MAGGIE O' THE MOSS; 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 .OP CALIF. UBRABV. LOS ANGELfi*
 
 Two hundred and seventy-five copies printed on Small Paper, of 
 
 / ^r \ 
 
 which this is A'o. ../.....
 
 Maggie o' The Moss; 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS, 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT KERR, 
 
 REDCASTLE. 
 
 EDITED, WITH A MEMOIR, 
 
 BY 
 
 MALCOLM M'L. HARPER, 
 
 Author of " Rambles in Galloway," &c. 
 
 " A few of the daft ideas of ROBERT KERR, loosely thrashed into 
 rhyme, and written here for the gratification of his own whim, and 
 for the perusal of a friend or two of his own kind of material and 
 calibre, in the year o' good 1838." [AUTHOR'S MS. BOOK.] 
 
 DALBEATTIE : 
 
 THOMAS FRASER. 
 
 1891.
 
 Printed by J. H. MAXWELL, Castle-Douglas, 
 
 FOR 
 
 THOMAS FRASER, DALBEATTIE.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Preface, ... ... ... ... ... ix 
 
 Memoir, ... ... ... ... ... ... xi 
 
 Maggie o' The Moss, ... ... ... ... ... i 
 
 The Old Moss Oak, 27 
 
 My First Fee, ... ... ... ... ... ... 30 
 
 The Pedlar and His Pack, 32 
 
 The Widow's Ae Coo, ... ... ... 39 
 
 Song, ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 41 
 
 Song, 43 
 
 Address to a Dog, ... ... ... ... ... 45 
 
 Song, 53 
 
 Song. The Lass that Lives beside the Mill, ... 55 
 
 Cupid's Conquest, ... ... ... ... ... 57 
 
 John Frost, ... ... ... ... 59 
 
 An Autumn Eve, ... ... ... ... ... 62 
 
 Nanny Bell, ... ... ... ... ... ... 72 
 
 Song, ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 78 
 
 Address to a Corn, ... ... ... ... ... 79 
 
 The Plough's Address to Robert M'Kinnell, ... 83 
 
 Song, 85 
 
 Written in Robert M'Kinnell's Pipe-Music Book, ... 87 
 
 Lines on hearing that some of the Members, &c., 88 
 
 Verses on the Death of a Young Lady's Lap-Dog, ... 88 
 
 Terry's Epitaph, ... ... ... ... ... 90 
 
 Song, ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 91 
 
 Lines on a Brother Rhymer, &c., ... ... ... 94 
 
 The Poet's Epitaph, ... ... ... ... ... 95 
 
 21.^0898
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE Editor and Publisher have cordially to thank the 
 numerous subscribers for the hearty and liberal support 
 which they have accorded to their efforts to present to 
 the public, a complete collection of the Poems and Songs 
 of ROBERT KERR. At the time of the Poet's death, the 
 editor of the Dumfries Courier, judging from the poetic 
 merits of " My First Fee," and "The Widow's Ae Coo," 
 expressed the opinion that ROBERT KERR " must have left 
 other effusions behind, which, if given to the world, would 
 at once embalm his memory, and confer a favour on the 
 public." Attention having been thus drawn to the matter 
 so long ago, it is rather surprising that up till now no 
 attempt has been made to publish his works in a collected 
 form. But since the publication of The Bards of Galloway 
 in 1889, where some of his pieces appeared, which were 
 very favourably noticed by the reviewers, the Publisher 
 has often been pressed to take the matter in hand. The 
 present publication was, therefore, undertaken through 
 such solicitations and repeated assurances that the work 
 would be very generally appreciated. For purposes of the 
 present compilation, the whole of the Author's MSS. were 
 placed at the disposal of the Editor, as well as a large 
 number of MS. copies of poems belonging to friends of 
 the Poet. Most of the poems here reproduced have been 
 taken from the manuscript books in which the Poet had 
 written them with his own hand. Some few pieces have
 
 x Preface. 
 
 been omitted, which, in our opinion, the Poet, though 
 leaving them in the MS. volumes possessed by his 
 relatives, never intended for publication. 
 
 The preparation of the work has been to the Editor 
 a labour of love, and it is to be hoped that the volume 
 will be welcomed, not only by the friends and acquaintances 
 of the Poet, but by all lovers of the literature of the 
 province. 
 
 The Editor and Publisher would specially mention their 
 sense of indebtedness to Mr Robert Kerr M'Neilie, and 
 Mr Alexander M'Neilie, Metropolitan and Birmingham 
 Bank, London ; and Mr James S. Kerr, The Grove, 
 Castle-Douglas, nephews of the Poet, for their kindness in 
 granting them the use of the Poet's manuscript volumes ; 
 and to Mr James M'Kimm, Hardgate, who provided 
 valuable information as to the Poet's early life and habits. 
 To many other friends who have co-operated with them 
 towards the success of the work their thanks are also due. 
 
 May, 1891.
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 lOBERT KERR was born at Midtown of 
 Spottes, in the parish of Urr, Kirkcud- 
 brightshire, on the 2nd September, 1811. His 
 father, after whom he was named, was a native of 
 the parish of Dunscore, Dumfriesshire. The 
 maiden name of his mother, who belonged to 
 the parish of Kirkpatrick-Durham, was Janet 
 Shennan. There were six of a family four 
 sons and two daughters, and Robert was the 
 eldest. His parents were generally respected for 
 their industry, intelligence, and moral worth. The 
 mother, especially, is represented as a woman of 
 more than ordinary endowments. From her the 
 poet inherited that tenderness of feeling and kindly 
 human sympathy with those in distress which, as 
 marked features of his character, are revealed in 
 many of his poems. 
 
 In the life of Robert Kerr there is little to relate 
 in the way of incident, or episode, of any conse-
 
 xii Memoir. 
 
 quence. So far as can now be gathered, he has 
 left behind no prose letters that would reveal his 
 habits of mind, his tastes in literature, or powers in 
 that kind of literary composition. The only 
 glimpses of the cast of thought of the inner man 
 are now to be got from his poems, and a short 
 manuscript diary, entitled his " Bosom Book," 
 which, in estimating his character and manner of 
 viewing the realities of life around him, will be 
 referred to in the course of this memoir. Nearly 
 all the contemporaries of his youth have passed 
 away, and those of his manhood, who still 
 survive, can give few, if any, reminiscences of 
 him, or anecdotes illustrative of his ways of life, 
 worthy of being reproduced here. Some of these, 
 however, though trivial, are amusing to listen to, 
 and show him to have had, like most true 
 poets, a "dash of humourous eccentricity" about 
 him. As a youth he was singled out as " original " 
 amongst his fellows, and by all who knew him he 
 is remembered as, at all times, possessed of a sunny 
 disposition and a kindly, genial, sympathetic, and 
 emotional nature, fond of seeing his fellow- 
 mortals enjoying the " sweets " of existence, and 
 entering fully into the fun and frolic of the social 
 life around him. 
 
 At the Parish School of Hardgate he was 
 instructed in the ordinary branches of education,
 
 Memoir. xiii 
 
 under Mr William Allan, a successful teacher in 
 his day, and 
 
 " A man of ready wit and talent," 
 
 to whom as a sympathetic soul, an unusual 
 characteristic of the pedagogue, the Poet addressed 
 some of his juvenile lucubrations. Robert Kerr 
 may be said to have " lisped in numbers," for when 
 quite a boy he became known in the Village of 
 Haugh and neighbourhood as a writer of verses. 
 
 He left school at an early age to assist his father 
 in farm work, and for some years was employed in 
 the ordinary duties pertaining to such a calling. 
 
 From incidental notes in his manuscript books, 
 he appears to have taken an " honest pride " in 
 having been like the great immortal singer, Burns, 
 a rustic bard wooing the muses while following 
 the plough. These notes also give an insight into 
 the circumstances under which some of his poems 
 and songs were written, e.g., the tale of " Nanny 
 Bell" was composed one day in the spring of 1831, 
 while driving a horse and cart at Redcastle. The 
 " First Fee " was sent to the Dumfries Courier in 
 the year 1843. "The Widow's Ae Coo" was 
 inserted in the same Journal in the spring of 
 1844; and "The Old Moss Oak" was written 
 1 8th May, 1847. 
 
 Though the nature of Robert Kerr's employment 
 was somewhat arduous at certain seasons of the
 
 xiv Memoir. 
 
 year, the improvement of his mind was not 
 neglected. He was studiously inclined, and very 
 fond of reading, traditional tales, Scotch stories, 
 and poetry, being greedily devoured. The works 
 of Allan Ramsay, Hogg, and Burns, were his 
 favourites, and we can well imagine how from 
 these founts of inspiration the boy's poetic 
 fancy would be stimulated, when, like Burns, he 
 pored over them at the family circle in the long 
 winter " fore-nichts ; " or " while driving his cart or 
 walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse, 
 carefully noticing the true and tender, or sublime, 
 from affectation or fustian." 
 
 About the year 1826 he left his native valley and 
 proceeded to Colchester, to push his fortune as a 
 Scotch trader. A poem written in his fifteenth year 
 expresses his feelings on leaving the district for a 
 time, as follows : 
 
 " Where winding Orr flows to the shore, 
 
 Bedecked on every side 
 With native flowers that sweetly pour 
 
 Their fragrant scents a-wide. 
 These, native streams and dearest Men's, 
 
 I leave them for a while, 
 Yet full intent, when time is sent, 
 
 Again to see my Isle. 
 Then fare-ye-well, my friends who dwell 
 
 Along the banks o' Orr ; 
 Thy native Bard may yet be heard 
 
 Should he ne'er see thee more." 
 
 From his diary we find our poet to have been 
 possessed, with all his frolicsome ways, of a
 
 Memoir. xv 
 
 contemplative and reflective turn of mind, con- 
 tinually in his early life and start in business, 
 looking in upon himself and resolving to follow 
 the good, and honest, course in his dealings with 
 the world. In it he is revealed as a man of many 
 moods. Like others of the tuneful tribe, there was 
 in his nature " a contradictory mixture not only of 
 grave and gay, of lively and severe, but of strength 
 and weakness, of wisdom and folly." At stated 
 intervals, but especially with the recurrence of his 
 birthdays, he appears to have taken desponding 
 and " remorseful retrospects " of his conduct, and 
 being aware that his bias leant to the wrong side, 
 framed rules and regulations for the better guiding 
 of himself in his daily walk in life, and in conduct- 
 ing his business so as to be successful. 
 
 On 25th May, 1835, "It being exactly nine 
 years since first I left my paternal roof in search of 
 ' fickle fortune,' " he thus moralises : 
 
 " Three times three years have passed this day 
 
 Since first I left my father's cot, 
 And these nine years have passed away 
 Like some tale told then half forgot. 
 
 Yet memory points out here and there 
 
 Some lines more deep and darker trac'd 
 Of joy and pleasure, grief and care, 
 
 That ne'er through life will be effac'd. 
 
 Some things are past, which I can pass 
 With pleasure, when my thoughts review 
 
 The greater part, alas ! alas ! 
 Amendment Oh ! what room for you.
 
 xvi Memoir. 
 
 Oh ! thou Almighty one who rules supreme, 
 Who made the earth and still supports creation, 
 
 From every idle, giddy, waking dream, 
 Arouse me up to take in contemplation. 
 
 My ways, my means, my life, my situation, 
 The way I've acted and the worth of time, 
 
 What I am now and what might be my station, 
 Possessed of health, and just now in my prime." 
 
 With Robert Kerr, as with the most of frail 
 humanity, his bitter regrets for the past, and most 
 solemn resolves for amendment in the future, 
 ended in his 
 
 " Whyles erring and whyles grieving." 
 
 The " spirit was willing but the flesh was weak," 
 and, after all, his good intentions often ended in 
 failure. So, occasionally, like others he had to 
 lament " There are no resolutions ever I made that 
 I have truly adhered to," and sensible that the 
 " passions wild and strong," which he had by 
 nature, required to be constantly kept in subjection, 
 and that trusting in his own strength was of no 
 avail, he thus passionately appeals to Heaven to 
 help and direct him in carrying out his resolu- 
 tions : 
 
 " Away, vain thoughts, let meditation 
 
 Be the only course for me. 
 Let me take in contemplation 
 
 What I am and yet might be. 
 Wavering mortal wretched being, 
 
 Dost thou see thy years revolve, 
 Yet not alter, now All seeing, 
 
 Help me in my firm resolve."
 
 Memoir. xvii 
 
 From his youth upwards, our Poet had shown 
 in all his ways that sturdy independence, in 
 thought and action, which characterised the Scottish 
 peasantry of his day. He had always a hankering 
 after attaining to a position that would place him 
 above the dread of want, and was ready to eschew 
 all the pleasures and comforts of life to secure in 
 the end "the glorious privilege of being inde- 
 pendent." His thoughts were continually running 
 in this direction the " owre word " of all the 
 philosophising in his " Bosom Book " being 
 
 " Firm resolved now and for ever, 
 
 Foolish, idle, vain thoughts hence, 
 Independence now or never, 
 Now or never I commence." 
 
 To realise these longings for independence was no 
 doubt the moving principle that actuated him in 
 deciding to try his fortune at "The Pack," as he 
 called it. In his time, the Scotch trade in England 
 often proved lucrative to those engaged in it. Many 
 young Scotsmen from rural districts, leaving, like 
 him, the " trams o' the plough," had so successfully 
 prosecuted the business as to <be able, in middle 
 life, to retire with a competency sufficient to allow 
 of their spending the evening of their days in 
 comfort and ease amid the scenes of their youth. 
 From his knowledge of the success which had 
 attended the efforts of some of his acquaintances 
 in the trade, he would doubtless be induced to 
 
 A
 
 xviii Memoir. 
 
 make this start in life. But, however much our 
 Poet may have desired to get on in the world by 
 imitating their example, such an occupation was 
 ill suited for one possessed of his poetic tempera- 
 ment and tender sensibilities. With a heart 
 overflowing with human sympathy, he would 
 shrink from the hard and prosaic, worldly, and 
 oftentimes selfish ways which many of those 
 engaged in such a trade practised in order to be 
 successful. Such a manner of life would pall on his 
 sensitive nature, and we can well understand how, 
 as a commercial man, the author of the " Widow's 
 Ae Coo " was a failure. Had he been so con- 
 stituted that like " The Laird of Fellend," 
 graphically pictured by him in a lengthy piece 
 unsuited, as a whole, for insertion in this volume, 
 as one 
 
 " Who bargained, who battled, who galloped, and ran, 
 Who toiled through the week, and on Sundays would plan 
 How to add to his s D," 
 
 he might have succeeded ; but with such sentiments 
 as those revealed in his poem of " The Pack " and 
 " The Autumn Eve," bad debts, with neither the 
 heart nor the inclination to adopt pressing measures 
 for their recovery, were sure to accumulate in his 
 ledger. In such circumstances, it therefore showed 
 a wise forethought on his part to relinquish the 
 business, as there is no doubt he thoroughly
 
 Memoir. xix 
 
 disliked it, and longed to leave it for his place 
 of "honour and of joy" behind the plough. 
 Disappointed in his calling, and becoming indiffer- 
 ent to commercial success, his heart yearned to 
 return to his former homely and natural ways of 
 life. With what feelings of delight would he quit 
 the din and bustle, and tainted atmosphere, of the 
 crowded city for the fresh breezes of the hills, the 
 green meadows, the trickling burns, and quiet 
 sequestered nooks of rural beauty of the Urr 
 Valley, there again to engage in agricultural pur- 
 suits carting the hay from the scented meadows, 
 rising with the lark to the plough, and mingling 
 in the festivities of the rustics, whose homely 
 manners and generous, hospitable ways he so much 
 enjoyed. There he was truly in his element, free 
 to follow the bent of his genius, and to draw from 
 Nature the scenes and incidents embodied in his 
 poems, the most popular of which are the outcome 
 of his own experience. In his poem of " An 
 Autumn Eve," he thus makes the genius of " The 
 Plough " rejoice at his return : 
 
 " With joy I saw thee, native swain, 
 Return home to thy land again, 
 I proudly saw thee till the plain, 
 
 When Spring had sway, 
 And viewed thee cut the yellow grain 
 
 This Autumn day." 
 
