE TO PITY. To what sequester’d gloomy shade Hath ever-geutle Pity stray’d? What brook is water’d from her eyes ? What gales convey her tender sighs ? Unworthy of her grateful lay, She hath despised the great, the gay ; Nay, all the feelings she imparts Are far estranged from human hearts. Ah, Pity! whither wouldst thou fly From human heart, from human eye ? Are desert woods, and twilight groves, The scenes the sobbing pilgrim loves ? If there thou dwell’st, O Pity! say, Tn what lone path you pensive stray ? Tl know thee by the lily’s hue, Besprinkled with the morning’s dew: For thou wilt never blush to wear The pallid look and falling tear. Jn broken cadence from thy tongue Oft have we heard the mournful song ; Oft have we view’d the loaded bier Bedew’d with Pity’s softest. tear. Her sighs and tears were ne’er denied, When innocence and virtue died. But in this black and iron age, Where Vice and all his demons rage, Though %eils in solemn peals are rung, Though dirge in niournful verse is sung, Soon will the vain parade be o’«: Their name, their memory, no more, Who love and innocence despised, And every virtue sacrificed. 510 Here pity, as a statue, dumb, Will pay no tribute to the tomb ; Or wake the memory of those Who never felt for others’ woes. Thou mistress of the feeling heart ! Thy powers of sympathy impart. If mortals would but fondly prize Thy falling tears, thy passing sighs ; Then should wan Poverty no more Walk feebly from the rich man’s door; Humility should banish Pride, And Vice be drove from Virtue’s side : Then happiness at length should reign ; The golden age begin again. ODE TO HORROR. O tuov, who, with incessant gloom, Courtest the recess of midnight tomb! Admit me of thy mournful throng, The scatter’d woods and wilds among. If e’er thy discontented ear, The voice of sympathy can cheer, My melancholy bosom’s sigh Shall to your mournful plaint reply ; There to the fear-foreboding owl The angry furies hiss and howl; Or near the mountain’s pendent brow, Where rush-clad streams in cadent, murmurs flow. EPODE. Who’s Le, that, with imploring eye, Salutes the rosy dawning sky ? The cock proclaims the morn in vain, His sprite to drive to its domain ; For morning light can but return, To bid the wretched wail and mourn. Not the bright dawning’s purple eye Can cause the frightful vapours fly ; Nor sultry Sol’s meridian throne Can bid surrounding fears begone. The gloom of night will still preside, While angry conscience stares on either side. STROPHE. To ease his sore distemper’d head, Sometimes upon the rocky bed Reclined he lies, to list the sound Of whispering reed in vale profound. Happy, if Morpheus visits there, Awhile to lull his woe and care; Send sweeter fancies to his aid, And teach him to be undismay’d ; Yet wretched still; for when no more ‘the gods their opiate balsam pour, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON Behold! he starts, and views again The Lybian monster prance along the plain. Now from the oozing caves he flies, And to the city’s tumult hies, Thinking to frolic life away, Be ever cheerful, ever gay : But, though enwrapp’d in noise and smoke, They ne’er can heal his peace, when broke. His fears arise, he sighs again For solitude on rural plain ; Even there his wishes all convene To bear him to his noise again. Thus tortured, rack’d, and sore opprest, He constant hunts, but never finds his rest. ANTISTROPHE. O Exercise! thou healing power, The toiling rustic’s chiefest dower ; Be thou with heav’n-born virtue join’d, To quell the tumults of the mind; Then, man as much of joy can share From ruffian Winter, bleakly bare, As from the pure ethereal blaze That wantons in the Summer rays. The humble cottage then can bring Content, the comfort of a king ; And gloomy mortals wish no more For wealth and idleness to make them poor, ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. Txov joyless fiend! life’s constant foe ; Malignant source of care and woe, Pleasure’s abhorr’d control ; Her gayest haunts for ever nigh ; Stern mistress of the secret sigh, That swells the murmuring soul. Why haunt’st thou me through deserts drear ? With grief-swoln sounds why wound’st my ear, Denied to Pity’s aid ? Thy visage wan did e’er I woo? Or at thy feet in homage bow P Or court thy sullen shade? Even now, enchanted scenes abound, Elysian glories strew the ground, To lure th’ astonish’d eyes; Now horrors, hell, and furies reign, And desolate the fairy scene Of all its gay disguise. The Passions, at thy urgent call, Our Reason and our Sense entliral In Frenzy’s fetters strong. ‘[ qeaosyg suossnéiiag “DNINYUON POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON, 511 And uow Despair, with lurid eye, Doth meagre Poverty descry, Subdued by famine long. The lover flies the haunts of day, In gloomy woods and wilds to stray: There shuns his Jessy’s scorn. Sad sisters of the sighing grove Attune their lyres to hapless love, Dejected and forlorn. Yet Hope, undaunted, wears thy chain, And smiles amidst tie growing pain, Nor fears thy sad dismay ; Unawed by Power, her fancy flies From earth’s dim orb to purer skies, To realms of endless day. SONG. Waexe winding Forth adorns the vale, Fond Strephon, once a shepherd gay, Did to the rocks his lot bewail, And thus address’d his plaintive lay - “O Julia! more than lily fair, More blooming than the budding rose, How can thy breast, relentless, bear A heart more cold than Winter’s snows ! “Yet nipping Winter’s keenest sway, But for a short-lived space prevails : Spring soon returns, and cheers each spray, Scented with Flora’s fragrant gales. Come, Julia! come; thy love obey, Thou mistress of angelic charms ! Come, smiling like the morn in May, And less thy Strephon’s longing arms: “Else, haunted by the fiend Despair He’ll court some solitary grove, Where mortal foot did ne’er repair, But swains oppress’d by hapless Jove. From the once-pleasing rural throng Removed, he’ll through the desert stray, Where Philomela’s mournful song Shall join his melancholy lay.” SONG. Amtnst a rosy bank of flowers, Damon, forlorn, deplored his fate ; In sighs he spent his languid hours, And breathed his woes in doleful state. Gay joy no more shall cheer his mind; No wanton sports can soothe his care; Since sweet Amanda proved unkind, And left him full of black despair. His looks, that were as fresh as morn, Can now no longer smiles impart ; His pensive soul, on sadness borne, Is rack’d and torn by Cupid’s dart. Turn, fair Amanda! cheer your swain ; Unshroud him from his veil of woe ; Turn, gentle nymph! and ease the pain That in his tortured breast doth grow. SONG. Since brightest beauty soon must fade, That in life’s spring so long has roll’d, And wither in the drooping shade, Eve it retarn to native mould: Ye virgins ! seize the fleeting hour, In time catch Cytherea’s joy, Ere age your wonted smiles deflower, And hopes of love and life annoy. PASTORALS, ELEGIES, & PASTORAL I. MORNING. Damon—ALEXIs. DAMON. Avrora now her welcome visit pays, Stern Darkness flies before her cheerful rays ; Cool circling breezes whirl along the air, And early shepherds to the fields repair : Lead we our flocks, then, to the mountain’s brow, Where junipers and thorny brambles grow ; Where founts of water ’midst the daisies spring, And soaring larks and tuneful linnets sing ; Your pleasing song shall teach our flocks to stray, While sounding echoes smooth the sylvan lay. ALEXIS. Tis thine to sing the graces of the morn, | The zephyr trembling o’er the rip’ning corn ; 512 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. *Tis thine with ease to chant the rural lay, While bubbling fountains to your numbers play. No piping swain that treads the verdant field, But to your music and your verse must yield: Sing then,—for here we may with safety keep Our sportive lambkins on this mossy steep. DAMON. With ruddy glow the sun adorns the land, The pearly dew-drops on the bushes stand ; The lowing oxen from the folds we hear, And snowy flocks upon the hills appear. ALEXIS. How sweet the murmurs of the neighbouring rill! Sweets are the slumbers which its floods distill ! Through pebbly channels winding as they run, And brilliant sparkling to the rising sun, DAMON. Behold Edina’s lofty turrets rise ! Her structures fair adorn the eastern skies : As Pentland’s cliffs o’ertop yon distant plain, So she the cities on ber north domain. ALEXIS. Boast not of cities, or their lofty towers, Where discord all her baneful influence pours; The homely cottage, and the wither’d tree, With sweet Content, shall be preferr’d by me. DAMON The hemlock dire shall please the heifer’s taste, Our lands like wild Arabia be waste, The bee forget to range for winter’s food, Ere I forsake the forest and the flood. ALEXIS, Ye balmy breezes! wave the verdant field ; Clouds! all your bounties, all your moisture yield ; That fruits and herbage may our farms adorn, And furrow’d ridges teem with loaded corn. DAMON. The year already has propitious smiled ; Gentle in spring-time, and in summer mild; No cutting blasts have hurt my tender dams ; No hoary frost destroy’d my infant lambs. ALEXIS. ff Ceres crown with joy the bounteous year, A sacred altar to her shrine Pll rear; A vigorous ram shall bleed, whose curling horns His woolly neck and hardy frout adorns. DAMON, Teach me, U Pan! to tune the slender reed, No favourite ram shall at thine altars bleed ; Each breathing morn thy woodland verse I’ll sing, Aud hollow dens shall with the numbers ring. ALEXIS. Apollo! lend me thy celestial lyre, ‘The woods in concert join at thy desire : At morn, at noon, at night, T’ll tune the lay, And bid fleet Echo bear the sound away. DAMON. Sweet are the breezes, when cool eve returns, To lowing herds, when raging Syrius burns : Not half so sweetly winds the breeze along, As does the murmur of your pleasing soug. ALEXIS. To hear your strains the cattle spurn their food ; ‘The feather’d songsters leave their tender brood ; Around your seat the silent lambs advance ; And scrambling he-goats on the mountains dance. DAMON, But haste, Alexis, reach yon leafy shade, Which mantling ivy round the oaks hath made ; There we'll retire, and list the warbling note That flows melodious from the blackbird’s throat ; Your easy numbers shall his songs inspire, And every warbler join the general choir. SS PASTORAL II. NOON. Corypon—TIMANTHEs. CORYDON, THE sun the summit of his orb hath gain’d; No flecker’d clouds his azure path hath stain’d; Our pregnant ewes around us cease to graze, Stung with the keenness of his sultry rays; The weary bullock from the yoke is led, And youthful shepherds from the plain are fled To dusky shades, where scarce a glimmering ray Can dart its lustre through the leafy spray. Yon cooling rivulet where the waters gleam, Where springing flowers adorn the limpid stream, Invites us where the drooping willow grows, To guide our flocks, and take a cool repose. TIMANTHES. To thy advice a grateful ear I’ll lend; The shades I’! court where slender osiers beud ; Our weanlings young shall crop the rising flower, While we retire to youder twining bower ; POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 513 The woods shall echo back thy cheerful strains, Admired by all our Caledonian swains. CORYDON. There have I oft with gentle Delia stray’d, Amidst th’ embowering solitary shade, Before the gods to thwait my wishes strove, By blasting every pleasing glimpse of love: For Delia wanders o’er the Anglian plains, Where civil discord and sedition reigns. There Scotia’s sons in odious light appear, Though we for them have waved the hostile spear. For them my sire, enwrapp’d in curdled gore, Breathed his last. moments on a foreign shore. TIMANTHES. Six lunar months, my friend, will soon expire, And she return to crown your fond desire. For her, oh rack not your desponding mind ! In Delia’s breast a generous flame ’s confined, That burns for Corydon, whose piping lay Has caused the tedious moments steal away ; Whose strains melodious moved the falling floods To whisper Delia to the rising woods. Oh! if your sighs could aid the floating gales, That favourable swell their lofty sails, Ne’er should your sobs their rapid flight give o’er, Till Delia’s presence graced our northern shore} CORYDON. Though Delia greet my love, I sigh in vain ; Such joy unbounded can I ne’er obtain. Her sire a thousand fleeces numbers o’er, And grassy hills increase the milky store ; While the weak fences of a scanty fold Will all my sheep and fattening lambkins hold. TIMANTHES. Ah, hapless youth! although the early Muse Painted her semblance on thy youthful brows ; Though she with laurels twined thy temples round, And in thy ear distill’d the magic sound ; A cheerless poverty attends thy woes ; Your song melodious unrewa-ded flows. CORYDON. Think not, Timanthes, that for wealth I pine, Though all the fates to make me poor combine : Tay, bounding o’er its banks with awful sway, Bore all my corn and all my flocks away. Of Jove’s dread precepts did I e’er complain ? Fer curse the rapid flood, or dashing rain ? Ev’n now I sigh not for my former store, Bat wish the gods had destined Delia poor. ‘TIMANTHES. *Tis joy, my friend, to think I can repay, The loss you bore by Autumn’s rigid sway. Yon fertile meadow where the daisies spring, Shall yearly pasture to your heifers bring : Your flock with mine shall on yon mountain feed, Cheer’d by the warbling of your tuneful reed : No more shall Delia’s ever-fretful sire Against your hopes and ardent love conspire. Roused by her smiles, you’ll tune the happy lay, While hills responsive waft your s-ngs away. CORYDON May plenteous crops your irksome labour crown ; May hoodwink’d Fortune cease her envious frown ;. May riches still increase with growing years ; Your flocks be numerous as your silver hairs. TIMANTHES. But, lo! the heats invite us at our ease, To court the twining shades and cooling breeze; Our languid joints we'll peaceably recline, And ’midst the flowers and opening blossoms ine, _— > PASTORAL III. NIGHT. Amyntas—FLoRELLvs. AMYNTAS. Wutte yet grey Twilight does his empire hold, Drive all our heifers to the peaceful fold. With sullied wing grim Darkness soars along, And larks to nightingales resign the song : The weary ploughman flies the waving fields, ‘To taste what fare his humble cottage yields ; As bees, that daily through the meadows roam, Feed on the sweets they have prepared at home. FLORELLUS. The grassy meads that smile serenely gay, Cheer’d by the ever-burning lamp of day, In dusky hue attired, are cramp’d with colds, And springing flow’rets shut their crimson folds. AMYNTAS. What awful silence reigns throughout the shade! The peaceful olive bends his drooping head ; No sound is heard o’er all the gloomy maze ; Wide o’er the deep the fiery meteors blaze. FLORELLUS. The west, yet tinged with Sol’s effulgent ray, With feeble light illumes our homeward way ; The glowing stars with keener lustre burn, While round the earth their glowing axles turn, AMYNTAS. What mighty power conducts the stars on high:; Who bids these comets through our sysiem fly; 30 514 Who wafts the lightning to the icy pole, And through our regions bids the thunders roll ? FLORELLUS. But say, what mightier power from nought could raise The earth, the sun, and all that fiery maze Of distant stars that gild the azure sky, And through the void in settled orbits fly ? AMYNTAS. That righteous Power, before whose heavenly eye The stars are nothing, and the planets die; Whose breath divine supports our mortal frame ; Who made the lion wild and lambkin tame. FLORELLUS. At His command the bounteous Spring returns ; Hot Summer, raging o’er the Atlantic, burns ; The yellow Autumn crowns our sultry toil ; And Winter’s snows prepare the cumbrous soil. AMYNTAS. By Him the morning darts his purple ray ; To Him the birds their early homage pay ; With vocal harmony the meadows ring, While swains in concert: heavenly praises sing. FLORELLUS. Sway’d by His word, the nutrient dews descend, And growing pastures to the moisture bend ; The vernal blossoms sip his falling showers ; The meads are garnish’d with His opening flowers. AMYNTAS. For man, the object of His chiefest care, Fowls He hath formed to wing the ambient air : For him the steer his lusty neck doth bend; Fishes for him their scaly fins extend. FLORELLUS. Wide o’er the orient sky the moon appears, A foe to Darkness, and his idle fears ; Around her orb the stars in clusters shine, And distant planets tend her silver shrine. AMYNTAS. Hush’d are the busy numbers of the day ; On downy couch they sleep their hours away. Hail, balmy sleep, that socthes the troubled mind ! Lock’d in thy arms, our cares a refuge find. Oft do you tempt us with delusive dreams, When wildering Fancy darts her dazzling beams. Asleep, the lover with his mistress strays Through lonely thickets and untrodden ways ; But when pale Cynthia’s sable empire ’s fled, And hovering slumbers shun the morning bed, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Roused by the dawn, he wakes with frequent sigh, And all his flattering visions quickly fly. FLORELLUS. Now owls and bats infest the midnight scene ; Dire snakes, envenom’d, twine along the green ; Forsook by man the rivers mourning glide, And groaning echoes swell the noisy tide ; Straight to our cottage let us bend our way ; My drowsy powers confess sleep’s magic sway. Easy and calm upon our couch we'll he, While sweet reviving slumbers round our pillows fly. THE SIMILE. AT noontide, as Colin and Sylvia lay Within a cool jessamine bower, A butterfly, waked by the heat of the day, Was sipping the juice of each flower. Near the shade of this covert a young shepherd boy The gaudy brisk flutterer spies, Who held it as pastime to seek and destroy Each beautiful insect that flies. From the lily he hunted this fly to the rose ; From the rose to the lily again ; Till, weary with tracing its motions, he chose To leave the pursuit with disdain, Then Colin to Sylvia smilingly said, ** Amyntor has follow’d you long; From him, like the butterfly, still have you fled, Though wooed by his musical tongue. “ Beware in persisting to start from his arms, But with his fond wishes comply ; Come, take my advice; or he’s pall’d with your charms, Like the youth and the beautiful fly.” Says Sylvia, “Colin, thy simile ’s just, But still to Amyntor I’m coy ; For 1 vow she’s a simpleton blind that would trust A swain, when he courts to destroy.” THE COMPLAINT. Neaz the heart of a fair-spreading grove, Whose foliage shaded the green, A shepherd, repining at love, In anguish was heard to complain:— POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. “O Cupid! thou wanton young boy ! Since, with thy invisible dart, Thou hast robb’d a fond youth of his joy, In return grant, the wish of his heart. “Send a shaft so severe from thy bow, (His pining, his sighs, to remove), That Stella, once wounded, may know How keen are the arrows of love. “No swain once so happy as I, Nor tuned with more pleasure the reed ; My breast never vented a sigh, Till Stella approach’d the gay mead. “With mirth, with contentment endow’d, My hours they flew wantonly by ; I sought no repose in the wood, Nor from my few sheep would I fly. “Now my reed I have carelessly broke, Its melody pleases no more: 1 pay no regard to a flock That seldom hath wander’d before. “0 Stella! whose beauty so fair Fixcels the bright splendour of day, Ah! have you no pity to share With Damon thus fallen to decay ? “For you have I quitted the plain ; Forsaken my sheep and iny fold: To you in dull languor and pain My tedious moments are told. “For you have my roses grown pale ; They have faded untimely away : And will not such beauty bewail A shepherd thus fallen to decay ? “Since your eyes still requite me with scorn, And kill with their merciless ray ; Like a star at the dawning of morn, I fall to their lustre a prey. “Some swaio who shall mournfully go To whisper love’s sigh to the shade, Will haply some charity show, And under the turf see me laid. “ Would my love but in pity appear On the spot where he moulds my cold grave, And bedew the green sod with a tear, °Tis all the remembrance I crave.” To the sward then his visage he turn’d, *Twas wan as the lilies in May: Fair Stella may see him inurn’d ; He hath sigh’d all his sorrows away. 515 RETIREMENT Come, Inspiration! from thy vernal bower, To thy celestial voice attune the lyre ; Smooth gliding strains in sweet profusion pour, And aid my numbers with seraphic fire. Under a lonely spreading oak I lay, My head upon the daisied green reclined The evening sun beam’d forth his parting ray ; The foliage bended to the hollow wind. There gentle Sleep my active powers supprest ; The city’s distan, hum was heard no more; Yet Fancy suffer’d not the mind to rest, Ever obedient to her wakeful power. She led me near a crystal fountain’s noise, Where undulating waters sportive play ; Where a young comely swain, with pleasing voice, In tender accents sung his sylvan lay :— “ Adieu, ye baneful pleasures of the town! Farewell, ye giddy and unthinking throng! Without regret your foibles J disown ; Themes more exalted claim the Muse’s song. “ Your stony hearts no social feelings share ; Your souls of distant sorrows ne’er partake ; Ne’er do you listen to the needy prayer, Nor drop a tear for tender pity’s sake. “ Welcome, ye fields, ye fountains, and ye groves! Ye flowery meadows, and extensive plains ! Where soaring warblers pour their plaintive loves, Each landscape cheering with their vocal strains. ‘Here rural Beauty rears her pleasing shrine ; She on the margin of each streamlet glows ; Where with the blooming hawthorn roses twine, And the fair lily of the valley grows. “Here Chastity may wander unassail’d, Through fields where gay seducers cease to rove ; Where open Vice o’er Virtue ne’er prevail’d ; Where all is innocence, and all is love. “ Peace with her olive wand triumphant reigns, Guarding secure the peasant’s humble bed; * Envy is banish’d from the happy plains, And Defamation’s busy tongue is laia. “ Health and Contentment usher i the morn; With jocund smiles they cheer the rural swahi; For which the peer, to pompous titles born, Forsaken sighs, but all itis sighs are-vain, 516 “ For the calm comforts of an easy mind, In yonder lonely cot delight to dwell, And leave the statesman for the labouring hind The regal palace for the lowly cell. “Ye, who to Wisdom would devote your hours, And far from riot, far from discord stray, Look back, disdainful, on the city’s towers, Where Pride, where Folly, point the slippery way. Pure flows the limpid stream in crystal tides, Through rocks, through dens, and ever-verdant vales, Till to the town’s unhallow’d wall it glides, Where all its purity and lustre fails.” ON THE COLD MONTH OF APRIL, 1771. *‘Oh! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ; Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast ; Or wallow naked in December’s snow By thinking on fantastic Summer’s heat?” SHAKESPEARE. Richard H. Poets in vain have hail’d the opening Spring, In tender accents wooed the blooming maid, In vain have taught the April birds to wing Their flight through fields in verdant hue array’d. The Muse, in every season taught to sing Amidst the desert snows, by Fancy’s powers, Can elevated soar, on placid wing, To climes where Spring her kindest influence showers. April! once famous for the zephyr mild ; For sweets that early in the garden grow ; Say, how converted to this cheerless wild, Rushing with torrents of dissolving snow? Nursed by the moisture of a gentle shower, Thy foliage oft hath sounded to the breeze ; Oft did thy choristers melodious pour Their melting numbers through the shady trees. Fair have [ seen thy morn, in smiles array’d, With crimson blush bepaint the eastern sky ; But now the dawn creeps mournful o’er the glade, Shrouded in colours of a sable dye. So have I seen the fair, with laughing eye, And visage cheerful as the smiling morn, Alternate changing for the heaving sigh, Or frowning aspect of contemptuous scorn. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Life! what art thou ?—a variegated scene Of mingled light and shade, of joy and woe ; A sea where calms and storms promiscuous reign ; A stream where sweet and bitter jointly flow. Mute are the plains ; the shepherd pipes no mores The reed ’s forsaken, and the tender flock ; While Echo, listening to the tempest’s roar, In silence wanders o’er the beetling rock. Winter, too potent for the solar ray, Bestrides the blast, ascends his icy throne, And views Britannia, subject to his sway, Floating emergent on the frigid zone. Thou savage tyrant of the fretful sky! Wilt thou for ever in our zenith reign P To Greenland’s seas, congeal’d in chilness, fly, Where howling monsters tread the bleak domain. Relent, O Boreas! leave thy frozen cell ; Resign to Spring her portion of the year ; Let west winds, temp’rate, wave the flowing gale, And hills, and vales, and woods, a vernal aspect wear. aig VERSES WRITTEN AT THE HERMITAGE OF BRAID, NEAR EDINBURGH, Wovxp you relish a rural retreat, Or the pleasure the groves can inspire? The city’s allurements forget-— To this spot of enchantment retire ; Where a valley and crystalline brook, Whose current glides sweetly along, Give Nature a fanciful look, The beautiful woodlands among. Behold the umbrageous trees A covert of verdure have spread, Where shepherds may loll at their ease, And pipe to the musical shade. For, lo! through each op’ning is heard, In concert with waters below, The voice of a musical bird, Whose numbers melodiously flow. The bushes and arvours so green, The tendrils of spray interwove, With foliage shelter the scene, And form a retirement for lova. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 517 Here Venus, transported, may rove From pleasure to pleasure unseen, Nor wish for the Cyprian grove Her youthful Adonis to screen. Oft let me contemplative dwell On a scene where such beauties appear : I could live in a cot or a cell, And never think solitude near. DAMON TO HIS FRIENDS. Tue billows of life are supprest ; Its tumults, its toils disappear ; To relinquish the storms that are past, I think on the sunshine that’s near. Dame Fortune and I are agreed ; Her frowns I no longer endure ; For the goddess has kindly decreed, That Damon no more shall be poor. Now riches will ope the dim eyes, To view the increase of my store ; And many my friendship will prize, Who never knew Damon before. But those I renounce and abjure, Who carried contempt in their eye ; May poverty still be their dower, That could look on misfortune awry. Ye powers that weak mortals govern, Keep Pride at his bay from my mind; O let me not haughtily learn To despise the few friends that were kind! For theirs was a feeling sincere, Twas free from delusion and art ; O may I that friendship revere, And hold it yet dear to my heart! By which was I ever forgot? *Twas both my physician and cure, That still found the way to my cot, Although £ was wretched and poor. *Twas balm to my canker-tooth’d care ; The wound of affliction it heal’d : In distress it was Pity’s soft tear, And naked cold Poverty’s shield. Attend, ye kind youth of the plain! Who oft with my sorrows condoled ; You cannot be deaf to the strain, : Since Damon is master of gold. I have chose a sweet sylvan retreat, Bedeck’d with the beauties of Spring ; Around, my flocks nibble and bleat, While the musical choristers sing. T force not the waters to stand Tn an artful canal at my door ; But a river, at Nature’s command, Meanders both limpid and pure. She’s the goddess that darkens my bowers With tendrils of ivy and vine ; She tutors my shrubs and my flowers ; Her taste is the standard of mine. What a pleasing diversified group Of trees has she spread o’er my grouud ! She has taught the grave lyrax to droop, And the bireh to shed odours around. For whom has she perfumed my groves f For whom has she eluster’d my vine P If Friendship despise my alcoves, They’ll ne’er be recesses of mine. He who tastes his grape juices by stealth, Without chosen companions to share, Is the basest of slaves to his wealth, And the pitiful minion of care. O come, and with Damon retire Amidst the green umbrage embower’d! Your mirth and your songs to inspire, Shall the juice of his vintage be pour’d. O eome, ye dear friends of his youth ! Of all his good fortune partake ! Nor think ’tis departing from truth, To say ’twas preserved for your sake. ———)e + CONSCIENCE. ss Leave her to Heaven, And to the thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her.”—-SHAKESPZABRE. No choiring warblers flutter in the sky ; Pheebus no longer holds his radiant sway ; While Nature, with a melancholy eye, Bemoans the loss of his departed ray. O happy he, whose conscience knows no guile He to the sable night can bid farewell ; From cheerless objects close his eyes awhile, Within the silken folds of sleep to dwell. 518 Elysfan dreams shall hover round his bed ; His soul shall wing, on pleasing fancies borne, Lo shining vales where flowerets lift their head, * Waked by the breathing zephyrs of the morn. But wretched he, whose foul, reproachful deeds Can through an angry conscience wound his rest ; His eye too oft the balmy comfort needs, Though Slumber seldom knows him as her guest. To calm the raging tumults of his soul, If wearied Nature should an hour demand, Around his bed the sheeted spectres howl ; Red with revenge the grinning furies stand. Nor state nor grandeur can his pain allay ; Where shall he find a requiem to his woes ? Power cannot chase the frightful gloom away, Nor music lull him to a kind repose. Where is the king that Conscience fears to chide ? Conscience, that candid judge of right and wrong, Will o’er the secrets of each heart preside, Nor awed by pomp, nor tamed by soothing song. AGAINST REPINING AT FORTUNE. THOUGH in my narrow bounds of rural toil, No obelisk or splendid column rise ; Though partial fortune still averts her smile, And views my labours with condemning eyes; Yet all the gorgeous vanity of state I can contemplate with a cool disdain ; Nor shall the honours of the gay and great E’er wound my bosom with an envious pain. Avails it aught the grandeur of their halls, With all the glories of the pencil hung, If Truth, fair Truth! within the unhallow’d walls, Hath never whisper’d with her seraph tongue ? Avails it aught, if Music’s gentle lay Hath oft been echoed by the sounding dome, If Music cannot soothe their griefs away, Or change a wretched to a happy home ? Though Fortune should invest them with her spoils And banish Poverty with look severe,— Enlarge their confines, and decrease their toils, Ah! what avails, if she increase their care ? Though fickle, she disclaim my moss-grown cot, Nature ! thou lookest with more impartial eyes : Smile thou, fair goddess! on my sober lot ; T’)] neither fear her fall, nor. court her rise. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. When early larks shall cease the matin song ; When Philomel at night resigns her lays; When melting numbers to the owl belong : Then shall the reed be silent in thy praise. Can he, who with the tide of fortune sails, More pleasure from the sweets of Nature share P Do zephyrs waft him more ambrosial gales, Or do his groves a gayer livery wear ? To me the heavens unveil as pure a sky ; To me the flowers as rich a bloom disclose ; The morning beams as radiant to mine eye; And darkness guides me to as sweet repose. If luxury their lavish dainties piles, And still attends upon their sated hours, Doth Health reward them with her open smiles, Or Exercise enlarge their feeble powers ? *Tis not in richest mines of Indian gold, That man this jewel, Happinuss, can find, If his unfeeling breast, to Virtue cold, Denies her entrance to bis ruthless mind. Wealth, pomp, and honour, are but gaudy toys; Alas! how poor the pleasures they impart! Virtue ’s the sacred source of all the joys That claim a lasting mansion in the heart. THE DECAY OF FRIENDSHIP. A PASTORAL ELEGY. Wuen Gold, man’s sacred deity, did smile, My friends were plenty, and my sorrows few ; Mirth, love, and bumpers, did my hours beguile, And arrow’d Cupids round my slumbers flew. What shepherd then could boast more happy days ? My lot was envied by each humbler swain ; ' Each bard in smooth eulogium sung my praise, And Damon listen’d to the guileful strain. _Fiattery! alluring as the Syren’s lay, And as deceitful thy enchanting tongue, ’ How have you taught my wavering mind to stray, Charm’d and attracted by the baneful song P My pleasant cottage, shelter’d from the gale, Arose, with moss and rural ivy bound ; And scarce a floweret in my lowly vale, : But was with bees of various colours crown’ POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Free o’er my lands the neighbouring flocks could roam ; How welcome were the swains and flocks te me! The shepherds kindly were invited home, To chase the hours in merriment and glee. To wake emotions in the youthful mind, Strephon, with voice melodious, tuned the song ; Each sylvan youth the sounding chorus join’d, Fraught with contentment ’midst the festive throng. My clustering grape compensed their magic skill; The bowl capacious swell’d, in purple tide, To shepherds, liberal as the crystal rill Spontaneous gurgling from the mountain’s side. But, ah! these youthful, sportive hours are fled ; These scenes of jocund mirth are now no more : No healing slumbers tend my humble bed ; No friends condole the sorrows of the poor. And what avail the thoughts of former joy ? What comfort bring they in the adverse hour? Can they the canker-worm of Care destroy, Or brighten Fortune’s discontented lour ? He who hath long traversed the fertile plain, Where Nature in its fairest vesture smiled, Will he not cheerless view the fairy scene, When lonely wandering o’er the barren wild ? For now pale Poverty, with haggard eye, And rueful aspect, darts her gloomy ray, My wonted guests their proffer’d aid deny, And from the paths of Damon steal away. Thus, when fair Summer’s lustre gilds the lawn, When ripening blossoms deck the spreading tree, : The birds with melody salute the dawn, And o’er the daisy hangs the humming bee : But when the beauties of the circling year, In chilling frosts and furious storms decay, No more the bees upon the plains appear ; No more the warblers hail the infant day. To the lone corner of some distant shore In dreary, devious pilgrimage I’ll fly, And wander pensive where Deceit no more Shall trace my footsteps with a mortal eye : There solitary saunter o’er the beach, And to the murmuring surge my griefs disclose ; There shall my voice in plaintive wailings teach The hollow caverns to resound my woes. 519 Sweet are the waters to the parch’d tongue ; Sweet are the blossoms to the wanton bee; Sweet to the shepherd sounds the lark’s shrill song; But sweeter far is Solitude to me. Adieu, ye fields, where I have fondly stray’d!. Ye swains, who once the favourite Damon know Farewell, ye sharers of my bounty’s aid! Ye sons of base Incratitupg, adieu! Spe TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN CUNNINGHAM, POET. “ Sing his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm ; Pan, the father of our sheep: And, arm in arm, Tread we softly in a round, While the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound.” BEAUMONT AND FLETOHER, Yz mournful meanders and groves, Delight of the Muse and her song ! Ye grottoes and dripping alcoves, No strangers to Corydon’s tongue ! Let: each Sylvan and Dryad declare His themes and his music how dear ! Their plaints and their dirges prepare, Attendant on Corydon’s bier. The Echo that join’d im the lay, So amorous, sprightly, and free, Shall send forth the sounds of dismay, And sigh with sad pity for thee. Wild wander his flocks with the breeze ; His reed can no longer control ; His numbers no longer can please, Or send kind relief to the soul. But long may they wander and bleat ; To hills tell the tale of their woe ; The woodlands the tale shall repeat, And the waters shall mournfully flow. For these were the haunts of his love, The sacred retreats of his ease, Where favourite Fancy would rove, As wanton, as light as the breeze. Her zone will discolour’d appear, With fanciful ringlets unbound ; A face pale and languid she’l} wear; A heart fraught with sorrow profound. 620 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. The reed of each shepherd will mourn ; The shades of Parnassus decay : The Muses will dry their sad urn, Since ’reft of young Corydon’s lay. To him every passion was known That throbb’d in the breast with desire ; Each gentle affection was shown In the soft-sighing songs of his lyre. Like the carolling thrush on the spray, In music soft warbling and wild, To love was devoted each lay, In accents pathetic and mild. Let Beauty and Virtue revere, And the songs of the shepherd approve, Who felt, who lamented the snare, When repining at pitiless love. The Summer but languidly gleams ; Pomona no comfort can bring ; Nor valleys, nor grottoes, nor streams, Nor the May-born flowerets of Spring. They’ve fled all with Corydon’s Muse, For his brows to form chaplets of woe; Whose reed oft awaken’d their boughs, As the whispering breezes that blow. To many a fanciful spring His lyre was melodiously strung ; While fairies and fawns, in a ring, Have applauded the swain as he sung. To the cheerful he usher’d his smiles ; To the woeful his sigh and his tear ; A condoler with Want and her toils, When the voice of Oppression was near. Though titles and wealth were his due; Though Fortune denied his reward ; Yet Truth and Sincerity knew What the goddess would never regard. Avails aught the generous heart, Which Nature to Goodness design’d, If Fortune denies to impart Her kindly relief to the mind? *Twas but faint the relief to dismay, The cells of the wretch’d among ; Though Sympathy sung in the lay ; Though melody fell from his tongue. Let the favour’d of Fortune attend To the ails of the wretched and poor: Though Corydon’s lays could befriend, *Tis riches alone that can cure. But they to Compassion are dumb; To Pity their voices unknown ; Near Sorrow they never can come, Till Misfortune has mark’d them her own. Now the shades of the evening depend ; Each warbler is lull’d on the spray ; The cypress doth ruefully bend Where reposes the Shepherd’s cold clay. Adieu, then, the songs of the swain : Let Peace still attend on his shade ; And his pipe, that is dumb to his strain, In the grave be with Corydon laid. THE DELIGHTS OF VIRTUE. RETURNING morn, in orient blush array’d, With gentle radiance hail’d the sky serene ; No rustling breezes waved the verdant shade ; No swelling surge disturb’d the azure main. These moments, Meprration ! sure are thine; These are the halcyon joys you wish to find, When Nature’s peaceful elements combine To suit the calm composure of the mind. The Muse, exalted by thy sacred power, To the green mountain’s airy summit flew, Charm’d with the thoughtful stillness of an how, That usher’d beaming Fancy to her view. Fresh from old Neptune’s fluid mansion sprung The Sun, reviver of each drooping flower ; At his approach, the lark, with matin song, In notes of gratitude confess’d his power. So shines fair Virtue, shedding light divine On those who wish to profit by her ways, Who ne’er at parting with their vice repine, To taste the comforts of her blissful rays. She, with fresh hopes each sorrow can beguile, Can dissipate Adversity’s deep gloom, Make meagre Poverty contented smile, And the sad wretch forget his hapless doom. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 521 Sweeter than shady groves in Summer’s pride, Than flowery dales or grassy meads, is she ; Delightful as the honey’d streams that glide From the rich labours of the busy bee. Her paths and alleys are for ever green : There Innocence, in snowy robes array’d, With smiles of pure content, is hail’d the queen And happy mistress of the sacred shade. O let no transient gleam of earthly joy From virtue lure your labouring steps aside ; Nor instant grandeur future hopes annoy With thoughts that spring from insolence and pride. Soon will the wing’d moments speed away, When you'll no more the plumes of honour wear : Grandeur must shudder at the sad decay, And Pride look humble when he ponders there. Deprived of Virtue, where is Beauty’s power ? Her dimpled smiles, her roses, charm no more. So much can guilt the loveliest form deflower : We loathe that beauty which we loved before. How fair are Virtue’s buds, where’er they blow, Or in the desert wild, or garden gay! Her flowers how sacred, wheresoe’er they show, Unknown to killing canker and decay ! ON NIGHT. Now murky shades surround the pole : Darkness lords without contro ; To the notes of buzzing owl, Lions roar, and tigers howl, Fright’ning from their azure shrine, Stars that wont in orbs to shine: Now the sailor’s storm-tost bark Knows no blest celestial mark, While in the briny-troubled deep, Dolphins change their sport for sleep : Ghosts and frightful spectres gaunt, Churchyards dreary footsteps haunt, And brush with wither’d arms the dews That fall upon the drooping yews. —-— DIRGE. THE waving yew or cypress wreath In vain bequeath the mighty tear ; In vain the awful pomp of Death Attends the sable-shrouded bier. Since Strephon’s virtue ’s sunk to rest, Nor Pity’s sigh, nor Sorrow’s strain, Nor magic tongue, have e’er confest Our wounded bosom’s secret pain. The just, the good, more honours share In what the conscious heart bestows, Than Vice adorn’d with sculptor’s care, In all the venal pomp of woes. A sad-eyed mourner at his tomb, Thou, Friendship! pay thy rites divine, And echo through the midnight gloom That Strephon’s early fall was thine. MISCELLANIES. A TALE. Txose rigid pedagogues and fools, . Who walk by self-invented rules, Do often try, with empty head, The emptier mortals to mislead, And fain would urge that none but they Could rightly teach the A, B, C; On which they’ve got an endless comment, To trifling minds of mighty moment, Throwing such barriers in the way Of those who genius display, As often, ah! too often teaze Them out of patience, and of fees, Before they’re able to explode Obstructions thrown on Learning’s road. May mankind all employ their tools To banish pedantry from schools! And may each pedagogue avail, By listening to the after tale! Wise Mr. Birch had long intended The alphabet should be amended, And taught that H a breathing was ; Ergo he saw no proper cause Why such a letter should exist. Thus in a breath was he dismiss’d, With, “O beware, beware, O youth! Take not the villain in your mont 3X 522 One day this alphabetic sinner Was eager to devour his dinner, When, to appease the craving glutton, His boy Tom produced the mutton. Was such disaster ever told ? Alas, the meat was deadly cold! “ Here, take and h—eat it,” says the master ; Quoth Tom, “That shall be done, and fast, Sir:” And few there are who will dispute it, But he went instantly about it ; For birch had scorn’d the H to say, And blew him with a puff away. The bell was rung with dread alarm: “Bring me the mutton! Is it warm ?” “Sir, you desired, and I have eat it.” “You lie! my orders were to heat it.” Quoth Tom, “T’ll readily allow That H is but a breathing now.” EXTEMPORE, ON BEING ASKED WHICH OF THREE SISTERS WAS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL. Wuen Paris gave his voice, in Ida’s grove, For the resistless Venus, queen of love, *Twas no great task to pass a judgment there, Where she alone was exquisitely fair: But here, what could his ablest judgment teach, When wisdom, power, and beauty, reign in each P The youth, nonplused, behoved to join with me, And wish the apple had been cut in three. THE TOWN AND COUNTRY CONTRASTED ; IN AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. From noisy bustle, from contention free, Far from the busy town I careless loll : Not like swain Tityrus, or the bards of old, Under a beechen, venerable shade, But on a furzy heath, where blooming broom And thorny whins the spacious plains adorn. Here Health sits smiling on my youthful brow : For ere the sun beams forth his earliest ray, And all the east with yellow radiance crowns ; Ere dame Aurora, from her purple bed, ’Gins with her kindling blush to paint the sky ; The soaring lark, morn’s cheerful harbinger, And linnet joyful, fluttering from the bush, Stretch their small throats in vocal melody, To hail the dawn, and drowsy sleep exhale From man, frail man! on downy softness stretcli’d. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON, Such pleasing scenes Edina cannot boast s For there the slothful slumber seal’d mine eyes, Till nine successive strokes the clock had knell’d. There not the lark, but fishwives’ noisy screams, And inundations plunged from ten-house height, With smell more fragrant than the spicy groves Of Indus, fraught with all her orient stores, Roused me from sleep; not sweet, refreshing sleep, But sleep infested with the burning sting Of bug infernal, who the live-long night With direst suction sipp’d my liquid gore. There gloomy vapours in our zenith réign’d, And fill’d with irksome pestilence the air. There lingering Sickness held his feeble court, Rejoicing in the havoc he had made ; And Death, grim Death! with all his ghastly train, Watch’d the broke slumbers of Edina’s sons. Hail! rosy Health! thou pleasing antidote *Gainst troubling cares! all hail, these rural fields! Those winding rivulets, and verdant shades, Where thou, the heaven-born goddess, deign’st to dwell ! With thee the hind, upon his simple fare, Lives cheerful, and from Heaven no more demands. But, ah! how vast, how terrible the change With him who night by night in sickness pines ! Him nor his splendid equipage can please, Nor all the pageantry the world can boast ; Nay, not the consolation of his friends Can aught avail: his hours are anguish all ; Nor cease till envious Death hath closed the scene. But, Carlos, if we court this maid celestial ; Whether we through meandering rivers stray, Or ’midst the city’s jarring noise remain ; Let Temperance, Health’s blithe concomitant, To our desires and appetites set bounds ; Else, cloy’d at last, we surfeit every joy: Our slacken’d nerves reject their wonted spring ; We reap the fruits of our unkindly lusts, And feebly totter to the silent grave. —_. A SATURDAY’S EXPEDITION, IN MOCK HEROICS. Non mira, sed vera, canam. Art that sweet period of revolving time When Pheebus lingers not in Thetis’ lap; When twinkling stars their feeble influence shed, And scarcely glimmer through th’ ethereal vault. Till Sol again his near approach proclaims, With ray purpureal, and the blushing form Of fair Aurora, goddess of the dawn, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON Leading the wing’d coursers to the pole Of Phoebus’ car: ’twas in that season fair, When jocund Summer did the meads array In Flora’s ripening bloom, that we prepared To break the bond of business, and to roam Far from Edina’s jarring noise awhile. Fair smiled the wakening morn on our design ; And we, with joy elate, our march began For Leith’s fair port, where oft Edina’s sons The week conclude, and in carousal quaff Port, punch, rum, brandy, and Geneva strong, Liquors too nervous for the feeble purse. With all convenient speed we there arrived : Nor had we time to touch at house or hall, Till from the boat a hollow thundering voice Bellow’d vociferous, and our ears assail’d With, “Ho! Kinghorn, oho! come straight aboard.” We fail’d not to obey the stern command, Utter’d with voice as dreadful as the roar Of Polyphemus, ’midst rebounding rocks, When overcome by sage Ulysses’ wiles. “ Hoist up your sails!” the angry skipper cries, While fore and aft the busy sailors run, And loose th’ entangled cordage. O’er the deep Zephyrus blows, and hugs our lofty sails, Which, in obedience to the powerful breeze, Swell o’er the foaming main, and kiss the wave. Now o’er the convex surface of the flood Precipitate we fly. Our foaming prow Divides the saline stream. On either side Ridges of yeasty surge dilate apace ; But from the poop the waters gently flow, And undulation for the time decays, In eddies smoothly floating o’er the main. Here let the Muse in doleful numbers sing The woeful fate of those, whose cruel stars Have doom’d them subject to the languid powers Of watery sickness. Though with stomach full Of juicy beef, of mutton in its prime, Or all the dainties Luxury can boast, They brave the elements, yet the rocking bark, Truly regardless of their precious food, Converts their visage to the ghastly pale, And makes the sea partaker of the sweets On which they sumptuous fared. And this the cause Why those of Scotia’s sons, whose wealthy store Hath bless’d them with a splendid coach and six, Rather incline to linger on the way, And cross the river Forth by Stirling Bridge, Than be subjected to the ocean’s swell, To dangerous ferries, and to sickness dire. And now at equal distance shows the land. Gladly the tars the joyful task pursue 523 Of gathering in the freight. Debates arise From counterfeited halipence. In the hold The seamen scrutinise, and eager peep Through every corner where their watchful eye Suspects a lurking place, or dark retreat, To hide the timid corpse of some poor soul, Whose scanty purse can scarce one groat afford. At length, we, cheerful, land on Fifan shore, Where sickness vanishes, and all the ills Attendant on the passage of Kinghorn. Our pallid cheeks resume their rosy hue, And empty stomachs keenly crave supply. With eager step we reach the friendly inn ; Nor did we think of beating our retreat Till every gnawing appetite was quell’d. Eastward along the Fifan coast we stray : And here th’ unwearied eye may fondly gaze O’er all the tufted groves and pointed spires With which the pleasant banks of Forth are crown’d, Sweet, navigable stream! where Commerce reigns, Where Peace and jocund Plenty smile serene. On thy green banks sits Liberty enthroned : But not that shadow which the English youth So eagerly pursue ; but freedom bought, When Caledonia’s triumphant sword Taught the proud sons of Anglia to bemoan Their fate at Bannockburn, where thousands came, Never to tread their native soil again. Far in a rugged den, where Nature’s hand Had careless strew’d the rocks, a dreadful cave, Whose concave ceiling echoed to the floods Their hollow murmurs on the trembling shore, Demanded our approach. The yawning porch Its massy sides disclosed, and o’er the top The ivy tendrils twined th’ uncultured fern. Fearful, we pry into the dreary vault, Hoary with age, and breathing noxious damps. Here screeching owls may unmolested dwell In solitary gloom ; for few there are Whose inclination leads {hem to review A cell where putrid smells infectious reign. Then, turning westward, we our course pursue Along the coast of Fortha’s briny flood, Till we o’ertake the gradual rising dale Where fair Burntisland rears her reverend dome: And here the vulgar sign-post, painted o’er With imitations vile of man and horse; Of small-beer frothing o’er th’ unshapely jug ; With courteous invitation, spoke us fair To enter in, and taste what precious drops (1) A large cave at a small distance from Kinghorn, supposed, about a century ago, to have been the haunt of thicves. 024 Were there reserved to moisten strangers’ throats, Too often parch’d upon the tedious way. After regaling here with sober can, Our limbs we plied, and nimbly measured o’er The hills, the vales, and the extensive plains, Which form the distance from Burntisland’s port To Inverkeithing. Westward still we went, And in the ferry-boat we loll’d at ease : Nor did we long on Neptune’s empire float ; For scarce ten posting minutes were elapsed Till we again on terra firma stood, And to M‘Laren’s march’d, where roasted lamb, With cooling lettuce, crown’d our social board. Here, too, the cheering glass, chief foe to Care, Went briskly round; and many a virgin fair Received our homage in a bumper full. Thus having sacrificed a jocund hour To smiling Mirth, we quit the happy scene, And move progressive to Edina’s walls. Now still returning eve creep’d gradual on, And the bright sun, as weary of the sky, Beam’d forth a languid occidental ray, Whose ruby-tinctured radiance faintly gleam’d Upon the airy cliffs and distant spires, That float on the horizon’s utmost verge. So we, with festive joints and lingering pace, Moved slowly on, and did not reach the town Till Phoebus had unyoked his prancing steeds. Ye sons of Caledonia! who delight, With all the pomp and pageantry of state, To roll along in gilded affluence, For one poor moment wean your thoughts from tnese, And list this humble strain. If you, like us, Could brave the angry waters ; be uproused By the first salutation t6 the morn Paid by the watchful cock ; or be compell’d On foot to wander o’er the lonely plain For twenty tedious miles; then should the Gout, With all his racking pangs, forsake your frame— For he delights not to traverse the field, Or rugged steep, but prides him to recline On the luxuriance of a velvet fold, Where Indolence on purple sofa lolls. A BURLESQUE ELEGY, ON THE AMPUTATION OF A STUDENT'S HAIR BEFORE HIS ORDERS. U sap catastrophe! O event dire! How shall the loss, the heavy loss, be borne ? Or how the Muse attune the plaintive lyre, To sing of Strephon with his ringlets shorn ? POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Say ye, who can divine the mighty cause, From whence this modern circumcision springs ? Why such oppressive and such rigid laws Are still attendant on religious things ? Alas, poor Strephon ! to the stern decree Which prunes your tresses, are you doom’d to yield ? Soon shall your caput, like the blasted tree, Diffuse its faded honours o’er the field. Now let the solemn sounds of mourning swell, And wake sad echoes to prolong the lay ; For, hark! methinks I hear the tragic knell ; This hour bespeaks the barber on his way. O razor! yet thy poignant edge suspend ; O yet indulge me with a short delay ; Till I once more pourtray my youthful friend, Ere his proud locks are scatter’d on the clay ; Ere the huge wig, in formal curls array’d, With pulvile pregnant, shall o’ershade his face ; Or, like the wide umbrella, lend its aid, To banish lustre from the sacred place. Mourn, O ye zephyrs ! for, alas! no more His waving ringlets shall your call obey ! For, ah! the stubborn wig must now be wore, Since Strephon’s locks are scatter’d on the clay. Amanda, too, in bitter anguish sighs, And grieves the metamorphosis to see. Mourn not, Amanda! for the hair that lies Dead on the ground, shall be revived for tnee. Some skilful artist of a French /rizeur, With graceful ringlets shall thy temples bind, And cull the precious relics from the floor, Which yet may flutter in the wanton wind. THE CANONGATE PLAYHOUSE IN RUINS, A BURLESQUE POEM. Yr few, whose feeling hearts are ne’er estranged From soft emotions! ye who often wear The eye of Pity and oft vent her sighs, When sad Melpomene, in woe-fraught strains, Gains entrance to the breast; or often smile When brisk Thalia gaily trips along Scenes of enlivening mirth; attend my song! And Fancy, thou whose ever-flaming light Can penetrate into the dark abyss POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Of chaos and of hell; oh, with thy blazing torch The wasteful scene illumine, that the Muse With daring pinions may her flight pursue, Nor with timidity be known to soar O’er the theatric world, to chaos changed. Can I contemplate on those dreary scenes Of mouldering desolation, and forbid The voice elegiac, and the falling tear ! No more, from box to box, the basket, piled With oranges as radiant as the spheres, Shall with their luscious virtues charm the sense “Of taste and smell. No more the gaudy beau With handkerchief in lavender well drenched, Or bergamot, or rose watero pure, With flavoriferous sweets shall chase away The pestilential fumes of vulgar cits, Who, in impatience for the curtain’s rise, Amused the lingering moments, and applied Thirst-quenching porter to their parched lips. Alas! how sadly altered is the scene ! For, lo! those sacred walls, that late were brush’d By rustling silks and waving capuchines, Are now become the sport of wrinkled Time ! Those walls, that late have echoed to the voice Of stern King Richard, to the scene transform’d Of crawling spiders and detested moths, Who in the lonely crevices reside, Or gender in the beams, that have upheld Gods, demi-gods, and all the joyous crew Of thunderers in the galleries above. O Shakespeare! where are all thy tinsell’d kings, Thy fawning courtiers, and thy waggish clowns ? Where all thy fairies, spirits, witches, fiends, That here have gamboll’d in nocturnal sport, Round the lone oak, or sunk in fear away From the shrill summons of the cock at morn ? Where now the temples, palaces, and towers ? Where now the groves that ever verdant smiled ? Where now the streams that never ceased to flow? Where now the clouds, the rains, the hails, the winds, The thunders, lightnings, and the tempests strong ? Here shepherds, lolling in their woven bowers, In dull recitativo often sung Their loves, accompanied with clangour strong ¥rom horns, from trumpets, clarionets, bassoons ; From viohnos sharp, or droning bass, Cr the brisk tinkling of a harpsichord. Such is thy power, O Music! such thy fame, That it has fabled been, how foreign song, Soft issuing from Tenducci’s slender throat, Has drawn a plaudit from the gods enthroned 525 Round the empyreum of Jove himself, High seated on Olympus’ airy top. Nay, that lis feverous voice was known to soothe The shrill-toned prating of the females’ tongues, Who, in obedience to the lifeless song, All prostrate fell ; all, fainting, died away In silent ecstasies of passing joy. Ye, who oft wander by the silver light Of sister Luna, or to churchyard’s gloom, Or cypress shades, if Chance should guide your steps To this sad mansion, think not that you tread Unconsecrated paths ; for on this ground Have holy streams been pour’d, and flowerets strew’d ; While many a kingly diadem, I ween, Lies useless here entomb’d, with heaps of coin Stamp’d in theatric mint ;—offenceless gold ! That carried not persuasion in its hue, To tutor mankind in their evil ways. After a lengthen’d series of years, When the unhallow’d spade shall discompose This mass of earth, then relics sball be found, Which, or for gems of worth, or Roman coins, Well may obtrude on antiquary’s eye. Ye spouting blades! regard this ruin’d fane, And nightly come within those naked walls, To shed the tragic tear. Full many a drop Of precious inspiration have you suck’d From its dramatic sources. Oh! look here, Upon this roofless and forsaken pile, And stalk in pensive sorrow o’er the ground Where you’ve beheld so many noble scenes, Thus when the mariner to foreign clime Hlis bark conveys, where odoriferous gales, And orange groves, and love-inspiring wine, . Have off repaid his toil; if earthquake dire, With hollow groanings and convulsive pangs, The ground hath rent, and all those beauties tuil’d Will he refrain to shed the grateful drop ; A tribute justly due (though seldom paid) ‘lo the blest memory of happier times ? THE PEASANT, THE HEN, AND YOUNG DUCKS. A FABLE, A wey, of all the dunghill crew The fairest, stateliest to view, Of laying tired, she fondly begs Her keeper’s leave to hatch her eggs. 526 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Ile, duun’d with the incessant cry, Was forced for peace’ sake to comply : And, in a month, the downy brood Came chirping round the hen for food, Who view’d them with parental eyes Of pleasing fondness and surprise, And was not at a loss to trace Her likeness growing in their face ; Though the broad 4é//s could well declare That they another’s offspring were : So strong will prejudices blind, Aud lead astray the easy mind. To the green margin of the brook The hen her fancied children took : Each young one shakes his unfledged wings, And to the flood by instinct springs : With willing strokes they gladly swim, Or dive into the glassy stream, While the fond mother vents her grief, And prays the peasant’s kind relief. The peasant heard the bitter cries, And thus in terms of rage replies :— “ You fool! give o’er your useless moan, Nor mourn misfortunes not your own; But learn in wisdom to forsake The offspring of the duck and drake.” Yo whom the hen, with angry crest And scornful looks, herself addrest : “Tf reason were my constant guide (Of man the ornament and pride), Then should I boast a cruel heart, That feels not for another’s smart : But since poor I, by éustinct blind, Can boast no feelings so refined, *Tis hoped your reason will excuse, Though I your counsel sage refuse, And from the perils of the flood Attempt to save ariother’s brood.” MORAL. When Pity, generous nymph! possess’d, And moved at will the human breast, No tongue its distant sufferings told, But she assisted, she condoled, And willing bore her tender part In all the feelings of the heart : But now from her our hearts decoy’d, To sense of others’ woes destroy’d, Act only from a selfish view, Nor give the aid to pity due. FASHION. “Bred up where discipline most rare is, In military garden, Paris.”—Hudibras. — O Narturs, parent goddess! at thy shrine, Prone to the earth, the Muse, in humble song, Thy aid implores: nor will she wing her flight, Till thou, bright form! in thy effulgence pure, Deign’st to look down upon her lowly state, And shed thy powerful influence benign. Come, then, regardless of vain Fashion’s fools Of all those vile encrmities of shape That crowd the world; and with thee bring Wisdom, in sober contemplation clad, To lash those bold usurpers from the stage. On that gay spot, where the Parisian dome To fools the stealing hand of Time displays, Fasuion her empire holds ; a goddess great ! View her, amidst the Mildinerian train, On a resplendent throne exalted high, Strangely diversified with gew-gaw forms. Her busy hand glides pleasurably o’er The darling novelties, the trinkets rare, That greet the sight of the admiring dames, Whose dear-bought treasures o’er their native isle Contagious spread, infect the wholesome air That cherish’d vigour in Britannia’s sons. Near this proud seat of Fashion’s antic form A sphere revolves, on whose bright orb behold The circulating mode of changeful dress, Which, like the image of the Sun himself, Glories in coursing through the diverse signs Which blazon in the zodiac of heaven. Around her throne coquettes and petit beaux Unnumber’d shine, and with each other vie In nameless ornaments and gaudy plumes. O worthy emulation! to excel In trifles such as these: how truly great ! Unworthy of the peevish, blubbering boy, Crush’d in his childhood by the fondling nurse, Who, for some favourite bauble, frets and pines. Amongst the proud attendants of this shrine, The wealthy, young, and gay Clarinda, draws From poorer objects the astonish’d eye. Her looks, her dress, and her affected mien, Speak her enthusiast keen in Fashion’s train. White as the cover’d Alps, or wintry face Of snowy Lapland, her toupée uprear’d, Exhibits to the view a cumbrous mass Of curls high nodding o’er her polish’d brow ; From which redundant flows the Brussels lace, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. With pendent ribbons, too, of various dye, Where all the colours in th’ ethereal bow Unite, and blend, and tantalize the sight. Nature! to thee alone, not Fashion’s pomp, Does Beauty owe her all-commanding eye. From the green bosom of the watery main, Array’d by thee, majestic Venus rose, With waving ringlets carelessly diffused, Floating luxuriant o’er the restless surge. What Rubens then, with his enlivening hand, Could paint the bright vermilion of her cheek, Pure as the roseate portal of the east, That opens to receive the cheering ray Of Phcebus beaming from the orient sky! For sterling Beauty needs no faint essays, Or colourings of art, to gild her more :— She is all-perfect. And if Beauty fail, Where are those ornaments, those rich attires, Which can reflect a lustre on that face, Where she with light innate disdains to shine ? Britons ! beware of Fashion’s luring wiles : On either hand, chief guardians of her power, And sole dictators of her fickle voice, Folly and dull Effeminacy reign ; Whose blackest magic and unhallow’d spells The Roman ardour check’d; their strength decay’d, And all their glory scatter’d to the winds. Tremble, O Albion! for the voice of Fate Seems ready to decree thy after fall. By pride, by luxury, what fatal ills, Unheeded, have approach’d thy mortal frame ! How many foreign weeds their heads have rear’d In thy fair garden! Hasten, ere their strength And baneful vegetation taint the soil, To root out rank disease, which soon must spread, [f no blest antidote will purge away Fashion's proud minions from our sea-gitt isle. ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMAS LANCASHIRE, COMEDIAN. Axas, poor Tom! how oft, with merry heart, Have we beheld thee play the Sexton’s part ? Each comic heart must now be grieved to see The Sexton’s dreary part perform’d on thee. | 527 On SEEING A LADY PAINT HERSELF. WueEn, by some misadventure cross’d, The banker hath his fortune lost, Credit his instant need supplies, And for a moment blinds our eyes : So Delia, when her beauty’s flown, Trades on a bottom not her own, And labours to escape detection, By putting on a false complexion. EXTEMPORE, ON SEEING STANZAS ADDRESSED TO Mrs. HARTLEY, CoMB. DIAN, WHEREIN SHE IS DESCRIBED AS RESEMBLING MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. Hanrtiey resembles Scotland’s Queen, Some bard enraptured cries ; A flattering bard he is, I ween, Or else the Painter lies. —_o—_ —_ A TAVERN ELEGY. FLep are the moments of delusive Mirth; The fancied pleasure! paradise divine! Hushid are the clamours that derive their birth From generous floods of soul-reviving wine. Still night and silence now succeed their noise ; The erring tides of passion rage no more ; But all is peaceful as the ocean’s voice When breezeless waters kiss the silent shore. Here stood the juice, whose care-controlling powers ‘ Could every human misery subdue, And wake to sportive joy the lazy hours, That to the languid senses hateful grew. Attracted by the magic of the bowl, Around the swelling brim in full array The glasses circled, as the planets roll And hail with borrow’d light the god of day. Here Music, the delight of moments gay, Bade the unguarded tongues their motions cease, And with a mirthful, a melodious lay, Awed the fell voice of Discord into peace. ~ These are the joys that Virtue must approve, While Reason shines with majesty divine, Ere our ideas in disorder move, And sad excess against the soul combine. 528 What evils have not frantic mortals done By wine, that ignis-fatuus of the mind! How many by its force to vice are won, Since first ordain’d to tantalize mankind ! By Bacchus’ power, ye sons of Riot! say, How many watchful sentinels have bled? How many travellers have lost their way, By lamps unguided through the evening shade ? O spare those friendly twinklers of the night ! Let no rude cane their hallow’d orbs assail ! For Cowardice alone condemns the light, That shows her countenance aghast and pale. Now the short taper warns me to depart Ere Darkness shall assume his dreary sway ; Ere Solitude fall heavy on my heart, That lingers for the far approach of day. Who would not welcome the less dreaded doom, To be for ever number’d with the dead, Rather than bear the miserable gloom, When all his comforts, all his friends, are fled ! Bear me, ye gods! where I may calmly rest From all the follies of the night secure, The balmy blessings of repose to taste, Nor hear the tongue of Outrage at my door. GOOD EATING. Hear, O ye host of Epicurus! hear! Each portly form, whose overhanging paunch Can well denote the all-transcendent joy That springs unbounded from fruition full Of rich repast ; to you I consecrate The song adventurous ;—happy if the Muse Can cook the numbers to your palates keen, Or send but half the relish with her song, That smoking sirloins to your souls convey. Hence now, ye starvelings wan! whose empty sides Oft echo to the hollow-murmuring tones Of hunger fell.—Avaunt, ye base-bora hinds ! Whose fates unkind ne’er destined you to gorge The banquet rare, or wage a pleasing war With the delicious morsels of the earth. To you I sing not: for, alas! what pain, What tantalizing tortures would ensue, To aid the force of Famine’s sharpest tooth, Were I to breathe my accents in your ear! POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Hail, Roast Beef! monarch of the festive throng, To Hunger’s bane the strongest antidote ; Come, and with all thy rage-appeasing sweets Our appetites allay! For, or attended By root Hibernian, or plum-pudding rare, Still thou art welcome to the social board. Say, can the spicy gales from Orient blown, Or zephyr’s wing, that from the orange groves Brushes the breeze, with rich perfumes teplete, More aromatic or reviving smell : To nostrils bring? Or can the glassy streams Of Pactolus, that o’er his golden sands Delightful glide, thy luscious drops outvie, That from thy sides embrown’d unnumber’d fall ? Behold, at thy approach, what smiles serene Beam from the ravish’d guests !—Still are their tongues, While they, with whetted instruments, prepare For deep incision.—Now the abscess bleeds, And the devouring band, with stomachs keen, And glutting rage, thy beauteous form destroy ; Leave you a skeleton, marrowless and bare, A prey to dunghills, or vexatious sport Of torrent rushing from Defilement’s urns, That o’er the city’s flinty pavement hurls. So fares it with the man, whose powerful pelf Once could command respect. Caress’d by all, His bounties were as lavish as the hand Of yellow Ceres, till his stores decay’d : And, then (O dismal tale !) those precious drops Of flattery, that bedew’d his spring of fortune, Leave the sad winter of his state so fallen, Nor nurse the thorn from which they ne’er can hope Again to pluck the odour-dropping rose ! For thee, Roast Beef! in variegated shapes Have mortals toil’d—The sailor sternly braves The strength of Boreas, and exulting stands Upon the sea-wash’d deck. With hopes inspired Of yet indulging in thy wish’d-for sweets, He smiles amidst the dangers that surround him: Cheerful he steers to cold forbidden climes ; Or to the torrid zone explores his way. Be kind, ye Powers! and still, propitious, send This paragon of feeding to our halls. With this regaled, who would, vain-glorious, wish For towering pyramids superbly crown’d With jellies, syllabubs, or ice-creams rare P These can :muse the eye, and may bestow A short-lived pleasure to a palate strange : But, for a moment’s pleasure, who would vend A lifetime that would else be spent in joy, For hateful loathings, and for gouty rheums, Ever preceded by indulged excess ? POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Blest. be those walls, where Hospitality And Welcome reign at large! There may you oft Of social cheer partake, and love, and joy ; Pleasures that to the human mind convey Ideal pictures of the bliss supreme : But near the gate where Parsimony dwells, Where Ceremony cool, with brow austere, Confronts the guests, ne’er let thy foot approach ! Deprived of thee, heaven-born Benevolence ! What is life’s garden but a devious wild, Through which the traveller must pass forlorn, Unguided by the aid of Friendship’s ray P Rathe:, if Poverty hold converse with thee, To the lone garret’s lofty bield ascend, Or dive to some sad cell: there have recourse To meagre offals, where, though small thy fare, Freedom shall wing thee to a purer joy Than banquets with superfluous dainties crown’d, Mixed with reserve and coolness, can afford. But, if your better fortunes have prepared Your purse with ducats, and with health your frame, Assemble friends! and to the tavern straight, Where the officious drawer, bending low, Is passive to afault. Then, nor the Signior Grand, Nor Russia’s Empress, signalised for war, Can govern with more arbitrary sway. Ye, who for health, for exercise, for air, Oft saunter from Edina’s smoke-capt spires, And by the grassy hill, or dimpled brook, An appetite revive, should often strav O’er Arthur’s Seat’s green pastures, to the town For sheepheads and bone-bridges famed of yore That in our country’s annals stands yclept, Fair Duddingstonia, where you may be bless’d With simple fare and vegetable sweets, Freed from the clamours of the busy world. Or, if for recreation you should stray To Leithian shore, and breathe the keener air Wafted from Neptune’s empire of the main ; If appetite invite, and cash prevail, Ply not your joints upon the homeward tract, Till Lawson, chiefest of the Scottish hosts ! To nimble-footed waiters give command The cloth to lay.—Instinctively they come ; And, lo! the table wrapt in cloudy steams, Groans with the weight of the transporting fare, That breathes frankincense on the guests around. Now, while stern Winter holds his frigid sway, And to a period spins the closing year ; While festivals abound, and sportive hours Kill the remembrance of our waning time, Let not [ntemperance, destructive fiend! Gain entrance to our halls. Despoil’d by him, 529 | Shall cloy’d appetite, forerunner sad Of rank disease, inveterate clasp your frame. Contentment shall no more be known to spread Her cherub wings round thy once happy dwelling, But misery of thought, and racking pain, Shall plunge you headlong to the dark abyss. TEA. Yz maidens modest! on whose sullen brows Hath weaning Chastity her wrinkles cull’d— Who constant labour o’er consumptive oil, At midnight knell, to wash Sleep’s nightly balm From closing eyeuds, with the grateful drops Of Tea’s bless’d juices—list the obsequious lays, That come not, with Parnassian honours crown’d, To dwell in murmurs o’er your sleepy sense; But, fresh from Orient blown, to chase far off Your lethargy ; that dormant needles, roused, May pierce the waving mantua’s silken folds, Yor many a dame, in chamber sadly pent, Hath this reviving liquor call’d to life : And well it did, to mitigate the frowns Of anger, reddening on Lucinda’s brow With flash malignant, that had harbour’d there, If she at masquerade, or play, or ball, Appear’d not in her newest, best attire. But Venus, goddess of th’ eternal smile, Knowing that stormy brows but ill become Fair patterns of her beauty, hath ordain’d Celestial Tea—a fountain that can cure The ills of passion, and can free from frowns, And sobs, and sighs, the disappointed fair. To her, ye fair! in adoration bow ! Whether at blushing morn, or dewy eve, Her smoking cordials greet your fragrant board, With Hyson, or Bohiea, or Congo, crown’d. At midnight skies, ye mantua-makers ! hail The sacred offering. For the haughty belles No longer can upbraid your lingering hands, With trains upborn aloft by dusty gales That sweep the ball-room. Swift they glide along, And, with their sailing streamers, catch the eye Of some Adonis, marked to love a prey. Whose bosom ne’er had panted with a sigh, But for the silken draperies that enclose Graces from Fancy’s eye but ill-conceal’d. Mark well the fair! observe their modest eye, With all the innocence of beauty bless’d. Could Slander o’er that tongue its power retain, Whose breath is Music? Ah, fallacious thought The surface is Ambrosia’s mingled sweets ; 3% 530 But all below is death. At tea-board met, Attend their prattling tongues ;—they scoff,—they rail Unbounded ; but their darts are chiefly aim’d At some gay fair, whose beauties far eclipse Her dim beholders ; who, with haggard eyes, Would blight those charms where raptures long have dwelt In ecstasy, delighted and sufficed. In vain hath Beauty, with her varied robe, Bestow’d her glowing blushes o’er her cheeks, And called attendant Graces to her aid, To blend the scarlet and the lily fair. Tn vain did Venus in her favourite mould Adapt the slender form to Cupid’s choice. When Slander comes, her blasts too fatal prove ; Pale are those cheeks where youth and beauty glow’d ; Where smiles, where freshness, and where roses grew: Ghastly and wan their Gorgon picture comes, With every fury grinning from the looks Of frightful monster. Envy’s hissing tongue With deepest vengeance wounds, and every wound With deeper canker, deeper poison, teems. O Gold! thy luring lustre first prevail’d On man to tempt the fretful winds and waves, And hunt new fancies. Still, thy glaring form Bids Commerce thrive, and o’er the Indian waves O’er-stemmning danger, draw the labouring keel, From China’s coast to Britain’s colder clime, Fraught with the fruits and herbage of her vales. In them whatever vegetable springs, How loathsome and corrupted, triumphs here, The bane of life, of health the sure decay : Yet, yet we swallow, and extol the draught, Though nervous ails should spring, and vaporish qualms Our senses and our appetites destroy. Look round, ye sipplers of the poison’d cup From foreign plant distill’d! No more repine That nature, sparing of her sacred sweets, Hath doom’d you in a wilderness to dwell ; While round Britannia’s streams she kindly rears Green sage, and wild thyme. These were sure decreed, As plants of Britain, to regale her sons With native moisture, more refreshing sweet, And more profuse of health and vigour’s balm, Than all the stems that India can boast. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. THE SOW OF FEELING. “Well! I protest there no such thing as dealing With these starch’d poets,—with these men of Feeling!” Epilogue to the Prince of Tunis. Matiewanr planets ! do ye still combine Against this wayward, dreary life of mine? Has pitiless Oppression—cruel case Gain’d sole possession of the human race ? By cruel hands has every virtue bled, And Innocence from men to vultures fled! Thrice happy, had I lived in Jewish time, When swallowing pork, or pig, was deem’d a crime; My husband long had bless’d my longing arms, Long, long had known love’s sympathetic charms! My ehildren, too,—a little suckling race, With all their father growing in their face, From their prolific dam had ne’er been torn, Nor to the bloody stalls of butchers borne. Ah, Luxury, to you my being owes Its load of misery,—its load of woes! With heavy heart I saunter all the day ; Gruntle and murmur all my hours away ! In vain I try to summon old desire For favourite sports,—for wallowing in the mire: Thoughts of my husband; of my children slain, Turn all my wonted pleasure into pain! Hlow oft did we, in Phoebus’ warming ray, Bask on the humid softness of the clay ? Oft did his lusty head defend my tail From the rude whispers of the angry gale; While nose-refreshing puddles stream’d around, And floating odours hail’d the dung-clad ground. Near bya rustic mill’s enchanting clack, Where plenteous bushels load the peasant’s back, In straw-crown’d hovel, there to life we came, One boar our father, and one sow our dam. While tender infants on our mother’s breast, A fiame divine in either shone confest : In riper hours love’s more than ardent blaze, Enkindled all his passion, all his praise ! No deadly sinful passion fired his soul ; Virtue o’er all his actions gained control. That cherub which attracts the female heart, And makes them soonest with their beauty part, Attracted mine ;—I gave him all my love, In the recesses of a verdant grove ; ’Twas there I listen’d to his warmest vows, Amidst the pendant melancholy boughs; *Twas there my trusty lover shook for me A shower of acorns from the oaken tree ; And from the teeming earth, with joy, ploughed out The roots salubrious with his hardy snout. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 531 But Happiness! a floating meteor, thou, That still inconstant art to man and sow, Left us in gloomiest horrors to reside, Near by the deep-dyed sanguinary tide, Where whetting steel prepares the butchering knives, With greater ease to take the harmless lives Of cows, and calves, and sheep, and hogs, who fear The bite of bull-dogs, that incessant tear Their flesh, and keenly suck the blood-distilling ear ! At length the day, the eventful day, drew near, Detested cause of many a briny tear ! I'll weep, till sorrow shall my eye-lids drain, A tender husband and a brother slain! Alas, the lovely languor of his eye, When the base murderers bore him captive by! His mournful voice, the music of his groans, Had melted any hearts—but hearts of stones ! Oh! had some angel at that instant come, Given me four nimble fingers and a thumb, The blood-stain’d blade I’d turn’d upon his foe, And sudden sent him to the shades below,— Where, or Pythagoras’ opinion jests, Beasts are made butchers, butchers changed to beasts. Wisely in early times the law decreed, For human food few quadrupeds should bleed! But monstrous maz, still erring from the laws, The curse of heaven upon his banquet draws ! Already has he drain’d the marshes dry, For frogs, new victims of his luxury ; And soon the toad and lizard may come home, Tn his voracious paunch to find a tomb. Cats, rats, and mice, their destiny may mourn ; In time their carcases on spits may turn ; They may rejoice to-day,—while I resign Life, to be number’d ’mongst the FEELING SWINE. THE BUGS. Tuov source of song sublime! thou chiefest Muse ! Whose sacred fountain of immortal fame Bedew’d the flowerets cull’d for Homer’s brow, - When he on Grecian plains the battles sung Of frogs and mice, do thou, through Fancy’s maze Of sportive pastime, lead a lowly Muse Her rites to join, while, with a faltering voice, She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown. Nor you, ye bards! who oft have struck the lyre, And tuned it to the movement of the spheres In harmony divine, reproach the lays ; Which, though they wind not through the starry host Of bright creation, or on earth delight To haunt the murmuring cadence of the floods Through scenes where Nature, with a hand profuse, Hath lavish strew’d her gems of precious dye ; Yet, in the small existence of a gnat, Or tiny bug, doth she, with equal skill, If not transcending, stamp her wonders there, Only disclosed to microscopic eye. Of old the Dryads near Edina’s walls Their mansions rear’d, and groves unnumber’d rose Of branching oak, spread beech, and lofty pine ; Under whose shade, to shun tlie noontide blaze, Did Pan resort, with all his rural’ train Of shepherds and of nymphs. The Dryads pleased, Would hail their sports, and summon Echo’s voice To send her greetings through the waving woods ; But the rude axe, long brandish’d by the hand Of daring innovation, shaved the lawns ; Then not a thicket or a copse remain’d To sigh in concert with the breeze of eve. Edina’s mansions, with lignarian art, Were piled and fronted. Like an ark she seemed To lie on mountain’s top, with shapes replete, Clean and unclean, that daily wander o’er Her streets, that once were spacious, once were gay. To Jove the Dryads pray’d, nor pray’d in vain, For vengeance on her sons. At midnight drear, Black showers descend, and teeming myriads rise Of bugs abhorrent, who by instinct steal Through the putrescent and corrosive pores Of sapless trees, that late in forest stood, With all the majesty of summer crown’d. By Jove’s command dispers’d, they wander wide O’er all the city. Some their cells prepare *Mid the rich trappings and the gay attire Of state luxuriant, and are fond to press The waving canopy’s depending folds ; While others, destined to an humbler fate, Seek shelter from the dwellings of the poor, Plying their nightly suction to the bed Of toil’d mechanic, who, with folded arms, Enjoys the comforts of a sleep so sound, That not the alarming sting of glutting bug To murderous deed can rouse his brawny arm Upon the blood-swoln fiend, who basely steals Life’s: genial current from his throbbing veins. Happy were Grandeur, could she triumph here, And banish from her halls each misery, Which she must brook in common with the poor, Who beg subsistence from her sparing hands. Then might the rich, to fell disease unknown, 532 Indulge in fond excess, rior ever feel The slowly creeping hours of restless night, When shook with guilty horrors. But the wind, Whose fretful gusts of anger shake the world, Bears more destructive on the aspiring roofs Of dome and palace than on cottage low, That meets Aiolus with his gentler breath, When safely shelter’d in the peaceful vale. Is there a being breathes, howe’er so vile, Too pitiful for Envy ? She, with venom’d tooth, And grinning madness, frowns upon the bliss Of every species ; from the human form That spurns the earth, and bends his mental eye Through the profundity of space unknown, Down to the crawling bug’s detested race. Thus the lover pines, that reptile rude Should, ’mid the lilies of fair Chloe’s breast, Implant the deep carnation, and enjoy Those sweets which angel modesty hath veil’d From eyes profane. Yet murmur not, ye few Who gladly would be bugs for Chiloe’s sake! For soon, alas! the fluctuating gales Of earthly joy invert the happy scene. The breath of Spring may, with her balmy power, And warmth diffusive, give to Nature’s face Her brightest colours ;—but how short the space, Till angry Eurus, from his petrid cave, Deform the year, and all these sweets annoy ! Even so befalls it to this creeping race; This envied commonwealth. For they awhile On Chioe’s bosom, alabaster fair, May steal ambrosial bliss; or may regale On the rich viands of luxurious blood, Delighted and sufficed. But mark the end: Lo! Whitsuntide appears, with gloomy train Of growing desolation. First, Upholsterer rude Removes the waving drapery, where, for years, A thriving colony of old and young Had hid their numbers from the prying day. Anon they fall, and gladly would retire To safer ambush; but his ruthless foot, Ah, cruel pressure! cracks their vital springs, And with their deep-dyed scarlet smears the floor. Sweet Powers! has Pity in the female breast No tender residence,—no loved abode,— To urge from murderous deed the avenging hand Of angry housemaid? She'll have blood for blood ! For, lo! the boiling streams from copper tube, Hot as her rage, sweep myriads to death. Their earcases are destined to the urn Of some chaste Naiad, that gives birth to floods, Whose fragrant virtues hail Edina, famed POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. For yellow limpid,—-whose chasté name the Muse Deems too exalted to retail in song. Ah me! no longer they, at midnight shade, With baneful sting, shall seek the downy couch Of slumbering mortals. Nor shall love-sick swain, When, by the bubbling brook, in fairy dream, His nymph, but half reluctant to his wish, Is gently folded in his eager arms, Fer curse the shaft envenom’d that disturbs His long-loved fancies. Nor shall hungry bard, Whose strong imagination, whetted keen, Conveys him to the feast, be tantalised With poisonous tortures, when the cup, brimful Of purple vintage, gives him greater joy Than all the Heliconian streams that play And murmur round Parnassus. Now the wretc's, Oft doom’d to restless days and sleepless nights, By bugbear Conscience thrall’d, enjoys an hour Of undisturb’d repose. The miser, too, May brook his golden dreams, nor wake with fear That thieves or kindred (for no soul he’ll trust) Have broke upon his chest, and strive to steal The shining idols of his useless hours. Happy the bug, whose unambitious views To gilded pomp ne’er tempt him to aspire ! Safely may he, enwrapt in russet fold Of cobwebb’d curtain, set at bay the fears That still attendant are on bugs of state. He never knows at morn the busy brush Of scrubbing chambermaid. His coursing blood Is ne’er obstructed with obnoxious dose, By Oliphant prepared,—too poisonous drug ! As fatal to this hated crawling tribe As ball and powder to the sons of war. AN EXPEDITION TO FIFE AND THE ISLAND OF MAY, ON BOARD THE “ BLESSED ENDEAVOUR,” OF DUNBAR, CAPTAIN ROXBURGH, COMMANDER. List, O ye slumberers on the peaceful shore! Whose lives are one unvariegated calm Of stillness and of sloth, and hear, O nymph ! Tn heaven ycleped Pleasure, from your throne Effulgent send a heavenly radiant beam, That, cheer’d by thee, the Muse may bend her way: For from no earthly flight she builds her song, But from the bosom of green Neptune’s main Would fain emerge, and under Phosbe’s reign, Transmit her numbers to inclining ears, EXPEDITION TO FIFE. LOUDON: VLRTUB & C9 orarcen POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON, Now, when the warbling songsters quit the groves, And solemn-sounding whisperings lull the spray, To meditation sacred, let me roam O’er the bless’d floods that wash our natal shore, And view the wonders of the deep profound, While now the western breezes reign around, And Boreas, sleeping in his irun cave, Regains his strength and animated rage, To wake new tempests, and inswell new seas. And now Favonius wings the sprightly gale ; The willing canvas, swelling with the breeze, Gives life and motion to our bounding prow, While the hoarse boatswain’s pipe, shrill-sounding far, Calls all the tars to action. Hardy sons! Who shudder not at life’s devouring gales, But smile amidst the tempest’s sounding jars, Or midst the hollow thunder’s of the war. Fresh sprung from Greenland’s cold, they hail with joy The happier clime, the fresh autumnal breeze, By Syrius guided, to allay the heat, That else would parch the vigour of their veins. Hard change, alas! from petrifying cold Instant to plunge to the severest ray That burning Dog-star, or bright Phcebus sheds. Like comet whirling through the ethereal void, Now they are redden’d with the solar blaze, Now froze and tortured by the frigid zone. Thrice happy Britons! whose well-temper’d clay Can face all climes, all tempests, and all seas. These are the sons that check the growing war ; These are the sons that hem Britannia round From sudden innovation ;—awe the shores, And make their drooping pendants hail her queen And mistress of the globe. They guard our beds, While fearless we enjoy seeure repose, And all the blessings of a bounteous sky. T’o them in feverous adoration bend, Ye fashion’d macaronies ! whose bright blades Were never dimm’d or stain’d with hostile blood, But still hang dangling on your feeble thigh, While through the Mall or Park you show away, Or through the drawing-room on tiptoe steal. On poop aloft, to messmates laid along, Some son of Neptune, whose old wrinkled brow Has braved the rattling thunder, tells his tale (Ot dangers, sieges, and of battles dire, While they, as Fortune favours, greet with smiles, Or heave the bitter sympathetic sigh, As the capricious fickle goddess frowns. Ah! how unstabie are the joys of life! The pleasures, al, how few!—Now smile the skies 633 With aspect mild; aud now the thunders shake, And all the radiance of the heavens deflower. Through the small opening of the mainsail broad, Lo, Boreas steals, and tears him from the yard, Where long and lasting he las played his part ! So suffers Virtue. When in her fair form The smallest flaw is found, the whole decays. In vain she may implore with piteous eye, And spread her naked pinions to the blast : A reputation maim’d finds no repair, Till Death, the ghastly monarch, shuts the scene. And now we gain the May, whose midnight light, Like vestal virgins’ offerings undecay’d, To mariners bewilder’d acts the part Of social friendship, guiding those that err With kindly radiance to their destined port. Thanks, kindest Nature! for those floating geins, Those green-grown isles, with which you, lavish, strew Great Neptune’s empire. But for thee, the main Were an uncomfortable mazy flood. No guidance, then, would bless the steersman’s skill, No resting-place would crown the mariner’s wish, When he to distant gales his canvas spreads, To search new wonders. Here the verdant shores Teem with new freshness, and regale our sight With caves, that ancient time, in days of yore, Sequester’d for the haunt of Druid lone, ‘There to remain in solitary cell, Beyond the power of mortals to disjoin From holy meditation. Happy now To cast our eyes around from shore to shore, While by the oozy caverns on the beach We wander wild, and listen to the roar Of billows murmuring with incessant noise. And now, by Fancy led, we wander wild Where o’er the rugged steep the buried dead Remote lie anchor’d in their parent mould; Where a few fading willows point the state Of man’s decay. Ab, Death; where’er we fly, Whether we seek the busy and the gay, The mourner or the joyful, there art thou! No distant isle, no surly swelling surge, F’er awed thy progress, or controll’d thy sway, To bless us with that comfort, length of days, By all aspired at, but by few attain’d. To Fife we steer; of all beneath the sun The most unhallow’d ’mid the Scotian plains ! And here (sad emblem of deceitful times !) Hath sad Hypocrisy her standard borne. Mirth knows no residence ; but ghastly Fear Stands trembling and appall’d at airy sights. 534 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Once, only once! Reward it, gracious Powers ! Did Hospitality, with open face, Aud winning smile, cheer the deserted sight, That else had languish’d for the blessed return Of beauteous day, to dissipate the clouds Of endless night, and superstition wild, That constant hover o’er the dark abode. O happy Lothian! happy thrice thy sons! Who ne’er yet ventured from the Southern shore To tempt Misfortune on the Fifan coast : Again with thee we dwell, and taste thy joys, Where sorrow reigns not, and where every gale Is fraught with fulness, blessed with living hope, That fears no canker from the year’s decay. TO SIR JOHN FIELDING, ON HIS ATTEMPT TO SUPPRESS THE BEGGAR'S OPERA. “When you censure the age, Be cautious and sage, Lest the courtiers offended should be ; When you mention vice or bribe, ‘Tis so pat to all the tribe, Each cries, ‘It was levell’d at me.’ "—Gay. "Tis woman that seduces all mankind.”—FiLcuH. BenzatH what cheerful region of the sky Shall Wit, shall Humour, and the Muses fly? For ours, a cold, inhospitable clime, Refuses quarter to the Muse and rhyme. If on her brows an envied laurel springs, They shake its foliage ; crop her growing wings, That with the plumes of virtue wisely soar, And all the follies of the age explore : But should all Grub her rankest venom pour, And every virtue with a vice deflower, Her verse is sacred, Justices agree ; Even Justice Fielding signs the wise decree. Let fortune-dealers, wise predictors ! tell From what bright planet Justice Fielding fell. Augusta trembles at the awful name; The darling tongue of Liberty is tame, Basely confined by him in Newgate chains, Nor dare exclaim how harshly Fielding reigns. In days when every mercer has his scale, To tell what pieces lack, how few prevail ! C wonder not the low-born menial trade, By partial justice has aside been laid ; For she no discount gives for Virtue worn; Her aged joints are without mercy torn. In vain, O Gay! thy Muse explored the way Of yore, to banish tc Italian lay ; Gave homely numbers sweet, though warmly strong ; The British chorus blessed the happy song : Thy manly voice, and Albion’s, then, were heard, Felt by her sons, and by her sons revered: Eunuchs, not men, now bear aloft the palm, And o’er our senses pour lethargic balm. The Stage the truest mirror is of life : Our passions there revolve in active strife ; Each character is there display’d to view ; Fach hates his own, though well assured ’tis true. No marvel, then, that all the world should own In Peachum’s treachery Justice Fielding known; Since thieves so common are, and, Justice, you Thieves to the gallows for reward pursue. Had Gay, by writing, roused the stealing trade, You’d been less active to suppress your bread: For, trust me, when a robber loses ground, You lose your living with your forty pound. "Twas woman first that snatch’d the luring bait : The tempter taught her to transgress and eat. Though wrong the deed, her quick compunction told; She banish’d Adam from an age of gold. When women now transgress fair Virtue’s rules, Men are their pupils, and the stews their schools. From simple whoredom greater sins began To shoot, to bloom, to centre all in man: Footpads on Hounslow flourish here to-day ; The next, old ‘l'yburn sweeps them all away. For woman’s faults, the cause of every wrong, Men robb’d and murder’d, thieves at ‘Tyburn strung. In panting breasts to raise the fond alarm, Make females in the cause of virtue warm, Gay has compared them to the Summer flower, The boast and glory of an idle hour : When cropp’d it falls, shrinks, withers, and decays, And to oblivion dark consigns its days. Hath this a power to win the female heart Back from its vice, from virtue ne’er to part ? If so, the wayward virgin ’twill restore ; And murders, robberies, rapes, will be no more. These were the lays of him who Virtue knew; Her dictates who revered, and practised too; No idle theorist in her guiltless ways, He gave the spotless goddess all his days. O Queensberry! his best and earliest friend ; All that his wit or learning could commend ; ‘Thou best of patrons! of his Muse the pride ! , Still in her pageant shalt thou first preside ;— POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 535 No idle pomp that riches can procure, Sprung in a moment, faded in an hour, But pageant lasting as the uncropp’d bay, That verdant triumphs with the Muse of Gay. CHARACTER OF A FRIEND, IN AN EPITAPH WHICH HE DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE. Unner this turf, to mouldering earth consign’d, Lies he, who once was fickle as the wind. Alike the scenes of good and ill he knew, From the chaste temple to the lewdest stew. Virtue and Vice in him alternate reign’d : That fil’'d his mind, and ¢Ais his pocket drain’d ; Till in the contest they so stubborn grew, Death gave the parting blow, and both withdrew. TO DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. FOOD FOR A NEW EDITION OF HIS DICTIONARY. “ Let Wilkes and Churchill rage no more, Though scarce provision, learning’s good ; What can these hungries next explore? Even Samuel Johnson loves our food.” Great Pedagogue! whose literarian lore, With syllable on syllable conjoin’d, To transmutate and varify, hast learn’d The whole revolving scientific names That in the alphabetic columns lie, Far from the knowledge of mortalic shapes ; As we, who never can peroculate The miracles by thee miraculised, The Muse, silential long, with mouth apert, Would give vibration to stagnatic tongue, And loud encomiate thy puissant name, Eulogiated from the green decline Of Thames’s banks to Scoticanian shores, Where Lochlomondian liquids undulize. To meminate thy name in after times, The mighty Mayor of each regalian town Shall consignate thy work to parchment fair, In roll burgharian, and their tables all Shall fumigate with fumigation strong : Scotland, from perpendicularian hills, Shall emigrate her fair muttonian store, Which late had there in pedestration walk’d, And o’er her airy heights perambulized. Oh, blackest execrations on thy head, Edina shameless! Though he cane within The bounds of your notation, though you knew His honorific name, you noted not, But basely suffer’d him to chariotize Far from your towers, with smoke that nubilate, Nor drank one amicitial swelling cup To welcome him convivial. Bailies all! With rage inflated, catenations' tear, Nor ever after be you vinculized, Since you that sociability denied To him whose potent Lexiphanian style Words can prolongate, and inswell his page With what in others to a line’s confined. Welcome, thou verbal potentate and prince! To hills and valleys, where emerging oats From earth assuage our pauperty to bay, And bless thy name, thy dictionarian skill, Which there definitive will still remain, And oft be speculized by taper blue, While youth studentious turn thy folio page. Have you, as yet, in per’patetic mood, Regarded with the texture of the eye’ The cave cavernic, witere fraternal bard, Churchill, depicted pauperated swains With thraldom and bleak want reducted sore, Where Nature, colourized, so coarsely fades, And puts her russet par’pharnalia on? Have you, as yet, the way explorified, To let lignarian chalice, swell’d with oats, Thy orifice approach? Have you, as yet, With skin fresh rubified with scarlet spheres, Applied brimstonic unction to your hide, To terrify the salamandrian fire, That from involuntary digits asks The strong allaceration ? Or can you swill The usquebalian flames of whisky blue, In fermentation strong? Have you applied The kilt aérian to your Anglian thighs, And with renunciation assignized Your breeches in Londona to be worn ? Can you, in frigour of Highlandian sky, On heathy summits take nocturnal rest ? It cannot be :—You may as well desire An alderman leave plumpuddenian store, And scratch the tegument from pottage dish, As bid thy countrymen, and thee, conjoin’d, Forsake stomachic joys. Then hie you home, And be a malcontent, that naked hinds, On lentiles fed, could make your kingdom quake, And tremulate Old England libertized ! (1) Catenations, vide Chains,— JOHNSON. 536 EPIGRAM, ON SEEING SCALES USED IN A MASON LODGE. Way should the Brethren, met in Lodge, Adopt such awkward measures, To set their scales and weights to judge The value of their treasures ? The law laid down from age to age, How can they well o’ercome it ? For it forbids them to engage With aught but Line aud Plummet. EPITAPH ON GENERAL WOLFE. In worth exceeding, and in virtue great, Words would want force his actions to relate. Silence, ye bards! eulogiums vain forbear ; It is enough to say that Wolfe lies here. EPIGRAM, ON THE NUMEROUS EPITAPHS FOR GENERAL WOLFE FOR THE BEST OF WHICH A PREMIUM OF £100 WAS PROMISED. Tur Muse, a shameless, mercenary jade! Has now assumed the arch-tongued lawyer’s trade ; In Wolfe’s deserving praises silent she, Till flatter’d with the prospect of a fee. HORACE, ODE XI., LIB. I. Ne’er fash your thumb what gods decree To be the weird o’ you or me, Nor deal in cantrip’s kittle cunning To spier how fast your days are running; But patient lippen for the best, Nor be in dowy thought opprest, Whether we see mair winters come, Than this that spits wi’ canker’d foam. Now moisten weel your geyzen’d wa’s Wi’ couthy friends and hearty blaws ; Ne’er let your hope o’ergang your days, For eild and thraldom never stays ; The day looks gash, toot aff your horn, Nor care yae strae about the morn. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. EPIGRAM, ON A LAWYER’S DESIRING ONE OF THE TRIBE TO LOOK WITH RESPECT ‘f0 A GIBBET, THE lawyers may revere that tree, Where thieves so oft have strung, Since, by the Law’s most: wise decree, Her thieves are never hung. EPIGRAM, WRITTEN EXTEMPORE, AT THE DESIRE OF A GENTLEMAN WHO WAS RATHER ILL-FAVOURED, BUT WHO HAD A BEAUTIFUL FAMILY OF CHILDREN. Scort and his childrem emblems are Of real good and evil; His children are like cherubim, But Scott is like the devil. EPILOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. WILSON, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, IN THE CHARACTER OF AN EDINBURGH BUCK. Ye who oft finish care in Lethe’s cup; Who love to swear, and roar, and keep it up; List to a brother’s voice, whose sole delight Is—sleep all day, and riot all the night. Last night, when potent draughts of mellow wine Did sober reason into wit refine ; When lusty Bacchus had contrived to drain The sullen vapours from our shallow brain, We sallied forth (for valour’s dazzling sun Up to his bright meridian had run) ; And, like renowned Quixote and his Squire, Spoils and adventures were our sole desire. First, we approach a seeming sober dame, Preceded by a lanthorn’s pallid flame, Borne by a liveried puppy’s servile hand, The slave obsequious of her stern command. Curse on those cits, said I, who dare disgrace Our streets at midnight with a sober face ; Let never tallow-chandler give them light, To guide them through the dangers of the night. The valet’s cane we snatch’d; and, demme! 1 ‘Made the frail lanthorn on the pavement lie. The guard, still watchful of the lieges’ harm, With slow-paced motion stalk’d at the alarm. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. “Guard, seize the rogues!” the angry madam cried, And all the guard, with “ Seize ta rogue,” replied. As, in a war, there’s nothing judged so right As a concerted and prudential flight, So we, from guard and scandal to be freed, Left them the field and burial of their dead. Next, we approach’d the bounds of George’s Square : Blest place !—No watch, no constables, come there. Now, had they borrow’d Argus’ eyes, who saw us, All was made dark and desolate as chaos : Jiamps tumbled after lamps, and lost their lustres, Tike doomsday, when the stars shall fall in clusters. Let Fancy paint what dazzling glory grew From crystal gems, when Phebus came in view: Each shatter’d orb ten thousand fragments strews, And a new sun in every fragment shows. > Hear then, my Bucks! how drunken fate decreed us For a nocturnal visit to the Meadows, And how we, valorous champions! durst engage— O deed unequall’d !—both the Bridge and Cage, The rage of perilous winters which had stood ;— This ’gainst the wind, and that against the flood : But what nor wind, nor flood,-nor heaven could bend e’er, We tumbled down, my Bucks! and made surrender. What are your far-famed warriors to us, *Bout whom historians make such mighty fuss ! Posterity may think it was uncommon That Troy should be demolish’d for a woman ; But ours your ten years’ sieges will excel, And justly be esteem’d the nonpareil. Our cause is slighter than a dame’s betrothing ; For all these mighty feats have sprung from— nothing. THE AUTHOR’S LIFE. My life is like the flowing stream That glides where Summer’s beauties teem, Meets all the riches of the gale, That on its watery bosom sail, And wanders, ’midst Elysian groves, Throvgh all the haunts that Fancy loves. May I, when drooping days decline, And ‘gainst those genial streams combine, The Winter’s sad decay forsake, And centre in my parent lake. 537 ON THE AUTHOR’S INTENTION OF GOING TO SEA. Fortune and Bob, e’er since his birth, Could never yet agree : She fairly kick’d him from the earth, To try his fate at sea. MY LAST WILL. Wurtz sober folks, in humble prose, Estate, and goods, and gear, dispose, A poet surely may disperse His movables in doggrel verse ; And, fearing death my blood will fast chill, I hereby constitute my last will. Then, wit ye me to have made o’er To Nature my poetic lore ; To her I give and grant the freedom Of paying to the bards who need ’em As many talents as she gave, When I became the Muse’s slave. Thanks to the gods, who made me poor! No lukewarm friends molest my door, Who always show a busy care For being legatee or heir. Of this stamp none will ever follow The youth that ’s favour’d by Apollo. But to those few who know my case, Nor thought a poet’s friend disgrace, The following trifles I bequeath, And leave them with my kindest breath ; Nor will I burden them with payment, Of debts incurr’d, or coffin raiment, As yet ’twas never my intent To pass an Irish compliment. To Jamie Raz,’ who oft, jocosus, With me partook of cheering doses, I leave my snuff-box to regale His senses after drowsy meal, And wake remembrance of a friend Who loved him to his latter end : But if this pledge should make him sorry, And argue like memento mort, He may bequeath ’t ’mong stubborn fellows To all the finer feelings callous, Who think that parting breath’s a sneeze, To set sensations all at ease. (1) Solicitor-at-law, and the poct’s intimate friend. 34 538 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. To Ox1rHant,' my friend, I legate Those scrolls poetic, which he may get, With ample freedom to correct Those writs I ne’er could retrospect, With power to him and his succession, To print and sell a new impression : And here I fix on Ossian’s head A domicil for Doric reed, With as much power ad Muse bona As I in propria persona. To Hamiton’ J give the task Outstanding debts to crave and ask ; And that my Muse he may not dub ill, For loading him with so much trouble, My debts I leave him sizgulatim, As they are mostly desperatim. To thee, whose genius can provoke Thy passions to the bowl or sock ; For love to thee, Woops! and the Nine, Be my immortal Shakespeare thine. Here may you through the alleys turn, Where Falstaff laughs, where heroes mourn, And boldly catch the glowing fire That dwells in raptures on his lyre. Now, at my dirge (if dirge there be), Due to the Muse and Poetry, Let Hurcutson? attend, for none is More fit to guide the ceremonies : As I, in health, with him would often This clay-built mansion wash and soften, So let my friends with him partake The generous wine at dirge or wake. And 1 consent to registration Of this my will for preservation, That patent it may be, and seen, In Wauter’s Weekly Magazine. Witness whereof, these presents wrote are By William Blair, the public notar, And, for the tremor of my hand, Are sign’d by him at my command. CODICIL TO R. FERGUSSON’S LAST WILL. Wuerzas, by testament dated blank, Enroll’d in the poetic rank, "Midst brighter themes that weekly come To make parade at Waxrer’s Drum, I there, for certain weighty causes, Produced some kind bequeathing clauses, And left te friends (as ’tis the custom With nothing till our death to trust ’em) Some tokens of a pure regard From one who lived and died a bard. If Poverty has any crime in Teaching mankind the art of rhyming ; Then by these presents, know all mortals Who come within the Muse’s portals, That [ approve my will aforesaid, But think that something might be mor: said, And only now would humbly seek The liberty to add and eik To test’ment which already niade is, And duly register’d, as said is. To Tuttocu,* who, in kind compassi.., Departed from the common fashion, And gave to me, who never paid it, Two flasks of port, upon my credit, I leave the flasxs, as full of air, As his of ruddy moisture were ; Nor let him to complain begin ; He’ll get no more of cat than skin. To Water Ruppimay,” whose pen Still sereen’d me from the Dunce’s den, T leave of phiz a picture, saving To him the freedom of engraving Therefrom a copy, to embellish, And give his work a smarter relish ; For prints and frontispieces bind do Our eyes to stationery window, As superfluities in clothes Set off and signalize the beaux. Not that I think in readers’ eyes My visage will be deem’d a prize; But works that others would outrival, At glaring copperplates connive all ; And prints do well with him that led is To shun the substance, hunt the shadows ; For, if a picture, ’tis enough ; A Newton, or a Jamie Duff.® Nor would I recommend to Walter, This scheme of copperplates to alter, Since others at the samen prices Propose to give a dish that nice is, Folks will desert his ordinary, Unless, like theirs, his dishes vary. To Wituiamson’, and his resetters, Dispersing of the burial letters, (1) Late bookseller in Edinburgh. (2) Solicitor-at-law, and the poet’s intimate friend. (3) A tavern-keeper. (4) A wine merchant, (5) The publisher of the Weekly Magazine. (6) A fool who attended at funerals. (7) The penny-post muster. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. That they may pass with little cost Fleet on the wings of Penny-post ; Always providing and declaring, That Peter shall be ever sparing, To make, as use is, the demand For letters that may come to hand, To me address’d while locum tenens Of earth and of corporeal penance ; Where, if he fail, it is my will, His legacy be void and null. Let honest GRrEENLAWw' be the staff On which I lean for epitaph. And, that the Muses, at my end, May know I had a learned friend, SCOTS 539 Whate’er of character he’s seen In me through humour or chagrin, I crave his genius may narrate in The strength of Ciceronian Latin. Reserving to myself the power To alter this at latest hour, Cum privilegio revocare, Without assigning ratio quare : And [ (as in the Will before did) Consent this deed shall be recorded : In testimonium cujus rei, These presents are delivered by R. FERGUSSON. POEMS. AN ECLOGUE. *Twas e’ening, whan the speckled gowdspink sang, Whan new-fa’en dew in blobs o’ crystal hang ; Than Will and Sandie thought they ’d wrought eneugh, And loosed their sair-toil’d owsen frae the pleugh : Before they ca’d their cattle to the town, The lads, to draw their breath, e’en sat them down. To the stiff sturdy aik they lean’d their backs, While honest Sandie thus began the cracks :— SANDIE. Yence [ could hear the laverock’s shrill-tuned throat, And listen to the clattering gowdspink’s note ; Yence I could whistle cantily as they, To owsen, as they till’d my raggit clay ; But now I wou’d as leive maist lend my lugs To tuneless puddocks croaking i’ the bogs ; I sigh at hame, a-field am dowie too, To sough a tune I’ll never crook my mou. WILLIE. Foul fa’ me! gif your bridal badna been Nae langer bygane than sin’ Hallow-e’en, I could hae tell’d you but a warlock’s art, That some daft lightlyin’ quean had stown your heart : Our beasties here will tak their e’ening pluck ; And now, sin’ Jock’s gane hame the byres to muck, Fain would I houp my friend will be inclined To gie me a’ the secrets o’ his mind: (1) An excellent classical scholaz. Hech, Sandie, lad! what dool’s come owre ye now, That you to whistle ne’er will crook your mou ? SANDIE. Ah, Willie, Willie! I may date my wae Frae what beted me on my bridal day ; Sair may I rue the hour in which our hands Were knit thegither in the haly bands : Sin that I thrave sae ill, in troth, I fancy, Some fiend or fairy, nae sae very chancy, Has driven me, by pawky wiles uncommon, To wed this flytin fury of a woman. WILLIE. Ah! Sandie, aften hae I heard you tell, Amang the lasses a’ she bure the bell ; And say, the modest glances o’ her een Far dang the brightest beauties o’ the green ; You ca’d her ay sae innocent, sae young, I thought she kentna how to use her tongue. SANDIE. Before I married her, [’ll tak my aith, Her tongue was never louder than her breath ; But now it’s turn’d sae souple and sae bauld, That Job himself cou’d scarcely thole the scauld. WILLIE. Let her yelp on, be you as calm’s a mouse, Nor let your whisht be heard into the house: Do what she can, or be as loud’s she please, Ne’er mind her flytes, but set your heart at ease ; Sit down and blaw your pipe, nor faush your thumb, And there’s my hand she’ll tire, and soon sing dumb ; Sooner should Winter cauld confine the sea, And lat the sina’est o” our burns rin free, 540 PCEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Sooner at Yule-day shall the birk be drest, Or birds in sapless busses big their nest, Belore a tonguey woman’s noisy plea Should ever be a cause to danton me. SANDIE. Weel could I this abide; but, oh! I fear, a Pll soon be twined 0’ a’ my warldly gear. My kirnstaff now stands gizzen’d at the door ; My cheese-rack toom, that ne’er was toom betore ; My kye may now rin rowtin to the hill, And on the naked yird their milkness spill ; She seenil lays her hand upo’ a turn, Neglects the kebbuck, and forgets the kirn : I vow, my hair-mould milk would poison dogs, As it stands lapper’d 7 the dirty cogs. Before the seed, I sell’t my ferra cow, And wi’ the profit colt a stane 0’ woo’ ; I thought, by priggin, that she might hae spun A plaidie light, to screen me frae the sun: But though the siller’s scant, the cleedin dear, She has nae ca’d about the wheel the year. Last ouk but ane I was frae hame a day, Buying a threave or twa o’ beddin strae: O ilka thing the woman had her will; Had fouth o’ meal to bake aud hens to kill. But hyn awa to Edinbrouglh scour’d she To get a makin o’ her fav’rite tea ; And ’cause 1 left her nae the weary clink, She sell’t the very trunchers frae my bink. WILLIE. Her tea! ah, wae betide sic costly gear, Or them that ever wad the price o’t spier ! Sin my auld gutcher first the warld knew, Fouk had na fund the Indies whare it grew. I mind mysel, it’s nae sae lang sinsyne, Whan Auntie Marion did her stamack tyne, That Davs, our gard’ner, came frae Applebog, And gae her tea to tak by way o’ drog. SANDIE. Whan ilka nerd for cauld his fingers rubs, And cakes o’ ice are seen upo’ the dubs ; At mornin, whan frae pleugh or fauld I come, L’ll see a braw reek rising frae my lum, And aiblins think to get a rantin blaze, To fley the frost awa, and toast my taes ; But whan I shoot my nose in, ten to ane If I weelfardly see my ain hearthstane : She round the ingle wi’ her gimmers sits, Crammin their gebbies wi’ her nicest bits. While the gudeman, out-by, maun fill his crap rae the milk coggie, or the parritch caup. WILLIE. Sandie, gif this were ony common plea, I should the lealest o’ my counsel gie; But mak or meddle betwixt man and wife, Is what I never did in a’ my life. Its wearing on now to the tail 0’ May, And just between the bear-seed and the hay; As lang’s an orra mornin may be spared, Stap your wa’s east the haugh, and tell the laird ; For he’s a man weel versed in a’ the laws; Kens baith their outs and ins, their cracks and flaws ; And ay right gleg, when things are out o’ joint, As sattlin o’ a nice or kittle point. But yonder ’s Jock, he ’ll ca’ your owsen hame, And tak the tidings to your thrawart dame, That ye ’re awa ae peacefu’ meal to prie, And tak your supper, kail or sowens, wi’ me. AN ECLOGUE, TO THE MEMORY OF DR. WILLIAM WILKIE, LATE PROFESSOR OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVER SITY OF ST. ANDREWS, GEORDIE AND Davin. GEORDIE. Buaw salt my reed, and kindly, to my maen, Weel may ye thole a saft and dowie strain. Nae mair to you shall shepherds, in a ring, Wi?’ blithness skip, or lasses lilt and sing ; Sic sorrow now maun sadden ilka ee ; And ilka waefu’ shepherd grieve wi’ me. DAVIE. Wharefore begin a sad and dowie strain, Or banish liltin frae the Fifan plain ? Though Simmer’s gane, and we nae langer view The blades o’ claver wat wi’ pearls 0’ dew, Cauld Winter’s bleakest blasts we ’ll eithly cour, Our elden’s driven, and our har’st is owre ; Our rucks, fu’ thick, are stackit i’ the yard; For the Yule-feast a sautit mart ’s prepared ; The ingle-nook supplies the simmer fields, And aft as mony gleefu’ moments yields. Swyth, man! fling a’ your sleepy springs awa, And on your canty whistle gie’s a blaw : Blithness, I trow, maun lighten ilka ee; And ilka canty callant sing like me. GEORDIE. Na, na! a canty spring wad now impart Just threefauld sorrow to my heavy heart. Thof to the weet my ripen’d aits had fa’an, Or shake-winds owre my rigs wi’ pith bad blawn POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. To this T could hae said, “T carena by,” Nor fund occasion now my cheeks to dry. Crosses like thae, or lack 0’ warld’s gear, Are naething, when we tyne a friend that ’s dear. Ah! waes me for you, Willie ! mony a day Did 1 wi’ you on yon broom-thackit brae Hound aff my sheep, and let them careless gang To harken to your cheery tale or sang ;— Sangs that, for ay, on Caledonia’s strand, Shall sit the foremost ’mang her tunefw’ band. I dreamt, yestreen, his deadly wraith I saw Gang by my een, as white’s the driven snaw ; My collie, Ringie, youfed and youled a’ night ; Coured and crap nar me, in an unco fright : I waken’d, fley’d, and shook baith lith and lim’. A cauldness took me, and my sight grew dim; T kent that it forspake approaching wae, Whan my poor doggie was disturbit sae. Nae sooner did the day begin to dawn, Than I beyont the knowe fw’ speedy ran, Whare I was keppit wi’ the heavy tale That sets ilk dowie sangster to bewail. DAVIE. And wha on Fifan bents can weel refuse To gie the tear o’ tribute to his muse >— Fareweel ilk cheery spring, ilk canty note, Be daffin and ilk idle play forgot ; Bring ilka herd the mournfu’, mcurnfu’ boughs, Rosemary sad, and ever dreary yews ; Thae lat be steepit i? the saut, saut tear, To weet wi’ hallow’d draps his sacred bier, Whase sangs will ay in Scotland be revered, While slow-gawn owsen turn the flowery swaird ; While bonny lammies lick the dews of spring, While gaudsmen whistle, or while birdies sing. GEORDIE. Twas na for weel-timed verse or sangs alane, He bore the bell frae ilka shepherd swain. Nature to him had gien a kindly lore, Deep, a’ her mystic ferlies to explore : For a’ her secret workings he could gie Reasons that wi’ her principles agree. Ye saw, yoursel, how weel his mailin thrave ; Ay better faughed and snodit than the lave : Lang had the thristles and the dockans been In use to wag their taps upo’ the green, Whare now his bonny rigs delight the view, And thrivin hedges drink the cauler dew.* DAVIE. They tell me, Geordie! he has sic a gift, ‘That scare a starnie blinkit frae the lift, (1) Dr. Wilkie had a farm near St. Andrews, on which he mule great improvements. 541 But he would some auld warld name for’t find, As gart him keep it freshly in his mind. For this, some ca’d him an uncanny wight : The clash gaed round, “he had the second sight ;” A tale that never fail’d to be the pride O’ grannies spinnin at the ingle-side. GEORDIE. But now he’s gane; and Fame, that, whan alive, Seenil lats ony o” her votaries thrive, Will frae his shinin name a’ mots withdraw, And on her loudest trump his praises blaw. Lang may his sacred banes untroubled rest ! Lang may his truff in gowans gay be drest ! Scholars and bards unheard of yet shall come, And stamp memorials on his grassy tomb, Which in yon ancient kirk-yard shall remain, Famed as the urn that hauds the Mantuan swain. ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF MR. DAVID GREGORY, LATE PROFESSOR OF MATHEMATICS IN THE UNIVERSITY or St. ANDREWS. Now mourn, ye college masters a’! And frae your een a tear let fa’ ; Fame Gregory death has ta’en awa Without remeid ; The skaith ye ’ve met wi’s nae that sma’, Sin’ Gregory ’s dead. The students, too, will miss him sair ; To school them weel his eident care ; Now they may mourn for ever mair ; They hae great need : They ’1l hip the maist feck o’ their lear, Sin’ Gregory ’s dead. He could, by Fuclid prove, lang syne, A ganging point composed a line, By numbers too, he could divine, Whan he did read, That three times three just made up nine ; But now he’s dead. In algebra weel skill’d he was, And kent fw’ weel proportion’s laws : He could mak clear baith B’s and A’s W7 his lang head ; Rin owre surd roots, but cracks or flaws ; But now he’s dead. Weel versed was he in architecture, And kent. the nature o’ the sector s 542 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Upo’ baith globes he weel could lecture, And gar’s tak heed O’ geometry he was the Hector ; But now he’s dead. Sae weel’s he’d fley the students a’, Whan they were skelpin at the ba’ : They took leg-bail, and ran awa Wi?’ pith and speed: We winna get a sport sae braw, Sin’ Gregory ’s dead. Great ’casion hae we a’ to weep, And cleed our skins in mourning deep, For Gregory death will fairly keep, To tak his nap: Hell till the resurrection sleep, As sound ’s a tap. THE DAFT DAYS. Now mirk December’s dowie face Glowrs owre the rigs wi’ sour grimace, While, through his mizimum o’ space The bleer-e’ed sun, - Wi’ blinkin light and stealin’ pace, His race doth run. Frae naked groves nae birdie sings ; To shepherd’s pipe nae hillock rings ; The breeze nae od’rous flavour brings, Frae Borean cave ; And dwynin Nature droops her wings, Wi’ visage grave. Mankind but scanty pleasure glean Frae snawy hill or barren plain, Whan Winter, ‘midst his nippin’ train, W7 frozen spear, Sends drift owre a’ his bleak domain, And guides the weir. Auld Reikie! thou’rt the canty hole; A bield for mony a cauldrife soul, Wha snugly at thine ingle loll, Baith warm and couth ; While round they gar the bicker roll, To weet their mouth. Whan merry Yule-day comes, I trow, You’ll scantlins find a hungry mou ; Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fou O’ gusty gear, And kickshaws, strangers to our view Sin’ fairn-year. Ye browster wives! now busk ye braw, And fling your sorrows far awa; Then, come and gie’s the tither blaw O’ reaming ale, — Mair precious than the Well o’ Spa, Our hearts to heal. Then, though at odds wi’ a’ the warl’, Amang oursels we ’ll never quarrel ; Though Discord gie a canker’d snarl, To spoil our glee, As lang’s there ’s pith into the barrel, We’ll drink and gree. Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix, And roset weel your fiddlesticks ; And banish vile Italian tricks Frae out your quorum ; Nor fortes wi’ pianos mix— Gie’s Tullochgorum. For nought can cheer the heart sae weel, As can a canty Highland reel ; It even vivifies the heel To skip and dance : Lifeless is he wha canna feel Its influence. Let mirth abound ; let: social cheer Invest the dawnin’ o’ the year ; Let blithesome Innocence appear, To crown our joy : Nor Envy, wi’ sarcastic sneer, Our bliss destroy. And thou, great god of Aguv-vite / Wha sways the empire o” this city,— Whan fou, we ’re sometimes capernoity,— Be thou prepared To hedge us frae that black banditti, The City Guard. THE KING’S BIRTH-DAY IN EDINBURGH. “Oh. qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte vidisses.” Polemo-Middinias 1 sine the day sae aften sung, Wi’ which our lugs hae yearly rung, Tn whase loud praise the Muse has dung A’ kind o” print ; But vow! the limmer’s fairly flung ; There ’s naething int. POEMS SF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 543 I’m fain to think the joys the same In London town as here at hame, Whare fouk of ilka age and name, Baith blind and cripple, Forgather aft, oh fy for shame ! To drink and tipple. O Muse, be kind, and dinna fash us To flee awa beyont Parnassus, Nor seek for Helicon to wash us, That heath’nish, spring ; Wi’ Highland whisky scour our hawses, And gar us sing. Begin then, dame, ye ’ve drunk your fill, You wadna hae the tither gill ? Youll trust me, mair would do you ill, And ding you doitet ; Troth ’twould be sair against my will To hae the wyte o’t. Sing then, how, on the fourth of June, Our bells screed aff a loyal tune, Our ancient castle shoots at noon, Wi’ flagstaff buskit, Frae which the soldier blades come down To cock their musket. Oh willawins! Mons Meg, for you, Twas firing crack’d thy muckle mou; What black mishanter gart ye spew Baith gut and ga’? I fear they bang’d thy belly fu’ Against the law. Right seldom am I gi’en to bannin, But, by my saul, ye was a cannon, Cou’d hit a man, had he been stannin In shire 0’ Fife, Sax lang Scots miles ayont Clackmannan, And tak his life. The hills in terror wad cry out, And echo to thy dinsome rout ; The herds wad gather in their nowt, That glowr’d wi’ wonder, Haflins afraid to bide thereout To hear thy thunder. Sing likewise, Muse, how blue-gown bodies, Like scarcraws new ta’en down frae woodies, Come here to cast their clouted duddies, And get their pay : Than them what magistrate mair proud is On king’s birth-day ? On this great day the city-guard, In military art weel lear’d, Wi’ powder’d pow and shaven beard, Gang thro’ their functions, By hostile rabble seldom spared Of clarty unctions. O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes, For Scotland’s, alias Land of Cakes, Gie not her bairns sic deadly pakes, Nor be sae rude, Wr firelock or Lochaber axe, As spill their blude. Now round and round the serpents whizz, Wy hissing wrath and angry fizz; Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz, Alake the day ! And singe, wi’ hair-devouring hizz, Its curls away. Shou’d tl’ owner patiently keek round, To view the nature of his wound, Dead pussie, draggled through the pond, Taks him a lounder, Which lays his honour on the ground As flat ’s a flounder. The Muse maun also now implore Auld wives to steek ilk hole and bore; If baudrins slip but to the door, I fear, I fear, She ’ll no lang shank upon all four This time o’ year. Next day each hero tells his news O’ crackit crowns and broken brows, And deeds that here forbid the Muse Her theme to swell, Or time mair precious abuse Their crimes to tell. She ’ll rather to the fields resort, Whare music gars the day seem short, Whare doggies play, and lammies sport On gowany braes, , Whare peerless Fancy hauds her court, And tunes her lays. 644 CALLER OYSTERS. “ Happy the man, who, free from care and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain New oysters cried, uor sighs for cheerful ale.”—PHILLIPS. O’ a’ the waters that can hobble, A fishing yole cr sa’mon coble, And can reward the fisher’s trouble, Or south or north, There ’s nane sae spacious and sae noble, As Firth o’ Forth. In her the skate and codlin sail ; The eel, fu? souple, wags her tail ; Wy herrin, fleuk, and mackerel, And whytens dainty: Their spindleshanks the labsters trail, Wi’ partans plenty. Auld Reikie’s sons blithe faces wear ; September’s merry mouth is near, That brings in Neptune’s caller cheer, New oysters fresh ; The halesomest aud nicest gear O’ fish or flesh. O! then we needna gie a plack For dand’ring mountebank or quack, Wha o’ their drogs sae bauldly crack, An’ spread sic notions, As gar their feckless patients tak Their stinking potions. Come, prie, frail man! for gin thou art sick, The oyster is a rare cathartic, As ever doctor patient gart lick; Yo cure his ails ; Whether you hae the head or heart-ake, It. ay prevails. Ye tipplers, open a’ your poses : Ye, wha are fash’d wi’ plouky uoses, Fling o’er your craig sufficient doses; You ’ll thole a hunder, To fleg awa your simmer roses, And naething under. Whan big as burns the gutters rin, Gin ye hae catcht a droukit skin, To luckie Middlemist’s loup in, And sit tw’ snug Owre oysters and a dram o’ gin, Or haddock lug. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Whan auld Saunt Giles, at eight o’clock, Gars merchant lowns their shopies lock, ‘There we adjourn wi’ hearty fouk To birle our bodles, And get wharewi’ to crack our joke, And clear our noddles. Whan Pheebus did his winnocks steek, How aften at that ingle cheek Did 1 my frosty fingers beek, And prie good fare? I trow there was nae hame to seek, Whan steghin there. While glaikit fools, owre rife o’ cash, Pamper their wames wi’ fousom trash, I think a chiel may gayly pass, He’s nae ill bodden, That gusts his gab wi’ oyster sauce, An’ hen weel sodden, At Musselbrough, and eke Newhaven, The fisher wives will get top livin’ Whan lads gang out on Sunday’s even To treat their joes, And tak o’ fat pandores a prievin’, Or mussel brose. Then, sometimes, ere they flit their doup, They ’ll aiblins a’ their siller coup For liquor clear, frae cutty stoup, To weet their wizzen, And swallow owre a dainty soup, | For fear they gizzen. A’ ye wha canna stand sae sicker, Whan twice ye’ve toom’d the gaucy bicker, Mix caller oysters wi? your liquor, And I’m your debtor, lf greedy priest or drouthy vicar Will thole it better. 225.94 BRAID CLAITH. —_—_— Ye wha are fain to hae your name Wrote i’ the bonny book o’ Fame, Let merit nae pretension claim ‘Lo laurell’d wreath, But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, In gude Braid Claith, He that some ells 0’ this may fa’, And slae-black hat on pow like snaw, Fergusson. CALLER OYSTERS. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 545 Bids bauld to bear the gree awa, Wi’ a’ this graith, Whan bienly clad wi’ shell fu’ braw O’ gude Braid Claith. Waesuck for him wha has nae feck o’t ! For he’s a gowk they ’re sure to geck at, A chiel that ne’er will be respeckit While he draws breath, Till his four quarters are bedeckit Wi’ gude Braid Claith. On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Whan he has done wi’ scrapin wark, Wy siller broachie in his sark, Gangs trigly, faith! Or to the Meadow, or the Park, In gude Braid Claith. Weel might ye trow, to see them there, That they to shave your haffits bare, Or curl and sleek a pickle hair, Wad be right laith, Whan pacing wi’ a gawsy air In gude Braid Claith. If ony mettl’d stirrah green For favour frae a lady’s een, He maunna care for being seen Before he sheath His body in a scabbard clean O’ gude Braid Claith. For, gin he come wi’ coat threadbare, A feg for him she winna care, But crook her bonny mou fu’ sair, And scald him baith. Wooers should ay their travel spare Without Braid Claith. Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heese, Maks mony kail-worms butterflies, Gies mony a doctor his degrees For little skaith : In short, you may be what you please Wi’ gude Braid Claith. For thof ye had as wise a snout on As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton, Your judgment fouk wad hae a doubt on, T'll tak my aith, Till they cou’d see ye wi’ a suit on O’ gude Braid Claith. ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF SCOTS MUSIC. — “ Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain, The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it."—-SHAKESPEARE’S Zwelfth Night. Own Scotia’s plains, in days of yore, When lads and lasses tartan wore, Saft Music rang on ilka shore, In hamely weed ; But Harmony is now no more, And Music dead. Round her the feather’d choir wad wing, Sae bonnily she wont to sing, And sleely wake the sleeping string, Their sang to lead, Sweet as the zephyrs of the spring ; But now she’s dead. Mourn ilka nymph and ilka swain, Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen; Let weeping streams and Naiads drain Their fountain head ; Let Echo swell the dolefu’ strain, Since Music ’s dead. Whan the saft vernal breezes ca’ The grey-hair’d Winter’s fogs awa, Naebody then is heard to blaw, Near hill or mead, On chaunter, or on aiten straw, Since Music ’s dead. Nae lasses now, on simmer days, Will lilt at bleaching o’ their claes ; Nae herds on Yarrow’s bonny braes, Or banks 0’ Tweed, Delight to chant their hameil lays, Since Music’s dead. At gloamin now the bagpipe ’s dumb Whan weary owsen hameward come; Sae sweetly as it wont to bum, And pibrochs skreed ; We never hear its warlike hum; ~ For Music’s dead. Macgibbon’s gane: ah! waes my heart. The man in music maist expert, Wha could sweet melody impart, . And tune the reed, Wi sic a slee and pawky art ; But now he’s dead. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Ilk carline now may grunt and grane, Tik bonny lassie mak great mane, Since he’s awa’, I trow there ’s nane Can fill his stead ; The blithest sangster on the plain ! Alake, he’s dead! Now foreign sonnets bear the gree, And crabbed queer variety Of sounds fresh sprung frae Italy, A bastard breed ! Unlike that saft-tongued melody Which now lies dead. Could lav’rocks at the dawning day, Could linties chirming frae the spray, Or todling burns that smoothly play O’er gowden bed, Compare wi’ Birks of Invermay ? But now they ’re dead. O Scotland! that could aince afford To bang the pith of Roman sword, Winna your sons, wi’ joint accord, To battle speed ? And fight till Music be restored, Which now lies dead. HALLOW-FAIR. Art Hallowmas, whan nights grow lang, And starnies shine fu’ clear, Whan fouk, the nippin’ cauld to bang, Their winter hap-warms wear, Near Edinbrough a fair there hauds, I wat there ’s nane whase name is, For strappin dames and sturdy lads, And cap and stoup, mair famous Than it that day. Upo’ the tap o’ ilka lum The sun began to keek, And bade the trig-made maidens come A sightly joe to seek At Hallow-fair, whare browsters rare Keep gude ale on the gantries, And dinna scrimp ye o’ a skair O’ kebbucks frae their pantries, Fw’ saut that day. Here country John, in bannet blue, And eke his Sunday’s claes on Rins after Meg wi’ rokelay new, And sappy kisses lays on: She ’ll tauntin’ say, “ Ye silly coof! Be o’ your gab mair spairin’ ;” He’ll tak the hint, and criesh her loof W? what will buy her fairin’, To chow that day. Here chapmen billies tak their stand, And shaw their bonny wallies ; Wow! but they lie fu’ gleg aff hand To trick the silly fallows : Heh, sirs! what cairds and tinklers come, And ne’er-do-weel horse-coupers, And spae-wives, fenzying to be dumb, Wi’ a’ siclike landloupers, To thrive that day ! Here Sawney cries, frae Aberdeen, * Come ye to me fa need ; The brawest shanks that e’er were seen I'll sell ye cheap an’ guid: I wyt they are as protty hose As come frae weyr or leem: Here, tak a rug, and shaw’s your pose ; Forseeth, my ain’s but teem And light this day.” Ye wives, as ye gang through the fair, O mak your bargains hooly ! O’ a’ thir wylie louns beware, Or, fegs! they will ye spulzie. - For, fairnyear, Meg Thamson got, Frae thir mischievous villains, A scaw’d bit o’ a penny note, That lost a score o” shillins To her that day. The dinlin drums alarm our ears ; The sergeant screechs fu’ loud, “ A’ gentlemen and volunteers That wish your country gude, Come here to me, and I shall gie Twa guineas and a crown ; A bowl o’ punch, that, like the sea, Will soom a lang dragoon Wi’ ease this day ” Without, the cuissars prance and nicker , And owre the leg-rig scud ; In tents, the carles bend the bicker, And rant and roar like wud. Then there’s sic yellowchin and din, Wi’ wives and wee-anes gabblin, That ane might trow they were akin To a’ the tongues at Babylon, Confused that day. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 547 Whan Phebus ligs in Thetis’ lap, Auld Reikie gies them shelter, Whare cadgily they kiss the cap, And ca’t round helter-skelter. Jock Bell gaed furth to play his freaks ; Great cause he had to rue it; For frae a stark Lochaber axe He gat a clamiehewit Fw’ sair that night. “Ohon!” quo’ he, “I’d rather be By sword or bagnet stickit, Than hae my crown or body wi’ Sic deadly weapons nickit.” Wi that he gat anither straik Mair weighty than before, That gart his feckless body aik, And spew the reekin gore Fu’ red that night. He pechin on the cawsey lay, O” kicks and cuffs weel sair’d ; A Highland aith the sergeant gae, “She maun pe see our guard.” Out spak the weirlike corporal, “ Bring in ta drucken sot :” They trail’d him ben, and by my saul, He paid his drucken groat For that neist day. Gude fouk, as ye come frae the fair, Bide yont frae this black squad ; There’s nae sic savages elsewhere Allow’d to wear cockade. Than the strong lion’s hungry maw, Or tusk o’ Russian bear, Frae their wanruly fellin paw Mair cause ye hae to fear Your death that day, A wee soup drink does unco weel, To haud the heart aboon; It’s gude, as lang ’s a canny chiel Can stand steeve in his shoon. But, gin a birkie’s owre weel sair’d, It gars him aften stammer, To pleys that bring him to the guard, And eke the council-chaumir, Wi’ shame that day. ODE TO THE BEE. Hzrps! blithesome tune your canty reeds, And welcome to the gowany meads The pride o’ a’ the insect thrang, A stranger to the green sae lang. Unfauld ilk buss, and ilka brier, The bounties 0’ the gleesome year, To Him whase voice delights the spring ; Whase soughs the saftest slumbers bring. The trees in simmer cleedin drest, The hillocks in their greenest vest, The brawest flow’rs rejoiced we see Disclose their sweets, and ca’ on thee, Blithely to skim on wanton wing Through a’ the fairy haunts o’ Spring. Whan fields hae gat their dewy gift, And dawnin breaks upo’ the lift, Then gang your wa’s through hight and howe, ‘ Seek caller haugh or sunny knowe, Or ivy craig, or burn-bank brae, Whare Industry shall bid you gae, For hiney, or for waxen store, To ding sad poortith frae the door. Cou’d feckless creature, man, be wise, The simmer o’ his life to prize, In winter he might fend fu’ bauld, His eild unkend to nippin cauld; Yet thir, alas! are antrin fouk, Wha lade their scape wi’ winter stock. Auld age maist feckly glowrs right dour Upo’ the ailings o’ the poor, Wha houp for nae comforting, save That dowie, dismal house, the grave. Then, feeble man, be wise; tak tent How Industry can fetch content : Behold the bees, whare’er they wing, Or through the bonny bowers o’ Spring, Whare vi’lets or whare roses blaw, And siller dew-drops nightly fa’, Or whan on open bent they’re seen, On hether hill or thristle green ; The hiney’s still as sweet that flows Frae thristle cauld, or kendlin rose. Frae this the human race may learn Reflection’s hiney’d draps to earn, Whether they tramp life’s thorny way, Or through the sunny vineyard stray. Instructive bee! attend me still ; Owre a’ my labours sey your skill : For thee shall hineysuckles rise, W? ladin to your busy thighs, And ilka shrub surround my cell, Whareon ye like to hum and dwell: My trees in bourachs owre my ground Shall fend ye frae ilk blast o’ wind: Nor e’er shall herd, wi’ ruthless spike, Delve out the treasures frae your bike, But in my fence be safe, and free To live, and work, and sing, like me. Like thee, by Fancy wing’d, the Muse Sends ear’ and heartsome owre the dews, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Fw’ vogie, and fu’ blithe to crap The winsome flowers frae Nature’s lap, Twinin her livin garlands there, That lyart Time can ne’er impair. ON SEEING A BUTTERFLY IN THE STREET. Dart gowk, in macaroni dress, Are ye come here to shaw your face, Bowden wi’ pride o’ simmer gloss, To cast a dash at Reikie’s cross ; And glowr at mony a twa-legg’d creature, Flees, braw by art, tho’ worms by nature ? Like country laird in city cleeding, Ye’re come to town to lear’ good breeding ; To bring ilk darling toast and fashion In vogue amang the flee creation, That they, like buskit belles and beaux, May crook their mou’ fu’ sour at those Whase weird is still to creep, alas ! Unnoticed ’mang the humble grass ; While you, wi’ wings, new buskit trim, Can far frae yird and reptiles skim ; Newiangle grown wi’ new-got form, You soar aboon your mither worm. Kind Nature lent but for a day Her wings to mak ye sprush and gay; In her habuliments awhile Ye may your former sel’ beguile, And ding awa’ the vexing thought O’ hourly dwinin’ into nought, By beengin’ to your foppish brithers, Black corbies dress’d in peacock’s feathers ; Like thee they dander here and there, Whan Simmer’s blinks are warm and fair, And lo’e to snuff the healthy balm, Whan E’enin’ spreads her wings sae calm ; But whan she girns and glowrs sae dour Frae Borean houff in angry show’r, Like thee they scour frae street or field, And hap them in a lyther bield ; For they were never made to dree The adverse gloom o’ Fortune’s e’e, Nor ever pried life’s pinin’ woes, Nor pu’d the prickles wi’ the rose. Poor Butterfly ! thy case 1 mourn, To green kail-yard and froits return : How could you troke the mavis’ note For “ penny pies all pipin’ hot ?” Can lintie’s music be compared WY gruntles frae the City Guard ? Or can our flow’rs, at ten hours’ bell, The gowan or the spink excel ? Now shou’d our sclates wi’ hailstanes ring, What cabbage-fauld wad screen your wing ? Say, fluttering fairy! wert thy hap To light beneath braw Nanny’s cap, Wad she, proud butterfly of May In pity let you skaithless gae ? - The furies glancing frae her een Wad rug your wings o’ siller sheen, That, wae for thee! far, far outvy, Her Paris artist’s finest dye ; Then a’ your bonny spraings wad fall, And you a worm be left to crawl. To sic mishanter rins the laird Wha quits his ha’-house and kail-yard, -Grows politician, scours to Court, Whare he’s the laughing-stock and sport O’ Ministers, wha jeer and jibe, And heeze his hopes wi’ thought o’ bribe, Till in the end they flae him bare, Leave him to poortith, and to care. Their fleetchin’ words owre late he sees, He trudges hame, repines, and dies. Sic be their fa’ wha dirk their ben In blackest business nae their ain ; And may they scaud their lips fu’ leal, That dip their spoons in ither’s kail. oes aa ODE TO THE GOWDSPINK. Frat fields whare Spring her sweets has blawa Wi caller verdure owre the lawn, The Gowdspink comes in new attire, The brawest: ’mang the whistling choir, That, ere the Sun can clear his een, Wi’ glib notes sane the Simmer’s green. Sure Nature herried mony a tree, For spraings and bonny spats to thee : Nae mair the rainbow can impart Sic glowin ferlies o’ her ari, Whase pencil wrought its freaks at will On thee, the sey-piece o’ her skill. Nae mair thro’ straths in Simmer dight We seek the rose to bless our sight ; Or bid the bonny wa’-flowers sprout On yonder ruin’s lofty snout. Thy shinin garments far outstrip The cherries upo’ Hebe’s lip, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 549 And fool the tints that Nature chose To busk and paint the crimson rose. *Mang men, wae’s heart! we aften find The brawest drest want peace o’«mind, While he that gangs wi’ ragged coat Is weel contentit wi’ his lot. Whan wand wi’ glewy birdlime’s set, To steal far aff your dautit mate, Blithe wad ye change your cleeding gay In lieu of lav’rock’s sober gray. In vain thro’ woods you sair may ban The envious treachery of man, That wi’ your gowden glister ta’en, Still hunts you on the Simmer’s plain, And traps you “mang the sudden fa’s O’ Winter’s dreary, dreepin snaws. Now steekit frae the gowany field, Frae ilka fav’rite houff and beild ; But mergh, alas! to disengage Your bonny buik frae fettering cage, Your free-born bosom beats in vain For darling liberty again. In window hung, how aft we see Thee keek around at warblers free, That carol saft, and sweetly sing Wi’ a’ the blitheness o’ the Spring ? Like Tantalus they hing you here To spy the glories o’ the year; And tho’ you’re at the burnie’s brink, They douna suffer you to drink. Ah, Liberty! thou bonny dame, How wildly wanton is thy stream Round whilk the birdies a’ rejoice, And hail you wi’ a gratefu’ voice. The Gowdspink chatters joyous here, And courts wi’ gleesome sangs his peer : The mavis frae the new-bloom’d thorn Begins his lauds at ear’est morn ; And herd lowns loupin o’er the grass, Need far less fleetchin to their lass, Than paughty damsels bred at Courts, Wha thraw their mou’s, and tak the dorts ; But, reft of thee, fient flee we care For a’ that life ahint can spare. The Gowdspink, that sae lang has kend Thy happy sweets (his wonted friend), Her sad confinement ill can brook In some dark chaumer’s dowie nook ; Tho’ Mary’s hand his nebb supplies, Unkend to hunger’s painfu’ cries, Ev’n beauty canna chear the heart Frae life, frae liberty apart ; For now we tyne its wonted lay, Sae lightsome, sweet, sae blithely gay. Thus Fortune aft a curse can gie, To wyle us far frae liberty ; Then tent her syren smiles wha list, Pll ne’er envy your girnel’s grist ; For whan fair Freedom smiles nae mair, Care 1 for life? Shame fa’ the hair ; A field o’ergrown wi’ rankest stubble, The essence 0’ a paltry bubble. ge Peace cis, CAULER WATER. Wuaw father Aidie first pat spade in The bonny yard of ancient: Eden, His amry had nae liquor laid in, To fire his mou, Nor did he thole his wife’s upbraidin, For being fu’. A cauler burn o’ siller sheen, Ran cannily out-owre the green ; And whan our gutcher’s drouth had been To bide right sair, He loutit down, and drank bedeen A dainty skair. His bairns had a’, before the flood, A langer tack o’ flesh and blood ; And on mair pithy shanks they stood Than Noah’s line, Wha still hae been a feckless brood, Wi’ drinkin wine. The fuddlin bardies, now-a-days, Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus’ praise ; And limp and stoiter thro’ their lays Anacreontic, While each his sea of wine displays, As big’s the Pontie. My Muse will no gang far frae hame, Or scour a’ airths to hound for fame ; In troth the jillet ye might blame For thinking on ’t, Whan eithly she can find the theme O? aguafont. This is the name that doctors use, Their patients’ noddles to confuse ; Wi’ simples clad in terms abstruse, They labour still, In kittle words to gar you roose Their want o’ skill, POEMS OF ROBERN FERGUSSON. But we ’ll hae nae sic clitter-clatter ; And, briefly to expound the matter, Tt shall be ca’d gude Cauler Water ; Than whilk, I trow, Few drugs in doctors’ shops are better For me or you. Tho’ joints be stiff as ony rung, Your pith wi’ pain be sairly dung, Be you in Caller Water flung Out o’er the lugs, *Twill mak ye souple, swack, and young, Withouten drugs. Tho’ colic or the heart-scad teaze us, Or cny inward dwaam should seize us, It masters a’ sic fell diseases, That wad ye spulzie, And brings them to a canny crisis Wi little tulzie. Wer ’t na for it the bonny lasses Wad glow’r nae mair in keekin glasses, And soon tine dint o’ a’ the graces That aft conveen In gleefu’ looks and bonny faces, To catch our een. The fairest then might die a maid, And Cupid quit his shooting trade, For wha thro’ clarty masquerade Cou’d then discover, Whether the features under shade Were worth a lover? As Simmer rains bring Simmer flowers, And leaves to cleed the birken bowers Sae beauty gets by cauler showers Sae rich a bloom, As for estate, or heavy dowers, Aft stands in room. What maks Auld Reikie’s dames sae fair ? Jt cannot be the halesome air, But cauler burn, beyond compare, The best 0’ ony, That gars them a’ sic graces skair, And blink sae bonny. On May-day, in a fairy ring, We seen them round St. Anthon’s spring, Frae grass the cauler dew-draps wring To weet their een, And water clear as crystal spring, To synd them clean. O may they still pursue the way, To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay ! Then shall their beauties glance like May, And, like her, be The goddess of the vocal spray, The Muse, and me. THE SITTING OF THE SESSION. Puesvs, sair cow’d wi’ Simmer’s hight, Cours near the yird wi’ blinkin light ; Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight Wr Simmer’s claes, Which heese the heart 0’ dowie wight That thro’ them gaes. Weel loes me o’ you, Business, now ; For ye’ll weet mony a drouthy mou, That ’s lang a geyzenin gane for you, Withouten fill O’ dribbles frae the gude brown cow, Or Highland gill. The Court o’ Session, weel wat I, Pits ilk chiel’s whittle i’ the pye ; Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels whan dry, Till Session’s done; Tho’ they ’ll gie mony a cheep and cry, Or twalt o’ June. Ye benders a’, that dwell in joot, You ll tak your liquor clean cap out; Synd your mouse-wabs wi’ reamin stout, While ye hae cash, And gar your cares a’ tak the rout, And thumb ne’er fash. Rob Gibb’s grey giz, new-frizzled fine Will white as ony snow-ba’ shine ; Weel does he loe the lawen coin, Whan dossied down For whiskey gills, or dribs o’ wine, In cauld forenoon. Bar-keepers, now, at outer door, Tak tent as fouk gang back and fore ; The fient ane there but pays his score ; Nane wins toll-free ; Tho’ ye’ve a cause the House before, Or agent be. Gin ony, here, wi’ canker knocks, And has na lows’d his siller pocks, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 561 Ye needna think to fleeteh or cox ;— * Come, shaw’s your gear :— “ Ae scabbit yowe spills twenty flocks .