Part 10

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 rackèd rents, His coals, his kain, and 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 bonny silken purse As lang’s my tail, where, through the steeks, The yellow-letter’d Geordie keeks. Frae morn to e’en it’s nought but toiling At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; And though the gentry first are stechin’, Yet e’en the ha’ folk fill their pechan Wi’ sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, That’s little short o’ downright wastrie. Our whipper-in, wee blastit 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, whyles they’re fash’d eneugh; A cottar howkin’ in a sheugh, Wi’ dirty stanes biggin’ a dyke, Baring a quarry, and sic like; Himsel’, a wife, he thus sustains, A smytrie o’ wee duddy weans, And nought but his han’-darg to keep Them right and tight in thack and rape. And when they meet wi’ sair disasters, Like loss o’ health, or want o’ masters, Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer And they maun starve o’ cauld and hunger; But how it comes I never kent yet, They’re maistly wonderfu’ contented; An’ buirdly chiels and clever hizzies Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CAESAR

But then, to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, and cuff’d, and disrespeckit, Lord, man! our gentry care sae little For delvers, ditchers and sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk As I wad by a stinking brock. I’ve noticed, 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 and threaten, curse and 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, Though constantly on poortith’s brink: They’re sae accustom’d wi’ the sight, The view o’t gi’es them little fright. Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They’re aye in less or mair provided; An’ though 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 fireside. And whyles twalpenny-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 and priests, Wi’ kindling fury in their breasts; Or tell what new taxation’s comin’, And ferlie at the folk in Lon’on. As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns They get the jovial rantin’ kirns, When rural life o’ every station Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, and 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, And sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin’ pipe and sneeshin’-mill Are handed round wi’ right gude-will; The canty auld folk crackin’ crouse, The young anes ranting through 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 and 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 gude his saul indentin—

CAESAR

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; For Britain’s gude!—guid faith! I doubt it! Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, And saying ay or no’s they bid him! At operas and plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading. Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais taks a waft, To make 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 and fecht wi’ nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Whore-hunting amang groves o’ myrtles; Then bouses drumly German water, To make himsel’ look fair and fatter, And clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. For Britain’s gude!—for her destruction! Wi’ dissipation, feud, and faction!

LUATH

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate? Are we sae foughten and harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themselves wi’ country sports, It wad for every ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! For thae frank, rantin’, ramblin’ billies, Fient haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows: Except for breakin’ o’ their timmer, Or speaking lightly o’ their limmer, Or shootin’ o’ 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 needna fear them.

CAESAR

Lord, man, were ye but whyles where I am, The gentles ye wad ne’er envy ’em, It’s true, they needna 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 and schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They make enow themselves 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 acres till’d, he’s right eneugh; A country lassie at her wheel, Her dizzens done, she’s unco weel; But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, Wi’ ev’ndown want o’ wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy; Though de’il haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull and tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless. And e’en their sports, their balls, and races, Their galloping through public places— There’s sic parade, sic pomp and 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 and whoring, Neist day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm, in clusters, As great and gracious a’ as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, They’re a’ run de’ils and jads thegither. Whyles, owre the wee bit cup and platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks, Pore owre the devil’s picture beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer’s stack-yard, And cheat like ony unhang’d blackguard. There’s some exception, man and woman; But this is gentry’s life in common.

By this the sun was out o’ sight, And darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone, The kye stood rowtin’ i’ the loan; When up they gat and shook their lugs, Rejoiced they werena men but dogs; And each took aff his several way, Resolved to meet some ither day.

THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT

November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sough; 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 agèd tree; Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin’, stacher through To meet their Dad, wi’ flichterin’ noise an’ glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile, An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ 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, An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnoticed 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 an’ her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new; The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command, The younkers a’ are warnèd to obey; An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand, An’ ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play: ‘And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ 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 cam 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; Wi’ heart-struck anxious care, inquires 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 and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave; Weel-pleased 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 pacèd 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’s arms 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 sowpe 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 good; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How ’twas 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 an’ 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 heav’nward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heartfelt 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, was lone in Patmos banishèd, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounced 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’ 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.

Compared with this, how poor Religion’s pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion’s every grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request, That He who stills the raven’s clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery 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 loved at home, revered 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-loved isle.

O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide That streamed thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart, Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die—the second glorious part, (The patriot’s God, peculiarly thou art His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession rise, her ornament and guard!

[Illustration:

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, .... And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.]

THE BRIGS OF AYR

’Twas when the stacks got on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap; Potatoe-bings are snuggèd up frae skaith O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils, Unnumber’d buds an’ flowers’ delicious spoils, Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom’d by Man, that tyrant o’er the weak, The death o’ devils, smoor’d wi’ brimstone reek: The thund’ring guns are heard on ev’ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the Robin’s whistling glee, Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree: The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.

