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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 3 [Jlr (Jf^^\>f~A^ Xxv/f/i,^yfe^5<^
 
 POEMS, 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 ANDREW AIT KEN, 
 
 OVERTON, NEAR BEITH, 
 
 WITH A 
 
 MExlOIE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 KILMARNOCK : 
 
 PRINTED BY JAMES M'KIE, 2 KING STREET. 
 
 1873.
 
 KILMARNOCK: PRTNTKD BY .lAMES M-KIE, 2 KING STUEET.
 
 toon 
 
 ^tH'u'^XtiX to 
 E. ¥. COCHRAN-PATRICK, 
 
 B.A. EDIX., LL.n. CANTAB., F.S.A. SCOT., 
 
 OF WOODSIDE AND LADYLAND. 
 
 81 87^7
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Memoir of the Author, vii. 
 
 The Arm Chair, 1 
 
 The Miser and the Prodigal — a Tale, 5 
 
 The Tollman's Ditty, 11 
 
 The Toun o' Dairy in 1841, 14 
 
 The Auld Fleckit Cow, 18 
 
 The Death of the Auld Fleckit Cow, 20 
 
 The Back o' the Hill, 22 
 
 Montgomerie's Inn, Dairy, 24 
 
 The Auld Tappit Hen, 27 
 
 The Wife o' Dairy, 28 
 
 The Farmer's Lament on the Loss of the Potato Crop, 1846, ... 30 
 
 Epistle to a Friend, on his Marriage, 32 
 
 Lines addressed to Dr. R. Patrick — 1808, 34 
 
 Letter to W. C, Gardener at Caldwell— 1805, 30 
 
 -— Miss Patrick, Trearne, May, 1805, 38 
 
 Crawford o' the Ha', 40 
 
 The Village Blacksmith, 42 
 
 A Paraphrase on the First Psalm, 44 
 
 Lines on hearing the Bell on the Parish Church in Beith, tolled 
 
 for the first time, 1810, 47 
 
 Beauties of Woodside, 49 
 
 A Mason Song (Written for a St. John's-day Meeting), 51 
 
 Borland's Yill, ... 52 
 
 Guid Oatmeal, 5({ 
 
 Letter to William Swan, 59 
 
 Elegy on Hugh Love, Bellman and Gravedigger, Beith, 1805,.. 02
 
 VI. CONTENTS. 
 
 A Voice from the Ayr Drapers, 65 
 
 A Response to "A Voice from the Ayr Drapers," 66 
 
 Elegy on ' ' Tiger, " the Hoiise-Dog at Treame, 68 
 
 Letter to Robert Anderson, 72 
 
 Verses to Clegs, 74 
 
 Lines to Mrs. 0. Smith, on her Marriage, 76 
 
 on meeting a Dancing Master, 77 
 
 Epitaph on the late Dr. R. Wilson, Beith, 78 
 
 The Handing o' the Plough, 79 
 
 Elegy on John Fleming, 80 
 
 Epitaph of John Fleming, 8,3 
 
 Verses to a Snuffer, 83 
 
 after a Land Roup at Balgray, 86 
 
 TheBalgray Rent— March, 1841, 89 
 
 Josie Strathern, 91 
 
 Donald Monro, 92 
 
 The Drunkard's Soliloquy, 94 
 
 The Auld Man that lived in Beith, 95 
 
 Lochwinnoch Music and Scones, 97 
 
 Desperation and Wasteration, 99 
 
 The Lament of a Careful Person over his old Hat, 101 
 
 Receipt for making Scandalous Poetry, 103 
 
 Borland's Porter, 105 
 
 Lines on seeing a Hawk pursuing a Lark, 109 
 
 Perry's Elegy, 110 
 
 Epistle to James Wilson, Thirdpart— 1805, 112 
 
 Verses to a Young Lady, 114 
 
 Epitaph on a Miser, 116 
 
 The Muckle Fat Cow, 117 
 
 The Bed— a Song, 119 
 
 Verses on the Departure of Thomas Gowans for America, 121 
 
 Letter to a Student in Glasgow, 123 
 
 D. Caldwell, 125
 
 MEMOIE OF ANDEEW AITKEN, 
 
 OVERTON. 
 
 MBOUT a quarter of a century ago, few who had 
 sojourned iu, or paid the most temporary visit to, 
 the north-western district of the county of Ayr, — comprised in 
 the parishes of Beith, Kilbiruie, and Lochwinnoch, — but had 
 heard of the poetical powers, and probably experienced the 
 excellent social quahties, of the venerated tenant of Overton. 
 Born in the locality, and reared in all the simplicity of rural 
 life, for more than three score years he had gone out and in 
 before a large number of respectable and iniiuential neigh- 
 bours, — many of whom considered themselves honoured in 
 numbering him iu the circle of their friends, — and to all of 
 whom he was endeared alike by his integrity and sterling 
 worth, as well as by his talents and acquirements in the 
 walks of literature. Modest and unassuming, it was neither 
 his desii'e nor his fortune to emerge from the comparative 
 seclusion of the station assigned hira by Providence ; but 
 though it was his lot, 
 
 " Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, 
 To liold the noiseless tenor of his way, "
 
 VIU. MEMOIR OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 yet who would uot consider this more to be desired than the 
 fate of those who, by being suddenly drawn from spheres for 
 which they seemed destined, and in which they might have 
 shone, have been enticed from the paths of moral rectitude, — 
 an undeviatmg adherence to which constitutes the chief ele- 
 ment in a dignified and exemplary character? Himself 
 deeply imbued with the " milk of human kindness," and ever 
 ready to succour the needy and pity the erring, it is not 
 surprising that he should have been an object of endearment, 
 and that his grey hairs should be found in the way of under- 
 standing, and that he should have been honoured by men of 
 all ranks and professions. However, it is not merely from 
 his character as a man and a member of society that those 
 feehngs of respect arose, but likewise from the standing he 
 attained among the local poets of his native country, and 
 from the fact that, in the pursuit of the immense and varied 
 fund of knowledge that he possessed, he had sm-mounted 
 difficulties before the very shadow of which many a bold 
 heart would have shrunk. Plodding on for many, many 
 years, — his only reward the simple pleasure derived from the 
 pursuit between extracts from rare and valuable works, and 
 original prose and poetical pieces, — he accumulated several 
 portly volumes of manuscript, which are of themselves a httle 
 literary museum. The readers of Chambers^s Journal and 
 others of our periodicals and newspapers, may have seen 
 various of his scraps, — one of which, " The Tollman's Ditty," 
 at the time of its publication, called forth general approbation 
 and applause. 
 
 It could not be supposed that, in a locality where good 
 sense and sound information are so generally diffused, such an
 
 MEMOIR OF ANDREW AITKEN. IX. 
 
 individual could in the least be unappreciated ; but though 
 no want of esteem and admiration ever prevailed, it was not 
 till some time passed that they assumed a tangible character, 
 and the resolution was adopted of conferring on him some 
 substantial token of regard. We believe the credit of sug- 
 gesting this was due to Mrs. Wilson of Lochlands, — a lady 
 well known as being the amiable patroness of literary merit, 
 and the strings of whose heart were only surpassed in pHa- 
 bility with those of her purse, when the object was one which 
 might at all command either sympathy or aid. It was 
 accordingly agreed that a subscription should be opened for 
 the purpose of presenting Mr. Aitken with some article 
 which might be of real advantage to him while he lived, and 
 might descend through his family as an heirloom. The 
 cordial response which this proposal met with from all may 
 be estimated by the fact that, in the course of a short time, a 
 sum was raised sufficient to enable the committee to present 
 Mr. Aitken with an elegant and comfortable chair, and a 
 purse containing forty sovereigns. The judiciousness of 
 selecting such an article must be at once apparent, and the 
 accompanying gift was one which at no time could come 
 wrong. The chair was made by Mr. James Dale, cabinet- 
 maker, Beith, and as a criterion of the excellent character of 
 the work, it may be stated that Mr. Dale received several 
 orders from Glasgow for chairs of a similar constniction. 
 The chair is rather of an antique shape, — large and roomy, 
 with a rechniug back, — and made of the best oak. The back 
 of the chair is finely carved, and terminates at the top in a 
 coronet, in the centre of which, indented in Roughwood black 
 oak, is a silver plate, bearing the following inscription : —
 
 X. MEMOIR OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 y ' ' Presented to 
 
 Andrew Aitken, Farmer, Overton, Beith, 
 
 By liis friends and fellow-parishioners, 
 
 As a mark of their regard 
 
 For his private worth and 
 
 Literary attainments." 
 
 The purse, which was elegantly wrought in silk, was a gift 
 from Mrs. Wilson of Lochlauds. 
 
 The meeting for the presentation of these articles took 
 place on Friday evening, December 26, 1845, in Mr. 
 Kennedy's Saracen's Head Inn, Beith, when upwards of 160 
 proprietors, farmers, and merchants, in and around that 
 place, sat down to the refreshments provided. The chair 
 was occupied by William Cochran -Patrick, Esq., of 
 Lady land and Waterside, who, in calling for a special 
 bumper to the toast of the evening, " The Health of their 
 worthy guest, Mr. Aitken," said : — 
 
 " However inadequate I know myself to be to do justice to the 
 toast, I yet feel peculiar satisfaction in the attempt, from the long 
 connection which has subsisted between my family and Mr. Aitken, 
 during which he has possessed the esteem and confidence of those 
 who have gone before, as he retains that of those who still remain. 
 The amiable and inoffensive manners of our guest has endeared him 
 to a wide circle of sincere friends, whilst his strict integrity and 
 industry in the management of an extensive business has secured to 
 him the esteem and respect of all with whom he has commercial 
 dealings. But it is not alone in his private character as an indi- 
 vidual member of society, however irreproachable that may have 
 been, but as an author and a poet, that he is our guest to-night. 
 It is, I believe, in the remembrance of most of you now present, 
 that for many successive years annual competitions of cattle were 
 held at Trearne, in this neighbourhood, partly to improve the 
 breed of stock and partly to bring together our friends, tenants, and
 
 MKMOIR OF ANDREW AITKEN. XI. 
 
 neighbours into social intercourse. These meetings, which were 
 given up wlien more efficient and extensive societies for the same 
 purpose were organised in the district, terminated generally in a 
 friendly and convivial meeting, at which Mr. Aitken was in the 
 habit of reading an original essay on some agricultural or other 
 useful topic. None of these papers were without merit, and some 
 of them which were submitted to the criticism of those who, from 
 their position and skill, were competent judges, were pronounced 
 by them to be of the highest order. As a poet, Mr. Aitken 's pro- 
 ductions are well known to all of you — many of his effusions having 
 appeared in the periodical publications of the day, and still more of 
 them are familiarly known and recited at the firesides of our far- 
 famed jjeasantry ; but his name is more j^eculiarly coupled, in the 
 requisition which has called you together this evening, with his 
 latest, but I trust not his last, work. The volume to which I refer 
 is entitled 'Useful Hints, &c.,' and besides containing valuable 
 extracts from upwards of a hundred authors, embodies many 
 original j^ieces, and an excellent preface written by himself. [After 
 entering at some length into the merits of the work, the Chairman 
 continued] : — The most pleasing part of my duty is yet unfulfilled. 
 I have to present you (addressing Mr. Aitken) with this handsome 
 and elegant chair, as a testimonial of the respect and esteem in 
 which you are held by your friends and neighbours. Do not, how- 
 ever, conclude from this, that it is either the intention of your 
 friends or myself that you should pass the rest of your days in 
 idleness or inglorious ease, but rather that this may serve as a couch 
 on which to muse when the toils of the day are over, and in which 
 many a pleasing verse may yet be written. In addition, I have to 
 bestow upon you this very handsome purse — itself the gift of a lady 
 — and containing the sum of forty sovereigns, which it is the wish 
 of yoiir friends you should appropriate in whatever way you may 
 think best, either for the promotion of your intellectual enjoyments 
 or your domestic comfort. That you may be long spared to enjoy 
 this testimonial of your friends and acrpiaintances, is, I am sure, the 
 sincere wish of all present, and in testimony of this I call upon them
 
 Xn. MEJIOIR OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 to unite witli me in drinking a flowing bumper to your continued 
 health and happiness." 
 
 Tlie toast was drunk amid the most rapturous applause. 
 Mr. AiTKENT then, iu his own simple and expressive style, 
 delivered the following remarks, which contain an autobio- 
 graphy to which little can be added: — 
 
 ' ' Friends, neighbours, and benefactors, I thank you all ; or, in 
 more emphatic language, God bless you all with his best blessings. 
 I would stop here, but that I am expected to say something more ; 
 and, at the risk of incurring the charge of egotism, I crave leave to 
 speak a few words about myself. Perhaps a brief sketch of my life 
 may be amusing to some, and instructive to others. I was bom in 
 Langside in 1780. My father was by trade a flax dresser, and with 
 this very unhealthy occupation he combined those of farmer and 
 burner and seller of lime. He held all his property— houses, lands, 
 and lime quarry — in tack from Mr. John Patrick of Trearne, our 
 excellent Chairman's grandfather. I was never at any school ; my 
 mother taught me, while very young, the use of the twenty-six 
 letters, and I soon learned to read the historical and biographical 
 parts of the Bible. I was fond of learning to read and write, and 
 often, when other youths were at play, or asleep, I practised until 
 I became a tolerable proficient in these useful branches of learning. 
 By transcribing songs, scraps of poetry, &c., I learned to spell, 
 punctuate, and compose somewhat grammatically. The few works 
 belonging to my father consisted of devotional and polemical divinity, 
 and I was for some time ill ofi' for books, until the late Miss Patrick 
 of Trearne took me under her care, and supplied me with more 
 fashionable and interesting books out of the family library. I have 
 all along read much, and likewise tried my skill in writing essays of 
 various kinds, several of which Mr. Smith, our townsman, has been 
 instrumental in making public. To him, as well as to Mrs. Smith, 
 I am under gi-eat and lasting obligations. Mr. Smith is an indus- 
 trious, enterprising, p'ersevering man, and eminently useful to the 
 public. And now I stand before you all, a wonder to myself. The
 
 MEMOIR OF ANDREW AITKEN. XIU. 
 
 circumstances in which I am placed seem like ' the fabric of a 
 vision. ' I can scarcely credit their reality. I am only convinced by 
 ascertaining the tangibility of your munificent gifts. Solomon, who 
 often averred that ' there is nothing new under the sun, ' yet said he 
 had ' seen servants riding upon horses, and jjrinces walking as ser- 
 vants upon the earth,' and perhaps this incongTuity of rank and 
 character was induced by force or violence of some kind ; but here 
 I observe a numerous assemblage of the most wealthy, intelligent, 
 and influential inhabitants of the district, withdrawing their atten- 
 tion from the great political, civil, and religious questions which are 
 agitating society, and devoting their time, their means, and their 
 presence, in order to promote the aggrandisement of a veiy humble 
 individual. Could I persiiade myself that I have, in any shape, 
 merited this generous treatment, I would be satisfied. If I have 
 done good, it has always been more of a negative than a positive 
 kind. I know my place in society. I have never stood forth as a 
 leader of any party or faction. I like to follow some important 
 figure ; and, as Dr. Johnson said he could write a good moral essay 
 upon a broomstick, and as Rochester wrote a good poem upon 
 nothing, so I am content to be reckoned a cipher, or a nothing, that 
 I may be of some use when rightly placed. You all know that 
 
 ' Ciphers, with figures mixed, become 
 Of use in making up a sum, 
 
 And well their places fill ; 
 But he's with double dullness curs'd, 
 Whoe'er attempts to place them first, 
 
 For then thej're ciphers still.' 
 
 To conclude, I see in this respectable meeting one of the promising 
 signs of the age, showing this great truth to be becoming daily more 
 manifest— viz., tliat if the practice of habitual kindness towards one 
 another could be but judiciously followed, there would be less crime 
 in society, less misery in families, less profligacy in individuals ; and 
 we have reason, even from historical evidence, to believe that when 
 man becomes more merciful to man, even the elements themselves 
 will relax their severity, and act in harmony with the spirit of 
 society. God will even accommodate himself to man, according to
 
 XIV. MEMOIR OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 the saying of Scripture — 'With the fro ward 1 will show myself 
 froward ; but with the upright I will show myself upright. ' We 
 know that in the most barbarous ages the greatest physical calami- 
 ties occurred — earthqiiakes that destroyed cities and depopulated 
 pro^dnces, pestilences that swept away men by millions, inundations, 
 such as modern civilisation has nothing to compare with ; and the 
 increasing mercy of nature has been keej)ing time and pace with 
 that of mankind. We have good reason to believe that when man 
 ceases to be sanguinary, revengeful, sectarian, persecutive, bigotted, 
 and controversial, universal nature will present a continuance of 
 corresponding peace and love, and that mercy will look down from 
 heaven when righteousness springs from earth." 
 
 During the delivery of his speech, Mr. Aitken Avas fre- 
 quently cheered. He concluded by reading " The Arm Chair," 
 which will be found placed first in this volume. A brilliant 
 night was spent in speech and song. The following song, 
 composed and sung by Mr. Robert Shedden, C.E., was 
 received with great applause : — 
 
 "HONEST ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Tune — ^ Dainty Davie. ^ 
 " In Beith, I'm unco proud to say, 
 Our bard first saw the licht o' day — 
 We a' are proud, as weel we may. 
 To honour Andrew Aitken. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 " For Aitken is an honest chiel. 
 Quiet and honest, quiet and honest, 
 Aitken is an honest chiel. 
 Honest, worthy Aitken. 
 
 " The Muses stroked his infant face. 
 And stamped it wi' thoughtfu' grace. 
 While a' the virtues ran a race 
 To welcome Andrew Aitken.
 
 MEMOm OF ANDREW AITKEN. X\ , 
 
 " And Aitken's ne'er disgraced their clan. 
 But still has proved a virtuous man, — 
 There's few fulfil great Nature's plan 
 Sae weel as Andrew Aitken. 
 
 " Langsyne he spun his hamely rhyme 
 
 'Bout Hartfield Moors, the works and lime — 
 A job was famous in its time, 
 And sung by j^outhful Aitken. 
 
 " Baith Donald Munro and Joe Strathern 
 Were sangs the bodies roun' did learn 
 At Cattle Shows about Trearne — 
 Wha liasna heard o' Aitken ? 
 
 " An' still he has a verse to spare 
 To draper rhymsters doun at Ayr, 
 And lines upon the oaken chair 
 We've gien this niclit to Aitken. 
 
 " Some foolish bards tak' nae ad\ace, 
 But sink in folly, rags, and vice— 
 We wadna inventor their price 
 Alang wi' decent Aitken. 
 
 " For them wha lee, and swear, and grab, 
 An' file their neighbours wi' their gab. 
 They're really aff a diiferent wab 
 Frae honest Andrew Aitken. 
 
 " For Aitken's heart is warm and leal, 
 For human nature frail can feel, 
 Yet guides himsel' wi' caution weel — 
 Sae wise is Andrew Aitken. 
 
 " Some folk are paid the truth to tell, 
 But Andrew's plan just fits as well — 
 His life's a sermon in itsel'. 
 
 That mak's us proud o' Aitken.
 
 XVI. MEMOIR OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 " May goodness on him blessings sen', 
 Till far ayont three score and ten, 
 And still be loved by a' that ken 
 The worth o' Andrew Aitken." 
 
 Mr. AiTKEx lived about six years after this event. Hav 
 ing received a severe accident by a fall on ice, he never 
 recovered, and died in the month of September, 1851. 
 
 Mr. Aitken was married to Janet Fergusson, daughter 
 of Mr. John Fergusson, of Dernshaw, parish of Stewartou, 
 and with this wise and excellent woman the old philosopher 
 and poet was enabled to pass the evening of his days in the 
 utmost happiness and tranquillity. Her death preceded his 
 own about a year, and how deeply he felt her loss may be 
 gathered from a poem addressed to old David Caldwell, a 
 brother poet, who had met with a . similar loss, where he 
 says : — 
 
 " I, too, am o' my wife bereaved — 
 The ae best boon I e'er received — 
 I fondly hop'd she might hae lived 
 
 To haud my head 
 
 When death approached ; but I'm deceived, 
 
 For she's dead. 
 
 We will not venture to criticise Mr. Aitken's poetry, 
 farther than to say it is mostly of an ethical kind. To the 
 highest flights of imagination or creative genius he did not 
 pretend to soar. His simple intention seems to have been 
 
 ' ' To point a moral and adorn a tale ;" 
 and few readers, we suspect, will deny that what he at- 
 tempted he successfully accomphshed. AU his poetical 
 effusions which have fallen into the hands of the writer of 
 this Memoir are here given.
 
 POEMS OF ANDEEW AITKEN. 
 
 THE ARM CHAIR. 
 
 POEM COMPOSED BY THE AUTHOR, AND RECITED BY HIM 
 
 ON BEING PRESENTED AYITH A SPLENDID CHAIR, 
 
 ON 26th DECEMBER, 1845. 
 
 " First, Necessity invented Stools, 
 Convenience next suggested Elbow-Chairs, 
 And Luxury the accomplished Sofa, last." 
 
 COWPER'S ' ' TASK . ' ' 
 
 What recollections of the past, 
 
 Of scenes gone by, and things that were, 
 
 Crowd through my mind, whene'er 1 cast 
 A look upon my father's chair. 
 
 How often have I climbed his knees, 
 To pat his cheek, and stroke his hair ; 
 
 The kind, paternal kiss to seize. 
 When seated in his old arm chair. 
 
 And much of monitory love, 
 
 Which bade me of the world beware, 
 
 His tongue both uttered o'er and o'er. 
 While resting in his old arm chair.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 When evemiig call'd us round the hearth, 
 And storms raged through the wintery air ; 
 
 What songs and tales of social mirth, 
 Did issue from the old arm chair ! 
 
 With summer's toil, and heat o'ercome, 
 When weary nature sought repair ; 
 
 Oft did he throw his languid frame, 
 Exhausted, in his old arm chair. 
 
 When adverse fortune crossed his road, 
 And bowed him down with anxious care ; 
 
 How oft he sighed beneath the load. 
 When seated in his old arm chair. 
 
 But death, long since, has closed his eyes. 
 And peacefully he slumbers, where 
 
 A grassy turf is seen to rise,— 
 
 And fills, no more, the old arm chair. 
 
 That chair, which does these scenes recall, 
 Old age, and wasting worms impair. 
 
 Will shortly into pieces fall. 
 
 And cease to be an old arm chair. 
 
 Yet while its smallest parts remain, 
 My fancy shall behold him there ; 
 
 And memory wake these thoughts again. 
 Of him who filled the old arm chair. 
 
 Then, I was thoughtless, healthy, young. 
 And freely clamb life's uphill stair, 
 
 And fondly thought it would be long 
 E'er I should need a resting chair.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Now I am old, and weak, and lame, 
 My walk is slow, my bones are bare ; 
 
 From toil I oft exemption claim. 
 And seek, at eve, the old arm chair. 
 
 Oft have I deemed, should life endure, 
 And 1 the ready-cash could spare, 
 
 I such convenience would procure — 
 A good, substantial resting chair. 
 
 Peace to the mind which did suggest 
 This gift, appropriate and rare ; 
 
 Apt symbol of domestic rest, 
 
 Rest, always sweet in easy chair,* 
 
 Praise to the artisan, whose skill. 
 
 From Roughwood's Moss-oak did prepare 
 This seat, which Nobleman viig Jit Jill — 
 
 St. Inan ne'er had such a chair, f 
 
 Perhaps this oak, king of the wood. 
 Once screened the wild beast in its lair ; 
 
 Perhaps beneath its branches stood 
 The ancient Druids' sacred chair. 
 
 * People who are in the habit of taking a nap in their resting chair, 
 after dinner, though but for a quarter of an hour, say that they are 
 better refreshed therewith, than by two or three hours' sleep in bed 
 at night. 
 
 + The seat in which St. Inan, the tutelar saint of Beith, is 
 supposed to have sat while he instructed the people, is cut out of the 
 solid rock in the brow of a hill, situated in the property of 
 Lochlands. No intelligent person, visiting the antiquities of the 
 locality (and they are many), should depart without inspecting this 
 curious and interesting relic of antiquity.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Their rites, obscure, forgotten be, 
 
 This oak, perhaps, once could declare : 
 
 But then^ it was a living tree — 
 Now^ it is but a peasant's chair. 
 
 Now, my friends, what can I do, 
 But tender you my thanks sincere. 
 
 And to my dwelling welcome you 
 To rest and chat in easy chair. 
 
 My thanks, too, for this splendid purse, 
 Wove by the hands of Lady fair ; 
 
 Blessed he who finds such helpmate, nurse,- 
 His life glides as in easy chair. 
 
 Health to you all, and peace of mind. 
 Of fortune's goods, an ample share — 
 
 Friends, children, wives, all true and kind, 
 A blazing fire — an easy chaii'. 
 
 And aye when I sit down to rest, 
 I'll breathe, for you, a silent prayer. 
 
 And cheerfully resign, at last, 
 
 My life, in this esteemed arm chair. 
 
 And may we all, through aid of Grace, 
 Escape from every dangerous snare ; 
 
 And meet, at last, in yon blessed place, 
 Where none can want an easy chair. 
 
 Rhymes have I yet my theme to swell. 
 
 To pages -nearly half-a-quire : 
 But, friends, I think 'twill be as well 
 
 To cease, and try the Resting Chair !
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 THE MISER AND THE PRODiaAL : 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " Money is first loved as a means of procuring the comforts of life, 
 and people end in loving it for its own sake, and in depriving them- 
 selves, in order to preserve it, of these very enjoyments which alone- 
 can make it desirable." 
 
 To study man, to trace bis aims aud views, 
 
 Is labour worthy of the rui-al Muse. 
 
 To aid the right, discountenance the wrong, 
 
 And point out Wisdom's path to old and young — 
 
 Teach Virtue's votaries in her ways to run, 
 
 And warn the simple. Folly's paths to shun. 
 
 To teach and please, be this my constant aim— 
 
 The following tale does your attention claim. 
 
 'Mang men on earth is many a different state — 
 Some rich, some poor, some little, and some great. 
 Life's short and shifting scene we struggle through, 
 Eacli with some favourite pursuit in view. 
 By Folly led, we oft ourselves deceive. 
 And grasp at shadows, and the substance leave. 
 Some hoard up wealth, yet never are content. 
 And in the midst of plenty live in want. 
 What folly this ! from fortune wealth to court. 
 And lea't to those who will not tliank them for't, — 
 They'll say " he pinch'd hinisel', we'll tak' it now, 
 Then eat and drink, and roar and curse, and spew."
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 But to oar tale, which shall the truth declare, — 
 There was a man lived near the toun o' Ayr, 
 Whase way o' life we will attempt to show, 
 That all wha read may learn and wiser grow. 
 
 Aye frae his youth he was incUned to care, 
 While ithers spent his money, he would spare. 
 Whan young chaps fairings coft an' looket big. 
 He slipp'd his bawbees in a Piner Pig* 
 At school he aften sell'd his bread and cheese. 
 And gathered preens an' sell'd them for bawbees. 
 His father dee't, nae hame ava had he. 
 To his ain fen he gaed an' took a fee. 
 
 Would foolish mortals follow Reason's light, 
 And when they're weel, try to continue right- 
 Now was the time he hit the happy mark. 
 He wrought, an' gat guid wages for his wark — 
 His siller lent, \vi' pleasure he would tell 
 It gain'd as fast as he cou'd do himsell ; 
 He gather'd, view'd, and' sav'd, how happy now,f 
 For every day he lived, he richer grew. 
 At length, resolved to change his way o' life, 
 He made a bauld attempt, and took a wife — 
 
 A wife, of earthly gifts, by wisdom's plan. 
 Designed the best, a helpmate unto man. 
 Proved not a blessing to a rnau like this. 
 But sealed her ain unhappiness and his. 
 
 * A Finer F'kj is a small earthenware jar, with a slit in one of its 
 sides, near the top, large enough to admifr pieces of money, but from 
 which they are not easily extracted, without breaking the vessel. 
 
 + Avarice is a uniform and tractable vice ; other intellectual dis- 
 tempers are different in different constitutions of mind. That which 
 soothes tlie pride of one, will offend the pride of another ; but tu the 
 favour of the covetous bring money, and nothing is denied.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITICEN. 7 
 
 She wisli'd to live a moderate, frugal nieau, 
 
 And, by industry, to gaug snod and clean : 
 
 He wished to save, even every sma' expense 
 
 Tho' toom their wames, an' bare their backs at ance. 
 
 Now he had siller lent to different ban's — 
 
 On houses, and on property in lan's ; 
 
 At length, some partial loss did him alarm. 
 
 He gather'd up his stock, an' coft a farm. 
 
 And now his paying an' his grief began, 
 Which kept him always an unhappy man ; 
 A house to bigg, cost him a great expense — 
 His parks to lime, an' plough, an' drain, an' fence. 
 A horse an' cart, an" graith, he had to buy 
 A plough an' harrows, sheep an' swine, an' kye ; 
 'Mang ither events, too, his only son 
 Was gotten hame, an' by him christen'd John. 
 Thus howdies, banquets, something every day, 
 At ilka corner gar'd him draw an' pay. 
 Sad was his case, for mony a body doubtit 
 He wad hae dee't, or gane stark mad about it : 
 His purse gaed toom, ah ! desperate, dark despair ! 
 It didna' do, he had to barrow niair. 
 By various means, howe'er, the farm was stocked, 
 An' to the saving an' the wark he yocket, 
 By day he jtlann'd and wrought, by night he dream'd 
 O' schemes to get his farm frae debt redeem'd : 
 This end obtained, he aye grew worse and worse, 
 An' a' he gam'd was stapit in the purse. 
 His ain guid corn an' meal he dear did sell. 
 An' coft auld damaged stuff to ser' themsell : 
 This auld mool't trash he got about the shore, 
 They ate less o't, this was a mighty fore ! * 
 
 * Avarice excludes all natural and social affections from the 
 human breast. It is incompatible with elevation of mind ; with
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 All' whey for kitchen, this was reckon'd fine — 
 E'en this was gnidg'd. because it fed the swine. 
 An' they brought siller ! precious metal I — yes, 
 His food, drink, claise, his hope, his future bliss. 
 
 By this time he was wearin' up in years 
 An' worn wi' wark, an' grief, an' killin' cares. 
 His wife she dee't, through grief and sair distress, 
 Which event did complete his wretchedness ; 
 For she had urg'd him aft, by counsel good, 
 To tak', and gie the lave baith claise an' food — 
 Left 'till himsel' an' wealth, he aye turu'd keener. 
 An' aye the mair he gat, he liv'd the meaner — 
 He tookna' meat, an' wadna wash his claise. 
 But gaed in rags, o'ergane wi' dirt an' flaes — 
 His blankets dune, he wadna' purchase mae, ^ 
 But sleepit mony a night 'mang rags an' strae. 
 
