B 3 fl7T 3Efl 
 
 Fv V 
 
^be Canterbury poeta* 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
4t*<t FOR FULL LIST OF THE VOLUMES IN THIS SERIES, 
 SEE CATALOGUE AT END OF BOOK. 
 
jOEMS BY ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED, 
 WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 OF THE POET, BY J. LOGIE 
 ROBERTSON, M.A. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "HORACE IN HOMESPUN," ETC. 
 
 " Come fornt, honest Allan ! 
 Thou needna jouk behint the hallan, 
 A ch'el sae clever ! " 
 ' ' •", - Burns. 
 
 THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., 
 
 LONDON AND FELLING-ON-TYNE. 
 
 NEW YORK : 3 EAST I4TH STREET. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Biographical Introduction 
 Pastorals — 
 
 The Gentle Sheplierd 
 
 Richy and Sandy 
 
 Ringan and Colin 
 
 Robert, Richy, and Sandy 
 
 Betty and Kate 
 
 Songs — 
 
 The Last Time I came o'er the ^loor 
 The Lass of Patie's Mill . 
 Bessie Bell an' Mary Gray 
 
 PAGE 
 
 vii 
 
 5 
 S3 
 86 
 SS 
 93 
 
 99 
 
 I GO 
 10,-2 
 
 263283 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Young Laird and Edinburgh Katy 
 
 Lochaber no more 
 
 Lass wi' a lump o' land 
 
 Polwart on the Green 
 
 The Yellow-hair'd Laddie 
 
 Nanny, O 
 
 Auld Lang Syne 
 
 Up in the Air 
 
 The Widow 
 
 My Peggy 
 
 O Dear Peggy 
 
 At Setting Day 
 
 O wha's that ? 
 
 The Carle he came o'er the croft 
 
 Jenny Nettles . 
 
 Humorous Poems — 
 
 Christ's Kirk on the Green 
 
 On Maggy Johnston . 
 
 The Monk and the Miller's Wife 
 
 On Lucky Wood, in the Canongate 
 
 Elegy on Patie Birnie 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Cupid : 159 
 
 The Clock and Dial . . . . . .160 
 
 The Twa Cut-Purses . . . . . .161 
 
 The Twa Cats and the Cheese . . . -163 
 
 Imaginative Poems — 
 The Vision ....... 167 
 
 The Eagle and Robin Red -Breast . - . iSi 
 
 Imitations of Horace 1S7 
 
 English Poems — 
 
 On Receiving some Fruit from a Lady . . 203 
 
 To Mr. Pope 2o3 
 
 From *' The Morning Interview " . . . 204 
 
 To Sir John Clerk 206 
 
 Epistles — 
 
 To William Hamilton of Gilbertfield . . 21 1-220 
 To Mr. William Aikman . . . . .221 
 Edinburgh's Salutation to the Most Honourable 
 
 the Marquis of Carnarvon . . . .222 
 To my Kind and Worthy Friends in Ireland . 224 
 To Mr. James Arbuckle 226 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 To the Hon. Duncan Forbes, Lord Advocate 
 
 To Mr. John Gay .... 
 
 To Robert Yarde, Esq., of Devonshire 
 
 To Mr. William Starrat . 
 
 To William Somerville, Poet 
 
 To Dr. Eoswell 
 
 From an Epistle from Pennycuilc 
 
 To John Wardlaw 
 
 To James Clerk of Pennycuik 
 
 Glossary v . , . 
 
 PA(J K 
 230 
 232 
 236 
 241 
 
 247 
 248 
 249 
 252 
 
 ^S7 
 
TO THE PRESENT OCCUPANTS 
 
 OF 
 
 RAMSAY LODGE 
 
 THIS EDITION OF 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY'S POEMS 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 
 BY THE EDITOR 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 This book, which contains the great bulk of Ramsay's 
 Poems, is believed to contain all of them that are worth 
 preserving. 
 