— “Ye’s no be bere.” Now, at the door they ’ll raise a plea :— Crack on, my lads! for flytin’s free ; For gin ye shou’d tongue-tackit be, The mair’s the pity, When scauldin but and ben we see, Pendente lite. The lawyers’ shelfs, and printers’ presses, Grain unco sair wi’ weighty cases ; The clerk in toil his pleasure places, To thrive bedeen : At five liours’ bell seribes shaw their faces, And rake their een. The country fouk to lawyers crook : * Ah, weels me o’ your bonny buik ! The benmost part 0’ my kist-nook 1’ll ripe for thee, And willin ware my hindmost rook For my decree.” But Law ’s a draw-wall unco deep, Withouten rim fouk out to keep; A donnart chiel, whan drunk, may dreep Fw’ sleely in, But finds the gate baith stey and steep, Ere out he win. ee THE RISING OF THE SESSION. To a men livin be it kend, The Session now is at an end: Writers, your finger nebs unbend, And quat the pen, Till Time, wi’ lyart pow, shall send Blithe June again. Tired o’ the law, and a’ its phrases, The wylie writers, rich as Croesus, Hurl frae the town in hackney chaises, For country cheer: The powny, that in spring-time grazes, Thrives a’ the year. Ye lawyers, bid fareweel to lies,— Fareweel to din,—fareweel to fees : The canny hours o’ rest may please, Instead 0” siller : Hain’d mv’ter hauds the mill at ease, And fends the miller. Blithe may they be wha wanton play In Fortune’s bonny, blinkin’ ray : Fu’ weel can they ding dool away, WY comrades couthy, And never dree a hungert day, Or e’enin drouthy. Ohon the day! for him that’s laid In dowie Poortith’s cauldrife shade ; Aiblins owre honest for his trade, He racks his wits How he may get his buik weel clad, And fill his guts. The farmers’ sons, as yap as sparrows, Are glad, I trow, to flee the barras, And whistle to the pleugh and harrows, At barley seed : What writer wadna gang as far as He cou’d for bread ? After their yokin’, I wat weel, They ll stoo the kebbuck to the heel ; Hith can the pleugh-stilts gar a chiel Be unco vogie, Clean to lick aff his crowdie-meal, And scart his cogie. Now mony a fallow ’s dung adrift To a’ the blasts beneath the lift ; And tho’ their stamack ’s aft in tift, In vacance time, Yet seenil do they ken the rift O’ stappit wame. Now, gin a notar shou’d be wanted, You ’Il find the pillars’ gayly planted : For little thing protests are granted Upo’ a bill, And weightiest matters covenanted For half a gill. Naebody taks a mornin drib O’ Holland gin frae Robin Gibb ; And, tho’ a dram to Rob’s mair sib, Than is his wife, He maun tak time to daut his rib, Till siller’s rife. This vacance is a heavy doom On Indian Peter ’s coffee-room ; For a’ his china pigs are toom ; Nor do we see In wine the soucker biskets soum, As light’s a flee. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. But stop, my Muse! nor mak a mane; Pate does na fend on that alane; He can fell twa dogs wi’ ae bane, While ither fouk Maun rest themsels content wi’ ane, Nor farer trock. Ye changehouse-keepers, never grumble ; Though you a while your bickers whumble, Be unco patientfu’ and humble, Nor mak a din, Tho’ good joot binna kend to rumble Your wame within. You needna grudge to draw your breath For little mair than half a reath ; Then, gin we a’ be spared frae death, We'll gladly prie Fresh noggans o” your reamin graith W7 blithesome glee. LEITH RACES. In July month, ae bonny morn Whan Nature’s rokelay green Was spread owre ilka rig o’ corn, To charm our rovin een; Glowrin about, I saw a quean, The fairest neath the lift : Her een were o’ the siller sheen ; Her skin, like snawy drift, Sae white that day. Quo’ she, “I ferly unco sair, That ye sud musin gae; Ye wha hae sung o’ Hallow-fair, Her winter’s pranks, and play ; Whan on Leith Sands the racers rare Wi’ jocky louns are met, Their orra pennies there to ware, And drown themsels in debt Fu’ deep that day.” And wha are ye, my winsome dear, That taks the gate sae early ? Whare do ye win, gin ane may speer ; For I right meikle ferly, That sic braw buskit laughin lass Thir bonny blinks shou’d gie, And loup, like Hebe, owre the grass, As wanton, and as free , Frae dool this day. *T dwall amang the cauler springs That weet the Land o’ Cakes, And aften tune my canty strings At bridals and late-wakes. They ca’ me Mretu :—I ne’er was kend To grumble or look sour ; But blithe wad be a lift to lend, Gif ye wad sey my power, And pith, this day.” A bargain be’t; and by my fegs ! Gif ye will be my mate, W? you I’ll screw the cheery pegs; Ye shanna find me blate : We’ll reel and ramble thro’ the sands, And jeer wi’ a’ we meet ; Nor hip the daft and gleesome bands That fill Edina’s street Sae thrang this day. Ere servant-maids had wont to rise To seethe the breakfast kettle, Tlk dame her brawest ribbons tries, To put her on her mettle, Wi’ wiles some silly chiel to trap (And troth he’s fain to get her) ; But shell craw kniefly in his crap, Whan, wow! he canna flit her Frae hame that day. Now, mony a scaw’d and bare-back’d loun Rise early to their wark : Enough to fley a muckle town, Wi’ dinsome squeel and bark. “ Here is the true and faithfu’ list O’ Noblemen and Horses ; Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist, That rin for plates or purses, Fw’ fleet this day.” To whisky plouks that brunt for ouks On town-guard sadgers’ faces, Their barber bauld his whittle crooks And scrapes them for the races. Their stumps, erst used to philibegs, Are dight in spatterdashes, Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs Frae weet and weary plashes O? dirt that day. “Come, hafe a care,” the Captain cries, “On guns your bagnets thraw ; Now mind your manual exercise, And marsh down raw by raw.” And, as they march, he ‘ll glowr about, *Tent a’ their cuts and scars: *Mang them fell mony a gawsy snout Has gusht in birth-day wars, Wi’ blude that dav. RACES. LEITH ee POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 553 Her nainsel maun be carefu’ now, Nor maun she be mislear’d, Sin baxters lads hae seal’d a vow To skelp and clout the guard. I’m sure Auld Reikie kens o’ nane That wad be sorry at it, Tho’ they should dearly pay the kain, And get their tails weel sautit, And sair, thir days, The tinkler billies i’ the Bow, Are now less eident clinkin ; As lang’s their pith or siller dow, They ’re daffin and they ’re drinkin. Bedown Leith Walk what burrachs reel, O’ ilka trade and station, That gar their wives and childer feel Toom wames, for their libation QO’ drink thir days ! The browster wives thegither harl A’ trash that they can fa on; They rake the grunds o’ ilka barrel, To profit by the lawen : For weel wat they, a skin leal het For drinkin needs nae hire ; At drumbly gear they tak nae pet ; Foul water slockens fire, And drouth, thir days. They say, ill ale has been she dead O’ mony a beardly loun : Then dinna gape like gleds, wi’ greed, To sweel hale bickers down. Gin Lord send mony ane the morn, They ’ll ban fu’ saix the time That e’er they toutit aff the horn, Which wambles through their wame Wi’ pain that day. The Buchan bodies, through the beach, Their bunch of Findrams cry ; And skirl out bauld, in Norlan speech, *¢ Guid speldins ;—fa will buy?” And, by my saul, they ’re nae wrang gear To gust a stirrah’s mou; Weel) staw’d wi’ them, he ’II never spier The price 0” being fu’ Wi? drink that day. Now wylie wights at rowly-powl, And flingin o’ the dice, Here brak the banes o’ mony a soul Wi’ fa’s upo’ the ice. At first, the gate seems fair and straught ; Sae they haud fairly till her: But, wow! in spite o’ a’ their maught, They ’re rookit o’ their siller, And gowd, thir days, Around, whare’er ye fling your een, The haiks, like wind, are scourin : Some chaises honest fock contain ; And some hae mony a whore in. Wi’ rose and lily, red and white, They gie themsels sic fit airs ; Like Dian, they will seem perfite ; But it’s nae gowd that glitters Wi them thir days. The Lion here, wi’ open paw, May cleek in mony hunder, Wha geck at Scotland and her law, His wylie talons under : For, ken, though Jamie’s laws are auld, (Thanks to the wise recorder !) His Lion yet roars loud and bauld, To haud the Whigs in order, Sae prime this day, To town-guard drum of clangour clear, Baith men and steeds are raingit : Some liveries red or yellow wear; And some are tartan spraingit. And now the red,—the blue e’en now,— Bids fairest for the market ; But, ere the sport be done, I trow, Their skins are gayly yarkit, And peel’d, thir days Siclike in Robinhood debates, Whan two chiels hae a pingle : E’en now, some coulie gets his aits, And dirt wi? words they mingle ; Till up loups he, wi’ diction fu’, There ’s lang and dreech contestin ; For now they ’re near the point in view ;— Now, ten miles frae the question In hand that night. The races owre, they hale the dools Wi drink o’ a kinkind ; Great feck gae hirpling hame, like fools, The cripple lead the blind. May ne’er the canker o” the drink Mak our bauld spirits thrawart, Case we get wherewitha’ to wink W? een as blue’s a blawart, Wi? straiks thir days ! 4B a a ras THE FARMER’S INGLE. “ Et multo in primis hilarans convivia Baccho, Ante focum, si frigus erit.”—Vire. Buc. Wuan gloamin grey out-owre the welkin keeks ; Whan Batie ca’s his owsen to the byre; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks, And lusty lasses at the dightin tire ; What bangs fu’ leal the e’enings coming cauld, And gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe and bauld, Nor fley’d wi’ a’ the poortith o’ the plain ; Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain. Frae the big stack, weel winnow’t on the hill, Wi’ divots theekit frae the weet and drift; Sods, peats, and heathery trufs the chimley fill, ‘And gar their thickening smeek salute the lift. The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, Whan he out-owre the hallan flings his een, That ilka turn is handled to his mind; That a’ his housie looks sae cosh and clean ; For cleanly house loes he, though e’er sae mean. Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require A heartsome meltith, a refreshin synd O’ nappy liquor, owre a bleezin fire: Sair wark and poortith downa weel be join’d. Wi’ butter’d bannocks now the girdle reeks ; I’ the far nook the bowie briskly reams ; The readied kail stands by the chimley cheeks, And haud the riggin bet wi’ welcome streams, Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer seems. Frae this, lat gentler gabs a lesson lear : Wad they to labouring lend an eident hand, They ’d rax fell strang upo’ the simplest fare, Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. Fw’ hale and healthy wad they pass the day ; At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu’ sound ; Nor doctor need their weary life to spae, Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, Till death slip sleely on, and gie the hindmost wound. On sicken food has mony a doughty deed By Caledonia’s ancestors been done ; By this did mony a wight fu’ weirlike bleed In brulzies frae the dawn to set 0’ sun. was this that braced their gardies stiff and strang ; That bent the deadly yew in ancient days ; Laid Denmark’s daring sons on yird alang ; Gar’d Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays ; For near our crest their heads they doughitna raise. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. The couthy cracks begin whan supper ’s owre; The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash O’ Simmer’s showery blinks, and Winter sour, Whase floods did erst their mailin’s produce hash, *Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo’d Jenny here to be his bride ; And there, how Marion, for a bastard son, Upo’ the cutty-stool was forced to ride ; The waefu’ scauld 0’ our Mess John to bide. The fient a cheep’s amang the bairnies now ; For a’ their anger ’s wi’ their hunger gane : Ay maun the childer, wi’ a fastin mou’, Grumble and greet, and mak an unco mane. In rangles round, before the ingle’s lowe, Frae Gudame’s mouth auld-warld tales they hear, O’ warlocks loupin round the wirrikow : O’ ghaists that win in glen and kirkyard drear, Whilk touzles a’ their tap, and gars them shake wi’ fear ! For weel she trows that fiends and fairies be Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our ill; That kye hae tint their milk wi’ evil ee; And corn been scowder’d on the glowin kill. O mock na this, my friends! but rather mourn, Ye in life’s brawest spring wi’ reason clear ; Wi’ eild out idle fancies a’ return, And dim our dolefu’ days wi’ bairnly fear ; The mind ’s ay cradled whan the grave is near. Yet thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though age her sair-dow’d front wi’ runcles wave, Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays ; Her e’enin stent reels she as weel’s the lave. On some feasteday, the wee things, buskit braw, Shall heeze her heart up wi’ a silent joy, Fu’ cadgie that her head was up, and saw Her ain spun cleedin on a darlin oy; Careless though death shou’d mak the feast ner foy. In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains, Whare the gudeman aft streeks him at his ease; A warm and canny lean for weary banes O” lab’rers doil’d upon the wintry leas. Round him will baudrins and the collie come, To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu’ ee To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum O’ kebbuck whang’d, and dainty fadge to prie; This a’ the boon they crave, and a’ the fee. Frae him the lads their mornin counsel tak ; What stacks he wants to thrash, what rigs to till ’ How big a birn maun lie on Bassie’s back, For meal and mw’ter to the thirlin mill. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 555 Neist, the gudewife her hireling damsels bids Glowrthrough the byre, and seethe hawkies bound; Tak tent, °case Crummy tak her wonted tids, And ca’ the laiglen’s treasure on the ground, Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound. Then a’ the house for sleep begin to grien, Their joints to slack frae industry awhile ; The leaden god fa’s heavy on their een, And hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil ; The cruizie too can only blink and bleer ; The restit ingle ’s done the maist it dow; Tacksman and cotter eke to bed maun steer, Upo’ the cod to clear their drumly pow, Till wauken’d by the dawnin’s ruddy glow. Peace to the husbandman and a’ his tribe, Whase care fells a’ our wants frae year to year ! Lang may his sock and cou’ter turn the glybe, And bauks o’ corn bend down wi’ laded ear ! May Scotia’s simmers ay look gay and green ; Her yellow har’sts frae scowry blasts decreed ! May a’ her tenants sit fu’ snug and bien, Frae the hard grip o’ ails, and poortith freed ; And a lang lasting train o’ peacefu’ hours succeed ! THE ELECTION. Nunc est bibendum, et bendere BICKERUM magnum ; Cavete TOwWN-GUARDUM, D L G—DD—M atque C—PB—M. Resoice, ye Burghers! ane and a’; Lang look’t-for’s come at last : Sair were your backs held to the wa’, Wi poortith and wi’ fast. Now ye may clap your wings and craw, And gayly busk ilk feather, For deacon cocks hae pass’d a law, To rax and weet your leather Wr drink thir days. “Haste, Epps!” quo’ John, “and bring my giz ; Tak tent ye dinna’t spulzie: Last night the barber gae’t a friz, And straikit it wi’ ulzie. Hae done your parritch, lassie Liz! Gie me my sark and gravat ; I’se be as braw’s the deacon is, Whan he taks affidavit O’ faith the day.” “ Whare’s Johnny gaun,” cries neebour Bess, «That he’s sae gayly bodin, Wi’ new-kam’d wig, weel syndet face, Silk hose, for hamely hodin ?” “ Our Johnny’s nae sma’ drink, you’ll guess ; He’s trig as ony muircock, And forth to mak a deacon, lass ; He-downa speak to poor fouk Like us the day.” The coat, ben-by i’ the kist-nook, That ’s been this towmonth swarmin, Is brought aince mair thereout to look, To fleg awa the vermin. Menzies o’ motlis and flaes are shook, And 7’ the floor they howder, Till, in a birn, beneath the crook, They’re singit wi’ a scowder To death that day. The canty cobbler quats his sta’, His roset and his lingans ; His buik has dree’d a sair, sair fa’, Frae meals o’ bread and ingans. Now he’s a pow o’ wit and law, And taunts at soals and heels ; To Walker’s he can rin awa, There whang his creams and jeels Wi life that day. The lads, in order tak their seat ; (The deil may claw the clungest !) They stech and connach sae the meat, Their teeth mak mair than tongue haste. Their claes sae cleanly tight and feat, And eke their craw-black beavers, Like masters mows hae fund the gate To tassels teugh wi’ slavers Fw lang that. day. The dinner done,—for brandy strang They ery, to weet their thrapple ; To Led the stamack bide the bang, or wi’ its ladin grapple. The grace is said,—it’s nae owre lang ; The claret reams in bells :— Quo’ Deacon, “ Let the toast round gang “Come, Here’s our Noble Sels Weel met the day!” “* Weels me o’ drink,” quo’ cooper Will, “My barrel has been geyz’d ay, And has na gotten sic a fill, Sin fou on Hansel-Teysday : But maks na; now it’s got a sweel ; Ae gird I shanna cast, lad! Or, else, I wish the horned deil May Will wi’ kittle cast dad To hell the day !” 556 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. The magistrates fu’ wylie are ; Their lamps are gayly blinkin’ ; But they might as lieve burn elsewhere, Whan fouk’s blind-fow’ wi’ drinkm. Our Deacon wadna ca’ a chair ; The foul ane durst him na-say ! He took shanks-naig ; but, fient may eare! He arslins kiss’d the cawsey Wi’ bir that night. Weel loes me o’ you, souter Jock ! For tricks ye buit be tryin’ : Whan grapin for his ain bed-stock, He fa’s whare Will’s wife ’s lyin. Will, comin hame wi’ ither fouk, He saw Jock there before him ; Wi’ maister laiglen, like a brock, He did wi’ stink maist smore him, Fw’ strang that night. "Then wi’ a souple leathern whang He gart them fidge and girn ay :— “Faith, chiel! ye’s no for naething gang, Gin ye maun reel my pirny.” Syne, wi’ a muckle elshin lang He brogit Maggie’s hurdies ; And ’cause he thought her i’ the wrang, There pass’d nae bonny wordies Tween them that night. Now, had some laird his lady fand In sic unseemly courses, It might hae lows’d the haly band, Wi’ lawsuits and divorces : But the niest day they a’ shook hands, And ilka crack did sowder, While Meg for drink her apron pawns, For a? the gudeman cow’d her Whan fu’ last night. Glowr round the cawsey, up and down, What mobbing and what plotting! Here politicians bribe a lown Against his saul for voting. The gowd that inlakes half-a-crown Thir blades lug out to try them, They pouch the gowd, nor fash the town For weights and scales to weigh them Exact that day. Then Deacons at the counsel stent To get themsel’s presentit : For towmonths twa their saul is lent, For the town’s gude indentit : Lang’s their debating thereanent, About protests they ’re bauthrin ; While Sandy Fife, to mak content, On bells plays, “Clout the Caudron,” To them that day. Ye lowns that troke in doctor’s stuff, You ’ll now hae unco slaisters ; Whan windy blaws their stamacks puff, They’ll need baith pills and plaisters : For though e’en-now they look right bluff, Sic drinks, ere hillocks meet, Will hap some deacons in a truf, Inrow’d i? the lang leet O’ death yon night. TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL. — Wanworpy, crazy, dinsome thing, As e’er was framed to jow or ring, What gar’d them sic in steeple hing They ken themsel’, But weel wat I they cou’dna bring Waur sounds frae hell. What deil are ye? that I shou’d bann, Your neither kin to pat nor pan, Nor ulzie pig, nor maister can, But weel may gie Mair pleasure to the ear o’ man Than stroke o’ thee. Fleece merchants may look bauld, I trow, Sin’ a’ Auld Reikie’s childer now Maun stap their lugs wi’ teats 0’ woo, Thy sound to bang, And keep it frae gaun thro’ and thro’ Wi jarrin twang. Your noisy tongue, there ’s nae abidin ’t, Like scaulding wife ’s, there is nae guidin’t : Whan I’m bout ony bis’ness eident, It’s sair to thole: To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in’t Wi?’ senseless knoll. O! were I provost 0’ the town, I swear by a’ the pow’rs aboon! I'd bring ye wi’ a reesle down ; Nor shou’d you think (Sae sair Id crack and clour your crown) Again to clink. POEMS OF KOBERT. FERGUSSON. 557 For whan I’ve toom’d the meikle cap, And fain wad fa’ owre in a nap, ‘froth I cou’d dose as soun’s a tap, Wer’t na for thee, That gies the tither weary chap To waken me. I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick; Quo’ he, “ This bell o’ mine ’s a trick, A wylie piece o’ politic, A cunnin snare To trap fouk in a cloven stick, Eve they ’re aware. * As lang’s my dautit bell hings there, A’ body at the kirk will skair ; Quo’ they, gif he that preaches there Like it can wound, We dinna care a single hair For joyfu’ sound.” {f magistrates wi’ me wad gree, For ay tongue-tackit shou’d you be ; Nor fleg wi’ anti-melody Sic honest fouk, Whase lugs were never made to dree Thy dolefu’ shock. But, far frae thee the bailies dwell, Or they wad scunner at thy knell; Gie the Foul Thief his riven bell, And then, I trow The by-word hauds, “The deil himsel _Has got his due.” ————_@——_ MUTUAL COMPLAINT OF PLAIN- STANES AND CAUSEY, IN THEIR MOTHER TONGUE. Sm’ Merlin laid Auld Reikie’s causey, And made her o’ his wark right saucy, The spacious street and gude plainstanes Were never kend to crack but anes, Which happen’d on the hinder night, Whan Fraser’s! ulzie tint its light ; O’ Highland sentries nane were waukin, To hear their cronies glibly taukin ; For them this wonder might hae rotten, And, like night robb’ry, been forgotten, Hadna a eadie, wi’ his lanthorn, Been gleg enough to hear them bant’rin, Wha cam to me neist mornin early, To gie me tidings o’ this ferly. (1) The contractor for the lamps. Ye tauntin lowns, trow this nae joke, For anes the ass o’ Balaam spoke, Better than lawyers do, forsooth, For it spak naething but the truth! Whether they follow its example, You ’ll ken best whan you hear the sample. PLAINSTANES. My friend, thir hunder years and mair We’ve been forfoughen late and ear’, In sunshine, and in weety weather, Our thrawart lot we bure thegither. I never growl’d, but was content Whan ilk ane had an equal stent, But now to fiyte I’se een be bauld, When I’m wi’ sic a grievance thrall’d ; How haps it, say, that mealy bakers, Hair-kaimers, creeshy gizy-makers, Shou’d a’ get leave to waste their powders Upo’ my beaux and ladies shoulders ? My travellers are fley’d to deid Wi creels wanchancy, heap’d wi’ bread, Frae whilk hing down uncanny nicksticks, That aften gie the maidens sic licks, As mak them blithe to screen their faces W7 hats and muckle maun bon-graces, And cheat the lads that fain wad see The glances 0’ a pauky ee, Or gie their loves a wylie wink, That erst might lend their hearts a clink! Speak, was I made to dree the ladin Q’ Gallic chairmen’s heavy treadin, Wha in my tender buke bore holes Wi’ waefu’ tackets i’ the soals O’ broggs, whilk on my body tramp, And wound like death at ilka clamp ? CAWSEY. Weel crackit, friends !—It aft hauds true, *Bout naething fouk mak maist ado. Weel ken ye, tho’ ye doughtna tell, I pay the sairest kain mysel, Owre me, ilk day, big waggons rumble, And a’ my fabric birze and jumble. Owre me the muckle horses gallop, Eneugh to rug my very saul up; And coachmen never trow they’re sinnin’, While down the street their wheels are spinnin’, Like thee, do I not bide the brunt O’ Highland chairmen’s heavy dunt ? Yet. I hae never thought o’ breathing Complaint, or makin din for naething. PLAINSTANES, Haud sae, and let me get a word in; Your back ’s best fitted for the burden: 558 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. And I can eithly tell you why, Ye ’re doughtier by far than I: For whinstanes houkit frae the craigs May thole the prancin feet 0’ naigs, Nor ever fear uncanny hotchies Frae clumsy carts or hackney coaches ; While I, a weak and feckless creature, Am moulded by a safter nature. Wi?’ mason’s chisel dighted neat, To gar me look baith clean and feat, { scarce can bear a sairer thump Than comes frae soal o’ shoe or pump. [ grant, indeed, that now and then, Yield to a paten’s pith I maun: But patens, tho’ they ’re aften plenty, Are ay laid down wi’ feet fu’ tenty ; And strokes frae ladies, though they ’re teazin, I freely maun avow are pleasin, For what use was [ made, I wonder? It was na tamely to chap under The weight o’ ilka codroch chiel, That does my skin to targets peel. But gin [ guess aright, my trade is To fend frae skaith the bonny ladies To keep the bairnies free frae harms Whan airin i’ their nurses’ arms ; To be a safe and canny bield For growin youth or droopin eild. Tak then frae me the heavy load O’ burden-bearers, heavy shod; Or, by my troth, the gude auld town suall Hae this affair before the Council. CAWSEY. I dinna care a single jot ; Though summon’d by a shelly-coat ; Sae lealy I ’ll propone defences, As get ye flung for my expenses. Your libel L’ll impugn verbatim, And hae a magnum damnum datum : For, though frae Arthur’s Seat I sprang, And am in constitution strang, Wad it na fret the hardest stane Beneath the Luckenbooths to grane ? Though magistrates the Cross discard, It maks na, whan they leave the Guard,— A lumbersome and stinkin biggin, That rides the sairest on my riggin. Poor me o’er meikle do ye blame, For tradesmen trampin on your wame ; Yet a’ your advocates, and braw fouk, Come still to me ’twixt ane and twa o’clock, And aever yet were kent to range At Charlie’s Statue or Exchange. Then, tak your beaux and macaronies ; Gie me trades-fouk, and country Johnnies ; The deil’s in’t gin ye dinna sign Your sentiments conjunct, wi’ mine. PLAINSTANES, Gin we twa cou’d be as auld-farrant, As gar the Council gie a warrant, Tk loun rebellious to tak, Wha walks not i’ the proper track, And o’ three shillins Scottish suck him; Or in the water-hole sair douk him ; This might assist the poor’s collection, And gie baith parties satisfaction. CAWSEY. But first, I think, it will be good, To bring it to the Robinhood," Whare we sall hae the question stated, And keen and crabbitly debated,— Whether the provost and the bailies, For the town’s gude whase daily toil is, Shou’d listen to our joint petitions, And see obtemper’d the conditions. PLAINSTANES, Content am I.—But east the gate is The Sun, wha taks his leave o’ Thetis, And comes to wauken honest fouk, That gang to wark at sax o’clock. It sets us to be dumb awhile, And let our words gie place to toil. = oS A DRINK ECLOGUE. LANDLADY, BRANDY, AND WHISKY. Ow auld worm-eaten skelf, in cellar dunk, Whare hearty benders seynd their drouthy trunk, ‘Twa chappin bottles, bang’d wi’ liquor fu’,— Brandy the tane, the tither Whisky blue,— Grew canker’d; for the twa were het within, And het-skinn’d fouk to flytin soon begin. The Frenchman fizz’d, and first wad foot the field, While paughty Scotsman scorn’d to beenge or yield. BRANDY. Black be your fa’, ye cotter loun mislear’d ! Blawn by the Porters, Chairmen, City Guard Hae ye nae breedin, that you cock your nose Against my sweetly-gusted cordial dose? I’ve been near pawky courts, and, aften there, Hae ca’d hysterics frae the dowie fair ; And courtiers aft gaed greenin for my smack, To gar them bauldly glowr, and gashly crack. The priest, to bang mishanters black, and cares, Has sought me ia his closet for his prayers. (1) A debating society, afterwards valled the Pantheon. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. What tid then taks the fates, that they can thole Thrawart to fix me ? this weary hole, Sair fash’d wi? din, wi’ darkness, and wi’ stinks, Whare cheery day-light thro’ the mirk ne’er blinks ? WHISKY. But ye maun be content, and maunna rue, Though erst ye ’ve bizz’d in bonny madam’s mou. Wi’ thoughts like thae, your heart may sairly dunt, The warld’s now changed; it’s nae like use and wont : For here, wae’s me! there’s nouther lord nor laird Comes to get heartscad frae their stamack skair’d. Nae mair your courtier louns will shaw their face ; For they glowr eery at a friend’s disgrace. But heese your heart up :—Whan at Court you hear The patriot’s thrapple wat wi’ reamin beer ; Whan chairman, weary wi’ his daily gain, Cah seynd his whistle wi’ the clear Champaign ; Be hopefu’, for the time will soon row round, Whan you’ll nae langer dwall beneath the ground. BRANDY. Wanwordy gowk! did I sae aften shine Wi’ gowden glister thro’ the crystal fine, To thole your taunts, that seenil hae been seen Awa frae luggie, quegh, or truncher treein ; Gif honour wad but let, a challenge shou’d Twine ye o’ Highland tongue and Highland blude ; WY cards like thee I scorn to file my thumb ; For gentle spirits gentle breedin doom. WHISKY. Truly, I think it right you get your alms, Your high heart humbled amang common drams : Braw days for you, whan fools, newfangle fain, Like ither countries better than their ain ; For there ye never saw sic chancy days, Sic balls, assemblies, operas, or plays ; Hame-o’er langsyne you hae been blithe to pack Your a’ upon a sarkless soldier’s back ; For you thir lads, as weel-lear’d trav’llers tell, Had sell’d their sarks, gin sarks they Lad to sell. But Worth gets poortith an’ black burnin shame, To draunt and drivel out a life at hame. Alake ! the byword’s owr weel kent throughout, “Prophets at hame are held in nae repute ;” Sae far’st wi’ me, though I can heat the skin, And set the saul upo’ a merry pin, Yet I am hameil; there ’s the sour mischance! I’m na frae Turkey, Italy, or France ; For now our gentles gahs are grown sae nice, At. thee they tout, and never speer my price : Witness—for thee they height their tena..ts’ rent, And fill their lands wi’ poortith, discontent ; Gar them o’er seas for cheaper mailins hunt, And leave their ain as bare’s the Cairney mount. 559 BRANDY. Though lairds tak toothfu’s o’ my warming sap, This dwines not tenants’ gear, nor cows their crap ; For love to you there’s mony a tenant gaes Bare-back’d and barefoot o’er the highland braes : For you nae mair the thrifty gudewife sees Her lasses kirn, or birze the dainty cheese; Crummie nae mair for Jenny’s hand will crune, Wi’ milkness dreeping frae her teats adown : For you owre ear’ the ox his fate partakes, And fa’s a victim to the bluidy axe. WHISKY. Wha is’t that gars the greedy bankers prieve The maiden’s tocher, but the maiden’s leave : By you whan spulzied o’ her charming pose, She tholes in turn the taunt 0’ cauldrife joes Wy’ skelps iike this fouk sit but seeni] down To wether-gammon, or howtowdy brown; Sair dung wi’ dule, and fley’d for coming debt, They gar their mow’-bits wi’ their incomes mett, Content enough gif they hae wherewithal Scrimply to tack their body and their saul. BRANDY. Frae some poor poet, o’er as poor a pot, Ye ’ve lear’d to crack sae crouse, ye haveril Scot Or burgher politician, that embrues His tongue in thee, and reads the claiking news: But waes heart for you! that for ay maun dwell In poet’s garret, or in chairman’s cell, While I shall yet on bein-clad tables stand, Boudin wi’ a’ the daintiths o’ the land. WHISKY. Troth I hae been ere now the poet’s flame, And heez’d his sangs to mony blithesome theme, Wha was ’t gar’d ALLIn’s chaunter chirm fw’ clear, Life to the saul, and music to the ear ? Nae stream but kens, and can repeat the lay, To shepherds streekit on the simmer-brae, Wha to their whistle wi’ the lav’rock bang, To wauken flocks the rural fields amang. BRANDY. But here’s the browster-wife, and she can tell Wha’s won the day, and wha shou’d bear the bell: Hae done your din, an’ let her judgment join In final verdict ’twixt your plea and mine. LANDLADY. In days 0’ yore, I cou’d my living prize, Nor fash’d wi’ dolefw’ gaugers or excise ; But now-a-days we’re blithe to lear the thrift Our heads ’boon licence and excise to lift ; 560 Inlakes 0’ Brandy we can soon supply By Whisky tinctured wi’ the saffron’s dye Will you your breeding threep, ye mongrel loun ! Frae hame-bred liquor dyed to colour brown ? So flunky braw, whan drest in maister’s claise, Struts to Auld Reikie’s cross on sunny days, Till some auld comrade, aiblins out: 0’ place, Near the vain upstart shows his meagre face; Bumbazed he loups frae sight, and jooks his ken, Fley’d to be seen amang the tassel’d train. 2 LINES, To rHE PRINCIPAL AND PROFESSORS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ST, ANDREW’S, ON THEIR SUPERB TREAT TO Dk. SAMUEL JOHNSON. St. ANDREW’s town may look right gawsy ; Nae grass will grow upo’ her cawsey, Nor wa’-flowers 0’ a yellow dye, Glowr dowie owre her ruins high, Sin’ Sammy’s head, weel pang’d wi’ lear, Has seen the Alma Mater there. Regents! my winsome billy boys ! *Bout him you ’ve made an unco noise ; Nae doubt, for him your bells wad clink, To find him upon Eden’s brink ; And a’ things nicely set in order, Wad keep him on the Fifan border. I’se warrant, now, frae France and Spain Baith cooks and scullions mony ane, Wad gar the pats and kettles tingle Around the college kitchen ingle, To fleg frae a’ your craigs the roup, W7 reekin het and crieshy soup: And snails and puddocks mony hunder Wad beekin lie the hearthstane under ; Wi’ roast and boil’d, and a’ kinkind, To heat the body, cool the mind. But here, my lads! gin I’d been there, How I’d hae trimm’d the bill 0’ fare ! For ne’er sic surly wight as he Had met wi’ sic respect frae me. Mind ye what Sam, the lyin loun! Has in his Dictionar laid down ? That aits, in England, are a feast To cow and horse, and sicken beast ; While, in Scots ground, this growth was common To gust the gab o’ man and woman. Tak tent, ye Regents! then, and hear My list o’ gudely hameil gear ; Sic as hae aften rax’d the wyme O’ blyther fallows mony time ; POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Mair hardy, souple, steeve, and swank, Than ever stood on Sainmy’s shank. Imprimis, then, a haggis fat, Weel tottled in a seything pat, Wi? spice and ingans weel ca’d through, Had help’d to gust the stirrah’s mou, And placed itself in truncher clean Before the gilpy’s glowrin een. Secundo, then, a gude sheep’s head, Whase hide was singit, never flea’d, And four black trotters clad wi’ girsle, Bedown his throat had learn’d to hirsle. What think ye, niest, o’ gude fat brose, To clag his ribs, a dainty dose ? And white and bluidy puddings routh, To gar the Doctor skirl, “O Drouth!” Whian he cou’d never houp to merit A cordial glass o’ reamin claret, But thraw his nose, and birze, and pegh, Owre the contents 0’ sma’ ale quegh. Then, let his wisdom girn and snarl O’er a weel-tostit girdle farl, And learn, that, maugre o’ his wyme, Mil bairns are ay best heard at hame. Drummond, lang syne, o’? Hawthornden, The wyliest and best o’ men, Has gien you dishes ane or mae, That wad hae gar’d his grinders play, Not to “ Roast Beef,” old England’s life! But to the auld “ East Nook o’ Fife,’ Where Craillian crafts cou’d weel hae gien Skate-rumples to hae clear’d his een ; Then, niest, whan Sammy’s heart was faintia, He ’d lang’d for skate to mak him wanton, Ah, willawins for Scotland now ! Whan she maun stap ilk birky’s mou Wi’ eistacks, grown as ’twere in pet In foreign land, or greenhouse het, Whan cog o’ brose, and cutty spoon, Is a’ your cottar childers’ boon, Wha through the week, till Sunday’s speal, Toil for pease-clods and gude lang kail. Devall then, Sirs, and never send For daintiths to regale a friend ; Or, like a torch at baith ends burnin, Your house will soon grow mirk and mournin! What ’s this I hear some cynic say ?*— “Robin, ye loun! it’s nae fair play ; (1) Alluding to two tunes under these titles, «2) The poet alludes to a gentleman in Dunfermline, who sent him a challenge, being highly offended at the concluding reflection in the “ Expedition to Fife.” FOEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 561 Is there nae ither su;‘ect rite To clap your thumb upon but Fife ? Gie owre, young man! you’ll nieet your cornin, Than caption waur, or charge o’ hornin ; Some canker’d, surly, sour-mou’d carlin, Bred near the Abbey o’ Dumfarline, Your shoulders yet may gie a lounder, And be o’ verse the mal-confounder.” Come on, ye blades! but ere ye tulzie, Or hack our flesh wi’ sword or gullie, Ne’er shaw your teeth, nor look like stink, Nor owre an empty bicker blink : What weets the wizen and the wyme, Will mend your prose, and heal my rhyme. ELEGY ON JOHN HOGG, PORTER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. ANDREW’S. DeatH! what’s ado? the deil be licket, Or wi’ your stang you ne’er had pricket, Or our auld Alma Mater tricket, O’ poor John Hogg, And trail’d him ben through your mark wicket, As dead’s a log. Now ilka glaikit scholar loun May dander wae wi’ duddy gown ; Kate Kennedy’ to dowie crune May mourn and clink, And steeples o’ Saunt Andrew’s Town To yird may sink. Sin’ Pauly Tam?, wi’ canker’d snout, First held the students in about, To wear their claes as black as soot, They ne’er had reason, Till Death John’s haffit gae a clout, Sae out 0’ season. Whan Regents met at common schools, He taught auld Tam to hale the dools, And eident to row right the bowls, Like ony emmack ; He kept us a’ within the rules Strict academic. Heh! wha will tell the students now To meet the Pauly cheek for chow, (1) A bell in the college steeple. (2) A name given by the students to one of the members of the University : : Whan he, like frightsome wirrikow, Had wont to rail, And set. our stamacks in a low, Or we turn’d tail ? Ah, Johnny ! aften did I grumble Frae cozy bed fu’ ear’ to tumble, Whan art and part I’d been in some ill, Troth, [ was swear: His words they brodit like a wumill, Frae ear to ear. Whan I had been fu’ laith to rise, John then begude to moralise : “The tither nap, the sluggard cries, And turns him round; Sae spak auld Solomon the wise, “ Divine profound ! ” Nae dominie, or wise Mess J ohn, Was better lear’d in Solomon; He cited proverbs, one by one, Ik vice to tame; He gar’d ilk sinner sigh and groan, And fear hell’s flame. “T hae nae meikle skill,” quo’ he, “In what you ca’ philosophy ; It tells that baith the earth and sea Rin round about : Either the Bible tells a lie, Or ye ’re a’ out. “It’s ? the Psalms o’ David writ; That this wide warld ne’er shou’d flit, But on the waters coshly sit Fw’ steeve and lastin: And was na he a head o’ wit At sic contestin ?” On e’enings cauld wi’ glee we'd trudge To heat our shins in Johnny’s lodge : The deil ane thought his bum to budge Wi siller on us: To claw het pints we’d never grudge O’ molationis. Say, ye red gowns! that aften, here, Hae toasted cakes to Katie’s beer, Gin e’er thir days hae had their peer, Sae blithe, sae daft ? Youll ne’er again, in life’s career, Sit half sae saft.. Wi? haffit locks, sae smooth and sleck, John look’d like ony ancient Greek - 40 562 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. He was a Naz’rene a’ the week, And doughtna tell out A bawbee Scots to scrape his cheek, Till Sunday fell out. For John ay lo’ed to turn the pence ; Thought poortith was a great offence : “ What recks, though ye ken mood and tense ? A hungry wyme For gowd wad wi’ them baith dispense, At ony time. “ Ye ken what ills maun ay befal The chiel that will be prodigal ; Whan wasted to the very spaul, He turns his tusk, (For want o’ comfort to his saul) O’ hungry husk.” Ye royit louns! just do as he’d do: For mony braw green shaw and meadow He’s left to cheer his dowie widow, His winsome Kate, That to him proved a canny she-dow, Baith ear’ and late. THE GHAISTS. A KIRK-YARD ECLOGUE, “ Did you not say, in good Ann's day, And vow, and did protest, Sir, That when Hanover should come o'er, We surely should be blest, Sir?” An Auld Sang made new again. Wuasr the braid planes in dowie murmurs wave Their ancient taps out owre the cauld-clad grave, Whare Geordie Girdwood,’ mony a Jang-spun day, Houkit for gentlest banes the humblest clay, Twa sheeted ghaists, sae grizly and sae wan, *Mang lanely tombs their douff discourse began. WATSON. Cauld blaws the nippin North wi’ angry seugh, And showers his hailstanes frae the Castle Cleugh Owre the Grayfriars, whare, at mirkest hour, Bogles and spectres wont to tak their tour, Harlin the pows and shanks to hidden cairns, Amang the hemlocks wild, and sun-brunt ferns But nane the night, save you and I, hae come Frae the drear mansions 0’ the midnight tomb. Now, whan the dawnm’s near, whan cock maun craw, And wi’ his angry bougil gar’s withdraw, Ayont the kirk we ‘ll.stap, and there tak bield, While the black hours our nightly freedom yield. (1) The late sexton, HERIOT, I’m weel content: but, binna cassen down, Nor trow the cock will ca’ ye hame o’er soon; For, though the eastern lift betakens day, Changing her rokelay black for mantle gray, Nae weirlike bird our knell of parting rings, Nor sheds the cauler moisture frae his wings. Nature has changed her course ; the birds o’ day Dosin in silence on the bendin spray, While owlets round the craigs at noontide flee, And bluidy hawks sit singin on the tree. Ah, Caledon! the land I aince held dear ; Sair mane mak I for thy destruction near: And thou, Edina! aince my dear abode, Whan royal Jamie sway’d the sov’reign roa, In thae blest days, weel did I think bestow’d To blaw thy poortith by wi’? heaps o’ gowd ; To mak thee sonsy seem wi’ mony a gift, And gar thy stately turrets speel the lift. In vain did Danish Jones, wi’ gimerack pains, In Gothic sculpture fret the pliant stanes In vain did he affix my statue here, Brawly to busk wi’ flowers ilk coming year. My towers are sunk ; my lands are barren now; My fame, my honour, like my flowers, maun dow, WATSON, Sure, Major Weir, or some sic warlock wight, Has flung beguilin glamour owre your sight ; Or else some kittle cantrip thrown, I ween, Has bound in mirlygoes my ain twa een : If ever aught frae sense cou’d be believed (And seenil hae my senses been deceived), This moment owre the tap o’ Adam’s tomb, Fw’ easy can [ see your chiefest dome. Nae corbie fleein there, nor croupin craws, Seem to forspeak the ruin o’ thy ha’s ; But a’ your towers in wonted order stand, Steeve as the rocks that hem our native land. HERIOT. Think na I vent my well-a-day in vain ; Kent ye the cause, ye sure wad join my mane. Black be the day, that e’er to England’s ground Scotland was eikit by the Union’s bond! For mony a menzie o’ destructive ills The country now maun brook frae mortmain bills, That void our test’ments, and can freely gie Sic will and scoup to the ordain’d trustee, That he may tir our stateliest riggins bare ; Nor acres, houses, woods, nor fishings spare, Till he can lend the stoiterin state a lift, Wi’ gowd in gowpins, as a grassum gift ; In lieu o’ whilk, we maun be weel content To tine the capital for three per cent. ; POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. A doughty sum indeed! whan, now-a-days, They raise provisions as the stents they raise ; Yoke hard the poor, and lat the rich chields be Pamper’d at ease by ithers’ industry. Hale interest for my fund can scantly now Cleed a’ my callants’ backs, and stap their mou’. How maun their wymes wi’ sairest hunger slack, Their duds in targets flaff upon their back, Whan they are doom’d to keep a lastin Lent, Starving for England’s weel, at three per cent.! WATSON. Auld Reikie then may bless the gowden times, Whan honesty and poortith baith are crimes. She little ken’d, whan you and I endow’d Our hospitals for back-gaun burghers’ gude, That e’er our siller or our lands shou’d bring A gude bien livin to a back-gaun king; Wha, thanks to Ministry! is grown sae wise, He downa chew the bitter cud 0’ vice : For gin, frae Castlehill to Netherbow, Wad honest houses bawdy-houses grow, The Crown wad never spier the price o’ sin, Nor hinder younkers to the deil to rin; But, gif some mortal grien for pious fame, And leave the poor man’s prayer to sane his name, His gear maun a’ be scatter’d by the claws O' ruthless, ravenous, and harpy laws. Yet, shou’d I think, although the bill tak place, ‘The council winna lack sae meikle grace As lat our heritage at wanworth gang, Or the succeeding generations wrang O’ braw bein maintenance, and walth o’ lear, Whilk else had drappit to their children’s skair ; For mony a deep, and mony a rare engine Hae sprung frae Heriot’s wark, and sprung frae mine. : HERIOT. I find, my friend! that ye but little ken, There ’s e’en now on the earth a set o’ men, Wha, if they get their private pouches lined, Gie na a winnlestrae for a’ mankind. They ’Il sell their country, flae their conscience bare, To gar the weigh-bauk turn a single hair. The Government need only bait the line Wi the prevailin flee—the gowden coin ! Then our executors, and wise trustees, Will sell them fishes in forbidden seas : Upo’ their dwinin country girn in sport ; Laugh in their sleeve, and get a place at court. WATSON. Ere that day come, I’ll ’mang our spirits pick Some ghaist that trokes and conjures wi’ auld Nick, 563 To gar the wind wi’ rougher rumbles blaw, And weightier thuds than ever mortal saw : Fireflaught and hail, wi’ tenfauld fury’s fires, Shall lay yird-laigh Edina’s airy spizes : ‘Tweed shall rin rowtin down his banks out owre, Till Scotland’s out o’ reach o’ England’s power ; Upo’ the briny Borean jaws to float, And mourn in dowie seughs her dowie lot. HERIOT Yonder’s the tomb of wise Mackenzie famed, Whase laws rebellious bigotry reclaim’d ; Freed the hale land o’ covenantin fools, Wha erst hae fash’d us wi’ unnumber’d dools. Till night, we’ll tak the swaird aboon our pows, And then, whan she her ebon chariot rows, We'll travel to the vau’t wi’ stealin stap, And wauk Mackenzie frae his quiet nap ; Tell him our ails, that he, wi’ wonted skill, May fleg the schemers o’ the Mortmain Bill.’ EPISTLE TO MR. ROBERT FERGUSSON. Is ALLAN risen frae the dead, Wha aft has tuned the aiten reed, And by the Muses was decreed To grace the thistle P Na:—Fergusson’s come in his stead, To blaw the whistle. In troth, my callant ! I’m sae fain To read your sonsy, canty strain ; You write sic easy style, and plain, And words sae bonny, Nae Southern loun dare you disdain, Or cry, “Fy on ye!” Whae’er has at Auld Reikie been, And King’s birth-days’ exploits has seen, Maun own that ye hae gien a keen And true description ; Nor say, ye ’ve at Parnassus been, To form a fiction. Hale be your heart, ye canty chicld ! May ye ne’er want a gude warm bield, And sic gude cakes as Scotland yield, And ilka dainty That grows or feeds upon her field, And whisky plenty. (12) This poem was written about the time a bill was in agita- tion for vesting the whole funds of hospitals, and other charitica throughout the kingdom, in government etock, at three per cent. 564 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. But ye, perhaps, thirst mair for fame Than a the gude things I can name; And then, ye will be sair to blame : My gude intention, For that ye needna gae frae hame, You’ve sic pretension. Sae saft and sweet your verses jingle, And your auld words sae meetly mingle, *Twill gar baith married fouk and single To roose your lays ; Whan we forgather round the ingle, We'll chant your praise. Whan I again Auld Reikie see, And can forgather, lad! wi’ thee, Then we, wi’ muckle mirth and glee, Shall tak a gill, And o’ your cauler oysters we Shall eat our fill. If sie a thing shall you betide, To Berwick town to tak a ride, - Tse tak ye up Tweed’s bonny side, Before ye settle, And shaw you there the fisher’s pride, Asa’mon kettle. There lads and lasses. do conveen To feast and dance upo’ the green ; And there sic bravery may be seen, As will confound ye, And gar you glowr out baith your een At a’ around ye. To see sae mony bosoms bare, And sic huge puddings 7’ their hair, And some o’ them wi’ naething mair Upo’ their tete ; Yea, some wi’ mutches that might scare Craws frae their meat. I ne’er appear’d before in print, But, for you sake, wad fain be in’t ; Fen that I might my wishes hint, That youd write mair : For sure your head-piece is a mint Whare wit’s nae rare, Sonse fa’ me! gif I hadna lure, I cou’d command ilk Muse as sure, Than hae.a chariot at the door, To wait upo’ me; Though, poet-like, I’m but a poor _Mid-Lothian Johnny. J.8. Berwick, August 3lst, 1773, ANSWER TO MR. J. 8.’s EPISTLE I rrow, my mettled Louthian lathie ! Auld-farran birky 1 maun ea’ thee ; For whan in gude black print I saw thee, Wi’ souple gab, I skirl’d fu’ loud, “ Oh wae befa’ thee ! . But thou ’rt a daub.” Awa, ye wylie fleetchin fallow ! The rose shall grow like gowan yellow, Before I turn sae toom and shallow, And void o’ fusion, As a’ your butter’d words to swallow In vain delusion. Ye mak my Muse a dautit pet ; But gin she cou’d like Allan’s met, Or couthy cracks and hamely get Upo’ her carritch, Kithly wad I be in your debt A pint o’ parritch. At times, whan she may lowse her pack, 1°ll grant that she can find a knack To gar auld-warld wordies clack In hamespun rhime, While ilk ane at his billy’s back Keeps gude Scots time. But she maun e’en be glad to jook, And play teet-bo frae nook to nook, Or blush as gin she had the yook Upo’ her skin, Whan Ramsay or whan Pennycuick Their lilts begin. At mornin ear’, or late at e’enin, Gin ye sud hap to come and see ane, Nor niggard wife, nor greetin wee ane, Within my cloister, Can challenge you and me frae priein A cauler oyster. Heh, lad! it wad be news indeed, Were [ to ride to bonny Tweed, Wha ne’er laid gammon owre a steed Beyont Lusterick ; And auld shanks-naig wad tire, I dread, To pace to Berwick. You crack weel o’ your lasses there ; Their glancin een, and bisket bare ; - But, thof this town be smeekit sair, I’ll wad farden, Than ours there ’s nane mair fat and fair, Cravin vour pardon. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 563 Gin heaven shou’d gie the earth a drink, And afterhend a sunny blink, Gin ye were here, I’m sure you ’d think It worth your notice, To see them dubs and gutters jink Wr kiltit coaties : And frae ilk corner o’ the nation, We’ve lasses eke o’ recreation, Wha at close-mou’s tak up their station By ten o’clock.— The Lord deliver frae temptation A’ honest fouk ! Thir queans are ay upo’ the catch For pursie, pocket-book, or watch, And can sae glib their leesins hatch, That you’ll agree, Ye canna eithly meet their match *Tween you and me. For this gude sample o’ your skill, I’m restin you a pint o’ yill, By an attour a Highland gill O’ Aquavite The which to come and sock at will, I here invite ye. Though jillet Fortune scoul and quarrel, And keep me frae a bien beef barrel, As lang ’s I’ve twopence i’ the warl’ I’ll ay be vockie To part a fadge or girdle tarl Wi’ Louthian Jockie. Fareweel, my cock! lang may you thrive, Weel happit in a cozy hive ; And that your saul may never dive To Acheron, I'll wish, as lang ’s I can subscrive Ros. Fereusson. TO MY AULD BREEKS. Now gae your wa’s.—Though aince as gude As ever happit flesh and blude, Yet part we maun.—The case sae hard is Amang the writers and the bardies, That lang they’ll bruik the auld, I trow, Or neebours cry, “ Weel bruik the new!” Still makin tight wi’ tither steek ; The tither hole, the tither eik, To bang the bir 0’ Winter’s anger, And haud the hurdies out o’ langer. Siclike some weary wight will fill His kyte wi’ drogs frae doctor’s bill, Thinkin to tack the tither year To life, and look baith hale and fier ; Till, at the lang-run, Death dirks in, To birze his saul ayont his skin. You needna wag your duds o’ clouts, Nor fa’ into your dorty pouts, To think that erst you’ve hain’d my tail Frae wind and weet, frae snaw and hail, And for reward, whan bauld and hummil, Frae garret high to dree a tumble. For you I cared, as lang ’s ye dow’d Be lined wi’ siller or wi’ gowd : Now to befriend, it wad be folly, Your raggit hide and pouches holey ; For wha but kens a poet’s placks Get mony weary flaws and cracks, And canna thole to hae them tint, As he sae seenil sees the mint ? Yet round the warld keek and see, That ithers fare as ill as thee ; For weel we loe the chiel we think Can get us tick, or gie us drink, Till o” his purse we ’ve seen the bottom, Then we despise, and hae forgot him. Yet gratefu’ hearts, to mak amends, Will ay be sorry for their friends, And 1 for thee—As mony a time Wi’ you I’ve speel’d the braes o’ rhyme, Whare for the time the Muse ne’er cares For siller, or sic guilefu’ wares, WY whilk we drumly grow, and crabbit, Dour, capernoited, thrawin gabbit, And brither, sister, friend, and fae, Without remeid o’ kindred, slae. You ’ve seen me round the bickers reel Wi’ heart as hale as temper’d steel, And face sae open, free, and blithe, Nor thought that sorrow there cou’d kyth; But the neist moment this was lost, Like gowan in December’s frost. Cou’d prick-the-louse but be sae handy As mak the breeks and claise to stand ay, Through thick and thin wi’ you I’d dash on, Nor mind the folly o’ the fashion : But, heh! the times’ vicissitudo Gars ither breeks decay as you do. Thae macaronies, braw and windy, Maun fail—Sic transit gloria mundt / Now speed you to some madam’s chaumer That but and ben rings dule and clamour, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. Ask her, in kindness, if she seeks In hidling ways to wear the breeks ? Safe you may dwall, though mould and motty, Beneath the veil o’ under coatie, For this mair fauts nor yours can screen Frae lover’s quickest sense, his een. Or if some bard, in lucky times, Shou’d profit meikle by his rhymes, And pace awa, wi’ smirky face, In siller or in gowden lace, Glowr in his face, like spectre gaunt ; Remind him o’ his former want ; To cow his daffin and his pleasure, And gar him live within the measure. So Philip, it is said, who wou’d ring Owre Macedon, a just and gude king, Fearing that power might plume his feather, And bid him stretch beyond the tether, Lk mornin to his lug wad ca’ A tiny servant o’ his ha’, To tell him to improve his span; For Philip was, like him, a Man. AULD REIKIE. Autp Reikie! wale o” ilka town That Scotland kens beneath the moon; Whare couthy chields at e’ening meet Their bizzin craigs and mou’s to weet; And blithely gar auld Care gae by Wi’ blinkin and wi’ bleerin eye. Owre lang frae thee the Muse has been Sae frisky on the Simmer’s green, Whan flowers and gowans wont to glent In bonny blinks upo’ the bent : But now the leaves o’ yellow dye, Peel’d frae the branches quickly fly; And now frae nouther bush nor brier The spreckled mavis greets your ear ; Nor bonny blackbird skims and roves, To seek his love in yonder groves. Then, Reikie, welcome! thou canst charm, Unfleggit by the year’s alarm. Not Boreas, that sae snelly blows, Dare here pap in his angry nose, Thanks to our dads, whase biggin stands A shelter to surrounding lands ! Now Morn, with bonny purple smiles, Kisses the air-cock o’ Saunt Giles ; ‘Rakin their een, the servant lasses Early begin their lies and clashes. Ik tells her friend of saddest distress, That still she bruiks frae scoulin’ mistress ; And wi? her joe in turnpike stair, She ’d rather snuff the stinkin air, As be subjected to her tongue, Whan justly censured i’ the wrong. On stair, wi’ tub or pat in hand, The barefoot housemaids loe to stand, That antrin fouk may ken how snell Auld Reikie will at mornin smell : Then, with an inundation big as | The burn that ‘neath the Nor’ Loch brig 1s, They kindly shower Edina’s roses, To quicken and regale our noses. Now some for this, wi’ Satire’s leese, Hae gien auld Edinbrough a creesh : But, without scourin nought is sweet ; The mornin smells that hail our street, Prepare, and gently lead ihe way To Simmer canty, braw, and gay. Edina’s sons mair eithly share Her spices and her dainties rare, Than he that’s never yet been call’d Aff frae his plaidie or his fauld. Now stairhead critics, senseless fools ! Censure their aim, and pride their rules, In Luckenbooths, wi’ glowrin eye, Their neebours sma’est faults descry. If ony loun shou’d dander there, O’ awkward gait, and foreign air, They trace his steps, till they can tell His pedigree as weel’s himsel. Whan Phoebus blinks wi’ warmer ray, And schools at nvon-day get the play, Then bus’ness, weighty bus’ness, comes ; The trader glowrs ; he doubts, he hums. The lawyers eke to cross repair, Their wigs to shaw, and toss an air ; While busy agent closely plies, And a’ his kittle cases tries. Now night, that’s cunzied chief for fun, Is wi’ her usual rites begun ; Through ilka gate the torches blaze, And globes send out their blinkin rays. The usefu’ cadie plies in street, To bide the profits o” his feet ; For, by thir lads Auld Reikie’s fouk Ken but a sample o’ the stock O” thieves, that nightly wad oppress, And mak baith goods and gear the less. Near him the lazy chairman stands, And wats na how to turn bis hands, POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 567 Till some daft birky, rantin fou, Has matters somewhere else to do; The chairman willing gies his light To deeds o’ darkness and o’ night. It ’s never saxpence for a lift That gars thir lads wi’ fu’ness rift ; For they wi’ better gear are paid, And whores and culls support their trade. Near some lamp-post, wi’ dowie face, WY heavy een, and sour grimace, Stands she, that beauty lang had kend; Whoredom her trade, and vice her end. But, see whare now she wins her bread By that which Nature ne’er decreed ; And vicious ditties sings to please Fell Dissipation’s votaries. Whane’er we reputation lose, Fair Chastity’s transparent gloss ! Redemption seenil kens the name ; But a’s black misery, and shame. Frae joyous tavern, reeling drunk, Wi’ fiery phiz, and een half sunk, Behold the bruiser, fae to a’ That in the reek o’ gardies fa’! Close by his side, a feckless race O’ macaronies shaw their face, And think they’re free frae skaith or harm, While pith befriends their leader’s arm Yet fearfu’ aften o’ their maught, They quit the glory o’ the faught To this same warrior wha led Thae heroes to bright Honour’s'bed ; And aft the hack o’ honour shines In bruiser’s face wi’ broken lines. O’ them sad tales he tells anon, Whan ramble and whan fighting’s done: And, like Heetorian, ne’er impairs The brag and glory o’ his sairs. Whan feet in dirty gutters plash And fouk to wale their fitstaps fash ; At night, the macaroni drunk, In pools and gutters aft-times sunk : Heh! what a fright he now appears, Whan he his corpse dejected rears ! Look at that head, and think if there The pomet slaister’d up his hair! The cheeks observe :—where now cou’d shine The scancin glories o’ carmine ? Ah, legs ! in vain the silkworm there Display’d to view her eident care : For stink, instead of perfumes, grow, And clarty odours fragrant flow. Now, some to porter, some to punch— Some to their wife, and some their wench— Retire ; while noisy ten-hour’s drum Gars a’ your trades gae danderin home. Now, mony a club, jocose and free, Gie a’ to merriment and glee : Wi sang, and glass, they fley the power O’ Care, that wad harass the hour : For wine and Bacchus still bear down Our thrawart fortune’s wildest frown; It maks you stark, and bauld, and brave, Even whan descendin to the grave. Now, some in Pandemonium’s shade, Resume the gormandizin trade ; Whare eager looks, and glancin een Forspeak a heart and stamack keen. Gang on, my lads! it’s lang sinsyne We kent auld Epicurus’ line. Save you, the board wad cease to rise, Bedight wi’ daintiths to the skies ; And salamanders cease to swill The comforts 0’ a burning gill. But chief, o’ Cape!! we crave thy aid, To get our cares and poortith laid. Sincerity, and genius true, Of knights have ever been the due. Mirth, music, porter deepest dyed, Are never here to worth denied ; And Health, o’ happiness the queen, Blinks bonny, wi’ her smile serene. Though joy maist part Auld Reikie owns, Eftsoons she kens sad sorrow’s frowns. What group is yon sae dismal, grim, WY horrid aspect, cleedin dim ? Says Death, ‘‘ They ’re mine; a dowie crew: To me they ’ll shortly pay their last adieu.” How come mankind, whan lacking woe, In Saulie’s face their hearts to show; As if they were a clook, to tell That grief in them had rung her bell ? Then, what is man? why a’ this phrase ? Life’s spunk decay’d nae mair can blaze. Let sober grief alane declare -Our fond anxiety and care: Nor let the undertakers be The only waefu’ friends we see. Come on, my Muse! and then rehearse The gloomiest theme in a’ your verse. In mornin, whan ane keeks about, Fu’ blithe, and free frae ail, nae doubi, «1) Psademonium and the Cape were two sovial clubs. POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. He lippens not to be misled Amang the regions o’ the dead : But, straight, a painted corpse he sees, Lang streekit *neath its canopies. Soon, soon will this his mirth control, And send damnation to his soul. Or whan the dead-deal (awfu’ shape !) Maks frighted mankind girn and gape, Reflection then his reason sours ; For the niest dead-deal may be ours. Whan Sybil led the Trojan down To haggard Pluto’s dreary town, Shapes waur than thae, I freely ween, Cou’d never meet the soldier’s een. If kail sae green, or herbs, delight, Edina’s street attracts the sight. Not Covent Garden, clad sae braw, Mair fouth o” herbs can eithly shaw : For mony a yard is here sair sought, That kail and. cabbage may be bought, And healthfw’ salad, to regale, Whan pamper’d wi’ a heavy meal. Glowr up the street in Simmer morn, The birks sae green, and sweet-briar thorn, WY spraingit flowers that scent the gale, Ca’ far awa the mornin smell, (W? which our ladies’ flow’rpats fill’d), And every noxious vapour kill’d. O Nature! canty,: blithe, and free, Whare is there keekin-glass like thee ? Is there on earth that can compare Wi’ Mary’s shape, and Mary’s air, Save the empurpled speck, that grows In the saft faulds 0’ yonder rose ? How bonny seems the virgin breast, Whan by the lilies here carest, And leaves the mind in doubt to tell Which maist in sweets and bue excel! Gillespie’s snuff shou’d prime the nose O’ her that to the market goes, If she wad like to shun the smells That float around frae market cells ; Whare wames o’ painches’ sav’ry scent To nostrils gie great discontent. Now, wha in Albion cou’d expect O’ cleanliness sic great neglect ? Nae Hottentot, that daily lairs *Mang tripe, and ither clarty wares, Hath ever yet. conceived, or seen, Beyond the Line, sic scenes unclean. On Sunday, here, an alter’d scene ©’ men and manners meets our een. Ane wad maist trow, some people chose To change their faces wi’ their clothes, And fain wad gar uk neebour think They thirst for goodness, as for drink But there ’s an unco dearth o” grace, That has nae mansion but the face, And never can obtain a part In benmost corner o’ the heart. Why shou’d religion mak us sad, If good frae Virtue ’s to be had ? Na: rather gleefu’ turn you face ; Forsake hypocrisy, grimace ; And never hae it understood, You fleg mankind frae being good. In afternoon, a’ brawly buskit, The joes and lasses loe to frisk it. Some tak a great delight to place The modest bon-grace owre the face ; Though you may see, if so inclined, The turnin o” the leg behind. Now, Comely-Garden, and the Park, Refresh them, after forenoon’s wark : Newhaven, Leith, or Canonmills, Supply them in their Sunday’s gills ; Whare writers aften spend their pence, To stock their heads wi’ drink and sense While dandering cits delight to stray To Castlehill or public way, Whare they nae other purpose mean, Than that fool cause o’ being seen ; Let me to Arthur’s Seat pursue, Whare bonny pastures meet the view ; And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues, Befitting Willie Shakespeare’s Muse. If Fancy there wad join the thrang, The desert rocks and hills amang, To echoes we should lilt and play, And gie to mirth the live-lang day. Or shou’d some canker’d biting shower The day and a’ her sweets deflower, To Holyrood House let me stray, And gie to musing a’ the day ; Lamenting what auld Scotland knew, Bien days for ever frae her view. O Hamilton, for shame! the Muse Wad pay to thee her couthy vows, Gin ye wad tent the humble strain, And gie’s our dignity again : For, oh, wae’s me! the thistle springs In domicil o” ancient kings, Without a patriot to regret Our palace, and our ancient state. Bless’d place! whare debtors daily run, To rid themsels frae jail and dun. Here, though sequester’d frae the din That rings Auld Reikie’s wa’s within: POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. 569 Yet they may tread the sunny braes, And bruik Apollo’s cheerie rays : Glowr frae St. Anthon’s grassy height, Owre vales in Simmer claes bedight ; Nor ever hing their head, I ween, Wy jealous fear o’ being seen. May I, whanever duns come nigh, And shake my garret wi’ their ery, Scour here, wi’ haste, protection get, To screen mysel frae them and debt ; To breathe the bliss 0’ open sky, And Simon Fraser’s' bolts defy. Now, gin a loun shou’d hae his claes In threadbare autumn o’ their days, St. Mary, broker’s guardian saunt, Will satisfy ilk ail and want ; For mony a hungry writer there Dives down at night, wi’ cleedin bare, And quickly rises to the view A gentleman perfyte, and new. Ye rich fouk! look na wi’ disdain Upo’ this ancient brokage lane, For naked poets are supplied Wi’ what you to their wants denied. Peace to thy shade, thou wale o” men, Drummond! relief to poortith’s pain. To thee the greatest bliss we owe, And tribute’s tear shall gratefu’ flow. The sick are cured, the hungry fed, And dreams o’ comfort tend their bed. As lang as Forth weets Lothian’s shore , As lang’s on Fife her billows roar ; Sae lang shall ilk whase country’s dear, To thy remembrance gie a tear. By thee, Auld Reikie thrave and grew, Delightfw’ to her childer’s view. Nae mair shall Glasgow striplings threap Their city’s beauty, and its shape, While our new city spreads around Her bonny wings on fairy ground. But, Provosts now, that ne’er afford, The sma’est dignity to lord, Ne’er care though every scheme gae wild That Drummond’s sacred hand has eull’d. The spacious brig? neglected lies, Though plagued wi’ pamphlets, dunn’d wi’ cries. They heed not, though Destruction come To gulf us in ber gaunting womb. Oh, shame, that safety canna claim Protection from a Provost’s name ; But hidden danger lies behind, To torture, and to fleg the mind. (1) Then keeper of the Tolbooth. (2) An allusion to the state of the North Bridge after its fall. I may as weel bid Arthur’s Seat To Berwick-Law mak gleg retreat, As think that either will or art Shall get the gate to win their heart : For politics are a’ their mark, Bribes latent, and corruption dark. If they can eithly turn the pence, Wi city’s good they will dispense ; Nor care though a’ her sons were lair’d Ten fathom 7’ the auld kirkyard. To sing yet meikle does remain, Undecent for a modest strain ; And, since the poet’s daily bread is The favour o’ the Muse, or ladies, He downa like to gie offence To Delicacy’s tender sense ; Therefore, the stews remain unsung, And bawds in silence drap their tongue. Reikie, fareweel! I ne’er cou’d part Wi’ thee, but wi’ a dowie heart. Aft frae the Fifan coast 1’ve seen Thee towering on thy summit green. So glowr the saints whan first is given A favourite keek o’ glore and heaven. On earth nae mair they bend their een, But quick assume angelic mien ; So I on Fife wad glowr no more, But gallop’d to Edina’s shore. HAME CONTENT, A SATIRE. To all whom it may concern, Some fouk, like bees, fu’ glegly rin To bykes bang’d fu’ o’ strife and din, And thieve and huddle crumb by crumb, Till they hae scraped the dantit plumb, Then craw fu’ crously o’ their wark, Tell o’er their turners mark by mark, Yet darena think to lowse the pose To aid their neebours’ ails and woes. _ Gif gowd can fetter thus the heart, And gar us act sae base a part ; Shall man, a niggard, near-gaun elf! Rin to the tether’s end for pelf ; Learu ilka cunzied scoundrel’s trick, Whan a’s done sell his saul to Nick : I trow they ’ve cost the purchase dear, That gang sic lengths for warldly gear. Now, when the Dog-day heats begia To birsle and to peel the skin, 4 D 570 POEMS OF ROBERT FERGUSSON. May I lie streekit at my ease, Beneath the cauler shady trees (Far frae the din o’ borrows town), Whare water plays the haughs bedown ; To jouk the Simmer’s rigour there, And breathe awhile the cauler air, *Mang herds, and honest cottar fouk, That till the farm, and feed the flock ; Careless 0’ mair, wha never fash To lade their kists wi’ useless cash, But thank the gods for what they ’ve sent, O” health eneugh, and blithe content, And pith, that helps them to stravaig Owre ilka cleugh, and ilka craig ; Unkend to a’ the weary granes That aft arise frae gentler banes, On easy-chair that pamper’d lie, Wi banefu’ viands gustit high ; And turn, and fauld their weary clay, To rax and gaunt the live-lang day. Ye sages, tell! was man e’er made To dree this hatefu’ sluggard trade, Steekit frae Nature’s beauties a’ That daily on his presence ca’, At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine For favourite dishes, favourite wine P Come, then, shake aff thir sluggish ties, And wi’ the bird o’ dawning rise! On ilka bank the clouds hae spread Wi’ blobs o” dew a pearly bed. Frae faulds nae mair the owsen rout, But to the fattening clover lout, Whare they may feed at heart’s content, Unyokit frae their Winter’s stent. Unyoke, then, man! and binna sweer To ding a hole in ill-hain’d gear. O think that Eild, wi’? wylie fit, Is wearing nearer, bit by bit! Gin aince he claws you wi’ his paw, What’s siller for? Fient hae’t ava! But gowden playfair, that may please The second sharger till he dies. Some daft chiel reads, and taks advice ; The chaise is yokit in a trice ; Awa drives he, like huntit deil, And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel, Till he ’*s—Lord kens how far awa! At ltaly, or Well o’ Spa; Or to Montpelier’s safter air : For far-aff fowls hae feathers fair. There rest him weel: for eith can we Spare mony glaikit gowks like he. They ’Il tell whare Tiber’s waters rise ; What sea receives the drumly prize ; That never wi’ their feet hae met The marches o’ their ain estate. The Arno and the Tiber lang Hae run fell clear in Roman sang; But, save the reverence of schools ! They ’re baith but lifeless dowie pools. Dought they compare wi’ bonny Tweed As clear as ony lammer-bead ? Or, are their shores mair sweet and gay Than Fortha’s haughs, or banks 0’ Tay ? Though there the herds can jink the showers "Mang thrivin vines and myrtle bowers, And blaw the reed to kittle strains, While Echo’s tongue commends their pains; Like ours, they canna warm the heart Wi’ simple, saft, bewitchin art. On Leader haughs, and Yarrow braes, Arcadian herds wad tine their lays, To hear the mair melodious sounds, That live on our poetic grounds. Come, Fancy! come, and let us tread The Simmer’s flowery velvet bed, And a’ your springs delightfw’ lowse On Tweeda’s banks, or Cowdenknowes ; That, taen wi’ thy enchantin sang, Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang : Sae pleased, they ’ll never fash again To court you on Italian plain. Soon will they guess, ye only wear The simple garb o’ Nature here ; Mair comely far, and fair to sight, Whan in her easy cleedin dight, Than, in disguise, ye was before On Tiber’s, or on Arno’s shore. O Bangour !' now the hills and dales Nae mair gie back thy tender tales. The birks on Yarrow now deplore, The mournfw’ Muse has left the shore. Near what bright burn, or crystal spring, Did you your winsome whistle hing ? The Muse shall there, wi’ watery ee, Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee; ‘And Yartow’s genius, dowie dame! Shall there forget her blude-stain’d stream, On thy sad grave to seek repose, Who mourn’d her fate, condoled her woes. (1) Mr. Hamilton of Bangour, THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN LAPRAIK. MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. Nerruer printed biography nor local tradition has preserved many memorials of the life and career of John Lapraik. His chief claim to notice is that Burns so much admired one of his songs—‘‘ When I upon thy bosom lean ”—as to indite to him three poetical epistles, which rank among the finest things he over wrote :— “There was ae sang amang the rest, Above them a’ it pleased me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife ; It thrill’d the heart-strings thro’ the breast A’ to the life.” Burns, by his generous praise, brought Lapraik’s name before the world; but the praise was more genial than just, and Lapraik never, either before or afterwards, did anything to deserve it. He was a small farmer at Dalfram, near Muirkirk, and far advanced in life, when Burns, in the heyday of his youth and vigour, first made his acquaintance (1785). He became involved in a “bubble” bank in Ayr, and lost the whole of his little property. He published, by subscription, a collection of his poems at Kilmarnock, in 1788, with a rhymed ‘ Dedication to the Partial Public,” and a preface in which he stated that ‘‘ both from his circumstances and manner of life, being constantly engaged in labour or business, he was denied that share of education which is necessary to form the gentleman and the poet; and what is more against him still, he has never had leisure to read; so that, what he has wrote, is merely the effect of his own observations on nature, men, and things, and these huddled together without any order or method. But, as he has been careful not to write anything that might give just cause of offence to anyone, or trespass upon the rules of decency and morality, the greatest loss that possibly can be sustained by the book, is only the loss of its price.” The three poems that follow are sufficient to prove the partiality and kind-heartedness of Burns, and also that Lapraik had small claims to be considered a poet. Ol SELECTION FR°M THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN LAPRAIK. EPISTLE TO ROBERT BURNS. , Till your kind Muse, wi’ friendly blast, eae First tooted up my fame, O rar-ramep RaB! my silly Muse, And sounded loud, *hrough a’ the Wast, That thou sae fraised langsyne, My lang-forgotten name. When she did scarce ken verse by prose, Now dares to spread her wing. Quoth I, “Shall I, like to a sumph, : Sit douff and dowie here, Unconscious of the least desert, And suffer the ill-natured warld Nor e’er expecting fame, To ca’ Ras Burns a liar. I sometimes did myself divert Wy jingling worthless rhyme. He auyé Vint T conan te week And through the warld has sent it— Na; faith Ill rhyme a hearty blaud, Though I should aye repent it.” When sitting lanely by myself, Just unco grieved and wae, Ta think that Fortune, fickle Joe ! Had kick’d me o’er the brae ! Syne I gat up, wi’ unco glee, And when 1 was amaist half-drown’d And snatch’d my grey goose quill, W? dolefw’ grief and care, Aw cry’d, “Come here, my Muse, fy come, I’d may-be rhyme a verse or twa, An’ rhyme wi’ a’ your skill.” To drive away despair. The Hizzy was right sweer to try ’t, Or when I met a chiel like you An’ scarce wad be persuaded ; Sae gi’en to mirth an’ fun, She said I was turn’d auld and stiff, Wha liked to speel Parnassus’ hill, My youthfu’ fire quite faded. An’ drink at Helicon, sac aengs ‘ Quoth she, “ Had ye began langsyne, I’d aiblins catch a wee bit spark When ye were brisk and young, O’ his poetic fire, : An’ rhyme awa like ane half-mad, i ee y erate age Until my Muse did tire. B48 g + “ But now ye’re clean gane out o’ tune, Your auld grey scaulp turn’d bare : Mair meet that ye were turning douse, And trying to say your pray’r I liked the lasses unco weel, Langsyne when I was young, Which sometimes kittled up my Muse To write a kind love sang; Yet still it ne’er ran in my head, “The folks a’ laughing at you, else, To trouble mankind with Ye’ll gar them laugh aye faster : My dull, insipid, thowless rhyme, When ye gang out, they ’ll point and say, And stupid, senseless stuff; ‘There gangs the Poetaster !’” DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS Lapratles Foes. SN WAXY aha S shes J A. Housio; aaatephenson, IR PATRICK SPENS. oC a rer & rer. 8. POEMS OF JOHN LAPRAIK. 