 As he turn'd frail — grown up to manhood, Jock 
 Soon fand he wasna' used like ither fo'k ; 
 While ither youths war' fed an' clad at will, 
 He was ill meated, poorer rigget still. 
 Meanwhile the auld man fail'd — Jock out afiel' 
 Begude to manage, turn'd a squattrin' chiel ; 
 Jock saw his spirit, but, at hame, ye ken, 
 The auld man didna' gie him much to spen', 
 lie steal'd at hame, whan he advantage had, 
 An' barrow'd sums, an' rov'd avva' like mad. 
 These things, wi' grief, the auld man heard an' saw, 
 Could not prevent them, had to yield up a' ; 
 Unweal he turned, cou'd tak' nae meat, grew faint, 
 
 benevolence, generosity, humanity, confidence, and candour ; witli 
 love and ti'ue friendship ; with paternal tenderness and filial affection. 
 What virtue then remains for the miser? What happiness can a 
 man without moral goodness enjoy ?
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. V 
 
 Wad tak' nae cordials, dee't wi' perfect want — * 
 An' left his precious gear to ither folk — 
 It ne'er was his, nor wad it bide wi' Jock. 
 
 Jock, master now, begude to act wi' spirit, 
 Providin' things to get his father buried. 
 •' He's left me plenty," Jock was heard to say, 
 " He pinch'd nie laug, we'll hae ae jolly day." 
 The day was cauld, the liquor guid an' strong, 
 An' freely it was drunk by auld an' young. 
 Lang graces, too, were said, while some did nod — 
 They gat him out, at last, an* took the road — 
 Fast they gaed on, an' dash'd thro' thick an thin, 
 While some were comin' singin' far ahin. 
 " He," cried auld men wi' dirt bedaubed claes, 
 " Ne'er gaed to toun sae merry a' his days !" 
 Some fell an' spew't, the stoutest onward drave. 
 An' gat the auld man happit in his grave. 
 
 Frae elags an' claims, debts an' mortages clear — 
 A farm weel worth a hundred pounds a year. 
 Besides the stock of gear, which wasiia' sma'. 
 An' siller likewise, Jock was laird o' a'. 
 His father's guid auld warks he did despise,! 
 (Folk that are rich soon fancy they are wise), 
 He bigget houses, muckle, stark, an' fine. 
 Heigh garden dykes, an' fruit trees plantet syne; 
 Coft a new gig, kept bluid-mares — races ran ; 
 Rade bruises too, an' mighty wagers wan, 
 
 * Seneca says, " many things are wanting to the indigent — the 
 miser wants everything." Quevedo tells us " that a miser is a man 
 who knows where a treasure is hidden." It is possible, after all, 
 that a miser, as well as a devotee, may enjoy his privations ; but to 
 want fuel in winter, and food when hungry, are evils nevertheless. 
 The miser would doubtless prefer to be well lodged, well clothed, 
 and well fed, if it cost him nothing. 
 
 t " We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow ; 
 Our wiser sons, no doubt, will think us so. "
 
 10 POEMS OF AXDKKW AITKKN. 
 
 Had IiouirLs ;m' poiiiter-dogs, o' various breeds — 
 
 Catch'd maukins, partricks shot — did manly deeds. 
 
 Horse couper tiirn'd, lee't, bred an' uuco steer, 
 
 An' cbeatet simple bodies far au' near, 
 
 Now he was seldom seen at hanie ava' — 
 
 Wad ye him seek ? then at the yill-house ca'. 
 
 He learn'd to swear, an' stay'd, without regard, 
 
 'Mang dyvour chiels, wha praised, an' ca'd him laird ; 
 
 They drank, he pay't ; naught pleased sae nuickle now 
 
 As drinking hard, and filling itliers fu'. 
 
 His cash gaed doon — sell't ae park, syne anither. 
 
 Till, park an' park, he sell't it a' thegitber. 
 
 'Maug money a plan, at length he hit the nailer — 
 
 Gaed to the toun an' turu'd a spirit-dealer. 
 
 Here for some time he did enjoy his wish, 
 
 He sell't and drank himsel' like ony fish ; 
 
 But, scarce o' cash again, he forged a bill, 
 
 An' smuggled whisky, an' did niuckle ill. 
 
 For justice feared, this hardened vile offender 
 
 Turned bankrupt, fled, an' gaed aboard the tender. 
 
 Reader, remind my tale, with deep concern ; 
 From such examples usefu' wisdom leai'n. 
 While nusers starve amidst their stores o' wealth, 
 And drunkards waste their money and their health ; 
 iStrive thou, with prudence, both extremes to shun — 
 I)istant from both a happy medium run. 
 What heaven bestows with thankfulness receive, 
 With reason take, and taste, enjoy, and live. 
 
 My design in writing and publishing the foregoing tale is not 
 merely to raise a laugh at the follies and sufferings of erring mortals, 
 but to delineate the evil of covetousness on the one hand, and 
 prodigality on the other, and warn people from running into extremes 
 of every kind; for it, is only in the way of receiving with thank- 
 fulness, and using in moderation, the various gifts of Providence, 
 that wo can be useful and happy through life, and terminate our 
 days with honour and safety.
 
 POEMS OF AXDUKW AITKKN. 11 
 
 THE TOLLMAN'S DITTY. 
 
 I ha'e plougli'd, 1 ba'e delv'd, catted hay, shorn and thrashed, 
 
 An' howked baitli limestone an' coal ; 
 I ha'e tried mony a shift for a wee bit o' bread, — 
 
 But the warst ane was keepiu' a Toll ! 
 
 Ye glour at me now, wi' suspicious I'egard, 
 
 An' say my assertion is droll ; 
 For ye've nae mair to do but to hand out your han'. 
 
 An' receive your bawbees, at a Toll. 
 
 Gif bawbees be gotten, it's aft wi' a grudge. 
 
 Or a jeer that is whyles ill to thole ; 
 Not as money that's awn, but bestow'd as an alms, 
 
 On the pair beggar-man at the Toll. 
 
 " I'm gaun to the sraiddy," ane cries, or " the plough," 
 
 Or, ''the grass wi' my mare an' my foal;" 
 There is aye some excuse, for few think it a sin, 
 
 To cheat the puir man o' the Toll. 
 
 1^'or the fo'k gane to toun, lang the toll-keeper watches 
 
 Till, drowsy an' blin' as a mole, 
 His patience worn out, he retires to bed grieved, 
 
 At the want o' his rest an' the Toll.
 
 12 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Then he's nae sooner down till the horses are prancing 
 An' the wheels on the causeway loud roll ; 
 
 An' he fin's, to his grief, that he never will get 
 Either money or rest at a Toll. 
 
 On Sunday, when fo'ks gang in fashion's array, 
 
 To hear the divine read his scroll ; 
 Then the carts, cars, an' gigs, are in special request, 
 
 For they drive on without paying Toll. 
 
 Frae the toll-house religion benign takes her flight, 
 
 (For the Bible maun lie in the bole,) 
 E'en its form, ceremonial, can scarce be observ'd. 
 
 Mid the niglds an' days watching the Toll. 
 
 The toll-keeper, too, maun look surly an' rough, 
 . The lads wi' the whips to control; 
 His cry maun be loud, an' his arm prone to strike, 
 Or he'll ne'er get the half o' his Toll. 
 
 Yet wha wad despise the puir toll-keeper's trade, 
 
 But the proud or the stupid clodpole ; 
 For men of all place, or profession, or rank, 
 ■ What are they but lifters o' Toll ? 
 
 Ane ushers us into the world at our l)irth, 
 
 Anither ane howks our last hole ; 
 During life mutual service is render'd, 'tis true, 
 
 But it's a' for the sake o' the Toll. 
 
 The priest prays an' preaches wi' fervour an' zeal, 
 
 To free us frae sin an' frae dole ; 
 Though the wark be divine, yet he'll no' speak a word, 
 
 Till he ken wha's to pay him the Toll.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 13 
 
 The law-man prolongs your plain cause through long years, 
 
 (For he ettles to seize on the whole.) 
 His harvest o' wealth is insolvent distress — 
 
 There, he's certain o' getting his Toll. 
 
 Frae the Queen on the throne, to the puir gaberlunzie, 
 
 Wha roun' for a morsel does stroll, 
 The powerfu' and wealthy demand what's their due ; 
 
 An' the poor, — they solicit for Toll. 
 
 When tierce comets blaze, boding skaith to the nations, 
 
 An' frost an' sua' come frae the pole: 
 Mad wars, ruin'd trade, an' the glebe's scanty produce, 
 
 Scrimps mony a ane o' the Toll. 
 
 Had I a wee house, an' a weel shelter'd yard, 
 
 Near a buru, on a bouie green knoll ; 
 I wad live there in peace, quite regardless and easy, 
 
 Wha flait or wha faught to get Toll. 
 
 For the boy wi' his peerie, his dragon, or hoop. 
 
 Or the wee lassie buskeu her doll, 
 Is mair happy, contented, and cheer'd in bright hope, 
 
 Than the man 'mong the coins at a Toll. 
 
 Yet a dark jail itsel' a wish'd refuge has prov'd. 
 
 To mony a toil-worn-out soul ; 
 Sae there's plenty are glad, in their auld days to dree 
 
 Baith the scaith an' the scorn o' a Toll.
 
 14 ^ POKMS OK ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 THE TOUN 0' DALRY, IX 1841. 
 
 ' ' Knowledge, by time, advances slow and wise. 
 Turns everj^where its deep discerning eyes ; 
 Sees what befell, and wliat may yet befall ; 
 Conclndes from both, and best provides for all." 
 
 It is said naething new e'er a])pears in this world, 
 The assertion, wi' leave, I will flatly deny — 
 Just look what a number o' new and strange objects 
 Are seen ilka day near the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 The sage, I hae quoted whyles err'd, like his neibors, 
 Though gifted wi' wisdom an' skill frae on High ; 
 An' he trewd nought ava about steam-power or rail-roads. 
 An' mony thing else at the toun o' Hairy, 
 
 Langsyne our guid sires trudged to kirk an' to market 
 On dirty clay roads wi' theu* feet seldom dry ; 
 An' whan muckle spates cam', an' the nights dark an' stormy, 
 There war fo'k droun'd in burns near the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 Locomotion has now become safe, cheap, an' speedy; 
 For there's brigs o'er the Garnock, the Cauf, an' the Rye * 
 And, on roads made o' iron, hurl fire impelled chariots. 
 Far outstripping the wind, past the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 * The names of three beautiful streams of water, which flow from 
 the hills, lying to the north and west, and which nearly encompass 
 the village.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 15 
 
 We breakfast and mount, puff, puff, goes the engine, 
 An' aff wi' the speed o' winged seraph's we fly ; 
 Across auld braid Scotland on business or pleasure, 
 An' sup here at e'en, in the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 The brave clan MacDonald aye first o' the foremost, 
 In the dangers of war when fierce foemen drew nigh — 
 Though they've sheathed their claymores, yet their raging 
 
 fires threaten 
 To burn a' the coals near the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 Tall chimneys appear, an' big fires fiercely lowing, 
 "Whar the farmer of late fed his sheep an' his kye— 
 An' lochs o' fused metal like the boilings o' Etna, 
 Di-awn frae mines digged deep near the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 An' the stroug blast is heard, and the stroke o' the hammer, 
 An' the spark, yet unquenched, that for liquor does cry ; 
 For the famed fabled feats done in Vulcan's het smiddy, 
 Are now realized near the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 By Drakemyre we descend — see the claith-spread enclosures, 
 Emblazoned by every bright colour and dye ; 
 Saint Margaret hersel', ne'er displayed sic braw dresses. 
 As are worn ilka day by the wives o' Dairy. 
 
 Langsyne near the Cleaves bank, the Pencot, and Lissens, 
 The fairies, elfs, brounies (a queer motely fry), 
 Wrought wark for sma' hire, and whyles tricked their masters, 
 But now, a's done by steam at the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 An' the fires are but kindling — mair steam will be wanted, 
 Which the water o' Garnock will hardly supply ; 
 For the skill, an' the strength, an' the meat, an' the siller, 
 Are gathering in fast to the toun o' Dairy.
 
 16 POKMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 For the time may come yet, wha cau tell what's to happen, 
 Whan this sma' rural toun wi' big GlasgoAv may vie ; 
 Great things rise frae little, for Glasgow at ae time, 
 Was just a wee spat like the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 Auld Ayr, famed in sang, will revive frae her slumbers, 
 But Beith in the back-grund for some time maun lie. 
 Her smugglers are dead, an' her sons hand-loom weavers, 
 An' she's far frae the road where wealth flows to Dairy. 
 
 'Mang the faithfu', laugsyne, was auld gramiy Kilwinnmg, 
 Whase relics o' priestcraft times, changes defy ; 
 Nae mair she can tax a' the parishes roun' her — 
 She maun set on the steam like the fo'k o' Dairy. 
 
 Would our morals improve wi' our wealth an' our knowledge — 
 If we frae experience some wisdom could buy. 
 We might hail as a boon a' these great speculations 
 Matured an' gaun on roun' the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 Hope bids us believe true reform is progressing. 
 Through the mist o' prospective good days we espy. 
 When oppression will cease, and the arts, humanising. 
 Will be practised a' wheres as they are at Dairy. 
 
 Railroads will be form'd between nation and nations, 
 On the earth, o'er the ocean, or up in the sky ; 
 An' fo'k o' a' cUmes will come here wi' their produce, 
 An' get iron an' bra' claith at the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 I hae rhymes yet in store to fill up several pages, 
 But, guid reader, rejnember that baith thee an' I 
 Hae some jobs else to do, for the way times are going, 
 Idle fo'k are nae use at the tonn o' Dairy.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKICN. 17 
 
 There's whyles little for working, but less to gang idle, 
 Au' we aft dinna ken how we'll speed till we try ; 
 Success doesna always reward the deserving — 
 An' there's muckle at stake near the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 Meanwhile, do ye wish to get place, wark, an' wages, 
 Step doun on the train, an' to Condie * apply : 
 He'll soon scan you throughly an' set you to some job, 
 Aboou or below near the toun o' Dairy. 
 
 Or are ye for fun, put twa pounds in ye're pocket — 
 Ye'll get a' sorts o' drink, a beef steak, or a pie, 
 Obsequious attendance, an' a reel for amusement. 
 In Colligan's f Ila' in the toim o' Dairy. 
 
 Whan ye're tired looking roun', up to Beith tak' a dander ; 
 Keep the muckle black tower on the kirk in your eye; 
 Ye'll obtain w^hat ye want, just as guid, aiblins cheaper, 
 Thau ye'll buy in the thrang o' the shops o' Dairy. 
 
 Let naebody say I am partial to places ; 
 On the poor rhymer's verses o' dinna look shy ; 
 Though muckle's been said, its wi' nae ill intention — 
 I wad like to see a' places thrive like Dairy. 
 
 * J. Condie, at that time manager of Blair Ironworks. 
 
 + P. CoUigan, a celebrated dancing master, and landlord of the 
 King's Arms Inn.
 
 Ifi I'OKMS or AXUKEW AITKKX. 
 
 THE AULD FLECKIT COW. 
 
 Frae the well we get water, frae the heugh we get fuel 
 
 Frae the rigs we get barley, frae the sheep we get woo' ; 
 Frae the bee wi get hinny, an' eggs frae the chuckle, 
 An' plenty o' milk frae our auld fleckit cow 
 An' o', my dear lassie, be guid to auld fleckie, 
 
 Wi' the best o' hay-fodder, an' rips frae the mou ; 
 Boil'd meat in a bakie, warm, luix'd up wi' beanmeal, 
 For it's a' weel bestowed on the auld fleckit cow. 
 
 She's wee, an' she's auld, and she's lame, an' she's hammilt, 
 
 An' mair than sax years she's been farrow, I trow ; 
 But she fills aye the luggie, Ijaith e'ening an' morning. 
 An' rich creamy milk gi'es our auld farrow cow. 
 An' o', my dear lassie, be guid to auld fleckie, 
 An' dinna gie a' the guid meat to the soav ; 
 For the hens will be craikin', the ducks will be quakin', 
 To wile the tid-bites frae the auld farrow cow. 
 
 She ne'er breaks the fences, to spoil corn an' 'tatoes, 
 Contented, though lanely, the grass she does pu' ; 
 She ne'er wastes her teeth munching stanes or auld leather, 
 But cannie, lying doun, chews her cud when she's fu'. 
 Then o', my dear lassie, be guid to auld fleckie, 
 
 An' niin' that she just gies her milk by the mow; 
 An' we'll still get braw kebbucks, an' nice yellow butter. 
 An' cream to our tea, frae the auld fleckit cow.
 
 I'OKMS OF ANI)Iti:\V AITKEX. 1'.) 
 
 Ill the byre she's aye caiiuie, nor e'er needs a burroch. 
 
 But gie's her milk freely whene'er it is due ; 
 Wi' routing, an' rairing, she ne'er deeves the neighbours — 
 They ne'er hear the croon o' the aukl fleckit cow. 
 An' o', feed lier vveel wi' the sappy red clover, 
 
 Green kail, yellow turnips, an' cabbage enow : 
 P^r she's whyles in the house, an' her gang's no' that birthy, 
 The grass is owre sour for our milky auld cow. 
 
 When clegs, flies, an' midges, or hornets, niOlest her, 
 
 Or cauld, stormy weather brings danger in view ; 
 In her ain warm wee housie, frae harm's-way protect her, — 
 I'm fear'd something happen our auld fleckit cow. 
 An' my guid tentie lassie will wed some guid farmer, 
 
 Wi' bonnie green parks baith to graze an' to plow ; 
 White sheep, an' milk kye, o' the best breeds o' Ayrshire, 
 For muckle she's made out the auld fleckit cow. 
 
 We'll no pairt wi' auld fleckie for some years to come yet, 
 
 A' our lang life-time, that deed sair we wad rue ; 
 For she hasna a calf to haud fu' the binnin', 
 And fill up the place o' ihe auld fleckit cow. 
 Sae, O my guid lassie, remember auld fleckie, 
 
 An' feed her, an' milk her, as lang's she will do ; 
 We hae aye been weel ser'd, an' she's noo awn us naething, 
 But we'll ne'er get a match to the auld fleckit cow. 
 
 leese me on milk, its the food o' the baby, 
 
 0' the strong blooming youth, an' the auld bodie too ; 
 Our gentles may sip at their tea an' their toddy, 
 But gie me the milk o' the auld fleckit cow. 
 
 An' my kind lassie, the spring time is coming, 
 
 An' the grass it will grow, an' we'll hear the cuckoo ; 
 The laverocks will sing, au' we'll a' tread the gowau, 
 An' drink the rich milk o' our ain hammilt cow.
 
 20 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEX. 
 
 O the dames o' the south boast their flocks o' milk camels, 
 
 Their bread-beariug trees, an' their huts o' bamboo ; 
 An' the wives o' the north hae their seals an' their reindeer, 
 But we hae oatmeal an' the auld fleckit cow. 
 
 An' O my dear Peggy, we're thankfu' for mulloch, — 
 Sad care and distnist ne'er shall darken our brow ; 
 An' 1 wish a' the house-keeping fo'k in the nation 
 Cou'd sup the pure milk o' their ain fleckit cow. 
 
 N.B. — This cow was the property of the late Mrs. Harvey of 
 Balgray. She had been six years farrow, at the time this song was 
 written, and continued to give an astonishing quantity of milk. 
 " If good well-fed cows giv'e their own weight in cheese, through the 
 year, it is deemed an ample return ; but this little animal will not 
 feed above 19 stones imperial, yet she produced, last year, 25 stones 
 of sweet milk cheese — besides serving the family with what butter 
 and milk they needed." 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE AULD FLECKIT COW 
 
 TcNE — Jennys Bawhee. 
 
 The auld fleckit cow's dead, 
 Our guid farrow cow's dead, 
 The widow's ae cow's dead. 
 
 An' what will we do now ? 
 She ser't us weel wi' milk an' whey. 
 An' mucltle cheese we sell'd forby. 
 For seven years she ne'er gaed dry — 
 
 She was a noble cow.
 
 POEMS OF ANDKKW AITKEN. 21 
 
 O did she dee for lack u' meat? 
 
 Did Margaret gie her uoug-ht to eat? 
 
 Her teeth gaed doon, lame grew her feet, 
 
 The grass she couldiia pu'. 
 Into the park, whar hiug she gaed, 
 Our roadman, John, wi' shool an' spade, 
 Prepar'd a grave, au' there was laid 
 
 Our guid auld fleckit cow. 
 
 To neibour John, our thanks are due. 
 For frae his byre he sent a cow, 
 To gie us milk the winter through — 
 
 Sic frien'ly chaps are few : 
 But O she was a wayward jade, 
 8he croon'd an' lap the dykes like mad, 
 To joiu the laird's big rowting squad. 
 
 Unlike our douse auld cow. 
 
 Now winter gently aff does pass. 
 An' Johnny's coav gaes to the grass. 
 An' we, my dears, can't live on gas. 
 
 Its rather thiu I trow : 
 For my maids, weel may ye fa'. 
 Its meat an' drink that mak's ye braw. 
 An' sae our pm'se-striugs we maun draw 
 
 An' buy anither cow. 
 
 Fain would I try to rear a calf, 
 
 But that would tak' owre lang by half ; 
 
 I'm frail, or I wad tak' my staff, 
 
 An' seek the kintra through ; 
 But John, our frien', or Taiidlehill, 
 Will ware a wee while's time an' skill 
 Auld fleckie's empty boose to fill 
 
 Wi' some bit milkv cow.
 
 22 POEMS OF AN1)I;EW aitkex. 
 
 Some thrifty wives keep ducks au' hens, 
 An' geese, to bring up odds an' en's, 
 An' mony a ane nae better kens, 
 
 Than feed a nasty sow : 
 But 'maug the beasts, baith wikl an' taiue. 
 On sea or Ian', abroad, at hame, 
 Gie me a choice — 1 rest my claim 
 
 Upo' the usefu' cow. 
 
 OVERTOX, 1843. 
 
 THE BACK 0' THE HILL. 
 
 (Inscribed to Mrs. D, Wilson.) 
 
 I hae seen splendid cities, and strong-towering castles, 
 Erected with money, hard labour, and skill ; 
 
 But I ne'er saw a snug, neat, secure rural dwelling. 
 Like the cottage that stands at the back o' the hill. 
 
 The fierce wind may Avar a' aroun' on the uplands, 
 And winter's cauld breath vegetation may chill ; 
 
 But the tempest is hushed, or just heard at a distance, 
 Frae the cottage doon-bye, at the back o' the hill. 
 
 The green braes yield milk, corn, potatoes, and honey, 
 And pure water trickles frae spring an' frae rill ; 
 
 Easy labour gives health — healtii ensures full fruition, 
 An' there's nae fear o' want at the back o' the hill. 
 
 The master is sober, industrious, and generous. 
 An', at hame an' afiel', weel his station does fill ; 
 
 An' the mistress is frank, cheerfu', youthfu', an' bonnie. 
 And beloved by the man at the back o' the hill.
 
 P0E31S OF ANDlfEW AITKKX. 23 
 
 Our great fo'ks wlia strive for fame, riches, and bouour, 
 But are never laug pleased, e'en tho' gie them their will, 
 
 Should repair to this spot, and adopt the example 
 O' the couple that Uve at the back o' the hill. 
 
 Crimes and poortith would cease — there wad be nae oppressors, 
 
 Nor men, whase profession is ithers to kill ; 
 Fo'k wad live as they ought, in fraternal affection, 
 
 An' their dwelliugs would be like the back o' the hill. 
 
 On rare holidays, toun-mechanics and merchants — 
 Clerks, students, and people coufiued to the mill — 
 
 Find their health, both of body and mind, much promoted, 
 By a stroll through the glen at the back o' the hill. 
 
 And the ground that they tread, was in ancient times, holy, 
 
 For numerous memorials are visible still. 
 Of the altars, the circles, and cairns of the Druids, 
 
 On the summit, an' roun' by the back o' the hill. 
 
 Here the song of devotion and praise has ascended ; 
 
 Here fierce clans hae fought, when the war-pipe blew shrill; 
 But their feuds, an' their deeds, an' their names are forgotten, 
 
 For they sleep in the cairn at the back o' the hill. 
 
 The chase, love, and war, fiirnish themes great and noble 
 For the eloquent spokesman, the pencil, and quill ; 
 
 But the loud trump o' fame is ne'er heard, not yet wanted. 
 At the tranquil retreat roun' the back o' the hill. 
 
 But the man wha can ta^ste the rich gifts o' fair fortune. 
 An' gie ithers their due, an' yet naething does spill. 
 
 May count on true friends, both in deed and in purpose. 
 In the cottage o'erby at the back o' the hill. 
 
 Our existence is chequered wi' paiu aud wi' pleasure, 
 Whae'er shares o' the guid, maun partake o' the ill; 
 
 But few real ills would afflict foolish mortals. 
 
 Would they live like the fo'k at the back o' the hill.
 
 24 rOEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 MONTGOMERIE'S INN, DALRY. 
 
 (Recited hefoi-e the Burns' Club, January 26, 1843. J 
 
 Time soon slips awa', for its saxteen lang towmonds 
 
 Since oui' social Burns' club did begin ; 
 And we've annually met, on this night most auspicious, 
 
 In Johnny Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 We hae sang o' the bard — in his fame we've rejoiced, 
 
 An' drank to the health o' his kin ; 
 The poets deceased, and alive, we hae toasted, 
 
 When met in Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 But the fame of our bard has extended ah'eady 
 
 As far through the earth as't can win, 
 Sae we can add naething thereto by our meeting 
 
 This night in Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 On our ain account, then, we assemble this evening. 
 
 And, though cynics may count it a sin. 
 We get happy, at least, ay ae night o' the season. 
 
 On the best in Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 Its just theecket wi' strae, an' but laigh o' the ceiHng, 
 That we scarce can stan' up straight within, 
 
 But there's aye soinething guid, baith for eating an' drinking. 
 To be had in Montgomerie's Inn.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 25 
 
 Frae the women fo'k, first, we derive our existence, 
 
 And maist o' the guid that we tin' ; 
 Sae if happy just now, thank the care and attention 
 
 Of the wife o' Montgonierie's luu. 
 
 Of the wife o' Dairy much has been said an' written, 
 
 But there's wives in Dolry inae than ane 
 That are crouns to their husbands — guid bless them a' halesale, 
 
 Wi' the wife o' Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 There are wives that can bear, an' can nurse up braw bairnies, 
 Bake scones, sew, mak' kebbucks, an' spin ; 
 
 But there's few that can mix up a haggis sae nicely, 
 As the wife o' Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 Burns sang o' a haggis — its ample dimensions. 
 
 Ingredients rich, and clear skin ; 
 But ne'er chieftain pudding deserved a " bethankit " 
 
 Like ours in Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 May he beg for a scone, or a cauld boiled potatoe, 
 
 Wha wad saucily toss up his chin 
 At the hamely substantials o' life, thus prepared. 
 
 By the wife o' Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 When the landlord comes up wi' a smile on his visage, 
 
 Wi' the stoup fu' o' whisky or gin. 
 Inspired we become, sing, recite droll effusions, 
 
 Wi' birr, in Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 An' its natural we shou'd ; when the bag is wcel filled 
 
 The drone pipes commence making din ; 
 An' we're whyles something loud, but we're never discordant. 
 
 When met in Montgomerie's Inn.
 
 26 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Some chaps, we aft see, wi' sic plenty to guzzle, 
 
 Are neither to hand nor to bin', 
 But wad swear, fight, break jugs, and alarm a' the neibours. 
 
 Far an' near, roun' Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 Sic fools should gae join Father Matthew's tea-totals. 
 
 An' evermore keep in the pin. 
 Or come doun to Dairy, an' learn raair wise-like conduct 
 
 Frae our club at Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 AVe hae met aye weel pleas'd, wi' regret we hae parted ; 
 
 An' gif I be na' crippl'd an' blin', 
 I'll mak' shift, my guid frien's, whyles to crawl doun an' see ye 
 
 In far-famed Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 Our tried trusty chairman, * wha lang has stood by us 
 
 Untired, through thick an' through thin ; 
 We owe much to his guidance —his place he well merits 
 
 This night in Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 Old time, year by year, brings about muckle changes, 
 
 At twice railroad-speed let it ria ; 
 We'll aye houp for the best, an' perhaps taste the haggis 
 
 Neist year, in Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 But distress stalks abroad, and increasing privation, f 
 
 An' a' bodies fa'in' ahin', 
 An' muckle may we see, to the waur or the better, 
 
 Ere we meet in Montgomerie's Inn. 
 
 * Andrew Crawford, of Courthill — since emigrated to America. 
 
 » 
 
 + At this period, the inhabitants of Paisley and several other 
 manufacturing towns and villages, were nearlyin a starving condition.
 
 POEMS OF ANDKKW AITKEN. 27 
 
 THE AULD TAPPIT HEN. 
 
 my mitber was giiid to the weans an' the servants, 
 The horses, the kye, an' a' tilings but-an'-beu ; 
 
 They were aye stout an' cheery, an' fit for their labour, 
 As ye'U hear frae my sang ou the auld tappit hen. 
 
 The auld tappit hen, it was douse, it was canny. 
 
 The egg-layin' time it fu' brawly did ken ; 
 When the doors were a' steekit, it rapp't at the winnock. 
 
 An' aye letten in, was the auld tappit hen. 
 
 My mither sat spinniu' sma' yarn for the merchant, * 
 Sax spindles a pun', an, Avhyles aught, an' Avhyles ten ; 
 
 The hen aye flew up on her kuee, an' tauk-tauket. 
 An' weel mither kenu'd what was said by the hen. 
 
 For, she lifted it up, on her ain bed she placed it — 
 On its aye welcome errand, short time it did spen' ; 
 
 When a due meed o' praise, boil'd gray pease, or hard barley. 
 Was aye the reward o' the auld tappit hen. 
 
 An egg every day, for sax weeks, without missing, — 
 But the blithe e'enin' bell had dismiss'd the warknien. 
 
 And the bens were at roost, ere it made its last offering. 
 An' mother had gi'en the last pick to her hen. 
 
 * Between fifty and sixty years ago, before the introduction of the 
 cotton manufacture, sjjinning of linen yarn was one of the staple 
 trades of this country. The t<pinrnny-ivheel was an indispensible 
 domestic utensil amongst industrious housekeepers.
 
 28 POEMS OF ANDREAV AITKEX. 
 
 For it dee't — but it wasna' by auld age or hunger, 
 Nor yet by Tod-lowrie broke loose frae his deu ; 
 
 But the big horses foot in the darkness o' gloaming, 
 Unconscious o' harm, crush'd the auld tappit hen. 
 
 An' sadly we grieved at the fate o' auld tappock ; 
 
 Lang, lang, mother mouru'd o'er its tragical en' ; 
 But though hirsel on hirsel o' chickens were hatched, 
 
 She ne'er gat a match to her auld tappit hen. 
 