 Round the scenes of his early life were entwined 
 the fondest sympathies of his heart, and his 
 
 A 2
 
 xx Memoir. 
 
 philosophic manner of looking on " men and 
 things," and his love of nature in all her " shows 
 and forms " unfitted him, like his older contem- 
 porary, William Nicholson, the Galloway Bard, for 
 appreciating aright the genius of money-making. 
 Mammon worship, or " the hunt for reputation, 
 influence, place, or power," had, as he advanced 
 in life, no attractions for him. The rustic 
 obscurity of the Urr valley, and the primitive 
 natural ways and manners of its inhabitants, 
 were more congenial to his tastes. He preferred 
 these, and the giving expression in rhyme to 
 his " daft ideas " as he termed them, to 
 making money; and, after all, when "life's fitful 
 fever " was over, who will say he was not the 
 gainer? He had the gratification in his lifetime of 
 seeing some of his poems and songs become 
 popular in the district, and we find that even now 
 there are several who can repeat from memory 
 many of them, which shows that they had taken 
 hold of the popular ear, and had the genuine stamp 
 of Nature upon them. 
 
 He may not have made money like some of 
 those who started in the race with him, and floated 
 prosperously along the stream of fortuitous circum- 
 stances, to positions of affluence and ease. But, on 
 the whole, he enjoyed life a great deal more, and 
 while many, if not all, of them are now dead and
 
 Memoir. xxi 
 
 altogether forgotten, the author of " My First Fee " 
 still lives, pleasing reminiscences of his happy 
 social ways still linger in many a heart, and 
 nothing but good is now spoken of Robert Kerr, 
 "The Ploughman Poet of Urr." Such is the 
 power of poetic genius, in giving its mead of 
 immortality to those of "the heaven-born gift," 
 over that of the worldling whose only desire in life 
 is to amass wealth, and make a display of earthly 
 possessions, while in death he goes to oblivion 
 without a genuine tear of sympathy or kindly 
 remembrance. In too many instances the only 
 "friendly" attention he gets in departing, being 
 that of impecunious lawyers over his " money-bags," 
 and the distracting croaking of vulturous relatives, 
 in their haste to divide the spoil. 
 
 The desire to be remembered when one is gone, 
 and " to retain a cherished place in the love or 
 esteem of some survivors," after the remains have 
 been laid out of sight in the grave, is universal to 
 mankind in this fleeting and transitory sphere. To 
 the Poet, with his ardent aspirations for posthumous 
 fame, it is the all and in all of existence. " To 
 him there is the dearer life after life, and posterity's 
 single laurel leaf is valued more than a multitude 
 of contemporary bays." And it is natural to 
 suppose that to Robert Kerr, with his poetic 
 temperament, such thoughts would often recur, and
 
 xxii Memoir. 
 
 that he would have some longings after the 
 posthumous renown so dear to the heart of the 
 Poet. Several of his writings give the impression 
 that he harboured the thought that some of his 
 poems would go down to posterity, and that in 
 after years his name would not be forgotten. The 
 following verse from his "Autumn Eve" reveals 
 this : 
 
 " Continue still to weave thy lay, 
 When at the plough, from day to day ; 
 Till o'er some fields where now you stray, 
 
 And oft hast felt 
 The plough-boys yet unborn may say 
 
 ' Here Kerr once dwelt.' " 
 
 Robert Kerr was only a few years in business in 
 England. Nearly all his life he resided at 
 Redcastle, engaged in work about the farm. He 
 was a general favourite in the district, participating 
 in, and enjoying the natural and simple ways of 
 life in which his lot had been cast. In his day the 
 habits of the people were more social and friendly 
 than nowadays, when artificialism has to a great 
 extent taken the place of nature in our domestic 
 arrangements; and to the "hydra-headed" monster 
 Fashion every one must conform, or merit the bann 
 of Society. 
 
 The life amid which Robert Kerr spent his days 
 was entirely free from the restraints and wearisome 
 routine of the ways of modern society. Then 
 there was a " greater individuality in thought and
 
 Memoir. xxiii 
 
 manner," and the drill of " adjutant Fashion " was 
 not so much respected as it is now. To such 
 a state of existence our Poet, with his vagrant 
 ways, could never have conformed. The aphorism, 
 " The poet is born and not made," is to a certain 
 extent true, but circumstances of birth and sur- 
 roundings have a great deal to do with the growth 
 and development of the gift, and certainly the 
 customs and natural ways of life in our Poet's 
 day were more favourable to the growth of poetic 
 feeling than that which we now lead. The harvest 
 home, with its joyous festivities, and Halloween, 
 with its train of curious superstitions, were rigidly 
 observed by the rural population, and entered into 
 and enjoyed without any qualms as to whether 
 they were adhering to the strict rules of martinet 
 fashion, and the etiquette of a refined society, or not. 
 Other old observances and curious ceremonies, 
 " involving the manners and customs " of our 
 ancestors still lingered in the isolated district 
 around the Haugh-of-Urr, and gave occasion for 
 merry-makings, which are not known in our day. 
 Our Poet was fond of these rural festivities, and 
 being an invited guest to them all, contributed by 
 his song, recitation, and witty conversation to the 
 hilarity and enjoyment of the company. From his 
 plain, unassuming manner and natural gifts, he 
 was respected and looked up to as one of " light
 
 xxiv Memoir. 
 
 and leading" in the commonplace life of the 
 district, but from what we can judge of his 
 character and leanings, he would have been the 
 very last to pose as the upright or perfect man of 
 his social circle. He was, as we have seen, at all 
 times sensible of his own failings, and when he 
 had occasion to mark and tell his neighbours' 
 "fauts and folly," his sarcasms, though pungent 
 and cutting to the quick when exposing vice and 
 hypocrisy, always leant to mercy's side when 
 treating of human frailties. The sublime texts 
 of " Scotia's poet king," that " the best may 
 gang a kennin' wrang," and " to step aside is 
 human," were his standard in judging of erring 
 humanity. 
 
 So far as we learn from those who well knew the 
 man in all his phases, there was in his nature " an 
 entire absence of cant, hypocrisy, and hollow 
 pretence, not in word and act only, but in 
 thought and instinct." He was no ascetic he 
 was fond of society, and being tolerant of the 
 moods and ways of those not so highly endowed by 
 nature as himself, his company was often courted 
 by his fellows, and at all the entertainments for 
 instruction or amusement given in the place his 
 services were in request, and in these amusements 
 of the village he often took a leading part.
 
 Memoir. xxv 
 
 In the year 1839, 
 
 " That vera year we had the muckle wun, 
 Which levelled trees and hooses to the grun," 
 
 Allan Ramsay's fine pastoral of the " Gentle 
 Shepherd," being then the favourite play in 
 the country, was acted by a company of local 
 amateurs in the village of Haugh-of-Urr, for the 
 benefit of the neighbouring poor. Our Poet com- 
 posed and recited a prologue on the occasion, 
 and 
 
 "Some country lads that doffed the sock and pleuch 
 Donn'd sock an" buskin", an" did weel eneuch." 
 
 The "theatre " of the prologue being as usual the 
 barn of the place, as we learn 
 
 " Doun Spottes burn street there was an auld laigh raw, 
 And at the end o't leeved one John M'Wha 
 A decent chiel at this time kept a smiddie, 
 Who gave his barn, and soon it was made ready." 
 
 We must now proceed to refer to his works, 
 several of which are generally acknowledged 
 to be the productions of a true poet, and are 
 known far beyond the bounds of Galloway. 
 Like Burns, whom he resembles in some 
 respects, his poems and songs were composed 
 and warbled with the lark behind the plough, or 
 while tending his sheep on the hillside. He knew 
 that to be natural in depicting the sentiments, the
 
 xxvi Memoir. 
 
 loves, and varied vicissitudes in the lives of those 
 around him, he must go to Nature, and that 
 
 "The Muse nae poet ever fand her, 
 Till by himsel' he learned to wander, 
 Adoun some trottin' burn's meander, 
 
 An' no think lang ; , 
 
 O ! sweet to stray and pensive ponder 
 
 A heart-felt sang." 
 
 In his time predjudices and superstitious beliefs 
 were prevalent in the district. Then the powers of 
 warlocks and witches, now fallen into disrepute, 
 were implicitly believed in by not a few. Ghosts, 
 apparitions, wraiths, kelpies, and wirrikows, were 
 so far credited, that even the most daring and 
 sceptical considered it judicious on a dark night to 
 keep, as Burns expresses it, "a strict look-out in 
 suspicious places." Around the family circles the 
 tedium of the winter " fore-nichts " was often 
 beguiled by recounting and reading stories and 
 traditions of the " on-goings " of these personages, 
 which were so very ludicrous, that on the 
 impressionable nature of the poet, they would 
 have such an effect, as to be deeply engraven 
 on his memory. The youthful and unfortunate 
 poetic genius, Fergusson, pictures such a scene in 
 his " Farmer's Ingle " in the lines : 
 
 "In rangles round, before the ingle's low, 
 Frae gude-dame's mouth auld warld tales they hear 
 O" warlocks, louping round the wirrikow : 
 O* ghaists that win in glen and kirkyard drear, 
 Whilk touzles a' their tap, and gars them shake wi' fear."
 
 Memoir. xxvii 
 
 The subject of "Maggie o' the Moss," Robert 
 Kerr's longest and most ambitious poem, was a 
 real personage who dwelt in a cottage at no great 
 distance from Redcastle. It was evolved from 
 the following incident, related to us by one who 
 knew the Poet well. " A reverend doctor, full of 
 the joke, promised Maggie a pair of shoes if she 
 would lift a man named M'Lelland, who was no 
 bosom friend of the doctor's, and give him a long 
 ride through the air. Maggie accepted the bribe, 
 and carried out the stipulations, but landed too 
 soon with her burden, in consequence of which the 
 doctor only paid her with a pair of clogs. The 
 man said he was lifted at his own door, and was 
 carried at a rapid rate through the air that he 
 neither knew where or how far, but felt his feet 
 brushing the ' tree taps ' of a wood near his own 
 house, and that he was set down at the precise spot 
 from which he was spirited away." By the rural 
 population of the district this tale was firmly 
 believed, and poor Maggie, from her reputed evil 
 eye and baneful spells, became an object of fear and 
 dread to the dwellers in the neighbourhood. In this 
 age of board schools, science, scepticism, and 
 general enlightenment, the powers of witchcraft, the 
 victims of which in past times in Scotland were often 
 put to death under the most excruciating tortures, 
 are generally scoffed at, and jeered out of court;
 
 xxviii Memoir. 
 
 though even yet, in isolated districts far removed 
 from railways, such superstitious beliefs have not 
 altogether passed away. 
 
 When Robert Kerr wrote the poem of " Maggie 
 o' the Moss," the subject, from being a popular 
 one, would be read with interest. Now, it is mainly 
 interesting as illustrating the manners and customs 
 and superstitious beliefs of our forefathers, and as 
 showing the author to have been possessed of 
 imaginative and descriptive powers of a high order, 
 with the happy gift of introducing, here and there, 
 effective touches of light humour and satire. In 
 the present day this piece, with some of his other 
 productions, may be considered by many rather 
 coarse in expression; but the reader in judging of 
 this, must take into account the difference of the 
 times and manners of the people fifty or sixty 
 years ago. In giving expression to their natural 
 sentiments and feelings, our forefathers were not so 
 fastidious as we are now. 
 
 By his touching and pathetic lyric of " My 
 First Fee," published in the Dumfries Courier in 
 1843, his name as a poet was first brought before 
 the public. It has always been very popular in the 
 district, and is now widely known. The genial 
 editor of the Dumfries Courier, Mr John M'Diarmid, 
 characterised it as an effusion " remarkable for 
 its natural and graphic delineation of truth."
 
 Memoir. xxix 
 
 It was included in a recent publication, The 
 Bards of Galloway, and was singled out by the 
 reviewers of that work, as a piece containing touches 
 of pathos that must appeal to every heart susceptible 
 of human feeling. Mr W. S. Ross, a patriotic 
 Gallovidian, himself a poet of great power and feel- 
 ing, and possessed of high and varied literary attain- 
 ments, noticed it in the Agnostic Journal, of which 
 he is editor, in these very appreciative terms: "This 
 artless and touching idyl will compare favourably 
 with anything of the kind in any language. It is a 
 brief and simple entry in the annals of the poor, 
 and, to those who understand the class of life it 
 depicts, the very soul of pathos. With a wide 
 knowledge of ballad lore, I can think of nothing at 
 all comparable with ' My First Fee,' except 
 Thorn's ' Mitherless Bairn/ and Motherwell's 
 ' Jeannie Morrison.' " 
 
 The poem was inserted in Hugh M'Donald's 
 "Days at the Coast," as by an unknown author, 
 and the Rev. P. Mearns, Coldstream, in his edition 
 of Hyslop's Poems (1887) claimed it for that bard; 
 but, so far as the evidence he was able to produce 
 went, on entirely insufficient grounds. The writer 
 of this memoir, as editor of The Bards of 
 Galloway, in a note on Robert Kerr, which was 
 considered to have fairly disposed of the question, 
 reasserted the true authorship of the poem, and
 
 xxx Memoir. 
 
 placed the laurel on the brow of the rightful owner, 
 Robert Kerr. " The Widow's Ae Coo " and " The 
 Old Moss Oak " have also obtained a wide popu- 
 larity amongst the people. They are brimful of 
 pathos and humour, and touch the heart as only 
 true poetry can. Robert Kerr's place among the 
 poets of Galloway will doubtless be variously 
 estimated, but with these three poems he will 
 always hold a respectable place among the sweet 
 singers of the province. 
 
 In his later years our Poet had saved, or gained, 
 the means which allowed him to take a farm of his 
 own, and in the autumn of 1848 he removed from 
 Redcastle to the farm of Bogue House, near 
 Garliestown, Wigtownshire. He left Redcastle 
 "full of health and hope, and with the fairest 
 prospect of future usefulness," and a lengthened 
 term of years before him. But the great Disposer 
 of Events had ruled it otherwise, and the bright 
 hopes of himself and friends were blasted. He 
 had scarce settled down in his new home when 
 he caught a cold, occasioned by a chill he had 
 after bathing in the sea, which ultimately settled on 
 his lungs, and ended in consumption. 
 
 After an absence of a few weeks he returned 
 weak and emaciated to the paternal roof at Red- 
 castle, and died there on the 3Oth September, 1848, 
 " to the inexpressible grief of all who knew him,"
 
 Memoir. xxxi 
 
 says a correspondent of the Dumfries Courier at 
 the time, " including those who were nearest and 
 dearest, not in the ties of kindred alone, but every 
 warm emotion of the heart. The deceased was 
 held in universal esteem by all within the range of 
 his acquaintance. The kindness, frankness, and 
 straightforwardness, of his disposition won their way 
 to all hearts; and although no man was more 
 modest, or as some would say, less presuming in 
 the society of strangers, there was a nameless 
 something in his manner, looks, and words that 
 proved a passport to favour wherever he went. As 
 might have been expected, his company was always 
 welcome, a circumstance that increases regret the 
 more that his death should have left a blank not 
 easily supplied, adorned as his unobtrusive life had 
 been by virtues that will be long remembered." 
 
 As a tribute to " departed worth and genius," 
 the talented editor of the Courier republished " My 
 First Fee;" and in an obituary notice feelingly 
 remarked : " The editor of this journal never saw 
 the lamented deceased but once, and that only for 
 a brief period. This was after the publication of 
 " My First Fee ;" and it was not his fault that no 
 subsequent interview occurred, as Mr Kerr was 
 pressingly invited to favour him with further oppor- 
 tunities of forming his acquaintance as often as he 
 had occasion to visit Dumfries. The omission, he
 
 xxxii Memoir. 
 
 confesses, was his own loss, charmed as he had 
 been with the first poem submitted to his notice, 
 in common with many others, as was proved by 
 its republication in distant and more influential 
 journals." 
 