 No liberties have been taken with the text which the 
 most enthusiastic admirer of Ramsay can reasonably 
 object to. 
 
 A Glossary has been appended, chiefly for the 
 assistance of the English reader. 
 
Biocjrapbical 3utro&uction* 
 
 O Scottish poet, Burns alone ex- 
 cepted, is so well or so widely 
 known as Allan Ramsay. Yet 
 there are particulars of some sig- 
 nificance in the stor}' of his life on 
 which the popular belief stands in 
 need of correction. It is the 
 common opinion, for example, that Ramsay was a 
 barber, ready to take any rascal by the nose for a 
 penny, and indebted to the semi-public nature of 
 his calling for the rapid .i^rowth of his popularity. 
 The fact, however, is that he never lifted razor upon 
 any face but his own, for he was a wig-maker and 
 not a barber, and at the beginning of the eighteenth 
 century the craft of shaving was kept quite separate 
 and distinct from the mystery of periwig-weaving. 
 As a wigmaker in Edinburgh Ramsay durst not 
 
viii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 invade the province and practice the art of the 
 barber even if he had felt any such aggressive 
 desire, for the barbers, like other incorporated 
 tradesmen, were an exclusive guild, jealous of their 
 legal rights and privileges. No doubt a well-to-do 
 wig-maker had little, if any, temptation to poach on 
 tonsorial fields : though not quite so high as a 
 surgeon, he still counted himself a cut above a 
 barber ; but, not being " free of the craft," to use 
 the technical phrase, he was by a by-law precluded 
 from entering it. It is thus probable that Ramsay 
 had no inclination, as he certainly had no right, to 
 be a barber. 
 
 Another popular misconception of our author has 
 reference to his birth. It is supposed that he was 
 of obscure origin, and the son of nobody. Now it is 
 true that that branch of the Ramsay line to which 
 he belonged did, in his own person, temporarily 
 touch the level of poverty, but it is equally true that 
 he had an honourable and honest descent from the 
 family of Lord Ualhousie. Poets are proverbially, 
 but not universally, vain. They are said to be 
 especially susceptible to the vanity of high birth 
 and a good connection. Even Pope, whom we 
 cite as a contemporary and probably a corres- 
 pondent of Ramsay, longed to establish a connection 
 with the Earl of Doune, and laboured incessantly 
 and, one is almost glad to add, impotently to do 
 so, — for it is safe to say, and need be said in 
 no disparaging tone, that his own genius had the 
 ennobling force of fifty coronets. But Ramsay had 
 no unreasonable pride in his aristocratic connection. 
 He was quite as willing to allude to his trade as 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, ix 
 
 a wig-weaver, and humorously describe himself 
 as a skull-thatcher, as he was correct in calling 
 
 " Dalhousie, of an auld descent, 
 My CniKK, my stonp, and ornament." 
 
 His pedig^ree may be presented as follows : — The 
 chief of an earlier generation of the Ramsays, then 
 styled Ramsay of Dalhousie, had a Laird of 
 Cockpen (not yet known to song) for brother. The 
 laird was father of a certain Captain John Ramsaj', 
 whose son, Robert Ramsay, an attorney or writer 
 in Edinburgh, had the good fortune to include the 
 Earl of Hopetoun among his clients. Through his 
 business connection, doubtless, lawyer Ramsay 
 procured for his son and namesake the manage- 
 ment of that portion of Lord Hopetoun's estate 
 which consisted of valuable gold and lead mines in 
 Crawford-moor, a parish in the upper ward or 
 division of Lanarkshire. This manager of the 
 mines was the father of Allan Ramsay, periwig- 
 maker and poet. 
 
 These and similar mistakes have grown up 
 within the last hundred years. In that interval old 
 fashions have altered and new attractions have 
 appeared. Burns has risen, and wigs have ceased 
 to be the only wear. And one result is, that many 
 of the facts of Ramsay's life have been forgotten, and 
 some have been distorted, while even his reputa- 
 tion as a poet is now rather a pious tradition than 
 an intelligent belief. 
 
