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Cornell University Library 
 PR 5233.R6P7 
 
 Poems and songs, humorous, serious, and 
 
 3 1924 013 540 657 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013540657 
 
POEMS AND SONGS. 
 
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 M< 
 
 
Poems and Songs 
 
 HUMOROUS, SERIOUS, AND SATIRICAL 
 
 BY 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGER 
 
 EDITED, ■*VITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT FORD 
 
 ALEXANDER GARDNER 
 
 l^ublisber fo l^tv Wajestij the ejaeen 
 PAISLEY; and PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON 
 
 1897 
 
K«-2,bT+ob 
 
TO 
 THE MEMBERS OF 
 
 Who have ever manifested a Sincere Regard for 
 
 THE Memory, as well as a Living Interest 
 
 IN THE Writings, of the Poet, 
 
 This Edition of 
 THE Poems and Songs of 
 
 ALEXANDER RODGER 
 Is Dedicated, with much Respect 
 
 BY THE editor. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 A NEW edition of the Poems and Songs of Alexander 
 Eodger having been long in request by the numerous 
 admirers of the Poet's writings at home and abroad, 
 the present selective, yet comprehensive, collection has 
 been prepared to meet the evident want. 
 
 All that the author wrote and left behind him in 
 book form has not been gathered into these pages ; 
 but nothing has been left out which the editor could 
 persuade himself might be desired by the public, or the 
 loss of which was likely to injure the reputation of the 
 poet. 
 
 The long poem of " Peter Cornclips " has been 
 omitted, for reasons stated in the introduction. And 
 some of the Poet's satires have not been reprinted, 
 because, referring, as they do, to persons and events of 
 more than fifty years ago, their point is either no 
 longer apparent, or their motive has ceased to be in- 
 teresting. But the worthy, the witty, and the wise — 
 they are all here, to the honour and renown of their 
 author. 
 
 R. F. 
 
Contents. 
 
 Baith Sides o' the Picture, 
 
 It's no that Thou'rt Bonnie, 
 
 The Peasant's Fireside, 
 
 Hoot awa ! Johnny, Lad ! 
 
 Come, Billies, Let's Steer for our Hammocks, 
 
 Here's to You Again, 
 
 The Indian Cottager's Song, ... 
 
 June and January, 
 
 The Peerless Rose of Kent, 
 
 The Royal Union, 
 
 The Queen's Anthem, 
 
 O Peter M'Kay,... 
 
 Meet Me, Love, by Moonlight, 
 
 1 Ance was in Love, 
 Come to the Banks of Clyde, ... 
 Roll, Fair Clptha, 
 Come, Fill a Bumper, 
 Come wi' Me, ... 
 Honest Men and Bonnie Lasses, 
 Since Fate has Decreed it, 
 'Twas Morn, 
 
 Pity Me ! What I Dree, ... 
 As a'e Door Steeks another Closes, 
 Come Then, Eliza Dear, ... 
 I'll Awa' Hame to my Mither, I will, 
 Jessy M 'Lean, ... 
 The Happy Meeting, ... 
 Magnificent Tom, 
 The Forsaken, 
 Mary Beaton, 
 Lovely Maiden , 
 Nancy, 
 
 When Gloamin' Spreads her Mantle Grey, 
 Alang Kelvin's Banks, 
 O Kitty, when that Form and Face, 
 Isabell, ... 
 
 When youthf u' Love's delightf u' ties, . . . 
 The Greek Chief to his Countrymen, 
 The Emerald Isle, ... 
 
 PAGE 
 
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 51 
 52 
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 . 82 
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 88 
 88 
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 91 
 
Contents. 
 
 XI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Bonnie Wee Wifie, ... ... ... ... 92 
 
 Petition to Managers of B Uyeworka, ... ... 93 
 
 Verses Snug at the Glasgnw Typographical Festival, 94 
 
 Robin Hogg's Delight, ... ... ... ... 96 
 
 Stanzas Written on Mr. James Pagan a few days before 
 
 his Marriage, ... ... ... ... ... 98 
 
 My Bonnie Scotch Lassie, ... ... ... 99 
 
 The Spinning O't, ... ... ... ... ... 100 
 
 Opening of the Glasgow and Greenock Railway, ... 102 
 Stanzas suggested on planting Flowers on the Grave of 
 
 JohnTait, ... ... ... ... ... lOS 
 
 Daniel O'Connell's Welcome to Scotland, ... ... 104 
 
 Ode Written on the Anniversary of Robert Tannahill, 105 
 
 " Come Hame to your Lingels, " ... ... ... Ill 
 
 " Meg o' the Glen," ... ... ... ... 112 
 
 ' ' The Lassie o' Meriy Eighteen, " ... ... ... 1 12 
 
 " The Lasses a' Li:ugh," ... ... ... ... 113 
 
 " Brave Lewie Roy," ... ... ... ... 114 
 
 " how oaa you gang, Lassie," ... ... , ... 115 
 
 The Twa Weavers, ... ... ... ... ... 116 
 
 A Congratulatory Address, ... ... ... 119 
 
 A Likeness Taken from Real Life, ... ... ... 121 
 
 Dear is our Hame, ... ... ... ... 122 
 
 Highlan' Sobriety ... 123 
 
 Ye who Mourn dear Friends departed, ... ... 124 
 
 Lovely Woman, ... ... ... ... ... 124 
 
 Bolivar, ... ... ... ... 125 
 
 Be a Comfort to your Mither,... ... ... ... 129 
 
 Gi'e as Ye wad Tak', ... 130 
 
 Nursery Scarecrows,... ... ... ... ... 131 
 
 O leeze me on thee, Bonnie Bairn, .. . ... ... 132 
 
 The Family Contrast, ... ... ... ... 132 
 
 The Washing, ... ... ... ... ... 134 
 
 Your Daddy's far at Sea, ... ... ... ... 135 
 
 Stanzas written on a Woman-Hater, ... ... 136 
 
 A Paraphrase for the Assembly's Fast, . . ... ... 136 
 
 Mind the Butter, ... ... ... ... 138 
 
 Lines written in a certain Bridewell, ... ... ... 141 
 
 The Dairo's Anthem, ... ... ... ... 144 
 
Xll. 
 
 Contents. 
 
 The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre, 
 
 Sawney, now the King's come, 
 
 A Most Loyal Ode, ... 
 
 Charles James Fox , 
 
 A Loyal Lamentation, 
 
 A King's Speech, 
 
 Shaving Banks, 
 
 The Waef u' Lamentation, ... 
 
 Black Coats and Gravats sae White, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 148 
 151 
 153 
 158 
 159 
 162 
 165 
 171 
 177 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 It is exactly fifty years to-day (26tli September, 1896), 
 since "rare old Sandy Eodger" died — Alexander 
 Eodger, the Glasgow Radical poet, and the merriest of 
 all the Whistle- Binkie brotherhood — some of whose 
 songs — "Eobin Tamson's Smiddy," "Behave Yoursel' 
 Before Folk,'' ■' Oh, Mither, Onybody," and one or two 
 more — are among the best examples of the humorous 
 lyric muse that have appeared in Scotland since the 
 days of Robert Burns. Eodger, who assisted materially 
 in the production of the Laird of Logan, was part-editor 
 of the perennial Whistle-Binhie, and besides played a 
 hand in the game of revolutionary politics so splendidly 
 that he was a " kenspeckle '' figure in the streets of the 
 ever-Radical western metropolis seventy years ago, and 
 enjoyed a fame alike for politics and lyrical letters 
 which, even in his own time, was as wide as the limits 
 of his native land. A burly chield was Sandy Rodger, 
 indeed. Few men have exhibited more of the spirit 
 that is described by the Latin phrase, perfervidum 
 ingeniwm Scotorum. And, tartan to the heel, forsooth, 
 the colours were strong, the pattern was large. Then 
 he possessed the saving quality of humour in such 
 unmeasurable abundance — humour, too, so insidious in 
 its nature and over-powering in its variety, that every 
 adversary who fell from the attack of his pen may be 
 said to have perished in a paroxysm of laughter. 
 
 A grandson of Alexander Eodger is my near neigh- 
 bour in Glasgow. I have repeatedly met a charming 
 old lady in Bridgeton — ^Mrs. Murdoch, the mother of 
 
xiv. Introduction. 
 
 Dr. Murdoch there — at whose father's fireside the poet 
 was a familiar figure. Other people I have talked with 
 who knew him well, and all have spoken rapturously of 
 the warm heart, the ready hand, the frank and kindly 
 disposition, the rare humour, the strong social instincts, 
 and the fun, and fire, and keen magnetic influence, of the 
 man. The songs already mentioned will keep Sandy's 
 name in evidence throughout another century at least — 
 no matter how rapidly the new " Kailyarders " may 
 multiply and luxuriate — and no writing of mine or any 
 other man's will keep that living when these fail to do 
 so. Such is not my object ; such is not my hope or 
 desire. I write of this notable Whistle-Binhie poet 
 because I think it is meet — ^because I think it is due to 
 him — that in the mid-centenary year of his death a 
 restatement of his interesting career should be made, 
 and a new edition of his Poems and Songs should be 
 placed in the hands of his appreciative countrymen. 
 
 Eodger was born at the village of East-Calder, in 
 Midlothian, on the 16th of July, 1784:. His father, at 
 first a farmer, and for a time the tenant of Haggs, close 
 by the village of Dalmahoy, afterwards kept an inn in 
 the village of Mid-Calder, where Alexander was sent to 
 school. In course of time, and while the future bard 
 was still a boy not yet entered into his teens, the family 
 removed to Edinburgh, and here Sandy was sent to 
 learn the trade of a silversmith with a Mr. Mathie. 
 He continued about a year in this employment, when 
 his father's affairs became so much embarrassed that the 
 household had to be finally broken up. The father 
 removed to Hamburg, and the son was sent to reside 
 with his mother's relations in Glasgow, who, in 1797, 
 apprenticed him to a respectable weaver of the name of 
 
Introduction. xv. 
 
 James Dunn (his step-father), who resided at the Dry- 
 gate Toll, in the near neighbourhood of the ancient 
 Cathedral. 
 
 In a few years quite a loyal fever broke out in the 
 country, and the young and impressionable poet, not 
 escaping the infection, was induced to become a 
 member of the Glasgow Highland Volunteers. The 
 company to which he attached himself was principally 
 composed of raw mountaineers, then, as now, a preva- 
 lent element in the Glasgow community, and the 
 keen edge of the poet's wit found congenial employ- 
 ment in hitting ofif in telling verses the colloquial 
 humours and foibles of his Highland compatriots. It 
 is to even this early period in his career we are indebted 
 for such rarely humorous pieces as " Lauchie Fraser's 
 Promotions " and " Shon M'Nab," and some more of his 
 exceedingly happy examples of the Highlander's broken 
 English, most of which are well known to the general 
 reader. There were occasional little squibs, too, fired 
 at abuses which offended the poet's sense of fairplay: 
 such as the following, which is self-explanatory : — 
 
 ' ' The greatest sumphs in a' our core, 
 Are sure to be promoted, 
 While men of mettle are passed o'er, 
 And scarcely ever noted. 
 
 This truth may seem a paradox, 
 
 But mark ye how I'll clear it, 
 Promotion amang Highland folks 
 
 Gangs mair by Mactha/a merit." 
 
 And this other, written about the same time : — ■ 
 
 " Though she'll pe eouldna read nor write, 
 Will no pe meikle harm in't ; 
 She'll kiss her Honour's Glory's tovp 
 To get wee bit preferment." 
 
xvi. Introduction. 
 
 Rodger continued in this Volunteer regiment, and in 
 another which rose out of it after its dissolution, called 
 the Glasgow Highland Locals, for no less than nine 
 years. When he was twenty-two years old he married 
 a girl named Agnes Turner, by whom he had a large 
 family, some of whom in course of time removed to the 
 United States of America, where they, or their des- 
 cendants, still reside. After his marriage the poet 
 removed to Bridgeton, then a suburb, though now in- 
 corporated in vastly greater Glasgow, and, still making 
 his bread and butter mainly by the exercise of the 
 handloom, he put a respectable eke on his income by 
 teaching music. He also composed for his own amuse- 
 ment, and continued, as before, to exercise his early- 
 discovered gift for humorous and satirical song-making. 
 In 1819, when the fever of Eadicalism was epidemic 
 among the working population of the country, and the 
 poet had now a large family depending upon him, he 
 was led to connect himself with a weekly journal called 
 The Spirit of the Union, started in Glasgow by a person 
 of the name of Gilbert M'Leod, and designed to cause 
 disaffection to the Government of the time. First he 
 wrote political squibs, such as "The Muckin' o' Geordie's 
 Byre," for this organ. Then he joined the staff. Better 
 had he stuck fast to the loom, however. Within a 
 few weeks of Rodger's appointment the editor was 
 apprehended on a charge of sedition, found guilty, and 
 sentenced to transportation for life ; while Sandy was 
 also taken into custody, convicted of revolutionary 
 practices, and sent to prison for a time. To be par- 
 ticular in this matter, Rodger entered the oflSce to assist 
 in the production of the fifth issue of the work, and the 
 last number of it which was published was the tenth j 
 
Introduction. xvii. 
 
 the authorities having apprehended M'Leod about the 
 beginning of January, 1820, and broken up the establish- 
 ment. Immediately succeeding the " smash," Mr. Rod- 
 ger returned to the loom and continued weaving till the 
 month of April following. On the first of that month 
 there appeared on the walls of the city what was called a 
 "Treasonable Address," bearing to be issued by a "Pro- 
 visional Grovernment." This gave rise to an immense num- 
 ber of apprehensions and imprisonments. Molehills were 
 magnified into mountains; and the most trifling circum- 
 stances in the history of individuals who were known to 
 possess liberal views were laid hold of as the ground of 
 their apprehension. Among others, Rodger became an 
 object of suspicion to the authorities, from his former 
 connection with The Spirit of the Union. He was 
 accordingly apprehended on the 8th of April, and 
 lodged in Glasgow Bridewell, where he was confined 
 like a common felon for eleven days. During that 
 period he was examined by a Sheriff Bruce as to his 
 supposed connection with the " Address," but, of 
 course, without affording any ground for a charge. 
 Solitary confinement was then the order of the day, but 
 to this it would appear some unspecified harshness was 
 added — possibly ex-officio. The spirit of the indignant 
 poet rose, however, superior to the petty malice of the 
 small-souled officials ; and he solaced himself and tanta- 
 lised them by singing at the top of his lungs his own 
 political compositions. These, highly spiced as they 
 were by the awful Radicalism of the time, gave his 
 jailors "fits," and their repressive measures became 
 more drastic. But the Radical bard was irrepressible, 
 and the singing did not cease — yea, he embalmed their 
 very cruelties in new and equally pungent measures, 
 
XVIU. 
 
 Introduction. 
 
 wMch rang in their ears in every hour of the day and 
 the night. How the poet's proud spirit was galled by 
 
 his being 
 
 " Pent up within this horrid cell," 
 
 will be seen in the " Lines Written in a certain Bride- 
 well by a State Prisoner," which first appeared in 
 pencil on his cell-wall. 
 
 The poet used to relate many entertaining anecdotes 
 of this stormy and eventful period of his life. Among 
 others, when his house was searched for seditious pub- 
 lications (terrible bugbears at that time to the local 
 authorities of Glasgow), Sandy handed the Family Bible 
 to the Sheriffs Officer who was making search, it being, 
 he said, the only treasonable book in his possession ; 
 and for proof of this, he referred the horrified official 
 to the chapter on Kings in the first Book of Samuel. 
 
 The advanced Radical, the reader will note, had to 
 walk rougher shod in those days than now, and to be a 
 martyr for the " cause " did not pay Rodger so well as 
 it has done less doughty champions in more recent 
 years. Release from jail meant only for the poet, 
 indeed, re-incarceration within the "four stoops o' 
 misery " — the loom. But he returned to this cheerfully, 
 and wrought away until sometime in 1821, when, 
 through the kind offices of a namesake, if not a rela- 
 tive — Mr. George Rodger, then manager of the extensive 
 works of Henry Monteith & Company — he was enabled 
 to leave the loom for a less laborious situation in that 
 establishment as an inspector of the printed cloth, in 
 which appointment he continued for the next eleven 
 years. The interval of this period marked the harvest- 
 time of Rodger's poetic career. It was now he wrote 
 "Colin Dulap," "Jamie M'Nab," "Behave Yoursel' 
 
Introdibction. xix. 
 
 Before Folk," "Robin Tamson's Smiddy," and other 
 songs so full of racy and genial humour, as well as 
 composed many of his sweetest and best known love- 
 lyrics. The treatment he received in Bridewell did nob 
 snuff out his political candle either, as the date of his 
 most celebrated satire, " Sawney, now the King's 
 Come," will bear witness, for this, of course, was written 
 in 1822 (see note to the poem). And now, as ever, the 
 poet exercised a keen interest in local concerns that 
 affected the weal or ill of the people. In 1823 the 
 liberty of the banks of the Clyde was threatened by the 
 rapacity of a local proprietor of the name of Thomas 
 Harvie, who erected a dyke to put an end to a public 
 footpath, and Rodger was among the first to call atten- 
 tion to the unwarranted encroachment, by letters to the 
 newspapers, etc. A protracted struggle ensued, in 
 which the poet was found continually in the thick of 
 the fight. Night and day, in fair weather and foul, and 
 in the face of many difficulties and reproaches, he stuck 
 to his point in the public's interest. He searched out 
 evidence, he promoted subscriptions, he got up concerts 
 and exhibitions, and did all he could think of to raise 
 funds to carry on the law-suit which became inevitable ; 
 and, he was a principal, if not the chief, instrument, as 
 one biographer at least avers, of ultimately establishing 
 the right of the public to a footpath on the banks of the 
 Clyde. Three of his well-known songs — "Come to the 
 Banks of Clyde," " Roll, Fair Clutha," and " Come, fill 
 a Bumper" — we know, were the outcome of this 
 struggle, having been written for and sung by the poet 
 himself at the concerts above-named. The last song, 
 indeed, was sung at the meeting at which gold medals 
 were presented to the various members of Committee — 
 
XI. Introduction. 
 
 to all except Mr. Eodger, who was most unfairly over- 
 looked. Why ? it has not been even hinted. And 
 because, we presume, the poet did not trouble to 
 enquire. His reward, which was the best — and all he 
 sought for — was set in the successful issue of the 
 agitation. 
 
 Eodger's life, as we are beginning to realise, was 
 marked by considerable variety. Already he has been 
 a silversmith, a weaver, a poet, a teacher of music, a 
 political martyr, a cloth-inspector, and a champion of 
 the Eights of the People. In 1832 he appears in a new 
 role. Then one of his friends, who had begun business 
 as a pawnbroker in or about the Saltmarket, induced 
 him to leave Monteith's works and take the manage- 
 ment of his business. But such employment was ill- 
 suited to the feelings of a man so kindly and sympa- 
 thetic in his nature as Alexander Eodger, as he says 
 in some verses on the subject — 
 
 " Obliged each day and hour to undergo 
 The pain of hearing tales of want and woe, 
 So finely framed, with so much feeling told, 
 As would make misers give, nor grudge, their gold ; 
 Compelled to handle every dirty rag, 
 Stript from the hide of every hateful hag, 
 And doomed each finer feeling to degrade, 
 By bullying every blackguard trull and jade, 
 Who hither comes her tawdry trash to pop, 
 That she may drink it at the next dram shop.'' 
 
 The environment, distasteful to him from the first, in 
 ten month's time became more than he could longer 
 bear, and he appealed to the " managers of B Dye- 
 works" to take his case into consideration, and save 
 him "from this every day's damnation." He would 
 " fire their furnaces, or weigh their coals, wheel barrows, 
 
Introduction. xxi. 
 
 riddle ashes, mend up holes, beat cloth, strip shades ; 
 in short, do anything," rather than stay longer in this 
 detested place. Relief came opportunely. Through the 
 influence of his friend, Mr. William Gardner, the poet 
 was received into the ofiice of the Glasgoio Chronicle 
 newspaper — then conducted by Mr. David Prentice — 
 as a reader and assistant reporter of local news. In 
 this employment he remained about a year, when he 
 got a charge in the office of the Liberator, then under 
 the management, as editor, of his valued and lamented 
 friend, Mr. John Tait. Here, while Tait lived, the poet 
 was quite at home. He was in the midst of kindred 
 spirits — able, intelligent, and, withal, democratic ; and 
 he felt himself in a new element. But the premature 
 death of Tait, with the pecuniary embarrassments in 
 which the establishment had become involved, led ere 
 long to the dissolution of this connection also, and 
 Rodger was again thrown upon the world. In a few 
 months, however, he was once more in harness. And 
 this time in the office of the Reformers' Gazette, where 
 he continued till his death, highly esteemed by his em- 
 ployer, and respected by a wide range of friends and 
 admirers. 
 
 The poet's health began to fail in the summer of 
 1846. He went to the country to see if a change of air 
 and scene would brace his relaxed frame, but he returned 
 to Glasgow unimproved. To his family and friends, by 
 all of whom he was held in tender and admiring regard, 
 it became early apparent that the end was not far dis- 
 tant ; and though everything was done that the best 
 skill available chose to advise, and done in the way best 
 calculated to succour and soothe and revive his drooping 
 spirit, he gradually sank notwithstanding, and passed 
 
xxii. Introduction. 
 
 away from this shifting scene on the 26th September, 
 the same year. 
 
 Eodger's lot, as we have seen, had been the traditional 
 one of the poet — poverty, toil, and the vexation of shift- 
 ing and uncongenial employment. His noble nature and 
 indomitable spirit, however, raised him ever triumphant 
 in the midst of trying circumstances, and no complaint 
 of the world's unkindness was ever known to issue from 
 his lips. Indeed, this in a way would have been unjust, 
 for few men in the city of Glasgow in his day — or in 
 all the West of Scotland for that matter — could have 
 congregated around them a more numerous and attached 
 circle of friends. And this was proved on more than 
 one occasion. He was not yet an old man when his 
 friend Daniel M'Nee (afterwards knighted) painted his 
 portrait, and made him a gift of the work. In 1836 his 
 friends and admirers invited him to a public dinner in 
 the Tontine Hotel, at which upwards of two hundred 
 gentlemen were present ; and in addition to the barren 
 laurel, he was here presented with a valuable silver 
 snuff-box and eighty-five sovereigns. Again, on the 
 25th of January, 1843, he was entertained at a splendid 
 banquet, in the Trades Hall, at which twice as many 
 people were present — many of them from a distance — 
 and when Professor Wilson (the great " Christopher 
 North ") did honour to the poet's talents by presiding. 
 These were honours worthy of esteem, and Rodger 
 esteemed them highly. Further — and this of a tenderer 
 kind — his remains were followed to the grave by a 
 numerous company of relations and friends — perhaps, 
 in all, about two hundred persons. Had it been possible 
 to give a more general notice of the time of interment 
 (said the Glasgow Herald) thousands would have attended. 
 
Introduction. xxiii. 
 
 The body was laid to rest in a beautifully retired 
 corner of the Glasgow Necropolis, not far removed 
 from the grave of William Motherwell, with whom the 
 poet was intimate in life; and Mr. Leadbetter, the then 
 Dean of Guild, was so obliging as to go and select the 
 spot where the honoured ashes were to unite with the 
 soil from which they came, and where a tasteful monu- 
 ment was subsequently raised to perpetuate his worth. 
 This, which was executed by the late Mr. Mossman, 
 sculptor, bears the following inscription, written by 
 William Kennedy, author of Fitful Fancies, etc., and 
 the subjoined quotation from one of Rodger's own 
 poems : — 
 
 To THE Memory of 
 
 ALEXANDER EODGEK, 
 
 A Poet 
 
 Gifted with feeling, humour, and fancy ; 
 
 A Man 
 
 Animated by generous, 
 
 Cordial, and comprehensive sympathies, 
 
 Which adversity could not repress. 
 
 Nor popularity enfeeble, 
 
 This Monument 
 
 la erected in testimony of Public Esteem. 
 
 BOEN 
 
 At Mid-Galder, 16th July, 1784 ; 
 
 Died 
 
 At Glasgow, 26th September, 1846. 
 
 " What though with Bums thou could'st not vie 
 In diving deep or soaring high ; 
 What though thy genius did not blaze 
 Like his to draw the public gaze ; 
 Yet thy sweet numbers, free from art, 
 Like his can touch — can melt the heart." 
 
 Alexander Rodger first appeared as an avowed author 
 in the year 1827, when Peter CorncUps, a tale of Beat 
 
xxiv. Introduction. 
 
 Life, amd Other Poems and Songs, was published by- 
 David Allan & Co., Glasgow. In his preface to this 
 work, the poet says; — and I quote Ijhe passage because 
 of its frank and manly tone : — " These pieces were 
 written neither solely for my own amusement, nor 
 during hours of leisure ; they were composed amid 
 bustle and turmoil — the din of the clanking steam 
 engine, and the deafening rattle of machinery ; while 
 the operation of committing them to paper was gener- 
 ally performed amid the squalling and clamour of chil- 
 dren around the hearth — now in the pet of childish 
 quarrels, and now mad with mirth and fun and frolic. 
 . . . Of the beauties or blemishes of these poems it 
 becomes not me to speak. They are now given to the 
 world to be approved or condemned, and by its judg- 
 ment I must stand or fall. Whatever their fate may 
 be, I shall have the consolation that there will not be 
 found in them anything to offend morality or to put 
 modesty to the blush. My aim has ever been to ex- 
 press such feelings and sentiments as will meet the ap- 
 probation of the sensible part of my countrymen — and, 
 I shall hope, of my countrywomen too. If I have failed 
 in this, my head, and not my heart, is to blame.'' In 
 1838, an enlarged and more complete volume, under, the 
 title of Poems and Songs, Humorous and Satirical, was 
 issued from the press of the poet's friend, Mr. David 
 Robertson, of Whistle- BinJcie fame. , This, which hitherto 
 has been the one and only truly representative collec- 
 tion of his poetical pieces, has been long out of print, 
 even although copies of it have been frequently sought 
 for. His third publication was, Stray Leaves from the 
 Portfolios of Alisander the seer, Andrew Whawp, am,d 
 Humphrey Henkeckle — these being the assumed names 
 
Introduction. xxv. 
 
 under which the most of the pieces — chiefly satirical — 
 had been previously published in various periodicals. 
 This, issued by Charles Rattray in 1842, was the last 
 complete work of which Rodger had the sole author- 
 ship. His talents were, however, to a later period, de- 
 voted to the editorship of Whistle-Bmkie, in which he 
 manifested a real poet's interest, and did more perhaps 
 than any other single individval to give the work 
 character and fame. Not less than fifty-eight of the 
 lyrics of this perennial collection are from Rodger's 
 pen. That's a fact worth noting. But Sandy Rodger 
 was, of all things, a singer of songs ; and what he said 
 so well with regard to Tannahill, has equal point and 
 truth when applied to himself. I must quote the lines 
 again : — 
 
 " What, though with Euros thou could'st not vie, 
 In diving deep, or soaring high ; 
 What though thy genius did not hlaze, 
 Like his, to draw the public gaze ; 
 Yet thy sweet numbers, free from art. 
 Like his can touch — can melt the heart. " 
 
 To move and melt the heart — to draw laughter and 
 tears — is the song-writer's business ; and few since 
 Burns's day have practised the art with more success 
 in Scotland than the subject of this brief memoir. In 
 moving to laughter, however, he was ever most suc- 
 cessful, and his happy humorous songs of "Robin Tam- 
 son's Smiddy," and "Behave Yoursel' Before Folk," are 
 known, and sung, and afford delight, wherever Scots- 
 men gather. I can scarcely conceive a time when these 
 two songs will cease to charm the hearts of Scottish 
 men and women, " hereabout or far awa'." They may 
 appear at the present moment in danger of getting 
 
xxvi. Introduction. 
 
 overlaid by the prose creations of the stalwart " kail- 
 yarders." But, no ; the best of Barrie and Crockett 
 and Maclaren, is not more redolent of the soil, of the 
 "kailyard" — taking the word in its best sense — than 
 the songs of Sandy Rodger, and their vital spark will 
 not be quenched by tons of prose volumes, however 
 graphic and true. The Earl of Eosebery, in his marvel- 
 lously eloquent address on Burns in the St. Andrew's 
 Hall, in July this year, said he sometimes asked himself 
 if a roll-call of fame were read over at the beginning of 
 every century, how many men of eminence would 
 answer a second time. Not many men of eminence at 
 all, perhaps, but the adsum of the humble writers of 
 "The Flowers of the Forest," "Auld Eobin Gray," 
 "The Land o' the Leal," "Home, Sweet Home," "Auld 
 Lang Syne," and " Eobin Tamson's Smiddy," we may 
 be sure, would ring out clear and distinct again and 
 again. 
 
 But to come back to Eodger. We have seen how 
 varied was the work-a-day life of the poet. His muse 
 was not less so, but is represented by every shade and 
 by nearly every order of poetical composition. In love- 
 songs — admittedly the highest form of the lyric — we 
 find him suitably represented by " Marry for Love and 
 Work for Siller,'' "It's no that thou'rt Bonnie," "O, 
 Jeanie, why that look sae Cauld ? " " Pity me ! What I 
 Dree," and two or three more, as pathetic as may be. 
 If none of his songs of child-life have taken a place so 
 well established in the common heart as " Wee Willie 
 Winkie," " Castles in the Air," and " Cuddle Doon," 
 yet our author sang very delightsomely, and with not 
 less relish, with not less knowledge of the ways of the 
 wee folks, than the writers of these immortal idylls. 
 
Introduction. xxvii. 
 
 Satire, though the least lovable quality in song-craft, 
 was a distinctive feature of Eodger's muse, and he 
 excelled here, as witness " Sawney, now the King's 
 Come," and the "Mucking o' Geordie's Byre," and some 
 more of his political and social squibs* printed towards 
 the end of this volume. Then, for broad, humorous 
 effects, such as some of the pieces I have mentioned re- 
 veal—these, and " Colin Dulap," " Shon M'Nab," " The 
 Nailer's Wife," " 0, Mither, Onybody, but a Creeshy 
 Weaver," and " The Drygate Brig," and some others 
 — a place must be admitted to our author in the 
 front-row of the nation's comic gallery. Once only 
 — ^in "Peter Cornclips," the one solitary sustained 
 effort of his muse — did the author of these poems, 
 in my opinion, fail to be interesting and amusing, 
 when he meant to be both. It may be "a true 
 tale,'' as the poet avers, but it is relieved from abso- 
 lute weariness only by containing two songs which 
 have no bearing on, nor connection with, the story. 
 The songs— "Eobin Tamson's Smiddy " and "The 
 Tinkler's Song " — have found the place they deserve in 
 this collection. But " Peter Cornclips " — no ; I have 
 more respect for the time and patience of the readers 
 of the volume than ask them to travel so far and find 
 so little. The piece, in a word, even although it dis- 
 plays some vigorous writing here and there, is so weak 
 in character and incident, and deficient in dramatic 
 
 * The point of some of these will not now be apparent to every 
 reader, and some persons may think they need not have been 
 included. No collection of Alexander Kodger's Poema, however, 
 could claim to be representative which did not contain at least a 
 selection from his satires. 
 
xxviii. Introduction. 
 
 truth, that it reveals only its author's limitations in 
 poet-craft. 
 
 It was in song-making — in forming the lightsome 
 lyric — that Eodger excelled. Herein his strength lay ; 
 and, in the splendid lines of the late Robert Louis 
 Stevenson, — 
 
 " Bright is the ring of words 
 
 When the right man rings them. 
 Fair the fall of songs 
 
 When the singer sings them. 
 Still they are carolled and said — 
 
 On wings they are carried — 
 After the singer is dead 
 
 And the maker buried." 
 
 We may not grumble, nor feel disappointed sorely, 
 although our author did not excel in a sustained effort 
 like "Peter Cornclips," Long poems at the best appeal 
 but to the few. 'Tis songs that captivate and enliven 
 the multitude; and the lyrical is the rarer and higher 
 gift. By song-writing Alexander Rodger won fame ; 
 and by the songs he wrote his fame survives, and will 
 be maintained. 
 
 " Hee sang ryoht merrylie." 
 
 Glasoow, 1896. 
 
POEMS AND SONGS. 
 
 EOBIN TAMSON'S SMIDDY.* 
 
 My mither men't my auld breeks, 
 
 An' wow ! but they were duddy, 
 And sent me to get Mally shod 
 
 At Eobin Tamson's smiddy ; 
 The smiddy stands beside the burn 
 
 That wimples through the clachan, 
 I never yet gae by the door 
 
 But aye I fa' a-lauchin'. 
 
 For Eobin was a walthy carle, 
 
 An' had ae bonnie dochter : 
 Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man, 
 
 Tho' mony lads had socht her ; 
 But what think ye o' my exploit 1 
 
 The time our mare was shoeing, 
 I slippit up beside the lass 
 
 An' briskly fell a-wooing. 
 
 * This, of all Eodger's songs the most popular, has been variously 
 claimed for Aberdeenshire, for Hahbie's Howe (the scene of Allan 
 Bamsay's " Gentle Shepherd ") in Edinburghshire, and for the Clachan 
 of Campsie in Stirlingshire ; and not very long ago a newspaper con- 
 troversy raged on the subject. The question involved is, which of the 
 three clachans was in the poet's eye when he wrote the verses ? Those 
 who believe in the Clachan of Campsie rely upon the fact that Rodger 
 wrote all his poetry in Glasgow, and that, consequently, it was un- 
 likely thit he would go to either Aberdeenshire or Edinburghshire for 
 "the scene. One fact, however, militates against this claim. If there 
 was one man who was likely to have definite knowledge on the point, 
 
Rodger's Poems. 
 
 An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks, 
 
 The time that we sat crackin', 
 Quo' I, " My lass, ne'er mind the 
 
 I've new anes for the makin' ; 
 But' gin ye'U just come hame wi' me, 
 
 An' lea' the carle, your faither, 
 Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim, 
 
 Mysel', an' a' thegither." 
 
 " 'Deed, lad," quo' she, " your offer's fair, 
 
 I really think I'll tak' it ; 
 Sae, gang awa', get out the mare, 
 
 We'll baith slip on the back o't ; 
 For gin I wait my faither's time, 
 
 I'll wait till I be fifty ; 
 But, na ! I'll marry in my prime, 
 
 An' mak' a wife fu' thrifty." 
 
 Wow ! Eobin was an angry man 
 
 At tynin' o' his dochter ; 
 Thro' a' the kintra-side he ran. 
 
 An' far an' near he socht her ; 
 
 it was Hugh Maodonald. But, as a matter of fact, while describing 
 the district of Campsie, in one of his "Rambles," this writer makes 
 no mention of the subject. Nothing could be more damaging to the 
 local claim ; for if there had been anything in it, Macdouald could not 
 possibly have missed a circumstance so interesting. He would have 
 revelled in describing the connection indeed. In the northern claim 
 there does not appear to be much ; at all events, much less than in the 
 claim for Habbie's Howe. Supposing the song to be based on a popu- 
 lar tradition — a likely enough thing — it is more probable that it 
 referred to the latter place than to any other, and for a very simple 
 reason. Although Rodger spent almost the whole of his life, and 
 wrote absolutely all his poetry in Glasgow, he was bom and bred in 
 Midlothian. It was, therefore, probable enough that the curious inci- 
 dent which the poet worked into his famous song became fixed in his 
 youthful memory along with other traditions of his native place. It 
 may be said, of course, that most claohans contain a smiddy, and 
 many of them a burn. But it is not likely that of three clachans each 
 had a widower blacksmith with one daughter whom he didn't want to 
 part with to any ploughman chiel' who might be sent by his mother 
 to the smiddy to get the mare shod, etcetera; and, until convincing 
 evidence is produced to the contrary, Habbie's Howe may be regarded 
 as the looality of " Robin Tamson's Smiddy." 
 
Behave YourseV Before Folh. 
 
 But when he cam' to our fire-end, 
 
 An' fand us baith thegither, 
 Quo' I, " Gudeman, I've ta'en your bairn, 
 
 An' ye can tak' my mither." 
 
 Auld Eobin girn'd an' shook his pow, 
 
 " Guid sooth," quo' he, " you're merry, 
 But I'll just tak' ye at your word 
 
 An' end this hurry -burry ; " 
 So Robin an' our auld wife 
 
 Agreed to creep thegither ; 
 Now I hae Robin Tamson's pet, 
 
 An' Robin has my mither. 
 
 BEHAVE yOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK* 
 
 Air — " Good morroxo for your night cap." 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 And dinna be sae rude to me. 
 As kiss me sae before folk. 
 
 It wadna gie me meikle pain, 
 Gin we were seen and heard by nane, 
 To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane ; 
 But, guidsake ! no before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Whate'er you do, when out o' view, 
 Be cautious aye before folk. 
 
 * The origin of this song was so simple, it is interesting for the mere 
 sake of its simplicity. The author and a friend were on a visit to 
 Edinburgh, where,- calling at the house of an uncle of the latter, Mr. 
 Eodger's companion, at parting, took a smack from the lips of his fair 
 cousin, who, mildly resisting, exclaimed, "Behave yoursel' Tjefore 
 folk." And that was all. But the words afforded a hint hy which 
 the ' ' simple smack " became immortal. 
 
Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Consider, lad, how folk will crack, 
 And what a great aifair they'll mak', 
 O' naething but a simple smack, 
 That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
 Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young 
 Occasion to come o'er folk. 
 
 It's no through hatred o' a kiss. 
 That I sae plainly tell you this ; 
 But losh ! I tak' it sair amiss 
 To be sae teazed before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
 When we're our lane ye may tak' ana, 
 But fient a ane before folk. 
 
 I'm sure wi' you I've been as free 
 As ony modest lass should be ; 
 But yet, it doesna do to see 
 Sic freedom used before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
 I'll ne'er submit again to it — 
 So mind you that — before folk. 
 
 Ye tell me that my face is fair ; 
 It may be sae — I dinna care — 
 But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair 
 As ye ha'e done before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
 Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, 
 But aye be douce before folk. 
 
 Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, 
 Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit ; 
 At ony rate, it's hardly meet 
 To pree their sweets before folk. 
 
The Answer. 5 
 
 Behave yoursel' before folk, 
 Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
 Gin that's the case, there's time and place, 
 But surely no before folk. 
 
 But, gin you really do insist 
 That I should suffer to be kiss'd, 
 Gae, get a license frae the priest, 
 And mak' me yours before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk. 
 Behave yoursel' before folk ; 
 And when we're ane, bluid, flesh and bane, 
 Ye may tak' ten — before folk. 
 
 THE ANSWEE. 
 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk. 
 When, wily elf, your sleeky self 
 Gars me gang gyte before folk ? 
 
 In a' ye do, in a' ye say, 
 Ye've sic a pawkie, coaxing way, 
 That my poor wits ye lead astray, 
 An' ding me doilt before folk ? 
 Can I behave, can I behave. 
 Can I behave before folk. 
 While ye ensnare, can I forbear 
 A-kissing, though before folk ? 
 
 Can I behold that dimpling cheek, 
 Whar love 'mang sunny smiles might beek, 
 Yet, howlet-like, my e'e-lids steek. 
 An' shun sic light, before folk 1 
 Can I behave, can I behave. 
 Can I behave before folk. 
 When ilka smile becomes a wile, 
 Enticing me — before folk ? 
 
