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 1525 
 
 
 
 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 (n-JD fTTT-TT m "TTJT T TTXl^hmL-mirirjlTT^flTim " 
 
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 THE 
 
 POETICAL REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D. 
 
 House at Peebles m which Robert Chambers was born. 
 
 EDINBURGH 
 1883
 
 Limited to 140 Copies.
 
 m 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Fagb 
 
 Introductory Notice, 7 
 
 The Grave of the Misanthrope, 9 
 
 Ennui, 11 
 
 Song, in the manner of the poets of the reign of Charles I., . 12 
 
 Polly Partan, 13 
 
 To the Evening Star, 15 
 
 My Native Bay, 16 
 
 Customer- Wark, . . . , 18 
 
 Verses, 22 
 
 To . 23 
 
 Paraphrase of the First Ode of the Fourth Book of the 
 
 Odes of Horace, 24 
 
 Mally Lee, 25 
 
 The Ladye that I Love, 27 
 
 To the Bell-Rock Lighthouse, 28 
 
 To Scotland, 29 
 
 O Maid Unloving, 33 
 
 Young Randal {with Music), 34 
 
 Lamente for the Aulde Hostels, 36 
 
 Sonnet to Lady Don, . 40 
 
 Love Overhead, 41 
 
 Thou Gentle and Kind One [wiih Music) 44 
 
 On an Edition of Herrick's Select Poems, .... 46 
 
 fy 1% ^ <Qr-;i<^
 
 6 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Summer Evening, from Gavin Douglas, . . ... 47 
 
 Sonnet — * Like Precious Caskets,' 49 
 
 The Nook, 49 
 
 Lament for the Old Highland Warriors, . . . . 51 
 
 Fingask, S3 
 
 Lines to a Little Boy, 53 
 
 Absent Friends, ......... 5^ 
 
 Embodying some Consequences of the Recent Disruption, . 57 
 
 The Nine Holes of the Links of St Andrews, ... 58 
 
 The Peerless One, 63 
 
 On the Misses Threipland of Fingask going to see the 
 
 Queen at Blair, ........ 67 
 
 The Annuitant's Answer, 68 
 
 The Prisoner of Spedlins, 7 1 
 
 In the Album at Kinnaird Castle, Perthshire, ... 73 
 
 'All Right,' 74 
 
 On Seeing some Work-horses in a Park on a Sunday, . . 77 
 
 * Under Trustees,' 79 
 
 Elsinore, . 81 
 
 Life Insurance, 83
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 
 
 The present collection of poems, by the late Dr Robert 
 Chambers, has been made partly from printed and 
 partly from manuscript sources. In 1835, the author 
 issued a small edition of his poems for private circu- 
 lation ; and that edition has been made the basis of 
 the present, supplemented, however, hy verse which 
 has not previously appeared in print. Nearly all the 
 pieces will be found to be characterised by the quaint 
 kindly humour of the author of Traditions of Edinburgh. 
 The poems written in 182 1 originally appeared in the 
 Kaleidoscope, a publication which was edited by the 
 author and his brother, but did not long survive. One 
 of the earliest ballads — that entitled Mally Lee — was 
 composed from a song of the eighteenth century, the 
 opening verse in each being identical. It was first 
 published in the Traditions of Edinburgh. The name 
 of the heroine was originally supposed to be Sleigh ; 
 and Allan Ramsay composed a poem, in 1724, in 
 honour of the marriage of Lord Lyon Brodie and Mrs 
 Mally Sleigh. Mr Charles Kirkpatrick Sharj^e, however, 
 in a letter to Dr Chambers, remarks that the name in 
 the original manuscript, of which he had a copy, was 
 Lee ; and that ' Mally was a country beauty, and pro- 
 bably never in Edinburgh in her life.' An attempt is 
 made in the ballad, by reference to costume and other
 
 8 INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. 
 
 circumstances, to awaken associations connected with 
 Edinburgh in 1745. 
 
 The most important of the pieces composed since 
 1835 is, The Annuitanfs Ansiver, a reply to George 
 Outram's humorous verses, entitled The Annuity. 
 Written in the Scottish dialect, the 'Answer' remained 
 for a long time unpublished, but has latterly become 
 better known, and is now included in various publi- 
 cations, among the latest being that of James Grant 
 Wilson, on the Poets and Poetry of Scotland^ where it is 
 appended to The Annuity. 
 
 Dr Chambers, who was a great believer in the prin- 
 ciples of Life Assurance, wrote some serio-comic verse 
 on the subject ; also a pamphlet, which at the time had 
 a wide circulation. One of the best of the pieces is 
 included in this collection, and has probably never 
 before appeared in print. 
 
 Reference is made in several of the poems to person- 
 ages at one time well known in Edinburgh literary 
 society, but now almost forgotten. Among these we 
 may mention Lady Don, very recently deceased ; Sheriff 
 Arkley, to whom the poem Elsinore was dedicated ; 
 and the Misses Threipland, with their brother, Sir Peter 
 Murray Threipland of Fingask. Sir Peter survived his 
 sisters a considerable time; and by his death, in 1882, 
 a distinguished Jacobite family became extinct. 
 
 c. d! 
 
 Edinburgh, January 1883.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF THE MISANTHROPE. 
 
 This poem relates to David Ritchie, a deformed and eccentric 
 character, who, for many years previous to 1811, dwelt in a solitary 
 cottage in the vale of Manor, near Peebles, and was allowed by Sir 
 Walter Scott to have been the prototype of the fictitious character 
 of the Black Dwarf, With an intellect of considerable native 
 strength, and by no means uncultivated, this poor hater of his 
 kind had a superstitious veneration for the mountain-ash, or 
 rowan-tree, and his grave in Manor churchyard is marked by 
 a plant of that species. 
 
 I sat upon the wizard's grave ; 
 
 'Twas on a smiling summer day, 
 When all around the desert spot 
 
 Bloomed in the young delights of May. 
 In undistinguished lowliness, 
 
 I found the little mound of earth ; 
 And bitter weeds o'ergrew the place, 
 
 As if his heart had given them birth. 
 And they from thence their nurture drew — 
 In such wild luxury they grew. 
 
 No friendship to his grave had lent 
 The rudely sculptured monument ; 
 For he, the latest of his race, 
 Had left behind no friend to place
 
 lO POEMS. 
 
 Such frail memorial o'er his breast 
 As marked the peasant's place of rest. 
 But o'er his head a sapling waved 
 
 The honours of its slender form ; 
 And in its loneliness had braved 
 
 The autumn's blast, the winter's storm ; 
 That drooping o'er that sod it might 
 
 Repay a world's neglectful scorn, 
 And catching sorrow from the night, 
 
 There weep a thousand tears at morn. 
 Some kindly hand the tribute gave, 
 To mark the undistinguished grave : 
 For it had been his favourite tree 
 In life, and haply still might be 
 A kindness to the spirit fled, 
 And ev'n in death might soothe the dead. 
 
 It was an emblem of himself, 
 
 A widowed solitary thing. 
 To which no circling season might 
 
 An hour of greener gladness bring. 
 A churchyard desert was its doom, 
 Its parent soil was all a tomb ; 
 There was it born, did live, will die ; 
 There will its withered ruins lie. 
 Such was the Solitary's fate. 
 So joyless and so desolate ; 
 For blasted soon as it was given, 
 
 His was the life that had no hope ; 
 His was the soul that knew no heaven — 
 
 Then, stranger, by one pitying drop, 
 
 Forgive — forgive the Misanthrope. 
 1821.
 
 POEMS. II 
 
 ENNUI. 
 Written in a young lady's album — 1 82 1. 
 
 Oh, but I hate the tedious day, 
 Slow measuring out the idle hours. 
 When e'en enjoyment dies away, 
 In languishment that overpowers. 
 Life's gentle, duU, unvaried charms 
 Suit not with my distracted breast — 
 I 'd love to be where raging storms 
 Might rock my furious soul to rest, 
 Wrapt in the blasting solitudes 
 Of tempests in their wildest moods. 
 
 I hate to linger on the shore ; 
 
 When I might search the boundless sea, 
 
 And feel life's infant fears no more. 
 
 Swept on thy bounds. Eternity ! 
 
 I scorn the rippling waves of time. 
 
 That kiss the level shores of life ; 
 
 I 'd love to see that other clime, 
 
 And hear that other ocean's strife, 
 
 Though 'twere to meet the fiery doom. 
 
 That was to sere and not consume. 
 
 I hate time's lazy noiseless foot, 
 
 That creeps so listlessly along ; 
 
 I 'd love through boundless worlds to shoot, 
 
 As lightning swift, as thunder strong.
 
 12 POEMS. 
 
 While joy and grief, and hope and fear, 
 Compressed to ecstasy might seem ; 
 And all existence but appear 
 One hurrying, wild, tempestuous dream ; 
 A tempest-dream, that might not break. 
 Save at the words th' Eternal spake. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 In the manner of the poets of the Reign of Charles L 
 
 Such thoughts as fairies dream. 
 Beside the haunted stream, 
 By moon-lit woods and sohtudes, 
 Where nought of man may seem ; 
 
 So bright as angels are, 
 When seen at morn afar, 
 In beauty laid on a golden bed, 
 Beneath the fading star ; 
 
 Pure as that drop and true, 
 Where mimic forms we view. 
 So small, so bright, as exquisite — 
 A fairy world of dew ! 
 
 Such thoughts, each beauty bright, 
 Such pureness exquisite. 
 To her belong of whom this song 
 My heart and harp indite. 
 
 1821.
 
 POEMS. 13 
 
 POLLY PARTAN : 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Before oysters became scarce, it was the habit of the Newhaven 
 fishwomen to ' ci-y ' them through the streets of Edinburgh. In 
 those days, oysters were so plentiful that a hundred and twenty 
 might be had for eightpence or a shilling ; the musical cry of 
 Caller Oo ! bringing joy to many a household. The following 
 verses are in the author's happiest vein, and tell their own 
 humorous story. 
 
 O pretty Polly Partan ! she was a damsel gay, 
 
 And with a creel upon her back, she every night would stray 
 
 To the market-cross of Edinburgh, where singing she would 
 
 stand, 
 While the gayest lords in Edinburgh ate oysters from her 
 
 hand. 
 
 O such a beauty Polly was, she dang the fishwives a' — 
 Her cheek was like the partan's back, her nose was like 
 
 its claw ! 
 O how divinely did she look, when to her face there cam' 
 The blushes that accompany the taking of a dram ! 
 
 Her love he was a sailor, a sailor on the sea. 
 
 And of a Greenland whaler the second mate was he ; 
 
 But the Northern sea now covers him beneath its icy wave, 
 
 And the iceberg is the monument that lies upon his grave. 
 
 As pretty Polly Partan one night was going home. 
 
 And thinking of Tarn Hallibuck and happy days to come.
 
 T4 POEMS. 
 
 Endeavouring to recollect if she was fou or not, 
 
 And counting that night's profits in her kilted petticoat ; 
 
 She had not gone a mile, a mile down the Newhaven road, 
 When the spirit of Tam Hallibuck before poor Polly stood ; 
 The hiccup rose unhiccuped through her amazed throat, 
 And the shilling dropt uncounted into her petticoat. 
 
 O cold turned Polly Partan ; but colder was the ghost, 
 Who shivered in his shirt as folks are apt to do in frost ; 
 And while from out his cheek he spat the phantom of a quid, 
 From the ghost of his tobacco-box he lifted off the lid. 
 
 o' 
 
 * Oh ! Polly,' cried the spirit, ' you may weep nae mair for 
 
 me, 
 For my body it lies cauld and deep beneath the frozen sea ; 
 Oh ! will you be my bride, and go where sleeps your ain 
 
 true lover ? 
 The tangle-weed shall be your bed ; the mighty waves, its 
 
 cover.' 
 
 * O yes, I '11 go ! ' cried Polly, * for I can lo'e nane but you ;' 
 And she turned into a spirit, and away with Tam she flew : 
 And in her track, far to the north, a ghastly light there 
 
 shone ; 
 Her coats were like the comet's tail, her fish-creel like the 
 moon. 
 
 And some folk about Buckhaven, that were lecturing that 
 
 night 
 On th' aurora borealis and its beauties all so bright, 
 Saw the spiritual lovers, with the lightning's quickest 
 
 motion. 
 Shoot down among the streamers like two stars into the 
 
 ocean. 
 
 1821.
 
 POEMS. 1 5 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Soft star of eve, whose trembling light 
 
 Gleams through the closing eve of day, 
 Where clouds of dying purple bright 
 
 Melt in the shades of eve away, 
 And mock thee with a fitful ray, 
 
 Pure spirit of the twilight hour, 
 Till forth thou blazeth to display 
 
 The splendour of thy native power, 
 
 'Twas thus when earth from chaos sprung. 
 
 The smoke of forming worlds arose, 
 And, o'er thine infant beauty hung. 
 
 Hid thee awhile in dark repose ; 
 Till the black veil dissolved away. 
 
 Drunk by the universal air, 
 And thou, sweet star, with lonely ray, 
 
 Shone out on paradise so fair. 
 
 When the first eve the world had known 
 
 Fell blissfully on Eden's bowers. 
 And earth's first love lay couched upon 
 
 The dew of Eden's fairest flowers ; 
 Then thy first smile in heaven was seen 
 
 To hail the birth of love divine, 
 And ever since that smile hath been 
 
 The sainted passion's hallowed shrine :
 
 1 6 POEMS. 
 