 Robert Kerr, until his last fatal illness, was 
 a man of robust constitution. He was tall in 
 stature, of a fair complexion, with an agree- 
 able expression and intelligent piercing eye. The 
 portrait prefixed to the volume, from a water-colour 
 painting in the possession of his nephews, Messrs 
 M'Neilie, late of Redcastle, being, we have been 
 told, by those who knew the poet intimately, a 
 very faithful likeness. 
 
 His remains lie in the family burying-ground in 
 Urr Churchyard, a pleasant spot within sound of 
 the gently rushing Urr, at no great distance from 
 the place of his birth. 
 
 M. M'L. H. 
 
 CASTLE-DOUGLAS, May, 1891.
 
 MAGGIE O' THE MOSS. 
 
 yon hills, where winding Orr 
 Flows gently to the Solway shore ; 
 Where moats and camps may still be seen ; 
 Where trystes and tournaments ha'e been ; 
 There stood a cottage, ca'd " The Bent," 
 Where lived a couple weel content. 
 A cheerfu' body was the dame, 
 Wha never travell'd far frae hame ; 
 Or fash'd wi' ither folk's affairs, 
 Or stories told of them or theirs ; 
 But minded what was maist becomin' 
 Her wark, like ony decent woman. 
 For pigs and poultry she could rear 
 As weel as ony ither near ; 
 Could nurse her weans, and weave their hose, 
 Could mend their claes, and mak' their brose ; 
 Wi' rock, few match'd her at the spinnin' ; 
 As white as snaw she bleach'd her linen : 
 Could read her Bible, too, indeed 
 
 Yea, had three-fourths o't in her head, 
 
 B
 
 Maggie o The Moss. 
 
 And said her prayers ilk' day did come 
 
 They're seldom said, I fear, by some ! 
 
 She never did attempt to claim 
 
 A richt to manage a' at hame ; 
 
 But did her earthly lord obey, 
 
 As far's she thocht consistent lay ; 
 
 Who was a man of honest fame, 
 
 And auld " Herd Simon " was his name. 
 
 His wife and weans were a' his riches ; 
 His greatest dreid were ghaists and witches : 
 For in their power he put great faith, 
 And muckle did he dreid them baith ! 
 But Simon's forte lay in his speaking 
 Where glasses rung, and punch was reeking ; 
 For " mountain dew " could mak' him preach 
 Wi' sae much eloquence o' speech, 
 'Bout earth, and seas, and heavenly signs. 
 And knotty doctrines, and divines, 
 That all who heard him were surpris'd 
 How he such learning realiz'd ; 
 And swore he had been at some college, 
 And learn'd a deal o' wit and knowledge ! 
 
 But, tho' he lik'd the " mountain dew," 
 He ne'er, like some, got roaring fu' ; 
 Twas little of it Simon bocht, 
 Yet when he got a glass for nocht,
 
 Maggie o The Moss. 
 
 Sim' aye ken'd what he was about, 
 He ne'er was ask'd to drink it out I 
 Nor was he very much to blame 
 He got but little o't at hame : 
 He lik'd his wife, and ilka bairn, 
 He gi'ed her a' that he could earn ; 
 For she could lay that little out, 
 With great economy, no doubt : 
 Thus he did earn, and she did pay, 
 And I may venture here to say 
 A happier pair ne'er jogg'd through life 
 Than honest Simon and his wife. 
 
 Scarce to the east, a good bow-shot 
 Off Simon's stood anither cot ; 
 Where liv'd an ancient wither'd dame, 
 And auld " Witch Maggie " was her name, 
 For she by " Clootie " had been hir'd, 
 And sae that awfu' name acquir'd ! 
 Her ghastly looks and visage queer 
 Were proofs to a' the nei'bours near : 
 Her crooked back, and wrinkled brow, 
 Twa fiery e'en seem'd in a lowe, 
 Which had, perhaps be't to their praise 
 Bewitch'd some youth in former days : 
 Her curious muttering to hersel', 
 And where she cam' f rae nane could tell ; 
 Her odd-like manner, and her claes. 
 
 B 2
 
 Maggie o The Moss. 
 
 Made a-la-mode of former days ; 
 A vulgar tongue, and rather free, 
 Made Meg what she was said to be ! 
 
 Ah ! poverty, alas ! alas ! 
 What ills attend thy humble class ! 
 How braid thy shouthers ocht to be, 
 For ah ! there's muckle laid on thee ! 
 Had Maggie been deck'd up wi' lace, 
 For a' thae wrinkles on her face 
 Had she in warldly wealth been rich, 
 Meg never had been termed a witch ! 
 But nae doubt Nick did constant wait, 
 And tempted Maggie wi' the bait ; 
 He offered plenty every day, 
 Sae Meg became an easy prey. 
 Cauld-hearted want, my curse licht on ye ! 
 To spoil God's works the best and bonny, 
 To drive an honest wife to error, 
 Then live to be a country's terror ! 
 
 And here my story onward leads, 
 To tell o' mair o' Maggie's deeds 
 For she was fear'd by poor and rich, 
 And noted far to be a witch ; 
 Yet, in her calling nane abus'd her; 
 What e'er she ask'd for, nane refus'd her : 
 But every farmer strove to please
 
 Maggie o The Moss. 
 
 The hag, wi' milk, and meal, and cheese ; 
 
 And nane considered it a loss 
 
 To serve auld " Maggie o' the Moss." 
 
 Yet, aft wad Maggie play a trick, 
 To prove her colleague-ship wi' Nick ; 
 For they, wha Meg's petitions spurn'd, 
 Had cairts, and carriages o'erturn'd ; 
 Their horse gaed mad, and ran like stags, 
 Till some got broken arms, and legs ; 
 The best kye in the byre gaed yell ; 
 Some died, some couldna raise themsel' : 
 In short ilk' beast the farmer had 
 Died, sicken'd, rotted, or, gaed mad I 
 
 And aft had Maggie raised the wun', 
 And muckle mischief had she done ; 
 When storms blew loud at dead o' nicht, 
 High in the air she took her flicht : 
 Of raging storms, she led the van, 
 And like a shade swept o'er the Ian' ; 
 Whyles skimming o'er some mountain's brow- 
 Leaving the valleys far below : 
 Whyles circling, like a bird o' prey 
 Flying through ether far away ; 
 Now driving close o'er earth she scuds; 
 Next moment darting through the cluds, 
 Now shaking corn in certain spots,
 
 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 Now tilling kirks, and country cots ; 
 Now plunging in the depths of ocean, 
 And setting all in dire commotion ; 
 Now sinking ships was her employment ; 
 The mae she drown'd the mair enjoyment ! 
 
 And aft had Meg, as nei'bours tell, 
 To shape of hare transformed hersel' ; 
 When in that form, had aft ta'en place 
 Mony a noble weel run chace : 
 Nae grey-hound e'er was Maggie's master ; 
 Nae hound ran fast, but Meg ran faster : 
 Nae collie ever kept near till her ; 
 Nae sportsman yet was fit to kill her : 
 For Maggie wad ha'e ran sae wanton 
 Thro' hedge and ditch, through field and plantin' 
 O'er hill, and dale, sae fast she'd scud, 
 Wi' flatten'd ears and cocked fud ; 
 That wi' Eclipse, the far-fam'd racer, 
 It would have been as vain to chase her, 
 As 'tis for mortals of this zone 
 To seek the philosophic stone ! 
 
 And aft, at nicht, ane black as soot, 
 Wha seem'd to wear a cloven foot, 
 Wad visit Meg's for on the green, 
 Next morn, strange footsteps aft were seen ; 
 And by her well, each gloomy nicht,
 
 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 Will o' the wisp's deceitfu' licht, 
 
 Within a quagmire, to decoy 
 
 The traveller and the errand-boy : 
 
 And her auld cot amang the trees, 
 
 Did mony a nicht seem in a bleeze ; 
 
 Frae midst of which was heard the noise 
 
 Of hellish revelry and joys 
 
 But when the morning came serene, 
 
 Still stood her cot as nocht had been, 
 
 And muckle mair that proved weel 
 
 Meg maun ha'e dealings wi' the De'il. 
 
 Auld Simon, wha nane had offended, 
 But they wha only ill intended, 
 Wi' Maggie's tricks was weel acquainted, 
 And lang wi' Meg had been tormented. 
 Ae nicht had Maggie changed her form, 
 And, like an eagle in the storm, 
 Wi' hideous yells she filled the air, 
 And tirled Simon's cottage bare ; 
 And by some cantrip spell o' Meg's, 
 His ducks had a' laid wounded eggs ; 
 His tappin'd hen, a favourite burdie, 
 By Maggie's craft, had ta'en the sturdy, 
 Which did poor Simon sae provoke, 
 He swore he would stand nae sic joke ; 
 But on himsel' took solemn vow 
 That he some day would score her brow ;
 
 8 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 And rid himsel' o' a' thae evils 
 In spite o' Meg and a' the deevils 
 That ever wrocht an incantation 
 In this, or ony ither nation ! 
 
 Ah ! Simon ! sair ye did repent 
 Your hasty vow and rash intent, 
 Ye little kent what Meg wad play 
 Wi' you for that some ither day ; 
 Ye little thocht ye had to flee, 
 Far, distant far, beyond the sea ; 
 Thro' chaos' bounds to meet auld Cloot, 
 Whilst Maggie rode thee like a brute ; 
 Which chanc'd ae nicht to be thy fate, 
 As I mean shortly to relate. 
 My rustic muse, ye maunna fail, 
 Whilst I recite the awfu' tale : 
 And such a tale, the Lord look o'er me 
 As never mortal mou'd before me. 
 
 'Twas when dark winter rul'd the time, 
 And Sol beam'd faintly on our clime ; 
 The day had fled, and o'er the nicht 
 The moon-beams shed their silver licht ; 
 The twinkling stars look'd frae the skies 
 Wi' smaller, but wi' sharper eyes ; 
 The settled air was calm and still, 
 And far resounded every rill ;
 
 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 The loud hoarse bark from scalter'd domes 
 Proclaim'd who watch'd the farmer's homes ; 
 The whistling wild fowl left the lakes, 
 To seek unfrozen springs and brakes ; 
 For biting frost had bound the soil, 
 And kept the ploughman frae his toil ; 
 The curlers now had left their play, 
 Expecting more the coming day ; 
 For still the atmosphere felt keen, 
 And clouds were nae where to be seen, 
 But all round, an unbroken view 
 Of orbs of light, 'midst realms of blue, 
 Plac'd in the heavens to move or stand, 
 By Order's great unerring hand. 
 
 Auld Sim', wha did but seldom roam, 
 Did chance that night to be from home ; 
 His road was langer than the day 
 Sae night o'ertook him in his way, 
 Yet still he thocht himsel' secure 
 Frae witch, or de'il, or evil-doer ; 
 The road was short he had to gang, 
 But there were fleysome pairts amang ; 
 Wi' lengthen'd stride he on did jog, 
 Whyles o'er a knowe, whyles in a bog ; 
 Whyles round some mire he took a turn, 
 Whyles stepping o'er some wimpling burn ; 
 Whyles spelling dykes, and louping ditches,
 
 io Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 Richt gled he had got free frae witches ! 
 Still stepping on, he reach'd the heicht, 
 And gladly saw his cottage-licht ; 
 When all at once, to his surprise, 
 A figure stalk'd before his eyes. 
 Approaching near, it stood before him, 
 Whilst an increasing dread came o'er him ! 
 Auld Meg's phys'og he weel did ken, 
 Ilk' bristled hair stood up on en' ; 
 Aff flew his bonnet and his wig, 
 Each limb shook like an aspen twig ; 
 His heart deep dreading something ill, 
 Went like the clappers o' a mill. 
 
 Thus Simon stood, like ane rebuk'd, 
 And naething said, but fearfu' look'd, 
 Nor had he power to say " guid e'en," 
 Or, " pray, dear nei'bour, where ha'e been ? 
 Nor for his life could lift a leg, 
 To try to save himsel' frae Meg ; 
 But like Lot's wife, in ancient time, 
 Was turned a pillar for her crime; 
 So Simon stood, a statue carnal ; 
 Whilst Meg rag'd like some fiend infernal ; 
 
 Now like a wild beast mad for prey, 
 It's hungry cravings to allay ; 
 Like baudrons when she sees a mouse,
 
 Maggie o The Moss. 1 1 
 
 Or falcon when he sees the grouse ; 
 Like ocean's monsters in their flicht, 
 That dart at what's before their sicht ; 
 Sae Maggie flew wi' furious haste, 
 And made poor Sim' the cauld earth taste; 
 Then cross his haunches striding o'er, 
 She gave him the command to soar : 
 At first poor Simon, sweir to yield, 
 Held hard and fast the frosty field ; 
 His body now earth's surface spurn'd : 
 He seem'd like gravitation turn'd ; 
 His heels went bickering in the air, 
 He held till he could haud nae mair : 
 Till first wi' ae han', syne the tither, 
 He lost his haud o't a'thegither ; 
 And mounted up in gallant style, 
 Right perpendicular for a mile. 
 
 Ah Simon ! when thou wert ascendin' 
 Why didst thou not touch every tendon ? 
 Bow down thy head kick up thy heel, 
 And twist and wallop like an eel ? 
 And throw the carlin aff thy back, 
 Till on some craig her head play'd crack ? 
 Or broke the charm, and when ye fell 
 Kept Meg beneath and saved yoursel' ? 
 But that was far frae Simon's power, 
 He fand't impossible to throw'er ;
 
 12 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 For brawly ken'd she how to ride, 
 And stick richt close to Simon's hide; 
 For aft had Maggie on a cat 
 Across the German Ocean sat; 
 And \vi' auld Nick and a' his kennel 
 Had aften crossed the British Channel ; 
 And mony a nicht wi' them had gone 
 To Brussels, Paris, or Toulon ; 
 And mony a stormy Hallow e'en, 
 Had Maggie danced on Calais green ! 
 
 But Maggie had that nicht to gang 
 Through regions dreary, dark, and lang, 
 To hold her orgies in a place 
 Which men denominate, "unknown space:" 
 Where a' the witches were to gether 
 Between this world and the nether ; 
 And there wi' Nick to hold levee, 
 Besides some glorious jubilee ; 
 To celebrate some fate renown'd, 
 Such as, when Pharaoh's host was drowned ; 
 The morn when our first parents fell ; 
 Or Satan's self broke loose frae hell. 
 Yet such a nicht it chanced to be 
 As even witches seldom see ; 
 For Satan's self had given orders, 
 Thro' ev'ry nook of the earth's borders, 
 That ilka warlock, witch, and elf,
 
 Maggie o } The Moss. 13 
 
 That nicht half-way should meet himself ; 
 And they unanimous did chuse 
 The northern pole for rendezvous ; 
 Where a' should meet their different legions, 
 Ere they flew to the dismal regions ! 
 
 Now to the northern Simon flies, 
 Like smoke that floats 'tween earth and skies, 
 Or like November's misty rain, 
 That speedy drifts alongst the plain ; 
 Wi' Maggie mounted on his back, 
 As sicker as a pedlar's pack : 
 Wi' raip about his head and neck, 
 Her human pony to direct ; 
 And in the other wither'd hand 
 A hazel cudgel did command ; 
 With which she play'd upon him sweetly, 
 And leather'd Simon's sides completely ! 
 
 Not sweet for him, alas, poor Simon ! 
 Fain wad he thocht he was but dreamin' ; 
 Fain thocht his brain was in confusion, 
 And nothing but a wild delusion ! 
 A man micht fancy, that he star'd, 
 A man micht fancy, that he heard ; 
 But there was one of no denying, 
 Which prov'd to Simon he was flying ; 
 And tho' he knew not, where nor whence,
 
 14 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 Convincing feeling noblest sense, 
 In no ways could be disbelieved 
 He felt too well to be deceived. 
 
