第12章 1786(1)
The Auld Farmer's New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare,Maggie On giving her the accustomed ripp of corn to hansel in the New Year.
A Guid New-year I wish thee,Maggie!
Hae,there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Tho'thou's howe-backit now,an'knaggie,I've seen the day Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie,Out-owre the lay.
Tho'now thou's dowie,stiff,an'crazy,An'thy auld hide as white's a daisie,I've seen thee dappl't,sleek an'glaizie,A bonie gray:
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,Ance in a day.
Thou ance was i'the foremost rank,A filly buirdly,steeve,an'swank;An'set weel down a shapely shank,As e'er tread yird;An'could hae flown out-owre a stank,Like ony bird.
It's now some nine-an'-twenty year,Sin'thou was my guid-father's mear;He gied me thee,o'tocher clear,An'fifty mark;Tho'it was sma','twas weel-won gear,An'thou was stark.
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,Ye then was trotting wi'your minnie:
Tho'ye was trickie,slee,an'funnie,Ye ne'er was donsie;But hamely,tawie,quiet,an'cannie,An'unco sonsie.
That day,ye pranc'd wi'muckle pride,When ye bure hame my bonie bride:
An'sweet an'gracefu'she did ride,Wi'maiden air!
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide For sic a pair.
Tho'now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,An'wintle like a saumont coble,That day,ye was a jinker noble,For heels an'win'!
An'ran them till they a'did wauble,Far,far,behin'!
When thou an'I were young an'skeigh,An'stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,How thou wad prance,and snore,an'skreigh An'tak the road!
Town's-bodies ran,an'stood abeigh,An'ca't thee mad.
When thou was corn't,an'I was mellow,We took the road aye like a swallow:
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,For pith an'speed;But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollowm Whare'er thou gaed.
The sma',droop-rumpl't,hunter cattle Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;But sax Scotch mile,thou try't their mettle,An'gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur,but just a wattle O'saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an'I,in aught hours'gaun,In guid March-weather,Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',For days thegither.
Thou never braing't,an'fetch't,an'fliskit;But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,An'spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,Wi'pith an'power;Till sprittie knowes wad rair't an'riskit An'slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang,an'snaws were deep,An'threaten'd labour back to keep,I gied thy cog a wee bit heap Aboon the timmer:
I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep,For that,or simmer.
In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap,an'sten't,and breastit,Then stood to blaw;But just thy step a wee thing hastit,Thou snoov't awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a',Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa,That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an'twa,The vera warst.
Mony a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,An'wi'the weary warl'fought!
An'mony an anxious day,I thought We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,Wi'something yet.
An'think na',my auld trusty servan',That now perhaps thou's less deservin,An'thy auld days may end in starvin;For my last fow,A heapit stimpart,I'll reserve ane Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi'ane anither;
Wi'tentie care I'll flit thy tether To some hain'd rig,Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,Wi'sma'fatigue.
The Twa Dogs^1
A Tale 'Twas in that place o'Scotland's isle,That bears the name o'auld King Coil,Upon a bonie day in June,When wearin'thro'the afternoon,Twa dogs,that were na thrang at hame,Forgather'd ance upon a time.
The first I'll name,they ca'd him Caesar,Was keepit for His Honor's pleasure:
His hair,his size,his mouth,his lugs,Shew'd he was nane o'Scotland's dogs;But whalpit some place far abroad,Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked,letter'd,braw brass collar Shew'd him the gentleman an'scholar;But though he was o'high degree,The fient a pride,nae pride had he;But wad hae spent an hour caressin,Ev'n wi'al tinkler-gipsy's messin:
At kirk or market,mill or smiddie,Nae tawted tyke,tho'e'er sae duddie,But he wad stan't,as glad to see him,An'stroan't on stanes an'hillocks wi'him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie-
A rhyming,ranting,raving billie,Wha for his friend an'comrade had him,And in freak had Luath ca'd him,After some dog in Highland Sang,^2Was made lang syne,-Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an'faithfu'tyke,As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest,sonsie,baws'nt face Aye gat him friends in ilka place;His breast was white,his touzie back Weel clad wi'coat o'glossy black;His gawsie tail,wi'upward curl,Hung owre his hurdie's wi'a swirl.
