Part 5

That, set him to a pint of ale, An’ either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an’ sangs he’d made himsel, Or witty catches, ’Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an’ swoor an aith, Tho’ I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie’s death, At some dyke-back, A pint an’ gill I’d gie them baith To hear your crack.

But, first an’ foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell; Tho’ rude an’ rough, Yet crooning to a body’s sel, Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An’ hae to learning nae pretence, Yet what the matter? Whene’er my Muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, And say ‘How can you e’er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang?’ But, by your leaves, my learnèd foes, Ye’re maybe wrang.

What’s a’ your jargon o’ your schools, Your Latin names for horns an’ stools; If honest nature made you fools, What sairs your grammars? Ye’d better ta’en up spades and shools, Or knappin’-hammers.

A set o’ dull conceited hashes Confuse their brains in college classes! They gang in stirks, and come out asses, Plain truth to speak; An’ syne they think to climb Parnassus By dint o’ Greek!

Gie me ae spark o’ Nature’s fire, That’s a’ the learning I desire; Then tho’ I drudge thro’ dub an’ mire At pleugh or cart, My Muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o’ Allan’s glee, Or Fergusson’s, the bauld an’ slee, Or bright Lapraik’s, my friend to be, If I can hit it! That would be lear eneugh for me, If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow, Tho’ real friends, I b’lieve, are few, Yet, if your catalogue be fou, I’se no insist, But gif ye want ae friend that’s true, I’m on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel, As ill I like my fauts to tell; But friends, an’ folks that wish me well They sometimes roose me; Tho’ I maun own, as mony still As far abuse me.

There’s ae wee faut they whiles lay to me, I like the lasses—Gude forgie me; For mony a plack they wheedle frae me, At dance or fair; Maybe some ither thing they gie me They weel can spare.

But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there; We’se gie ae night’s discharge to care, If we forgather, An’ hae a swap o’ rhymin’-ware Wi’ ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we’se gar him clatter, An’ kirsen him wi’ reekin water; Syne we’ll sit down an’ tak our whitter, To cheer our heart; An’ faith, we’se be acquainted better Before we part.

Awa, ye selfish warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an’ grace, Ev’n love an’ friendship, should give place To catch-the-plack! I dinna like to see your face, Nor hear your crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms, ‘Each aid the others,’ Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers!

But to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen’s worn to the gristle; Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing, or whistle, Your friend and servant.

THE CARDIN’ O’T

I coft a stane o’ haslock woo’, To make a coat to Johnny o’t; For Johnny is my only jo, I lo’e him best of ony yet. The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t; The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the linin’ o’t.

For though his locks be lyart gray, And though his brow be beld aboon; Yet I hae seen him on a day, The pride of a’ the parishen. The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the linin’ o’t.

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO

John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we’ll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT

Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep’d in morning dews.

And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, An’ it winna let a body be!

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the violets spring; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks, But life to me’s a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And every thing is blest but I.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When Nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, An’ it winna let a body be!

DUNCAN DAVISON

There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg, And she held o’er the moors to spin; There was a lad that follow’d her, They ca’d him Duncan Davison. The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, Her favour Duncan could na win; For wi’ the rock she wad him knock, And ay she shook the temper-pin.

As o’er the moor they lightly foor, A burn was clear, a glen was green, Upon the banks they eased their shanks, And aye she set the wheel between: But Duncan swore a haly aith, That Meg should be a bride the morn; Then Meg took up her spinnin’ graith, And flung them a’ out o’er the burn.

We’ll big a house—a wee, wee house, And we will live like King and Queen, Sae blythe and merry we will be When ye set by the wheel at e’en. A man may drink and no be drunk; A man may fight and no be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie lass, And aye be welcome back again.

AN EXHORTATION TO DAVIE

NOT TO FORSAKE THE MUSE

AULD NEIBOR ...

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle, Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O’ war’ly cares, Till bairns’ bairns kindly cuddle Your auld gray hairs.

But Davie, lad, I’m red ye’re glaikit; I’m tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; An’ gif it’s sae, ye sud be lickit Until ye fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne’er be faikit, Be hain’t wha like.

For me, I’m on Parnassus’ brink, Rivin’ the words to gar them clink; Whyles dazed wi’ love, whyles dazed wi’ drink, Wi’ jads or masons; An’ whyles, but aye owre late, I think Braw sober lessons.

Of a’ the thoughtless sons o’ man, Commend me to the Bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan O’ rhymin’ clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o’ livin’; Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin’; But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An’ while ought’s there, Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin’, An’ fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it’s aye a treasure, My chief, amaist my only pleasure; At hame, a-fiel’, at wark, or leisure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho’ rough an’ raploch be her measure, She’s seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie: The warl’ may play you mony a shavie; But for the Muse, she’ll never leave ye, Tho’ e’er sae puir, Na, even tho’ limpin, wi’ the spavie Frae door to door.

WHISTLE, AND I’LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad; O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: Tho’ father and mither and a’ should gae mad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin’ to me, And come as ye were na comin’ to me.

At kirk, or at market, whene’er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho’ that ye car’d na a flee: But steal me a blink o’ your bonnie black e’e— Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me, Yet look as ye were na lookin’ at me.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court na anither’ tho’ jokin’ ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

THE RANTIN’ DOG THE DADDIE O’T

O wha my babie-clouts will buy? Wha will tent me when I cry? Wha will kiss me whare I lie? The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

Wha will own he did the faut? Wha will buy my groanin’ maut? Wha will tell me how to ca’t? The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

When I mount the creepie-chair, Wha will sit beside me there? Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

Wha will crack to me my lane? Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain? Wha will kiss me o’er again? The rantin’ dog the daddie o’t.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

When chill November’s surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev’ning as I wander’d forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose agèd step Seem’d weary, worn with care; His face was furrow’d o’er with years, And hoary was his hair.

