Chapter 21

It’s tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa’n than fled; But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade, And dog-skin wallet, And taen the—Antiquarian trade, I think they call it.

He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets: Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont gude; And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets, Before the Flood.

Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder; Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender; That which distinguished the gender O’ Balaam’s ass: A broomstick o’ the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi’ brass.

Forbye, he’ll shape you aff fu’ gleg The cut of Adam’s philibeg; The knife that nickit Abel’s craig He’ll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee and fun has he, Then set him down, and twa or three Gude fellows wi’ him: And port, O port! shine thou a wee, And Then ye’ll see him!

Now, by the Pow’rs o’ verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!— Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose, They sair misca’ thee; I’d take the rascal by the nose, Wad say, “Shame fa’ thee!”

Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning, And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning, Astonish’d, confounded, cries Satan—“By God, I’ll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!”

The Kirk Of Scotland’s Alarm

A Ballad.

Tune—“Come rouse, Brother Sportsman!”

Orthodox! orthodox, who believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: A heretic blast has been blown in the West, “That what is no sense must be nonsense,” Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack, To strike evil-doers wi’ terror: To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence, Was heretic, damnable error, Doctor Mac!^1 ’Twas heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing,^2 Provost John^3 is still deaf to the Church’s relief, And Orator Bob^4 is its ruin, Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.

D’rymple mild! D’rymple mild, tho’ your heart’s like a child, And your life like the new-driven snaw, Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you, For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa, D’rymple mild!^5 For preaching that three’s ane an’ twa.

Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan, Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d; Then out wi’ your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle, And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d. Rumble John!^6 And roar ev’ry note of the damn’d.

[Footnote 1: Dr. M’Gill, Ayr.—R.B,]

[Footnote 2: See the advertisement.—R.B.]

[Footnote 3: John Ballantine,—R.B.]

[Footnote 4: Robert Aiken.—R.B.]

[Footnote 5: Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr.—R.B.]

[Footnote 6: John Russell, Kilmarnock.—R.B.]

Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames, There’s a holier chase in your view: I’ll lay on your head, that the pack you’ll soon lead, For puppies like you there’s but few, Simper James!^7 For puppies like you there’s but few.

Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny, Unconscious what evils await? With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev’ry soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Singet Sawnie!^8 For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, Wi’ your “Liberty’s Chain” and your wit; O’er Pegasus’ side ye ne’er laid a stride, Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh—t. Poet Willie!^9 Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh—t.

Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye? If ye meddle nae mair wi’ the matter, Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, Wi’ people that ken ye nae better, Barr Steenie!^10 Wi’people that ken ye nae better.

Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; But the Doctor’s your mark, for the Lord’s holy ark, He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t, Jamie Goose!^11 He has cooper’d an’ ca’d a wrang pin in’t.

Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice o’ recruits;

[Footnote 7: James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock.—R.B.]

[Footnote 8: Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.—R.B.]

[Footnote 9: William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster, who, among many other things, published an ode on the “Centenary of the Revolution,” in which was the line: “And bound in Liberty’s endering chain.”—R.B.]

[Footnote 10: Stephen Young of Barr.—R.B.]

[Footnote 11: James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant Mitchel—R.B.]

Yet to worth let’s be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes, Davie Bluster!^12 If the Ass were the king o’ the brutes.

Irvine Side! Irvine Side, wi’ your turkey-cock pride Of manhood but sma’ is your share: Ye’ve the figure, ’tis true, ev’n your foes will allow, And your friends they dare grant you nae mair, Irvine Side!^13 And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock! muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock, To crush common-sense for her sins; If ill-manners were wit, there’s no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance, Muirland Jock!^14 To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Andro Gowk! Andro Gowk, ye may slander the Book, An’ the Book nought the waur, let me tell ye; Tho’ ye’re rich, an’ look big, yet, lay by hat an’ wig, An’ ye’ll hae a calf’s—had o’ sma’ value, Andro Gowk!^15 Ye’ll hae a calf’s head o’ sma value.

Daddy Auld! daddy Auld, there’a a tod in the fauld, A tod meikle waur than the clerk; Tho’ ye do little skaith, ye’ll be in at the death, For gif ye canna bite, ye may bark, Daddy Auld!^16 Gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Holy Will! holy Will, there was wit in your skull, When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor; The timmer is scant when ye’re taen for a saunt, Wha should swing in a rape for an hour, Holy Will!^17 Ye should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin’s sons! Calvin’s sons, seize your spiritual guns, Ammunition you never can need;

[Footnote 12: David Grant, Ochiltree.—R.B.]

[Footnote 13: George Smith, Galston.—R.B.]

[Footnote 14: John Shepherd Muirkirk.—R.B.]

[Footnote 15: Dr. Andrew Mitchel, Monkton.—R.B.]

[Footnote 16: William Auld, Mauchline; for the clerk, see “Holy Willie’s” prayer.—R.B.]

[Footnote 17: Vide the “Prayer” of this saint.—R.B.]

Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough, And your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead, Calvin’s sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o’ lead.