 There can be no doubt that much of Ramsay's 
 poetry shews genius of a distinctly original type, 
 
X BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and there is scarcely less in the current opinion 
 that an author's work is best appreciated when 
 considered relatively to his life and circumstances. 
 In Ramsay's case the opinion is well-founded, for 
 his personal character, a singularly transparent one, 
 reveals itself with frank and faithful consistency in 
 his writings, and its formation and bent are 
 distinctly referable to his topographical and social 
 surroundings. 
 
 In examining these influences, and remarking 
 their play on the development of his character, we 
 shall not expect to find the subject possessed of an 
 interest like that which renders the life of Burns so 
 profoundly fascinating and painfully bewildering. 
 Ramsay's nature had neither the complexity, nor 
 the energy, nor the sensitiveness which give to the 
 personality of Burns an interest independent 
 altogether of his poetry, and perhaps even surpass- 
 ing it. It presents, on the contrary, no enigma, 
 and, apart from his poetical talent, scarcely rises 
 above the commonplace. There was, however, 
 that poetical talent, and because of it even a 
 commonplace career becomes interesting. 
 
 The little mining town of Leadhills, perched 
 high beneath the bleak summits of the Lowther 
 range of mountains in the extreme south of Lanark- 
 shire, is reported to be the highest inhabited spot 
 in Scotland, the hermitage on Ben Nevis being, of 
 course, excepted. It occupies the southern corner 
 of an equilateral triangle, of which the other two 
 corners are Edinburgh and Glasgow, lying forty 
 miles to the north east and north-west respectively. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xi 
 
 The view is northwards down upper Strathclyde, 
 and eastwards over pastoral Peebles, but Dumfries- 
 shire is cut off on the south by the long sweep of 
 the Lowthers, which here attain their loftiest 
 altitude of about three thousand feet. The imme- 
 diate vicinity is a broken upland of bare hills and 
 gushing streams, and the inhabitants are a com- 
 munity of miners almost exclusively. Both place 
 and people are very much in outward appearance 
 what they were two centuries ago. Here, at an 
 elevation of fifteen hundred feet above sea-level, 
 Allan Ramsay was bom on the 15th of October, 
 1686, in the house of his father, the manager of the 
 mines. 
 
 We have already traced his father's descent from 
 Ramsay of Dalhousie, and it may now be pointed 
 out that, through his grandmother on the father's 
 side, he was no less honourably and closely 
 related with another Scottish family of distinction 
 — the Douglases of Muthill. Of his mother, or her 
 people, we know little. Her name was Alice Bower, 
 and she was an Englishwoman whose father, a 
 stranger, had been brought from Derbyshire to 
 instruct Lord Hopetoun's labourers more fully than 
 they knew in the art of lead-mining. How much 
 of Allan's poetical talent, how much of his vivacity 
 and enterprise was inherited from his mother, it is 
 impossible to say. Allan was still a mere infant 
 when, by the death of her husband at the untimely 
 age of twenty-four, she was left a widow, with 
 probably scanty provision for the future. In these 
 circumstances she accepted an early offer of 
 marriage made by a small local landholder, or 
 
xii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 rather peasant-proprietor, of the name of Crichton 
 — and disappears into lowly but comfortable and 
 probably happy obscurity. It was in the house of 
 his stepfather that young- Ramsay's childhood and 
 boyhood were spent. When he finally lelt it he was 
 a youth of fifteen. 
 