Badger's Poems. 
 
 That lip, like Eve's forbidden fruifc, 
 Sweet, plump, an' ripe, sae tempts me to't, 
 That I maun pree't, though I should rue't, 
 Ay, twenty times — before folk ? 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk, 
 When temptingly it oflfers me 
 So rich a treat— before folk ? 
 
 That gowden hair sae sunny bright ; 
 That shapely neck o' snawy white ; 
 That tongue, even when it tries to fiyte, 
 Provokes me till't before folk ! 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk. 
 When ilka charm, young, fresh, an' warm, 
 Cries, "Kiss me now " — before folk 1 
 
 An' oh ! that pawkie, rowin' e'e, 
 Sae roguishly it blinks on me, 
 I canna, for my saul, let be, 
 Frae kissing you before folk ! 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk, 
 When ilka glint conveys a hint 
 To tak' a smack — before folk 1 
 
 Ye own, that were we baith our lane, 
 Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane ; 
 Weel, gin there be nae harm in't then. 
 What harm is in't before folk ? 
 Can I behave, can I behave, 
 Can I behave before folk ? 
 Sly hypocrite ! an anchorite 
 Gould scarce desist before folk ! 
 
 But after a' that has been said. 
 Since ye are willing to be wed, 
 We'll hae a " blythesome bridal " made. 
 When ye'U be mine before folk ! 
 
Many for Love and Work for Siller. 
 
 Then I'll behave, then I'll behave, 
 Then I'll behave before folk. 
 For whereas then ye'U aft get " ten," 
 It winna be before folk ! 
 
 MAREY FOE LOVE AND WOEK FOE 
 SILLER. 
 
 When I and my Jenny thegither were tied, 
 
 We had but sma' share o' the world between us ; 
 Yet lo'ed ither weel, and had youth on our side, 
 
 And strength and guid health were abundantly gi'en 
 us; 
 I warsled and toiled through the fair and the foul, 
 
 And she was right carefu' o' what I brought till her, 
 For aye we had mind o' the canny auld rule, 
 
 " Marry for love, and work for siller." 
 
 Our bairns they cam' thick^we were thankfu' for that, 
 
 For the hit and the hrattie cam' aye alang wi' them ; 
 Our 'pan we exchanged for a guid mucMe pat, 
 
 And somehow or ither, we aye had to gi'e them. 
 Our laddies grew up, and they wrought wi' mysel'. 
 
 Ilk ane gat as buirdly and stout as a miller, 
 Our lasses they keepit us trig aye, and hale. 
 
 And now we can count a bit trifle o' siller. 
 
 But I and my Jenny are baith wearin' down, 
 
 And our lads and our lasses hae a' gotten married ; 
 Yet see, we can rank wi' the best i' the town, 
 
 Though our noddles we never too paughtily carried. 
 And mark me — I've now got a braw codcit hat, 
 
 And in our civic building am reckon'd a pillar ; 
 Is na THAT a bit honour for ane to get at, 
 
 Wha married for love, and wha wrought for siller 1 
 
SHON M'NAB. 
 
 TuNB — "For a' that an' a' that." 
 
 Nainsel pe Maister Shon M'Nab, 
 
 Pe auld's ta Forty-five, man, 
 And mony troll affairs she's seen, 
 
 Since she was born alive, man ; 
 She's seen the warl' turn upside down, 
 
 Ta shentleman turn poor man. 
 And him was ance ta beggar loon. 
 
 Get knocker 'pon him's door, man. 
 
 She's seen ta stane bow't owre ta purn. 
 
 And syne be ca'd ta prig, man ; 
 She's seen ta Whig ta 'Tory turn, 
 
 Ta Tory turn ta Whig, man ; 
 But a' ta troll things she pe seen, 
 
 Wad teuk twa days to tell, man. 
 So, gin you likes, she'll told your shust 
 
 Ta story 'bout hersel', man : — 
 
 Nainsel was first ta herd ta kyes. 
 
 Ton Morven's ponnie praes, man, 
 Whar tousand pleasant days she'll spent, 
 
 Pe pu ta nits and slaes, man ; 
 An' ten she'll be ta herring-poat, 
 
 An' syne she'll pe fish-cod, man, 
 Ta place tey'U call Newfoundhims-land, 
 
 Pe far peyont ta proad, man. 
 
 But, och-hon-ee ! one misty night, 
 
 Nainsel will lost her way, man. 
 Her poat was trown'd, hersel' got fright, 
 
 She'll mind till dying day, man. 
 So fait ! she'll pe fish-cod no more. 
 
 But back to Morven cam, man,' 
 An' tere she turn ta whisky still, 
 
 Pe prew ta wee trap tram, man : 
 
Shm M'Nab. 
 
 But foul pefa' ta gauger loon, 
 
 Pe put her in ta shall, man, 
 Whar she wad stood for mony a tay, 
 
 Shust 'cause she no got bail, man ; 
 But out she'll got — nae matters hoo, 
 
 And came to Glasgow town, man, 
 Whar tousand wonders mhor she'll saw 
 
 As she went up and down, man. 
 
 Ta first thing she pe wonder at. 
 
 As she cam' down ta street, man. 
 Was man's pe traw ta cart himsel', 
 
 Shust 'pon him's nain twa feet, man. 
 Och on ! och on ! her nainsel thought, 
 
 As she wad stood and glower, man, 
 Puir man ! if they mak' you ta Iwrse — 
 
 Should gang 'pon a' your four, man. 
 
 And when she turned ta corner round, 
 
 Ta black man tere she see, man, 
 Pe grund ta music in ta kist. 
 
 And sell him for pawpee, man ; 
 And aye she'll grund, and grund, and grund, 
 
 And turn her mill about, man, 
 Pe strange ! she will put nothing in. 
 
 Yet aye teuk music out, man. 
 
 And when she'll saw ta peoples walk. 
 
 In crowds alang ta street, man. 
 She'll wonder whar tay a' got spoons 
 
 To sup teir pick o' meat, man ; 
 For in ta place whar she was porn, 
 
 And tat right far awa', man, 
 Ta teil a spoon in a' ta house. 
 
 But only ana or twa, man. 
 
 She glower to see ta Mattams, too, 
 Wi' plack clout 'pon teir face, man, 
 
 Tey surely tid some graceless teed, 
 Pe in sic black disgrace, man ; 
 
10 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 Or else what for tey'll hing ta clout, 
 Owre prow, and cheek, and chin, man, 
 
 If no for shame to show teir face. 
 For some ungodly sin, man ? 
 
 Pe strange to see ta wee bit kirn, 
 
 Pe jaw the waters out, man. 
 And ne'er rin dry, though she wad rin 
 
 A' tay like mountain spout, man ; 
 Pe stranger far to see ta lamps. 
 
 Like spunkies in a raw, man ; 
 A' pruntin pright for want o' oil, 
 
 And teil a wick ava, man. 
 
 Ta Glasgow folk be unco folk, 
 
 Hae tealings wi' ta teil, man, — 
 Wi' iire tey grand ta tait o' woo, 
 
 Wi' fire tey card ta meal, man ; 
 Wi' fire tey spin, wi' fire tey weave, 
 
 Wi' fire do ilka turn, man, 
 Na, some o' tem will eat ta fire. 
 
 And no him's pelly purn, man. 
 
 Wi' fire tey mak' ta coach pe rin, 
 
 Upon ta railman's raw, man, 
 Nainsel will saw him teuk ta road, 
 
 An' teil a horse to traw, man ; 
 Anither coach to Paisley rin, 
 
 Tey'll call him Lauchie's motion. 
 But oich ! she was plawn a' to bits 
 
 By rascal rogue M'Splosion. 
 
 Wi' fire tey mak' ta vessels rin 
 
 Upon ta river Clyde, man. 
 She saw't hersel', as sure's a gun. 
 
 As she stood on ta side, man : 
 But gin you'll no pelieve her word. 
 
 Gang to ta Proomielaw, man, 
 You'll saw ta ship wi' twa mill-wheels, 
 
 Pe grund ta water sma', man. 
 
Lo'e Me Little and Lo'e Me Lang. 11 
 
 Oich ! sic a town as Glasgow town, 
 
 She never see pefore, man, 
 Ta houses tere pe mile and mair, 
 
 Wi' names 'poon ilka toor, man. 
 An' in teir muckle windows tere. 
 
 She'll saw't, sure's teath, for sale, man, 
 Praw shentlemans pe want ta head. 
 
 An' leddies want ta tail, man. 
 
 She wonders what ta peoples do, 
 
 Wi' a' ta praw things tere, man, 
 Gie her ta prose, ta kilt, an' hose, 
 
 For tem she wadna care, man. 
 And aye gie her ta pickle sneesh. 
 
 And wee drap parley pree, man. 
 For a' ta praws in Glasgow town, 
 
 She no gie paw-prown-pee, man. 
 
 LO'E ME LITTLE AND LO'E ME LANG. 
 
 AwA' wi' your wheezing, your coaxing, and teasing. 
 
 Your hugging and squeezing I beg you'll let be ; 
 Your praising sae fulsome, too sweet to be wholesome. 
 
 Can never gang down wi' a lassie like me ; 
 Nae mair than a woman, nae higher than human, 
 
 To Sylphs and to Seraphs I dinna belang ; 
 Then if ye wad gain me, the way to attain me, 
 
 Is " Lo'e me little, and lo'e me lang." 
 
 Wi' some silly gawkie, your fleeching sae pawkie. 
 
 Like sweet dozing draughts, will glide cannily down; 
 Hence, seek some vain hizzie, and doze her till dizzy. 
 
 She'll quickly consent a' your wishes to crown ; 
 But, pester na me wi't, my heart canna 'gree wi't, 
 
 I'm sick o' your cuckoo's unvarying sang 
 Cease, therefore, your canting, your rhyming and 
 ranting. 
 
 But " Lo'e me little, and lo'e me lang." 
 
12 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 The love that lowes strongest, say, lasts it the longest ? 
 
 The fires that bleeze brightest burn soonest awa' ; 
 Then keep your flame steady — a moderate red aye, 
 
 Or else ye may yet hae a cauld coal to blaw ; 
 And quat your romantics, your airs, and your antics, 
 
 Tak' truth's honest track, and ye'll seldom gae wrang, 
 Then win me, and welcome, let weal or let ill come, 
 
 I'll " Lo'e you little, but lo'e you lang." 
 
 COLIN DULAP.* 
 
 We're muckle obliged to you, Colin Dulap, 
 "We're muckle obliged to you, Colin Dulap ; 
 Ye're truly a worthy auld patriot chap. 
 To enlighten your country sae, Colin Dulap. 
 
 Ye patronize lear, and ye propagate licht, 
 To guide erring man in the way that is richt ; 
 Ne'er under a bushel your candle you clap. 
 But let it lowe openly, Colin Dulap. 
 
 A burning and shining licht close by the Clyde, 
 Illuming the country around, far and wide ; 
 Ye bleeze like a beacon upon a hill tap — 
 A general benefit, Colin Dulap. 
 
 * None of Rodger's humorous pieces appeal more successfully to the 
 denizens of the west of Scotland than the above jeu d'esprit. The 
 amiable and accomplished individual to whom it refers was the late 
 Mr. Colin Dunlop, for many years the principal proprietor of Clyde 
 Ironworks, near Glasgow, whose smelting furnaces send out, in par- 
 ticular states of the atmosphere, an immense volume of light. The 
 verses are expressive of the gratitude of a supposed half-tipsy country- 
 man, who, "trauohlin"' homewards from Glasgow market, finds the 
 light in question act as a lamp to his feet and a guide to his path. 
 
 The effusion, I have been told, tickled the sensibilities of Mr. Dun- 
 lop so agreeably that he addressed a letter to the author compli- 
 menting him on his suceess. And he raised his praises above the 
 suspicion of flattery by accompanying them with a bank cheque for a 
 handsome sum of money. 
 
Colin Dulap. 13 
 
 Frank Jeffrey and Chalmers, and Brougham, and so forth, 
 Diffuse their cheap tracks to enlighten the earth ; 
 Mony thanks to the chiels for this praiseworthy stap ; 
 Mony mae thanks to you, honest Colin Dulap. 
 
 Your licht unto me has been better than theirs — 
 For ay when in Glasgow at markets or fairs, 
 And daundering hame rather licht in the tap, 
 Ye're a licht to my feet, worthy Colin Dulap. 
 
 The burns and the bog-holes, the dubs and the dykes, 
 The howes and the humplocks, the sheughs and the 
 
 sykes. 
 And ilk thing against whilk my head I mieht rap. 
 Ye help me to shun them a', Colin Dulap. 
 
 Even Spunkie himsel' is nae bogle to me. 
 When out through the moss I march homeward wi' glee; 
 Wi' my cud in my nieve — in my noddle a drap. 
 Cheered onward by thee, my guide, Colin Dulap. 
 
 We pay for the sun and we pay for the moon. 
 We pay for ilk stairnie that blinks frae aboon ; 
 But your kindly licht never costs us a rap, 
 'Tis as free as the air to us, Colin Dulap. 
 
 The sun I like weel, gin the sun wad bide still. 
 But then ilka nicht he slides doon 'yont the hill, 
 Like a plump ruddy carle gaun to tak' his bit nap ; 
 You never forsake us sae, Colin Dulap. 
 
 Na, waur ! — ilk winter he's aff and awa', 
 Like our fine bloods, to Italy, shunning the snaw, 
 Scarce deigning a blink o'er a hoary hill tap, 
 But you're ever wi' us, kind Colin Dulap. 
 
 The moon does fu' weel when the moon's in the lift. 
 But, oh ! the loose limmer tak's mony a shift, 
 Whiles here and whiles there, and whiles under a hap, 
 But yours is the steady licht, Colin Dulap. 
 
14 Badger's Poems. 
 
 Na, mair ! like true friendship, the mirker the nicht, 
 The mair you let out your vast volume of licht — 
 When sackcloth and sadness the heavens enwrap, 
 'Tis then you're maist kind to us, Colin Dulap. 
 
 The day and the nicht unto you are the same. 
 For still ye spread out your braid sheet o' red flame ; 
 When this weary world soundly tak's its bit nap, 
 You sleep not, you slumber not, Colin Dulap. 
 
 The folks about Glasgow may brag o' their gas. 
 That just, like a' glaring things, pleases the mass'; 
 Gin they're pleased wi't themsel's, I'll ne'er snarl nor 
 
 snap. 
 Quite contented wi' you, friendly Colin Dulap. 
 
 Aye, aften I'm muckle behadden to you, 
 While wauchlin' alang between sober an' fou, 
 Wi' a stoiter to this side, to that side a stap. 
 Ye shaw me the gate aye, guid Colin Dulap. 
 
 Gin neighbouring farmers felt gratefu' like me, 
 They'd club a' thegither a present to gi'e, 
 O' a massy punch-bowl, wi' a braw mounted cap, 
 To the man that befriends them aye, Colin Dulap. 
 
 I ken for mysel' that a gift I intend. 
 To ane that sae often has proved my gude friend — 
 0' a braw braid blue bonnet, wi' strawberry tap. 
 To be worn ay on New'rdays, by Colin Dulap. 
 
 I canna weel reckon how lang ye ha'e shin'd. 
 But I'm sure it's as lang as my mither has mind ; 
 And in a' that lang while there has ne'er been a gap 
 In your body o' licht, canty Colin Dulap. 
 
 Oh ! lang may ye shine to enlighten us here, 
 And when you depart for some new unknown sphere, 
 That to shine on more glorious may still be your hap. 
 Is the prayer o' your weelwisher, Colin Dulap. 
 
SANCT MUNGO.* 
 
 Sanct Mtjngo wals ane famous sanct, 
 
 And ane cantye carle wals hee, 
 He drank o' ye Molendinar Burns, 
 
 Quhan bettere hee culdna prie ; 
 Zit quhan he culd gette strongere cheere, 
 
 He neuer wals wattere drye, 
 Butte dranke o' ye streame o' ye wimpland worme, 
 
 And loot ye burne rvnne bye. 
 
 Sanct Mungo wals ane merrye sanct, 
 
 And merrylye hee sang ; 
 Quhaneuer hee liltit uppe hys sprynge, 
 
 Ye very Firre Parke rang ; 
 Butte thoch hee weele culd lilt and synge. 
 
 And mak sweet melodye. 
 He chauntit aye ye bauldest straynes, 
 
 Quhan prymed wi' barley-bree. 
 
 Sanct Mungo wals ane godlye sanct, 
 
 Farre-famed for godlye deedis. 
 And grete delyto hee daylye took 
 
 Inn countynge owre hys beadis ; 
 Zit I, Sanct Mungo's youngeste sonne, 
 
 Can count als welle als hee, 
 Butte ye beadis quilk I like best to count 
 
 Are ye beadis o' barlye-bree. 
 
 Sanct Mungo wals ane jolly sanct : — ■ 
 
 Sa weele hee lykit gude zil, 
 Thatte quhyles hee staynede hys quhyte vesture, 
 
 Wi' dribblands o' ye still ; 
 Butte I, hys maist unwordye sonne, 
 
 Haue gane als farre als hee, 
 For ance I tynde my garmente skirtis, 
 
 Throuch lufe o' barlye-bree. 
 
 * The Patron Saint of Glasgow Cathedral. The Molendinar burn, 
 alluded to in the third line, is the Lethe, now enclosed, that separated 
 the two great repositories of mortality — the church-yard of the Cathe- 
 dral and the Necropolis. 
 
MITHEE! ONY BODY. 
 
 AlB— " Sir Alex. M'Donald's Reel." 
 
 " mither, ony body ! 
 " Ony body ! ony body ! 
 " mither, ony body ! 
 
 " But a creeshy weaver. 
 " A weaver's just as good as nane, 
 " A creature worn to skin and bane, 
 " I'd rather lie through life my lane, 
 
 The lassie thocht to catch a laird. 
 But fient a ane about her cared ; 
 For nane his love had e'er declared. 
 
 Excepting, whiles — a weaver. 
 Yet ne'er a weaver wad she tak', 
 But a' that cam' she sent them back, 
 An' bann'd them for a useless pack. 
 
 To come nae mair an' deave her. 
 
 Their sowen crocks — their trantlum gear- 
 Their trash p' pirns she couldna bear ; 
 An' aye the ither jibe and jeer, 
 
 She cuist at ilka weaver. 
 But sair she rued her pridefu' scorn. 
 Ere thretty nicks had marked her horn, 
 For down she hurkled a' forlorn, 
 
 In solitude to grieve her. 
 
 She gaed to kirk, she gaed to fair. 
 She spread her lure, she set her snare, 
 But ne'er a nibble gat she there, 
 
 Frae leading apes, to save her. 
 At last, unto the barn she gaed, 
 An' ilka e'ening duly pray'd. 
 That some ane might come to her aid, 
 
 An' frae her wants relieve her. 
 
My Cowntry. 17 
 
 An' thus the lassie's prayer ran — 
 
 " send thy servant some bit man, 
 
 " Before her cheeks grow bleach'd an' wan, 
 
 " An' a' her beauties leave her." 
 A weaver lad wha ance had woo'd, 
 But cam' nae speed, do a' he could, 
 Now thocht her pride might be subdued. 
 
 An' that he yet might have her. 
 
 He watch'd when to the barn she gaed, 
 An' while her bit request she made. 
 In solemn tone he slowly said — 
 
 " Lass — will ye tak' a weaver ? " 
 " Thy will be done — I'm now content, 
 " Just ony body ere I want, 
 " I'll e'en be thankfu' gin you grant 
 
 " That I may get a weaver." 
 
 The weaver, he cam' yont neist day, 
 
 An' sought her hand — she ne'er said " nay," 
 
 But thocht it time to mak' her hay. 
 
 So jumpit at the weaver. 
 Now, ye whase beauty's on the wane, 
 Just try the barn, at e'en yer lane, 
 Sma' fish are better far than nane, 
 
 Ye'U maybe catch a weaver. 
 
 MY COUNTRY. 
 
 My Country, my Country ! — there is a charm 
 And spell in that sound, which must every heart warm ; 
 Let us pant at the Line, let us freeze at the Pole, 
 Pronounce but my Country — it thrills through my soul. 
 
 And where lies the charm in that all-potent sound. 
 That is felt and acknowledged where'er man is found ? 
 And why is our Country — the land of our birth — 
 The sweetest — the lovelier spot upon earth ? 
 
18 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 is it in climate ? in soil ? or in sky ? 
 In gay sunny landscapes that ravish the eye ? 
 In rich golden harvests ? in mines of bright ore ? 
 It may be in these — but there's still something more : 
 
 The deeds of our fathers, in times that are gone ; 
 Their virtues, their prowess, the fields they have won ; 
 Their struggles for freedom ; the toils they endured ; 
 The rights and the blessings for us they procured : 
 
 Our music, our language, our laws, our great men. 
 Who have raised themselves high by the sword or the 
 
 pen; 
 Our productions of genius, the fame of our arms, 
 Our youths' native courage, our maidens' soft charms : 
 
 The dreams of our childhood, the scenes of our youth, 
 When life's stainless current ran placidly smooth ; 
 Our friends, homes, and altars; our substance, though 
 
 small, 
 And one lovely object, the sweetener of all. 
 
 From these, and ten thousand endearments beside — 
 From these spring the charm that makes Country our 
 
 pride ; 
 And what wanting these would a paradise be ? 
 A waste — a dark cell — a lone rock in the sea. 
 
 The adventurous emigrant, launched on the main, 
 Who goes to behold not his Country again, 
 What painful reflections must rush through his mind. 
 As he takes the last look of the shores left behind : — 
 
 The long cherished spot where to manhood he grew. 
 The friends whom he loved, the acquaintance he knew; 
 Parents, children, or wife, left behind broken-hearted, 
 The mutual sorrows that flowed when they parted ; 
 
 A Country before him, all strange and unknown, 
 Where no heart in unison beats with his own — 
 
My Gowntry. 19 
 
 Such thoughts through his mind that sad moment will 
 
 rush, 
 While big swelling drops from his straining eyes gush. 
 
 But the merchant or warrior, absent afar 
 From his Country, engaged in her commerce or war, 
 Keturning, at last, what a flood of delight 
 Fills his soul, when his Country first breaks on his 
 sight ! 
 
 How cheering the hope, that he shortly will meet, 
 The warm grasp of friendship, or love still more sweet ! 
 And while his heart bounds toward home's hallowed 
 
 spot. 
 Even Watch, the old house-dog, is then not forgot. 
 
 But, Oh ! it is only the man who is free. 
 That can boast, " I've a Country that smiles upon me ; " 
 The captive and slave who in wretchedness moan, 
 Alas ! they can scarce call their Country their own. 
 
 The Laplander, coursing his deserts of snow, 
 Possessing his rein-deer, his sledge, and his bow ; 
 On Lapland though warm summer suns rarely beam. 
 No Country on earth is like Lapland — to him. 
 
 Though scanty his fare, yet, content with his lot, 
 The terrors of slavery trouble him not ; 
 He bounds free as air o'er his own native snows. 
 Secure in his poverty, fearing no foes. 
 
 But the ill-fated Negro, from home rudely torn. 
 And o'er the Atlantic a poor captive borne ; 
 How frantic the grief of his untutored mind. 
 While sharp galling fetters his manly limbs bind : 
 
 Pent up in a dungeon, deprived of fresh air — 
 The victim of sorrow, disease, and despair — 
 Behold the poor negro-man, panting for breath, 
 And gasping, and struggling, and praying for death : 
 
20 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Now see him, poor wretch ! to the slave-market brought, 
 Like the ox of the stall, to be sold — to be bought. 
 Condemned to hard toil, by the cruel whip flayed ; 
 Oh, God ! was't for this, that the negro was made 1 
 
 A captive — a slave, on a far foreign coast, 
 Where now is his Country ? — To him it is lost ; 
 A sad recollection is all he has left 
 Of home's sweet endearments, from him wholly reft. 
 
 But the time may arrive yet, when HE, even he ! 
 Will burst his vile fetters, and rank with the free ; 
 How glorious to see him then, treading the sod, 
 Erect— independent — the image of God. 
 
 O, Haytians ! how noble a cause have you won ; 
 You now have a Country, who lately had none ; 
 The trammels that bound you, in shivers you've broke j 
 And scorned now alike, are the tyrant and yoke. 
 
 The children of Judah in warfare o'ercome. 
 And borne away captive afar from their home, 
 By Babylon's rivers how loud was their moan, 
 While they wept their lost Country, laid waste and 
 o'erthrown. 
 
 Their Zion consumed, and their temple defiled, 
 Of all its rich ornaments robbed and despoiled ; 
 Its vessels, for God's holy service ordained. 
 By lips, all unholy and impious, profaned. 
 
 No wonder, then, Judah's sad children deplored 
 The havoc and rage of the conqueror's sword ; 
 For while, mocked and insulted, in bondage they lay, 
 What Temple — what Zion — what Country had they ? 
 
 Not so, the brave Greeks, when obliged to retreat , 
 Erom their Athens destroyed, and retire to their fleet, 
 
My Country. 21 
 
 Oh, say, when their city was one smoking heap, 
 
 Say, where was their Athens 1 — 'Twas then on the deep. 
 
 Yes, they had a Country, for still they were free ; 
 
 To no foreign conqueror bent they the knee ; 
 
 Their fields might be wasted, their homes wrapt in 
 
 flame, 
 Their fleet and their freedom were Country to them. 
 
 0, glorious example, by patriots of old — 
 
 Would to God that their sons were but now half so 
 
 bold! 
 One gleam of the steel only waved by such hands, 
 Were sufficient to wither the whole Moslem bands. 
 
 Then freedom again would smile lovely on Greece, 
 And rapine, and murder, and tyranny cease ; 
 And Athens and Sparta we yet might behold. 
 Out-rivalling Athens and Sparta of old. 
 
 And the Hellenists — lords of their own native soil — 
 Would reap unmolested the fruits of their toil ; 
 And their Country, no longer by slavery debased, 
 Would present one vast Temple to Liberty raised ! 
 
 Then since it is freedom, and freedom alone. 
 
 That halloweth Country and makes it our own ; 
 
 May she march with the sun, like the sun may she 
 
 blaze. 
 Till the whole earth be gilded and warmed by her rays. 
 
 Accurst be the villain, and shunned by mankind, 
 Who would fetter the body, or trammel the mind ; 
 May his name be detested, himself from earth driven, 
 Who thus would rob man of the best gift of heaven ! 
 
 But honoured and blest be the patriot chief, 
 Who fearlessly struggles for mankind's relief ; 
 In his Country's affections, long, long may he bloom. 
 And his memory shed an eternal perfume ! 
 
22 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 And 0, my dear Country ! wherever I be, 
 My first — my last prayer shall ascend still for thee, 
 That thou mayest flourish, as lasting as time, 
 Unblightkd by slaveey, unsullied by crime. 
 
 AH NO !— I CANNOT SAY. 
 
 Ah no ! — I cannot say " farewell,'' 
 
 'Twould pierce my bosom through, 
 And to this heart 'twere death's dread knell 
 
 To hear thee sigh — " adieu." 
 Though soul and body both must part, 
 
 Yet ne'er from thee I'll sever. 
 For more to me than soul thou art, 
 
 And ! I'll quit thee — never. 
 
 Whate'er through life may be thy fate 
 
 That fate with thee I'll share. 
 If prosperous — be moderate, 
 
 If adverse — meekly bear ; 
 This bosom shall thy pillow be 
 
 In every change whatever. 
 And tear for tear I'll shed with thee, 
 
 But ! forsake thee — never. 
 
 One home — one hearth shall ours be still. 
 
 And one our daily fare ; 
 One altar, too, where we may kneel 
 
 And breathe our humble prayer ; 
 And one our praise that shall ascend 
 
 To one all-bounteous Giver, 
 And one our will, our aim, our end. 
 
 For ! we'll sunder — never. 
 
 And when that solemn hour shall come 
 That sees thee breathe thy last, 
 
 That hour shall also fix my doom. 
 And seal my eyelids fast ; 
 
The Drygate Brig. 23 
 
 One grave shall hold us, side by side, 
 One shroud our clay shall cover — 
 
 And one then may we mount and glide 
 Through realms of love — for ever. 
 
 THE DEYGATE BRIG. 
 
 Last Monday night, at sax o'clock, 
 
 To Mirran Gibb's I went, man, 
 To snuff, an' crack, an' toom the cap. 
 
 It was my hale intent, man : 
 So down I sat an' pried the yill. 
 Syne luggit out my eneeshin' mill. 
 An' took a pinch wi' right good will, 
 O' beggar's brown (the best in town), 
 Then sent it roun' about the room, 
 To gie ilk ane a scent, man. 
 
 The sneeshin' mill, the cap gaed round. 
 
 The joke, the crack an' a', man, 
 'Bout markets, trade, and daily news. 
 
 To wear the time awa', man ; 
 Ye never saw a blither set 
 O queer auld-fashion'd bodies met. 
 For feint a grain o' pride nor pet, 
 Nor eating care got footing there. 
 But friendship rare, aye found sincere. 
 An' hearts without a flaw, man. 
 
 To cringing courtiers, kings may blaw. 
 
 How rich they are an' great, man. 
 But kings could match na us at a', 
 
 Wi' a' their regal state, man ; 
 Por Mirran's swats, sae brisk an' fell. 
 An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell. 
 Made ilk ane quite forget himsel', 
 
24 Bodge fs Poems. 
 
 Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld, 
 An' fired the saul wi' projects bauld, 
 That daur'd the power o' fate, man. 
 
 But what are a' sic mighty schemes, 
 
 When ance the spell is broke, man, 
 A set o' maut-inspired whims. 
 
 That end in perfect smoke, man. 
 An' what like some disaster keen, 
 Can chase the glamour f rae our een. 
 An' bring us to oursel's again 1 
 As was the fate o' my auld pate, 
 When that night late, I took the gate, 
 As crouse as ony cock, man. 
 
 For, sad misluck ! without my hat, 
 
 I doiting cam' awa', man. 
 An' when I down the Drygate cam'. 
 
 The win' began to blaw, man. 
 When I cam' to the Drygate Brig, 
 The win' blew aff my gude brown wig. 
 That whirled like ony whirligig. 
 As up it flew, out o' my view. 
 While I stood glow'ring, waefu' blue, 
 
 Wi' wide extended jaw, man. 
 
 When I began to grape for't syne, 
 
 Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man, 
 I coupit owre a meikle stane, 
 
 An' skailed my pickle snuffj man ; 
 My stafi' out o' my hand did jump. 
 An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump, 
 Whilk raised a most confounded lump. 
 But whar it flew, I never knew. 
 Yet sair I rue this mark sae blue, 
 It looks sae fleesome waff, man. 
 
 had you seen my waefu' plight, 
 Your mirth had been but sma', man, 
 
 An' yet, a queerer antic sight, 
 I trow ye never saw, man. 
 
Whether or No. 25 
 
 I've lived thir fifty years an' mair, 
 But solemnly I here declare, 
 I ne'er before met loss sae sair ; 
 My wig flew aff, I tint my staff, 
 I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof. 
 An' brak my snout an' a', man. 
 
 Now, wad you profit by my loss ? 
 
 Then tak' advice frae me, man, 
 An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing. 
 
 On fumes o' barley bree, man ; 
 For drink can heeze a man sae high, 
 As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky, 
 But down he tumbles by-an'-by, 
 Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud. 
 That aft it's gude, if dirt an' bluid. 
 
 Be a' he has to dree, man. 
 
 WHETHER OE NO.* 
 
 Mang a' the braw lads that come hither to woo me. 
 
 There's only but ane I wad fain mak' my joe ; 
 And though I seem shy, yet sae dear is he to me, 
 
 I scarce can forgie mysel' when I say " No." 
 My sister she sneers 'cause he hasna the penny. 
 
 An' cries, " ye maun reap, my lass, just as ye sow," 
 My brither he bans, but it's a' ane to Jenny, 
 
 She'll just tak' the lad she likes — whether or no. 
 
 * A friend of Rodger's in Leith, a Mr. Tevendale, who was devoted 
 to music, and was an excellent composer, had long urged the poet to 
 give him words to set to a tune. Meeting him on one occasion with 
 their mutual friend, Mr. Gardner of the Glasgow Chronicle, he insisted 
 on that gentleman urging Rodger to write the long expected song. 
 Mr. Gardner gave Tevendale his choice of a suhject ; hut Mr. Teven- 
 dale could not hit upon one to please himself. Mr. Gardner at last, 
 observing that Mr. Tevendale made frequent use of the words 
 " whether or no," suggested that as the ground-work. It was at once 
 assented to : this song was written by Rodger, and at the same time 
 John Tait, a poet of no mean order, and George Donald, of Whistle 
 BinMe fame, took up the 'same subject, and the three effusions 
 appeared at once in the Liberator. 
 
26 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 My father he cries, " tak' the laird o' Kinlogie, 
 
 For he has baith mailins and gowd to bestow : " 
 My mither cries neist, " tak' the heir o' Grlenbogie," 
 
 But can I please baith o' them ? — weel I wat no ! 
 And since 'tis mysel' maun be gainer or loser — 
 
 Maun drink o' life's bicker, be't weal or be't woe, 
 I deem it but fair I should be my ain chooser ; — 
 
 To love will I lippen, then — whether or no. 
 
 Cauld Prudence may count on his gowd and his acres, 
 
 And think them the sum o' a' blessings below. 
 But tell me, can wealth bring content to its makers ? 
 
 The care-wrinkled face o' the miser says " No ! " 
 But oh when pure love meets a love corresponding, 
 
 Such bliss it imparts as the world cannot know ; 
 It lightens life's load, keeps the heart from desponding. 
 
 Let Fate smile or scowl, it smiles — whether or no ! 
 
 THE TINKLER'S SONG. 
 AiE — ' ' A llan-a-Dale." 
 
 WHO are so hearty, so happy and free, 
 
 Or who for the proud care so little as we ? 
 
 No tyrants control us, no slaves we command. 
 
 Like free passage-birds we traverse sea and land ; 
 
 And still to the comfort of all we attend. 
 
 By singing out, "Caldrons or kettles to mend." 
 
 Each climate — each soil, is to us still the same, 
 No fix'd local spot for our country we claim ; 
 Yon lordly domain, with its castles and towers, 
 We care not a pin for — the world it is ours ; 
 Superiors we know not — on none we depend. 
 While our business is, caldrons or kettles to mend. 
 
 The law says we're vagrants — the law tells a lie, 
 The green earth's our dwelling, our roof the blue sky, 
 
Lauchie Fraser's Promotions. 27 
 
 Then tho' through the earth, for employment we roam, 
 How can we be vagrants, who ne'er are from home 1 
 Our neighbours are mankind, whom oft we befriend, 
 While trudging about, pots or kettles to mend. 
 
 No rent, tithes, nor taxes, we're called on to pay, 
 We take up our lodgings wherever we may, 
 If people are kind, we show kindness to them. 
 If people are churlish, why, we are the same ; 
 But those who are friendly fare best in the end. 
 While their pots, bellows, caldrons or kettles we mend. 
 
 Not even the parson, the squire, nor my lord, 
 
 A daintier supper than we can afford, 
 
 For nature profusely each blessing doth grant, 
 
 Then why should her children be ever in want 1 — 
 
 Let them share with each other whate'er she may send, 
 
 Like us — while we've caldrons or kettles to mend. 
 
 Then fill to the stranger a cup of the best. 
 And when he is wearied conduct him to rest, 
 For the poor lonely wanderer, homeless and bare. 
 Should ever the wanderers' sympathy share ; 
 Now we've one consolation — whate'er be our end, 
 While the world remains wicked — we daily do mend. 
 
 LAUCHIE FEASER'S PEOMOTIONS. 
 
 Air — "Johnnie Cope." 
 
 Nainsbl' she was porn 'mang ta Hielan' hills, 
 'Mang ta goats, an' ta sheeps, an' ta whiskee stills, 
 An' ta brochan, an' brogues, an' ta snuishin' mills, 
 
 Oich ! she was ta ponnie land she was porn in ; 
 For a' ta lads there will be shentlemans porn, 
 An' will wear skean-dhu an' ta praw snuishin' horn. 
 An' ta fine tartan trews her braw houghs to adorn, 
 
 An' mak' her look fu' spruce in ta mornin'. 
 
28 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 Noo, ta shentlemans will no like to be wroughtin' at a', 
 But she'll sit py ta giieshach her hafiFets to claw ; 
 An' pe birsle her shanks till they're red as ta haw, 
 
 An' a' fu' o' measles ilka mornin'. 
 But her nainsel' at last to ta Lalans cam' doon, 
 An' will get her a place 'mang ta mhor Glaschow toon ; 
 Whar she's noo prush-ta-poot an' pe polish-ta-shoon, 
 
 An' pe shentleman's flunhie in ta mornin'. 
 
 But at last she will turn very full o' ta proud, 
 
 An' she'll hold up her heads, an' she'll spoke very loud, 
 
 An' she'll look wi' disdains 'pon ta low tirty crowd, 
 
 Tat will hing 'pout ta doors ilka mornin'. 
 Noo, her nainsel' is go to have one merry ball, 
 Whar she'll dance Killum Galium, hoogh ! ta best o' them 
 
 all, 
 For ta ponniest dancer she'll pe in ta hall, 
 
 Ay, either 'mang ta evenin' or mornin'. 
 
 Ither lads will have lassies, hersel' will have no. 
 
 It pe far too expense wi' ta lassie to go ; 
 
 So she'll shust dance hersel', her fine preedings to show, 
 
 Tat she learn 'mang ta place she was porn in. 
 Then ta lads will cry " Lauchie, where from did you'll 
 
 cam'. 
 Tat you'll not give ta lassie ta dance an' ta dram ? '' 
 But te're a' tr ouster mosachs, every one shust ta sam' 
 
 They wad spulzie all her sporran ere ta mornin'. 
 
 Noo, she's thochtin' she'll yet turn a praw waiter's pell. 
 When she wear ta fine pump an' pe dress very well ; 
 An' py Sheorge ! ere she'll stop, she'll pe maister hersel', 
 
 In spite o' a' their taunts an' their scornin'. 
 Syne wha like ta great Maister Fraser will pe, 
 When she'll hing up ta sign o' the "Golden Cross Key." 
 An' will sit in her parlour her orders to gie 
 
 To her waiters an' her boots in ta mornin' ? 
 
BAULDY BUCHANAN.* 
 
 O WHA haana heard o' blythe Bauldy Buchanan ? 
 A hale hearty carle o' some saxty years stan'in' ; 
 Gae search the hale kintra, frae Lanark to Lunnon, 
 Ye'll scarce find the match o' blythe Bauldy Buchanan, 
 For Bauldy's sae cracky, an' Bauldy's sae canty — 
 A frame o' threescore, wi' a spirit o' twenty — 
 Wi' his auld f arrant tales, an' his jokin', an' funnin', 
 A rich an' rare treat is blythe Bauldy Buchanan. 
 
 Blythe Bauldy Buchanan's a wonderfu' drinker 
 O' knowledge — for he's a great reader an' thinker — 
 There's scarcely an author frae Bentham to Bunyan, 
 But has been run dry by blythe Bauldy Buchanan. 
 He kens a' the courses an' names o' the planets — 
 The secret manoeuvres o' courts an' o' senates — - 
 Can tell you what day Babel's tower was begun on ; — 
 Sae deep read in beuks is blythe Bauldy Buchanan. 
 
