Chapter 28

As purple morning starts the hare, To steal upon her early fare, Then thro’ the dews I will repair, To meet my faithfu’ Davie. Meet me on, &c.

When day, expiring in the west, The curtain draws o’ Nature’s rest, I flee to his arms I loe’ the best, And that’s my ain dear Davie. Meet me on, &c.

Robert Bruce’s March To Bannockburn

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to Victorie!

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; See the front o’ battle lour; See approach proud Edward’s power— Chains and Slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a Slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha, for Scotland’s King and Law, Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’, Let him on wi’ me!

By Oppression’s woes and pains! By your Sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud Usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow!— Let us Do or Die!

Behold The Hour, The Boat Arrive

Behold the hour, the boat arrive; Thou goest, the darling of my heart; Sever’d from thee, can I survive, But Fate has will’d and we must part. I’ll often greet the surging swell, Yon distant Isle will often hail: “E’en here I took the last farewell; There, latest mark’d her vanish’d sail.” Along the solitary shore, While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar, I’ll westward turn my wistful eye: “Happy thou Indian grove,” I’ll say, “Where now my Nancy’s path may be! While thro’ thy sweets she loves to stray, O tell me, does she muse on me!”

Down The Burn, Davie

As down the burn they took their way, And thro’ the flowery dale; His cheek to hers he aft did lay, And love was aye the tale:

With “Mary, when shall we return, Sic pleasure to renew?” Quoth Mary—“Love, I like the burn, And aye shall follow you.”

Thou Hast Left Me Ever, Jamie

Tune—“Fee him, father, fee him.”

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever; Thou has left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left me ever: Aften hast thou vow’d that Death Only should us sever; Now thou’st left thy lass for aye— I maun see thee never, Jamie, I’ll see thee never.

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken; Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me forsaken; Thou canst love another jo, While my heart is breaking; Soon my weary een I’ll close, Never mair to waken, Jamie, Never mair to waken!

Where Are The Joys I have Met?

Tune—“Saw ye my father.”

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, That danc’d to the lark’s early song? Where is the peace that awaited my wand’ring, At evening the wild-woods among?

No more a winding the course of yon river, And marking sweet flowerets so fair, No more I trace the light footsteps of Pleasure, But Sorrow and sad-sighing Care.

Is it that Summer’s forsaken our valleys, And grim, surly Winter is near? No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses Proclaim it the pride of the year.

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, Yet long, long, too well have I known; All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow: Come then, enamour’d and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe.

Deluded Swain, The Pleasure

Tune—“The Collier’s Dochter.”

Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure, Thy hopes will soon deceive thee: The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The cloud’s uncertain motion, They are but types of Woman.

O art thou not asham’d To doat upon a feature? If Man thou wouldst be nam’d, Despise the silly creature. Go, find an honest fellow, Good claret set before thee, Hold on till thou art mellow, And then to bed in glory!

Thine Am I, My Faithful Fair

Tune—“The Quaker’s Wife.”

Thine am I, my faithful Fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy; Ev’ry pulse along my veins, Ev’ry roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish; Tho’ despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish.

Take away those rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure; Turn away thine eyes of love, Lest I die with pleasure! What is life when wanting Love? Night without a morning: Love’s the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning.

On Mrs. Riddell’s Birthday

4th November 1793.

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred: “What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe?

My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning.

“Now Jove, for once be mighty civil. To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I’ve no more to say, Give me Maria’s natal day! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.” “’Tis done!” says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

My Spouse Nancy

Tune—“My Jo Janet.”

“Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, Sir; Tho’ I am your wedded wife Yet I am not your slave, Sir.”

“One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it Man or Woman, say, My spouse Nancy?’

“If ’tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I’ll desert my sov’reign lord, And so, good bye, allegiance!”

“Sad shall I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy; Yet I’ll try to make a shift, My spouse Nancy.”

“My poor heart, then break it must, My last hour I am near it: When you lay me in the dust, Think how you will bear it.”

“I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancy, Nancy; Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse Nancy.”

“Well, Sir, from the silent dead, Still I’ll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you!”

“I’ll wed another like my dear Nancy, Nancy; Then all hell will fly for fear, My spouse Nancy.”

Address

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night, December 4th, 1793, at the Theatre, Dumfries.

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, ’Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. “Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes, “I know your bent—these are no laughing times: Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears— Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears; With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?”

I could no more—askance the creature eyeing, “D’ye think,” said I, “this face was made for crying? I’ll laugh, that’s poz-nay more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!”