 The night, which had been calm before, 
 Now chang'd, and winds began to roar : 
 The moon had set clean out o' sicht, 
 And dark and dismal grew the nicht ; 
 And ay the louder blew the blast, 
 Our flying hero flew mair fast ; 
 And furious rush'd, wi' whizzing din, 
 Against the frosty northern win', 
 Which round that head devoted, blows, 
 Enough to split his very nose ! 
 
 And thus 'tween heaven and earth they swept, 
 Meg at no regular distance kept ; 
 But whyles ascended, till our Planet 
 Seem'd to the sicht as wee's a wa'nit ; 
 Then sinking lower by degrees, 
 She rubs his nose against the trees ; 
 Or dips his wame in some moss hole, 
 Wi' nose still pointed to the pole ! 
 
 Like swallows near the gloaming licht, 
 As o'er a lake they tak' their flicht; 
 How swift they skim the liquid plain, 
 Then mount up high in air again !
 
 Maggie o' The Moss. 15 
 
 Now down themselves again they fling, 
 
 And skiff the water on the wing ; 
 
 So, o'er our Isle, and far ayont it, 
 
 Poor Simon flew, wi' Maggie mounted ! 
 
 For as the precious hours o' nicht 
 
 Flew by, sae Meg increas'd her flicht ; 
 
 And o'er the frozen ocean vast, 
 
 The domicile of many a blast, 
 
 She darts away o'er frozen sails, 
 
 O'er shaggy bears, and spouting whales. 
 
 Here icy mountains huge are seen, 
 
 There struggling ships were jamm'd between, 
 
 And onward still she takes the rout 
 
 O'er seas no British charts laid out, 
 
 And skims the icy rattling tide, 
 
 Wi' icicles on every side : 
 
 Her nose and chin, her auld gown tail 
 
 Were cased in ice like coat o' mail. 
 
 A magnet made by magic art, 
 
 Gat frae the de'il in some black part, 
 
 Made Meg acquainted wi' the sphere, 
 
 And tauld the pole was drawing near, 
 
 Till by the streamer's flitting licht, 
 
 Which glented brichtly through the nicht, 
 
 She spied at length the very part, 
 
 And like a bird wi' cheerful heart 
 
 Alighted gently on a knoll, 
 
 Beside the much-sought arctic pole.
 
 1 6 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 What pencil could the picture draw ! 
 What tongue could tell what Simon saw ! 
 What multitudes were gather'd here 
 Frae every airt the wind can steer : 
 Here mounted upon bears in raws, 
 Appear'd the hardy Esquimaux ; 
 Here Indian carlins on bamboos, 
 And south sea hags on kangaroos ; 
 Here sturdy witches of the arctic, 
 Kiss'd warlocks frae the far antartic ; 
 And mony a Caledonian grannie, 
 Flown aff wi' some auld nei'bour Sawnie ; 
 Some rode on ragworts, some on docks, 
 Some lang kail runts and cabbage stocks : 
 Some on a cat, some on a hen, 
 And some upon their ain guidmen ; 
 For tho' the power lay wi' themsel's, 
 To ride wi' nocht wad break their spells 
 So some had ponies wanting saddles, 
 Some cuddies some on wooden ladles. 
 What shouts and yells rose wildly there ! 
 A thousand lingoes rent the air ! 
 When rising like a swarm of bees, 
 Or craws when hame-bound to their trees, 
 At once the solid earth they leave, 
 To meet the fiend wha ruined Eve. 
 Soon out o' sicht o' earth they fly, 
 And now they canna see the sky,
 
 Maggie o The Moss. 17 
 
 Quick flying straining sweating frothing, 
 They stretch, they strive, 'twas neck or nothing ; 
 For wha got first they ken'd fu' weel, 
 Wad get some present frae the De'il. 
 
 But now to tell of things below, 
 A while my muse must let them go, 
 Pursuing on their destinations, 
 Wi' nae zig-zag oscillations, 
 But onward furious fast they fly. 
 As Time's wings to Eternity. 
 
 By this time Nick, the great arch-fien', 
 In hell a meeting did convene ; 
 And mounting on a brumstane rock, 
 Thus to the other fiends he spoke ; 
 And tho' got rather hoarse wi' reek, 
 His farthest subjects heard him speak, 
 And listen'd with a due respect, 
 His words which were to this effect : 
 
 " Doom'd sons below, the time draws near, 
 When your arch-brother must appear, 
 Far in the empty realms o' space 
 To meet there at a certain place, 
 That race of which our share we claim, 
 Sprung from that planet Earth by name. 
 Noo Bluefire, ane o' my best de'ils, 
 
 c
 
 1 8 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 This moment you must ply your heels, 
 Put on your best and swiftest wing, 
 Fly up to earth, and you must bring 
 Twa kegs o' best Jamaica rum 
 We'll meet you half road as you come, 
 With which I'll treat, as sure's I'm curst, 
 The clever jade that meets me first ! " 
 So rising up away he started, 
 Still leaving charges as he parted, 
 And soon came to (upon his pinions) 
 The John O' Groat's o' his dominions : 
 The porters knew their maister weel, 
 The gates were op'd out flew the de'il 
 Charg'd them to warn him of disorders, 
 Then at a dart he clear'd the borders, 
 And far in emptiness set sail, 
 With a long ret'nue at his tail. 
 
 Ah Nick ! I doubt yea, maist can tell, 
 Ye dinna rule your family well ! 
 For had it been but rightly headed, 
 Ye surely never wad hae dreaded 
 A wild rebellion rise within it, 
 In your being absent for a minute ! 
 
 Alas ! man should take thy example, 
 And strive on fellow man to trample 
 'Tis plain in your abode, and here, 
 A despot always rules in fear !
 
 Maggie o' The Moss. 19 
 
 Far, far in space, and void of sky, 
 The ruins of some world gone by ; 
 (Or what perhaps had been a sun, 
 But now for want o' fuel done), 
 Composed of lava, in and out, 
 Upon its centre, wheel'd about, 
 Wi' nothing living on its face, 
 Nor did it alter from the place ; 
 But whirl'd in darkness evermore. 
 So to that spot did Satan soar, 
 And, carving out a cinder throne, 
 Sat down and waited for his own. 
 
 But to our witches, on they flew, 
 And lo ! what's this appears in view ? 
 "Pis fire 'tis light 'tis coming fast, 
 It must be day alas ! 'tis past ! 
 At first poor Simon's heart grew fain, 
 He thought it was the world again : 
 Bui human hopes are often vain, 
 And fancied pleasures turn to pain ; 
 Nae world was here, nae licht o' day, 
 'Twas but a comet on its way ; 
 Which gleam'd one moment on the core, 
 And left them darker than before ; 
 Wi' nocht to licht them to the prize, 
 Except the gleam o' Satan's eyes : 
 Which now, at distance 'pear'd in sicht, 
 
 c 2
 
 2O Maggie o The Moss. 
 
 Like glow-worms in a gloomy nicht : 
 Making our witches fly like win', 
 Leaving the wizards far behin' ; 
 For warlocks tho' they wear the breeches, 
 Hae never ony chance wi' ivitches. 
 
 Wi' joyfu' heart Nick spied them comin', 
 And roar'd out " O delightful woman ! 
 Tho' whyles I've lost a point by thee, 
 You've been a charming friend to me : " 
 Then betted part o' his dominions 
 Upon the race and his opinions ; 
 Whilst different members o' his clan, 
 Oft times wad bet him " three to wan." 
 
 Cries one, upon his bended knees, 
 " My liege, I'll bet you if you please, 
 That Bess o' Borgue will Meg defy." 
 " She may," quo' Nick, " but time will try." 
 " A murderer's head I'll bet she lose it." 
 "Psha! psha," cries Nick "Meg wins the brose 
 yet." 
 
 " What's yon she rides wi' stretched lim' ? " 
 " What ! pray sir, do ye no' ken him ? 
 'Tis auld herd Simon o' the Bent, 
 Ane wha I think will ne'er repent ; 
 For mony a wicked trick, you know, 
 He's in our ledger long ago."
 
 Maggie o' The Moss. 21 
 
 " That's richt," quo' Nick, " I mind richt weel, 
 When teaching some young awkward de'il ; 
 I'm sure it must be half a cent'ry 
 We had his name in double entry." 
 
 Whilst thus they betted, far ahead, 
 Four carlins seem'd to tak' the lead 
 'Twas " Bess o' Borgue," and " Glencairn Kate," 
 Wha baith on Broomsticks had their seat ; 
 Our auld acquaintance made out three, 
 The fourth cam' frae the Southern sea, 
 A wrinkled hag o' visage copper, 
 And firm resolved nae ane should stop her ; 
 Weel mounted on a kangaroo, 
 And at a furious rate she flew : 
 Strove sair but couldna gain an inch, 
 Even Satan's sel' was at a pinch 
 To name the winner loud he swore, 
 He ne'er saw sic anither four ; 
 Till getting nearer to himsel', 
 In shorter time than tongue can tell, 
 They spring they dart now quick, then quicker, 
 'Twas now or never for the liquor. 
 Now Bessy seems to tak' the lead, 
 Now Maggie's first by half a head : 
 Now Katie's winning plain's can be, 
 Now Copper beats the other three ; 
 The vera twinkling o' an eye
 
 22 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 Behind, and Bessy will get by, 
 One final effort three must lose, 
 Tis won by " Maggie o' the Moss," 
 Who bounding off her fainting steed, 
 Sprang forth to Nick \vi' lightning speed, 
 Who clasping Meg in warm embrace, 
 Proclaim'd her winner o' the race. 
 
 Few minutes had got time to wear, 
 Till witch and wizard a' were there, 
 The loud harangue of welcome o'er, 
 For dancing they prepar'd a floor. 
 Nick gave the orders to his band, 
 And taking Maggie by the hand, 
 (His greatest fav'rite a' the nicht, 
 While ither pairs were plac'd a' richt) 
 Inquir'd what tune she pleas'd to ha'e, 
 " What tune ? " quo' Maggie " ' Clean pea strae ; 
 Or there's anither which I prize, 
 ' Yersel' flown aff wi' the excise.' " 
 " Weel spoke my partner," cried the De'il, 
 " Nocht beats a gude Scotch dance or reel : " 
 Now rose the music soft and sweet, 
 Now Maggie starts, and what a treat ! 
 As round she flies wi' Satan's sel', 
 Though whyles nigh tripped by his tail ; 
 Whilst he beat nimbly wi' his cloots, 
 In spite of breeding and of boots,
 
 Maggie o' The Moss. 23 
 
 Till mony a carlin envied Meg, 
 And wish'd to see her break her leg. 
 
 The dance scarce o'er, Nick did begin 
 A solo on his violin, 
 And sweetly play'd upon ae string, 
 While Maggie danc'd the "Highland Fling;" 
 He play'd his shifts wi' sic an airt, 
 And Meg sae supple did her pairt, 
 As would ha'e sham'd, if shame therein is, 
 Your German and Italian "ninis." 
 
 By this time Blue-fire had arriv'd, 
 And doon amidst the black throng div'd 
 Brocht forth the kegs without delay, 
 Presenting Maggie wi' the twae : 
 He'd snatch'd them off a smuggler's nag, 
 And brain'd its driver o'er a crag ; 
 Which did his master sae delicht, 
 He made him on that instant knicht, 
 Wi' star and ribbon " quite a swell," 
 The " order " Simon couldna tell ; 
 For 'twas enough, from what he saw, 
 To fright sense, memory, and a'. 
 Yet Simon recollected well, 
 And mony a lang year liv'd to tell 
 What reels they danc'd, and how they play'd 
 Strange antic tricks in masquerade ;
 
 24 Maggie o' The Moss. 
 
 And how the gloomy caverns rang. 
 
 Re-echoing the witch's sang. 
 
 And how before they would retire, 
 
 Of earth's affairs Nick did inquire, 
 
 Which they as willing did unfold, 
 
 And many a horrid tale they told 
 
 Of many a dark device and plan, 
 
 The cruel tricks of man to man ; 
 
 Of stretched necks and broken banes ; 
 
 Of poison'd wives and smother'd weans ; 
 
 Of widows where there should been nane ; 
 
 Of orphans cheated o' their ain ; 
 
 Of deeds did I but tell a part, 
 
 The blood would curdle round my heart. 
 
 Loud laugh'd auld Nick, and danc'd and reel'd. 
 And cleverly his pains conceal'd ; 
 For could his black heart been laid bare, 
 Wretch'd fiend, nae frolic lodged there. 
 
 Ah ! Satan is it thus with thee ? 
 Above, below, thou'rt never free. 
 Could leagues unnumbered frae thy den 
 Not in the least appease thy pain ? 
 Could dancing witches, which did please thee, 
 Not in the least iota ease thee ? 
 Ah ! no, though distant frae thy hame, 
 Thou art a demon still the same :
 
 Maggie o' The Moss. 25 
 
 Locality's a small affair, 
 
 When hell is with thee everywhere. 
 
 Prepar'd at last to take their flicht, 
 Yet loath to bid his friends good nicht, 
 Nick bade his menials go and look, 
 If Simon still was in their book. 
 Down dropt our hero as if shot, 
 His cares and fears were a' forgot ; 
 His nostrils seem'd devoid of breath, 
 And every muscle cauld as death, 
 Yet life was there, and death would win' him, 
 His soul was scarcely out or in him ; 
 Hard struggled death and life for sway, 
 Till life victorious won the day, 
 His senses gether'd by degrees, 
 He first felt life, tho' not at ease ; 
 His ears neist caught the roaring main, 
 And recollection came again, 
 When bold at length to ope' his eyes, 
 What joys, what transports, what surprise ! 
 He spied, which made his pulse to play, 
 The dark blue hills o' Galloway ; 
 And by his sides the twa prize kegs, 
 Strapp'd o'er his back wi' Maggie's legs ; 
 Who sat atween the twa erected, 
 Smoking her cutty quite collected, 
 Flying alongst the way they came, 
 Within a mile or twa o' hame.
 
 26 Maggie o The Moss. 
 
 Our hero and our heroine 
 Had now reach 'd where they left yestreen ; 
 When some kind cock, to morning true, 
 As if by more than instinct crew : 
 Loud screigh'd auld Meg, the cantrip spell 
 Was broke, and down baith birling fell ; 
 But by good luck the kegs o' rum 
 Did happily beneath him come, 
 Or in a moss-hole out o' sicht, 
 Poor Sim' had finished his flicht; 
 And never lived to tell what past, 
 A tale o' wonders that may last, 
 Whilst witches dwell upon the earth, 
 Whilst Orr flows to the Sohvay Firth, 
 Till death's wark's done, and Nick has got him, 
 And time's lang sinks lie at the bottom. 
 
 Yet should some future sceptic sinner, 
 As fond of doubting as his dinner, 
 To show the clearness o' his brain, 
 Strive to confute our story when 
 The village Blacksmith and the Bard, 
 And parish Sexton's nae mair heard ; 
 When Jamie nae mair tolls the bell, 
 And Johnnie's hammers cease to knell ; 
 When Robin quits his plough and toil, 
 And rests his banes beneath the soil ; 
 When mony a wife that could declare
 
 The Old Moss Oak. 27 
 
 The truth is gane guid kens na where. 
 
 "Tis then, perhaps, some rising twig, 
 
 Wi' bumps of learning unco big, 
 
 May prove, prove what ? why prove no more 
 
 Than what has oft' been shown before ; 
 
 That Maggie doesna rank alone, 
 
 Nor yet is Nick the only one 
 
 Who oft' has guiltless caught the blame, 
 
 By having first a wicked name. 
 
 LINES ON DIGGING UP AN 
 OLD MOSS OAK. 
 
 HAVE raised thee again to the light, Old 
 Oak, 
 
 And thy huge dark trunk appears 
 
 From the bed where thy age, or the light'ning's 
 stroke, 
 
 Had laid thee some thousand years. 
 