 On the feather'd creation grand books hae been written. 
 An' their habits explored thro' the forest an' glen, 
 
 They've been priz'd for their sang, and admir'd for their 
 plumage, 
 But the bird for man's use is a guid laying hen. 
 
 "The domestic hen will layabout two hundred eggs in a year pro- 
 vided she be well fed, and well supplied with water and liberty. If 
 left to herself she would seldom lay above twenty eggs in the same 
 nest without attempting to hatch them ; but in propoition as she 
 lays, when her eggs are removed, she continues to lay, vainly hoping 
 to increase the number. In the wild state, the hen seldom lays 
 above fifteen eggs, but then her provision is more precariously ob- 
 tained, and she is perhaps sensible of the difficulty of maintaining 
 too numerous a family, — goldsmith." 
 
 THE WIFE 0' DALRY. 
 
 Owre lang hae our bards lauded wars an' dram-drinking, 
 But wi' auld foolish customs nae mair we'll comply ; 
 
 We'll hae new reform saugs, an' by way o' example, 
 I'll gie you twa verse on the wife o' Dairy. 
 
 Wi' the wives, I confess, I am nane fond to meddle, 
 Against me they'll raise up a hue an' a cry ; 
 
 But the truth should be tauld, that baith they an' the lasses, 
 May learn something guid frae the wife o' Dairy.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 29 
 
 Her house is but wee, but its neat an' weel-plenished, 
 Wi' a' things to please baith the mind an' the eye ; 
 
 An' the rich an' the poor, an' the young an' the aged, 
 Are aye kindly used by the wife o' Dairy. 
 
 Some wives daily stroll just to hear an' tell clashes, 
 While their houses at hame are like ony pig-stye : 
 
 They should just bide at hame an' begin some industry, 
 An' snod themsells up hke the wife o' Dairy. 
 
 Some termagant dames, on the least provocation, 
 Wi' tongue an' wi' nieves a' their neighbours defy ; 
 
 But at peace wi' hersel', an' at peace wi' the warld, 
 A peacemaker aye is the wife o' Dahy. 
 
 Ithers fare on the best, at their ain secret table. 
 An' scarce gie the lave wee potatoes an' whey ; . 
 
 An' the sly selfish sluts are ne'er well, an' eat naething ; 
 But a' fare alike wi' the wife o' Dairy. 
 
 Guid men niak' guid wives, an' guid wives mak' guid husbands: 
 
 This plan I'd hae a' married people to try ; 
 Here's a case just in point, which is proof to their liking, 
 
 For few wives hae men like the man o' Dairy. 
 
 Ye chaps wha live single, awa' an' get married, 
 For the raip's easy broke that consists o' ae ply : 
 
 Ye'U hae nae cause to rue, if ye just be sae lucky. 
 As light upon wives like the wife o' Dairy, 
 
 Young women, nae doubt, ye're a' fond to get wedded. 
 
 An' it's pity sae mony in loneliness sigh, 
 I'll just gie ae hint, ye wad soon a' get offers. 
 
 Were men sure ye wad prove like the wife o' Dairy. 
 
 Mind that beauty an' youth are but for a brief season, 
 An' riches aft spread out their pinions an' fly ; 
 
 But the virtuous enjoy the reward o' their labours, 
 An' praise in the gate, like the wife o' Dairy.
 
 30 POKMS 01- ANDREW AITKEX. 
 
 THE FARMER'S LAMENT ON THE LOSS OF 
 THE POTATOE CROP, 1846. 
 
 I gaed up the lang loan to condole wi' the farmer, 
 
 An' after a lang hoch-hey an' grane, 
 He said '• I am vex'd, an' amaz'd, an' maist ruin'd, 
 
 For my big park o' 'tatoes is gane. 
 
 " I drain'd, delved, and plough'd, an' manur'd it richly — 
 An' coft dear seed frae Johnny Maclaine; 
 
 An' thought I wad pay a' my rent wi' the produce, 
 Bnt* my dear field o' 'tatoes is gane. 
 
 " Only twa weeks ago it was green, healthy, prosperous, 
 
 An' now its a black mournfu' scene ; 
 Ye wad scarce get a meal aff a muckle Scotch acre, 
 
 For my gnid bulky 'tatoes are gane. 
 
 "An' the swine, an' the auld farrow cow that I'm fat'uiu' 
 
 Will be naething but bare skin an' bane ; 
 An' the kye 'ill gang yell, an' the hens 'ill quat laying, 
 
 For my precious potatoes are gane. 
 
 " I hae whyles sell'd potatoes at fourpence the big peck, 
 Now they're mair than twa shillings the stane ; 
 
 An' uiony a place, canna' be gotten for siller, 
 For our noble potatoes are gane. 
 
 " They were food to the rich, they were meat to the poor — 
 
 To the aged, au' the wee toddliu' wean ; 
 E'en the sick and diseased aft could relish a murphy — 
 
 But our fine mealy 'tatoes are gane.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 31 
 
 " But for ae great muckle patfu' o' boiled anes, 
 
 Either cooked wi' kitchen, or nane ; 
 I wad surely enjoy ae complete hearty wamefu', 
 
 But no, my potatoes are gane. 
 
 "jSow, our chemical testers o' sails, plants, an' manures, 
 
 May see that their notions are vain ; 
 They ken nought o' the cause or the cure o' this evil, 
 
 But can just say as I say — they're gane." 
 
 I harken'd awhile wi' some grief an' vexation. 
 
 To the auld farmer's sorrowfu' mane, 
 I cou'd weel sympathise, for I likewise had suffered — 
 
 My sma' patch o' 'tatoes was gane. 
 
 I replied, " think again, your case is na' bad yet — 
 Ye hae butter, cheese, turnips, an' grain, 
 
 A' fetching high prices, while I maun buy a' things, 
 An' the warst thing — my siller is gane. 
 
 Had your sons died in strife, or your cattle by murrain, 
 Or blight your fair corn fields had ta'en ; 
 
 Had want and disease left you friendless an' helpless, 
 Ye might weel hae said a' things are gane. 
 
 Rejoice in the blessings God's goodness has left you, 
 
 An' trust him to bring back again 
 This much esteemed root, or produce something better, 
 
 Tf the 'tatoe for ever be gane. 
 
 We will live upon oatmeal, wheat, maize, rice, and sago. 
 
 An' the juice o' the sweet sugar cane ; 
 But ! what will mony a poor body suffer, 
 
 Ere the plenty return that has gane." 
 
 Overton, January^ 184-7.
 
 32 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, ON HIS MARRIAGE. 
 
 Now Jamie, ye bae got a wife 
 At haine, wha's sure an' certain 
 
 To be a bosom friend for life, 
 An' share your varied fortune. 
 
 In prosperous times to share your joys — 
 'Mid hardships to befriend you ; 
 
 And nurse the pretty girls an' boys 
 That Heaven may please to send you. 
 
 Laug may ye live, a happy pair. 
 And by your joint endeavoui's, 
 
 May ye enjoy an ample share 
 O' Fortune's choicest favours. 
 
 And e'en tho' simple be your feast, 
 With peace and love endearing. 
 
 And sweet content to croun the rest, 
 'Tis cheer aboon a cheering. 
 
 May bankrupt villains ne'er divest 
 You o' your hard-won earnings ; 
 
 Nor cruel beagles e'er infest 
 
 Your doors wi' poinds an' hornings. 
 
 With strict fidelity fulfil 
 
 Each charge to you intrusted : 
 
 With wisdom, order, prudence, skill. 
 Be all your plans adjusted. 
 
 In your expenses ne'er exceed 
 
 The gains by your exertion ; 
 But, for some future time o' need. 
 
 Keep something in reversion.
 
 POEMS OK ANL>aK^V AITKKN. 33 
 
 Xor e'er, my friend, expect to find 
 
 Prosperity uumixed ; 
 For, like the rest o' human kind, 
 
 Ye will be aften vexed. 
 
 By friends deceived, by foes assailed, 
 
 Yom- hopes will aft be blasted ; 
 Xor will your prospects always yield 
 
 The promised good, when tasted. 
 
 Your ardent genius dont confine 
 When prudence marks his measure ; 
 
 But always study to combine 
 I'rotit alang wi' pleasure. 
 
 And when your focal tube you rear 
 
 To scan yon orbs res^^lendeiit. 
 And make them glorious suns appear, 
 
 With countless worlds attendant. 
 
 Or turn your prying optics doun, 
 
 Unveiling many a nation 
 Of insect people, erst unknown. 
 
 To human observation. * 
 
 Observe God's wisdom, goodness. |)ower. 
 
 Marked on the hale creation. 
 And train your active mind to soar. 
 
 In lofty contemplation. 
 
 Keep Virtue's path : there men of worth 
 
 Hae aye found safety given ; 
 There, you'll be happy while on earth. 
 
 There, on the way to Heaven. — A. A. 
 
 Overton, 1816. 
 
 * The individual addressed was an ingenious Optician. 
 
 D
 
 34 VOEMS OF ANDRKW AITKKN. 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. R. PATRICK— 1808. 
 
 Once more the rustic muse, in homely strains, 
 Would welcome you hame to your native plains — 
 Would welcome you frae distaut care and toil. 
 In Scottish air to rest and breathe a while : 
 Would you accept the grateful tribute due, 
 The best, she at this time, can offer you. 
 
 When ye were hame, I mind, in former days, 
 Ye aften read my lines, an' gied them praise ; 
 And aften, too, I did my sang renew. 
 Pleased to be noticed by men like you. 
 But when the martial trumpet loud did blaw, 
 Honour and duty bade you rise and go ; 
 For when your country sought your helping aid, 
 You shun'd the life of ease in rural shade. 
 To join the ranks where Britain's sous advance 
 To check the ambitious growing power of France — 
 To bear your part in this most bloody w^ar. 
 Which thunders loud and louder from afai*. 
 May this tremendous contest soon be o'er. 
 And Peace diffuse her blessings round each shore ; 
 Then Britain's war-worn sons from far would come 
 And yet enjoy all they hold dear at home. 
 Meanwhile, by merit raised to honours great, 
 By Providence to wealth and high estate ; 
 May you aye ])rosper as you onward go ; 
 May your career aye bright and brighter grow ; 
 May you enjoy, while aiding virtue's cause, 
 The praise of others, and blest self-applause.
 
 POEMS OF AXDKKAV AITKEN. 35 
 
 But, liaviug served your country without blame, 
 Sir, ye might tak' a thought an' stay at hame, 
 An' let some ither chap your station fill, 
 That's needy, waituig for a hearty meal. 
 Weel ye could live in sweet content and rest, 
 Beside your spouse and smiling babies blest, 
 On your estate, but lately far increased. * 
 See how the auspicious, richly, prosperous year 
 Comes fraught wi' guid potatoes, corn, an' bere ; i 
 
 Cheese, butter ; honey sweet, an ample store 
 To pass the approaching stormy winter o'er. 
 An' though our beef Avi' English may not vie. 
 Our fields produce some flocks o' special kye. 
 In short, each object prospers which conspires 
 To please, or satisfy, our vast desires. 
 This prospect fair should your attention claim. 
 And still inchne you to remain at hame, 
 Not to exist in poor inglorious ease. 
 Like those whose only aim is self to please ; 
 But in an active sphere, a useful man, 
 Improving every public rural plan. 
 That knowledge, by extensive travel gain'd, 
 Would be conducive to a noble end ; 
 Would still direct the workman's care and toil, 
 How to improve and fertilise the soil. 
 While your dependants daily would be seen. 
 Consulting you their patron and their frieu' — 
 Wha learns them how to gain, and use their gear — 
 Preserve their health, and everything that's dear. 
 While fo'ks around the prosperous state would see. 
 Would look, would imitate, and likewise happy be. 
 
 * The beautiful and valuable estate of Hessilhead, with its old 
 castle, and large majestic trees, was purchased about this period 
 (1807) from Maurice Carmichael, Esq., of East End, near Lanark.
 
 36 POKMS OK ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 LETTER TO W. C, Gardener at Caldwell, 1805. 
 
 Now Sol wi' influence benign, 
 Mak's vegetation freshly spring, 
 The feathered tribe o' ilka wing. 
 
 Their notes are chantin, 
 The Cookoo's voice does blythely ring 
 
 In ilka plantin'. 
 
 But Sir, as we are no acquaint, 
 Ye'll think o' manners I am scant. 
 Perhaps 'tis true —I hope ye'll grant 
 
 It's nae great crime 
 For me to tell you what I want 
 
 In simple rhyme. 
 
 I've heard frae fo'k your M^arks that saw, — 
 Whan fields are clad wi' frost an' sna'. 
 An' Boreas o'er the wreaths does blaw, 
 
 Baith keen an' smart, 
 Yet ye mak' plants to flourish braw, 
 
 By your nice art. 
 
 When Phoebus' vital warmth we've lost. 
 An' nature bound up wi' the frost, 
 Imported plants frae India's coast — 
 
 That torrid clime, 
 Wi' you in spite o' Boreas' host, 
 
 They flourish prime. 
 
 I in an auld record hae read. 
 
 That yours is the most ancient trade ; 
 
 For when auld Adam first was made, 
 
 He was accordin', 
 Placed in fair Eden, wi' his spade 
 
 To dress that garden.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 37 
 
 But soon he fell into disgrace, 
 
 An' was expell'd frae that fine place ; 
 
 Even he, an' a' his numerous race, 
 
 Without remead, 
 An' doomed to work, wi' sweatin' face, 
 
 For claise an' bread. 
 
 Some gang at ease, some are oppress't 
 Ae class o' fo'k toils for the rest : 
 Man's life's but trouble at the best, 
 
 That ne'er does cease. 
 Till he creep in his clayie nest 
 
 Then he gets peace. 
 
 Some fo'k are glad an' ithers greetin'. 
 Some honest, ithers live by cheatin'. 
 An' some are always vex'd an' sweatin', 
 
 An' toil'd like slaves. 
 To get their ain gabs keepit eatiu' 
 
 An' a' the lave's. 
 
 This lang depression pray forgie, 
 'Tis what I want — ^I'd like to be 
 Alang to crack wi' you a wee, 
 
 Some afternoon, 
 An' a' your curious warks to see, 
 
 Afore we've doon. 
 
 To learn how ye the soil prepare. 
 For rearing plants o' virtue rare : 
 My roving muse does now declare, 
 
 It's time to seal ; 
 Sae I at present add uae mair, 
 
 But fare-you-weel. 
 
 A. A.
 
 38 POEMS OF AXDREW AITKF.X. 
 
 LETTER TO MISS PATRICK, TREARNE, 
 May, 1805. 
 
 Madam, 
 
 Wi' joy I hae heard you are safely returned — 
 
 As one for your welfare sincerely concerned, 
 
 I thought, cou'd I find ought o' suitable matter. 
 
 To sen' you aince mau^ a bit scrawl o' a letter ; 
 
 An' though I thereby do my weakness reveal, 
 
 Ye'll excuse me, because I was meanin' nae ill. 
 
 For your knowledge o' things is mair clear an' extensive. 
 
 Than those, wha retired, do live gloomy an' pensive ; 
 
 Or like mony a ane, as an honest man says, 
 
 Wha are scarce frae the well or peat-stack a' their days, 
 
 Whase min's, like their bodies, are living at home, 
 
 An' at large through the universe never did roam : 
 
 Not conversant in books, or in ony sic studies. 
 
 Yet, perhaps, honest, carefu', an' weel meanin' bodies — 
 
 The supporters o' ku'kmen, the pillars of state. 
 
 By their labour they live, independant of fate. 
 
 For its plain, still, the ancient remark is aye true, 
 
 That man tDuly lives by the sweat o' his brow ; 
 
 Some, its true, are of high, some of humble condition. 
 
 Yet all are supported by some occupation. 
 
 And while many do naething but trifles pursue. 
 
 There's nae man but has some dear object in view; 
 
 Some riches, some honours, some delicate feedin', 
 
 Some drink, some grand dwellings, an' elegant cleedin', 
 
 But, ad wfinitum 'twad be to go through, 
 
 While the seekers for wisdom and knowledge are few. 
 
 No doubt many wish to Ije knowing an' wise. 
 
 But the means to attain this they mock and despise ; 
 
 Aft the weakest o' people think maist o' themsel'. 
 
 An' think they for knowledge all others excell.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AIT1vP:N. -VJ 
 
 But its seldom tliat ought pleases fo'k a' thegither, 
 
 What pleases ae man, aft displeases anitber : 
 
 The lover, weel-pleased, by his mistress sits. 
 
 The miser rejoiced when the coppers he gets. 
 
 The vintner is glad his vree stoupie to fill, 
 
 The tippler sits smiliu' beside the v»^ee gill ; 
 
 The bookish man's happy perusing his pages, 
 
 The workman much so, in receivmg his wages : 
 
 Joy clears up the face o' an hungry glutton, 
 
 While absorbing a lump o' guid fat roasted mutton. 
 
 Wi' pleasiire the farmer surveys his large fiel's 
 
 O' corn an' potatoes, an' rich carrot dreels. 
 
 Earth is the store-house from which bounteous nature. 
 
 Provides meat an' deeding for every creature ; 
 
 And when tossed to an' fro, of sad fortune the sport, 
 
 'Tis a safe place of rest to which all men resort. 
 
 Some marvel at events, but this naething strange is. 
 
 To see each new day bringing forth some new changes — 
 
 And in things thus resolving, there must be, of coiu-se, 
 
 Things changed to the better, and some to the worse ; 
 
 But when fo'k are aye striving to do for the best, 
 
 A superior Guide will tak' care o' the rest ; 
 
 And when schemes weel contrived prove abortive and vain, 
 
 Why there's nae help for death but just marry again. 
 
 Yes. Madame, there's something in marriage enchanting — 
 
 Fo'k ance having marrows don't gree wi' lang wanting. 
 
 'Tis an order most ancient, by Heaven designed, 
 
 For the mutual support and increase of mankind ; 
 
 But cutting this short, to avoid a' reflections. 
 
 May ye always be happy in a' your connections ; 
 
 May the Doctor, likewise, an' his new chosen fair. 
 
 Live a long live in love — a happy blessed pair, 
 
 Aye sharing most amply of solid pure joys. 
 
 Of riches and honours, fine girls and boys — 
 
 In the service o' king and o' kintra industrious — 
 
 Already promoted to honours illnstrinus.
 
 40 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Thus through dangers the brave man to honour emerges, 
 While envy and malice always prove their ovs^n scourges ; 
 may honesty more and more come in repute, 
 And justice, wi' speed, find base villany out ; 
 Bat I'll not iusist, when an end will be fitter — 
 In the words of another more public writer : 
 " May every desire of your heart be propitious, 
 Be lasting success the result of your wishes. 
 Unimpaired be your joys, your life happy and long, 
 And here is an end to ray sermon or song." 
 
 A. AlTKEN. 
 
 Overton. 
 
 CRAWFORD 0' THE IIA'. 
 
 Aft frae origin obscure great guid men hae arisen ; 
 
 (For genius needs little instruction ava,) 
 I cou'd write a lang list o' sic chaps an' their doings. 
 
 But I'll just gie ae sample in Crawford o' the Ha.' 
 
 I kent him whan, just at the school, a wee callan. 
 
 Learning questions and psalms, playing bools an'gowtba'; 
 
 But wha wad hae thought that the wee tricky urchin 
 Wad hae turn'd out a genius like Crawford o' the Ha'. 
 
 He was aye fond o' wood-making — first he made totums, 
 Win' mills, boats, an' wheels for the wee burns to ca' ; 
 
 An' neist a' kin's o' farming an' household utensils, 
 At last he's turned wood merchant up at the Ha'. 
 
 Now he's book learned an' weel versed in practical science — 
 Arts pleasing afi' usefu' mae than ane, or yet twa ; 
 
 Or he'll write you a sang, or a tale, true or fiction — 
 An' the puir poet's patron is Crawford o' the Ha',
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 41 
 
 Gie bim coal, a big pat, an' a wee sip o' water. 
 
 He cou'd nearly o'ertnrn the deep-based Caldwell-law, 
 But this force he reserves for a mair wise like purpose — 
 
 As ye'U see in his wood-cutting warks at the Ha'. 
 
 There the silent, untiring, an' powerfu' steam engine 
 Propels monie a big an' wee sharp circular saw — 
 
 Cleavin' logs o' a' sorts into beams, planks, an' rafters, 
 To suit the vast customers o' Crawford o' the Ha'. 
 
 Do ye want a toun built, or a railway push'd forward ? 
 
 Let him ken, he'll hae four or sax carts in a raw, 
 At the spot, by neist morning, wi' tons o' tough timber — ■ 
 
 Ye'll be weel ser'd (for cash tho') by Crawford o' the Ha'. 
 
 Aft the puir man's wee fire frae his woodyard is beetet. 
 When winter blaws snell through the chinks o' the wa' — 
 
 By his warkmen he's liked, by the public respected ; 
 For enemies o' nae sort has Crawford o' the Ha'. 
 
 His castle's wall'd roun', an' it's garrison'd stoutly ; 
 
 For the cork frae the fu' charged black bottle he'll draw, 
 An wi' volleys o' barleycorn shot he'll assail you, 
 
 Till ye cry for an armistice wi' Crawford o' the Ha'. 
 
 He has widower been, but might soon woo a helpmate, 
 Young, prudent, guid-natured, learn'd, wealthy, an' braw; 
 
 An', my fair frien's, ye might deem your fate happy, 
 Wi' sic a nice dounsit, an' Crawford o' the Ha'. 
 
 To instruct his young daughters, his pride an' his pleasure — 
 May they ne'er gie his bosom a grief nor a thraw — 
 
 And in due time find lovers an' husbands far better, 
 If better there be, than their daddy o' the Ha'.
 
 42 POEJIS OF AXDREAV AITKEN. 
 
 While green grass adorns tlie domains o' Caldwell ; 
 
 While its woods shelter gie to the black gorbie craw ; 
 While the streamlet Crossburn joins the drunilie Dusk w^ater, 
 
 Mang Scotsmen far famed will be Crawford o' the Ila'. 
 
 Overton. 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 Did ye e'er pass through the village at the east side o' the gate, 
 Whar busy labour plys his tools, wi' skill, baith soon an' late? 
 There the auld black smiddy stan's, by the public kenn'd fu' 
 
 weel, 
 Where the blacksmith, at his forge, works the iron an' the steel. 
 
 Lang he has usefu' been, for full forty winters past, 
 
 We hae heard his hammer's clang, an' the bellows' powerfu' 
 
 blast ; 
 And aft, to warm us at his fires, up on the hearth we'd speel. 
 To sing an' crack, an' see him shape the stubborn iron and steel. 
 
 Do ye want your pony shod, an' your cart or gig repaii'ed, 
 A shool to fill your coals, or a spade to delve your yard — 
 A pitchfork, grape, or claut, or a barrow wi' a wheel ? 
 Here ye'U be served, an' thankfully, wi' trusty iron an' steel. 
 
 Picks, wedges, hammers, boring rods for loosening rugged 
 
 rocks, - 
 Cranes, levers, pnlleys, powerfu' screws for lifting ponderous 
 
 blocks ; 
 An' muckle knives for cutting gurth, ham, bacon, cheese, or 
 
 veal, 
 Weel-tempered by the blacksmith, o' the best iron an' steel.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 43 
 
 But coals are scarce an' clear, an' the price o' victuals high, 
 An' his income scant enough to ensure a rich supply ; 
 He's sair toiled, lean an' bare, an' his fare is milk an' meal, 
 But few e'er fat or rich become by hammering iron an' steel. 
 
 Of a' the precious metals iron is most usefu' far, 
 In the numerous peacefu' arts, and the terrible art of war ; 
 And, first, o' a' mechanics, I will nominate the chiel 
 Wha, 'midst noise, an' fire, an' smoke, shapes the burning 
 iron an' steel. 
 
 we canna want the blacksmith, no' for a single hour; 
 Of our mighty social engine he is the moving power; 
 For even the sage enactments of Lord John or Rabbie Peel 
 Hae whyles to be enforced by clear poUshed iron an' steel. 
 
 Be kin' to the auld blacksmith, for his is gey sair wark, 
 An' gie him aft a waught o' yill to cool the quenchless spark ; 
 For should the bellows cease to blaw, the loss we a' wad feel: 
 we cou'dna work ava wanting tools o' irou an' steel. 
 
 In a' your undertakings be his calling not forgot. 
 But stu' the coals, an' wisely strike the iron while it's hot ; 
 And passing time, frae year to year, memorials will reveal. 
 More glorious and enduring than the tempered iron and steel. 
 
 "Iron has been called the source of Glory, for it equips the soldier 
 with his sword ; of Plenty, for it siipplies the husbandman with his 
 ploughshare and reaping hook ; of Commerce, for it furnishes the 
 mariner with his compass." " A smith is the basis of civilisation. 
 The iron trade supports every other trade. It pro^^des tools and 
 instruments for universal industry, it is, therefore, the basis of the 
 pyramid, and represents the universal, or the pcoiAe. The bhick- 
 smith's motto is 'By hammer and hand all arts rlo stand.' The 
 founder of the Church himself, was a smith, not a carpenter, as is 
 generally supposed — but faber, a smith ; for, as Justin the martyr 
 says, 'He made ploughs and yokes'; and Hilarius says of him, 
 ferruni igne vinccnih (subdueing iron with tire). In the old English 
 Bibles, Joseph the Clarpenter, is called .loseph the Smith.''
 
 44 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 A PARAPHRASE, 
 
 ON THE FIRST PSALM, 
 
 WITH SUPPLEMENTARY VERSES, EXHIBITING SOME OF THE EVIL 
 CONSEQUENCES OF DRUNKENNESS, &C. 
 
 " That man hath perfect wretchedness, 
 Who works not at his trade. 
 But spends his time in idleness. 
 And lies lang in his bed. 
 
 " Who wastes the first half o' the week, 
 In foolish, idle play — 
 Works hke a slave, the ither half. 
 And drinks the Sabbath-day. 
 
 " He shall be like a scroggie tree, 
 Upon a barren knowe, 
 Which may, at times, show buds and leaves. 
 But fruit doth never grow." 
 
 " And all he doth shall adverse prove. 
 Remorse his mind shall fill ; 
 For happiness he ne'er enjoys, 
 Except out o'er a gill. 
 
 " Glass after glass he madly drinks. 
 His craving to allay, 
 Till haggard eyes and shrivell'd cheeks, 
 Show premature decay.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 45 
 
 For why, the temperate living man 
 
 Doth life and health retain, 
 While in the drunken ne'er-do-weel 
 
 No soundness doth reniam." 
 
 Reduced by palsy, dropsy, now 
 
 On sorry bed he lies ; 
 Yet, midst his poverty and pain, 
 
 For whisky loud he cries. 
 
 His wife, while carrying gills, has leara'd 
 
 To sip the penny glass : 
 Anon, another bairn comes hame. 
 
 Which adds to the distress. 
 
 Their duds o' claise, an' chattels few, 
 
 Are lodged in the pawn ; 
 And, but for neighbours kind, they must 
 
 Hae perished quite aff han'. 
 
 lie dies unmourned, the grave conceals 
 
 His guid deeds and his ill ; 
 But chalked on the ale house door 
 
 Is mony an unpaid gill. 
 
 His hungry ragged children beg 
 
 For bawbees, bread, and meal ; 
 And learn, by ill example shown. 
 
 To drink, cheat, lie, and steal. 
 
 May He, who is the orphan's help, 
 
 And lonely widow's stay, 
 Protect the erring, and reclaim 
 
 Those who have gone astray.
 
 4t) I'OEMS OK ANDUKW AITKKX. 
 
 And, O ye untaught foolish youths, 
 With pleasures false in view, 
 
 Be wise, avoid the fatal snare— 
 I'll tell you what to do. 
 
 When you've ^oi penny pieces three^ 
 And for blue ruin run — 
 
 Instead, gang to the baker's shop, 
 And buy a muckle bun. 
 
 And whether coins be flush or scarce 
 Food, clothing, cheap or dear. 
 
 Stick by this rule, and naething buy, 
 But what will eat or wear. 
 
 So shall you pass your days afar 
 From noise and brutal strife ; 
 
 And drink the waters pure and /ree, 
 That spi-ing to endfess life. 
 
 Note. — Tlie first three verses of the above piece were composed 
 by a coal-hewer about New Cumnock ; and the next three by W. 
 Burns of Nettlehurst. —A. A
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 4( 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON HEARING THE NEW BELL ON THE PARISH CHURCH IN 
 BEITH, TOLLED THE FIRST TIME, 1810. 
 
 " Man flies from time, and time from man too soon, 
 In sad divorce this double flight must end." 
 
 What voice is this that meets my wondering ear ? 
 A voice I ne'er was wont before to hear, 
 With solemn, serious, clear impressive tone, 
 rroclairaing loud — another day is gone. 
 'Tis from the bell suspended in the tower 
 O'erlooking Beitb, to mark each passing hour 
 Of Time's swift progress, and, with vai'ied sounds, 
 A monitor to all the neighbouring towns. 
 
 Long may thou sound, and sway thy powerfu' voice, 
 Be still to us the voice of joy and peace ; 
 Aye sound unstained with bloody war's alarms. 
 Nor tell of fires or other public hanns, 
 Yet bid the people wisely to prepare — 
 Such things may happen, for they sometimes were. 
 
 Sweet is thy voice unto the man of toil, 
 Who breaks the rocks, or digs the stubborn soil, 
 When thou at evening says the day is done, 
 His work suspended, and his wages won, 
 He hameward turns, with wife an:] babes to share 
 The well-earned, healthy, homely frugal fare. 
 To Him whose bounty all their wants supplies 
 The strain of pure mifeigned thanks doth rise — 
 Ambition tortures not his tranquil breast. 
 While kings are restless, pleasant is his rest. 
 Ye great, this man don't with indifference view, 
 He labours hard, both for himself and you.
 
 4« POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN, 
 
 At morning's dawn, at the still close of eve, 
 Thy gladsome voice to all doth pleasure give. 
 And chiefly on the weekly sabbath day — 
 The day of rest to those in wisdom's way. 
 Warned by thy summons to the house of God, 
 They meet with joy Avithin the blessed abode, 
 To praise His Name who doth preserve them still, 
 And ransoms them from death and every ill. 
 And from their reverend pastor's mouth to hear 
 The words of Truth on an obedient ear. 
 And ye pi'eachers watch your flocks ^nth care, 
 And in due season, food for them prepare. 
 Reprove the scorner, tell his duty too. 
 Nor spare the rod where chastisement is due. 
 Inform the simple, soothe the troubled breast, 
 Abash the proud, cheer up the sore depressed — 
 By precept and example wisely show 
 The path to Heaven above from earth below. 
 