Firm as my creed, Sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief, That Misery’s another word for Grief: I also think—so may I be a bride! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye; Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive— To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch! Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck— Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at her follies—laugh e’en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.

Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell

“Praise Woman still,” his lordship roars, “Deserv’d or not, no matter?” But thee, whom all my soul adores, Ev’n Flattery cannot flatter:

Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal shell; The more I praise my lovely theme, The more the truth I tell.

1794

Remorseful Apology

The friend whom, wild from Wisdom’s way, The fumes of wine infuriate send, (Not moony madness more astray) Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th’ insensate frenzied part, Ah! why should I such scenes outlive? Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!— ’Tis thine to pity and forgive.

Wilt Thou Be My Dearie?

Tune—“The Sutor’s Dochter.”

Wilt thou be my Dearie? When Sorrow wring thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee! By the treasure of my soul, That’s the love I bear thee: I swear and vow that only thou Shall ever be my Dearie! Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my Dearie!

Lassie, say thou lo’es me; Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, O say na thou’lt refuse me! If it winna, canna be, Thou for thine may choose me, Let me, lassie, quickly die, Still trusting that thou lo’es me! Lassie, let me quickly die, Still trusting that thou lo’es me!

A Fiddler In The North

Tune—“The King o’ France he rade a race.”

Amang the trees, where humming bees, At buds and flowers were hinging, O, Auld Caledon drew out her drone, And to her pipe was singing, O: ’Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels, She dirl’d them aff fu’ clearly, O: When there cam’ a yell o’ foreign squeels, That dang her tapsalteerie, O.

Their capon craws an’ queer “ha, ha’s,” They made our lugs grow eerie, O; The hungry bike did scrape and fyke, Till we were wae and weary, O: But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas’d, A prisoner, aughteen year awa’, He fir’d a Fiddler in the North, That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

The Minstrel At Lincluden

Tune—“Cumnock Psalms.”

As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa’flow’r scents the dery air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care.

Chorus—A lassie all alone, was making her moan, Lamenting our lads beyond the sea: In the bluidy wars they fa’, and our honour’s gane an’ a’, And broken-hearted we maun die.

The winds were laid, the air was till, The stars they shot along the sky; The tod was howling on the hill, And the distant-echoing glens reply. A lassie all alone, &c.

The burn, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase roarings seem’d to rise and fa’. A lassie all alone, &c.

The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights, wi’ hissing, eerie din, Athort the lift they start and shift, Like Fortune’s favours, tint as win. A lassie all alone, &c.

Now, looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear’d, When lo! in form of Minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear’d. A lassie all alone, &c.

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous’d the slumbering Dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton’s ear! A lassie all alone, &c.

He sang wi’ joy his former day, He, weeping, wail’d his latter times; But what he said—it was nae play, I winna venture’t in my rhymes. A lassie all alone, &c.

A Vision

As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa’flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care.

The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill, And the distant echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path, Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, Whase distant roaring swells and fa’s.

The cauld blae North was streaming forth Her lights, wi’ hissing, eerie din; Athwart the lift they start and shift, Like Fortune’s favors, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn’d mine eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir’d as Minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o’ stane, His daring look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav’d was plain, The sacred posy—“Libertie!”

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous’d the slumb’ring Dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton’s ear!

He sang wi’ joy his former day, He, weeping, wailed his latter times; But what he said—it was nae play, I winna venture’t in my rhymes.

A Red, Red Rose

[Hear Red, Red Rose]

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June: O my Luve’s like the melodie, That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile!

Young Jamie, Pride Of A’ The Plain

Tune—“The Carlin of the Glen.”

Young Jamie, pride of a’ the plain, Sae gallant and sae gay a swain, Thro’ a’ our lasses he did rove, And reign’d resistless King of Love.

But now, wi’ sighs and starting tears, He strays amang the woods and breirs; Or in the glens and rocky caves, His sad complaining dowie raves:—

“I wha sae late did range and rove, And chang’d with every moon my love, I little thought the time was near, Repentance I should buy sae dear.

“The slighted maids my torments see, And laugh at a’ the pangs I dree; While she, my cruel, scornful Fair, Forbids me e’er to see her mair.”

The Flowery Banks Of Cree

Here is the glen, and here the bower All underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has told the hour, O what can stay my lovely maid?

’Tis not Maria’s whispering call; ’Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Mixt with some warbler’s dying fall, The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria’s voice I hear; So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little, faithful mate to cheer; At once ’tis music and ’tis love.

And art thou come! and art thou true! O welcome dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew, Along the flowery banks of Cree.

Monody

On a lady famed for her Caprice.