 Can lover yet behold thy beam 
 
 Unmoved, unpassioned, unrefined ? 
 
 While there thou shin'st the brightest gem, 
 To night's cerulean crown assigned. 
 
 Since then, how many gentle eyes 
 
 That love and thy pure ray made bright, 
 Have gazed on thee with wistful sighs — 
 
 Now veiled in everlasting night ! 
 Oh, let not love or youth be vain 
 
 Of present bliss and hope more high ; 
 The stars — the very clods remain — 
 
 Love, they, and all of theirs must die. 
 
 Now throned upon the western wave, 
 
 Thou tremblest coyly, star of love ! 
 And dipp'st beneath its gleamy heave 
 
 Thy silver foot, the bath to prove. 
 And though no power thy course may stay. 
 
 Which nature's changeless laws compel, 
 To thee a thousand hearts may say — 
 
 Sweet star of love, farewell, farewell ! 
 1821. 
 
 MY NATIVE BAY. 
 
 My native bay is calm and bright. 
 
 As e'er it was of yore, 
 When, in the days of hope and love, 
 
 I stood upon its shore !
 
 POEMS. 17 
 
 The sky is glowing soft and blue, 
 As once in youth it smiled, 
 
 When summer seas and summer skies 
 Were always bright and mild. 
 
 The sky, how oft hath darkness dwelt, 
 
 Since then, upon its breast ; 
 The sea, how oft have tempests woke 
 
 Its billows from their rest ! 
 So oft hath darker woe come o'er 
 
 Calm self-enjoying thought ; 
 And passion's storm a wilder scene 
 
 Within my bosom wrought. 
 
 Now after years of absence, pass'd 
 
 In wretchedness and pain, 
 I come, and find those seas and skies 
 
 All calm and bright again ; 
 The darkness and the storm from both 
 
 Have trackless pass'd away ; 
 And gentle as in youth once more 
 
 Thou seem'st, my native bay ! 
 
 O that, like thee, when toil is o'er, 
 
 And all my griefs are past. 
 This ravaged bosom might subside 
 
 To peace and joy at last ! 
 And while it lay all calm like thee, 
 
 In pure unruffled sleep. 
 Might then a heaven as bright as this 
 
 Be mirrored in its deep ! 
 
 1823.
 
 l8 POEMS. 
 
 C U S T O M E R-W A R K.* 
 
 In Ettrick's old vale, where the heather grows green, 
 Wi' aye here and there a bit plantin' between, 
 There lives an auld wabster, within an auld shiel, 
 As lang, and unchancy, and black as the deil. 
 He works e'en and morn for his wife and his weans. 
 Till the very flesh seems to be wrought frae his banes ; 
 Yet canty 's the wabster, and blyth as a lark. 
 Whene'er he gets what he ca's customer-wark ! 
 
 This customer-wark 's the delight o' his soul. 
 Whether blanket, or sheetin', or sarkin', or towel : 
 Nae trashtrie o' cottons frae Glasgow he cares for, 
 Their twopence the ell is a very good wherefore ; 
 
 * In former times it was the custom all over Scotland for the housewife, 
 assisted by her servants, and, in the case of the laird, by the wives and 
 daughters of the tenantry, to spin as much woollen and linen yarn as sufficed 
 to furnish clothes for her family, and napery for bed and board ; a weaver 
 being alone employed, besides, to put her handiwork into proper shape. Not 
 long ago, a humble street in Edinburgh, called the Netherbow, was full of 
 weavers of this kind ; and as a proof of the extent to which the custom was 
 carried two hundred years ago, even in the capital, I may mention that, when 
 the Scottish Covenanters were about to invade England in 1640, the pious 
 'wives' of Edinburgh supplied them at a day's notice with a quantity of 
 Juirden, a species of linen cloth, sufficient to furnish tents to the whole army, 
 amounting to twenty thousand men. 
 
 In the present improved state of Scotland (1835), the division of labour 
 system has, in a^great measure, banished both the ' big' and the 'little ' wheel ; 
 and, accordingly, there are not nearly so many weavers employed throughout 
 the country, as used to be, in preparing cloth. Still, however, where such an 
 individual is found, he is generally a more comfortable person than the muslin, 
 or cotton weaver, who, in his labour, has to compete against the enormous 
 odds of machinery, and is therefore, perhaps, the most abject and impoverished 
 workman in the empire. Unfortunately, there are now very few customer- 
 weavers, as they are called, who can obtain full employment ; and,*therefore, 
 their existence is generally found to be one of comfort, chequered by intervals 
 of penury. — Note appended to the authors early edition.
 
 POEMS. 19 
 
 But God bless the wives, wi' their wheels and their thrift, 
 That help the poor wabster to fend and mak' shift ; 
 Himsel', and his wife, and his weans might been stark. 
 An it hadna been them and their customer-wark. 
 
 The wabster's auld house is an unco-like den, 
 Though, atweel, like its neebors, it has a ben-en' ; 
 Its roof's just a hotter o' divots and thack, 
 Wi' a chimley dress'd up maist as big 's a wheat-stack. 
 There 's a peat-ruck behind, and a midden before, 
 And a jaw-hole would tak' a mile-race to jump o'er ! 
 Ye may think him neglectfu' and lazy — but hark. 
 He's eydent eneuch at the customer-wark ! 
 
 Whate'er ye may think him, the wabster's auld hut. 
 Has twa looms 1' the ben, and twa beds i' the but, 
 A table, twa creepies, three chyres, and a kist, 
 And a settle to rest on whene'er that ye list ; 
 The ben has a winnock, the but has a bole, 
 Where the bairns' parritch-luggies are set out to cool, 
 In providin' o' whilk he has mony a day's dargue 
 O' saxteen lang hours, at the customer-wark ! 
 
 The wabster's auld madam — her name it is Bell — 
 Lang, ill-faured, and black, like the wabster himsel' — 
 She does nought the haill day but keeps skelpin' the bairns. 
 And bauds three or four o' them tight at the pirns. 
 Her tongue is as gleg and as sharp as a shuttle, 
 Whilk seldom but gies her the best o' the battle ; 
 And sometimes her nieve lends the wabster a yerk, 
 That he likesna sae weel as his customer-wark ! 
 
 The black cutty-pipe, that lies by the fireside, 
 Weel kens it the day when a wab has been paid.
 
 20 POEMS. 
 
 For then wi' tobacco it 's filled to the e'e, 
 And the wabster sits happy as happy can be ; 
 For hours at a time it 's ne'er out o' his cheek, 
 Till maist feck o' his winnings hae vanished in reek : 
 He says that o' life he could ne'er keep the spark, 
 An it werena the pipe and the customer-wark ! 
 
 Then the wife, that 's as fond o' her pleasure as he, 
 Brings out a black teapot and masks a drap tea ; 
 And they sit, and they soss, and they haud a cabal. 
 Till ye think that their slaistrie wad never divaul. 
 By their wee spunk o' ingle they keep up the bother, 
 Each jeerin', misca'in', and scoldin' the tother ; 
 While the bairns sit out by, wi' cauld kale, i' the dark — 
 Nae gude comes to them o' the customer-wark ! 
 
 When the siller grows scarce, and the spleuchan gets toom, 
 The wabster gangs back to his treddles and loom, 
 Where he jows the day lang on some wab o' his ain. 
 That '11 bring in nae cash for a twalmonth or twain ; 
 Then the pipe is exhaustit and laid on the sill. 
 Though the fumes o' its sweetness will hang round it still, 
 And the teapot maun lie like a yaud in a park, 
 Till heaven shall neist send some customer-wark ! 
 
 Then the puir starving wabster grows thinner and thinner, 
 
 On a 'tato for breakfast, a 'tato for dinner, 
 
 And vanishes veesibly, day after day. 
 
 Just like the auld moon when she eelies away. 
 
 Clean purged out he looks, like a worm amang fog, 
 
 And his face like a clatch o' auld sweens in a cogue. 
 
 At last, when grown hungry and gaunt as a shark, 
 
 He revives wi' a mouthfu' o' customer-wark !
 
 POEMS. 21 
 
 A branksome gudewife, frae the neist farmer toun, 
 
 Comes in wi' a bundle, and clanks hersel' doun : 
 
 ' How 's a' wi' ye the day, Bell ? Hae ye ought i' the pipe ? 
 
 Come, rax me a stapper, the cutty I '11 rype ! 
 
 I maun see the gudeman — bring him ben, hinny Jess ! 
 
 Tut ! the pipe's fu' o' naething but fizzenless asse !' 
 
 The wife ne'er lets on that she hears the remark, 
 
 But cries, ' Jess ! do ye hear, deme ? — it 's customer-wark ! ' 
 
 Having gotten her lick i' the lug, Jess gangs ben, 
 And tells her toom father about the God-sen' ; 
 Transported, he through the shop-door pops his head. 
 Like a ghaist glourin' out frae the gates o' the dead. 
 Then, wi' a great fraise he salutes the gudewife, 
 Says he ne'er saw her lookin' sae weel i' his life. 
 Spiers for the gudeman and the bairns at Glendeark, 
 While his thoughts a' the time are on customer-wark ! 
 
 Then wi' the gudewife, he claps down on the floor. 
 
 And they turn and they count the haill yarn o'er and o'er : 
 
 He rooses her spinning, but canyells hke daft 
 
 'Bout the length o' her warp and the scrimp o' her waft. 
 
 At last it 's a' settled, and promised bedeen 
 
 To be ready on Friday or Fuirsday at e'en ; 
 
 And the bairns they rin out, wi' a great skirlin' bark, 
 
 To tell that their dad 's got some customer-wark ! 
 
 Then it 's pleasant to see by the vera neist ouk, 
 How the wabster thowes out to his natui'al bouk, 
 How he freshens a thought on his diet o' brose, 
 And a wee tait o' colour comes back to his nose ! 
 The cutty 's new mountit, and everjthing 's snug. 
 And Bell's tongue disna sing half sae loud i' his lug ;
 
 22 POEMS. 
 
 Contented, and happy, and jum as a Turk, 
 
 He sits thinking on naething but customer-wark ! 
 
 Oh, customer-wark ! thou sublime moving spring ! 
 It 's you gars the heart o' the wabster to sing ! 
 An 'twerna for you, how puir were his cheer, 
 Ae meltith a day, and twa blasts i' the year : 
 It 's you that provides him the bit, brat, and beet, 
 And maks the twa ends o' the year sweetly meet. 
 That pits meat in his barrel, and meal in his ark — 
 My blessings gang wi' ye, dear customer-wark ! 
 1S24. / 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 We 11 flee to haunted woodlands, 
 
 Thou dearest love of mine ! 
 There greenwood deer may be our food. 
 
 And crystal springs our wine ; 
 Our bridal room shall be the sky, 
 
 Which heav'n has drawn above. 
 With the bright moon to be alone 
 
 The witness of our love. 
 
 We '11 flee to haunted woodlands, 
 
 And leave this world of care ; 
 Our love is of too pure a kind 
 
 To be indulged there. 
 We '11 flee the face of scornful men. 
 
 For they could ne'er approve 
 The pureness of our hallowed vow. 
 
 The pureness of our love.
 
 POEMS. 23 
 
 We '11 die in haunted woodlands, 
 
 On some sweet eve we '11 die ; 
 The gale that breathes from closing flowers 
 
 Shall steal our latest sigh. 
 And when the autumn leaves shall fall, 
 
 And o'er our bodies wither, 
 The fays that haunt the woodlands 
 
 Shall cover us together. 
 1824. 
 
 TO 
 
 'Tis all too true— that faded cheek, 
 
 That sunken eye, 
 Those accents tremulous and weak. 
 
 That tear, that sigh. 
 With idle hope I 've watched thy brow 
 
 From day to day ; 
 'Tis vain — a little while, and thou 
 
 Wilt pass away ! 
 
 Nay, dear one ! cease that soothing look. 
 
 That soothing tone ; 
 Thou dost not think that I could brook 
 
 To be alone ! 
 Thou wilt not say that I could bear 
 
 On this dear spot 
 To seek thy footsteps everywhere, 
 
 And find them not ! 
 
 The sun will shine as bright above 
 In other days ;
 
 24 POEMS. 
 
 The moon we used to watch and love 
 
 Still win my gaze ; 
 The flowers that shared thy gentlest care 
 
 May still bloom on, 
 Our bird pour forth his song ; but where 
 
 Wilt thou be gone ? 
 
 Mine eyes must close — where can they seek 
 
 For aught so dear ? 
 My lips be mute — why should I speak ? 
 
 Thou wilt not hear ! 
 So, dearest ! cease that soothing look, 
 
 That soothing tone ; 
 Thou dost not think that I could brook 
 
 To be alone ? 
 1825. 
 
 PARAPHRASE 
 
 OF THE FIRST ODE OF THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ' ODES ' 
 
 OF HORACE. 
 
 Intermissa, Venus, diu rursus bella moves ? 
 Parce, pre cor, precor 
 
 Once more enchantress, wilt thou try 
 Thoughts long subdued to move — 
 
 Cease, cease, I pray, nor think that I 
 Again can ever love. 
 
 What once I was I am not now, 
 
 Nor e'er shall be again, 
 Since years have left upon my brow 
 
 Their tracks of grief and pain.
 