 Was't the wind, or the wave, that thou couldst not 
 brave, 
 
 Or when or how didst thou fall ? 
 I have much, old tree, to inquire of thee, 
 And would thou couldst answer me all.
 
 28 The Old Moss Oak. 
 
 Didst thou flourish in a distant time unknown, 
 
 Ere man walked the world erect, 
 When the giant Mammoth and Mastodon 
 
 Would range through the forest uncheck'd ? 
 Or did'st thou spread thy broad crowned head 
 
 In days when the human race, 
 In their pomp and pride, stretch'd far and wide 
 
 O'er earth's gay flow'ry face ? 
 
 Then gallants, vigorous, stout, and bold, 
 
 Who seven score years had seen, 
 Did they dance with the girls, a hundred years old, 
 
 Beneath thy bows when green ? 
 And the man who had seen eight centuries pass, 
 
 Whose eyes were turning dim, 
 Did he rest in thy shadow ? Alas ! alas ! 
 
 I should liked to have talked with him. 
 
 Wert thou a tree when the waters arose, 
 
 And deluged our world below ? 
 Were the nestlings drowned on thy topmost boughs 
 
 Four thousand years ago ? 
 The parents that on weary wing filled the air, 
 
 And the men that long did scoff, 
 Did they clutch at thy twigs in their dark despair, 
 
 While the wild waves dashed them off?
 
 The Old Moss Oak. 29 
 
 Or did'st thou bend o'er a barbarous race 
 
 In a much later date and day, 
 Who sought thy shade as the worthiest place 
 
 To kneel to their gods, and pray ? 
 Has the altar rude by thy old trunk stood 
 
 Where men would in vain implore ? 
 Has the victim bled, and thy roots been fed 
 
 With the dark rich human gore ? 
 
 But in vain, old tree, do I ask of thee, 
 Thou hast long, long lain unknown : 
 
 Thou hast flourished somewhere, thou hast once 
 been fair, 
 
 But thy date and thy history's gone ; 
 And such is our lot, soon unseen forgot 
 
 When my bones may be cast on the green, 
 It is but like a day till the living will say 
 
 " Ah ! look here where some dead man's been."
 
 30 My First Fee. 
 
 MY FIRST FEE. 
 
 JY mither was wae, for my faither was deid, 
 
 An' they'd threaten'd to talc' the auld hoose 
 owre oor heid ; 
 
 Her earnin's grew scanty, the meal was got dear, 
 An', the auldest o' five, I could whyles see the tear, 
 
 When she cam' hanie at nicht, glisten bricht in her 
 een, 
 
 Half hid, as if't didna juist want to be seen ; 
 I spoke na a word, but my wee heart wad ache, 
 An' I wished I was big, for my puir mither's sake. 
 
 There were fermers aroun' wanted herds for their 
 kye, 
 
 And my mither had said she had ane that wad try ; 
 I mind hoo I trembl'd, half fear, an' half joy, 
 When a maister ca'd on us to look at the boy : 
 He bade me stan' up, an' he thocht I was wee, 
 But my frank, honest face, he said, pleased his e'e ; 
 He wad tak' me, and try me ae half-year, an' see, 
 For a pair o' new shoon, an' a five shillin' fee. 
 
 We were gled to hear tell o't, the bargain was 
 struck, 
 
 An' he gied me a saxpence o' carles for luck ; 
 My trousers an' jacket were patch'd for the day, 
 An' my mither convoyed me a lang mile away,
 
 My First Fee. 31 
 
 Wi' charges an' warnin's 'gainst a' kin' o' crime, 
 An' rules she laid doun, I thocht hard at the time : 
 If the kye should get wrang, I was never to lee, 
 Though they sent me awa' but my shoon or my fee. 
 
 Sae I fell to my wark, an' I pleas'd unco weel 
 But a word or a wave, an' I plied han' or heel ; 
 But my troubles cam' on, for the fences were bad, 
 An' the midsummer flees made the cattle rin mad ; 
 
 An' in cauld blashy weather, sair drenched wi' the 
 rain, 
 
 Whyles wee thochts o' leavin' wad steal owre my 
 brain ; 
 
 But, wi' courage, I dashed aye the tear frae my e'e, 
 When I thocht o' my shoon, an' my five shillin' fee. 
 
 An' Martinmas brocht me my lang-thocht-o' store, 
 An' proudly I coonted it twenty times o'er ; 
 An' lang years hae fled, in a fortunate train, 
 But I never ance met wi' sic raptures again. 
 
 The sailor, juist safe through the wild breakers 
 steer'd, 
 
 Proud Waterloo's victor, when Blucher appeared, 
 Ne'er felt what I felt, as I placed on the knee 
 O' a fond-hearted mither, my five shillin' fee.
 
 32 The Pedlar and his Pack. 
 
 THE PEDLAR AND HIS PACK. 
 
 JARM and sultry was the weather, 
 
 Scarce the least cloud did appear, 
 Fermers had begun to gether 
 In the produce o' the year. 
 
 Some were mawin', some were shearin', 
 
 Busy wi' the yellow grain ; 
 Some were cartin', some were clearin', 
 
 Some securin' frae the rain. 
 
 Pedlar Rob, his rounds a-going 
 
 Thrang time wi' him a' the year, 
 Wind or rain, or hail or snowing, 
 
 Still he was obliged to steer. 
 
 Took the road, and flung his wallet 
 
 Owre his shou'der wi' a stick ; 
 Cash ! he couldna get a haul o't, 
 
 Scanty was the ready " tick." 
 
 Scanty needfu's vex'd his noddle ; 
 
 Yet, what vex'd him ten times more, 
 Scarcely could he get a boddle 
 
 For what goods he'd sold before.
 
 The Pedlar and his Pack. 33 
 
 Country wives were out a-gleanin', 
 
 Left nae siller, thjchtless sluts ! 
 Rob look'd queer, ye ken the meanin', 
 
 What's a purse without the guts ! 
 
 Mony a weary mile he trudget 
 
 Still nae siller curse the fates ! 
 Aye the heavier seem'd the budget, 
 
 Can it be the same with States ? 
 
 Aye the langer getting fainter, 
 
 Almost doubling at the knee, 
 Feint a cottage could he enter, 
 
 De'il a body could he see. 
 
 Drouthy was the weary packman, 
 
 Wantin' drink but near nae toon ; 
 Shou'der skinless, sair his back, man, 
 
 Draps o' sweat fell on his shoon. 
 
 Trembling like a man in dotage, 
 
 When the grave is drawing near, 
 Robin spied, at length, a cottage, 
 
 Doon a green lane somewhat near. 
 
 Perhaps some miser's ? little matter 
 
 Tho' he's ane that starves a rat ; 
 " Here," thought he, " I'll get some water, 
 
 Sure they won't refuse me that."
 
 34 The Pedlar and his Pack. 
 
 Doon he went and gently knockit, 
 Thocht to meet some feeling face ; 
 
 Vain his hope, the door was lockit 
 No' a mortal near the place. 
 
 Roun' he turn'd and curs'd the sheelin', 
 Feelin' what nae tongue can tell : 
 
 Threw his wallet doon, and wheelin', 
 Kick'd it madly as it fell. 
 
 " Down with you, and done for ever, 
 Wi' this trudgin' trade I'm at ! 
 
 Bruising heart, and lungs, and liver, 
 Wi' a heavy lump like that 1 
 
 " Can get nocht when stomach pinches, 
 No' even water when I crave ; 
 
 Tearin' up a man by inches, 
 Ready for an early grave. 
 
 " Man ! did I say ? mair like cuddy 
 
 Through the villages I pass, 
 Wand'rin' like a beggar-body, 
 
 Bearin' burdens like an ass. 
 
 " Hirplin', wi' an ugly wallet, 
 Like a rogue rrae place to place ; 
 
 Ped'lin' Packman ! as they ca' it, 
 Ev'n the title brings disgrace.
 
 The Pedlar and his Pack. 35 
 
 " Ugly baggage ! ye may lie there 
 
 Lie and rot there every clout, 
 Till some beggar, passing by thee, 
 
 Tears yer cotton entrails out." 
 
 Scarcely had he stopp'd, when terror 
 
 Changed the colour o' his cheek ; 
 Weel it micht when, to his horror, 
 
 Thus the pack began to speak : 
 
 " Robin, I ha'e heard wi' patience 
 
 A' yer vain and fuilish talk ; 
 Noo pray hear twa observations 
 
 Frae yer puir deserted pack. 
 
 " When we twa got first acquainted, 
 What had you but worthless rhyme ? 
 
 Were ye rich or mair contented 
 Than you're at the present time ? 
 
 " A' yer worth, and wealth, and riches, 
 
 An' yer empty boast o' fame, 
 Wadna bocht a pair o' breeches, 
 
 Wadna three times fill'd yer wame. 
 
 " A' your swearin' and pretencin' 
 
 Caused me naething but a smile ; 
 But, since that was your commencin', 
 
 Hear me juist a little while." 
 
 D 2
 
 36 The Pedlar and his Pack. 
 
 " No ! you goblin wallet bein', 
 
 Tho' you're tongued like Balaam's ass, 
 When I hear ye doonricht leein', 
 
 Hang me if I let it pass ! 
 
 " Ere wi' you I was acquainted 
 Then I lived quite free frae strife, 
 
 Ate and drank, and lived contented, 
 Never wantin' a' my life. 
 
 " Life was then a round of pleasure, 
 Every morning brocht its joys 
 
 Work'd at will and, at my leisure, 
 Ranted in my corduroys." 
 
 " Maybe never doonright wanted, 
 Still o' mony a thing felt need ; 
 
 Then it was ye howl'd and ranted 
 In your corduroys indeed. 
 
 " Corduroys ! and them sae clouted, 
 Backside, foreside, knee'd an' a' ; 
 
 Even a body micht disputed 
 What they were at first ava. 
 
 " Rinning juist at ilk' ane's biddin', 
 Fear a birk yer back should scar, 
 
 Like a moudie in a midden, 
 
 Howkin' 'mang the dirt and glaur.
 
 The Pedlar and his Pack. 
 
 " Noo ye'll talk o' froth and sweatin', 
 
 Bearin' burdens like an ass ; 
 Did I keep ye not in eatin', 
 
 Troth you would be sweatin' less. 
 
 " Wha yer hungry wame's aye filling ? 
 
 What pits something in your pouch ? 
 Wha provides you wi' a sheelin' 
 
 Which no mortal man dare touch ? 
 
 " Wha is't lets ye lie on feathers ? 
 
 Wha pits claes upon yer back ? 
 Wha buys pens to write yer blethers ? 
 
 Wha the deevil ! but yer pack ? 
 
 " Mind ye'll ne'er get sic anither 
 When in pairtin', me ye've "cut; " 
 
 Wha keeps frame and soul thegither ? 
 Is it me or is it not ? 
 
 " If ye mean to try your luck then, 
 Tak' me up ance mair and try ; 
 
 If ye mean to end in kickin/ 
 Kick again and let me lie. 
 
 " Either way, sir, I am willin' ; 
 
 But resolve, noo, and be quick ; 
 Either go and be a villain, 
 
 Or come shou'der up your stick."
 
 38 The Pedlar and his Pack. 
 
 Rob, \vha wasna void o' hearin', 
 
 Listen 'd to the Wallet's chat, 
 Heard its usefu' points up-clearin', 
 
 And he felt the truth o' that. 
 
 Rob high notions now misgiving, 
 Ken'd, if he his brains could rack 
 
 Up as high's the mune, his living 
 Still proceeded frae the pack 
 
 Answered thus, " Why, a' that's in it, 
 
 You and I ha'e lang been frien's, 
 Ne'er disputed till this minute, 
 
 Tho' we've baith met mony scenes. 
 
 
 
 " But, what caus'd my wild oration, 
 Mind and body baith got weak ; 
 
 Naething else but desperation 
 Made me sae unmanly speak. 
 
 " But now come, dear pack, I hail you, 
 
 I can bear thee without pain ; 
 Well enough I know thy value, 
 
 We shall never fight again." 
 
 Rob resolved, and kept his fix'd way, 
 
 With enthusiastic pluck, 
 All that afternoon, and next day, 
 
 Meeting with the best o' luck.
 
 The Widow's Ae Coo. 39 
 
 Mortals, ye who. meet vexation, 
 
 Never cowardly turn your back; 
 Changes come in every station, 
 
 Mind the Pedlar and his Pack. 
 
 THE WIDOW'S AE COO. 
 
 , where's noo the cottage that stood by the 
 
 Wi' its bricht bleezin' ingle an' bonny clean floor ? 
 Its doun an' awa', no' a vestige appears, 
 
 Where in peace and content dwelt the widow for 
 years. 
 
 She kept a wee coo, 'twas her leevin' an' pride, 
 She gethered her mouthfu' alang the roadside ; 
 She was black owre the back, had a bonnie white 
 broo, 
 
 An' a wee lassie herded the widow's ae coo. 
 
 Weel ken'd on the bye-road twa miles up and doon, 
 She lang held the favour o' ilka farm toon ; 
 By master an' servant, by lad an' by lass, 
 It was " Harmless wee Hawkie, puir thing, let her 
 pass."
 
 40 The Widow' s Ae Coo. 
 
 The verra warst schuleboy wha gaed out the road, 
 Wha pelted ilk' cuddy an' spanghu'd ilk' toad, 
 In frien'ship an' feelin', ne'er passed but he threw 
 A handfu' o' grass to the widow's ae coo. 
 
 Wi' comforts contented the widow liv'd weel 
 
 Her bing of potatoes, her kist fu' o' meal ; 
 
 The least obligation she lo'ed to requite, 
 
 While the hameless an' wretched ne'er pass'd but 
 
 her mite. 
 
 Wi' bonnie clean basket she gaed to the toon, 
 Wi' her sax pund a week amaist a' the year roun' ; 
 For milk an' for butter oor wide parish through 
 Couldna boast sic a beast as the widow's ae coo. 
 
 But a new race sprang up, an' their pride couldna 
 
 bear 
 
 To see the wee coo by the road ony mair ; 
 They threaten'd the widow wi' jail an' wi' law, 
 An' blamed her wee Hawkie wi' things she ne'er 
 
 saw; 
 
 For foplin's wha daurna their daddies displease, 
 
 Made her aft an excuse for their blood's broken 
 knees ; 
 
 Even jolly auld gentlemen, trottin' hame fou', 
 
 Got their broken noseblam'd on the widow's ae coo.
 
 Song. 41 
 
 Sae they forced her at length to put Hawkie away, 
 An' sair-hearted left her to wear out her day ; 
 When owre frail to labour, an' owre blin' to sew, 
 A poor parish pauper they've made o' her noo. 
 An' where are we better though police gae by, 
 To pummel our beggars or pound our stray kye ? 
 
 Could market nights speak, they would answer, I 
 trew, 
 
 " Far waur, for there's ten tipsy accidents noo, 
 For ane in the days of the widow's ae coo." 
 
 SONG. 
 
 |Y Love's a little country lass, 
 Like me, unknown to fame, 
 Belonging to the rural class, 
 
 I winna tell her name ; 
 But she's endowed wi' every charm, 
 
 The lassie I adore, 
 And happy dwells upon yon farm, 
 Beside the banks of Orr. 
 
 I've seen now twenty winters' blast, 
 And twenty springs so green, 
 
 My twentieth autumn's nearly past : 
 My Love's in her eighteen ;
 
 42 Song. 
 
 Tho' young, she has a heart that's kind, 
 
 A bosom that can feel ; 
 She is the lass that's to my mind, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e weel. 
 
 And oft I meet my bonnie lass ; 
 
 But where I winna tell, 
 When, unperceived, she leaves the rest 
 
 And meets me by hersel' : 
 There's nought to me such pleasure yields 
 
 'Tis joys lent from above 
 As walking through the dewy fields, 
 
 At gloamin', wi' my love. 
 