[Footnote 1:Luath was Burns'own dog.]
[Footnote 2:Luath,Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's "Fingal."-R.B.]
Nae doubt but they were fain o'ither,And unco pack an'thick thegither;Wi'social nose whiles snuff'd an'snowkit;Whiles mice an'moudieworts they howkit;
Whiles scour'd awa'in lang excursion,An'worry'd ither in diversion;Until wi'daffin'weary grown Upon a knowe they set them down.
An'there began a lang digression.
About the "lords o'the creation."
Caesar I've aften wonder'd,honest Luath,What sort o'life poor dogs like you have;An'when the gentry's life I saw,What way poor bodies liv'd ava.
Our laird gets in his racked rents,His coals,his kane,an'a'his stents:
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach;he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonie silken purse,As lang's my tail,where,thro'the steeks,The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.
Frae morn to e'en,it's nought but toiling At baking,roasting,frying,boiling;An'tho'the gentry first are stechin,Yet ev'n the ha'folk fill their pechan Wi'sauce,ragouts,an'sic like trashtrie,That's little short o'downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in,wee,blasted wonner,Poor,worthless elf,it eats a dinner,Better than ony tenant-man His Honour has in a'the lan':
An'what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,I own it's past my comprehension.
Luath Trowth,Caesar,whiles they're fash't eneugh:
A cottar howkin in a sheugh,Wi'dirty stanes biggin a dyke,Baring a quarry,an'sic like;Himsel',a wife,he thus sustains,A smytrie o'wee duddie weans,An'nought but his han'-daurk,to keep Them right an'tight in thack an'rape.
An'when they meet wi'sair disasters,Like loss o'health or want o'masters,Ye maist wad think,a wee touch langer,An'they maun starve o'cauld an'hunger:
But how it comes,I never kent yet,They're maistly wonderfu'contented;An'buirdly chiels,an'clever hizzies,Are bred in sic a way as this is.
Caesar But then to see how ye're negleckit,How huff'd,an'cuff'd,an'disrespeckit!
Lord man,our gentry care as little For delvers,ditchers,an'sic cattle;They gang as saucy by poor folk,As I wad by a stinkin brock.
I've notic'd,on our laird's court-day,-An'mony a time my heart's been wae,-
Poor tenant bodies,scant o'cash,How they maun thole a factor's snash;He'll stamp an'threaten,curse an'swear He'll apprehend them,poind their gear;While they maun stan',wi'aspect humble,An'hear it a',an'fear an'tremble!
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor-folk maun be wretches!
Luath They're no sae wretched's ane wad think.
Tho'constantly on poortith's brink,They're sae accustom'd wi'the sight,The view o't gives them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,They're aye in less or mair provided:
An'tho'fatigued wi'close employment,A blink o'rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o'their lives,Their grushie weans an'faithfu'wives;The prattling things are just their pride,That sweetens a'their fire-side.
An'whiles twalpennie worth o'nappy Can mak the bodies unco happy:
They lay aside their private cares,To mind the Kirk and State affairs;They'll talk o'patronage an'priests,Wi'kindling fury i'their breasts,Or tell what new taxation's comin,An'ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns,They get the jovial,rantin kirns,When rural life,of ev'ry station,Unite in common recreation;Love blinks,Wit slaps,an'social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo'the earth.