Poet Burns! poet Burns, wi’ your priest-skelpin turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsy, yet were she e’en tipsy, She could ca’us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns! She could ca’us nae waur than we are.

Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents

Factor John! Factor John, whom the Lord made alone, And ne’er made anither, thy peer, Thy poor servant, the Bard, in respectful regard, He presents thee this token sincere, Factor John! He presents thee this token sincere.

Afton’s Laird! Afton’s Laird, when your pen can be spared, A copy of this I bequeath, On the same sicker score as I mention’d before, To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith, Afton’s Laird! To that trusty auld worthy, Clackleith.

Sonnet On Receiving A Favour

10 Aug., 1979.

Addressed to Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintry.

I call no Goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns: Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, And all the tribute of my heart returns, For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gifts still dearer, as the giver you. Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! And all ye many sparkling stars of night! If aught that giver from my mind efface, If I that giver’s bounty e’er disgrace, Then roll to me along your wand’rig spheres, Only to number out a villain’s years! I lay my hand upon my swelling breast, And grateful would, but cannot speak the rest.

Extemporaneous Effusion

On being appointed to an Excise division.

Searching auld wives’ barrels, Ochon the day! That clarty barm should stain my laurels: But—what’ll ye say? These movin’ things ca’d wives an’ weans, Wad move the very hearts o’ stanes!

Song—Willie Brew’d A Peck O’ Maut^1

O Willie brew’d a peck o’ maut, And Rob and Allen cam to see; Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, Ye wadna found in Christendie.

Chorus.—We are na fou, we’re nae that fou, But just a drappie in our ee; The cock may craw, the day may daw And aye we’ll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys I trow are we; And mony a night we’ve merry been, And mony mae we hope to be! We are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn, That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee! We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa’, He is the King amang us three. We are na fou, &c.

[Footnote 1: Willie is Nicol, Allan is Masterton the writing— master. The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of the Lowes. Date, August—September, 1789.—Lang.]

Ca’ The Yowes To The Knowes

Chorus.—Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them where the heather grows, Ca’ them where the burnie rowes, My bonie dearie

As I gaed down the water-side, There I met my shepherd lad: He row’d me sweetly in his plaid, And he ca’d me his dearie. Ca’ the yowes, &c.

Will ye gang down the water-side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide, The moon it shines fu’ clearly. Ca’ the yowes, &c.

Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep, An’ ye sall be my dearie. Ca’ the yowes, &c.

If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said, I’se gang wi’ thee, my shepherd lad, And ye may row me in your plaid, And I sall be your dearie. Ca’ the yowes, &c.

While waters wimple to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death sall blin’ my e’e, Ye sall be my dearie. Ca’ the yowes, &c.

I Gaed A Waefu’ Gate Yestreen

I gaed a waefu’ gate yestreen, A gate, I fear, I’ll dearly rue; I gat my death frae twa sweet een, Twa lovely een o’bonie blue.

’Twas not her golden ringlets bright, Her lips like roses wat wi’ dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white— It was her een sae bonie blue.

She talk’d, she smil’d, my heart she wyl’d; She charm’d my soul I wist na how; And aye the stound, the deadly wound, Cam frae her een so bonie blue. But “spare to speak, and spare to speed;” She’ll aiblins listen to my vow: Should she refuse, I’ll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonie blue.

Highland Harry Back Again

My Harry was a gallant gay, Fu’ stately strade he on the plain; But now he’s banish’d far away, I’ll never see him back again.

Chorus.—O for him back again! O for him back again! I wad gie a’ Knockhaspie’s land For Highland Harry back again.

When a’ the lave gae to their bed, I wander dowie up the glen; I set me down and greet my fill, And aye I wish him back again. O for him, &c.

O were some villains hangit high, And ilka body had their ain! Then I might see the joyfu’ sight, My Highland Harry back again. O for him, &c.

The Battle Of Sherramuir

Tune—“The Cameronian Rant.”

“O cam ye here the fight to shun, Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man? Or were ye at the Sherra-moor, Or did the battle see, man?” I saw the battle, sair and teugh, And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh; My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough, To hear the thuds, and see the cluds O’ clans frae woods, in tartan duds, Wha glaum’d at kingdoms three, man. La, la, la, la, &c.

The red-coat lads, wi’ black cockauds, To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush’d and push’d, and blude outgush’d And mony a bouk did fa’, man: The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles; They hough’d the clans like nine-pin kyles, They hack’d and hash’d, while braid-swords, clash’d, And thro’ they dash’d, and hew’d and smash’d, Till fey men died awa, man. La, la, la, la, &c.

But had ye seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man; When in the teeth they dar’d our Whigs, And covenant True-blues, man: In lines extended lang and large, When baiginets o’erpower’d the targe, And thousands hasten’d to the charge; Wi’ Highland wrath they frae the sheath Drew blades o’ death, till, out o’ breath, They fled like frighted dows, man! La, la, la, la, &c.

“O how deil, Tam, can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw mysel, they did pursue, The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi’ a’ their might, And straught to Stirling wing’d their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a huntit poor red-coat, For fear amaist did swarf, man!” La, la, la, la, &c.