 And tho' midst others I be dumb, 
 
 And with you have no chat, 
 The time, dear lassie, yet will come 
 
 I'll talk with you for that : 
 Then fare-ye-well, my bonnie lass, 
 
 Thy name I'll not reveal 
 Until that time will come to pass 
 
 We'll no' want to conceal.
 
 Song. 43 
 
 SONG. 
 
 | HERE Galloway's hills 
 
 And purling rills 
 Does Nature's face adorn ; 
 There can I trace 
 My native place 
 The spot where I was born. 
 
 Ye glens and dales, 
 
 Ye lochs and vales, 
 Ye hills that barren be ; 
 
 There's no' a place 
 
 In Nature's face 
 More charming dear to me. 
 
 Where winding Orr 
 
 Flows to the shore, 
 Bedeck'd on every side 
 
 With native flow'rs 
 
 That sweetly pours 
 Their fragrant scents awide.
 
 44 
 
 Tis there, 'tis there 
 
 The heart of Kerr 
 Loves best of places a', 
 
 Tho' I must roam 
 
 Far, far from home 
 To places far awa. 
 
 There, native scenes 
 
 And dearest frien's, 
 I leave them for a while, 
 
 Yet full intent, 
 
 When time is sent, 
 Again to see my Isle. 
 
 Then fare-ye-well, 
 
 My friends that dwell 
 Along the banks of Orr ; 
 
 Thy native Bard 
 
 May yet be heard 
 Should he ne'er see you more.
 
 Address to a Dog. 45 
 
 MY FATHER'S ADDRESS TO HIS 
 AULD DOG LADDIE. 
 
 JULD dog, it plain to me appears 
 
 Ye're gaun the gate o' your forbears ; 
 Ilk' member o' yer body wears 
 Yer frame thegither, 
 
 And shows you're wearing doun wi' years 
 To your auld mither. 
 
 I'm wae to think ye're gaun to leave me, 
 
 I never kenn'd ye to deceive me, 
 
 As true a dog you will bereave me 
 
 As e'er was whalpit ; 
 O ! when I think on't, hoo it grieves me, 
 
 Yet canna help it. 
 
 Time in a hurry rins awa, 
 
 To me it seems nae time ava 
 
 Since my auld dog, baith young and raw, 
 
 A half-grown collie, 
 Ran yelpin' after cat and craw, 
 
 Richt fu' o' folly.
 
 46 Address to a Dog. 
 
 But noo twal simmers hae gane past, 
 Twal winters, too, hae bla\vn their blast, 
 And three times four springs hae I cast 
 
 In terra's bowels 
 My pickle seed (that's nae sae vast) 
 
 Hoo fast time rolls ! 
 
 You've been a famous dog, and art 
 
 As true as ever at the heart ; 
 
 But auld age makes yer body smart, 
 
 Sae fu' o' pain, 
 An' winna let ye do yer part 
 
 As ye wad fain. 
 
 When young nane wi' ye could compare 
 To rin a race or scent a hare, 
 Or tent the kye wi' mtickle care, 
 
 Auld thriftfu' tykie ; 
 Folks a' kenn'd ye belang'd to Kerr, 
 
 'Cause nane was like ye. 
 
 Wi' coat o' grey an' lugs o' broun, 
 A ringlet white yer neck went roun', 
 A streak o' white gaed owre yer croun ; 
 
 Yer tail sae free 
 Hung curl'd owre yer back aboon, 
 
 Nane were like thee.
 
 Address to a Dog. 47 
 
 That simmer my wee Tarn was born, 
 I mind it \veel, ae sunny morn, 
 When wading through the dewy corn 
 
 To catch the mare, 
 As passin' by the Pairtrick Thorn 
 
 Up starts a hare. 
 
 I never bade ye then to rin, 
 But ye were no' to haud or bin', 
 For, tho' I tried to keep ye in, 
 
 Aff, aff ye hurried 
 My fegs, ye nimbly tried her win', 
 
 Sune she was worried. 
 
 That was a sma' thing o' itsel', 
 Yet future prospects it did tell, 
 For aye frae that time could I spell, 
 
 An' plainly see, 
 If ye but lieved till ye were aul', 
 
 What ye would be. 
 
 The herd boy aften times wi' thee, 
 When herding owre ayont the lea, 
 In cauld days when the busy bee 
 
 Kept in its cell, 
 And birds o' passage cross'd the sea, 
 
 Mair warm to dwell.
 
 48 Address to a Dog. 
 
 There aften-times wi' thee, auld dog, 
 He would traverse baith hill an' bog, 
 Running wi' thee outlawing rogue 
 
 He thocht nae ill o't, 
 When some lam'd hare had ta'en the scrog, 
 
 To gang an' kill it. 
 
 When snaw was cov'rin' a' the grun, 
 Hoo aft, weel pleas'd wi' dog an' gun, 
 I've rang'd the fiel's, when Tarn, my son, 
 
 A toddlm' wee thing, 
 Was keen as I to see the fun, 
 
 Tho' we got naething. 
 
 Redcastle hills on every side 
 
 Wi' yelp ye've made to echo wide, 
 
 Wi' mony a spang an' mony a stride 
 
 Thou hast gaen owre them, 
 Stickin' yer tusks fast in the hide 
 
 O' hares galorem. 
 
 For wi' puir puss ye were'na sparin', 
 Ye mony o' them gi'ed their fairin' ; 
 There's no a field in a' the Baron", 
 
 I'll safely say, 
 But ye ha'e nimbly catch'd a hare in, 
 
 Or aiblins twae.
 
 Address to a Dog. 49 
 
 Yer bonny tail ye wad hae stretched 
 While rigs at every spang ye fetched, 
 And your keen eye so fiercely watched 
 
 Puss rin before ; 
 Short was the race till she was catched 
 
 An' tumbled o'er. 
 
 At nicht thou wert a famous guard 
 To barn, to peat-house, an' to yard 
 To them ye paid as much regard 
 
 As if ye ken't aye 
 Auld winter wi' his hoary beard 
 
 Wad need o' plenty. 
 
 When strange cats cam' about the hoose, 
 Wi' them ye played the verra deuce 
 Aft hae I kenn'd ye tak' puir puss 
 
 Fast in yer gums, 
 And make her back crack like a louse 
 
 Atween twa thumbs. 
 
 The fumarts a' times shunn'd yer face, 
 And at a distance kept, and wise ; 
 Wi' vermin thou wert never nice 
 
 O' what degrees ; 
 An' worried weasels, rats, and mice, 
 
 By twa's and three's.
 
 50 Address to a Dog. 
 
 But noo ye're wearin' near yer en', 
 Ye're like mankin' at three-score-ten 
 Short i' the wun, ye stoop an' ben', 
 
 Till juist a wee 
 Shall put a finish to yer pain, 
 
 Nae mair to be. 
 
 Ah, time ! ah, time ! what hast thou torn ? 
 What hast thou in the warl' not worn ? 
 A' mortal things ye treat wi' scorn, 
 
 Baith great and sma ; 
 An' sune the dounwards path are borne, 
 
 Men, dogs, an' a'. 
 
 Yer hearin' noo is seen to fail, 
 
 Yer e'en, ance bricht, look dim an' pale, 
 
 An' something, since you lost yer tail 
 
 Amang the fause anes, 
 Tells me ye're scarcely like yersel', 
 
 Or what ye was ance. 
 
 Ah ! my auld dog, ye little ken 
 Thae mortals we ca' sons o' men, 
 Wha' treat your maister wi' disdain 
 
 An' empty slur, 
 An' tell him openly an' plain 
 
 To shoot his cur.
 
 Address to a Dog. 
 
 They say auld age will make ye bad, 
 An' then nae doubt ye will gae mad 
 I should be vex'd and unco sad 
 
 If sic I saw ; 
 But ye shall never dee, auld lad, 
 
 By " Jeddart law." 
 
 They're but a set o' numskull bodies, 
 Possess'd wi' nae mair sense than cuddies ; 
 I'll sooner see them a' in wuddies, 
 
 An' twisted fast, 
 Ere I shall make my puir auld Laddie 
 
 Sae draw his last ! 
 
 Yes, sooner see the barn in fire, 
 Or shoot the best coo in the byre, 
 Ere I shall throw ye in a mire, 
 
 To meet yer death ; 
 Or hang ye wi' a cord or wire, 
 
 To stop yer breath. 
 
 But let them a' say what they like, 
 Ye'se dee a fair death yet, auld tyke 
 No' at the backside o' a dyke, 
 
 Like ony blackguard ! 
 But ye shall dee, for a' their fyke, 
 
 In bain or stackyard. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 Address to a Dog. 
 
 They'll ca' me noo a fool, nae doubt, 
 For rousin' sae' a wee dumb brute 
 Wi' ony o' them I'll dispute, 
 
 An' prove it too ? 
 There's some, wha wear nae paw nor cloot, 
 
 Micht learn frae you. 
 
 Oh ! if mankind would but agree, 
 
 And live in social unity, 
 
 As true as ye ha'e been to me 
 
 In your career ! 
 This world to saunts micht ever be 
 
 Maist truly dear. 
 
 Then should I live till I be grey, 
 And throw the war Id's cares away ; 
 And wi' grand-children sport an' play 
 
 Upon the green 
 The spot where laddie's put away 
 
 Shall still be seen. 
 
 Then will I tell each little one 
 
 How oft times wi' thee I've had fun 
 
 How often thou hast races run 
 
 O'er ditches clinkin', 
 Wi' ilka feat thou's ever done 
 
 That I can think on.
 
 Song. 53 
 
 Sae gang yer ways, an' streak yer back 
 Aneath a corn or clover stack, 
 To keep ye snug I'se no' be slack, 
 
 And, tho' I'm poor, 
 For ocht that's guid ye winna lack 
 
 To my last hoor. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 the setting sun cast a long shade from 
 the west, 
 
 On yon hill where together the larch and fir 
 grows, 
 
 On a green turf at gloaming I sat down to rest, 
 And, musing on Nature, I sank to repose. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 I had thought on the maid of yon village 
 when wake, 
 
 And slumbering still on my fancy she dwelt.
 
 54 Song. 
 
 For now in my dreams my fair charmer appear'd, 
 
 And more lovely than ever she seemed to be, 
 In a neat rural cot, where each other we cheer'd, 
 
 And I thought none on earth were so happy as 
 we. 
 
 Chorus. I had thought, &c. 
 
 And fondly I clasped my love in my arms, 
 
 And as fond on my bosom she seem'd to recline; 
 
 And happy I felt when I prais'd all her charms, 
 But happier far when 1 thought she was mine. 
 
 Chorus. I had thought, &c. 
 
 But the wind whistling over my green grassy bed, 
 Aroused me as Phoebus shot out his last beam ; 
 
 In a moment of time I had lost my fair maid, 
 I awoke from my rest, and 'twas only a dream. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 I had thought on the maid of yon village 
 when wake, 
 
 And slumbering still on my fancy she dwelt.
 
 The Lass beside the Mill. 55 
 
 SONG. THE LASS THAT LIVES 
 BESIDE THE MILL. 
 
 jjWAS summer when the woods were green, 
 
 And all in Nature's face seem'd fair, 
 One morn when hares were sporting seen, 
 
 And larks sang sweetly in the air ; 
 Admiring Nature's wond'rous law, 
 
 When musing by the wooded hill, 
 With raptur'd gaze 'twas first I saw 
 The lass that lives beside the mill. 
 
 The flow'rs ope'd forth with various dye, 
 
 The birds sang sweet their mates to call ; 
 All Nature's beauties seemed to vie, 
 
 With her whose charms outstripp'd them all. 
 Her lovely form and beauteous face 
 
 Show'd Nature's power to mould with skill ; 
 Adorn'd was she with every grace 
 
 The lass that lives beside the mill. 
 
 As on she pass'd my heart was rais'd, 
 With quicker pace my pulse did beat, 
 
 As thus on Nature's work I gaz'd, 
 Her last, her best, her most complete.
 
 56 The Lass beside the Mill. 
 
 Her looks so coy I'll ne'er forget, 
 My heart enrapt was caught at will ; 
 
 With fancy's eye I picture yet 
 The lass that lives beside the mill. 
 
 Tho' with the maid not yet acquaint, 
 
 I well could see the heart refin'd ; 
 Her lovely eye too well did paint 
 
 An innocent and artless mind. 
 As happy as the lamb that plays 
 
 Amongst the heather on the hill, 
 So happy could I spend my days 
 
 With her that lives beside the mill. 
 
 Then free from every care and strife, 
 
 When all my wants were turned my own ; 
 How happy then to spend my life, 
 
 With her to rise, with her lie down. 
 And when old age runs out life's tide, 
 
 And we our season did fulfil, 
 Then I'd resign, and sleep beside 
 
 The lass that lives beside the mill.
 
 Cupid's Conquest. 57 
 
 CUPID'S CONQUEST. 
 
 |HY tarried ye so long, my son 
 Where have you been so late ? 
 What ! softening down some maiden's heart 
 
 Whose beau wants her estate ? 
 Or shooting at some youth to woo 
 
 Some maiden young and coy ? 
 Or had you extra work to do ? " 
 Cried Venus to her boy 
 
 " I had no extra work to do 
 
 To-day, I freely grant ; 
 I vex'd no young expecting things 
 
 By shooting their rich aunt ; 
 Nor bent I bow at blushing maid, 
 
 So full of hopes and fears ; 
 I went to see a bachelor wed 
 
 Who'd baffl'd me for years." 
 
 " You showed him youth and beauty, then, 
 
 With wit and sense refined ? 
 You pointed out some lady fair, 
 
 With noble traits of mind ? 
 Or, selfishly, you showed him land, 
 
 And whole streets in a row ? 
 For few old bachelors can withstand 
 
 Such tempting things below''
 
 58 Cupid's Conquest. 
 
 " O yes, I showed him wit and worth 
 
 For many a day gone by ; 
 I showed him youth and beauty, but 
 
 He turned away his eye : 
 When years increased, the golden bait 
 
 I held out to this man ; 
 But he had been a bachelor yet 
 
 Had I not changed my plan. 
 
 " I led him to a little maid, 
 
 Not forwardsome nor shy ; 
 She helped his dripping great-coat off, 
 
 And hung it up to dry : 
 She bade him sit, and brought a chair, 
 
 And spoke so kindly, too : 
 I hit him ere he was aware, , 
 
 And ne'er had less to do. 
 
 " Let wit, and wealth, and beauty plead, 
 
 Their conquests are not small ; 
 The kind word and obliging deed 
 
 Can conquer more than all : 
 Can conquer so, that this I'll say 
 
 If maidens should pursue 
 That simple plan, in short time they 
 
 Would leave me nought to do"
 
 John Frost. 59 
 
 JOHN FROST. 
 
 cam' an auld carle doon frae the north, 
 || Awa frae the polar sea, 
 'Twas a pity he ever got over the Forth, 
 
 For a cruel auld carle was he. 
 'Twas the wee dull day when he reach'd oor place, 
 
 A stranger alone we felt for his case, 
 Wi' his auld grey heid and his dignified face, 
 An' as calm as calm could be. 
 
 He painted trees on the window panes, 
 
 His colours were licht and blue, 
 He seemed an auld carle wi' fertile brains, 
 
 And a very fine pencil, too. 
 Some ither wee tricks he played at nicht, 
 But naething at first to cause ony fricht, 
 And aye as the sun appeared in sicht 
 
 He melted awa like dew. 
 
 But at length he turn'd quite bauld and rude, 
 
 He cared for the sun nae mair ; 
 He brocht the wild beasts oot o' the wood, 
 
 And the wee birds frae the air.
 
 60 John Frost. 
 
 He clasp'd the loch in an icy urn, 
 He chain'd the pleuch, he seal'd up the burn, 
 He wadna let a water wheel turn, 
 And stripped the fields quite bare. 
 
 He slidder'd the pavements a' aboot, 
 
 To break folks' legs an' arms, 
 He rudely turn'd the gardeners oot, 
 
 And ruined puir Flora's charms. 
 Frae beauty's cheek he stole the rose, 
 He chill'd her heels, and he pinch'd her toes, 
 And he daub'd his blue brush owre her nose, 
 
 And filled her wi' alarms. 
 