That merry day the year begins,They bar the door on frosty win's;The nappy reeks wi'mantling ream,An'sheds a heart-inspiring steam;The luntin pipe,an'sneeshin mill,Are handed round wi'right guid will;The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,The young anes rantin thro'the house-My heart has been sae fain to see them,That I for joy hae barkit wi'them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,Sic game is now owre aften play'd;There's mony a creditable stock O'decent,honest,fawsont folk,Are riven out baith root an'branch,Some rascal's pridefu'greed to quench,Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi'some gentle master,Wha,aiblins,thrang a parliamentin,For Britain's guid his saul indentin-Caesar Haith,lad,ye little ken about it:
For Britain's guid!guid faith!I doubt it.
Say rather,gaun as Premiers lead him:
An'saying ay or no's they bid him:
At operas an'plays parading,Mortgaging,gambling,masquerading:
Or maybe,in a frolic daft,To Hague or Calais takes a waft,To mak a tour an'tak a whirl,To learn bon ton,an'see the worl'.
There,at Vienna,or Versailles,He rives his father's auld entails;Or by Madrid he takes the rout,To thrum guitars an'fecht wi'nowt;Or down Italian vista startles,Whore-hunting amang groves o'myrtles:
Then bowses drumlie German-water,To mak himsel look fair an'fatter,An'clear the consequential sorrows,Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid!for her destruction!
Wi'dissipation,feud,an'faction.
Luath Hech,man!dear sirs!is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an'harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last?
O would they stay aback frae courts,An'please themsels wi'country sports,It wad for ev'ry ane be better,The laird,the tenant,an'the cotter!
For thae frank,rantin,ramblin billies,Feint haet o'them's ill-hearted fellows;Except for breakin o'their timmer,Or speakin lightly o'their limmer,Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock,The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk,But will ye tell me,Master Caesar,Sure great folk's life's a life o'pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,The very thought o't need na fear them.
Caesar Lord,man,were ye but whiles whare I am,The gentles,ye wad ne'er envy them!
It's true,they need na starve or sweat,Thro'winter's cauld,or simmer's heat:
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,An'fill auld age wi'grips an'granes:
But human bodies are sic fools,For a'their colleges an'schools,That when nae real ills perplex them,They mak enow themsel's to vex them;An'aye the less they hae to sturt them,In like proportion,less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,His acre's till'd,he's right eneugh;A country girl at her wheel,Her dizzen's dune,she's unco weel;But gentlemen,an'ladies warst,Wi'ev'n-down want o'wark are curst.
They loiter,lounging,lank an'lazy;
Tho'deil-haet ails them,yet uneasy;
Their days insipid,dull,an'tasteless;
Their nights unquiet,lang,an'restless.
An'ev'n their sports,their balls an'races,Their galloping through public places,There's sic parade,sic pomp,an'art,The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party-matches,Then sowther a'in deep debauches.
Ae night they're mad wi'drink an'whoring,Niest day their life is past enduring.
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,As great an'gracious a'as sisters;But hear their absent thoughts o'ither,They're a'run-deils an'jads thegither.
Whiles,owre the wee bit cup an'platie,They sip the scandal-potion pretty;Or lee-lang nights,wi'crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,An'cheat like ony unhanged blackguard.
There's some exceptions,man an'woman;
But this is gentry's life in common.
By this,the sun was out of sight,An'darker gloamin brought the night;The bum-clock humm'd wi'lazy drone;
The kye stood rowtin i'the loan;
When up they gat an'shook their lugs,Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs;An'each took aff his several way,Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons.^1Dearest of distillation!last and best-
-How art thou lost!-
Parody on Milton.
Ye Irish lords,ye knights an'squires,Wha represent our brughs an'shires,An'doucely manage our affairs In parliament,To you a simple poet's pray'rs Are humbly sent.
Alas!my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours'hearts wi'grief 'twad pierce,To see her sittin on her arse Low i'the dust,And scriechinhout prosaic verse,An like to brust!
[Footnote 1":This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries,of session 1786,for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.-R.B.]
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,Scotland an'me's in great affliction,E'er sin'they laid that curst restriction On aqua-vitae;An'rouse them up to strong conviction,An'move their pity.