 POEMS. 25 
 
 Go to the youth whose hourly prayers 
 
 Are breathed before thy shrine, 
 And leave to its austerer cares 
 
 This sullen heart of mine. 
 
 I see thee in the mazy dance 
 
 To witching measures move, 
 I feel the lightning of thy glance — 
 
 Yet cannot, cannot love. 
 
 Nor, though I might, could love avail 
 
 To chain the flying hours ; 
 As pulses in our temples fail, 
 
 Though wreathed around with flowers. 
 
 Age now advances — loveless, vile. 
 
 Cold, torpid, and severe — 
 When pleasure yields no grateful smile, 
 
 Pain no relieving tear. 
 1825. 
 
 MALLY LEE. 
 
 As Mally Lee cam' doun the street, her capuchin did flee ; 
 She cuist a look behind her, to see her negligee. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun east and west, we 're a' gaun ajee ; 
 
 We're a' gaun east and west, courting Mally Lee. 
 
 She had lappets at her head, that flaunted gallantlie ; 
 And ribbon-knots at back and breast of bonnie Mally Lee. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun, &c.
 
 20 POEMS. 
 
 A' doun alang the Canongate were beaux o' ilk degree, 
 And mony ane turned round to look at bonnie Mally Lee. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun, &c. 
 
 And ilka bab her pompoon gied, ilk lad thocht that 's to me ; 
 But ne'er a ane was in the thocht o' bonnie Mally Lee. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun, &c. 
 
 Frae Seton's Land a countess fair look'd ower a window hie, 
 And pined to see the genty shape o' bonnie Mally Lee. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun, &c. 
 
 And when she reached the Palace Porch, she met wi' yerls 
 
 three, 
 And ilk ane thocht his Kate or Meg a drab to Mally Lee. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun, &c. 
 
 The dance gaed through the palace ha', a comely sicht to 
 
 see, 
 But nane was there sae bricht or braw as bonnie Mally Lee. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun, &c. 
 
 Though some had jewels in their hair, like stars 'mang 
 
 cluds did shine ; 
 Yet Mally far surpassed them a' wi' but her glancing eyne. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun, &c. 
 
 A prince cam' out frae 'mang them a', wi' garter at his knee, 
 And danced a stately minuet wi' bonnie Mally Lee. 
 
 And we 're a' gaun, &c. 
 
 1825.
 
 POEMS. 27 
 
 THE LADYE THAT I LOVE. 
 
 Were I a doughty cavalier, 
 
 On fire for high-born dame. 
 With sword and lance I would not fear 
 
 To win a warrior's fame : 
 But since no more stern deeds of blood 
 
 The gentle fair may move, 
 I '11 woo in softer, better mood 
 
 The ladye that I love. 
 
 For helmet bright with steel and gold, 
 
 And plumes that flout the sky, 
 I '11 wear a soul of hardier mould, 
 
 And thoughts that sweep as high ; 
 For scarf athwart my corslet cast. 
 
 With her fair name y-wove, 
 I '11 have her pictured in my breast. 
 
 The ladye that I love. 
 
 No crested steed through battle throng 
 
 Shall bear me bravely on ; 
 But pride shall make my spirit strong, 
 
 Where honours may be won : 
 Amidst the great of mind and heart. 
 
 My prowess I will prove. 
 And thus I '11 win by gentler art 
 
 The ladye that I love. 
 1825.
 
 28 POEMS. 
 
 TO THE BELL-ROCK LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 Strange fancies rise at sight of thee, 
 
 Tower of the dim and silent sea. 
 
 Art thou a thing of earth or sky, 
 
 Upshot from beneath, or let down from on high, 
 
 A thing of the wave or a thing of the cloud, 
 
 The work of man or the work of God ? 
 
 Old art thou — has thy blue minaret 
 
 Seen the young sons of creation set ? 
 
 Or did but the yester years of time 
 
 Wake their old eyes on thy youthful prime, 
 
 Object of mystery sublime ? 
 
 Strange are thy purposes and fate, 
 
 Emblem of all that 's desolate. 
 
 Outcast of earth, as if cursed and exiled. 
 
 Thou hast taken thy place on the ocean wild. 
 
 And rear'st, like a mournful repentant Cain, 
 
 Thy conscious and flame-lettered brow on the main, 
 
 Telling all who might come to companion and cheer, 
 
 To shun thy abode of destruction and fear ! 
 
 Hermit of the waste of sea, 
 
 Loneliest of all things that be. 
 
 The pillared fanatic was nothing to thee ! 
 
 In calm and in sunshine, in gloom and in storm, 
 
 Thy constancy shrinks not, nor changes thy form ; 
 
 Morn breaks on thy head with a blush and a ^iiile, 
 
 Noon pours all his splendours around thy lone pile ;
 
 POEMS. 29 
 
 The long level sunbeams that gild thee at eve, 
 Cast thy shade till 'tis lost o'er the far German wave ; 
 Or night falls upon thee, as dew falls on tree — 
 Yet these alternations no change bring to thee. 
 
 Let the sea, as the heaven which it mirrors, be calm. 
 
 And each breath of the breeze bring its own load of balm ; 
 
 Or let this bleak pavement be traversed and torn 
 
 By those white-crested war-waves, on north-westers borne, 
 
 That seem, as they rush to old Albany's strand, 
 
 A new troop of Norsemen invading the land ; 
 
 Or let the rough mood of this long-trooping host 
 
 In the madder conflict of the tempest be lost. 
 
 And to the wild scene deepest darkness be given, 
 
 Save where God pours his fire through the shot-holes of 
 
 heaven, 
 In calm and in breeze, amidst tempest and flame, 
 Thou art still the same beautiful, terrible same ! 
 
 1826. 
 
 TO SCOTLAND. 
 
 Scotland ! the land of all I love, 
 
 The land of all that love me ; 
 Land, whose green sod my youth has trod, 
 
 Whose sod shall lie above me ! 
 Hail, country of the brave and good, 
 
 Hail, land of song and story ; 
 Land of the uncorruptcd heart, 
 
 Of ancient faith and glory ! 
 
 Like mothci-'s bosom o'er her child, 
 Thy sky is glowing o'er me ;
 
 3° POEMS. 
 
 Like mother's ever-smiling face, 
 Thy land lies bright before me. 
 
 Land of my home, my father's land, 
 Land where my soul was nourished ; 
 
 Land of anticipated joy, 
 
 And all by memory cherished ! 
 
 O Scotland, through thy wide domain, 
 
 What hill, or vale, or river, 
 But in this fond enthusiast heart 
 
 Has found a place for ever? 
 Nay, hast thou but a glen or shaw. 
 
 To shelter farm or sheiling, 
 That is not garnered fondly up, 
 
 Within its depths of feeling ? . 
 
 Adown thy hills run countless rills, 
 
 With noisy, ceaseless motion ; 
 Their waters join the rivers broad, 
 
 Those rivers join the ocean : 
 And many a sunny, flowery brae. 
 
 Where childhood plays and ponders, 
 Is freshened by the lightsome flood, 
 
 As wimphng on it wanders. 
 
 Within thy long-descending vales. 
 
 And on the lonely mountain, 
 How many wild spontaneous flowers 
 
 Hang o'er each flood and fountain ! 
 The glowing furze — the ' bonny broom,* 
 
 The thistle, and the heather ; 
 The blue-bell, and the gowan fair, ^ 
 
 Which childhood loves to gather.
 
 POEMS. 31 
 
 Oh, for that pipe of silver sound, 
 
 On which the shepherd lover, 
 In ancient days, breathed out his soul. 
 
 Beneath the mountain's cover ! 
 Oh, for that Great Lost Power of Song, 
 
 So soft and melancholy. 
 To make thy every hill and dale 
 
 Poetically holy ! 
 
 And not alone each hill and dale, 
 
 Fair as they are by nature, 
 But every town and tower of thine, 
 
 And every lesser feature ; 
 For where is there the spot of earth, 
 
 Within my contemplation, 
 But from some noble deed or thing 
 
 Has taken consecration ? 
 
 First, I could sing how brave thy sons. 
 
 How pious and true-hearted. 
 Who saved a bloody heritage 
 
 For us in times departed ; 
 Who, through a thousand years of wrong. 
 
 Oppressed and disrespected. 
 Ever the generous, righteous cause 
 
 Religiously protected, 
 
 I 'd sing of that old early time, 
 
 When came the victor Roman, 
 And, for the first time, found in them 
 
 Uncompromising foemen ; 
 When that proud bird, which never stooped 
 
 To foe, however fiery. 
 Met eagles of a sterner brood 
 
 In this our northern eyry.
 
 32 POEMS. 
 
 Next, of that better glorious time. 
 
 When thy own patriot Wallace 
 Repell'd and smote the myriad foe 
 
 Which stormed thy mountain palace ; 
 When on the sM^ard of Bannockburn 
 
 De Bruce his standard planted, 
 And drove the proud Plantagenet 
 
 Before him, pale and daunted. 
 
 Next, how, through ages of despair. 
 
 Thou brav'dst the English banner, 
 Fighting like one who hopes to save 
 
 No valued thing but honour. 
 How thy own young and knightly kings, 
 
 And their fair hapless daughter, 
 Left but a tale of broken hearts 
 
 To vary that of slaughter. 
 
 How, in a later, darker time. 
 
 When wicked men were reigning, 
 Thy sons went to the wilderness, 
 
 All but their God disdaining ; 
 There, hopeful only of the grave. 
 
 To stand through morn and even, 
 Where all on earth was black despair, 
 
 And nothing bright but heaven. 
 
 And, later still, when times were changed. 
 And tend'rer thoughts came o'er thee, 
 
 When abject, suppliant, and poor. 
 Thy injurer came before thee, 
 
 How thou did'st freely all forgive, 
 Thy heart and sword presented,
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Although thou knew'st the deed must be 
 In tears of blood repented. 
 
 Scotland ! the land of all I love, 
 
 The land of all that love me ; 
 Land, whose green sod my youth has trod, 
 
 Whose sod shall lie above me ; 
 Hail ! country of the brave and good, 
 
 Hail ! land of song and story, 
 Land of the uncorrupted heart. 
 
 Of ancient faith and glory ! 
 1826. 
 
 O MAID UNLOVING. 
 
 O maid unloving, but beloved. 
 
 My soul's unchanging theme, 
 Who art by day my only thought, 
 
 By night my only dream ; 
 Thou think'st not, in thy pride of place, 
 
 When gay ones bow the knee, 
 How bends one lonely distant heart, 
 
 In earnest love of thee. 
 
 As ancient worshippers but knew 
 
 One attitude of prayer, 
 And turning to the holy east, 
 
 Pour'd all their spirit there ; 
 So to thy home inclines this heart, 
 
 All distant though it be. 
 And knows but one adoring art. 
 
 An earnest love of thee. 
 1826.
 
 34 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 YOUI^G EANDAL. 
 
 AiE — There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard. 
 
 ^^^^^^^i 
 
 ^-P^ 
 
 ^^i=^^^ 
 
 Young Ran-dal was a bon-nie lad, when he gaed a-wa'. Young 
 
 Eii-Jzorsi 
 
 r-BEa 
 
 f 
 
 f 
 
 S^i^^ 
 
 ZSniJE 
 
 ^ 
 
 -»• 
 
 -y •/ ' r- 
 
 Ran-dal was a bon - nie lad, when he gaed a - wa' ; 'Twas 
 
 eiiEe 
 
 '^± 
 
 P m - g 
 
 ^E^ 
 
 V ^ ?   
 
 ^-v- 
 
 ?=P: 
 
 S 
 
 ^^— y= 
 
 W 
 
 in the six -teen hun-der year o' grace and thretty-twa, That 
 
 See 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 -h- 
 
 Ean - dal, the laird's young - est son, gaed a - wa'. 
 
 -m— 
 
 f 
 
 -+-
 
 POEMS. 
 
 35 
 
 YOUNG RANDAL. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Young Randal was a bonnie lad, when he gaed awa', 
 Young Randal was a bonnie lad, when he gaed awa' ; 
 'Twas in the sixteen hunder year o' grace and thretty-twa, 
 That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'. 
 
 It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanie, 
 To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie, 
 That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willanslee, 
 And mony wae friends i' the North Countrie. 
 
 He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha', 
 His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa, 
 And his bonnie cousin Jean, that looked owre the castle wa*. 
 And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears doun fa'. 
 
 ' Oh, whan will ye be back ?' sae kindly did she spier, 
 ' Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear.'" 
 ' Whenever I can win eneuch o' Spanish gear. 
 To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear.' 
 
 Oh, Randal's hair was coal black, when he gaed awa', 
 Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red, when he gaed awa', 
 And in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high, 
 Like the merrie, merrie lark, in the morning sky.
 
 36 POEMS. 
 
 Oh, Randal was an altert man when he came hame, 
 A sair altert man was he, when he came hame, 
 Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a sir at his name, 
 And gray, gray cheeks, did Randal come hame. 
 
 He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit wi' the ring, 
 And down came a ladye to see him come in, 
 And after the ladye came bairns feifteen — 
 ' Can this muckle wife be my true love, Jean ? ' 
 
 ' Whatna stoure carle is this ?' quo' the dame ; 
 ' Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame ? ' 
 ' Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Grahame ? ' 
 ' In troth,' quo' the ladye, ' sweet sir, the very same.' 
 
 He turned him about, wi' a waeful e'e, 
 
 And a heart as sair as sair could be ; 
 
 He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee. 
 