 When loud the bell proclaims the tale of grief, 
 Or sounds the triumphs of the warlike chief — 
 AVarns to the house where wisdom's voice doth call, 
 Or to the tomb to see the end of all. 
 Wakes labour's sons when shines the orient ray. 
 Or calls the weary home at parting day — 
 All you that hear, attend with deep concern. 
 It preaches truths, which all men ought to learn. 
 (Truths, which the Grecian warner onc^ did bear 
 From morn to morn, to old King PhiUps' ear, 
 To mind him he was mortal, nor incline 
 Pride to suggest, his nature was divine). 
 Each stroke proclaims thy former days are past, 
 And every present hour may be thy last. 
 Much truth to learn, much work thou hast to do — 
 Work for thyself, and work for others too ; 
 And far thou art from home — work hard and run. 
 Lest night o'ertake thee ere thy woi'k be done.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 49 
 
 BEAUTIES OF WOODSIDE. 
 
 Some like swift excursions on steamboats, 
 
 Others like upon chariots to ride ; 
 I prefer a lone walk near the gloaming, 
 
 'Mang the green spreading trees at Woodside. 
 
 There the eye and mind freely survey, 
 The landscape both varied and wide, 
 
 Undisturb'd by the din of the village, 
 
 'Mid the plantings and parks at Woodside. 
 
 The Mansion is lofty and ancient, 
 Where men of renown did reside. 
 
 And the wine, and the dance, and the music, 
 Have gladden'd the hall at Woodside. 
 
 No warrior in arms brightly burnished, 
 Now stalks forth the tight to decide ; 
 
 But combin'd female sweetness and beauty- 
 Win the eye and the heart at Woodside. 
 
 How happy's the man here admitted. 
 To woo him a willing sweet bride ; 
 
 And exchange loves soft tales in the arbour, 
 Rear'd by fair female hands at Woodside. 
 
 E
 
 50 POEMS OF ANDRKW AITKEN. 
 
 The youth, kuowiug, honest and gen'rous, 
 And free from presumption and pride : 
 
 May here find a match for his calling, 
 
 For there's rich choice and wale at Woodside. 
 
 May the steps of the cumiing deceiver, 
 Far hence aye be turned aside, — 
 
 Nor the hand of the ruthless marauder 
 Invade this reti-eat at Woodside. 
 
 Through the length and the breadth of the country, 
 From the water of Ayr to the Clyde ; 
 
 You may search day and night till you're weary, 
 Ere you find a snug place hke Woodside. 
 
 O, cold is the blast on the uplands, 
 
 While the snow on Benlomoud does bide, 
 
 But the snow and the tempest are waste. 
 Long ere they approach the Woodside. 
 
 Let the sons of ambition, like bubbles. 
 
 Float high upon fortune's full tide ; 
 I'd contemplate their brief rise and downfall. 
 
 In this rural retreat at W^oodside. 
 
 Till life's latest hour my petition. 
 
 To the Power that for all doth provide, 
 
 Will be, not for honours and riches. 
 
 But a home, a sweet home like Woodside 
 
 For though I were king of the Empire, 
 With thousands to spend and divide ; 
 
 I would find both a queen and a palace, 
 And rule mv domains at W^oodside. 
 
 A. A.
 
 POKMS OF ANDRKW AITKEN. 51 
 
 A MASON SONG. 
 
 (Written fur a St. Juhns-Day Meeting,) 
 
 Tune — Jockey^ the Plough-hoy. 
 
 On this long wished for night we are met in grand style, 
 As aft has been done in our famed Scottish isle, 
 The blessings of plenty and freedom to share. 
 And walk by the rules of the compass and square. 
 
 While many in quest of false happiness roam, 
 
 Of strife and contention divested we come. 
 
 Ourselves to enjoy, without trouble or care, 
 
 In the straight pathway mark'd with the compass and square. 
 
 Let misers, with fondness, count over their store, 
 
 Let pride and ambition triumphantly soar ; 
 
 For though war, the red fiend, o'er the nations does rair, 
 
 In peace we will walk by the compass and square. 
 
 In the bonds of true friendship we meet to pursue 
 The interest of all with hearts honest and true; 
 In companionship mutual, that virtue most rare, 
 We walk by the rules of the compass and square. 
 
 Our works, like our friendship, triumphantly stand 
 The pride and the glory of every known land, — 
 Of the works of proud science, what trophies are there, 
 Like those that we rear with the compass and square.
 
 52 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 What are lands or possessious of silver and gold, 
 Without friendly dwellings to screen from the cold? 
 And who but true masons such homes can prepare, 
 By means of their art, and the compass and square. 
 
 From the page of true hist'ry it plainly is seen, 
 That kings and wise prophets freemasons have been, 
 And nobles, and men with their heads full of lair, 
 Have deemed it an honour to handle the square. 
 
 O'er the world, as brothers, in concord w^e live, 
 For one. cannot want while another can give. 
 Esteemed by the great, and caressed by the fair, — 
 We live by the rules of the compass and square. 
 
 The great Architect, who the worlds did frame. 
 Instructed our sires in the gi-eat building scheme ; 
 In the art thus acquired we will aye persevere, 
 And work by the rules of the compass and square. 
 
 Here's a health to time masons wherever they be. 
 May others soon leara to be happy as w^e ; 
 And the time soon arrive when all mankind shall dare, 
 To perfect their plans with the compass and square. 
 
 BORLAND'S YILL. 
 
 Much has been said in praise o' wine, 
 An' liquor Strang, o' every kin', 
 0' porter broun, o' water, syne, 
 
 Frae spring or rill 
 To drink an' sing, is my design, 
 
 O' Borland's yill.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREAV AITKICN. 
 
 I've drucken driuk o' mouy a sort, 
 Frae penny-wbeep, to richest port, — 
 At Inns, whar tipplers aft resort, 
 
 To tak' their gill : 
 Nane better pleas'd nor did less hurt 
 
 Than Borland's yill. 
 
 Laugsyue, our fathers, on sic cheer. 
 Were Strang an' supple, hail an' feir, 
 Devout, kind, knowing, plain, sincere, 
 
 Sworn faes to ill : 
 Sic blessings, yet, we a' might share 
 
 On Borland's yill. 
 
 Some fo'k when troubled wi' life's faugbt, 
 Aff to the whisky house gang straight. 
 An' drink ha'f-mutchkins sax or aucht. 
 
 Their cares to kill : 
 They'd better gaen an' taen a waught 
 
 0' Borland's yill. 
 
 Drams waste our means, when freely drucken, 
 Excite mair thirst, but dinna slocken ; 
 We driuk — we sleep, but when we waukeu. 
 
 We're thirsty still : 
 My frien's ; sic evils cou'dna happen 
 
 On Borland's yill. 
 
 Ye wha wad rise up wi' the lark, 
 An' lang preserve life's vital spark ; 
 Ye wha wad gang about your wark 
 
 Wi' pith an' skill ; 
 Drink moderate drams, your safety mark 
 
 Is Borland's yill.
 
 54 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Ye preachers learned, wliase labours tend, 
 Men's minds an' morals to amend, 
 An' guide them to a happy end, 
 
 Straight up the hill, 
 Ye may do waur than recommend 
 
 John Borland's yill. 
 
 Ye doctors, wha mak' health your care, 
 Lay bye your drugs, an' blisters sair, 
 Nor draw your lancet ony mair, 
 
 Fo'k's bluid to spill : 
 Just bid them ch'ink, an' dinna spare 
 
 John Borland's yill. 
 
 Ye lawyers keen, prolong the fray, 
 An' ponderous burdens on men lay : 
 Yes — mak' the maist o't while ye may, 
 
 Your purse to fill : 
 Your job is done, whanever they 
 
 Drink Borland's yill. 
 
 Ye wha, on Sunday, at the skail, 
 The lasses treat wi' buns and ale ; 
 Aye use them weel, nor fear to swell 
 
 The vintner's bill : 
 Ye're safe, as lang's ye weet your meal, 
 
 Wi' Borland's yill. 
 
 An' whan cauld winter is our lot, 
 Ye'll in the black-pan get it hot ; 
 Wi' sugar sweet, an' spice, what not — 
 
 An' bakes, at will : 
 This is the way to spen' your groat 
 
 On Borland's yill.
 
 POEMS OF ANDRKAV AITKEN. 55 
 
 In Will's, wha lives at the Close-head, 
 Or Wyllie's, a' the blackguards dread — 
 Bogfauld's, or Stinston's,* there wi' speed, 
 
 Your wish fulfil : 
 Ye'll ken't ! for clear, rich, mild, as mead. 
 
 Is Borland's yill. 
 
 In Beith New-street, whar John was born, 
 Ye'll fin' him brewing e'en an' morn, 
 Frae real, true John Barleycorn 
 
 Crush'd in the mill, — 
 Whar ye'll get casks, pints, or a horn 
 
 O' Borland's yill. 
 
 It's guid for fo'k in every stage ; 
 It fills the foolish, cheers the sage : 
 It hauds the heart o' feeble age, 
 
 Whase bluid rins chill : 
 In short — we could write mony a page 
 
 On Borland's yill. 
 
 A. A. 
 
 Beith, 19th November^ 1828. 
 
 * Four Public-houses in Beith. I do not mean that this celebrated 
 ale is exclusively obtained in these houses ; far less would I insinuate 
 that they are the only respectable houses in town. The truth is 
 this — I had neither time nor room to work up the names of so many 
 landlords, and whisky-houses into my humble verses. 
 
 As for John Borland himself, after having tried the trades of 
 Grocer and Spirit-dealer, Brewer of Ale and Boi t^r, Selling Cloth, 
 &c., and not having succeeded according to his wishing in either, — 
 he emigrated about 1842, with his family, to the far-west of America.
 
 56 POEMS OF ANDKEW AITKEN. 
 
 GUID OAT MEAL. 
 
 A Letter from John Fulton, in reply to Borland's Yill. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 With knowing deep poetic skill, 
 Ye sing the praise o' Borland's Yill, 
 Cou'd I but dimb Parnassus hill 
 
 But ha'f as weel, 
 A page or twa I now would fill 
 
 On guid oat meal. 
 
 Sma' yill is but a feckless trash, 
 
 No worth our praise nor yet our cash ; 
 
 Wives niak' as guid drink frae mallash, 
 
 Which ser's as weel 
 To quaff, or syne doun suet hash, 
 
 Mix'd up wi' meal. 
 
 Whisky an' yill may gar us clatter, 
 And aften stupid nonsense chatter. 
 Or on the wa's discharge our water. 
 
 An' staggerin' reel ; 
 But canna mak' us strong or fatter, 
 
 Like guid oat meal. 
 
 Would your fam'd yill, if aught did ail, 
 E'er bring relief or mak' us hale "? 
 I doubt its boasted powers wad fail, 
 
 An' that we'd feel : 
 Nor wad' it serve us for a meal, 
 
 Like guid oat meal.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 0< 
 
 I would ae question here propose, 
 To such and those alone who knows, 
 Did we a full cask decompose, 
 
 It would reveal 
 Mair strength was in a pint o' brose, 
 
 0' guid oat meal. 
 
 It wad appear baith weak an' stupit, 
 For a divine, whan in the pu'pit, 
 Sma' yill to praise, till hoarse an' rupit, 
 
 Wi' haly zeal. 
 Whose worth can never be reputit. 
 
 Like guid oat meal. 
 
 Oat meal's the very staff o' life. 
 
 It mak's our comforts great an' rife ; 
 
 It banishes domestic strife, 
 
 Frae every biel : 
 Nought pleases husband, weans or wife. 
 
 Like routh o' meal. 
 
 Tho' we were tottering on a crummock, 
 Nae better stuff cou'd fill our stummock, 
 Whan newly started frae our hummock, 
 
 An' hungry feel, — 
 Than just a weel kned butter'd bunnock, 
 
 O' guid oat meal. 
 
 Or what would children mair encourage, 
 To learn their questions on the carritch 
 Or when for bread they slyly forage. 
 
 An' rive an' steel,— 
 Than just a smoking cog o' porrage, 
 
 O' guid oat meal.
 
 58 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Should vile lumbago ever rack 
 The silver cord that binds our back, 
 An' days an' weeks our labours slack, 
 
 We'd soon be weel, 
 If night and morning porrage tak', 
 
 0' guid oat meal. 
 
 Or should a burning fever seize us, 
 
 Or headache that hard drenching gie's us, 
 
 Nae medicine can better ease us, 
 
 We aften feel, — 
 Than fine warm gruel boil'd to please us, 
 
 0' guid oat meal. 
 
 Guid wheaten bread does weel enough, 
 
 Potatoes too, are noble stuff. 
 
 But that which mak's our dwallings rough. 
 
 An' ilka chiel 
 Mak's healthy, sturdy, strong and teugh. 
 
 Is guid oat meal. 
 
 Some brag o' mutton, some o' beef, 
 (Though we get little, to our grief,) 
 An' ither some pretend their chief 
 
 Delight is veal; 
 But poor fo'k's only great relief, 
 
 is guid oat meal. 
 
 Scotia may thou lang maintain, 
 Thy character without a stain ; 
 And may mild late and early rain, 
 
 Bless every fiel', 
 An' mak' baith young an' auld fo'k fain, 
 
 Wi' routh o' meal. 
 
 Beith, 25th November. 1828.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 59 
 
 LETTER TO WILLIAM SWAN. 
 
 Now Willie lad, ye ken that we 
 Hae lang been thick, and hope to be 
 Frien's yet, though seldom ither see, 
 
 Sae I expect 
 Ye'll no resent, but pardon me 
 
 This lang neglect. 
 
 The auld remark whyles true we find, 
 " Fo'k out o' sight are out o' mind," 
 This, 'mang fo'k fickle as the wind, 
 
 May be the case, 
 But whar true friendship's fetters bind 
 
 Can ne'er tak' place. 
 
 Now though I ken your feelin's nice, 
 Ye'll no refuse a guid advice ; 
 'Tis needit, baith wi' daft an wise, 
 
 For aft we see 
 " The best laid schemes o' men an' mice, 
 
 Gang aft aglee." 
 
 While youth an' strength are on your side, 
 These transient blessings don't divide 
 On follies, but while bees provide 
 
 Their winter's store, 
 Remember eilds dark e'ening tide 
 
 When youth is o'er.
 
 60 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 O Willie, youthfu' days are bouuy, 
 Like May-day morning, clear an' sunny, 
 Now is the time for making money, 
 
 Wi' thrifty ettle, 
 E'er winter come, dark, eauld, an' winny, 
 
 To try our mettle. 
 
 Aye occupy the hours designed 
 
 In pursuit o' a usefu' kind, 
 
 Nor e'er reflect to store yoiu* mind 
 
 With truth frae Heaven ; 
 These last, while trifles, with the wind. 
 
 Like chaff are driven. 
 
 The man that pushes up the hill. 
 Avoiding every thing that's ill, 
 Wi' honest aim, he'll prosper still 
 
 In a" his ways — 
 Wi' honour he his place does fill. 
 
 An' en's his days. 
 
 Now Willie, ye maun pardon me 
 For singing on sae flat a key ; 
 Ye'll think I might mair lively be. 
 
 An' sae do I — 
 But wi' the theme the muse does gie, 
 
 I maun comply. 
 
 As prosperous times our spirits rouse. 
 And disappointments cloud our views ; 
 Sae whyles like ither fo'k, the muse 
 
 Is blythe and jolly ; 
 At ither seasons she doth choose 
 
 Strains melancholy.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. t)l 
 
 Some are by nature dowf and dull, 
 An' griev'd an' vex'd against their will, 
 An' ither some gang; cheerfu' still, 
 
 Alang the gate — 
 Come weel come woe, they tak' nought ill 
 
 Mark'd out by fate. 
 
 When fo'k are young they're free o' care, 
 Which cleaves to man, sad misery's heir — 
 AVhile fortune deals her glitterin' ware 
 
 Amang the crowd, 
 Ilk' ane stan's gapin' for a share 
 
 0' something good. 
 
 But fortune's gifts are strangely varied, 
 Wi' portions large some are niaist worried. 
 An' ithers, just as guid, are hurried 
 
 To get their fill,— 
 The man that's through a midway carried. 
 
 Is happiest still. 
 
 Now Willie, as ye're young an' Strang, 
 
 Sure ye'U be for a wife or lang, 
 
 If sae, wale right, for some gae wrang 
 
 An' cry, alas ! 
 I hope ye'll let me ken, though thrang, 
 
 Ere this tak' place. 
 
 man, an' ye your thoughts disclose. 
 
 To me, in either verse or prose, 
 
 I'd write you somethmg mair jocose, 
 
 Brave honest chiel, — 
 May ye ne'er want guid stabby brose, 
 
 Sae fare you weel. 
 
 1805. A. A.
 
 G2 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 ELEGY ON HUGH LOVE, 
 Bellman and Grave-Digoer, Beith, 1805. 
 
 " A trusty brother of the trade 
 Did do for him what he had done for thousands." 
 
 While mighty death, wi' couqnering sway, 
 Sweeps men ia numbers great away. 
 The feelin' heart must still give way 
 
 To grieve an' mourn, 
 Whan worthy men sink to the clay, 
 
 Ne'er to return. 
 
 O Beith deplore, while here I tell, 
 In weeping strains, how Hugliie fell ; 
 Yes, he's nae mair, wha did excell 
 
 Some o' the lave : 
 Few fo'k, like him, cou'd ring a bell. 
 
 Or howk a grave. 
 
 Let nana think the employment low. 
 Since rich an' poor, at last, did go 
 To dwellings hi the clay below 
 
 That Hughie made ; 
 But now he's join'd the silent Co,— 
 
 For he's dead. 
 
 At evil he was never glad, 
 
 But when death horrid havoc made 
 
 'Mang men, this did advance his trade 
 
 In a' its stages : 
 While sufferers tears of sorrow shed, 
 
 He gat the wages.
 
 POEMS OF ANDUEW AITKEN. 63 
 
 He said 'twas vain for him to grieve 
 An' his ain soul o' guid bereave ; 
 For, weel or woe, death will achieve 
 
 The fall o' man : 
 Sae he like ither fo'k did live 
 
 Aye till his en'. 
 
 But ah ! his en' it soon drew on, 
 
 Lang, lang he lived, but now he's gone — 
 
 Awa ye hearts o' hard whinstone 
 
 That diuda feel 
 Much griev'd. sin' death hath overthrown 
 
 Sae guid a chiel, 
 
 Whar lang grass o'er the dead did wave, 
 Nor lettered stanes their names did save, 
 Weel he cou'd point out ilka grave 
 
 Whar toun's fo'k lay. 
 An' how they did themsel'es behave 
 
 In their ain day. 
 
 In Hughie's yaird the sair oppress't 
 
 An' weary did enjoy quiet rest: 
 
 A' sorts o' fo'k, by death do an prest, 
 
 Were gathered there, 
 An' soon they slept in clayie ne.st 
 
 Beneath his care. 
 
 Aft wi' his antique spades an' shools, 
 He dug through rows o' kindred mools, 
 Whar rich an' poor, wise fo'k an' fools. 
 
 Lie strangely jumbled, 
 At last he drapp'd his sair worn tools. 
 
 An' 'man<2: them tumbled.
 
 t!4 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKKX. 
 
 While many workmen basely spare 
 Due pains, if they can get their fare. 
 He, whan employ'd, wi' honest care, 
 
 Be't late or soon. 
 Did work till he cou'd see nae mair 
 
 That cou'd be done.* 
 
 But chiefly he did far excell 
 Maist fo'k at tolling o' the bell, 
 O' great events he gar'd it tell, 
 
 Wi' clinkin' soun', 
 That a' the kintra heard its knell 
 
 Far, far aroun'. 
 
 Ye sextons an' ye bellman a'. 
 While ye the tear o' grief let fa'. 
 Your clear-toned bells wi' vigour ca' 
 
 The news to spread 
 In weepin' strains tell great an' sma' 
 
 That Hughie's dead. 
 
 An' while ye ring the funeral knell, 
 Min' ye are mortal men yoursel' ; 
 Whae'er ye be that do hear tell, 
 
 The truth think on. 
 That some day soon the warning bell 
 
 Will say ye're gone. 
 
 * Alluding to a common expression of his, — after clapping up the 
 grave, and looking significantly at the person from whom he expected 
 his wages, he said, " Noo I see little mair can be done."
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. (J.O 
 
 Nae mair he'll ope the temple doors, 
 Where is dispensed the gospel stores 
 Of medicines that heal the sores 
 
 0' mind an' body, 
 Nae mair he'll sit 'mang jovial cores, 
 
 Wha drink rum-toddy. 
 
 'Mang men he'll never mair appear, 
 A' ye wha hand his memory dear, 
 Ance having shed for him a tear, 
 
 Your mournin' cease : 
 0' life's ills he has gotten clear — 
 
 He rests in' peace. 
 
 A. A. 
 
 A VOICE FROM THE AYR DRAPERS. 
 
 Ye lieges o' Ayr, we wad rede you remember, 
 On and after next Monday, 29th o' September, 
 At seven o'clock p.m., our bus'ness we'll stop, 
 And we'll steek up the entrance to ilka claith shop. 
 
 Gentle ladies ! we pray you to bear this in mind, 
 Whene'er to make purchases you are inclined. 
 Be it shawl, be it collar, or gaudy new frock, 
 It canna be had, — if its past seven o'clock. 
 
 Ye gents ! wha desire new apparel to buy, 
 Wi' the height o' guidwill a' ye're wants we'll supply, 
 Wi' coat, waistcoat, trousers, or braw satin stocks, 
 If to us ye repair — but afore seven o'clock. 
 
 !•■
 
 GG POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Ignoble vulgus ! whenever you need 
 
 To launch out the siller your bare backs to dead, 
 
 Wi' corduroys, moleskins, or guid brown hern smock, 
 
 Ye maun e'en di'aw your purse strings, afore seven o'clock. 
 
 The noble, an' gentle, an' semple an' a'. 
 Whether dressed in rough *■• hame-spun," or satin sae bra', 
 Remember when seven chimes — click gaes ilk lock, 
 And we'll see you to-morrow — its past seven o'clock. 
 
 And now, in conclusion, we've ae word to you 
 Wha ne'er come to buy, but jtist to leuk tJirovgh, 
 Wha ruffle our tempers, an' toozle our stock. 
 Henceforth let your visits be past seven o'clock. 
 
 Ayr, September, ISJfD. A Counter Lodper. 
 
 A RESPONSE TO 
 "A VOICE FROM THE AYR DRAPERS." 
 
 Ye Drapers o' Ayr, ye may shut whan ye please, 
 For its right to consult your health, profit and an' ease ; 
 Your law thus made known, we'll no seek to revoke, 
 But remember the final hour —seven o' the clock. 
 
 Ye publish in plain terms the close o' the day, 
 But when ye begin the neist morn do not say ; 
 Though I guess 'twill ua' be at the craw o' the cock, 
 If ye aye loup the counter at seveu o' the clock. 
 
 I like na' lang hours, but I find we maun wait, 
 The public to .please, whyles baith early and late, 
 For when ye look roun' ye, ye'll fin' that maist fo'k, 
 Hae a great deal to do after seven o' the clock.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 67 
 
 The fariuer maun rise at the dawn, wi' the lark, 
 An' the gloamm ne'er brings him at an en' to his wark ; 
 The guid priest maun visit the sick o' his flock, 
 Mony a cauld winter night after seven o' the clock. 
 
 The doctor maun gang at a' hours, on express, 
 An' watch by the bedside o' death and distress ; 
 E'en the puir beggar man, wi' his staff an' meal-pock, 
 Aft has lodgings to seek lang past seven o' the clock. 
 
 Could ye wile in your customers just at your ca' ; 
 
 In a short afternoon ye wad soon ser' them a' ; 
 
 But they'll come when they like though the hour be bespoke, 
 
 An' they'll no be a' serv'd yet, at seven o' the clock. 
 
 Even y^hQn priggers or touslers come in for to spy 
 
 Your guids an' their prices an' no' for to buy, 
 
 Ye maun aye speak them fair, though their heads ye cou'd 
 
 knock, 
 An' wish them at France, ere seven o' the clock. 
 
 For shoidd ye speak out independant an' plain. 
 To Glasgow they're aff wi' the aught o'clock train ; 
 An' they'll buy claith o' a' sorts, a guid household stock. 
 An' be hame at auld Ayr, afore seven o' the clock. 
 
 Farewell, iliy guid frien's, whan I get a pound note, 
 I'll come doun an' buy a guid new winter coat. 
 An' we'll hae a douse crack, or a queer funny joke, 
 Wi' a glass o' strong yill, afler seven o' the clock. 
 
 A. A. 
 
 Beitii, 12tli Ooloher, 1845.
 
 68 POIOMS OF ANDRKW AITKEN. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON "TIGER," THE HOUSE-DOG AT TREARNE, 
 
 Which Died on New- Year's Day Morning, 1832. 
 
 " Dogs are lionest creatures, 
 I am a friend to dogs. " 
 
 Auld thirty-ane had run his race, 
 An' thirty-twa had ta'en his place. 
 That mom disclosed a mournfu' case, 
 
 Which pains ray head ; 
 I saw the tryin' scene — Alas ! 
 
 Puir Tiger's dead. 
 
 On Hogmanay, nae farther gane, 
 
 His bed, as wont, the warm hearthstane, 
 
 Nor sought his cog, or marrowy bane. 
 
 Or crust o' bread ; 
 And e'er morn cam', but why mak' mane? 
 
 For Tiger's dead. 
 
 He, at his prime, was big an' stark, 
 An' weel cou'd work his master's wark, 
 The midnight robber, frae his bark, 
 
 His fate might read : 
 He stood' his grun', be't light or dark — 
 
 But now he's dead.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 69 
 
 At raudie beggars fierce be barket — * 
 Packmen an' tinklers weel he market ; 
 Nae gaugril trashrie near him larket, 
 
 Bat fled wi' speed, 
 Their swindling tricks he aye play'd turk at — 
 
 Now, O he's dead. 
 
 When nibor callauts errands went, 
 Or farmers gaun to pay their rent, 
 To decent fo'k he aye was kent 
 
 As mild as mead : 
 To Peggy t lang his aid he lent — 
 
 But Tiger's dead. 
 
 Though aft wi' him she rag'd and flate, 
 And said he aye stood in her gate. 
 She gied him mony a creeshy plate 
 
 To staunch his greed; 
 They were guid frien's baith soon an' late, 
 
 But now he's dead. 
 
 * Linneus has made it a characteristic of dogs "that they bark at 
 beggars," but beggars are ragged, and sometimes have that look of 
 idleness which poverty pi-oduces ; and then the imagination of the 
 dog sees in the poor mendicant, a robber of his master's house, or 
 ■ one vs^ho will be cruel to himself, and he expresses his own fears by 
 a bark. A dog is thus valuable for watching property in proportion 
 to the ease with which he is alarmed. One of the greatest terrors of 
 a domesticated dog is a naked man, because this is an unaccustomed 
 object. The sense of fear is said to be so gi'eat in this situation, that 
 the fiercest dog will not even bark. A Tanyard at Kilmarnock was 
 a few years ago extensively robbed by a thief who took this method 
 to overcome the courage of a powerful Newfoundland dog who had 
 long protected the property. The teri'or v/hicli the dog felt at the 
 naked thief was wholly imaginary, for the naked man was less capa- 
 ble of resisting the dog than if he had been clothed. 
 
 t Dr. Patrick's cook.
 
 70 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Nae mastiff, collie, terrier, cm". 
 Durst breed wi' him the least demur, 
 Nor geese, nor bubbly Jock durst stir. 
 
 They much did dread 
 He wad hae trod them in a furr — 
 
 But he's dead. 
 
 Unhke the spanky gray-houu' race, 
 That follow Parker * in the chase, 
 His legs were posts, his body-case 
 
 Was laigh an' braid, 
 Wi' lang black hair, an' lion-face — 
 
 But Tiger's dead. 
 
 When ladies braw did walk at e'en 
 
 Doun by " the place " 'mang plantings green, 
 
 Whyles first, whyles hin-most, he was seen, 
 
 Their guard an' guide ; 
 They've tint a powerfu' honest frien'. 
 
 For Tiger's dead. 
 
 Weel he cou'd lick milk wi' the eat, 
 
 Or lift the lid o' the kail-pat ; t 
 
 He had mair skill, I'll tell you what. 
 
 In time o' need. 
 Than mony a iking that wears a hat — 
 
 But now he's dead. 
 
 * Dr. Patrick's Gamekeeper. 
 
 + For some time previous to his death, he had learned the practice 
 of removing the covers from the pots and other kitchen utensils, and 
 helping himself to whatever food he could find.
 
 rOEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 71 
 
 Life's devious patli while we are tjj|adiii' ; 
 Things greatly change while we're no heedin' — 
 Tiger grew auld, dee't, as I've said, an' 
 
 To fill his stead 
 Anither daft young whelp they're breedin' — 
 
 But Tiger's dead. 
 
 His master's mansion lang he guardit, 
 For danger he ne'er ken'd nor car'd it, 
 Nor, at the last, was he discardit 
 
 When past remead ; 
 May merit aye be thus rewardit. 
 
 Alive or dead. 
 
 Peace to his banes — 'tis nature's law 
 That men, as weel as dogs, maun fa' ; 
 Disease, with breath, malign, does blaw, 
 
 An' snaps life's thread, 
 Or auld age comes, an' we're awa — 
 
 For Tiger's dead. 
 
 But may we live, through help o' grace, 
 That whan we dee, they'll say, alas ! 
 We've lost in hiui, hard is our case, 
 
 A frien' indeed, 
 Whase deeds fond memory lang shall trace, 
 
 When we are dead.
 
 72 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 LETTER TO ROBERT ANDERSON, 
 
 SON OF THE REV. JAMES ANDERSON, RELIEF CHURCH, BEITH, 
 
 A LITTLE BOY WHO HAD KINDLY LENT THE AUTHOR 
 
 A SMALL OIL LAMP, ONE DARK STORMY 
 
 EVENING, DEC, 1826. 
 
 Thy little lamp, supplied with oil, 
 Did light me safely home 
 Through dark and wet, for all the while 
 I screeu'd it from the storm. 
 
 I pitied the lone traveller ; far 
 Involved in darksome night, 
 'Mong trackless wilds, no friendly star, 
 Or lamp to give him light. 
 
 Light, whither from Heaven thou brightly shine. 
 Or from the oU-lamp flow, 
 Thy cheering influence benign. 
 Gives Ufe to all below. 
 
 What were our world, were light not given ? 
 A cold and dismal place ; 
 And, wanting Truth revealed from Heaven, 
 What were the human race ? 
 
 Led by this light, the paths we shun 
 Which io destruction tend ; 
 And strive the Heavenly prize to win — 
 Rich, lasting, without end.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 73 
 
 O may this light sbiue everywhere 
 Where dwells the human race ; 
 And moral darkness, guilt, despair, 
 Retire before its face. 
 
 While erring mortals onward move 
 In danger, crime, distress, 
 Aye will this light a beacon prove, 
 And many guide to bliss. 
 