 He can play on the bag-pipe, the flute, and the fiddle, 
 Explain ony text, or expound ony riddle ; 
 At deep calculation, at drawin', an' plannin'. 
 There's naebody equal to Bauldy Buchanan. 
 He kens how the negroes are black and thick-lippit — 
 How leopards are spotted — how zebras are strippit — 
 How maidens in Turkey sae muckle are run on ; — 
 Sae versed in sic matters is Bauldy Buchanan. 
 
 How the English like beer, an' the Scotch like their 
 
 whisky — 
 How Frenchmen are temperate, lively, and frisky — 
 How the Turks are sae grave, an' the Greeks are sae 
 
 cunnin', 
 Can a' be explained by blythe Bauldy Buchanan. 
 
 * The author was often asked, " Who is Bauldy Buchanan ? " His 
 reply was, " Really, I cannot tell ; he is purely a child of the imagina- 
 tion." 
 
30 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 An' mair than a' that, he can trace out the cause 
 0' rain an' fair weather — o' frosts an' o' thaws — 
 An' what keeps the earth in its orbit still runnin' ; — 
 Sae wonderfu' learned is blythe Bauldy Buchanan. 
 
 When round his fireside neebours meet in the gloamin's, 
 An' hear him describe the auld Greeks an' the Eomans — 
 How they battled an' fought without musket or cannon — 
 The folks glow'r wi' wonder at Bauldy Buchanan. 
 Or when he descends frae the grave to the witty, 
 An' tells some queer story, or sings some droll ditty, 
 Wi' his poetry, pleasantry, pnzzlin', an' punnin', 
 Their sides are made sair wi' blythe Bauldy Buchanan. 
 
 But o' a' the attractions that Bauldy possesses. 
 His greatest attractions are twa bonnie lasses ; 
 'Mang a' the fine leddies frae Crail to Clackmannan, 
 There's nane can match Bella an' Betty Buchanan. 
 For 0, they're sae clever, sae frank, an' sae f urthy, 
 Sae bonnie, sae bloomin', sae wise, an' sae worthy. 
 They keep the hale lads in the parish a-runnin' 
 An' strivin' for Bella an' Betty Buchanan. 
 
 DINNA FOEGET. 
 
 Air — " When Adam at first was created." 
 
 Come, put on thy finger this ring, love, 
 
 And, when thou art far o'er the sea. 
 Perhaps to thy mind it will bring, love. 
 
 Some thought — some remembrance — of me. 
 Our moments of rapture and bliss, love. 
 
 The haunts where so oft we have met, 
 These tears, and this last parting kiss, love, 
 
 It tells thee— " dinna forget ! " 
 
 We might look on yonder fair moon, love, 
 Oft gazed on by us with delight, 
 
Jamie M'Nah. 31 
 
 And think of each other alone, love, 
 
 At one sacred hour every night ; 
 But, ah ! ere she'd rise to thy view, love, 
 
 To me she long, long would be set ; 
 Then look to this token more true, love. 
 
 On thy finger — and " dinna forget ! " 
 
 Thou mayest meet faces more fair, love. 
 
 And charms more attractive than mine ; 
 Be moved by a more winning air, love. 
 
 Or struck by a figure more fine : 
 But shouldst thou a brighter eye see, love, 
 
 Or ringlets of more glossy jet, 
 Let this still thy talisman be, love. 
 
 Look on it, and " dinna forget ! " 
 
 And, oh ! when thou writest to me, love. 
 
 The sealing impress with this ring ; 
 And that a sweet earnest will be, love. 
 
 To which, with fond hope, I will cling ; 
 That thou to thy vows wilt be true, love ; 
 
 That happiness waiteth us yet ; 
 One parting embrace — now adieu, love — 
 
 This moment I'll never forget ! 
 
 JAMIE M'NAB.* 
 
 Gae find me a match for blythe Jamie M'Nab ; 
 Ay, find me a match for blythe Jamie M'Nab ; 
 The best piece o' stuff cut frae Nature's ain wah, 
 Is that Prince o' guid fallows — blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 In her kindliest mood Madam Nature had been 
 When first on this warld Jamie open'd his een, 
 
 * Connected with the Glasgow Herald newspaper, and well entitled 
 to the high praise awarded to him by the Poat. 
 
32 Badger's Poems. 
 
 For he ne'er gied a whimper, nor utter'd a sab, 
 But hame he cam' laughin' — blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 In process o' time Jamie grew up apace. 
 And still play'd the smile on his round honest face, 
 Except when a tear, like a pure hinny-blab, 
 Was shed o'er the wretched by Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 And Jamie is still just the best o' gude chiels — 
 Wi' the cheerfu' he laughs, wi' the waefu' he feels ; 
 And the very last shilling that's left in his fab, 
 He'll share wi' the needfu' — blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 Blythe Jamie M'Nab is sae furthy and free. 
 While he's cracking wi' you, while he's joking wi' me. 
 That I ne'er wad wish better than twa hour's confab 
 Owre a horn o' gude yill wi' blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 Blythe Jamie M'Nab is nae thin airy ghaist. 
 
 For he measures an ell-and-twa-thirds round the waist j 
 
 Yet a wittier wag never trod on a slab, 
 
 Than that kind-hearted billie — blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 Yes, Jamie has lidk, yet it damps not his glee. 
 But his flashes o' fancy come fervid and free ; 
 As bright frae his brain, as if lively " Queen Mab " 
 Held nightly communings wi' Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 He tells sic queer stories, and rum funny jokes. 
 And mak's sic remarks upon a' public folks. 
 That Time rattles by like a beau in a cab. 
 When sitting and list'ning to Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 I carena for Tory — I carena for Whig — 
 
 I mindna your Eadical raver a fig ; 
 
 But gie me the man that is staunch as a stab 
 
 For the rights o' his CASTE, like blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 Amang the saft sex, too, he shows a fine taste, 
 
 By admiring what's handsome, and lovely and chaste ; 
 
Jamie M'Nab. 33 
 
 But the lewd tawdry trollop, the tawpie, and drab, 
 Can never find favour wi' Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 Some folks, when they meet you, are wonderfu' fair, 
 And wad hug you as keen as an auld Norway bear ; 
 The next time they see you, they're sour as a crab— 
 That's never the gate wi' blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 No ! — ^Jamie is ever the same open wight. 
 Aye easy, aye pleasant, frae morning till night ; 
 While ilk man, frae my Lord down to plain simple Hab, 
 Gets the same salutation frae Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 Had mankind at large but the tithe o' his worth. 
 We then might expect a pure heaven on earth ; 
 Nae rogues then would fash us wi' grip an' wi' grab, 
 But a' wad be neebours — like Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 Lang, lang hae blythe Jamie and Samuel * the sage. 
 Together sped on to the ripeness of age ; 
 But " live by the way " — (we must needs pick and dab) 
 K the motto of Samuel and Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 And on may they speed as they've hitherto done. 
 And lang rin the course they have hitherto run ; 
 Wi' a pound in their pouch and a watch in their fab, 
 Sage Samuel the soncy — ^blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 Yes — lang may the SONCY gudeman o' the Herald, 
 Wi' Jamie M'Nab, wauchle on through this warld ; 
 And when, on life's e'ening, cauld death steeks his gab, 
 May he mount up on high — wi' blythe Jamie M'Nab. 
 
 * Samuel Hunter, Esq., then Editor of the Glasgow Herald. 
 
THE HIGHLAJSTDER'S WELCOME TO THE 
 QUEEN. 
 
 AiVi—" Donald M' Donald." 
 
 Come Tuncan, what for you be snorin' ? 
 
 Get up, man, an' on wi' your praw. 
 Your kilt, an' your hose, an' your sporran. 
 
 Your plaid an' your ponnet an' a' ; 
 Our Queen — pless her ladyship's clory, 
 
 Is coming to see us ev'n noo, 
 Cresorst I * tere be Lauchie an' Eory, 
 
 An' a' ta lads waitin' 'pon you. 
 
 T'en hoogh for her ponnie young Queen ! 
 An' heigh for her ponnie young Queen ! 
 Go, sought all ta Heelan' an' Lawlan', 
 A prettier never was seen. 
 
 Our Queen, she pe Queen o' ta Heelan', 
 
 An' Queen o' ta Lawlan' peside, 
 T'en quha wad refuse her a shielin' 
 
 To shield her as lang as she'll pide. 
 Our faithers wad shelter Prince Sharlie, 
 
 Poor lad, quhan she had not a hame : 
 Nainsel' love her Queen so sincerely, 
 
 T'at for her she'll shust tid t'at same. 
 
 T'en hoogh for her ponnie praw Queen ! 
 An' heigh for her ponnie praw Queen ! 
 Ta Heelan'man's ne'er pe tisloyal, 
 Though change o' ta race she has seen. 
 
 Our chiefs, how their clans they pe gather, 
 
 A' trest in their tartans sae praw. 
 To welcome our .Queen to ta heather. 
 
 An' ponnie Prince Alpert an' a'. 
 
 * Make haste. 
 
A Mother's Dauty. 35 
 
 My sang ! he's a fine tecent laddie, 
 
 As praw as Prince Sharlie himsel', 
 An' sets, too, him's ponnet an' plaidie 
 
 As weel as ta laird o' Dunkel'. 
 
 T'en hoogh for our ponnie young Queen ! 
 An' heigh for our ponnie young Queen ! 
 Let's gie her a grand Heelan' welcome, 
 Ta kindest t'at ever has peen. 
 
 Got pless you, our ponnie young leddy, 
 
 If you'll 'mang ta Heelan' remain, 
 Our hearts an' claymores will be ready, 
 
 Your honours an' rights to maintain. 
 Ta Gael has a hand for him's friend aye, 
 
 An' likewise a hand for him's foe ; 
 Ta Gael, your dear sel' she'U defend aye, 
 
 An' guard you wherever you go. 
 
 T'en welcome our ponnie young Queen ! 
 Thrice welcome our ponnie young Queen ! 
 Ta Gael may be rude in him's manner, 
 But quhar is ta warmer heart seen 1 
 
 A MOTHER'S DAUTY. 
 Am — "My mitTier's aye glom-in' owre me." 
 
 My mither wad hae me weel married, 
 My mither wad hae me weel married ; 
 
 Na, she tries a' she can 
 
 To get me a gudeman, 
 But as yet a' her plans hae miscarried. 
 To balls and to concerts she hies me. 
 And meikle braw finery buys me ; 
 
 But the men are sae shy. 
 
 They just glow'r and gang by. 
 There's nane has the sense yet to prize me. 
 
36 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 To ilka tea-party she tak's me, 
 
 And the theme o' her table-talk mak's me ; 
 
 But the folks leuk sae queer, 
 
 When she cries " Lizzy ! dear," 
 That their conduct most grievously racks me. 
 She haurls me aff to the coast there, 
 Expecting to mak' me the toast there ; 
 
 But somehow or ither, 
 
 A lass wi' her mither 
 Discovers her time is but lost there. 
 
 At the kirk, too, I'm made to attend her, 
 Not wholly heart-homage to render. 
 
 But in rich "silken sheen," 
 
 Just to see and be seen, 
 And to dazzle the gowks wi' my splendour ; 
 But for a' my sweet smirks and my glances. 
 There's never a wooer advances 
 
 To oxter me hame, 
 
 Wi' my dainty auld dame ; 
 Alas, now, how kittle my chance is ! 
 
 I'm sure I'm as good as my cousin, 
 Wha reckons her joes by the dizen ; 
 
 That besiege her in thrangs 
 
 Ilka gate that she gangs, 
 A' swarmin' like bumbees a-bizzin'. 
 And for beauty, pray, what's a' her share o't ? 
 Like me she could thole a hue mair o't ; 
 
 For it's granted by a'. 
 
 Though she dresses right braw, 
 She has wonderfu' little to spare o't. 
 
 But I trow I maun try a new plan yet, 
 And depend on myseV for a man yet ; 
 
 For my cousin Kate vows. 
 
 That some mithers are cowes, 
 That wad scaur the best chiel 'at e'er ran yet. 
 
Our A aid Uncle John. 37 
 
 An' gin I hae the luck to get married, 
 Gin I hae the luck to get married, 
 
 Wi' a husband to guide, 
 
 (Let Miss Kate then deride,) 
 I'll be proud that my point has been carried. 
 
 OUR AULD UNCLE JOHN. 
 Air — " When Autumn has laid her sickle by." 
 
 Our auld Uncle John is an odd sort o' chiel'. 
 As prim as the priest, an' as deep as the deil, 
 He's proud o' his person, his parts, and his pelf. 
 But sae closely encased in the mail-coat o' self. 
 That if saving frae skaith wad but cost a bawbee, 
 Even that for his mither he scarcely wad gi'e. 
 
 Though now near the fifty-third milestane o' life. 
 
 He ne'er could be tempted to think on a wife. 
 
 " They're fashions," quo' John, " and they're costly 
 
 beside, 
 Wi' their muffs, ruffs, and ruffles, their pinks and their 
 
 pride ; 
 Na, na," quo' our uncle, " nae woman for me. 
 The clack o' her clapper I never could dree." 
 
 Our auld Uncle John keeps a house by himsel', 
 
 But few, very few, ever tinkle his bell. 
 
 Except some poor victim to borrow or pay, 
 
 And wae on the debtor wha keeps na his day. 
 
 " Ye'll mind, Sir," quo' John, " that the rule is wi' me, 
 
 When due, ye maun pay me down plack an' bawbee." 
 
 Yet auld Uncle's biggin' is cosie and bein. 
 Where a' things are polish'd like ony new preen. 
 In ilk scouring dish you may view your ain face. 
 Ilk stool and ilk chair keeps its ain proper place. 
 Gin the carpet be crumpled, or hearth-rug ajee. 
 The moment it's noticed it righted maun be. 
 
38 Badger's Poems. 
 
 Gin the least puflf o' reek down the vent chance to 
 
 come, 
 He's up wi' the besom an' bannin' the lum ; 
 Should a flee just but light on his winnock or wa', 
 He's up wi' the dishclout to daud it awa', — 
 " Get out o' my house, ye vile vermin," cries he, 
 " Though I've meat for mysel', I ha'e nane for the flee." 
 
 Nae poor beggar bodies e'er darken his door, 
 The print o' their bauchels would sully his floor ; 
 The toon collies daurna snoke in as they pass, 
 E'en baudrons maun dight her saft feet on the bass. 
 "Ay, pussy ! ye'll no quat your raking," quo' he, 
 "But just clean your feet ere you venture to me." 
 
 Our youngsters wad visit him last new-year's day, — 
 He ne'er bade them welcome, nor wish'd them to stay, 
 But dealt them a crust frae a hard penny brick. 
 Saying, " Now, weans, our cheese, ye see, winna cut 
 
 thick ; 
 Ein hame to yer mither, and tell her frae me, 
 I wantna your visits, — I've naething to gie." 
 
 Our auld Uncle John, when he sleeps his last sleep, 
 What friend will lament him — what kinsman will 
 
 weep ? 
 Poor pussy may miss him, but that will be a'. 
 And her he just keeps to fricht mousie awa' ; 
 Weel — e'en lat him gang, never mair here to be, 
 A tear for his loss ne'er shall moisten an e'e. 
 
 HIGHLAND POLITICIANS. 
 
 Come, Tougali, tell me whit you'll thocht 
 Apout this Bill Eeform, man, 
 
 Tat's preeding sic a muckle steer, 
 An' like to raise ta storm, man ; 
 
Highland FoUticians. 39 
 
 For noo ta peoples meet in troves, 
 
 On both sides o' ta Tweed, man, 
 An' spoket speechums loud an' lang, 
 
 An' very pauld inteet, man. 
 
 'Teed, Tonald, lad, she'll no pe ken, 
 
 For she's nae politish, man. 
 But for their speechums loud an' lang, 
 
 She wadna gie ta sneesh, man ; 
 For gin she'll thocht ta thing was richt. 
 
 She wad her beetock traw, man. 
 An' feught like tamn — till ance ta Bill 
 
 Was made coot Gospel law, man. 
 
 Hoot toot, man, Tougall ! tat micht do 
 
 When Shordie Twa did ring, man. 
 An' her fore-faiters trew ta tirk, 
 
 To mak' teir Shairlie king, man ; 
 But tirks, an' pistols, an' claymores, 
 
 Pe no for me nor you, man ; 
 Tey'U a' pe out o' fashions gane 
 
 Since pluity Waterloo, man. 
 
 Last nicht she'll went to pay her rent, 
 
 Ta laird gie her ta tram, man. 
 An' tell her tat this Bill Eefor-m 
 
 Was shust a nonsense tamn, man ! 
 Pe no for honest mans, she'll say, 
 
 Pe meddle 'ffairs o' State, man, 
 But leave those matter's to him's Gkace, 
 
 Him's Glory, an' ta great man. 
 
 She'll talk 'pout Eevolations, too, 
 
 Pe pad an' wicked thing, man. 
 Wad teuk awa' ta 'stinctions a', 
 
 Frae peggar down to king, man ; 
 Nae doubts, nae doubts, her nainsel' said, 
 
 But yet tere's something worse, man. 
 To Bevolations tat will teuk 
 
 Ta puir man's cow nor horse, man. 
 
4:0 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 An' ten she'll wish ta Ministers 
 
 Pe kicket f rae teir place, man ; 
 Och hon, och hon ! her nainsel said, 
 
 Tat wad pe wofu' case, man ; 
 For gin ta Ministers pe fa', 
 
 Precentors neist maun gang, man — 
 Syne wha wad in ta Punker stood. 
 
 An' lilt ta godly sang, man ? 
 
 Och ! ten ta laird flee in a rage. 
 
 An' sinfu'deil * me ca', man — 
 Me tell him no pe understood 
 
 What him will spoke ava, man ; 
 Ta sinfu'deil ! — na, na, she'll say, 
 
 She'll no pelang tat clan, man, 
 Hersel's a true an' trusty Grant, 
 
 As goot as nitter man, man. 
 
 But, Tougall, lad ! my 'pinion is, 
 
 An' tat she'll freely gie, man, 
 Ta laird pe fear tat this reform 
 
 Will petter you an' me, man ; 
 For like some ither lairds, she still 
 
 Wad ride upon our pack, man ; 
 But fait ! she'll maype saw ta day, 
 
 Pe tell him 'nitter crack, man. 
 
 For Shames tafeeter t say this Bill 
 
 Will mak' ta rents pe fa', man ; 
 Pe mak' ta sneesh an' whisky cheap, 
 
 Ta gauger chase awa', man ; 
 An' ne'er let lairds nor factors more 
 
 Pe do ta poor man's harm, man. 
 Nor purn him's house apoon him's head. 
 
 An' trive him aff ta farm, man. 
 
 Weel, Tonald ! gin I'll thochtit that, 
 Reformer I will turn, man, 
 
 * Infidel. t James the Weaver. 
 
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. 41 
 
 For wi' their 'pressions an' their scorns, 
 
 My very pluit will purn, man : 
 Och, shust ta hae ta tay apout, 
 
 Wi' some tat I ■will ken, man ; 
 Tey'U prunt my house to please ta laird. 
 
 Cot ! let them try't again, man ! 
 
 SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN, 
 Air — " The Rose of AUandale." 
 
 How brightly beams the bonnie moon, 
 
 Frae out the azure sky ; 
 While ilka little star aboon 
 
 Seems sparkling bright wi' joy. 
 How calm the eve ! how blest the hour ! 
 
 How soft the sylvan scene ! 
 How lit to meet thee — lovely flower ! 
 
 Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. 
 
 Now, let us wander through the broom, 
 
 And o'er the flowery lea ; 
 While simmer wafts her rich perfume. 
 
 Frae yonder hawthorn tree : 
 There on yon mossy bank we'll rest, 
 
 Where we've sae aften been, 
 Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast, 
 
 Sweet Bet of Aberdeen .! 
 
 How sweet to view that face so meek — 
 That dark expressive eye, — 
 
 To kiss that lovely blashing cheek, — 
 Those lips of coral dye ! 
 
 But O ! to hear thy Seraph strains. 
 Thy maiden sighs between. 
 
 Makes rapture thrill through all my veins- 
 Sweet Bet of Aberdeen ! 
 
42 Badger's Poems. 
 
 ! what to us is wealth or rank ? 
 
 Or what is pomp or power ? 
 More dear this velvet mossy bank, — 
 
 This blest ecstatic hour ! 
 I'd covet not the Monarch's throne, 
 
 Nor diamond-studded Queen, 
 While blest wi' thee, and thee alone. 
 
 Sweet Bet of Aberdeen. 
 
 THE NAILER'S WIPE. 
 Air-" WilUe Wastle." 
 
 There lives a Nailer wast the raw, 
 
 Wi' brain o' peat, an' skull o' putty ; 
 He has a wife — gude saff us a' ! 
 A randy royt ca'd Barmy Betty ! 
 O sic a scauld is Betty! 
 Och hey ! how bauld is Betty ! 
 Xantippe's sel', wi' snash sae snell. 
 Was but a lamb compared wi' Betty. 
 
 An' but she's a grousome quean, 
 Wi' face like ony big bass fiddle, 
 Twa flaming torches are her een, 
 
 Her teeth could snap in bits — a griddle. 
 what a wicht is Betty ! 
 sic a fricht is Betty ! 
 Wi' fiery een, an' furious mien. 
 The queen o' terrors sure is Betty ! 
 
 Ye've seen upon a rainy night, 
 
 Upon the dark brown clouds refleckit, 
 Clyde Airn Warks' grim an' sullen light — 
 Then, that's her brow when frowns bedeck it. 
 O what a brow has Betty ! 
 sic a cowe is Betty ! 
 Her vera glow'r turns sweet to sour, 
 Sae baleful is the power o' Betty. 
 
The Nailer's Wife. 43 
 
 It had been good for you and me, 
 
 Had mither Eve been sic a beauty, 
 She soon wad garr'd auld Saunders flee 
 Back to his dungeon dark an' sooty. 
 what a grin has Betty ! 
 O how like Sin is Betty ! 
 The auld "foul thief " wad seek relief, 
 In his maist darksome den frae Betty. 
 
 "Whene'er ye see a furious storm, 
 
 Uprooting trees, an' lums down smashin'. 
 Ye then may some idea form 
 
 Of what she's like when in a passion. 
 O what a barmy Betty ! 
 sic a stormy Betty ! 
 The wind an' rain may lash the plain. 
 But a' in vain they strive wi' Betty. 
 
 For then the weans she cuflfs and kicks, 
 
 In fau't or no, it mak's nae matter' ; 
 While trenchers, bowls, and candlesticks, 
 Flee through the house wi' hailstane blatter. 
 what a hag is Betty ! 
 sic a plague is Betty ! 
 Dog, cat, an' mouse a' flee the house, 
 A-wondering what the deuce means Betty. 
 
 Her tongue — but to describe its power 
 
 Surpasses far baith speech an' writing ; 
 The Carron blast could never roar 
 Like her, when she begins a flyting. 
 what a tongue has Betty ! 
 siccan lungs has Betty ! 
 The blast may tire, the name expire, 
 But nought can tire the tongue o' Betty. 
 
MY GUDEMAN. 
 Air — " Locli-Erroch Side." 
 
 My gudeman says aye to me, 
 Says aye to me, says aye to me ; 
 My gudeman says aye to me, 
 
 Come, cuddle in my bosie ! 
 Though wearin' auld, he's blyther still 
 Than mony a swankie youthfu' chiel, 
 An' a' his aim's to see me weel. 
 
 And keep me snug an' cozie. 
 
 For though my cheeks where roses grew, 
 Hae tint their lively glowing hue. 
 My Johnnie's just as kind an' true 
 
 As if I still were rosy. 
 Our weel-worn gear he never drank, 
 He never lived aboon his rank, 
 Yet wi' a neebour blythe and frank. 
 
 He could be as jocose aye. 
 
 We hae a hame, guid halesome cheer, 
 Contentment, peace, a conscience clear. 
 And rosy bairns, to us mair dear 
 
 Than treasures o' Potosi ; 
 Their minds are formed in virtue's school, 
 Their fauts are checked wi' temper cool. 
 For my gudeman mak's this his rule, 
 
 To keep frae hasty blows, aye. 
 
 It ne'er was siller gart us wed. 
 
 Youth, health, and love were a' we had, 
 
 Possess'd o' these, we toil'd fu' glad. 
 
 To shun want's bitter throes, aye ; 
 We've had our cares, we've had our toils, 
 We've had our bits o' troubles whiles, 
 Yet, what o' that ! my Johnny's smiles 
 
 Shed joy o'er a' our woes, aye. 
 
The Lovely Lass of Inverkip. 45 
 
 Wi' mutual aid we've trudged through life, 
 A kind gudeman, a cheerfu' wife ; 
 And on we'll jog, unvexed by strife, 
 
 Towards our journey's close, aye ; 
 And when we're stretched upon our bier, 
 may our souls, sae faithfu' here. 
 Together spring to yonder sphere. 
 
 Where love's pure river flows, aye. 
 
 THE LOVELY LASS OF INVEEKIP. 
 
 O'er Cowal hills the sinking sun 
 
 Was bidding Clutha's vale guid-day. 
 And, from his gorgeous golden throne. 
 
 Was shedding evening's mildest ray. 
 As round the Cloch I bent my way, 
 
 With buoyant heart and bounding skip. 
 To meet my lass, at gloaming grey, 
 
 Amang the shaws of Inverkip. 
 
 We met — and what an eve of bliss ! 
 
 A richer, sweeter, never flew, 
 With mutual vow, with melting kiss, 
 
 And ardent throb of bosoms true ; 
 The bees, 'mid flowers of freshest hue, 
 
 Would cease their honeyed sweets to sip. 
 If they her soft sweet lips but knew — 
 
 The lovely lass of Inverkip. 
 
 Her ebon locks, her hazel eye. 
 
 Her placid brow, so fair and meek, 
 Her artless smile, her balmy sigh, 
 
 Her bonnie, blushing, modest cheek — 
 All these a stainless mind bespeak, 
 
 As pure as is the lily's tip ; 
 Then, 0, may sorrow's breath so bleak 
 
 Ne'er blight my Bud of Inverkip. 
 
SIR BENJAMIN BUFFSTRAP.* 
 
 Air, — ' ' Black Jock. ' ' 
 
 Have you heard of Sir Benjamin BuflFstrap, the Broad, 
 That knight of the razor so outre and odd — 
 
 The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar 1 
 Sure a sharper short shaver has seldom been seen, 
 "With his buffstrap so black and his blades all so keen, 
 And his suds in his soap-box as white as the snow — 
 How closely the crop of the chin he can mow ! 
 
 The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar. 
 
 Though a barbarous barber Sir Benjamin be, 
 Yet, like his neighbour shaver, no Savage t is he. 
 
 The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar : 
 For all his barbarities tend but to smooth 
 The wrinkles of age down to dimples of youth, 
 While the blood of his victims he studiously spares, 
 And only cuts off stiff rebellious hairs — 
 
 The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar. 
 
 This barbarous barber's a wonderful wight, 
 
 For his breadth is exactly the length of his height I — 
 
 The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar ; 
 And his broad bluffy face is so pregnant with glee, 
 And his wild wit comes flashing so fearless and free, 
 That to see and to hear him, I'm certain would make 
 A whole congregation of Quakers' sides ache — 
 
 The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar. 
 
 * This clever, little, facetious, bustling personage, was a particular 
 friend of the author ; was considered a great accession to every social 
 party — and was as ready at repartee as the celebrated Jemmy Wright. 
 He resided at Barrowield bar, Bridgeton— was barber, toll-man, 
 spirit-dealer, farmer of, ladle dues, draff and sand contractor, punster, 
 and poet. The term "barbarous" has only an alliterative application ; 
 the worthy polisher of chins was as smooth and agreeable in his man- 
 ners as the edge of his own blades. 
 
 + Savage was the name of a neighbour strap. 
 
I Had a Hat, I Had Nae Mair. 47 
 
 'Tis said, too, that he can disguise so the truth, 
 As to give to old age the resemblance of youth — 
 
 The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar ; 
 Can make the dark countenance lively and fair, 
 And give the bald pate an exub'rancs of hair ; 
 Nay, more — by the help of his combs and his curls, 
 Can transform mouldy maids into gay giddy girls — 
 
 The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar. 
 
 Long may this sharp shaver successfully shave 
 The chin of the just man — the cheek of the knave — 
 
 The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar ; 
 But while light sweeps his hand o'er the honest man's 
 
 chin, 
 Ne'er causing wry faces, nor scratching the skin, 
 May the cheek of the villain severely be stung 
 By the rough rugged razor, or keen cutting tongue, 
 
 Of the barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar. 
 
 I HAD A HAT, I HAD NAE MAIR. 
 
 AlB, — " / had a horse, I had nae mair." 
 
 I HAD a hat, I had nae mair, 
 
 I gat it frae the hatter ; 
 My hat was smash'd, my skull laid bare, 
 
 Ae night when on the batter ; 
 And sae I thocht me on a plan, 
 
 Whereby to mend the matter — 
 Just turn at ance a sober man. 
 
 And tak' to drinking water. 
 
 My plan I quickly put in force, 
 Yea, stuck till't most sincerely, 
 
 And now I drive my gig and horse, 
 And hae an income yearly. 
 
48 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 But, had I still kept boozing on, 
 'Twa'd been anither matter, 
 
 My credit, cash, and claes had gone, 
 In tatter after tatter. 
 
 My wife, perhaps, a worthless pest, 
 
 My weans half-starved and duddy ; 
 And I, mysel', at very best, 
 
 Gaun wi' an auld coal cuddie ; 
 Wi' scarce a stick in a' the house. 
 
 Or spoon, or bowl, or platter, 
 Or milk, or meal, to feed a mouse. 
 
 Or blanket save a tatter. 
 
 Now, Gude be praised, I've peace o' mind, 
 
 Clear head and health o' body, 
 A thrifty wifie, cosh and kind, 
 
 And bairnies plump and ruddy. 
 Hence, I'd advise ilk weirdless wight, 
 
 Wha likes the gill-stoup's clatter, 
 To try my plan this very night, 
 
 And tak' to drinking water. 
 
 O JEANIE, WHY THAT LOOK SAE OAULDt 
 
 " Jeanie ! why that look sae cauld 
 
 And withering to me now ! 
 And wherefore scowls that cloud o' gloom 
 
 Upon thy bonnie brow 1 
 What hae I said, what hae I done, 
 
 To draw sic looks frae thee ? 
 Is this thy love — thy fond regard, 
 
 Sae lately pledged to me ? " 
 
 " Jamie ! spier na that at me, 
 
 But guess the cause yoursel'. 
 Ye thocht, yestreen, ye werena seen 
 
 Alang wi' bonnie Bell ? 
 
Baith Sides o' the Picture. 49 
 
 Your arm enclaspit round her waist, 
 
 Your cheek to her's was laid, 
 And mony a melting kiss she gat 
 
 While row'd within your plaid." 
 
 " lassie dear ! why vex yoursel' 
 
 Wi' jealous thochts and mean, 
 For I was twenty miles and mair 
 
 Awa' frae hame yestreen t 
 I gaed to see my sister dear — 
 
 A gift she sent to thee ; 
 And see — thou maun this necklace wear 
 
 That day thou'rt wed to me." 
 
 " And are you then still true to me ? 
 
 I'll ne'er forgi'e mysel' ; 
 what could tempt me to believe 
 
 You'd quit your Jean for Bell ! 
 But there's my hand — I'll never mair 
 
 Dream foolish thochts o' thee, 
 But love wi' a' a woman's love, 
 
 Till light forsake mine e'e." 
 
 BAITH SIDES 0' THE PICTURE. 
 
 AiB, — " Willie was a Wanton Wag." 
 
 Gin ye hae pence, ye will hae sense. 
 
 Gin ye hae nought, ye will hae nane, 
 When I had cash, I was thought gash. 
 
 And my advice by a' was ta'en ; 
 The rich and poor then thrang'd my door. 
 
 The very dog cam' for his bane. 
 My purse, my ha', were free to a'. 
 
 And I was roosed by ilka ane. 
 
50 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 Guid freends, and true, I had enow, 
 
 Wha to oblige me aye were fain, 
 Gin I but said, " I want your aid," 
 
 I didna need to say't again. 
 Whene'er I spak', and tauld my crack. 
 
 Loud plaudits I was sure to gain ; 
 For ilka word, howe'er absurd, 
 
 Was for undoubted wisdom ta'en. 
 
 At catch or glee, I bore the gree, 
 
 For music's powers were a' my ain ; 
 And when I sang, the hale house rang 
 
 Wi' rapturous encores again. 
 At pun or jest I shone the best. 
 
 For nane had sic a fertile brain ; 
 My jibes and jokes, my satire strokes. 
 
 Were — like my wine — a' kindly ta'en. 
 
 But when I brak', and gaed to wrack, 
 
 Ilk gowden prospect fairly gane, 
 My judgment wi' my wealth did flee. 
 
 And a' my sense was frae me ta'en : 
 Nor rich, nor poor, cam' near my door, 
 
 My freends a' vanished ane by ane ; 
 Nor word, nor crack, was worth a plack, 
 
 For I was listened to by nane. 
 
 My jests and wit, they wadna hit, 
 
 My singing met wi' cauld disdain, 
 The distant look or dry rebuke, 
 
 Was a' that e'er I could obtain. 
 But, thanks to Gude, I've fortitude. 
 
 Adversity's sour cup to drain, 
 And ae true freen', as e'er was seen, 
 
 And that's the Dog that shares my bane. 
 
IT'S NO THAT THOU'RT BONNIE. 
 
 It's no that thou'rt bonnie, it's no that thou'rt braw, 
 
 It's no that thy skin has the purenesS o' snaw, 
 
 It's no that thy form is perfection itsel', 
 
 That mak's my heart feel what my tongue canna tell ; 
 
 But oh ! it's the soul beaming out frae thine e'e, 
 
 That mak's thee sae dear and sae lovely to me. 
 
 It's pleasant to look on that mild blushing face, 
 Sae sweetly adorn'd wi' ilk feminine grace, 
 It's joyous to gaze on these tresses sae bright, 
 O'ershading a forehead sae smooth and sae white ; 
 But to dwell on the glances that dart frae thine e'e, 
 Jeanie ! it's evendown rapture to me. 
 
 That form may be wasted by lingering decay, 
 The bloom of that cheek may be wither'd away. 
 Those gay gowden ringlets that yield sic delight. 
 By the cauld breath o' time may be changed into white; 
 But the soul's fervid flashes that brighten thine e'e. 
 Are the offspring o' heaven, and never can dee. 
 
 Let me plough the rough ocean, nor e'er touch the 
 
 shore, 
 Let me freeze on the coast of the bleak Labrador, 
 Let me pant 'neath the glare of a vertical sun. 
 Where no trees spread their branches, nor streams ever 
 
 run ; 
 Even there, my dear Jeanie, still happy I'd be, 
 If bless'd wi' the light o' thy heavenly e'e. 
 
 THE PEASANT'S FIEESIDE. 
 
 AlB, — " For lack o' gowd." 
 
 How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside, 
 Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside, 
 
52 Badger's Poems. 
 
 Wi' his wifie, blythe and free, and his bairnie on her 
 
 knee, 
 Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside. 
 Nae cares o' State disturb him, by his ain fireside, 
 Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside, 
 In his elbow chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind, 
 To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside. 
 
 When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside. 
 That health, content, and peace, surround his ain fireside, 
 A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles, 
 At their harmless pranks and wiles, around his ain fire- 
 side. 
 And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside. 
 In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside, 
 Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd, 
 He informs ilk youthfu' mind about his ain fireside. 
 
 When the shivering orphan poor, draws near his ain 
 
 fireside, 
 And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fire- 
 side, 
 She's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feetj 
 While she's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside. 
 When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside, 
 And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside, 
 With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days, 
 As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside. 
 
 And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fire- 
 side, 
 What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside, 
 With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his 
 
 prop. 
 Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside. 
 O may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside. 
 Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside, 
 May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest 
 
 breath, 
 Then we'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside. 
 
HOUT AWA', JOHNNY, LAD ! 
 
 HouT awa', Johnny, lad ! what mak's ye flatter me ? 
 Why wi' your praises sae meikle bespatter me 1 
 Why sae incessantly deave and beclatter me, 
 
 Teasing me mair than a body can bide ? 
 Can I believe, when ye " angel " and " goddess " me, 
 
 That ye're in earnest to mak' me your bride ? 
 Say, can a woman o' sense or yet modesty, 
 ^ Listen to talk frae the truth sae far wide t 
 
 Few are the flatterer's claims to sincerity, 
 Loud though he boast o' his honour and verity ; 
 Truth frae his lips is a wonderfu' rarity, 
 
 Words by his actions are sadly belied ! 
 Woman he deems but a toy to be sported wi', 
 
 Dawted or spurned at, as caprice may guide ; 
 Blooming a while to be dallied and courted wi', 
 
 Then to be flung like auld lumber aside ! 
 
 True love has seldom the gift o' loquacity, 
 Lips to express it, aft want the capacity ; 
 Wha, then, can trust in a wooer's veracity, 
 
 Whase butter'd words o'er his tongue saftly slide ? 
 What are love's tell-tales, that give it sweet utterance, 
 
 Wherein the maiden may safely confide ? 
 What — but the glances, the sighs and heart-flutterings, 
 
 Of the loved youth who takes truth for his guide ? 
 
 Yet, though I've spoken wi' seeming severity, 
 
 Made observations wi' prudish asperity, 
 
 I'd be the last ane to geek, or to sneer at ye. 
 
 Kenning how little is made by fause pride. 
 Could we but then understand ane anither, then 
 
 Soon wad my bosom the. matter decide ; 
 Leaving my worthy auld father and mither, then 
 
 Hey, Johnny, lad ! I'd become your ain bride. 
 
COME, BILLIES, LET'S STEER FOR OUR 
 HAMMOCKS. 
 
 AlB — " Rattlin' rowrvn' Willie." 
 
 Come, billies, let's steer for our hammocks, 
 
 Consider the nicht's growing late, 
 Fy rax us our plaids and our crummocks, 
 
 It's time we were takin' the gate ; 
 Our dawties at hame will be weary, 
 
 Wi' waiting upon us sae lang. 
 Then why keep them lanely and eerie 
 
 While we are enjoying our sang ? 
 
 It's guid to be social and canty. 
 
 It's cheering to coup a£F our horn — 
 But makin' owre free wi' our aunty * 
 
 Is sure to bring trouble the morn ; 
 For aunty's a dangerous kimmer. 
 
 And no to be dallied wi' aye, 
 She'll turn to bleak winter our simmer. 
 
 And sprinkle our hafifets wi' grey. 
 
 Come now, we ha'e a' gotten ready, 
 
 Na, laird, no anither drap mair, 
 Weel, Johnny, ye're foremost — be steady. 
 
 And mind there's a turn in the stair — 
 Shoot out your best fit now before ye. 
 
 And cannily catch ilka step, 
 Ae stagger, my blade, and we're owre ye, 
 
 Syne wha your fat carcase will kep ? 
 
 Now, since we're a' landed on Terra, 
 
 Let ilk tak' his several road, 
 Enough we may manage to carry, 
 
 Owre meikle's a troublesome load. 
 