Stand forth an'tell yon Premier youth The honest,open,naked truth:
Tell him o'mine an'Scotland's drouth,His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blaw you south If ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunch an'gloom?
Speak out,an'never fash your thumb!
Let posts an'pensions sink or soom Wi'them wha grant them;If honestly they canna come,Far better want them.
In gath'rin votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Ne'er claw your lug,an'fidge your back,An'hum an'haw;But raise your arm,an'tell your crack Before them a'.
Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;Her mutchkin stowp as toom's a whissle;
An'damn'd excisemen in a bussle,Seizin a stell,Triumphant crushin't like a mussel,Or limpet shell!
Then,on the tither hand present her-
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,An'cheek-for-chow,a chuffie vintner Colleaguing join,Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a'kind coin.
Is there,that bears the name o'Scot,But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,To see his poor auld mither's pot Thus dung in staves,An'plunder'd o'her hindmost groat By gallows knaves?
Alas!I'm but a nameless wight,Trode i'the mire out o'sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,Or gab like Boswell,^2There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,An'tie some hose well.
God bless your Honours!can ye see't-
The kind,auld cantie carlin greet,An'no get warmly to your feet,An'gar them hear it,An'tell them wi'a patriot-heat Ye winna bear it?
Some o'you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an'pause,An'with rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues;Then echo thro'Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs.
Dempster,^3a true blue Scot I'se warran';Thee,aith-detesting,chaste Kilkerran;^4An'that glib-gabbit Highland baron,The Laird o'Graham;^5An'ane,a chap that's damn'd aulfarran',Dundas his name:^6Erskine,a spunkie Norland billie;^7
True Campbells,Frederick and Ilay;^8
[Footnote 2:James Boswell of Auchinleck,the biographer of Johnson.]
[Footnote 3:George Dempster of Dunnichen.]
[Footnote 4:Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran,Bart.]
[Footnote 5:The Marquis of Graham,eldest son of the Duke of Montrose.]
[Footnote 6:Right Hon.Henry Dundas,M.P.]
[Footnote 7:Probably Thomas,afterward Lord Erskine.]
[Footnote 8:Lord Frederick Campbell,second brother of the Duke of Argyll,and Ilay Campbell,Lord Advocate for Scotland,afterward President of the Court of Session.]
An'Livistone,the bauld Sir Willie;^9
An'mony ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers.
See sodger Hugh,^10my watchman stented,If poets e'er are represented;I ken if that your sword were wanted,Ye'd lend a hand;But when there's ought to say anent it,Ye're at a stand.
Arouse,my boys!exert your mettle,To get auld Scotland back her kettle;Or faith!I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,Ye'll see't or lang,She'll teach you,wi'a reekin whittle,Anither sang.
This while she's been in crankous mood,Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid;(Deil na they never mair do guid,Play'd her that pliskie!)An'now she's like to rin red-wud About her whisky.
An'Lord!if ance they pit her till't,Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,An'durk an'pistol at her belt,She'll tak the streets,An'rin her whittle to the hilt,I'the first she meets!
For God sake,sirs!then speak her fair,An'straik her cannie wi'the hair,An'to the muckle house repair,Wi'instant speed,An'strive,wi'a'your wit an'lear,To get remead.
[Footnote 9:Sir Wm.Augustus Cunningham,Baronet,of Livingstone.]
[Footnote 10:Col.Hugh Montgomery,afterward Earl of Eglinton.]
Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler,Charlie Fox,May taunt you wi'his jeers and mocks;But gie him't het,my hearty cocks!
E'en cowe the cadie!
An'send him to his dicing box An'sportin'lady.
Tell you guid bluid o'auld Boconnock's,^11I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An'drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock's ^12Nine times a-week,If he some scheme,like tea an'winnocks,Was kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He needna fear their foul reproach Nor erudition,Yon mixtie-maxtie,queer hotch-potch,The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
She's just a devil wi'a rung;
An'if she promise auld or young To tak their part,Tho'by the neck she should be strung,She'll no desert.