573 “ Deil care,” said I, “ haud just your tongue, Begin and nae mair say; I maun maintain my honour now, Though I should seldom pray. “T oft when in a merry tift Have rhymed for my diversion ; Tl now go try to rhyme for bread And let the warld be clashin’.” “ Weel, weel,” says she, “sin ye ’re sae bent Come, let us go begin then ; ‘ Weel try to do the best we can, I’m sure we ’ll aye say something.” Syne till ’t I gat, and rhymed away, Till I hae made a book o’t, An’ though I should rue’t a’ my life, Tl gie the warld a look o’t. I’m weel aware the greatest part (I fain hope not the whole) Will look upon’t as senseless stuff, And me’s a crazy fool Whether that it be nonsense a’, Or some o’t not amiss, And whether I’ve done right or wrang, 1’ll leave the warld to guess: But I should tell them, by-the-bye, Though it is may-be idle. That fint a book scarce e’er I read, Save ance or twice the Bible. And what the learned folk ca’ grammar, I naething ken about it ; Although I b’lieve it be owre true, Ane can do nought without it. But maist my life has just been spent (Which to my cost’ feel) In fechtin fair wi’ luckless brutes, Till they kick’d up my heel. Now fare-ye-weel, my guid frien’ Ras, May luck and health attend ye ; If I do weel, 1’ll bless the day That e’er I came to ken ye: But on the tither han’, should folk Me for my nonsense blason, Nae doubt I ’ll curse the unlucky day, T listen’d to your fraisin. May that great name that ye bae got Untainted aye remain ! And may the laurels on your head Aye flourish fresh and green! The Lorp maintain your honour aye, And then ye needna fear, While I can write, or speak, or think, I am your frien’ sincere. THE POET’S FAREWELL TO HIS NATIVE COUNTRY. FarewE.t, ye dear delighted fields ! Where first my breath I drew ! Farewell, my much respected Friends ! I bid you all adieu ! For other fields, and other plains, And other clouds and skies ; For other distant, unknown scenes, I now must sail the seas ! Tn Spring, which decks the blooming year, With flowers both fresh and gay, I pull’d those flow’rs that were so fair ; But now, I must away ! I wonder’d at the scene so gay, With colours of each hue ; In innocence I spent each day, Yet bid those days adieu ! Oft from the noisy, irksome din Of bus’ness I retired, And walked in the woods so green, Or by the river’s side ! On contemplation’s airy wing My ’raptured fancy flew ; But now, ye woods, ye charming springs, I bid you all adieu! With ease I spent my youthful days ; My friends they me carest ; Quite free of care, in sports and plays, I was supremely blest ! T ne’er envied the rich nor great, Nor strove them to pursue ; Yet now I leave my native sea And bid a long adieu! When standing on yon river side, Where trees and bushes grow, Where Nature’s deck’d in flow’ry pride, And murm’ring streams do flow, 574 POEMS OF JOHN LAPRAIK. I listen’d to the pleasing strain, That echoed through the vale— No longer here I must remain, And so I bid farewell. My time I often have employ’d, Here to invoke the Muse ; Her aid I earnestly implored, And seldom was refused. I often sought some cool retreat, My thoughts there to review ; But now I’m forced, by cruel Fate, To bid them all adieu ! T often to some shady grove Retired from the profane ; There I have tried, though vain I strove, To emulate the strain Of birds that warbled from each bush, And chant the woods all through ; The Linnet, Blackbird, and the Thrush, Ye songsters all, adieu! My native spot, on banks of AYR, May sweets adorn thy soil! Let Nature’s blooming face so fair, Aye bless thee with her smile! Let flow’rs of ev’ry various kind, Each colour and each hue, Produce such sweets as suit the mind Of ev’ry friend that’s true! You friends, who graced this little book, And share my joy and woe, May health and peace still be your lot, And wealth still on you flow! Your friendship I will ne’er forget ; I’ll to your mem’ry kneel! To ev’ry friend, with aching heart, I bid a sad farewell ! Unwearied love, and anxious wish, Besides parental care, Do claim a cheerful, parting glass, With those my friends who are, eee Where we will sing and take farewell, With hearts both kind and trae— Here I must stop; my heart is full, Gop bless you all! adieu! SONG. Tune—Johnny’s Grey Breeks, Wuew I upon thy bosom lean, Enraptured, I do call thee mine; I glory in those sacred ties, That made us one, who once were twain. A mutual flame inspires us both ; The tender look, the melting kiss, Ev’n years shall ne’er destroy our love; Some sweet sensation new will rise. Have I a wish ? ’tis all for thee; I know thy wish is me to please ; Our moments pass so smooth away That numbers on us look and gaze. Well pleased to see our happy days, They bid us live and still love on ; And if some cares shall chance to rise, Thy bosom still shall be my home. I'll lull me there and take my rest ; And if that aught disturb my fair, T’'ll bid her laugh her cares all out, And beg her not to drop a tear. Have Ia joy? ’tis all her cwn; Her heart and mine are all the same; They ’re like the woodbine round the tree, That’s twined till Death shall us disjoin. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS OF THE NORTH OF SCOTLAND. THE EXPLANATORY NOTES BY PETER BUCHAN. SIR PATRICK SPENS.’ Tur king sits in Dunfermline town, A drinking at the wine ; Says, “ Where will I get a good skipper Will sail the saut seas fine ?” Out it speaks an eldren knight Amang the companie,— “Young Patrick Spens is the best skipper That, ever sail’d the sea.” The king he wrote a braid letter, And seal’d it wi’ his ring ; Says, “ Ye *ll gie that to Patrick Spens, See if ye can him find.” He sent this, not wi’? an auld man, Nor yet a simple boy, But the best o’ nobles in his train This letter did convoy. When Patrick look’d the letter upon A light laugh then ga’e he ; But ere he read it till an end, The tear blinded his e’e. “ Ye’ll eat and drink, my merry men a’, An’ see ye be weel thorn; For blaw it weet, or blaw it wind, My guid ship sails the morn.” Then out it speaks a guid auld man, A guid death mathe de.— ~ “Whatever ye do, my guid master, Tak’ God your guide to be. (1) This old and justly esteemed ballad has given rise to much antiquarian conjecture and critical research. It appears to have been first published by Dr. Percy, in his “ Reliques of Ancient English Poetry,” in 1757, as a Scottish ballad; and in this im- perfect state it has been republished in almost every subsequent collection of ancient ballads, occasionally with variations and additions. Sir Walter Scott, who has also given an edition of it in the “ Minstrelsy of the Border,” admits it to be but a fragment. A complete copy was, therefore, a great desideratum in the lite- rary world, at least to that part of it who have made it their study to rescne from the devouring hand of time those graphic relics of our early ancestors. History has been silent on the particular event which gave rise to its composition, if we except a few indirect hints by some of the old chroniclers, which have made almost every editor have a different opinion of its origin. The present version, therefore, may supply a desideratum in the annals of Scottish Song which has hitherto been so often at- tempted by the ingenious and the learned in vain. It was taken down from the recitation of ‘a wight of Homer's craft,” who, as a wandering minstrel, blind from his infancy, has been travelling in the North as a mendicant for these last fifty years. He learned it in his youth from a very old person, and the words are exactly as recited, free from those emendations which have ruined so many of our best Scottish ballads. The subject on which the ballad is founded is thus related by Hector Boece, in his ‘‘ Chronicles of Scotland: »—“ And for the mair coboration of perseuerand amite and kyndness betuix Scottis and Danis in tymes cumyng, Margaret, Kyng Alexanderis douchter, hauand bot ane zeir in age sal be giuin in marriage to Haningo, ye son of Kyng Magnus, quhen scho is cumyn to perfite age.” This marriage took place betwixt the King of Scotland’s. daughter, Margaret, and the King of Norway’s son, Haningo. about the year 1270. The current report is, that sir Patrick was sent on an embassy to Norway to bring home Margaret, grand-daughter of Alexander III., King of Scotland, which appears to me to be inconsistent with the tenor and narrative of the ballad. From the following verse, I am more inclined to believe that Sir Patrick, accompanied with five-and-fifty Scots lords’ sons, were destined to carry to the court of Norway its chosen queen, and not to bring from that court a queen for Scotland :— “ But I maun sail the seas the morn, An’ likewise sae maun you ;— To Noroway, wi' our king's daughter, A chosen queen she’s now.” It would also appear, from the first line of this verse, that the ship had been in readiness for the voyage, as she was tv sail on the day after the orders had arrived, and not that she had been pro- hibited by an act of parliament to sail during the winter months, | However, the season of the year is not specified here, 576 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “For late yestreen I saw the new moon, The auld moon in her arm.” “ Ohon, alas!” says Patrick Spens, “That bodes a deadly storm. “ But [ maun sail the seas the morn, And likewise sae maun you; To Noroway, wi’ our king’s daughter,— A chosen queen she’s now. “ But [ wonder who has been sae base, As tauld the king o’ me: Even though he ware my ae brither, An ill death mat he dee.” Then Patrick he rigg’d out his ship, And sailed ower the faem; But mony a dreary thought had he, While he was on the main. They hadna sail’d upon the sea A day but barely three ; Till they came in sight o’ Noroway, It’s there where they must be. They hadna stayed into that place A month but and a day, Till he caused the flip in mugs gae roun’, And wine in cans sae gae; The pipe and harp sae sweetly play’d, The trumpets loudly soun’ ; In every hall wherein they stay’d, Wi their mirth did reboun’. Then out it speaks an auld skipper, An inbearing dog was he,— “Ye’ve stay’d ower lang in Noroway, Spending your king’s monic.” Then out it speaks Sir Patrick Spens,— “O how can a’ this be ? T ha’e a bow o’ guid red gowd Into my ship wi’ me. “ But betide me well, betide me wae, This day I’se leave the shore; And never spend my king’s monie *Mong Noroway dogs no more.” Young Patrick he is on the sea And even on the faem ; Wi’ five-an-fifty Scots lords’ sons, That lang’d to be at hame. They hadna sail’d upon the sea A day but barely three ; Till loud and boist’rous grew the wind, And stormy grew the sea. “O where will I get a little wee boy Will tak’ my helm, in hand, Till I gae up to my tapmast, . And see for some dry land?” He hadna gane to his tapmast A step but barely three ; Ere through and through the bonny ship’s side, He saw the green haw-sea. “There are five-an-fifty feather beds Well packed in ae room ; And ye’ll get as muckle guid canvas As wrap the ship a’ roun’ ; “ Ye'll pict her well, and spare her not, And mak’ her hale and soun’ ;” But ere he had the word well spoke The bonny ship was down. O laith, Jaith were our guid lords’ sons To weet their milk-white hands ; But lang ere a’ the play was ower They wat their gowden bands. O Iaith, laith were our Scots lords’ sons To weet their coal-black shoon ; But lang ere a’ the play was ower They wat their hats aboon. It’s even ower by Aberdour, It’s fifty fathoms deep, And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens, And a’s men at his feet. It’s even ower by Aberdour, There’s mony a craig and fin, And yonder lies Sir Patrick Spens, Wi’ mony a guid lord’s son. Lang, lang will the ladies look Into their morning weed, Before they see young Patrick Spens Come sailing ower the fleed. Lang, lang will the ladies look Wi? their fans in their hand, Before they see him, Patrick Spens, Come sailing to dry land. ; ANUIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. YOUNG AKIN.' — Lavy Margaret sits in her bower door Sewing at her silken seam; She heard a note in Elmond’s-wood, And wish’d she there had been. She loot the seam fa’ frae her side, And the needle to her tae ; and she is on to Elmond’s-wood As fast as she cou’d gae. She hadna pu’d a nut, a nut, Nor broken a branch but ane, Till by it came a young hind chiel, Says, “Lady, lat alane. “O why pw’ ye the nut, the nut, Or why brake ye the tree : For I am forester o’ this wood, Ye should spier leave at me? ” * Tl ask leave at no living man, Nor yet will I at thee ; My father is king o’er a’ this realm. This wood belongs to me.” She hadna pu’d a nut, a nut, . Nor broken a branch but three, Till by it came him young Akin, And gar’d her lat them be. The highest tree in Elmond’s-wood, He’s pu’d it by the reet ; And he has built for her a bower Near by a hallow seat. He’s built a bower, made it secure Wi’ carbuncle and stane ; Though travellers were never sae nigh Appearance it had nane. He’s kept her there in Elmond’s-wood, For six lang years and one; Till six pretty sons to him she bear, And the seventh she’s brought home. 577 It fell ance upon a day, This guid lord went from home ; And he is to the hunting gane, Took wi’ him his eldest son. And when they were on a guid way, Wi slowly pace did walk ; The boy’s heart being something wae, He thus began to talk :— “A question I wou’d ask, father, Gin ye wouldna angry be” “Say on, say on, my bonny boy, Ye’se nae be quarrell’d by me.” “TI see my mither’s cheeks aye weet, I never can see them dry ; And I wonder what aileth my mither To mourn.continually.” “Your mither was a king’s daughter, Sprung frae a high degree ; And she might ha’e wed some worthy prince, Had she nae been stown by me; “T was her father’s cup-bearer, Just at that fatal time ; T catch’d her on a misty night, Whan summer was in prime ; “My luve to ler was most sincere, Her luve was great for me; But when she hardships doth endure, Her folly she does see.” “T’ll shoot the buntin’ o’ the bush, The linnet o’ the tree, And bring them to my dear mither, See if she’ll merrier be.” It fell upo’ another day, This guid lord he thought lang, And he is to the hunting gane, Took wi’ him his dog and gun; WY bow and arrow by his side, He’s aff, single, alane ; And left his seven children to stay W? their mither at hame. (1) In some late publications I have seen fragments of this beautiful ballad under various names. It is now for the first time given in a complete state. The ballad is, to all appearance, very old; and agrees with the romantic history and times of Fergus II. It will be considered by all lovers of Scottish Song as a great acquisition to their store of traditionary poetry. The heroine, Lady Margaret, a king’s daughter, was stolen by her father’s cup-béearer, who buit for her a bower, in which she was so artfully confined, that no one could have discovered the place of her residence. In this bower she bare to her adopted husband seven sons, the oldest of whom was the means of releasing her from her dreary abode. On his arrival at the court of his grandfather, whither he had gone to recon- noitre, the old monarch at once perceived such a family likeness in the face of this woodland boy, as made him inquire after the fate of his long lost daughter. She, with the rest of her sons. arrived at her father’s palace ; and, like the prodigal, or long lost son, was welcomed with joy and gladness. The ballad concludes with the pardon of Young Akin, his reception at the king’s court, and the baptism of the children. 4& ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Q, I will tell to you, mither, Gin ye wadna angry be.” “ Speak on, speak on, my little wee boy, Ye’se nae be quarrell’d by me.” “As we came frae the hynd hunting, We heard fine music ring.” “My blessings on you, my bonny boy, I wish I'd been there my lane.” He’s ta’en his mither by the hand, His six brithers also, And they are on through Elmond’s-wood, As fast as they cou’d go: They wistna weel where they were gaen, Wi the stratlins o” their feet : They wistna weel where they were gaen Till at her father’s yate. “I hae nae money in my pocket, But royal rings hae three ; Pll gie them you, my little young son, And ye’ll walk there for me; “ Ye’ll gie the first to the proud porter, And he will lat you in; Ye’ll gie the next to the butler boy, And he will show you ben ; * Ye'll gie the third to the minstrel That plays before the king ; He’ll play success to the bonny boy, Cane through the wood him lane.” He ga’e the first to the proud porter, And he open’d an’ let im in; He ga’e the next to the butler boy, Aud he has shown him ben; He ga’e the third to the minstrel That play’d before the king ; And he play’d success to the bonny boy Came through the wood him lane, Now when he came before the king, Fell low down on his knee, The king he turned round about, And the saut tear blinded his ee. “Win up, win up, my bonny boy, Gang frae my companie ; Ye look sae like my dear daughter, My heart will birst in three.” Tf a look like your deur uaugher, A wonder it is none; Tf I look like your dear daughter,— I am her eldest son.” “ Will ye tell me, ye little wee boy, Where may my Margaret be? ” *She’s just now standing at your yates, 7? 99 And my six brithers her wi’. “O where are all my porter boys That I pay meat and fee, To open my yates baith wide and braid ? Let her come in to me.” When she came in before the king, | Fell low down on her knee: “Win up, win up, my daughter dear, This day yell dine wi’ me.” “ Ae bit I canno’ eat, father, Nor ae drop can I drink, Till I see my mither and sister dear, For lang for them I think.” When she came before the queen Fell low down on her knee: “Win up, win up, my daughter dear, This day ye’se dine with me.” * Ae bit I canno’ eat, mither, Nor ae drop can I drink, Until I see my dear sister, For lang for her I think.” When that these two sisters met, She hail’d her courteouslie : * Come ben, come ben, my sister dear, This day ye’se dine with me.” “ Ae bit I canno’ eat, sister, Nor ae drop can I drink, Until L see my dear husband, For lang for him I think,” “O where are all my rangers bold, That I pay meat and fee, To search the forest far an’ wide, And bring Akin to me?” Out it speaks the little wee boy,— “Na, na, this maunna be; Without ye grant a free pardon, T hope ye’ll nae him see.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “© here I grant a free pardon, Well seal’d by my own han’ ; Ye may make search for young Akin, As soon as ever you can.” They search’d the country wide and braid, The forests far and near ; And found him into Elmond’s-wood, Tearing his yellow hair. “ Win up, win up, now young Akin, Win up and boun’ wi’ me; We're messengers come from the court, The king wants you to see.” : *O lat him take frae me my head, Or hang me on a tree ; For since I’ve lost my dear lady, Life’s no pleasure to me.” * Your head will nae be touch’d, Akin, Nor hang’d upon a tree; Your lady’s in her father’s court, And all he wants is thee.” When he came in before the king, Fell low down on his knee. “ Win up, win up, now young Akin, This day ye’se dine wi’ me.” But as they were at dinner set, The boy asked a boun ; “T wish we were in the good church, For to get Christendoun ; “ We ha’e lived in guid green wocd This seven years and ane ; But a? this time since e’er I mind, Was never a church within.” 579 “ Your asking’s nae sae great, my hoy, — - But granted it shall be ; This day to guid church ye shall gang, And your mither shall gang you wi.” When unto the guid church she came, She at the door did stan’; She was sae sair sunk down wi’ shame, She cou’dna come farer ben. Then out it speaks the parish priest, And a sweet smile gae he ;— “Come ben, come ben, my lily flower, Present your babes to me.” Charles, Vincent, Sam, and Dick, And likewise James and John; They call’d the eldest Young Akin, Which was his father’s name. Then they stay’d in the royal court, And lived wi’ mirth and glee ; And when her father was deceased, Heir of the crown was she. THE TWA MAGICIANS: Tue lady stands in her bower door, As straight as willow wand ; The blacksmith stood a little forebye, Wy hammer in his hand. “Weel may ye dress ye, lady fair, Into your robes o’ red, Before the morn at this same time, Pll gain your maidenhead.” (1) There is a novelty in this legendary ballad very amusing, and it must be very old. I never saw anything in print which hed the smallest resemblance to it. The singular metamorphoses, and curious transformations of the hero and heroine of the ballad by the art of magic, are truly novel. Magic can accomplish great things, either by natural or supernatural means. “Magic is divided into Natural, Artificial, and Diabolical. Na- tural magic produces extraordinary and marvellous effects, by the mere force of natural means. Artificial magic produces also extraordinary and marvellous effects, by human industry and wit ; as, the glass sphere of Archimedes; the wooden pigeon of Architas; the golden birds of the Emperor of Leo, which sung; Boetius's brazen ones, which did both sing and fly, and serpents of the same metal, which did hiss; and Alpert te Grand’s speaking head, &c. Diabolical magic, or the black art, hath surprising effects, surpassing those of art or nature, by the help of demons; as Pharaoh's magicians, who did imitate the true miracles of God. And in the last age there was a magician who mede the dead corpse of a famous harper at Bologne walk and play, as if he had been alive, by a charm which he put under one of its arm-pits. Gasparus Peucerus, the physician, who mentions this, says, that another magician, “who discovered the cause of this, did take out the charm with great dexterity; so that the corpse fell to the ground, and remained immovable. Isidore, bishop of Seville, says, that the magicians did move the elements ; kill men by their very charms, without poison; and raise the devil, from whom they learnt how to annoy their enemies. Natural and artificial magic have no harm in them, if people take care not to awaken a spirit of curiosity, and press too far into futurities and superstitious inquiries; but as for the black art, ’tis always unlawful, as em- ploying a correspondence with evil spirits, There are scme people who either disbelieve, or pretend to do so, that there is any such thing as witches; but this is a truth, to say nothing more, which no man, who believes anything in revealed religion, can callin question ; for the Holy Scripture, in several places, for- bids us to have recourse to magicians; and mentions those made use of by Pharaoh and Manasses; of the witch of Endor, con- sulted by Saul; of Simon and Bar-Jesu, magicians; and of a woman who had a familiar spirit dispossessed by Saint Paul; all mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles. The councils likewise excommunicate magicians, and the Holy Fathers mention them upon occasion. Neither is the civil law wanting in penal provi- sions againstthem. There is likewise a statute in the beginning of the reign of King James I. which makes witchcraft felony.”— Thier’s “* Treatise of Superstitions.” §S0 “ Awa, awa, ye coal-black-smith, Wou’d ye do me the wrang, To think to gain my maidenhead, That I hae kept sae lang.” Then she has hadden up her hand, And she sware by the mold, “T wudna be a blacksmith’s wife, For the full 0’ a chest 0’ gold. “1d rather 1 were dead and gone, And my body laid in grave, Ere a rusty stock 0° coal-black-smith, My maidenhead shou’d have.” But he has hadden up his hand, And he sware by the mass, “T’ll cause ye be my light leman, For the hauf o’ that and less.” Chorus—O bide, lady, bide, And aye he bade her bide ; The rusty smith your leman shall be, For a your muckle pride. Then she became a turtle dow, To fly up in the air; And he became another dow, And they flew pair and pair. O bide, lady, bide, &c. She turn’d hersell into an eel, To swim into yon burn; And he became a speckled trout, To gie the eel a turn. O bide, lady, bide, &e. Then she became a duck, a duck, To puddle in a peel; And he became a rose-kaini’d drake, To gie the duck a dreel. O bide, lady, bide, &e. She turn’d hersell into a hare, To rin upon yon hill ; And he became a gude greyliound, And boldly he did fill. O bide, lady, bide, &e. Then she became a gay grey niare, And stood in yonder slack ; And he became a gilt saddle, And sat upon her back. (1) Lady Erskine appears to have been a daughter of one of the Tarls of Marr, who disdained to take the title of her husband, as being below her degree. Although he is here called a Lord, it does not always prove that those were Lords of Parliament, or noblemen, who were called so, but merely given as a title of courtesy. It is quite a common thing for a lady who wishes to ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS, Chorus.—Was she wae, he held her sae, And still he bade her bide; The rusty smith her leman was, For a’ her muckle pride. Then she became a het girdle, And he became a cake ; And a? the ways she turn’d hersell, The blacksmith was her make. Was she wae, &e. She turn’d hersell into a shiv, To sail out ower the flood ; He ca’ed a nail intill her tail, And syne the ship she stood. Was she wae, &c. Then she became a silken plaid, And stretch’d upon a bed ; And he became a green covering, And gain’d her maidenhead. Chorus—Was she wae, he held her sae, And still he bade her bide ; The rusty smith her leman was, For a’ her muckle pride. CHILDE OWLET.' Lavy Erskine sits in her chamber, Sewing at her silken seam, A chain of gold for Childe Owlet, As he goes out and in. But it fell ance upon a day, She unto him did say ; “Ye must cuckold Lord Ronald, For a his lands and ley.” “O cease, forbid, madam,” he says, » “That this should e’er be done; How would I cuckold Lord Ronald, And me his sister’s son?” Then she’s ta’en out a little penknife, That lay below her bed ; Put it below her green stay’s cord, Which made her body bleed. honour her husband, to call him lord. Sarah cailed Abraham lurd, and was accounted a worthy woman for so doing. Childe Owlet was an illegitimate son of Lord Ronald’s sister, who had been brought up in the house of his uncle, under a fictitious name; but, like another Joseph, chose rather to suffer death than be ungrateful to his guardian, or dishonour his preserver’s bed, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Then in it came him, Lord Ronald, Hearing his lady’s moan ; * What blood is this, my dear,” he says, “That sparks on the firestone ? ” “Young Childe Owlet, your sister’s son, Is now gane frae my bower ; If I hadna been a good woman, Pd been Childe Owlet’s whore.” Then he has ta’en him, Childe Owlet, Laid him in prison strong ; And all his men a council held, How they wou’d work him wrong. Some said they wou’d Childe Owlet hang, Some said they wou’d him burn ; Some said they wou’d have Childe Owlet Between wild horses torn. “There are horses in your stables stand, Can run right speedilie ; And ye will to your stable go, And wile out four for me.” They put a foal to ilka foot, And ane to ilka hand; And sent them down to Darling muir, As fast as they cou’d gang. There was not a kow in Darling muir, Nor ae piece o’ a rind, But drappit o’ Childe Owlet’s blude, And pieces o” his skin. There was not a kow in Darling muir, Nor ae piece 0’ a rash; But drappit 0’ Childe Owlet’s blude, And pieces o’ his flesh. THE BENT SAE BROWN.' “THERE are sixteen lang miles I’m sure, Between my love and me; There are eight o’ them in gude dry land, And other eight by sea. 5&1 “ Betide me life, betide me death, My love T’ll gang and see ; Although her friends they do me hate, Her love is great for me. “OF my coat Dll make a boat, And o’ my sark a sail; And 0’ my cane a gude tapmast, Dry land till I come till” Then o’ his coat he’s made a boat, And o’ his sark a sail ; And o’ his cane a gude tapmast, Dry land till he came till. He is on to Aunie’s bower door, And tirled at the pin; *O sleep ye, wake ye, my love, Annie, Yell rise lat me come in.” “O who is this at my bower door, Sae well that kens my name ?” “Tt is your true love, sweet Willie, For you I’ve cross’d the faem.” “T am deeply sworn, Willie, By father and by mother; At kirk or market where we meet, We dar’na own each other. * And L am deeply sworn, Willie, By my bauld brothers three ; At kirk or market where we meet, T dar’na speak to thee.” “ Ye take your red fan in your hand, Your white fan ower your een ; And ye may swear, and save your oath, Ye saw’na me come in. “Ye take me in your arms twa, And carry me to your bed; And ye may swear, and save your oath, Your bower I never tread.” She ta’en her red fan in her hand, The white fan ower her een; It was to swear and save her oath, She saw’na him come in. (1) Love, says the preacher. is as strong as death. Our old poesy is fraught with tales of wonder, as well as delight. The love which is displayed by the lady in this ballad is passing human comprehen- sion. It is the stongest passion, and one which betrays reason and reflection, and to whose shrine almost all have been made to bow, A few centunes ago, love signified an invincible inclination, as may be seen by the present ballad. It has, however, in the present case, another meaning. What lady, in this enlightened age of refinement and morals, would sacrifice the life of three brothers, and incur the deadly hate of a fond father and an indulgent mother, for the gratification of saving the life of a knightly gallant, as here depicted? The stratagem which the old woman falls upon for the punishment of the young knight proves abortive. The king, to whom she made her complaint, was much better pleased -with the artless simplicity of the daughter's statement of the murder, who had also gone to the king to crave pardon for her lover’s manslaughter, as it may be termed, being in self-defence. From her familiarity with the sovereign, I am led to suppose she had been a woman of high degree; for we are informed, she took him in her arms, and kissed him cheek and chin, 582 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. She’s ta’en him in her arms twa, And carried him to her bed; It was to swear and save her oath, Her bower he never tread. They hadna kiss’d nor love clapped, As lovers do when they meet; Till up it waukens her mother, Out o’ her drowsy sleep. “Win up, win up, my three bauld sons, Win up and make ye boun’ ; Your sister’s lover’s in her bower, And he’s but new come in.’ Then up it raise her three bauld sons, And girt to them their brand ; And they are to their sister’s bower As fast as they cou’d gang. When they came to their sister’s bower, They sought it up and down ; But there was neither man nor boy, In her bower to be foun’, Then out it speaks the first o’ them, “ We'll gang and lat her be; For there is neither man nor boy Intill her companie.” Then out it speaks the second son, “ Our travel’s a’ in vain ; But mother dear, nor father dear, Shall break our rest again.” Then out it speaks the third o’ them, (An ill death mat he dee !) “We'll lurk amang the bent sae brown, That Willie we may see.” He stood behind his love’s curtains, His goud rings show’d him light : And by this ye may a’ weel guess, He was a renowned knight. He’s done him to his love’s stable, Took out his berry-brown steed ; His love stood in her bower door, Her heart was like to bleed. *O mourn ye for my coming, love ? Or for my short staying ? Or mourn ye for our safe sind’ring, Case we never meet again P” “J mourn nae for your here coming, Nor for your-staying lang ; Nor mourn I for our safe sind’ring,~-« I hope we'll meet again. “T wish ye may won safe away, And safely frae the town ; For ken you not my brothers three Are ’mang the bent sae brown.” “If I were on my berry-brown steed, And three miles frae the town, I woudua fear your three bauld brothers, Amang the bent sae brown.” He leint him ower his saddle bow, and kiss’d her lips sae sweet ; The tears that fell between these twa, They wat his great steed’s feet. But he wasna on his berry-brown steed, Nor twa miles frae the town, Till up it starts these three fierce men, Amang the bent sae brown. Then up they came like three fierce men, W7 niony shout and cry; “ Bide still, bide still, ye cowardly youth, What makes your haste away ? “ For I must know before you go, Tell me, and make nae lie ;— If ye’ve been in my sister’s bower, My hands shall gar ye die.” “Though I’ve been in your sister’s bower, I have nae fear o’ thee; Pll stand my ground, and fiercely fight, And shall gain victorie.” “Now I entreat you for to stay, Unto us gie a wad; If ye our words do not obey, Tse gar your body bleed.” “T have nae wad,” says sweet Willie, Unless it be my brand ; And that shall guard my fair body, Till I win frae your hand.” Then twa o’ them stept in bend, All in a furious meed; The third o’ them ca:e Im betore, And seized his berry-brown steed, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 583 O then he drew his trusty brand, That hang down by his gare: And he has slain these three fierce men, And left them sprawling there. Then word has gane to her mother, In bed where she slept soun’: That Willie had kill’d her three bauld sons, Amang the bent sae brown. Then she has cut the locks that hung Sac low down by her ee ; Sae has she kiltit her green claithing A little aboon her knee. And she has on to the king’s court, As fast as gang cou’d she ; When fair Annie got word o” that, Was there as soon as she. Her mother when before the king, Fell low down on her knee . “Win up, win up, my dame,” he said, “What is your will wi’ me?” “My wills they are not sma’, my liege, The truth Pll tell to thee: There is ane o” your courtly knights Last night hae robbed me.” “ And has he broke your bigly bowers, Or has he stole your fee? There is nae knight into my court Last night has been frae me; “ Unless ’twas Willie o’ Lauderdale, Forbid that it be he!” * And by my sooth,” says the auld woman, “That very man is he. “ For he has broke my bigly bowers, And he has stole my fee; And made my daughter Ann a whore, And an ill woman is she. «That was not all he did to me, Ere he went frae the town ; My sons sae true he fiercely slew, Amang the bent sae brown.” Then out it spake her daughter Ann, She stood by the king’s knee ; “ Ye lie, ye lie, my mother dear, Sas loud’s ] hear vou lie. “He has not broke your bigly bowers, Nor has he stole your fee; Nor made your daughter Ann a whore, A good woman I'll be. “ Although he slew your three bauld sons, He weel might be forgien ; They were well clad in armour bright, Whan my love was him lane.” “ Well spoke, well spoke,” the king replied, * This tauking pleases me ; For ae kiss 0’ your lovely mouth, T'll set your true love free.” She’s taen the king in her arms, And kiss’d him cheek and chin ; He then set her behind her love, And they went singing hae. LEESOME BRAND.’ My boy was scarcely ten years auld, When he went to an unco land, Where wind never blew, nor cocks ever crew, Ohon! for my son, Leesome Brand. Awa’ to that king’s court le went, It was to serve for meat an’ fee; Gude red gowd it was his hire, And lang in that king’s court stay’d he. He haduna been in that unco land, But only twallmonths twa or three ; Till by the glancing o’ his ee, He gain’d the love o’ a gay ladye. This ladye was scarce eleven years auld, When on her love she was right bauld; She was scarce up to my right knee, When oft in bed wi’ men I’m tauld. But when nine months were come and gane, This ladye’s face turn’d pale and wane, To Leesome Brand she then did say, “Tn this place I can nae mair stay. (1) Tam quite unprepared to say where that land is “ where winds never blow, nor cocks ever crow,” unless I make it Fairyland. In fact, the tenor of the whole ballad authorises me to think it so. It would also seem that Leesome Brand’s mother had been an old enchantress; for, by three drops of Saint Paul’s blood, which she had kept in a grey horn beneath her head, she restored to life his wife and (lild, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Ye do you to my father’s stable, Where steeds do stand baith wight and able ; Strike ane o’ them upo’ the back, The swiftest will gie his head a wap, “Ye tak him out upo’ the green, And get him saddled and bridled seen ; Get ane for you, anither for me, And lat us ride out ower the lee. “Ye do you to my mother’s coffer, And out of it yell take my tocher ; Therein are sixty thousand pounds, Which all to me by right belongs.” He’s done him to her father’s stable, Where steeds stood baith wicht and able Then he strake ane upon the back, The swiftest gae his head a wap. He’s ta’en him out upo’ the green, And got him saddled and bridled seen Ane for him, and another for her, To carry them baith wi? might and virr. He’s done him to her mother’s coffer, And there he’s taen his lover’s tocher ; Wherein were sixty thousand pound, Which all to her by right belong’d. When they had ridden about six mile, His true love then began to fail ; “O wae’s me,” said that gay ladye, “T fear my back will gang in three! “O gin I had but a gude midwife, Here this day to save my life ; And ease me o’ my misery, O dear, how happy 1 wou’d be!” “My love, we’re far frae ony town, There is nae midwife to be foun’ ; But if ye’ll be content wi’ me, T'll do for you what man can dee.” “Tor no, for no, this maunna be,” WY a sigh replied this gay ladye ; “ When I endure my grief and pain, My companie ye maun refrain. “ Ye’ll take your arrow said your bow, And ye will hunt the deer and roe ; Be sure ye touch not the white hynde, For she is o’ the woman kind.” He took sic pleasure in dear and roe Till he forgot his gay ladye ; Till by it came that milk-white hynde | And then he mind on his ladye syne, He hasted him to yon greenwood tree For to relieve his gay ladye ; But found his ladye lying dead, Likeways her young son at her head. His mother lay ower her castle wa’, And she beheld baith dale and down; And she beheld young Leesome Brand, As he came riding to the town. “Get minstrels for to play,” she said, “ And dancers to dance in my room; For here comes my son, Leesome Brand, And he comes merrilie to the town.” “Seek nae minstrels to play, mother, Nor dancers to dance in your room; But though your son comes, Leesome Brand, Yet he comes sorry to the town. “OL hae lost my gowden knife, I rather had lost my ain sweet life; And I hae lost a better thinz, The gilded sheath that it was in.” ‘Are there nae gowdsmiths hoze in Fil, Can make to you anither xnifs ? Are there nae sheath-makers in the iand, Can make a sheath to Leesome Brand ?” “There are nae gowdsmiths dere i Fife. Can make me sic a gowden kn‘fe ; Nor nae sheath-makxers in the iana, Can make to me a sheath again. “There ne’er was man it. Scot_anc. born. Ordain’d to be so uch forlor~ : I’ve lost my ladye I loved sae dear, Likeways the son ske cid me hear,” “Put im your nana at my ved .¢ad, There ye’ll finc & gue grey horn; Yn it three draps o’ Saint Paul’s ain bluae, That hae been ‘hor: sin’ he wie bore. rap twa o’ them 9’ your ladye, And ane upo’ yous little young son; Than as tively they will be As tle first night ys brought the haae.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. He put his hand at her bed head, And there he found a gude grey horn; WY’ three draps o’ Saint Paul’s ain blude, That had been there sin’ he was born. Then he drapp’d twa on his ladye, And ane o’ them on his young son; And now they do as lively be, As the first day he brought them hame. CLERK TAMAS.! Cierx Tamas loved her, fair Annie, As well as Mary loved her son ; But now he hates her, fair Annie, And hates the lands that she lives in. *Ohon, alas!” said fair Annie, “ Alas! this day I fear I’ll die ; But I will cn to sweet Tamas, And see gin he will pity me.” As Tamas lay ower his shott window, Just as the sux was gaen down, There he bebe'd her, fair Annie, As she came walking to the town. “O where are a’ my well-wight men, I wat, that I nay meat and fee, For to -et a mz hourds gang loose, To hurt t’r's rile whore to the sea.” Tue hounds they knew the lady well, And nare o’ them they ‘vou’d her bite ; Save ane tua: ‘s on’d Gaudy-where, I wat he did the lady smite. “O wae mat worth ;e, Gaudy-where, An ill reward this is to me, For ae bit that I gae tle lave, I’m very sure I've gi’cn you three. “For me, alas! there’s ne remcid, Here comes the day that I maun die; 1 ken ye loved your muster weil, And sae, alas! for me, did 1!” 2 eaptais lay over his ship winlow, Just as the sun was gaen down ; “here he beheld her, fair Annie, As she was hunted frae th: town. +1) Th'a ballad bears all the characteriatics of antiquity. I: seexrs ger of a romantic kind, although in many places allegorical, | I y | | 585 ‘Gin ye’ll forsake father and mither, And sae will ye your friends and kin, Gin ye’ll forsake your lands sae broad, Then come, and I will take you in.” * Yes, I'll forsake baith father and mither, And sae will I my friends and kin,} Yes, I'll forsake my lands sae broad, And come, gin ye will take me in.” Then a’ thing gaed frae fause Tamas, And there was naething byde him wi’; Then he thought lang for Arrandella, Tt was fair Annie for to see. * How do ye now, ye sweet Tamas ? And how gaes a’ in your countrie? ” *T’ll do better to you than ever I’ve done Fair Annie, gin ye’ll come an’ see.” “O Guid forbid,” said fair Annie, “That e’er the like fa’ in my hand; Wou’d I forsake my ain gude lord, And follow you, a gae-through-land ? *Yet nevertheless, now sweet Tamas, Ye’ll drink a cup 0’ wine wi? me And nine times in the live lang day, Your fair claithing shall changed be.” Fair Annie pat it till her cheek, Sae did she till her milk-white chin, Sae did she till her flattering lips, But never a drap 0’ wine gaed in. Tamas pat it till his cheex, Sae did he till his dimpled chin ; He pat it till his rosy lips, And then the well o’ wine gaed in. “ These pains,” said he, “are ill to bides Here is the day that I maun die ; O take this cup frae me, Annie, For o’ the same J am weary.” ‘* And sae was I o’ you, Tamas, When I was hunted to the sea; But Tse gar bury you in state, Which is mair than ye’d done to me.” —_——e af 586 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 4 THE QUEEN OF SCOTLAND! “O Troy Murr, my lily flower, An asking I'll ask thee ; Will ye come to my bigly bower, And drink the wine wi’? me? ” “My dame, this is too much honour You have conferr’d on me; T’m sure it’s mair than I’ve deserved Frae sic a one as thee.” “Tn Reekie’s towers I ha’e a bower, And pictures round it set ; There is a bed that is well made, Where you and I shall sleep.” “O God forbid,” this youth then said, _ © That ever I dree sic blame ; As ever to touch the queen’s bodie, Although the king’s frae hame.” When that he had these words spoken, She secretly did say— “ Some evil I shall work this man, Before that it be day.” Whan a’ her maids were gane to bed, And knights were gane frae hame ; She call’d upon young Troy Muir, To put fire in her room. “ An asking, asking, Troy Muir, An asking ye’ll graut me.” “O, if it be a lawful thing, My dame, it’s granted be.” “ There is a stane in yon garden, Nae ane lifts it for me ; But if that ye wou’d lift the same, A brave man I'll ca’ thee. “Under yon stane there is a pit, Most dreary for to see ; And in it there’s as much red gowd As buy a dukedom to thee.” “O if I had ae sleep in bed, And saw the morning sun ; As soon’s I rise and see the skies, Your will it shall be done.” (1) Whether this ballad alludes to Mary Queen of Scots’ illicit amours, which were so notorious, I leave my readers to judge. It is evident, however, like the wife of Potiphar, she contrived the death of this chaste young man, who acted a more honourable part than defile the bed of his royal master. The young woman, by whose instrumentality his life had been prolonged, he married, as When birds did sing, and sun did rise, And sweetly sang the lark ; Troy Muir to the garden went, To work this dreary wark. He’s ta’en the stane then by a ring, And lifted manfullie ; A serpent that lang wanted meat, Round Troy Muir’s middle did flee. “ How shall I get rid o’ this foul beast, It’s by it I must dee; I never thought the queen, my friend, Wou’d work this mischief to me.” But by there came a weelfair’d may, As Troy Muir did tauk ; The serpent’s furious rage to lay, Cut aff her fair white pap. As soon as she the same had done, Young Troy Muir was set free ; And in ane hour the wound was heal’d, That nae mair pain had she. Says Troy Muir, “ My lily flower, Ye ha’e released me ; But before I see another day, My wedded wife ye’se be.” He married her on that same day, Brought her to his ain hame ; A lovely son to him she bare, When full nine months were gane. As heaven was pleased, in a short time, To ease her first sad pain; Sae was it pleased, when she’d a son, To hae a pap again. THE EARL OF MAR’S DAUGHTER? It was intill a pleasant time, Upon a simmer’s day, The noble Earl of Mar’s daughter Went forth to sport and plry. a proof of his gratitude; and Providence, willing to encourage such virtuous actions, healed the wound the serpent haf made. (2) In the oriental courts of the ancients, magic was a favourite study, and formed part of the education of their nobles, which they brought to great perfection; I mean to such perfection as this science is capable of being brought by human means. Till ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. As thus she did amuse hersell, Below a green aik tree, There she saw a sprightly doo Set on a tower sae hie. “O Cow-me-doo, my love sae true, If ye’ll come down to me, Ye’se ha’e a cage 0’ guid red gowd Instead o’ simple tree : “Tl put gowd hingers roun’ your cage, And siller roun’ your wa’ ; Tl gar ye shine as fair a bird 229 As ony 0’ them a’. But she hadna these words well spoke, Nor yet these words well said, Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower, And lighted on her head. Then she has brought this pretty bird Hame to her bowers and ha’: And made him shine as fair a bird As ony o’ them a’. When day was gane, and night was come, About the evening tide ; This lady spied a sprightly youth Stand straight up by her side. “From whence came ye, young man?” she said, “That does surprise me sair ; My door was bolted right secure ; What way ha’e ye come here?” “O had your tongue, ye lady fair, Lat a’ your folly be; Mind ye not on your turtle doo Last day ye brought wi’ thee ?” O tell me mair, young man,” she said, “This does surprise me now ; What country ha’e ye come frae ? What pedigree are you? ” 587 “My mither lives on foreign ies, She has nae mair but me; She is a queen o’ wealth and state, And birth and high degree. “Likewise well skill’d in magic spells, As ye may plainly see; And she transform’d me to yon shape, To charm such maids as thee. “Tam a doo the livelang day, A sprightly youth at night ; This aye gars me appear mair fair In a fair maiden’s sight. “ And it was but this verra day That I came ower the sea ; Your lovely face did me enchant, J'll live and dee wi’ thee.” “O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, Nae mair frae me ye’se gae.” “That’s never my intent, my luve, As ye said, it shall be sae.” “O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true, It’s time to gae to bed.” “Wi a’ my heart, my dear marrow, It’s be as ye ha’e said.” Then he has stay’d in bower wi’ her For sax lang years and ane, Till sax young sons to him she bare, And the seventh she’s brought hame. But aye as ever a child was born, He carried them away ; And brought them to his mither’s care, Ar fast as he cou’d fly. Thus he has stay’d.in bower wi’ her For twenty years and three; There came a lord o’ high renown To court this fair ladie. within these few years past, a belief in magic and witchcraft was cherished, not only by the ignorant, but the learned in our own country. In Toledo, Seville, and Salamanca, and in various parts of Italy, there were public schools where magic was taught. At one period, it was customary for the noblemen and gentlemen of Scot- land to finish their education by making what was called the tour of Europe, and attending for a short period one of those eastern seminaries of darkness. Transformations were common in the days of Ovid; men were metamorphosed into birds, beasts, fishes, woods, and water. ‘The Arabian, Tartarian, Eustern, and Fairy tales, furnish us with abundant instances of this kind, charms having ‘been used for the purpose. Scotland, till of late, had her witches, her warlocks, her fairies, her brownies, and a hundred more super- natural and midnight visitors, who were capable of riding through the air on broomsticks, or crossing the raging ocean in egg-shells, or sieves, as happens, which may be seen at full-léngthin* atan’s Invisible World Discovered.” The Earl of Gowrie was said to be a staunch advocate for charms, amulets, and Homericul medi- cines, a3 mentioned in the Gowrie Conspiracy. ‘* When he (¢.e. Earl Gowrie) went to Padua, there he studied Necromancy : his own pedagogue master, Rhind, testifies that he had these’ charac- ters aye upon him, which he loved so, that if he had forgot to put them in his breeches, he would run up and down like a madman, and he had them upon him when he was slain; and as they testify that saw it, he could not bleed so long as they were upon him.” Many are the instances, even to this day, of charms practised among the vulgar, especially in the Highlands, attended with forms of prayer. This ballad has the highest claim to antiquity. The learned Lord Hailes says, the title of Mar is one of the earldoms whose origin is lost in its antiquity : it would, therefore, be vain for me to ascribe the date of the ballad to any precise period, “588 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. But still his proffer she refused, And a’ his presents too ; Says, “I’m content to live alane Wi my bird, Cow-me-doo.” Her father sware a solemn oath Amang the nobles all, * The morn, or ere I eat or drink, This bird I will gar kill.” The bird was sitting in his cage, And heard what they did say ; And when he found they were dismist, Says, “Waes me for this day. “ Before that I do langer stay, And thus to be forlorn, Tl gang unto my mither’s bower, Where I was bred and born.” Then Cow-me-doo took flight and flew Beyond the raging sea ; And lighted near his mither’s castle On a tower o° gowd sae hie. As his mither was wauking out, To see what she cou’d see; And there she saw her little sou Set on the tower sae hie. “Get dancers here to dance,” she said, “ And minstrells for to play ; For here’s my young son, Florentine, Come here wi’ me to stay.” * Get nae dancers to dance, mither, Nor minstrells for to play ; For the mither o’ my seven sons, The morn’s her wedding day.” *©O tell me, tell me, Florentine, Tell me, and tell me true ; Tell me this day without a flaw, What I will do for you.” “Instead of dancers to dance, mither, Or minstrells for to play ; Turn four-and-twenty wall-wight men Like storks, in feathers grey ; “ My seven sons in seven swans, Aboon their heads to flee ; And I, mysell, a gay goshawk, A bird o’ high degree.” Then sichin’ said the queen hersell, * That thing’s too high for me ;” But she applied to an auld woman, Who had mair skill than she. Instead o” dancers to dance a dance, Or minstrells for to play, Four-and-twenty wall-wight men Turn’d birds o’ feathers grey ; Her seven sons in seven swans, Aboon their heads to flee ; And he himsell a gay goshawk, A bird o’ high degree. This flock 0’ birds took flight and flew Beyond the raging sea ; And landed near the Earl Mar’s castle, Took shelter in every tree. They were a flock o’ pretty birds, Right comely to be seen ; The people view’d them wi’ surprise As they danced on the green. These birds ascended frae the tree, And lighted on the ha’ ; And at the last wi’ force did flee Amang the nobles a’. The storks there seized some o’ the men, They cou’d neither fight nor flee ; The swans they bound the bride’s best mza Below a green aik tree. They lighted next on maidens fair, Then on the bride’s own head- And wi’ the twinkling o’ an e’e, The bride and them were fled. There’s ancient men at weddings been, For sixty years or more; But sic a curious wedding day They never saw before. For naething cou’d the companie do, Nor naething cou’d they say ; But they saw a flock o’ pretty birds That took their bride away. When that Earl Mar ne came to know Where his dochter did stay, He sign’d a bond o” unity, And visits now they pay. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. DEATH OF LORD WARRISTON.' My mother was an ill woman, In fifteen years she married me; T hadna wit to guide a man, Alas! ill counsel guided me. O Warriston, O Warriston, I wish that ye may sink for sin; I was but bare fifteen years auld, Whan first I enter’d your yates within. T hadna been a month married, Till my gude lord went to the sea; I bare a bairn ere he came hame, And set it on the nourice knee. But it fell ance upon a day, That my gude lord return’d from sea ; Then I did dress in the best array, As blithe as ony bird on tree. I took my young son in my arms, Likewise my nourice me forebye ; And I went down to yon shore side, My gude lord’s vessel I might spy. My lord he stood upon the deck, I wyte he hail’d me courteouslie ; “Ye are thrice welcome, my lady gay, Whase aught that bairn on your knee ?” She turn’d her right and round about, Says, “‘ Why take ye sic dreads o’ me?” Alas! I was too young married, To love another man but thee.” 589 “Now hold your tongue, my lady gay, Nae mair falsehoods ye’ll tell to me ; This bonny bairn is not mine, You've loved another while I was on sea.” In discontent then hame she went, And aye the tear did blin’ her e’e ; Says, “ Of this wretch 1’ll be revenged, For these harsh words he’s said to me.” She’s counsell’d wi’ her father’s steward, What way she cou’d revenged be; Bad was the counsel then he gave,— It was to gar her gude lord dee. The nourice took the deed in hand, I wat she was well paid her fee ; She kiest the knot, and the loop she ran, Which soon did gar this young lord dee. His brother lay in a room hard by, Alas! that night he slept too soun’ ; But then he waken’d wi’ a cry, “T fear my brother’s putten down. “O get me coal and candle light, And get me some gude companie ;” But before the light was brought, Warriston he was gart dee. They’ve ta’en the lady and fause nourice, In prison strong they hae them boun’; The nourice she was hard o’ heart, But the bonny lady fell in swoon. In it came her brother dear, And aye a sorry man was he; “T wou'd gie a’ the lands I heir, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.” (1) In another note, I have endeavoured to show that the title of lord is sometimes conferred on the proprietor of a small estate. In the present case, I have seen two different ballads, one published by Mr. Jamieson, vol. i. p. 109, of his “ Popular Ballads ;” another by Mr. Kinloch, p. 49 of his “ Ancient Scottish Ballads :”—in both “he is called the Laird of Warieston. The copy given here is the completest of the three, and changes the cause of the melancholy catastrophe altogether. The ballad, as most of our ancient Scot- tish ballads are, is founded on fact, and is very old, as may be seen by consulting Birrel’s Diary, pages 49 and 61, from which the following extracts are given :— “1600, July 2.—The same 2 day, John Kinkaid of Wariston murderet be his awin wyff and servant man, and her nurische being also upon the conspiracy. The said gentilwoman being apprehendit, scho was tane to the Girth crosse upor the 5 day of Tulii, and her heid struck frae her bodie at the Cannagait fit, quha diet verie patiently. Her nurische was brunt at the same time, at 4 houris in the morneing, the 5 of Julii.” “The 16 of Junii (1603) Robert Weir broken on ane cart- wheel with ane coulter of ane pleuche, in the hand of the hang- man, for murdering the gudeman of Warriston, quhilk he did 2 Julii, 1600.” also give the following excerpt from an old MS, of curious Trials of the Court of Justiciary, as it differs somewhat from the account given of this diabolical murder in Birrel’s Diary, as stated above. “1604, June 26.—William Weir delaytet of art and part of the cruel murder of John Kincaid, of Warrieston, in anno 1600. The part of this barbarous murder is this:—Jean Liuingston, spouse to the said John Kincaid, having conceived a deadly hatred towards her husband for alleged maletreatment, did send Janet Murdo, her nurse, to the said William Weir, and implored him to murder her husband; who accordingly was brought to Warrie- ston, and about midnight they came into the room where he was lying in bed, and being wakened with the noice, called to him, whereupon the said Weir running to him, and with a severe stroke with his hand, struck him on the wein organ, and thereby he fell out of his bed on the floor, whereupon Weir struck him on the belly with his feet, and thereafter gripped him by the throat, and held him till he strangled him to death. “Tt does not appear how proved, nor if the lady and nurse were tried, but the Jury having found him guilty, he was sentenced to be broken alive on the row, or wheel, and be exposed theron for twenty-four hours; and thereafter the said row, with the body on it, to be placed between Leith and Warrieston, till orders be given to burn the body.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS, *O borrow me, brother, borrow me,— O borrow’d shall I never be; For I gart kill my ain gude lord, And life is nae pleasure to me.” In it came her mother dear, I wyte a sorry woman was she; “T wou’d gie my white monie and gowd, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.” “ Borrow me, mother, borrow me,— O borrow’d shall I never be ; For I gart kill my ain gude lord, And life’s now nae pleasure to me.” Then in it came her father dear, _I wyte a sorry man was he ; Says, “Ohon! alas! my bonny Jean, If I had you at hame wi’ me. ‘Seven daughters I hae left at hame, As fair women as fair can be; But I wou’d gi’e them ane by ane, O bonny Jean, to borrow thee.” “O borrow me, father, borrow me,— O borrow’d shall I never be; I that is worthy o’ the death, It is but right that I shou’d dee.” Then out it speaks the king himsell, And aye as he steps in the fleer, Says, “I grant you your life, lady, Because you are of tender year.” “A boon, a boon, my liege the king, The boon I ask, ye’ll grant to me.” “ Ask on, ask on, my bonny Jean, Whate’er ye ask it’s granted be.” * Cause take me out at night, at night, Lat not the sun upon me shine ; And take me to yon heading hill, Strike aff this dowie head 0’ mine. “ Ye'll take me out at night, at night, When there are nane to gaze and see; And hae me to yon heading hill, And ye’ll gar head me speedilie.” They’ve ta’en her out at nine at night, Loot not the sun upon her shine; And had her to yon heading hill, And headed her baith neat and fine. Then out it speaks the king himsell, I wyte a sorry man was he ; “T’ve travell’d east, I’ve travell’d west, And sailed far beyond the sea, But I never saw a woman’s face I was sae sorry to see die.” But Warriston was sair to blame, For slighting 0” his lady so ; He had the wyte o’ his ain death, And bonny lady’s overthrow. EARL CRAWFORD." O wE were seven bonny sisters, As fair women as fair could be, And some got lairds, and some got lords, And some got knights o’ high degree. When I was married to Earl Crawford, This was the fate befell to me. © When we had been married for some time, We walked in our garden green ; And aye he clapp’d his young son’s head, And aye he made sae much o’ him. I turn’d me right and round about, And aye the blithe blink in my e’e; “ Ye think as much o’ your young son As ye do o’ my fair body. ... . “ What need ye clap your young son’s head, - What need ye make so much o’ him? What need ye clap your young son’s head P I’m sure ye gotna him your lane.” “0 if I gotna him my lane, Show here the man that helped me ; And for these words your ain mouth spoke, Heir o’ my land he ne’er shall be.” He call’d upon his stable groom, To come to him right speedilie ; “Gae saddle a steed to Lady Crawford, Be sure ye do it hastilie. (1) Lindsay, one of the Earls of Crawford, having married a | The ballad concludes with the death of both. Those of the surname daughter of of Stobhall, in Aberdeenshire, unwittingly took | of Lindsay at one period were very numerous in Scotland, having as an affront a jesting word this lady said regarding herson. The | spread into numerous branches. The name was derived from the story of the lady’s fatality 1s told by herself in very pathetic strains. © manor of Lindsay, in Essex, and consequently of English origin. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 501 “ His bridle gilt wi’ gude red gowd, That it may glitter in her e’e; And send her on to bonny Stobha’, All her relatlons for to see.” Her mother lay o’er the castle wa’, And she beheld baith dale and down ; And she beheld her, Lady Crawford, As she came riding to the town. “Come here, come here, my husband dear, This day ye see not what I see; For here there comes her, Lady Crawford, Riding alane upon the lee.” When she came to her father’s yates, She tirled gently at the pin; “If ye sleep, awake, my mother dear, Ye’ll rise, lat Lady Crawford in.” “ What news, what news, ye Lady Crawford, That ye come here so hastilie ?” * Bad news, bad news, my mother dear, For my gude lord’s forsaken me.” *O wae’s me for you, Lady Crawford, This is a dowie tale to me; Alas, you were too young married, To thole sic cross and misery.” *O had your tongue, my mother dear, And ye’ll lat a’ your folly be ; : It was a word my merry mouth spake, That sinder’d my gude lord and me.” Out it spake her brither then, Aye as he stept ben the floor; * My sister Lillie was but eightzen years When Earl Crawford ca’ed her a whore. “ But had your tongue, my sister dear, And ye’ll lat a’ your mourning be ; T’ll wed you to as fine a knight, That is nine times as rich as he.” *Q had your tongue, my brither dear, And ye’ll lat a’ your folly be ; I rather ae kiss o’ Crawford’s mouth, Than a’ his gowd and white monie. “ But saddle to me my riding steed, Aud see him saddled speedilie ; And I will on to Earl Crawford’s, And see if he will pity me.” Earl Crawford lay o’er castle wa’, And he beheld baith dale and down; And he beheld her, Lady Crawford, As she came riding to the town. He called ane o’ his livery men To come to him right speedilie ; *Gae shut my yates, gae steek my doors, Keep Lady Crawford out frae me.” When she came to Earl Crawford’s yates, She tirled gently at the pin; *Q sleep ye, wake ye, Earl Crawford, Ye'll open, lat Lady Crawford in. “Come down, come down, O Earl Crawford. And speak some comfort unto me ; And if ye winna come yoursell, Ye’ll send your gentleman to me.” “ Tndeed, I winna come mysell, Nor send my gentleman to thee ; For I tauld you when we did part Nae mair my spouse ye’d ever be.” She laid her mouth then to the yates, And aye the tears drapt frae her e’e; Says, “ Fare-ye-well, Earl Crawford’s yates, You, again, I’ll nae mair see.” Earl Crawford call’d on his. stable groom To come to him right speedilie ; And sae did he his waiting man, That did attend his fair bodie “Ye will gae saddle for me my steed, And see and saddle him speedilie ; And [ll gang to the Lady Crawford, And see if she will pity me.” Lady Crawford lay o’er castle wa’, And she beheld baith dale and down; And she belield him, Earl Crawford, As he came riding to the town. Then she has call’d ane o’ her maids To come to her right speedilie ; “ Gae shut my yates, gae steek iny doors, Keep Earl Crawford out frae me.” When he came to Lady Crawford’s yates, He tirled gently at the pin ; “Sleep ye, wake ye, Lady Crawford, Ye’ll rise and lat Earl Crawford in. 592 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Come down, come down, O Lady Crawford, Come down, come down, ard speak wi’ me; And gin ye winna come yoursell, Ye’ll send your waiting-maid to me.” “Tndeed I winna come mysell, Nor send my waiting-maid to thee; Sae take your ain words hame again At Crawford Castle ye tauld me.” “O mother dear, gae make my bed, And ye will make it saft and soun’, And turn my face unto the west, That T nae mair may see the sun.” Her mother she did make her bed, And she dic make it saft and soun’ True were the words fair Lillie spake, Her lovsiy eycs ne’er saw the sun. The Earl Crawford mounted his stead, Wy sorrows great he did ride hame ; But ere the morning sun appear’d, This fine lord was dead and gane. Then on ae night this couple died, And baith were buried in ae tomb; Let this a warning be to all, Their pride may not bring them low down. BURD ISBEL AND SIR PATRICK.’ Take warning, a ye young women, Of low station or hie ; Lay never your love upon a man Abcve your ain degree, Thus [ speak by Burd Isbel, She was a maid sae fair, She laid her love on Sir Patrick, She'll rue it for evermair. And likewise a’ ye sprightly youths Of low station or hie; Lay never your love upon a maid Below your ain degree. And thus I speak by Sir Patrick, Who was a knight sae rare ; (1) It is not an uncommon thing, even in the present day, to find a person who will mis-swear himself to half-a-dozen of young women in a year; particularly to those whom they consider in a state incapable of retaliating, as was the case with Burd Isbel. None but those destitute of every sense of honour He’s laid his love on Burd Isbel, - He’ll rue it for evermair. Burd Isbel was but ten years aula, To service she has gane ; And Burd Isbel was but fifeteen Whan her young son came hame. It fell ance upon a day, Strong travailing took she; None there was her bower within, But Sir Patrick and she. “This is a wark now, Sir Patrick, That we twa ne’er will end; Ye’ll do you to the outer court, And call some women in.” He’s done him to the outer court, And stately there did stand; Eleven ladies he’s call’d in Wi’ ae shake o’ his hand. “ Be favourable to Burd Ishel, Deal favourable if ye may ; Her kirking and her fair wedding, Shall baith stand on ae day. “Deal favourable to Burd Ishel, Whom I love as my life ; Ere this day month be come and gane, She’s be my wedded wife.” Then he is on to his father, Fell low down on his knee ; Says, “ Will I marry Burd Isbel ? She’s born a son to me.” “O marry, marry Burd Isbel, Or use her as ye like; Ye'll gar her wear the silks sae red, And sae may ye the white. O wou’d ye marry Burd Isbel, Make her your heart’s delight ? * You want not lands, nor rents, Patrick, You know your fortune’s free ; But ere you’d marry Burd Isbel, I'd rather bury thee. * Yell build a bower for Burd Isbel, And set it round wi’ sand; would be guilty of such injustice to a young and unprotected female, who rather merits their kind sympathy, The last verse of this ballad would cause the reader to think the forsaken maid had the power of anathematising her mis-sworn knight, for the selling of his precious soul, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 593 Make as much mirth in [sbel’s bower, As ony in a’ the land.” Then he is to his mother gane, Fell low down on his knee ; “O shall I marry Burd Ishel ? She’s born a son to me.” “*O marry, marry Burd Isbel, Or use her as ye like ; Ye’ll gar her wear the silks sae red, And sae may ye the white ; O would ye marry Burd Isbel, Make her wi’ me alike ? “You want not lands and rents, Patrick, You know your fortune’s free ; But ere you marry Burd Isbel, Vd rather bury thee. “ Ye’ll build a bower to Burd Ishel, And set it round wi’ glass , Make as much mirth in Isbel’s bower, As ony in a’ the place.” He’s done him down through ha’, through ha’, Sae has he in through bower ; The tears ran frae his twa grey eyes, And loot them fast down pour. “My father and my mother baith To age are coming on; When they are dead and buried baith, Burd Isbel Pll bring home.” The words that pass’d atween these twa Ought never to be spoken; The vows that pass’d atween these twa Ought never to be broken. Says he, “If I another court, Or wed another wife, May eleven devils me attend At the end-day o” my life.” But: his father he soon did die, His mother nae lang behind ; But Sir Patrick of Burd Isbel He now had little mind. It fell ance upon a day, As she went out to walk ; And there she saw him, Sir Patrick, Going wi’ his hound and hawk. “Stay still, stay still, now Sir Patrick, O stay a little wee, And think upon the fair promise Last year ye made to me. “Now your father’s dead, kind sir, And your mother the same ; Yet nevertheless, now Sir Patrick, Ye’re nae bringing me hame.” “Tf the morn be a pleasant day, I mean to sail the sea; To spend my time in fair England, All for a month, or three.” He hadna been in fair England A month but barely ane, Till he forgot her, Burd Isbel, The mother of his son. Some time he spent in fair England, And when return’d again, He laid his love on a Duke’s daugliter, And he has brought her hame. Now he’s forgot his first true love He ance loved ower them a’ ; But now the devil did begin To work between them twa, When Sir Patrick he was wed, And all set down to dine, Upon his first love, Burd Ishel, A thought ran in his mind. He call’d upon his gude grand aunt To come right speedilie ; Says, “ Ye’ll gae on to Burd Isbel, Bring my young son to me.” She’s ta’en her mantle her about, Wi gowd gloves on her hand; And she is on to Burd Isbel, As fast as she cou’d gang. She hail’d her high, she hail’d her low, With style in great degree ; “O busk, O busk your little young son, For he maun gang wi’ me.” “T wou’d fain see the one,” she said, “O’ low station or hie, Wou’d take the bairn frae my foot, For him I bow’d my knee. “T wou'd fain see the one,” she said, “O’ low station or mean, Would take the bairn frae my foot, Whom J own to be mine,” 59¢ Then she has done her hame again, As fast as gang cou’d she, * Present,” said he, “my little young son, For him I wish to see.” “ Burd Isbel’s a bauld woman,” she said, “ As e’er I yet spake wi’.” But sighing, said him, Sir Patrick, “ She ne’er was bauld to me.” But he’s dress’d in his best array, His gowd rod in his hand ; And he is to Burd Isbel’s bower, As fast as he cou’d gang. *O how is this, Burd Isbel,” he said, “So ill ye’ve used me ? What gart you anger my gude grand aunt, That I did send to thee ?” “Tf I ha’e anger’d your gude grand aunt, O then sae lat it be ; 1 said naething to your gude grand aunt But what T’ll say to thee. “T would fain see the one, I said, O’ low station or hie, Wha wou’d take this bairn frae my foot, For him I bow’d the knee. “T wou’d fain see the one, I said, O’ low station or mean, Wov’'d take this bairn frae my foot Whom I own to be mine.” “O if I had some counsellors here, And clerks to seal the band, I would infeft your son, this day, In third part o’ my land.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “T ha’e two cousins, Scottish clerks, Wi’ bills into their hand, An’ ye’ll infeft my son, this day, In third part o’ your land.” Then he call’d in her Scottish clerks, Wi’ bills into their hand ; And he’s infeft his son that day The third part o’ his land. To ane o’ these young clerks she spoke, Clerk John it was his name; Says, “Of my son I gi’e you charge Till I return again. Ye'll take here my son, clerk John, Learn him to dance and sing, And I will to some unco land, Drive love out of my mind. * And ye’ll take here my son, clerk John, Learn him to hunt the roe; And I will to some unco land,— Now lat Sir Patrick go. © But Pll cause this knight at church-door stand, For a’ his noble train ; For selling o” his precious soul, Dare never come farther ben.” M‘PHERSON.' Cuariiz M‘Puerson, That brisk Highland laddie ; At Valentine even, He came to Kinadie ; CHARLIE (1) Under the feudal law, a Highland chieftain was invested with more power and authority than many democratic kings, and made use of it according to the strength of his clan, and his own arbitrary or tyrannical disposition. To rob and despoil parents of their only daughter, on whom they looked for comfort in their declining years, and carry her off, they knew not whither, was not one of the worst actions of which some of them were guilty ; but, like the Romish Inquisition, no one durst say it was wrong which they had done, unless their strength and power were such as to be able to overcome them in battle. Charles M‘Pherson was one of that Highland clan, commonly called the Clan-Chattan, famed for antiquity and valour. They draw their original from the Chatti, or Catti, the ancient inhabi- tants of Hessia and Thuringia in Germany, whence they were expelled by the Hermondures, with the assistance of the Romans, in the reign of the Emperor Tiberius. Cattorum Castellum, one of the Landgrave of Hesse’s palaces, and Cattorum Melibeci, or Catzenellebogen, which is one of the family’s titles, do still preserve the memory of the ancient Catti; who, being forced to leave their country, came lower down upon the Rhine into Battavia, now Holland, where Catwick still bears their name. Thence a colony of them came into Scotland, and landing in the north of that kingdom, were kindly received by the King of Scots, who gave them that part of the country where they landed, which from them was called Caithness, 7. e. the Catties? corner: being settled here, they did many eminent services against the Picts, and other enemies of the Scots, till the time of King Alphinus, when the chief of the Catti, called Gilly Cattan Moir, ¢. e. the Great, for his extraordinary conduct and valour, being married to a sister of Brudus, king of the Picts, he was in a strait how to behave himself betwixt both kings, who, in a little time after, fell out, and as the expedient, resolved upon aneutrality. In the reign of Kennethus IL., who also had war with the Picts, this Gilly Cattan Moir, amongst others of the Scotch nobility, was summoned to attend the king's standard, He excused himself by reason of his age; but to evidence his loyalty, though allied to the Picts, he sent one of his sons, with half of his clan, to join the Scots, which did not a little contribute to that fatal blow which issued in the utter ruin of the Picts. Most of the Clan Chattan, with their valiant leader, falling in the battle, the old man died of grief, and the remaining part were, by the advice of their enemies, prosecuted as favourers of the Picts, ox- pelled Caithness, and, with much ado, obtained leave to settle in Lochaber, where they remain to this day. There are many other Highland families whose name begins with Mc or McMac, which signifies the son of such a man, whe being eminent for some great thing, his posterity chose his name, or surname, as the McLeans, McIntoshes, &c. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. To court her, Burd Helen, Baith waking and sleeping ; Joy be wi’ them That has her a-keeping. Auldtown and Muirtown, Likewise Billy Beg ; All gaed wi’ Charlie, For to be his guide. Jamie M‘Robbie, Likewise Wattie Nairn, All gaed wi’ Charlie For to be his warran’. When they came to Kinadie, They knock’d at the door ; When nae ane wou’d answer They gaed a loud roar. * Ye’ll open the door, mistress, And lat us come in; For tidings we’ve brought Frae your appearant guid son.” For to defend them She was not able; They bang’d up the stair, Sat down at the table. “ Ye’ll eat and drink, gentlemen, And eat at your leisure ; Nae thing’s disturb you, Take what’s your pleasure.” “OQ madam,” said he, “T’m come for your daughter, Lang ha’e I come to Kinadie, And there sought her. “Now she’s gae wi’ me For mony a mile, Before that I return Unto the West Isle.” “ My daughter’s not at home, She is gone abroad ; Ye darena now steal her, Her tocher is guid. “My daughter’s in Whitehouse, Wi?’ Mistress Dalgairn ; Joy be wi’ them That waits on my bairn!” 595 The swords and the targe That hang about Charlie, They had sic a glitter, And set him sae rarelie ; They had sic a glitter, And kiest sic a glamour ; They show’d mair light Than they had in the chamour. To Whitehouse he went ; And when he came there, Right sair was his heart, When he went up the stair. Burd Helen was sitting By Thomas’ bed-side ; And all in the house Were addressing her, Bride. “O farewell now, Helen, Dll bid you adieu ; Is this a’ the comfort Tm getting frae you? “It was never my intention Ye shou’d be the waur ; My heavy heart light on Whitehouse 0’ Cromar ! “For you I ha’e travell’d Full mony lang mile ; Awa’ to Kinadie, Far frae the West Isle. * But now ye are married, And I am the waur ; My heavy heart light on Whitehouse 0’ Cromar !” THE BIRTH OF ROBIN HOOD.' Mony ane talks of the grass, the grass, And mony ane o’ the corn, And mony ane talks o’ gude Robin Hood, Kens little whar he was born. He was gotten in a earl’s ha’, And in a lady’s bower ; And born into gude greenwood, Through mony cauld winter’s shower. (1) This celebrated personage was long considered by the majority of the British public to be an aerial phantom, or fabulous delusion, ike the gods of the Greeks and the Latins, created by the inventive imagination of the ancient poets, chronicleis, and historians ; but I can assure my readers he was a man of flesh and blood, as was Adam, and all his generation downwards. Most 596 His father was the earl’s own steward, Sprung frae sma’ pedigree ; His mother, Earl Huntingdon’s ae daughter, For he had. nane else but she. When nine months were near an end, And eight months they were gone ; The lady’s cheeks wi’ tears were wet, And thus she made her moan : “What shall L say, my love, Archibald, This day for you and me? I will be laid in cauld irons, And ye’ll be hanged on tree.” “ What aileth my love Clementina ? What gars you mourn sae sair?” “You know,” said she, “I’m with child to thee These eight lang months and mair.” * Will ye gae to my mother’s bower, Stands on yon stately green? Or will ye gae to the gude greenwood, Where ye will not be seen? ” “*T winna gang to your mother’s bower, Stands on yon stately green ; But I will on to gude greenwood, For I will not be seen.” He’s girt his sword down by his side, Took his lady by the hand ; And they are on through gude greenwood, As fast as they could gang. With slowly steps these couple walk’d, About miles scarcely three ; When this lady, being sair wearied out, Lay down beneath a tree. “© for a few of yon junipers, To cheer my heart again ; And likewise for a gude midwife To ease me of my pain.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Tl bring to you yon junipers, To cheer your heart again; And T’ll be to you a gude midwife, To ease you of your pain.” “Had far awa’ frae me, Archibald, For this will never dee ; That’s nae the fashion o’ our land, And it’s nae be used by me. Ye’ll take your small sword by your side, Your buckler and your bow; And ye’ll gae down through gude greenwood, And hunt the deer and roe. “You will stay in gude greenwood, And with the chase go on; Until yon white hind pass you by, Then straight to me ye’ll come.” He’s girt his sword then by his side, His buckler and his bow; And he is on through gude greenwood, To hunt the deer and roe. And in the greenwood he did stay, And with the chase gaed on, Until the white hind pass’d him by, Then to his love he came. He girt his sword then by his side, Fast through greenwood went he ; And there he found his love lie dead, Beneath the green oak tree. The sweet young babe that she had born, Right lively seem’d to be; *Qhon, alas!” said young Archibald, “ A mournful scene to me! “ Although my sweet babe is alive, This does increase my woe ; How to nourish a motherless babe, Is mair than I do know.” of the ballads relative to Robin Hood and his man Little John, alias John Little, are very old; and for the times in which they were written, very good, and no doubt founded on facts and inci- dents which have escaped, or been overlooked by the more serious and grave part of prose writers. The one that is now given here contains an accurate though brief sketch of his birth and pedigree, as much so as if it had been enrolled in the books and records of the Lion King at Arms, and afterwards in the peerage of the nobility of the realm.—He lived in the reign of Richard I., King of England. His father was principal steward to the Earl of Huntingdon, and his mother the Earl’s only daughter ; but having, according to the notification given in the ballad, been born in a wood, his natural propensity ran much upon hunting, and such like sports and pastime. He therefore chose, when he came to manhood, Sherwood Forest, in Nottinghamshire, for his princ’pal place of residence, robbing and plundering the rich, and befriending the poor, for which he was outlawed. He had another haunt near the sea, in the North Riding of Yorkshire, where Robin Hood’s Bay still retains his name: not that he wasa pirate, but a land-robber, who retreated to those unsuspected places for his security, As great a robber as he was, being rather a merry than a mischievous thief, and for the most part robbing none but the rich, he had the good luck to escape the hand of justice. In short, he never murdered anything but deer ; and then he feasted his neighbours with the venison. Having been a great enemy to priests and priestcraft in his lifetime, in his sickness he appliel to one of the fraternity for phlebotory, at the nunnery of Kirklees, in Yorkshire, where one of the monks, some say nuns, bled him to death, on the 24th of December, 1247, as a great reward was set upon his head. Thus did one of Atsculapius’s sons, a son of the healing art, send him across the bourne to that land from whence no traveller returns. GLE eGadg yyy -* “NIATOD WIS CNV WIODTVN ONIN : o ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. He looked east, he looked west, To see what he could see; Then spied the Earl o’ Huntingdon, And mony a man him wi’. Then Archibald fled from the earl’s face, Amang the leaves sae green, That he might hear what might be said, And see, and nae be seen. The earl straight through the greenwood came, Unto the green oak tree ; And there he saw his daughter dead, Her living child her wi’. Then he’s ta’en up the little boy, Rowed him in his gown sleeve ; Said, “ Though your father’s to my loss, Your mother’s to me leave.! And if ye live until I die, My bowers and lands ye’se heir ; You are my only daughier’s child, But her I never had mair. * Ye’se ha’e all kinds of nourishment, And likewise nurses three ; If I knew where the fause knave were, High hanged should he be.” His daughter he buried in gude churchyard, All in a mournful mood ; And brought the boy to church that day, And christen’d him Robin Hood. This boy was bred in the earl’s ha’, Till he became a man; But loved to hunt in gude greenwood, To raise his noble fame. KING MALCOLM AND SIR COLVIN.? Ture ance lived a king in fair Scotland, King Malcolm called by name ; Whom ancient history gives record, For valour, worth, and fame. And it fell ance upon a day, The king sat down to dine ; (1) Leave, near of kin, or sib. (2) Maicolm, or Milcolumbus, succeeded Constantine the Third, and was the 76th king of Scotland. He ruled with great prudence and judgment, and distributed justice with equity, as he visited in person all the courts of justice every two years, to remedy the corruptions which had crept into them during the war; but while he was busy in punishing robbers, and reforming the manners of 597 And then he miss’d a favourite knight, Whose name was Sir Colvin. But out it speaks another knight, Ane o’ Sir Colvin’s kin; “ He’s lyin’ in bed right sick in love, All for your daughter Jean.” “O wae’s me,” said the royal king, “T’m sorry for the same ; She maun take bread and wine sae rec Give it to Sir Colvin.” Then gently did she bear the bread, Her page did carry the wine; And set a table at his bed,— “ Sir Colvin, rise and dine.” **O well love I the wine, lady, Come frae your lovely hand; But better love I your fair body, Than all fair Scotland’s strand.” “O hold your tongue now, Sir Colvin, Let all your folly be; My love must be by honour won, Or nane shall enjoy me. “But on the head o’ Elrick’s hill, Near by yon sharp hawthorn, Where never a man with life e’er came Sin’ our sweet Christ was born; *O ye'll gang there and walk a’ night, And boldly blaw your horn ; With honour that ye do return, Ye’ll marry me the morn.” Then up it raise him, Sir Colvin, And dress’d in armour keen ; And he is on to Elrick’s hill, Without light o’ the meen. At midnight mark the meen upstarts, The knight walk’d up and down ; While loudest cracks o’ thunder roar’d, Out ower the bent sae brown. Then by the twinkling o’ an e’e, He spied an armed knight ; A fair lady bearing his brand, Wy torches burning bright. the people, who were lewd and lawless, he was slain by some conspirators in Murray, in the 15th year of his reign, about 950. The villains were afterwards pursued by the nobles, and brought to condign punishment. Sir Colvin had evidently been a great favourite with this good king, as he bestowed on him his daughter Jean, after she had made trial of his bravery in vanquishing an unearthly knight 598 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Then he cried high as he came nigh, “Coward, thief, I bid you flee! There is not ane comes to this hill, But must engage wi’ me. “Ye'll best take road before I come, And best take foot and flee ; Here is a sword baith sharp and broad, Will quarter you in three.” Sir Colvin said, “I’m not afraid Of any here I see; You ha’e not ta’en your God before, Less dread hae I 0’ thee.” Sir Colvin then he drew his sword, His foe he drew his brand ; And they fought there on Elrick’s hill Till they were bluidy men. The first an’ stroke the knight he strake, Gae Colvin a slight wound ; The next an’ stroke Lord Colvin strake, Brought’s foe unto the ground. “T yield, I yield,” the knight he said, “T fairly yield to thee ; Nae ane came e’er to Elrick-hill E’er gain’d such victorie. “JT and my forbears here did haunt Three hundred years and more; I’m safe to swear a solemn oath, We were never beat before.” “ An asking,” said the lady gay, * An asking ye’ll grant me.” * Ask on, ask on,” said Sir Colvin, “What may your asking be?” “Ye'll gie me hame my wounded knight, Let me fare on my way ; And I’se ne’er be seen on Elrick’s hill, By night, nor yet by day. And to this place we’ll come nae mair, Could we win safe away. “To trouble any Christian one Lives in the righteous law ; We'll come nae mair unto this place, Cou’d we win safe awa’.” “O ye’se get hame your wounded knight, Ye shall not gang alane ; But [ maun hae a wad o’ him, Before that we twa twine.” Sir Colvin being a book-learn’d man, Sae gude in fencing tee; He’s drawn a stroke behind his hand, And follow’d in speedilie. Sae fierce a stroke Sir Colvin’s drawn, And follow’d in speedilie ; The knight’s brand, and sword hand, In the air he gar’d them flee. It flew sae high into the sky, And lighted on the ground ; The rings that were on these fingers, Were worth five hundred pound. Up he has ta’en that bluidy hand, Set it before the king ; And the morn it was Wednesday, When he married his daughter Jean. YOUNG ALLAN.’ Att the skippers o’ Scarsburgh Sat drinking at the wine; There fell a-rousing them amang, On an unseally time. Some there rous’d their hawk, their hawk, And some there rous’d their hound ; But young Allan rous’d his comely cog, As she stood on dry ground. There’s nae a ship in Scarsburgh Will sail the seas wi’ mine, Except it be the Burgess black, Or than the smack call’d Twine. “There’s nae a ship amang you a’ Will sail alang wi’ me, But the comely cog o’ Hecklandhawk, And flower o’ Yermanie. And the black snakes of Levelanden, They are a’ gane frae me.” (1) This ballad is so like Sir Patrick Spence in all its operations, os to be taken for a graff of the same stock. Young Allan seems to have been a gentleman of more religious principles and habits than was Sir Patrick; for, when the rest of the mariners were engaged in preparing the vessel for sea, he was praying to his God in his secret bower. By the forms of his religious duties, as saying Mass previous to his departure, and his thanking the Lady, ie. the Virgin Mary, on his return, we may see he had been a convert to the Church of Rome, which prevailed, and had the a+ cendency of all others in those days, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 599 Ont it speaks a little wee boy, tood by young Allan’s knee ; “My master has a coal-carrier, Will take the wind frae thee. “She will gae out under the leaf, Come in under the lee ; And nine times in a winter night She’ll turn the wind wi’ thee.” When they had wager’d them amang Full fifty tuns 0’ wine, Besides as mickle gude black silk As clathe their lemans fine ; When all the rest went to the tows All the whole night to stay, Young Allan he went to his bower, There with his God to pray. “ There shall nae man gang to my ship Till I say mass, and dine; And take my leave o’ my lady, Gae to my bonny ship syne.” Then they sail’d east on Saturday, On Sunday sailed west ; Likewise they sail’d on Mononday Till twelve, when they did rest. At midnight dark the wind up stark, And seas began to rout; Till Allan, and his bonny new ship, Gaed three times witherlands about. “Oh,” sighing, says the young Allan, “1 fear a deadly storm; For mony a heaving sinking sea Strikes sair on my ship’s stern. “ Where will I get a little wee boy Will tak my helm in hand, Till I gang up to my tapmast, And see for some dry land.” © O waken, waken your drunken men, As they lie drunk wi’ wine ; For when ye came through Edinbro’ town, Ye bought them sheen o’ ben’. “There was nae shoe made for my foot, Nor gluve made for my hand; But nevertheless, my dear master, T'll take your helm in hand, Till ye gang to the tall tapmast, And look for some dry land. “ And here am I, a little wee bcy, Will take your helm ia han’, Till ye gang up to your tapmast, But, master, stay not lang.” “T cannot see nae day, nae day, Nor nae meathe can I ken; But mony a bonny feather bed Lies floating on the faem. And the comely cog o’ Normanshore, She never will gang hame.” The comely cog o’ Nicklingame Came sailing by his hand; Says, “Gae down, gae down, ye gude skipper Your ship sails on the sand.” “Come down, come down, my gude master, Ye see not what I see; For through and through our comely cog I see the green haw sea!” “Take fifty ells 0’ gude canvas, And wrap the ship a’ round ; And pick her weel, and spare lier not, And make her hale and sound. “If ye will sail, my bonny ship, Till we come to dry land, For ilka iron nail in you, Of gowd there shall be ten.” The ship she listen’d all the while, And hearing of her hire, She flew as swift through the saut sea As sparks do frae the fire. The first an’ shore that they came till, They ca’d it Howdoloot ; Wi’ drums beating, and cannons shouting, They held our gude ship out. The next an’ shore that they came till, They ca’d it Howdilee ; Wi’ drums beating, and fifes playing, They bare her to the sea. The third an’ shore that they came till, They ca’d it Howdilin ; Wi’ drums beating, and pipes playing, They tow’d our gude ship in. The sailors walk’d upon the shore, Wi? their auld baucheld sheen ; And thanked God, and their Lady, That brougit them safe again, 600 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. For we went out 0’ Scarsburgh Wi’ fifty ships and three ; But nane o’ them came back again, But young Allan, ye see. “Come down, come down, my little wee boy, Till T pay you your fee; T hae but cnly ae daughter, And wedded to her ye’se be.” SIR NIEL AND MAC VAN.’ Far in yon Isles beyond Argyle, Where flocks and herds were plenty, Lived a rich heir, whose sister fair Was flower ower a’ that country. A knight, Sir Niel, had woo’d her lang, Intending for to marry But when she saw the young Glengyle, He wan her heart entirely. Then tidings to her brother came, Sir Neil had boasted proudly, Tn favours of his sister fair ; This made him to swear roudly. Swearing for all the friendship past, If ance he saw the morning, This knight by him shou’d breathe his last, Or make him rue his scorning. Down on yon shore where wild waves roar, A challenge he did send him; Before the sun, these two men met, Nae seconds to attend them. “ What ails, what ails my dearest friend ? Why want you to destroy me?” “T want nae flattery from Sir Niel, Unsheathe your sword and try me.” “TJ will not fight with you, Mac Van, You never me offended; And if I aught to you have done, IT’ own my fault, and mend it.” (1) I have read of a Sir Niel Campbell who followed the fortune of Sir William Wallace, and, along with that brave champion, shared much of his hardships and toil; but I cannot say, to a certainty, that he was the man so dishonourably slain by one of his own clansmen, Campbell of Glengyle. This tragical affray originated in laying both their loves on one lady, a rich heiress in Argyleshire. “ Does this become sae brave a knight P Does blood sae much surprise you P And if you do refuse to fight, Pll like a dog chastise you.” “O, foolish man, don’t tempt your fate, Nor don’t presume to strike me; Remember, nane in fair Scotland Can wield the broad-sword like me.” “The sword, you say, can handle well, And boasteth very boldly ; Your boasting is set off with skill, Your actions seem but cowardly.” He being mad at this abuse, A furious stroke he darted, Into the breast of bold Mac Van, Who with a groan departed. “ Curse on my skill, what have I done? Rash man, but you would hare it, To force a friend to take thy life, Who would lose blood to save it ! “Now, woe is me, for this I die, And now it cannot be mended ; That happiness that was sae nigh, By one rash stroke is ended. “ But Pll exile to some foreign isle, To fly I know not whither ;' I darena face my bonny Ann, When J hae slain her brither.” Then casting round a mournful eye, To see that nane was nigh him ; There he saw the young Glengyle, Who like the wind came flying, “T’ve come too late to stop the strife, But since you’ve been victorious, Upon your life I’ll be revenged, My honour bids me do this.” Then with Glengyle he did enclose, Not meaning for to harm him ; And thrice with wounds he did him pierce, Yet he could scarce discern them. “Yield up your sword to me, Glengyle, Our quarrel’s honour founded ; I could hae pierced thy dauntless breast, Three times I have you wounded.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Then saying so, he quit his ground, Glengyle with this advanced, And pierced the heart of brave Sir Niel, Till the spear behind him glanced. Then falling down, he cried, “ I’m slain, Adieu to all things earthly ! Farewell, Glengyle, the day’s your ain, But ye hae won it basely.” When tidings came to Lady Ann, Times after times she fainted ; She ran and kiss’d their clay-cold lips, And thus her case lamented :— “O thou, the guardian of my youth, My young, my only brother, Alas! for thy untimely end, Ll mourn till life is over ! “ And thou, my love, why wast thou slain, All in thy youthful blossom ; Nae mair V’ll love that treach’rous man That pierced thy manly bosom. * Thou tender-hearted wast, and true, Thy honour’s been abused ; A braver man ne’er faced a foe, Had you been fairly used. “For you a maid I'll live and die, Glengyle shall ne’er espouse me ; Till seven years are come and gane, The dowie black shall clothe me.” —— LORD JOHN’S MURDER.' Lorp Joun stands in his stable door, Says he, “I will gae ride.” His lady, in her bigly bower, Desired him to bide. “ How can I bide, how can I bide ? How shall I bide wi’ thee ? When T hae kill’d your ae brother, You hae nae mair but he.” (1) A fragment of this pathetic ballad will be found in the “ Edinbargh CoLection ” of 1776, vol. i. p. 165, already mentioned; but st is deficient in narrative, and imperfect in the tragical detail of what it contains. For some real or imaginary cause, the hero of the ballad murders his lover's only brother, for whic he ir.tends leaving the place of his rendezvous, but is prevented by the lady, who ‘promises to secrete him in a place of her own bower. She proved faithiul to her promise ; for when nine armed men came in pureit 2 Liza, she kept him secure; and to keep up the decep- tion, and prevent suspicion, she entertained them all with bread 601 “Tf ye hae kill’d my ae brother, Alas! and wae is me; If ye be well yoursell, my love, The less matter will be! “ Ye'll do you to yon bigly bower, And take a silent sleep ; And T’ll watch in my highest tower, Your fair body to keep.” She has shut her bigly bower, All wi’ a silver pin; And done her to the highest tower, To watch that nane come in. But as she looked round about, To see what she could see, There she saw nine armed knights Come riding o’er the lea. ‘God make you safe and free, lady, God make you safe and free! Did you see a bluidy knight Come riding o’er the lea?” “OQ, what like was his hawk, his hawk? And what like was his hound P If his steed has ridden well, He’s pass’d fair Scotland’s strand. * Come in, come in, gude gentlemen, And take white bread and wine ; And aye the better ye’ll pursue, The lighter that ye dine.” “We thank you for your bread, lady, We thank you for the wine ; And I wou’d gie my lands sae broad, Your fair body were mine.” She has gane to her bigly bower, Her ain gade lord to meet; A trusty brand he quickly drew, Gae her a wound sae deep. “What harm, my lord, provokes thine ire, To wreak itself on me, When thus I strove to save thy life, Yet served for sic a fee?” and wine,—a proof that love is stronger than death. He having heard the men in converse with the lady. naturally supposed, from a guilty conscience, that they were his foes, and admitted into the house by the lady for his detection ; so that, when she entered his apartment in a friendly manner, to inform him of the departure of lis enemies, he drew his sword and gave her a mortal wound, thinking it was one of the men come to apprehend and secure him. On the discovery of his fatal mistake, the lady advised him to fly for his life, but he declined it, thinking himself worthy of death for her sake, 4u 602 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Ohon, alas! my lady gay, To come sae hastilie ; I thought it was my deadly foe, Ye had trysted in to me. “O live, O live, my gay lady, The space o’ ae half hour, And nae a leech in a’ the land, But T’se bring to your bower.” “ How can I live, how shall I live ? How can I live for thee ? Ye see my blude rin on the ground, My heart’s blude by your knee! “O take to flight, and flee, my love, O take to flight and flee ! I wou’dna wish your fair body For to get harm for me.” “Ae foot I winna flee, lady, Ae foot I winna flee ; I’ve dune the crime worthy o’ death, It’s right that I shou’d dee. **O deal ye well at my love’s lyke, The beer, but an’ the wine ; For, ere the morn, at this same time, Ye’ll deal the same at mine.” THE DUKE OF ATHOLE’S NURSE.’ As I gaed in yon greenwood side, I heard a fair maid singing ; Her voice was sweet, she sang sae complete, That all the woods were ringing. “O, I’m the Duke o’ Athole’s nurse, My post is well becoming ; But I wou’d gi’e a’ my half-year’s fee, For ae sight o’ my leman.” Ye say ye’re the Duke o’ Athole’s nurse, Your post is well becoming ; Keep well, keep well your half-year’s fee, Ye’se hae twa sights o” your leman.” (1) The contrast between this lady’s fidelity and love, to that of the foregoing, is evidently great. The one sacrificed her life for her lover; the other wished to sacrifice the life of her lover to her resentment, for an imaginary slight to her person, and betrayed him to his enemies, an armed band she had sent to take away his life, although fortunately he escaped the snare she had laid for his destruction. He lean’d him owre his saddle bow, And cannilie kiss’d his dearie ; “ Ohon, and alake! anither has my heart, And I darena mair come near thee!” “Qhon, and alake! if anither hae your heart, These words hae fairly undone me ; But let us set a time, tryst to meet again, Then in gude friends you will twine me! “Ye will do you down to yon tavern house, And drink till the day be dawing ; And, as sure as I ance had a love for you, Tl come there and clear your lawing. Ye’ll spare not the wine, although it be fine, Nae Malago, though it be rarely ; But ye'll aye drink the bonnie lassie’s health That’s to clear your lawing fairly.” Then he’s done him down to yon tavern house, And drank till day was dawing ; And aye he drank the bonnie lassie’s health That was coming to clear his lawing. And aye as he birl’d, and aye as he drank, The gude beer and the brandy ; He spared not the wine, although it was fine, The sack nor the sugar candy. “It’s a wonder to me,” the knight he did say, “‘ My bonnie lassie’s sae delaying ; She promised, as sure as she loved me ance, She wou’d be here by the dawing.” He’s done him to a shott window, A little before the dawing ; And there he spied her nine brothers bauld Were coming to betray him. “Where shall I rin, where shall 1 gang, Or where shall I gang hide me? She that was to meet me in friendship this day, Has sent nine men to slay me.” He’s gane to the landlady o” the house, Says, “O can you supply me? For she that was to meet me in friendship this day Has sent nine men to slay me!” She gae him a suit of her ain female claise, And set him to the baking ; The bird never sang mair sweet on the bush, Nor the knight sung at the baking. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 603 As they came in at the ha’ door, Sae loudly as they rappit ; And when they came upon the floor, Sae loudly as they chappit. O, had ye a stranger here, last night, Who drank till the day was dawing ? Come, show us the chamber where he lies in, We'll shortly clear his lawing.” *T had nae stranger here last night, That drank till the day was dawing ; But ane that took a pint, and paid it ere he went, And there’s naething to clear o’ his lawing.” A lad amang the rest, being o’ a merry mood, To the young knight fell a-talking ; The wife took her foot, and gae him a kick, Says, “ Be busy, ye jilt, at your baking.” They stabbed the house, baith but and ben, The curtains they spared nae riving ; And for a’ that they did search and ca’, For a kiss 0’ the knight they were striving. THE LAIRD OF SOUTHLAND’S COURTSHIP.’ As I went out to take the air, *Twas in the winter weather ; The bonniest lass that e’er I saw, Was gieing the nowt their fodder. “O, bonny lass, gin ye were mine, I wou’d maintain you idle ; T’d gie you a horse to ride upon, A man to lead your bridle.” * Ye are not he that’s fit for me, Because ye are no ploughman ; And I’m not she that’s fit for thee, To enjoy the lands o’ Southland.” *O, bonny lass, gin ye’d faney me, And never take another, I wadna lat you to barn nor byre, Nor gie the nowt their fodder.” “T thank you kindly, sir,” she says, “T thank you for your offer ; But I maun wed some ploughman lad, Because I hae nae tocher.” Now when he heard her mean estate, And that she had nae tocher ; He’s taen his leave o’ her that night, In hopes to live without her. He’s done him to his ain countrie, Thinking to choice another ; But minded aye on the bonny May Was gieing the nowt their fodder. It fell about the month o’ May, When meadows were a mawing, There he has done him in that way, To see how they were thriving. As he gaed in yon fields 0” grass, And low down in yon valley ; There he saw the very same lass, Like the primrose, or the lily. *O, bonny lass, gin ye’d fancy me, I wou’d become a ploughman; I will had, and my love will ca’, In the merry lands o’ Southland.” *O, when I tauld you my mean estate, And that I had nae tocher, Ye went your way, bade me adieu, So begone, false man, for ever.” “Tf ye love me, as I love thee, Sin’ the first hour I saw thee ; Ye wou’d hae granted love for love, And nae langer wou’d awe me.” “My father’s a poor shepherd man, That gaes his flocks a-feeding ; And I mysell, a maiden am, Hae neither gowd nor breeding.” “A maiden mean although you be, T am the laird 0’ Snipie ; T’ll plough the sma’ streams o’ the sea, If my aged parents slight thee. (1) The fortunes of people are various in this world. Some rise to riches and honours by a strange and unaccountable dispen- sation of Providence, without any mental or bodily exertions of their own; while others, endued with the brightest talents, and the most consummate wisdom, using all the means of which they are possessed to gain a comfortable subsistence, can neither rise above mediocrity in the world as persons of intellect, nor procure even a scanty pittance to sustain yature, but plod a weary wayward life, and drag out a miserable existence in penury and want, like another misanthropist, hating and being hated. The poet says there is a tide in every man’s affairs, but oh, how few know when to sail with the stream! The heroine of this piece was one of those fortunates who have been made to glidyy easily through the down-hill of life, and her declining years, instead of sickness and want, to be the sweetest and happiest of her life. 604 “O, bonny lass, ye’ll gang wi’ me, And lea’ this langsome meadow ; Tl make you lady o’ nine mills, If ye become my widow.” Sae thus they kiss’d and spent, their time, Till darksome night did cover ; And she’s become a lady fine, By gieing the nowt their fodder. Now she rides in a gilded coach, Wi servants to attend her ; She gangs nae mair to barn nor byre, Nor gies the nowt their fodder. Ye lasses a’ baith great and sma’, And ladies altogether ; Think it nae degrade upon your name, To gie the nowt their fodder. If I had got my ploughman lad, I wou’d never hae fancied another, I could hae laid by my royal robes, And gien the nowt their fodder. BURD HELEN.’ Tue knight stands in his stable door, Says he, “I will gae ride ;” A lady stands in her bower door, Says, “I'll ride by your side.” “ Ye shall not follow me, Burd Helen, Except ye do this deed ; That is to saddle to me my horse, And bridle to me my steed, And every town that ye come to, A liesh o’ hounds to lead.” “T will saddle to you your horse, Sae will I bridle your steed ; And every town that we come to, A liesh o’ hounds I'll lead.” Take warning a’, ye maidens fair, That wear scarlet and brown; In virtue leave your lammas beds, To follow knights frae town. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. ** My dogs shall eat the white bread, Helen, And you the dust and bran; And you will sigh and say, alas! That e’er our loves began.” “Your dogs may eat the gude white bread, And I the dust and bran ; Yet will I sing and say, well’s me, That e’er our loves began.” * My horse shall drink the gude red wine, And you the water wan ; And then you'll sigh and say, alas! That e’er our loves began.” * Your horse may drink the gude red wine, And I the water wan ; But yet I’ll sing, and say, well’s me, That e’er our loves began.” Then Willie lap on his white steed, And straight awa’ did ride ; Burd Helen drest in men’s array, She walked by his side. But he was ne’er sae Jack a knight, As ance wou’d bid her ride ; And she was ne’er sae mean a May, As ance wou’d bid him bide. Sweet Willie rade, Burd Helen ran, A livelang summer’s tide, Until she came to wan water, For a’ men ca’s it Clyde. The first an’ step that she wade in, She wadit to the knee ; “ Ohon, alas!” said that fair maid, “This water’s nae for me.” The next an’ step that she wade in, She wadit to the pap ; The babe within her sides twa, Cauld water gart it quack. * Lie still, lie still, my bonny bairn, For a’ this winna dee ; Your father rides on high horseback, Minds neither you nor me.” (1) Part of this beautiful ballad was published by Mr. Robert Jamieson, under the name of “Burd Ellen,” vol. i. p. 113, of his “Popular Ballads and Songs,” which was given from the recitation of Mrs. Brown. In several places he has given verses of his own to fill up vacancies, and make the narrative more complete, It is, however, still very imperfect; as his additions though beautiful of themselves, want much of that energy and natural simplicity which characterise the other portions of the ballad, It it now given here, for the first time, in a complete state. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. ‘605 In the midst of Clyde’s water, There stands a yird-fast stone ; There he leant him ower his saddle bow, And set that lady on; And brought her to the other side, Then set her down again. *O see ye not yon goodly towers, And gowd towers stand sae hie ; There is a lady in yonder bower, Will sinder you and me” “T wish nae ill to your lady, She ne’er wish’d nane to me ; But I wish the maid maist 0’ your love That drees far mair for thee. *T wish nae ill to your lady, She ne’er comes in my thought; But I wish the maid maist o’ your love, That dearest hae you bought.” Four an’ twenty gay ladies, Led Willie through bower and ha’; But the fairest lady amo’ them 2’, Led his horse to the sta,’ Four an’ twenty gay ladies, Were a’ at dinner set ; Burd Helen sat at a by table, A bit she cou’dna eat. Out it spake her dow Isbel, (A skilly dame was she ;) “O whare got ye this five-foot page, Ye’ve brought alang wi’ thee? * Sometimes his colour waxes red, Sometimes it waxes wan; He is liker a woman big wi’ bairn, Nor be a waiting man.” “Win up, win up, my boy,” he says, “* At my bidding to be ; And gang and supper my gude steed, See he be litter’d tee.” Then she is into stable gane, Shut tee the door wi’ a pin; And even amang Willie’s horse feet Brought hame her bonny young son. When day was gane, and night was come, And a’ man bound for bed ; Sweet Willie and dow Isbel In ae chamber were laid. They hadna been well lien down, Nor yet well faen asleep ; Till up it wakens sweet Willie, And stood at dow Isbel’s feet. “T dream’d a dreary dream this night, I wish it may be for guid; Some rogue hae broke my stable door, And stown awa’ my steed. “Win up, win up, now, dow Isbel, At my bidding to be; And ye’ll gae to my stable door, See that be true or lie.” When she gaed to the stable door, She heard a grievous groan ; She thought she heard a bairn greet, But and a woman’s moan. “ When 1 was in my bigly bower, I wore but what I would; This night I’m lighter mang Willie’s horse feet, T fear I'll die for cold. “When I was in my bigly bower, I wore gold to my tae; This night I’m lighter ’mang Willie’s horse feet, And fear [ll die or day. “When I was in my bigly bower, I wore scarlet and green ; This night I’m lighter ’mang Willie’s horse feet, And fear 1’ll die my lane.” Dow Isbel now came tripping hame, As fast as gang cou’d she ; “JT thought your page was not a man, Ye brought alang wi’ thee. “ As I gaed to your stable, Willie, I heard a grievous groan I thought I heard a bairn greet, But and a woman’s moar. “She said, when in her bigly bower, She wore but what she would; But this night is lighter ’mang your horse feet, And fears she’ll die for cold, “She said, when in her bigly bower, She wore gold to her tae ; But this night is lighter ’mang your horse feet, And fears she’ll die or day. 606 “Win up, win 1p, now sweet Willie, At my bidding to be; And speak some comfort to the maid, That’s dreed sae much for thee.” He is to the stable door gane, As fast as gang cou’d he; “O open, O open, Burd Helen,” he says, *Ye’ll open the door to me.” “That was never my mother’s custom, And hope it’s never be mine; A knight into her companie, When she drees a’ her pine.” “O open the door, Burd Helen,” he says, “OQ open the door to me; For as my sword hangs by my gair, Tl gar it gang in three.” “* How can I open, how shall I open, How can I open to thee ; When lying amang your great steed’s feet, Your young son on my knee?” He hit the door then wi’ his foot, Sae did he wi’ his knee; Till doors of deal, and locks o’ steel, In splinders gart he flee. “ An asking, asking, sweet Willie, An asking ye’ll grant me; The warst in bower in a’ your towers, For thy young son and me.” “ Your asking’s nae sae great, Burd Helen, But granted it shall be ; The best in bower in a’ my towers For my young son and thee.” * An asking, asking, sweet Willie, An asking ye’ll grant me; The warst an’ woman about your bowers, To wait on him aud me.” “The best an’? woman about my bowers, To wait on him and thee ; And that’s my sister, dow Isbel, And a gude woman is she.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Ye take up my little young son, And wash him wi’ the milk ; And ye’ll take up my gay lady, And row her in the silk. “ Be favourable to my lady, Be favourable, if ye may ; Her kirking and her fair wedding, Shall baith stand on ae day. “There is not here a woman living But her shall be my bride ; And all is for the fair speeches I got frae her at Clyde.” LORD LIVINGSTON." Ir fell about the Lammas time, When wightsmen won their hay; A’ the squires in meray Linkum, Went a’ forth till a play. They play’d until the evening tide, The sun was gaeing down; A lady through plain fields was bound, A lily leesome thing. Two squires that for this lady pledged, In hopes for a renown ; The one was call’d the proud Seaton, The other Livingston, “ When will ye, Michael o’ Livingston, Wad for this lady gay ?” “ To-morrow, to-morrow,” said Livingston, “To-morrow, if you may.” Then they hae wadded their wagers, And laid their pledges down ; To the high castle o’ Edinbro’ They made them ready boun’. The chamber that they did gang in, There it was daily dight ; The kipples were like the gude red gowd, As they stood up in hight ; (1) A fragment under this name I have seen, which makes Lord Livingston’s antagonist Rothmar, instead of Seaton; and in every other particular it, differs from this copy. The lady having had a perplexing dream, strove to detain him at home ; aa she presuged some ill fortune would befall him, go it feil out. A religious veneration being paid by some to dreams, many have been forewarned by them to shun evil; as Calphurnia, wife to Cesar, dreamed the night before Cesar’s death that she saw him stabbed in the Capitol: Simonides, the poet, having in- terred a dead corpse he found on the sea shore, the night’ after dreamed the person appeared to him, and advised him not to ven ture to sea, which he did not; and his associates proceeding or their voyage, perished by a tempest. A thousand more instances could be given, which I decline for the present, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 607 And the roof-tree like the siller white, And shined like candles bright. The lady fair into that ha? Was comely to be seen; Her kirtle was made 0’ the pa’, Her gowns seem’d 0’ the green. Her gowns seem’d like green, like green, Her kirtle o’ the pa’ ; A siller wand intill her hand, She marshall’d ower them a’. She gae every knight a lady bright, And every squire a May; Her ownsell chose him, Livingston, They were a comely tway. Then Seaton started till his foot, The fierce flame in his e’e: “On the next day, wi’ sword in hand, On plain fields, meet ye me.” When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a’ man bound for bed ; Lord Livingston, and his fair dame, {n bed were sweetly laid. The bed, the bed, where they lay in, Was cover’d wi’ the pa’ ; A covering o’ the gude red gowd, Lay nightly ower the twa. So they lay there till on the morn, The sun shone on their feet ; Then up it raise him, Livingston, To draw to him a weed. The first an’ weed that he drew on, Was o’ the linen clear ; The next an’ weed that he drew on, It was a weed o’ weir. The niest an’ weed that he drew on, Was gude iron and steel ; Twa gloves o’ plate, a gowden helmet, Became that hind-chiel weel. Then out it speaks that lady gay, A little forbye stood she; Tl dress mysell in men’s array, Gae to the fields for thee.” “0 God forbid,” said Livingston ; That e’er I dree the shame ; My lady slain in plain fields, And I coward knight at hare.” He scarcely travelled frae the town A mile but barely twa; Till he met wi’ a witch woman, T pray to send her wae. “This is too gude a day, my ford, To gang sae far frae town; This is too gude a day, my lord, On field to make you boun’, “T dream’d a dream concerning thee, O read ill dreams to guid! Your bower was full o’ milk-white swans, Your bride’s bed full 0’ bluid.” “O bluid is gude,” said Livingston, “To bide it whoso may ; Tf I be frae yon plain fields, Nane knew the plight I lay.” Then he rade on to plain fields, As swift’s his horse cou’d hie ; And there he met the proud Seaton, Come boldly ower the lee. “Come on to me, now Livingston, Or then take foot and flee ; This is the day that we must try, Who gains the victorie.” Then they fought with sword in hand, Till they were bluidy men ; But on the point o’ Seaton’s sword Brave Livingston was slain, His lady lay ower castle wa’, Beholding dale and down ; When Blenchant brave, his gallant steed, Came prancing to the town. “OQ where is now my ain gude lord, He stays sae far frae me? ” “O dinna ye see your ain gude lord, Stand bleeding by your knee ? ” “O live, O live, Lord Livingston, The space o’ ae half hour ; There’s nae a leech in Edinbro’ town, But Pll bring to your door.” “ Awa’ wi’ your leeches, lady,” he said, “Of them I'll be the waur; 608 There’s nae a leech in Edinbro’ town, That can strong death debar. *Ye'll take the lands o’ Livingston, And deal them liberallie ; To the auld that may not, the young that cannot, And blind that does na see. And help young maidens’ marriages, That has nae gear to gie.” “ My mother got it in a book, The first night I was born, I wou’d be wedded till a knight, And him slain on the morn. But I will do for my love’s sake What ladies woudna thole ; Ere seven years shall hae an end, Nae shoe’s gang on my sole. “ There’s never lint gang on my head, Nor kame gang in my hair; Nor ever coal nor candle light, Shine in my bower mair.” When seven years were near an end, The lady she thought lang ; And wi’ a crack her heart did brake, And sae this ends my sang. FAUSE SIR JOHN AND MAY COLVIN.' Hearp ye ever of a bludy knight, Lived in the west countrie ? For he’s betrayed eight virgins fair, And drowned them in the sea. All ladies of a gude account, As ever yet were known ; This traitor was a baron knight, They call’d him fause Sir John. (1) A fragment of this most beautiful ballad, differing from this one, was printed by Wotherspoon, Edinburgh, in the year 1776. Another fragment, partly from recitation and partly made up from Wotherspoon’s, is to be found in the “ Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern.” The copy which is here presented is the only complete one to be found; as it relates, with the minutest accu- racy, every trivial circumstance which took place at the begin- ning and end of the tragedy. In the fragments just mentioned, the seven unfortunate young ladies who had met with watery graves by the hands of this barbarous robber, are said to be kings’ daughters, which is not at all likely, even fertile as Scotland has been in producing kings, that there had been eight of them at ove time; nor that the ladies had been all of one father, courted by © petty baron. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Then he is gane to May Colvin, She was her father’s heir ; The greatest beauty o” that age, T solemnly declare. “Thou art the darling of my heart, T say, fair May Colvin; So far excells thy beauties great, That ever 1 hae seen. “But Pm a knight of wealth and might, Hae towers, towns twenty-three ; And ye’se be lady o” them a’, If ye will gang wi’ me.” “Excuse me then, O gude Sir John, To wed I am too young; Without ye hae my parents’ leave, With you J darena come.” “Your parents’ leave ye soon shall have, To this they will agree ; For I hae made a solemn vow, This night ye’se gang wi’ me.” Frae below his arm he’s pull’d a charm, And stuck it in her sleeve ; And he has made her gang wi’ him, Without her parents’ leave. Much gowd and siller she has brought, Wi?’ her five hunder pound ; The best an’ steed her father had, She’s ta’en to ride upon. Sae privately they rade away, ; They made nae stop nor stay ; Till they came to that fatalend, That ye ca’ Binyan’s Bay. © Tt being in a lonely place, Nae habitation nigh; The fatal rocks were tall and steep, And nane cou’d hear her cry. The Binyan's Bay, to which he took the young lady to perpe- trate the horrid deed, was the mouth of the river Ugie, as at one time, about five hundred years ago, the site of Peterhead wae called Binyan. So my old and intelligent informant assured me and at the same time illustrated it with the following anecdote :— About three hundred years ago, a ship went into Norway in want of a mast, when the master went to a very old man who sat rock- ing a cradle, to purchase a tree for that purpose, and was told by him that, in his early years, when he resided in Scotland, he could have walked from old Faithley to Binyan, i.e. Fraserburgh to Peterhead, on the tops of full-grown trees. Whatever truth is in this relation I know not; but thus far it is clear, that, to this day, there are roots of very large trees often dug up between these two places. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS 609 “ Light down, light down, fair May Colvin, Light down, and speak wi’ me; For here I’ve drown’d eight virgins brave, And you the ninth maun be.” “ Are these your bowers and lofty towers Sae beautiful and gay P Or is it for my gold,” she says, “ You take my life away P ” “Cast aff, cast aff your jewels fine, Sae costly, rich, and rare ; For they’re too costly, and too fine, To sink in the sea ware.” Then aff she’s ta’en her jewels fine, And thus she made her moan ; “ Hae mercy on a virgin young, I pray you, gude Sir Jonn!” “ Cast aff, cast aff, fair May Colvin, Your gown and petticoat ; For they’re too costly, and too fine, To rot by the sea rock.” “Take all { have my life to save, O gude Sir John, I pray ; Let it ne’er be said you kill’d a maid, Before her wedding day.” Strip aff, strip aff your Holland smock, That’s border’d wi’ the lawn ; For it’s too costly, and too fine, To toss on the sea sand.” “O turn ye round, O gude Sir John, Your back about to me ; It is not comely for a man A naked woman to see.” But as Sir John he turn’d him round, She threw him in the sea; Says, “Lie ye there, ye fause Sir John, For ye thought to lay me. * lie ye there, ye traitor fause, For ye thought to lay me ; Although ye stript me to the skin, Ye’se get your claise wi’ thee.” Then on she put her jewels fine, Sae costly, rich, and brave ; And then wi’ speed she mounts her steed, Sae well’s she did behave. This maiden fair being void of fear, The steed was swift and free ; And she has reach’d her father’s house Before the clock struck three. First she call’d the stable groom, Who was her waiting man ; As soon’s he heard his lady’s word, He came wi’ cap in haw’. “Where hast thou been, fair May Colvin ? Who owes this dapple gray?” “It is a found ane,” she replied, “That I got on the way.” Then out it speaks the wylie parrot, Unto fair May Colvin; * What hast thou made o’ fause Sir Jolin, That ye went wi’ yestreen ? ” “© had your tongue, my pretty parrot, And talk nae mair o’ me; For when ye got ae meal afore, My parrot, ye’se hae three.” Then out it speaks her father dear, In the chamber where he lay ; “ What aileth thee, my pretty parrot, To chat sae lang ere day ?” “The cat she scratch’d at my cage door, The thief I cou’dna see; And I am calling on May Colvin, To take the cat frae me.” But first she tauld her father dear The deed that she had done; Likewise unto her mother dear, Concerning fause Sir John. “Tf that be true, fair May Colvin, That ye hae tauld to me; The morn, ere I eat or drink, This fause Sir John T’ll see.” Sae aff they went, wi’ ae consent, By the dawning o’ the day ; Until they came to Charlestown sands, And there his corpse it lay. His body tall, wi’ that great fall, Wi’ waves toss’d to and fro, The diamond ring that he had on, Was broken in pieces two. 41 610 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. They hae taken up his corpse ‘To yonder pleasant green ; And there they buried fause Sir John, For fear he shou’d be seen. Ye ladies a’, wherever you be, That read this mournful song ; I pray you mind on May Colvin, And think on fause Sir John. Aff they’ve taen his jewels fine, To keep in memory ; And sae I end my mournful sang, And fatal tragedy. WILLIE’S LYKE WAKE. “Tr my love loves me, she lets me not know, That is a dowie chance ; I wish that I the same could do, Though my love were in France, France, Though my love were in France “O lang think I, and very lang, And lang think I, I true; But lang and langer will I think, Or my love o’ me rue, rue, Or my love o” me rue. ©T will write a broad letter, And write it sae perfite, That an she winna o’ me rue, Vl bid her come to my lyke, lyke, I'll bid her come to my lyke.” Then he has written a broad letter, And seal’d it wi’ his hand, And sent it on to his true love, As fast as boy could gang, gang, As fast as boy could gang. When she looked the letter upon, A light laugh then gae she ; But ere she read it to an end, The tear blinded her e’e, e’e, The tear blinded her e’e. (1) The stratagem which this lover made use of to try his lady’s affection for him, is somewhsi similar to the one displayed in the ba‘lad of “ The Blne Flowers and the Yellow,” and was alike suc- cessful, “OQ saddle to me a steed, father, O saddle to me a steed; For word is come to me this night, That my true love is dead, dead, That my true love is dead.” “The steeds are in the stable, daughter, The keys are casten by ; Ye cannot won to-night, daughter, To-morrow ye’se won away, away, To-morrow ye’se won away.” She has cut aff her yellow locks, A little aboon her e’e ; And she is on to Willie’s lyke, As fast as gang could she, she, As fast as gang could she. As she gaed ower yon high hill head, She saw a dowie light ; It was the candles at Willie’s lyke, And torches burning bright, bright, And torches burning briglit. Three o’ Willie’s eldest brothers Were making for him a bier ; One half 0’ it was gude red gowd, The other siller clear, clear, The other siller clear. Three o’ Willie’s eldest sisters Were making for him a sark ; The one half o’ it was cambric fine, The other needle wark, wark, The other needle wark. Out spake the youngest o’ his sisters, As she stood on the fleer ; “How happy would our brother been, If ye’d been sooner here, here, If ye’d been sooner here!” She lifted up the green covering, And gae him kisses three ; Then he look’d up into her face, The blythe blink in his e’e, e’e, The blythe blink in his e’e. O then he started to his feet, And thus to her said he: “Fair Annie, since we’re met again, Parted nae mair we’se be, be, Parted nae mair we’se be. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS, LORD LUNDIE.' Torp Wit1am has but ae dear son, Tn this world had nae mair ; Lord Lundie had but ae daughter, And he will hae nane but her. They dressed up in maids’ array, And pass’d for sisters fair ; With ae consent gaed ower the sea, For to seek after lear. They baith did eat at ae braid board, In ae bed baith did lye; When Lord Lundie got word o’ that, He’s taen her soon away. When Lord Lundie got word of that, An angry man was he ; He wrote his daughter on great haste, To return right speedilie. When she looked the letter upon, A light laugh then gae she; But ere she read it till an end, The tear blinded her e’e. * Bad news, bad news, my love, Willie, Bad news is come to me; My father’s written a braid letter, Bids me gae speedilie. “Set trysts, set trysts, my love, Willie, Set trysts, I pray, wi’ me ; Set trysts, set trysts, my love, Willie, When will our wedding be ?” “On Wednesday, on Wednesday, The first that ever ye see ; On Wednesday, at twelve o’ clock, My dear, I’ll meet wi’ thee.” When she came to her father’s ha’, He hailed her courteouslie ; Says, “I'll forgie offences past, If now ye’ll answer me.” 611 « Will ye marry yon young prince, Queen of England to be P Or will you marry Lord William’s son, Be loved by nane but he P” “TJ will marry yon young prince, Father, if it be your will ; But I wou’d rather I were dead and gane, My grave I wou’d win till.” When she was in her saddle set, She skyred like the fire ; To go her bridegroom for to meet, For whom she’d nae desire. On every tippet o’ her horse mane There hang a siller bell; And whether the wind blew east or west, They gae a sundry knell. And when she came to Mary’s kirk, She skyred like the fire ; There her young bridegroom she did meet, For whom she’d nae desire. She looked ower her left shoulder, The tear blinded her e’e ; But looking ower her right shoulder, A blythe sight then saw she. There she saw Lord William’s son And mony a man him wi’; Wi targes braid, and glittering spears, All marching ower the lee. The minister looked on a book, Her marriage to begin ; “Tf there is naething to be said, These two may join in ane.” “O huly, huly, sir,” she said, “O stay a little wee: I hae a friend to welcome yet, That’s been a dear friend to me.” O then the parson he spake out, A wise word then spake he ; “You might hae had your friends welcomed Before ye’d come to me.” (1) The two youthful lovers, the subjects of this ballad, had been brought up together at one school; but on the lady’s having been sent. abroad to give a finish to her education, the young lord dressed himself in the same female attire, and accompanied her for better and for worse. On her father’s hearing of his daughter’s intrigues, he summoned her home, and commanded her to marry an English Prince, which she promised to dv to appease her father’s wrath, and ward off other suspicions; but on arriving it the church where the marriage ceremony was to be performed, her first and only lover came in, with a few of his followers, armed, and claimed her as his own. They were then married in defiance of her father and the young prince. 612 Then in it came the bride’s first love, And mony a man him wi?’ ; “ Stand back, stand back, ye jelly bridegroom—- Bride, ye maun join wi’ me.” Then out it speaks him, Lord Lundie, An angry man was he; * Lord William’s son will hae my daughter, Without leave ask’d o’ me. ; “But since it’s sae that she will gang, And proved sae fause to thee ; Dll make a vow, and keep it true, Nae portion shall I gie.” Then out it speaks the bride’s first love, And light laugh then gae he “ve got the best portion now, my lord, That ye can gie to me. “ Your gude red gold [ value not, Nor yet your white monie ; T hae her by the hand, this day, ‘That’s far dearer to me. “So gie the prince coffer o’ gold, When he gaes to his bed ; And bid him clap his coffer o’ gold, And T’ll clap my bonny bride.” JOCK AND TAM GORDON.’ Jock and Tam’s gane o’er the sea, Joy be in their companie ; Our Scots lords may ever mourn, Vill Jock and Tam get a safe return. (1) The origin of the ancient surname of Gordon has not as yet been clearly ascertained ; some deriving it from a cityin Macedonia, called Gordonia: others from the manor of Gordon in Normandy ; but, according to Chalmers, from the barony of Gordon in Ber- wickshire. John Fevrrerius, the Piedmont monk, who wrote a short history of the name of Gordon, says, ‘‘ That amongst these valiant captains who assisted Malcolm III., King of Scotland, against the English, about the year 1057, was one Gordon, whose Christian name is not known. He some time before had killed a fierce bear that much wasted the country near the forest or wood of Huntly. This gentleman being conspicuous both for his pru- dence and valour was much in favour with King Malcolm, who generously, as a reward of his merit, bestowed upon him the lands of Gordon and Huntly ; and, that the memory of so remarkable an action as the killing of that bear might be transmitted to pos- terity, the king would have him carry in his banner three bears’ heads, Or, in a field azure. He also at this time got the lands of Slitchel and other lands in the Merse, which continued in the family of Huntly for upwards of five hundred years afterwards ; and that the gentleman called himself by the name of these lands.” After having gone over a long line of the ancestry of this noble family, he adds, regarding Jock and Tam Gordon, that “ Elizabeth Gordon, heiress of Huntly, had two natural brothers, born to her father by Elizabeth Cruikshanks, daughter to Cruikshanks of As- suanly, the eldest called John of Scurdarg, of whom are descended ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. These two into a tavern went, For rest it was their whole intent; They call’d for mugs o’ nut-brown ale, Themselves they sweetly might regale. In came the guidman, in came he, “What lords are ye, from what countrieP” * We are lords in Scotland born, Our lands lie lay, and yield nae corn. “We're seeking fortune, where fortune may be, For misfortune is nae man can flee; And ae night’s lodging we ask of you, And on the morn ye’se hae your due. We ask for wine, we ask for beer, We ask for quarters for Scots lords here.” “ We brew nae ale, nor brew we beer, And you Scots lords cannot quarter here.” “Gudeman,” said they, ‘‘ye’re far in the wrang, This night ye’ll lodge baith Jock and Tam.” In came the gudewife, in came she, “ What lords are ye, or what countrie ? ” * We are lords in Scotland born, Our lands lie lay, and yield nae corn. “We're seeking fortune, where fortune may be, For misfortune is nae man can flee ; And ae night’s lodging wve ask of you, And on the morn ye’se hae your due.” “ We brew nae ale, nor do we beer, Ye Scottish lords cannot quarter here.” “ Gudewife,” said they, “‘ye’re far in the wrang, This night ye maun lodge Jock and Tam.” many gentlemen of considerable estates ; and the laird of Pitlurg had been, by the descendants of his family, esteemed the repre- sentative of him. “The other brother was called Zom of Riven, who, by several wives, had eighteen sons, of whom are descended a numerous off- spring of brave gentlemen.” “Others affirm,” says Gordon of Straloch, ‘that John and Thomas, commonly called Jock and Tam, were not brothers, but uncles to the heiress, and lawful sons to Sir John Gordon of Huntly, killed in the battle of Otterburn; and secluded from the succession, because entailing of estates to heirs male was not then, nor long after, in use in Scotland,” William Gordon, in his ‘‘ History of the Gordons,” also adds, after having summed up all the evidence in his power—* By all which it appears very evident to me, that they weré the legitimate uncles of (and not the illegitimate brothers to) Elizabeth Gordon the heiress. But whatever be in that, this 1 am sure of, that from them have descended a very numerous race of brave and loyal gentlemen, who have eminently signalised themselves whenever their king, their country, or their chief’s interest called them to it; and have still imitated their brave and loyal ancestors.” I need not say, that, even to this day, the chiefs of the Gordons have nobly and honourably acquitted themselves in very hazardous enterprises, and maintained and supported that character so justly due, and so freely given to their progenitors, ‘ ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS 613 They gart the gold and silver flee, They sought nae change for their monie ; “We hae quartered mony a man, But never the like o’ Jock and Tam.” THE BONNY LASS 0’ ENGLESSIE’S DANCE.' Worp has gane through a’ this land, Axd, O well noticed it maun be ; The English lords are coming down, To dance and gain the victorie. The king has made a noble ery, And well attended it maun be; Come saddle ye, and bring to me, The bonny lass o’ Englessie. She started up a’ dress’d in white, Between him and his companie ; Said, “‘ What will ye gie, my royal liege, If I will dance this dance for thee?” “Five good ploughs, but and a mill, Pll give you till the day ye die; The bravest knight in-all my court, T'll give, your husband for to be.” She’s ta’en the first lord by the hand, Says, “ Ye’ll rise up and dance wi’ me; ” But she made a’ these lords fifeteen To gie it up right shamefullie. Then out it speaks a younger lord, Says, “Fye for shame! how can this be?” He loosed his brand frae aff his side, Likewise his buckler frae his knee. He sware his feet should be his dead Before he lost the victorie ; He danced full fast, but tired at last, And gae it up as shamefullie. GEORDIE DOWNIE. Has ye heard o’ a widow in rich: attire, That rade on a well-shod pony ? She’s follow’d a tinkler frae Dee-side, His name it is Geordie Downie. My bonny love, joe, my dearie you know; My bonny love, Geordie Downic ; T'll sell my bose, and drink my sheer, And follow Geordie Downie. Downie melts the brass, the brass, And Downie melts the tin, O; And happy, happy is the town, That Downie enters in, O. My bonny love, joe, &. Ance I was Charlie Petrie’s wife, In the auld town o’ Aberdeen, O, But now I’m tinkler Downie’s wife, Wi’ the pearlin ower my een, O. My bonny love, joe, &. Adieu to the lads wi? white cockades, Likewise to the leather apron ; For I'll awa’ wi? Downie the caird, He’s a brisk young lad and a vaporin’. My bonny love, joe, &c. : LORD ABOYNE.? “ Art hae I play’d at the ring and the ba’, And lang was a rantin’ lassie ; But now my father does me forsake, And my friends they all do neglect me. “ But gin I had servants at my command, As I hae had right mony ; For to send awa’ to Glentanner’s yetts W? a letter to my rantin’ laddie.” (1) In another copy of this ballad which I have seen, instead of tie bonny lass of Englessie, as here, it is Anglesey. Which of the two is the most authentic reading, I will not say; but as I do not make deviations from the copies taken down from recitation, Ihave given the names of both, Perhaps Anglesey may be the more correct. It is altogether a political piece, and I do not wish to interfere much with it. (2) It has long been proverbial, and even to this day believed by some, that the itinerant tinkers, a/ias wandering gypsies, pos- sess @ charm, by which they can make any woman they please follow them, and submit to their embraces. I have seen receipts for such, but had no faith in them, even although given by the celebrated Reginald Scot, in his “ Discovery of Witchcraft.” In the ballad of “ Johnny Faa, the Gypsy Laddie,” we are in- formed that the Countess of Cassillis made a faux paux, in her fusband’s absence, and went away with a tinker. It is said, he kiest the glamour o’er her.” What this glamour is I cannot sightly define ; it will not demonstrate by cubes and angles, (3) This ballad has been confounded by some modern reciters with the “ Baron of Leys,” but it has no connection with it what- ever, In my “ Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads,” lately published, I have given another version of this ballad under the same name, but it is considerably different from this one, which makes me give it a place here. Whether the Earl had been the hero of both, I am not authorised to say. Gordon, in his “ History of the Gor- dons,” says, Charles Gordon, Viscount of Aboyne, behaved so valiantly at the bridge of Dee, against Graham, Marquis of Mont- rose, on the 18th of June, 1639, where he commenced the attack with only two pieces of demi-cannon, to which the Grahams answered with a discharge of musketry: the Gordons behaved so gallantly, that the Grahams retreated in confusion. For this action, and the Gordons’ steady adherence to the court of Charles I. and IL., his Majesty Charles II. created him Earl of Aboyne, Sept. 10, 1661.—He married Margaret Irvine, daughter to Irvine of Drum. In 1671, he repuired the castle of Aboyne, and added some beauties to it, and died in 1685, 614 0, is your rae love a laird or lord? Or is he a Highland caddie ; That ye sae aften call him by name, Your bonny, bonny rantin’ laddie P ” “My true love he’s baith laird and lord, Do ye thizk I hae married a caddie ? O he is the noble Earl o’ Aboyne, And he’s my bonny rantin’ laddie.” O ye’se hae servants at your command, As ye hae had right mony ; For to send awa’ to Glentanner’s yetts WY a letter to your rantin’ laddie.” When Lord Aboyne the letter got, Wow, but he blinket bonny ; But ere three lines o’ it he read, O but his heart was sorry. His face it redden’d like a flame, He grasp’d his sword sae massy ; “O wha is this dare be sae bauld, Sae cruel to use my lassie ? “Get saddle to me five hundred men, Gae saddle and make them ready ; Wi’ a milk-white steed under every ane, For I’m gaing to bring hame my lady.” And when they came to auld Fedderate, He found her waiting ready ; And he brought her to Castle Aboyne, And now she’s his ain dear lady. YOUNG HASTINGS." O wELt like I to ride in a mist, And shoot in a northern win’ ; And far better a lady to steal, That?s come of a noble kin. Four-an’-twenty fair ladies Put on this lady’s sheen ; And as mony young gentlemen Did lead her ower the green. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Yet she preferred before them all, Him young Hastings the groom; He’s coosten a mist before them all, And away this lady has ta’en. He’s taken the lady on him bebind, Spared neither grass nor corn ; Till they came to the wood o’ Amonshaw Where again their loves were sworn And they hae lived in that wood Full mony a year and day ; And were supported from time to time, By what he made of prey. And seven bairns fair and fine, There she has born to him; And never was in gude church-door, Nor never got gude kirking. Ance she took harp into her hand, And harp’d them a’ asleep ; Then she sat down at their couch side, And bitterly did weep. Said, “Seven bairns hae I born now, To my lord in the ha’ ; I wish they were seven greedy rats, To run upon the wa’, And I mysel’, a great grey cat, To eat them ane and a’. * For ten lang years now I hae lived Within this cave of stane ; And never was at gude church-door, Nor got no gude churching.” O then out spake her eldest child, (And a fine boy was he), “QO hold your tongue, my mother dear, T'll tell you what to dee: “Take you the youngest in your lap, The next youngest by the hand ; Put all the rest of us you before, As you learnt us to gang. * And go with us unto some kirk, You say they are built of stane ; And let us all be christened, And you get gude kirking.” (1) To prevent me from being impugned with the charge of plagiarism, or giving in this collection what has already been given in print, this ballad, with several others, were sent me in MSS. by Mr. Nicol, Strichen, who wrote them from memory, as he had Jearned them in his earlier years from old people. These MSS. I sent to my friend, the editor of the ‘‘ Minstrelay, Ancient and Modern,” who printed them in that valuable work, I hope he will then excuse my mentioning such hero, as it is solely with the view cf vindicating my own cause from the charge that might ke brought against me by my enemies, as I have already denied taking so mnch as a single line from any printed work whatever. —The ballads alluded to in the MSS. are ‘ Young Hastings.” “ Reedisdale and Wise William,” “ Billie Avchie,” ‘Young F sus- well” “Kemp Owyne,” and “ Earl Richard.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. She took the youngest in her lap, The next youngest by the hand— Set all the rest of them her before, As she learnt them to gang. And she has left the wood with them, And to the kirk has gane ; Where the gude priest them christened, And gave her gude kirking. —— REEDISDALE AND WISE WILLIAM:' Wuen Reedisdale and Wise William Were drinking at the wine, There fell a roosing them amang, On an unruly time. For some 0’ them hae roosed their hawks, And other some their hounds ; And other some their ladies fair, And their bowers where they walk’d in. When out it spake him Reedisdale, And a rash word spake he; Says, ‘ There is not a lady fair, In bower wherever she be, But I could aye her favour win, Wi’ ae blink 0’ my e’e.” Then out it spake him, Wise William, And a rash word spake he ; Says, “I have a sister of my own, In bower wherever she be, And ye will not her favour win, With three blinks of your e’e.” “ What will ye wager, Wise William ?” “ My lands I’ll wad with thee ; ” “ Pll wad my head against your land, Till I get more monie.” Then Reedisdale took Wise William, Laid him in prison strang, That he might neither gang nor ride, Nor ae word to her send. 615 But he has written a braid letter, Between the night and day, And sent it to his own sister, By dun feather and gray. When she had read Wise William’s letter. She smiled and she leugh ; Said, “ Very well, my dear brother, Of this I have eneuch.” She looked out at her west window, To see what she could see; And there she spied him, Reedisdale, Come riding ower the lea. Says, “ Come to me, my maidens all, Come hitherward to me; For here it comes him, Reedisdale, Who comes a-courting me.” “ Come down, come down, my lady fair, A sight of you give me.” “Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me you will not see.” * Come down, come down, my lady fair, A sight of you give me; And bonny are the gowns of silk That I will give to thee.” “Tf you have bonny gowns of silk, O mine is bonny tee; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me you shall not see.” “Come down, come down, my lady fair, A sight of you I'll see; And bonny jewels, brooches, and rings I will give unto thee.” ** ff you have bonny brooches and rings, O mine are bonny tee ; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me you shall not see.” “Come down, come down, my lady fair, , One sight of you I’ll see ; And bonny are the ha’s and bowers That [ will give to thee.” (1) This ballad has the genuine stamp of antiquity in all its waver- ings. Two gentlemen having spent some time together birling at the wine, the subject of the conversation turned on the incontinency of women, when Wise William, to clear the sex of this foul impu- tation, said he had a sister who lived in a bower not far distant, that no one could tempt to become unchaste. Reedisdale laid in wad his head against the lands of Wise William, that he would gain this lady’s favour, and obtain the object of his wishes. The lady was made acquainted, by a private communication, of the risk she ran, and what lay at stake upon her account. She was faith- ful to the instructions given her; and, although the castle where she stayed lad been threatened, and actually set on fire, in order to make her give up and comply with his earnest entreaties, she did not give up her chastity, nor yield to Reedisdale’s unlawful em. braces; so that he yost the wager. He afterwards declared that, if there were a good woman in the world, this lady was one, “616 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Tf you have bonny ha’s and bowers, O mine are bonny tee; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me you shall not see.” “Come down, come down, my lady fair, A sight of you I'll see; And bonny are my lands so broad, That I will give to thee.” “Lf you have bonny lands so broad, O mine are bonny tee ; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For me ye will not see.” “Come down, come down, my lady fair, A sight of you I'll see; And bonny are the bags of gold That I will give to thee.” “Tf you have bonny bags of gold, I have bags of the same ; Go from my yetts now, Reedisdale, For down I will not come.” “Come down, come down, my lady fair, One sight of you I’ll see ; Or else I’ll set your house on fire, If better cannot be.” Then he has set the house on fire, And all the rest it tuke; He turn’d his wight horse head about, Said, “ Alas! they’ll ne’er get out.” * Look out, look out, my maidens fair, And see what I do see; How Reedisdale has fired our house, And now rides o’er the lea. “Come hitherwards, my maidens fair, Come hither unto me; For through this reek, and through this smeek, O through it we must be.” They took wet mantles them about, Their coffers by the band ; And through the reek, and through the flame, Alive they all have wan. When they had got out through the fire, And able all to stand; She sent a maid to Wise William, To bruik Reedisdale’s land. “Your land is mine now, Reedisdale, For I have won them free.” “If there is a gude woman in the world, Your one sister is she.” YOUNG BEARWELL..’ WHEN two lovers love each other well, Great sin it were them to twinn; And this I speak from young Bearwell, He loved a lady young, The mayor’s daughter of Birktounbrae,, That lovely leesome thing. One day when she was looking out, When washing her milk-white hands, That she beheld him, young Bearwell, As he came in the sands, Says, “ Waes me for you, young Bearwell, Such tales of you are tauld ; They’ll cause you sail the salt sea so far, As beyond Yorkisfauld.” “O shall I bide in gude greenwood, Or stay in bower with thee ? ” * * * * * “The leaves are thick in gude greenwood, Would hold you from the rain; And if you stay in bower with me, You will be taken and slain. * But I caused build a ship for you, Upon Saint Innocent’s day ; Pll bid Saint Innocent be your guide, And our Lady, that meikle may: You are a lady’s first true love, God carry you well away!” Then he sailed east, and he sailed west, By many a comely strand ; At length a puff of northern wind Did blow him to the land. (1) The localities mentioned in this romantic fragment are such as now to be utterly unknown. From Young Bearwell’s being a harper of considerable eminence, even excelling the king and all his company, it may be presumed he was no mean person, He had fallen in love with the mayor’s daughter of Birktounbrae, for whom he was obliged to sail the salt sea foam, At other times we are led to think she was the king’s daughter. It is quite full of inconsistencies, which make me think it has, at an early period, belonged to a class of adifferen\ kind ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 617 When he did see the king and court Were playing at the ba’ ; Gave him a harp into his hand, Says, “Stay, Bearwell, and play.” He had not been in the king’s court A twelvemonth and a day, Till there came lairds and lords anew, To court that lady gay. They wooed her with brooch and ring, They nothing could keep back ; The very charters of their lands, Into her hands they pat. She’s done her down to Heyvalin, With the light of the moon; Says, “ Will ye do this deed for me, And will ye do it soon? Will ye go seek him, young Bearwell, On seas wherever he be ? And if I live and bruik my life, Rewarded ye shall be.” * Alas! I am too young a skipper So far to sail the faem ; But if I live and bruik my life, T’ll strive to bring him hame.” So he has sail’d east, and then sail’d west, By many a comely strand ; Till there came a blast of northern wind, And blew him to the land. And there the king and all his court Were playing at the ba Gave him a harp into his hand, Says, “Stay, Heyvalin, and play.” He has ta’en up the harp in hand, 4n1 unto play went he; And young Bearwell was the first man In all that companie. * * * * KEMP OWYNE.’ Her mother died when she was young, Which gave her cause to make great moan ; Her father married the warst woman That ever lived in Christendom. She served her with foot and hand, In every thing that she could dee; Till once in an unlucky time, She threw her in ower Uraigy’s sea. (1) Those who have read the fictitious works of Ovid, and others of the Latin and Greek poets, will not start at the horrid transfor- mation said to have been made by asorceress on her step-daughter, in this legendary ballad, somewhat curious in its recital. Fiction was a privilege in which the poets of old delighted much to in- dulge: many of their best pieces are so wound up and interwoven with the superstition of the times in which they lived, that what is real, and what is fabulous, are scarcely discernible from each other. Even to this day, a silent awe hangs over the minds of many of the lower orders of Scotland, who think that witches or warlocks have still the same power as that with which they were invested some few hundred years ago. Out of hundreds of stories of magical deception and transformations, I shall only relate one, being affirmed for a very truth by Saint Augustine, who gives many more of a like nature. “It happened in the citie of Salamin, in the kingdome of Cyprus (wherein is a good hauen), that a ship loaden with merchandize staied therefor a short space. In the mean time, many of the souldiers and mariners went to shoare to prouide fresh victuals. Among which number, a certain English man, being a sturdie yoong fellowe, went to a woman’s house, a little waie out of the citie, and not farre from the sea side, to see whether she had anie egs to sell. Who perceiving him to be a lustie yoong fellow, a stranger, and farre from his countrie (so as vpon the losse of him there would be the lesse misse or inquirie), she considered with herselfe how to destroie him; and willed him to stay there awhile, whilest she went to fetch a few egs for him. But she tarried long, so as the yoong man called vnto her, desiring her to make hast ; for he told her that the tide would be spent, and by that meanes his ship would be gone, and leave him behinde. Howbeit, after some detracting of time, she brought him a few egs, willing him to returne to-her, if his ship were gone when he came. The yoong fellow returned towards his ship; but before he went aboord, hee would needes eate an eg or twaine to satisfie his hunger, and within skort space he became dumb and out of his wits (as he afterwards said). When he would have entered into the ship, the mariners beat him back with a cudgell, saieng, ‘ What a murren lackes the asse? Whither the diuel will this asse ?? The asse, or yoong man, (I cannot tell by which name I should terme him), being many times repelled, and vnderstanding their words that called him asse, considering that he could speak never a word, and yet could understand euerie bodie; he thought that he was bewitched by the woman, at whose house he was. And therefore, when by no meanes he could get into the boate, but was driven to tarrie and see her departure ; being also beaten from place to place, as an asse ; he remembered the witches words, and the words of his own fellowes that called him asse, and returned to the witches house, in whose seruice he remained by the space of three yeares, dooing nothing with his hands all that while, but carried such burdens as she laid on his back; having onelie this comfort, that although he were reputed an asse among strangers and beasts, yet that both this witch, and all other witches, knew him to be a man. “ After three years were passed over, in a morning betimes he went to towne before his dame ; who, upon some occasions, staid a little behind. In the mean time being neere to a church, he heard a little saccaring bell ring to the eleuation of a morrowe masse, and not daring to go into the church, least he should have beene beaten and driven out with cudgells, in great deuotion he fell downe in the church-yard, vpon the knees of his hinder legs, and did left his foreteet ouer his head, as the preest doth hold the sacrament at the eleuation. Which prodigious sight, when cer- taine merchants of Geneua espied, and with wonder beheld; anon cometh the witch with a cudgell in her hand, beating foorthe the asse. And because (as it hath beene saide) such kinds of witchcrafts are verie vsual in those parts, the merchants aforesaid made such meanes, as both the asse and the witch were attached by the iudge. And she being examined and set vpon the rack, confessed the whole matter, and promised, that if she might lave libertie to go home, she would restore him to his old shape , and being dismissed, she did accordinglie. So as notwithstand- ing they apprehended her again, and burned her: and the yoong man returned into his countrie with a ioiful and merrie hart,” —Scott’s Discoverie of Witchcraft, 1584. 4k 618 Says, “ Lie you there, dove Isabel, And all my sorrows lie with thee ; Till Kemp Owyne come ower the sea, And borrow you with kisses three, Let all the warld do what they will, Oh! borrowed shall you never be.” Her breath grew strang, her hair grew lang, And twisted thrice about the tree ; And all the people far and near, Thought that a savage beast was she : These news did come to Kemp Owyne, Where he lived far beyond the sea. He hasted him to Craigy’s sea, And on the savage beast look’d he; Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, And twisted was about the tree ; And with a swing she came about, “ Come to Craigy’s sea and kiss with me.” ‘ Here is a royal belt,” she cried, “That I have found in the green sea ; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be ; But if you touch me tail or fin, I vow my belt your death shall be.” He stepped in, gave her a kiss, The royal belt he brought him wi’; Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, And twisted twice about the tree ; And with a swing she came about, * Come to Craigy’s sea and kiss with me.” “ Here is a royal ring,” she said, “That I have found in the green sea ; And while your finger it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be ; But if you touch me tail or fin, I swear my ring your death shall be.” He stepped in, gave her a kiss, The royal ring he brought him wi’ ; Her breath was strang, her hair was lang, And twisted ance about the tree ; And with a swing she came about, “ Come to Craigy’s sea and kiss with me.” ANCTENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Here is a royal brand,” she said, “That I have found in the green sea ; And while your body it is on, Drawn shall your blood never be ; But if you touch me tail or fin, I swear my brand your death shall be.” He stepped in, gave her a kiss, The royal brand he brought him wi’; Her breath was sweet, her hair grew short, And twisted nane about the tree ; And smilingly she came about, As fair a woman as fair could be. BONNY LIZIE LINDSAY.' In Edinburgh lived a lady, Was ca’d Lizie Lindsay by name; Was courted by mony fine suitors, And mony rich person of fame. Though lords o’ renown had her courted, Yet none her favour could gain. hen spake the young laird o’ Kingcaussie, And a bonny young boy was he; “Then let nie a year to the city, Pll come, and that lady wi? me.” Then spake the auld laird of Kingcaussie, A canty auld mannie was he ; * What think ye by our little Donald, Sae proudly and crously cracks he ? “ But he’s win a year to the city, If that I be a living man; And what he can mak o’ this lady, We shall lat him do as he can.” He’s stript aff his fine costly robes, And put on the single liverie ; With no equipage nor attendance, To Edinburgh city went he. Now there was a ball in the city, A ball o’ great mirth and great fame ; And fa danced wi’ Donald that day, But bonny Lizie Lindsay on the green. (1) A fragment of a ballad of this name was published in Mr. samieson’s Collection, vol. ii. p. 149, where he says, it was trans— mitted to him by Professor Scott, of Aberdeen, as it was taken down from the recitation of an old woman. This is not.the only sallad Mr Scott has contributed to Mr. Jamieson’s store of ancient poesy. Happy was he in having such a friend who knew how to estimate the value of, and was not ashamed to collect the scattered and perishing relics of his country, This ballad is now, for the first time, given in a complete state. In Mr, Jamieson’s copy, the place of Donald’s residence is called Kincawsyn, but in this one Kingcaussie, which is the true read- ing; being derived from the Gaelic Kin, or Cean, a head, and Ghousie, » fir wood. Kingcaussie is a neat villa on the south banks of the Dee; and, as it at one time belonged to the Irvines, the ancient and honourable family of Drum, I have no doubt bat the hero of the ballad had been one of them, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 619 “ Will ye gang to the Hielands, bonny Lizie? Will ye gang to the Hielands wi’ me? Will ye leave the south country ladies, And gang to the Hielands wi’ me? ” The lady she turned about, And answered him courteouslie ; ¥T’d like to ken faer I am gaun first, pa And fa I am gaun to gang wi’, 0, Lizie, ae favour I'll ask you, This favour I pray not deny ; Ye’ll tell me your place o’ abode, And your nearest o’ kindred do stay.” * Ye’ll call at the Canogate port, At the Canogate port call ye; Pll gie you a bottle o” wine, And [’ll bear you my companie.” Syne he call’d at the Canogate port, At the Canogate port call’d he; She gae him a bottle o’ wine, And she gae him her companie. * Will ye gang to the Hielands, bonny Lizie, Will ye gang to the Hielands wi’ me? Will ye leave the south country ladies, And gang to the Hielands wi’ me?” Then out spake Lizie’s auld mither, For a very auld lady was she; “Tf ye cast ony creed on my dochter, High hanged I’ll cause you to be.” “O keep hame your dochter, auld woman, And latna her gang wi’ me ; I can cast nae mair creed on your docitter, Nae mair than she can on me.” “Now, young man, ae question J’ll ask you, Sin’ ye mean to honour us sae ; Ye’ll tell me how braid your lands lie, Your name, and faer ye hae to gae?” “My father he is an auld soutter, My mither she is an auld dey ; And I’m but a puir broken trooper, My kindred I winna deny. “ Yet I’m nae a man o’ great honour, Nor am I a man o’ great fame ; My name it is Donald M‘Donald, Tl tell it, and winna think shame. “ Will ye gang to the Hielands, bonny Lizie? Will ye gang ‘» the Hielands wi’ me P Will ye leave the south country ladies, And gang to the Hielands wi’ me P” “O, Donald, I'll gie you ten guineas, If ye wou’d but stay in my room; Until that I draw your fair picture, To look on it fan I think lang.” “No; I carena mair for your guineas, Nae mair than ye care for mine ; But if that ye love my ain person, Gae wi’ me, maid, if ye incline.” Then out spake Lizie’s bower woman, And a bonny young lassie was she; “Though I was born heir to a crown, a2 9% Young Donald, I wou’d gang him wi’. Up raise then the bonny young lady, And drew till her stockings and sheen; And pack’d up her claise in fine bundles, And awa’ wi’ young Donald she’s gane. The roads they were rocky and knabby, The mountains were baith straight and stay ; When Lizie grew wearied wi’ travel, For she’d travell’d a very lang way. “O turn again, bonny Lizie Lindsay, O turn again,” said he; “We're but ae day’s journey frae town, O turn, and [’ll turn wi’ thee.” Out speaks the bonny young lady, Till the saut tear blinded her e’e ; “ Although I'd return to the city, There’s nae person wou’d care for me.” When they came near the end o’ their journey, To the house o’ their father’s milk dey ; He said, “ Stay still there, Lizie Lindsay, Till I tell my mither o’ thee.” When he came into the shielen, She hailed him courteouslie ; Said, “ Ye’re welcome hame, Sir Donald, There’s been mony ane calling for thee.” “O, ca’ me nae mair Sir Donald, But Donald M‘Donald, your son; We'll carry the joke a bit farther, There’s a bonny young lady to come.” 620 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. When Lizie came into the shielen, She look’d as if she’d been a feel ; She sawna a seat to sit down on, But only some sunks o’ green feall. “ Now make us a supper, dear mither, The best o’ your cruds and green whey; And make us a bed o” green rashes, And covert wi’ huddins sae grey.” But Lizie being wearied wi’ travel, She lay till’t was up i’ the day. “Ye might hae been up an hour seener, To milk baith the ewes and the kye.” Out then speaks the bonny young lady, Whan the saut tear drapt frae her eye; “TI wish that I had bidden at lame, I can neither milk ewes nor kye. “T wish that I had bidden at hame, The Hielands I never had seen ; Although I love Donald M‘Donald, The laddie wi’ blythe blinking een.” © Win up, win up, O bonny Lizie, And dress in the silks sae gay ; Tl show you the yetts o’ Kingcaussie, Whare I’ve play’d me mony a day.” Up raise the bonny young lady, And drest in the silks sae fine ; And into young Donald’s arms, Awa’ to Kingcaussie she’s gane. Forth came the auld laird o’ Kingcaussie, And hail’d her courteouslie ; Says, “ Ye’re welcome, bonny Lizie Lindsay, Ye’re welcome hame to me! “ Though lords o’ renown hae you courted, Young Donald your favour has won; Ye’se get a’ the lands o’ Kingcaussie, And Donald M‘Donald, my son.” THE BARON TURNED PLOUGHMAN.' — Tu=EReE was a knight, a baron bright, A knight of high degree ; He had but only one dear son, And a bonny young lad was he. He’s brought him up at schools nine, So has he at schools ten; The boy he learn’d to hold the plough Among his father’s men. It fell ance upon a day, His father to him did say ; “ Ye’ll sink your lands for want of heirs, Go wed some lady gay. “Ye hae lands, and ye hae rents, And towers to bring them tee; And ye must wed a lady to them, And a lady of high degree.” “QO, what lady will I bring home, Father, that will please thee ?” “Ye'll go to the maid in yon castle, I’m sure she will take thee.” “ But what if she love my lands and rents Better than she loves me P But I shall try her lowest love, Before she comes wi’ me.” Then he’s taen aff his scarlet coat, Was well trimm’d o’er wi’ gold; And he’s put on the hireman’s coat, To had him frae the cold. He’s taen his staff into his hand, So well as it set him to wiel; And he’s gane whistling o’er the hill, Like ony hireman chiel. He has gone to yon knight’s castle, In yon knight’s green stood he ; Says, ‘‘ Want ye ony servant lads, To serve for meat and fee ? For I can had the plough,’ he said, “ And sow the corn tee.” (1) This plan of wooing and marrying a wife was at one time more common than what it is now; although at times attended with much inconveniency and danger. Matches thus made, and founded oa the principles of love and honour, were more likely to make the contractors happy, and their happiness more complete and of longer duration, than those whose object is entirely wealth. The hero of this piece was one of the Skeres of that Ik, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 621 “Tf ye can had the plough,” the knight said, “ And saw the corn tee, Gude sooth, my lad, we shall not part For gold, nor yet for fee.” He did the work he took in hand, And his master loved him well; And all the lasses far and near They loved the hireman chiel : But and the lady of that place, She loved him very well : But could not get his mind reveal’d, At a convenient time ; Until she dropt some open lines, To meet him at his dine. He read it in a secret place, A light laugh then gae he; Said, “If I manage my business well, I think V’ll be paid my fee.” [t fell ance upon a day, He was feeding his oxen rare; When by it came that lady gay, And a’ her maries fair. ‘Good morrow, good morrow, young man,” she said, “ Good morrow unto you.” He turn’d him right and round about, And gave her a courteous bow. “T wonder much at you, young man, Tm sorry for you now; You that’s a man of so good parts, Would hold my father’s plough.” “T think as much to hold the plough, As you do of your maries fair ; I like as well to hold the plough, As if I were your father’s heir. * But if you love me as you say, And as ye confess ye dee ; The morn’s niglit, at twelve o’clock, In the greenwood ye’ll meet me.” “I do love you as I say, And as I confess I do; My maidenhead it feareth me, To meet so late with you.” No fear of that, at all, fair maid, No fear of that,’ said he; «Tf ye come a maid to gude greenwood, Ye'll return a maid for me.” O mirk and misty was the night, And mirk and rainy tee; As soon as these two lovers met, He kiss’d her tenderlie. “Great impudence, great impudence, Great impudence,” said she ; “ Ye’re but my father’s ploughman lad, How dare you trouble me?” “No impudence, no impudence, No impudence at 9’; For I never used such impudence Till liberty I saw. “The night it’s misty, mirk, and weet, The dew is falling down; And Tm afraid of your green cloathing, That it spoil your glist’ring gown.” “Tf ye are tired of my companie, Why did ye tryst me here? 1 would not tire of your companie, Though this night had been a year.” “Tf your mother get word of this, Right angry will she be; And if your father get word of this, He will gar hang me hie.” “No fear of that, my ain true love, No fear of that,” said she; “Tf one drop of your blood be spilt, They’se never see good of me.” “Tl take my mantle me about, Walk in your garden green; They'll wonder a’ what’s troubled me, That I’ve got up sae seen.” Word’s gaen up, and word’s gaen down, And word’s gaen through the ha’; And word’s has gaen to her father, Among the nobles a’. “Tf the tale be true that I am tauld, As I trust well it be; The morn, or I eat or drink, Hie hanged shall he be.” He turn’d him right and round about, A light laugh then gae he; Says, “ ‘The knight stood never on your greet, This day that dare hang me.” 22 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Then he’s gaen o’er the leys again, Like the bird that always flaw ; And left the lady in her bower, To let the saut tears fa’. A twelvemonth being gone and past, A twelvemonth and a day ; There came a young squire from the west, To court that lady gay. Then he has gained her mother’s love, But and her father’s tee ; But ne’er could gain the lady’s love, For @ his high degree. “O fair mat fa’ ye, my ae daughter, And a good deed mat ye die; Ye’ve laid your love on a bonny young squire, And let the hireman gae.”’ “O hold your tongue, my mother dear, Let all your folly be; The squire stood never upon your green Like the hizeman chiel to me.” Early next morning she drest up, And all her maries fair ; ‘The hireman chiel was hier first foot, As she went to take the air. “O wae mat worth ye, ye hireman chiel, An ill deed mat ye die; Ye might hae tauld me where ye dwalt, Or in what countrie. “1 would hae left my maries a’, And gane along with thee ; If the tale be true that I am told, As I trust well it be.” “Reach here your hand, and take this ring, And go along with me; Do for yourself, my own true love, Do for yourself and me.” “Here is my father coming up, Twenty well arm’d men hin wi’; Here is my father coming up, But married I ne’er shall be.” (1) Donald M‘Queen, the hero of this ballad, was one of the servants of Baron Seaton of Fyvie, who, with his master, had fled to France after the rebellion in 1715. Baron Seaton having died in France, Donald, his man, returned to Fyvie with one of his master’s best horses, and procured a love potion, alias the “ tempt- wg cheese of Fyvie,” which had the effect of bewitching, or, in tther words, casting the glamour o’er his mistress, Lizie Menzie, whe lady of Fyvie, Scme years afterwards this lady went through “Tf I had you on yon hill head, And through yon dowie glen; I wou’dna fear your father dear, Nor all his armed men.” “ Beat up, my boys,” the old man cries, “Come all in good array ; For here it comes tle young hind chiel, That’s stown our bride away.” Out it speaks her first bridegroom, An angry man was he; “Tf I had known she’d been loved by him, She should never been loved by me.” When they were up on yon hill head, And through yon dowie glen; They spied his father’s gilded coach, And an hundred armed mer. When her father saw the sight, A blythe old man was he ; Said, “Lang hae ye served me for her sake, Come back, I'll pay you your fee.” “T winna come back, I shall not come back, I winna come back to thee; Lang have I served you for her sake, I’ve now come and taen my fee.” DONALD M‘QUEEN’S FLIGHT WI’ LIZIE MENZIE.' Downatp, he’s come to this town, And he’s been lang awa’ ; And he is on to Lizie’s bedside, Wy his tartan trews and a’. “How wou’d you like me, Lizie,” he said, “An I ware a’ your ain ? Wi’ tartan coat upo’ my back, Aud single soled sheen ; A blue. bonnetie on my head, And my twa winking een.” the country as a common pauper, when being much fatigued, and in a forlorn condition, she fell fast asleep in the mill of Fyvie, whither she had gone to solicit an alms (charity): on her awaken- ing, she declared that she had just now slept as soun’s sleep with the meal-pock beneath her head, as ever she had done on the bes down bed of Fyvie. This information I had from James Rankir an old blind man, who is well acquainted with the traditions a the country ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 623 “Weel wou’d I like you, Donald,” she said, “ An ye ware a’ my ain; Wi?’ tartan coat upo’ your back, And single soled sheen ; A little blue bonnetie on your head, And blessings on your een.” “But how woud ye like me, Donald,” she said, “An I ware a’ your ain, Wi a siller snood into my head, A gowd fan in my hand, And maidens clad in green satins, To be at my command ? ” “ Weel wou’d I like you, Lizie,” he gaid, “An ye ware a’ my ain; Wi’ a siller snood into your head, A gowd fan in your hand ; But nane o’ your maidens clad in green, To be at your command.” Then but it speaks her mither dear, Says, “ Lizie, I maun cross you ; To gang alang wi’ this young man, We'd think we had but lost you.” “OQ had your tongue, my mither dear, And dinna think to break me; For I will gang wi’ this young man, If it is his will to take me.” Donald M‘Queen rade up the green, On ane o’ Dunfermline’s horses ; And Lizie Menzie followed him, Through a’ her father’s forces. “Q follow me, Lizie, my heart’s delight, And follow me for you please ; Rype well the grounds o’ my pouches, And ye’ll get tempting cheese.” “O wae mat worth you, Donald M‘Queen, Alas! that ever I saw thee ; The first love token ye gae me, Was the tempting cheese o’ Fyvie. “O wae be to the tempting cheese, The tempting cheese o’ Fyvie, Gart me forsake my ain gudeman, And follow a footman laddie. “But lat me drink a hearty browst, Just sic as I did brew; On Seton brave I turn’d my back, A’ for the sake 0” you.” She didna wear the silken gowns Were made into Dumbarton ; But she is to the Highlands gane, ‘To wear the weeds o’ tartan. She’s casten aff the high-heel’d sheen, Made o’ the Turkey leather ; And she’s put on the single brogues, To skip amo’ the heather. Well can Donald hunt the buck, And well can Lizie sew ; Whan ither trades begin to fail, They can take their bowies and brew. —_—s+—-— THE MILLER’S SON. O wos is me, the time draws nigh My love and I must part ; No one doth know the cares and fears Of my poor troubled heart. Already I have suffer’d much, Our parting cost me dear ; Unless I were to go with you, Or you to tarry here. My heart is fixed within his breast, And that he knows right well ; I fear that I some tears will shed, When IT bid you farewell. When I bid you farewell, she said, This day, and woe is me; And eauld and shrill the wind blows still, Between my love and me. The hat my love wears on his head, It’s not made of the woo; But it is o’ the silk so fine, And becomes his noble brow. His eyes do wink, and aye so jimp, His hair shines like the broom ; And I would not gie my laddie’s love For all the wealth in Rome. He said, Farewell, my dearest, dear, Since from you I must go; Let never your heart be full of grief, Nor anguish make you woe. (1) This ballad, by the burden of its song, is undoubtedly very old. The lady mourns for the absence of her lover, who had prowised to send her some comforting letters ; but, in order to put her love to the test, declined it till his return; who, under neath the shade of an apple-tree, overleard all her complaint, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Tf life remains, i will return, And bear you companie ; Now cauld and shrill the wind blows still Between my love and me. His bonny middle is so well made, His shoulders brave and braid ; Out of my mind he’ll never be Till in my grave I’m laid. Till I’m in grave laid low, she says, Alas! and woe is me; Now cauld and raw, the wind does blaw, Between my love and me. Some do mourn for oxen, she said, And others mourn for kye ; And some do mourn for dowie death, But none for love but I. What need I make all this din, For this will never dee ; And cauld and shrill the wind blaws still Between my love and me. She’s taen her mantle her about, And sat down by the shore, In hopes to meet with some relief, But still her grief grew more. O I'll sit here while my life’s in, Until the day I die; O cauld and shrill the wind blaws still Between my love and me. O see ye not yon bonny ship, She’s beauteous to behold ; Her sails are of the tafety fine, Her topmasts shine like gold. In yonder ship my love does skip, And quite forsaken me; And cauld and shrill the wind blaws still Between my love and me. My love he’s neither laird nor lord, Nor ane of noble kin ; But my bonny love, the sailor bold, Is a poor miller’s son, He is a miller’s son, she says, And will be till he die ; And cauld and shrill the wind blaws still Between my love and me. My love he’s bound to leave the land, And cross the watery faem ; And the bonny ship my love sails in, The Goldspink is her name. She sails mair bright than Phoebus fair Out o’er the raging sea ; And cauld and shrill the wind blaws still Between my love and me. He promised to send letters to me, Ere six months they were gone; But now nine months they are expired, And I’ve received none. So [ may sigh, and say, alas! This day, and woe is me; And cauld and shrill the wind blaws still Between my love and me. I wish a stock-stone aye on earth, And high wings on the sea, To cause my true love stay at home, And no more go from me. What needs me for to wish in vain P Such things will never be; The wind blaws sair in every where Between my love and me. PART IL A bonny boy the ballad read, Forbade them sair to lie; She was a lady in Southland town, Her name was Barbarie. She thought her love abroad was gone, Beyond the raging sea ; But there was nae mair between them twa Than a green apple-tree. Cheer up your heart, my dearest dear, No more from you I'll part; I’m come to ease the cares and fears Of your poor troubled heart. All for my sake ye’ve suffer’d much, I’m come to cherish thee ; And now we’ve met, nae mair to part, Until the day we die. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. T wisl’d your face was set in glass, That I might it behold ; And the very letters of your name Were wrote in beaten gold. That I the same might bear about, Through many strange countrie ; But now we’re met, nae mair to part, Until the day we die. Here is a ring in pledge of love, I still will you adore ; Likewise a heart that none can move, A prince can give no more. A prince can give no more, my love, Than what I give to thee ; Now we are met, nae mair to part, Until the day we die. I promised to send letters to thee, Ere six months they were gone ; But now nine months they are expired, And I’m returned home. Now from the seas I am return’d, My dear, to comfort thee ; And now we’re met, nae mair to part, Until the day we die. Ye say I’m neither laird nor lord, Nor one of noble kin ; But ye say I’m a sailor bold, But and a miller’s son. When ye come to my father’s mill, Ye shall grind muture free ; Now we’re met, nae mair to part, Until the day we die. Ye say I’m bound to leave the laud, And cross the watery faem ; The ship that your true love commands The Goldspink is her name. Though I were heir o’er all Scotland, Ye should be lady free ; And now we’re met, nae mair to part, Until the day we die. 625 THE LAST GUID-NIGHT.' Now is my departing time, And I am gaen to leave you a’; There’s nae a rival in the toun, But what could wish I were awa’. My time is come, I maun demit, And frae your company reca’ ; I hope ye’re a’ my friends as yet,— Guid-night, and joy be wi’ you a’! I’ve spent some time, I maun confess, In your sweet civil companie ; For ony offence that I hae dune, T needs that I forgien may be. For what I’ve dune for want o’ wit, My memory does not reca’ ; But I’m now forced for to flit,— Guid-night, and joy be wi’ you a’! For compliments I never lo’ed, Nor yet ower talkative to be; Nor yet a multitude o’ words, They belang to maids o’ high degree. For what I’ve done for want o’ wit, My memory does not reca’; I wish ye a’ prosperity,— Guid-night, and joy be wi’ you a’! THE BONNY BOWS O’ LONDON. THERE were twa sisters in a bower, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; And ae king’s son hae courted them baith, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. He courted the youngest wi’ brooch and ring, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding; He courted the eldest wi’ some other thing, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. (1) All that ever I have as yet been able to discover in print of this very old song, were eight lines, which have been quoted by Burns, and many others since. Even the indefatigable Sir Walter Scott could discover no more for all his researches, and these he has given in the “ Minstrelsy of the Border,” vol. is p. 283, He conceives the lines to have been composed by one of the Armstrongs, executed for the murder of Sir John Car- michael of Edrom, warden of the middle marches: but I am inclined to think they have been written on another occasion, long prior to the time of Carmichael’s death, which happened on the 16th of June, 1600. The eight lines alluded to have been long current, and the air tc which they are sung popular in Scotland. It gives me then particular pleasure to Le able to lay this much-admired relic, so often sought after in vain by the learned, in a complete state, before the lovers of ancient song. (2) Ihave seen four or five different versions of this ballad ; but none in this dress, nor with the same chorus, which makes me give its insertion here. In this copy, we are informed that the lady’s suitor was a king’s son, whereas, in most of the others, he was only a baron. The fatal incidents are nearly the same. The old woman, from whose recitation I took it down, says she had heard another way of it, quite local, whose burden runs thus :—= “ Even into Buchanshire, vari, vari, 0.” 4L ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS, Jt fell ance upon a day, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding; The eldest to the youngest did say, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London: “Will ye gae to the bonnie mill-dam Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding; And see our father’s ships come to land, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London.” They baith stood up upon a stane, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; The eldest dang the youngest in, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. She swimmed up, sae did she down, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding; Till she came to the Tweed mill-dam, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. The miller’s servant he came out, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; And saw the lady floating about, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. “O master, master, set your mill, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; There is a fish, or a milk-white swan, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London.” They could not ken her yellow hair, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; The scules o’ gowd that were laid there, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. They could not ken her fingers sae white, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; The rings o” gowd they were sae bright, At the bonny, bonny bows 0’ London. They could not ken her middle sae jimp, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; The stays o’ gowd were so well laced, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. They could not ken her foot sae fair, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; The shoes o’ gowd they were so rare, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. Her father’s fiddler he came by, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding; Upstarted her ghaist before his eye, At the bonny, bonny bows of London. “ Ye'll take a lock o’ my yellow hair, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; Ye’ll make a string to your fiddle there, At the bonny, bonny bows of London. “Ye’ll take a lith o’ my little finger bane, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; And ye’ll make a pin to your fiddle then, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London.” He’s ta’en a lock o’ her yellow hair, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; And made a string to his fiddle there, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London. He’s taen a lith o’ her little finger bane, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding ; And he’s made a pin to his fiddle then, At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London, The first and spring the fiddle did play, Hey wi’ the gay and the grinding; Said, “ Yell drown my sister, as she’s dune mes At the bonny, bonny bows o’ London.” LORD SALTON AND AUCHANACHIE.' “ AUCHANACHIE Gorpon is bonny aud braw, He would tempt any woman that ever he saw; He would tempt any woman, so has he tempted me, And [ll die if I getna my love Auchanachie.” In came her father tripping on the floor, Says, “ Jeanie, ye’re trying the tricks 0’ a whore ; Ye’re caring for them that cares little for thee, Ye must marry Salton, leave Auchanachie. * Auchanachie Gordon, he is but a man, Although he be pretty, where lies his free land P Salton’s lands they lie broad, his towers they stand hie, Ye must marry Salton, leave Auchanachie. (1) According to the old Scottish adage, “‘ Furced prayers are nae devotion.” Nor is a forced comipliance of pretended love of long duration. Jeannie Gordon lost her lite by the compulsatory measures resorted to by her greedy father 10 compel her to marry Lord Saltoun, whom she mortally hated, in preference to Auch- anachie Gordon, whom she ardently loved. The seat of Lewd Saltoun, which “lies low by the sea,” alluded to in the ballad, 1s Philorth, on the east coast of Aberdeenshire about three miles south of Fraserburgh. ANCIENT BALLADS AND sONGS, “ Salton will gar you wear silk gowns fringed to thy knee, But ye’ll never wear that wi’ your love Auchanachie.” “Wi Auchanachie Gordon I would beg my bread, Before that wi’ Salton I’'d wear gowd on my head; “Wear gowd on my head, or gowns fringed to the knee, And T’ll die if I getna my love Auchanachie ; O Salton’s valley lies low by the sea, He’s bowed on the back, and thrawin on the knee.” “O Salton’s a valley lies low by the sea, Though he’s bowed onthe back, and thrawin on the knee, ; Though he’s bowed on the back, and thrawin on the knee, The bonny rigs of Salton they’re nae thrawin tee.” “O you that are my parents, to church may me bring, But unto young Salton I'll never bear a son ; For son, or for daughter, T’ll ne’er bow my knee, And I'll die if I getna my love Auchanachie.” When Jeanie was married, from church was brought hame, When she wi’ her maidens sae merrie shou’d hae been ; When she wi’ her maidens sae merrie shou’d hae been, She’s called for a chamber to weep there her lane. “ Come to your bed, Jeanie, my honey and my sweet, For to style you mistress I do not think it meet.” “ Mistress, or Jeanie, it is a’ ane to me, It’s in your bed, Salton, I never will be.” Then out spake her father, he spake wi’ renown, Some of you that are maidens, ye’ll loose aff her gown ; Some of you that are maidens, ye’ll loose aff her gown, And I'll mend the marriage wi’ ten thousand crowns.” Then ane of her maidens she loosed aff her gown, But bonny Jeanie Gordon, she fell in a swoon; She fell in a swoon low down by their knee, Says, “Look on, I die for my love Auchanachie ! ” 627 That very same day Miss Jeanie did die, And hame came Auchanachie, hame frae the sea; Her father and mither welcomed him at the gate, He said, “ Where’s Miss Jeanie, that she’s nae here yet?” Then forth came her maidens, all wringing their hands, Saying, “Alas for your staying sae lang frae the land ; Sae lang frae the land, and sae lang frae the fleed, They’ve wedded your Jeanie, and now she is dead!” “Some of you, her maidens, take me by the hand, And show me the chamber Miss Jeanie died in ; ” He kiss’d her cold lips, which were colder than stane, And he died in the chamber that Jeanie died in. THE DEATH OF JOHN SETON. Tr fell about the month of June, On Tuesday, timouslie ; The northern lords hae pitch’d their camps, Beyond the brig o’ Dee. They ca’ed him Major Middleton, That mann’d the brig o’ Dee ; They ea’ed him Colonel Henderson, That gar’d the cannons flee. Bonny John Seton o’ Pitmedden, A brave baron was he; He made his tesment ere he gaed, And the wiser man was he. He left his lands unto his heir, His lady her dowrie ; Ten thousand crowns to Lady Jane, Sat on the nourice knee. Then out it speaks his lady gay, “QO stay, my lord, wi’ me; For word is come, the cause is won, Beyond the brig 0’ Dee,” He turn’d him right and round about, And a light laugh gae he ; Says, “I woudna for my lands sae broad, I stay’d this night wi’ thee.” (1) The battle of the Bridge of Dee was fought on the 19th of June, 1639, between the Marquis of Montrose on the part of the Covenanters, and the Earl of Aboyne on the part of the Royalists. During the engagement, « shot from one of the Covenanters’ caunon, a8 he was riding by Lord Aboyne’s side, severed his body in two. He was a young man of considerable natural parts, and a steady loyalist, deprived of life in the 29ts year of his age. In the “Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads,” there is anothez copy differing from this one ; and in one lately sent me in MS. by a young lady in Aberdeen, Earl Marischal is made to take au active lead in the affairs of the army. 628 He’s taen his sword then by his side, His buckler by his knee ; And laid his leg in o’er his horse, Said, “ Sodgers, follow me.” So he rade on, and further on, Till to the third mile course ; The Covenanters’ cannon balls, Dang him aff o’ his horse. Up then rides him Craigievar, Said, “‘ Wha’s this lying here ? It surely is the Lord o’ Aboyne, For Huntly was not here.” Then out it speaks a fause Forbes, Lived up in Druminner ; * My lord, this is a proud Seton, The rest will ride the thinner.” “Spulzie him, spulzie him,” said Craigievar, “O spulzie him, presentlie, For I could lay my lugs in pawn, He had nae gude will at me.” They’ve taen the shoes frae aff his feet, The garters frae his knee; Likewise the gloves upon his hands,— They’ve left him not a flee. His fingers they were sae sair swell’d, The rings would not come aff; They cutted the grips out 0’ his ears, Took out the gowd signots. Then they rade on, and further on, Till they came to the Crabestane ; And Craigievar, he had a mind To burn a’ Aberdeen. Out it speaks the gallant Montrose, (Grace on his fair body !) “ We winua burn the bonny burgh, We'll even lat it be.” Then out it speaks the gallant Montrose, “Your purpose I will break ; We winna burn the bonny burgh We'll never build its make. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS, “T see the women and their children, Climbing the craigs sae hie; We'll sleep this night in the bonny burgh, And even lat it be.” WALTER LESLY.' —_—_— On the second of October, A Monday at noon; In came Walter Lesly, To see his proper one. He sat a chair down by her side, And gently sat her by ; Says, “ Will ye go to Conland, This winter time to lye P” He’s taen a glass into his hand, Inviting her to drink ; But little knew she his meaning, Or what the rogue did think. Nor what the rogue did think, To steal the maid away ; * Will ye go to Conland, This winter time to lye ? When they had taen a glass or two, And all were making merry : In came Geordy Lesly, And forth he did her carry. Then upon high horseback Sae hard’s he did her tye; * Will ye go to Conland, This winter time to lye P” Her mother she came to the door, The saut tears on her cheek ; She coudna see her daughter, It was for dust and reek ; It was for dust and reek, The swords they glanced sae high; “ And will ye go to Conland, This winter time to lye?” When they came to the ale-house, The people there were busy ; A bridal bed it was well made, And supper well made ready. (1) This ballad has been composed on the stealing of a rich old woman’s daughter, who gave her lover the slip at bedding, and waded through moss and mire till she reached the home from whence she was taken. Who the Walter Lesly was that stole che lady, I have not yet been able to ascertain to a certainty. The name Lesly is of Hungarian origin, and arose from the following circumstance:—Two men having been chosen to decide, in single combat, the fate of a battle which stood on a field called Les Ley, ¢., the Field or Ley, on the sea shore, one of the gen tlemen was victorious, and carried the trophy to the king, repeat ing these words :— “Between Les Ley and the mare, T left him grovelling in his lair.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. When the supper down was set, Baith plum-pudding and pie ; “And will ye go to Conland, This winter time to lye?” When they had eaten and well drunken, And a’ man bound for bed, The laddie and the lassie, In ae chamber were laid. He quickly stript her to the smock, And gently laid her bye ; Says, “ Will ye go to Conland, This winter time to lye?” But Walter being weary, He fell fast asleep ; And then the lassie thought it fit, To start up till her feet ; To start up till her feet, And her petticoats to tye; “We'll go no more to Conland, The winter time to lye.” Then over moss, and over muir, Sae cleverly she ran ; And over hill, and over dale, Without stockings or shoon. The men pursued her full fast, - Wi mony shout and cry ; Says, “ Will ye go to Conland, The winter time to lye? “Wae to the dubs o’ Duffus’ land, That e’er they were sae deep; They’ve trachled a’ our horsemen, And gart our captain sleep ; And gart our captain sleep, And the lassie win away ; And she’ll go no more to Conland, The winter time to lye.” “Td rather be in Duffus’ land, Selling at the ale ; Before I was wi’ Lesly, For a’ his auld meal ; For a’ his auld meal, And sae mony comes to buy; T'll go no more to Conland, The winter time to lye. 629 “Td rather be in Duffus’ lani, Dragging at the ware ; Before I was wi’ Lesly, For a’ his yellow hair ; For a’ his yellow hair, And sae well’s he can it tye; I'll go no more to Conland, This winter time to lye.” It was not for her beauty, Nor yet her gentle bluid ; But for her mither’s dollars, Of them he had great need ; Of them he had great need, Now he maun do them by; For she’ll go no more to Conland, This winter time to lye. —_—e— O’ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.’ As I came by the shore o’ Florth, And in by the craigs o’ Bernie; There I spied a ship on the sea, And the skipper 0’ her was Charlie. Chorus.—O’er the water, and o’er the sea, O’er the water to Charlie ; Pll gie John Ross another bawbie, To boat me o’er to Charlie, Charlie keeps nae needles nor pins, And Charlie keeps nae trappin’ ; But Charlie keeps twa bonny black een, Would had the lasses waukin’. O’er the water, &c. O Charlie is neither laird nor lord, Nor Charlie is a caddie ; But Charlie has twa bonny red cheeks, And he’s my juggler laddie. O’er the water, &. A pinch o’ snuff to poison the Whigs, A gill o’ Geneva to drown them ; And he that winna drink Charlie’s health, May roaring seas surround him. Chorus.—O’er the water, and o’er the sea, And o’er the water to Charlie ; T’ll gie John Brown another half-crowr. To boat me o’er to Charlie. (1) When Prince Charles Edward Stuart attempted to take the crown of Britain by force of arms in 1745-6, many of his adherents, to stir up the great body of the people in his favour, wrote numberless songs in his praise, adapted to lively and spirited old tunes, and inlerwove them with stanzas of the best old ballads, as suited their purposes. This was one among the rest which was selected for that purpose, as may ve found in some Jacobite collections. It is here given in its original state, having been written long before Jacobite songs were the Bon Ton of the day. 630 THE DUKE OF ARGYLE’S COURTSHIP.! “Dip you ever hear of a loyal Scot, Who was never concern’d in any plot ? T wish it could fall in my lot, To marry you, my dearie, O. “O, if 1 had you in Kintyre, To follow me through dub and mire; Then I wou’d hae my heart’s desire, And marry you, my dearie, 0.” “ Although you had me in Kintyre, To follow you through dub and mire ; I wou’d hae naething I cou’d desire, And I’ll never be your dearie, 0.” “Ye shall hae barley bannocks store, WY? geese and gaizlings at your door ; A good chaff bed upon the floor, If you’ll marry me, my dearie, O. * Ye shall hae plenty good Scotch kale, And after that Scotch cakes and ale; A good fat haggis at every meal, If you'll marry me, my dearie, O.” “Begone, ye proud and pawky Scot, Your haggis shall ne’er boil in my pot; Yow’re but a proud and prating sot, And I'll never be your dearie, 0.” “ Ye’se hae men and maideus stout and siark, Baith in and out to work your wark ; And I will kiss you in the dark, If you’ll marry me, your dearie, O. “Pll clout your stockings, mend your shoon, And if you chance to have a son, T'll make him a lord when a’ is done, If you’ll marry me, your dearie, O.” “ Your cloulet stockings [ cannot wear, Your mendit shoes cannot endure; As for your lordship, it is not sure, And I'll never be your dearie, O.” (1) From the conclusion of this ballad, I am apt to think his Grace had been merely hoaxing the English lady in his courtship, to try her attachment to his person, not his rank and fortune. “The ancient and noble family of Campbell is derived from a long train of great ancestors, much farther back than can be vouched by writings or records, and seems to be founded upon the traditional accounts of the senachies and bards, whose office con- sisted chiefly in recording the actions and achievements of their great and illustrious men. Camden derives this pedigree from the ancient kings of Argyll, in the sixth century, above 300 years before Scotland was a monarchy. The first appellation they used, was O'Dubin, which, according to an early custom, they assumed from Diarmed O’Dubin one of their ancestors, who was a brave ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Ye shall get a braw red plaid, Wy siller laces round it laid ; Wi?’ my broadsword I will you guani, If you’ll marry me, your dearie, O. “Did you but see my bonnet blue, Which is right comely for to view ; It’s wated round wi’ ribbons new, You wou’d marry me, your dearie, 0.” “Wi your blue bonnet ye think ye’re braw, But I ken nae use for it at a’, But be a nest to our dag daw, And I'll never be your dearie, O.” “The deil pike out your twa black een, I wish your face I’d never seen ; You’re but a proud and saucy quean, And ye’se never be my dearie, O. “T am a lord o” high renown, My name’s Argyle, when I’m in town, ‘The cannon balls flie up and down, And ye’se never be my dearie, 0.” “Hold! great Argyle, now pardon me, For the offence [’ve done to thee ; O’er Highland lills I'll go thee wi’, And I long to be your dearie, 0.” “There was never a jilé in London town, That e’er shall set foot on Campbell’s groun’; I'm something related to the crown, And ye’se never be my dearie, 0.” “O, great Argyle, I’m sick in love, There’s nane but you can it remove; If I getua you, I'll die for love, For 1 long to be your dearie, 0.” “You mean to flatter, as I suppose, Wy your poky face and Roman nose; Go get you down amang your foes, For ye’se never be my dearie, O.” and warlike man, and from him, in the Irish language, they are called to this time Scol Diarmed, that is, the posterity and off- spring of Diarmed. From the aforesaid Diarmed O’Dubin, the bards have recorded a long series of the Barons of Lochow, whose actions they tell us were very renowned, both for conduct and courage ; and to him succeeded Paul O’Dubin, who was lord of Lochow, and was denominated Paul Spuran, from his being the king’s treasurer ; but he having no male issue, his estate went to his daughter Eva; who being married to Gilespick O’Dubin, a relation of her own, they got the name changed to Campbell, thereby to perpetuate the memory of a noble and heroic piece ot service performed by him for the crown of France, in the reign of Malcolm Canmore.”—Rudiments of Ponour. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 631 THE LAIRD O’ MELDRUM AND PEGGY DOUGLAS.! “ My father he left me twa ploughs and a mill, It was to begin my dowrie ; And what care I for ony o’ them a’, If I be not brave Meldrum’s ladie. “ Meldrum, it stands on the head o’ yon hill, And dear but it stands bonny ; But what care I for this, if I had himsell, For to me, he’s the dearest 0’ ony. * But how can I be the lady o” Argye, The lady o’ Pitlays, or Pitloggan ? How can I expect to enjoy these estates, And I but a servant woman? “Tn climbing the tree, it is too high for me, And seeking the fruit that’s nae growing ; I’m seeking het water beneath cauld ice, And against the stream I am rowing.” But Meldrum he stands on his ain stair head, And hearing his bonny lassie mourning ; Says, “Cheer up your heart, my ain proper pink, Though ye be but a servant woman. “ Ye’re nae climbing a tree that’s too high for thee, Nor seeking the fruit that’s nae growing ; Nor seeking het water beneath cauld ice, It’s wi’ the stream that ye are rowing.” “They ca’ me Peggy Douglass the butt,” she says, “They ca’ me Peggy Douglass the ben, sir; And although I were your wedded wife, They would ca’ me Peggy Douglass again, sir.” “They ca’ you Peggy Douglass the butt,” he says, “They ca’ you Peggy Douglass the ben, may; But the best that’s in a’ my father’s ha’, Darena ca’ you Peggy Douglass again, way.” When he had her up to yon stair head, She was but a servant woman ; But lang, lang ere she came down again, She was getting baith mistress and madam. “Yestreen I sat by Meldrum’s kitchen fire, Asnong the rest o’ his servant lasses; But the night I will lie in his arms twa, And T’ll wear the ribbons and laces.” JOHNNY, LAD.? I soveur a wife in Edinburgh, For ae bawhbie ; I gat a farthing in agam, To buy tobacco wi’. We'll bore in Aaron’s nose a hole, And put therein a ring ; And straight we'll lead him to and fro, Yea, lead him in a string. Chorus.—And wi’? you, and wi’ you, And wi’ you, my Johnny, lad ; Pll drink the buckles o’ my sheen, Wi’ you, my Johnny, lad. When auld Prince Arthur ruled this land, He was a thievish king; He stole three bolls o’ barley meal, To make a white pudding. And wi’ you, &c. The pudding it was sweet and good, And stored well wi’ plums ; The lumps o’ suet into it, Were big as baith my thumbs. And wi’ you, &c. There was a man in Ninevah, And he was wondrous wise ; He jump’d into a hawthorn hedge, And scratch’d out baith his eyes. And wi’ you, &c. And when he saw his eyes were out, He was sair vexed then; He jump’d intill anither hedge, And seratch’d them in again. And wi you, &c. (1) Fortune, at times, favours the importunate, as well as the brave. I have heard some old people say, that “she who bodes (importunes) a silk gown, seldom misses of a sleeve.” The laird of Meldrum’s hvusemaid looked high, and reached her destina- tion—she was fortunate in the object of her wish. (2) Among all the ballads or songs of this name,—and they are not a few to be met with in modern collections,—this one has never made its appearance, at least I have never seen it. It is very old, and, as far as I can learn, the original of all the others; although it does not altogether agree with my ideas of the composition of ancient song. The old air to which it in sung is truly beautiful. 632 O Jolnny’s nae a gentleman, Nor yet is he a laird; But I would follow Johnny, lad, Although he were a caird. And wi’ you, &c. O Johnny is a bonny lad, He was ance a lad o’ mine; I never had a better lad, And I’ve had twenty-nine. And wi’ you, &. DONALD OF THE ISLES." A Bonny laddie brisk and gay, A handsome youth sae brisk and gaddie ; And he is on to Glasgow town, To steal awa’ his bonny Peggy. When he came into Glasgow town, Upon her father’s green sae steady ; “ Come forth, come forth, old man,” he says, “For I am come for bonny Peggy.” Out it spake her father then, “ Begone from me, ye Highland laddie ; There’s nane ina’ the west country Dare steal from me my bonny Peggy.” “ ve ten young men all at my back, That ance to me were baith true and steady ; If ance I call, they’ll soon be nigh And bring to me my bonny Peggy.” Out it spake her mother then, Dear but she spake wond’rous saucy ; Says, “ Ye may steal my cow or ewe, But Pll keep sight o’ my ain lassie.” “Hold your tongue, old woman,” he says, “Ye think your wit it is fu’ ready ; For cow nor ewe I never stole, But I will steal your bonny Peggy.” Then all his men they boldly came, That was to him baith true and steady ; And through the ha’ they quickly went, And forth they carried bonny Peggy. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Her father gae mony shout and cry, Her mother cursed the Highland le2die ; But he heard them, as he heard them no‘, But fix’d his eye on bonny Peggy. He set her on his milk-white steed, And he himsell on his grey naigie ; Still along the way they rode, And he’s awa’ wi’ bonny Peggy. Says, “I wad gie baith cow and ewe, And sae would I this tartan plaidie, That I was far into the north, And alang wi’ me my bonny Peggy.” As they rode down yon pleasant glen, For trees and brambles were right mony, There they met the Earl o’ Hume, And his young son, were riding bonny. Then out it spake the young Earl Hume, Dear but he spake wond’rous gaudie ; “Tm wae to see sae fair a dame, Riding alang wi’ a Highland laddie.” “ Hold your tongue, ye young Earl Hume, O dear but ye do speak right gaudie ; There’s nae a lord in a’ the south, Dare e’er compete wi’ a Highland laddie.” Then he rade five miles through the north, Through mony hills sae rough and scroggie ; Till they came down to a low glen, And he lay down wi’ bonny Peggy. Then he inclosed her in his arms, And row’d her in his tartan plaidie ; “There are blankets and sheets in my father’s house, How have I lien down wi’ a Highland laddie !” Says he, “ There are sheep in my father’s fauld, And every year their wool is ready ; By the same our debts we pay, Although I be but a Highland laddie. “ There are fifty cows in my father’s byre, That all are tied to the stakes, and ready ; Five thousand pounds I hae ilk year, Although I be but a Highland laddie.” (1) It would appear from the ballad, that the hero of this piece had been one of the Macdonalds, Lords of the Isles, who at one time resided in Islay, in all the pomp of royalty. Their sway was absolute, as their power was unlimited. They were crowned and anginted in form, by the Bishop of Argyll, and seven inferior priests, in presence of their kindred and vassals, who swore the same obedience to the commands of their crowned chief, as to that of a father, or an absolute sovereign. In the island of Islay, in the county of Argyll, are the ruins of their palaces and offices still to be seen. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “ My father has fifty well-shod horse, Besides your steed and my grey naigie* I’m Donald o’ the Isle 0’ Sky, Why may not you be ca’d a lady P ‘See ye not yon fine castle, On yonder hill that stands sae gaudie ; And there we'll win this very night, Where ye’ll enjoy your Highland laddie.” —_—e- —— PORTMORE.' O Donatpis, Donaldie, where hae you been ? A hawking and hunting, go make my bed seen ; Gae make my bed seen, and stir up the strae, My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I gae. Let’s drink and gae hame, boys, let’s drink and gae hame, If we stay ony langer we’ll get a bad name ; We'll get a bad name, and fill oursells fou, And the lang woods o’ Derry are ill to gae through. My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; A-chasing the wild deer, and catching the roe, My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. O, bonny Portmore, ye shine where you charm, The more I think on you, the more my heart warms ; When I look from you, my heart it is sore, When I mind upon Valiantny, and on Portmore. There are mony words, but few o’ the best, And he that speaks fewest, lives langest at rest ; My mind, by experience, teaches me so, My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. JOHN THOMSON AND THE TURK? Joun THomson fought against the Turks, Three years into a far country; And all that time, and something more, Was absent from his gay lady. 633 But it fell ance upon a time, As this young chieftain sat alane, He spied his lady in rich array, As she walk’d o’er a rural plain. “What brought you here, my lady gay P So far awa’ from your own country ; I’ve thought lang, and very lang, And all for your fair face to see.” For some days she did with him stay, Till it fell ance upon a day; “Farewell, for a time,” she said, “For now I must bound home away.” He’s gien to her a jewel fine, Was set with pearl and precious stone ; Says, “ My love, beware of these savages bols, That’s on your way, as ye go home. “Ye’ll take the road, my lady fair, That leads you fair across the lea; That keeps you from wild Hind Soldan, And likewise from base Violentrie.” With heavy heart these two did part, And minted as she would go home ; Hind Soldan by the Greeks was slain, © But to base Violentrie she’s gone. When a twelvemonth had expired, John Thomson he thought wond’rous lang, And he has written a broad letter, And seal’d it well with his own hand. He sent it along with a small vessel, That there was quickly going to sea ; And sent it on to fair Scotland, To see about his gay ladie. But the answer he received again, The lines did grieve his heart right sair ; None of her friends there had her seen, For a twelvemonth and something mair. (1) Donald Cameron was the author of this very beautiful and very old song. It is well known to most poetical readers, with how little success Burns endeavoured to graft upon this stock, a twig of his own rearing. Even Mr. Cunningham, in his “ Songs of Scotland,” admits the fact, and regrets that he could give no more than the first four lines of the original. The whole is now, for the first time, given complete, from the recitation of a very old person. (2) In the year 1097, at the instigation of Simon, patriarch of Jerusalem, and Peter the Hermit, there was raised a very great army, composed of all the Christian Princes of Europe, ealled the Crusaders, who went to Jerusalem against the Turks and Saracens, *. root out these infidels, that the Christians might enjoy peace in their religious duties, John Thomson having been one of the chief men in the command of this army, his wife had gone from Scotland to see him; but on her return, he insisted to be aware ot and avoid the Turkish chieftains, and endeavour to keep herself clear of their marauding parties, which were always on the outlook for plunder. She, however, tcok her own way, like too many of her sex, and followed her own inclination, going directly to the palace of the Turkish commander, where she stayed till discovered by her husband, who went in search of her in the disguise of a palmer. She was afterwards, and her paramour, burned in his castle, the punishment due to each: hers for her deception and treachery, and his for his cruelty. 4M ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Then he put on a palmer’s weed, And took a pikestaff in his hand; To Violentrie’s castle he hied, But slowly, slowly he did gang. When within the hall he came, He jouk’d and couch’d out o’er his tree ; “Tf ye be lady of this hall, Some of your good bountieth give me.” “What news, what news, palmer?” she said, “ And from what countrie came ye?” “Tm lately come from Grecian plains, Where lies some of the Scots’ army.” “If ye be come from Grecian plains, Some more news I will ask of thee; Of one of the chieftains that lies there, If he have lately seen his gay ladie ? ” “Tt is two months, and something more, Since we did part in yonder plain; And now this knight has begun to fear, One of his foes he has her taen.” * He has not taen me by force nor might, It was all by my own free will; He may tarry in the fight, For here I mean to tarry still. * and if Jolin Thomson ye do see, Tell him I wish him silent sleep ; His head was not so cozelie, Nor yet so well as lies at my feet.” With that he threw his strange disguise, Laid by the mask that he had on; Said, “ Hide me now, my ladie fair, For Violentrie will soon be home.” “For the love I bare thee once, V'll strive to hide you if I can.” Then put him down to a dark cellar, Where there lie mony a new slain man. But he hadna in the cellar been Not an hour but barely three, Till hideous was the sound he heard, Then in at the gates came Violentrie. Says, “1 wish you well, my lady fair, It’s time for us to sit and dine ; Come, serve me with the good white bread, And likewise with the claret: wine. “That Scots’ chieftain, our mortal foe,. So oft from field has made us flee; Ten thousand sequins this day I’d give, That I his face could only see.” “ Of that same gift would ye give me, If I could bring him unto thee ? I fairly hold you to your word, Come ben, John Thomson, to my lord.” Then from the vault John Thomson came, Wringing his hands most piteouslie ; “What would ye do,” the Turk he cried, “Tf ye had me, as I have thee P ” “Tf I had you as ye have me, Pll tell you what I’d do to thee ; Td hang you up in good greenwood, And cause your own hand wile the tree.” “JT meant to stick you with my knife, For kissing my beloved wife; But that same weed ye’ve shaped for me, It quickly shall be sewed for thee.” Then to the wood they both are gone, John Thomson clamb from tree to tree; And aye he sigh’d, and said, ‘“Ohon! Here comes the day that I must die!” He tied a ribbon on every branch, Put up a flag his men might see ; But little did his false foe ken He meant them any injurie. He set his horn to his mouth, And he has blawn baith loud and shrill; And then three thousand armed men Came tripping all out o’er the hill. “ Deliver us our chief,” they all did cry, “It’s by our hand that ye must die!” “ Here is your chief,” the Turk replied, With that fell on his bended knee. “O mercy, mercy, good fellows all, Mercy, I pray you'll grant to me! ” “Such mercy as ye meant to give, Such mercy we shall give to thee.” This Turk they in his castle burnt, That stood upon yon hill so hie; John Thomson’s gay lady they took, And hang’d her on you greenwood tree. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. JOCK THE LEG AND THE MERRY MERCHANT! As Jock the Leg and the merry merchant Came from yon borrow’s town, They took their budgets on their backs, And fieldert they were boun’. But they came to a tavern house, Where chapmen used to be; “ Provide, provide,” said Jock the Leg, “A good supper for me. “For the merry merchant shall pay it a’, Though it were good merks three.” “ But never a penny,” said the merry merchant, “ But shot, as it fa’s me.” “A bed, a bed,” said the merry merchant, “Tt’s time to go to rest ;” * And that ye shall,” said the good goodwife “And your cov’ring’s 0’ the best.” Then Jock the Leg in one chamber was laid, The merchant in another ; And lockfast door atween them twa, That the one might not see the other. But the merchant was not well lain down, Nor yet well fa’en asleep ; Till up it starts him, Jock the Leg, Just at the merchant’s feet. “ Win up, win up,” said Jock the Leg, “ We might hae been miles three.” “ But never a foot,” said the merry merchant, “Till day that [ do see: “For I cannot go by Barnisdale, Nor yet by Coventry ; For Jock the Leg, that common thief, Would take my pack from me.” “Tl hae you m by Barnisdale, And down by Coventry ; And I'll guard you frae Jock the Leg, Till day that ye do see.” (1) From the circumstance of the Merry Merchant having over- come Little John, who was no bad swordsman, in single combat, we may, with the same show of good reason, suppose him to be the strongest and bravest man at that time in the country; as did the parish schoolmaster prove by the following syllogism, that he was the greatest man in his parish, First, because he ruled over 635 When they were in by Barnisdale, And in by Coventry ; “Repeat, repeat,” said Jock the Leg, “The words ye ance tauld me.” “T never said aught behind your back But what I'll say to thee ; Are ye that robber, Jock the Leg, Will take my pack frae me?” “O by my sooth,” said Jock the Leg, Yow'll find that man T be Surrender that pack that’s on your back, Or then be slain by me.” He’s ta’en his pack down frae his back, Set it below yon tree; Says, “I will fight for my good pack, Till day that I may see.” Then they fought there in good greenwood Till they were bloody men ; The robber on his kuees did fall, Said, “ Merchant, hold your hand. “ An asking, asking,” said Jock the Leg, “ An asking ye’ll grant me ;” “ Ask on, ask on,” said the merry merchant, “For men to asking are free.” “T’ve dune little harm to you,” he said, “ More than you’d been my brother; Give me a blast 0’ my little wee horn, And I'll give you another.” © A blast 0’ your little wee horn,” he said, “ Of this I take no doubt ; I hope you will take such a blast, Ere both your eyes fly out.” He set his horn to his mouth, And he blew loud and shrill ; And four-and-twenty bauld bowmen Came Jock the Leg until. “Qhon, alas!” said the merry merchant, “ Alas! and woe is me! Sae many, a party o’ common thiefs, But nane to party me! all the children ; secondly, the children ruled over their mothers; and, thirdly, the mothers ruled over their husbands: So, the Merry Merchant overcame Little John; Little John, Robin Hood and Robin Hood all the rest of the country. The ballad must be very old, the hero of it being contemporary with Little John and Robin Hood, 636 “Yell wile out six o’ your best bowmen, Yourself the seventh to be; And put me one foot frae my pack, My pack ye shall have free.” He wiled six 0’ his best bowmen, Himself the seventh to be; But frae his pack they couldna get, For all that they could dee. He’s ta’en his pack into one hand, His broadsword in the other ; And he slew five o’ the best bowmen, And the sixth he has dung over. Then all the rest they gae a shout, As they stood by the tree ; Some said, they would this merchant head, Some said, they’d let him be. But Jock the Leg he then replied, “To this I'll not agree; He is the boldest broadsword man, That ever I fought wi’. “Tf ye could wield the bow, the bow, As ye can do the brand ; I would hae you to good greenwood, To be my master’s man.” “Though I could wield the bow, the bow, As I can do the brand; I would not gang to good greenwood, To join a robber band.” “O give me some of your fine linen, To cleathe my men and me; And ye’se hae some of my dun deers’ skins Below yon greenwood tree.” “ Ye’se hae nane o” my fine linen, To cleathe your men and thee ; And T’ll hae nane o’ your stown deers’ skins Below yon greenwood tree.” “Ye’ll take your pack upon your back, And travel by land or sea ; In brough or Jand, wherever we meet, Good billies we shall be.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Tl take my pack upon my back, And go by land or sea; Tn brough or land, wherever we meet, A rank thief [’ll call thee.” CAPTAIN JOHNSTOUN’S LAST FAREWELL.’ GuDE people all, where’er you be, That hear my dismal doom, Hae some regard to pity me, Who now, alas! am come, To die an ignominious death, As it doth well appear ; For I declare with my last breath, Your laws are most severe. In Scotland I was bred and born, Of noble parents there ; Gude education did adorn My life, I do declare. Nae crime did e’er my conscience stain, Till I had ventured here ; Thus, have I reason to complain, Your laws are most severe. In Flanders 1 hae faced the French, And likewise in Ireland; Still eagerly pursued the chace, With valiant heart and hand. Why was 1 not in battle slain, Rather than suffer here, A death which mortals do disdain P Your laws are most severe. I did not hurt, nor wrong intend, I solemnly protest ; But merely for to help a friend, I granted his request. To free his lady out of thrall, His joy and only dear ; And now my life must pay for all,— Your laws are most severe. In coming to my native land, At this unhappy time, Alas! I did not understand The nature of the crime. Therefore I soon did condescend, As it doth well appear ; Wherein 1 find I do offend,— Your laws are most severe. (1) The hero of this ballad was Sir John Johnston of Caskieben, Aberdeenshire. He was executed at Tyburn in the year 1689, for aiding and assisting the Duke of Argyll’s brother, the Hon. Captain James Campbell of Burnbank, in stealing away, and forcibly marrying, Miss Mary Wharton, a rich heiress, only thir teen years of age. The ballad was written in 1690. Sir John Johnston was a descendant of Dr. Arthur Johnston, the famous Latin poet, who flourished in 1637, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Tu the same lodgings where I lay, And lived at bed and board ; My landlord did my life betray, For fifty pounds’ reward. And being into prison cast, Although with conscience clear ; T was arraigned at the last,— Your laws are most severe. This lady would not hear my moan, While dying words I sent ; Her cruel heart, more hard than stone, Would not the least relent. But triumphing in my wretched state, As I do often hear; T fall here by the hand of fate,— Your laws are most severe. Will not my gude and gracious king Be merciful to me? Is there not in his breast a spring Of princely clemencie ? No! not for me, alas! I die! My hour is drawing near ; To the last minute I will cry,— Your laws are most severe. Farewell, dear countrymen, said he, And this tumultuous noise ; My soul shall now transported be, To more celestial joys. Though in the blossom of my youth, Pale death I do not fear ; Unto the last I speak the truth,— Your laws are most severe. Alas! I have not long to live, And therefore, now, said he, All those that wrong’d me I forgive, As God will pardon me. My landlord and his subtile wife, I do forgive them here ; Farewell, this transitory life,— Your Jaws are most severe. 637 LIZIE BAILLIE! Ir fell about the Lammas time, When flowers were fresh and green, Lizie Baillie to Gartartan went, To see her sister Jean. She meant to go unto that place, To stay a little while ; But mark what fortune her befell, When she went to the isle. It fell out upon a day, Sheep-shearing at an end; Lizie Baillie she walk’d out, To see a distant friend. But going down in a low glen, She met wi’ Duncan Graeme, Who courted her along the way, Likewise, convoyed her hame. “ My bonny Lizie Baillie, Tl row you in my plaidie; If ye’ll gang ower the hills wi’ me, And be a Highland ladie.” ‘‘T winna gang alang wi’ you, Indeed I maun confess ; I can neither milk cow nor ewe, Nor yet can J speak Earse.” *O never fear, Lizie,” he said, “Tf ye will gang wi’ me; All that is into my place Can speak as gude Scotch as thee. “But for a time we now maun part, I hinna time to tarry ; Next when we twa meet again Will be in Castlecarry.” When Lizie tarried out her time, Unto her father’s came; The very first night she arrived, Wha comes but Duncan Graeme. (1) A ballad under this name, and somewhat similar, was printed by Wotherspoon, in the second volume of his Collection. There are, however, some breaches in that one, which are now happily made up in this one. There is also a difference between them in the manner of detail, The Duncan Graeme mentioned in the ballad is only fictitious, to prevent the real name being known. Lizie Baillie was a daughter of the Reverend Mr. Baillie, and lady’s-maid to the Countess of Saltoun, to whose son Alexander, master of Saltoun, she bare a child. The young man wished to legitimatise the offspring of his unlawful love, by marrying the mother of his child, but was prevented by Lord and Lady Salioun, his father and mother, as being below his degree ; when he retorted by saying,—‘‘She was a minister’s daughter, and he was but a minister’s grandson;’ he, on the mother’s side, having descended from Dr. James Sharpe, Arch- bishop of St. Andrews, who was the tragical victim of religious fury and enthusiastic bigotry, and assassinated for the cause of episcopacy in Scotland in 1679. The young nobleman’s mother's name was Margaret Sharpe, who married William, second Lord Saltoun, and he was the only issue. After having continued a considerable length of time a bachelor, he married Lady Mary Gordon, daughter of George Earl of Aberdeen, and Lizie Baillic was then forgotten. ‘lhe late Mr. Fraser, minister of Tyrie was a grandson to Lizie Baillie, and great grandson to Alexandea Fraser, third Lord Saltoun, 638 Says, “ Bonny Lizie Baillie, A gude deed mat ye die; Although to me ye brake your tryst, Now I am come for thee.” “O stay at hame,” her father said, “Your mither cannot want thee ; And gin ye gang awa’ this night, We'll hae a Killycrankie.” “My bonny Lizie Baillie, O come to me without delay. O would ye hae sae little wit, As mind what odd folks wad say?” She wouldna hae the Lowlandman, That wears the coat sae blue; But she would hae the Highlandman, That wears the plaid and trews. ah Out it spake her mother then, A sorry heart had she ; Says, “ Wae be to his Highland face, That’s taen my lass frae me!” WILLIE DOO.’ “ Wuene hae ye been a’ the day, Willie Doo, Willie Doo ? Where hae ye been a’ the day, Willie, my doo?” “T’ve been to see my step-mother, Make my bed, lay me down; Make my bed, lay me down,— Die shall I now!” “What got ye frae your step-mother, Willie Doo, Willie Doo ! What got ye frae your step-mother, Willie, my doo?” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS, “She gaed me a speckled trout, Make my bed, lay me down ; She gaed me a speckled trout,— Die shall I now!” “Where got she the speckled trout, Willie Doo, Willie Doo ?” “She got it amang the heather hills,— Die shall I now!” “What did she boil it in, Willie Doo, Willie Doo ? ” “She boil’d it in the billy-pot,— Die shall I now!” ““What gaed she you for to drink, Willie Doo, Willie Doo? What gaed she you for to drink, Willie, my doo ?” “She gaed me hemlock stocks, Make my bed, lay me down; Made in the brewing pot,— Die shall I now!” They made his bed, laid him down, Poor Willie Doo, Willie Doo; He turn’d his face to the wa’,— He is dead now! Se THE EARL OF DOUGLAS AND DAME OLIPHANT. WILLIE was an earl’s ae son, And an earl’s ae son was he; But he thought his father lack to sair, And his mother of low degree. But he is on to fair England, To sair for meat and fee; And all was for Dame Oliphant, A woman of great beauty. (1) In the “ Minstrelsy of the Border,” vol. ii. p. 261, there is a ballad to be found, entitled Lord Randal,” which is somewhu$ similar in its catastrophe. The editor of that valuable work says,— “There is a very similar song, in which, apparently to excite greater interest in the nursery, the handsome young hunter is exchanged for a little child, poisoned by a false step-mother.” I have every reason to believe this is the beautiful nursery song to which Sir Walter alludes, now for the first time printed. (2) The Douglases have been long celebrated in Scottish song asa brave and warlike race. One of their historians (Hume of Godscroft), in speaking of their origin, says,—* We do not know them in the fountain, but in the stream ; not in the root, but in the stemme; for we know not who was the first mean man that did raise himself above the vulgar.” The Douglases are of Flemish extraction ; Arnald, the Abbot of Kelso, having between the years 1147 and 1160 granted to Theobald the Fleming the lands and title-deeds of Donglasdale, his son William, who inherited the estate after him, was the first that assumed the surname De Duv gias. So much esteemed was Sir James Douglas by King Robert Bruce, that on his death-bed he commissioned this nobleman to carry his heart, according to the then custom of the times, to the holy sepulchre at Jerusalem. In all my researches into our national histories, I can find it nowhere said that one of the Douglases maitied a daughter of any of the kings of England of the name of Oliphant. William Douglas, commonly called the ‘Black Douglas,” was marriea to Egidia, the daughter of Robert II., king of Scotland. The only Dame Oliphant I read of, was in a poetical but satirical advice by Sir David Lindsay to King James V., on one of his concubines of that name, : ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 639 He hadna been in fair England A month but barely ane, Ere he dream’d that fair Dame Oliphant Gied him a gay gowd ring. He hadna been in fair England A month but barely four, Ere he dream’d that fair Dame Oliphant Gied him a red rose flower, Well set about. wi’ white lilies, Like to the paramour. Tt fell ance upon a day, Dame Oliphant thought lang ; And she gaed on to gude greenwood As fast as she could gang. As Willie stood in his chamber door, And as he thought it good, There he beheld Dame Oliphant, As she came through the wood. He’s ta’en his bow his arm ower, His sword into his hand; And he is on to gude greenwood As fast as he could gang. And there he found Dame Oliphant Was lying sound asleep ; And aye the sounder she did sleep, The nearer he did creep. But when she waken’d frae her sleep, An angry maid was shi ; Crying, ““Had awa’ frae me, young man, Had far awa’ frae me, For I fear ye are the Scottish knight That beguiles young ladies free.” “Tam not the Scottish knight, Nor ever thinks to be; I am but Willie o’ Douglas-dale, That serves for meat and fee.” “Tf ye be Willie 0’ Douglas-dale, Ye’re dearly welcome‘to me ; For aft in my sleep hae I thought on You aud your merry winking e’e.” But the cocks they crew, and the horns blew, And the lions took the hill; And Willie he gaed hame again ‘To his hard task and til : And likewise did Dame Oliphant. To her book and her seam. Till it fell ance upon a day, Dame Oliphant thought lang ; And she went on to Willie’s bower yetls As fast as she could gang. *O, are ye asleep now, Squire Willie P O, are ye asleep?” said she; “O waken, waken, Squire Willie, O waken and speak to me. “The gowns that were ower wide, Willie, They winna meet on me ; And the coats that were ower side, Willie, They winna come to my knee; And if the knights of my father’s court get word, I’m sure they’ll gar you die.” “Dame Oliphant, Dame Oliphant, A king’s daughter are ye; But would ye leave your father and mother, And gang awa’ wi’ me?” OQ, I would leave my father and mother And the nearest that e’er hetide ; And I would nae be fear’d to gang, Gin ye war by my side.” But she’s taen a web o’ the scarlet, _ And tare it fine and sma’ ; And even into Willie’s arms She leapt the castle wa’ ; And Willie was wight and well able, And he keepit her frae a fa’, But the cocks they crew, and the horns blew, And the lions took the hill ; And Willie’s lady follow’d him, And the tears did trinkle still. “O want ye ribbons to your hair? Or roses to your sheen P Or want ye chains about your neck, Ye’se get mair ere that be deen?” “I want not ribbons to my hair, Nor roses to my sheen; And there are mair chains about my neck Then ever I’ll see deen : But I hae as much dear-bought love As my heart can conteen.” “ Will ye gae to the cards or dice P Or to the table play P Or to a bed sae well down spread, And sleep till it be day ?” 640 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. * T’ve mair need o’ the roddins, Willie, That grow on yonder thorn ; Likewise a drink o’ Marywell-water, Out ©’ your grass-green horn, “T’ve mair need o’ a fire, Willie, To had me frae the cauld ; Likewise a glass o’ your red wine, Ere I bring my son to the fauld.” He’s got a bush o’ roddins till her, That grow on yonder thorn ; Likewise a drink o’ Marywell-water, Out o’ his grass-green horn. He carried the match in his pocket, That kindled to her the fire ; Well set about wi’ oaken spails, That leam’d ower Lincolnshire. And he has brought to his lady The white bread and the wine; And the milk he milked frae the goats, He fed his young son on, Till it fell ance upon a day, Dame Oliphant thought lang; *O gin ye hae a being, Willie, I pray you hae me hame.” He’s taen his young son in his arms, His lady by the hand ; And they are down through gude greeuwood, As fast as they could gang; Till they came to a shepherd may, Was feeding her flocks alone ; Said, “ Will ye gang alang wi’ me, And carry my bonny young son ? * The gowns that were shapen for my back, They shall be sewed for thine ; And likewise I'll gar Squire Willie Gie you a braw Scots man.” When they came on to Willie’s bower yetts, And far beyond the sea ; She was hail’d the lady 0’ Douglas-dale, And Willie an earl to be. Likewise the maid they brought awa’, She got a braw Scots man. And lang and happy did they live, But now their days are deen ; And in the kirk o’ sweet Saint Bride Their graves are growing green, THE GARDENER LAD. ALL ye young men, I pray draw near, Pl let you hear my mind Concerning those who fickle are, And inconstant as the wind. A pretty maid who late lived here, And sweethearts many had ; The gardener lad he view’d them all, Just as they came and gaed. The gardener lad he view’d them all, But swore he had no skill; “Tf I were to go as oft to her, Ye surely would me kill. “Tm sure she’s not a proper maid, Tm sure she is not tall; ” Another young man standing by, He said, “Slight none at all. “For we’re all come of woman,” he said “Tf ye would call to mind; And to all women, for her sake, Ye surely should be kind. «The summer hours and warm showers Make the trees yield in the ground; And kindly words will woman win, And this maid ]’ll surround.” The maid then stood in her bower door, As straight as ony wand ; When by it came the gardener lad, With his hat in his hand. © Will ye live on fruit?” he said; “Or will ye marry me? And amongst the flowers in my garden, T'll shape a weed for thee.” “T will live on fruit,” she says, * But ll never marry thee ; For I can live without mankind, And without mankind Pll die.” “Ye shall not live without mankind, If ye’ll accept of me ; For among the flowers in my garden, T’ll shape a weed for thee. (1) There is something poetical, but much trifling matter ex- hibited here. The summer and winter allusions contrasted have a tolerably good effect ; but it has not been composed by a master in the art of rhyming. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. The lily white to be your smock, Becomes your body best ; And the jelly-flower to be your quill, And the red rose in your breast. “Your gown shall be o’ the pingo white, Your petticoat commovine ; Your apron o’ the seel o’ downs,— Come smile, sweet heart 0’ mine. “Your shoes shall be 0’ the gude rue red, Never did I garden ill; Your stockings o’ the mary mild,— Come smile, sweet heart, your fill. Your gloves shall be o’ the green clover, Comes lockerin’ to your hand ; Well dzopp’d o’er wi’ blue blavers, That grow among white land.” “Young man, ye’ve shaped a weed for me, In summer among your flowers, Now I will shape another for you, Among the winter showers. “The snow so white shall be your shirt, Ii becomes your body best ; The cold bleak wind to be your coat, And the cold wind in your breast. 641 “The steed that you shall ride upon Shall be o’ the weather snell, Well bridled with the northern wind, And cold sharp showers o’ hail. “ The hat you on your head shall wear Shall be o’ the weather gray; And aye when you come into my sight, T’ll wish you were away.” THE LAIRD O’ DRUM Tue laird o’ Drum is a hunting gane, All in a morniug early ; And he did spy a well-fared raay, Was shearing at lier barley. “O will ye fancy me, fair may, And let your shearing be, O; And gang and be the lady o’ Drum, O will ye fancy me, GO?” “T winna fancy you,” she says, Nor let my shearing be, O; For I’m ower Jow to be Lady Drum, And your miss I’d scorn to ke, 0.” (1) The hero of this ballad is Alexander Irvine, Esq., of Drum, in the parish of Drumoak, on Deeside, Aberdeenshire. Drum is derived trom the Gaelic, and means a rising ground. It is the chiof seat of the ancient, the honourable, and the once powerful and brave family of Irvine. Drum’s ancestor, Alexander de irvyne, was a son of Irvine of Bonshaw, in the south of Scot- land, who, being armour-bearer to Robert Bruce, had the lands and forests of Drum conferred upon him by that prince. The charter, still extant, is dated the eighteenth year of his reign, which fell in the year 1324. The king, as a further mark of his favour, gave Mr. Irvine for his armorial bearing three bunches of holly leaves, three ia each, two and one ; with a bundle of holly ieaves for the crest, and the words sub sole, sub umbra virens, for a motto; which are said to have been the arms he himself bore when Earl of Carrick. Feuds and animosities had long subsisted between the Maris- chal and Drum families, in which many had lost their lives on both sides: and to this day there is a deep place in the river Dee, opposite to Drum, called the Keith’s Pot, into which, it is said, the Irvines used to drive their enemies. It is further said that, on occagion of some quuirel, Marischall sent a message to Drum, threatening, if he got not reparation of the injury, that he would come and take him out of his crow’s nest. ‘He may try it,” said Drum; “but tell him, that if I live but a little longer, I shall build a nest which he and all his clan shall not be able to throw down.” By the mediation of the king, a reconciliation of the two fami- ‘ies was effected, and that it might be lasting, his Majesty pro- posed that Drum’s eldest son should marry Marischall’s daughter. They were accordingly married, and there has never since been any difference between the families. It appears, however, that the young gentleman still retained his resentment; for though he behaved politely 1o the lady, he never consummated his marriage. Hc had succeeded to the estate before 1411; for in that year, he ani his brother set out for the battle at Harlaw at the head of his tenants. On the top of a hill, at some miles distance, where they were to lose sight of their native place, they both sat down upon a stone, still known bythe name of Drum's Stone, where the eldest brother is said to have spoken to this effect: “ From the chia- tactcr of our enemies, we have reason to expect an obstinate engagement, in which, my brother, you or I, perhaps both of us, may fall; be that as tae providence of God shall see meet. In the meantime, I must condemn one thing in my 0+ a conduct, and give you a serious advice, while the advice of a friend may be heard ; I regret sincerely tuat I have not lived with the lady I married in the manner I should have lived, and if I return to Drum, shall make her all the reparation in my power. But if I should drcp, and you come off safe, I recommend it to you to marry your sister-in-law, with whom I have never consummated my marriage.” The eldest brother was killed, after he had slain Maclean, one of the Highland chieftains; the youngest carae off uabart, und married his sister-in-law. This laird of Drum is very respectfully mentioned in the old popular ballad of the battle of Hariaw :— “ Gude Sir Alexander Irving, The much renounit Laird of Drum, Nane in his days were better sene, Quhen they were semblet all and sum. “To praise him we sud not be dumm, For valour, wit, and worthiness ; To end his days he there did cum, Quhois ransom is remeidyless.” At Aquhorsk, in the parish of Kinnear, is a great stone, called Drum’s Stone, in sight of Drum and Harlaw, upon which Drum made his testament, as he went to Harlaw, and his cairn is to be seen to this day, Margaret Coutts was the name of the fortunate heroine of this ballad, who became, from being lady’s-maid, herself lady of Drum. in 642 “But ye'll cast aff that gown o’ grey, Put on the silk and scarlet ; Tl make a vow and keep it true, Ye’ll neither be miss nor harlot.” “Then dee you to my father dear, Keeps sheep on yonder hill, O; To ony thing he bids me do, Tm always at his will, 0.” He has gane to her father dear, Keeps sheep on yonder hill, O; “T’m come to marry your ae daughter, If ye’ll gie me your gude will, 0.” “She'll shake your barn and winna your corn, And gang to mill and kill, O; Tn time of need she’ll saddle your steed, And T’ll draw your boots niysell, O.” “OQ wha will bake my bridal bread ? And wha will brew my ale, O? And wha will welcome my lady hame, It’s mair than I can tell, O.” Four an’ twenty gentle knights Gied in at the yetts o’ Drum, O; But nae a man lifted his hat Whan the lady o’ Drum came in, O. But he has ta’en her by the hand, And led her but and ben, O; Says, “‘You’re welcome hame, my Lady Drum, For this is your ain land, O.” For he has ta’en her by the hand, And led her through the ha’, O; Says, “ You’re welcome hame, my Lady Drum, To your bowers ane and a’, O.” Then he stripp’d her 0’ the robes o’ grey, Dress’d her in the robes 0” gold ; And ta’en her father frae the sheep-keeping, Made him a bailie bold. She wasna forty weeks his wife, Till she brought hame a son, O; She was as well a loved lady As ever was in Drum, 0, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. Out it speaks his brother dear, Says, “ You’ve dune us great wrang, O, You’ve married a wife below your degree, She’s a mock to all our kin, O.” Out then spake the laird o’ Drum, Says, “I’ve dune you nae wrang, O; I’ve married a wife to win my bread, You’ve married ane to spend, O. “For the last time that I was married, She was far abeen my degree,' O; She wadna gang to the bonny yetts o’ Drum, But the pearlin abeen her e’e, O; And I durstna gang in the room where she was, But my hat below my knee, O.” When they had eaten and well drunken, And all men bound for bed, O; The laird o’ Drum and his lady gay In ae bed they were laid, O. “Gin ye had been o’ high renown, As ye are o’ low degree, O; We might hae baith gane down the streets, Amang gude companie, 0.” “T tauld you ere we were wed, You were far abeen my degree, O; But now I’m married, in your bed laid, And just as gude as ye, O. ‘Gin ye were dead, and I were dead, And baith in grave had lain, O; Ere seven years were at an end, They’d not ken your dust frae mine, O.” LOVE GREGORY.2 It fell on a Wodensday, Love Gregory’s ta’en the sea; And he has left his lady Janet, And a weary woman was she, But she hadna been in child-bed A day but barely three, Till word has come to lady Janet, Love Gregory she wad never see. (1) This lady, to whom ne was married in 1642, was Mary Gordon, daughter to the Marquis of Huntly. (2) Of this legendary ballad, this is the only original copy to be met with, ‘The Bonny Lass of Lochroyan” was first pub- lished, with additions, by Lawrie and Symington, in 1791; and since, in various other collections, like a snow-ball, always in- creasing in bulk as it rolls along, by the officious handa of our modern song-wrights. In this copy, the name of the unfortunate fair one is Janet; in the others, it is Annie, The notorious Peter Pindar, alias Dr. Wolcott, and the celebrated Robert Burns, each in his way, have tried their hands upon it, and each produced specimens of mastership. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 643 She’s ta’en her mantle her middle about, Her cane into her hand, And she’s awa’ to the salt-sea side As fast as she could gang. “ Where will I get a curious carpenter, Will make a boat to me? I’m gaun to seek him, love Gregory, In’s lands where’er he be.” “ Here am I, a curious carpenter, Will make a boat for thee ; And ye may seek him, love Gregory, But him ye’ll never see.” She sailed up, she sailed down, Through mony a pretty stream, Till she came to that stately castle, Where love Gregory lay in. “ O open, open, love Gregory, O open, and lat me in; Your young son is in my arms, - And shivering cheek and chin.” “ Had awa’, ye ill woman, Had far awa’ frae me ; Ye’re but some witch, or some warlock, Or the mermaid troubling me. «My lady she’s in Lochranline, Down by Lochlearn’s green ; This day she wadna sail the sea, For gowd nor warld’s gain. “But if ye be my lady Janet, As I trust not well ye be; Come tell me o’er some love token That pass’d between thee and me.” Mind on, mind on, now love Gregory, Since we sat at the wine; The rings that were on your fingers, I gied you mine for thine. * And mine was o’ the gude red gowd, Yours o’ the silly tin; And mine’s been true, and very true, But yours had a tause lynin. “But open, open, love Gregory Open and let me in; Your young son is in my arms, And he’ll be dead or I win in.” “ Had awa’, ye ill woman, Had far awa’ frae me; Ye’re but some witch, or vile warlock, Or the mermaid troubling me. “ But if ye be my lady Janet, As I trust not well ye be; Come tell me o’er some love token That pass’d ’tween thee and me.” “Mind on, mind on, love Gregory, Sin’ we sat at the wine, The shifts that were upon your back, I gae thee mine for thine. * And mine was 0’ the gude holland, And yours o’ the silly twine ; And mine’s been true, and very true, But yours had fause lynin.” THE WATER O’ WEARIE’S WELL TuERE came a bird out o’ a bush, On water for to dine ; And sighing sair, says the king’s daughter, “O wae’s this heart o’ mine.” He’s ta’en a harp into his hand, He’s harp’d them all asleep ; Except it was the king’s daughter, Who ae wink couldna get. He’s luppen on his berry-brown steed, Ta’en her on behind himsell ; Then baith rade down to that water, That they ca? Wearie’s well. ** Wide in, wide in, my lady fair, Nae harm shall thee befall ; Afttimes hae I water’d my steed W? the water o’ Wearie’s well.” The first step that she stepped in, She stepped to the knee ; And sighing sair, says this lady ‘air, “This water’s nae for me.” “ Wide in, wide in, my lady fair, Nae harm shall thee befall ; Afttimes hae I water’d my steed Wi’ the water 0’ Wearie’s well.” (1) This ballad is so similar in incident and catastrophe to | nearly deceived in saying which of the two had the honour af Fause Sir John and May Colvin,” that a good judge might be | the greater antiquity on its side, 644 The next step that she stepped in, She stepped to the middle ; And sighing, says this lady fair, “Tve wat my gowden girdle.” “ Wide in, wide in, my lady fair, Nae harm shall thee befall ; Afttimes hae I water’d my steed Wi’ the water 0’ Wearie’s well.” The niest step that she stepped in, She stepped to the chin ; And sighing, says this lady fair, “They should gar twa loves twine.” “Seven kings’ daughters P’ve drown’d there, In the water 0’ Wearie’s well ; And Pll make you the eight o” them, And ring the common bell.” Sin’ I am standing here,” she says, “This dowie death to die ; Ae kiss 0’ your comely mouth I’m sure would comfort me.” He louted him ower his saddle bow, To kiss her cheek and chin; She’s ta’en him in her arms twa, And thrown him headlang in. *Sin’ seven kings’ daughters ye’ve drown’d there, In the water 0’ Wearie’s well ; Pll make you bridegroom to them a’, An’ ring the bell mysell.” And aye she warsled, and aye she swam, Till she swam to dry land ; Then thanked God most cheerfully, The dangers she’d owercame. LADY DIAMOND, THE KING’S DAUGHTER.’ TuERE was a king, and a curious king, And a king of royal fame; He had ae daugliter, but he had never mair, Lady Diamond was her name. (1) For as much modernising as this ballad has evidently under- gone by its reciters, it still retains as much of that antique dress as sanctions the opinion of its being at least three hundred years old How different was the lady’s conduct on the untimely death of her ! ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS, She’s fa’en into shame, and lost her good name And wrouglit her parents’ noy ; And a’ for her laying her love so low, On her father’s kitchen boy. Ae night as she lay on her bed, Just thinking to get rest ; Up it came her old father, Just like a wandering ghaist. “ Rise up, rise up, Lady Diamond,” he says, “ Rise up, put on your gown; Rise up, rise up, Lady Diamond,” he says, “ For I fear ye go too roun’.” * Too roun’ I go, ye blame me no, Ye cause me not to shame; For better love I that bonny boy, Than all your well-bred men.” The king’s call’d up his wall-wight men, That he paid meat and fee; * Bring here to me that bonny boy, And we'll smore him right quietlie.” Up hae they ta’en that bonny boy, Put him between twa feather beds ; Naething was dune, nor naething said, Til that bonny, bonny boy was dead. The king’s ta’en out a broad, broad sword, And streak’d it on a strae, And thro’ and thro’ that bonny boy’s heart, He’s gart cauld iron gae. Out has he ta’en his poor bluidy heart, Set it on a tasse of gold; And set it before Lady Diamond’s face, Said, “ Fair lady, behold! ” Up has she ta’en this poor bluidy heart, And holden it in her hand ; “ Better loved I that bonny, bonny boy, Than all my father’s land.” Up has she ta’en his poor bluidy heart, And laid it at her head ; The tears away frae her eyes did fly, And ere midnight she was dead! son, even although a king’s daughter as she was, when compared with many others whohave been seduced from the pathsof rectitude and honour!—Infanticide is a crime which of late has been but too common, and too exsily overlooked by our wise legislature. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. BONDSEY AND MAISRY.' _—_— “O comz along wi’ me, brother, Now come along wi’ me; And we'll gae seek our sister Maisry, Into the water 0’ Dee.” The eldest brother he stepped in, He stepped to the knee; Then out he jump’d upo’ the bank, Says, “ This water’s nae for me.” The second brother he stepped in, He stepped to the quit ; Then out he jump’d upo’ the bank, Says, “This water’s wondrous deep.” When the third brother stepped in, He stepped to the chin ; Out he got, and forward wade, For fear o’ drowning him. The youngest brother he stepped in, Took’s sister by the hand; Said, “Here she is, my sister Maisry, Wi’ the hinny draps on her chin. *O if I were in some bonny ship, And in some strange countrie, For to find out some conjurer, To gar Maisry speak to me.” Then out it speaks an auld woman, As she was passing by ; * Ask of your sister what you want, And she will speak to thee.” *O sister, tell me who is the man, That did your body win? And who is the wretch, tell me, likewise, That threw you in the lin?” 645 *O Bondsey was the only nan, That did my body win; And likewise Bondsey was the man That threw me in the lin.” “O will we Bondsey head, sister P Or will we Bondsey hang ? Or will we set him at our bow end, Lat arrows at him gang ?” “Ye winna Bondsey head, brothers, Nor will ye Bondsey hang ; But ye'll take out his twa grey e’en, Make Bondsey blind to gang. “Ye'll put to the gate a chain 0’ gold, A rose garland gar make; And ye’ll put that in Bondsey’s head, A’ for your sister’s sake.” THE HAUGHS 0’ YARROW. Down in yon garden sweet and gay, Where bonny grows the lilie ; I heard a fair maid, sighing, say,— “My wish be wi’ sweet Willie ! “O Willie’s gone whom I thought on, And does not hear me weeping ; Draws mony a tear frae’s true love’s ee, When other maids are sleeping. “Ye south, south winds, blaw to the north, To the place where he’s remaining; Convey these kisses to his mouth, And tell him how I’m faring. *O tell sweet Willie to come down, And bid him nae be cruel; And tell him not to break the heart Of his love and only jewel. (1) This traditionary ballad has a striking resemblance to that of * Young Benjie;” so much so, that I am inclined to think it must have been a scion off the same stock. Superstition is heightened to a preat degree by the relation of witch and ghost stories of old women to their grandchildren, while sitting round a smiling mgle in the dark and dreary nights of sullen December. In fact, it may be said to constitute the rudiments, or first part of their education, as grandmothers generally act the part of dry nurses. I have been surprised to see some middle-aged, and, m some respects, well-informed people, so prepossessed with a belief of the soul’s returning to the body, and giving and answering ques- tions, as hardly to be credited by those who are strangers to the gustoms of the lower orders in Scotland. In the case of murder, it is said that the body of the deceased will bleed afresh on being touched by the hand of the murderer; which, in many cases, was held as sufficient evidence to condemn a person, who otherwise denied the deed. As Scotland is full of such instances, I forbear mentioning any of them. Maisry’s brothers were of the opinion, that a conjurer could make her body speak (perhaps by galvanism), as may be geen in the sixth verse. (2) This is another of Yarrow’s inspired songs. How this stream has been so prolific in its poets I know not; but true it is, that all those who have attempted to sing its praise, or celebrate the actions of those who have been its visitors, have almost univer- sally succeeded in their attempts, at least all of them that have been handed down to posterity, 646 “QO tell sweet Willie to come down, And hear the mavis singing; And see the birds on ilka bush, And leaves around them hinging. «The laverock there wi’ her white breast, And gentle throat sae narrow ; There’s sport eneuch for gentlemen On the Leader Haughs o’ Yarrow. “OQ Leader Haughs are wide and hroad, And Yarrow Haughs are bonny ; Where Willie promised to marry me, If ever he married ony. “ But if he plays the prodigal, I freely could forget him ; But if he chooses another bride, I evermair will hate him.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. But now sweet Willie he’s come down, And eased her of her sorrow ; And he’s made her his lawful bride, Upon the braes 0’ Yarrow. THE VIRGINIAN MAID’S LAMENT: HEarkey, and I’ll tell You a story that befell, In the lands of Virginia, O; How that a pretty maid For a slave she was betray’d, And O but I’m weary, weary, O. Seven lang years I served To Captain Welsh, a laird, In the lands of Virginia, O ; (1) This is the plaintive voice of the heart: it breathes with fervency, and details a few of those hardships to which the unfor- tunate victims are liable who have fallen into those monsters of impiety’s hands that have been the means of their transportation and slavery. The practice of kidnapping, or stealing children from their parents, in the north of Scotland, from 1735 down to 1753, a period of eighteen years inclusive, and selling them for slaves to the planters of Maryland, Virginia, &c., in North America, is too notorious to require any illustration here. Even some of the good magistrates and principal merchants in Aberdeen, in those days, had a hand in this most diabolical traffic ; as may be seen from a book kept by Walter Cochrane, town-clerk-depute of Aberdeen. It is also well known to many people in this country, with what unheard-of reception, cruelty, and lawless oppression one of those captives, namely, Peter Williamson, after Naving undergone the most cruel torments by the savage Indians met with from these magistrates on his return from slavery, to his native land. Instead of sympathising with his woes, welcoming him home with gladness as a fellow-mortal, and giving him that redress to which the laws of his country warranted, and he justly entitled ; more cruel than the most barbarous savages, they stripped him of his all, z.e., the books, which the more generous and more humane magistrates of York, had caused to be printed for him at their sole expense, as a means for his subsistence. These the Bon Accord magistrates of 1753 publicly burned by the hands of the common hangman. Not even satisfied with this, he was imprisoned, loaded with every opprobrious name of reproach, branded with the name of an impostor and liar; in short, every- thing that was evil was laid to his charge, merely because he had told too much of the truth, and exposed too much of the knavery of these Satanicel commercialists, in his little book. Thank God, we are now free from those inhuman monsters of cruelty; those corrupt judges, and arbitrary and tyrannical magistrates, in this part of the country. The lesson which all might have learned from the decision of that venerable and impartial body of noblemen and gentlemen, the College of Justice of Edinburgh, on this occasion, will, I hope, operate strongly on the minds of all those in power, nut unjustly, nor lawlessly to oppress any one, however poor in circumstances, as they may meet with a friend to advo- cate their cause, as did the unfortunate Peter Williamson, when they least expected it. To those who may be more desirous of knowing the nature and ne extent that kidnapping was once carried on in Aberdeen, by a set of the most unprincipled ruffians, dead to all the feelings of humauity, I shall give a short sketch of it 1m the identical words of one of the sufferers :—‘‘ The trade of carrying off boys to the plartetions in America, and selling them there as slaves, was 7 carried on at Aberdeen, as far down as the year 1744, with an amazing effrontery. It was not carried on in secret, or by stealth, but publicly, and by open violence. The whole neighbouring country were alarmed at it. They would not allow their children to go to Aberdeen, for fear of being kidnapped. When they kept at home, emissaries were sent out by the merchants, who took them by violence from their parents, and carried them off. If a child was missing, it was immediately suspected that he was kidnapped by the Aberdeen merchants ; and upon inquiry, that was often found to be the case; and so little pains were taken to conceal them, when in the possession of the merchants, that they were driven in flocks through the town, under the irspection cf a keeper, who overawed them with a whip, like so many sheep carrying to the slaughter. Not only were these flocks of unhappy children locked up in barns, and places of private confinement, but even the tolbooth and public workhouses were made receptacles for them, and a town officer employed in keeping them. Partiea of worthless fellows, like press-gangs, were hired to patrol the streets, and seize by force such boys as seemed proper subjects for the slave trade. The practice was but too general. The names of no less than fifteen merchants, concerned in this trade, are mentioned in the proof; and when so many are singled out by the witnesses, it is hardly to be imagined it should be confined to these only, but that they must have omitted many, who were either principals or abettors and decoys in this infamous traffic. Some of the witnesses depone, that it was the general opinion that the magistrates themselves had a hand init. But what exceeds every proof, and is equal to an acknowledgment, is, that from a book of accounts, recovered on leading the proof, recording the expenses laid out on a cargo of these unfortunate objects, it appears that no less than sixty-nine boys and girls were carried over to America along with me, all of whom suffered the same fate of being shipwrecked, and many of them that of being sold as slaves. “ After such a demonstration of my veracity, and the maltreat- ment I had formerly suffered, the reader, it is believed, cannot but reflect, with some degree of indignation, on the iniquitous sentence of the magistrates of Aberdeen, and commiserate the dismal situa- tion to which I was reduced, in consequence of that tyrannica, decision. Stripped at once of my all, and of my only means of sub- sistence,--branded with the character of a vagrant and impostor, and stigmatised as such in the Aberdeen Journal,—banished from the capital of the county wherein I was born, and left to the mercy of the wide world, loaded with all the infamy that malice could invent: what a deplorable situation is this! I could not help considering myself in @ more wretched state, to be reduced to submit to such barbarities in a civilised country, and the place of my nativity, than when a captive among the savage Indiars, whe voast not of humanity.”—Peter Williamson, ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. And he so cruelly Sold me to Madam Guy, And O but I’m weary, weary, O. We are yoked in a plough, And wearied sair enough, In the lands of Virginia, O ; With the yoke upon our neck, Till our bearts are like to break, And O but I’m weary, weary, O. When we’re call’d home to meat, There’s little there to eat, In the lands of Virginia, O; We're whipp’d at every meal, And our backs are never heal, And O but I’m weary, weary, O. When our madam she does walk, We must all be at her back, In the lands of Virginia, O ; When our baby it does weep, We must lull it o’er asleep, And O but I’m weary, weary, O. At mid time of the day, When our master goes to play, In the lands of Virginia, O ; Our factor stands near by, With his rod below his thigh, And O but I’m weary, weary, O. 647 But if I had the chance, Fair Scotland to advance, From the lands of Virginia, 0 ; Never more should I Be a slave to Madam Guy, And O but I’m weary, weary, O. ——_>— THE GORDONS AND THE GRANTS." “ Away with you, away with you, James de Grant, And, Douglas, ye’ll be slain ; For Balnadallach’s at your yetts, Wi mony brave Highland men.” “ Balnadallach has no feud at me, And I hae none at him; Cast up my yetts baith braid and wide, Let Balnadallach come in.” James de Grant has made a vant, And leapt the castle wa’ ; But if he comes this way again, He’ll nae won sae well awa’. “Take him, take him, brave Gordons, O take him, fine fellows, a’ ; If he wins but ae mile on the Highland nill, He'll defy you Gordons, a’.”? (1) The Grants assert themselves to be of a Danish descet, rom Aqnin de Grand, or Grant. Sir John de Grant is one of those mentioned in the debates which fell out after the death of King Alexander ITI. “In the year 1628, John Grant of Balnadalloch had murdered John Grant of Carroun, nephew to James de Grant, in the wood of Abernethy ; but having purchased a respite, and afterwards a pardon, which so irritated James de Grant, that he broke out into open rebellion, turned lawless, and upon the third day of December, he, with his accomplices, came to the town and lands of Pitchass, young Balnadalloch’s dwelling-place, who, with about thirty persons, waa within, which the said James Grant well enough knew, and to train him out he sets his corn- yard on fire, and haill laigh bigging barns, byres, stables, wherein many horse, nolt, and sheep were burnt, and sic bestial as was not burnt they slew and destroyed; but young Balnadalloch kept the house, and durst not come out and make any defence. In like manner, the said James Grant, with his complices, upon the seventh day of the said month of December, past to the town and lands of Talquhyn, pertaining to old Bulnadalloch, and burnt ap and destroyed the haill bigging thereof, corns, cattle, goods and gear, and all which they could get, and to the hills goes he.”—Spailding. “James Gordon, heir apparent to Alexander Gordon of Les- more, in Essie, accompanied with some neighbouring gentlemen, went to the house of Balnadalloch, on the banks of the Spey, to assist his aunt, the lady dowager of that land, against John Grant, tutor of Balnadalloch, who seemed resolute on injuring his pupil and refusing her jointure; but, on the appearance of James Gordon, the jointure money was restored to the lady, a moiety excepted, which notwithstanding he would have from the tutor, thinking it a disgrace to him and family should his aunt lose the least particle of her dowry. After some altercation a skirmish ensued among the servants with culinary and other weapons, which being terminated, James Gordon returned home. Hereupon the Lesmore family persuade John Gordon, brother to Sir Thomas Gordon, of Cluny, to marry the Lady Dowager of Balnadalloch, which he performed. The tutor became chagrined at the union of the Grant and Gordon families, and watched his opportunity of revenge. Aided by the persuasive rhetoric of the Laird of Grant, he assaulted the servants of John Gordon, and killed one of them. Gordon, enraged at these proceedings, eagerly pursued the tutor, and all the families that entertained him or his servants, and caused them to be proclaimed rebels and traitors, and then out- lawed ; he likewise moved the Earl of Huntlyto search them out, by virtue of his sheriff’s commission of the county. Huntly next besieged the house of Balnadalloch, and on the 2ndof N. ovember, 1590, made it surrender, but the tutor escaped. Then Calder and Grant began to put their preconcerted scheme in execution, and fomented the clan Chattan, and M‘Intosh their chief, to rebel, and aid the Grants.”—Conjlicts of the Clans. “This they easily acceded to, in revenge of the death of William M'Intosh, whom they sent to Gordon Castle to treat of peace, ay the clan had refused vassalage to Huntly. The Earl was absent when M'‘Intosh arrived, and announced the message to the Coun- tess. The Countess heard his tale, and twming round, tcld him, that Huntly had vowed never to be reconciled until the chief of the clan Chattan’s head was on the block. To show his steady adherence to the clan, and not dreading the Countess, he laid his head on the table in token of submission ; which the Countess seeing, took up a large culinary knife, and severed his head from his shoulders. He was sister’s son to the Earl of Murray, natural brother to King James V., who dying without issue, Huntly got the management of the Earldom ; and on its being conferred on Stenart, Huntly became his mortal enemy.”—Mann’s Commen taries on Logan. 648 GO FROM MY WINDOW: &e from my window, my dow, my dow, Go from my window, my dear ; The wind’s blowing high, and the sailor’s lying by, So ye cannot get harbouring here. G go irom my window, my dow, my dow, Go from my window, my dear ; The wind’s in the west, and the cockle’s in his nest, So ye cannot get hacbonring here. Go from my window, my dow, my dow, Go from my window, my dear ; The wind and the rain have brought my love back again, So ye cannot get harbouring here. Go from my window, my dow, my dow, Go from my window, my dear ; The devil’s in the man, that he cannot understand, That, he cannot get harbouring here. THE LADY’S GOWN. PL gar my gudeman trow That I'll sell the ladle, Cause he winna buy to me A gude riding saddle, To ride to the kirk, and frae the kirk, And even through the town; Then stan’ about, ye fisher jades, And gie my gown rowm. (1) Ssilors’ wives, in general, are not the most faithful to their husbands’ beds, when they are ploughing the watery main. We have, in the present ballad, a fair specimen of an adept in the art of deceiving. That this piece may be the more easily under- stood, the following explanation, I presume, will not be found altogether unnecessary :—The sailor’s wife had made an appoint- ment with her gallant to admit him urto her embraces that night, upon the usual private signal or watch-word being given, which he was to make at her window, at the time appointed; but as fate would have it, the sailor unexpectedly arrives, and to his astonishment hears a whistling at the window. He asks her the cause, when she informs him it was nothing but a bird called a cuckold, whistling, and requests him to be quiet and she would sing him a song, and begins with an address to her paramour, a8 given in the first verse; but he not perceiving its meaning, and her suitor continuing still at the window, the sailor questions her again and again on its meaning, but still receives evasive answers, and she continues to sing to the satisfaction of all parties, the disappointed lover excepted, who was obliged in the end to go away dissatisfied. (2) Every Scotsman who has arrived at the years of manhood must have read, with sorrow and regret, the unfortunate fate and ignominious en‘ of the brave and magnanimous Sir William Wallace, by eomo designated the Protector of his country. as he | ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. T had a bonny branit cow, That gae a cann o° milk; And I hae saul’ my branit cow, And bought a gown o’ silk. There’s three row o’ fringes up, And three row down; Then stan’ a little you by, And gie my gown rowm. Syne T’ll gar my gudemaz'trow, That I hae ta’en the flings, Because he winna buy to me Sax gowd rings ; Ane on ilka finger, And twa upo’ my thum; Then stan’ a little you by, And gie my gown rowm. WALLACE AND HIS LEMAN. Wattace wight, upon a night, Came riding o’er the linn ; And he is to his leman’s bower, And tirled at the pin. *O sleep ye, wake ye, lady,” he said, * Ye'll rise, lat me come in.” “O wha’s this at my bower door, That knocks, and knows my name f’ “* My name is William Wallace, Ye may my errand ken.” “ The truth to you I will rehearse, The secret I'll unfold ; Into your en’mies hands this night T fairly hae you sold.” freed it from the thraldom of a tyrannic foe. The historical account of this ballad is to be found in the fourth chapter of the Metrical Life of Wallace, where it is said, as expressed in the ballad, which is evidently very old, that the woman, in whom he had placed too much confidence, had, like her predecessor Dalilah, sold him to his inveterate enemies; and, like her, recanted, and made him aware of his danger, whereby he escaped from their fangs for a time. But his liberty and inde- pendence were of short duration. There was found in the little band of friends that followed him, another Judas, who, for the sake of lucre, betrayed his master. This great and faithful patriot, invulnerable to all the threats, bribes, and stratagems of Edward, King of England, became the prey of the traitor Sir John Monteith, in the year 1305, und was inhumanly and bar- barously murdered and quartered in London ;—his head placed upon the bridge of that city, and his four quarters sent to Scot- land, all for the love that he bore to weeping Caledonia. He had previously said, “That he owed his life to, and would frankly lay it down for, his country: that should all Scotchmen but him self submit to the King of England, he never could, nor would he give obedience, or swear allegiance to any power, save to the King of Scotland, his righteous Sovereign.” He may then bo called a true martyr, having thus sealed his love to big sountry with his blood and death. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 649 “Tf that be true ye tell to me, Do ye repent it sair?” “© that I do,” she said, “ dear Wallace, And will do evermair ! “The English did surround my house, And forced me theretill ; But for your sake, my dear Wallace, I could burn on a hill.” Then he gae her a loving kiss, The tear dropp’d frae his e’e ; Says, “Fare ye well for evermair, Your face nae mair I'll see.” She dress’d him in her ain claithing, And frae her house he came ; Which made the Englishmen admire To see this stalwart dame. He is to Saint Johnston gane, And there he play’d him well ; For there he saw a well-fared May Was washing at a well. “What news, what news, ye well-fared May? What news hae ye to me? What news, what news, ye well-fared May, All from your north countrie ?” “See ye not yon tavern house, That stands on yonder plain P This very day have landet in it Full fifteen Englishmen ; “In search of Wallace, our dear champion, Ordaining that he should dee ;” “Then on my troth,” said Wallace wight, “These Englishmen I’se see.” CHIL ETHER. Cain Eryer and Lady Maisry Were baith born at ae birth; They loved each other tenderlie, Boon everything on earth. The ley likes na the summer shower, Nor girse the mornin’ dew, Better, dear Lady Maisry, Than Chil Ether loves you. The bonny doo likes na its mate, Nor babe at breast its mither, Better, my dearest Chil Ether, Than Maisry loves her brither. But he needs gae to gain renown, Into some far countrie ; And Chil Ether has gane abroad, To fight in Paynimie. And he has been in Paynimie A twalmonth and a day ; But never nae tidings did there eome, Of his welfare to say. Then she’s ta’en ship, awa’ to sail, Out ower the roaring faem; A’ for to find him, Chil Ether, And for to bring him hame. She hadna sail’d the sea a month, A month but barely three ; Until she landit on Ciper’s shore, By the meen-licht sae lie. Lady Maisry did on her green mantle, Took her purse in her hand ; And call’d to her her mariners, Syne walk’d up through the land. She walked up, sae did she down, Till she came till castell high ; There she sat down on the door stane, And weepit bitterlie. Then out it spake a sweet, sweet voice, Out ower the castell wa’; “ Now isna that Lady Maisry That makes sic a dolefu’ fa’ P But gin that be Lady Maisry, Lat her make mirth and glee; For T’m her brother, Chil Ether, That loves her tenderlie. “But gin that be Lady Maisry, Lat her take purse in hand; And gang to yonder castell wa’, They call it Gorinand : “Spier for the lord o” that castell, Gie’m dollars thirty-three ; Tell him to ransom Chil Ether, That loves you tenderlie.” £6 650 She’s done her up to that castell, Paid down her gude monie ; And sae she’s ransom’d Chil Ether, And brought him hame her wi’. MAY-A-ROE." WHEN spring appear’d in all its bloom, And flowers grew fresh and green; As May-a-Roe she sat her down, To lay gowd on her seam. But word has come to that lady, At evening when ’twas dark, To meet her love in gude greenwood, And bring to him a sark. * That’s strange to me,” said May-a-Roe, “For how can a’ this be P A month or twa is scarcely past, Sin’ I sent my lovie three.” Then May-a-Roe lap on her steed, And quickly rade away ; She hadna ridden but hauf a mile, Till she heard a voice to say,— “Turn back, turn back, ye vent’rous maid, Nae farther must ye go ; For the boy that leads your bridle rein, Leads you to your overthrow.” But a’ these words she ne’er did mind, But fast awa’ did ride ; And up it starts him, Hynde Henry, Just fair by her right side. « Ye’ll tarry here, perfidious maid, For by my hand ye’se dee ; Ye married my brother, Brown Robin, Whap ye should hae married me.” ““O mercy, mercy, Hynde Henry, O mercy have on me; For I am eight months gane wi’ child, Therefore ye’ll lat me be.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Nae mercy is for thee, fair maid, Nae mercy is for thee ; You married my brother, Brown Robin, Whan ye should hae married me.” “Ye will bring here the bread, Henry, And I will bring the wine; And ye will drink to your ain love, And I will drink to mine.” “T winna bring here the bread, fair maid, Nor yet shall ye the wine ; Nor will I drink to my ain love, Nor yet shall ye to thine.” “O mercy, mercy, Hynde Henry, Until I lighter be ; Hae mercy on your brother’s bairn, Though ye hae nane for me.” “Nae mercy is for thee, fair maid, Nae mercy is for thee ; Such mercy unto you I'll gie As what ye gae to me.” Then he’s ta’en out a trusty brand, And stroak’d it ower a strae ; And through and through her fair body, He’s gart cauld iron gae. Nae meen was made for that lady, For she was lying dead ; But a’ was for her bonny bairn, Lay spartling by her side. Then he’s ta’en up the bonny bairn, Handled him tenderlie ; And said, “ Ye are o’ my ain kin, Though your mother ill-used me.” He’s washen him at the crystal stream, And row’d him in a weed; And named him after a bold robber, Who was call’d Robin Hood. Then brought to the next borough’s town, And gae him nurses three ; He grew as big in ae year old, As some boys would in three. (1) A somewhat similar, but imperfect ballad I have seen, under the title of ‘‘Jellon Grame.” This one is of that olden texture as makes the antiquarian reader admire it. The tale is happily conceived, and as happily told, though partly romantic, A young knight, under the cloud of friendship and disguise, sends his page to his brother's sweetheart, and decoys her to a wood, where he, without the least remorse, or qualm of conscience, murders her; but takes up the young child with which she was then pregnant to his brother; carries it home, puts it out to nurse and educate. The child in a short time waxed strong, and by a strange and unaccountable fatality, revenged the death of his mother, by killing her murderer and his uncle in the place where her blood had been spilt, and himself born. From this we may see that text of Scrip- ture verified, where it is said, “Innocent blood calleth from the ground.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. "651 Then he was sent to guid squeel-house, To learn how to thrive ; He learn’d as muckle in ae year’s time As some boys would in five. “But I wonder, I wonder,” said little Robin, ‘Gin e’er a woman bare me; For mony a lady spiers for the rest, But nae ane spiers for me. **T wonder, I wonder,” said little Robin, “ Were I of woman born; Whan ladies my comrades do caress, They look at me wi’ scorn.” It fell upon an evening tide, Was ae night by it lane, Whan a’ the boys frae gude squeel-house Were merrily coming hame ; Robin parted frae the rest, He wish’d to be alane ; And when his comrades he dismiss’d, To guid greenwood he’s gane. When he came to guid greenwood, He clamb frae tree to tree, To pw’ some o’ the finest leaves, For to divert him wi’. He hadna pu’d a leaf, a leaf, Nor brake a branch but ane, Till by it came him Hynde Henry, And bade him lat alane. “You are too bauld a boy,” he said, Sae impudent you be ; As pw’ the leaves that’s nae your ain, Or yet to touch the tree.” “O mercy, mercy, gentleman, O mercy hae on me; For if that I offence hae done, It was unknown to me.” “Nae boy comes here to gude greenwood But pays a fine to me; Your velvet coat, or shooting bow, Which o’ them will ye gie? ” “My shooting bow arches sae well, Wi?’ it I canno’ part ; Lest wer’t to send a sharp arrow, To pierce you to the heart.” He turn’d him right and round about, His countenance did change ; - “Ye seem to be a boy right bauld, Why can ye talk so strange P “T’m sure ye are the bauldest boy, That ever I talk’d wi’ ; As for your mother, May-a-Roe, She was ne’er sae bauld to me.” “O, if ye knew my mother,” he said. * That’s very strange to me ; And if that ye my mother knew, It’s mair than [ could dee.” “ Sae well as I your mother knew, Ance my sweetheart was she ; Because to me she broke her vow, This maid was slain by me.” “O, if ye slew my mother dear, As I trust ye make nae lie; I wyte ye never did the deed That better paid shall be.” “O mercy, mercy, little Robin, O mercy hae on me.” “Sie mercy as ye gae my mother, Sic mercy I’ll gie thee. “Prepare yourself, perfidious man, For by my hand ye’se dee; Now comes that bluidy butcher’s end, Took my mother frae me.” Then he has chosen a sharp arrow, That was baith keen and smart, And let it fly at Hynde Henry, And pierced him to the heart. These news hae gane through Stirling town, Likewise through hunting-ha’ ; At last it reach’d the king’s own court, Amang the nobles a’. When the king got word o’ that, A light laugh then gae he; And he’s sent for him, little Robin, To come right speedilie. He’s putten on little Robin’s head A ribbon and gowden crown ; And made him ane o’s finest knights, For the valour he had done, 652 THE SCOTTISH SQUIRE.’ WHEN grass grew green on Lanark plains, And fruit and flowers did spring ; A Scottish squire in cheerfu’ strains, Sae merrily thus did sing :-— ©O well fails me o’ my parrot, That he can speak and flee ; For he will carry love letters Between my love and me. “And well fails me o’ my parrot, He can baith speak and gang ; And he will carry love letters To the maid in south England.” *O how shall I your love find out, Or how shall 1 her know ? When my tongue with her never spake, Nor my eyes her ever saw.” “O what is red of her is red As bluid drapp’d on the snaw; And what is white o’ her is white As milk, or the sea maw. “ Even before that lady’s yetts, You'll find a bowing birk; And there ye’ll sit and sing thereon, Till she gaes to the kirk. “Then even before that lady’s yetts, You'll find a bowing ash ; And ye may sit and sing thereon, Till she comes frae the mass. “ And even before that lady’s window You'll find a bed o’ tyme; And ye may sit and sing thereon, Till she sits down to dine. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. * Even abeen that lady’s window, There’s fix’d a siller pin; And a’ these words that I tel you, Ye’ll sit and sing therein. ** Ye’ll bid her send her love a letter, For he has sent her five ; And he’ll never send anither ane, To nae woman alive. * Ye’ll bid her send her love a letter, For he has sent her seven ; And he’ll never send anither send, To nae maid under heaven.” This little bird then took his flight Beyond the raging sea; And lighted at that lady’s yetts, On tower 0” gowd sae hie. Even before that lady’s yetts, He found a bowing birk ; And there he sat and sang thereon, Till she went to the kirk. Even before that Jady’s yetts, He found a bowing ash; And then he sat and sang thereon, Till she came frae the mass. Even before that lady’s window, He found a bed o’ tyme; And then he sat and sang thereon, Till she sat down to dine. Even abeen that: lady’s window, Was fix’d a siller pin; And a’ the words that were tauld him, He sat and sang them in. You're bidden send your love a letter, For he has sent you five ; Or he’ll never send anither send, To nae woman alive. (1) Of this ballad I have been fortunate enough to obtain two copies, somewhat different from each other. The one which I took down from recitation, I have given here; the other, which was sent me in MS.,I forwarded to my good friend, William Motherwell, Esquire, Paisley, who gave it a place in his ‘‘ Min- strelsy, Ancient and Modern,” under the title of “The Jolly Goshawk.” As I am no advocate for supplying breaches in one copy with the redundant stanzas of another, I have given this copy as recited, without being collated with its twin-brother. I have in general adopted this system, even when I had it in my power to have done otherwise; as, in many cases, I have duplicates of the same ballad, considerably different from each ther. Sir Walter Scott has given an edition of it, made up from several MSS. and printed copies. After all, it falls short of the merit of the present one, both in delineation of cha- racter and detail of incident. Witchery, with its attendant train, has been invoked, to aid and assist the English lady in her stratagem to gain her Scottish lord, which she did to the confusion and admiration of her brothers, who came to bury her in Scotland, agreeably to her earnest request. Once she touched Scottish ground, like a city of refuge, she was free from the threatenings of her pursuers: it proved to her an asylum of pleasure, of which she stood in need. In this ballad the parrot takes place of the goshawk, which is, by far, a mere likely messenger to carry a love-letter, or deliver a verba message. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 653 “You're bidden send your love a letter, For he has sent you seven; And he’ll never send anither send, To nae maid under heaven.” “Sit in the hall, good ladies all, And drink the wine sae red; And I will to yon small window, And hear yon birdie’s leed. * Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, The sang ye sung just now;” “Tl sing nae mair, my lady fair, My errand is to you.” “Tf ye be my true lovie’s bird, Sae well’s [ will you ken; You will gae in at my gown sleeve, Come out at my gown hem.” “That I am come frae your true love, You soon shall see right plain ; And read these lines below my wing, That I hae brought frae him.” When she looked these lines upon, She read them, and she leuch ; “O well fails me, my true love now, O’ this I hae eneuch. “Here is the broach on my breast bane, The garlings frae my hair ; Likewise the heart that is within, What would my love hae mair ? «The nearest kirk in fair Scotland, Ye’ll bid him meet me there ;” She has gane to her dear father, W? heart perplex’d and sair. When she came to her auld father, Fell low down on her knee. * An asking, asking, father dear, I pray you grant it me.” * Ask what you will, my daughter dear, And I will grant it thee ; Unless to marry yon Scottish squire, That’s what shall never be.” © that’s the asking, father,” she said, “That I'll ne’er ask of thee; But if I die in south England, In Scotland ye’ll bury me.” “The asking’s nae sae great, daughter, But granted it shall be; And though ye die in south England, In Scotland we'll bury thee.” She has gane to her step-mother, Fell low down on her knee ; “An asking, asking, mother dear, I pray you grant it me.” ‘Ask what you please, my lily white dove. And granted it shall be.” “Tf I do die in south England, In Scotland bury me.” “ Had these words spoken been again, I would not granted thee ; You hae a love in fair Scotland, Sae fain’s you would be tee.” She scarce was to her chamber gane, Nor yet was well set down, Till on the sofa where she sat, Fell in a deadly swoon. Her father and her seven brithers, They made for her a bier ; The one half o’t was gude red gowd, The other siller clear. Her seven sisters were employ’d In making her a sark ; The one half o’t was cambric fine, The other needle wark. Then out it speaks her auld step-dame, Sat on the sofa’s end; “Ye’ll drap the het lead on her cheek, Sae do you on her chin; For women will use mony a wile, Their true loves for to win.” Then up it raise ner eldest brither, Into her bower he’s gane; Then in it came her youngest brither, The het lead to drap on. He drapt it by her cheek, her cheek, Sae did he by ber chin ; Sae did he by her comely hause He knew life was therein. The bier was made wi’ red gowd laid, Sae curious round about; A private entrance there contrived, That her breath might win out. 654 The-first an’ kirk in fair Scotland, They gar’d the bells be rung; The niest an’ kirk in fair Scotland, They caused the mass be sung. The third an’ kirk in fair Scotland, They pass’d it quietly by; The fourth an’ kirk in fair Scotland, Clerk Sandy did them spy. *°O down ye’ll set this corpse o” clay, Lat me look on the dead ; For I may sigh, and say, alas ! For death has na remeid.” Then he has cut her winding-sheet, A little below her chin; And wi’ her sweet and ruby lips She sweetly smiled on him. * Gie me a sheave o’ your white bread, A bottle o’ your wine ; For I hae fasted for your sake Fully these lang days nine. “Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brithers, Gae hame and blaw your trumpet ; And ye may tell to your step-dame, This day she is affrouted. “T cam’na here to fair Scotland, To lie amo’ the dead ; But came to be Clerk Sandy’s wife, And lay gowd on my head. “Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brithers, Gae hame and blaw your horn; And ye may tell in fair England In Scotland ye got the scorn, “T came not here to fair Scotland, To mix amang the clay ; But came to be Clerk Sandy’s wife, And wear gowd to my tae.” “Sin ye hae gien us this ae scorn, We shall gie you anither ; Ye shall hae naething to live upon, But the bier that brougkt you hither.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. JOHN 0’ HAZELGREEN! As I went forth to take the air- Intill an evening clear, And there I spied a lady fair Making a heavy bier. Making a heavy bier, I say, But, and a piteous meen ; And aye she sigh’d, and said, “ Alas! For John o’ Hazelgreen.” The sun was sinking in the west, The stars were shining clear ; When through the thickets o’ the wood, A gentleman did appear. Says, “ Who has done you the wrong, fair maid, And left you here alane ; Or who has kiss’d your lovely lips, That ye ca’ Hazelgreen ? ” “Hold your tongue, kind sir,” she said, ** And do not banter so; How will ye add affliction. . . Unto a lover’s woe ? For none’s done me the wrong,” she said, “Nor left me here alane; Nor none has kiss’d my lovely lips, That I ca’ Hazelgreen.” “ Why weep ye by the tide, lady? Why weep ye by the tide? How blithe and happy might he be Gets you to be his bride ! Gets you to be his bride, fair maid, And him V’'ll no bemean ; But when I take my words again, Whom call ye Hazelgreen ? * What like a man was Hazelgreen ? Will ye show him to me?” “ He is a comely proper youth, Lin my sleep did see. Wi’ armis tall, and fingers small, He’s comely to be seen; ” And aye she loot the tears down fall For John o” Hazelgreen. “Tf ye’ll forsake young Hazelgreen, And go along with me, T’ll wed you to my eldest son, Make you a lady free.” (1) This appears to be the original ballad of the name, which contuina poetical beauties to be found nowhere else; and, in all probability, has suggested the idea of Sir Walter Scott’s Border ballad of Jock of Hazeldean. For indeed, what could be more beautiful than the following i— “ Why weep ye by the tide, ladye ? Why weep ye by the tide?” And again— ‘¢ And aye she loot the tears aown fa For John o’ Hazelgreen,” &e. Be ep) JOHN O HAZELGREEN. LONDON, VIRTUI & C9 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 655 * Tt’s for to wed your eldest son, I am a maid o’er mean; Pll rather stay at home,” she says, “And die for Hazelereen.” “Tf ye'll forsake young Hazelgreen, And go along with me, Pll wed you to my second son, And your weight o’ gowd I'll gie.” “Tt’s for to wed your second son, TI am a maid o’er mean; Tl rather stay at home,” she says, “ And die for Hazelgreen.” Then he’s ta’en out a siller comb, Comb’d down her yellow hair ; And looked in a diamond bright, To see if she were fair. “My girl, ye do all maids surpass That ever [ have seen ; Cheer up your heart, my lovely lass, And hate young Hazelgreen.” “Young Hazelgreen he is my love, And evermair shall be; T’'ll nae forsake young Hazelgreen For a’ the gowd ye’ll gie.” But aye she sigh’d, and said, “ Alas!” And made a piteous meen ; And aye she loot the tears down fa’ For John o’ Hazelgreen, He looked high, and lighted low, Set her upon his horse ; And they rede on to Edinburgh, To Edinburgh’s own cross. And when she in that city was, She look’d like ony queen: “Tis a pity such a lovely lass Should love young Hazelgreen.” “Young Hazelgreen, ae 1s my love, And evermair shall be ; Pll nae forsake young Hazelgreen For a’ the gowd ye’ll gie.” And aye she sigh’d, and said, “ Alas!” And made a piteous meen ; And aye she loot the tears down fa’ For John o’ Hazelgreen. Now hold your tongue, my well-fared maid, Lat a’ your mourning be, And a’ endeavours I shall try, To bring that youth to thee ; If ye’ll tell me where your love stays, His style and proper name.” “ He’s laird o’ Taperbank,” she says, “ His style, Young Hazelgreen.” Then he has coft for that lady A fine silk riding gown ; Likewise he coft for that lady A steed, and set her on; Wi?’ inenji feathers in her hat, Silk stockings and siller sheen ; And they are on to Taperbank Seeking young Hazelgreen. They nimbly rode along the way, And gently spurr’d their horse, Till they rode on to Hazelgreen, To Hazelgreen’s own close. Then forth he came, young Hazelgreen, To welcome his father free ; “You’re welcome here, my father dear, And a’ your companie.” But when he look’d o’er his shoulder, A light laugh then gae he ; Says, “If I getna this lady, It’s for her I must die; I must confess this is the maid I ance saw in a dream, A walking through a pleasant shade, As fair’s a cypress queen.” “Now hold your tongue, young Hazelgreen, Lat a’ your folly be; If ye be wae for that lady, She’s thrice as wae for thee. She’s thrice as wae for thee, my son, As bitter doth complain ; Well is she worthy o’ the rigs That lie on Hazelgreen.” He’s ta’en her in his arms twa, Led her through bower and ha’ ; “ Cheer up your heart, my dearest dear, Ye’re flower out o’er them a’. This night shall be our wedding e’en, The morn we'll say, Amen; Ye’se never mair hae cause to mourn,— Ye’re lady o’ Hazelgreen.” 656 WILLIE’S FATAL VISIT. *Twas on an evening fair, I went to take the air, I heard a maid making her moan; Said, “ Saw ye my father, or saw ye my mother, Or saw ye my brother John P Or saw ye the lad that I love best, And his name it is sweet William?” “1 saw not your father, I saw not your mother, Nor saw I your brother John; But I saw the lad that ye love best, And his name it is sweet William.” “O was my love riding, or was he running, Or was he walking alone ? Or says that he will be here this night ? O dear but he tarries long! ” “Your love was not riding, nor yet was he running, But fast was he walking alone ; He says that he will be here this night to thee, And forbids you to think long.” Then Willie he has gane to his love’s door, And gently tirled the pin; *O sleep ye, wake ye, my bonny Meggie, Ye’ll rise, lat your true love in.” The lassie being swack, ran to the door fu’ snack, And gently she lifted the pin; Then into her arms sae large and sae lang, She embraced her bonny love in. *O will ye gang to the cards or the dice, Or to a table o’ wine? Or wiil ye gang to a well-made bed, Well cover’d wi’ blankets fine?” “O, I winna gang to the cards nor the dice, Nor yet to a table o’ wine ; But I'll rather gang to a well-made bed, Well cover’d wi’ blankets fine. “ My braw little cock sits on the house tap, Ye’ll craw not till it be day, And your kame shall be o’ the gude red gowd, And your wings o’ the siller grey ' ” (1) This ballad narrates the unfortunate parting of two lovers by the falsity of a cock, which had crowed long before the witching time of night had fled. Most readers are so amply stocked with relations of ghosts and demons ; how the witches whirl through the air, raise tempests, torment human bodies in u thousand ifferent skapes and ways, that it would be superfluous to add any ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. The cock being fause, untrue he was, And he crew an hour ower seen; They thought it was the gude daylight, But it was but the light o’ the meen. “ Ohon, alas!” says bonny Meggie then, “This night we hae sleeped ower lang !” “O what is the matter,” then Willie replied, “The faster then I must gang.” Then sweet Willie raise, and put on his claise, And drew till him stockings and sheen; And took by his side his berry brown sword, And ower yon lang hill he’s gane. As he gaed ower yon high, high hill, And down yon dowie den, Great and grievous was the ghost he saw, Would fear ten thousand men. As he gaed in by Mary kirk, And in by Mary stile, Wan and weary was the ghost Upon sweet Willie did smile, “ Aft hae ye travell’d this road, Willie, Aft hae ye travell’d in sin; Ye ne’er said sae muckle for your saul, As, ‘My Maker, bring me hame!? “Aft hae ye travell’d this road, Willie, Your bonny love to see ; But ye’ll never travel this road again, Till ye leave a token wi’ me.” Then she has ta’en him sweet Willie, Riven him frae gair to gair ; And on ilka seat 0’ Mary’s kirk, O’ Willie she hang a share. Even abeen his love Meggie’s dice, Hang’s head and yellow hair. His father made moan, his mother made moan, But Meggie made muckle mair. His father made moan, his mother made moan, But Meggie reave her yellow hair. more here; so that I shall only express my disbelief of the power of a ghost or spirit, immaterial as it must be, of being capable of destroying @ human body, a material substance ; but such it happened with poor Willie, as he bent his way homewards, and all because he had forgot to say his prayers when he took the road. Lovers, remember this when you go a-wooing ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. HYND HASTING.' “O Busk ye, busk ye, burd Hamlet, O busk ye, and make ye braw; This day I’m come for you, my love, And you to steal awa’.” “O hold your tongue, now hynd Hasting, I darena gang wi’ thee, Except ye slay my father and mother, Likewise my brothers three. “TJ will gie them laudanum in their drink, Will gar them a’ sleep sound ; And ye’ll gang to them at nine at night, In bed where they lie bound.” She’s gi’en them laudanum in their drink, That made them a’ sleep sound ; Hynd Hasting came at nine at night, To bed where they lay bound. He slew her father and her mother, And next her brothers twa ; And next he slew Sir Hugh McReagh, The flower out ower them a’. Then he is gane left them alane, All weltering in their bleede ; And he is aff wi’ burd Hamlet, To gude greenwood wi’ speed. She hadna been in gude greenwood A twalmonth and a day, Till she would gang to bonny Ha’broom, To sell baith cair? and kye. “Tf ye gang to the bonny Ha’broom, Ye’ll come soon back to me; If ye’re lang absent frae my sight, Vl come and visit thee.” When she had stay’d a month or twa, Then lang for her thought he ; And he would on to bonny Ha’broom, Burd Hamlet for to see. Then he gaed on, and further on, Till he saw horse and harrows ; It is not fit for a banish’d man, To gang wantmg bows and arrows. Syne he gaed on and further on, Till he saw carts and ploughs ; It is not fit for a banish’d man To gang wanting spears and bows. As he gaed up yon high, high hill, And down yon dowie den, And there he saw his burd Hamle%, Amo’ the unclean men. “Come to ye’re bed, ye unclean men, For cauld, caul ye my claes ; Hynd Hasting would embraced me twice Or ye pick your leally taes. “Come to ye’re bed, ye unclean men, For cauld, caul ye my sheets ; Hynd Hasting would embraced me twice Or ye pick your leally feet.” Hynd Hasting in a thicket hid, And him she didna see ; Up he raise, and aff he gaes, Nae words to her said he. But he is back to gude greenwood, As fast as he could gang ; And he is on to gude greenwood, And join’d a robber band. So they walk’d out upon a day, To see what they could see; He saw burd Hamlet ragged and torn, Beneath a green oak tree. He turn’d him to his robber band, And the tear blinded his e’e ; “>Twas for the sake o’ this woman, I left my own countrie.” Some said they would burd Hamlet head, Some said they would her hang ; * For no, for no,” said hynd Hasting, “She was my true love lang.” (1) In many of the old ballads we meet with the name of Hynd and Hind, which signifies, in some cases, a female stag in its third year; also, one of a family or servant; but here it may be said to mean neither ; but, as in some other cases, kind, courteous, &c. On he whole, the ballad is of that legendary cast, as to vuzzle the most consummate antiquary to know its purport or meaning. It must have been composed at a very early period. Burd Hamlet, the heroine, aided and assisted hynd Hasting, her lover, to murder her fatter, mother, and three brothers, afterwards eloped with him, and. continued in his company in good greenwood for about a year ; when, under pretence of selling her kine, she went to Ha’broom. It would appear he was rather unwilling to trust her away from him, and no wonder; for who would put any confidence in a parricide? Ha’broom, the resi- dence of the unclean men, to which she went, and continued for some time, would seem to be the name of a place now obsolete in the geographical vocabulary and grammar, and its inhabitants not earthly, but a kind of evil or polluted spirits, distinct’ from those of men. She was afterwards found by her former lover, in a wood, in a ragged and miserable condition, as he had, upon her account, united himself to a band of robbers. It is, however, possible that their uncleanness might have been a sort of lerrosy, which forbade them the company of the clean ot unpolluted, (2) Cair,—young calves. 