 * " Aunty," — the bottle — a debauch. It is a common saying, when 
 I person is seen in liquor — "He's been seeing his aunty." 
 
fibre's to You Again. 55 
 
 Gude e'en — ilka man to his dearie, 
 
 As fast as he's able to gang — 
 To meet a wife smiling and cheerie, 
 
 Is ten times mair sweet than a sang. 
 
 HERE'S TO YOU AGAIN. 
 
 kXB.—" ToAdlm' hame." 
 
 Let votaries o' Bacchus o' wine make their boast, 
 And drink till it mak's them as dead's a bed-post, 
 A drap o' maut broo I wad far rather pree, 
 And a rosy-faced landlord's the Bacchus for me. 
 Then I'll toddle butt, and I'll toddle ben, 
 And let them drink at wine wha nae better do ken. 
 
 Your wine it may do for the bodies far south. 
 
 But a Scotsman likes something that bites i' the mouth. 
 
 And whisky's the thing that can do't to a Tee, 
 
 Then Scotsmen and whisky will ever agree ; 
 
 For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben, 
 
 Sae lang we've been nurst on't we hardly can spean. 
 
 It's now thretty years since I first took the drap. 
 
 To moisten my carcase, and keep it in sap, 
 
 An' tho' what I've drunk might hae slockened the sun, 
 
 I fin' I'm as dry as when first I begun ; 
 
 For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben, 
 
 I'm nae sooner slockened than drouthy again. 
 
 Your douse folk aft ca' me a tipplin' auld sot, 
 
 A worm to a still, — a sand bed, — and what not ; 
 
 They cry that my hand wad ne'er bide frae my mouth. 
 
 But, oddsake ! they never consider my drouth ; 
 
 Yet I'll toddle butt, an' I'll toddle ben. 
 
 An' laugh at their nonsense — wha nae better ken. 
 
56 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Some hard grippin' mortals wha deem themsel's wise 
 
 A glass o' good whisky affect to despise, 
 
 Poor scurvy-souled wretches — they're no very blate, 
 
 Besides, .let me tell them, they're foes to the State ; 
 
 For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben, 
 
 Gin folk wadna drink, how could Government fen' 1 
 
 Yet wae on the tax that mak's whisky sae dear. 
 An' wae on the ganger sae strict and severe ; 
 Had I but my will o't, I'd soon let you see, 
 That whisky, like water, to a' should be free ; 
 For I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben, 
 An' I'd mak' it to rin like the burn after rain. 
 
 What signifies New'rday ? — a mock at the best. 
 
 That tempts but poor bodies, and leaves them unblest, 
 
 For a ance-a-year fuddle I'd scarce gie a strae. 
 
 Unless that ilk year were as short as a day ; 
 
 Then I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben, 
 
 Wi' the hearty het pint, an' the canty black hen. 
 
 I ne'er was inclined to lay by ony cash, 
 
 Weel kennin' it only wad breed me mair fash ; 
 
 But aye when I had it, I let it gang free. 
 
 An' wad toss for a gill wi' my hindmost bawbee ; 
 
 For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben, 
 
 I ne'er kent the use o't, but only to spen'. 
 
 Had siller been made in the kist to lock by, 
 It ne'er wad been round, but as square as a die ; 
 Whereas, by its shape, ilka body may see. 
 It aye was designed it should circulate free ; 
 Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben. 
 An' aye whan we get it, we'll part wi't again. 
 
 I ance was persuaded to "put in the pin," 
 But foul fa' the bit o't ava wad bide in. 
 For whisky's a thing so bewitchingly stout, 
 The first time I smelt it, the pin it lap out ; 
 Then I toddled butt, an' I toddled ben. 
 And I vowed I wad ne'er be advised sae again. 
 
The Indian Cottager's Song. 57 
 
 leeze me on whisky ! it gies us new life, 
 
 It mak's us aye cadgy to cuddle the wife ; 
 
 It kindles a spark in the breast o' the cauld, 
 
 And it mak's the rank coward courageously bauld ; 
 
 Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben. 
 
 An' we'll coup aff our glasses, — " Here's to you again ! " 
 
 THE INDIAN COTTAGER'S SONG. 
 
 Founded upon St. Pierre's tale of "The Indian Cottage," and 
 adapted to an Hindostan air. Arranged and harmonised by E. A. 
 Smith. 
 
 Tho' exiled afar from the gay scenes of Delhi, 
 
 Although my proud kindred no more shall I see, 
 I've found a sweet home in this thick-wooded valley, 
 Beneath the cool shades of the green banyan tree ; 
 'Tis here my loved Paria * and I dwell together. 
 Though shunned by the world, truly blest in each other. 
 And thou, loyely boy ! lisping " father " and " mother," 
 Art more than the world to my Paria and me. 
 
 How dark seemed my fate, when we first met each 
 other, 
 
 My own fatal pile ready waiting for me ; 
 While incense I burned on the grave of my mother. 
 
 And knew that myself t the next victim would be ; 
 'Twas then that my Paria, as one sent from heaven. 
 To whom a commission of mercy is given. 
 Shed peace through this bosom, with deep anguish 
 riven, 
 
 To new life, to love, and to joy waking me. 
 
 * The most degraded among the Indian castes ; a Faria is one whom 
 none belonging to other castes will deign to recognise. 
 
 t The person here is supposed to have been the widow of a young 
 Hindoo, condemned by the barbarous laws of the Brahmins to be 
 burned alive on the funeral pile of her husband. 
 
58 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 He wooed me with flowers, * to express the affection 
 
 Which sympathy woke in his bosom for me ; 
 My poor bleeding heart clung to him for protection j 
 
 I wept — while I vowed with my Paria to flee. 
 My mind, too, from darkness and ignorance freeing, 
 He taught to repose on that merciful Being, 
 The Author of Nature, all-wise and all-seeing, 
 Whose arm still protecteth my Paria and me. 
 
 Now safely we dwell in this cot of our rearing, 
 
 Contented, industrious, cheerful, and free ; 
 To each other still more endeared and endearing, 
 
 While Heaven sheds its smiles on my Paria and me. 
 Our garden supplies us with fruits and with flowers, 
 The sun marks our time, and our birds sing the hours, 
 And thou, darling boy ! shooting forth thy young 
 powers, 
 Completest the bliss of my Paria and me. 
 
 JUNE AND JANUAEY. 
 
 AiB — " Willie was a Wanton Wag." 
 
 Frosty-bearded warlock body. 
 
 Wife to you I'll never be ; 
 Rather wad I wed the wuddie. 
 
 Or a runkled maiden dee ; 
 Gang your wa's, an' seek some ither — 
 
 Ane that's weary o' her life, 
 For ye're liker Death's half-brither. 
 
 Than a man that wants a wife. 
 
 What care I for a' your grandeur. 
 Gear an' lands, and houses bfaw ? 
 
 Sapless rung ! the witch o' Endor 
 Scarce wad taen you wi' them a' ! 
 
 * The mode of courtship in many eastern countries, especially 
 among the Hindoos. 
 
The Peerless Base of Kent. 69 
 
 Troth, ye might hae hain'd your siller 
 That ye've spent on fripperies vain ; 
 
 Dotard fool ! to think a tailor 
 E'er could mak' you young again ! 
 
 When you gat your dandy stays on, 
 
 Was't to mak' you trig an' sma' ; 
 Or for fear that ye might gyzen. 
 
 And in staves asunder fa' ? 
 Ye wad tak' me to your bosom, 
 
 Buy me braws an' ilk thing nice ! 
 Gude preserve's ! I'd soon be frozen, 
 
 Clasp'd by sic a sherd o' ice ! 
 
 Hoot ! haud aflf — ye're quite ridic'lous 
 
 Wi' your pow as white as snaw, 
 An' your drumstick-shanks sae feckless, 
 
 Aping youth o' twenty-twa ; 
 Wha could thole your senseless boasting. 
 
 Squeaking voice, an' ghaistlike grin ? 
 Doited driveller ! cease your boasting, 
 
 Else gie ower your fulsome din. 
 
 Wha could sit an' hear a story 
 
 'Bout a bosom's burning pains, 
 Frae an auld " Memento mori," 
 
 Sand-glass, skull, an' twa cross banes 1 
 But for fear my scorn should cool ye. 
 
 Hark ! I'll tell you what I'll do. 
 When December's wed to July, 
 
 There's my Jit, I'll then tak' you. 
 
 THE PEERLESS EOSE OF KENT. 
 
 When beauty, youth, and innocence. 
 
 In one fair form are blent, 
 And that fair form our vestal Queen, 
 
 The peerless Rose of Kent, 
 
60 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 Say, Where's the Briton's heart so cold — 
 
 The Briton's soul so dead, 
 As not to pour out ardent prayer 
 
 For blessings on her head ? 
 
 This is the day, — the joyous day, — 
 
 That sees our lady crown'd. 
 Hence, may not one disloyal heart, 
 
 In Albion's Isles be found ; 
 But may she find in every breast 
 
 An undisputed throne, 
 And o'er a gallant people reign, 
 
 Whose hearts are all her own. 
 
 For ne'er did woman's hand more fair 
 
 The regal sceptre hold, 
 And ne'er did brow more spotless wear 
 
 The coronal of gold ; 
 And ne'er beneath the purple robe 
 
 Did purer bosom beat ; 
 So ne'er may truer lieges kneel 
 
 A lovelier Queen to greet. 
 
 May every blessing from above, 
 
 On Kent's fair Eose descend, 
 While wisdom, dignity, and grace. 
 
 On all her steps attend. 
 Still may she wear fair Virtue's bloom. 
 
 Throughout a happy reign, 
 And long be hail'd the " Queen of Isles "- 
 
 Fair Mistress of the Main ! 
 
 THE EOYAL UNION. 
 
 There's joy in the Lowlands and Highlands, 
 There's joy in the hut and the ha' ; 
 The pride o' auld Britain's fair islands, 
 Is woo'd and wedded an' a' : 
 
The Queen's Anthem. 61 
 
 She's got the dear lad o' her choosing — 
 A lad that's baith gallant and braw ; 
 And lang may the knot be a-loosing 
 That firmly has buckled the twa. 
 
 Woo'd an' wedded an' a', 
 Buckled an' bedded an' a', 
 The loveliest lassie in Britain 
 Is woo'd an' wedded an' a'. 
 
 May heaven's all-bountiful Giver 
 Shower down his best gifts on the twa ; 
 May love round their couch ever hover, 
 Their hearts close and closer to draw. 
 May never misfortune o'ertake them, 
 Nor blast o' adversity blaw ; 
 But every new morning awake them 
 To pleasures unsullied as snaw. 
 
 Woo'd an' wedded an' a', etc. 
 
 Then here's to our Queen an' her Marrow, 
 May happiness aye be their fa', 
 May discord and sickness and sorrow 
 Be banished for ever their ha'. 
 So, fy let us coup aff our bicker, 
 And toast meikle joy to the twa. 
 And may they, till life's latest flicker, 
 Together in harmony draw. 
 
 Woo'd and wedded an' a', etc. 
 
 THE QUEEN'S ANTHEM. 
 
 God bless our lovely Queen, 
 With cloudless days serene ; — 
 
 God save our Queen. 
 From perils, pangs and woes, 
 
62 Badger's Poems. 
 
 Secret and open foes, 
 Till her last evening close, 
 God save our Queen. 
 
 From flattery's poisoned streams ;- 
 From faction's fiendish schemes, 
 
 God shield our Queen ; — 
 With men her throne surround, 
 Firm, active, zealous, sound, 
 Just, righteous, sage, profound ; — 
 
 God save our Queen. 
 
 Long may she live to prove 
 Her faithful subject's love ; — 
 
 God bless our Queen. 
 Grant her an Alfred's zeal. 
 Still for the Commonweal, 
 Her people's wounds to heal ; — 
 
 God save our Queen. 
 
 Watch o'er her steps in youth : — 
 In the straight paths of truth 
 
 Lead our young Queen ; 
 And as years onward glide. 
 Succour, protect and guide 
 Albion's hope — Albion's pride ; — 
 
 God save our Queen. 
 
 Free from war's sanguine stain. 
 Bright be Victoria's reign ; — 
 ' God guard our Queen. 
 
 Safe from the traitor's wiles. 
 Long may the Queen of Isles 
 Cheer millions with her smiles ; — 
 God save our Queen. 
 
PETER M'KAY. 
 
 A lie sober advice to ane drucken Soutar in Perth. 
 Air — " Come under my Plaidie." 
 
 Peter M'Kay ! Peter M'Kay ! 
 
 Gin ye'd do like the brutes, only drink when ye're dry. 
 
 Ye might gather cash yet, grow gawcy and gash yet. 
 
 And carry your noddle Perth-Provost-pow-high ; 
 
 But poor drucken deevil, ye're wed to the evil 
 
 Sae closely, that naething can sever the tie ; 
 
 Wi' boring, and boosing, and snoring, and snoozing. 
 
 Ye emulate him that inhabits — the stye. 
 
 O Peter M'Kay ! O Peter M'Kay ! 
 
 Pm tauld that ye drink ilka browster wife dry ; — 
 
 When down ye get sitting, ye ne'er think o' flitting, 
 
 While cogie or caup can a dribble supply ;— 
 
 That, waur than a jaw-box, your monstrous maw soaks 
 
 Whate'er is poured in till't, while " give " is the cry ; 
 
 And when a' is drunk up, ye bundle your trunk up, 
 
 And bid, like the sloth, the bare timmer good-bye. 
 
 Peter M'Kay ! Peter M'Kay ! 
 
 Gang hame to your awls, and your lingels apply, 
 
 Ca' in self-respect, man, to keep you correct, man — 
 
 The task may be irksome — at ony rate try ; 
 
 But gin ye keep drinking, and dozing, and blinking, 
 
 Be-clouding your reason, God's light from on high, 
 
 Then Peter, depend on't, ye'll soon make an end on't, 
 
 And close your career 'neath a cauld wint'ry sky. 
 
 MEET ME, LOVE, BY MOONLIGHT. 
 Air, — " This is no mine ain hoose." 
 
 MEET me, love, by moonlight. 
 By moonlight, by moonlight. 
 And down the glen by moonlight, 
 How fondly will I welcome thee ! 
 
64 Badger's Poems. 
 
 And there, within our beechen bower, 
 Far from ambition's giddy tower, 
 what a heart-enthrilling hour, 
 
 My Mary dear, I'll spend with thee ! - 
 Then meet me, love, etc. 
 
 Reclining on our mossy seat. 
 The rivulet rippling at our feet, 
 Enrapt in mutual transport sweet, 
 who on earth so blest as we ? 
 Then meet me, love, etc. 
 
 Our hopes and loves each sigh will speak, 
 With lip to lip or cheek to cheek, 
 who more heartfelt joys would seek. 
 Than such, at eve, alone with thee ? 
 Then meet me, love, etc. 
 
 To clasp thy lovely yielding waist ; 
 To press thy lips so pure and chaste ; 
 An' be in turn by thee embraced, 
 
 that were bliss supreme to me ! 
 Then meet me, love, etc. 
 
 Not worldling's wealth, nor lordling's show, 
 
 Such solid joys can e'er bestow, 
 
 As those which faithful lovers know 
 
 When heart to heart beats fervently. 
 Then meet me, love, etc. 
 
 I ANCE WAS m LOVE. 
 
 I ANCE was in love — maybe no lang ago — 
 And I lo'ed ae sweet lassie most dearly ; 
 
 I sought her wee hand, but her daddy growled " no ! " 
 Which stung my young heart most severely. 
 
 T'or he, wealthy wight, was an auld crabbit carl, 
 
 Wha held fast the grip he had got o' the warl' ; 
 
 So the poor plackless laddie got nought but a snarl 
 ■ For lo'eing the lassie sincerely. 
 
Come to the Banks of Clyde. 65 
 
 But love wadna hide, and the lassie lo'ed me, 
 
 And oh ! her black een tauld it clearly, 
 That she'd tak' and wed me without a bawbee, 
 
 Although she had twa hundred yearly. 
 So ae winter night, when her dad was asleep, 
 And the wind made the doors a' to rattle and cheep, 
 Frae out the back window she made a bit leap, 
 
 And my arms kepp't the prize I lo'ed dearly. 
 
 Auld Gripsiccar wasna to baud nor to bin'. 
 
 He tint a' his wee judgment nearly ; 
 He stormed, he rampaged, he ran out, he ran in. 
 
 And he vowed we should smart for it dearly ; . 
 But time wrought a change when he saw his first oe, 
 Nae langer was heard then the growl and the " no ! " 
 Our house now is Gripsiccar, Goodson & Co., 
 
 While our labours are prospering yearly. 
 
 COME TO THE BANKS OF CLYDE.* 
 
 Al&—" March to the battlefield." 
 
 Come to the Banks of Clyde, 
 
 Where health and joy invite us ; 
 Spring, now, in virgin pride, 
 There waiteth to delight us : 
 Enrobed in green, she smiles serene — 
 
 Each eye enraptured views her ; 
 A brighter dye o'erspreads her sky. 
 And every creature woos her. 
 
 * This, and the two succeeding songs, were written for, and sung by 
 the author at the various concerts got up to aid the funds of the Com- 
 mittee for securing the liberty of the banks of the Clyde, when the 
 public were likely to be deprived of that privilege by the rapacity of 
 "Tam Harvie " (see introduction). 
 
 The last song was sung at the meeting for presentation of the gold 
 medals to the Committee, when, says the editor of Stray Leaves, Mr. 
 Kodger's services were most unfairly forgotten. 
 
66 Sodgefs Poems. 
 
 Come to the Banks of Clyde, 
 
 Where health and joy invite us ; 
 Spring, now, in virgin pride. 
 
 There waiteth to delight us. 
 
 Mark ! how the verdant lea, 
 
 With daisies she is strewing ; 
 Hark ! now, on every tree. 
 
 The birds their mates are wooing : 
 
 Love wakes the notes that swell their throats. 
 Love makes their plumage brighter ; 
 
 Old Father Clyde, in all his pride, 
 Ne'er witness'd bosoms lighter ; 
 Mark ! how the verdant lea. 
 
 With daisies she is strewing ; 
 Hark ! how, on every tree, 
 
 The birds their mates are wooing. 
 
 ROLL, FAIR CLUTHA. 
 Air — "Rule Britannia." 
 
 When Nature first, with mighty hand, 
 Traced Clyde's fair windings to the main, 
 
 'Twas then the Genii of the land. 
 Assembled round, and sung this strain : 
 
 Roll, fair Clutha, fair Clutha to the sea. 
 And be thy banks for ever free. 
 
 For on thy banks in future times, 
 A brave and virtuous race shall rise. 
 
 Strangers to those unmanly crimes. 
 That taint the tribes of warmer skies. 
 
 Roll, etc. 
 
Roll, Fair Clutha. 67 
 
 And stately towns and cities fair, 
 
 Thy lovely shores shall decorate ; 
 With seats of science, to prepare 
 
 Thy sons for all that's good and great. 
 
 EoU, etc. 
 
 And on thy pure translucent breast, 
 Shall numerous fleets majestic ride ; 
 
 Destined to south, north, east, and west. 
 To waft thy treasures far and wide. 
 
 Roll, etc. 
 
 And up thy gently sloping sides, 
 
 Shall woods o'er woods in grandeur tower ; 
 Meet haunts for lovers and their brides, 
 
 To woo in many a sylvan bower. 
 
 EoU, etc. 
 
 And early on each summer morn. 
 
 Thy youth shall bathe their limbs in thee ; 
 
 Thence to their various toils return 
 
 With increased vigour, health, and glee. 
 
 EoU, etc. 
 
 And still on summer evenings fair. 
 Shall groups of happy pairs be seen, 
 
 With hearts as light as birds of air, 
 A-straying o'er thy margin green. 
 
 EoU, etc. 
 
 And oft the Bard by thee wUl stray, 
 
 When Luna's lamp illumes the sky. 
 Musing on some heart-melting lay. 
 
 Which fond hope teUs him ne'er shaU die. 
 
 EoU, fair Clutha, fair Clutha to the sea. 
 And be thy banks for ever free. 
 
COME, FILL A BUMPEE. 
 
 AiB — "Cam' ye by Athol." 
 
 Come, fill a bumper, dear friends and good neighbours 
 
 now, 
 Drink to the right we hae struggled for sairly ; — 
 We shall enjoy the reward of our labours now : 
 Clyde's bonny banks are made free to us fairly. 
 Pledge me then, honest men, now since we've got our 
 
 ain. 
 Dearly let's prize what we've purchased so dearly ; 
 Now may we tread with glee Clyde's lovely margin free, 
 High as the dyke was — 'tis tumbled right rarely. 
 
 Late, the abode of seclusion and dreariness, 
 Still as the vale of death's shadow — or nearly, 
 Clyde's bonny banks are a' life, now, and cheeriness, 
 Throng'd with each class that loves liberty dearly ; 
 Age, with his silver hairs, youth, too, in loving pairs, 
 Gladly pursuing their course, late and early, 
 Childhood that scarce can run, boyhood, with noisy fun; 
 Joyous that matters are now settled squarely. 
 
 Here's to the brave honest hearts of our Committee ! 
 Lang hae they battled and striven for't sairly ; 
 Wha now dare challenge, or yet cast a gloom at ye, 
 While on your banks ye can go late or early ? 
 Come, then, our Committer, " nine times nine," let it be, 
 They in the front stood, and fought it out rarely ; 
 Wha wad hae done like them, tyranny's tide to stem 1 
 Then let us honour them — ever sincerely. 
 
 COME WI' ME. 
 
 COME wi' me, come wi' me 
 O come wi' me, my Mary, 
 
 And I'll mak' thee the brawest bride 
 In bonny Inverary. 
 
Come Wi Me. 69 
 
 A silken gown o' purple hue, 
 
 A bonnet o' the azure blue, 
 
 And best o' a', a heart that's true, 
 
 I'll gie to thee, my Mary. 
 Then come wi' me, come wi' me. 
 
 Then come wi' me, my Mary, 
 And shine, the loveliest o' the fair. 
 
 In bonny Inverary. 
 
 Nae mair thou'll need to tend the sheep 
 Upon the mountain's side sae steep. 
 But in these faithfu' arms thou'lt sleep. 
 
 And dream o' love, my Mary. 
 Now come wi' me, come wi' me, 
 
 Now come wi' me, my Mary, 
 And thou shalt be the happiest wife 
 
 In bonny Inverary. 
 
 How mony lads will tell a tale. 
 That o'er soft woman may prevail. 
 And leave her lorn at last, to wail 
 
 Their want o' faith, my Mary, 
 But come wi' me, come wi' me, 
 
 But come wi' me, my Mary, 
 An' prove the warmest, truest love 
 
 In bonny Inverary. 
 
 The great Argyll, wi' a' his land. 
 His lineage, rank, and titles grand, 
 Mair wealth than we can ne'er command, 
 
 The wealth o' love, my Mary. 
 Then come wi' me, O come wi' me. 
 
 Then come wi' me, my Mary, 
 And live a life o' love and bliss 
 
 In bonny Inverary. 
 
HONEST MEN AND BONNIE LASSES. 
 
 AlB—" Roi/'s Wife." 
 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses, 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses, 
 Creation's pride, through Nature wide. 
 Are honest men and bonnie lasses. 
 
 Amid life's dreary wastes o' care. 
 
 The cheerless gloom wad quite depress us. 
 Did not such flow'rets blossom there 
 As honest men and bonnie lasses : 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses. 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses, 
 The balm o' grief, the life o' life, 
 Are honest men and bonnie lasses. 
 
 The Midas-hearted wretch may starve, 
 
 While he his yellow heaps amasses. 
 Be mine the joys that thrill each nerve, 
 'Mang honest men and bonnie lasses : 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses, 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses, 
 What joys below poor mortals owe 
 To honest men and bonnie lasses. 
 
 An honest man's a gem so rare. 
 
 His price could ne'er be paid by Csesar, 
 But what's a lovely lassie fair 1 
 
 A sparkling mine of richest treasure. 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses. 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses. 
 What wealth on earth can boast the worth 
 Of honest men and bonnie lasses ? 
 
 Now, comrades, would you wish a toast ! 
 
 Then haste and seize your sparkling glasses, 
 I'll gie you Scotia's stay and boast — 
 I Her honest men and bonnie lasses. 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses, 
 Honest men and bonnie lasses ; 
 Her stay and boast, frae coast to coast, 
 Her honest men and bonnie lasses. 
 
SINCE FATE HAS DECREED IT. 
 
 Air—" A' body's like to get married but me." 
 
 Since Fate has decreed it — then e'en let her gang, 
 I'll comfort mysel' wi' a canty bit sang : 
 Yes ; I'll sing like a lintie and laugh at it a', 
 Though the auld donnart dotard has wiled her awa'. 
 wae worth that siller ! what mischief it breeds, 
 Dame Fortune's pet weans, how it pampers and feeds ; 
 It has made them baith ane whom auld Nature meant 
 
 twa, 
 And has torn frae my arms, my dear lassie awa'. 
 
 The neighbours will clatter about the affair, 
 
 But e'en let them talk — that's the least o' my care, 
 
 For the sough will blaw by in a fortnight or twa. 
 
 But ne'er can restore to me, her that's awa'. 
 
 Come cheer up, my heart ! — yet, what need'st thou be 
 
 wae, 
 There are thousands behint her, sae e'en let her gae ; 
 Yes ; thousands, as bonnie, as good, and as braw — 
 Then why should'st thou grieve for her, now she's awa' 1 
 
 But ah ! hapless lassie, my heart's wae for thee. 
 To think what a comfortless life thou maun dree ; 
 How cheerless to sit in a rich splendid ha' 
 'Midst desolate grandeur, when love is awa'. 
 And thou, her auld mither, ah what wilt thou say. 
 When thou seest thy poor lassie, heart-broken and wae ; 
 Ah what will avail then, her deeding sae braw. 
 When it covers a bosom that's riven in twa; 
 
 'TWAS MORN. 
 AiE — " Within a mile of Edinburgh Town." 
 
 'TWAS morn — and the lambs on the green hillocks played, 
 
 The laverock sang sweetly on high, 
 The dew-draps bespangled ilk green spiky blade. 
 
 And the woods rang wi' music and joy ; 
 
72 Badger's Poems. 
 
 When young Patie down the vale 
 
 Met fair Kitty wi' her pail, 
 
 He clasp'd her hand and blythely Bpeired, 
 
 " Dear lassie, where to now ? " 
 "A wee bit down the glen," quo' she, 
 
 " To milk our bruckit cow." 
 
 " Kitty ! I've lo'ed you this towmond an' mair. 
 
 And wha lo'es na you canna see. 
 There's nane on our plains half sae lovely and fair. 
 No ; — nane half sae lovely to me : 
 Will you come, dear lass, at e'en, 
 Up the burnie's bank sae green J 
 And there beneath the beechen shade. 
 
 You'll meet a lover true." 
 " Na, na," she cried, " I canna come 
 At e'en to meet wi' you." 
 
 " My mither will fly te and my father will ban, 
 
 Gin here meikle langer I stay. 
 Come cease wi' your wheezin', and let gae my han', 
 It's daft like at this time o' day." 
 " Dearest lassie, ere ye gang, 
 Tell me shall we meet ere lang 1 
 Come, say't an' seal't wi' ae sweet smack 
 
 O' that enticing mou' ; " 
 " Haud aff," she cried, " nor think that I 
 Was made for sport to you." 
 
 " Then, fareweel, proud lassie, for since ye're sae shy, 
 
 Nae langer I'll press you to bide ; 
 E'en show aff your airs, toss your head and look high. 
 Your beauty demands a' your pride ; 
 I may find some ither where, 
 Ane mair kind, although less fair." 
 He turned to gang — she laughing cried, 
 
 " Stop, lad, I've ta'en the rue, 
 Come back and set the tryst wi' me, 
 And I will meet wi' you." 
 
PITY ME! WHAT I DEEE. 
 
 WritttnfoT a St. Kilda air, or " Hand awa' frae me, Donald.' 
 
 Pity me ! what I dree ! 
 
 This poor aching heart is breaking, 
 Here I lie, moan and sigh, 
 
 Lanely and forsaken. 
 
 Lately I was biythe and cheery, 
 
 As the merry maukin ; 
 Now I'm dowie, dull, and dreary, 
 
 Baith asleep and waukin'. 
 
 Pity me ! etc. 
 
 On the primrose bank nae mair 
 I'll flowery chaplets weave me, 
 
 Nor deck wi' silken snood my hair. 
 For ane wha'd sae deceive me. 
 
 Pity me ! etc. 
 
 A' my thochts are thochts o' sorrow, 
 
 A' my dreams are sadness ; 
 Not a hope to light the morrow 
 
 Wi' a gleam o' gladness. 
 
 Pity me ! etc. 
 
 ! that I had never met him — 
 
 Never loved sae fondly, 
 O ! that I could now forget him 
 
 Whom I lived for only. 
 
 Pity me ! etc. 
 
 A' my joys are fled for ever, 
 
 A' my peace is broken ; 
 Bear, bear to my fause lover 
 
 This unhonoured token. 
 
 Pity me ! etc. 
 
74 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Tell him o' a tender blossom, 
 Trampled down and faded, 
 
 Tell him o' a stainless bosom, 
 Now, alas ! degraded. 
 
 Pity me ! etc. 
 
 Yet amid this wreck and ruin — 
 
 Not a starlet gleamin'. 
 She he wrong'd for peace is suing 
 
 To her faithless leman. 
 
 Pity me ! what I dree ! 
 
 This poor aching heart is breaking, 
 Here I lie, moan and sigh, 
 
 Lanely and forsaken. 
 
 AS] AE DOOR STEEKS ANITHEE CLOSES. 
 
 OR THE PROVERB REVERSED. 
 
 Methinks some auld Scotch proverb says 
 
 " As ae door steeks anither opens ; " 
 Though this may sometimes be the case. 
 
 Its sad reverse much oftener happens. 
 Let's therefore try the thing anew, 
 
 (Though it should be as old as Moses,) 
 And prove this axiom just and true, 
 
 " As ae door steeks anither closes." 
 
 The man whose trade moves to his mind. 
 
 Is always sure of friends to help him. 
 And ne'er is at a loss to find 
 
 An open door — a hearty welcome ; 
 But he whose fortune's on the wane. 
 
 Who tries — and tries — and tries, but loses. 
 Soon finds just reason to complain, 
 
 " As ae door steeks anither closes." 
 
As Ae Door Steeks Anither Closes. 75 
 
 The haughty minister of state, 
 
 Who proudly basks in royal sunshine, 
 While numbers daily on him wait, 
 
 To catch a glimpse of borrowed moonshine ; 
 Poor man ! for all his pomp and power. 
 
 He sleeps not on a bed of roses, 
 For should his lord but shut the door, 
 
 Then every door against him closes. 
 
 The artizan whose dauntless mind 
 
 Revolts against his proud oppressor, 
 Turned off — can no employment find. 
 
 For being such a bold transgressor ; 
 His suit is met in every place 
 
 With jibes and jeers, and turned-up noses ; 
 Thus feels he this sad truth, alas ! 
 
 " As a'e door steeks anither closes.'' 
 
 The spendthrift wild, who wastes his wealth 
 
 In rioting and dissipation, 
 Ne'er dreams, poor fool ! of injured health, 
 
 Pale want, or blasted reputation. 
 Disease and poverty come on. 
 
 His credit everywhere he loses, 
 Even self-respect at last is gone, 
 
 Door after door against him closes. 
 
 The poor neglected virtuous man. 
 
 Who long the storms of life has braved, 
 Sinks down, at last, exhausted — wan — 
 
 Of every earthly stay bereaved ; 
 Yet still has he one prop that's sure. 
 
 On which his harrassed soul reposes. 
 Though spurned from every earthly door, 
 
 The door of Heaven never closes. 
 
COME THEN, ELIZA DEAR. 
 
 Dearest Eliza, say, wilt thou resign 
 
 All thy companions gay, and become mine ? 
 
 Wilt thou through woe and weal, 
 
 Be my loved partner still, 
 
 Share with me every ill, 
 Nor e'er repine ? 
 
 Wilt thou, lovely fair ! when I'm distress'd. 
 All my afflictions share, soothe them to rest ? 
 
 Wilt thou, when comforts fail, 
 
 When woe and want assail. 
 
 With sympathizing wail. 
 Cling to this breast 1 
 
 Yes, yes, dearest youth ! here I resign. 
 All else I prize on earth, thy fate to join ; 
 
 Gladly I'll share thy woes, 
 
 Sootbe thee to calm repose, 
 
 While heaven on me bestows 
 Such love as thine. 
 
 Come then, Eliza dear, come to this breast. 
 Thou alone reignest here, kindest and best ; 
 If wealth and rural peace. 
 If love that ne'er shall cease. 
 Can give thee ought like bliss. 
 Thou shalt be bless'd. 
 
 I'LL AWA' HAME TO MY MITHER, I WILL. 
 
 ANE TAWPIE BALLAD, COMPOSIT BE MISS TIBBIE TOSH- 
 MYTAP, HEIEESS O' THAT ILK, IN THE PARISH O' 
 DRUMLIESYKE. 
 
 AiB — " Laird o' Coekpm,." 
 
 ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 An' I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will ; 
 Gin I tarry wi' you I may meet wi' some ill, 
 Then I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
ril Awa' Earn to My Miiher, I Will. 77 
 
 It's wearin' to gloamin', an' soon will be late, 
 An' the thing might befa' me that happen'd to Kate, 
 When she gaed to the tryste wi' "Will Watt o' the mill ; 
 Sae I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 Sae I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will, 
 Sae I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will ; 
 A mither's fireside is the safest place still ; 
 Then I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 My mither aft gies me a mither's advice. 
 
 About modesty, virtue, an' ilka thing nice ; 
 
 An' warns me to shun ilk appearance o' ill ; 
 
 Then I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 O ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 Aye ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will ; 
 
 She says, as I brew, I maun e'en drink sic yill ; 
 
 Weel — I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 She bids me beware o' the ways o' young men. 
 As the hauf o' their tricks silly maids dinna ken, 
 For they 'lure to betray — as the spider to kill 
 Hech ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will : 
 
 O ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 Yes ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will ; 
 I'm young yet, an' simple, an' hae little skill ; 
 Sae I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 In this lanely place, I've my fears an' my doubts. 
 For nane but oursel's can I see hereabouts. 
 An' the ill-deedy deil in your head may put ill — 
 Faigs ! I'U awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 Yes, I'U awa' hame to my mither, I will, 
 Troth, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will :) 
 What ! here wi' a man at the back o' a hill ? 
 Na ! — I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 I'm tauld that the godly King Solomon said, 
 That he kenn'd na the ways o' a man wi' a maid. 
 Strange ways ! — that could baffle a man o' sic skill ; 
 SaflF's I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
78 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Hout ! I'll awa* hame to my mither, I will, 
 Na — I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will : 
 
 Sma' f erlie that lasses their wits aftenspill ; 
 
 Come ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 Ye flatter and fraise me, an' leuk unco fain, 
 
 Pretending ye wish my affection to gain ; 
 
 But I fear your ain ends ye jist want to fulfil ; 
 
 Losh ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will : 
 
 'Deed ! I'll awa' hame wi' my mither, I will, 
 Sure ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will : 
 
 Some tongues try the tricks o' the auld serpent still ; 
 
 Och ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 Ye've heard o' my tocher in gear an' good brass, 
 
 An' ye ken that ilk pound gies a charm to a lass ; 
 
 But if pounds be my beauties, your love's unco chill ; 
 
 Lad ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 Troth ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 Yes ! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will : 
 
 For I'll ne'er let it gang by the scart o' a quill, 
 
 But I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 But gin I were sure that ye liket mysel'. 
 Where a blister might light it were easy to tell, 
 Sae, I'll meet you neist Friday, at Mungo's maut kill ;: 
 Now, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will. 
 
 Yes, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will, 
 Now, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will : 
 Be discreet, be sincere, an' ye're welcome back still, 
 An' I'll yet be your ain a'thegither, I will. 
 
 JESSY M'LEAN. 
 
 Oh hark ! an' I'll tell you o' Jessy M'Lean, 
 She promis'd shortsyne she would soon be my ain. 
 So mind ye'll be ready to come on neist Friday, 
 An' see me get buckled to Jessy M'Lean. 
 
The Happy Meeting. 79 
 
 Lang, lang ha'e I lo'ed her, and faithfully woo'd her. 
 Yet ne'er has she treated my suit wi' disdain, 
 For sense an' good nature enliven ilk feature, 
 And guileless the heart is o' Jessy M'Lean. 
 
 Tho' nane o' your butterflee beauties sae vain. 
 That flutter about aye, new lovers to gain ; 
 Yet she has attractions to catch the affections. 
 And prudence, the heart that she wins, to retain. 
 Her mild look so touching, her smile so bewitching, 
 Her rich melting tones sweet as seraphim's strain, 
 Rush through my heart thrilling, and wake every feel- 
 ing 
 Of tender attachment for Jessy M'Lean. 
 
 When sitting beside her, my heart is aye fain 
 To think what a treasure will soon be my ain ; 
 Nae fause gaudy glitter, to cheat, then embitter 
 But pure solid worth, without hollow or stain. 
 And should a bit callan', e'er bless our snug dwallin', 
 Or ae bonnie lassie, (as heaven may ordain), 
 The sweet smiling creature, its mither ilk feature. 
 Will knit me still closer to Jessy M'Lean. 
 
 THE HAPPY MEETING. 
 
 Air — " Guardian < 
 
 Have you hail'd the glowing morning. 
 When the sun first gilds the plain ? 
 
 Dr the genial spring returning, 
 After winter's dreary reign ? 
 Then conceive, to me how dear 
 When my Anna — faithful, fair, 
 After years of lonely pain, 
 
 Bless'd my fond eyes — my arms again. 
 
80 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 Every charm more finely heighten'd, 
 Fix'd my raptured, wondering eyes ! 
 
 Every grace divinely brighten'd, 
 Held my soul in sweet surprise ; 
 ! I could have gazed my last, 
 On her bosom heaving fast — 
 Met her eyes benignly bright, 
 
 'With ever-growing new delight. 
 
 Who'd not bear a separation 
 Thus again to fondly meet, 
 
 And to find no alteration. 
 
 Save the heart's more ardent beat ; 
 Thus, the same soft hand to grasp, 
 Thus the same fair form to clasp. 
 Thus the same warm lips to kiss — 
 
 0, say, can Heaven give more than this 1 
 
 MAGNIFICENT TOM.* 
 
 There are "rum chaps" in London, and " droll billies " 
 
 here ; 
 PoUokshaws is proverbial for " folks unco queer ; " 
 But of all the " odd fellows " abroad or at home. 
 There none of them equals Magnificent Tom ; 
 For Tom, like a comet, eccentric and strange, 
 'Mongst the dull orbs of earth takes so devious a r^nge. 
 That there is not his match underneath heaven's dome, 
 So erratic and rare is Magnificent Tom. 
 
 Magnificent Tom, when the bee's in his head. 
 Will sing, tell queer stories, or " tip off his bead ; '' 
 Preach, "tumble the wulcat," enquire where you're from. 
 Shake hands and swear friendship — Magnificent Tom. 
 
 * The celebrated Thomas h. Hart, well-known in and around Glas- 
 gow for his versatile acting and reciting, his peculiarities and eccentri- 
 cities. 
 