 Farewell dear boy, and may thy youth 
 Rehgious ways engage, 
 And sage experience, wisdom, truth. 
 Light up thy riper age. 
 
 And may thy light before men shine, * 
 That those who see thy ways 
 May imitate thee, and incline 
 To render God the praise. 
 
 When watery vapours, pouring doun. 
 Obscure the star-Ught dim. 
 May I, when late and dark, in toun, 
 Yet find thy lamp in trim. 
 
 A. AlTKEN. 
 
 * Vide Matthew v 16.
 
 74 POEMS OF ANDKEW AITKEN. 
 
 VERSES TO CLEGS. 
 
 What ails ye now, ye stupit things, 
 Sae furiously to drive your stings, 
 To pierce the hidden, Ibloody springs 
 
 That's in a body ; 
 May some mischief clip aff your wings, 
 
 Ye tyrants bloody. 
 
 Tho' aft repell'd, ye'U no desist — 
 Sure its bad manners, at the least, 
 On rich and poor alike to feast 
 
 Aye whan ye will ; 
 Wi' equal force, in raaa and beast. 
 
 Ye stap your bill. 
 
 Its strange to see your feeble race 
 Play dart upo' a strong man's face. 
 As herce as ye war full iu case 
 
 To gar him yeild, 
 Though aft ye fa' wi' much disgrace 
 
 Upo' the field. 
 
 Unto your pith ye lead the van 
 O' enemies, baith to beast an' man ; 
 Even you an' a' that countless clan 
 
 0' flies an' midges ; 
 Ye aften gar us flyte au' ban, 
 
 A gie vile fidges. 
 
 When fleas, an' scabs, an' lice, did join 
 To plague the fo'k o' Ham langsyne. 
 Ye wad be there, we may opine, 
 
 Amang the squad. 
 To put themsel's, their kye and swine 
 
 A' starting mad.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. /O 
 
 In simmer, whau it's warm an' di-y, 
 Ad' Phoebus shiniD' bright an' high. 
 Ye aft gar horses, sheep, an' keep 
 
 Talv' mad-like dances, 
 An' to the shades an' houses fly 
 
 Through a' the fences. 
 
 Then turnips, 'tatoes, beans, an' pease, 
 Hay, plantings o' young thriving trees, 
 Kail, sybos, leeks, an' hives o' bees, 
 
 Are laid in ruins ; 
 A' this, wi' grief, the farmer sees 
 
 An' bans your doings. 
 
 To shun you, through the thorns they'll rin, 
 Or plunge o'er rig, back in the lin — 
 Vile trash ! ye reckon it nae sin 
 
 The brutes to torture, 
 Ye should be grippet every skin 
 
 An' wrought like mortar. 
 
 But, 'mang life's ills on us ye're sent, 
 Soon will your feeble rage be spent, 
 Your term o' life, like oiu's, is kent 
 
 To be but short ; 
 Brown Autumn's breeze will soon prevent 
 
 Your vexin' sport. 
 
 Oppressors, sprung o' nobler race, 
 Wha suck the comfort an' the peace 
 Of honest worth, behold your case 
 
 Ye livhig plagues ! 
 Wretched, unpitied too, alas ! 
 
 Ye'll fa' like clegs.
 
 76 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO MRS. C. SMITH, IN PORT GLASGOW, 
 (formerly MRS. LOVE, OF BORDER,) 
 
 on her marriage. 
 Madam, 
 
 In honest auld ploughman style I wish ye guid fuirder, 
 Though I maun say that ye're very muckle missed at the Border; 
 For mony are the times that I hae gotten my dordor * 
 When I cam' to ta'k wi' you at the Border, 
 I was feared ye had been seized wi' some mental disorder 
 Whan I heard about your marriage an' hasty flight frae the 
 
 Border, 
 For ye might hae gotten a husband, or ought that ye liket 
 
 to order, 
 About Beith or elsewhere, without ever leaving the Border. 
 Seek Ayrshire through an' through, or even a guid piece farder, 
 Ye'U scarce fin' as nice a canny spot as the Border. 
 While memory, aye faithfu', continues to be a recorder 
 Ye'll never cease, 1 opine, to remember the Border, 
 An' compassionate mony a poor factory weaver an' carder, 
 Wha ne'er got leave to breathe the pure breeze at the Border. 
 Remote frae the spendthrifts haunts, or the keen money hoarder, 
 Ye cou'd hae lived economically, safe, an' weel at the Border. 
 For the tumult o' the nations, and the sanguinary sworder 
 Ne'er raise their astounding voice, or show their front at the 
 
 Border ; 
 
 * Dordor, or dorder-meat, a repast taken by our forefathers be- 
 tween the dinner and supper meals, serving the same end as the 
 modern practice of taking tea. This repast, consisting of bi-ead, 
 boiled colewort, &c., was carried unto the field to the herd boys, one 
 of which was kept on every farm. One of these boys on the farm of 
 Barr, Parish of Beith, with whom my father was intimate, on sur- 
 ve jdng his scrimped allowance, exclaimed — ' ' Ither herds get a 
 dordor like a dorder, but I get a doug litters dordor."
 
 POKMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. / / 
 
 But wi' Providence, its true, the <?uid fo'k's guide an' guarder, 
 Ye may lieve ony whar, just as weel as at the Border. 
 But I'm doubtfu' ye'U be sayin' I'm a daft pedantic ioorder, 
 Wha has 'na muckle to do wi' neither you nor the Border, 
 An" that I had better be as far awa as Auchterarder, * 
 Than laugh at man or mother's son belanging to the Border. 
 I acknowledge this is true, may your fate ne'er be harder 
 Than it was while ye dwalt about Delap touu or the Border. 
 May ye always enjoy health, an' plenty o' meat in your larder, 
 Nor e'er turn a longing look back to the Border. 
 May your sailor steer life's cruise free o' shoals, rocks, or other 
 
 retarder. 
 And lang retain the prize, nobly gained at the Border. 
 May ye hear the meed of " well done," frae man's Sovereign 
 
 and Rewarder, 
 On arriving safe, life's voyage o'er, near Heaven's happy Border. 
 Sae I'll aye remain your frien' wi' lang increasing ardour, 
 An' whan I come your gate, I'll ca' an' bring news frae the 
 
 Border. 
 
 A. A. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON MEETING A (JELEBRATED DANCING MASTER ON THE ROAD, 
 ONE SABBATH MORNING, IN A STATE OF EBRIETY. 
 
 Can this be him, wha teaches fo'k at once 
 Wit an' guid manners — learns them, too, to dance? 
 Who mak's mere dults in knowledge bright excell — 
 Can he be gaun sae stupid like himsel' ? 
 Yes, wonder not, but view the matter right — 
 As candles waste while they disperse their light, 
 Sa« he has taught his pupils so much skill, 
 That he has nane o't left to guide himsel'. 
 
 * A Town and Parish of Perthshire.
 
 78 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 EPITAPH 
 OX THE LATE DR R. WILSON, BBITH. 
 
 When Fame had reported the Doctor was dead, 
 Every breast was oppress'd with sad sorrow ; 
 
 And young and old cried, as they scratched their head — 
 Alas ! he has not left his marrow ! 
 
 For he drank, and he rhym'd, where the merry souls met, 
 
 In houses where Rum is retailed ; 
 Arms, shoulders, or legs broke or sprained, he set. 
 
 And sore cuts and bruises he healed. 
 
 The various diseases were well by him ken't 
 Which assail both the rich and the needy ; 
 
 To abate these afflictions a life-time he spent. 
 And for wages he never was greedy. 
 
 Some said he was not sound in his creed ; 
 
 Others said he was wild in his morals : 
 But he cares not a pin, whether living or dead, 
 
 Which way they determine such quarrels. 
 
 The Doctor was alive when these verses were written. On 
 presenting him with a copy, he laughed, and, calling for writing- 
 materials, said he woiild write my epitaph before leaving the room. 
 However, after musing some time, he started up and said : " It is 
 impossible just now ; " and, so far as I know, was never done — yet, 
 he was facile at extempore rhyming — I give one specimen. — James 
 Montgomerie, baker, having been lavxghing for two or three hours, 
 without intermis.sion — "Stop," said the Doctor, "I'll write your 
 Epitaph . — 
 
 ' Here lies honest James, a most comical fellow ; 
 During life, many a bicker he quaffed ; 
 He was kind to his friends, whether sober or mellow — 
 "W^ien he died, he groaned not, but laughed.' "
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKKN. 79 
 
 THE HAUDING 0' THE PLOUGH. 
 
 Of a' the occupations and trades that I do ken 
 Amang the varioas nations of civilized men, 
 In ancient or in modern times, to gie ilk trade its due, 
 Nae calling is sae usefu' as handing o' the plough. 
 
 Concerning its antiquity the Bible is express — 
 
 When Adam in fair Eden was set the flowers to dress, 
 
 The old malicious serpent mischief upo' him drew^ 
 
 He was drave frae the garden and sent to hand the plough. 
 
 For many years auld Adam a farmer's life did lead, 
 And made store of provisions his numerous race to feed. 
 And when his auld son, Cain, from youth to manhood grew, 
 His father he succeeded at handing o' the plough. 
 
 In ilka generation some aye pursue the trade — 
 The guiding o' the ploughshare — that mankind may be fed ; 
 For fo'k o' a' professions, whan they are keepit fu'. 
 Maun own they are supported by handing o' the plough. 
 
 King David was a gude man, as ancient records tell, 
 Kmg Solomon for wisdom, did a' mankind excell ; 
 And Samson was a strong man amang the warhke crew. 
 Yet nane o' these great worthies could leeve without the plough. 
 
 Though Hector was a brave man, an' lang defended Troy, 
 And Hercules (its storied), did monsters great destroy, 
 And famous Alexander did a' the world subdue. 
 Yetj these were a' dependant on handing o' the plough.
 
 80 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Our nobles, whase possessions extend baith far an' wide — 
 The lawyers wha, by writing, perplex'd affairs decide — 
 An' the minister wha preaches up weel what we should do, 
 Wi' a' their wealth and learning are leeving by the plough. 
 
 Our doctors, learned an' skillfu' about the human frame, 
 Wha gie their patients doses, and former health reclaim, 
 And a' our great mechanics wi' pulley an' wi' screw, 
 And a' our curious artists are leeving by the plough. 
 
 As far as trade commercial around the globe extends, 
 Ae man upon anither continually depends : 
 Ae trade supports anither the world through an' through, 
 But a' trades are supported Ijy handing o' the plough. 
 
 Then lang may agriculture in a' its branches speed. 
 That fo'k may weel' be furnished wi' plenty o' gude bread ; 
 For mankind o'er the warl wad sune be weak an' few, 
 Without life's best supporter — the hauder o' the plough. 
 
 ELEGY OX JOHN FLEMING, 
 
 WHO LIVED IN BROADSTONE, AND DIED, 1803. 
 
 Ye Flemings living far or near, 
 Wha o' this mournfu' event hear, 
 Come a' wi' me, an' pass a year 
 
 In mourning weed ; 
 Frae ilka e'e let fa' a tear, 
 
 For Fleming's dead. 
 
 ^o 
 
 The subject o' this mournfu' theme. 
 Black Johnny Fleming is the same, 
 For mony years he had his hame 
 
 Near Beith hill-head ; 
 But now he's only left his name, — 
 
 For Flemings dead.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 81 
 
 He in his youth was Strang and braw, 
 But ne'er had wife nor wean ava, 
 Sae leftna' neither great nor sma' 
 
 To fill his stead ; 
 But left an empty stinking ha', 
 
 For Fleming's dead. 
 
 A soger, too, he was, I ween, * 
 Whan Highlandmen in arms were seen 
 Wi' Charlie in rebeUion keen 
 
 Against their head ; 
 An' wad hae foughten for his frien', 
 
 But now he's dead. 
 
 He bought an' selled, I heard fo'k say, 
 An' swappet cattle mony a day, 
 He strings o' horses, on the way 
 
 To fairs did lead, 
 Guid, bad, an' worse, white, black, broun, grey. 
 
 But Fleming's dead. 
 
 * Wlien the rebellion of 1745 broke out, the celebrated Dr. Wither- 
 spoon, then minister of Beith, animated a number of the inhabitants, 
 and John Fleming among the rest, to enrol themselves as volunteers 
 in the cause of King George, and to march along with himself to 
 Glasgow, to join the royal forces. But here — from that false con- 
 fidence which so often becomes pernicious to even the best of causes — 
 they were informed that their services were not required, and were 
 ordered home. The minister, however, continued with the army, 
 and being at the disastrous battle of Falkirk, was there taken 
 prisoner, and confined by the rebels in the castle of Doun, till the 
 result of the battle of CuUoden enabled him and others to regain 
 their liberty. He left Paisley in 1768, and went to America, where 
 he was appointed President of the College of Princeton, in New 
 Jersey. There he introduced into their philosophy all the most 
 liberal and modern improvements of Europe ; and Learning received 
 an extension before unknown in the American Seminai-ies. After 
 having been 7 years a representative of the Province of New Jersey, 
 in the Congress of the United States, he died, aged 7^ years. His 
 works, in 9 vols., were published at Edinburgh, in 1804.
 
 82 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Lan,' too, he farm'd, an' keepit kye, 
 Ah' herdit, niilket, made the whey ; 
 He kirning butter aft did try, 
 
 An' baking bread ; 
 An' wash'd his dirty sarks forby — 
 
 But 0, he's dead. 
 
 He wrought his milkners a' himsel', 
 
 Aft I hae heard the cadger tell ; 
 
 His cheese, tho' somewhat gray an' fell. 
 
 Was halesome feed, 
 A savoury, baith to taste an' smell — 
 
 But now he's dead. 
 
 He grew right social o'er a gill, 
 An' hked a waught o' nappy yill ; 
 0' whisky he drank mony a fill, 
 
 Wi' rauckle greed ; 
 Tobacco, too, he liket still — 
 
 But Fleming's dead. 
 
 Through life he many years did blunder, 
 Till he was nearly aged a bunder ; * 
 Sae auld, ye'll scarce fin' for a wonder, 
 
 Frae this to Tweed ; 
 But death, at last, dang a' asunder — 
 
 For Fleming 's dead. 
 
 'Twas n the year aughteen an' three, 
 The time arrived for him to dee, 
 Sae frae the yerth his sawl did flee 
 
 On wings o' speed — 
 A warning, frien's, to you an' me — 
 
 For Fleming's dead. 
 
 » 
 
 * I heard John say that he attended Largs Fair, or Colmsday, as 
 it is called, for 60 successive years, without intermission. — A. A.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 83 
 
 An' whar he gaecl, let those relate 
 Wha pry into the future state ; 
 Like him, we a' maun yield to fate, 
 
 Without remead ; 
 Sae now there needs nae mair debate — 
 
 For Fleming 's dead. 
 
 Then cease for him to mourn an' grieve ; 
 Live wisely, don't yoursel's deceive, 
 An' aye wi' heart an' min' believe 
 
 What's in the creed ; f 
 For Fleming yet some day shall live, 
 
 Though now he's dead. 
 
 EPITAPH OF JOHN FLEMING. 
 
 He was made o' dirt, and he gaed upo' dirt, 
 
 Dirt was his meat an' deeding ; 
 He dee't amang dirt, he was buried 'mang dirt, 
 
 To dirty worms for feeding. 
 
 VERSES TO A SNUFFER, 
 
 WITH A PRESENT OF TOBACCO AND SNUFF. 
 
 Some like to chew the bitter leaf, 
 
 Or gar its reek play puff ; 
 Some grun't to powder, ca't the chief 
 
 0' life's enjoyments— snuff ! 
 
 Thou fen't on common fare langsyne 
 
 Whan thou dwalt in the Cuff ; 
 But now, I ken, thou does incline 
 
 To tak' a pinch o' snuff. 
 
 + " I believe in the Eesiirrection of the body, and the life 
 everlasting. Amen."
 
 84 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Accept, wi' this, some smoking twist. 
 
 Let Lizzy at it whiff, 
 An' keep the stoor, thysel', I trust 
 
 Thou'll fin't guid biting snuff. 
 
 An' tak' a penfu', never think 
 
 0' dearth, or lack o' stuff ; 
 The drudge gets wark, the drouthy drink. 
 
 The snuffer gets a snuff. 
 
 When times look dark, an' threaten ill, 
 Or Men's look sour an' gruff, 
 
 Defy their warst, just grup the mill 
 An' tak' an extra snuff. 
 
 'Tis said strong liquor waukens wit — 
 Its whyles but loud an' rough ; 
 
 Nor lang can drouthy cronies sit, 
 Without the pipe an' snuff. 
 
 Whisky aft mak's wise men insane. 
 
 And arrant cowards bluff ; 
 SnufF clears our een, inspires our brain, — 
 
 There's naething, Rab, like snuff. 
 
 Would'st thou frae neibours favours seek, 
 
 Nor meet wi' a rebuff, 
 Tak' out thy mill, afore thou speak. 
 
 An' treat the fo'k wi' snuff. 
 
 Whan neibours flyte about their weans. 
 
 Or hens, wi' angry huff, 
 Thou'll please them soon, wi' little pains — 
 
 Fair talk, an' rowth o' snuff.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 85 
 
 Whan fo'k turn drowsy in the kirk, 
 
 (An' duty's road turn aff,) 
 Aye rouse them to the holy wark, 
 
 By han'ing roun' the snuff. 
 
 The minister his Bible steeks 
 
 Whan he has said enough, 
 Sits doun, his snuff-horn gravely seeks, 
 
 And closes wi' a snuff. 
 
 The soger gangs whar honour ca's, 
 
 Whane'er the drum plays ruff : 
 What's honour whan the hero fa's ? 
 
 Alas ! no worth a snuff. 
 
 The lady draws her hly han' 
 
 Frae glove or ermine muff, 
 And kings and beggars fondly stan' 
 
 To dight the nose an' snuff. 
 
 Through life we grope our darklin' way, 
 
 Like weans at blin'-man's-buff ; 
 Some wade in plenty ilka day, 
 
 An' some can scarce get snuff. 
 
 Frankly the snuffer tak's an gies ; 
 
 Sure he's a stupid chuff 
 Wha toils through life, nor kens, nor pries 
 
 The guid effects o' snuii'. 
 
 While epicures on dainties feed. 
 
 And costly liquors quaff, 
 Be thou content wi' halesome bread, 
 
 Pure drink, plain claes, an' snuff.
 
 86 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 An' laug may frien's an' neibours see 
 Thy food has not been chaff : 
 
 Thou'll ne'er be sick, thou'U never dee, 
 While thou can tak' a snuff. 
 
 As grumphie fills, so says the tale, 
 Aye sourer turns the draff ; 
 
 But sour wad be life's best, an stale, 
 To thee, deprived o' snuff. 
 
 'Tis right, my frien', thy taste to please, 
 Though knowing anes should laugh 
 
 To see thee spen' thy gude bawbees, 
 An' fyle thy face wi' snuff. 
 
 Twa mouths to feed, some fo'k suppose 
 Owre mony by ane half — 
 
 The taue may thole a blink — the nose 
 Aince learn' d, cries out, snuff ! snuff ! 
 
 Overton. 1830. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 RECITED ON NEW-YEAR's-DAY EVENING, 1840, AFTER A 
 
 ROUP OF LAND AT BALGRAY, (LIFE-RENTED 
 
 BY MRS. HARVIE.) 
 
 Now the auld year's awa an' the new year's beginnin'. 
 An' Spring's comin' on to allow us full scope 
 
 By industry an' skill to prepare for the Harvest, 
 On the lan's we hae ta'en at the Bagra' roup. 
 
 Many young forward farmers embark for Australia, 
 An' the isles. far awa' yont the Cape o' Good Hope ; 
 
 We're as safe here at hame, takin' bits o' grun' yearly. 
 An' enjoying the feast o' the Bagra' roup.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 87 
 
 It is right that these far distant hxu's should be peopl'd, 
 But 1 like aye to see t'o'k look weel ere they loup, 
 
 For there's huuders awa' that wad fain be here wi' us 
 This night, at the feast o' the Bagra' roup. 
 
 But whan Johnny goes rouu' wi' the glass an' the bottle, 
 'Tis true we aft bid, an' scarce ken whan to stop ; 
 
 An' shilling an' shilling mak' a great big sum total, 
 Sae we whyles tak' owre dear at the Bagra' roup. 
 
 Our far fam'd Auctioneer, too, milks to the last pouring — 
 For takiu' in bodies, few wi' Geordy * can cope. 
 
 An' a wink or a nod, to his eye lang experienced. 
 Is as gude's the best speech at the Bagra' roup. 
 
 There's ne'er muckle loss by the man whase loof's wauket, 
 
 Not so wi' the idler, the fool, or the fop ; 
 Were my sanction accepted, I freely cou'd caution 
 
 A' the tacksmen here met at the Bagra' roup. 
 
 For there's not a landowner in Beith or Kilbirnie, 
 Lochwiunoch, Kilbarchan, Dairy, or Dunlop, 
 
 Can sum up as numerous a squad o' guid tenants. 
 As our mistress can count at her annual Ian' roup. 
 
 • 
 
 An' here she has made for us ample provision, 
 
 Frae the field, frae the baker's, an' llucksterer's shop, 
 
 An' the jug aft refilled wi' stout weel-tempered toddy, 
 To welcome the year, and rejoice at the roup. 
 
 Our tea-total chieftains would drench us wi' water, 
 Sma' yill or thin porter, an' sic like slip-slop ; 
 
 These may do weel to slocken fo'k dry eatin' herrings. 
 But a wee drap guid whisky's the life o' a roup. 
 
 The Late George Kerr, Auctioneer, Beith.
 
 88 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Some run to soirees, dandy balls, and processions, 
 (A search for enjoyment I ne'er will adopt,) 
 
 For the happiest o' times I enjoy through the season, 
 Is in parties like this at the end o' a roup. 
 
 We manure, we plough, an' we sow, an' we harrow, 
 But Providence kindly bestows the gude crop ; 
 
 An' the weans will get bread, an' the kye will get fodder, 
 Ere we pay for the Ian' we hae ta'en at the roup. 
 
 The proud an' the vain climb the hiU of ambition. 
 An' stumble an' fall ere they come at the top : 
 
 In hfe's humble walks we aspire not to great things, 
 And we relish a treat hke this after a roup. 
 
 May we lang enjoy health, wi' peace, freedom, an' plenty 
 0' milk, meal, potatoes, saut, sugar, an' soap, 
 
 Wi' a bit an' a sip o' some fare guid an' dainty. 
 Whan New-year's Day comes, an' the Bagra' roup. 
 
 May we live sober lives, an' be usefu' while living. 
 An' whan time frae existence dings out the last prop, 
 
 We'll retire much regretted by those wha best ken'd us, 
 An' lea' new haun's tae strive at the Bagra' roup. 
 
 But my subject grows grave ; this is nae time for preaching, 
 Wi' your leave, then, my frien's, I my rhyming will stop : 
 
 I was just gaun to say 'twill be thought a great wonder 
 Should we a' meet here next New'r-day after the roup. 
 
 While our guid mistress lives, may she always hae plenty 
 0' tea, bread an' ham, or a nice mutton chop, 
 
 To tak' till hersel', or to treat a guid neighbour, 
 An' the fo'k that tak' Ian' at the Bagra' roup.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 89 
 
 THE BALGRAY RENT. 
 
 March. 1841. 
 
 Last year, ye'll bae min', at the Roup o' the Bagra', 
 
 I incautiously ventured to hint 
 That the day was far aff, an' wad scarcely arrive, 
 
 Whan called on to pay up the rent. 
 
 But a year an' odd months hae since slippet awa 
 
 (For our hale term o' life is soon spent) 
 Since we met at the Roup, an' we're met here again 
 
 To settle the Bagra' rent. 
 
 Meal an' hay are baith cheap ; but we ought to be glad 
 
 For the guid crap that Providence sent ; 
 We've aye gotten our meat, an' why les saved twa-three pounds, 
 
 To help, at term-time, wi' the rent. 
 
 Onr kind mistress, too, is aye anxiously bent 
 
 Our wants an' desires to prevent, 
 For there's aye something guid to be got whan we meet 
 
 To tak' Ian' or to pay last year's rent. 
 
 To the scribe's chilly office we gang wi' our siller, 
 
 Like tbe Pope's devotees keeping Lent, 
 And there's no ae bit gaun — be we cauld, be we hungry — 
 
 Though we pay the last bawbee o' rent. 
 
 I hae whyles thought them happy wha'rc lairds o' bit malings, 
 
 0' greater or lesser extent, — 
 They can farm as they like, an' subsist on the produce. 
 
 An' they needna to pay ony rent.
 
 90 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Yet I've seen haughty lairds o' guid, weel-stockit farms, 
 
 An' cash bringing in cent, per cent., 
 Breaking stanes on the roads, an' employed cuttin' drains, 
 
 To pair tenants, wha paid a dear rent. 
 
 Flush'd wi' ease, wealth, an' praise, they run folly's career, 
 
 Till they find it too late to repent. 
 Whan involved in disgrace, debt, remorse, and disease, 
 
 They hae naething to gie for the rent. 
 
 We're a' sair working fo'k; much indulgence frae fortune 
 Through the past part o' life we ne'er kent ; 
 
 But we'll wear the auld coat, an' we'll eat the coarse bread, 
 Ere we'll fa' far ahin' wi' the rent. 
 
 Now the seed time is come, an' in due time we'll reap, 
 
 If we still persevere, and not faint; 
 Here we tak' an' we gie^ — at the last great court-day 
 
 We will a' get a share o' the rent. 
 
 We'll no envy the rich, nor look doun on the poor. 
 
 But wi' our ain lot be content ; 
 An' we'll part in the hope to be merry neist year. 
 
 Whan we settle the Bagra' rent. 
 
 We hae seen mony happy events in our time. 
 
 An' read o' a guid wheen in print. 
 But we're aye geyan' sure to be socially blest 
 
 On the night o' the Bagra' rent.
 
 rOEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 91 
 
 JOSIE STRATHERN. 
 
 there's music in woods, an' there music in waters, 
 An' it's heard in the breeze o'er the hill an' the caii'n, 
 
 But wad ye hear nature an' art's sweetest concord, 
 Attend to the strains play'd by Josie Stratheru. 
 
 He can play a' the tunes, new or auld, in this empire, 
 In Paris, Vienna, Rome, Frankfort, or Berne, — 
 
 Reels, jigs, strathspeys, waltzes, quicksteps, an' slow marches, 
 Are a' alike easy to Josie Strathern. 
 
 Whan he tunes up his fiddle, the youths flock aroun' him. 
 An' the wives canna' sit the weans' stockings to darn ; 
 
 But young an' auld foot it, as lang as they're able, 
 To the mirth-makin' music o' Josie Strathern. 
 
 The ploughmen comes hame wi' his team frae the furrow, 
 The maid frae the byre 'mang the boyns an' the sharn. 
 
 An' the widow flings by a' her sables and sorrow, 
 To rejoice for a season wi' Josie Strathern. 
 
 At balls, kintra rockiugs, an' washings o' aprons, 
 Or liairst, whan the shearers hae coupit the kirn, 
 
 House-heatings, tea-parties, match-ploughings, or weddings— 
 The life o' sic parties is Josie Strathern. 
 
 He'll no be the first that'll flinch frae a party 
 Assembled in ale-house, hall, kitclien, or barn ; 
 
 Wi' the drouthy he'll drink, wi' the merry be mirthfu', 
 For a' body's body is Josie Strathern.
 
 92 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 An' he'll fit you wi' shoes, frae the lady's silk slipper 
 
 To the ploughman's stout brogues, nail'd wi' steel an' wi' 
 aim ; 
 
 Au he'll either mak' uew anes, drive tackets, or cobble, 
 For aye willin' to ser' you is Josie Strathern. 
 
 The Greeks they may boast their Timotheus and Orpheus, 
 The English o' Handel, and Arnold, and Arne, 
 
 An' Scotchmen may point to their Smiths, Gows, an' 
 Gilmours, 
 But Beith fo'k may brag o' their Josie Strathern. 
 
 Music soothes the toil-worn, and revives the despondent, 
 An' softens the tyrant, relentless and stern ; 
 
 It gies action to mirth, an' excites pure devotion, 
 An' sic strains we enjoy, play'd by Josie Strathern. 
 
 While the songs of the bard an' the strains of the viol 
 Charm the ear an' the heart o' man, maid, wife, an' bairn, 
 
 There will aye be musicians, — some waur an' some better, — 
 But we'll ne'er hear ane equal to Josie Strathern. 
 
 DONALD MONRO. 
 
 Some sing the exploits o' fam'd statesmen an' heroes, 
 Wha rule the rebellious an' combat the foe, — 
 
 Some sing o' their loves, ithers wail out their sorrows, 
 But I'll gie you a sang about Donald Monro. 
 
 He was rear'd in the north 'mang the hills, near Lochaber, 
 Whaur clansmen hae marched, an' loud bagpipes did blow ; 
 
 In his youth he was trained baith to war an' hard labour, — 
 For his king an' his countrv lives Donald Monro.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. i)3 
 
 But now, where the rich, ample garden discloses 
 Its varied productions, for use and for show, 
 
 'Mang the shrubs, and the fruits, and the sweet-smelling roses, 
 Wi' his spade and his knife, labours bold Donald Monro. 
 
 He can delve, he can plant, he can graft, he can gather 
 The weeds frae the soil, he can till, he can sow, — 
 
 He does all kinds of work, and bi-aves all kinds of weather, 
 For nought comes amiss to Donald Monro. 
 
 When tir'd by the ills caused by fortune or folly, 
 Or cheer'd by the fruits from industry that flow^ 
 
 Aye bear an' forbear, an' dismiss melancholy, 
 
 An' be thankful for guid things, says Donald Monro. 
 
 Some lay uj? in store for an ill day a-coming, 
 
 An' dee e'er the guid o' their labours they know ; 
 
 But, happen what will, he's nae votary o' Mammon — 
 There's a hole in the purse worn by Donald Monro. 
 
 To err whyles a kennin is said to be human. 
 
 And constant experience proclaims it is so, 
 Yet the wisest o' men an' least foolish o' women 
 
 Hae some wee bit fau't — sae has Donald Monro. 
 
 He whyles tak's a glass wi' a frien' or acquaintance, 
 And he's no easy raised when he's aince on the go ; 
 
 An' " it's needless to talk o' reform or repentance 
 While we yield to temptation," says Donald Monro. 
 
 Frae the glebe and the garden, supplies never failin' 
 Are drawn for the wants o' the high an' the low — 
 
 Let not greatness or pride ever leer at the calling 
 0' farmers, or men such as Donald Monro.
 
 94 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 THE DRUNKARD'S SOLILOQUY, 
 
 IN IMITATION OP HAMLEt's. 
 