4P 658 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. THE DROWNED LOVERS.! WI. stands in his stable door, And clapping at his steed; And looking o’er his white fingers, His nose began to bleed. “Gie corn to my horse, mother, And meat to my young man; And 1’ll awa’ to Meggie’s bower, T’ll win ere she lie down.” “O bide this night wi’ me, Willie, O bide this night wi’ me; The best an’ cock 0’ a’ the reest, At your supper shall be.” “ A’ your cocks, and a’ your reests, I value not a prin; For I'll awa’ to Meggie’s bower, Pll win ere she lie down.” “ Stay this night wi’? me, Willie, O stay this night wi’ me; The best an’ sheep in a’ the flock At your supper shall be.” “A? your sheep, and a’ your flocks, I value net a prin ; For Dll awa’ to Meggie’s bower, I'll win ere she lie down.” “O an’ ye gang to Meggie’s bower, Sae sair against my will, The deepest pot in Clyde’s water, My malison ye’s feel.” “The gude steed that I ride upon, Cost me thrice thretty pound ; And [’ll put trust in his swift feet, To hae me safe to land.” As he rade ower yon high, high hill, And down yon dowie den, The noise that was in Clyde’s water Would fear’d five huner men. ‘“*O roaring Clyde, ye roar ower loud, Your streams seem wondrous strang ; Make me your wreck as I come back, But spare me as I gang.” Then he is on to Meggie’s bower, And tirled at the pln; “O sleep ye, wake ye, Meggie,” he said, * Ye’ll open, lat me come in.” “OQ wha is this at my bower door, That calls me by my name?” “Tt is your first love, sweet Willie, This night newly come hame.” “T hae few lovers thereout, therecut, As few hae I therein ; The best an’ love that ever I had, Was here just late yestreen.” “The warstan stable in a’ your stables, For my puir steed to stand ; The warstan bower in a’ your bowers, For me to lie therein : My boots are fu’ o’ Clyde’s water, I'm shivering at the chin.” “My barns are fu’ o” corn, Willie, My stables are fw’ o” hay; My bowers are fu’ o’ gentlemen, They'll nae remove till day.” *O fare-ye-well, my fause Meggie, O farewell, and adieu ; T’ve gotten my mither’s malison, This night coming to you.” As he rode ower yon high, high hill, And down yon dowie den, The rushing that was in Clyde’s water, Took Willie’s cane frae him. He lean’d him ower his saddle bow, To catch his cane again ; The rushing that was in Clyde’s water, Took Willie’s hat frae him. He lean’d him ower his saddle bow, To catch his hat through force ; The rushing that was in Clyde’s water, Took Willie frae his horse. His brither stood upo’ the bank, Says, “ Fie, man, will ye drown? Ye’ll turn ye to your high horse heaa, And learn how to sowm.” (1) A fragment of this ballad, under the name of “ Willie and May Margaret,” appeared in Mr. Jamieson’s Collection, vol. i., p. 135, where he says, “‘ It was taken from the recitation of Mrs. Brown of Falkland.” I have now, for the first time, given it in a complete state, which exhibits those tragical ends, which are so consistent with the wrath and malice of an enraged mother. The unfortunate visit was fatal to both lovers ; for, like Lord Gregory’s mother, the maid’s mother betrayed both, which ended in their being consigned to a watery grave. The piece, on the whole, is beautifully pathetic. THE DROWNED LOVERS. zu. 19, St? a ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 659 * How can I tum to my horse head, And learn how to sowm ? T’ve gotten my mither’s malison, It’s here that T maun drown!” The very hour this young man sank Into the pot sae deep, Up it waken’d his love, Meggie, Out o’ her drowsy sleep. “ Come here, come here, my mither dear, And read this dreary dream ; I dream’d my love was at our yates, And nane wad let him in.” “ Lie still, lie still now, my Meggie, Lie still and tak your rest; Sin your true love was at your yates, It’s but twa quarters past.” Nimbly, nimbly raise she up, And nimbly pat she on; And the higher that the lady cried, The louder blew the win’. The first an’ step that she stepp’d in, She stepped to the queet; “QOhon, alas!” said that lady, “This water’s wondrous deep.” The next an’ step that she wade in, She wadit to the knee; Says she, “I could wide further in, If T my love could see.” The next an’ step that she wade in, She wadit to the chin ; The deepest pot in Clyde’s water She got sweet Willie in. “ Yow’ve had a cruel mither, Willie, And I have had anither ; But we shall sleep in Clyde’# water, Like sister an’ like brither.” HYND HORN “ Hynp Horn fair, and hynd Horn free, O where were you born? in what countrie ?” “In gude greenwood, there I was born And all my forbears me beforn. “O seven years I served the king, And as for wages, I never gat nane; But ae sight o’ his ae daughter, And that was through an auger bore. “My love gae me a siller wand, ‘Twas to rule ower a’ Scotland ; And she gae me a gay gowd ring, The virtue o’t was above a? thing.” “ As lang’s this ring it keeps the hue, Ye’ll know I am a lover true; But when the ring turns pale and wan, Ye’ll know I love another man.” He hoist up sails, and awa’ sail’d he, And sail’d into a far countrie ; And when he look’d upon his ring, He knew she loved another man. He hoist up sails and home came he, Home unto his ain countrie ; The first he met on his own land, It chanced to be a beggar man. “What news, what news, my gude auld manf What news, what news, hae ye to me?” “Nae news, nae news,” said the auld man, “The morn’s our queen’s wedding-day.” “ Will ye lend me your begging weed, And I'll lend you my riding steed ¢ ” “ My begging weed will ill suit thee, And your riding steed will ill suit me.” But part be right, and part be wrang, Frae the beggar man the cloak he won; “ Auld man, come tell to me your leed, What news ye gie when ye beg your bread P* “ As ye walk up unto the hill, Your pike staff ye lend ye till; But whan ye come near by the yett, Straight to them ye will upstep. «Take nane frae Peter, nor frae Paul, Nane frae high or low o” them all; And frae them all ye will take nane, Until it comes frae the bride’s ain hand.” He took nane frae Peter, nor frae Paul, Nane frae the high nor low o’ them all; And frae them all he would take nane, Until it came frae the bride’s ain hand 660, The bride came tripping down the stair, The combs o’ red gowd in her hair ; A cup o’ red wine in her hand, And that she gae to the beggar man. Out 0’ tae cup he drank the wine, And into the cup he dropp’d the ring; “O got ye’t by sea, or got ye’t by land, Or got ye’t on a drown’d man’s hand? ” “T got it not by sea, nor got it by land, Nor got I it on a drown’d man’s hand; But I got it at my wooing gay, And I'll gie’t you on your wedding-day.” “T'll take the red gowd frae my head, And follow you, and beg my bread; T'll take the red gowd frae my hair, And follow you for evermair.” Atween the kitchen and the ha’, He loot his cloutie cloak down fa’ ; And wi’ red gowd shone ower them a’, And frae the bridegroom the bride he sta’. YOUNG RONALD. Tr fell upon the Lammas time, When flowers were fresh and green, And craig and cleugh was cover’d ower With clothing that was clean. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. *Twas at that time, a noble squire, Sprung from an ancient line, Laid his love on a lady fair, The king’s daughter o’ Linne. = When cocks did craw, and day did daw, And mint in meadows sprang, Young Ronald and his little wee boy, They rode the way alang. So they rode on, and farther on, To yonder pleasant green ; And there he spied that lady fair, In her garden alane. These two together lang they stood, And love’s tale there they taul’ ; The glancing o’ her fair collar Did Ronald’s one impale. He lifted’s hat, and thus he spake “O pity have on me! For I could pledge what is my right, All for the sake of thee.” “Ye’re young amo’ your mirth, kind sir, And fair o’ your dull hours ; There’s nae a lady in a’ London, But might be your paramour. “But I’m too young to wed, kind sir, You must not take it ill; Whiate’er my father bids me do, I maun he at his will.” (1) This curious old legend I have never seen before in manu- script nor print, and suppose it to have been written at least five hundred years ago. It is full of that romantic knight-errantry of which the ancient bards of Albion were so fond. By its localities, I am at times apt to think the scene of action had been in England. King Honour I take to be a fictitious title, merely signifying a wish to gain honour in the field of battle, and not a crowned king, but a prince or proprietor of a certain extent of land. The ancient Britons having been greatly harassed by the Scots, the Picts, and Irish, invited over the Saxons, Jutes, and Angles to assist them in their wars, who, arriving about 450 years after the birth of Christ, were received with great joy, and saluted with songs after the accustomed manner of the Britons, who had appointed them the island of Thanet for their habitation. And not long after Hengist obtained of Vortigern, King of the Britons, the property of so much ground as he could enclose with a bull’s hide, which, cutting into thongs, he there built the castle called from thence Thong Castle ; to which place he invited Vor- tigern, who there fell in love with Rowena, the daughter or niece of Hengist, upon which match Hengist began to grow bold, and to think of making this island his inheritance. In order to which, he sent for fresh forces to come over to him; which being arrived, they fought and made occasions of quarrels with the natives, driving the inhabitants before them from their wonted possessions, every reveral captain accounting that part of the country his own where he could overmatch the Britons, com- manding in if as absolute king, by which means the lands became burdened with seven of them at the first, at one and the same time. But although the land was divided to seven several kingdoms, and each of them bearing a sovereign command within its own limits, yet one of them ever seemed to be supreme over the rest. In several of the old ballads we read of King Easter, King Wester, King Gosford, King Linne, King Aulsberry, and many more in England; and, at an early period, the Lords of the Isles in Scotland were called Kings; and in some of the old peerages the Dukes are called Princes, though not of the blood- royal. = From this king gomg to war with the foul thief, or three-headed monster, as he is called, we may see upon what fact the ballad is founded. The lady’s giving him an enchanted ring as a preserva- tive for himself and men, would augur that she had been ac- quainted with sorcery and magic. The supernatural powers of talismans, periapts, amulets, and charms of every description, were, at one time, firmly believed. In the 231st page of that antiquated and curious black-letter book,—‘‘ The Discoverie of Witchcraft,” by Reginald Scott, Esquire, printed in 1584, we find the following receipt for making a ‘* Wastecote of proofe:”—* On Christmas daie, at night, a thread must be sponne of flax, by a little virgine girle, in tho name of the divell; and it must be by her woven, and also wrought with the needle. In the breast, or forepart thereof, must be made, with needle-work, two heads; on the head, at the right side, must bea hat and a long beard; the left head must have on a crown, and it must be so horrible that it maie resemble Belzebub; and on each side of the wastegote must be made a crosse.”” ‘ ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 661 He kiss’d her then, and took his leave, His heart was all in pride; And he is on to Windsor gone, And his boy by his side. And when he unto Windsor came, And lighted on the green, There he spied his mother dear Was walking there alane. “* Where have ye been, my son, Ronald, From gude school-house, this day ? ” **T hae been at Linne, mother, Seeing yon bonny may.” *O wae’s me for you now, Ronald, For she will not you hae ; For mony a knight and bauld baron She’s nick’d them a’ wi’ nae.” Young Ronald’s done him to his bower, And he took bed and lay; Nae woman could come in his sight, For the thoughts o’ this well-fared may. Then in it came his father dear, Well belted and a brand ; The tears ran frae his twa grey eyes, All for his lovely son. Then Ronald call’d his stable groom Lo come right speedilie ; Says, “ Ye’ll gang to yon stable, boy, And saddle a steed for me. “ His saddle o’ the guid red gowd, His bits be o’ the steel, His bridle o’ a glittering hue, See that ye saddle him weel. “For P’ve heard greeters at your school-house, Near thirty in a day; But for to hear an auld man greet. It passes bairns’ play.” When cocks did craw, and day did daw, And mint in meadows sprang, Young Ronald and his little wee boy, The way they rode alang. So they rode on, and further on, To yonder pleasant green And there they saw that lady fair, Tu her garden alane. And twenty tines before he ceased, He kiss’d her lips sae cleat ; And said, “ Dear lady, for your sake, T’ll fight fell lang and sair.” “*Full haste, nae speed, for me, kind sir,*# Replied the lady clear ; * Far better bucklings ye maun bide, Or ye gain my love by weir. “King Honour is my father’s name, The morn to war maun fare ; And that’s to fight a proud giant, That’s wrought him muckle care. * Along wi’ him he is to take Baith noble knights and squires ; I would wish you as well-dress’d a knight As ony will be there. And T’ll gie you a thousand crowns To part amang your men; A robe upon your ain body, Weel sew’d wi’ my ain hand. * Likewise a ring, a royal thing, The virtue it is gude; If ony 0’ your men be hurt, It soon will stem their bluid. ** Another ring, a royal thing, Whose virtue is well known ; As lang’s this ring your body’s on, Your bluid shall ne’er be drawn.” He kiss’d her then, and took his leave, His heart was all in pride ; And he is on to Windsor gone, And his boy by his side. And when he unto Windsor cance, And lighted on the green; There he saw his auld father, Was walking him alane. “ Where hae ye been, my son, Ronald, From gude school-house the day P”” “QI hae been at Linne, father, Seeking yon bonny may.” “© wae’s me for you now, Ronald, For she will not you bae ; Mony a knight and bauld baron, She’s nick’d them a’ wi nay.” 662 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “Ohad your tongue, my father dear, Lat a your folly be ; The last words that I wi’ her spake, - Her love was granted me. “King Honour is her father’s name, The morn to war maun fare; And that’s to fight a proud giant, That’s wrought him muckle care. “ Alang wi’ him I mean to take Baith knights and noble squires ; And she wishes me as well-dress’d a knight As ony will be there. * And she’s gaen me a thousand crowns To part amang my men; A robe upon my ain body, Weel sew’d wi’ her ain hand. “ Likewise a ring, a royal thing, The virtue it is gude; Tf ony o’ my men be hurt, It soon will stem their bluid. * Another ring, a royal thing, Which virtue is unknown ; As lang’s this ring my body’s on, My bluid will ne’er be drawn.” “ Tf that be true, my son, Ronald, That ye hae tauld to me; Tl] gie to you an hundred men, To bear you companie. “ Besides as muckle gude harness, As carry them on the lee ; It is a company gude enough For sic a squire as thee.” When cocks did craw, and day did daw, And mint in meadows spread, Young Ronald and his merry young men Were ready for to ride. So they rode on, and farther on, To yonder pleasant green ; And there they spied that lady fair, In her garden sair mourning. These twa together lang they stood, And love’s tale there they taul’, Till her father and his merry young men Had ridden seven mile. He kiss’d her then, and took his leave, His heart was all in pride ; And then he sprang alang the road, As sparks do frae the gleed. Then to his great steed he set spur, He being swift o” feet ; They soon arrived on the plain, Where all the rest did meet. Then flew the foul thief! frae the west, His make was never seen; He had three heads upon ae hause, Three heads on ae breast bane. He bauldly stepp’d up to the king, Seized’a steed in his right hand ; Says, “ Here I am, a valiant man, Fight me now if ye can.” * Where is the man in a’ my train Will take this deed in hand ; And he shall hae my daughter dear, And third part o my land.” *O here am I,” said young Ronald, * Will take the deed in hand ; And ye’ll gie me your daughter dear, Tl seek nane o’ your land.” “JT wouldna for my life, Ronald, This day 1 left you here; Remember ye yon lady gay, For you shed mony a tear.” Fan he did mind on that lady, That he left him behind ; He hadna mair fear to fight, Nor a lion frae a chain. Then he cut aff the giant’s heads, W? ae sweep o’ his hand ; Gaed hame and married that lady, And heir’d her father’s land, (1) The devi. ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. THE CRUEL MOTHER.’ {r fell ance upon a day, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, It fell ance upon a day, Stirling for aye ; It fell ance upon a day, The clerk and lady wert to play, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. “If my baby be a son, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, If my baby be a son, Stirling for aye; If my baby be a son, Pil make him a lord o’ high renown,” So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. She’s lean’d her back to the wa’, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, She’s lean’d her back to the wa’, Stirling for aye; She’s lean’d her back to the wa’, Pray’d that ler pains might fa’, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. She’s lean’d her back to the thorn, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, She’s lean’d her back to the thorn, Stirling for aye ; She’s lean’d her back to the thorn, There was her baby born, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. *O bonny baby, if ye suck sair, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, O bonny baby, if ye suck sair, Stirling for aye ; O bonny baby, if ye suck sair, You’ll never suck by my side mair,” So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. She’s riven the muslin frae her head, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, She’s riven the muslin frae her head, Stirling for aye; She’s riven the muslin frae her head, Tied the baby hand and feet, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. Out she took her little penknife, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, Out she took her little penknife, Stirling for aye ; Out she took her little penknife, Twined the young thing o’ its life, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. 663 She’s howk’d a hole anent the meen, Edinbro Edinbro’, She’s howk’d a hole anent the meen, Stirling for aye, She’s howk’d a hole anent the meen, There laid her sweet baby in, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. She had her to her father’s ha’, Edinbro’, Hdinbro? She had her to her father’s ha’, Stirling for aye ; She had her to her father’s ha’, She was the meekest maid amang them a’, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. It fell ance upon a day, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, It fell ance upon a day, Stirling for aye; It fell ance upon a day, She saw twa babies at their play, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon ‘l'ay. “Q bonny babies, gin ye were mine, Edinbro’ Edinbro’, O bonny babies, gin ye were mine, Stirling for aye O bonny babies, gin ye were mine, Td cleathe you in the silks sae fine,” So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. “O wild mother, when we were thine, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, O wild mother, when we were thine, Stirling for aye; O wild mother, when we were thine, You cleathed us not in silks sae fine,” So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. “But now we’re in the heavens high, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, But now we’re in the heavens high, Stirling for aye ; But now we're in the heavens high, And you’ve the pains o’ hell to try,” So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. She threw hersell ower the castle-wa’, Edinbro’, Edinbro’, She threw hersell ower the castle-wa’, Stirling for aye ; She threw hersell ower the castle-wa’, There I wat she got a fa’, So proper Saint Johnston stands fair upon Tay. (1) Sir Wulter Scott gives a few straggling lines of this ballad ir his note to “Lady Anne,” vol. ii., p. 234, of the Border Minstrelsy,” where he says he had heard a fragment of it sung in his childhood. And in vol. iii., p. 80, of the same work, in the note to the “ Cruel Sister,” he gives a few additional lines. The burden of the piece is nearly the same, such as—“ Edin- borough, Edinborough—Stirling for aye,” and “‘ Bonny St. Johne ston stands upon Tay.” In Wotherspoon’s Collections, vol. ii. p- 237, are a few mutilated stanzas. This is the only complete copy of the ballad with which T have ever been able to meet, 664 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. BROOMFIELD-HILLS.' THERE was a knight and lady bright, Set trysts amo’ the broom ; The one to come at morning ear, The other at afternoon. “TH wager a wager wi’ you,” he said, “ An hundred merks and ten, That ye shall not go to Broomfield-hills, Return a maiden again.” “Tl wager a wager wi’ you,” she said, “A hundred pounds and ten, ‘That I will gang to Broomfield-bills, A maiden return again.” The lady stands in her bower door, And thus she made her mane: “O shall I gang to Broomfield-hills ? Or shall I stay at hame ? “Tf£I do gang to Broomfield-hills, A. maid [ll not return; But if I stay from Broomfield-hills, I'll be a maid mis-sworn.” Then out it speaks an auld witch wife, Sat in the bower aboon: *O ye shall gang to Broomfield-hills, Ye shall not stay at hame. “But when ye gang to Broomfield-hills, Walk nine times round and round; Down below a bonny burn bank, Ye’ll find your love sleeping sound. “ Ye’ll pu’ the bloom frae aff the broom, Strew’t at his head and feet ; And aye the thicker that ye do strew, The sounder he will sleep. “The broach that is on your napkin, Put it on his breast bane ; To let him know when he does wake, That’s true love’s come and gane. “The rings that are on your fingers, Lay them down on a stane; To let him know when he does wake, That’s true love’s come and gane. « And when ye hae your work all done, Ye’ll gang to a bush o’ broom ; And then you'll hear what he will say, Whien he sees ye are gane.” When she came to Broomfield-hills, She walk’d it nine times round, And down below yon burn bank, She found him sleeping sound. She pu’d the bloom frae aff the broom, Strew’d it at’s head and feet ; And aye the thicker that she strew’d, The sounder he did sleep. The broach that was on her napkin, She put it on his breast bane; To let him know when he did wake, His love was come and gane. The rings that were on her fingers, She laid upon a stane; To let him know when he did wake, His love was come and gane. Now when she had her work all dune, She went to a bush o’ broom ; That she might hear what he did say, When he saw she was gane. “O where were ye, my gude greyhound, That I paid for sae dear, Ye didna waken me from my sleep, When my true love was sae near?” *T scraped wi’ my foot, master, Till a’ my collars rang ; But still the mair that I did scrape, Waken would ye nane.” ‘Where were ye, my berry-brown steed, That I paid for sae dear, That ye wouldna waken me out o’ my sleep, When my love was sae near ?” “T patted wi’ my foot, master, Till a my bridles rang ; But still the mair that I did pat, Waken would ye nane.” (1) This ballad is very old, having been mentioned in the ** Com- playnt of Scotland,” printed as early as 1549. This is the only perfect and complete copy I have yet seen, although I have seen tragments of three, besides a copy in an English dress, sent me by a London correspondent. ‘This is, perhaps, the ballad te which Sir Walter Scott alludes when speaking of Tanc’s “Broom, Broom-on-Hill,” in his “ Progress of Queen Fiizabeth into Warwickshire,” GW Sharpe. LORO DINGWALL. Stanza 7. LONDON, VIRTUE 8-69 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “OQ where were ye, my gay goshawk, That I paid for sae dear, That ye wouldna waken me out o’ my sleep, When ye saw my love near?” “T flapped wi’ my wings, master, Till v my bells they rang ; But still the mair that I did flap, Waken would ye nane.” *O where were ye, my merry young men, That I pay meat and fee, Ye wouldna waken me out o’ my sleep, When my love ye did see?” “ Ye’ll sleep mair on the night, master, And wake mair on the day; Gae sooner down to Broomfield-hills, When ye’ve sic pranks to play. “Tf I had seen any armed men, Come riding ower the hill; But I saw but a fair lady Come quietly you until.” © wae mat worth you, my young men, That I pay meat and fee, That ye wouldna waken me frae sleep, When ye my love did see. “© had I waked when sne was nigh, And o’ her got my will; T shouldna cared upon the morn, Though sma’ birds o” her were fill.” When she went out right bitter wept, But singing came she hame ; Says, “I hae been at Broomfield-hills, And maid return’d again.’ ——_s——_ LORD DINGWALL.' —_— WE were sisters, sisters seven, Bowing down, bowing down ; The fairest women under heaven, And aye the birks a-bowing. (1) This ballad has all the insignia of antiquity stamped upon it, and records one of those romantic fashions said to exist in the Highlands of Scotland some hundred years ago. I am not in- clined to think that the hero of the piece was any of the Lords Dingwall, although its name would imply as much, but rather a Highland chieftain, or laird of Dingwall, a royal borough in Ross-shire, if such be the real name of the ballad; of which I am dubious, for Sir Richard Preston was created Lord Dingwall py King James, in 1607, by patent, to the heirs of his body. His only daughter and heiress, Lady Elizabeth, married James, the 665 They kiest kevels them amang, Bowing down, bowing down ; Wha would to the grenewood gang, And aye the birks a-bowing. The kevels they gied thro’ the ha’, Bowing down, bowing down; And on the youngest it did fa’, And aye the birks a-bowing. Now she must to the grenewood gang. Bowing down, bowing down, To pw the nuts in grenewood hang, And aye the birks a-bowing. She hadna tarried an hour but ane, Bowing down, bowing down, Till she met wi’ a highlan’ groom, And aye the birks a-bowing. He keeped her sae late and lang, Bowing down, bowing down, Till the evening set, and birds they sang, And aye the birks a-bowing. He gae to her at their parting, Bowing down, bowing down, A chain o’ gold, and gay gold ring, And aye the birks a-bowing. And three locks o’ his yellow hair, Bowing down, bowing down ; Bade her keep them for evermair, And aye the birks a-bowing. When six lang months were come and gane, Bowing down, bowiug down, A courtier to this lady came, And aye the birks a-bowing. Lord Dingwall courted this lady gay, Bowing down, bowing down; And so he set their wedding-day, And aye the birks a-bowing. great Duke of Ormond. His grandson, James, second and last Duke, claimed, in 1710, the Scotch honour of Dingwall ; for which he was allowed to vote at the election of the sixteen peers the same year, This title was forfeited by his attainder, in 1715, From this we may see, that none of the Lords of Dingwall resided in the Highlands, but most part in England, which confirms my opinion. In an imperfect copy of a ballad somewhat similar in incident to this one, the hero of the piece is called “ Lord Betliwell;’? but which of the two is the true title I am not determine to say 4Q 666 ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. A little boy to the ha’ was sent, Bowing down, bowing down ; To bring her horse was his intent, And aye the birks a-bowing. As she was riding the way along, Bowing down, bowing down, She began to make a heavy moan, And aye the birks a-bowing. “ What ails you, lady,” the boy said, Bowing down, howing down, * That ye seem sae dissatisfied ? And aye the birks a-bowing. Are the bridle reins for you too strong P Bowing down, bowing down; Or the stirrups for you too long ? And aye the birks a-bowing.” “ But, little boy, will ye tell me, Bowing down, bowing down, The fashions that are in your countrie ? And aye the birks a-bowing.” “ The fashions in our ha’ I’ll tell, Bowing down, bowing down; And o’ them a’ I'll warn you well, And aye the birks a-bowing. “When ye come in upon the floor, Bowing down, bowing down ; His mither will meet you wi’ a golden chair, And aye the birks a-bowing. “ But be ye maid, or be ye naune, Bowing down, bowing down ; Unto the high seat make ye boun’, And aye the birks a-bowing. “ Lord Dingwall aft has been beguil’d, Bowing down, bowing down; By girls whom young men hae defil’d, And aye the birks a-bowing. “ He’s cutted the paps frae their breast bane, Bowing down, bowing down; And sent them back to their ain hame, And aye the birks a-bowing.” When she came in upon the floor, Bowing down, bowing down ; His mother met her wi’ a golden chair, And aye the birks 4-bowing. But to the high seat she made her boun’, Bowing down, bowing down ; She knew that maiden she was nane, And aye the birks a-bowing. When night was come, they went to bed, Bowing down, bowing down ; And ower her breast his arm he laid, And aye the birks a-bowing. He quickly jumped upon the floor, Bowing down, bowing down; And said, “I’ve got a vile rank whore, And aye the birks a-bowing.” Unto his mother he made his moan, Bowing down, bowing down, Says, “ Mother dear, I am undone, And aye the birks a-bowing. “ Ye’ve aft tald when I brought them hame, Bowing down, bowing down; Whether they were maid or nane, And aye the birks a-bowing. “T thought I’d gotten a maiden bright, Bowing down, bowing down ; I’ve gotten but a waefw’ wight, And aye the birks a-bowing. “T thought I’d gotten a maiden clear, Bowing down, bowing down; But gotten but a vile rank whore, And aye the birks a-bowing.” When she came in upon the floor, Bowing down, bowing down; I met her wi’ a golden chair, And aye the birks a-bowing. “ But to the high seat she made her boun’ Bowing down, bowing down ; Because a maiden she was nane, And aye the birks a-bowing.” “I wonder wha’s tauld that gay ladie, Bowing down, bowing down, The fashion into our countrie, And aye the birks a-bowing.” “Tt is your little boy I blame, Bowing down, bowing down ; Whom ye did send to bring her hame, And aye the birks s-bowing.” ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. 667 Then to the lady she did go, Bowing down, bowing down; And said, “O Lady let me know, And aye the birks a-bowing, “Who has defil’d your fair bodie ? Bowing down, bowing down; Ye’re the first that has beguiled me, And aye the birks a-bowing.” “O we were sisters, sisters seven, Bowing down, bowing down ; The fairest women under heaven, And aye the birks a-bowing. “ And we kiest kevels us amang, Bowing down, bowing down, Wha would to the greenwood gang, And aye the birks a-bowing; “For to pu’ the finest flowers, Bowing down, bowing down; To put around our summer bowers, And aye the birks a-bowing. “T was the youngest o’ them a’, Bowing down, bowing down; The hardest fortune did me befa’, And aye the birks a-bowing. “Unto the greenwood I did gang, Bowing down, bowing down; And pu’d the nuts as they down hang, And aye the birks a-bowing. “J hadna stayed an hour but ane, Bowing down, bowing down ; Till I met wi’ a highlan’ groom, And aye the birks a-bowing. “He keeped me sae late and lang, Bowing down, bowing down; Till the evening set, and birds they sang, And aye the birks a-bowing. “He gae to me at our parting, Bowing down, bowing down, A chain of gold, and gay gold ring, And aye the birks a-bowing; “ And three locks o’ his yellow hair, Bowing down, bowing down; Bade me keep them for evermair, And aye the birks a-bowing. “Then for to show I make nae lie, Bowing down, bowing down, Look ye my trunk and ye will see, And aye the birks a-bowing.” Unto the trunk then she did go, Bowing down, bowing down, To see if that were true or no, And aye the birks a-bowing. And aye she sought, and aye sie flarg, Bowing down, bowing down, Till these four things came to her hand, And aye the birks a-bowing. ‘Then she did to her ain son go, Bowing down, bowing down, And said, “ My son, ye’ll let me know, And aye the birks a-bowing. “Ye will tell to me this thing, Bowing down, bowing down; What did you wi’ my wedding-ring P And aye the birks a-bowing.” * Mother dear, I’ll tell nae lie, Bowing down, bowing down ; I gave it to a gay ladie, And aye the birks a-bowing. “T would gie a’ my ha’s and towers, Bowing down, bowing down, I had this bird within my bowers, And aye the birks a-bowing.” “Keep well, keep well, your lands and stranas, Bowing down, bowing down ; Ye hae that bird within your hands, And aye the birks a-bowing. “Now, my son, to your bower ye’ll go, Bowing down, bowing down ; Comfort your ladie, she’s full o’ woe, And aye the birks a-bowing.” Now when nine months were come and gang Bowing down, bowing down, The lady she brought hame a son, And aye the birks a-bowing. It was written on his breast bane, Bowing down, bowing down, Lord Dingwall was his father’s name, And aye the birks a-bowing. 668 He’s ta’en his young son in his arms, Bowing down, bowing down, And aye he prais’d his lovely charms, And aye the birks a-bowing. And he has gi’en him kisses three, Bowing down, bowing down; And doubled them ower to his ladie, And aye the birks a-bowing. CHARLES GRAEME. “CauLp, cauld blaws the winter night, Sair beats the heavy rain ; Young Charles Graeme’s the lad I love, In greenwood he lies slain. “ But I will do for Charles Graeme What other maidens may ; T’ll sit and harp upon his grave A twelvemonth and a day.” She harped a’ the live-lang night, The saut tears she did weep ; Till at the hour o” one o’clock His ghost began to peep. Pale and deadly was his cheek, And pale, pale was his chin ; And how and hollow were his e’en, No light appear’d therein. “Why sit ye here, ye maiden fair, To mourn sae sair for me?” “T am sae sick, and very love-sick, Ae foot I cannot jee. “ Sae well’s I loved young Charles Graeme, I kent he loved me ; My very heart’s now like to break For his sweet companie.” (1) There seems to be a very great inconsistency manifested throughout the whole of this baliad in the latiy’s behaviour towards the ghost of her departed lover. Perhaps she wished to sit and sigh alone, undisturbed with visita from the inhsbitante of ANCIENT BALLADS AND SONGS. “ Will ye hae an apple, lady, And I will sheave it sma’ P ” “T am sae sick, and very loye-sick, I cannot eat at a’.” “Will ye hae the wine, lady, And I will drain it sma’ ?” “T am sae sick, and very love-sick, I cannot drink at a’. “See ye not my father's castle, Well cover’d ower wi’ tin? There’s nane has sic an anxious wish As I hae to be in.” *O hame, fair maid, ye’se quickly won, But this request grant me, When ye are safe in downbed laid, That I may sleep wi’ thee.” “Tf hame again, sir, I could win, Pll this request grant thee ; When I am safe in downbed laid, This night ye’se sleep wi’ me.” Then he pou’d up a birken bow, Pat it in her right hand’ ; And they are to yon castle fair As fast as they could gang. When they came to yon castle fair, It was piled round about ; She slipped in and bolted the yetts, Says, “ Ghaists may stand thereout.”’ Then he vanish’d frae her sight, In the twinkling o’ an e’e; Says, “ Let never ane a woman trust Sae much as [’ve done thee.” the grave. On her tirst outset, she was to sit and harp wn hiv grave a twelvemonth and acuy; but after the tira. nignt, we hear no more of her harping. A GLOSSARY OF THE SCOTTISH DIALECT. Tue following General Rules show wherein many Southern and Northern words were originally the same, haying only one letter changed for another, or sometimes one letter taken away, or one added. I. In many words ending with an after ana or u, the lis rarely sounded. SCUTTISH. ENGLISH. SCOTTISH. ENGLISH. SCOTTISH. ENGLISH. SCOTTISH. ENGLISH A All Fa’ Fall | Ha Hall Sta’ Stall Bad Ball | Fou, or fu Full | Low, or pw Pull Wa Wall Ca’ Call | Ga’ Gall | Sma Small | Woo, or oo Wool Il.—The 1 changes to a, w, or u, after 0 or a, and is frequently sunk before another consonant ; as, Bawm Balm Cow Coll, or Clip Haff Half Scawd Scald Bauk Balk Fause False How Hole, or Hollow | Stown Stolen Bouk Bulk aut Fault Howms Holms Wawk Walk Bow Boll Fawn Fallen Maut Malt Bowt Bolt Fowk Folk Pow Poll Caf Calf Gowd Gold Row Roll III.—An 0 before 1d changes to a or au; as, Auld Old Cauld Cold Hald, or had Hold Tald Told Bauld Bold Fauld Fold Salad Sold Wad Would IV.—The 0, 0e, or ow, 28 changed to a, ae, aw, or ai; as é, Or ane One Braid Broad Mae More Stane Stone a Oaten | Claith Cloth Mair More Staw Stole Af Off Craw Crow Maist Most Strake Stroak Aften Often Drap Drop Mane Moan Tae Toe Aik Oak Fue Foe Na No — Taiken Token Aith Oath Frae Fro, or from | Naithing Nothing Tangs Tongs Ain, or aun Own Gae Go Nane None Tap Top Alane Alone . Gaits Goats Pape Pope Thrang Throng Amaist Almost Grane Groan Rae Roe Wae Woe Amang Among | Hait,or het Hot Raip Rope Wame Womb Airs Oars Hale Whole Raw Row Wan Won Aits Oats Halesome Wholesome Saft Soft War Worse Apen Open Haly Holy Saip Soap Wark Work Awner Owner Hame Home Sair Sore Warld World Bain Bone Laid Load Sang Song Wha Who Bair Boar Lain, or len Loan Saub Soul Baith Both Laith Loath Slaw Slow Blaw Blow Lang Long Snaw Snow V.—The o or w ts frequently changed tntoi; as, i Another | Fit Foot Mithe Mother Rin Run one Bull Fither Fother Nise Nose Sin Sun Birn Burn Hinny Honey Nits Nuts Brither Brother | Jther Other Pit Lut 670 A. ABEET, albeit, although. Ablins, perhaps. Aboon, above. Aeten, oaten. Aik, oak. Aikerbread, the breadth of an acre. Air, long since. It, early. Air up, soon up in the morning. Amébrie, cupboard. Anew, enough. Annual-rent, yearly interest of money. Apen, open. Arles, earnest of a bargain. Ase, ashes. Ase-midding, dunghill of ashes. Asteer, stirring. Atains, or Atdnes, at once, at the same time. Attour, out-over. Auld-farren, knowing, shrewd. Auld ai a cant name for Edinburgh; old and smoky. Aurglebargin, or Eagglebargin, to contend and wrangle. Awsome, frightful, terrible. Aynd, the breath. B. Ba’, ball. Back-sey, a sirloin. Badrans, a cat. Baid, stayed, abode. Bairns, children. Balen, whalebone. To ban, to curse. Bang is sometimes an action of haste. We say, “He, or it, came with a bang.” A dang also means a great number: “ Of customers she had a bang.” Bangster, a blustering, roaring person. Bannocks, a sort of unleavened bread, thicker than cakes, and round, Barken’d, when mire, blood, &c., hardens upon a thing like bark. ~ Barlikhood, a fit of drunken, angry passion. Barrow-trams, the staves of a hand-barrow. Batts, colic. Bauch, sorry, indifferent. Baul, or bauld, bold. Bawbee, halfpenny. Bawk, a rafter, joist: likewise, the space between corn-fields. Lae bawsand-faced, is a cow, or horse, with a white ‘ace. Bedeen, immediately, in haste. Beft, beaten. Begoud, began. Begrutten, all in tears. Betk, to bask. Beild, or beil, a shelter. Bein, or been, wealthy, comfortable. a warm, well-furnished one. Beit, or beet, to help, repair. Bells, bubbles. Beltan, the 38rd of May, or Rood-day. Belzie, Beelzebub. Bended, drunk hard. Benn, the inner room of a house, Benison, blessing. Bensell, or bensail, force. Bent, the open field. Benty, overgrown with ccarse grass. Beuk, baked. Bicker, a wooden dish, Bickering, fighting, running quickly. School-boys battling with stones. A been house, GLOSSARY. Bigg, build. Bigyet, built. Béggengs, buildings, Biggonet, a linen cap or coif. Billy, brother. any a bench to sit on, either by the door or near the e. Birks, birch-trees. Birle, to carouse. When common people join their halfpennies for purchasing liquor, they call it “ birling a bawbee.”’ Birn, a burnt mark. Birns, the stalks of burnt heath. Birr, force, flying swiftly with a noise. Bisy, busy. Bittle, or beetle, a wooden mall for beating hemp, or a fuller’s club. Black-a-vis' d, of a black complexion. Blae, black and blue, the colour of the skin when bruised. Blaflun, beguile. Blate, bashful. Blatter, a rattling noise. Biawart, a blue flower that grows among corn. Bleech, to blanch or whiten. Bleer, to make the eye water. Bleeze, blaze. Blether, foolish discourse. Bletherer,a babbler. Stam- mering is called blethering. Blin, cease. ‘ Never biin,” never have done. Blinkan, the flame rising and falling, as of a lamp when the oil is exhausted. Boak, or boke, retch. Boal, a little press or cupboard in the wall. To boast, to threaten or scold at. Bodin, or bodden, provided or furnished. Bodie, one-sixth of a penny English. Bodword, an ominous message. Bodwords are now used to express ill-natured messages. Boglebo, hobgoblin or spectre. ~ Bonny, beautiful. Bonnywalys, toys, gewgaws. Boss, empty. Bouk, bulk. Bourd, jest or dally. Bouser, a rafter. Bouze, to drink. Bowt, bolt. Brae, the side of a hill, a steep bank. Braid, broad. Braird, the first sprouting of corns. Brander, a gridiron. Brands, calves of the legs. Brang, brotght. Brankan, prancing, a capering. Branks, wherewith the rustics bridle their horses. Branny, brandy. Brats, rags, aprons of coarse linen. Brattle, noise, as of horse feet. Braw, brave ; fine in apparel. Brecken, fern. | Brent-brow, smooth high forehead. Brigs, bridges. Briss, to press. Brochen, water-gruel of oatmeal. Brock, a badger. Broe, broth. Browden, fond. Browster, brewer. Browst, a brewing. Bruliment, or Brulziement, a broil. Bucky, the large sea-snail: a term of reproach, when we express a cross-natured fellow by “thrawn bucky.” Buff, nonsense : as, “he blather’d buf.” Bught, the little fold where the ewes are enclosed at milking-time. GLOSSARY. Buller, to bubble; the motion of water at a spring. head, or noise of a rising tide. eee confused ; made to stare and look like an idiot. Bumbee, a humble-bee. Bumler, a bungler. To Bummil, to bungle. Bung, completely fuddled, as it were to the bung. Bunkers, a bench, or sort of long low chests that serve for seats. Burd-alane, solitary bird, Burn, a brook. Busk, to deck, dress. Bustine, fustian, cloth. But, often used for without ; as, “ but feed or favour.” Bygane, bypast. Bykes, or bikes, nests or hives of bees. Byre, or byar, a cow-house. Byword, a proverb. C. Cadge, + Cadger is a country carrier, &c. Caf, a cat chaff. : Callan, boy. Camschough, or Campsho, stern, grim, of a distorted countenance. Cangle, to wrangle. Canker d, angry, passionately snarling. Canna, cannot. Cant, to tell merry old tales. Cantraips, incantations. Canty, cheerful and merry. Capernoited, whimsical, ill-natured, Car, sledge. Carena, care not. Carle, a word for an old man. Carline, an old woman. Gire-carline, a giant’s wife. Carts, Cards. Cathel, cawdle, a hot-pot made of ale, sugar, and eggs. Cautirife, spiritless; wanting cheerfulness in ad~- dress. Cauler, cool or fresh. Cawk, chalk. Cawsy, causeway, street. Chafts, chops. Chaping, an ale measure or stoup, somewhat less than an English quart. A-char, or a-jar, aside. When anything is beaten a little out of its position, or a door or window a little opened, we say, “they are a-char,” or “ajar.” Charlewain, Charles’s Wain ; the constellation called the Plough, or Ursa Major. Chancy, fortunate, good-natured. Chamler, a candlestick. Chanler-chafts, lantern-jawed. Chat, a cant name for the gallows. Chiel, or chield, a general term like fellow; used sometimes with respect, as, “he’s a very good chiel ;”” and contemptuously, “ that chiel.”” Chirm, chirp and sing like a bird. Chitter, chatter. Chorking, the noise made by the feet when the shoes are full of water. Chucky, a hen. Cian, tribe, family. ; Clank, a sharp blow or stroke that makes a noise. Clashes, chat. Clatter, to chatter. Claught, took hold. Claver, to speak nonsense. Claw, scratch. : Cleck, to catch as with a hook. 671 Cleugh, a den betwixt rocka, Clink, coin, money. Clinty, hard, stony. Clock, & beetle. Cloited, the fall of any soft, moist thing. ss a court or square, and frequently a lane or alley. Clour, the little lump that rises on the head, occa- sioned by a blow or fall. Clute, or cloot, hoof of cows or sheep. Cockernony, the gathering of a woman’s hair when it is wrapped or snooded up with a band or snood. Cockstool, a pillory. Cod, a pillow. Coft, bought. Cog, a pretty large wooden dish the country people put their pottage in. Cogle, when a thing moves backwards and forwarda inclining to fall. Coly, a shepherd’s dog. Coof, a stupid fellow. Coor, to cover, and recover. Cooser, a stoned horse. Coost, did cast. Coosten, thrown. Corby, a raven. Coste, warm and comfortable. Cotter, a cottager. Couthy, affable. Cowp, to turn over ; also, a fall. Cowp, to change or barter. Cowp, a company of people; as, “ merry, senseless, corky cowp.” Crack, to chat. Craig, a rock ; the neck. Craw, crow. Creel, basket. Creepy, a low stool. Crish, grease. Croil, a crooked dwarf. Croon, or erune, to murmur or hum over a song; the lowing of bulls. Crouse, bold, pert, overbearing. Crove, a cottage. Crummy, a term of endearment for a cow. Cryn, to shrink or become less by drying. Cudeigh, a bribe, present. Cuizie, to entice or flatter. Cun, to taste, learn, know. Cunzie, or coonie, coin. Curn, a small parcel. Cursche, a kerchief ; a linen dress worn by our High land women. Cutled, used kind and gaining methods for obtaining love and friendship. Cutty, short. D. Dab, a proficient. Dad, to beat one thing against another; “he fell with a dad; “he dadded his head against the wall,” &c. Daft, foolish, and sometimes wanton. Dafin, folly, waggery. Daintiths, delicacies, dainties. Dainty is used as an epithet of a fine man or woman. Dander, to wander to or fro, or saunter. Dang, did ding, beat, thrust, drive. Ding, dang, moving hastily one on the back of another. Darn, to hide. Dash, to put out of countenance. Dawty, a fondling, darling. Zo dawt, to cocker ang caress with tenderness. Deave, to stun the ears with noise. Deel, or deil, the devil. 672 Deel-be-liktt, the devil a bit. Dees, dairy-maids, Deray, merriment, jollity, solemnity, tumult, dis- order, noise. Dern, secret, hidden, lonely. Deval, to descend, fall, hurry. Dewgs, rags or shapings of cloth. Didie, to act or move like a dwarf. Dight, decked, made ready ; also, to clean. To ding, to drive down, to beat, to overcome. Dink, prim. Pinna, do not. Dirle, a smarting pain quickly over. Dit, to stop or close up a hole. Divot, thin turf. Docken, a dock, the herb. Doiit, confused and silly. Dotted, dozed or crazy, as in old age. Doll, a large piece; dole or share. Donk, moist. Donsie, affectedly neat ; sometimes dull and dreary ; clean, when applied to any little person. Doofart, a dull, heavy-headed fellow. Dool, or drule, the goal which gamesters strive to gain first, as at football. Dool, pain, grief, Dorts, a proud pet. Dorty, proud; not to be spoken to; conceited ; appearing as disobliged. Dosend, cold, impotent. Dought, could, availed. Doughty, strong, valiant, able. Douks, dives under water. Dour, dowr, hard, severe, fierce. Douse, solid, grave, prudent. Dow, to will, to incline, to thrive. Dow, dove. Dow’ d, (liquor) that is dead, or has lost the spirits; or withered (plant). Dowf, mournful, wanting vivacity. Dowie, sickly, melancholy, sad, doleful. Downa, dow not, i.e., though one has the power, he wauts the heart to do it. Dowp, the small remains of a candle, the bottom of an egg-shell: “better half egg as toom dowp.” Drant, to speak slowly, after a sighing manner. Dree, to suffer, endure. Dreery, wearisome, frightful. Dreigh, slow, keeping at a distance: hence, an ill payer of his debts we call dreigh: tedious. Dribs, drops. Dring, the noise of a kettle before it boils. Drizel, a little water in a rivulet, scarcely appearing to run. Droning, sitting lazily, or moving heavily ; speaking with groans. Drouked, drenched, all wet. Dubs, mire. Duds, rags. Duddy, ragged. Dung, driven down, overcome. Lunt, stroke or blow. Dunty, a doxy. Durk, a poniard or dagger. Dusht, driven down. Dwine, to pine away. Dynies, trembles, shakes. Dyvour, a bankrupt. E. To Eag, to egg, to incite, stir up. Lard, earth, the ground. Hage of a hill is the side or top. Een, eyes. Eid, age. GLOSSARY. Eildeens, of the same age. Eith, easy. Either, easier. Elbuck, elbow. Elf-shot, bewitched, shot by fairies. Ell-wand, the ell measure. Elritch, wild, hideous, uninhabited except by 1magi- nary ghosts. Elson, a shoemaker’s awl. Endlang, along. Ergh, scrupulous, when one makes faint attempts te do a thing, without a steady resolution. Esthler, Ashler, hewn stone. Ether, an adder. Ethercap, or Ettercap, a venomous spiteful creature. Etle, to aim, design. Even'd, compared. Fvite, to shun. Eydent, diligent, laborious. F, Fa, a trap, such as is used for catching rats or mice. Facing-tools, drinking-pots. Fadge, a spongy sort of bread in shape of a roll. Fae, foe. Fail, thick turf, such as is used for building dykes for folds, enclosures, &c. Fairfaw, when we wish well to one, that a good or fair fate may befall him. Fait, neat, in good order. Fand, found. Fang, the talons of a fowl. fast. Fash, to vex or trouble. Fusheous, troublesome. Faugh, a colour between white and red. Faugh riggs, fallow ground. Favght, a broil. Fause, false. Fawn, fallen. Feck, a part, quantity ; as, ‘maist feck,” the greatest number ; ‘nae feck,” very few. Feckfow, able, active. Feckless, feeble, little and weak. Feed, or fead, feud, hatred, quarrel. Feil, many, several. Fen, shift. Fending, living by industry. Jen, fall upon methods. Ferlie, wonder. Fernzier, the last or forerun year. File, to defile or dirty. Fireflaught, a flash of lightning. Fistle, to stir, a star. Fit, the foot. Fitted, the print of the foot. Fizzing, whizzing. Flafing, moving up and down; raising wind by motion, as birds with their wings. Fiags, flashes, as of wind and fire. Flane, an arrow. Flang, flung. Flaughter, to pare turf from the ground. Flaw, lie or fib. Fileetch, to coax or flatter. Fleg, fright. ; . Filet, the preterite of flyte, did chide. Flegeries, geowgaws. Flewet, a smart blow. Filey, or flie, to affright. Fveyt, afraid or terrified. Finders, splinters. Fit, to remove. Flite, or flyte, to scold or chide. vet, did scold. Flushes, floods. Fog, moss. Fon, fond. : : Foordays, the morning far advanced, fair daylight. To Fang, to grip, or hold Make a GLOSSARY. Forby, besides. Forebears, forefathers, ancestors. Forestam, the forehead. Forfatrn, abused, bespattered. Forfoughten, weary, taint, and out of breath with fighting. Forgainst, opposite to. Forgether, to meet, encounter, Forleet, to forsake or forget. Fou, drunk. Fouth, abundance, plenty. Fow-weel, full well. Fozy, spongy, soft. Fraise, to make a noise. We use to say, “ one makes a fraise,’’ when they boast, wonder, and talk more of a matter than it is worthy of, or will bear. Fray, bustle, fighting. Freik, a fool, light impertinent fellow. Fremit, strange, not akin, Fristed, trusted. Frush, brittle, like bread baked with butter. Fuff, to blow. Fufin, blowing. Fuish, brought. Furder, prosper. Furlet, four pecks. Furthy, forward. Fyk, to be restless, uneasy. G. Gab, the mouth. Zo Gab, to prate. Gabbing, prating pertly. Zo gabagain ; when servants give saucy returns when reprimanded. Gabby, one of a ready and easy expression ; the same with auld gabbet. Gadge, to dictate impertinently, talk idly with a stupid gravity. To Gae, to go. Gafaw, hearty loud laughter. Gaist, or ghaist, a ghost. Gait, a goat. Gams, gums. Gamtrees, a stand for ale-barrels, Gar, to cause, make, or force. Gare, greedy, rapacious, earnest to have a thing. Gash, solid, sagacious. One with a long out chin, we call gash-gabbet, or gash-beard. Gate, way. Gaunt, yawn. Gaw, to take the pet, to be galled. Gawd, or gad, a bar of iron, a ploughman’s rod. Gawky, an idle, staring, idiotical person. Gawn, going. Gaws, galls. Gawsy, jolly, buxom. amet To geck, to mock, to toss the head with disdain. Geed, or gade, went. Genty, handsome, genteel. os Get, a brat, a child, by way of contempt or derision. Gielainger, an ill debtor. Gif, if. Gift, a wicked imp, a term of reproach. _ Gillygacus, or gillygapus, a staring gaping fool, a gormandizer. Gilpy, a roguish boy. Gimmer, a young sheep-ewe. Gin, if. Gird, to strike, pierce. Girn, to grin, snarl; also a snare or trap, such as boys make of horsehair to catch birds. Girth, a hoop. Glaiks, the reflection of the sun thrown from a mirror; an idle, good-for-nothing fellow. Glavked, foolish, wanton, light. To give the glaiks, to beguile one by giving him his labour for his pains. To gawf, to laugh. 673 Glaister, to bawl or bark. Glamour, a fascinating spell in order to deceive tha eyes. Glar, mire, ouzy mud. Glee, to squint. Giced, or gleid, squint-eyed. Gleg, sharp, quick, active. Glen, a narrow valley between mountains. Gloom, to scowl or frown. Glowming, or gloming, the twilight or evening gloom. Glowr, to stare. Glunch, to hang the brow and grumble. Goan, a wooden dish for meat. Goolie, a large knife. Gorlings, or gorblings, young unfledged birds. Gossie, gossip. eee ghastly, large, waste, desolate, and fright- Gove, to look with a roving eye. Gowans, daisies. Gowf, or golf, besides the known game, a racket or sound blow on the chops, we call “a gowf on the haffet.”” Gowk, the cuckoo. In derision, we call a thought- less fellow, one who harps too long on one subject, a gowk. Gow!, a howling; to bellow and cry. Graith, furniture, harness, armour. To Grane, to groan. Grany, grandmother, any old woman. Grape, a trident fork ; also, to grope. Gree, prize, victory. To Gree, to agree. Green, or grien, to long for. Greet, to weep. Grat, wept. Grieve, an overseer. Groff, gross, coarse. Grotts, milled oats. Grouf, to lie flat on the belly. Grounche, or Glunsh, to murmur, grudge. Grutten, wept. Gryse, a pig. Gully, a large knife. A kail-gel/y, a knife for cutting cabbages. Gumption, good sense. Gurly, rough, bitter, cold (weather). : Gusty, savoury. Gutcher, goodsire, grandfather. Gysened, when the wood of any vessel is shrunk with ess. Gytlings, young children. H. Had, hold. Haffet, the cheek, side of the head. Hagabag, coarse table-linen. Haggise, a kind of pudding made of the lungs and liver of a sheep, and boiled in the big bag. Hags, hacks, peat-pits, or breaks in mossy ground, portions of copsewood regularly cut. Hain, to save, manage narrowly. Hatt, or het, hot. Hale, whole. Halesome, wholesome. Hallen, a fence of turf, twigs, or stone, built at the side of a cottage door, to screen from the wind. Hame, home. Hameld, domestic. Hamely, friendly, frank, open, kind. To Hanker, to doubt or waver. Hanty, convenient, handsome. Harle, drag. Harns, brains. Harn-pan, the skull. Harship, heirship, mischance. Hash, a sloven. 674 Haughs, valleys, or low grounds on the sides of rivers. To hause, to hug. Hauslock, the wool that grows on the sheep's neck. Haveren, or havrel, an insignificant chatterer, a half- witted fellow. Havins, good breeding. Haviour, behaviour. Hawky, a cow; a white-faced cow. Flaws, or hauss, the throat or gullet. Heal, or heel, health, or whole. Heartsome, blythe and happy. Hecht, to promise, promised. Heepy, a person hypochondriac. Heez, to lift up a heavy thing a little. good lift. Heftit, accustomed to live in a place. Heght, promised ; also, named, “Yempy, a tricky wag, such for whom the hemp grows. Hereit, or herried, ruined in estate: when a bird’s- nest is robbed, it is said to be herrted. Hereyestreen, the night before yesternight. Hesv, a hasp, a clasp or hook, bar or bolt: also, in yarn, a certain number of cuts. Hether-bells, the heath-blossom. Heugh, a rock or steep hill ; also, a coal-pit. Hidails, or Hidlings, lurking, hiding-places. a thing in hidlings, i.e. privately. To Hing, to hang. Hips, the buttocks. Hirpie, to move slowly and lamely. Hirsle, to move as with a rustling noise. Hirsle, or hirdsale, a flock of cattle. Ho, a single stocking. Hobbleshew, confused racket, noise. Hodden-grey, coarse grey cloth, Hog, a sheep of two years old, Hool, husk. Hooled, inclosed. LHooly, slow. Host, or whost, to cough. Hou, or hu, a cap or roof-tree. How, low ground, a hollow. How ! ho! Howdered, hidden. Howdy, a midwife. : How ff, a haunt, or accustomed rendezvous. Howk, to dig. Howms, holins, plains on river-sides. Hfowt ! fy! LHowtowdy, a young hen. Hurdies, the buttocks. Turkle, to crouch or bow together like a cat. hedua. hog, or hare. fyt, mad. A heezy isa To do T&J. Jack, a jacket. Jag, to prick as with a pin. Jaw, a wave or gush of water. Jawyp, the dashing of water. Iceshogles, icicles. Jee, to incline on one side. To jee back and fore, is to move like a balk up and down, to this and the other side. Jelly, pretty. Jig, to crack, to make a noise like a cart-wheel. Jip, slender. Jip, gipsy. dit, each. Ilka, every, Ingan, onion. Angine, genius. Ingle, fire. Jo, sweetheart. Jovktaleg, a clasp-knife. 1 | GLOSSARY. Jouk, a low bow. Trie, fearful, terrified, as if afraid of some ghost or apparition: also, melancholy. I’se, I shall; as, 272, for I will. Isles, embers. : Junt, a large joint or piece of meat, Jute, sour or dead liquor. Jybe, to mock. Gibe, a taunt. K. Kaber, a rafter. Kale, or kail, colewort ; and sometimes, broth, Kain, a part of a farm-rent paid in fowls. Kame, comb. Kanny, or canny, fortunate: also, wary, one wha manages his affairs discreetly ; cautious. Kebuck, a cheese. Keekle, to cackle like a hen, to laugh, to be noisy. Kedgy, or cadgie, jovial. Keek, to peep. Keel, or keil, black or red chalk. Kelt, cloth with a frieze, commonly made of native black wool. Kemp, to strive who shall perform most of the same work in the same time. Ken, to know ; used in England as a noun: a thing within ‘en, “ec. within view. Kent, a long staff, such as shepherds use for leaping over ditches. Kepp, to catch a thing that moves towards one. Kiest, did cast. Vide coost. Kilted, tucked up. Kimmer, or cummer, a female gossip. Kirn, a churn ; to churn. Kirtle, an upper petticoat. Kitchen, sauces or liquids eat with solid food: “hunger is good Aitchen.” Kittie, a frolicsome wench. Kitile, difficult, mysterious, knotty (writings). Kittle, to tickle, ticklish. Knacky, witty, facetious. Knoit, to beat or strike sharply. Knoosed, buffeted and bruised. Knoost, or knuist, a large lump. Know, a hillock. Enublock, a knob. How, goblin, or any person one stands in awe to disoblige, and fears. tz, kine or cows. : Fyte, the belly. { oth, to appear: “ he'll kyth in his ain colours.” L. Ladren, a rogue, rascal, thief. Laggert, bespattered, covered with clay. Laigh, low. Laith, loth. Laits, manners. Lak, or lack, undervalue, contemn; as, “he that lacks my mare, will buy my mare.” Landart, the country, or belonging to it; rustic. Lane, alone. Lang, long. Langour, languishing, melancholy. of dangour, te. divert him. Lang-nebit, long-nosed. Lang-syne, long ago: sometimes used as a substan- tive noun, auld dang-syne, old times by-past. Lankale, coleworts uncut. To hold one out Lap, leaped. Lappered, cruddled or clotted. Lave, bog. Lave, a place for laying, or that has ‘deen lain in, GLOSSARY. Latter-meet, victuals brought from tk 3 master’s to the servants’ table. Lave, the rest or remainder. Lavrock, the lark. Lawin, a tavern reckoning. Lawland, low country. Lawty, or lawtith, justice, fidelity, honesty. - Leal, true, upright, honest, faithful to trust, loyal: “a leal heart never lied,” Leam, flame. Lear, learning ; to learn. Lee, untilled ground; also an open grassy plain. Leet, a chosen number, from which one or more is to be elected. Leglen, a milking-pail with one lug or handle. Leman, a kept miss. Lends, buttocks, loins. Leugh, laughed. Lew-warm, lukewarm. Libbet, gelded. Lick, to whip or beat: a wag or cheat we call a great lick. Lied, ye lied, ye tell a lie. Lift, the sky or firmament. Liggs, lies. JIilts, the holes of a wind instrument of music; hence, “Zi/¢ up a spring:” “dil¢ it out,” take off your drink merrily. Limmer, a whore. Limp, to halt. Lin, a cataract. Ling, quick career in a straight line; to gallop. Lingle, cord, shoemakers’ thread. Linkan, walking speedily. Lintwhite, a linnet. Lire, breasts: also, the most muscular parts; some- times, the air or complexion of the face. Lirk, a wrinkle or fold. Lisk, the groin. Lith, a joint. Loan, or Loaning, a passage for the cattle to go to pasture, left untilled; a little common, where the maids often assembled to milk the ewes. Loch, a lake. Loe, to love. . Loof, the hollow of the hand. Looms, tools, instruments in general, vessels. Loot, did let. Low, flame. Lowan, flaming. Lown, calm: keep down, be secret. Loun, rogue, whore, villain. Lounder, a sound blow. Lout, to bow down, making courtesy ; to stoop. Luck, to enclose, shut up, fasten: hence, lucken handed, close-fisted ; Zuwcken gowans, booths, &c. Lucky, grandmother, or goody. Ing, ear, handle of a pot or vessel. Luggie, a dish of wood with a handle. Lum, the chimney. Lurdane, a blockhead. Lure, rather. Lyart, hoary or grey-haired. M. Magil, to mangle. ; Maiden, an engine used for beheading. Maik, or make, to match, equal. Matkless, matchless. Mailen, a farm. ; Makly, seemly, well-proportioned. Maksna, ’tis no matter. Malison, a curse, malediction. — ; Mangit, galled or bruised by toil or stripes. Mank, a want. Mant, to stammer in speech, , March, or merch, a landmark, border of lanas. Marh, the marrow. Marrow, mate, fellow, equal, comrade. Mask, to mash (brewing). Masking-loom, mash-vat Mavis, a thrush. Maun, must. Mauna, must not, may not. ape malt. etkle, much, big, great, large. Meith, limit, Paes ea Mends, satisfaction, revenge, retaliation: to muke a mends, to make a grateful return. Mense, discretion, sobriety, good breeding. mannerly. Menzie, a'company of men, army, assembly, one’s followers. Messen, a little dog, lap-dog. Midding, a dunghill. Midges, gnats, little flies. Mim, affectedly modest. Mint, aim, endeavour. Mirk, dark. Miscaw, to give names. Misken, to neglect or not take notice of one; also, let alone. Mislers, necessities, wants. Mislushious, malicious, rough. Mither, mother. Mony, many. Mools, the earth of the grave. Mo, mouth. Moup, to eat, generally used of children, or of old people, who have but few teeth, and make their lips move fast, though they eat but slow. Mow, a pile or bing, as of fuel, hay, sheaves of corn, &c. Muckle, see meihte. Murgeon’d, made a mock of. Murgullied, mismanaged, abused. Mutch, a coif. Mutehkin, an English pint. N, Nacky, or knacky, clever, active in small affairs. Neese, nose. Nevel, a sound blow with the nive, or fist. Newfangle, fond of a new thing. Nick, to bite or cheat. Nicked, cheated. Aliso a cant word to drink heartily ; as “he nicks fine.” Niest, next. Niffer, to exchange or barter. Niffnafan, trifling. Nignays, trifles. Nips, bits. Nither, to straiten. Nithered, hungered or half- starved in maintenance. Nive, the fist. Nock, notch or nick of an arrow or spindle. Noit, see knoit. Nowt, cows, kine. Nowther, neither. Nuckle, new calved (cows). Mensfou, Oe, a grandchild. O'er, or owre, too much; as ‘a’ o’ers is vice. O'ercome, surplus. Ony, any. Or, sometimes used for ere, or before. before daybreak. Ora, any thing over what is needful. Orp, to weep with a convulsive pant. Oughtlens, in the least, any thing. Owk, week. Or day, te 676 GLOSSARY. Owrlay, a cravat. Rae, a roe. Owsen, oxen. Raffan, merry, roving, hearty. Owther, either. Rar, roar. ‘ Bey Oxter, the armpit. PR Paddock-ride, the spawn of frogs. Paddock, a frog. To Paik, to beat or belabour Paiks, chastisement. one soundly. Pang, to squeeze, press, or pack one thing into another. Papery, popery. Pasenent, livery-lace. Pat, did put. Paughty, proud, haughty. Pawky, witty or sly in word or action, without any harm or bad designs. Peer, a quay or wharf. Peets, turf for fire. Pegh, to pant. Pensy, finical, foppish, conceited. Lerquire, by heart. Fett, a favourite, a fondling. To pettle, to dandle, feed, cherish, flatter. Hence, to take the pett, is to be peevish or sullen, as commonly petts are when in the least disobliged. Pibroughs, such Highland tunes as are played on bag-pipes before the warriors when they go to battle. Pig, an earthen pitcher. Pike, to pick out or chuse. Pimpin, pimping, mean, scurvy. Pine, pain or pining. Lingle, to contend, strive, or work hard. Pirn, the spool or quill within the shuttle which receives the yarn. Jrny, (cloth or a web) of unequal threads or colours, striped Pit, to put. Pith, strength, might, force. Plack, two bodles, or the third of a penny English. Plenishing, household furniture. Poortith, poverty. Pople, or paple, the bubbling, purling, or boiling up of water. Pou, pull. Pouse, to push. Poutch, a pocket. Pow, the poll, the head. Powny, a little horse or galloway ; also a turkey. Pratick, practice, art, stratagem. Priving pratich, trying ridiculous experiments. Prets, tricks, rogueries. We say, “he played mea pret,” te. cheated: ‘the callun’s fou of prets,” i.e. has abundance of waggish tricks. Prig, to cheapen, or importune for a lower price of goods one is buying. Prin, a pin. Prive, to prove or taste. Propine, gift or present. Prym, or prime, to fill or stuff. Puke, to pluck. Pullieshees, pulleys. Putt a stane, throw a big stone. Q. Quaff, or queff, or quegh, a flat wooden drinking-cup formed of staves. Quat, to quit. Quey, a young cow. R. ackless, careless: one who does things without regarding whether they be good or bad, we call him rackiess handed. Raird, a loud sound. Rak, or rook, a mist or fog Rampage, to speak and act furiously. Rape, a rope. Rashes, rushes. Rave, did rive or tear. Raught, reached. fax, to stretch. Razed, stretched. Raz, andirons. Ream, cream: whence reaming ; as reaming liquor. Redd, to rid, unravel; to separate folks that are fighting. It also signifies clearing of any passage. “JT am redd,” I am apprehensive. ae poet, advice; as, “I wad na rede you to do a v8 Reek, reach; also, smoke. Reese, or ruse, to commend, extol. Reest, to rust, or dry in the smoke. Reft, bereft, robbed, forced, or carried away. Reif, rapine, robbery. Reik, or rink, a course or race. Rever, a robber or pirate. Rewth, pity. Rice, or rise, bulrushes, bramble branches, or twigs of trees. Rierd, a roar. Rife, or ryfe, plenty. Rift, to belch. Rigging, the back or rig-back, the top or ridge of a house. Rigs of corn, ridges. Ripples, 2 weakness in the back and reins. Rock, 2 distaff. Roove, to rivet. Rottan, a rat. Roundel, a witty, and often satiric, kind of rhyme. Rowan, rolling. Rowt, to roar, especially the lowing of bulls and cows. Rowth, plenty. Ruck, a vick or stack of hay or corn. Rude, the red taint of the complexion. Ruefw , doleful. Rug, to pull, take away by force. Rumple, the rump. Rungs, small boughs of trees lopped off. Runkle, a wrinkle; to ruffle. Rype, to search. 8. Sacbiens, seeing it is, since. Saikless, guiltless, free. Sained, blessed. Sair, or sare, sore. Sairy, forlorn and pitiable. Sail, shall: like soud for should. Sand-blind, purblind, shortsighted. Sape, or saip, soap. Sar, savour or smell. Sark, a shirt. Saugh, a willow or sallow-tree. Saul, soul. Suw, an old saying, or proverbial expressiou. Sawt, salt. Scad, scald. Scar, the bare places on the sides of hills washed down with rains. Scart, to scratch. Scauld, scold. Scawp, a bare dry piece of stony ground. Scon, bread the country people bake over the fire, thinr.er and broader than a bannock. GLOSSARY. Scowp, to leap or move hastily from onc place to another. Scowth, room, freedom. Scrimp , narrow, straitened, little. Scroggs, shrubs, thorns, briars. Seroggy, thorny. Scuds, ale; a late name given it by the benders, or drinkers. Sculdudry, lewdness, Scunner, to loathe. Sell, self. Seuch, furrow, ditch. Sey, to try. Shan, pititul, silly, poom. Sharn, cow's dung. Shaw, a wood or forest. To Shaw, to shew. Shai, shallow. Shavops, empty husks. Sheen, shining. Shellycoat, a goblin. Shiel, a shepherd’s cot. Shill, shrill, having a sharp sound. Shire, clear, thin. We call thin cloth, or clear liquor, shire ; also a clever wag, a shire lick. Shog, to wake, shake, or jog backwards and for- wards. Shool, shovel. Shoon, shoes. Shore, to threaten. Shotle, a drawer. Sib, akin. Ste, such. » Sicker, firm, secure. Siller, silver. Sindle, or sinle, seldom. Sinsyne, since that time: lang swesyne, long ago. _ Skail, to spill, to disperse: hence we say, “the kirk is seailing,” for the congregation is separating. Skair, share. . Skaith, burt, damage, loss. Skeigh, skittish. Skelf, shelf. Skelp, to run; used when one runs barefoot : also, a small splinter of wood: likewise, to flog the buttocks. Skiff, to move smoothly away. , Skink, a kind of strong broth made of cows hams or knuckles; also, to fill drink in a cup. Skirl, to shriek or cry with a shrill voice. Sklate, slate. Skailie is the fine blue slate. Skowrie, ragged, nasty, idle. — Skreed, a rent, a hearty drinking bout. To Skreigh, to shriek. — Skybald, a tatterdemalion. Skyt, to fly out hastily. . Slade, or Slaid, did slide, moved, or made a thing move easily. Slap, or slak, a gap, or narrow pass between two hills ; also, a breach in a wall. Slee, sly. Slerg, to bedaub or plaster. Slid, smooth, cunning, slippery ; loun.” Stidry, slippery. Slippery, 8lepy- Slonk, rire, diteli or slough; to wade through a mire. Slote, a bax or bolt a door. Slough, husk or coat. f Sovak a silly, little, pitiful fellow ; the same with smatchet. Smirky, smiling. : Smittle, infectious or catcning. Smoor, to smother. Snack, nimble, ready, clever, as, “he’s a slid 677 Sned, to cut. Sneg, to cut; as, “sneg’d off at the web end.” Snell, sharp, smarting, bitter, firm. Snib, to snub, check, or reprove, to correct. Snifter, to snufl or breathe through the nose a little stopt. Snishing, or sneishing, snuff. Snod, metaphorically used for neat, handsome, tight. Snood, the band for tying up a woman’s hair. Snool, to dispirit by chiding, hard labour, and tha like; also, a pitiful grovelling slave. Snvove, to whirl round. Snurl, to ruffle or wrinkle. Sonsy, happy, fortunate, lucky: sometimes used for large and lusty. Sore, sorrel, reddish coloured. Sorn, to spunge, or hang on others for maintenance. Soss, the noise that a thing makes when it falls to the ground. Soud, should. Sough, the sound of wind amongst trees, or of one sleeping. Souming, swimming Soup, a sup. Souter, a shoemaker. Sowens, flummery, or oatmeai soured amongst water for some time, then boiled to a consistency, and eaten with milk or butter. Sowf, to con over a tune on an instrument. Spae, to foretel or divine. Spaemen, prophets, augurs. Spain, to wean from the breast. Spait, a torrent, flood, or inundation. Spang, a jump; to leap or jump. Spaul, shoulder, arm. Speel, to climb. Speer, to ask, inquire. Spelder, to split, stretch, spread out, draw asunder. pat the place of the house where provisions are ept. Spill, to spoil, abuse. Spoolie, or spulzie, spoil, booty, plunder. Spraings, stripes of different colours. Spring, a tune on a musical instrument. Sprush, spruce. Spruttled, speckled, spotted. Spung, the fob. Spunk, tinder. Stalwart, strong and valiant. Stane, stone. Stang, did sting, to sting ; also a sting or pole. Stank, a pool of standing water. Stark, strong, robust. Starns, the stars. Starn, a small moiety: we say, “ne'er a starn.” Staw, stole. Stay, steep ; as, “set a stout heart to a stay brae.”” Steek, to shut, close. Stegh, to cram. Stend, or sten, to move with a hasty long pace. Stent, to stretch or extend, to limit or stint. Sting, a pole, a cudgel. Stirk, a steer or bullock. Stock-and-horn, a shepherd’s pipe, made by inserting a reed pierced like a flute into a cow’s horn; the mouth-piece is like that of a hautboy. Stoit, or stot, to rebound or reflect. Stoken, to slake the thirst. Stoor, rough, hoarse. Stow, to cut or crop. A stow, a large cut or piece. Stound, a smarting pain or stitch. Stoup, a pot of tin of a certain measure. a wooden milk-pail. Stour, dust agitated by winds, men, or horse’s feet. To stour, to run quickly. Milk stoup, 678 GLOSSARY. Stowth, stealth. Straitis, probably a kind of narrow kersey cloth, called straits. See Bailey and Miege. Strand, a gutter. Strapan, clever, tall, handsome. Streek, to stretch. Striddle, to stride, applied commonly to one that is little. Strinkle, to sprinkle or strew. Stroot, or strute, stuffed full, drunk. Strunt, a pet: “to take the strunt,’’ to be petted or out of humour. Studdy, an anvil, or smith’s stithy. Sturdy, gxiddy-headed ; also strong. Sture, or stoor, stiff, strong, hoarse. Sturt, trouble, disturbance, vexation. Stym, a blink, or a little sight of a thing. Saddle, to sully or defile. Sumph, blockhead. Sunkan, splenetic. Sunkots, something. Swak, to throw, cast with force. Swankies, clever young fellows. Swarf, to swoon away. Swash, swollen with drink. Swatch, a pattern. Swats, small ale. Swecht, burden, weight, force. Sweer, lazy, slow, loth. Sweeties, confecticns. Swelt, suffocated, choked to death. Swith, begone quickly. Swither, to be doubtful whether to do this or that. Sybow, a small onion. Syke, a rill which is sometimes dry. Syne, afterwards, then. T. Tack, a lease. Tackel, an arrow. Taid, a toad. Taken, token. Tane, taken. Tane and tither, the one and t’other. Tangle, sea-weed. Tangs, the tongs. Tap, a head. Such a quantity of lint as spinsters put upon the distaff is called a lint-tap. Tape, to use anything sparingly. Tappit-hen, the Scots quart-stoup. Tarrow, to refuse what we love, from a cross humour. Tartan, cross-striped stuff of various colours, checkered: the Highland plaids. Tass, a little dram-cup. Tate, a small lock of hair, or any little quantity of wool, cotton, &c. Tawpy, a foolish wench. Taz, a whip or scourge. Ted, to scatter, spread, Tee, a little earth on which those who play at the golf set their balls before they strike them off. Teen, or tynd, anger, rage, sorrow. Teet, to peep out. Tensome, the number of ten. Tent, attention. Tenty, cautious. Thack, thatch. Thae, those. Tharmes, small tripes, catgut. Theek, to thatch. Thieveless, sleeveless, wanting propriety Thig, to beg or borrow. Thar, these. Thole, to endure, suffer. Thow, thaw Thowless, unactive, silly, lazy, heavy. Thrawart, froward, cross, crabbed. Thrawin, stern and cross-grained. Thrawn-gabbit, wry -mouthed. Threep, or threap, to aver, allege, urge and affirm boldly. Thrimal, or thrummil, to press or squeeze through with difficulty. Thud, a blast, blow, storm, or the violent sound cf these; “ cry’d heh at ilka thud,” ie. gave a groan at every blow. Tid, tide or time, proper time; as, “ he took the tid.” Tift, good order, health. Till, to. Tilt, to it. Tine, to lose. Tint, lost. Tinsel, loss. Tip, or tippony, ale sold for twopence the Scots pint. | Tippanizing, drinking twopenny ale. Tirle, or tivr, to uncover a house. Titty, sister. Zo the fore, in being, alive, unconsumed. Tocher, portion, dowry. Tod, a fox. Tocly, to fight; a fight or quarrel. ‘Livm, empty, applied to a barrel, purse, house, &c. : also, to empty. Tosh, tight, neat. Tosie, warm, pleasant, half-fuddled. Touse, or Tousle, to rumple, tease. Tout, the sound of a horn or trumpet. Tow, a rope. Towmond, a year or twelvemonth. Tree, a cask of liquor, a nine-gallon tree. Trewes, hose and breeches all of a piece. Trig, neat, handsome. Troke, exchange. True, to trow, trust, believe. Truf, steal. Truncher, trencher, platter. Tryst, appointment. Turs, turfs, truss. Twin, to part with, or separate from. Twinters, sheep of two years old. Twitch, touch. Tydie, plump, fat, lucky. Tynd. Vide Teen. Tyst, to entice, stir up, allure. U and V. Ugg, to detest, hate, nauseate. Ugsome, hateful, nauseous. Umwhile, or wnguhile, the late or deceased; some time ago; of old. Uneith, not easy. Ungeard, naked, not clad, unharnessed. Unko, or unco, uncouth, strange. Unlusome, unlovely. Unsonsy, unlucky, ugly. Undocht, or wandought, a silly weak person. Virle, a ferrule. Vissy, to view with care. Vougy, elevated, proud. WwW. Wad, or wed, pledge, wager, pawn ; also, would, Wae, sorrowful. Waefw , woeful. Waff, wandering by itself. Wak, moist, wet. Wale, to pick and choose. Walop, to move swiftly with much agitation, Wally, chosen, beautiful, large. Wame, womb, the belly. Wandought, want of dought, impotent. GLOSSARY. 679 Wangrace, wickedness, want of grace Wanter, a man who wants a wife. War, worse. Warld, world. Warlock, wizard. Wat, or wit, to know. Waught, a large draught. Wean, or wee ane, a child. Wee, little. Ween, thought, imagined, supposed. Weer, to stop or oppose. Weir, war. Weird, fate or destiny. Weit, rain. Wersh, insipid, wallowish, wanting salt. Whauk, whip, beat, flog. Whid, to fly quickly. Whitk, which. Whilly, to cheat. Whillywha, a cheat. Whindging, whining. Whins, furze. Whisht, hush, hold your peace. Whisk, to pull out hastily. Whittle, a knife. Whomilt, turned upside down. Whop, whip Wight, stout, clever, active; also, a man or person. Willie-wands, willow- wands. Wiltu, wilt thou. Wimpling, a turning backward and forward, winding like the meanders of a river. Win, or won, to reside, dwell. Winna, will not. Winnocks, windows. yee gaining, desirable, agreeable, complete, arge. Wier ais a scarecrow or hobgoblin. Wisent, parched, dried, withered. Wistle, or whistle, to exchange money, Withershins, motion against the sun. Woo, wool. Wood, mad. Woody, the gallows: for a withy was formerly mes as a rope for hanging criminals. Wordy, worthy. Wow, ondetal: strange. Wreaths of snow, when heaps of it are blown togethe. by the wind. Wrush, washed. Wyliecoat, a jacket. Wysing, inclining. Wysing-a-jee, guiding in a bending course. To wyse, to guide, to lead. Wyson, the gullet. Wyte, to blame, blame. Y. Yamph, to bark, or make a noise like little dogs. Yap, hungry, having a longing desire for anythi-y ready. Yealtou, yea wilt thou. Yed, to contend, wrangle. Yeld, barren, as a cow that gives no mill. Yerk, to do anything with celerity. Yesk, the hiccup. Yestreen, yesternight. Yett, gate. Youdith, youthfulness, Youl, to yell. Yowden, wearied. Yowky, itchy. Youff, a swinging Wu, To youff, to bark. Yuke, the itch. Yule, Christmas, PRINTED BY J. 8, VIRTUE AND CO,, LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON, tor 4 Hide th eg ete Seas + ks eee Tia Ake eg tect Pi ean ; toe Rear Fad i 4, ad bated Fk ers a ST ae ge: z Rhee eT i a! a itd Seog? ae 5 peat A an pt has Cc ed east Ara Pah part erate ante eyo ee Cd ee ; PSG Ly ght beets Pe eet ie pata tle P id eee DALE lee vind pag oat ae Lede ceteedestsAge ; ito 544 J cae as a Pag eet