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten’d; How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flatt’ry so listen’d!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov’d; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov’d.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Maria’s cold bier.

We’ll search through the garden for each silly flower, We’ll roam thro’ the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed.

We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.

The Epitaph

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly, gay in life’s beam: Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem.

Pinned To Mrs. Walter Riddell’s Carriage

If you rattle along like your Mistress’ tongue, Your speed will outrival the dart; But a fly for your load, you’ll break down on the road, If your stuff be as rotten’s her heart.

Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell

Sic a reptile was Wat, sic a miscreant slave, That the worms ev’n damn’d him when laid in his grave; “In his flesh there’s a famine,” a starved reptile cries, “And his heart is rank poison!” another replies.

Epistle From Esopus To Maria

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where Infamy with sad Repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast; Where truant ’prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half, to whore, no more; Where tiny thieves not destin’d yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, To tell Maria her Esopus’ fate.

“Alas! I feel I am no actor here!” ’Tis real hangmen real scourges bear! Prepare Maria, for a horrid tale Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Will make thy hair, tho’ erst from gipsy poll’d, By barber woven, and by barber sold, Though twisted smooth with Harry’s nicest care, Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; Or, haughty Chieftain, ’mid the din of arms In Highland Bonnet, woo Malvina’s charms; While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high, And steal from me Maria’s prying eye. Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress, Now prouder still, Maria’s temples press; I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, And call each coxcomb to the wordy war: I see her face the first of Ireland’s sons, And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; The crafty Colonel leaves the tartan’d lines, For other wars, where he a hero shines: The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, Who owns a Bushby’s heart without the head, Comes ’mid a string of coxcombs, to display That veni, vidi, vici, is his way: The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks: Though there, his heresies in Church and State Might well award him Muir and Palmer’s fate: Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, And dares the public like a noontide sun. What scandal called Maria’s jaunty stagger The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger? Whose spleen (e’en worse than Burns’ venom, when He dips in gall unmix’d his eager pen, And pours his vengeance in the burning line,)— Who christen’d thus Maria’s lyre-divine The idiot strum of Vanity bemus’d, And even the abuse of Poesy abus’d?— Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse, made For motley foundling Fancies, stolen or strayed?

A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes, And pillows on the thorn my rack’d repose! In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep; That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermin’d gipsies litter’d heretofore.

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, And make a vast monopoly of hell? Thou know’st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse; The Vices also, must they club their curse? Or must no tiny sin to others fall, Because thy guilt’s supreme enough for all?

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, Who on my fair one Satire’s vengeance hurls— Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, A wit in folly, and a fool in wit! Who says that fool alone is not thy due, And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true!

Our force united on thy foes we’ll turn, And dare the war with all of woman born: For who can write and speak as thou and I? My periods that deciphering defy, And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply!

Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb

Capt. Wm. Roddirk, of Corbiston.

Light lay the earth on Billy’s breast, His chicken heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His scull will prop it under.

On Capt. Lascelles

When Lascelles thought fit from this world to depart, Some friends warmly thought of embalming his heart; A bystander whispers—“Pray don’t make so much o’t, The subject is poison, no reptile will touch it.”

On Wm. Graham, Esq., Of Mossknowe

“Stop thief!” dame Nature call’d to Death, As Willy drew his latest breath; How shall I make a fool again? My choicest model thou hast ta’en.

On John Bushby, Esq., Tinwald Downs

Here lies John Bushby—honest man, Cheat him, Devil—if you can!

Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell

Of Glenriddell and Friars’ Carse.

No more, ye warblers of the wood! no more; Nor pour your descant grating on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter’s wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping o’er his bier: The man of worth—and hath not left his peer! Is in his “narrow house,” for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring! again with joy shall others greet; Me, memory of my loss will only meet.

The Lovely Lass O’ Inverness

The lovely lass o’ Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For, e’en to morn she cries, alas! And aye the saut tear blin’s her e’e.

“Drumossie moor, Drumossie day— A waefu’ day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three.

“Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growin’ green to see; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman’s e’e!

“Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou has made sair, That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee!”

Charlie, He’s My Darling

’Twas on a Monday morning, Right early in the year, That Charlie came to our town, The young Chevalier.

Chorus—An’ Charlie, he’s my darling, My darling, my darling, Charlie, he’s my darling, The young Chevalier.

As he was walking up the street, The city for to view, O there he spied a bonie lass The window looking through, An’ Charlie, &c.

Sae light’s he jumped up the stair, And tirl’d at the pin; And wha sae ready as hersel’ To let the laddie in. An’ Charlie, &c.