 To drink, or not to drink ? That is the question— 
 
 Whether 'tis better still to rove about 
 
 From inn to inn, mad with the fumes of whisky, 
 
 Or make a vow against the use of spirits, 
 
 And save our health and money ? Turn sober, vpealthy.- 
 
 No more ; and by this change to say we end 
 
 The headache, heart-burn, and a thousand ills 
 
 That drunkards suffer; 'tis a consummation 
 
 Sincerely to be wished — to eat — to drink — 
 
 To drink ? perchance get drunk ! Ay, tliere's the road ; 
 
 When met in town with all our boon companions, 
 
 Must make us pause. There is the reason 
 
 That makes good-natured men drink all their days : 
 
 For who would bear the ills of cold and want. 
 
 The spurns of vintners, when his money's gone. 
 
 The duns of creditors, the beadle's chase, 
 
 The fears of jail, and all the rude insults 
 
 Which wretched drunkards from the rabble take. 
 
 When he himself might live at ease and comfort 
 
 In his own dwelling '? Who would whisky swill. 
 
 And groan and spew about an ale-house door. 
 
 But that the dread of conquering rooted habit, 
 
 (That unsubdued tyrant, from whose grasp 
 
 Few people e'er escape) puzzles the will. 
 
 And bids us rather seek the other gill, 
 
 Then grope the way home to our cheerless dwellings. 
 
 Thus craving thirst makes drunkards of us still. 
 
 And many a well-formed scheme and resolution 
 
 Is broken through, 'midst riot and intemperance ; 
 
 And foolish men, who once had pith and money. 
 
 With this I'egard, refuse to be reclaimed. 
 
 And die in abject poverty.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 95 
 
 THE AULD MAN THAT LIVED IN BEITH. 
 
 Tune — " The auld wife ayont thejire.^^ 
 
 In Beitli there liv'd a frail auld man, 
 His age was sixty-five an' ten, 
 Wha took a freak, whan near his en', 
 
 That he wad gae an' marry. 
 The auld man that liv'd in Beith, 
 The aged man that dwell't in Beith, 
 The deein' man that liv'd in Beith, 
 
 He wad gae try an' marry. 
 
 He lee't, an' cheatet, pinch'd his wame, 
 Grew rich, by mony a dirty scheme. 
 But he turn'd auld, an' stiff, an' lame, 
 
 Black, crabbit, an' carastairie : 
 The rich auld man that liv'd in Beith, 
 The worthless man that dwell't in Beith, 
 The crabbit man that liv'd in Beith, 
 
 Wad fain gae try an' marry. 
 
 He thought on Meg, sae trig an' douse, 
 To wash his claise an' clean his house. 
 That ne'er a spider nor a louse 
 
 In his abode might tarry : 
 The aged man that liv'd in Beith, 
 The dirty man that liv'd in Beith, 
 The black auld man that wonn'd in Beith, 
 
 Saw nae relief but marry. 
 
 He promis'd cash, he hecht her braws, 
 Himsel', an' a' within his wa's — 
 Nae bitin' horse, nor empty sta's, 
 But brimfu' cups to carry :
 
 96 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 The loving man that liv'd hi Beith, 
 The amorous man that dwell't in Beith, 
 The frank auld man that stay'd in Beith, 
 Wad gie his all an' marry. 
 
 But, ah ! the road to her was lang, 
 The man was frail, an' cou'dna gang, 
 His kin said things war a' gaun wrang — 
 
 The auld fool wad them harry: 
 The frail auld man that liv'd in Beith, 
 The cross'd auld chap that liv'd in Beith, 
 The vex'd auld man that dwell't in Beith, 
 
 They wadna lei him marry. 
 
 They watched him closely oot an' in, 
 Said he was daft, they wad him binn, 
 The frail auld Beith man didna win. 
 
 To court his winsome deary : 
 The captive man that liv'd in Beith, 
 The daft auld fool that was in Beith, 
 The fail'd auld man that liv'd in Beith, 
 
 He ne'er gat leave to marry. 
 
 Ye youngsters a' that hear my sang, 
 
 Gif e'er ye marry, do't ere lang. 
 
 For time an' care will ding you wrang, 
 
 An' ye'U grow stiff an' sairy, 
 Just like the auld black man o' Beith, 
 The doitet, worn-out man o' Beith, 
 The single man that Hv'd in Beith, 
 
 Wha cou'dna mauu to marry. 
 
 Ye thowless wights wha ne'er hae wed. 
 Though years hae siller'd o'er your head. 
 Lie cauld an' restless in your bed. 
 When winter tries you sairly.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 97 
 
 Ye're just as daft's the man o' Beith, 
 Your stauuch auld frieu' that hv'd in Beith ; 
 Ye'U perish like the man o' Beith, 
 Wha dee't eve he could marry. 
 
 Whan ye grow auld, gin ye be poor, 
 Your kin will drive you frae their dooi- ; 
 Gin ye be rich, they'll use ye waur — 
 
 They'll never let you marry. 
 This fate befel the man o' Beith, 
 The poor rich man that dwell't in Beitli, 
 A warning to the fo'k o' Beith 
 
 To gang in time an' marry. 
 
 LOCHWINNOCH MUSIC AND SCONES. 
 
 . . . " Sonple scones, the wale o' food." 
 
 — BURNS. 
 
 Did ye e'er hear the soun' o' Strathern's noble fiddle — 
 Its loud, warlike chords, or its soft mellow tones ? 
 
 Ilae ye seen the big fires, or the braid baking girdle. 
 Or tasted the mistress' thick fadgel scones '? * 
 
 Were ye learn'd to sing, dance, walk in martial procession ! 
 
 Hae ye marched to the fray by the bagpipe's loud drones ? 
 In dry burning climes hae ye lang'd for cauld water, 
 
 Or dream'd ye were eating thick mashlam scones ? 
 
 * Joseph Strathern, aneininciit violin-player, at that time in Tiocli- 
 winnoch, and his wife, justly eclebratcd for her skill and inchistry 
 in baking and selling scones of a peculiarly grateful descri)>tioii. 
 
 11
 
 98 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Would ye see your dear friends active, mannerly, thrifty 
 (I mean the young Jennies, Jeans, Willies, and Johns), 
 
 Sen' them doun — they'll learn music an' dancing frae Josie — 
 Frae the mistress, industry, an' baking o' scones. 
 
 There are fathers sae void o' the music o' nature. 
 
 Whan their weans cry for bread, they present thera wi' 
 stones ; 
 
 Yet they'll pay as much coin for a mutchin o' whisky 
 As would buy a hale batch o' guid health-giving scones. 
 
 Bread, o' whatever sort, is the staff o' existence — 
 It strengthens the heart, an' puts fat in the bones — 
 
 It mak's youths plump an' braw, — e'en the aged an' the 
 toothless 
 Are sustained by munching fine, saft, souple scones. 
 
 Wi' a slice o' saut ham, or a nice row o' butter, 
 
 Sugar, coffee, or tea, brought frae far distant zones, 
 
 An' sundries sic like, coal, and saft boiling water, 
 Kich feasts are got up upo' Lochwinnoch scones. 
 
 Ye fo'k o' Lochwinnoch, be gratefu', be thankfu'. 
 
 For sure by High Heaven ye are much favour'd ones — 
 
 Ye hae physic, an' plenty o' baith law an' gospel, 
 Wark, wages, pure water, fine music, an' scones. 
 
 Frae the cauld northern blast by green hills ye're protected, 
 Which like pyramids stan\ or large beautifu' cones ; 
 
 You just want your friend Adam to drain your broad 
 marshes.* 
 An' convert their rough herbage to fine wheaten scones. 
 
 * The village of Lochwinnoch is beautifully situated on the north- 
 west bank of the locli. This lake derives its name from the Gaelic 
 loch (a lake) and w'meucli (a broil, a fray, or tumult). It was 
 formerly much more extensive than at present. This very enter-
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKKN. U'J 
 
 James Adam the good, the ingenious, the honest — 
 Much ye owe to this best o' auld Scotland's sons ; 
 
 Lasting marks of his genius an' skill stan aroun' ye— 
 What hundreds of labourers hae eaten his scones ! 
 
 By Providence lang may ye a' be protected 
 
 Frae prisons, fires, floods, an' vile pawnbrokers' loans ; 
 
 Aye be sober, industrious, an' temperate in a' things. 
 An' ye'll aye get a share o' drink, cleadmg, and scones. 
 
 Great, wise, usefu' folks aft arise 'mang the people, 
 And tyrants an' scoundrels whyles sit upo' thrones ; 
 
 But let praise be gien freely whare'er it's deserved — 
 An' first to the housewives wha bake the guid scones. 
 
 Though our tatoes be gane, we hope time will restore them. 
 An' that Heaven, in mercy, our ruin postpones ; 
 
 Some will ne'er fare the worse, ithers must endure hardships, 
 But they'll no be ill aff that get plenty o' scones. 
 
 DESPERATION AND WASTERATION. 
 
 Tune — Moderation^ cj-e. 
 
 AAveel, I'll sing you a new sang, made of a modern date, 
 About a wretched auld miser, wha' toil'd baith soon an' late. 
 An' gather'd gear by every mean, dirty, desperate gate, 
 An' whan puir fo'k cam' to beg, he roar'd, an' cursed, an' flate. 
 
 Desperation, desperation. 
 
 It was a wonnerfu' desperation. 
 
 prising gentleman (James Adam, Esq.), then of Barr, among manj- 
 otlier local impi-ovements, about thirty years ago made an embank- 
 ment in the manner of the inhabitants of Holland and the Nether- 
 lands, dried a large portion of the loch, and recoveied several 
 hundi-ed acres of rich carse lands from the dominion of the water.
 
 100 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Wi' an auld girniu' wife, wi' a face as black's the verra gruu', 
 Wha ken'd uaetbing about what belang'd to cleverness or fun, 
 For whan the servant lasses had wrought a' day, an' spun, 
 She gied them wonnerfu' little meat, an' girn't and flate whan 
 done. 
 
 Desperation, &c. 
 
 Wi' an auld worn-out mare, worth about five sterling pounds, 
 Whilk he grass'd on the king's highway, for to hain his own 
 
 groimds, 
 ( But she wasna verra able to travel far frae her ain bounds), 
 An' a purse fu' o' bonny rough shillings, dollars, an' crouns. 
 
 Desperation, &c. 
 
 Wi' an auld herring barrel, almost stripped of a' its hoops. 
 An' twa aik meal garnels, placed in twa o' the auld sooty 
 
 neuks. 
 An' an auld lean canker'd collie, easily ken'd by its looks. 
 An' a kitchen that maintain'd a score o' pigs, hens, an' guid 
 
 gray deuks. 
 
 Desperation, &c. 
 
 Wi' a wonnerfu' frugal scheme whan supper-time was come, 
 Saut on a black stool, an' a tatoe atween ilk finger and thumb, 
 Wi' a drink o' water or whey, instead o' beer, porter, or rum — 
 Life's guid things he refused, an' at giein' thanks was dumb. 
 
 Desperation, &c. 
 
 Aweel, the auld man grew sick at last, and chanced to dee, 
 An' left a' tae his son, an' a verra foohsh young man was he. 
 As by an' by I will endeavour to let you see — ■ 
 How he soon gar'd his father's auld mooly ha'f-crouns flee. 
 
 » 
 
 Wasteration, wasteration. 
 
 It was a wonnerfu' wasteration.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 101 
 
 For this young chap (wha had been hirdet soon an' late, 
 Wi' little siller in his pouch, but a great heap o' folly in his 
 
 pate) 
 Beg-ude his new career at a most unprecedented rate, 
 Like a mad buU broken loose, raging up an' doun the gate. 
 
 Wasteration, &c. 
 
 Wi' a nice wee gill stoup, that was baith smooth and clear. 
 Successively filled wi' Uquor sweet an' Strang, but wonnerfu' 
 
 dear, 
 Wi' a half-a-dozen blackguards, to drink, an' curse, an' swear, 
 Wi' lang black beards, necks, heels, an' elbows bare. 
 
 Wasteration, &c. 
 
 Wi' a new fashion, whane'er the gloamin' was come, 
 Awa' to the public-house on a ridiu' pony — an' be gone, 
 Leaving naebody ahin' tae manage affairs at home, 
 Till he was turned out at last, naething but poverty, skin, an' 
 bone. 
 
 Wasteration, &c. 
 
 THE LAMENT OF A CAREFUL PERSON OVER 
 HIS OLD HAT. 
 
 When my auld hat was purchased new, 
 Tts muckle price I ne'er did rue. 
 For, guidness, there was verra few 
 
 Cou'd wi't compare ; 
 'Twas made o' silk, an' fine saft woo' 
 
 Strii)ii't aff the hare.
 
 102 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 'Twas English mak', an' ne'er a hatter 
 Produced a hat that pleased me better ; 
 Firm proof it was 'gainst win' an' water ; 
 
 Fierce hail an' snaw 
 Might rage an' drive, but what the matter — 
 
 It stood them a'. 
 
 Whan it was on, I aye was bauld, 
 An' neither dreaded heat nor cauld ; 
 Whan ither fo'k war' gaun twa-fauld 
 
 Against the storm, 
 Quite freely I cou'd wag ilk spaul, 
 
 An' felt nae harm. 
 
 At balls or weddings, kirk or fair, 
 Whar fashion shines wi' witehin' ai)-, 
 Mang bonny lads an' lasses rare, 
 
 Wi' bonnets braw, 
 Like my guid hat nae hats were there — 
 
 It dang them a'. 
 
 I)ut time (which silent ruin brings 
 On mighty nations, thrones, an' kings, 
 An' raises beggars on its wings 
 
 To grandeur's throne) 
 Dispoiled my hat, like ither things, 
 
 Upo' my croun. 
 
 Now a' its rim was broken doun. 
 
 An' mony a seam sew'd roun' an roun' ; 
 
 To leeward batter'd was the croun 
 
 By weather's dimt ; 
 Wi' lime it likewise was turn'd broun. 
 
 An' sairly brunt.
 
 POEMS OK ANDREW AITKEN. Wo 
 
 Much sport this to my comrades gave, 
 Wha girnecl like fools, au' drew au' rave, 
 An' iu the fire it aften drave, 
 
 An' wadna settle, 
 For though I aft guid counsel gave. 
 
 They miu't it little. 
 
 What cou'd I do ? — my head gaed bare, 
 My hat wad skyte the drap nae mair ; 
 I cast it frae me in despair. 
 
 To lift it never, 
 And to the merchant's did repair, 
 
 An' caft anither. 
 
 RECEIPT FOR MAKING SCANDALOUS FOETRY 
 
 FOK THE BENEFIT OF YOUNG POETASTERS. 
 
 OCCASIONED BY READING A COPY OF VILE, DEFAMATORY 
 VI:RSES on some good, industrious NEIGHBOURS. 
 
 Select some fit men, 
 
 The best that ye ken, 
 Weel skill'd in beneficial labours, 
 
 Wha hae toil'd day an' night, 
 
 An' exerted their might, 
 For the good o' themsel's an' their neighbours. 
 
 Tak' fo'k dead an' fo'k livin' 
 
 Fo'k rejoicin', fo'k grievin', 
 Tak' youths in love's mazes bewildriu', 
 
 Tak' fathers an' mothers, 
 
 Wives, sisters, an' brothers, 
 Sad widows, an' fatherless children ;
 
 104 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Tak' fair wenches an' beaus, 
 
 Dress'd in their best clothes, 
 Accomplish'd to shine most completely 
 
 In a fine courtship party; 
 
 Wi' bread mak' them hearty, 
 An' wine to syue't over sae sweetly. 
 
 Tak' sheep, cows, an' boves, 
 Meal-barrels, brose, puves, 
 
 Compomid them wi' lies and vague clashes- 
 The produce of folly. 
 Whan young chaps come jolly 
 
 Frae kirks an' frae fau's wi' the lasses. 
 
 Tak' Bibles an' prayers, 
 
 Guid advices an' cares, 
 Tak' reason, religion, an' conscience, 
 
 Guid morals an' health. 
 
 Reputation an' wealth — 
 Mix them up wi' calumnious nonsense. 
 
 Tak' a dull, stupid hash, 
 
 Ha'f man an' ha'f ass. 
 An' this precious collection then show him- 
 
 Gie him paper, pen, ink. 
 
 He'll produce in a blink 
 A complete, modern, scandalous poem. 
 
 t/wne, ISll.
 
 rOEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 105 
 
 BORLAND'S PORTER. 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 Analysis : — Address ; Borland — his readiness to serve the public ; 
 Porter, a drink for all classes of people ; Brewers of it noticed ; 
 Value of it to ladies, married or single — lovers — dealers ; Good 
 at feasts ; Cruickshank's orations characterised ; Temperance 
 people porter-drinkers — ready to relapse into spirit-drinking ; 
 Characters more likely to resist temptation ; Reformers — what 
 ought to be their object ; Advice — when to drink porter — when 
 ardent spirits — what quantity ; A serious reflection — caution to 
 drunkards and gluttons ; A wish, &c. 
 
 " British liquor some inspires with gladness, 
 And makes some droop in sober sadness ; 
 Makes politicians sound to battle. 
 And lovers of their mistress prattle ; 
 While, with potations bottle deep. 
 It lulls the serious sot to sleep." 
 
 — HOKACE. 
 
 " The fool sucks wisdom as he porter sups, 
 And cobblers grow fine speakers o'er their cups. " 
 
 Hark, drouthy bodies, great an' sma, 
 John Borland's ready at your ca'; 
 For he's begun this year or twa, 
 
 Or rather shorter, 
 To brew a beverage suits ye a' — 
 
 Guid, nappy porter. 
 
 Frae Royal William, fostering dad 
 To honest fo'k, sae to the bad, 
 Doun to the mason's service lad, 
 
 That carries mortar, 
 Wha winna drink, we'd ca' him mad, 
 
 A mug o' porter.
 
 106 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 For London porter some protest, 
 While itbers say that Cheap's is best, 
 Macfarlane, Tennant, a' the rest, 
 
 Ilae some supporter ; 
 I'm no' far seen, but I insist 
 
 For Borland's porter. 
 
 The merchant and the traveller bold, 
 Wha brave the extremes o' heat an' cold, 
 Through paths terraqueous, life to hold, 
 
 Would freely barter 
 Their ivory, spices, furs, and gold, 
 
 For Borland's porter. 
 
 It cheers the ladies who lie in,* 
 An' clears up those wi' faces din ; 
 Beauty an' merit's sure to win 
 
 The tardy courter — 
 Successfu' courtships aft begin 
 
 While drinking porter. 
 
 At toun or kintra festal cheer, 
 
 Some drink dear wine, some swill sma' beer; 
 
 They're baith guid drinks, but I stan' here 
 
 A firm exhorter 
 To quat sic weak, expensive gear, 
 
 An' try the porter. 
 
 Whan blustering coupers bargains mak', 
 
 An' hes, an' muckle profits tak'. 
 
 Loud they gar their lang whips play smack, 
 
 The yauds to nortor, 
 An' o' their ti'ots an' boosings crack, 
 
 O'er Borland's porter. 
 
 * In former times, females, who were thus circumstanced, drank 
 home-brewed beer.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 107 
 
 Whan temperance bodies meet to damn 
 The fo'k that tak' a moderate dram,* 
 An' hear the truths, the h'es, an' flain 
 
 Raird by the carter^ 
 Nae stronger brew gaes doun wi' them 
 
 Than Borland's porter. 
 
 Wi' a' their tracts, harangues, an' din, 
 It's nought but screwing in the pin — 
 They'll try the Avhisky yet, ye'll fin', 
 
 Or something smarter ; 
 I'd rather see them fill their skin 
 
 Wi' Borland's porter. 
 
 Gie me the man that tak's a share 
 
 O' ought that's gaun, whate'er's the fare — 
 
 Wi' habits fix'd, I'd trust him niair 
 
 Than ony starter, 
 Wha ivrites he'll ne'er drink stronger ware 
 
 Than yill or porter. 
 
 Wad fo'k a moderate course pursue 
 In a' they think, an' say, an' do. 
 There's naething a' the warl' through 
 
 Wad prove a hurter — 
 They'd drink wine, rum, an' whisky, too, 
 
 An' yill an' porter. 
 
 Whan powerfu' nations stretch their arm 
 For state, for kirk, an' self -reform, 
 An' black corruption feels alarm 
 
 Frae ilka quarter. 
 Ye patriots cool your passions warm 
 
 Wi' Borland's porter. 
 
 * This language, to some, may appear strong, but it is true ; for 
 in all their tracts and speeches, which I have seen or heard, they 
 uniformly assert that moderate drinking is the cause of drunkenness, 
 and the great bar against the cure of its evils.
 
 108 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 To habits ill nae quarter gie, 
 
 Gar idlers cultivate the lea, 
 
 Frae slavery's chains the wretched free ; 
 
 Nae harsh extorter, 
 Nor idler loun, deserves to prie 
 
 John Borland's porter. 
 
 Frae fierce extremes aye haud aback. 
 An' walk in moderation's track, 
 Nor heed the mad enthusiast quack, 
 
 Or saucy orter. 
 But whyles a glass o' spirits tak'. 
 
 An' ivhyles tak' porter. 
 
 Whan Time does natural vigour tame, 
 Or pale disease consumes the frame, 
 Whan med'cines fail health to reclaim. 
 
 Or ease the torture, 
 Go drink it, mull'd, an' die, nor blame 
 
 John Borland's porter. 
 
 Wi' strong drink some their lives destroy, 
 Same, wi' guid meat, their stomachs cloy — 
 May we, in health, much guid enjoy. 
 
 Through life's short charter. 
 An' aye be cheery on the way 
 
 Wi' draps o' porter.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 109 
 
 LINES ON SEEING A HAWK PURSUING 
 A LARK. 
 
 " But is not man to man a prey ? 
 Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay." 
 
 — GAY. 
 
 wherefore, cruel tyrant of the skies, 
 Dost thou against thy neighbour hostile rise ? 
 To take the life ! — horrid, dark design ! 
 What have larks done to either thee or thine ? 
 Have they in wrath destroyed thy hopeful brood, 
 Burnt up thy nest, or snatched away thy food ? 
 Did they a hostile banner e'er display 
 Against thy race but for one single day ? 
 No ; view their humble dweUing on the ground — 
 In them aspiring thoughts were never found. 
 Except when winter's past ; in cheerful spring 
 Their chief employ is mount on high and sing. 
 Stop ! wretch, confess them innocent at once ; 
 But, ah ! sweet innocence is no defence 
 Where tyrants absolute dominion sway — 
 The innocent become their easy prey. 
 Not true alone when savage tribes we scan. 
 Alike, or woi'se, is civilised man. 
 What do we read in the historic page ? 
 Oppression, blood, and crimes in every age : 
 What horrid work does such records display. 
 Unparalleled by furious beasts of prey ? 
 By nature's impulse, seeking what is good. 
 These only ravage for their daily food : 
 But mankind, tyrants, more ferocious still, 
 Without the smallest gain, their neighl)onrs kill.
 
 110 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Ah, Innocence! thy lot on earth is hard, — 
 Distress and death is often thy reward. 
 Thou seem'st abandoned to thy cruel foes — 
 Where's thy avenger, and the scourge of those ? 
 Can Justice now no more the sceptre sway ? 
 Yes, Hope looks forward to a glorious day, 
 To which all parties are at once referred, 
 When Justice shall dispense a due reward 
 To every one. Theu Innocence shall move, 
 From trouble free, in her own sphere above ; 
 While tyrants shall exert their cruel might 
 On one another, through the endless night. 
 
 1806. 
 
 PERRY'S ELEGY. 
 
 THIS WAS A BEAUTIFUL RIDING PONY, BELONGING TO 
 MISS PATRICK OF TREARNE. 
 
 Death, when will thy vast desire 
 Be satisfied ? — when wilt thou tire 
 To ravage earth, thy ain empire ? 
 
 Such is thy greed. 
 Nought but the life can be thy hire — 
 
 For Perry's dead. 
 
 Sin' he is dead, ye ponies a', 
 An' fo'k baith near an' far awa'. 
 In mournfu' strains lament his fa', 
 
 For weel ye need — 
 The bonniest horse that e'er ye saw 
 
 Is lately dead.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. Ill 
 
 'Twad be an endless task to tell 
 How far this creature did excel ; 
 But form ideas to yoursel' 
 
 AVhile I proceed, 
 Proclaimin' rouii', wi' dolefu' yell, 
 
 That Perry's dead. 
 
 His size was neither big nor little, 
 But handsome, made o' gallaut mettle, 
 As clever's ony weaver's shuttle 
 
 That e'er ca'd thread ; 
 But the thread o' life is brittle — 
 
 For Perry's dead. 
 
 By nature he was mild an' canny, 
 As guid in full as he was bonny — 
 To equal him. ye'll scai'ce get ony 
 
 0' Ayrshire breed ; 
 His worth can not be tell'd in money — 
 
 But he's dead. 
 
 His work is done — he'll never niair 
 E'er carry rouu' his mistress fair, 
 Through pleasant groves, to tak' the air, 
 
 At e'enin' tide. 
 Nor o' hei' kind caresses share — 
 
 For Perry's dead. 
 
 Had he, like some, been spoil'd an' wrought. 
 Or death by auld age on been brought ? — 
 No ; strength or beauty serves us nought, 
 
 Whan death male's head; 
 This wakes anew the painfu' thought — 
 
 For Perry's dead.
 
 112 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Deplore this loss, ye ladies wha 
 Ride upon coursers swift an' braw ; 
 Ye coupers an' horse-jockies a', 
 
 Proclaim abreed 
 The flower o' horse' is ta'en awa — 
 
 For Perry's dead. 
 
 0, how uncertain's warld's gear, 
 E'en life, an' everything that's here — 
 Time every object aff does bear 
 
 On wings o' speed ; 
 Think on this mourufu' instance clear- 
 
 For Perry's dead. 
 
 EPISTLE TO JAMES WILSON, Thirdpart— 1805. 
 
 The light o' day was fairly donn, 
 'Tween three au' four in the afternoon — 
 
 It being winter season — 
 The moon was shinin' siller clear. 
 The twinklin' stanis thick did appear 
 
 Around the vast horizon — 
 
 That night, ye'U min', as we had set, 
 Our manuscripts we did ready get, 
 
 A' packit up like carriers, 
 Then Ipaith awa', wi' ae consent, 
 Frae Overton to Trearne went, 
 
 To crack wi' our superiors.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 113 
 
 Wha cou'd that night mair happy be, 
 An' better pleased, than you an' me? 
 
 Nane ! even kings an' nobles : 
 Sic times, whan fortune sweet does smile, 
 Mali's fo'k forget vexatious toil, 
 
 An' a' life's comitless troubles. 
 
 How, pleasant, James, it is to see 
 Fo'k live in peace an' unity, 
 
 Vile discord's mouth to stop aye — 
 When those in elevated station 
 Act for the welfare o' the nation, 
 
 An' mak' their neighbours happy. 
 
 Weel we had far'd, an' crackit fine 
 O' events new, an' things langsyne — 
 
 0' rich an' poor fok's manners ; 
 At length the clock did notice gie 
 'Twas time for us to gang an' lea' 
 
 Our fau', kind entertainers. 
 
 We bade guid night, an* cam' awa'. 
 While chattin' freely 'tween us twa, 
 
 Weel pleased wi' our adventure — 
 Wi' bundles large o' borrowed wit,* 
 Though abhus little enough o' it 
 
 In our weak pows did centre. 
 
 Now, Jamie, lang we've cronies been, 
 I hope that nought will intervene 
 
 To have the sma'est tendence 
 Our friendship in the least to spill — 
 Sae let us try to manage still 
 
 A regular correspondence. 
 
 Books from the library at Trearne, at that time spelled Treehorn. 
 
 r
 
 114 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 1 dinna mean this length to go. 
 As mak' our warks a public show, 
 
 An' thole fell critic's twistles ; 
 But briefly whyles our min's to tell, 
 In verse or prose, as suits oursel', 
 
 By writing short epistles. 
 
 There's ae thing now, I plainly see, 
 Frae black reproach we'll ne'er be free, 
 
 Whatever road we walk in ; 
 But let us keep a guid defence, 
 An' gie our neighbours nae offence, 
 
 An' let fo'k ay be talkin'. 
 
 VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 " The Muse is fir'd ! and let the Muse be fir'd ! 
 Who would not speak, when what he speaks he feels ? " 
 
 Up, Muse! with life thy theme renew — 
 Accept, dear maid, the tribute due 
 Erom one who feels regard for you — 
 
 Not to offend. 
 Presumes not on a higher view 
 
 Than of a friend. 
 
 That night, ye'Il min', spent with you — then 
 I homeward hied, in joy and pain — 
 Pain'd so to part, yet did retain 
 
 Hope's cheering gleam — 
 Joy'd, too, to think I did obtain 
 
 Your high esteem.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEX. 1 1 fj 
 
 The friendly beil', rich bread and cheese. 
 Rare spoil frae the industrious bees, 
 And liquor pure, which quickening gie.s 
 
 Unto the whole, 
 And female sweetness, form'd to please 
 
 And win the soul. 
 
 Let tipplers quaff frae Bacchus' bowl — 
 
 I envy not, with feast of soul. 
 
 In friendship's tide of thought to roll, 
 
 What fare hke this? 
 And Love's flame, to cement the whole, 
 
 Is perfect bliss. 
 
 It's no' long yet since, playful, you, 
 At e'ening, frisked round the plow. 
 Ambitious, when frae toil we drew. 
 
 To get a ride 
 On cheerie naig — o))taiued it, too. 
 
 Wi' mickle pride. 
 
 Matured by Nature's parent care. 
 With wit and beauty ample share, 
 May heaven regard the fabric fair 
 
 With watchful eye, 
 An' make one of some happy pair 
 
 In wedlock's tie. 
 
 Wou'd you be happy, virtue's way 
 Pursue, as morn to brighter day — 
 Let spotless innocence display 
 
 A heart that's true, 
 And grace benign shall sweetly play 
 
 Around your brow.
 
 116 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEK. 
 
 For what avails the painted skiu 
 Unless the mind be fair within? 
 This pure esteem and love does win, 
 
 And doth not miss 
 To point the way frae haunts of sin 
 
 To lasting bhss. 
 
 While, through this hfe, of ills a swarm 
 We must endure, some powerful arm 
 Shield you from each surrounding harm 
 
 With tender care — 
 A lover true, with feeUngs warm, 
 
 Fall to your share. 
 
 Be yours, while life's up-road you cUm'. 
 A cup of good things to the brim. 
 And nightly may the pleasant dream 
 
 Your rest renew — 
 While reading this, you'll think ou him 
 
 Wha thinks on you. 
 Overton, 1809. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A MISER. 
 
 Here lies a man whose heart was in his purse, 
 
 But money prov'd to him a heavy curse ; 
 
 For neither back was clothed nor belly fed. 
 
 Nor slept he sound nor warm when in his bed. 
 
 He scrupled not his neighbours to oppress, 
 
 Nor yet himself, his riches to increase. 
 
