Chapter 8

And knapsack a’ in order; His doxy lay within his arm; Wi’ usquebae an’ blankets warm She blinkit on her sodger; An’ aye he gies the tozie drab The tither skelpin’ kiss, While she held up her greedy gab, Just like an aumous dish; Ilk smack still, did crack still, Just like a cadger’s whip; Then staggering an’ swaggering He roar’d this ditty up—

Air

Tune—“Soldier’s Joy.”

I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

My ’prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram: and I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d, And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum.

I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt’ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.

And now tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum, I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.

What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a drum.

Recitativo

He ended; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, An’ seek the benmost bore: A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He skirl’d out, encore! But up arose the martial chuck, An’ laid the loud uproar.

Air

Tune—“Sodger Laddie.”

I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when, And still my delight is in proper young men; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie, Sing, lal de lal, &c.

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie.

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch; The sword I forsook for the sake of the church: He ventur’d the soul, and I risked the body, ’Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, The regiment at large for a husband I got; From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, I asked no more but a sodger laddie.

But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair, Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair, His rags regimental, they flutter’d so gaudy, My heart it rejoic’d at a sodger laddie.

And now I have liv’d—I know not how long, And still I can join in a cup and a song; But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.

Recitativo

Poor Merry-Andrew, in the neuk, Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler-hizzie; They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk, Between themselves they were sae busy: At length, wi’ drink an’ courting dizzy, He stoiter’d up an’ made a face; Then turn’d an’ laid a smack on Grizzie, Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.

Air

Tune—“Auld Sir Symon.”

Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou; Sir Knave is a fool in a session; He’s there but a ’prentice I trow, But I am a fool by profession.

My grannie she bought me a beuk, An’ I held awa to the school; I fear I my talent misteuk, But what will ye hae of a fool?

For drink I would venture my neck; A hizzie’s the half of my craft; But what could ye other expect Of ane that’s avowedly daft?

I ance was tied up like a stirk, For civilly swearing and quaffin; I ance was abus’d i’ the kirk, For towsing a lass i’ my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi’ a jeer; There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court A tumbler ca’d the Premier.

Observ’d ye yon reverend lad Mak faces to tickle the mob; He rails at our mountebank squad,— It’s rivalship just i’ the job.

And now my conclusion I’ll tell, For faith I’m confoundedly dry; The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’, Guid Lord! he’s far dafter than I.

Recitativo

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterlin; For mony a pursie she had hooked, An’ had in mony a well been douked; Her love had been a Highland laddie, But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie! Wi’ sighs an’ sobs she thus began To wail her braw John Highlandman.

Air

Tune—“O, an ye were dead, Guidman.”

A Highland lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn; But he still was faithfu’ to his clan, My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Chorus

Sing hey my braw John Highlandman! Sing ho my braw John Highlandman! There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’ Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid, An’ guid claymore down by his side, The ladies’ hearts he did trepan, My gallant, braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, &c.

We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey, An’ liv’d like lords an’ ladies gay; For a Lalland face he feared none,— My gallant, braw John Highlandman. Sing hey, &c.

They banish’d him beyond the sea. But ere the bud was on the tree, Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, Embracing my John Highlandman. Sing hey, &c.

But, och! they catch’d him at the last, And bound him in a dungeon fast: My curse upon them every one, They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman! Sing hey, &c.

And now a widow, I must mourn The pleasures that will ne’er return: The comfort but a hearty can, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing hey, &c.

Recitativo

A pigmy scraper wi’ his fiddle, Wha us’d at trystes an’ fairs to driddle. Her strappin limb and gausy middle (He reach’d nae higher) Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle, An’ blawn’t on fire.

Wi’ hand on hainch, and upward e’e, He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three, Then in an arioso key, The wee Apoll Set off wi’ allegretto glee His giga solo.

Air

Tune—“Whistle owre the lave o’t.”

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, An’ go wi’ me an’ be my dear; An’ then your every care an’ fear May whistle owre the lave o’t.

Chorus

I am a fiddler to my trade, An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I played, The sweetest still to wife or maid, Was whistle owre the lave o’t.

At kirns an’ weddins we’se be there, An’ O sae nicely’s we will fare! We’ll bowse about till Daddie Care Sing whistle owre the lave o’t. I am, &c.

Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke, An’ sun oursel’s about the dyke; An’ at our leisure, when ye like, We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t. I am, &c.

But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms, An’ while I kittle hair on thairms, Hunger, cauld, an’ a’ sic harms, May whistle owre the lave o’t. I am, &c.

Recitativo

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, As weel as poor gut-scraper; He taks the fiddler by the beard, An’ draws a roosty rapier— He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver, Unless he would from that time forth Relinquish her for ever.

Wi’ ghastly e’e poor tweedle-dee Upon his hunkers bended, An’ pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face, An’ so the quarrel ended. But tho’ his little heart did grieve When round the tinkler prest her, He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve, When thus the caird address’d her:

Air

Tune—“Clout the Cauldron.”

My bonie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station: I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground In this my occupation; I’ve taen the gold, an’ been enrolled In many a noble squadron; But vain they search’d when off I march’d To go an’ clout the cauldron. I’ve taen the gold, &c.

Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp, With a’ his noise an’ cap’rin; An’ take a share with those that bear The budget and the apron! And by that stowp! my faith an’ houp, And by that dear Kilbaigie,^1 If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant, May I ne’er weet my craigie. And by that stowp, &c.

[Footnote 1: A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favorite with Poosie Nansie’s clubs.—R.B.]