Magnificent Tom. 81 
 
 Or, changing the scene, he'll the actor assume, 
 Play the part of a hero — the part of a groom, 
 From the " Bailie " he'll jump to old Cato of Rome, 
 Keep you laughing or crying — Magnificent Tom. 
 
 Magnificent Tom has a temper so warm 
 That, but touch him, his passion works over like barm ; 
 And then, what a volley of sound, froth and foam. 
 Is discharged from the mouth of Magnificent Tom. 
 He cares not for friends then — he cares not for foes. 
 Nor yet for himself when his wrath overflows ; 
 But his words come as fiery as shells from a bomb. 
 Dealing " doom " to all round him — Magnificent Tom. 
 
 Magnificent Tom is so careless of pelf, 
 
 That he lets every day just provide for itself ; 
 
 " Why, the world's but a cookshop, through which, 
 
 while we roam. 
 There's a cook feeds us all," quoth Magnificent Tom. 
 " There's drink for us, too, in this shop to be had. 
 Then let us, while here, take the good with the bad, 
 For T^hile bright glasses sparkle, or full tankards foam. 
 We'll come in for our share," says Magnificent Tom. 
 
 Magnificent Tom has his faults, like us all. 
 Yet he's never rejoiced at a neighbour's downfall : 
 " Poor fellow, alas ! what a height he's come from ; 
 Let us lift him again," cries Magnificent Tom. 
 Nor yet is he envious nor grieved when he sees 
 A neighbour's sails filled with prosperity's breeze : 
 " Get' forward, my boy, I am glad you've o'ercome 
 The perils of life," quoth Magnificent Tom. 
 
 Magnificent Tom, though his cash be but scant. 
 Will halve his last bob with a chum that's in want, 
 Nay, share with the vagrant his supper and home : 
 " We should ne'er be unkind,'' says Magnificent Tom. 
 Magnificent Tom, although reckless and rough. 
 Has a heart where it should be, and made of right stufi'; 
 Then let those who deride, (while their sleek hair they 
 
 comb,) 
 Take a lesson, sometimes, from Magnificent Tom. 
 
THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 GIVE me back that blissful time, 
 
 When I so fondly gazed on thee, 
 
 And loved — nor deemed my love a crime, 
 
 Till now, too late, my fault I see. 
 
 give me back my innocence ! 
 
 Alas ! that may not — cannot be, 
 
 Too deep, too dark is my ofience, 
 
 For purity to dwell with me. 
 
 Hast thou forgot the solemn vows. 
 So oft exchanged by thee and me, 
 While seated underneath the boughs. 
 Of yonder venerable tree ? 
 Those vows, indeed, may be forgot, 
 Or only laughed at, now, by thee, 
 But to thy mind they'll yet be brought, 
 When cold below the sod I'll be. 
 
 How could'st thou treat a maiden so. 
 Who would have gladly died fgr thee t 
 Think, think what I must undergo. 
 Think of my load of infamy ; 
 O could repentance wash my stain. 
 What peaceful days I yet might see, 
 But no ; — I ever must remain 
 A victim of my love, for thee. 
 
 MARY BEATON. 
 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Could I but gain her for my ain, 
 I'd be the blythest man in Britain. 
 
Mary Beaton. 83 
 
 I've woo'd and sued this mony a day. 
 
 Ilk tender vow o' love repeatin', 
 But still she smiles, and answers " nay," 
 
 While I, puir wight ! am near the greetin', 
 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 If smiles frae her can wound sae sair, 
 How sair were frowns frae Mary Beaton ! 
 
 The lee-lang night I sich and grane, 
 An' toss an' tumble till I'm sweatin', 
 
 For wink o' sleep can I get nane, 
 For thinkin' still on Mary Beaton. 
 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Poor troubled ghaist ! I get nae rest, 
 And what's my trouble ? Mary Beaton. 
 
 When ither youngsters blythe an' gay, 
 
 Set afif to join some merry meetin', 
 By some dyke-side I lanely stray, 
 
 A-musing still on Mary Beaton. 
 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 A' mirth an' fun, I hate an' shun, 
 An' a' for sake o' Mary Beaton. 
 
 I ance could laugh an' sing wi' glee. 
 
 And grudg'd the hours sae short an' fleetin', 
 
 But now ilk day's a moon to me, 
 Sae sair I lang for Mary Beaton. 
 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 1^11 ance she's mine, I'll waste an' pine, 
 For now I'm past baith sleep an' eatin' 
 
84 Badger's Poems. 
 
 Her fairy form, sae light an' fair, 
 Her gracefu' manner, sae invitin', 
 
 Alas ! will kill me wi' despair, 
 Unless I soon get Mary Beaton. 
 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Bonnie blooming Mary Beaton ! 
 Wad she but bless me wi' a Yes, 
 Oh how that yes my lot wad sweeten ! 
 
 LOVELY MAIDEN. 
 
 Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping ? 
 
 Wake, and fly with me, my love, 
 While the moon is proudly sweeping 
 
 Through the ether fields above ; 
 While her mellow'd light is streaming 
 
 Full on mountain, moor, and lake ! 
 Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming ? 
 'Tis thy true love calls — awake ! 
 
 All is hush'd around thy dwelling. 
 
 Even the watch-dog's lull'd asleep ; 
 Hark ! the clock the hour is knelling, 
 
 Wilt thou then thy promise keep ? 
 Yes, I hear her softly coming, 
 
 Now her window's gently rais'd, 
 There she stands, an angel blooming — 
 
 Come, my Mary ! haste thee, haste ! 
 
 Fear not, love ! thy rigid father 
 
 Soundly sleeps, bedrench'd with wine ; 
 'Tis thy true love holds the ladder — 
 
 To his care thyself resign ! 
 Now my arms enfold a treasure, 
 
 Which for worlds I'd not forego ; 
 Now our bosoms feel that pleasure, 
 
 Faithful bosoms only know. 
 
Nancy. 85 
 
 Long have our true love's been thwarted 
 
 By the stern decrees of pride, 
 "Which would doom us to be parted, 
 
 And make thee another's bride ; 
 But, behold ! my steeds are ready, 
 
 Soon they'll post us far away ; 
 Thou wilt be Glen Alva's Lady 
 
 Long before the dawn of day ! 
 
 NANCY. 
 
 Nancy ! dear Nancy, my young lovely blossom. 
 
 Sweet essence of beauty and virtue combined, 
 What bliss thus to clasp thee to this beating bosom. 
 
 And meet thy sweet glances so lovingly kind. 
 Those dark ebon tresses that shade thy white forehead. 
 
 That black beaming eye so expressively bright, 
 That innocent blush on thy soft cheek so pure red, — 
 
 These fill my fond bosom with sweetest delight. 
 
 O come let us wander, my dear lovely treasure, 
 
 Down by yon green planting of tall waving pines, 
 While yonder bright star in the pure cloudless azure. 
 
 Like thee sheds its lustre, and peerlessly shines ; 
 The eve's mild and gentle, the dew's saftly fa'ing. 
 
 The fragrance comes sweet frae yon fuU-blossom'd 
 thorn. 
 And hark ! from afar, how the bugle is blawing. 
 
 While woods, rocks and valleys their echoes return. 
 
 How meet, my dear Nancy, is this gentle season, 
 
 For two love-knit beings with souls void of art. 
 To breathe out their feelings so tenderly pleasing. 
 
 And taste the sweet raptures true love can impart : 
 And now, dearest maid, since our hearts are united 
 
 In love — purest blessing by mortals enjoyed. 
 Its ties let us cherish, through life undivided, 
 
 Unaltered by changes, by time undestroyed. 
 
WHEN GLOAMIN' SPREADS HER MANTLE 
 GREY. 
 
 AlB— " Langsynt leside yon Woodland Bum." 
 
 When gloamin' spreads her mantle grey, 
 
 O'er ilka hill and valley, 
 And little lambs nae langer play, 
 
 Upon the lea sae gaily. 
 Then through the wood aboon the mill, 
 Wi' willing steps I aften steal, 
 Wi' my dear lad I lo'e sae weel. 
 
 My constant, loving Willie. 
 
 While wandering through our shaded walks. 
 
 What dear delight I feel aye, 
 To hear him as he fondly talks. 
 
 Avow his love sae freely ; 
 Or when our arms we fondly link. 
 And stray by Kelvin's grassy brink, 
 What pure delicious joys I drink, 
 
 Pour'd frae the lips o' Willie. 
 
 How sweet the mavis sings at e'en. 
 
 When a' is hush'd sae stilly ; 
 How sweet his melting mellow strain 
 
 Comes echoing down the valley ; 
 How sweet to breathe the scented gale. 
 That lightly skiffs yon clover vale, 
 But sweeter far the melting tale. 
 
 And balmy breath o' Willie. 
 
 The rose blooms on his cheek sae smooth, 
 
 Upon his brow the lily. 
 His bosom is the seat of truth. 
 
 Which love and honour fill aye. 
 His manly look and gracefu' form. 
 Might ony lassie's bosom warm ; 
 But native worth, O ! that's the charm 
 
 That binds me to my Willie. 
 
Alang Kelvin's Banks. 87 
 
 Our squire, to lure me, tries ilk art, 
 
 Wi' a' his airs sae silly. 
 But never will he move the heart, 
 
 That beats alone for Willie ; 
 For ere tomorrow's sun decline, 
 The priest our willing hands will join, 
 And mak' the dear, dear laddie mine, 
 
 My life, my joy, my Willie. 
 
 ALAJSTG KELVIN'S BANKS. 
 
 Air — " Wounded Hussar." 
 
 Alang Kelvin's banks on a dark wintry gloaming. 
 
 When thick heavy clouds had enshrouded the sky, 
 Young Mary went wandering, her sad fate bemoaning, 
 
 While heav'd her fair, bosom wi' many a deep sigh ; 
 The tears trickled down o'er her once-blooming cheek, 
 
 Loud whistled the winds through her loose streaming 
 hair, 
 And aft she burst out, wi' a heart like to break, 
 
 Alas ! my dear Allan, I'll ne'er see thee mair. 
 
 Nae mair, ye lov'd banks, can I tread you wi' gladness. 
 
 Nor gaze wi' delight on the stream gliding by. 
 For nought now is mine but a bosom of sadness, 
 
 A woe-washen cheek and a tear-streaming eye. 
 Ye dark heavy clouds, moving slow thro' the air. 
 
 More welcome your gloom than the canopy's glow ; 
 For o'er my sad soul hangs the veil of despair. 
 
 And my heart is surcharged wi' a deluge of woe. 
 
 Ye scenes of past joy, ah ! how much now ye grieve me, 
 
 Recalling those once happy hours to my mind ; 
 O death ! wilt thou not shortly come and relieve me. 
 
 And grant me that rest which the weary do find ! 
 My sight is grown dim wi' the tears that I shed. 
 
 The sun's cheering beams yield nae comfort to me ; 
 Even hope, the last stay of the sufferer, is fled, 
 
 And fled every joy, my dear Allan, with thee. 
 
88 Badger's Poems. 
 
 By glory's false glare, lured awa' frae my bosom, 
 
 To meet a brave foe, to the conflict he flew ; 
 'Twas then some dark spirit presaged I should lose him, 
 
 And ah ! I soon found its sad bodings too true ; 
 For Allan soon fell with the brave gallant Moore, 
 
 Where died many Britons, ill-fated though brave ; 
 And now, a lone widow, his death I'll deplore. 
 
 Till worn out with weeping I sink in my grave. 
 
 O KITTY, WHEN THAT tOBM. AND FACE. 
 
 Air — " Ye Banks and Braes. " 
 
 Kitty, when that form and face. 
 
 In Naturfl's fairest mould were cast. 
 To deck thee with each winning grace, 
 
 She rifled all her treasures vast ; 
 Whate'er was lovely, mild or fair, 
 
 Whate'er could move or melt the heart, 
 Through sea or sky, through earth or air, 
 
 To thee, sweet maid, she gave a part. 
 
 But lest her fairest, favour'd work, 
 
 By Time's rude hand should e'er be press'd. 
 She caught a bright celestial spark. 
 
 Pure from a flaming seraph's breast ; 
 Of that, she formed a spotless mind, 
 
 To animate a frame as fair. 
 Then sent thee, loveliest of thy kind ! 
 
 To soothe us in this vale of care. 
 
 ISABELL. 
 
 AlE — "Miss Gtraham of Inchhrechy.' 
 
 When lads and lasses a' convene. 
 To das' awa' an hour at e'en, 
 I tak' my way across the green. 
 To meet my Isabell. 
 
Isahell. 89 
 
 I meet her at our try sting place, 
 Where midst our mutual fond embrace, 
 The blushes on her bonnie face, 
 
 Her bosom-secrets tell ; 
 And how swift the moments pass. 
 When seated on the verdant grass, 
 I snatch a kiss frae my dear lass, 
 
 My blooming Isabell. 
 
 How sweet — on such an hour at e'en. 
 
 Beneath the silver moon serene, 
 
 Whose mellow tints give each lov'd scene 
 
 A soft bewitching spell^ 
 How sweet to meet my lassie dear, 
 Down by yon burnie, wimpling clear, 
 Where sweetly bloom the scented brier. 
 
 The violet and blue bell ; 
 And there to clasp her to my breast. 
 And hear her love for me confest, 
 then ! what youth is half so blest, 
 
 As I wi' Isabell ? 
 
 The city belle, the reigning toast, 
 A fairer face, perhaps, may boast, 
 But what is beauty's date at most ? 
 
 Let age or sickness tell ; 
 A transient rainbow in the sky ; 
 A tender flower that blooms to die ; 
 A feeble noon-day butterfly, 
 
 Cut off in evening snell : 
 But Isabella's beauties rare. 
 That hidden frae the vulgar stare, 
 Will ever blossom rich and fair. 
 
 As lasting as hersel'. 
 
 Thou Power ! who rul'st this earth below. 
 And met'st our shares o' joy and woe, 
 The richest boon thou canst bestow, 
 
 On me — is Isabell ; 
 The warlike chief may fight for fame, 
 The wily priest a mitre claim. 
 
90 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 The groveling grub for gear may scheme, 
 
 To suit its sordid sel' ; 
 Sic things are far beneath my care, 
 For them I'll ne'er prefer a prayer ; 
 But O ! gie me my lassie fair — 
 
 My lovely Isabell. 
 
 WHEN YOUTHFU' LOVE'S DELIGHTFU' TIES. 
 
 Air—" The Waefu' Beart." 
 
 When youthfu' love's delightf u' ties, 
 
 By perfidy are broke, 
 Or when we lose whom most we prize. 
 
 By fate's determined stroke ; 
 When ills on ills thick round us press, 
 
 And friends our cause desert. 
 What then remains for us ? alas ! 
 
 A lanely waefu' heart. 
 
 How desolate that hapless wight. 
 
 On whom such evils fall. 
 To him, a starless, cheerless night, 
 
 Enshrouds and saddens all ; 
 Yet, should he then, that comfort seek, 
 
 Heaven can alone impart, 
 Who knows what light benign may break 
 
 Upon his waefu' heart ? 
 
 THE GREEK CHIEF TO HIS COUNTRYMEN. 
 
 ATHENIAN AIR. 
 
 The mild evening blushes afar in the west, 
 Among the green bushes each bird finds its nest. 
 
 Unlike troubled mortals, 
 
 The love-mated turtles, 
 
 Among their green myrtles, 
 Sink calmly to rest. 
 
The Emerald Isle, 91 
 
 But where shall the wanderer his weary head lay, 
 When wide roams the plunderer insatiate on prey, 
 
 Our sweet homes devouring. 
 
 Our life's blood out-pouring. 
 
 And red ruin showering, 
 On all in his way ? 
 
 O rouse from your torpor ! my countrymen all ; 
 Too long the usurper has held us in thrall — 
 
 Our fire-levell'd dwellings, 
 
 Our children's loud wailings. 
 
 Our wives' injured feelings, 
 Most powerfully call. 
 
 Too long has the Crescent triumphantly shone. 
 While we, all quiescent, have tamely looked on ; 
 'Twas not so of old, when 
 Our sires brave and bold then. 
 Their foemen laid cold then, 
 At famed Marathon. 
 
 O, for the three hundred free Spartans so brave. 
 Would they, too, be plundered by slaves of a slave ? 
 
 No ! rather than bear it. 
 
 With tame servile spirit, 
 
 The Turk should inherit 
 The Persian's grave ! 
 
 Then rouse, ye degraded ! and onward with me ; 
 
 Your laurels are faded, what worse can you be 1 
 The chains that enthral you, 
 No more let them gall you, 
 But burst them. Then, shall you 
 Be happy and free. 
 
 THE EMERALD ISLE. 
 
 O LAND of the Shamrock and Harp ! lovely Erin, 
 Where warm hospitality still wears a smile ; 
 
 May suns more benign, and may prospects more cheering, 
 Arise soon to bless thee — sweet Emerald Isle ; 
 
92 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 Thou gem of the west, worth and beauty combining, 
 Though dimmed be thy lustre — thy glory declining. 
 Thou yet wilt astonish the world with thy shining, 
 And make thyself loved and respected the while. 
 
 Though sad sounds thy Harp, though thy Shamrock be 
 drooping. 
 
 The bravest — the best of thy sons in exile ; 
 Though thousands beneath heavy burdens be stooping. 
 
 And full-pampered insolence triumphs the while ; 
 Thy Harp shall awake yet, to strains bold and cheering, 
 Thy Shamrock be seen yet, its lowly head rearing — 
 And comfort and joy make their homes yet endearing. 
 
 To thy injured sons — lovely Emerald Isle. 
 
 Like thine own Patron Saint, may a Patriot arise soon. 
 
 To banish the vile yellow snake from thy soil, 
 From clouds of black locusts to clear thy horizon. 
 
 Which eat up the fruits of thy children's hard toil ; 
 May freedom descending in all her mild glory, 
 Her bright angel wings spread benignantly o'er thee, 
 Thy ancient renown — thy lost rights to restore thee. 
 And give thee new splendour — sweet Emerald Isle. 
 
 MY BONNIE WEE WIFIE. 
 
 My bonnie wee wifie and I hae been wed 
 For thretty lang years — yet our time has sae sped. 
 That she still is as kind, couthy, canty and fain, 
 As on that happy day when I made her my ain ; 
 And a braw " fruitfu' vine " my wee wifie has been, 
 While around her our tendrils entwining are seen, 
 And though some be nipt aflf, yet she still smiles on me, 
 Wi' the sweet blythesome blink o' her bonnie black e'e. 
 
 My bonnie wee wifie, to cheer me at e'en. 
 
 Has a canty bit ingle, a hearth white and clean — 
 
 A weel redd-up housie, a snug elbow chair, 
 
 And a lightsome bit supper o' clean halesome fare ; 
 
Petition to Managers of B Byeworh. 93 
 
 Around our fireside, sit the bairns wi' their beuks, 
 On whom wi' a mither's affection she leuks — 
 Then turns frae them smiling, to smile upon me, 
 Wi' the kind blythesome blink o' her bonnie black e'e. 
 
 My bonnie wee wifie, when ills on us press, 
 
 Sits patiently smiling amidst our distress ; 
 
 Then wha that is blest wi' sae virtuous a mate. 
 
 Should ever repine at the frownings o' fate ? 
 
 Let the tide o' my fortune advance or recede, 
 
 I'll thankfully tak' what is wisely decreed, 
 
 While my wifie is spared, still to smile upon me, 
 
 Wi' the mild blythesoime blink o' her bonnie black e'e. 
 
 PETITION TO MANAGERS OF B DYE- 
 
 WOEKS. 
 
 Humbly Sheweth, 
 That, 
 
 Tired of the Town, of the Saltmarket sick ; 
 With pledging plagued and pestered to the quick ; 
 And driven distracted by a desperate squad. 
 Whose clamorous clack would clatter meek men mad :- 
 Your humble suppliant, supplicating low. 
 Ventures to vent, in wailings wild, his woe ; 
 Trusting you'll listen to his groaning grief. 
 And stretch a helping hand to his relief. 
 
 dark and dreary be that doleful day. 
 When to this sink of sin seduced away. 
 
 He turned on blythesome B his back : — 
 
 May that day in the Heavens be ever black. 
 When he exchanged the haunts of hearty men, 
 For a dark, dismal, dingy, dusty den ; 
 Condemned to draw in draughts of putrid air, 
 And pine amidst anxiety and care. 
 While turning over Mammon's meanest coin. 
 Bronzed o'er with blubber, herring scales and brine ; 
 Obliged each day and hour to undergo 
 
94 Rodgei's Poems. 
 
 The pain of hearing tales of want and woe, 
 
 So finely framed, with so much feeling told. 
 
 As would make misers give, nor grudge, their gold ; 
 
 Compelled to handle every dirty rag, 
 
 Stript from the hide of every hateful hag, 
 
 And doomed each finer feeling to degrade. 
 
 By bullying every blackguard trull and jade. 
 
 Who hither comes her tawdry trash to pop. 
 
 That she may drink it at the next dram shop. 
 
 That your said suppliant sadly suffers sore. 
 From these said ills on ills, and many more, 
 Which, but to name, or even to think of, must 
 Make man's flesh creep with loathing and disgust. 
 
 Now, may it therefore please you, Sirs, to list 
 To your Petitioner's sincere request, 
 And take his case into consideration, 
 To save him from this every day's damnation ; 
 And into your employment take him back. 
 And he'll take any job however black, 
 Eather than stay in this detested place, 
 Cut off from all communion with his race, 
 (Or if it be the human race he sees. 
 Good God, it must be, sure, the very lees.) 
 He'll fire your furnaces, or weigh your coals. 
 Wheel barrows, riddle ashes, mend up holes. 
 Beat cloth, strip shades ; in short, do any thing, 
 And your Petitioner will ever — sing. 
 
 A^ E — 
 
 17th November, 1832. 
 
 VERSES SUNG AT THE GLASGOW 
 TYPOGRAPHICAL FESTIVAL. 
 
 AiB — " Wed may the Boatiermo." 
 
 O, WEEL may the Press be plied, 
 
 And bravely may it speed, 
 And merry may the Press move on, 
 
 That gie's us means to read. 
 
Verses Sung at Typographical Festival. 95 
 
 The Press ! the Press ! the glorious Press ! 
 
 Of mild celestial ray ; 
 Soon may it shed o'er a' the earth 
 
 One universal day. 
 
 For countless ages man was doomed 
 
 To grope in mental night ; 
 At last this Sun of Knowledge rose 
 
 " God said let there be light." 
 The Press ! the Press ! the giant Press ! 
 
 Tho' faint at iirst its ray, 
 It yet shall shed o'er a' the earth 
 
 One universal day. 
 
 At first a speck like prophet's hand 
 
 The infant Press appeared ; 
 But soon it overspread the land, 
 
 While darkling man it cheered ; 
 The Press ! the Press ! the brilliant Press ! 
 
 Now lights him on his way. 
 And soon will shed o'er a' the earth 
 
 One grand and glorious day. 
 
 Though legal fogs its beams obscure, 
 
 These yet dispersed shall be ; 
 Then men shall breathe an air more pure, — 
 
 Walk more erect, and free ; 
 The Press ! the Press ! the glorious Press ! 
 
 Of mild effulgent ray. 
 Shall grow, until it shed on earth 
 
 One universal day. 
 
 Then let us toast our splendid Press — 
 
 The Press that gives us bread, 
 A bumper for the powerful Press, 
 
 The tyrant's woe and dread ; 
 The Press ! the Press ! the Samson Press ! 
 
 Extended be its sway. 
 Till o'er the earth it sheds at last 
 
 One everlasting day. 
 
EOBIN HOGG'S DELIGHT.* 
 
 AiE — " Toddlm' hame." 
 
 Let votaries o' Bacchus o' wine mak' their boast, 
 And drink till it mak's them as dead's a bed-post, 
 A drap o' maut broe I would far rather pree, 
 And a rosy-faced landlord's the Baechus for me. 
 Then I'll toddle butt, and I'll toddle ben. 
 An' let them drink at wine wha nae better do ken. 
 
 Your wine it may do for the bodies far south, 
 
 But a Scotsman likes something that biteth his mouth. 
 
 And whisky's the thing that can do't to a T, 
 
 Then Scotsmen and whisky will ever agree ; 
 
 * Robin Hogg, an eccentric character, was well-known in Bridgetott 
 for many years. He had been bred a farmer, which occupation he 
 followed for some time ; but, being unfortunate, he came to Glasgow, 
 where he was obliged to betake himself to the driving of coals for a 
 subsistence. Possessing a pretty good taste and retentive nlemory, he 
 could recite, with tolerable grace, the very best pieces of the best 
 English Poets ; and often, over his cups, in which his misfortunes led 
 him at times to indulge too freely, would he astonish and delight his 
 less refined brethren of the whip, with the finest passages from Milton, 
 Shakespeare, Thomson, Pope or Dryden. Passing off such pieces as 
 his own, by way of joke, full often would he beguile the time away, 
 and make his gaping auditors, (who, it may be supposed, did not 
 understand a tithe of what he said), declare, that he was " as deep as 
 ony minister." Sometimes, too, when he was " i' the vein," for want 
 of other company, he would deliver to his horse, Anthony's Oration 
 over Cffisar's body, Ossian's Address to the Sun, etc., the tears hopping 
 down his cheeks in the meantime, while the horse would prick up his 
 ears, better pleased, no doubt, with these harangues than with the 
 sound of the whip, which, however, in justice to Robin, was seldom if 
 ever applied by him. One day I had the curiosity to follow him when 
 he was in one of his rhyming fits, and heard him recite very feelingly 
 to his beast, as they trudged side by side along the road, Thomson's 
 beautiful Episode of Lavmia. Although a good deal addicted to 
 dram-drinking, he still was "merciful to his beast," and would not 
 cheat him out of his feed of oats, even for the sake of " anither gill." 
 When rallied upon his love of the bottle, he would good-naturedly 
 reply, " hout mat ! ye aye cry about my drinkin', but ye never con- 
 sider my drouth," and then he would hum over two staves of the old 
 song of " Toddlin' hame." He left Glasgow some years ago, and it is 
 supposed he now " sleeps with his fathers ; " if so, peace to his ashes : 
 if he h.id one failing, it was counterbalanced by many amiable virtues, 
 and we may safely aver, that he has not left his like upon the road, 
 for gentleness and humanity. — ^Author's Note. 
 
BoUn Hogg's Delight. 97 
 
 For wi' toddlin' butt, and wi' toddlin' ben, 
 
 Sae lang we've been nurst on't we hardly can spean. 
 
 It's now thretty years since I first took the drap, 
 
 To moisten my carcase and keep it in sap. 
 
 An' tho' what I've drunk might hae slockened the- sun, 
 
 I fin' I'm as dry as when first I begun ; 
 
 For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben, 
 
 I'm nae sooner slockened than drouthy again. 
 
 Your douce folk aft ca' me a tipplin' auld sot, 
 
 A worm to a still, — a sand bed — -and what not. 
 
 They cry that my hand wad ne'er bide frae my mouth. 
 
 But oddsake ! they never consider my drouth ; 
 
 Yet I'll toddle butt, and I'll toddle ben. 
 
 An' laugh at their nonsense— wha nae better ken. 
 
 Some hard grippin' mortals wha deem themsel's wise, 
 
 A glass o' good whisky affect to despise. 
 
 Poor scurvy-souled wretches — they're no very blate. 
 
 Besides, let me tell them, they're foes to the State ; 
 
 For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben, 
 
 Gin folk wadna drink, how could Grovernment fen' 1 
 
 Yet wae on the tax that mak's whisky sae dear, 
 An' wae on the gauger sae strict and severe : 
 Had I but my will o't, I'd soon let you see, 
 That whisky, like water, to a' should be free ; 
 For I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben, 
 An' I'd mak' it to rin like the burn after rain. 
 
 What signifies New'rday ? — a mock at the best, 
 
 That tempts but poor bodies, an' leaves them unblest, 
 
 For a ance-a-year fuddle I'd scarce gie a strae, 
 
 Unless that ilk year were as short as a day ; 
 
 Then I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben, 
 
 Wi' the hearty het pint, an' the canty black hen. 
 
 I ne'er was inclined to lay by ony cash, 
 Weel kennin' it only wad breed me mair fash ; 
 
 G 
 
98 Bodgefs Poems. 
 
 But aye when I had it, I let it gang free, 
 
 An' wad toss for a gill wi' my hindmost bawbee ; 
 
 For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben, 
 
 I ne'er kent the use o't, but only to spen'. 
 
 Had siller been made, in the kist to lock by. 
 It ne'er wad been round, but as square as a die ; 
 Whereas, by its shape, ilka body may see, 
 It aye was designed it should circulate free ; 
 Then we'U toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben, 
 An' aye when we get it, we'll part wi't again. 
 
 I ance was persuaded to " put in the pin," * 
 But foul fa' the bit o't ava wad bide in. 
 Tor whisky's a thing so bewitchingly stout, 
 The first time I smelt it, the pin it lap out ; 
 Then I toddled butt, an' I toddled ben. 
 And I vowed I wad ne'er be advised sae again. 
 
 leeze me on whisky ! it gies us new life, 
 
 It mak's us aye cadgy to cuddle the wife, 
 
 It kindles a spark in the breast o' the cauld. 
 
 And it mak's the rank coward courageously bauld ; 
 
 Then we'll toddle butt, and we'll toddle ben. 
 
 An' we'll coup aff our glasses, — " here's to you again.' 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON MR. JAMES PAGAN, 
 
 A FEW DAYS BEFORE HIS MAERIAGE. 
 
 " KEN ye the man wi' the Heathenish name 1 — 
 For Pagan and Heathen are nearly the same ; " 
 Come, truce wi' your joking, though Pagan he be. 
 He's as true a Christian as mony ye'Il see. 
 He's open, he's honest, mild-tempered, and warm. 
 Inclined to do good, but averse to work harm : 
 For his motto is this — as ilk ane's ought to be — 
 " Let me do unto others as they should to me." 
 
 * Wlen a person makes a vow against drinking for a certain time, 
 he is said to "put in the pin." 
 
ify Bonnie Scotch Lassie. 99 
 
 He spins a good story, he weaves a good tale, 
 He lilts a good sang owre a tankard o' ale. 
 He cracks a good joke, too, wi' humorsome glee ; 
 But nane lashes vice mair severely than he. 
 And ilk body likes him wherever he gangs, 
 Sae fond o' his stories — his jokes and his sangs ; 
 But the thing he's maist prized for by meikle and wee, 
 Is the generous heart, ever open and free. 
 
 He never can hear o' a poor mortal's woes. 
 But his hand's in his pouch, while his heart overflows ; 
 For when the heart wills it, the hand's sure to gi'e, 
 And blest are the heart and the hand thus so free. 
 But Pagan has fauts, like the rest o' guid chiel's ; 
 He likes to keep oiling Humanity's wheels ; 
 But he oils them sae gently, when creaking awee. 
 That he keeps the machine aye in good working key. 
 
 He likes his bit lass too, as ilka man should ; 
 And, ! that sweet lass is so fair and so good. 
 And returns so his love, that in twa weeks or three, 
 She may be prevailed on — a Pagan to be. 
 A health, then, to Pagan — a health to his lass ; 
 May bright days of happiness still o'er them pass, 
 And a braw fruitfu' vine may the bonnie lass be. 
 Till clusters o' Pagan-grapes cling round her knee. 
 
 MY BONNIE SCOTCH LASSIE. 
 
 Let them boast of their maids on Italia's gay strand. 
 Or the green " Isles of Greece," once so free, 
 
 O dearer by far in my own native land, 
 Is my bonnie Scotch lassie to me. 
 
 Though England may vaunt of her daughters so fair. 
 
 Though bland Erin's beauties may be, 
 Give me the soft blush, and the heart-winning air, 
 
 That won me, dear Jessie, to thee. 
 
 Let them boast of their maids, etc. 
 
100 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 In bright sunny climes many beauties I've seen, 
 
 Of high and of humble degree ; 
 Yet in form or in feature, in mind or in mien, 
 
 I've ne'er met with maiden like thee. 
 Let them boast of their maids, etc. 
 
 Though the mild blushing red from thy soft cheek had 
 fled. 
 
 Though grief had bediinmed thy bright e'e ; 
 Yet thy heart and thy mind, by each virtue refined. 
 
 Would endear thee more fondly to me. 
 
 Let them boast of their maids in Italia's gay glades, 
 Or the green "Isles of Greece," once so free : 
 
 Yet no more will I roam after beauty from home, 
 But remain, my dear Jessie, with thee. 
 
 THE SPINNING O'T. 
 
 AlE— " The Rock and the weepicMe Tow," 
 
 When Adam first delved in his bonnie kailyaird, 
 
 And Eve tried her hand at the spinning o't, 
 They never were troubled by factor nor laird — 
 Their gear was their ain for the winning o't ; 
 Nae tax-grabber crossed their bien hallan ava. 
 Their goods were na poinded by limbs o' the law. 
 And though their first busking was scrimpitly braw, 
 They had a bit cozie beginning o't. 
 
 They pu'd their ain fruit, and they stoo'd their ain 
 kail. 
 
 The grund was a' their's to the gleaning o't ; 
 They made their ain maut, and they brewed their ain 
 ale, 
 
 For ganger, they kent na the meaning o't ; 
 The beasts o' the field were a' at their command : 
 The hawk and the eagle wad pick frae their hand ; 
 The wild ass's colt at their bidding wad stand : 
 
 Creation confessed their dominion o't. 
 
The Spinning OH. 101 
 
 • 
 
 Bnt times took a turn, and the pair gat a fa', — 
 Foul fa' the AuLD Thief for that sinning o't ! 
 His fause loopy tongue maistly ruined us a', 
 
 had it been scaumed to the skinning o't ; 
 For man, ever since, has been doomed by hard toil, 
 To scrape a scant meal frae a niggardly soil, 
 'Mid sweat and anxiety, grief and turmoil. 
 Through life, frae his very beginning o't. 
 
 And still must he labour 'mid hardship and care. 
 
 At delving, at ploughing, or spinning o't, 
 Wi' belly aft pinched, and wi' back nearly bare, 
 
 For comfort, there's now a sad thinning o't ; 
 His substance is seized on for taxes or rent. 
 The priest comes and tythes him, then preaches content, 
 Wi' sickness and sorrow his frame's sairly bent ; 
 Pale want on his face shows the grinning o't. 
 
 The farmer should fend by the fruits o' the soil, 
 The wabster be warmed by the spinning o't ; 
 
 The honey-bee sip the reward o' his toil. 
 The drone suit his wame to his winning o't. 
 
 The gluttonous cormorant, sluggard, and sot, 
 
 Say, should they be whippit, or hangit, or shot ? 
 
 No ; hence wi' them aff to some bleak barren spot, 
 There, set them, gin-horse like, a-ginning o't. 
 
 But here's to the shuttle, the spade, and the plough, 
 And here's to the wheel, and the spinning o't, 
 
 May ilk ane wha lives by the sweat o' his brow, 
 flae plenty o' wealth for the winning o't ; 
 
 May want, discontent, and fell turbulence cease, — 
 
 May nation with nation exchange its increase ; 
 
 And nature still yield a rich crop, and a fleece, 
 To encourage the ploughing and spinning o't. 
 
OPENING OF THE GLASGOW AND GEEENOOK 
 RAILWAY. 
 
 While Bards of renown sing their heroes of yore, 
 Who marched on to fame — to the knees up in gore, 
 Whose chief entertainment was dying the sod, 
 And marring and mangling the image of God, 
 We'll choose a more homely, though happier theme, — 
 The genius of Watt, and the triumphs of Steam. 
 
 Had some gifted spirit arisen of old, 
 
 And to our great-grandfathers fearlessly told 
 
 The power and the virtues which vapowr contains. 
 
 They had deemed him a madman and fool for his pains; 
 
 The plain, honest, simple folks never could dream 
 
 Of the powers and the virtues inherent in Steam. 
 
 But forth came our Watt, in the strength of his mind, 
 
 Too powerful and vast for old, fetters to bind — 
 
 He saw what was wanting, he planned what was right, 
 
 Then rose giant Steam in his fulness of might, 
 
 All vigorous and fresh as the sun's primal beam, 
 
 And darkness soon fled from the presence of Steam. 
 
 Steam ! what great wonders thou lately hast wrought. 
 For Time's but thy plaything, and Distance is nought ; 
 Outstripping in fleetness the wings of the wind, 
 And leaving the storm-driven clouds far behind. 
 Thou link'st distant lands, thou o'ercomest rock and 
 
 stream, 
 Thou greatest of all Revolutionists — Steam. 
 
 The gentle and simple by thee both are fed. 
 
 Thou grindest their grain, thou preparest their bread, 
 
 Thou guidest the saw, and thou turnest the screw, 
 
 And things the most obdurate thou can'st subdue ; 
 
 Thy cylinder, piston, and ponderous beam, 
 
 Are the creatures of thine own creation — Steam ! 
 
Stanzas. 103 
 
 The prince and the peasant by thee, too, are drest. 
 
 The jenny and loom thy minuteness attest. 
 
 The forge and the furnace proclaim thy great power, 
 
 Fresh wonders on wonders arise every hour. 
 
 And wonders on wonders for ages may teem, 
 
 So various and vast are the workings of Steam. 
 
 What mighty achievements thou yet hast in store, 
 
 No heart may conceive, and no eye yet explore, — 
 
 The desert Sahara may yet own thy sway. 
 
 And the huge Polar icebergs before thee give way ; 
 
 The Atlantic into the Pacific may stream, 
 
 And the whirl of the Maelstrom may yet yield to Steam. 
 
 Then fill up a bumper — yea, fill to the brim, 
 
 And drain to the bottom in memory of him 
 
 Who, wisely directing the Steam's latent powers. 
 
 Has given a new face to this planet of ours — 
 
 May his name float along upon Time's mighty stream, 
 
 Till sun, moon, and stars, be enveloped in Steam. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 SUGGESTED ON PLANTING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF 
 JOHN TAIT, 31ST JULY, 1837. 
 
 We pulled the wild weeds oif thy grave, 
 
 And planted flowerets there. 
 Whose balmy blossoms bright might wave, 
 
 To scent the summer air. 
 Let no rude thoughtless hand presume 
 To pull these flowerets from thy tomb. 
 
 On every flower we placed in earth 
 
 We let a tear-drop fall — 
 A crystal tribute to thy worth — 
 
 'Twas friendship's holy call. 
 We dropt a tear — we heaved a sigh 
 O'er thee we saw too early die ; 
 
104 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Thou died'st amid the blaze of fame 
 
 And hope of victory ; 
 Thou died'st ! — but no : thy dear-loved name 
 
 Can never, never die ; 
 Kings, conquerors, heroes' names may rot — 
 John Tait's shall never be forgot ! 
 
 The violet here shall yearly bloom, 
 
 And here the primrose too. 
 And plants of odorous perfume, 
 
 And of the loveliest hue. 
 For why should beauty be denied 
 To deck the grave of Simeon Clyde ? 
 Then let affection's flowerets wave 
 For ever o'er thy honoured grave ! 
 
 DANIEL O'CONNELL'S WELCOME TO 
 SCOTLAND. 
 