And now,ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still you mither's heart support ye;Then,tho'a minister grow dorty,An'kick your place,Ye'll snap your gingers,poor an'hearty,Before his face.
God bless your Honours,a'your days,Wi'sowps o'kail and brats o'claise,[Footnote 11:Pitt,whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.]
[Footnote 12:A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline,where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.-R.B.]
In spite o'a'the thievish kaes,That haunt St.Jamie's!
Your humble poet sings an'prays,While Rab his name is.
Postscript Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies See future wines,rich-clust'ring,rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne're envies,But,blythe and frisky,She eyes her freeborn,martial boys Tak aff their whisky.
What tho'their Phoebus kinder warms,While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,When wretches range,in famish'd swarms,The scented groves;Or,hounded forth,dishonour arms In hungry droves!
Their gun's a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o'powther;
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither To stan'or rin,Till skelp-a shot-they're aff,a'throw'ther,To save their skin.
But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,Say,such is royal George's will,An'there's the foe!
He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld,faint-hearted doubtings tease him;Death comes,wi'fearless eye he sees him;Wi'bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
An'when he fa's,His latest draught o'breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,An'raise a philosophic reek,An'physically causes seek,In clime an'season;But tell me whisky's name in Greek I'll tell the reason.
Scotland,my auld,respected mither!
Tho'whiles ye moistify your leather,Till,whare ye sit on craps o'heather,Ye tine your dam;Freedom an'whisky gang thegither!
Take aff your dram!
The Ordination For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'n-To please the mob,they hide the little giv'n.
Kilmarnock wabsters,fidge an'claw,An'pour your creeshie nations;An'ye wha leather rax an'draw,Of a'denominations;Swith to the Ligh Kirk,ane an'a'
An'there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw,An'pour divine libations For joy this day.
Curst Common-sense,that imp o'hell,Cam in wi'Maggie Lauder;^1But Oliphant^2aft made her yell,An'Russell^3sair misca'd her:
This day Mackinlay^4taks the flail,An'he's the boy will blaud her!
He'll clap a shangan on her tail,An'set the bairns to daud her Wi'dirt this day.
[Footnote 1:Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr.Lihdsay to the "Laigh Kirk."-R.B.]
[Footnote 2:Rev.James Oliphant,minister of Chapel of Ease,Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 3:Rev.John Russell of Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 4:Rev.James Mackinlay.]
Mak haste an'turn King David owre,And lilt wi'holy clangor;O'double verse come gie us four,An'skirl up the Bangor:
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure;
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,For Heresy is in her pow'r,And gloriously she'll whang her Wi'pith this day.
Come,let a proper text be read,An'touch it aff wi'vigour,How graceless Ham^5leugh at his dad,Which made Canaan a nigger;Or Phineas^6drove the murdering blade,Wi'whore-abhorring rigour;Or Zipporah,^7the scauldin jad,Was like a bluidy tiger I'th'inn that day.
There,try his mettle on the creed,An'bind him down wi'caution,That stipend is a carnal weed He taks by for the fashion;And gie him o'er the flock,to feed,And punish each transgression;Especial,rams that cross the breed,Gie them sufficient threshin;Spare them nae day.
Now,auld Kilmarnock,cock thy tail,An'toss thy horns fu'canty;Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale,Because thy pasture's scanty;For lapfu's large o'gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty,An'runts o'grace the pick an'wale,No gi'en by way o'dainty,But ilka day.
[Footnote 5:Genesis ix.22.-R.B.]
[Footnote :Numbers xxv.8.-R.B.]
[Footnote 7:Exodus iv.52.-R.B]
Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep,To think upon our Zion;And hing our fiddles up to sleep,Like baby-clouts a-dryin!
Come,screw the pegs wi'tunefu'cheep,And o'er the thairms be tryin;Oh,rare to see our elbucks wheep,And a'like lamb-tails flyin Fu'fast this day.
