Chapter 27

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, For a saunt if ye muster, It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast, If the ass were the king o' the brutes, Davie Bluster, If the ass were the king o' the brutes.

XIV.

Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge, To claw common sense for her sins; If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit, To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George, To confound the poor doctor at ance.

XV.

Cessnockside, Cessnockside, Wi' your turkey-cock pride, O' manhood but sma' is your share; Ye've the figure, it's true, Even our faes maun allow, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair, Cessnockside, And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

XVI.

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, There's a tod i' the fauld A tod meikle waur than the clerk;[93] Tho' ye downa do skaith, Ye'll be in at the death, And if ye canna bite ye can bark, Daddie Auld, And if ye canna bite ye can bark.

XVII.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, Yet were she even tipsy, She could ca' us nae waur than we are, Poet Burns, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

* * * * *

POSTSCRIPT.

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, When your pen can be spar'd, A copy o' this I bequeath, On the same sicker score I mentioned before, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, Afton's Laird, To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 93: Gavin Hamilton.]

* * * * *

CXI.

PEG NICHOLSON.

[These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol, of the High School of Edinburgh, by the poet, giving him on account of the unlooked-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic virago who attempted to murder George the Third.]

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trode on airn; But now she's floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And rode thro' thick an' thin; But now she's floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And ance she bore a priest; But now she's flouting down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And the priest he rode her sair; And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was; As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.

* * * * *

CXII.

ON

CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS

IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

"Should the poor be flattered?"

SHAKSPEARE.

But now his radiant course is run, For Matthew's course was bright; His soul was like the glorious sun, A matchless heav'nly light!

[Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of very agreeable manners and great propriety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fortune's Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poem, says, "I loved the man much, and have not flattered his memory." Henderson seems indeed to have been universally liked. "In our travelling party," says Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, "was Matthew Henderson, then (1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more estimable character, than Matthew Henderson." _Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardkinglass_, p. 17.]

O death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! The meikle devil wi' a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, O'er hurcheon hides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was born! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd!

Ye hills! near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, Wi' toddlin' din, Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; Ye whistling plover; An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood!-- He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels: Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clam'ring craiks, at close o' day, 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 'Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains: But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe? And frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, The gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead!

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear: Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide, o'er the naked world declare The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return.

O, Henderson! the man--the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever? And hast thou crost that unknown river Life's dreary bound? Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around?

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

THE EPITAPH.

Stop, passenger!--my story's brief, And truth I shall relate, man; I tell nae common tale o' grief-- For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast, Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, A look of pity hither cast-- For Matthew was a poor man.

If thou a noble sodger art, That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart-- For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man, Here lies wha weel had won thy praise-- For Matthew was a bright man.

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' Wad life itself resign, man, Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'-- For Matthew was a kind man!

If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man, This was a kinsman o' thy ain-- For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, This was thy billie, dam and sire-- For Matthew was a queer man.

If ony whiggish whingin sot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man, May dool and sorrow be his lot! For Matthew was a rare man.

* * * * *

CXIII.

THE FIVE CARLINS.

A SCOTS BALLAD.

Tune--_Chevy Chase._

[This is a local and political Poem composed on the contest between Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, and Johnstone, of Westerhall, for the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each town or borough speaks and acts in character: Maggy personates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bess of Solway-side, Annan; Whiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all the Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberry was exerted, and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone: the poet's heart was with the latter. Annan and Lochmaben stood staunch by old names and old affections: after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind remembered, the Whig interest prevailed.]

There were five carlins in the south, They fell upon a scheme, To send a lad to London town, To bring them tidings hame.

Not only bring them tidings hame, But do their errands there; And aiblins gowd and honour baith Might be that laddie's share.

There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith, A dame wi' pride eneugh; And Marjory o' the mony lochs, A carlin auld and teugh.

And blinkin' Bess of Annandale, That dwelt near Solway-side; And whiskey Jean, that took her gill In Galloway sae wide.

And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel, O' gipsey kith an' kin;-- Five wighter carlins were na found The south countrie within.

To send a lad to London town, They met upon a day; And mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae.

O mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae; But nae ane could their fancy please, O ne'er a ane but twae.

The first ane was a belted knight, Bred of a border band; And he wad gae to London town, Might nae man him withstand.

And he wad do their errands weel, And meikle he wad say; And ilka ane about the court Wad bid to him gude-day.

The neist cam in a sodger youth, And spak wi' modest grace, And he wad gae to London town, If sae their pleasure was.

He wad na hecht them courtly gifts, Nor meikle speech pretend; But he wad hecht an honest heart, Wad ne'er desert his friend.

Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse, At strife thir carlins fell; For some had gentlefolks to please, And some wad please themsel'.

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, And she spak up wi' pride, And she wad send the sodger youth, Whatever might betide.

For the auld gudeman o' London court She didna care a pin; But she wad send the sodger youth To greet his eldest son.

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs And wrinkled was her brow; Her ancient weed was russet gray, Her auld Scotch heart was true.

"The London court set light by me-- I set as light by them; And I wilt send the sodger lad To shaw that court the same."

Then up sprang Bess of Annandale, And swore a deadly aith, Says, "I will send the border-knight Spite o' you carlins baith.