 Hail to thee ! high-minded chieft-ain of Erin, 
 
 Happy and blest be thy native " Green Isle ; " 
 Heaven give thee strength to march onward, careering, 
 Curbing misrule and oppression the while ; 
 
 Here to the " land of cakes ; " — 
 
 Land of pure streams and lakes, 
 Blue bonnets hail thee with hearty hurrah : 
 
 This be our watchword then, 
 
 Echoed from hill and glen, 
 "Freedom ! O'Connell ! and Erin go bragh ! " 
 
 Hail to thee ! Erin's renowned Liberator, 
 
 Welcome to Scotland, the land of the brave ; 
 Tyrants who fear thee may howl " agitator," 
 Still thou art dear to the heart-broken slave ; — 
 
 Lordlings may rant and rave. 
 
 Joined by each canting knave — 
 Each rabid cur ope his venomous jaw. 
 
 Ours be the watchword still, 
 
 Echoed from glen and hill, 
 " Freedom, O'Connell, and Erin go bragh." 
 
Ode far the Anniversary of Robert Tannahill. 105 
 
 Ours is no hireling — no bought adulation, 
 
 Offered to titles, to rank, or to birth, 
 No : — 'tis the heart-felt applause of a nation, 
 Paid to pre-eminent talent and worth. 
 
 Lords may be pretty things, 
 
 Talk very witty things, 
 Simper and smile, while they pillage by law, 
 
 Let them their minions fee, 
 
 Our grateful theme shall be, 
 " Freedom, O'Connell, and Erin go bragh." 
 
 Hail to thee, who, whilst o'er Erin's woes weeping, 
 Feel'st for the wrongs of the rest of mankind : — 
 Hail to thee, who, at thy post ever keeping, 
 Sleep'st not till freedom a resting-place find ; 
 
 Still may'st thou grow in strength, 
 
 Till crowned with joy at length. 
 Freedom's last foe from his stronghold thou draw ; — 
 
 Then shall the welkin ring. 
 
 While future ages sing, 
 " Freedom, O'Connell, and Erin go bragh." 
 
 ODE WEITTEN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 While certain parties in the State 
 
 Meet yearly, to commemorate 
 
 The birth of their great " heaven-born " head, 
 
 Wha lang did Britain's councils lead ; 
 
 And in the face of downright facts. 
 
 Launch forth in praise of certain acts, 
 
 As deeds of first-rate magnitude, 
 
 Performed a' for the public good. 
 
 By this rare pink o' politicians. 
 
 This matchless Prince o' State Physicians ; 
 
 Whase greatest skill in bleeding lay, 
 
 Bleeding the state into decay : 
 
 For — studying the great Sangrado, — 
 
106 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 There's little doubt, but he got baud o' 
 
 The secret o' that great man's art, 
 
 At which he soon grew most expert ; 
 
 As his prescriptions, like his master's. 
 
 Still ran on lancets mair than plasters : — 
 
 A proper mode, nae doubt, when nations, 
 
 Like men, are fashed wi' inflammations ; 
 
 But somewhat dangerous when the patient. 
 
 From being rather scrimply rationed, 
 
 Has little blood to spare — and when, 
 
 (With all respect for learned men). 
 
 He has much less desire to look 
 
 To the Physician, than the Cook. 
 
 While thus they meet, and yearly dine. 
 
 And o'er their flowing cups o' wine, 
 
 By studied speech, or weel-timed toast. 
 
 Declare it is their greatest boast, 
 
 That they were friends o' that great Pilot 
 
 Who braved the storm by his rare skill o't, 
 
 And brought the vessel fairly through. 
 
 Though mutinous were half the crew. 
 
 But then, these Pitt-adoring fellows 
 
 " Remember to forget " to tell us 
 
 That, running foul o' some rude rock. 
 
 He gied the vessel such a shock. 
 
 As shattered a' her stately hull ; 
 
 So that her owner, Mr. Bull, 
 
 So terrible a loss sustaining, 
 
 Has ever since been sair complaining : — 
 
 In fact, this once brave, stout, plump fellow. 
 
 With face, now of a sickly yellow, , 
 
 A constitution, sadly shattered, 
 
 A frame wi' toil and sickness battered. 
 
 Wearing away by constant wasting, 
 
 Down to the grave seems fast a-hasting. 
 
 But yet, he vows, if he be spared, 
 
 He'll have her thoroughly repaired, 
 
 Nor weary out his gallant crew 
 
 By tbiling mair than men can do ; 
 
 For now it tak's them ceaseless pumping, 
 
Ode for the Anniversary of Robert Tannahill. 107 
 
 To keep the crazy hulk from swamping : 
 Na, troth, they tell us nought like that, 
 They're no sae candid, weel I wat. 
 But, getting a' quite pack thegither, 
 They bandy compliments at ither 
 Sae thick and fast, that mutual flatteries 
 Are playing oif like bomb-shell batteries ; 
 Or rather to come lower down, 
 For that's a simile too high flown, 
 It's somewhat like a boyish yoking, 
 At battledoor and shuttlecocking ; 
 For, soon as this ane gies his crack, 
 The next ane's ready to pay back 
 His fulsome compliments galore ; 
 And thus is blarney's battledoor 
 Applied to flattery's shuttlecock, 
 Till ilk ane round gets stroke for stroke. 
 Or, just as honest Scotch folk do, 
 It's " ye'll claw me and I'll claw you." 
 
 A different task is ours indeed ; 
 We meet to pay the grateful meed ; — 
 The meed of just esteem sincere, 
 To ane, whase memory we hold dear ; 
 To ane, whase name demands respect, 
 Although wi' nae court titles decked ; 
 To ane, wha never learned the gate. 
 Of fawning meanly on the great ; 
 To ane wha never turned his coat. 
 To mak' a sinfu' penny o't ; 
 To ane, wha never speeled to favour. 
 By turning mankind's chief enslaver ; 
 To ane wha never did aspire 
 To set and keep the warld on fire ; 
 To ane wha ne'er by mischief brewing 
 liaised himsel' on his country's ruin ; 
 But humbly glided on through life. 
 Remote from party jars and strife, 
 A quiet, inoffensive man, 
 As ever life's short race-course ran ; 
 
108 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 A simple, honest child of nature still, 
 
 In short, our ain dear minstrel — Tannahill. 
 
 Tannahill ! thou bard revered, 
 Thy name shall ever be endeared 
 To Scotia, thy loved land of song, 
 While her pure rivers glide along ; 
 While her bleak rugged mountains high, 
 Point their rude summits to the sky ; 
 While yellow harvests on her plains 
 Reward her children's toils and pains ; 
 And while her sons and daughters leal 
 The inborn glow of freedom feel, 
 Her woods, her rocks, her hills and glens, 
 Shall echo thy delightful strains. 
 While " Jura's cliffs " are capt with snows ; 
 While the " dark winding Carron flows ; " 
 While high " Ben Lomond " rears his head, 
 To catch the sun's last radiance shed ; 
 While sweet " Gleniffer's dewy dell " 
 Blooms wi' " the craw-flower's early bell ; " 
 While smiles " Glenkilloch's sunny brae," 
 Made classic by thy tender lay ; 
 While waves the " wood of Craigielee," 
 Where " Mary's heart was won by thee," 
 Thy name^thy artless minstrelsy, 
 Sweet bard of nature, ne'er shall die ; 
 But thou wilt be remembered still. 
 Meek, unassuming Tannahill. 
 What, though with Burns thou could'st not vie, 
 In diving deep, or soaring high ; 
 What though thy genius did not blaze 
 Like his, to draw the public gaze ; 
 Yet, thy sweet numbers, free from art. 
 Like his, can touch — can melt the heart. 
 
 The lav'rock may soar, till he's lost in the sky. 
 Yet the modest wee lintie that sings frae the tree, 
 
 Although he aspire not to regions so high. 
 His song is as sweet as the lav'rock's to me ; 
 
Ode for the Anniversary of Robert Tannahill. 109 
 
 And thy wild warblings are sweet, Tannahill, 
 Whatever thy theme be, — love, grief, or despair, 
 
 The tones of thy lyre move our feelings at will, 
 For nature, all powerful, predominates there. 
 
 But, while the bard we eulogize. 
 Shall we the man neglect to prize ? 
 
 No ! perish every virtue first, 
 And every vice usurp its place ; 
 
 With every ill let man be curst, 
 Ere we do aught so mean and base. 
 Shall bloody warriors fill the rolls of fame. 
 And niches in her lofty temple claim ? — 
 Shall the unfeeling scourgers of mankind. 
 To mercy deaf, to their own interest blind ; 
 Shall the depopulators of the earth, 
 Without one particle of real worth — 
 Whose lives are one compounded mass of crime. 
 Be handed down by fame to latest time, 
 The admiration of each future age ? 
 They ! whose vile names are blots on every page ? 
 And shall the child of virtue * be forgot, 
 Because the inmate of a humble cot ? 
 Shall he whose heart was open, warm, sincere. 
 Who gave to want his mite — to woe his tear ; 
 Whose friendship still, was steady, warm and sure. 
 Whose love was tender, constant, ardent, pure ; 
 Whose fine-toned feelings, generous and humane, 
 Were hurt to give the meanest reptile pain ; 
 Whose filial love for her who gave him birth, 
 Has seldom found a parallel on earth ; 
 Shall he, forgotten in oblivion lie ? 
 
 * It is well authenticated that the rash act, which terminated the 
 career of the unfortunate Tannahill, was committed in a fit of mental 
 distraction, arising from a circumstance, which the peculiar sensibility 
 of his mind could not brook. The many amiable qualities of his dis- 
 position, which, we have here endeavoured to depict, have ever been 
 confirmed by his intimates, as well as by all who were in the least 
 degree acquainted with him, so as justly to entitle him to the epithet 
 " child of virtue." — Author's Note. 
 
110 , Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Forbid it, every sacred Power on high ; 
 
 Forbid it, every virtue here below. 
 
 Shall such a precious gem lie buried 1 No : 
 
 Historians may neglect him, if they will, 
 
 But age will tell to age, the worth of Tannahill. 
 
 When mighty conquerors shall be forgot ; 
 
 When, like themselves, their very names shall rot ; 
 
 When even the story of their deeds is lost, 
 
 Or only heard with horror and disgust ; 
 
 When happy man, from tyranny set free. 
 
 Shall wonder if such things could really be ; 
 
 And bless his stars that he was not on earth 
 
 When such destructive monsters* were bi'ought 
 
 forth. 
 When the whole human family shall be one. 
 In every clime below the circling sun, 
 And every man shall live secure and free. 
 Beneath his vine, beneath his own fig-tree ; 
 No savage hordes his dwelling to invade, 
 Nor plunderer daring to make him afraid ; 
 When things are prized, not by their showy dress. 
 But by the solid worth which they possess ; 
 Even then, our loved, our much lamented bard. 
 Those times shall venerate with deep regard ; 
 His songs will charm, his virtues be revered, 
 And to his name shall monuments be reared. 
 
 * This may seem to many, perhaps, too harsh a term to apply to 
 human beings ; but when we consider the atrocities and butcheries 
 committed or sanctioned, by such characters as Nero, Caligula, and 
 others, in what terms can we more properly designate such individuals, 
 than " destructive monsters ? " — Author's Note. 
 
"COME HAME TO YOUR LINGELS."* 
 
 AlB — " Whistle an I'll come to you, my lad." 
 
 " Come hame to your lingels, ye ne'er-do-weel loon, 
 " You're the king o' the dyvours, the talk o' the town, 
 " Sae soon as the Munonday morning comes in 
 " Your wearifu' daidling again maun begin. 
 " Gudewife, ye're a skillet, your tongue's just a bell, 
 " To the peace o' guid fallows it rings the death-knell ; 
 "But clack, till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill, 
 " The souter shall ay hae his Munonday's yill." 
 
 Come hame to your lap-stane, come hame to your last, 
 It's a bonnie affair that your family maun fast. 
 While you and your crew here a-guzzling maun sit. 
 Ye daised drunken guid-for-nocht heir o' the pit ; 
 Just leuk how I'm gaun without stocking or shoe, 
 Your bairns a' in tatters, an' fotherless too. 
 An' yet, quite content, like a sot ye'U sit still 
 Till your kyte's like to crack wi' your Munonday's yill. 
 
 I tell ye, gudewife, gin ye haudna your clack, 
 I'll lend you a reestle wi' this owre your back ; 
 Maun we be abused an' affronted by you, 
 Wi' siccanfoul names as "loon," "dyvour,'' an' "crew?" 
 Come hame to your lingels, this instant come hame, 
 Or I'll redden your face, gin ye've yet ony shame ; 
 For I'll bring a' the bairns, an' we'll just hae our fill. 
 As weel as yoursel', o' your Munonday's yill. 
 
 * The first stanza of this, and of the five succeedijig songs," are 
 Fragments which were left hy the much-lamented Robert Tannabill, 
 and published in the Harp of Renfrewshire. Thinking it a pity that 
 even a " fragment " of so celebrated a song-writer should be lost, 
 for want of something like a proper finish, Rodger set to himself the 
 task of adding bodies and limbs to the already well-shaped heads. 
 How deftly he seized and carried out the spirit of the original, the 
 songs as here presented bear eloquent testimony. The lines marked 
 by inverted commas are by Taunahill. 
 
112 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Gin that be the gate o't, sirs, come let us stir, 
 What need we sit here to be pestered by her ? 
 For she'll plague an' affront us as far as she can — 
 Did ever a woman sae bother a man ? 
 Fra? yill-house to yill-house she'll after us rin, 
 An' raise the hale town wi' her yelpin' an' din ; 
 Come, ca' the gudewife, bid her bring in her bill, 
 I see I maun quat takin' Munonday's yill. 
 
 "MEG 0' THE GLEN." 
 Air — " When she cam' ien she bobbit." 
 
 " Meg o' the glen set aff to the fair, 
 
 " Wi' ruffles an' ribbons, an' meikle prepare, 
 
 " Her heart it was heavy, her head it was licht, 
 
 " For a' the lang way for a wooer she sicht ; 
 
 " She spak to the lads, but the lads slippit by ; 
 
 " She spak to the lasses, the lasses were shy j 
 
 " She thocht she micht do, but she didna weel ken, 
 
 " For nane seem'd to care for poor Meg o' the glen." 
 
 But wat ye what was't made the lads a' gae by ? 
 An' wat ye what was't made the lasses sae shy ? 
 Poor Meg o' the glen had nae tocher ava, 
 And therefore could neither be bonnie nor braw. 
 But an uncle, wha lang in the Indies had been, 
 Forseeing death coming to close his auld een. 
 Made his will, left her heiress o' thousand punds ten ; 
 Now wha is mair thocht o' than Meg o' the glen ? 
 
 "THE LASSIE 0' MERRY EIGHTEEN." 
 
 ' My faither wad hae me to marry the miller ; 
 
 " My mither wad hae me to marry the laird ; 
 ' But brawly I ken it's the love o' the siller 
 
 " That brightens their fancy to ony regard ; 
 
"The Lasses a' Leugk" 113 
 
 " The miller is crookit, the miller is crabbit, 
 
 " The laird, though he's wealthy, he's lyart and lean, 
 
 " He's auld, an' he's cauld, an' he's blin', an' he's bald, 
 " An' he's no for a lassie o' merry eighteen." 
 
 But there's a laddie wha tells me he loes me, 
 
 An' him I loe dearly, aye, dearly as life, 
 Tho' father an' mither should scold an' abuse me, 
 
 Nae ither shall ever get me for a wife ; 
 Although he can boast na o' land nor yet siller. 
 
 He's worthy to match wi' a duchess or queen ; 
 For his heart is sae warm, an' sae stately his form, 
 
 An' then, like mysel', he's just merry eighteen. 
 
 " THE LASSES A' LEUGH." 
 
 Are — " Kiss'd yestreen." 
 
 " The lasses a' leugh, and the carlin flate, 
 " But Maggie was sitting fu' ourie and blate, 
 " The auld silly gawkie, she couldna contain, 
 " How brawly she was kissed yestreen ; 
 
 " Kissed yestreen, kissed yestreen, 
 " How brawly she was kissed yestreen ; 
 " She blethered it round to her fae an' her freen, 
 
 " How brawly she was kissed yestreen." 
 
 She loosed the white napkin frae 'bout her dun neck, 
 An' cried the big sorrow tak' lang Geordie Fleck, 
 D'ye see what a scart I gat frae a preen. 
 By his towsling an' kissing at me yestreen ; 
 
 At me yestreen, at me yestreen. 
 By his towsling and kissing at me yestreen j 
 I canna conceive what the fellow could mean, 
 
 By kissing sae meikle at me yestreen. 
 
 Then she pu'd up her sleeve an' shawed a blae mark, 
 Quo' she, I gat that frae young Davy our dark, 
 But the creature had surely forgat himsel' clean, 
 When he nipt me sae hard for a kiss yestreen ; 
 
 H 
 
114 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yestreen, 
 When he nipt me sae hard for a kiss yestreen ; 
 I wonder what keepit my nails frae his een, 
 
 When he nipt me sae hard for a kiss yestreen. 
 
 Then she held up her cheek, an' cried, foul fa' the laird, 
 Just leuk what I gat wi' his black birsie beard, 
 The vile filthy body ! was e'er the like seen 1 
 To rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen ; 
 
 For a kiss yestreen, for a kiss yestreen, 
 To rub me sae sair for a kiss yestreen ; 
 I'm sure that nae woman o' judgment need green 
 
 To be rubbit, like me, for a kiss yestreen. 
 
 Syne she tald what grand ofiers she aften had had, 
 But wad she tak' a man 1 — na, she wasna sae mad ; 
 For the hale o' the sex she cared na a preen, 
 An' she hated the way she was kissed yestreen ; 
 
 Kissed yestreen, kissed yestreen. 
 She hated the way she was kissed yestreen ; 
 'Twas a mercy that naething mair serious had been. 
 
 For it's dangerous whiles to be kissed at e'en. 
 
 "BRAVE LEWIE ROY." 
 
 An old Gaelic Aw. 
 
 " Brave Lewie Eoy was the flower of our Highlandmen, 
 " Tall as the oak on the lofty Benvoirlich, 
 
 " Fleet as the light-bounding tenants of Fillin-glen, 
 " Dearer than life to his lovely nighean choi&each.* 
 
 " Lone was his biding, the cave of his hiding, 
 
 " When forced to retire with our gallant Prince 
 Charlie, 
 " Though manly and fearless, his bold heart was cheer- 
 less, 
 " Away from the lady he ay loved so dearly." 
 
 • Pronounced neen, vaiuch — beautiful maid. 
 
"0 How Can You Gang, Lassie." 115 
 
 But woe on the blood-thirsty mandates of Cumberland ! 
 
 Woe on the blood-thirsty gang that fulfilled them ! 
 Poor Caledonia ! bleeding and plundered land, 
 
 Where shall thy children now shelter and shield 
 them? 
 Keen prowl the cravens, like merciless ravens, 
 
 Their prey — the devoted adherents of Charlie ; 
 Brave Lewie Roy is ta'en, cowardly hacked and slain — 
 
 Ah ! his nighean choidheach will mourn for him sairly. 
 
 "0 HOW CAJST YOU GANG-, • LASSIE." 
 Air—" The bonniest Zasss m a' the warld." 
 
 " HOW can you gang, lassie, how can you gang, 
 
 " how can ye gang sae to grieve me ? 
 " Wi' your beauty, and your art, ye hae broken my 
 heart, 
 
 " For I never, never dreamt ye could leave me." 
 Ah ! wha wad hae thought that sae bonnie a face 
 
 Could e'er wear a smile to deceive me ? 
 Or that guile in that fair bosom could e'er find a place. 
 
 And that you wad break your vows thus, and leave 
 me? 
 
 have you not mind, when our names you entwined, 
 
 In a wreath round the purse you did weave me ? 
 Or have you now forgot the once-dear trysting spot 
 
 Where so oft you pledged your faith ne'er to leave 
 me? 
 But, changing as wind is your light fickle mind ; 
 
 Your smiles, tokens, vows, all deceive me ; 
 No more, then, I'll trust to such frail painted dust, 
 
 But bewail my fate till kind death relieve me. 
 
 Then gang, fickle fair, to your new-fangled jo, 
 Yes, gang, and in wretchedness leave me ; 
 
 But, alas ! should you be doomed to a wedlock of woe, 
 Ah, how would your unhappiness grieve me ! 
 
116 Rodger's Foems. 
 
 For, Mary ! all faithless and false as thou art, 
 Thy spell-binding glances, believe me, 
 
 So closely are entwined round this fond foolish heart, 
 That the grave alone of them can bereave me. 
 
 THE TWA WEAVEES.* 
 Written 1819. 
 
 When War and Taxation had fieec'd us right sair, 
 And made us, like scaur-craws, a' ragged an' bare, 
 Twa poor weaver bodies ae day chanc'd to meet, 
 Wi' scarcely a shoe on their stockingless feet : 
 Their lank ribs were seen through their deeding to 
 
 shine. 
 And their beards might hae pass'd for a hermit's lang- 
 
 syne. 
 
 "Weal, Robin," quo' Tammas, "what way do ye fen', 
 And do ye aye live yet, out-by, at Woodend 1 " 
 " Live ! — live ! I live naewhere ; I starve at Tollcross : 
 Gude troth, I'm owre like you, and that is our loss ; 
 For a' things around us against us combine, 
 Which mak' us look back wi' regret on langsyne. 
 
 "These three, weeks a' rinnin', I've risen at three, 
 An' wrought just as lang as a body could see ; 
 An' a' that I've made o't, in that time, I trow. 
 Wad scarce get potatoes an' draff for a sow : 
 What then ? — we are counted a parcel o' swine. 
 An' laugh'd at whene'er we look back to langsyne. 
 
 * At the time this piece was written, the condition of the haudloom 
 weavers was suifioiently deplorable ; but it was nothing compared to 
 what their sufferings have been since that period. Year after year 
 have they been wending the downward way to misery ; and if at any 
 time a glimpse of sunshine did appear, it was so transient as only to 
 render the darkness of their condition more visible. In fact, the tale 
 of the " Twa Weavers " may be looked on more as a prophetic enun- 
 ciation of "things to be," than of things that then actually " were." 
 — Author's Note. 
 
The Twa Weavers. 117 
 
 " But what need we speak o' our ain private case, 
 When famine and want are portray'd on ilk face ; 
 When thousands, whose prospects in life once were fair, 
 Now pine in starvation, and sigh in despair ; 
 When toil, and disease, and chill penury join, 
 To Hast every comfort the poor had langsyne ? 
 
 " But what is the cause, man, o' a' this distress ? 
 
 And is there nae method to get it made less ? " 
 
 " The cause ! — tak' my word, there are causes enow. 
 
 And causes that lang may gar poor Britain rue. 
 
 Unless she return (as I humbly opine). 
 
 To the guid hamely fashions, in days o' langsyne. 
 
 " That lang, bloody war, enter'd into by Pitt, 
 Has burdened her sae that to move she's scarce fit ; — 
 Has cramp'd a' her energies — dried up her sap — 
 And driven her poor bairns f rae her fostering lap ; 
 And under that burden she ever must pine. 
 Unless she just do, — as she whiles did langsyne. 
 
 " And that Paper swindle — curse their Bank notes ! 
 
 that they were cramm'd down the bankers' ain throats, 
 
 For had it not been for their auld rotten rags, 
 
 John Bull might have still had some wind in his bags ; 
 
 But now he's bereft o' his good yellow coin. 
 
 That clinket sae sweetly in days o' langsyne. 
 
 " But volumes on volumes could scarce tell the skaith 
 Which that paper bubble — that engine o' deaths 
 Has wrought to the world, by its fause gilded show. 
 While a' has been hollow, and rotten below ; — 
 Soon, soon, may it burst ! like a powder-sprung mine, 
 And then we may hope for good days, like langsyne. 
 
 " And see — we submit, like a parcel o' slaves, 
 To be tax'd and oppress'd by a junto o' kna<ves, 
 Wha buy themselves seats in our House, wp the gate. 
 There laugh at our sufferings, and ca' that debate, 
 Whilst at our expense, their ain pouches they line ; 
 L — d send them a Cromwell ! like Cromwell langsyne. 
 
118 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 " And mark ! a vile, profligate, sinecure band, 
 Devouring by wholesale the fat o' the land. 
 Which from our industry is wrung every day, 
 To feed and to fatten such reptiles as they ; 
 Whilst they, on their sofas, supinely recline. 
 Unlike our Atjld Barons — the pride o' langsyne. 
 
 " But look nearer hame, and yell see how we're crush'd, 
 How toss'd about, trampled on, driven, and push'd. 
 And see how the working man's substance is shar'd. 
 Amongst the Monopolist, Taxer, and Laird, 
 Who, by screwing, and squeezing, and pinching, combine, 
 To ghostify him who was substance langsyne. 
 
 " And look at machinery, the bane o' our trade. 
 What thousands by it hae been reft o' their bread, 
 Yet where is the man who would wish it destroy'd, 
 Were it for the good o' the public employ'd, 
 Instead of supporting establishments fine, 
 O' chiels wha were scarcely worth twopence langsyne ? 
 
 "And some o' our Priesthood (Gude bless the hale 
 
 pack !) 
 How glibly, ilk Sunday, they lay aff their crack, 
 •And tell their gull'd hearers, that these trying times 
 Are solely brought on by the poor people's crimes ; 
 And then, wi' their sanctified cant, how they whine 
 About passive obedience, like hirelings langsyne. 
 
 " But, true to their Order, their interest, and coat, 
 Wi' their triple-taed fork, in the Kirlc-and-State pot, 
 . They wale for themsel's the best bit o' the beast. 
 On which they mak' sure ay to guttle and feast, 
 Whilst we and our families on tears aften dine, 
 And silently sigh for the days o' langsyne. 
 
 " Now, these are a few o' the ills which, I think. 
 Have driven auld Britain to misery's brink, 
 And made her free sons, once intrepid and brave. 
 To envy the lot o' the African slave; 
 
A Congratulatory Address. 119 
 
 Poor Britain ! how sadly thy glories decline, 
 
 How quench'd thy proud spirit — thy fire o' langsyne." 
 
 " Hech, man ! — if what you now hae stated be fact, 
 Our prospects, indeed, are most gloomy and black ; 
 But do ye not think they may yet brighten up ? " 
 " Indeed, to be candid, I have nae siccan hope. 
 Unless the Black Book to the flames we consign, 
 And begin a new score, like our Fathers langsyne ! " 
 
 A CONGRATULATORY ADDRESS, 
 
 TO A CERTAIN FLOCK, ON THEIR GETTING A WORTHY 
 PASTOR. 
 
 Ye dowie flock wha've gotten sic a scatter, 
 Wha starve for lack o' halesome gospel grass — 
 Wha pant an' gape for waughts o' caller water — 
 As through this weary wilderness ye pass. 
 
 Lang hae ye wanted a guid herd to lead ye, 
 An' keep ye frae that wily thief, the Tod, 
 On halesome caller pasture aye to feed ye, 
 And keep ye frae gaun down the braid stey road. 
 
 Lang hae ye wander'd through the wilds sae dreary, 
 And strayed afar 'mang grassless barren tracks ; 
 And aft when seeking shades to screen and cheer ye, 
 The thorns hae torn the woo' frae aff your backs. 
 
 Lang hae ye suffered sair by strifes and troubles, 
 Bred by some headstrong brutes amang yoursels, 
 Wha took a pride in vile, contentious squabbles, 
 And a' about the bearing o' the hells. 
 
 But cock your lugs, puir things, and quat your sadness, 
 Nae mair ye'll hunger, thirst, nor gang astray ; 
 Yea, mae aloud, and frisk, and loup for gladness ! 
 Ye'll hae a herd, a trusty herd this day ; 
 
120 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 A herd wha eidently will tent and feed ye, 
 And ca' ye aye to caller shades at noon — 
 By bonnie, wimpling, crystal burns he'll lead ye, 
 And ward ye faithfully baith late and soon. 
 
 Your weak and sickly things he'll kindly foster, 
 And gently lead your ewies grit wi' lamb ; 
 Your lammies young he'll carry in his oxter, 
 But tightly creesh ilk ramp unruly ram. 
 
 Nae mair through grassless barren muirs ye'll wander. 
 Nor scattered be on dark and cloudy days — 
 Nae mair ye'll quake at Sinai's awfu' thunder, 
 But snugly feed on Zion's bonnie braes. 
 
 There ye may frisk and loup at will securely, 
 Nae gully formed against ye e'er shall thrive, 
 Nor barbarous butcher, wi' his curs sae surly, 
 Unto the slaughter your young lammies drive. 
 
 The clegs and wasps, indeed, may whiles annoy ye. 
 But wha can keep aff that mischievous brood 1 
 Na, troth, they're aiblins sent to prove and try ye, 
 And sic like ills can only work your good. 
 
 But mind, now, sheep, when ance ye're a' thegither. 
 And feeding neath your Shepherd's tenty e'e, 
 O strive nae mair, nor box wi' ane anither, 
 But like a chosen, precious flock, agree. 
 
 Prove what ye are by lo'eing ane anither — 
 By bearing ane anither's toils and cares — 
 By keeping in the right road aye thegither — 
 A-back frae sly Tod Lowrie's wiles and snares. 
 
 O never gie that sleekit thief occasion 
 To triumph owre ye, either night or day. 
 But aye keep back frae ilka sweet temptation, 
 Ilk cunning trap that he sets in your way. 
 
A Likeness Taken from Real Life. 121 
 
 So shall ye thrive, and wax baith fair and lusty, 
 Your herd wi' pleasure will your thriving view ; 
 And as his just reward for being sae trusty, 
 Will only fleece ye o' your tait o' woo'. 
 
 A LIKENESS TAKEN FEOM REAL LIFE. 
 
 Know ye the man who is empty and proud ? 
 
 Know ye the man who is noisy and loud ? 
 
 Know ye the man whose stentorian lungs 
 
 Could give motion and force to four dozen of tongues ? 
 
 Know ye the man to whom Nature, still kind. 
 
 To make up for the want of a heart and a mind, 
 
 Has given a visage of fifty-cheek power. 
 
 To help him to sputter out froth by the hour. 
 
 And talk till his audience no longer can sit, 
 
 Quite sick of the trash which he passes for wit ? 
 
 Know ye the man who, to gain his own ends. 
 
 Can wheedle, and diddle, and cozen his friends, 
 
 And, after obtaining the favour he wants. 
 
 Can turn round and pay them with jeers and with 
 
 taunts ? 
 Know ye the man who, to gain him a rib 
 Possessing the needful, could coin a neat fib. 
 Pretending to be what he really was not. 
 Till the trusting one's cash in his clutches he got — 
 And, now that he reckons his fortune half made, 
 Can laugh at the innocent dupe he betrayed — 
 Who fondles to fleece her — then treats her with scorn, 
 And who yet will leave her to languish forlorn ? 
 Know ye the man fraught with bombast and foam. 
 Who, courting applause, through the country can roam, 
 Displaying the learning which others have shown. 
 To make it go down, when he can, as his own ; 
 Who into good company gets himself bored. 
 Still making a fuss that he may be adored ; 
 But if to engross the whole talk he should fail, 
 Whose plan is to bully, browbeat, or turn tail ? 
 
122 Rodgef's Poems. 
 
 Know ye the man — — But I need not say more 
 Than This : . if you e'er meet a terrible bore, 
 A bore who will pester your soul to the quick, 
 And dose you with dogmas until you're quite sick, 
 An ignorant dabbler in logic and law, 
 A discarded fiscal, who hunts for eclat, 
 A pompous practiser of fudge and clap-trap, 
 A fopling, a fibber — then, that is the chap. 
 
 DEAK IS OUR HAME. 
 
 O DEAR is our hame by yon bonnie burn-side, 
 
 Where the blue-bells and primroses blaw. 
 Where the sweet scented hawthorn, in maidenly pride. 
 
 Spreads a robe that outrivals the snaw ; 
 And the wide spreading tree, where my Edwin met me, 
 
 Sae aft in the gloamin' wi' love-lighted e'e ; 
 While I sighing contest, as I leaned on his breast, 
 
 That I lo'ed him the dearest of a'. 
 
 O dear is our hame by yon bonnie burn-side, 
 
 Where the blue-bells and primroses blaw. 
 Where the sweet scented hawthorn, in maidenly pride. 
 
 Spreads a robe that outrivals the snaw. 
 How dear yet to me are those scenes of our youth, 
 
 Where the moments so joyously flew. 
 When my Edwin was constancy, faithfulness, truth. 
 
 As still he is faithful and true. 
 
 How blest is our lot, in that calm happy spot. 
 With our bonnie wee lammies around our snug cot. 
 Full of innocent glee, running careless and free. 
 
 From pastime to pastime still new. 
 How dear yet to me are those scenes of our youth, 
 
 Where the moments so joyously flew ; 
 When my Edwin was constancy, faithfulness, truth, 
 
 As still he is faithful and true. 
 
HIGHLAN' SOBRIETY. 
 
 AlB— " The Braes o' Olenorchy." 
 
 My praw ponnie lads ! I will shust tell't you what, 
 Whene'er you will down by ta stoup whiskee sat, 
 In hearty coot freenships your whistles be wat, 
 
 Shust teuk ta coot trams, but no fill yoursel's fou. 
 For, oich ! she pe shamefu', pe sinfu' an' a', 
 Pe mak' yoursel's trunk as pe baud py ta wa', 
 Or down in ta tirty hole-gutter be fa'. 
 
 An' wallow ta mire, like ta muckle muhJc dhu.* 
 
 Me sure, gin you shust teuk ta troubles pe leuk, 
 
 (Ta place I'm forgot) in ta coot Pible Peuk, 
 
 She tell you, tat you ta wee trappies moucht teuk. 
 
 For coot o' ta pody, but no pe got fou ; 
 You moucht teukit ae glass, you moucht teukit twa, 
 You moucht teukit sax for pe help him awa', 
 But oich ! dinna teuk him, pe gar yoursel's fa'. 
 
 For tat wad play t — mn an' hellnations wi' you. 
 
 Ta whiskees pe coot when ta pelly pe sore, 
 
 Pe coot, when Shon Highlan'man traws her claymore. 
 
 For ten she'll perform ta crate wonders galiore, 
 
 Sae lang's her coot beetock t or sJcean f stood true : 
 Pe coot for ta peoples in a' kind o' station. 
 When tey will pe use her in tue modderation. 
 But when tey pe 'puse her wi' toxification, 
 
 Far petters pe feucht wi' ta Demi mhor dhu.^ 
 
 Ta whiskees preed shoy, and ta whiskees preed woe, 
 Ta whiskees pe freen', an' ta whiskees pe foe, 
 For as you pe treat him, he shust use you so, 
 
 Hims coots and hims neevils must 'pend a' 'pon you : 
 So now, my praw lads, 'tis coot 'vice I will gie, 
 Whene'er tat you'll met wi' ta Shon Parley-pree, 
 Trunk aff your coot glasses — ay— ane, twa, nor tree, 
 
 But oich ! teukit care, no pe piper pitch fou. 
 
 * Black Sow. tDirk. J Knife. § Great Black DeviL 
 
YE WHO MOURN DEAE FRIENDS DEPARTED. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR AND SUNG AT A CONCERT GIVEN IN AID 
 OF THE BRIDGETON GRAVE PROTECTING SOCIETY. — 1824. 
 
 AiE — " Scenes of woe, and scenes of pleasure." 
 
 Ye who mourn dear friends departed, 
 
 By the hand of death laid low ; 
 Ye who, lone and broken-hearted. 
 
 Secretly indulge your woe : 
 'Mid your plaintive sighs and wailings. 
 
 One sad comfort, now, you have, 
 Shock'd no more shall be your feelings. 
 
 O'er a plundered, empty grave. 
 
 Midnight prowlers bent on robbing, 
 
 Shall no more your dead molest ; 
 Now, " the wicked cease from troubling," 
 
 Now, " the weary are at rest : " 
 Soundly sleeps your sire or mother. 
 
 Faithful husband, virtuous wife. 
 Son or daughter, sister, brother, 
 
 Safe from the dissector's knife. 
 
 O'er the hallowed green turf kneeling, 
 
 Shedding fond affection's tear. 
 Soothed will be your every feeling, 
 
 With, " Thy dear-loved dust lies here ; 
 Here, too, shalt thou long repose thee, 
 
 In the calm and peaceful tomb. 
 Till the Archangel's trump shall rouse thee, 
 
 Radiant with immortal bloom." 
 
 LOVELY WOMAN. 
 
 When proud man, for thirst of fame, 
 
 Madly wades through blood and slaughter. 
 
 What his savage heart can tame 1 — 
 Woman ! — Nature's fairest daughter. 
 
Bolivar. 125 
 
 In this thorny vale of grief 
 
 Where shall weary man repose him ? 
 
 Where obtain such blest relief 
 As on lovely woman's bosom 1 
 
 When the infant is distrest, 
 
 What is then its sweetest soother ? — 
 'Tis the soft — the tender breast, 
 
 Of its anxious, fondling mother. 
 Where's the only heaven on earth. 
 
 Where those buds celestial blossom — 
 Truth, love, feeling, meekness, worth 1 
 
 Where ? — in virtuous woman's bosom. 
 
 What impels the patriot band 
 
 On to actions more than human, 
 To redeem their dear-loved land 1 
 
 What but sweet, endearing woman ! 
 Yes, her meek imploring tear 
 
 With supernal fire endues them : 
 Freedom ! then, how doubly dear, 
 
 Breathed upon her panting bosom ! 
 
 BOLIVAE. 
 
 [The following verses were written on reading in the Qlasgow Chronicle, 
 September, 1816, a Proclamation of General Bolivar, by which all 
 the slaves in the Carracas, Venezuela, and Cumana, were declared 
 free citizens, on condition of their taking up arms in defence of 
 the Republic. The number thus emancipated was estimated at 
 Seventy Thousaitd.] 
 
 Who can read without emotion. 
 Such a piece of glorious news ? 
 
 Who that feels the least devotion 
 Can a tear of joy refuse ? 
 
 Hail ! thou friend of man — thou Saviour 
 Of the much-wronged sable race, 
 
 Bolivar ! — thy name for ever, 
 
 History's brightest page shall grace. 
 
126 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Forward, while thy Country's pressing 
 
 Towards Liberty complete, 
 Thou diffusest wide the blessing, 
 
 Making all partake of it. 
 
 Seventy Thousand fellow creatures, 
 
 Differing only in their hue, 
 Freed from slavery's galling fetters ; — 
 
 What a God-like deed to do ! 
 
 Every badge of slavery broken, 
 Banished now all hopeless grief, 
 
 See a band of freemen flocking 
 Round the standard of their chief. 
 
 See ! — no more, the slave, the coward, 
 But the MAN, undaunted — bold, 
 
 Striving, panting, pressing forward 
 'Mong the brave to be enrolled. 
 
 Who'd not envy thee thy feelings, 
 
 Whilst thou viewest them thronging nigh ; 
 
 All their former bitter wailings. 
 Changed to shouts of frantic joy 1 
 
 Every eye with gladness beaming, 
 Evei-y act their bliss bespeaks. 
 
 Tears of joy profusely streaming 
 Down their honest sable cheeks. 
 
 Fiends, confounded at the action, 
 Shrink within themselves aghast ; 
 
 Despots, raving with distraction. 
 View their power declining fast. 
 
 Good men hail it as a prelude 
 
 Of that blissful happy time. 
 When fair Freedom, so much valued. 
 