 'Mang wealth insatiate, still he craved for more. 
 
 But wealth deprived him of his god — his store ; 
 
 He hes — ye worldlings, catch the thought, how killing ! 
 
 With him you'll lie — deprived of every shilling.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 117 
 
 THE MUCKLE FAT COW, 
 
 SLAUGHTERED IN BEITH, BY J. MILLAR, NOV., 1848. 
 
 I hae tasted fed veal, lamb, an' sweet wedder mutton. 
 An' bae aft been regaled wi' the flesh o' the sow ; 
 
 Ox beef, fat an' lean, salt an' fresh, I hae eaten — 
 Now I've dined on a bit o' Barcosh's fat cow. 
 
 She was pure Ayrshu'e breed,* bought at aught pun' notes, 
 farrow. 
 
 Whan turned out to graze where the white clover grew ; 
 Next fed on green food, an' substantial farm produce — . 
 
 For weel kens the laird how to mak' a fat cow. 
 
 Some kye devour food, but thrive not in proportion, 
 But here the reverse, as we see, has been true ; 
 
 She was fifty tron stanes weight o' prime beef an' tallow — 
 Aught tron stanes o' creesh had the muckle fat cow. 
 
 In Millar's flesh mart hung this rare, noble carcass, 
 Which hundreds o' beef-Ukers cam' for to view. 
 
 An' ane an' a wished it had been their guid fortune 
 To enjoy sic a mart as Barcosh's big cow. 
 
 * This cow was reared by Mr. Craig, farmer in Eyesholm, on 
 some high grounds belonging to him, between Dairy and West 
 Kilbride, and purchased and fed by J. Cochran, Esq. of Barcosh, as 
 above narrated.
 
 118 POKMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Here the far-famed sirloin, or more ample beef baron,* 
 May be got, with tid pieces to boil, roast, or stew ; 
 
 An' the neat, thrifty housewife, frae clean sorted offals, 
 Mak's nice compound meat — whyles the best o' the cow. 
 
 We hae Millar the Less, Farmer Crawford, an' Bobbie, 
 Alexander the Great, whom nae foe can subdue, 
 
 Wha boast their prime meat, in pun's, hale bouks, or quarters, 
 But wad rather sell drams than the banes o' a cow. 
 
 Langsyne the bieu farmers, for flesh through the winter, 
 Took a cow starved an' milked the hale simmer through ; 
 
 They had uaething but skin, muckle banes, an' tough sinews, 
 No worth a tron stane o' Barcosh's fat cow. 
 
 Fresh herrings or saut anes whyles pass for guid kitchen ; 
 
 Fat hens, geese, an' turkeys are shared 'mang a few ; 
 But nae meat agrees wi' a soun' healthy stomach 
 
 Like the weel prepared beef o' the ox or the cow. 
 
 * The most popular joint of beef is universally allowed to be the 
 loin, which, on account of its having been once actually knighted by 
 Charles the Second, in a tit of royal condescension and jocularity, ia 
 now denominated Sir loin. This ample joint has given rise to a 
 well-known ballad, styled "The Roast Beef of Old England," and 
 it still continues to make a conspicuous figure at the table of all 
 
 " Who hospitably live, 
 And strangers with good cheer receive." 
 
 Two sirloins joined together, without having the back-bone cut 
 asunder, are called a " baron of beef . " The author of the " Seasons " 
 (Thomson) places the sirloin at the head of his autumnal feast : — 
 
 " First the fuelled chimney blazes wide ; 
 The tankards foam, and the strong table groans 
 Beneath the smoking Sir loin, stretched immense 
 From side to side, in which, with desperate knife, 
 They deep incision make, and talk the while 
 Of England's glory, ne'er to be defaced, 
 While hence they borrow vigour."
 
 POEMS OK ANDREW AITKEN. 119 
 
 May the time come whan labour, weel paid, an' guid morals, 
 Bread, tatoes, an' beef to each one will allow ; 
 
 An' the Laiixl aye to keep his estate in condition, 
 An' aye now an' then to produce sic a cow. 
 
 O there's mony a braw maid for the Laird mak's her prayer 
 (Should he mak' a right choice, he'll hae nae cause to rue), 
 
 An' the ane that's sae lucky 'ill be aye sure at tea time 
 0' a roast o' nice ham frae some muckle fat cow. 
 
 THE BED. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 A guid warm bed, an' a weel made bed, 
 
 A' body should keep a nice warm bed ; 
 
 For nought keeps the cauld win' outside the shade 
 
 Like a weel made bed, an' a cosy bed. 
 
 The weans gin the gloamin' fret, yaumer, and greet, 
 Quite done up wi' play, sleep, an' sair hackit feet. 
 And the mother, wi' praising an' fly ting, is glad 
 To see them a' stowed in their warm, cosy bed. 
 
 The farmer, removed frae oppression an strife, 
 Comes hame, reads the papers, or chats wi' his wife ; 
 And, though tired wi' the thrashiu', the plough, or the spade, 
 He's refreshed, ere the morn, in his warm, cosy bed. 
 
 A snooze on a chair, or a public -house floor, 
 
 "Where strong men are made weak, and rich fo'k are made poor, 
 
 May recover a chap whase sma' prudence has fled. 
 
 But it's no' like a sleep in a warm, cosy bed.
 
 120 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 When quarrels arise, an' you apt to get fu', 
 
 Or onything else that ye're likely to rue, 
 
 Though fools may loud laugh, or vile knaves may persuade, 
 
 Kin aff and ensconce yersel's safe in yom* bed. 
 
 Not to idly doze, but to shun the sair ills 
 0' couping auld horses and signing bank bills ; 
 For mony a bien lairdie, by driving sic trade. 
 Has tint his ain bed — aye, lain wanting a bed.* 
 
 For mysel', I was hardly e'er worth a grey groat, 
 An' mony a cauld day hae gane wantin' a coat ; 
 But I'll hve on coarse fare, an' gang yet thinly clad, 
 Ere I want my guid bed — my nice, cosy, warm bed. 
 
 Young men an' young maidens, my sang ye hae heard. 
 And there's ae thing here merits yom' special regard — 
 Look weel roun' about ye afore that ye wed. 
 And partners select wha can keep a guid bed. 
 
 A weel made bed, &c. 
 
 * " Be thou not one of those that strike hands, or that become 
 surety for debts ; for if tlion hast nothing wherewith to pay, why 
 hould he take away thy bed from under thee?" — Solomon.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKKN. 121 
 
 TERSES OX THE DEPARTURE OF THOMAS 
 GO WANS FOR AMERICA. 
 
 Rich fo'k are aye famed for their knowledge and wisdom, 
 Thongli aft it's a' nought but a show and a sham ; 
 
 But I'll show you a man strictly honest and knowing — 
 Nae rich man is he, but poor Collier Tam, 
 
 He was born an' brought up 'mang the hills o' New Cumnock,* 
 And, in search o' employment, to Beith side he cam', 
 
 And for years he's been usefu', by deeds and example — 
 Much guid might be learned frae poor Collier Tam. 
 
 Whan he came frae his wark, he was aye wet and dirty, 
 But, whan sorted, was cheery an' brisk as a lam'. 
 
 An' weans an' auld fo'k were a' fond to be near him — 
 They got tales an' queer stories frae Collier Tam. 
 
 The maist o' his tribe spen' their earnings on Sunday, 
 On whisky, tobacco, tea, steak, and saut ham. 
 
 Then they starve the hale week, or get tick frae the grocers. 
 But there's part left to-morrow by CoUier Tam. 
 
 * I have since learned that he was born and brought up in 
 Paisley. From liis conversation, I found tliat he had practised 
 coal-digging at many places through Scotland. After coming to 
 " Beith side," he digged coals to me four years. — A. A.
 
 122 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 They despise law and order, aud form combinatious 
 Against social freedom, and fight, curse, and damn ; 
 
 Sic dark deeds he shunned — free trade and just dealing, 
 " Peace and guid will," is the motto o' Collier Tarn. 
 
 Now he's o'er the braid sea, wi' his weel-won sma' treasure, 
 To inhabit the land o' great, big Uncle Sam ; 
 
 And ne'er truer soul left the shores o' auld Scotia, 
 When on shipboard, at Glasgow, went Collier Tarn. 
 
 And mony braw lasses wad fain hae gaue wi' him, 
 
 An' left a' their sweethearts, their dad, an' their mam ; 
 
 But his purse was but light, an' he cou'dna deceive them, 
 Sae they're left to lament honest Collier Tarn. 
 
 An' he'll fell the tall trees, and subdue the coarse herbage. 
 An' cultivate maize, wheat, potato or yam — 
 
 He'll enjoy life and health, and the fruit o' his labours, 
 Nor again dig the mine — for he's '-Rich Farmer Tam." 
 
 Wi' him lang acquaint, we were vex'd at last parting — 
 Should I e'er see him mair, we'll hae ae social dram ; 
 
 I am sure he'll do weel, he deserves to be happy — 
 Sae farewell a while, honest Collier Tam. 
 
 Overton, March 29, 1850.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 123 
 
 LETTER TO A STUDENT IN GLASGOW. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 It was my expectation, on your last vacation, 
 to enjoy a visitation In my habitation, to have some con- 
 fabulation on a great variation of things in the nation, and 
 by anticipation of your future destination ; but getting 
 intimation you were off to your station, I felt much vexation 
 lest our friendly communication might come to a termination ; 
 but, on consideration, it was my determination that a vast 
 accumulation of business, in rotation, held you on that 
 occasion, against your inclination. 
 
 Whatever be the resultatlon, without deviation make 
 earnest application to your present education. Set an high 
 valuation on all kinds of information, and with deliberation, 
 and mature examination, make due preparation to preach the 
 great salvation from sin and damnation; and by powerful 
 exhortation, and heavenly illumination, on Divine revelation, 
 effect the restoration of a perverse generation, from a state 
 of condemnation and moral degradation to mature regenera- 
 tion and glorious exaltation. 
 
 Now, without disputation, this is an high occupation, 
 above calculation, in its final demonstration. Let not this 
 elevation cause the smallest alteration of your conversation 
 with the rest of the creation. Let pride and ostentation be held 
 in abomination; resist all temptation to hurtful dissipation, 
 nor court vain admiration by empty declamation. Let
 
 124 POEMS OF andrp:w aitken. 
 
 every speculation and elaborate oration in the great congre- 
 gation, or private association, without reservation, promote 
 edification; and show your moderation in every situation, 
 and gain the approbation of every relation, and with 
 humiliation attain true dignification. 
 
 But a long continuation of such a compilation would 
 derange my imagination, and have little signification, but for 
 a manifestation of pedantic affectation: but, if worth your 
 observation, a short lucubration in your hours of relaxation, 
 by way of explication, or friendly emendation, will be a 
 gratification and lasting consolation much prized in the esti- 
 mation of yours, with veneration, A. Aitken. 
 
 1815. 
 
 P.S. — Having passed a long probation, and got your high 
 legation with a lucrative presentation in a populous location, 
 aye recall your obhgation, in your daily avocation and 
 Christian ministration, to discourage litigation and oppressive 
 domination. Let sound civihsation and personal reformation 
 rest on truth's secure foundation. Give the sons of tribula- 
 tion, disease, grief, and privation, your sincere commiseration 
 and helping mitigation. "With fervent animation announce 
 the proclamation of God's reconciliation and gracious accep- 
 tation, through Christ's great expiation and prevalent media- 
 tion, as cause of exultation and joyful gratulation, to all the 
 population ; and may no false accusation or sly insinuation 
 e'er blot your reputation, or disturb your meditation; and 
 may your compensation, an ample remuneration, exceed the 
 calculation of Mammon importation from blood-stained 
 excavation, and when time, chance, and mutation are merged 
 in fixation will be its enduration. A. A.
 
 P0EM8 OF ANDREW AITKEN. 125 
 
 LETTER TO D. CALDWELL. 
 
 Get up, my Muse, now once for all — 
 
 For this may be my hin'most call — 
 
 An' though thou's lame, an' frail, an' aul', 
 
 I would be keen 
 To write twa verse to D. Calwall, 
 
 My aul'est frien'. 
 
 A lang half century has been spent 
 Sin' you an' I were first acquent ; 
 At mak'in' sangs ye then were kent 
 
 Your skill to try — 
 John Gemmill first put them in print, 
 
 Doun at Dairy. 
 
 At Little O'erton, o'er the gate. 
 
 Ye dwalt wi' Tamson Will an' Kate ; 
 
 Willie was quick, an' ye were blate, 
 
 An' Kate was sly — 
 Your counsel aft kept the debate 
 
 Frae rising high. 
 
 Willie was knowing, honest, brave. 
 But wad do a' things else than weave ; 
 His error he wad ne'er perceive. 
 
 Nor halt an' swither — 
 Whan ae scheme did his hopes deceive, 
 
 He tried auither.
 
 126 POEMS OF ANDRKW AITKEX. 
 
 He farmed and dairy'd, fed a sow, 
 Taught dancing, writing, singing, too ; 
 He tell'd his scholars a' he knew 
 
 Wi' right guid will, 
 An' whisky made, far out o' view, 
 
 On the Cuff hill. 
 
 Nae man can say his life is sinless — 
 O' dirty tricks Will's life was stainless ; 
 To write his actions wad be en'less, 
 
 Nor fetch renown ; 
 He dee't, auld, poor, but far frae frien'less, 
 
 In Paisley toun. 
 
 For you, ye rather liket ease — 
 
 A walk beneath green leafy trees, 
 
 Or 'mang the whins, where thrifty bees 
 
 Collect their food. 
 An' wee birds hatch, an' sing nice glees 
 
 To train their brood. 
 
 To read the poets ye were fain, 
 
 In lofty, or soft lyric strain, 
 
 Or solemn, gay, sublime, or plain 
 
 The inspiration. 
 An' whyles a sma' chant o' your ain, 
 
 For recreation. 
 
 In gloamings fine I aye was glad 
 When ye cam', ere we gaed to bed. 
 To talk o' books that ye had read, 
 
 An' hear the news 
 0' markets, bloody wars, an' trade, 
 
 'Mang Turks an' Jews.
 
 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 127 
 
 But, Davie, man, wV you an' me, 
 Times are na' as they wont to be ; 
 We ance could frisk it o'er the lea, 
 
 Erect, strong, rapid, 
 Now we are auld, bow'd doun, an' wee, 
 
 Dull, powerless, vapid. 
 
 Your faithfu', loving wife, ye lost, 
 Just when her aid you needed most ; 
 By near relations aften cross'd 
 
 Nor rich your calling, 
 Frae place to place o'er often toss'd, 
 
 To fin' a dwelhng. 
 
 Yet ye hae nae cause to despair. 
 For God o' you has had a care. 
 An' now, whan ye can push nae mair 
 
 Your usual labours. 
 Has kindly, wisely placed you near 
 
 The best o' neighbours. 
 
 On Christ's all-perfect expiation, 
 And ever prevalent mediation. 
 Let us rely for free salvation. 
 
 From guiit and woe ; 
 For He is raised to highest station. 
 
 Bliss to bestow. 
 
 I, too, am o' my wife bereaved — 
 The ae best boon I e'er received — 
 I fondly hop'd she would hae lived 
 
 To hand my head 
 When death approached, but Fm deceived. 
 
 For she's dead.
 
 128 POEMS OF ANDREW AITKEN. 
 
 Yet at my fate I'll no repine — 
 
 What is Grod's will should aye be mine ; 
 
 Though seeming hard, I'll take it kin', 
 
 Nor shght the warning, 
 For in the grave I'll cahn recline 
 
 Till dawns the morning. 
 
 I ne'er durst say, I'm misery's heii', 
 
 But aft I little had to spare ; 
 
 I've sent a coin, bright, massy, rare, 
 
 An' guid be naething ; 
 Change't, it will goods buy — keep it there, 
 
 'Twill be a plaything. 
 
 Yours, &c., 
 
 A. AiTKEisr. 
 To Mr. David Caldwell, Giffin's Lan', Gateside. 
 July 1st, 1850. 
 
 P.S. — Then mysteries dark will a' be clear, 
 Truth great and glorious shall appear. 
 And a' God's ways to mankind here 
 
 Proclaimed aloud 
 Through worlds, and many a distant sphere, 
 
 Wise, just, and good. 
 
 KILMARNOCK : PRINTED BY JAMES M'KIE, 2 KINfJ STREET.
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 PCJlk's llilmarnotiv ^bitioit of ^urits, 
 Dedicated by permission, to the Noblemen and Gentlemen of the 
 
 Caledonian Hunt. 
 
 Complete in Two Vols., Demy 12mo., of 500 Pages each, Price 10s. 6d. 
 
 THE 
 
 KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION 
 
 OF THE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS OF EOBEET BUENS, 
 
 Arranged in the order of their earliest publication, 
 
 WITH MEMOIE OF THE POET, ON A PLAN NOW FIRST ADOPTED, 
 
 And New Annotations, Introductory Notices, &c.. 
 
 Written expressly for this Work, 
 
 Br WILLIAM SCOTT DOUGLAS, Edinburgh. 
 
 > ■^•^ < 
 
 "AYR OBSERVER," September 12th, 1871. 
 
 Some time ago we had the pleasure of receiving and noticing four 
 volumes of the works of our great national Poet, issued from the 
 press of the town whence the immortal works of Burns were first 
 given to the world. These were a fac-shnile of the hrst edition of 
 the poet's works, and other three volumes containing his other 
 poems, arranged in chronological order. The works, for style and 
 finish, were acknowledged to be unique of their kind, and worthy 
 the fame of the enterprising publisher. So well were they received 
 that they have already become scarce, and with difficulty to be had. 
 Encouraged by the success attendant on his effort, Mr. M'Kie, the 
 publisher, was induced to attemjit a much more difficult and pre- 
 tentious work : that was a popular edition of all the poems, with 
 life, annotations, and prefatory remarks to each. The result is the 
 two volumes before us. 
 
 One would almost have been inclined to think that the entire 
 subject of Burns' works had been completely exhausted, and that 
 no new feature could be introduced into any new edition. The 
 poems themselves have become as well known in every household 
 in the laud as the words of Sacred Writ, an inexhaustible mine of 
 poetic beauty and wealth. They are in their individual and separate 
 character, the best exponents of the fii'e, the energy, and the manli- 
 ness of the writer. To know tliem is to know the power that
 
 2 M'KTE's KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BUP.NS. 
 
 exists in the bosom of one who was doubtless sent into the world 
 with a mission, and who performed that mission in the spirit of im- 
 pelling wisdom that -welled up and sought an outlet in every part 
 and fibre of his nature. Hence the axiom that the best commentary 
 and the best estimate of any great writer's works are his own works 
 themselves. This, if true in any case at all, was jjarticularly the 
 case with Burns. Writing to the genus man everywhere, his works 
 went straight to the heart of man. Each therefore who could read 
 them for himself had in and for himself the very best possible ex- 
 planation of the works. His own nature and feelings furnished the 
 chief key to unlock the treasures folded up in the poems and songs 
 of Burns. Thus, in one respect, there has always to us seemed little 
 need for annotations and criticism on his works. 
 
 The plan pursued in the volumes before us, and the execution of the 
 plan, show that our double estimate has been wrong. Something, 
 nay much, that is novel and striking has been produced in them on 
 Burns and hi.s works, and this something must give such a zest and 
 character to the edition as to make it in reality a popular one. The 
 publisher and the editor appear to have the same qualifications for 
 the work, to have been animated by the same spirit, and to have gone 
 con amore into the work they undertook. Both are, and have long 
 been, not merely ardent admirers of Burns and his productions — 
 who is not that ? — but to have thoroughly understood all the circum- 
 stances of his life, the incidents that led to the production of this or 
 that piece, and to have been able to ap2:)reciate, more or less largely, 
 the poetic ferv^our that pervaded the whole nature of the poet, and 
 consequently of his writings. Both, also, seem to have long and 
 deeply studied the whole subject, and to have been thoroughly con- 
 versant with the errors made by former editors ; and both have 
 enjoyed the privilege of extraordinary acquaintance with Burns 
 literature. In short, the editor and publisher are and have been, 
 saturated with love to, knowledge and admiration of, the poet. 
 Hence they in these respects were admirably qualified for the work 
 they undertook. And not to multiply laudation, they have done 
 their work, not in a low petifogging spirit of making the best of the 
 thing in a commercial point of view, but in making the best of it in 
 the light of love to, and acquaintance with, the true man that shines, 
 and sparkles, and scintillates in every line of Burns' writings. 
 
 The plan of the work is to a large extent original. There is first 
 a chronological summary of the life and writings of the poet. In 
 other words, by a skillful weaving together of what Burns had said 
 of himself and his parents, what Burns' near relations have said, 
 quotations from what former editors have written, and, above all, 
 from notations of and slight notes on the poems, in the order in 
 which they were written, a full and complete word picture of the 
 life of the poet, from the cradle to the grave, has been presented to 
 the reader. By comparing the songs and poems themselves in the 
 order noted in the summary, you have the best criterion of the 
 leading events of his short but chequered career, and the influence 
 they had on him and his, and the influence he exercised on them 
 and the world at large. You can, to some degree, unravel the inner 
 working of the mighty mind and giant intellect that possessed Burns,
 
 M'KIE's KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 3 
 
 and which, towering far above that of the age in which he lived, 
 was ever seeking the upward and the onward — the development of 
 himself and his fellow-men. As we have already said, by this means 
 Burns becomes his own biographer, his own critic, his own com- 
 mentator, his own expositor ; and what better can be had than 
 himself ? In this respect the work is truly original. Then follow 
 the entire poems and songs wiitten by Burns. These are arranged 
 strictly chronologicallj' in volume first, all as published and corrected 
 by himself during his lifetime ; in volume second we have all his 
 posthumous works. 
 
 The chief value of the volumes lies in their chronological order, 
 coupled with the profuse, carefully written, and exhaustive notes 
 furnished to each piece. To some this latter feature will be the best 
 and most attractive. Mr. Douglas has, we think, completely said 
 all that can be said in the way of annotation and explanation. If 
 anything, he errs in profusion of annotation. His anxiety to do 
 justice has had the natural tendency to prolixity of expression. His 
 criticisms are generally just and accurate : his knowledge of the 
 beauties of the poems and songs undeniable ; and his appreciation of 
 them keen, and, as a rule, true. Some of his notes may truly be 
 called dissertations. .Specially that on the episode of Highland Mary, 
 which is discussed in a manner in the volume as leaves little more to 
 be said on it. In point of fact the notes and annotations are a work 
 in themselves, and will, we doubt not, form a mine whence future 
 editors may find information. When we add that there are in the 
 two volumes several new things with regard to Burns, and several 
 before unpublished lines and verses, we only do justice to the care, 
 earnestness and ability with which the work has been edited. In all 
 respects it is a worthy successor to the hundreds of editions that have 
 gone before, and in many respects exceeds them all in comj)leteness. 
 A single word on the book as a book. For general appearance, 
 clearness of type, and beauty of finish, it is not to be excelled by any 
 book produced out of our large cities. The Kilmarnock press has, 
 in this instance, not belied the pr-estiye it has had in the publishing 
 world, but rather added a copestone to former fame. 
 
 "AYR ADVERTISER," November 2nd, 1871. 
 
 If to have a great variety of editions of his works, edited by his 
 countrymen of the highest literary eminence, and received with 
 avidity and read with rapture alike in distant climes as well as in 
 his native land, be the sterling test of immortal fame, then has our 
 Ayrshire Bard attained that distinction to an extent to which none 
 save Homer, Milton, Shakspeare, and Byron have apf)roached. 
 Purists have at times declaimed against his youthful follies, and 
 rigid total abstainers have inveighed against his social excesses, both 
 forgetting that the poet of nature is an imaginative being; often 
 selecting as the objects of his most inflammatory love songs, females 
 he never knew nor spoke to, and depicting with gusto bacchanalian 
 scenes which had no more real existence than the Witches' dance iu 
 Alloway Kirk. But the heart of his countrymen warms in truthful
 
 4 M'KIE'S KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 
 
 constancy to Burns' memory ; and the ablest writers of tlie age have 
 rivalled each other in jDroducing the humblest, as well as the most 
 gorgeous editions of his works. Hamilton Paul, Currie, Chambers, 
 Allan Cunningham, Carruthers, Hately Waddel, and others less 
 pretentious, have all thrown their laborious oiferings on the Poet's 
 cairn, bringing out every incident of interest in his eventful life 
 illustrative of their texts of both his jioetry and prose. The two 
 volumes before us, edited by Mr. Wm. Scott Douglas and just issued 
 by that enterprising publisher Mr. M'Kie, Kilmarnock, though they 
 may not stand favourable comparison in minuteness of criticism and 
 detail with some of the editions alluded to, have an interest which 
 none of these possess in their similarity to the simplicity and clear 
 bold tjrpography of the original Kilmarnock edition. It must not 
 be supposed, however, that the editor's duties have been confined to 
 the mere text of former editions. There is a goodly collection of 
 very valuable notes, some of them now published for the first time ; 
 and we approve very much of one of these being prefixed to each 
 poem explaining its history to the reader at a glance. This is very 
 much more convenient than scattering the information apart from 
 the poem through lengthened dissertation. An engraving of the 
 Poet, from Nasmyth's portrait, is prefixed ; and a copious index 
 annexed. These volumes, from the care bestowed by the editor, 
 the clearness of the typograjihy, and their handiness in two neat 
 8vo. volumes, not to speak of their cheapness cannot fail to obtain 
 a wide popularity, "hereabout and far awa." 
 
 "EVENING COURANT," Edinburgh, Sept. 15, 1871. 
 
 Of editions and works upon Robert Burns, there seems to be no end. 
 One's first impulse on having a new edition of the poetical works of 
 our national lyrist brought under notice is to dismiss it with a very 
 cursory observation. If any one, however, should, from the numerous 
 lives and editions that are really superfluous, so deal with the two 
 volumes now before us, he would he guilty of a grave blunder. This 
 work is really an acquisition to our voluminous Burns literature, and 
 we have no hesitation in saying it is a very valuable addition. It is 
 evidently meant for the admirers of the poet, for those already familiar 
 with both his life and works, and who arc sufficiently enthusiastic to 
 make every small item in regard to either matter of curiosity and 
 interest to them. The publisher is known to Ayrshire men to be an 
 enthusiast in Burns literature, while the editor is evidently not less 
 so, and has devoted an amount of loving care to the preparation of 
 these volumes for which no return in cash he is likely to receive can 
 be adequate recompense. 
 
 First of all, with reference to the externals and accidents of the 
 volumes, they are tastefully and carefully got uj), clearly and ex- 
 cellently printed on fine paper, and are not too large to be cumbrous 
 or troublesome to handle. But it is only when we come minutely 
 to examine the contents that we discover the amount of honest and ■ 
 unostentatious toil that has been bestowed upon the volumes. The
 
 M'KIE'S KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 5 
 
 editor may not always be very elegant as a stylist, but he has done 
 his work after the most laborious fashion. In the first volume we 
 have all the pieces published during the poet's lifetime. Prefixed, is 
 a memoir of the poet on a somewhat novel plan, and the volume is 
 studded with notes and annotations. Every song and poem is preceded 
 by an introductory note giving an account of all that is known about 
 it, the circumstance of its composition, its object and references, and 
 so forth. Then at the end we have a sufficiently ample glossary, 
 including the glossaries of the author as given in both his Kilmarnock 
 and Edinburgh editions. We have said the life is composed on a new 
 plan, and it is this. The editor gives in separate paragraphs which 
 follow each other in chronological order the extracts from Burns' own 
 autobiographical sketch, illustrating the various periods and events 
 of his life, and thereafter he gives similiar extracts from his brother 
 Gilbert's narrative, from the poet's own letters, and whatever else of 
 a contemporary character in Burns' literature will throw light on the 
 biography. The editor's own notes are studiously brief, always to 
 the point, and usually full of information. By this means the reader 
 obtains all the information at first or second hand which exists on 
 the subject of Burns, and the editor is judicious in giving selections 
 from other biographer's and eulogists illustrating the poet's character. 
 The life is thus far more valuable to the Burns' student than a much 
 more amj^le and elaborate biography would have been. We may also 
 add, that Burns' own prefaces and dedications are given; and prefixed 
 to the poems in the first volume we have a facsimile oi the title-page 
 of the original Kilmarnock edition of 1786. We need hardly say 
 that with so ai'dent a worshipper of the poet as his present editor, 
 no attempt has been made by castrating the poems or songs to make 
 them suitalale to refined tastes. This may be an objection to the work 
 with some ; but it will be a further recommendation to the admirers 
 of the poet. The second volume of this "Kilmarnock Popular 
 Edition " contains, also arranged in chronological order and split into 
 separate groups, all the posthumous pieces of Burns ; and is liberally 
 supplied on the same plan as is carried out in the first, with biograph- 
 ical notices, new amiotations, &c., &c. For instance, we have here 
 " Songs by Burns, in Johnson's Fifth Volume," which was published 
 shortly after the poet's death ; "'Posthumous works" first puljlished 
 by Dr. Gurrie in 1800; " Posthumous Pieces, from vai-ious sources, 
 dating chietiji' between 1808 and 1834," and so on. It is remarkable 
 and curious to find how many of Burns' best and most popular songs 
 — such as "Auld Langsyne," "Highland Mary," "J\ly ^'amiie's 
 awa," "A Eed, Pied Piose," "Duncan Gray," and a host of others 
 — were first given to the world after the bard's death, In addition 
 to the genuine writings of Burns there were a considerable number 
 of fabricated fragments attributed to him, and various songs of some 
 of which the authors are still undiscovered, while the authorsliip of 
 others has since been ascertaineil. These are all given or referred to 
 here, besides numerous memoranda of old ballads first recovered by 
 Burns, and of his Notes on certain old songs, &c., &c. We also find 
 the various pieces collected by and which first appeared in the 
 succesfsive editions of Cunningham, Hogg, Motherwell, and Robert 
 Chambers. Last of all we liave a " Bibliotheca Burnsiana," contain-
 
 6 M'KIE's KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 
 
 ing much interesting information about the poet and his works, and 
 an admirable United General Index at the end. Our readers will 
 thus see that our praises of this edition, high as they may seem, have 
 been all fairly eanied. The ' ' Kilmarnock Popular Edition " of Burns' 
 Poetical Works will prove a valuable treasure to all lovers of the Bard; 
 and we cannot close without expressing the gratitude which Burns' 
 students must feel towards both the editor and his publisher. The 
 volumes are most creditable to Kilmarnock, and well worthy of the 
 town in which the first edition of the poet's works saw the light. 
 
 "NORTH BRITISH DAILY MAIL," Glasgoiv, Sept. 19, 1871. 
 