’Twas in that season when a simple Bard, Unknown and poor, simplicity’s reward, Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, By whim inspir’d, or haply prest wi’ care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson’s wheel’d the left about: (Whether impell’d by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, He wander’d out he knew not where nor why:) The drowsy Dungeon-Clock had number’d two, And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true: The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar, Through the still night dash’d hoarse along the shore: All else was hush’d as Nature’s closèd e’e; The silent moon shone high o’er tow’r and tree: The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream— When, lo! on either hand the list’ning Bard, The clanging sough of whistling wings is heard; Two dusky forms dart thro’ the midnight air, Swift as the gos drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th’ Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o’er the rising piers: Our warlock Rhymer instantly descried The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. (That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp’ritual folk: Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a’, they can explain them, And ev’n the very deils they brawly ken them.) Auld Brig appeared o’ ancient Pictish race, The very wrinkles Gothic in his face; He seem’d as he wi’ Time had warstl’d lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat That he, at Lon’on, frae ane Adams got; In’s hand five taper staves as smooth’s a bead, Wi’ virls and whirlygigums at the head. The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, Spying the time-worn flaws in ev’ry arch; It chanc’d his new-come neebor took his ee, And e’en a vex’d and angry heart had he! Wi’ thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, He, down the water, gies him this guid-een:—

AULD BRIG

‘I doubtna, frien’, ye’ll think ye’re nae sheep-shank. Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank! But gin ye be a brig as auld as me— Tho’, faith! that date, I doubt, ye’ll never see— There’ll be, if that day come, I’ll wad a boddle, Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noodle.’

NEW BRIG

‘Auld Vandal! ye but show your little mense, Just much about it wi’ your scanty sense; Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet, Your ruin’d formless bulk o’ stane and lime, Compare wi’ bonnie brigs o’ modern time? There’s men o’ taste wou’d tak the Ducat stream, Tho’ they should cast the very sark and swim, Ere they would grate their feelings wi’ the view O’ sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you.’

AULD BRIG

‘Conceited gowk! puff’d up wi’ windy pride! This mony a year I’ve stood the flood an’ tide; And tho’ wi’ crazy eild I’m sair forfairn, I’ll be a brig, when ye’re a shapeless cairn! As yet ye little ken about the matter, But twa-three winters will inform ye better. When heavy, dark, continued, a’-day rains, Wi’ deepening deluges o’erflow the plains; When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, Or stately Lugar’s mossy fountains boil, Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, Arous’d by blust’ring winds an’ spotting thowes, In mony a torrent down the snaw-broo rowes; While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, Sweeps dams, an’ mills, an’ brigs, a’ to the gate; And from Glenbuck, down to the Ratton-key, Auld Ayr is just one lengthen’d, tumbling sea; Then down ye’ll hurl, deil nor ye never rise! And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies! A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, That architecture’s noble art is lost!’

NEW BRIG

‘Fine architecture, trowth, I needs must say’t o’t, The Lord be thankit that we’ve tint the gate o’t! Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, Hanging with threat’ning jut, like precipices; O’er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves; Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest, With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; Forms like some bedlam Statuary’s dream, The craz’d creations of misguided whim; Forms might be worshipp’d on the bended knee, And still the second dread command be free, Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea! Mansions that would disgrace the building taste Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast; Fit only for a doited monkish race, Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace, Or cuifs of later times wha held the notion That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion; Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection!’

AULD BRIG

‘O ye, my dear-remember’d, ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings! Ye worthy Proveses, an’ mony a Bailie, Wha in the paths o’ righteousness did toil aye; Ye dainty Deacons, an’ ye douce Conveeners, To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners! Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; Ye godly Brethren o’ the sacred gown, Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters; And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers: A’ ye douce folk I’ve borne aboon the broo, Were ye but here, what would ye say or do! How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, To see each melancholy alteration; And agonizing, curse the time and place When ye begat the base degen’rate race! Nae langer rev’rend men, their country’s glory, In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story; Nae langer thrifty citizens, an’ douce, Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house; But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, The herryment and ruin of the country; Men, three-parts made by tailors and by barbers, Wha waste your weel-hain’d gear on damn’d New Brigs and harbours!’

NEW BRIG

‘Now haud you there! for faith ye’ve said enough, And muckle mair than ye can mak to through: As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle; But, under favour o’ your langer beard, Abuse o’ Magistrates might weel be spar’d; To liken them to your auld-warld squad, I must needs say, comparisons are odd. In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle To mouth “a Citizen,” a term o’ scandal; Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; Men wha grew wise priggin’ owre hops and raisins, Or gather’d lib’ral views in Bonds and Seisins: If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, Had shor’d them wi’ a glimmer of his lamp, And would to Common-sense for once betray’d them, Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.’