"For far-off fowls hae feathers fair, And fools o' change are fain; But I hae try'd this border-knight, I'll try him yet again."

Then whiskey Jean spak o'er her drink, "Ye weel ken, kimmersa', The auld gudeman o' London court, His back's been at the wa'.

"And mony a friend that kiss'd his caup, Is now a fremit wight; But it's ne'er be sae wi' whiskey Jean,-- We'll send the border-knight."

Says black Joan o' Crighton-peel, A carlin stoor and grim,-- "The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman, For me may sink or swim.

"For fools will prate o' right and wrang, While knaves laugh in their sleeve; But wha blaws best the horn shall win, I'll spier nae courtier's leave."

So how this mighty plea may end There's naebody can tell: God grant the king, and ilka man, May look weel to himsel'!

* * * * *

CXIV.

THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O' NITH.

[This short Poem was first published by Robert Chambers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which came over the Duke of Queensberry's opinions, when he supported the right of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, without consent of Parliament, during the king's alarming illness, in 1788.]

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King, Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie.

Up and waur them a', Jamie, Up and waur them a'; The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't, Ye turncoat Whigs awa'.

The day he stude his country's friend, Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie: Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie.

But wha is he, his country's boast? Like him there is na twa, Jamie, There's no a callant tents the kye, But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.

To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,[94] Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; And Maxwell true o' sterling blue: And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 94: Birkwhistle: a Galloway laird, and elector.]

* * * * *

CXV.

EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.

OF FINTRAY:

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN

SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR

THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

["I am too little a man," said Burns, in the note to Fintray, which accompanied this poem, "to have any political attachment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both parties: but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience." This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton manuscripts for that purpose: to both families the poet was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.]

Fintray, my stay in worldly strife, Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, Are ye as idle's I am? Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him.

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, Who left the all-important cares Of princes and their darlings; And, bent on winning borough towns, Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode, Whistling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions; As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd, And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war, Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; Besides, he hated bleeding: But left behind him heroes bright, Heroes in Caesarean fight, Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg, To muster o'er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig's banner; Heroes and heroines commix, All in the field of politics, To win immortal honour.

M'Murdo[95] and his lovely spouse, (Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the loves and graces: She won each gaping burgess' heart, While he, all-conquering, play'd his part Among their wives and lasses.

Craigdarroch[96] led a light-arm'd corps, Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, Like Hecla streaming thunder: Glenriddel,[97] skill'd in rusty coins, Blew up each Tory's dark designs, And bar'd the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought, Redoubted Staig[98] who set at nought The wildest savage Tory: And Welsh,[99] who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round With Cyclopeian fury.

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation! While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 'Mid Lawson's[100] port intrench'd his hold, And threaten'd worse damnation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, With these what Tory warriors clos'd. Surpasses my descriving: Squadrons extended long and large, With furious speed rush to the charge, Like raging devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, The butcher deeds of bloody fate Amid this mighty tulzie! Grim Horror grinn'd--pale Terror roar'd, As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, And hell mix'd in the brulzie.

As highland craigs by thunder cleft, When lightnings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle: As flames among a hundred woods; As headlong foam a hundred floods; Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die; As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before the approaching fellers: The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, And think on former daring: The muffled murtherer[101] of Charles The Magna Charter flag unfurls, All deadly gules it's bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame. Bold Scrimgeour[102] follows gallant Graham,[103] Auld Covenanters shiver. (Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose! Now death and hell engulph thy foes, Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns, The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; But fate the word has spoken: For woman's wit and strength o' man, Alas! can do but what they can! The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns, My voice a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs' undoing! That I might greet, that I might cry, While Tories fall, while Tories fly, And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James! Dear to his country by the names Friend, patron, benefactor! Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save! And Hopeton falls, the generous brave! And Stewart,[104] bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow; And Thurlow growl a curse of woe; And Melville melt in wailing! How Fox and Sheridan rejoice! And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise, Thy power is all prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar He only hears and sees the war, A cool spectator purely; So, when the storm the forests rends, The robin in the hedge descends, And sober chirps securely.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 95: John M'Murdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig.]

[Footnote 96: Fergusson of Craigdarroch.]

[Footnote 97: Riddel of Friars-Carse.]

[Footnote 98: Provost Staig of Dumfries.]

[Footnote 99: Sheriff Welsh.]

[Footnote 100: A wine merchant in Dumfries.]

[Footnote 101: The executioner of Charles I. was masked.]

[Footnote 102: Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee.]

[Footnote 103: Graham, Marquis of Montrose.]

[Footnote 104: Stewart of Hillside.]

* * * * *

CXVI.

ON

CAPTAIN GROSE'S

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND,

COLLECTING THE

ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

[This "fine, fat, fodgel wight" was a clever man, a skilful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with heraldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armor of his own and other countries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and there, at the social "board of Glenriddel," for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humourous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal.]

Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's; If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it: A chiel's amang you taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it!

If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright, That's he, mark weel-- And wow! he has an unco slight O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, Or kirk deserted by its riggin, It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L--d save's! colleaguin' At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour, And you deep read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight b----s!

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 ta'en 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 guid; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Afore the flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender; That which distinguished the gender O' Balaam's ass; A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor, Weel shod wi' brass.

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