 Shall extend from clime to clime ; 
 
Bolivar. 127 
 
 Angels, while they view the measure, 
 
 Give their harps a livelier tone ; 
 God himself looks down with pleasure 
 
 On a deed so like his own ! 
 
 Spirits of immortal Wallace, 
 Bruce, Tell, Doria, Washington, 
 
 And ye noble Six of Calais, 
 Sterling patriots every one ; 
 
 Hampden, Sydney, Palmer, Gerald, 
 Skirving, Margarot, and Muir, 
 
 Names dear to a groaning world, 
 Honoured martyrs — patriots pure. 
 
 Doth that sacred flame of freedom, 
 
 Fire your breast immortal still. 
 Which, while mortal, struggling — bleeding. 
 
 You so potently did feel ? 
 
 Doth it give an augmentation 
 
 To your bliss supreme, to see 
 An enslaved, insulted nation. 
 
 Bravely struggling to be free ? 
 
 Then descend, and kindly hover 
 Round your kindred spirit here, 
 
 Cheer him, prompt him to recover 
 All that mankind hold most dear ; 
 
 On his peaceful couch while lying. 
 With a calm untroubled breast, ' 
 
 All the sweets of sleep enjoying, 
 Sweets, that tyrants never taste ; 
 
 Paint, in every glowing colour, 
 
 On his fancy warm and bright, 
 All your deeds of virtuous valour, 
 
 All the patriot to excite. 
 
128 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Following every bright example, 
 You have set so gloriously, 
 
 May he cease not, till he trample 
 Under foot, fell Tyranny. 
 
 Fired already vrith your story, 
 Brave disinterested few, 
 
 Lo ! he treads a path of glory, 
 Mad ambition never knew. 
 
 Persevere, thou Friend of Freedom ! 
 
 In the cause thou hast begun, 
 Freemen hail thee now to lead them, 
 
 Till the glorious prize be won. 
 
 Till the servile cringing homage 
 Paid to rank be vanished quite ; 
 
 Till the great Creator's image 
 Shall enjoy his every right. 
 
 W , thine actions glorious 
 
 Now may hide them in the grave ; 
 
 True indeed, thou wert victorious. 
 But victorious — to enslave. 
 
 Here's one action far surpassing 
 All the victories thou hast won : 
 
 What has been their end ? — replacing 
 Dotard Bourbon on a throne. 
 
 While the system thou defendest 
 Down shall crumble into dust, 
 
 And the despots thou befriendest 
 Shall be execrated — curst ! 
 
 Bolivar's shall stand unshaken, 
 Solid, permanent, sublime. 
 
 Grateful feelings to awaken. 
 Till the latest knell of time. 
 
Be a Comfort to Your Mither, 129 
 
 Yes ! thou spoiler of oppression, 
 
 Thine shall yield thee deathless fame, 
 
 While the butchers of creation 
 Shall but reap eternal shame. 
 
 When those empty glittering baubles, 
 Crowns and sceptres, shine no more. 
 
 And when kingly childish squabbles 
 Cease to drench the earth with gore — 
 
 Then, with all its charms unfolded, 
 
 Will appear thy glorious plan, 
 Formed by truth — by Justice moulded. 
 
 Then, indeed, shall man — be man. 
 
 BE A COMFORT TO YOUR MITHER. 
 
 Come here, my laddie, come awa' ! 
 
 And try your first new breekies on ye ; 
 Weel, weel I like to see you braw, 
 
 My ain wee soncy smiling Johnnie ! 
 Strip aff, strip aff ! your bairnish claes, 
 
 And be a laddie like your brither. 
 And gin you're blest wi' health and days, 
 
 Ye'll be a pleasure to your mither. 
 
 Now rin and look ye in the glass ! 
 
 And see how braw you're now, and bonnie ; 
 Wha e'er wad think a change o' claes 
 
 Could mak' sic change on my wee Johnnie ? 
 You're just your daddy's picture now ! 
 
 As like as ae bean's like anither ! 
 And gin ye do like him, I trow, 
 
 Ye'll be an honour to your mither. 
 
 But upward as ye grow apace. 
 
 By truth and right keep ever steady ; 
 
130 Badger's Poems. 
 
 And gin life's storms ye whiles maun face, 
 Aye meet them firmly like your daddy. 
 
 If steep and rugged be your way, 
 
 Ne'er look behind nor stand and swither ! 
 
 But set a stout heart to the brae, 
 And be a comfort to your mither. 
 
 GFE AS YE WAD TAK'. 
 
 My baimies dear, when ye gang out, 
 
 Wi' ither bairns to play, 
 Tak' tent o' every thing ye do, 
 
 0' every word ye say ; 
 Frae tricky wee mischievous loons 
 
 Keep back, my dears, keep back : 
 And aye to a' such usage gi'e 
 
 As ye would like to tak'. 
 
 To thraw the mouth, or ca' ill names, 
 
 Is surely very bad ; 
 Then, a' such doings still avoid, 
 
 They'd mak' your mither sad. 
 To shield the feckless frae the strong 
 
 Be neither slow nor slack ; 
 And aye to a' such usage gi'e 
 
 As ye would like to tak'. 
 
 Ne'er beat the poor dumb harmless tribe, 
 
 Wi' either whip or stick ; 
 The mildest beast, if harshly used. 
 
 May gi'e a bite or kick. 
 On silly Sam, or crooked Tam, 
 
 The heartless joke ne'er crack ; 
 But aye to a' such usage gi'e 
 
 As ye would like to tak'. 
 
Nursery Scarecrows. 131 
 
 A kindly look, a soothing word, 
 
 To ilka creature gi'e ; 
 We're a' One Maker's handiwork. 
 
 Whatever our degree. 
 We're a' the children o' His care, 
 
 Nae matter white or black ; 
 Then still to a' such usage gi'e 
 
 As ye would like to tak'. 
 
 NURSERY SCARECROWS. 
 
 Gae wa' ye silly, senseless quean ! 
 
 Nor frighten sae my wean 
 Wi' tales o' bogles, ghaists, and elves, 
 
 That he'll no sleep his lane. 
 Come ! say your prayers, my bonnie bairn, 
 
 And saftly slip to bed — 
 Your guardian angel's waiting there. 
 
 To shield your lovely head. 
 
 0, never mind the foolish things 
 
 That clavering Jenny says — 
 They're just the idle silly tales. 
 
 The dreams o' darker days ; 
 Our grannies, and our gran'dads too, 
 
 They might believe them a'. 
 And keep themsel's in constant dread 
 
 0' things they never saw. 
 
 Lie still, lie still, my ain wee man ! 
 
 Sic stories are na true. 
 There's naething in the dark can harm 
 
 My bonnie harmless doo ; 
 The Watchfu' E'e that never sleeps, 
 
 That never knows decay, 
 Will tent frae skaith my bonnie bairn, 
 
 By night as weel's by day. 
 
O LEESE ME ON THEE, BONNIE BAIEN. 
 
 LEESE me on thee, bonnie bairn ! 
 Sae sweet, sae wise, sae apt to learn. 
 And true as loadstone to the ay-n. 
 
 Thou dearly, dearly, lo'es me. 
 Thou'rt just thy daddy's wee-er sel', 
 Fresh — blooming as the heather bell ; 
 While blythe as lammie on the fell, 
 
 Thy frisking shows thou lo'es me. 
 
 Thy comely brow, thy ee's deep blue, 
 Thy cheek of health's clear rosy hue ; 
 And ! thy little laughing mou', 
 
 A' tell me how thou lo'es me. 
 Reclining softly on this breast, 
 O how thou mak'st my bosom blest, 
 To see thee smiling, 'mid thy rest, 
 
 And ken how much thou lo'es me. 
 
 Wi' mother's ee I fondly trace 
 In thee thy daddy's form and face, 
 Possess'd of every manly grace. 
 
 And mair — a heart that lo'es me. 
 Lang be thou spared, sweet bud, to be 
 A blessing to thy dad and me ; 
 While some fond mate shall sing to thee, 
 
 " Dear laddie, how thou lo'es me." 
 
 THE FAMILY OONTEAST. 
 
 Sirs ! was e'er sic difference seen 
 
 As 'twixt wee Will and Tarn ? 
 The ane's a perfect ettercap, 
 
 The ither's just a lamb ; 
 Will greets and girns the lee-lang day, 
 
 And carps at a' he gets — 
 Wi' ither bairns he winna play, 
 
 But sits alane and frets. 
 
The Family Contrast. 133 
 
 He flings his piece into the fire, 
 
 He yaumers at his brose, 
 And wae betide the luckless flee 
 
 That lights upon his nose ! 
 He kicks the collie, cuffs the cat. 
 
 The hens and birds he stanes — 
 Na, little brat ! he tak's a preen 
 
 And jags the very weans. 
 
 Wi' spite he tumbles aff his stool, 
 
 And there he sprawling lies. 
 And at his mither thraws his gab, 
 
 Gin she but bid him rise. 
 Is there in a' the world beside 
 
 Sae wild a wight as he 1 
 Weel ! gin the creature grow a man 
 
 I wonder what he'll be ! 
 
 But Tammy's just as sweet a bairn 
 
 As ane could wish to see, 
 The smile aye plays around his lips, 
 
 While blythely blinks his e'e ; 
 He never whimpers, greets, nor girns. 
 
 Even for a broken tae. 
 But rins and gets it buckled up. 
 
 Syne out again to play. 
 
 He claps the collie, dauts the cat. 
 
 Flings moolins to the doos. 
 To Bess and Bruckie rins for grass, 
 
 To cool their honest mou's ; 
 He's kind to ilka living thing, 
 
 He winna hurt a flee. 
 And, gin he meet a beggar bairn. 
 
 His piece he'll freely gi'e. 
 
 He tries to please wee crabbit Will, 
 
 When in his cankriest mood. 
 He gi'es him a' his taps and bools. 
 
 And tells him to be good. 
 
134 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Sae good a wean as oor wee Tarn 
 It cheers the heart to see — 
 
 ! gin his brither were like him, 
 How happy might we be ! 
 
 THE WASHING. 
 
 Bauld wee birkie, what's the matter, 
 
 That ye're raising sic a din ? 
 Weel ye ken it's caller water 
 
 Gi'es ye sic a bonnie skin ; 
 Cease your spurring, tak' your washing, 
 
 Syne ye'll get your milk and bread ; 
 Gin ye dinna quit your splashing, 
 
 I may douk ye ower the head. 
 
 Now it's ower, my bonnie dearie. 
 
 There's a skin like driven snaw, 
 Lively, louping, plump wee peerie, 
 
 See how soon I'll busk you braw ; 
 Let me kame your pretty pow now. 
 
 Let me shed your shining hair — 
 To your gambles ! romp and row now. 
 
 Whisk and whid round daddy's chair. 
 
 Now, ye funny frisking fairy ! 
 
 See how snod ye're now and sleek ! 
 Water mak's you brisk and airy. 
 
 Lights your ee and dyes your cheek ; 
 O there's nought like being cleanly ! 
 
 Cleanliness is mair than wealth, 
 Let us deed however meanly — 
 
 Cleanliness gi'es joy and health. 
 
YOUR DADDY'S FAR AT SEA. 
 
 Your daddy's far at sea, bonnie bairn ! bonnie bairn ! 
 Your daddy's far at sea, bonnie bairn ! 
 
 Your daddy's far at sea ! winning gold for you and me, 
 And how happy yet we'll be ! bonnie bairn, bonnie 
 
 bairn ! 
 And how happy yet we'll be, bonnie bairn ! 
 
 Your daddy's leal and true, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn ! 
 Your daddy's leal and true, bonnie bairn ! 
 
 Your daddy's leal and true, to your minnie and to 
 
 you. 
 And beloved by all the crew, bonnie bairn, bonnie 
 
 bairn ! 
 And beloved by all the crew, bonnie bairn ! 
 
 Then we'll pray for daddy's weal, bonnie bairn, bonnie 
 
 bairn. 
 Then we'll pray for daddy's weal, bonnie bairn ; 
 
 We'll pray for daddy's weal, that distress he ne'er 
 
 may feel, 
 While he guides the sheet or wheel, bonnie bairn, bonnie 
 
 bairn ! 
 While he guides the sheet or wheel, bonnie bairn ! 
 
 Should hurricanes arise, bonnie bairn, bonnie bairn, 
 Should hurricanes arise, bonnie bairn, 
 
 Should hurricanes arise, lashing seas up to the skies, 
 May his guide be the All- Wise, bonnie bairn, bonnie 
 
 bairn ! 
 May his guide be the All-Wise, bonnie bairn ! 
 
 'Mid the tempest's gloomy path, "bonnie bairn, bonnie 
 
 bairn, 
 'Mid the tempest's gloomy path, bonnie bairn ; 
 
 'Mid the tempest's gloomy path, may he brave its 
 
 wildest wrath. 
 While it strews the deep with death, bonnie bairn, 
 
 bonnie bairn ! 
 While it strews the deep with death, bonnie bairn ! 
 
136 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 And on the wings of mercy borne, bonnie bairn, bonnie 
 
 bairn, 
 And on the wings of mercy borne, bonnie bairn ; 
 
 On wings of mercy borne, may he soon and safe 
 
 return. 
 To make glad the hearts that mourn, bonnie bairn, 
 
 bonnie bairn ! 
 To make glad the hearts that mourn, bonnie bairn ! 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON A WOMAN-HATER.* 
 
 He who hateth lovely woman, 
 And forswears her dear embrace, 
 
 Can lay claim to nothing human. 
 Save, perhaps, an idiot's face. 
 
 Thick his skull, as blocks for wigs, 
 Cold his heart as coldest metal. 
 
 Who'd prefer the grunt of pigs 
 To the smiling infant's prattle. 
 
 With the pigs, then, let him herd. 
 Ne'er may smile of woman bless him ; 
 
 And if e'er he be interred 
 
 None but pigs will ever miss him. 
 
 A PARAPHRASE FOR THE ASSEMBLY'S FAST. 
 
 BY ALISANDER THE SEEK. 
 
 " A Fast, a Fast ! proclaim a Fast, 
 
 And Naboth set on high ; 
 Eire spies to swear his life away. 
 
 And stone him till he die." 
 
 * A person whom the author heard declare before a company that 
 he would rather see a sow with a litter of pigs, than see a mother 
 suckling her infant at her breast. 
 
A Paraphrase for the Assembly's Fast. 137 
 
 Thus wrote Queen Jezebel, of old, 
 
 Unto a venal crew. 
 Who promptly her behests obeyed, 
 
 And righteous Naboth slew. 
 
 " A Fast, a Fast ! proclaim a Fast," 
 
 Old Mother-Church now cries, 
 (For all our doings must be cloth'd 
 
 In meek Religion's guise), 
 That we in others' pots may dip 
 
 Our sac-erdotal prongs. 
 And feast and fatten on the flesh, 
 
 Which not to us belongs." 
 
 But, saith the Just One, — '' Lo ! ye fast 
 
 For strife and for debate, 
 To smite with fist of wickedness, 
 
 And stir up party hate. 
 Ye shall not fast as on this day, 
 
 To make your voice be heard : 
 'Gainst all such solemn mockeries 
 
 Are heaven's pure portals barr'd. 
 
 " Are formal prayers, and turned-up eyes, 
 
 And bendings of the knee. 
 Such services as ye would deem 
 
 Acceptable to me ? 
 Is this the fast that I would choose. 
 
 That ye afflict your souls ? 
 Do I require my worshippers 
 
 To tread on burning coals ? 
 
 " To bow the head like bulrush down — 
 
 In sackcloth to be clad — 
 To mourn in ashes, all demure. 
 
 When not a heart is sad 
 Is rank hypocrisy and guile. 
 
 And what I will not bear ; 
 For none but they of contrite heart 
 
 Can shed the contrite tear. 
 
138 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 " But here's the Fast that I would choose, 
 
 If thou would'st honour me : — 
 That thou undo the heavy loads, 
 
 And set the f etter'd free ; 
 That to the hungry thou should'st deal 
 
 With lib'ral hand thy bread ; 
 And from the wintry winds protect 
 
 The houseless wanderer's head : 
 
 " That on the poor and destitute 
 
 Warm clothing thou bestow ; 
 Nor from thy brother hide thy face. 
 
 But soothe him 'midst his woe. 
 Observe this Fast — then shall thy light 
 
 Break forth as doth the morn, 
 And rays of glory from above 
 
 Henceforth thy brows adorn." 
 
 MIND THE BUTTER. 
 
 During Dr. Chalmers' late visit to the good town of Greenock, we 
 are assured that he, in the course of an after-dinner speech, spoke 
 nearly as follows : — 
 
 " My brethren and beloved friends, I have been often asked, in the 
 course of these agitations, how much I thought would - suiGce, if we 
 were to get what we wanted in the shape of Endowments ? I always 
 replied that that was a difficult question to answer. But I happened, 
 a tew days ago, to be looking through an old book on cookery, and I 
 saw a recipe for some dish or other, I forget the name of it just now — 
 (Laughter) — but the recipe, I think, was a capital answer to the 
 question, how much would sulfice for Endowments. After enumerating 
 several items necessary for the preparation of the dish, the recipe 
 added, any quantity of Butter, and the cook was very particular about 
 the Butter, for, (quoth the Doctor), at the end of the recipe there was 
 this injunction — mind the Butter — be sure to mind the Butter. Now, 
 my friends, (added the Doctor at the close of this climax), in regard to 
 endowments, I would just tell you, as the pook did, do not be particu- 
 lar about the quantity — ^but just mind the Butter — be sure and mind 
 the Butter."— »Si(;oi!cA. Reformers' Oazette, 22nd December, 1838. 
 
 Hail ! chosen Champion o' the kirk. 
 Endowment-hunting doughty Chalmers, 
 On wi' thy great Extension work. 
 Nor heed the vile Dissenters' clamours ; 
 
Mind the Butter. 139 
 
 While King, Heugh, Marshall (precious three), 
 
 Their Voluntary speeches sputter, 
 
 Let this thy motto henceforth be — 
 
 " Oh, mind the butter, mind the butter." 
 
 Auld grunting, gouty Granny Kirk 
 Comes hobbling on her twa State crutches,* 
 Determined by ilk wily quirk 
 To grab a' wi' her haly clutches ; 
 Her bloated bouk and brandy een — 
 Her staggering step and stammering stutter. 
 Have made the Carlin still mair keen 
 To " mind the butter, mind the butter." 
 
 Then quick and cook her up a feast 
 Of vile unhowkit heathens' livers — 
 The heart's blood of a Popish Priest : 
 A Deist's cranium cracked to shivers ; 
 Frae puflfed-up Prelate's pampered painch, 
 A whang o' morbid matter cut her — 
 A sturdy Independent's hainch 1 
 But, oh, be sure to " mind the butter." 
 
 For Granny Kirk's not half content 
 Wi' a' the guid things she has gotten. 
 But, still on fresh Endowments bent. 
 Has grown a downright greedy glutton. 
 Her Corbies through the land she sends, 
 Their ever-craving screams to utter ; 
 And, as each greedy throat extends, 
 Their craik is still — " Oh, mind the butter." 
 
 But, oh, the days when she was young ! 
 And free from blemish, blotch, and swelling ; 
 Her muirland plaid around her flung — 
 The breezy hill-side was her dwelling ; 
 
 * Patronage and Endowments. 
 
140 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 Plain hame-spun plaid en was her wear, 
 Nae silks about her then did flutter ; 
 Her drink, the mountain streamlet clear. 
 And aft she lack'd baith bread and butter. 
 
 Chased like a roe from hill to dale, 
 Debarred from village, town, and city ; 
 Her bleeding feet and visage pale. 
 Ne'er moved her wicked hunters' pity : 
 To every murderous wretch a prey, 
 Who chose to mangle, maim, and cut her, 
 Heaven was her only hope and ntay. 
 In whom to trust for bread or butter. 
 
 But mark the change on Madam now ! 
 While silk and velvet robes bedeck her, 
 Wi' greedy een and brazen brow. 
 She glow'rs into the State Exchequer ; 
 Though bread be given, and water sure, 
 Yet these do not exactly fit her, 
 Some richer thing she maun procure. 
 And hence her howl, " Oh, mind the butter." 
 
 The " Poor Man's Kirk " is all her cry, 
 
 Yet wi' the rich she fondly dallies ; 
 
 Yea — poortith's cot she passes by. 
 
 To banquet in the lordly Palace. 
 
 Wi' Dukes and Lords she feasts and rants, 
 
 Drinks smutty toasts — kicks up a splutter ; 
 
 Then wails about her waefu' wants. 
 
 And whining cries — " Oh, mind the butter." 
 
 Her " Kingdom is not of this warl'," 
 
 At least, if we may trust her story : 
 
 But oh ! she's fond to get a haurl 
 
 O' warldly wealth, and pomp, and glory. 
 
 Her bloody sister up the gate — 
 
 Wha lang did tramp her in the gutter — 
 
 She fawns, now, on her ear' and late, 
 
 And cries — "Oh, help me to the butter ! " 
 
Lines Written hj a State Prisoner. 141 
 
 But hail ! redoubted Chalmers, hail ! 
 
 On in thy glorious course careering, 
 
 Though Voluntaries rave and rail, 
 
 Treat with contempt their jibes and jeering ; 
 
 In pleading greedy Granny's cause. 
 
 Ne'er stick a rousing whid to ur-ter, 
 
 Till cheering echoes rend the wa's, 
 
 Wi' " Mind the butter, mind the butter." 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN A CERTAIN BRIDEWELL, BY A STATE 
 PRISONER, IN THE MONTH OE APRIL, 1820. 
 
 Pent up within this horrid cell. 
 
 How heaves my breast with anger's swell ! 
 
 To think what I must suffer here, 
 
 Cut off from friends and freedom dear ; 
 
 Reft of the truest joys of life. 
 
 The joys o' hame^-my bairns, my wife ; 
 
 Whilst they sit round a cheerless fire. 
 
 And wistfully at her enquire 
 
 What makes their father stay sae lang. 
 
 And if there's ony thing gane wrang ? 
 
 And while they watch her looks, and see 
 
 The big tear gathering in her e'e. 
 
 The sad contagion spreads around, 
 
 Till not a tearless cheek is found — 
 
 Till not a breast but heaves and throbs, 
 
 Labouring with bitter sighs and sobs. 
 
 Such scenes — and there are many such, 
 The hardest human heart would touch — 
 Would make the Cherokee draw back 
 His scalping knife and tomahawk. 
 Nor torture mair his vanquished foe. 
 But loose and let his prisoner go. 
 Armed with his hatchet, club and bow ; 
 
142 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Would make the cannibal, that's bent 
 On eating human flesh, relent, 
 And throw aside his bloody knife, 
 And spare his wretched victim's life. 
 But, ah ! such scenes can never thaw 
 The icy hearts of men of law, 
 For there meek- eyed humanity is dead. 
 And fell Hyenorty reigns in its stead. 
 
 But what's the reason I'm confined ? 
 Nae reason, troth, can be assigned, 
 Unless it be, I chance to differ 
 Frae them wha will that I should suffer. 
 And that my views o' politics 
 Accord not wi' some statesmen's tricks ; 
 Whilst they,' good sauls, wha keep me here, 
 Are blest wi' een sae very clear, 
 That they can see that a' is right 
 That's done by them wha hae the might. 
 
 And so they weel may see, in short. 
 For some o' them are weel paid for't, 
 Five hunder pounds or sax a-year. 
 Should mak' a man see gay-an-clear. 
 And view things in anither light 
 For ony poor hard-working wight, 
 Wha doesna get a brown bawbee, 
 And therefore hasna een to see. 
 
 Yet though a poor man wants the sight. 
 To see things in their proper light. 
 Though wi' a squinting vision, he 
 Must every thing obliquely see — 
 Must view oppression and taxation 
 As real evils to a nation — 
 Must think state paupers and their brats 
 A vermin o' destructive rats. 
 Devouring up the public good. 
 And robbing man o' half his food :— 
 Though thus, the poor man views the matter. 
 
Lines Written ly a State Prisoner. 143 
 
 (What pity he can see nae better), 
 Is that enough for those in power, 
 To gang at an untimely hour, 
 And bind and drag him aff to prison, 
 Under the horrid charge o' treason 1 
 As I was used — nor only I, 
 But scores o' mole-blind fools forby, 
 Wha couldna see, they were sae poor, 
 
 The beauties o' the scarlet w e ; 
 
 Wha never bowed the knee in homage 
 Unto the beast, nor yet his image— 
 Wha never did his mark receive, 
 Nor did his lying tales believe — 
 Wha never chimed in wi' the custom 
 O' praising up a rotten system, 
 Wi' paper pictures a' patched round, 
 To hide its parts that are unsound — 
 Wha never could perceive the use 
 0' starving men to feed a goose — 
 Wha never could admit the fack. 
 That black was white, or white was black. 
 But raised their voices loud and Strang, 
 Against what they conceived was wrang. 
 
 And therefore were they seized by dizzens, 
 And dragged to Bridewells and to prisons. 
 And there shut up in cauld damp cells. 
 Where not a single comfort dwells, 
 But where the beds on which they lie 
 Are scarcely fit for horse or kye, 
 Where creeping and where jumping cattle 
 Move thick as armies gaun to battle. 
 And where coarse meat in dirty cogs — 
 Meat fit for feeding ducks and hogs- 
 Is served up by some thief-like sinner, 
 Wi' hands wad mak' the deevil scunner, 
 And spew his fire and brimstone dinner. 
 
 But as for those wha sent us hither. 
 
THE DAIEO'S ANTHEM. 
 
 modern effusion of modern Japanese loyalty, as sung by all the 
 loyal subjects of Japan on the day in which their beloved Regent, 
 the great Prince of Whales and Leviathans, was crowned and 
 consecrated Dairo of the three Islands of Japan, by the High 
 Bonze of Canterburara. Translated from the Japanese, and 
 adaiJted to an air once very popular in England. 
 
 Part I. 
 
 Fame, let thy trumpet sound, 
 Tell all the worlds around, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe * is king ; 
 Tell Rome, and France, and Spain, 
 Tell Russia's Vast domain. 
 Tell German, Swede, and Dane, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Sound it at Johnny Groat's-; — 
 Tell the grim Hottentots, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 Publish it far and near. 
 Let Pole and Tartar hear. 
 Howl through Siberia drear, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Tell Turkey's turban'd sons. 
 
 Moors, Dutchmen, Greeks, and Huns, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 From Mount Blanc's cap of snow 
 Shrilly thy trumpet blow, 
 , Warning the vales below. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Tell the red Chippewas, 
 Tell the squat Esquimaux, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 
 *"In the Japanese tongue, the dzh, when combined, produce a sound 
 nearly similar to the English g soft ; but it would be using too much 
 freedom with Royalty to make any such alteration in the translation. 
 — Author's Note. 
 
The Dairo's Anthem. 145 
 
 Through icy Greenland blow, 
 Let frozen Lapland know, 
 Through her wide wastes of snow, 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Sound where the Atlantic roars, 
 Round Afric's sable shores, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 Let the glad echoes then. 
 Bound o'er the distant main, 
 Till Gape Horn ring again, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Tell the United States' 
 King-hating reprobates. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 Through those rebellious lands. 
 Once, beloved Ferdinand's, 
 Blow, while thy trumpet stands. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Say to the dark Hindoo, 
 Tell the brown Arab, too. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 Through all Japan proclaim 
 His super-glorious name. 
 Till China shout, O fame ! 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Make all New Holland yell. 
 Through wood, rock, swamp and dell, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 Sound it from Borneo, 
 Round Patagonia, 
 Tell California 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Raise, raise thy notes more high. 
 Peal through the crystal sky. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 
146 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 From the bright blazing sun, 
 Wide let the tidings run, 
 Till Georgium Sidus own 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Tell every twinkling star, 
 Glimmering through space afar. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 Up through the milky way, 
 Loud let thy trumpet bray, 
 Warning the isles of day 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Down the Tartarian steep. 
 Growl through each cavern deep. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 Howl out thy harshest tone, 
 Till night on sable throne. 
 Startled, with terror groan. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Louder still be thy blast, 
 Blow through creation vast. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 One more tremendous peal. 
 Till Nature's limits reel. 
 And farthest Chaos feel 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
 Part IL 
 
 Dzheordzhe reigns — let us submit 
 To all that he thinks fit. 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king ; 
 To the yoke yield our necks, 
 To the load bend our backs. 
 Cheerfully pay each tax — 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 
The Dairo's Anthem. 147 
 
 Who, upon earth or sea, 
 Dare in the balance weigh 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king ? 
 Who makes the sacred throne 
 Break when he sits thereon, 
 He, weighing sixty stone, 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 
 Who can with Bacchus vie 
 At draining hogsheads dry ? 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 Who, when he's fraught with wine, 
 Nightly at Venus' shrine 
 Kneeleth by " Eight Divine ? " 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 
 "Who by his potent word 
 Can create duke or lord ? 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 Who rules the light of day, 
 Making each solar ray 
 Tribute to Ceesar pay ? 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 
 Who by the pomp of war 
 Can death's fell gates unbar t 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe is king. 
 Who can death's portals close, 
 By making peace with foes. 
 And ending warfare's woes ? 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 
 Who can do nothing wrong ? 
 Who human life prolong ? 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 ^ Who, by his Eoyal will, 
 Can, with a grey goose quill. 
 Graciously save — or kill ? 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 
148 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Who is the Church's Head, 
 Mighty, and high, and dread ? 
 I Great Dzheordzhe, the king. 
 
 Who makes the nations pay 
 Tythes — that a tythe may pray 
 After one certain way 1 
 
 Great Dzheordzhe the king. 
 
 THE MUCKING 0' GEOEDIE'S BYEE. 
 Written in 1819. 
 
 There lives an auld farmer ca'd Geordie, 
 
 A wee bittock south o' the Tweed, 
 O' three bits o' farms he's ca'd lordie. 
 
 Three snug little mailin's indeed : 
 It's now about three score o' winters 
 
 Since he did the mailin's acquire, 
 Weel stockit wi' routers and grunters, 
 
 A stackyard, a barn, an' a byre. 
 
 A farm, too, he had owre the water, 
 
 At least, he aye thocht it his ain, 
 But he lost it, poor gowk (deil mak' matter), 
 
 And how — -I will try to explain : 
 He milket the cattle sae sairly. 
 
 That, troth, they began soon to tire, 
 At last they turned tail on him fairly. 
 
 An' gat for themsel's a new Byre. 
 
 But though he thus lost a guid mailin', 
 
 The loss o't ne'er made him mair wise, 
 For he was possessed o' this failin', 
 
 He'd ne'er tak' a wholesome advice. 
 He keepit a pack, too, about him, 
 
 Wha aft to such heights wad aspire, 
 As to do what they liket without him, 
 
 And mak' their ain use of the Byre. 
 
The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre. 149 
 
 An' aye the maist pairt o' their labours 
 
 Was lickin' the cream o' ilk farm, 
 An' makin' him quarrel wi' his neighbours, 
 
 Whilk bred the poor cattle great harm ; 
 For in droves they were ca'd aff and slaughtered, 
 
 To keep up the strife and the ire. 
 The rest were half fed an' half watered, 
 
 An' ne'er gat a clean muckit Byre. 
 
 At last the poor body grew silly, 
 
 Or rather, gaed wrang in the head. 
 So they made his auld son — a queer billie — 
 
 Half factor, half laird in his stead ; 
 But he grew sae drucken and crazy. 
 
 He dosed for hale days by the fire, 
 Or boozed wi' some fat-hippit hizzey. 
 
 An' ne'er wair'd a thocht on the Byre. 
 
 He keepit the pack, too, about him. 
 
 That gulled his auld father before, 
 So up in a closet they shut him. 
 
 And ane Mouthy guarded the door ; 
 And nane o' his herd could get near him. 
 
 To breathe a complaint — or desire, 
 For Mouthy took care aye to scare them. 
 
 For fear they wad hint at the Byre. 
 
 By something that's ca'd " social order,." 
 
 The grunters were ringed in the snout. 
 An' squeezed was ilk rowter's toom udder. 
 
 Till ilk drap o' milk was wrung out ; 
 An' sair were they scrimpit o' fodder, 
 
 To let Geordie's pack get their hire, 
 Wha loot his affairs a' gang thro'ther, 
 
 By keeping sae dirty a Byre. 
 
 The pleugh it stood still in the furrow, 
 
 The beasts were unable to draw. 
 An' covered wi' rust was the harrow. 
 
 The flail it lay broken in twa ; 
 
150 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 The hedges wi' weeds were up-chokit, 
 The cart-wheels were laired in the mire, 
 
 An' waur than a' that, ne'er was muckit 
 The cattle's last refuge — the Byre. 
 
 The brutes that sae lang had been patient, 
 
 Began then to rowt an' to roar, 
 For now they could see what occasioned 
 
 Their being sae lean an' sae poor. 
 But mark the upshot o' their rowting ! 
 
 The butchers, wi' gullies sae dire. 
 Fell on them wi' slashing an' cutting, 
 
 To mak' them content wi' their Byre. 
 
 But now they're far louder than ever, 
 
 They bellow wi' might an' wi' main. 
 An' threaten to gore an' to skiver 
 
 The first that daur fash them again : 
 In droves too, they gather thegither, 
 
 An' closely united conspire, 
 To break baith the stake an' the tether, 
 
 Before that they want a clean Byre. 
 
 They see how they used to be bilket, 
 
 When loosely they ran o'er the bent, 
 But now they declare they'll be milket 
 
 Nae langer, without their consent. 
 An' though they respect Factor Geordie, 
 
 An' likewise his auld doited Sire, 
 They vow they'll tak' measures ere New'rday, 
 
 For mucking ilk sta' in the Byre. 
 
SAWNEY, NOW THE KING'S COME.* 
 
 Air — "Cark an' the King come," 
 
 Written in 1822. 
 
 Sawney, now, the king's come, 
 Sawney, now, the king's come, 
 Kneel, and kiss his gracious ■ 
 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 
 In Holyroodhouse lodge him snug, 
 And butter weel his sacred lug, 
 Wi' stuff wad gar a Frenchman ugg, 
 Sawney, now the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 Tell him he is great and good. 
 And come o' Scottish royal blood — 
 To your hunkers — lick his fud — 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 Tell him he can do nae wrang, 
 That he's mighty, heigh, and Strang, 
 That you and yours to him belang, 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 Swear he's sober, chaste, and wise, 
 Praise his portly shape and size, 
 Koose his whiskers to the skies, 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 * When, in 1822, George IV. visited Scotland, Sir Walter Scott was 
 largely in evidence, and produced for the occasion, as everybody knows, 
 his celebrated poem — "Carle, now the King's Come," Eodger sounded 
 quite another note— not less spirited ; and almost simultaneously with 
 the appearance of Sir Walter's well-known poem, and, in point of fact, 
 just as His Majesty was enriching his Scottish subjects with the first 
 glint of his royal person, the London Examiner made its appearance 
 in Auld Reekie containing the above satirical lyric, " Sawney, now the 
 King's Come," which caused scarcely less sensation. It certainly 
 greatly annoyed the sensitive loyalty of the author of " Waverley," 
 and speculation ran wild as to the identity of the author, until, by and 
 by, Eodger chose to reveal himself. 
 
152 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Mak' your UcJc-fud bailie core 
 Fa' down behint him — not before, 
 His great posteriors to adore, 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 Mak' your tribe in good black claith, 
 Extol, till they rin short o' breath, 
 The great " Defender o' the Faith," 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 Mak' your Peers o' high degree, 
 Crouching low on bended knee. 
 Greet him wi' a " Wha wants me ? " 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 Mak' his glorious kinship dine 
 On good sheep-heads and haggis fine, 
 Hotchpotch, too, Scotch coUops syne, 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 And if there's in St. James' Square 
 Ony thing that's fat and fair, 
 Treat him nightly wi' sic ware, 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 Shaw him a' your higgings braw. 
 Your castle, college, brigs, an' a'. 
 Your jail, an' royal forty-twa,* 
 Sawney, now, the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 ■" A famous Temple of Cloacina, containing forty-two altars for the 
 numerous worshippers who attended daily in the Temple. — Author's 
 Note. 
 
A Most Loyal Ode. 153 
 
 An' when he rides Auld Reekie through, 
 To bless you wi' a kingly view, 
 Charm him wi' your " Gardyloo," * 
 Sawney, now the king's come. 
 Sawney, etc. 
 
 A MOST LOYAL ODE. 
 
 In celebration of Ten Thousand Pounds' worth (per annum) of Koyal 
 Filial Love.+ Dedicated (without permission) to His Royal 
 Highness Frederick. Duke of York, Bishop of Osnahurg, etc., etc. 
 
 Written in 1820. 
 
 Awake, my Muse ! awake again, 
 The theme demands a loftier strain 
 
 Than e'er thou triedst before ; 
 Come, plume thy wings, thy pipe make clear. 
 And mount aloft, devoid of fear ; 
 There sing, that all the world may hear, 
 
 May wonder and adore ! 
 
 'Tis Royal Frederick claims thy song ; 
 Then let thy notes be loud, and long. 
 
 And sweet, and full, and clear ; 
 But, ! where wilt thou matter find 
 To sing his Royal heart so kind — 
 His filial feelings so refined — 
 
 His ardour so sincere ? 
 
 * See Winiford Jenkins' letters in the Tale of Humphrey Clinker, 
 where the term is fuUy explained. — Author's Note. 
 
 + After the death of the late Queen Charlotte, (of blessed memory), 
 who had been appointed by Parliament nui-se to her sick husband, 
 with a salary of only £10,000 per annum, another nurse had to be ap- 
 pointed, and who so fit for the arduous ta^k as the Right Reverend 
 Father in God, His Grace the Bishop of Osnaburg, His Royal High- 
 ness Duke of York, Commander in Chief, etc. ? His Bight Reverend, 
 Eoyal-BQgh-Bishop-Duke-ship accepted the office of wet and diy nurse 
 to his Royal Father, for the same paltry sum which his Royal Mother 
 had received ; but great must have been his piety and filial love, when, 
 for so paltry- a sum, he was obliged to attend his father's sick bed so 
 often as once-a-month. Verily, we poor folks have no conception of 
 the ways of Royalty. — Author's Note. 
 
154: Rodger's Poems. 
 
 O, for a touch of Pindar's pen ! 
 With just one-half of Pindar's brain 
 
 Within this skull of mine ; 
 How would I sing of Eoyal Dulles, 
 Of Royal mitres, Royal crooks — 
 Of Royal scullions, Royal cooks — 
 Of Eoyal whiskers and perukes — 
 
 Of Royal sprees divine ! 
 
 How vain the wish ! — then be content 
 To employ the one small talent lent 
 
 By Heaven's exhaustless bank, 
 In singing Royal Frederick's deeds — 
 Frederick ! whose heart all hearts exceeds, 
 As far as diamonds do glass beads, 
 
 Or oak a soft fir plank. 
 
 He condescends (0 matchless love ! 
 Or only matched by those who move 
 
 In tight-laced dandy-stays), 
 For poor ten thousand pounds per annum ! 
 To take his father's keeping on him, 
 To go and witness justice done him 
 
 Just once — in thirty days ! 
 
 Sure Royalty's no common thing, 
 When such a son, of such a king. 
 
 Can stoop so very low. 
 As fob the cash, throw sword aside. 
 Take coach, and off to Windsor ride. 
 And there an hour or two preside. 
 To see how matters go ! 
 