 And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee. 
 
 Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie, 
 
 And dule on the wars o' the High Germanic, 
 
 And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be — 
 
 For they 've wrecked the bravest heart in this hale countrie ! 
 
 1827. 
 
 LAMENTE FOR THE AULD HOSTELS.* 
 
 ' Oh, Edinbruch, hich and triumphand toun. 
 Within thy bounds rycht merrie haif I bene !' 
 
 Sae said Schir David Lyndsay, that slie loun, 
 
 Wha kenned what merrines wes rycht weil, 1 wene ; 
 
 » 
 
 * The author must he understood in this piece to speak poetically, not 
 literally.
 
 POEMS. 37 
 
 And sae say I, that mony a bouse haif sene, 
 In quyet houses round about the Croce 
 
 (Haplie now herboure for the vyle and meane), 
 In the Hie Streit, or als in wynde or closse, 
 Renowned for punche and aill, and eke hie-relished soss. 
 
 But now, alas for thee, decayit Dunedin, 
 
 Thy dayis of glory are departit quite ; 
 For all those places that we ance were fed in. 
 
 And where we decently gotte foue o' night, 
 
 Those havens of douce comforte and delighte. 
 Are closed, degraded, burnt, or changed, or gone, 
 
 Whyle our old hostesses have ta'en their flight. 
 To far-ofif places, novel and unknowne, 
 About whose verie names we skairslie may depone- 
 
 Whair now is Douglas's ? whair Clerihugh's ? 
 
 Whair is John's Coffee-house ? and tell me whair 
 Is Mistress P 's? to which, when these old shoes 
 
 Were new, at eight we used to make repair ; 
 
 By her own ladye hand showne up the staire. 
 Through a long trance, into a panyled roome 
 
 Whair lords had erst held feist wyth ladyes faire. 
 And which had still an air of lordly gloome, 
 That scarss two sturdie mouldes colde utterlie illume. 
 
 Oh for the pen of Fergusson to painte 
 ' The parloure splendours of that festyf place ! ' 
 
 The niche, sumtyme the shrine of sum old sainte. 
 The ceilyng that still bore, in antique grace, 
 Many a holye, chubby, white- washt face ; 
 
 The dark-brown landscape, done of old by Norie, 
 On the broad panel o'er the chimney-brace ;
 
 38 POEMS. 
 
 The blue-tiled fireplace gleamyng in its glorye, 
 ■Relating, verse for verse, sum morall Scrypture storye. 
 
 Then on the wall was hung that rare and rych 
 Memoriall of a tyme and mode gone by. 
 
 The samplar, showing every kind of stitch 
 
 E'er known or practised underneath the skye — 
 Thread-circled holes denominated ' pye ' — 
 
 Embattled lynes — of squayr-tayled lambs a paire — 
 Strange cloven-footed letters awkwardlye 
 
 Contriving to make up the Lorde hys prayer — 
 
 And names of John and Jean and William all were thair. 
 
 Thair, also, hung around the wainscot wall, 
 
 Eche in its panel, of old prynts a store ; 
 Adam in paradyce before the Falle ; 
 
 The sailors mutinying at the Nore ; 
 
 Flora — Pomona — and the sesons four ; 
 Lord Nelson's victory at Trafalgar ; 
 
 The deth of Cooke on Otaheite's shore ; 
 Lord North rigged out in gartyr and in star ; 
 With manie more ta'en out of Historie of the Warre. 
 
 Then thair were tablis, also, squayr and round, 
 
 Derke as the face of old antiquity, 
 Yet, when inspected, each a mirror found, 
 
 So that ilke feature you full well could spye ; 
 
 The jugges and glasses on those planes did lye, 
 Lyke summer barkes in glassye seas reflected ; 
 
 And chayrs were thair, as vertical and high 
 As the proude race upoun them once erected. 
 In each of whome, 'tis sayd, ane pokyr was injected. 
 
 But ah ! the mere externe of this olde haunte — 
 Preciouse althoughe in everye lineamente —
 
 POEMS. 39 
 
 Wes the leaste worthie subject of descante ; 
 
 The sorrow which mine anxious muse wolde vent, 
 Regairds alone the happy moments, spente 
 
 Sae cozilie within that humble dome, 
 
 In nights of other years — ^jocoseness blente 
 
 With courtesie — the decencies of home — 
 
 Yet o'er the realmes of talke for ever frie to roame. 
 
 To me who love the olde with such regrette, 
 What charme can be apparent in the newe ? 
 
 Divans, saloons, and cafe's may besette 
 The heartes of youth, and seem to fancye's viewe 
 Places more fit to lounge in, while the stewe 
 
 Of numbers has a charme ; but oh, how far 
 From hearty is the pleasance they pursue — 
 
 Eche manne his single rummyr and cigarre, 
 
 Puffing, all by himself — a sulky, smoky warre ! 
 
 Bot vayne it is to sorrow for the paste — 
 
 Dunedin stands not now quhair once it stoode : 
 like thing of old is hastenyng from it faste. 
 
 And bridges it must haif, althoch no floode ; 
 
 The auld wes cozie, and the auld wes goode. 
 And Mistress P of hosteleres wes the quene ; 
 
 Bot dinging down is now the reigning moode, 
 And auld-town hostels are extynguyshed clene — 
 I haif, in troth, ane end of al perfectioun sene.* 
 
 182S. 
 
 * When some one made inquiry of Nanse Tinnock of Mauchline, respecting 
 the convivial habits of Robert Burns — which, it was presumed, she must have 
 had the best opportunities of observing — the old lady answered that she really 
 could say little upon the subject, ' as the chield had hardly ever drunk twa 
 half-mutchkins in her house.' If any one presume from the above poem, that 
 the author must have been well acquainted, personally, with the taverns of 
 ancient Edinburgh, and entered largely into the festivities practised in them,
 
 40 POEMS. 
 
 SONNET TO LADY DON. 
 
 The lady to whom the accompanying sonnet is addressed was, 
 sixty years ago, considered the most beautiful woman in the 
 Scottish capital. She was the daughter of Mr John Stein of 
 Edinburgh, and first married Sir Alexander Don, Bart, by whom 
 she had a son. Sir WilHam H. Don, at one time well known as 
 the baronet actor ; and a daughter, the wife of Sir F. A. Millbank, 
 Bart., M.P. for the North Riding of Yorkshire. Lady Don married, 
 secondly. Lieutenant-general Sir James Maxwell Wallace ; and 
 died, at an advanced age, on the 13th of March 1S78. 
 
 Lady, thou wert not formed for this cold clime, 
 
 Nor for this tame and unchivalric age ; 
 
 Thou 'rt all misplaced upon this humble stage, 
 Thou hast come to the world beJiind thy time. 
 Thou should' st have lived five hundred years agone, 
 In some lone castle near the proud Garonne, 
 With such concourse of lovers from all Spain, 
 That towns at length should rise on thy domain ; 
 Kings should come there to break their hearts in scores, 
 
 And thou should'st hold a massacre of knights 
 Once every week, until the river's shores 
 
 Should peopled be with their untimely sprites. 
 Thou should'st lay waste a kingdom with thy charms. 
 And yield to none but Death's all-conquering arms. 
 
 1829. 
 
 a mistake will be committed not less than that of the individual who applied 
 to the Mauchline hostess for the bacchanahan character of Burns. He only 
 once or twice saw scenes such as are here described ; and as a further illustra- 
 tion of the fallacy of reasoning from print to its author, it occurred to him that, 
 notwithstanding the minute information given in the Traditio)^ of Edinbiirgk 
 regarding clubs, he never, up to that time, and for some years later, happened 
 to be once present at the meeting of any such fraternity.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 LOVE OVERHEAD. 
 
 Some people say they nothing love 
 In woman, save the sacred mind, 
 
 Pretending in her boasted form, 
 No charm of merit they can find. 
 
 Others — and this in Thomson's school — 
 
 Are all for beauty unadorned. 
 Caring small things, 'twould seem, for soul, 
 
 And holding dress but to be scorned. 
 
 Away with all such saving clauses ! 
 
 I love my Julia altogether, 
 From soul within to silk without, 
 
 From point of toe to top of feather. 
 
 Her dear idea is to me 
 One lustrous silhouette of light, 
 
 Where every edge of lace and frill 
 Is as the inmost core as bright. 
 
 For instance, now, I love her eyes, 
 So dark, yet dove-like in expression ; 
 
 Yet to the pendants at her ears. 
 
 My eyes will sometimes make digression. 
 
 Her cheeks are like the roses red, 
 Her mouth is like the parted cherry ; 
 
 But don't these combs become her much ? 
 Are they not charming ? Yes, oh very !
 
 42 POEMS. 
 
 Her head moves with a queenly grace ; 
 
 A crown would not look queer upon it ; 
 But, in the meantime, is not this 
 
 A very tasteful sort of bonnet ? 
 
 Her hands are soft and paly white. 
 
 Her fingers tapering, small, and seemly ; 
 
 But oh, her bracelets and her gloves, 
 I love them, love them most extremely. 
 
 Her feet so gentle are and small, 
 
 They give a grace to shoe and stocking ; 
 
 Shoe, stocking, foot— 'tis but one thing, 
 That sets this foolish heart a-knocking. 
 
 I am of Hudibras's thought, 
 Who looked on 't as a sort of duty, 
 
 While he admired his fair one's face, 
 T' adore the shade even of her shoe-tj-^e. 
 
 I wear a tassel from her gown, 
 
 Snug near my heart in left vest-pocket ; 
 
 I have a ringlet of her hair, 
 
 Hung not more near it in a locket. 
 
 Her parasol, that from the sun 
 Protects her roseate complexion, 
 
 I don't know which I love the most. 
 
 The thing that takes or gives protection. 
 
 The thrilling music of her voice 
 Puts all my senses in a tussle ; 
 
 And ever>' nerve springs up to hear « 
 Her distant bombazines play rustle.
 
 POEMS, 
 
 Whate'er she does, whate'er she says, 
 
 For good, indifferent, or ill, 
 'Tis all one luxury to my soul, 
 
 'Tis Julia yet, 'tis Julia still. 
 
 Say that she talks of mutual love. 
 And puts her poor swain in a rapture ; 
 
 Say that she tells her kitchen-maid 
 To make in poultry-yard a capture ; 
 
 Say that she reads some touching tale, 
 That gems with tears her soft eye-lashes ; 
 
 Say that she pities but the scribe 
 
 Whom some fell critic cuts and slashes ; 
 
 'Tis all one thing— mind, person, dress — 
 
 The formed of heaven, or dust, or shears— 
 I love the whole, and nothing less ; 
 I love her overhead — and ears, 
 1829. 
 
 43
 
 44 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THOU GEN'TLE AITD KIND ONE. 
 
 AiB — My Nannie 's mea. 
 
 *s 
 
 'm^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 q5i=S 
 
 ^ V 
 
 5: 
 
 EfcS 
 
 ^=^ 
 
 •^-^ 
 
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 Thou gen-tle and kind one, who com'st o'er iny dreams, Like 
 
 ^fe^ 
 
 JV 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^fet 
 
 ]t=pc 
 
 ^--P— ^-^ 
 
 ^^=0. 
 
 - M — h 
 
 f^ 
 
 gales of the west, or the mu - sic of streams ; Oh, 
 
 
 t 
 
 - t— f- 
 
 pT^ 
 
 1^=^: 
 
 3S^^ 
 
 5=^- * ^ 7i 
 
 ^ 
 
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 ^ 
 
 soft-est and dear - est, can that time e'er be, When 
 
 BiEl 
 
 3=t 
 
 f 
 
 58= 
 
 S^ 
 
 
 I '11 he for - get - f lU or scorn - f ul of thee ? "WTien 
 
 L/iiliSlLl 

 
 POEMS. 
 
 45 
 
 # 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 ^ri 
 
 I'll be for - get - ful or scorn - ful 
 
 of 
 
 thee? 
 
 ^m 
 
 ^- 
 
 ZBl 
 
 THOU GENTLE AND KIND ONE. 
 
 Thou gentle and kind one, 
 
 Who com'st o'er my dreams, 
 Like the gales of the west, 
 
 Or the music of streams ; 
 Oh, softest and dearest 
 
 Can that time e'er be, 
 When I could be forgetful 
 
 Or scornful of thee ? 
 
 No ! my soul might be dark, 
 
 Like a landscape in shade, 
 And for thee not the half 
 
 Of its love be displayed. 
 But one ray of thy kindness 
 
 Would banish my pain, 
 And soon kiss every feature 
 
 To brightness again. 
 
 And if in contending 
 With men and the world, 
 
 My eye might be fierce 
 
 Or my brow might be curled.
 
 46 POEMS. 
 
 That brow on thy bosom 
 All smoothed would recline, 
 
 And that eye melt in kindness 
 When turned upon thine. 
 
 If faithful in sorrow, 
 
 More faithful in joy — 
 Thou should'st find that no change 
 
 Could affection destroy ; 
 All profit, all pleasure. 
 
 As nothing would be, 
 And each triumph despised, 
 
 Unpartaken by thee. 
 1829. 
 
 ON AN EDITION OF HERRICK'S 
 SELECT POEMS. 
 
 Being an imitation of the manner of that Poet. 
 