‘Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?’ Began the rev’rend sage; ‘Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure’s rage? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth with me to mourn The miseries of man.

‘The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling’s pride— I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return, And ev’ry time has added proofs That man was made to mourn.

‘O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Mis-spending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force give nature’s law, That man was made to mourn.

‘Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood’s active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right; But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, oh! ill-match’d pair! Show man was made to mourn.

‘A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure’s lap carest; Yet think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But oh! what crowds in ev’ry land All wretched and forlorn, Thro’ weary life this lesson learn— That man was made to mourn.

‘Many and sharp the num’rous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn— Man’s inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn!

‘See yonder poor o’erlabour’d wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful tho’ a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.

‘If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave,— By nature’s law design’d,— Why was an independent wish E’er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty, or scorn? Or why has man the will and pow’r To make his fellow mourn?

‘Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast; This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last! The poor oppressèd honest man Had never sure been born Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn!

‘O Death, the poor man’s dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my agèd limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn; But oh; a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn.’

THE GLOOMY NIGHT

The gloomy night is gathering fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o’er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter’d coveys meet secure, While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn By early Winter’s ravage torn; Across her placid azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest fly: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, I think upon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

’Tis not the surging billow’s roar, ’Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; Tho’ death in ev’ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc’d with many a wound: These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila’s hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those; The bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr!

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE

The bonniest lad that e’er I saw, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Wore a plaid and was fu’ braw, Bonnie Highland laddie. On his head a bonnet blue, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, His royal heart was firm and true, Bonnie Highland laddie.

Trumpets sound and cannons roar, Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie, And a’ the hills wi’ echoes roar, Bonnie Lawland lassie. Glory, Honour, now invite, Bonnie lassie, Lawland lassie, For Freedom and my King to fight, Bonnie Lawland lassie.

The sun a backward course shall take, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, Ere aught thy manly courage shake, Bonnie Highland laddie. Go, for yoursel procure renown, Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, And for your lawful King his crown, Bonnie Highland laddie!

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat, All hail thy palaces and tow’rs, Where once beneath a monarch’s feet Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs. From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d, And singing lone the ling’ring hours, I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies; There Architecture’s noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg’d, their lib’ral mind, Above the narrow rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow’s wail, Or modest merit’s silent claim: And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy. Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye, Heaven’s beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own his work indeed divine!

There watching high the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, gray in arms, And mark’d with many a seamy scar: The pond’rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble stately dome, Where Scotia’s kings of other years, Fam’d heroes, had their royal home; Alas, how chang’d the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust, Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam; Tho’ rigid law cries out ’twas just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore. Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger’s loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat, All hail thy palaces and tow’rs, Where once beneath a monarch’s feet Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs! From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d, And singing lone the ling’ring hours, I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

[Illustration:

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat, All hail thy palaces and tow’rs.]

BONNIE LESLEY

O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she gaed o’er the border? She’s gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee: Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o’ men adore thee.

The Deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He’d look into thy bonnie face, And say, ‘I canna wrang thee.’

The Powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha’na steer thee; Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There’s nane again sae bonnie.

AH, CHLORIS

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, That thou of love wilt hear; If from the lover thou maun flee, Yet let the friend be dear.

Altho’ I love my Chloris mair Than ever tongue could tell; My passion I will ne’er declare, I’ll say I wish thee well:

Tho’ a’ my daily care thou art, And a’ my nightly dream, I’ll hide the struggle in my heart, And say it is esteem.

AE FOND KISS

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me, Dark despair around benights me.

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov’d sae kindly, Had we never lov’d sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever; Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.

MY NANNIE’S AWA

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o’er the braes, While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw; But to me it’s delightless—my Nannie’s awa.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, And violets bathe in the weet o’ the morn: They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o’ Nannie—and Nannie’s awa.

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o’ the lawn The shepherd to warn o’ the grey-breaking dawn, And thou, mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa’, Gie over for pity—my Nannie’s awa.

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray, And soothe me wi’ tidings o’ nature’s decay; The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s awa.

MACPHERSON’S FAREWELL

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch’s destinie: Macpherson’s time will not be long On yonder gallows tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath? On mony a bloody plain I’ve dared his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword, And there’s no a man in all Scotland, But I’ll brave him at a word.

I’ve lived a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart And not avengèd be.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die!

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He played a spring and danced it round, Below the gallows tree.

BRAW LADS

Braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, Ye wander thro’ the blooming heather; But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws Can match the lads o’ Gala Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a’ I lo’e him better; And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine, The bonnie lad o’ Gala Water.

Altho’ his daddie was nae laird, And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher, Yet rich in kindest, truest love, We’ll tent our flocks by Gala Water.

It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth, That coft contentment, peace or pleasure; The bands and bliss o’ mutual love, O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure!

IN A FRIEND’S CAUSE

(“FOR WILLIE CHALMERS.”)

Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I’m got astride, And up Parnassus pechin’; Whiles owre a bush wi’ downward crush, The doited beastie stammers; Then up he gets, and off he sets For sake o’ Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn’d name May cost a pair o’ blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame Nor his warm urgèd wishes. Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours, And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit, Tho’ waired on Willie Chalmers.

Auld Truth hersel might swear ye’re fair, And Honour safely back her, And Modesty assume your air, And ne’er a ane mistak’ her: And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy palmers; Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie, Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie: But oh! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart’s the royal blue, And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers.

Some gapin’ glowrin’ country laird May warsle for your favour; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And host up some palaver. My bonnie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers, Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa’ wi’ Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard For ane that shares my bosom Inspires my muse to gie ’m his dues. For de’il a hair I roose him. May powers aboon unite you soon, And fructify your amours, And every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers.

SCOTCH DRINK