 And there the Royal soup to taste — 
 The Royal pudding, beef, and paste — 
 
 The liquors hot and cool — 
 To air each change of Royal clothes — 
 Of Royal drugs to mix each dose — 
 And wipe the Royal mouth and nose 
 
 Like snivelin' child's at school. 
 
A Most Loyal Ode. 155 
 
 Such filial tenderness as this, 
 The young stork of the wilderness 
 
 Has never yet displayed ; 
 For though upon his wings he bears 
 His aged parent, worn with years, 
 Yet what of that 1 — it not appears 
 
 That for his care he's paid. 
 
 But why compare a stupid stork 
 To Royal Frederick, Duke of York ? 
 
 The thing is most absurd ; 
 The one's a warrior brave, confessed. 
 As Dunkirk Course can well attest. 
 Where he at running proved the best — 
 
 The other's but a bird ! 
 
 Great Frederick ! no offence, I hope — 
 Thou art thy father's only prop 
 
 In life's declining day ; 
 For thou ! — thou only dost possess 
 That pure disinterestedness 
 Which prompts thee to relieve distress. 
 
 Provided thou get — pay ! 
 
 O, Johnny Bull ! thou'rt blest indeed, 
 In having such a Royal breed 
 
 To nourish and support ; 
 No wonder thou art great and free — ■ 
 No wonder neighbours envy thee — 
 When they such bright examples see 
 
 Of virtue, grace thy Court. 
 
 And yet thou'lt growl, thou bumpkin big ! 
 And grunt like any half-starved pig ; 
 
 Yea, like a galled jade, wince ; 
 Great clodpole ! devil strike thee dumb. 
 To growl about so small a sum. 
 Which, not to take, would ill become 
 
 " The honour of a Prince ! " 
 
156 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 I grant thou'rt losing flesh and blood ; 
 What then 1 — the loss will do thee good, 
 
 As pruning does a tree ; 
 Ne'er grumble, therefore, to support 
 The pomp and splendour of thy Court, 
 But pay for every Royal sport. 
 And Royal pleasure, for, in short, 
 
 That task belongs to thee. ■ 
 
 The meagre wretch, who, for his sins. 
 Is doomed to eat potato skins 
 
 And munch on turnip peelings, 
 May grunt, and growl, and cry he starves. 
 But he'gets just what he deserves ; 
 Then why should he hurt Royal nerves. 
 
 Or shock fine Royal feelings 1 
 
 For Royal feelings have, of late, 
 Become so very delicate, 
 
 Have got so fine an edge, 
 That nothing, sure, can wound them worse, 
 Than that the Royal privy purse 
 Should e'er be opened to disburse 
 The expenses of a Royal nurse ; 
 For see'st thou, Johnny ' that, of course. 
 
 Were downright sacrilege. 
 
 Come, Southey ! what art thou about. 
 Thou good-for-nothing, lazy lout 1 
 
 What ? — art thou dumb or dead ? 
 Here is a subject for thee now ; 
 Come sing — or else, by Jove ! I vow 
 I'll tear the laurels from thy brow. 
 
 And wreathe them round my head. 
 
 Why ! is it not a pretty things 
 Thou must be paid, yet wilt not sing, 
 
 Although the Court's own bard ? 
 Whilst I, a poor, though loyal wight. 
 Not only sing but also write, 
 Yet ne'er receive one single mite ; — 
 
 The case is very hard. 
 
A Most Loyal Ode. 157 
 
 Well, thanks to Heaven, 'twill not be long 
 Until thou have to give a song, 
 
 Both long and loud enough, 
 Not about hot and bloody battles, 
 But Eoyal gossips' tittle-tattles. 
 And Royal babies ! Royal prattles, 
 With Royal gum-sticks, bells, and rattles, 
 
 And such like Royal stuff.* 
 
 But why not sing of Royal Fred. 
 Tending with care his Royal Dad ? 
 
 Which Johnny Bull must pay for ; 
 What is the reason, I would ask, 
 Thou'lt not perform this grateful task 1 
 Thou who above all bards dost bask 
 
 Beneath the Royal favour ? 
 
 No matter ; — thou canst hold thy tongue, 
 Yet shall not Fred, remain unsung. 
 
 While I've a breath to spare ; 
 And lo ! his Dwarf-ship t shall proclaim, 
 To gaping millions, Frederick's name, 
 Who shall reverberate the same 
 From mouth to mouth, until his fame, 
 His matchless deeds, and filial flame, 
 
 Shall make a world to stare. 
 
 Moral. 
 
 Ho ! every base-born vulgar wretch, 
 Who by a parent's bed may watch, 
 
 While he is sick or dying ; 
 Here's an example set for you. 
 Be sure you're paid for what you do : 
 Yes, paid, and that most amply, too ; 
 
 If not ; — just leave him lying. 
 
 * Some of the Eoyal Princesses were getting Royal Hnsbauds at this 
 time, and surely it was noways unreasonable to expect such Eoyal 
 results as those mentioned here.— Autlior's Note. 
 
 t The Black Dwarf, a London periodical, printed and published by 
 T. J. Wooler. 
 
CHARLES JAMES FOX. 
 
 composed fok, and sung at, the anniversary of 
 his birth, 
 
 24th January, 1827. 
 
 AlE — " Ower the Water to Charlie." 
 
 Ye've heard o' " the Pilot that weathered the storm ; " 
 
 But where is the vessel he saved ? 
 Like a log on the deep lies her auld shattered form. 
 
 That for ages the tempest had braved : 
 The rats are devouring her now scanty stores. 
 
 Her timbers are worm-eaten sairly, 
 Her hands, discontented, desert her by scores. 
 
 For lang they've been victualled but sparely. 
 
 Her Captain, poor chiel, hardly kens what to do, 
 
 To fit her again for tight sailing, 
 For so heartless and weak are her once sturdy crew, . 
 
 That their efforts seem quite unavailing : 
 But ! had her captain been captain langsyne, 
 
 She ne'er wad hae suffered sae sairly ; 
 For then, for his steersman, he sure wad hae ta'en 
 
 That true " heart of oak " — honest Charlie. 
 
 He weel ken'd the shallows, the breakers, and rocks. 
 
 That such vessels founder and split on ; 
 Then sure they were daft, not to tak' Charlie Fox 
 
 For pilot, yet mak' Willie Pitt one : 
 For he, through the tempest, drove recklessly on, 
 
 Tho' warned o' the danger by Charlie, 
 Till rigging and masts overboard were a' blown, 
 
 Which crushed her best hands most severely. 
 
 Then what can be done to preserve her afloat. 
 
 When she scarce can hoist one of her flags, now ? 
 For what are her jury masts ? — next thing to nought : 
 
 Her sails 2 — bits of auld rotten rags, now : 
 And the billows of ruin her hull so o'erwhelm, 
 
 That they threaten to swallow her fairly ; 
 Alas ! that e'er Willie was placed at the helm, 
 
 Tliat should hae been guided by Charlie. 
 
A Loyal La/mentation. 159 
 
 For he was the lad that could hand, reef, and steer ; 
 
 His compass could box to a hair, too — 
 Had skill of the weather, be't cloudy or clear, 
 
 Could tell when for squalls to prepare, too ; 
 And though he could swig off his can of good flip. 
 
 He still did his duty most rarely, 
 So that each jolly seaman, on board of the ship. 
 
 Respected and loved gallant Charlie. 
 
 Then here's to the memory of generous Fox, 
 
 For nane to our hearts should be dearer ; 
 And may the auld ship yet survive her late shocks. 
 
 Be repaired, and have tight lads to steer her ; 
 And here's to the Captain that bears the command — 
 
 May he keep by his post late and early ; 
 And may the Britannia still henceforth be manned 
 
 With brave honest fellows, like Charlie. 
 
 A LOYAL LAMENTATION.* 
 
 DEAR ! what can the matter be ? 
 Dear, dear ! what can the matter be ? 
 Mercy upon us ! 0, what is the matter ? we 
 Can't get a son and an heir ! 
 
 * This " Loyal Lamentation " was occasioned ty the following cir- 
 cumstance : — A certain Royal Duke, foreseeing the evils the country 
 might be subjected to for want of an heir to the throne, very 
 generously made an offer to Parliament to take a Royal Consort, ^nd 
 beget a Royal race, provided Parliament would give him a yearly 
 grant of £20,000 of additional income, to enable him to maintain a 
 wife, and beget kings. The Parliament, to their eternal disgrace, re- 
 jected the generous offer. His Eoyal Highness still wishing to render 
 the country an essential service, notwithstanding the rebuff he met 
 with, kindly offered to take the one-half of the sum, and be contented 
 therewith ; but mark the ingratitude of the Commons !— they rejected 
 that offer also. So the poor Duke could not take a wife, and the 
 country ran the risk of being brought to utter ruin for want of a king. 
 What a heavy responsibility the Commons incurred by their ungallant 
 and ungenerous conduct ! — Author's Note. 
 
160 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 What will become of legitimate Eoyalty, _ 
 '• Now that the Commons are tinged with disloyalty 1 
 Shame ! 0, for shame ! not to grant the small moiety — 
 Only ten thousand pounds bare. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 Whoever did hear of such monstrous ingratitude ! 
 Men, who are basking in courtly beatitude, 
 Not to grant means to beget us a pretty brood, 
 Pfincely, and portly, and fair. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 Poor John * hoarsely mutters, " blast such economy ! 
 Surely the rascals are now making fun o' me, 
 Would they not willingly grind every bone o' me, 
 Were they themselves to get share 1 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 " One really would think that these blustering fellows 
 Had lately been growing most savingly zealous ; 
 But, faith ! I believe, when such stories they tell us, 
 'Tis merely a flourish of air." 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 Bereft of a king — Heavens ! what would become of usi 
 Sorrowful times these would be for poor some of us ; 
 Goodness ! we might be devoured every crumb of us, 
 Wanting his shepherdly care. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 The sun might refuse then in mercy to shine on us ; 
 Clouds might not choose then in kindness to rain on us ; 
 Yile foreign kings might come over to dine on us. 
 Liking, as they do, such fare. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 * John Bull, of course. 
 
A Loyal Lamentation. 161 
 
 Our rivers to run to the ocean might cease then ;■ 
 Our flocks might deny us their milk and their fleece' 
 
 then ; 
 Our now fertile plains might produce no increase then, 
 And all become sterile and bare. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 The song of our birds in the woods might be mut6 then; 
 No more might we hear either bagpipe or flute then ; 
 A still sullen sadness might seize man and brute then. 
 And all wear the gloom of despair. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 Pale poverty's weeds might in wretchediless deck us 
 
 then; 
 Cramps, rheumatisms, and cholics might rack us then ; 
 Every malignant disease might attack us then. 
 Leading on death in the rear. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 Our reason no longer might balance and guide us then ; 
 Binning's * strong-holds might immure us and hide us 
 
 then ; 
 Old haggard beldams might nightly bestride us then, 
 Spurring us swift through the air. 
 
 O dear, etc. 
 
 To crown our disasters, our loads so delightsome. 
 Which sit on our backs now so easy and lightsome, 
 Might fall with a crash, so tremendously frightsome. 
 That monarchs would tremble and stare. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 * Lord Binning, at that time, was a great advocate for the erection 
 of madhouses in Scotland. 
 
162 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Then, O that the loyal would raise a subscription, 
 To purchase new stocks to engraft royal slips on ! 
 Or the old sapless branches will be so frost-nipt soon. 
 As not to be able to bear. 
 
 dear, etc. 
 
 For a king must be got, if there is to be had one, 
 It matters not whether a good or a bad one, 
 A sober, a drunken, a wise, or a mad one. 
 Provided he's Royalty's heir. 
 And then we'll cease crying, what can the matter be 1 
 Dear saintly Sadmuzzle * what can the matter be ? 
 Salt and gunpowder ! t och, what is the matter ? we 
 Can't get a son and an heir ! 
 
 A KING'S SPEECH. 
 
 A COPY OF HIS MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY'S MOST 
 GRACIOUS SPEECH, WHICH WAS MOST GRACIOUSLY 
 DELIVERED TO BOTH HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, ON 
 THE 24TH of FEBRUARY, 1835. 
 
 My Luds and Gintlemen : 
 
 Since you are met, 
 And all upon your benches snugly set ; 
 I feel myself in duty bound to meet you, 
 And with a gracious Eoyal smile to greet you. 
 My Luds and Gintlemen, I should be sorry, 
 To mention anything de-rogue-a-Tory 
 To your high characters, since you are sent. 
 My loyal subjects, here, to represent. 
 
 ♦ Lord Sidmouth. 
 
 ■)■ Castlereagh, the carotid artery cutter, who introduced the humane 
 practice of rubbing the backs of flogged delinquents with salt and 
 gunpowder ! 
 
A King's Speech. 163 
 
 (Yet let me whisper to myself this truth, (Aside,) 
 
 I do not like your presence here, forsooth ; 
 
 For you so frankly smell of opposition 
 
 I fear you'll drive my projects to perdition). 
 
 I'm sure you'll feel with me the evils dire, 
 Which have resulted from the recent fire. 
 Which burned your Houses down about your ears. 
 And filled all Cockney-land with sighs and tears ; 
 While wicked scoffers jeered and loudly cried. 
 Now, now, these Houses will be purified ; 
 .For fire, which purged the city once before. 
 Is still as potent as it was of yore. 
 
 My Luds and Gintlemen — I'm proud to say. 
 That all my allies for my welfare pray ; 
 And are with me upon such friendly terms, 
 As ne'er to dream of battles, blood, nor arms. 
 
 My faithful Commons — for this once agree 
 To drop your jars, and bring your " maut to me ; " 
 I'm wanting money, and must have it quickly. 
 For cares on cares are pressing on me thickly. 
 I'm growing old, my Ady's growing bulky. 
 And little Vicky's looking mighty sulky ; 
 While cooks and chamber-maids cry out, " I vow. 
 Our Missus looks — I really can't tell how («)." 
 
 My Luds and Gintlemen — I'm truly glad 
 To state, that commerce, far from being bad. 
 Is really in a flourishing condition. 
 In spite of Continental opposition ; 
 No starving weavers now toil at the loom. 
 But every face wears sweet contentment's bloom ; 
 There's not a man in any branch of trade 
 But what is well employed — and better paid. 
 
 My Luds and Gintlemen— I'm grieved to state 
 How much I feel for the poor landlord's fate ; 
 
164 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Provisions now are sold so very cheap, 
 
 They can't get in their rents in any shape, 
 
 They're truly in a miserable plight. 
 
 And, if not helped, will soon be starved outright ; 
 
 Then give them fresh corn-bills to raise their grain. 
 
 And make their lands yield four-fold rents again. 
 
 My Luds and Gintlemen — the Church, the Church- 
 leave not that Old Lady in the lurch ; 
 Remember she is frail, requiring crutches, 
 And sore disfigured with foul blains and blotches. 
 She needs your aid — lend it while you may, 
 Preserve her life that she for you may pray. 
 Rally around her, be her prop and guard, 
 For wicked infidels now push her hard, 
 Scrambling for mitre, surplice, sleeves and bands. 
 For tithes, and teinds, and consecrated lands ; 
 O keep these harpies from her sacred person 
 
 Who'd leave her nought to set her holy on. 
 
 Preserve each Bishop, Dean, and sleek soul-curer, 
 Who with gunpowder can make sinners purer ; 
 Preserve their revenues and benefices, 
 Ne'er mind the flocks, but let them have the fleeces. 
 The good old Lady, you'll observe, is sickly. 
 And does not bear her troubles over meekly ; 
 Then give some gentle medicines to soothe her. 
 Some purgatives to make her skin look smoother. 
 Give her warm baths, her tattered dress repair. 
 Smooth down her wrinkles, decorate her hair. 
 Whitewash her well— then will she yet shine forth 
 The pride and glory of a gladdened earth — 
 Fair as the moon, clear as the orb of day. 
 And dreadful as an army at Rathcormac fray ! * 
 
 * Pair as the moon, clear as the sun, and 'terrible as an army with 
 banners. — Sonq of Solomon. 
 
SHAVING BANKS; 
 
 OR, MATTHEW'S CALL TO THE WORTHLESS, TO COME AND 
 BE SHAVED o' THEIR SILLER. 
 
 Being the substance of a speeoli delivered by Matthew, (not the 
 Evangelist), at a Public Meeting held in the •^— , on the ^— day 
 of — ^, 1818, on the utility of " Shaving Banks." 
 
 Ho ! ye poor worthless, thriftless trash ; 
 Worthless, because ye haena cash — 
 Thriftless, because ye try to dash 
 
 Like your superiors ; 
 Come hither, till I lay the lash 
 
 To your posteriors. 
 
 Sae lost are ye to a' reflection — 
 
 To wisdom, prudence, circumspection — 
 
 That naething but some smart correction 
 
 I see will do ; 
 And naething else than pure affection 
 
 Mak's me fa' to. 
 
 And now, ye thochtless, wairdless sinners, 
 0' tippling weavers, cotton-spinners, 
 Smiths, nailers, founders, braziers, tinners, 
 
 What right hae ye 
 To sit down to your flesh-meat dinners — 
 
 Your toast and tea ? 
 
 What right hae ye to sit an' drink 
 Till ance your e'en begin to blink, 
 Keeping your families on the brink 
 
 0' yawning ruin 1 
 Stop, sirs ! — I charge ye, stop an' think 
 
 What ye are doin'. 
 
 What right hae ye to wear braw claes, 
 And strut about on holidays 
 
166 Badger's Poems. 
 
 Alang Clyde side, up Cathkin braes, 
 Or through the Green, 
 
 As thochtless as the brutes that graze 
 Before your e'en ? 
 
 What right hae ye at e'en to lie 
 
 On gude saft beds, baith warm and dry ? 
 
 You — wha nae better are than kye ! 
 
 Troth, scarce sae gude — 
 And yet ye'U daur wi' us to vie — 
 
 Ye hoggish brood ! 
 
 What right, ye wretches, can ye hae 
 
 To siccan gudely things as thae 1 
 
 Boiled beans, burnt yill, horse rugs an' strae, 
 
 Wad be mair fittin' — 
 Wi' gude sharp shears, to stop you frae 
 
 Your brat-begettin'. 
 
 Sic goodly things alone are ours ; 
 Brose thrice a-day is a' that's yours ; 
 And that's enough to keep your powers 
 
 In working play, 
 As ye've to toil but sixteen hours 
 
 Ilk lawfu' day. 
 
 And as for Sundays — troth, I think. 
 Instead o' wasting precious clink 
 On base bewitching sinfu' drink, 
 
 'Twad set you better 
 To get but twice, that day, a skink 
 
 0' meal and water. 
 
 For when your hands hae nocht to do, 
 Your teeth should be as idle too ; 
 Gude troth, it ill sets folk like you, 
 
 When earning naething, 
 To sit and cram your bellies fou, 
 
 Or wear braw claithing. 
 
Shaving Banks. 167 
 
 Ye maun retrench, and live mair canny, 
 And, while it's summer, gather honey ; 
 That is, lay weekly by what money 
 
 Ye're used to waste, 
 To kep a strait that may come on ye 
 
 When looked for least. 
 
 Ye may be forced to beg when auld, 
 Ye may be reft o' house and hald. 
 And be obliged, 'mid winter's cauld. 
 
 To sleep out-by ; 
 The dark-brown clouds your curtain's fauld. 
 
 Your roof the sky. 
 
 Ye may become the beagle's butt. 
 Ye may be up in prison shut. 
 Ye may be on the parish put ; 
 
 (Faith, quietly speaking, 
 I'd rather see your thrapples cut, 
 
 Your base blood reeking). 
 
 But to prevent these numerous ills. 
 Now is the time to help yoursel's ; 
 Leave aiF your drinking sinfu' gills. 
 
 And living high, 
 And learn, although against your wills. 
 
 To lay cash by. 
 
 And here's the method ye maun' tak'. 
 
 If siller ye wad try to mak', 
 
 As ye hae ne'er yet learned the knack 
 
 0' taking care o't, 
 Hand into us ilk orra plack 
 
 That ye can spare o't. 
 
 And we'll tak' care o't sure enough, 
 For we're the lads can guide the stuff ; 
 We winna wair't, like you, on snuff, 
 
 Or tea or liquor. 
 Then quick and lay't into our loof, 
 
 We'll haud it sicker. 
 
168 Bodgefs Poems. 
 
 For we've established Shaving Banks, 
 
 For shaving o' the lower ranks, 
 
 For which we claim the gratefu' thanks, 
 
 Withouten flattery. 
 Of you, wha are but useless blanks 
 
 In life's great lottery. 
 
 (And L — d, we'll shave you if we can. 
 By auld George Rose's shaving plan, 
 Whilk shortly will succeed frae " Dan 
 
 Unto Beersheba," 
 In shaving ilka labouring man 
 
 As clean's a sybo). 
 
 Then hear, ye cyphers o' the State, 
 If ye'd get forward on your gate, 
 Eise soon to work, and sit up late. 
 
 And toil like niggers. 
 Else, by my saul, ye'll never rate 
 
 Amang the figures. 
 
 An aye snib aff the ither groat 
 Frae whisky stoup and porter pot. 
 Ne'er letting liquor weet your throat. 
 
 While water's cheaper, 
 And soon ye'll come to hae a note 
 
 0' gude bank paper. 
 
 And when you've scrapit ane thegither. 
 By bringing a' your bawbees hither. 
 Quick, work, and scrape, and get anither ; 
 
 Confound your blood ! 
 What gars ye shake your heads and swither ? 
 
 'Tis for your good. 
 
 Your goods I mean, and chattels, too. 
 If we durst tell our motive true ; 
 But we'll keep that hid out o' view 
 
 As lang's we can, 
 Else ye might try, ye stubborn crew. 
 
 To thwart our plan. 
 
Shaving Banks. 16& 
 
 Come, come, my lads, this is nae hoax, 
 Here are our books — and here's our box, 
 We'll put your siller in the stocks ; 
 
 And when it's there. 
 Confound you for a set o' blocks, 
 
 Gin ye see't mair ; 
 
 What then ? — Ye tim'rous, backward set. 
 The interest ye'll be sure to get, 
 The stock will help to pay some debt 
 
 John Bull is awn. 
 Or creesh the sair-worn wheels o' State, 
 
 To keep them gaun. 
 
 For look ye, it is our intent 
 
 To cleek you firm to G-overnment ; 
 
 Then, when your siller a' is lent 
 
 To Van & Co., * 
 Ye'll stick, while ye can draw a cent. 
 
 Come weal or woe. 
 
 And doubtless ye'll soon see the day 
 When ye'll be hugged by Cast-ill-ray 
 Sad-mouth himsel' will owre you pray, 
 
 And grunt a blessing ; 
 The Eegent's muckle gouty tae 
 
 Ye'll even get kissing. 
 
 And that choice chip o' lucky Hunn,t 
 Wha in St. Stephen's plays buffoon, 
 Will chat to please you — -mak' a pun 
 
 To shew his wit, 
 And girn like ony auld baboon 
 
 Cracking a nit. 
 
 * Vansittart, Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 1 Greorge Canning, the Parodist and Punster, 
 
170 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 And a' the loyal in the land 
 
 Will come and shake you by the hand, 
 
 Wi' a' our treason-hatching band 
 
 0' moral spies, 
 Wha serve us aye, upon demand, 
 
 Wi' bags o' lies. 
 
 That hopeful brood o' true hell game, 
 Begot upon the bloated frame 
 0' that auld venerable, dame, 
 
 Yclep'd Corruption, 
 By holy Sid — frae you will claim 
 
 The friendly grip soon. 
 
 And we shall leave nae scheme untried 
 
 To get ye a' upon our side, 
 
 For though your looks we scarce can bide 
 
 When ye come near us. 
 Yet we maun drap our distant pride 
 
 When times grow serious. 
 
 But we've anither plan forbye, 
 Which we intend wi' you to try. 
 And that is, if you e'er apply 
 
 For parish aid. 
 The fient a plack o' such supply 
 
 Ye'Il e'er be paid. 
 
 And if ye daur to raise a fuss. 
 Or meet the poor laws to discuss, 
 Then a' your cash belongs to us. 
 
 Which we will keep ; 
 Be therefore ye as calm as puss. 
 
 And never cheep. 
 
 Or if you do, then, by my faith, 
 
 And that, ye'll mind, is nae mock aith. 
 
 We'll hae the lads in blood-red claith 
 
 Again brought in, 
 Wi' a' their instruments o' death, 
 
 To stop your din. 
 
The Waefu' Lamentation. 171 
 
 Anither thing we hae in view, 
 Though it maun ne'er be tauld to you, 
 We'll see how far taxation's screw 
 
 Will thole a thraw yet, 
 And hence impose some taxes new 
 
 By dint o' law yet. 
 
 For we're determined — do ye see. 
 To keep you low as low can be, 
 To gar you toil like brutes, that we 
 
 Like gods may fare. 
 And shave you o' the last bawbee 
 
 That ye can spare. 
 
 Sic are our motives, sic our drift. 
 For trying this bit loopy shift ; 
 And, thanks to gude, ye want the gift 
 
 0' common sense. 
 Else ye our hale design would sift. 
 
 And keep your pence. 
 
 THE WAEFU' LAMENTATION 
 
 OF THE PR0V08T AND BAILIES OF THE ROYAL BURGH OF 
 BLYTHSWOOD. 
 
 Occasioned by the passing of the Reform Bill. 
 
 3. And when the people heard these things, they shouted alond 
 with a great shout, for their joy was very great. 
 
 4. But the chief ruler and the elders which sat in the gate gnashed 
 their teeth and rent their garments ; yea, they lifted up their voices 
 and wept bitterly, making a sore lamentation. 
 
 5. And the chief ruler cried grievously, saying, Alas ! alas ! for this 
 great evil which hath now come upon us ; truly may we he called 
 " Ichabod," for the glory is departed from us and from our house for 
 ever. — Book of Jasheb, Chap. ii. 
 
 Wow, Sirs ! what's this come owre us a' 1 
 Wae worth that vile Reforming Law, 
 That's torn the vested rights awa' 
 
 Frae ilka borough, 
 An' left us Bailies nocht ava' 
 
 But dool an' sorrow. 
 
172 Bodger's Poems. 
 
 Alas ! that I should live to see't, 
 The thocht o't 's like to gar me greet, 
 An' gnash my teeth, an' stamp my feet, 
 
 Wi' grief an' anger, 
 To think how many pickings sweet 
 
 We'll pree nae langer. 
 
 Gane are our bits o' canny jobs. 
 By whilk we used to line our fobs, 
 And creesh our loofs, and gust our gobs. 
 
 An' dink us braw ; 
 That curst Reform ! it comes an' robs 
 
 Us o' them a'. 
 
 Nae close electioneerings now — 
 Thae times are a' gane by, I trow. 
 When ye chose me, an' I chose you ; 
 
 An' here sit we, 
 As cowed as ony hummilt cow 
 
 That treads the lee. 
 
 Hech ! but we've got a fearfu' fa'. 
 We, wha were wont to gang sae braw, 
 Whase word or nod was aye a law 
 
 To a' about us ; 
 The rabble now will owre us craw. 
 
 An' rudely flout us. 
 
 Where now are a' our gowden dreams ? 
 Our hole-an'-corner plots an' schemes ? — 
 Gane, like the sun's departed beams, 
 
 Ayont the hill — 
 While ilka future prospect seems 
 
 To lour wi' ill. 
 
 Nae mair we'll dine now wi' his Grace, 
 Nor to my Lord baud up our face. 
 To bargain for some snug bit place 
 
 For Jock the laddie ; 
 Nor get our wife bedeckt wi' lace 
 
 An' silks f u' gaudy. 
 
1 The Waefu' Lamentation. 173 
 
 An' there's your auld bit house an' mine, 
 We thocht to get replaced short syne 
 Wi' ashler wa's o' freestane fine, 
 
 An' sclated riggin's ; 
 That's past — an' here we still maun pine 
 
 In auld thack biggin's. 
 
 An' mair than that, I thocht to get 
 A grand piano for our Kate, 
 Where, leddy-like, she'd sit in state 
 
 An' thrum her tune ; — 
 The pirn-wheel now maun be her fate 
 
 To birr an' croon. 
 
 An' as for Jock, wi' a' his lear. 
 He needna think on pu'pits mair, 
 Por notwithstanding a' my care. 
 
 Expense an' pains, 
 I fear he jimply has a share 
 
 0' common brains. 
 
 But yet, for a' that, his bit lack 
 Wad ne'er hae been a great drawback 
 TJnto his wearing o' the black, 
 
 Provided still 
 Things hadna a' been knocked to wrack 
 
 By this curst Bill. 
 
 For had we still possessed our vote. 
 We might hae made that muckle o't. 
 As, through some Patron, to hae got 
 
 Our Jock a kirk ; — 
 That's gane — now he maun cast his coat, 
 
 Poor chiel ! an' work. 
 
 An', waes me ! since he wants the brains 
 To handle chisels, files, and planes. 
 There's naething for him now remains 
 
 In this world wide. 
 That I can see, but knapping stanes 
 
 By some dyke side. 
 
174 Bodgefs Poems. 
 
 Nae mair will Blythswood meet us here, 
 An' dine wi' us four times a year ; 
 We'll be for nae mair use, I fear, 
 
 To him, och hon ! 
 An' therefore he will never speer 
 
 The road we're on. 
 
 Nor yet will Pinlay Kirkland ca'. 
 An' treat us in our ain Town Ha', 
 Nor kiss our wives an' dochters a'. 
 
 An' slip fu' sleek 
 A bonnie yellow George or twa 
 
 Into their cheek. 
 
 had we but ta'en care langsyne. 
 An' made hay while the sun did shine ! 
 But na — we boost to dash sae fine 
 
 Aboon our level ; 
 An' wi' our dinners an' our wine. 
 
 Feast, rant, an' revel. 
 
 Short-sighted mortals ! ne'er to ween 
 But things wad be as they had been : 
 We little dreamt a blast sae keen 
 
 For us was brewin', 
 Whase breath wad bring our branches green 
 
 To wrack and ruin. 
 
 •A.y, ay ! — the crowd may bawl " Reform ! "— 
 What wondrous gude it will perform ! 
 To us it proves a ruthless storm — 
 
 A devastation — 
 A plague — a pest — a canker-worm — 
 
 Annihilation ! 
 
 May muckle trouble, dool, an' wae, 
 Alight on Russell, Brou'am, and Grey, 
 They've ta'en frae us our prop, our stay. 
 
 Our chief support ; 
 But bide a wee, — they yet will hae 
 
 To answer for't. 
 
The Waefvj' Lamentation. 175 
 
 Ay, that they will — an' wi' a vengeance ! — 
 For soon as comes a happy change ance, 
 We'll mak' them chaunt, in Eoyal dungeons, 
 
 " Sweet Libertie ! " 
 Or try if Rdbespierrean engines 
 
 Can set them free. 
 
 An' a' the rest wha wi' them fought, 
 An' their unhallowed labours wrought, 
 We'll hae them served, too, as they ought, 
 
 Vile, graceless fallows ! 
 To justice they, shall a' be brought — 
 
 An' that's the gallows. 
 
 May ruin seize that wicked Press — 
 The movin' cause o' our distress ; 
 It has exposed ilk wee finesse, 
 
 An' loopy job, 
 An' shown us, in our nakedness. 
 
 To a' the mob. 
 
 An' 0, confound the Unions a' ! — 
 Sae bauld an' crousely now they craw, 
 They'd rule the King — they'd rule the law, — 
 
 Ilk thing they'd rule : 
 I fear they'll try to chase awa' 
 
 Our King, ere Yule. 
 
 But Gude preserve him, honest man ! 
 Frae that infernal, graceless clan ; 
 I hope he'll yet do what he can 
 
 In our behalf, 
 An' try to mend, by ilka plan, 
 
 Our broken staff. 
 
 An' Heaven shield our spotless Queen 
 
 Frae ilka scoundrel Jacobin — 
 
 For she has kept her garments clean, 
 
 'Mid a' this stour. 
 Nor filed her fingers wi't, I ween, 
 
 Up to this hour. 
 
176 Bodger^s Poems. 
 
 May ilka blessin' light upon 
 The glorious Duke o' Wellin'ton, 
 An' may he do as he has done ; 
 
 Gude bless his Grace ! 
 He was our leading-star — our sun, 
 
 When he kept place. 
 
 May Heaven uphold Sir Eobert Peel, 
 An' Weatherall, that witty chiel — 
 An' Croaker, too, wha fought sae weel. 
 
 In our ain cause. 
 An' a' the rest wha, true as steel, 
 
 Maintained our laws. 
 
 Gude save auld Airland's weeping Church, 
 Now hurklin' low without the porch ; 
 They've torn her mantle, an' her curch 
 
 They've ^et on lowe, 
 While wicked corbies crousely perch 
 
 On her bare pow. 
 
 An' gin they're no scaured afif, I doubt. 
 They'll pick her bare, clout after clout. 
 Nor leave her ought to wrap about 
 
 Her naked skin ; 
 Na, waur — they threaten to pick out 
 
 Her vera een ! 
 
 An' her gude Bishops still preserve, 
 
 Wha daily in the temples serve — 
 
 Through want o' tithes may they ne'er starve, 
 
 But aye hae plenty — 
 For muckle, muckle they deserve, 
 
 They are sae tenty. 
 
 They never stain their snaw-white bands 
 By breaking ane o' the Commands, 
 Nor e'er defile their haly hands 
 
 Wi' dirt o' Mammon ; 
 Then, ! may those wha'd seize their lands 
 
 Be strung like Haman 1 
 
Black Coats, and Gravais sae White. 177 
 
 An' may red wrath an' indignation 
 Be poured out on this graceless nation ! 
 May ruin an' black desolation 
 
 Sweep owre the land I 
 While, safe entrenched in domination, 
 
 We snugly stand ! 
 
 BLACK COATS, AND GEAVATS SAE WHITE. 
 
 Ye puir silly priest-ridden bodies, attend 
 
 To ane that would caution you now as a friend 
 
 'Gainst black coats, and gravats sae white ; 
 For mair kittle customers hardly exist. 
 Than some who are dubbed wi' the title o' priest ; 
 For their plan is the puir human mind to mislead. 
 Whilst four or five hundred a-year is their creed, — 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white. 
 
 0, rare to behold ! how demurely they look. 
 When, plac'd in the rostrum, they handle the book. 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white : 
 Pretending to solve what they care not about, 
 And damning all those who their word dare to doubt, 
 They tell you fine stories about this an' that. 
 But would starve you on hmhs, while they gorge upon 
 
 M 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white. 
 
 So rapt up in spirit — so heavenly are they, 
 So dead to the world, and its vanities gay. 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white, 
 That a young blooming doxy, with cheeks plump an' red, 
 Can only convince them they're still flesh an' blood ; 
 When snugly, unseen, a sweet kiss and a squeeze, 
 Wi' lively devotion, bring them to their knees. 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white. 
 
 M 
 
178 Badger's Poems. 
 
 When man, led by reason, demands what's his right, 
 " The Kirk is in danger ! " they bawl a' their might, 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white ; 
 When they cry out, " The Kirk ! " 'tis the teinds they've 
 
 in view. 
 For they watch o'er their flocks just for sake o' the woo'; 
 Wi' oppression's sharp sheers to their hurdies applied, 
 They fleece them sae bare, that they scarce leave the hide, 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white. 
 
 There's glib-gabbit Tammy, that star frae the east. 
 When he speaks, a' the world wonders after the beast 
 
 With the black coat, and gravat sae white ; 
 He wrote a fine book, with a high-sounding name. 
 But what do you think is the hale o' its theme ? 
 Just burden on burden, an' tax upon tax. 
 To learn the base rabble the use o' their backs, 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white. 
 
 Davy Tartan grunts out, that your sins are the cause 
 0' your skin-cutting ribs an' your clay-coloured jaws. 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white ; 
 What double-mill'd sinners the poor folk must be. 
 Since they, not the gentry, sic punishments dree ; 
 Nay, search the hale globe, an' my lug for't, ye'U fin' 
 That priests never suffer, of course never sin, 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white. 
 
 There's pensioner Jamie, corruption's chief tool. 
 Whose tears flow as freely as whisky at Yule, 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white ; 
 So keenly he feels for the suffering poor, 
 That he'd willingly do what he did for Tom Muir, 
 To get them sent aff to a far better state. 
 By hanging or starving them out o' the gate. 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white. 
 
 And thundering Willie, besouth o' the Clyde, 
 Wha'd skin a starved louse for the sake o' its hide. 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white ; 
 
Black Coats, and Oravats sae White. 179 
 
 So liberal his hand is, his heart so humane, 
 That he deals out, to comfort all those who complain, 
 A dish o' content o'er a bit o' brown crust, 
 Yet laughs at them slyly, and pockets their dust, 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white. 
 
 There's grave Willie Grovel, o' true loyal crouch, 
 Wi' three herrin' tails sticking out o' his pouch, 
 
 With his black coat and gravat sae white ; 
 Against smuggled whisky he piously rails, 
 And with blue damnation its drinkers assails ; 
 Yet see the guid man at a wee Hielan' still, 
 Thrang trysting sax gallons, or aucht, for himsel', 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white. 
 
 An' Johnny M 'Greed, how he lashes at them 
 
 Wha gang the grey gate that brings lasses to shame, 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white ; 
 For into temptation himsel' is ne'er led. 
 But bauldly plumps into her net when it's spread. 
 An' when he is caught in her strait kittle mesh, 
 He greets, and cries out, " 0, how weak is the flesh ! " 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white. 
 
 Johnny Bishop, the kind, the humane, the belov'd, 
 Wi' the cries o' the starving is now so much mov'd, 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white ; 
 That when they look up to him, asking for bread. 
 He gives, — not a stone, but provides for them — lead ; 
 When they ask for a fish — not a serpent he'll grant, 
 While a three-edged steel can relieve every want, 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white. 
 
 An' Johnny M'Eoarin, wi' his raree-show 
 Of elegant metaphors, all in a row, 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white ; 
 He swears that Eeform is so heinous a sin. 
 That none who pursue it to heaven will get in ; 
 That pigs will be seen flying thick through the air. 
 And whistling like lavrocks, ere black-nebs get there, 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white. 
 
180 Rodger's Poems. 
 
 Now, that's but a sample o' maist o' the crew, 
 Wha laugh in their sleeves while they're hoodwinking 
 you, 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white. 
 The gospel they preach, is the gospel of. Pitt, 
 Which teaches that mankind are born to submit, 
 Yea, meekly to bend to the haughty behests 
 Of legalized robbers and humbugging priests, 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white. 
 
 But, as among chaff, there are pickles o' wheat. 
 So there are exceptions, ilk ane maun admit, 
 
 Amang black coats, and gravats sae white ; 
 But oh ! these exceptions, how trifling ! how few ! 
 Compar'd wi' the mass who self-interest pursue ; 
 For, were not a weel-baken bannock their aim. 
 Religion might gang to to the devil for them. 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white. 
 
 Now, if you would just tak' this counsel frae me, 
 Sae mony fat drones ye would soon cease to see, 
 
 With their black coats, and gravats sae white ; 
 Nae langer support such a time-serving set, 
 Go sti;dy the Book, where true wisdom you'll get ; 
 Instruct one another — practice what is right, 
 An' let each pious worldling go feel his own weight, 
 
 With his black coat, and gravat sae white.