 A tiny tome, such as might lie 
 
 In Mistress Mab's own library ; 
 
 With boards of rose and leaves of cream, ' 
 
 And Uttle print that might beseem 
 
 The footmarks of the fairy throng, 
 
 As o'er a snow-charged leaf they lightly tripped along. 
 
 Oh, if to Herrick's sainted mind 
 Aught earthly now its way can find, 
 Be this sweet book-flower softly shed, » 
 By fays, upon his last green bed !
 
 POEMS. 47 
 
 'Twill mind him of those things he loved, 
 When he the sweet-breathed country roved, 
 Inside he '11 find his own pure lilies. 
 Outside his golden daftodillies ; 
 On every leaf some lovesome thing 
 Back to his shade life's thoughts will bring. 
 Here Philhs with her pastoral messes, 
 And Julia with her witching dresses ; 
 There daisies from a hundred hills 
 And crystal from a thousand rills 
 (Rills whose every trinkling fall 
 With nightingales is musical) ; 
 And posies all around beset 
 With primrose and rich violet ; 
 And robes beneath the cestus thrown 
 Into a fine distraction ; 
 And ladies' lips, which sweetly smile, 
 Among the groves of Cherry Isle. 
 1830. 
 
 SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 An Anglo-Scottish version of a passage in Gavin Douglas. 
 
 'Twas in the jolly joyous month of June, 
 When gane was near the day and supper dune, 
 I walkit furth to taste the evening air, 
 Among the fields that were replenished fair 
 With herbage, corn, and cattle, and fruit-trees, 
 Plenty of store ; while birds and busy bees 
 O'er emerald meadows flew baith east and west, 
 Their labour done to take their evening rest.
 
 48 POEMS. 
 
 As up and down I cast my v/andering eye, 
 All burning red straight grew the western sky ; 
 The sun, descending on the waters gray, 
 Deep under earth withdrew his beams away ; 
 The evening star with gi-owing lustre bright, 
 Sprung up, the gay fore-rider of the night ; 
 Amid the haughs and every pleasant vale, 
 The recent dew began on herbs to skail ; 
 The light began to dim, and mists to rise, 
 And here and there grim shades o'erspread the skies ; 
 The bald and leathern bat commenced her flight, 
 The lark descended from her airy height ; 
 Mists swept the hill before the lazy wind, 
 And night spread out her cloak with sable lined. 
 Swaddling the beauty of the fruitful ground 
 With cloth of shade, obscurity profound. 
 All creatures, wheresoe'er they liked the best, 
 Then went to take their pleasant nightly rest. 
 The fowls that lately wantoned in the air, 
 The drowsy cattle in their sheltered lair, 
 After the heat and labour of the day, 
 Unstirring and unstirred in slumber lay. 
 Each thing that roves the meadow or the wood. 
 Each thing that flies through air or dives in flood. 
 Each thing that nestles in the bosky bank, 
 Or loves to rustle through the marshes dank. 
 The little midges and the happy flees, 
 Laborious emmets, and the busy bees. 
 All beasts, or wild or tame, or great or small, 
 Night's peace and blessing rests serene o'er all. 
 1832.
 
 POEMS. 49 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Like precious caskets in the deep sea casten, 
 On which the clustering shell-fish quickly fasten, 
 
 Till closed they seem in chinkless panoplie ; 
 So do our hearts, into this world's moil thrown, 
 Become with self's vile crust straight overgrown, 
 
 Of which there scarce may any breaking be. 
 So may not mine, though quick-setted all round 
 With sternest cares : still for the young departed, 
 And more for the surviving broken-hearted, 
 For all who sink beneath affliction's wound, 
 May I at least some grief or pity feel : 
 
 Still let my country and my kindred's name, 
 Still let religion's mild and "tender flame, 
 Have power to move : I would not all be steel. 
 1833. 
 
 THE NOOK. 
 
 Iste terrarum mihi, praeter omnes, 
 Angulus ridet. 
 
 Horace. 
 
 (Written during a visit at the Nook, near Airth, Stirlingshire.) 
 
 One thing seems agreed on in speech and in book, 
 That, if comfort exists, 'twill be found in a nook ; 
 All seems dreary and cold in an open area. 
 But a corner — how charming the very idea !
 
 50 POEMS. 
 
 Hence, when weary with toiling, we think of retreat, 
 A nook is the place that we ask for our seat — 
 Some small piece of earth, 'tis no matter how small, 
 But a corner it must be, or nothing at all. 
 The poor man an object of kindred desire 
 Regards, in the nook of his bright evening fire. 
 Where, his labours all done, he may sit at his ease, 
 With his wee things devoutly caressing his knees ; 
 And where, I would know, to what promising shade, 
 Runs the kiss-threatened, bashful, yet half-willing maid ? 
 To some nook, to be sure, to some hidden recess, 
 Where her lover his fondness is free to confess. 
 Even less might have been the delight of Jack Horner, 
 Had his plums been enjoyed anywhere but a corner ! 
 
 Since thus open pleasures are viler than tangle, 
 
 And true ones, like trout, must be caught by the angle, 
 
 Perfect joy, it seems clear, must by hook or by crook, 
 
 Be obtained in a place called, par excellence. Nook. 
 
 The Nook ! — how endearing and pleasant the word — 
 
 As bieldy and warm as the nest of a bird ! 
 
 Sure a place so designed must know little care, 
 
 And summer must linger eternally there ; 
 
 No resting-place, surely, for sorrow or sin. 
 
 But all blossom without and all pleasure within : 
 
 There children must sport, all unknowing of pain. 
 
 And old folk, looking on, become children again. 
 
 Sad Poortith will pass it ungrudgingly by. 
 
 And wealth only cast a solicitous eye. 
 
 'Twere surely fit scene for a goddess' descent — 
 
 The goddess long lost to us — holy Content. 
 
 Such thoughts it is easy to string up together ; 
 
 But reason might smash them perhaps with a feather.
 
 POEMS. SI 
 
 And things might be in such a concatenation, 
 That the nook might become quite a scene of vexation. 
 Yet of this, as it happens, there 's no chance or httle, 
 Unless, Hke the smallpox, vexation turns smittle ; 
 
 For here lives good , the blithest and best, 
 
 Who is happy himself and makes happy the rest, 
 Whose temper is such, as he proves by his look, 
 That joy would be with him, even not in a nook ; 
 Who has wit for all topics, and worth with it all, 
 And, while mirth is in presence, keeps sense within call. 
 To the Nook, why, a man such as this is as pat, 
 As the foot to the shoe, or the head to the hat ; 
 And so well do they answer to each other's quality, 
 So mixed is the man with his pleasant locality. 
 That a question it seems, and I cannot decide it. 
 Whether he or the Nook gives the most of the ' ridet.' 
 1834. 
 
 LAMENT FOR THE OLD HIGHLAND 
 WARRIORS. 
 
 Air — Cro Ckallmi* 
 
 Oh where are the pretty men of yore. 
 Oh where are the brave men gone. 
 
 Oh where are the heroes of the north ? 
 Each under his own gray stone. 
 
 Oh where now the broad bright claymore. 
 Oh where are the truis and plaid 1 
 
 * Cro Challein is the name of a remarkably mournful Highland song, which, 
 according to tradition, originated with the spirit of a farmer's wife, who was 
 heard singing to her husband's cattle some months after her death. The air 
 is to be found in A Selection of Celtic Melodies (Edinburgh : Purdie, 1830).
 
 52 POEMS. 
 
 Oh where now the merry Highland heart? 
 In silence for ever laid. 
 
 Och on a rie, och on a rie, 
 Och on a rie, all are gone, 
 
 Och on a rie, the heroes of yore, 
 Each under his own gray stone. 
 
 The chiefs that were foremost of old, 
 
 Macdonald and brave Lochiel, 
 The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham, 
 
 With their clansmen true as steel ; 
 ■- Who followed and fought with Montrose, 
 
 Glencairn, and bold Dundee, 
 Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all, 
 
 And would aye rather fa' than flee. 
 
 Och on a rie, och on a rie, 
 Och on a rie, all are gone, 
 
 Och on a rie, the heroes of yore, 
 Each under his own gray stone. 
 
 The hills that our brave fathers trod, 
 
 Are now to the stranger a store ; 
 The voice of the pipe and the bard 
 
 Shall waken never more. 
 Such things it is sad to think on — 
 
 They come like the mist by day — 
 And I wish I had less in this world to leave, 
 
 And be with them that are away. 
 
 Och on a rie, och on a rie, 
 Och on a rie, all are gone, 
 
 Och on a rie, the heroes of yore. 
 Each under his own gray stone. 
 1835-
 
 POEMS. 53 
 
 F I N G A S K.* 
 
 Fair perched upon the woody mountain's brow, 
 Amidst the devious rush of Alpine rills — 
 A jewel in the bosom of the hills — 
 
 I see Fingask, that gallant old chateau ! 
 
 Seat in past time of many a loyal heart, 
 Which, every thought of self behind it throwing, 
 And with a generous patriot spirit glowing, 
 
 In Stuart cause performed a noble part ! 
 
 The home even yet of ancient love and faith, 
 
 And loyalty that would be true till death, 
 Where beauty, honour, wit, and goodness dwell, 
 
 What better can I say, fair spot of earth. 
 
 Than that each parting pilgrim of thy hearth. 
 Like me may sigh to give thee his farewell. 
 1836. 
 
 LINES TO A LITTLE BOY. 
 
 My winsome one, my handsome one, my darling little boy, 
 The heart's pride of thy mother, and thy father's chiefest 
 
 joy; 
 
 Come ride upon my shoulder, come sit upon my knee. 
 And prattle all the nonsense that I love to hear from thee : 
 With thine eyes of merry lustre, and thy pretty lisping 
 
 tongue, 
 And thy heart that evermore lets out its humming happy 
 
 song : 
 
 * The seat of the Threiplands, a memorable Jacobite family. Sir P. Murray 
 Threipland, the last Baronet, died in 1882.
 
 54 POEMS. 
 
 With thy thousand tricks so gleesome, which I bear without 
 
 annoy, 
 Come to my arms, come to my soul, my darling little boy ! 
 
 My winsome one, my fairest one, they say that later years 
 Will sometimes change a parent's hope for bitter grief and 
 
 tears : 
 But thou, so innocent ! canst thou be aught but what thou 
 
 art, 
 And all this bloom of feeling with the bloom of face depart ? 
 Canst thou this tabernacle fair, where God reigns bright 
 
 within, 
 Profane, like Judah's children, with the Pagan rites of sin ? 
 No — no; so much I'll cherish thee, so clasped we'll be 
 
 in one, 
 That bugbear guilt shall only get the father with the son ; 
 And thou, perceiving that the grief must me at least destroy. 
 Wilt still be fair and innocent, my darling little boy ! 
 
 My gentle one, my blessed one, can that time ever be, 
 When I to thee shall be severe, or thou unkind to me ? 
 Can any change which time may bring, this glowing passion 
 
 wreck, 
 Or clench with rage the little hand now fondling round my 
 
 neck? 
 Can this community of sport, to which love brings me down, 
 Give way to anger's kindling glance, and hate's malignant 
 
 frown ? 
 No — no, that time can ne'er arrive, for, whatsoe'er befall, 
 This heart shall still be wholly thine, or shall not be at all ; 
 And to an offering like this thou canst not e'er be coy, 
 But still wilt be my faithful and my gentle little boy !
 
 POEMS. 55 
 
 My winsome one, my gallant one, so fair, so happy now, 
 With thy bonnet set so proudly upon thy shining brow, 
 With thy fearless bounding motions, and thy laugh of 
 
 thoughtless glee. 
 So circled by a father's love which wards each ill from thee ! 
 Can I suppose another time when this shall all be o'er. 
 And thy cheek shall wear the ruddy badge of happiness 
 
 no more : 
 When all who now delight in thee far elsewhere shall have 
 
 gone. 
 And thou shalt pilgrimise through life, unfriended and alone, 
 Without an aid to strengthen or console thy troubled mind. 
 Save the memory of the love of those who left thee thus 
 
 behind ? 
 Oh, let me not awake the thought, but, in the present blest. 
 Make thee a child of wisdom — and to Heaven bequeath 
 
 the rest : 
 
 Far rather let me image thee, in sunny future days, 
 Outdoing every deed of mine, and wearing brighter bays ; 
 With less to duU thy fervency of recollected pain, 
 And more to animate thy course of glory and of gain ; 
 A home as happy shall be thine, and I too shall be there. 
 The blessings purchased by thy worth in peace and love 
 
 to share — 
 Shall see within thy beaming eye my early love repaid. 
 And every ill of failing life a bliss by kindness made — 
 Shall see thee pour upon thy son, then sitting on thy knee, 
 A fathei-'s gushing tenderness, such as I feel for thee ; 
 And know, as I this moment do, no brighter, better joy. 
 Than thus to clasp unto thy soul thy darling little boy !
 
 56 POEMS. 
 
 ABSENT FRIENDS. 
 
 Air — The Peacock. 
 
 The night has flown wi' sangs and glee, 
 
 The minutes ha'e Hke moments been — 
 There 's friendship's spark in ilka e'e, 
 
 And peace has blessed the happy scene. 
 But while we sit sae social here, 
 
 And think sic friends we never saw, 
 Let 's not forget, for them that 's near, 
 
 The mony mae that 's far awa'. 
 
 Oh, far beyond th' Atlantic's roar. 
 