My sister Kate cam up the gate Wi’ crowdie unto me, man; She swoor she saw some rebels run To Perth unto Dundee, man; Their left-hand general had nae skill; The Angus lads had nae gude will That day their neibors’ blude to spill; For fear, for foes, that they should lose Their cogs o’ brose; they scar’d at blows, And hameward fast did flee, man. La, la, la, la, &c.

They’ve lost some gallant gentlemen, Amang the Highland clans, man! I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man, Now wad ye sing this double fight, Some fell for wrang, and some for right; But mony bade the world gude-night; Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, By red claymores, and muskets knell, Wi’ dying yell, the Tories fell, And Whigs to hell did flee, man. La, la, la, la, &c.

The Braes O’ Killiecrankie

Where hae ye been sae braw, lad? Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O? Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O?

Chorus.—An ye had been whare I hae been, Ye wad na been sae cantie, O; An ye had seen what I hae seen, I’ the Braes o’ Killiecrankie, O.

I faught at land, I faught at sea, At hame I faught my Auntie, O; But I met the devil an’ Dundee, On the Braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. An ye had been, &c.

The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr, An’ Clavers gat a clankie, O; Or I had fed an Athole gled, On the Braes o’ Killiecrankie, O. An ye had been, &c.

Awa’ Whigs, Awa’

Chorus.—Awa’ Whigs, awa’! Awa’ Whigs, awa’! Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns, Ye’ll do nae gude at a’.

Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair, And bonie bloom’d our roses; But Whigs cam’ like a frost in June, An’ wither’d a’ our posies. Awa’ Whigs, &c.

Our ancient crown’s fa’en in the dust— Deil blin’ them wi’ the stoure o’t! An’ write their names in his black beuk, Wha gae the Whigs the power o’t. Awa’ Whigs, &c.

Our sad decay in church and state Surpasses my descriving: The Whigs cam’ o’er us for a curse, An’ we hae done wi’ thriving. Awa’ Whigs, &c.

Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap, But we may see him wauken: Gude help the day when royal heads Are hunted like a maukin! Awa’ Whigs, &c.

A Waukrife Minnie

Whare are you gaun, my bonie lass, Whare are you gaun, my hinnie? She answered me right saucilie, “An errand for my minnie.”

O whare live ye, my bonie lass, O whare live ye, my hinnie? “By yon burnside, gin ye maun ken, In a wee house wi’ my minnie.”

But I foor up the glen at e’en. To see my bonie lassie; And lang before the grey morn cam, She was na hauf sae saucie.

O weary fa’ the waukrife cock, And the foumart lay his crawin! He wauken’d the auld wife frae her sleep, A wee blink or the dawin.

An angry wife I wat she raise, And o’er the bed she brocht her; And wi’ a meikle hazel rung She made her a weel-pay’d dochter.

O fare thee weel, my bonie lass, O fare thee well, my hinnie! Thou art a gay an’ a bonnie lass, But thou has a waukrife minnie.

The Captive Ribband

Tune—“Robaidh dona gorach.”

Dear Myra, the captive ribband’s mine, ’Twas all my faithful love could gain; And would you ask me to resign The sole reward that crowns my pain?

Go, bid the hero who has run Thro’ fields of death to gather fame, Go, bid him lay his laurels down, And all his well-earn’d praise disclaim.

The ribband shall its freedom lose— Lose all the bliss it had with you, And share the fate I would impose On thee, wert thou my captive too.

It shall upon my bosom live, Or clasp me in a close embrace; And at its fortune if you grieve, Retrieve its doom, and take its place.

My Heart’s In The Highlands

Tune—“Failte na Miosg.”

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Chorus.—My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe, My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow, Farewell to the straths and green vallies below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart’s in the Highlands, &c.

The Whistle—A Ballad

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North. Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— “The Whistle’s your challenge, to Scotland get o’er, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne’er see me more!”

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur’d, what champions fell: The son of great Loda was conqueror still, And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatch’d at the bottle, unconquer’d in war, He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea; No tide of the Baltic e’er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d; Which now in his house has for ages remain’d; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew’d.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw Craigdarroch, so famous for with, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill’d in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Downrightly to yield up the spoil; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

“By the gods of the ancients!” Downrightly replies, “Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I’ll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o’er.”

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne’er turn’d his back on his foe, or his friend; Said, “Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,” And, knee-deep in claret, he’d die ere he’d yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen, And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er: Bright Phoebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core, And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine; He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend! Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phoebus—and down fell the knight.

Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:— “Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink! But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come—one bottle more—and have at the sublime!

“Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!”

To Mary In Heaven

Thou ling’ring star, with lessening ray, That lov’st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher’st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow’d grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace, Ah! little thought we ’twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kiss’d his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild-woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar, ’Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene: The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray; Till too, too soon, the glowing west, Proclaim’d the speed of winged day.

Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser-care; Time but th’ impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear, My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Epistle To Dr. Blacklock

Ellisland, 21st Oct., 1789.