Lang,Patronage,with rod o'airn,Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin;As lately Fenwick,sair forfairn,Has proven to its ruin:^8Our patron,honest man!Glencairn,He saw mischief was brewin;An'like a godly,elect bairn,He's waled us out a true ane,And sound,this day.
Now Robertson^9harangue nae mair,But steek your gab for ever;Or try the wicked town of Ayr,For there they'll think you clever;Or,nae reflection on your lear,Ye may commence a shaver;Or to the Netherton^10repair,An'turn a carpet weaver Aff-hand this day.
Mu'trie^11and you were just a match,We never had sic twa drones;Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,Just like a winkin baudrons,And aye he catch'd the tither wretch,To fry them in his caudrons;But now his Honour maun detach,Wi'a'his brimstone squadrons,Fast,fast this day.
[Footnote 8:Rev.Wm.Boyd,pastor of Fenwick.]
[Footnote 9:Rev.John Robertson.]
[Footnote 10:A district of Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 11:The Rev.John Multrie,a "Moderate,"whom Mackinlay succeeded.]
See,see auld Orthodoxy's faes She's swingein thro'the city!
Hark,how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!
I vow it's unco pretty:
There,Learning,with his Greekish face,Grunts out some Latin ditty;And Common-sense is gaun,she says,To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day.
But there's Morality himsel',Embracing all opinions;Hear,how he gies the tither yell,Between his twa companions!
See,how she peels the skin an'fell,As ane were peelin onions!
Now there,they're packed aff to hell,An'banish'd our dominions,Henceforth this day.
O happy day!rejoice,rejoice!
Come bouse about the porter!
Morality's demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter:
Mackinlay,Russell,are the boys That heresy can torture;They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,And cowe her measure shorter By th'head some day.
Come,bring the tither mutchkin in,And here's-for a conclusion-To ev'ry New Light^12mother's son,From this time forth,Confusion!
If mair they deave us wi'their din,Or Patronage intrusion,We'll light a spunk,and ev'ry skin,We'll rin them aff in fusion Like oil,some day.
[Footnote 12:"New Light"is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr.Taylor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.-R.B.]
Epistle To James Smith Friendship,mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet'ner of Life,and solder of Society!
I owe thee much-Blair.
Dear Smith,the slee'st,pawkie thief,That e'er attempted stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-brief Owre human hearts;For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts.
For me,I swear by sun an'moon,An'ev'ry star that blinks aboon,Ye've cost me twenty pair o'shoon,Just gaun to see you;An'ev'ry ither pair that's done,Mair taen I'm wi'you.
That auld,capricious carlin,Nature,To mak amends for scrimpit stature,She's turn'd you off,a human creature On her first plan,And in her freaks,on ev'ry feature She's wrote the Man.
Just now I've ta'en the fit o'rhyme,My barmie noddle's working prime.
My fancy yerkit up sublime,Wi'hasty summon;Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin?
Some rhyme a neibor's name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!)for needfu'cash;Some rhyme to court the countra clash,An'raise a din;For me,an aim I never fash;
I rhyme for fun.
The star that rules my luckless lot,Has fated me the russet coat,An'damn'd my fortune to the groat;But,in requit,Has blest me with a random-shot O'countra wit.
This while my notion's taen a sklent,To try my fate in guid,black prent;But still the mair I'm that way bent,Something cries "Hooklie!"I red you,honest man,tak tent?
Ye'll shaw your folly;
"There's ither poets,much your betters,Far seen in Greek,deep men o'letters,Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,A'future ages;Now moths deform,in shapeless tatters,Their unknown pages."Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,To garland my poetic brows!
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistlin'thrang,An'teach the lanely heights an'howes My rustic sang.
I'll wander on,wi'tentless heed How never-halting moments speed,Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;Then,all unknown,I'll lay me with th'inglorious dead Forgot and gone!
But why o'death being a tale?
Just now we're living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,Heave Care o'er-side!
And large,before Enjoyment's gale,Let's tak the tide.