 Far, far beyond th' Australian main, 
 How many Fortune's ways explore, 
 
 That we may never meet again ! 
 How many ance sat by our side, 
 
 Or danced beside us in the ha', 
 Wha wander now the world sae wide — 
 
 Let 's think on them that 's far awa'. 
 
 There 's no a mother but has seen, 
 
 Through tears, her manly laddies gae ; 
 There 's no a lass but thinks o' ane 
 
 Whase absence makes her aften wae ; 
 The ingle sides o'er a' the land,» 
 
 They now are dowf and dowie a', 
 For some ane o' the social band 
 
 Has left them, and is far awa'.
 
 POEMS. 57 
 
 They Ve left us — but, where'er they be, 
 
 They ne'er forget their native shore ; 
 Auld Scotland, mountain, glen, and lea, 
 
 They have it pictured at the core ; 
 E'en now, when we remember them. 
 
 Our memory they perhaps reca'. 
 And when we fondly breathe their name, 
 
 They whisper ours, though far awa'. 
 1839. 
 
 EMBODYING SOME CONSEQUENCES OF 
 THE RECENT DISRUPTION. 
 
 The women are a' gane wud, 
 
 They 've gotten a terrible thraw ; 
 
 And Candlish is the lad 
 
 Has pushioned their judgments a'. 
 
 Tarn Jobson was a man 
 
 That lived a peaceable life, 
 But now he rest gets nane 
 
 For his daughters and his wife. 
 
 They deave him about the kirk, 
 
 Which they Erastian ca' ; 
 For naething will satisfy them 
 
 But the kirk that 's against the law. 
 
 And sae while he, douce man, 
 
 Sits doun in his ain auld seat. 
 
 They 're aff to some muirside tent, ' 
 
 And winna be hame //// late. 
 E
 
 58 POEMS. 
 
 They gang frae house to house, 
 Wi' mony a wile and quirk, 
 
 Frae puir folk forcing cash 
 To uphaud the sp07itafieous kirk. 
 
 Tarn says they '11 break his heart. 
 They tell him it just maun be, 
 
 For they maun do what 's right, 
 Though father or husband die. 
 
 Atweel, an the case were mine, 
 I 'd tell them a bit o' my mind, 
 
 And, failing effect o' words, 
 I 'd lay on a stick behind. 
 
 The women are a' gane wud. 
 
 They 've gotten a terrible thraw ; 
 
 And Candlish is the lad 
 
 Has pushioned their judgments a'. 
 1844. 
 
 THENINE HOLES OF THE LINKS OF 
 ST ANDREWS. 
 
 IN A SERIES OF VERSES. 
 
 For the benefit of those who may be uninitiated in the mysteries 
 and in the delights of Golf, Scotland's national game, it may be 
 well to mention that St Andrews has always been its headquarters. 
 The Links, which txtend from the town to the river Eden, a 
 distance of several miles, are admirably adapted, from the close 
 texture of the grass, for the pastime, and comprise eighteen holes 
 in all, that is to say, nine ' out ' and nine ' in.' Each hole and the 
 intervening ground between has its characteristic features, and 
 these are in a measure portrayed in the following verses. The
 
 POEMS. 
 
 59 
 
 first three sonnets are from the pen of Dr Robert Chambers ; 
 the next three are by Mr P. P. Alexander ; the last three, by Mr 
 Robert Chambers, son of the above. 
 
 I. THE FIRST OR BRIDGE HOLE. 
 
 Sacred to hope and promise is the spot — 
 
 To Philp's^ and to the Union Parlour- near, 
 
 To every golfer, every caddie dear — 
 Where we strike off — oh, ne'er to be forgot. 
 Although in lands most distant we sojourn. 
 
 But not without its perils is the place ; 
 
 Mark the opposing caddie's ^ sly grimace, 
 Whispering : 'He's on the road !' ' He's in the burn !' 
 So is it often in the grander game 
 
 Of life, when, eager, hoping for the palm, 
 Breathing of honour, joy, and love, and fame, 
 
 Conscious of nothing like a doubt or qualm. 
 We start, and cry : * Salute us, muse of fire !' 
 And the first footstep lands us in the mire. 
 
 II. THE SECOND OR CARTGATE HOLE. 
 
 Fearful to Tyro is thy primal stroke, 
 
 O Cartgate, for behold the bunker* opes 
 Right to the teeing^ place its yawning chops, 
 
 Hope to engulf ere it is well awoke. 
 
 That passed, a Scylla in the form of rushes 
 Nods to Charybdis which in ruts appears : 
 He will be safe who in the middle steers ; 
 
 One step aside, the ball destruction brushes. 
 
 Golf symbols thus again our painful life, 
 
 Dangers in front, and pitfalls on each hand : 
 But see, one glorious cleek-stroke'^ from the sand 
 
 Sends Tyro home, and saves all further strife !
 
 6o POEMS. 
 
 He 's in at six — old Sandy '^ views the lad 
 
 With new respect, remarking : ' That's no bad !' 
 
 III. THE THIRD HOLE. 
 
 No rest in golf — still perils in the path : 
 
 Here, playing a good ball, perhaps it goes 
 Gently into the Priiicipalian Nose^ 
 
 Or else Taints Coo, which equally is death. 
 
 Perhaps the wind will catch it in mid-air, 
 
 And take it to the Whins — ' Look out, look out ! 
 Tom Morris,^ be, O be a faithful scout !' 
 
 But Tom, though links-eyed, finds 't not anywhere. 
 
 Such thy mishaps, O Merit : feeble balls 
 
 Meanwhile roll on, and lie upon the green ; 
 
 'Tis well my friends, if you, when this befalls, 
 Can spare yourselves the infamy of spleen. 
 
 It only shows the ancient proverb's force, 
 
 That you may further go and fare the worse. 
 
 IV. THE FOURTH OR GINGER-BEER HOLE. 
 
 Though thou hast lost this last unlucky hole, 
 I say again, betake thee not to swearing, 
 Or any form of speech profanely daring, 
 
 Though some allege it tendeth to console. 
 
 Better do thou thy sweUing griefs control, 
 Sagacious that at hand a joy awaits thee 
 (Since out of doubt a glass of beer elates thee), 
 
 Without that frightful peril to thy soul. 
 
 A glass of beer ! go dip thine angry beak in it. 
 
 And straight its rage will melt to soft placidity, 
 
 That solace finding thou art wise to seek in it ; 
 Ah, do not thou on this poor plea reject it,
 
 POEMS. 6 1 
 
 That in thy inwards it will breed acidity — 
 
 One glass of Stewart's brandy will correct it. 
 
 V. THE HELL HOLE. 
 
 What daring genius first yclept thee Hell ? 
 
 What high, poetic, awe-struck grand old golfer, 
 Much more of a mythologist than scoffer ! 
 
 Whoe'er he was, the name befits thee well 
 
 'All hope abandon, ye who enter here,' 
 Is written awful o'er thy gloomy jaws, 
 A threat to all save Allan might give pause : 
 
 And frequent from within come tones of fear — 
 
 Dread sound of cleeks, which ever fall in vain, 
 
 And — for mere mortal patience is but scanty — 
 
 Shriekings thereafter, as of souls in pain. 
 
 Dire gnashings of the teeth, and horrid curses, 
 With which I need not decorate my verses, 
 
 Because, in fact, you '11 find them all in Dante. 
 
 VI. THE HEATHER HOLE. 
 
 Ah me, prodigious woes do still environ — 
 
 To quote verbatim from some grave old poet — 
 The man who needs must meddle with his iron,^" 
 
 And here, if ever, thou art doomed to know it 
 For now behold thee, doubtless for thy sins. 
 
 Tilling some bunker, as if on a lease of it, 
 
 And so assiduous to make due increase of it. 
 Or wandering homeless through a world of whins ! 
 And when, these perils past, thou seem est dead^^ 
 
 And hope'st a half — O woe, the ball goes crooked. 
 Making thy foe just one more hole ahead, 
 
 Surely a consummation all too sad, 
 Without that sneering devilish ' Never lookit,' 
 
 The kind amen of the opposing cad.
 
 62 POEMS. 
 
 VII. HIGH OR EDEN HOLE, 
 
 The shelly pit is cleared at one fell blow, 
 
 A stroke to be remembered, e'en in dreams ; 
 For genius golfy no such other greens 
 
 Such hazards have, such tempting bunkers show. 
 
 'Willy, my spoon !' for now he must take heed on 
 How to play ; five yards on either side 
 Must land in bunker or th' insidious tide. 
 
 ' Allow for wind !' says Will — too late ; 'tis in the Eden ! 
 
 Drawn by the club, and carried by the wind, 
 
 The ball is lost, the Fates are most unkind. 
 
 VIII. OR SHORT HOLE. 
 
 A short, enticing, long or short spoon ^^ stroke 
 On wind depending — blow it to or from ; 
 
 Perchance 'tis done in one immortal go. 
 
 The odds are long, but who, ah, who shall know 
 , How soon a smile or frown Fate may provoke ? 
 From shortened spoon the gutta flies, see ! see ! 
 
 Straight for the hole, but fifteen yards is past ; 
 
 The daintier driver with club well grassed 
 Is short — the hole is halved in three. 
 
 * Who 's never up is never in,' 
 
 The timid putter ^^ neyer yet did win. 
 
 IX. OR END HOLE. 
 
 That green perspective vista is the line 
 
 On which we strive to keep, but frequent fail, 
 When to far right the golfer may bewail 
 
 The tee, from which he heeled his ball that time. 
 
 Whinned beyond ken, lost at the very last. 
 
 He turneth at the ninth — three holes behind. 
 Yet to pull up he must. Genius of golf, be kind ;
 
 POEMS. 63 
 
 He may be dormy^* ere the burn be passed. 
 
 So in the midst of life, when we may think we 've lost, 
 
 We struggle on, and pass the winning-post. 
 
 I A well-known golf-club maker. 
 
 * In those days the Union Parlour was the golfer's club-house. 
 
 3 Caddie, a club-carrier. 
 
 4 Sand-pits occur in various places throughout the Links, and are called 
 bunkers. 
 
 5 The tee is the spot near each hole from which the ball is struck off for the 
 next. 
 
 6 Cleek, a club with an iron head, for sending a ball out of difficulties. 
 
 7 Sandy Pirie was a well-known caddie. 
 
 8 The bunker into which a former Principal of St Andrews University 
 frequently drove his ball. 
 
 * Tom Morris, the well-known and respected custodier of the Links. 
 
 10 An iron-headed club for extracting the ball from sand or other ' hazards.' 
 
 II When a ball lies near enough to the hole to ensure its being holed next 
 shot, it is said to be dead. 
 
 lil Short spoon, one of the golfer's clubs, used for driving short or ' quarter ' 
 strokes. 
 
 13 The putter is the short club used for holing the ball ; and as putts fre- 
 quently fall short of the hole, the axiom has arisen, ' Never up, never in.' 
 
 14 When one of the players or sets of players has gained as many holes as 
 there are holes yet to play in the round or match, he cannot lose, and is there- 
 fore said to be dormy. 
 
 THE PEERLESS ONE. 
 
 Hast thou ne'er marked, in festal hall, 
 Amidst the lights that shone. 
 
 Some one who beamed more bright than all- 
 Some gay — some glorious one 1 
 
 Some one who, in her fairy lightness, 
 As through the hall she went and came ; 
 
 And her intensity of brightness. 
 
 As ever her eyes sent out their flame, 
 
 Was almost foreign to the scene ; 
 Gay as it was with beauty beaming,
 
 64 POEMS. 
 
 Through which she moved : a gemless queen, 
 
 A creature of a different seeming 
 From others of a mortal birth — 
 An angel sent to walk the earth ! 
 
 Oh, stianger, if thou e'er hast seen 
 
 And singled such a one, 
 And if thou hast enraptured been — 
 
 And felt thyself undone; 
 If thou hast sighed for such a one, 
 
 Till thou wert sad with fears ; 
 If thou hast gazed on such a one, 
 
 Till thou wert blind with tears ; 
 If thou hast sat obscure, remote, 
 
 In corner of the hall, 
 Looking from out thy shroud of thought 
 
 Upon the festival ; 
 Thine eye through all the misty throng 
 
 Drawn by that peerless light, 
 As traveller's steps are led along 
 
 By wildfire through the night : 
 Then, stranger, haply dost thou know 
 The joy, the rapture, and the woe. 
 Which in alternate tides of feeling, 
 Now thickening quick, now gently stealing 
 Throughout this lone and hermit breast, 
 That festal night, my soul possess'd. 
 
 Oh ! she was fairest of the fair 
 
 And brightest of the bright ; 
 And there was many a fair one there, 
 
 That joyous festal night. 
 A hundred eyes on her were bent, 
 
 A hundred hearts beat high ;
 
 POEMS. 65 
 
 It was a thing of ravishment, 
 
 O God ! to meet her eye ! 
 But 'midst the many who looked on, 
 
 And thought she was divine, 
 Oh, need I say that there were none 
 
 Who gazed with gaze hke mine : 
 The rest were hke the crowd who look 
 
 All idly up to heaven, 
 And who can see no wonder there 
 
 At either morn or even ; 
 But I was like the wretch embound 
 Deep in a dungeon underground. 
 Who only sees through grating high 
 One small blue fragment of the sky. 
 Which ever, both at noon and night, 
 Shows but one starlet shining bright, 
 Down on the darkness of his place 
 With cheering and unblenching grace ; 
 The very darkness of my woe 
 Made her to me more brightly show. 
 