 He travell'd the country round and round, 
 
 No spot untouched left he ; 
 He chased the moles deep into the ground, 
 
 And the wild fowl to the sea. 
 He search'd our cottages through and through, 
 Cam' in at the door and gaed oot at the flue, 
 His bitter breath turn'd sae bad it slew 
 
 The cushie doo in the tree. 
 
 He made the fireless cottager mourn, 
 
 The bare-legged beggar greet, 
 The wearied traveller ne'er to return, 
 
 But stiffened him on his seat.
 
 John Frost. 61 
 
 Wi' fangs mair fierce than the merciless shark, 
 He followed the course of the storm-toss'd bark, 
 And grappled \vi' mariners in the dark, 
 And bit off their hands and feet. 
 
 'Twas strange what he did in his savage mood, 
 
 And far ayont human ken, 
 Yet still mair strange sic a monster should 
 
 Hae been worshipped by men. 
 Yet frae dawn to dusk would his votaries stan', 
 Wi' tramps on their feet and besoms in han', 
 While the curling stane an' the skips comman' 
 
 Rang loud through each lowlan' glen. 
 
 But there cam' a brave warrior oot o' the south, 
 
 An' his name was General Thaw, 
 Warm and kind were the words o' his mouth 
 
 When oor pitious case he saw. 
 Bauldly advancing, he challeng'd auld John, 
 Wha grinn'd wi' contempt and bade him begone ; 
 
 So they mustered their troops, and the battle cam' 
 on, 
 
 It was wha should gie rule an' law. 
 
 Frost focht like a man in the maddest despair, 
 And Thaw like a man for his richt, 
 
 And they struggl'd in earth and they struggl'd in 
 air, 
 
 Like giants of vigour and micht.
 
 62 An Autumn Eve. 
 
 And days, and lang dreary nichts went round, 
 As they combated every inch of ground, 
 Till doon cam' auld Frost wi' a desperate wound, 
 And he fled like a ghost frae licht. 
 
 Noo the pleughman is turning the clod o'er again, 
 
 And prood is the gull and the craw ; 
 The daisy's beginning to peep on the plain, 
 
 An' the burns are run off wi' the snaw. 
 The pairtrick at e'en is mair sweet in his cry, 
 The lav'rocks are tuning their notes in the sky, 
 An' a thousan' young flow'rs will be here by-and-by: 
 Our thanks to auld General Thaw. 
 
 AN AUTUMN EVE : 
 
 AN EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER JAMES. 
 
 |HEN Autumn's robes had crown'd the field, 
 
 And reapers did the sickle wield, 
 One evening when the band to yield 
 
 Had thought it best, 
 
 As coming night their toils concealed, 
 
 And gave them rest.
 
 An Autumn Eve. 63 
 
 In loving 1 pairs they homeward hie, 
 The reaping hooks are all laid by ; 
 Now round the supper board they ply, 
 
 And eager sup, 
 Whilst rural social mirth and joy 
 
 Kept spirits up. 
 
 I put my sickle in the thatch, 
 Of supper took a hasty snatch, 
 Then, silent lifting up the latch, 
 
 I left the fun, 
 To climb yon hill and, silent, watch 
 
 The setting sun. 
 
 The day drew quickly to a close, 
 And all in nature sought repose ; 
 No music on the ear arose 
 
 From warbling throats, 
 Save where the Robin midst the boughs 
 
 Tun'd his last notes. 
 
 With never-ceasing rushing din 
 I heard the falling distant linn, 
 In Spottes glen, ere its streams begin 
 
 To join the Orr, 
 Rising and falling as the win' 
 
 Blew it before.
 
 64 An Autumn Eve. 
 
 Whim-pleas'd, I wandered on my way, 
 And view'd the fast-expiring day 
 Give place to sober twilight gray, 
 
 Whilst eastern skies 
 Foretold the moon, in pale array, 
 
 Would soon arise. 
 
 The owl that screeching bird of night 
 
 Already had begun its flight ; 
 
 I view'd the stars which, now in sight, 
 
 Grew thicker still, 
 Until I'd reach'd the farthest height 
 
 Of Holie's hill. 
 
 Surrounded there by verdant wood, 
 I on the vacant summit stood, 
 Where barren soil and tempests rude 
 
 Leave bare the crown, 
 Then, wrapt in silent musing mood, 
 
 I sat me down. 
 
 I mused on younger years, when we 
 
 Of every anxious care were free, 
 
 The bright school days, ere you and me 
 
 Thought of the strife 
 That met us, launch'd upon the sea 
 
 Of busy life.
 
 An Autumn Eve. 65 
 
 On other days I turned my mind, 
 When we for some pursuit inclin'd, 
 Though many a rock and adverse wind 
 
 Lay in our bay ; 
 Still, judging we some shoal should find, 
 
 Hope led the way. 
 
 I mused some time on scenes now past, 
 And, running o'er my lifetime fast, 
 I came to where we parted last 
 
 Ev'n that same nook, 
 Where, with dimm'd eye, I backward cast 
 
 The last sad look. 
 
 Whilst musing deep on themes like these, 
 A trem'lous noise came with the breeze, 
 Then rustling through amongst the trees 
 
 Which round me grew, 
 Two maidens fair, in grace and ease, 
 
 Appear'd in view. 
 
 I felt that something inward rise 
 That comes when taken by surprise, 
 Yet, still composed my wond'ring eyes, 
 
 And with fixed stare 
 I longing strove to recognise 
 
 Such features fair.
 
 66 An Autumn Eve. 
 
 I gaz'd, as I would gaze them through, 
 But, O, such forms I never knew ; 
 Then I bethought me if 'tis true 
 
 There was a Nine ; 
 Such features as appear' d in view, 
 
 Must be Divine. 
 
 In years they seemed near to mysel' 
 One score, perhaps, but that was all ; 
 Proportioned fair, not over tall, 
 
 They seemed to be ; 
 And figures such as pleased well 
 
 A lover's e'e. 
 
 Advancing to me with a smile, 
 
 I viewed their garments all, the while 
 
 No airy, flippant, gaudy style, 
 
 But gowns and plaids ; 
 The costume of our native isle 
 
 Adorned the maids. 
 
 Soon on the rocky height they land, 
 Where for their coming I did stand, 
 With calf-skin cap fast in my hand, 
 
 As manners bade us 
 And thus I spoke, " I'm at command, 
 
 Your servant, ladies ! "
 
 An Autumn Eve. 67 
 
 The nearest then, with beaming eye 
 And rosy cheek, thus made reply 
 " You who now view'st the azure sky, 
 
 Where stars shine clear ; 
 Shall know, with wonder, by-and-by 
 
 What brings us here ! 
 
 " Two Gallovidian sisters we 
 By name, I'm known as Poetry ; 
 Genius of Agriculture, she, 
 
 My sister there ; 
 This night we come to visit thee 
 
 In open air." 
 
 " Far fam'd exalted maids," said I, 
 
 " Dost thou descend from realms on high 
 
 To visit me, a rustic boy 
 
 Without a name ; 
 Unlike to those who soar and fly 
 
 On wings of fame." 
 
 " 'Tis so, young man, thou art, most sure, 
 Unheeded, friendless, and obscure, 
 And what the world may call as poor 
 
 But there 'tis o'er; 
 For with those pains you here endure 
 
 There's better store. 
 
 F2
 
 68 An Autumn Eve. 
 
 " And you must also ere this know, 
 What ills attend man's life below ; 
 Oftimes an endless source of woe 
 
 His lifetime fills ; 
 And where the greater riches flow, 
 
 Are most of ills. 
 
 " 'Tis that makes man grow wearied here, 
 And look up to another sphere ; 
 If everything on earth were dear 
 
 To human hearts, 
 Mankind would never wish to steer 
 
 To other parts. 
 
 " 'Tis not with rich, 'tis not with great, 
 'Tis not with leaders of a State, 
 'Tis not with those whose lucky fate 
 
 In power excels, 
 That happiness has greatest weight, 
 
 Or chiefly dwells. 
 
 " The homely, untaught, rustic hind. 
 With plain uncultivated mind, 
 Quite ignorant of what's refin'd, 
 
 Or deep read lore ; 
 Is not one whit his lord behind 
 
 In blissful store.
 
 An Autumn Eve. 69 
 
 " Two favourites of thy chief delight, 
 We from a distance took our flight, 
 To visit thee this Autumn night, 
 
 On this lone spot ; 
 To let thee know (though not in sight) 
 
 What friends thou'st got. 
 
 " Our favourite thou hast been for long, 
 For when thou at the plough wert throng, 
 We saw thee weave thy rustic song, 
 
 In early years ; 
 And knew thy wish to shine among 
 
 Thy low compeers. 
 
 " Continue still," addressed the maid, 
 " Thy plough and poetry," she said, 
 " Condemning vice, be not afraid 
 
 Make virtue shine ; 
 And thou shalt ever have our aid 
 
 Both hers and mine." 
 
 This said, she fell back in the rear, 
 And whispered in her sister's ear 
 Then in a voice distinct and clear, 
 
 By far the best ; 
 The Genius of the Plough drew near, 
 
 And thus addrest :
 
 70 An Autumn Eve. 
 
 " My much respected, favourite lad, 
 Unto these words I cannot add ; 
 But, oh ! you better never had 
 
 Have heard what's said ; 
 If by neglect you be so mad, 
 
 As lose our aid. 
 
 " In younger years I did bewail 
 To see thee leave thy native vale ; 
 I saw thee take a sad farewell 
 
 Of all our plains, 
 With some foreign genii to prevail, 
 
 For sake of gains. 
 
 " With joy I saw thee, native swain, 
 Return home to thy land again ; 
 I proudly saw thee till the plain 
 
 When Spring had sway ; 
 And viewed thee cut the yellow grain 
 
 This Autumn day. 
 
 " Continue still to weave thy lay 
 When at the plough from day to day ; 
 Till o'er these fields where now you stray, 
 
 And oft hast felt, 
 The plough-boys yet unborn may say 
 
 ' Here Kerr once dwelt.'
 
 An Autumn Eve. 71 
 
 " But if again Fate should decree 
 You leave your native spot and me, 
 In foreign lands to follow thee 
 
 Is past my power ; 
 But Poetry with thee shall flee, 
 
 Where'er you tour. 
 
 " As parting word in whate'er land 
 
 You chance to roam, make this your plan 
 
 Let nought that will ashame the man 
 
 Your theme divide ; 
 But grow aye closer, if you can, 
 
 To Virtue's side." 
 
 Then from their plaids forthwith they drew 
 Two instruments of music new, 
 In shape of harps of golden hue, 
 
 But brighter far ; 
 Reflecting shining upwards threw 
 
 Each twinkling star. 
 
 Then, in the deep'ning twilight gray, 
 They leaning down began to play ; 
 And striking some melodious lay, 
 
 Which had no bounds, 
 Enchanted, I fast swooned away 
 
 Mid heavenly sounds.
 
 72 Nanny Bell. 
 
 How long I lay to me's unknown, 
 
 But when I woke the maids were gone ; 
 
 Above, each twinkling star clear shone, 
 
 And round the hill 
 I nothing saw, or voice heard none 
 
 But all was still. 
 
 The moon was far above Lang Fell, 
 The wild ducks quacked in mossy vale ; 
 The thick'ning mist o'ercame the dale 
 
 No moie I stay'd; 
 But bidding earth a short farewell, 
 
 Slipp'd home to bed. 
 
 NANNY BELL. 
 
 [N the outskirts of a village, 
 
 In a cottage by itsel', 
 A retired spot for auld age, 
 There liv'd honest Nanny Bell. 
 
 Lang wi' cares had Nanny striven, 
 Oft' had fortune turn'd her tail, 
 
 Oft' to her last shift been driven, 
 Noo at last got unco frail.
 
 Nanny Bell. 73 
 
 Ae day sitting by the fire, 
 
 Owre her vexing cares she ran, 
 
 Thinking there \vas nae ane nigh her, 
 To hersel' she thus began : 
 
 " Surely there's nane in the nation, 
 Frae the farthest east to wast, 
 
 Leeves in sic a situation 
 As I leeve mysel' at last. 
 
 " A' my best resources fail me, 
 
 Never can I pay the rent, 
 They can only talc' and jail me, 
 
 I maun only tak' what's sent. 
 
 " My best claes are in the broker's, 
 Wi' my puir man's coat and vests, 
 
 A' my hens are turn'd to dockers, 
 A' my deuks ta'en hidden nests. 
 
 " My wee yowie's crowl'd and crabbed, 
 Her twa lambs droon'd in a ditch, 
 
 And my pig tak's fits, and's scabbed, 
 I'm the prey of some auld witch. 
 
 " My wee yaird is like a desert, 
 Ingans, leeks, and carrots fail ; 
 
 And that cock I'll stick his gizzard 
 Scrapes the cabbage and the kail.
 
 74 Nanny Bell. 
 
 " Everything that I hae gotten 
 Claes and furniture, my whole, 
 
 Sune, alas, will a' be rotten 
 In this reekit, rainy hole. 
 
 " Everything is gaun to ruin, 
 Nocht this season can me save ; 
 
 O, that I ne'er saw a new ane ! 
 O, that I was in my grave 1 " 
 
 As she thus was sad lamenting, 
 Something at her door play'd pat ; 
 
 Baith her grief and anger venting, 
 Nanny cried, " What limmer's that ? " 
 
 " Wha's wee rascal's that keeps knockin', 
 O' your impudence no slack ? 
 
 Stop till I lay by my stockin', 
 Faith I'll break your ugly back ! " 
 
 Still it knock'd, till Nanny bounded 
 
 Wi' a fury owre the floor ; 
 Back she cam', as much confounded, 
 
 'Twas ane gentle at the door. 
 
 " Hoo d'ye do, sir, pray walk in, sir," 
 (Nanny scarce ken'd what to say) ; 
 
 " If for dubble ye can win, sir," 
 He did Nanny soon obey.
 
 Nanny Bell. 75 
 
 Doun he sat, and wi' her crackit 
 
 On the fineness of the day ; 
 After he had some time talkit, 
 
 Thus to Nanny he did say : 
 
 " 'Tis not my intent to draw ye 
 
 Into ony lengthened tale ; 
 Tell me truly if they ca' ye, 
 
 Name and surname, Nanny Bell." 
 
 " Yes," said she, " that's what they ca'd me, 
 
 And that's what they ca' me yet, 
 'Cept when ill-tongued loons hae scal'd me, 
 
 Ne'er anither did I get ! " 
 
 " That's a' richt, then, what relations 
 
 Ha'e ye gotten, Nanny tell ? " 
 " I ha'e some in different stations, 
 
 Some poor bodies like mysel'. 
 
 " Some wha've got a little higher, 
 
 But wha think me no sae guid ; 
 Ca' them frien's ! they ca' me liar, 
 
 Sweir I'm no' ae drap o' bluid. 
 
 " Rich and puir, them a' thegither, 
 
 Little thocht to me hae cost, 
 To an only, dearest brither, 
 
 Whom I mony years hae lost.
 
 76 Nanny Bell. 
 
 " Tis noo thretty years and better 
 Since our Johnnie gaed abroad, 
 
 But for lang I've got nae letter, 
 He's langsyne gane to his God." 
 
 " You're the very one, 'tis granted, 
 Yes, as sure's that kitten mews ; 
 
 You're the very wife I wanted, 
 I'm sent here to tell you news. 
 
 " News will set you yet carousing, 
 
 News that will your old heart cheer, 
 
 You've fa'en heir to twenty thousand, 
 Near one thousand pounds a year ! " 
 
 " You should ne'er make sport o' auld age," 
 
 Nanny to him did reply ; 
 " Ere ye lie beneath earth's foliage 
 
 You may be as poor as I ! " 
 
 " Nanny, my words true you'll find them, 
 
 Johnny's deid, and gane awa ; 
 A big fortune left behind him 
 
 You're the heiress to it a'. 
 