Recitativo

The caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing fair In his embraces sunk; Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sair, An’ partly she was drunk: Sir Violino, with an air That show’d a man o’ spunk, Wish’d unison between the pair, An’ made the bottle clunk To their health that night.

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, That play’d a dame a shavie— The fiddler rak’d her, fore and aft, Behint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight of Homer’s craft,^2 Tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie, He hirpl’d up, an’ lap like daft, An’ shor’d them Dainty Davie. O’ boot that night.

He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed! Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid, His heart, she ever miss’d it. He had no wish but—to be glad, Nor want but—when he thirsted; He hated nought but—to be sad, An’ thus the muse suggested His sang that night.

Air

Tune—“For a’ that, an’ a’ that.”

I am a Bard of no regard, Wi’ gentle folks an’ a’ that; But Homer-like, the glowrin byke, Frae town to town I draw that.

Chorus

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that; I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’, I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that.

[Footnote 2: Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record.—R.B.]

I never drank the Muses’ stank, Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that; But there it streams an’ richly reams, My Helicon I ca’ that. For a’ that, &c.

Great love Idbear to a’ the fair, Their humble slave an’ a’ that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a’ that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that; But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a’ that, &c.

Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft, They’ve taen me in, an’ a’ that; But clear your decks, and here’s—“The Sex!” I like the jads for a’ that.

Chorus

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They’re welcome till’t for a’ that.

Recitativo

So sang the bard—and Nansie’s wa’s Shook with a thunder of applause, Re-echo’d from each mouth! They toom’d their pocks, they pawn’d their duds, They scarcely left to co’er their fuds, To quench their lowin drouth: Then owre again, the jovial thrang The poet did request To lowse his pack an’ wale a sang, A ballad o’ the best; He rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, an’ found them Impatient for the chorus.

Air

Tune—“Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.”

See the smoking bowl before us, Mark our jovial ragged ring! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing—

Chorus

A fig for those by law protected! Liberty’s a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest.

What is title, what is treasure, What is reputation’s care? If we lead a life of pleasure, ’Tis no matter how or where! A fig for, &c.

With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day; And at night in barn or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig for, &c.

Does the train-attended carriage Thro’ the country lighter rove? Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love? A fig for, &c.

Life is al a variorum, We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum, Who have character to lose. A fig for, &c.

Here’s to budgets, bags and wallets! Here’s to all the wandering train. Here’s our ragged brats and callets, One and all cry out, Amen!

Chorus

A fig for those by law protected! Liberty’s a glorious feast! Courts for cowards were erected, Churches built to please the priest.

Song—For A’ That^1

Tune—“For a’ that.”

Tho’ women’s minds, like winter winds, May shift, and turn, an’ a’ that, The noblest breast adores them maist— A consequence I draw that.

Chorus

For a’ that, an’ a’ that, And twice as meikle’s a’ that; The bonie lass that I loe best She’ll be my ain for a’ that.

Great love I bear to a’ the fair, Their humble slave, an’ a’ that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a’ that, &c.

But there is ane aboon the lave, Has wit, and sense, an’ a’ that; A bonie lass, I like her best, And wha a crime dare ca’ that? For a’ that, &c.

In rapture sweet this hour we meet, Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that,

[Footnote 1: A later version of “I am a bard of no regard” in “The Jolly Beggars.”]

But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a’ that, &c.

Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft. They’ve taen me in, an’ a’ that; But clear your decks, and here’s—“The Sex!” I like the jads for a’ that. For a’ that, &c.

Song—Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle

Tune—“The bob O’ Dumblane.”

O Merry hae I been teethin’ a heckle, An’ merry hae I been shapin’ a spoon; O merry hae I been cloutin’ a kettle, An’ kissin’ my Katie when a’ was done. O a’ the lang day I ca’ at my hammer, An’ a’ the lang day I whistle and sing; O a’ the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, An’ a’ the lang night as happy’s a king.

Bitter in idol I lickit my winnins O’ marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: Blest be the hour she cool’d in her linnens, And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave! Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie; O come to my arms and kiss me again! Drucken or sober, here’s to thee, Katie! An’ blest be the day I did it again.

The Cotter’s Saturday Night

Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq., of Ayr.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the Poor. Gray.

My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene, The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh; The short’ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,— This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through To meet their dead, wi’ flichterin noise and glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, The lisping infant, prattling on his knee, Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun’; Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, In youthfu’ bloom-love sparkling in her e’e— Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet, And each for other’s weelfare kindly speirs: The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet: Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new; The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

Their master’s and their mistress’ command, The younkers a’ are warned to obey; And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand, And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play; “And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, And mind your duty, duly, morn and night; Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.”

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same, Tells how a neibor lad came o’er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek; With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel-pleased the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin youth, he takes the mother’s eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy, But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave, Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found: O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare,— “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare— One cordial in this melancholy vale, ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other’sarms, breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.”

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o’er their child? Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?

But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food; The sowp their only hawkie does afford, That, ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell; And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid: The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How t’was a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha’bible, ance his father’s pride: His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And “Let us worship God!” he says with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise, They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise; Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame; The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek’s ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire; Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head: How His first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.

Then, kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”^1 That thus they all shall meet in future days, There, ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator’s praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere

Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art; When men display to congregations wide

[Footnote 1: Pope’s “Windsor Forest.”—R.B.]

Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart! The Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the soul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That he who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs, That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, “An honest man’s the noblest work of God;” And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile! Then howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.