 At length the dancing scene was changed 
 
 To one of calmer tone, 
 And she her loveliness arranged 
 
 Upon fair Music's throne. 
 Soft silence fell on all around. 
 
 Like dew on summer flowers ; 
 Bright eyes were cast upon the ground 
 
 Like daisies bent with showers. 
 And o'er that drooping, stilly scene 
 A voice rose gentle and serene, 
 
 A voice as soft and slow 
 As might proceed from angel's tongue,
 
 66 POEMS. 
 
 If angel's heart were sorrow wrung, 
 And wished to speak its woe. 
 
 The song was one of those old lays 
 Of mingled gloom and gladness, 
 Which first the tides of joy can raise, 
 
 Then still them down to sadness ; 
 A strain in which pure joy doth borrow 
 The very air and gait of sorrow. 
 And sorrow takes as much alloy 
 From the rich sparkling ore of joy. 
 Its notes, like hieroglyphic thing 
 Spoke more than they seemed meant to sing. 
 I could have lain my life's whole round 
 Entranced upon that billowy sound, 
 Nought touching, tasting, seeing, hearing. 
 And knowing nothing, nothing fearing, 
 Like Indian dreaming in his boat. 
 As he down waveless stream doth float. 
 But pleasure's tide ebbs always fast, 
 And these were joys too loved to last. 
 
 There was but one long final swell, 
 
 Q{ full melodious tone, 
 And all into a cadence fell, 
 
 And was in breathing gone. 
 And she too went : and thus have gone 
 
 All — all I ever loved ; 
 At first too fondly doted on. 
 
 But soon — too soon removed. 
 Thus early from each pleasant scene 
 
 There ever has been reft 
 The summer glow, the pride of green, 
 
 And but brown autumn left.
 
 POEMS. 67 
 
 And oh, what is this cherished term, 
 
 This tenancy of clay, 
 When that which gave it all its charms 
 
 Has smiled — and passed away ? 
 A chaplet whence the flowers are fallen, 
 A shrine from which the god is stolen ! 
 
 ON THE MISSES THREIPLAND OF FINGASK 
 GOING TO SEE THE QUEEN AT BLAIR. 
 
 In old Fingask a curtained vision gave, 
 Methought, the last sad Stuart from his grave. 
 He viewed the place with melancholy eyes. 
 Then thus outspoke his soul in painful sighs : 
 * O house, that once held loyalty so dear. 
 Can it then be that you must also veer ? 
 Must you, the last supporters of our claim. 
 Turn votaries of usurping Brunswick's name, 
 Leaving the memory of your rightful kings 
 Huddled aside amongst old outworn things ? 
 Alas ! 'tis so, your acts the case declare 
 E'er since you joined the vulgar throng at Blair. 
 Now, now indeed is Eighty-eight complete. 
 Since even Eliza bows at Vicky's feet. 
 Now has our grief-cup come to overflow 
 With this one last and bitterest drop of woe ! 
 Degenerate Threiplands, in your shame exult. 
 But know that yet must come the pangs of guilt, 
 The historic beauty of your name is gone. 
 Now undistinguished where it stood alone ; 
 This will the torpid conscience soon awake, 
 And cause your souls with strong remorse to shake.
 
 68 POEMS. 
 
 But all too late, for what could then restore 
 The spotless honour that you held of yore ! 
 While sobs convulsive heaved his shadowy breast ; 
 Oh sad, sad ruin ! ' Here the spectre ceased, 
 Then melted slowly in a dim moonbeam, 
 And I awoke to find it was no dream. 
 1847. 
 
 THE ANNUITANT'S ANSWER. 
 
 IN REPLY TO OUTRAM'S 'ANNUITY.' 
 
 The Anntiily, which was written by the late George Outram, 
 and appeared in that unique collection of humorous verse entitled 
 Legal Lyrics, was sung with great effect by Mr Peter Fraser, a 
 well-known Edinburgh wit. The song portrays the despondency, 
 and finally the despair of an individual who, having sold an 
 annuity to an elderly dame, in hopes, doubtless, of her speedy 
 release from life and all its cares and woes, finds her calling year 
 after year for her cash, and to all appearance wearing a charmed 
 existence. She breaks her arm and encounters various other 
 casualties without, however, being affected in health ; and to an 
 advanced age she ' calls for her annuity.' 
 
 Having held its own for some years, it occurred to Dr Robert 
 Chambers that an Answer to the Annuity .ought to appear as 
 given by the old annuitant herself, in vindication of her right to 
 live as long as she could ; atid accordingly he penned the following 
 verses, which were sung for the first time by Mrs R. Chambers, on 
 the occasion of a dinner-party at i Doune Terrace, comprising 
 some of the chief notables of Edinburgh. At this memorable 
 symposium everything and everybody was Scotch. The dishes 
 consisted of cockie-leekie broth, crappit heads, haggis, sheep's- 
 head, &c. ; whilst the guests comprised Sir Adam Ferguson, 
 Sheriff Gordon, Professor Aytoun, D. O. Hill, Peter Fraser, 
 James Ballantine, &c. The only lady at the table was the hostess, 
 Mrs Robert Chambers. 
 
 It had been arranged beforehand that certain songs from Legal 
 Lyrics were to be sung by gentlemen of the party, the Annuity
 
 POEMS. 69 
 
 being apportioned to Mr Fiaser, who sung it in his usual happy 
 manner. ' Now,' said the host, ' I call upon my wife to respond ; ' 
 whereupon, to the delight, and no less to the surprise of the 
 company, Mrs Chambers sung the Answer. 
 
 My certy, but it sets him weel, 
 
 Sae vile a tale to tell o' me ! 
 I never could suspect the chiel 
 
 O' sic disingenuity. 
 I'll no be ninety-four for lang, 
 My health is far frae being Strang ; 
 And he 'II male profit, richt or wrang, 
 
 Ye '11 see, by this annuity! 
 
 My friends, ye weel can understand, 
 
 This war Id is fu' o' roguerie ; 
 And ane meets folk on ilka hand, 
 
 To rug, and rive, and pu' at ye. 
 I thought that this same man o' law 
 Wad save my siller frae them a' ; 
 And sae I gave the whillywha* 
 
 The hale,t for an annuity. 
 
 He says the bargain lookit fair, 
 
 And sae to him I 'm sure 'twad be ; 
 
 I gat my hunder pound a year. 
 
 And he could weel allow it, tae. 
 
 And does he think, the deevil's limb, 
 
 Although I lookit auld and grim, 
 
 I was to die to pleasure him. 
 
 And squash my braw annuity ? 
 
 The year had scarcely turned its back, 
 When he was irking to be free — 
 
 * Wheedler. t Whole.
 
 70 POEMS, 
 
 A fule ! the thing to undertak, 
 
 And then sae sune to rue it ye ! 
 
 I 've never been at peace sinsyne, 
 
 Nae wonder that sae sair I crine, 
 
 It 's just through terror that I tine 
 My life for my annuity. 
 
 He 's twice had poison in my kale, 
 And sax times in my cup o' tea ; 
 
 I could unfauld a shocking tale 
 O' something in a cruet, tae. 
 
 His arms he ance flang round my neck, 
 
 I thought it was to show respeck — 
 
 He only meant to gie a check, 
 Noty^r, but to th' annuity. 
 
 Said ance to me an honest man : 
 
 * Try an insurance companie ; 
 Ye '11 find it an effective plan, 
 
 Protection to secure it ye. 
 Ten pounds a year — ye weel can spare 't — 
 Be that wi' Peter Fraser* wair'd ; 
 His office, syne, will be a guard 
 
 For you and your annuity !' 
 
 I gaed at ance and spak to Pate, 
 
 'Bout a five-hunder policy — 
 And * Haith,' says he, * ye are nae blate — 
 
 I maist could clamahewitf ye ! 
 Wi' that chiel's fingers at the knife. 
 What chance ha'e ye o' length o' life ? 
 Gae to the deil, ye silly wife, 
 
 Wi' you and your annuity ! ' 
 
 * A well-known Edinburgh wit, and agent for a life insurance company at 
 the time the Annuiianfs Answer was written. f Strike.
 
 POEMS. 71 
 
 The Procurator-fiscal's now 
 
 The only friend that I can see, 
 And it 's sma' thing that he can do 
 
 To help my sair anxiety : 
 But honest Maurice * has agreed, 
 That, gin the villain does the deed, 
 He '11 swing at Libberton's-Wynd-head y 
 
 For me and my annuity. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF SPEDLINS. 
 
 To Edinburgh, to Edinburgh, 
 
 The Jardine he maun ride ; 
 He locks the gates behind him. 
 
 For lang he means to bide. 
 
 And he, nor any of his train, 
 
 While minding thus to flit, 
 Thinks of the weary prisoner. 
 
 Deep in the castle pit. 
 
 They were not gane a day, a day, 
 
 A day but barely four, 
 When neighbours spoke of dismal cries 
 
 Were heard frae Spedlins Tower. 
 
 They mingled wi' the sigh of trees. 
 
 And the thud-thud o' the lin; 
 But nae ane thocht 'twas a deein' man 
 
 That made that eldrich din. 
 
 • Maurice Lothian, tlien procurator-fiscal (that is, public prosecutor) for the 
 county of Edinburgh. 
 
 t Formerly the place of execution in Edinburgh.
 
 72 POEMS. 
 
 At last they mind the gipsy loon, 
 
 In dungeon lay unfed ; 
 But ere the castle key was got, 
 
 The gipsy loon was dead. 
 
 They found the wretch stretch'd out at length 
 
 Upon the cold cold stone, 
 With starting eyes and hollow cheek, 
 
 And arms peeled to the bone ! 
 
 Now Spedlins is an eerie house, 
 
 For oft at mirk midnight 
 The wail of Porteous' starving cry 
 
 Fills a' that house wi' fright. 
 
 ' O let me out, O let me out. 
 Sharp hunger cuts me sore ; 
 If ye suffer me to perish so, 
 I 'U haunt you evermore ! ' 
 
 O sad sad was the Jardine then. 
 His heart was sorely smit ; 
 
 Till he could wish himself had been 
 Left in that deadly pit. 
 
 But ' Cheer ye,' cried his lady fair, 
 ' 'Tis purpose makes the sin ; 
 
 And where the heart has had no part, 
 God holds his creature clean.' 
 
 Then Jardine sought a holy man 
 To lay that vexing sprite ; 
 
 And for a week that holy man 
 Was praying day and night.
 
 POEMS. 73 
 
 And all that time in Spedlins house 
 
 Was held a solemn fast, 
 Till the cries waxed low, and the boglcbs 
 
 In the deep Red Sea was cast. 
 
 There lies a Bible in Spedlins ha'. 
 And while it there shall lie, 
 
 Nae Jardine can tormented be 
 With Porteous' starving cr)^ 
 
 But Applegarth's an altered man — 
 
 He is no longer gay ; 
 The thought o' Porteous clings to him 
 
 Unto his dying day. 
 
 IN THE ALBUM AT KINNAIRD CASTLE, 
 PERTHSHIRE. 
 
 Laud to the ladies of Fingask 
 For their self-devoting task ; 
 Building up the cnimbling walls 
 Which contained their fathers' halls ; 
 Taking a new lease from time 
 For this antique tower sublime, 
 Raised at first by monarch's hand, 
 As a safeguard to the land ; 
 Where another monarch came, 
 O'er these braes to chase the game, 
 While St James's and Whitehall 
 Missed his merry festival.
 
 74 POEMS. 
 
 Monument of ancient days 
 Better never could you raise ; 
 Here the sullen battlement, 
 Loop-holes whence the dart was sent, 
 Pondrous grille behind the door, 
 The once arched massy more, 
 Hall where noble guests have sate 
 Round bold barons holding state ; 
 Elsewhere accommodation small, 
 But strength to hold made up for all. 
 Still, too, you may beneath the place. 
 The stately terraced garden trace, 
 And in the neighbouring bosky dell. 
 Imbibe the lymph from Spinky Well, 
 Where, as old legends fondly prove, 
 A knight once died for lady's love. 
 
 Go on, dear ladies, and not rest, 
 Till all Tim.e's wrongs you have redressed, 
 And Threipland's name shall ever be 
 Inwoven in my minstrelsie. 
 
 1854. 
 
 'ALL RIGHT.' 
 
 Tune — Fackin^oit's Pound. 
 
 While the coach stops a moment, a cup of brown ale 
 To the chilly ontsidcs is a welcome regale ; 
 Mine host hands it smiling, and when it 's drunk up, 
 He takes back the sixpence along with the cup : 
 
 Not a tittle cares he 
 
 For the jeopardy 
 That may be on the cards for the passengers three ;
 
 POEMS. 75 
 
 He slips to his pocket the silver so bright, 
 
 And passes the word to the coachman — '■ All Right P 
 
 They may drive anywhere, may lose life or break limb, 
 No matter what happens, 'tis all right to him. 
 He has sei'ved out his liquor, and taken his cash, 
 He stands unaffected, though all go to smash ; 
 
 Had the sixpence proved bad, 
 
 Or none to be had. 
 In that case alone would mine host have been sad ; 
 But the coin was forthcoming, and honour was bright, 
 And so he reported to coachy — ' All Right P 
 
 If we look round the world, I think we shall see 
 That many are much in the same way as he ; 
 Give them all that they wish for, concede every claim, 
 And what haps to others will ne'er trouble them : 
 
 They wish ill to none. 
 