 These volumes fulfil in a remarkable degree the first condition of all 
 successful enterprise — those responsible for them are thoroughly in 
 love with their work. Editor and publisher are, in this respect, well 
 mated. Both are enthusiasts in regard to Burns. Both have trea- 
 sured up every scrap of information they ever came across regarding 
 him or his works. Both have prosecuted with painstaking care the 
 task of authenticating and substantiating the stories that are afloat 
 concerning him. The editor makes express and handsome acknow- 
 ledgment of his obligation to the publisher in this respect ; and we 
 feel ourselves warranted in saying that, between them, they have 
 produced the best, the most sei-viceable, the most satisfactory, and 
 the most informing edition of the great peasant poet, that has ever 
 seen the light. 
 
 The arrangement of the volumes is excellent. They contain every 
 poetical scrap from the pen of Burns that has ever been published. 
 A chronological sequence of the most complete and appropriate 
 character, is observed iu their presentment. The first volume includes 
 all the pieces that were pixblished during the author's life-time and 
 under his own supervision. Thus we get in the forefront a rejirint 
 of the original Kilmarnock edition of his works. This is followed by 
 the pieces that were added to the Edinburgh edition of 1787. After 
 this come the songs produced for the successive volumes of Johnson's 
 "Musical Museum" in the order of their appearance there. And 
 finally, we have the " additional poems " from the author's edition 
 of 1793, along with the songs from Thomson published while he was 
 alive. Every piece has an introductory note, giving an account of 
 all that is known concerning it ; and the manner in which, by a 
 reference to the cii'cumstances of comjiosition, and by a clearing up 
 of allusions and intention, the meaning as illustrated is very notable 
 and satisfying. All the more is this the case when a reference is 
 made to the "life" which introduces the first volume. It, too, is 
 constructed upon a ngvel plan. In a sense the editor has contributed 
 nothing of his own to the memoir. It consists solely of extracts from 
 the writings of other people. The autobiographic sketch of the jjoet, 
 the reminiscences of his brother Gilbert, and the various narratives 
 of siiccessive critics and biographers are all drawn upon — the extracts 
 from each being disposed in a gem-like setting Avhich has the effect 
 of bringing out, with a startling distinctness, the leading incidents ■ 
 of the career which is thus traced. The second volume is arranged
 
 m'kie's kilmaknock popular edition of burns. 7 
 
 upon a similiar plan. It contains all the posthumous publications 
 of pieces attributed to the poet, in the order of their appearance. 
 Thus it begins with the songs contributed to Johnson's fifth volume, 
 and goes on through the works of Thomson, Currie, Cromek, &c., 
 dowai to the editions of (Jhambers and Waddell, each piece being 
 prefaced as in the former volume. The amount of diligence and 
 trouble thus entailed upon the editor simply defies calculation ; but 
 the ease, the information, the charm, which are, by this method, 
 invariably communicated to the reader are equally inestimable. 
 
 "DUMFRIES STANDARD," September 20, 1S71. 
 
 Here we have in two handsome duodecimo volumes a new edition 
 of the national bard. It has been brought out at the instance of Mr. 
 James M'Kie, Kilmarnock, well-knowTi in connection with Bui-nsiana 
 literature, and who has been the means of again identifying with the 
 poet a town that will ever be distinguished as the publication birth- 
 place of the most wonderful book of verses that ever issued from the 
 press. In 1869 Mr. M'Kie published a well-executed fac-simile of 
 the first or Kilmarnock edition of Burns' works ; and Mr. Douglas, the 
 competent editor of the one now before us, states that his assistance 
 was requested by Mr. M'Kie to "bring out for popular circulation 
 a more comjilete and accurate edition of the poems and songs of Burns 
 than has hitherto been presented to the public." "For the plan of 
 these twin- volumes," it is added, "the one shewing in successive 
 groups all the poems and songs which the poet lived to see in print, 
 and the other containing his posthumous publications similarly 
 arranged — thus telling of life in the one, death in the other, and 
 immortaUty in both — the editor is alone responsible." In Chambers' 
 edition the writings of the poet are chronologically arranged, so that 
 the time and circumstances of their 2>roduction can readily be traced ; 
 but the new Kilmarnock edition differs from it in this respect, by 
 shewing at a glance what poems were issued under the authur's own 
 personal super\'ision, and those which saw the light from time to time 
 after the hand that had penned them had lost its cunning, and the 
 heart that had conceived them had ceased to beat. 
 
 Let us state in more exj^licit terms the chief peculiarities of this new 
 issue. The first volume, with a, facsimile of the original Kilmarnock 
 edition, contains, as gi-oup first, a reproduction of everything that 
 appeared in it ; next, as group second, the pieces added in the 
 Edinburgh edition of 1787 ; then the three songs contributed to the 
 first volume of "Johnson's Musical Museum;" then the more copious 
 supjilies sent successively to other vohmies of the "Museum" from 
 1788 till 1792; then the additional poems, with the "Tamo' 
 Shanter " masterpiece, published in the autlior's two-volumed edition 
 of date 1793; and, lastly, the songs which he sent to Thomson, closing 
 with the charming l)alla(l of the "The Soldier's Return "^the last 
 of the Ijard's compositions that he lived to see in print. To the rich 
 Dumfries minstrelsy of Burns the second volume is chiefly devoted ; 
 it includes the lyrics which he produced for Johnson's fifth and sixth 
 volumes ; those with which he favoured Thomson, first \iublishi'd in
 
 8 M'KIE's KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 
 
 his collection in 1798 and 1799, finishing with the fine lyric, "Here's a 
 health to ane I lo'e dear; the songs furnished for Thomson, but first 
 printed by Dr. Currie in 1800; the miscellaneous posthumous poems 
 first i^rinted by Currie ; and then in distinctive sections the poems 
 severally published at various periods by Stewart, Oromek, Cunning- 
 ham, Hogg and Alotherwell, Chambers, and other editors or collectors. 
 The memoir, which professes to be "on a plan now first adopted," 
 contributes also to render this edition of Burns unique. It reads 
 almost like a diary that has been kept by several individuals on the 
 same subject. The editor dips now into the poet's autobiographic 
 sketch, then into his correspondence, then into the reminiscences of 
 his Ijrotlier Gilbert, takes a snatch of what has been said of him by 
 Currie, Cromek, Cunningham, Carlyle, and others ; chronicles his 
 productions at every stage, and arranging all these items in chi-ono- 
 logical order, makes them tell the whole story of the poet's wonderful 
 career. Viewed as supplementary to any regular biography of the 
 bard this design is excellent, commending itself by its graphic power 
 and freshness. Further, bj"- the way of makmg the history of Bums 
 and of his works still more complete, each piece is introduced by a 
 few remarks explanatory of its origin and relationship ; these annota- 
 tions, generally speaking, being correct, exhaustive, and otherwise 
 satisfactory ; and the wonder is, that in a work which is at once 
 broadly comprehensive in its scope, and microscopic in "its details, 
 so little is to be seen requiring to be challenged or corrected. This 
 new Kilmai'nock edition of Burns will be hailed with hearty welcome 
 by his admirers in all parts of the world : it has been felicitously 
 conceived and carefully executed ; and considering the vast amount 
 of head-work required for its production, its completeness, and its 
 tyi^ographical beaiity, it must be reckoned low priced at half-a-guinea. 
 We confidently anticipate for it an immense ciixulation. 
 
 "LADIES' OWN JOURNAL," Edinhurgh, Septr. 23, 1871. 
 We would gladly devote some space to a notice of this uncommon 
 publication, biit having already, during the ijrogress of the work, 
 directed attention to its distinguishing characteristics, we believe 
 that by presenting our readers from time to time with a few abstracts 
 from its pages a better idea of its peculiar features mlII be conveyed 
 than by our attempting anything in the form of a review. 
 
 The editor is very full in his notes on those lyrics of Burns which 
 refer to "Highland Mary," the object of one of his burning and 
 apparently blameless loves, Some twenty-two years ago he pro- 
 duced, as the result of a long and searching inquiry into this subject, 
 an elaborate essay, which was rewarded with the approval and 
 commendations of llobert Chambers, Professor Wilson, and others 
 who had made the biography of the poet one of their pet studies. 
 This had the effect of revolutionizmg all pre-established theories 
 regarding the date and character of that unique love-passage in the 
 poet's history. In the present undertaking Mr. Douglas appears to 
 have pursued and thrown farther light on his favourite theme, without 
 in the least slighting other nota1>le matters, in the course of his path • 
 as an editor and biographer, following the main subject in hand.
 
 M'KIE'S KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 9 
 
 "PAISLEY HERALD," September 23, 1871. 
 
 Mr. M'Kie of Kilmarnock, so well known as the publisher of the 
 fac-simile of the precious Kilmarnock edition of Burns' Works, has 
 just published another edition of Burns in two handy volumes, which 
 he calls the Kilmarnock popular edition. It appears very complete, 
 and is very rich in annotation of a valuable kind. There is a memoir 
 of the poeib by Mr William Scott Douglas of Edinburgh, which besides 
 being very satisfactory as regards the information given, is specially 
 interesting on account of the method adopted. It is called a chrono- 
 logical Summary of the Life and Writings of Burns, and it rnakes 
 Burns in his autobiography and his correspondence, and Biirns' friends 
 in their letters, very much write the life of the great Scottish poet. 
 The edition is perhaps the most complete ever published, and the 
 latest admirers of Burns wiU thank the editor and publisher for 
 acting on the following sentence: — "That refined portion of the 
 Poet's admirers who can relish his inspiration oidy after it has been 
 distilled and filtered into a 'well undeliled,' in the form of a ' Family 
 Edition,' need not expect to find here much sympathy Avith their 
 peculiar tastes ; for no castration, suppression, or vitiation of the 
 Author's text has been resorted to, nor has a single known production 
 of his muse been excluded that can really bear the light of print." 
 
 "INVEENESS COURIER," October 12, 1871. 
 
 Editions of Burns flow on and will for ever flow ! The publisher of 
 this reprint produced some years since a fac-simile of the first Kil- 
 marnock edition. As the original work was rare and costly, and the 
 fac-simile skillfully executed, the volume was deservedly successful, 
 and the puWisher has been tempted to print the whole of the poetical 
 works. The volumes are neat and handy— compact and firm — just 
 of that size which Dr. Johnson disiderated in a book, such as can be 
 held easily in the hand and read by the fireside. To add to the 
 " comi^leteness," a memoir and annotations are added by a gentleman 
 who some twenty years since fixed the date of Burns' final intercourse 
 with Highland Mary, and thus to some extent disenchanted that 
 scene of tenderness and romance. Mr. Douglas has discharged his 
 editorial duties with care, and his notes comprise much interesting 
 information in small space. 
 
 " THE DAILY REVIEW," Edinburgh, October 23, 1871. 
 
 The Kilmarnock press has the distinction of liaving first brought 
 the poetry of Burns before his countrymen and the world. It has 
 now the honour of having produced the most complete collection of 
 the poet's writings. The most ardent admirers of Burns have not 
 been able hitherto to content themselves with one edition of his vvt)rks. 
 It was necessary to possess several editions in order to have a com- 
 plete repository of the poet's eft'usions in prose and verse, the facts of 
 his life, and the Burns literature. All tliis is n(jw brouglit within 
 the compass of the two volumes edited by Mr. Douglas and published
 
 10 M'KIE's KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 
 
 by Mr. M'Kie. We name editor and publislier togther, for if wee 
 mistake not, the publisher has collected the greater part of the new 
 material which the editor has woven into his narrative and embodied 
 in his annotations. Mr. M'Kie has long been known as an enthusiast 
 in everything relating to the life and works and associations of the 
 national bard, and his name will now be lastingly associated with that 
 of Burns as the most painstaking and successful illustrator of his life 
 and writings. The highest recommendation of the new edition is 
 that it includes every line Burns is known to have written, and the 
 pieces erroneously ascribed to him, traced to their real authorship 
 where that is known. The sjieciality which ranks next in point of 
 value is that the poems and songs are all chronologically arranged, 
 and notes supplied to explain fully the circumstances under which 
 they were written. The original Kilmarnock edition is given first, 
 along with a fac-smiile of the title-page, and then follow what was 
 added in the Edinburgh edition of 1787, the songs in Johnson's 
 " Musical Museum," and the additional jioems in the author's edition 
 of 1793. The second volume contains all the posthumous pieces in 
 the order of their publication, each successive edition of the poet's 
 works, down to the latest, being laid imder contribution for this 
 purpose. At the end of the second A'olume Mr. M'Kie gives a list of 
 all the editions of Burns' Life and Works known by him to have been 
 published. The list comprises seventy-two editions in America alone, 
 two French, and thirteen German Translations. The work is rendered 
 very convenient for reference Isy a comprehensive general index and 
 intelligible to every English reader by a copious glossary. 
 
 "THE SCOTSMAN," Edinburgh, October 21, 1871. 
 Some people may have thought that, in the multitude of editions of 
 Burns' poems, everything was to be found relating to the poet that 
 could be of interest. The publication of this " Kilmarnock edition " 
 proves that such a conclusion would be wholly wi-ong. Editor and 
 publisher here seem to have worked together to produce an edition 
 of Burns which would put all previous editions into the shade. The 
 title of the book indicates pretty clearly the general idea which has 
 influenced its editor and publisher in its arrangement ; but it in no 
 wise conveys a nation of the great amount of loving labour bestowed 
 upon the work. The editor has exercised great discrimination, not 
 in omitting facts, but in shewing their precise bearing. The memoir 
 with which the first volume opens is unlike anything of the kind that 
 we have seen. It is not a closely-connected narrative, but a series 
 of quotations from writers on Burns, with comments by the editor, 
 excerpts from the poet's letters, and lists of his poems wi'itten at the 
 particular period being touched upon. The ett'ect is not altogether 
 good at first sight, bixt the memoir grows upon the reader, until it 
 has a positive attraction, and appears to convey far more clearly than 
 any polished narrative an insight into Burns' career. To every poem 
 in the volume there is prefixed a short account of the circumstances 
 under which it was written. Altogether, the Kilmarnock edition is 
 unique, and what is more to the purpose, it is indispensable to every . 
 one who wishes to study Burns with care.
 
 M'KIE's KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 11 
 
 "THE STAR," Glasgow, October 31, 1S71. 
 
 Though Kilmarnock, according to one of its living bards, is "famed 
 for bonnets, plaids, and shoon," and also for many other branches of 
 manufacture, as well as its im2:)ortant connection, nowadays, with 
 the trade in coal and iron, it must ever remain one of its proudest 
 boasts that from its ^jrinting-press there was issued, eighty-live years 
 ago, the first edition of the poetical works of Robert Burns. This 
 circumstance has been the means of making the capital of Ounning- 
 hame known over the world, and gives its name a classic significance 
 and imperishable charm to all the lovers of song. Nor do the people 
 of Kilmarnock, in the midst of all their growing material pros- 
 perity, allow the fact to be forgotten among themselves. They dwell 
 on it with a pardonable comjilacency — a feeling which is justly 
 intensified by the recollection that their to'nTi, to use the words of 
 the local historian, chei-ished Burns in the days of his adversity, and 
 furnished him with warmly appreciative and most helpful friends 
 when friends were few, and before his fame was widely spread. The 
 feeling finds its most notable exponent in the local publisher who 
 within the last few years has furnished the admirers of the bard with 
 no fewer than three choice editions of his works. The first of these 
 was a jyerfect facsimile of the first Kilmarnock edition turned out in 
 the very form in which it was produced in the July of 1786 by John 
 Wilson — who, by the way, does not seem to have been the "Wee 
 Johnnie " of the poet's epigram, and who ought to be remembered 
 with no little respect as the man who first planted a i>rinting-press 
 in Ayrshire. Ko sooner had Mr. James M'Kie completed his initial 
 effort by the publication of the facsimile than he set himself to work 
 out another idea ; and in 1869 we received at his hands a superb 
 three-volume edition, printed with the same type as the facsimile, 
 and giving in their projier order all the productions of the poet that 
 were issued subsequently to the original Kilmarnock edition. This 
 was a beautiful work, and combined with material elegance a fidelity 
 to the text of the author worthy of the highest praise. But the task 
 to which Mr. M'Kie had set himself in his loving enthusiasm for 
 Burns was not yet done ; and now we have received from him, in two 
 compact volumes, what he calls the "Kilmarnock Popular Editicm," 
 in which all the poems are arranged in the order of their earliest 
 publication, and a memoir of the poet given on a plan never before 
 adopted, besides new annotations, introductory notices, etc., written 
 expressly' for the work. The memoir is a brief and most admirably 
 executed colnpilation, correcting many inaccuracies into which 
 previous biograjihers and essayists have allowed themselves to slip ; 
 and the notes, the fruit of Mr. M'Kie's well-directed investigations, 
 extending over many years, are even more valuable than the life. 
 There is hardly a note that lias not some thorougldy fresh point in it, 
 either of fact or racy criticism. Thus, in the introduction to the 
 third poem, an explanation is for the fiist time given of why the poet 
 in his "Earnest Cry and Prayer," addresses J risk Lords as among 
 the "Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons," A re- 
 ference to the almanacs of the period shows the names of several 
 Irish peers, on the list of Scotland's "chosen Five-and-Forty." 
 Election patronage in North Britain was then in the hands of a very
 
 12 M'KIE'S KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 
 
 few dominant Dukes and Earls, whose daughters were frequently 
 allied in marriage to poor Peers of Erin, who then, as now, were fain 
 to improve their fortunes by any likely shift of position, and found 
 no difficulty in being elected Scotch Members of Parliament. The 
 poet winced under this implied disgrace, and his reference to the 
 Irish Lords is, therefore, strongly satirical. An Edinburgh edition 
 of Burns, we are told, altered the reading of the first line to " Ye 
 Scottish Lords," an impertinence which of course robbed the line of 
 its point. This is only one of many original features that are to 
 be found in Mr. M'Kie's edition^ showing the minute care that has 
 been taken in its preparation. 
 
 "DUNDEE ADVERTISER," November 6, 1871. 
 
 This is the most recent and one of the fuUest editions of the Scottish 
 Poet. It contains the ' ' complete poetical works of Burns, arranged 
 in the order of their earliest ftublication." In the first volume we 
 find all the pieces published in his lifetime, with a memoir of the 
 Poet on a plan now first adopted, with new annotations, introductory 
 notices, &c. The second contains all his posthumous pieces, along 
 with new notes and introductions. The whole may be regarded as 
 (with the exception of a number of loose verses which Burns on his 
 deathbed deeply regretted) a thoroughly complete and final, as well 
 as an admirably arranged edition of Burns' publishabl-e poems. In- 
 deed, the "rigidly righteous" will complain that a good many 
 effus ions are retained which should have been suppressed, and perhaps 
 they are for once right as well as righteous in this. The volumes, like 
 Burns' own second edition, are dedicated to the Caledonian Hunt. 
 
 Glancing over these two thick and thickly filled volumes, our 
 amazement has been again more than ever kindled at the extraordinary 
 quantity as well as quality of Burns' poetry. 
 
 "GLASGOW DAILY HERALD," Nov. 9, 1871. 
 
 Kilmarnock is famous for more things than the manufacture of blue 
 bonnets. It was in that town that the first edition of Robert Burns' 
 Poems was published some 85 years since ; and it is from the press 
 of the same town that the latest edition of those immortal effusions 
 has just been issued — this also, like the poet's first Edinburgh 
 edition of 1787 has been dedicated to the gentlemen of .the Caledonian 
 Hunt. Burns' first publisher was a man named Wilson ; his latest 
 printer and publisher is James M'Kie, who is well known in the 
 West country to be one of the most devout admirers of the Poet, as 
 well as the possessor of one of the amplest libraries of what Mr. 
 Douglas calls Burns-Literature. Mr. Douglas informs us that "it 
 was the desire of Mr. M'Kie that the jiresent editor should assist 
 him in bringing out, for popular circulation, a more complete and 
 accurate edition of the Poems and Songs of Burns than has hitherto 
 been presented to the public." Tliis was certainly a most com-' 
 mendable object. While Bums' admirers have been chiefly among
 
 M'KIE'S KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 13 
 
 the laymen of the world, in exceptional cases his most fulsome 
 eulogists have been found among the clergy. Between the black- 
 wash party and the white -wash party we have had a pretty time of 
 it. We should say that the opinion of the one set is worth about as 
 much as the opinion of the other. The difference between them is the 
 difference between theatrical blue fire, and theatrical red fire. Any 
 person who wishes to foim for himself an apjjroximately accurate 
 conception of Burns' character, must bundle into the same limbo of 
 fiction both detractors and euologists. If he wishes to deal fairly 
 -with the dead poet and his living memory, he must endeavour to 
 look carefully at the facts, and faithfully sift them. In this process 
 he will gain some help from the labours of Mr. Douglas, who edits 
 Mr. M'Kie's new edition. It is one great merit of this re-issue that 
 it does not present any new sjiecific life of the poet. The judgment 
 of the student is not forestalled or beglamoured by a theory, but 
 rather tempted to act for itself. Mr. Douglas groups the leading 
 facts of Burns' career under their proper dates. The facts under 
 each date are not always given in Mr. Douglas' own language, but 
 almost invariably in the langiiage of others — in that, for instance, 
 of the Poet himself, his brother Gilbert, his sister Mrs. Begg, his 
 school-masters, his local acquaintances, his famous admirers, his 
 benefactors, his publishers, or his numerous biographers and critics. 
 The date of each composition is also given as it occurs in the stream 
 of facts,. This method of dealing with the career of the Poet is de- 
 scribed by the editor as a "Chronological Summary of the Life and 
 Writings of Burns ; " but summary as it is, it supplies the reader 
 with a full body of biographical statement, from which to deduce an 
 independent view of one of the most remarkable, picturesque, and 
 tragic lives in the whole range of literary history. It has necessarily 
 a fragmentary aspect ; but we confess that we rather like it ■ndth 
 its well-selected store of extracts from many notable and some noble 
 sources. Considering that we are already rich in "lives" and 
 ' ' sketches " of Burns, and in essays on his poetic genius, Mr. Douglas' 
 chronological scheme may be accepted as an interesting variation to 
 the usual stereotyped memoir. 
 
 In the first of these volumes Mr. Douglas has arranged, "in suc- 
 cessive groups, all the poems and songs which the author lived to 
 see in print;" and iu the second, the Poet's "posthumous publica- 
 cations are arranged in a simUiar manner. " * * * We are inclined 
 to think that in spitq of the partiality of the public, a good number 
 of versicles might have been dispensed with, without detriment to 
 either the public or the fame of the Poet. Mr. Douglas' prefatory 
 notes to the various groups of poems and songs, and the notes which 
 he prefixes to each separate poem or song, are, for the most part, 
 carefully written, although some readers may not unreasonably 
 think that in this department of the work there are occasional 
 symptoms of over editing. Nevertheless, as Scotchmen can stand 
 any amount of writing on the subject of Burns, what his present 
 editor has done will doubtless be welcome enough, down even to the 
 " Bibliotheca Burnsiana." 
 
 It ought to be mentioned that Mr. Douglas was the first to discover 
 the true history of the " Highland Mary " episode in Burns' life.
 
 14 M'KIE'S KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITIOX OF BURNS. 
 
 The facts of it, which are given iu the " Chronological Summary," 
 are sutHciently striking, showing, as they do, how very extensive 
 and cosmopolitan were the affections of the poet. * * * 
 
 We may add that Mr. M'Kie's edition is, in a typographical point 
 of view, a credit to the town of " Killie." 
 
 "THE EXAMINER," London, Nov. 11, 1871. 
 
 The Kilmarnock edition of Burns has been superintended by Mr. 
 W. S. Douglas, who long ago discovered some important material 
 relating to the poet's connection with Highland Mary, and who has 
 been during more than twenty years collecting notes and illustrations 
 to the life and writings of his favourite. He here gives, by way of 
 introduction, a very useful chronological summary, chiefly made up 
 of extracts from Burns' autobiography, and from the work of previous 
 editors, and his edition of the poems themselves is also strictly 
 chronological, following the lead of the original Kilmarnock edition. 
 The first volume contains all that was printed during Burns' life and 
 under his own direction ; the second contains his posthumous works. 
 In a useful appendix Mr. Doiiglas enumerates all the editions of Burns 
 that have been published in this country between 1786 and 1870, 
 besides seventy-two American editions, two French translations, and 
 thirteen German editions and translations. Altogether Mr. Douglas 
 has produced a very cheap, useful, and creditable work. 
 
 "DAILY COURIER," Liverpool, December 4, 1871. 
 
 The two handsome volumes just published contain all the known, 
 and also most of the attributed, poetical effusions of Robert Burns, 
 the great peasant bard of Scotland, whose songs and lyrical con- 
 tributions to the literary riches of his country have never been 
 excelled, and rarely, if at all, equalled. 
 
 In no previous edition have the labours of the editor been more 
 zealously or more perseveringly rendered. Every known source; and 
 many very imperfectly known, have been carefully examined to 
 embody a copious as well as a faithful collection of the warblings of 
 that sweet songster who rendered melodious the banks of the Doon, 
 the Ayr and the JMith, 
 
 Several of the pieces introduced might have been omitted without 
 in any degree impairing the excellence of the collection or derogating 
 from the fame of the author ; as, however, the object has been to 
 supply a full and undiluted edition of the poetical writings of the 
 bard, this fault, if fault it may be called, is but a venial one. The 
 explanatory notes must generally be conceded to be at once interesting 
 and judicious, and on the whole the plan which has been laid down- 
 has been intelligently and faithfully carried out.
 
 M'KIE's KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 15 
 
 The style in which the book has been got up reflects much credit 
 on the good taste aud liberality of the pul)lisher, who has in previous 
 instances evinced commendable enthusiasm in presenting to the 
 public reliable and interesting editions of the works of Burns, — an 
 enthusiasm engendered and encouraged without doubt by the circum- 
 stance that he occupies the premises and carries on the business under 
 the auspices of which the effusions of the then unknown minstrel 
 were first brought under the notice of his fellow-countrymen, and 
 from which arose that fame which has now spread to all the ends of 
 the earth. The present edition is worthy of extensive appreciation, 
 which it is to be hoped will be freely bestowed on it. 
 
 "DAILY TELEGRAPH," London, December 8, 1S71. 
 
 Whoever may desire to possess an unadulterated, or rather un- 
 mutilated. Burns, "racy of the soil," camiot do better than send for 
 the "Kilmarnock Popular Edition" (James M'Kie), in two narrow, 
 old-fashioned volumes, rejDrinted from the facsimile of the poet's 
 ] 786 edition, and abundantly annotated by an enthusiastic editor, 
 Mr. William Scott Douglas, who has long laboured in love about the 
 life and works of the Scottish bard. The first volume contains all 
 the poems pul)lished during Burns' lifetime, the second all his jjost- 
 humous pieces. Each poem has its own few fit lines of explanation ; 
 and there is prefixed a chronological memoir of the poet, on a singular 
 and effective principle — for it consists entirely of quotations from 
 Burns' autobiography, letters, or works, from the statements of 
 friends, and from public or other documents, arranged in sequence 
 of time, and telling the story better than any elaborate memoir could 
 do. Altogether the book is something fresh and good ; and its 
 mechanical preparation does great credit to the unpretending Ayrshire 
 press from which it issues. By contrast, the Messrs. Moxon's gilded 
 and finely illustrated "Poetical Works of Robert Burns" seems 
 tame and flat. 
 
 "NOTES AND QUERIES," London, December 11, 1871. 
 
 Mr. M'Kie, whose special mission it seems to do honour to the 
 memory of the Ayrshire Bard by publishing editions of his jjoems in 
 every form which the admirers of Burns can possibly desire, has, 
 under the title of the " Kilmarnock Popular Edition," produced in 
 a couple of volumes a collection of Burns' Poems more complete than 
 any that ha.s yet appeared. Whether in so doing he quite attains the 
 object he has in view, namely, that of doing full honour to the memory 
 of Burns, is of course a matter of opinion. Wo believe that course 
 would be more surely accom})lished by the judicious omission of mucli 
 which the poet himself would have " wished to blot. " But to all who 
 desire to have every scrap of verse, good or bad, which the groat 
 Scotch Tjyrist ever comitted to paper, this " Kilmarnock Popular 
 Edition " of Burns will prove a most welcome book.
 
 16 M'KIE'S KILMARNOCK POPULAR EDITION OF BURNS. 
 
 " LEEDS MERCURY," 29th August, 1872. 
 
 Every admirer of Burns is indebted to Mr. M 'Kie for this complete 
 and handsome edition of the poet's works. In the arrangement of 
 the volumes a somewhat novel plan has been adopted, every song 
 and poem being preceded by an introductory note giving an account 
 of all that is knowTi about it, the circumstances of its composition, 
 as well as its object and references. The memoir of the poet, ably 
 written by Mr. William Scott Douglas, of Edinburgh, has also the 
 merit of ingenuity in its preparation. Just as in a recently published 
 autobiography of John Milton the leading features in his eareer were 
 presented in a connected form by means of extracts from his own 
 writings, so in this case the life-history of Robert Burns is sketched 
 by means of snatches from his own correspondence, and extracts 
 from the reminiscences of his brother Gilbert and others. The first 
 volume of this edition includes all the pieces that were published 
 during the author's lifetime and under his own supervision. Thus 
 we get in the forefront a reprint of the original Kilmarnock edition 
 of his works. This is followed by the pieces that were added to the 
 Edinburgh edition of 1787. After this comes the songs produced for 
 the successive volumes of Johnson's " Musical Museum," in the order 
 of their appearance there. And finally, we have the "additional 
 poems " from the author's edition of 1793, along with the songs 
 from Thomson published while he was alive. The second volume 
 contains, also arranged in chronological order and split into separate 
 groups, all the posthumous pieces of Burns. For instance, we have 
 here, "Songs by Burns, in Johnson's Fifth Volume, ' which was 
 published shortly after the poet's death ; " Posthumous Works first 
 published by Dr. Currie in 1800;" "Posthumous Pieces from 
 Various Sources, dating chiefly between 1808 and 1834," and so on. 
 It is remarkable and curious to find how many of Burns' best and 
 most popular songs — such as ' ' Auld Lang Sjnie, " " Highland Mary, ' ' 
 " My Nannie's awa," " A Red, Red Rose," " Duncan Gray," and 
 a host of others — were first given to the world after the bard's death. 
 In addition to the genuine writings of Burns there were a considerable 
 niimber of fabricated fragments attributed to him, and various songs 
 of some of which the authors are still undiscovered, while the 
 authorship of others has since been ascertained. These are all given 
 or referred to here, besides numerous memoranda of old ballads first 
 recovered by Burns, and of his Notes on certain old songs, &c. , &c. 
 We also find the various pieces collected hy and which first appeared 
 in the successive editions of Cunningham, Hogg, Motherwell, and 
 Robert Chambers. Last of all we have a "Bibliotheca Burnsiana," 
 containing much interesting information about the poet and his 
 works, an admirable united general index, and a copious glossary for 
 the benefit of Engljsh readers, In every respect the edition is an 
 admirable one. 
 
 KILMARNOCK : PRINTED BY JAMES M'KIE, 2 KING STREET.
 
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