 " See, there is his ain handwriting ! " 
 
 Nanny got her specs to see't, 
 Saw it was his ain inditing, 
 
 Could do naething else but greet.
 
 Nanny Bell. 77 
 
 Soon she got what John did leave her, 
 For the tale it was quite true ; 
 
 And, no person to bereave her 
 Of what rightly was her due, 
 
 Long she lived, in peace and plenty, 
 And seem'd grateful aye to be ; 
 
 And this will, as a momento, 
 
 Made when she was gaun to dee : 
 
 " After paying all my due debts, 
 Which are sma', and very few ; 
 
 And expense of undertakers, 
 Which my pocket cash will do, 
 
 " Everything as I possess'd it, 
 Shall be sold, or gi'en away; 
 
 And the capital invested 
 
 Where it shall for ever stay, 
 
 " To remain and be a sure rock, 
 In the name of Nanny Bell ; 
 
 And the int'rest gi'en to poor folk, 
 Like what she was ance hersel'."
 
 78 Song. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 |ASSIE wi' the tartan plaidie, 
 
 Rosy cheek an' beaming eye, 
 Wil't thou wed a ploughman laddie ? 
 Say, my dear, you will comply. 
 
 Unto thee I will be true, lass, 
 On my breast thou shall recline ; 
 
 None on earth I'll have but you, lass, 
 Say, my dear, then, you'll be mine. 
 
 By day I'll toil, an' when weary, 
 To my home I'll haste away ; 
 
 Then at night I'll clasp my dearie 
 Till the dawning of the day. 
 
 Say thou'rt willing to wed me, lass, 
 We'll get joined in Hymen's bands, 
 
 If you're willing, I am free, lass, 
 With thee, dearie, to join hands. 
 
 Thou shall ever find thy lover 
 
 What he promises lo be ; 
 Rolling years shall bul discover 
 
 How much, lassie, I love thee.
 
 Address to a Corn. 79 
 
 ADDRESS TO A CORN. 
 
 THOU wee mischief man ca's corn, 
 
 Wi' thy tormenting head of horn, 
 Ten thousand times waur than a thorn, 
 
 Or ony prick, 
 
 Lang has my little toe thee borne, 
 An' to't ye'll stick. 
 
 Wi' sharpened knife I've thocht nae crime 
 To cut and pare thee mony a time ; 
 I've got apothecary's brine, 
 
 And paid for't dear. 
 Yet, spite of a' their saut and lime, 
 
 Thou still art here. 
 
 I've heard folks say what's in the bane k 
 Out of the flesh will ne'er be gane ; 
 It's my opinion thou alane 
 
 First form'd the tale, 
 For wi' yer gnawing pain there's nane 
 
 Proves't half so well.
 
 8o Address to a Corn. 
 
 Fast fixed and far spread is thy root, 
 Whilst from the bane thy branches shoot, 
 And on the surface do look oot, 
 
 In proud disdain, 
 Tormenting my poor aching foot 
 
 With dreadful pain. 
 
 Ev'n now I feel your cursed sting, 
 
 Aye, there it plays ding-ding, ding-ding ; 
 
 Ye villain, could I only bring 
 
 Ye frae your den, 
 What tae ye next should enter in 
 
 I'd let ye ken. 
 
 Tho' sma' in size you're great in micht, 
 And torturing's your chief delicht, 
 Tormenting me baith day and nicht 
 
 Wi' pain eternal ; 
 The very thocht's eneugh to fricht 
 
 A fiend infernal. 
 
 Or when upon the beaten road 
 My foot against a stane plays daud, 
 With beating heart it puts me mad, 
 
 Whilst I, poor Rob, 
 Roar oot, and maun do, if I had 
 
 Patience like Job.
 
 Address to a Corn. 81 
 
 And then to see me jump and start 
 
 If hit upon the tender part, 
 
 O, hoo it strikes me to the heart, 
 
 And birrs the strings 
 As when from bow, an arrow darts 
 
 On flying wings. 
 
 A burning gum, frae gnawing tooth, 
 Is to auld age, or sprightly youth, 
 A bad companion in the mouth 
 
 A horrid pain, 
 But when compared with thee, forsooth, 
 
 What is it then ? 
 
 With aching tooth you've but to yawn, 
 When with the pinchers it is drawn, 
 But thou tormenting devil's spawn, 
 
 Thou cursed corn ! 
 Cut thee we end where we began 
 
 By next day morn. 
 
 O, where's thy match in a' the nation, 
 In powers of growth and generation, 
 For, cut thee out of observation, 
 
 In twa-three hours 
 Again you will hae ta'en your station 
 
 Wi' stronger powers.
 
 82 Address to a Corn. 
 
 I've borne you now a lang, lang while, 
 I've walk'd with you a thousand mile, 
 I've clambered over mony a stile, 
 
 Limping wi' thee, 
 Yet still from May until April 
 
 Ye stick to me. 
 
 Wi' you there's never thocht o' rueing 
 As in a vice my toe ye're screwing, 
 And wi' yer talons deep are strewing 
 
 The venom o'er, 
 So that I'm like to want a new one, 
 
 By thy curs' d power. 
 
 But if to me ye hae been sent 
 To tease, to torture, and torment, 
 So that in time I may repent 
 
 By feeling pain, 
 I'm unco fear'd your good intent 
 
 Will be but vain. 
 
 But may each one of Britain's foes, 
 And every mother's son of those 
 Who British liberties oppose, 
 
 And don't preserve them, 
 Have twenty corns upon their toes 
 
 They well deserve them 1
 
 The Plough's Address. 83 
 
 THE PLOUGH'S ADDRESS TO 
 ROBERT M'KINNELL. 
 
 JHA is't, this cauld November morn, 
 
 That grasps me firmly by the horn ? 
 Ha'e a' my frien's left me forlorn 
 
 To strange embraces ? 
 I ne'er was fond, sin' I was born, 
 O' unken'd faces. 
 
 " But frown at fate it's what I dinna, 
 And blame you, sir, it's what I winna, 
 But surely in my life I've seen a 
 
 Face like thine : 
 Come, tell me, is your sirname Kinna ? " 
 
 Quo' Rab, " That's mine." 
 
 "I ken your pedigree," quo' Katie, 
 " And haena muckle cause to hate ye, 
 Tho' mony a plooing chiel may beat ye, 
 
 In twa-three year, 
 As sure's your dad leeves in Da'beattie, 
 
 Some will look queer. 
 
 G2
 
 84 The Plough's Address. 
 
 " My maister was a rhyming chiel, 
 Trouth whyles he wish'd me at the de'il, 
 For when he couldna plough it weel, 
 
 He took and blam'd me, 
 Gaun like a pend'lum through a fiel', 
 
 He quite asham'd me. 
 
 " But, Rab, ye winna be like him, 
 But keep yer aims in proper trim, 
 And we will never try to slim 
 
 Red-land or lea, 
 But make oor wark baith neat and trim, 
 
 To please the e'e. 
 
 " Noo, Rabbin, lad, just keep your eye 
 Between the pownies and the sky, 
 And never talk wi' stan'ers by 
 
 Or ony cronie, 
 And we will make the furrows lie 
 
 Baith straight and bonnie."
 
 Song. 85 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air "BuY A BROOM." 
 
 'M a young country lassie, both robust and 
 HI healthy, 
 
 I'm born to no fortune, whatever be sent, 
 Yet, though I am poor, what care I for the wealthy, 
 
 When I move in that sphere which is blest with 
 content ? 
 
 What care I for great folks, or yet for their 
 scorning, 
 
 My fate or my fortune I never deplore : 
 Contented, I rise with the lark every morning, 
 
 I'm a young country lassie my dad lives in Orr. 
 
 I'm acquainted with those both in high and low 
 stations, 
 
 And even with those who to fortune lay claim ; 
 Yet what do I care for all friends or relations 
 
 There's a lad I like best, but I'll no' tell his name.
 
 86 Song. 
 
 His look and his language my bosom bewitches, 
 And I am the lassie he seeks to adore ; 
 
 Then what do I care for this wide world's riches, 
 I'm a young country lassie my dad lives in Orr. 
 
 Tho' with contempt I'm looked at by wealthier 
 maidens, 
 
 Who in silks and in laces dress up like a queen ; 
 Yet when I am clothed in my own country plaidin', 
 
 As happy as them I can dance o'er the green. 
 
 Then while I remain still a stranger to sorrow, 
 Whilst health, peace, and content, I still have in 
 store ; 
 
 As long's without dread, I can rest for the morrow, 
 I'll never forsake the sweet banks of the Orr.
 
 Written in a Pipe- Music Book. 87 
 
 WRITTEN IN ROBERT 
 M'KINNELL'S PIPE-MUSIC BOOK, 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1842. 
 
 |AIL to the pipes ! to Scotland dear, 
 
 Which oftimes roused her patriot band 
 What Scottish soul but loves to hear 
 The music of his native land. 
 
 But never may thy rustic reed, 
 
 M'Kinnell, sound in lands afar, 
 To march o'er fields, where vultures feed, 
 
 Or mingle in the din of war. 
 
 May peace and plenty with thee dwell, 
 To tune thy pipes, or till the plain ; 
 
 And long may Scotia's hill and dell 
 Re-echo back thy peaceful strain.
 
 88 On the Death of a Lap-Dog . 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON HEARING THAT SOME OF THE MEMBERS OF 
 DUMFRIES PRESBYTERY WERE ANGRY ANY ONE 
 
 SHOULD OPPOSE THE INTRODUCTION OF MR FYFE 
 
 TO ST. MARY'S CHURCH, DUMFRIES. 
 
 JHEN Kings said organs should praise God, 
 
 It raised our father's bristles ; 
 Their very heart's blood dyed the sod 
 
 To keep out " Kists o' Whistles." 
 But, oh ! how changed from what she was 
 
 Our Kirk there's so much strife in't, 
 Her very clergy's mad because 
 They cannot place zfife in't. 
 
 VERSES ON THE DEATH OF A 
 
 YOUNG LADY'S LAP-DOG, 
 
 NAMED TERRY. 
 
 |LAS ! poor little Terry's dead, 
 
 His earthly course is o'er ; 
 Alas ! poor little Terry's fled, 
 To tarry here no more.
 
 On the Death of a Lap-Dog, 89 
 
 No more he at the door will stay, 
 
 When waiting my command ; 
 No more around his mistress play, 
 
 Or lick his master's hand. 
 
 When in the East the bright sun-rise 
 
 Shall usher in new day, 
 And Nature's fair and cloudless skies 
 
 Shall tempt my feet to stray, 
 
 No more will Terry run before, 
 
 All dangers to expel ; 
 No more the winding path explore, 
 
 Or yet come back to tell. 
 
 Nor on his master, Bryce, await, 
 
 To walk when day grows cool, 
 Or meet him joyful at the gate 
 
 When he comes home from school. 
 
 When to the village I repair, 
 
 No little dog so true 
 My reticule will carry there, 
 
 As Terry used to do. 
 
 But why his qualities recite ? 
 
 I'll silent o'er them pass ; 
 'Twould take a day, from morn to night, 
 
 To tell what use he was.
 
 90 On the Death of a Lap-Dog. 
 
 A good companion, in his place, 
 
 A faithful servant too ; 
 Time from my memory won't efface 
 
 The little dog so true. 
 
 TERRY'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Here Terry lies, no more to rise, 
 No more my basket carry, 
 
 No more to ope his death-shut eye, 
 Alas ! poor little Terry. 
 
 Laugh not at epitaphs on dogs ! 
 
 His name, why not preserve it ? 
 The same is often done to rogues, 
 
 Who don't so well deserve it.
 
 Song. 91 
 
 SONG. 
 
 |UR old neighbour Tom got his bottle well 
 
 primed, 
 
 And thus to his good wife did say : 
 " With our friends, don't you think, 'twould be very 
 
 well timed, 
 Should we broach it on auld New Year's Day ?" 
 
 Tom's dame, who was never behind him through 
 life, 
 
 Whenever to counsel they went, 
 Declared with a smile, like a good sterling wife, 
 
 That with pleasure she'd back his intent. 
 
 " The doctor," says Tom, " who attends to our nags, 
 We must have at our spread, if in trim ; 
 
 With the old skipper Laird, from Colvend's rugged 
 
 crags, 
 For we can't do at all without him 1 
 
 " And Redcastle Rob will be keen of the job, 
 For there's none on earth fonder of fun ! 
 
 These three I'll have o'er, as old cronies of yore," 
 And his wife said his will should be done.
 
 92 Song. 
 
 Tom's friends were invited, and soon they were 
 
 there, 
 
 In spite of foul weather and fog ; 
 Whilst the dame spread a feast that might serve a 
 
 Lord May'r, 
 Just by way of a preface for grog. 
 
 Soon the table was clear'd, and Tom's bottle 
 appear'd. 
 
 " Now," says Tom, " I want fair up and down ! 
 So here's to Queen Vic., may her foes go to Nick, 
 And our Thistle still stick to its crown." 
 
 " Prime, and load again quick," cried old Tom, like 
 a chief, 
 
 " Make ready ! present, lads, and fire ! 
 May the New Year attend to the needy's relief, 
 
 And send us more corn than his sire." 
 
 Our bumpers we mix'd to our noble sel's next : 
 " May we long live in peace with the laws I 
 
 May our wives aye look sweet, and our ends easy 
 
 meet ! " 
 So we drank it with rounds of applause. 
 
 " Come now," cried the skipper, " let's rest on our 
 oars," 
 
 When the doctor, beginning to sing ! 
 Went an octave or more higher up than before, 
 
 Till he made the old building to ring.
 
 Song. 93 
 
 " Now," said Tom, " fill a glass to the doctor's 
 success, 
 
 May disorders fly off at his bid, 
 May his bolus and pills cure the double he kills, 
 
 And no trouble e'er bother his head ! " 
 
 There, with tale and with song full of pith, but not 
 long, 
 
 The hours danced away rank and file ; 
 Like the train of George Fox, we avowed not to 
 
 box, 
 But we spoke by the spirit in style. 
 
 For our skipper shipped every full tumbler did pass, 
 Our ploughman, with fun on his phiz, 
 
 Clean lifted the hinting of every fresh glass, 
 Whilst the doctor anatomised his. 
 
 At length there came in a disturber of peace, 
 Not a moment the creature would sit : 
 
 Said his name was Old Time, and his tongue 
 
 would not cease, 
 As he gave us broad hints to be quit. 
 
 With a loud extra knock every hour on the clock, 
 
 He warned us no longer to stay ; 
 But we each filled our "gun" with the best Glasgow 
 spun, 
 
 Just to smoke our disturber away.
 
 94 Lines on a Brother Rhymer. 
 
 " Come, my friends," said old Tom, "take another 
 glass in, 
 
 Tis the very best thing you can do ; 
 'Tis the only receipt that can smother his din ! " 
 
 So we tasted, and found it was true. 
 
 But he knocked still more than he had done before, 
 And seemed as he'd pester our lives, 
 
 So we rose every one, having finished our can, 
 And journied home pleased to our wives. 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON A BROTHER RHYMER WHO, WITH SOME OF HIS 
 NEIGHBOURS, SOLD THEIR WATER PUMP, AND 
 DRANK THE PRICE O'T. 
 
 | WAS He alone, who knows the heart, 
 
 To prove Himself divine, 
 Did once in Canaan's land convert 
 
 The water into wine. 
 But Poet G * * # , even Christians own, 
 
 Once played a trick as handy, 
 He took his water pump alone 
 And turned it into brandy?
 
 The Poet's Epitaph. 
 
 95 
 
 THE POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 |ERE lies a bard who could not Fame's steep 
 
 clim' 
 
 Not quite earth-tired, but that was tired of him ; 
 Ah ! he had many a folly, many a whim, 
 And even now is just in the same trim 
 As when he used to move each living limb : 
 You can't guess how ? but I'll explain in full 
 For even now there's maggots in his skull.
 
 A 000110465 2