 But then there is one 
 On whose fortunes exclusive their thoughts ever run ; 
 When that one is served, they look round with delight, 
 And, though friends may be sinking, their cry is — '^All 
 Right r 
 
 The shopman will tell you his wares are so fine, 
 And he takes but five shillings for what is worth nine ; 
 He advises his customers, quite as their friend. 
 On goods so good-cheap very freely to spend ; 
 His words are so nice. 
 That they take his advice. 
 And for all they purchase they only pay thrice ; 
 He sees them depart with a bow so polite, 
 And pockets their money, and thinks it — All Right !
 
 76 POEMS. 
 
 The lawyer so wily will push on your plea, 
 But for every new motion expects a big fee ; 
 He bids you have courage, nor heed how you bleed, 
 For, if you but pay well, you 're sure to succeed : 
 Long, long the delay, 
 But at length comes the day 
 When to all your great hopes the wise judges say nay : 
 You 're left just enough to pay off Master Bite, 
 Who receipts your last doit with an easy — 'All Right /' 
 
 You 're ill, and the doctor attends at your call. 
 Feels your pulse, and looks grave, but says nothing at all ; 
 You think him so knowing — he 's only demure — 
 And expect every day he will bring you a cure : 
 He tries all his skill 
 With blister and pill. 
 But it all ends in nothing but swelling his bill ; 
 At last you march off, like a poor mortal wight. 
 And he slams to the door of your hearse with — ' All Right/ 
 
 The would-be M.P. comes with smiles and with bows, 
 Caresses your children, and kisses your spouse, 
 He 's full of professions — will do this and that — 
 And to all your opinions his own are so pat ; 
 
 You think you have got 
 
 A sound patriot, 
 And do less you cannot than give him your vote 
 In the House he sees things in a quite different light. 
 The fellow has choused you — no matter — All Right / 
 
 The man who has thousands on thousands in store, 
 And still every year adds a few thousands more,
 
 POEMS. 77 
 
 Who feasts in a palace, from plate, every day, 
 With the world all around him so pleasant and. gay — 
 He sees his poor neighbour 
 Oppressed with his labour. 
 So unlike the old days of the pipe and the tabor, 
 He 's perhaps no bad fellow, but still to his sight 
 The arrangement seems perfect — his cry is — '■ All Right T 
 
 In short, with all human the rule must still hold — • 
 Let a gemman, for instance, have honours and gold ; 
 Give a lady that handsomest, landedest squire. 
 Whom all other ladies most praise and admire ; 
 
 Or give to a child 
 
 A platter well piled. 
 While others are starving and crying like wild ; 
 Each fortunate elf will be satisfied quite 
 With the course of events, and declare it — All Right ! 
 
 ON SEEING SOME WORK-HORSES IN A 
 PARK ON A SUNDAY. 
 
 'Tis Sabbath-day, the poor man walks 
 
 Blithe from his cottage door. 
 And to his prattling young ones talks 
 
 As they skip on before. 
 
 The father is a man of joy, 
 
 From his week's toil released ; 
 And jocund is each little boy 
 
 To see his father pleased. 
 
 But, looking to a field at hand, 
 
 Where the grass grows rich and high, 
 
 A no less merry Sabbath band 
 Of horses met my eye.
 
 78 POEMS. 
 
 Poor skinny beasts ! that go all week 
 With loads of earth and stones, 
 
 Bearing, with aspect dull and meek, 
 Hard work and cudgell'd bones ; 
 
 But now let loose to rove athwart 
 
 The farmer's clover lea, 
 With whisking tails, and jump and snort, 
 
 They speak a clumsy glee. 
 
 LolUng across each other's necks, 
 Some look like brothers dear ; 
 
 Others are full of flings and kicks, 
 Antics uncouth and queer. 
 
 One tumbles wild from side to side, 
 With hoofs tossed to the sun. 
 
 Cooling his old gray seamy hide. 
 And making dreadful fun. 
 
 I thought how pleasant 'twas to see. 
 On this bright Sabbath-day, 
 
 Man and his beasts alike set free 
 To take some harmless play ; 
 
 And how their joys were near the same — 
 The same in show, at least — 
 
 Hinting that we may sometimes claim 
 Too much above the beast. 
 
 If like in joys, beasts surely must 
 
 Be like in sufferings too. 
 And we can not be right or just 
 
 To treat them as we do.
 
 POEMS. 79 
 
 Thus did God's day serve as a span 
 All things to bind together, 
 
 And make the humble brute to man 
 A patient pleading brother. 
 
 Oh, if to us one precioics tiling. 
 And not to them, is given, 
 
 Kindness to them will be a wing 
 To carry it on to heaven ! 
 
 'UNDER TRUSTEES.' 
 
 Tune — The Jolly Young IVatcrnian. 
 
 Oh have you ne'er heard of a worthy Scotch gentleman, 
 Laird of that ilk, and the chief of his name, 
 
 Who not many years since, attaining majority. 
 Heir to some thousands of acres became? 
 
 He lived so well, and he spent so merrily, 
 
 The people all cam.e to his house so readily. 
 
 And he made all things in it so much as you please, 
 And he made all things in it so much as you please, 
 
 That this gentleman soon was put under trustees. 
 
 Oh never till then had our worthy Scotch gentleman 
 
 Lived for a day as his taste did incline. 
 There never were wanting some plaguy good fellows 
 
 To rattle his pheasants and tipple his wine. 
 He kept a pack, which the county delighted in. 
 He gave charming balls, and the ladies invited in ; 
 
 Oh he never knew what was a moment of ease. 
 
 Oh he never knew what was a moment of ease, 
 Till snug he had placed himself under trustees.
 
 So POEMS. 
 
 Being too truly now a Distressed Agriculturist, 
 No one expects him to play the gi'eat man ; 
 
 He is sure of whatever he needs in this world, 
 For creditors wish him to live while he can. 
 
 Rents may fall, but that doesn't trouble him ; 
 
 Banks may break, but that cannot hobble him ; 
 At the cares of this sad life he coolly may sneeze, 
 At the cares of this sad life he coolly may sneeze, 
 
 Who only will put himself under trustees ! 
 
 Subscriptions come round for election-committees, 
 New churches, infirmaries, soup for the poor ; 
 
 Our worthy Scotch gentleman gives his best wishes, 
 But of course the collectors ne'er darken his door. 
 
 He never is called to look a paper in, 
 
 To get up a cup to huntsman or whipper-in ; 
 
 Oh who would h^ fashing with matters like these, 
 Oh who would hQ fashing with matters like these, 
 
 A gentleman known to be under trustees ? 
 
 When any good neighbour, hard up for the wherewithal, 
 Looks for some friend who is likely to lend. 
 
 Our worthy Scotch gentleman never need care at all — 
 He 's not the man who the matter can mend. 
 
 In short, all others have something crossing them, 
 
 On beds of trouble are always tossing them ; 
 But only the Income-Tax truly can tease, 
 But only the Income-Tax truly can tease, 
 
 A gentleman snugly put under trustees.
 
 POEMS, Si 
 
 E L S I N O R E. 
 
 Tun e — Excelsior. 
 
 A small but very merry party assembled at Woodhill, Forfar- 
 shire, in May 1859, under the hospitality of James Miln, Esq. 
 It included Patrick Arkley, Esq., one of the sheriffs of Mid- 
 Lothian; Alexander Hay Miln, Esq., of Woodhill ; and Dr Robert 
 Chambers. Mr Arkley had come with the design of chiefly spend- 
 ing his time in fishing in the bum called the Elsinore, which nms 
 past Woodhill, but was diverted from his purpose in order to 
 accompany his companions on sundry excursions about the neigh- 
 bourhood. His returning to Edinburgh, re infectd, together with 
 some considerations as to the smallness of the bum on which his 
 sanguinary thoughts had been bent, gave rise to the following 
 jocular verses : 
 
 A sheriff came to sweet Woodhill, 
 Thinking to try his angling skill ; 
 All proper implements had he, 
 He viewed the fated burn with glee, 
 
 The Elsinore ! 
 
 He saw it all in fancy's dream, 
 A basket filled, a ravaged stream, 
 Or, that his landlord might not grieve, 
 He thought how many he would leave 
 
 In Elsinore I 
 
 To favour the intended sack, 
 The miller dammed the water back ; 
 The trouts lay at the barrier quakin', 
 And felt themselves already taken 
 
 In Elsinore !
 
 82 POEMS. 
 
 Poor little burnie, what a plight 
 You lay in, all that summer night, 
 While Arkley's slumbers were enlaced 
 With visions of thy wrack and waste, 
 
 Dear Elsinore ! 
 
 Yet, after all the botheration, 
 And * dreadful note of preparation,' 
 The day passed o'er on golden wings. 
 And Arkley thought of other things 
 
 Than Elsinore. 
 
 He could not be upon the Laws, 
 Examining its ancient wa's. 
 And lunching afterwards with Neish, 
 Yet pay attention to the fish 
 
 Of Elsinore. 
 
 Day softened into moony eve, 
 Woodhill next morning he must leave, 
 He wished and wished his soul away. 
 But could not touch the finny prey 
 
 In Elsinore ! 
 
 Morn came— he went— the trouts drew breath, 
 Respited from the doom of death ; 
 The miller thought 'twas all a sham. 
 And coolly went, and loosed the dam 
 
 Of Elsinore. 
 
 To Arkley now remains alone 
 
 The thought of what he might have done,
 
 POEMS. 85 
 
 Or, taking hope's propitious view, 
 The thought of what he yet may do, 
 
 In Elsinore. 
 
 Fair stream, be thou the happy goal 
 Of Arklej^s piscatorial soul ; 
 A type of his potential mood, 
 A thing that might, could, would, or should 
 
 Be Elsinore ! 
 1859. 
 
 LIFE INSURANCE. 
 
 Come now, my friend, and do not stare. 
 
 And listen to my strain a bit ; 
 I wish to make you just aware 
 
 Of something for your benefit : 
 As yet you say, upon your Ufe 
 
 You have not got a pohcy, 
 'Tis downright treason to your wife, 
 I wish you would your folly see, 
 And think upon insurance, 
 Oh, think of life insurance ; 
 
 If you will not cast in your lot. 
 You '11 vex me past endurance. 
 
 Our office is for soundness known, 
 The steadfast Perpendicular ; 
 
 And when you would be choosing one, 
 You can't be too particular.
 
 §4 POEMS, 
 
 Our 'cumulated fund appears 
 
 Increasing at a steady rate ; 
 A bonus every seven years, 
 
 And yet our premiums moderate. 
 Then think upon insurance, 
 Our office of insurance ; 
 
 If you will not cast in your lot, 
 You '11 vex me past endurance. 
 
 We '11 say you 're thirty next birthday, 
 
 You ne'er had epilepsy, sir, 
 Insanity, gout, hernia, 
 
 Consumption, or dyspepsy, sir. 
 Your medical attendant says 
 
 You 're come of healthy parentage ; 
 You 've lived in Britain all your days. 
 And are of your apparent age ; 
 
 Then, oh, my friend, insurance, 
 Think, think of life insurance ; 
 
 If you will not cast in your lot, 
 You 'II vex me past endurance. 
 
 Your present state of health is good. 
 
 With healthy occupation, sir ; 
 Your well-formed bellows-chest has stood 
 
 The doctor's auscultation, sir. 
 No hazard in your way of life ; 
 
 You 're neither log nor cripple, sir ; 
 Last year you took yourself a wife ; 
 You 're moderate in your tipple, sir ; 
 A model for insurance, 
 First-rate for life insurance ! 
 
 Oh, if you 'U not cast in your lot, 
 You 'II vex me past endurance.
 
 POEMS. 85 
 
 Pray don't forget, though healthy yet, 
 
 You 're subject to mortality : 
 The life of man we only can 
 
 Foretell in the totality. 
 The first year's premium being paid. 
 
 You may demise to-morrow, sir, 
 And then your widow will not need 
 To either beg or borrow, sir : 
 
 She 's saved by life insurance ; 
 Oh, noble life insurance ! 
 
 Oh, if you '11 not cast in your lot, 
 You '11 vex me past endurance. 
 
 But say you 've got a policy. 
 
 Or even more than one of them, 
 You may another take from me. 
 
 You '11 thrive beneath a ton of them. 
 One ought to add a thousand pounds, 
 
 Each new responsibility ; 
 It is a duty has no bounds, 
 But just a man's ability. 
 
 Then, oh, once more, insurance, 
 Oh, think of life insurance ! 
 
 Oh, if you '11 not cast in your lot. 
 You '11 vex me past endurance. 
 
 Long, long ago there was a man, 
 
 Who called himself knight-errant, sir. 
 
 Who, as the ladies' friend did rove, 
 Protecting them from tyrants, sir : 
 
 But, ladies, I 'm your best friend now. 
 As good as any lover t' ye.
 
 86 POEMS. 
 
 For all my object 's to endow, 
 And save you, dears, from poverty. 
 Then help me with insurance, 
 Oh, help on life insurance ; 
 
 If husbands not cast in their lot, 
 Declare them past endurance. 
 1859. 
 
 THE END.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
 
 ^^3 
 1883 
 
 Chambers,^ 
 Poetical re
 
 ss?^?wis«»w,-j»sr 
 
 1^