 It has been surmised, from evidence at once 
 negative and scanty, that young Ramsay's life in 
 the house of his stepfather was an unhappy one. 
 No doubt a stepfather, however exemplaiy, cannot 
 quite fill the place of a father. But that the boy 
 suffered neither unnecessary discipline nor undue 
 restraint at the hand of his guardian may justly be 
 inferred from the character of his disposition and 
 the extent of his education. The buoyancy and 
 even gaiety of his manner, which, safely based 
 upon a solid stratum of common-sense and kindly 
 humour, was so marked a feature of his whole 
 manhood, would seem to indicate a home-life 
 where the foundation of such a character was 
 possible, — and where we may charitably suppose 
 it was fostered. We can easily conceive of the 
 natural sprightliness of childhood being checked 
 by the slights and severities of an unhappy home, 
 and changed into life-long querulousness or even 
 gloomy moroseness. Young Ramsay was suffi- 
 ciently long in his stepfather's house for the 
 influences that were there at work to affect his 
 nature, and the absence of any evil effect is 
 creditable to his guardian. As to his education, it 
 was undeniably good, and for the times in which 
 he lived considerably above the average. It may 
 safely be said to have been equal in kind and 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xlii 
 
 range to that of an ordinary country laird's son. 
 We know that it included the Latin grammar, 
 and was liberal enough to enable the young 
 scholar to interpret Horace, and even catch 
 glimpses of the beauty of his style. It was 
 besides sufficient to serve as a basis for such 
 self-culture as enabled him in later life to consort 
 with lawyers and professors, and hold his own 
 in badinage and banter with the wits and wags of 
 the capital. 
 
 There was little of the student, however, one 
 may well believe, in young Ramsay. He was not 
 greatly averse to learn, if learn he must, but, after 
 all, the confinement and tasks of a school are as 
 meaningless as they are mostly irksome to healthy 
 boyhood, which, as the adult world seems to forget, 
 lives only in the present, and, denying the future, 
 heartily discountenances all preparation for it. 
 Ramsay's education at the parish school became 
 valuable in his eyes when it became useful to his 
 ambition as a tradesman, a citizen, and a poet ; 
 but in boyhood it was a collection of methods, and 
 habits, and information about which the boy for 
 the most part gave himself as little trouble as 
 possible. 
 
 But there are educative agents beyond the walls 
 of the school-room. There is nature, and there is 
 society, — forces all the more effective because they 
 seem to act incidentally. And these, such as they 
 were in the district of Leadhills, provided, during 
 his fifteen years of preparation, by no means the 
 smaller share of young Ramsay's equipment for the 
 journey of life. It was now that he familiarised 
 
xiv BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 himself with nature as she reveals herself in the 
 repose of pastoral hills, the cheerfulness of spring- 
 ing plants and singing birds, the freedom of burns, 
 and the seclusion of glens. It was a close study 
 that he made of her realities, a close study that 
 spared nothing, — as if he would first critically 
 examine before deciding whether she was worthy 
 of his regard. No association, literary or legendary, 
 interfered with his examination. Nature her naked 
 self he studied ; nature herself and for her own 
 sake he loved. It was the same kind of study that 
 Burns half-a-century or so later pursued, — and 
 with kindred effect, a faithful firm-rooted love 
 that needed none of the many-hued lights of 
 romance to give it strength or endurance. Scott 
 saw and worshipped nature through those lights ; 
 but the realism of nature was romance enough 
 for Ramsay and Burns. Human association there 
 was, too, in their prospect of nature, but it 
 was distinctly homely in respect of both place 
 and time : it was the association of humble 
 contemporary life. 
 
 Much of his boyhood was necessarily spent in 
 lonely companionship with nature. But he would 
 have his friendships too, and make intimate 
 acquaintance with the simpler forms of social 
 country life. The children of the little mining com- 
 munity in the village were his playmates, and the 
 tradition, slight and solitary though it is, that he 
 occasionally assisted the regular workers with what 
 trifling help a small boy could give in "thrashing" 
 the ore, as it was technically called, need not be 
 rejected as improbable. But there would still be 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xv 
 
 frequent opportunity of visiting the farm-houses in 
 the district on the invitation of the young rustics 
 whose acquaintance he made at the village school. 
 These visits would introduce him to that harmon- 
 ious variety of character and manners which we 
 find depicted with such life-like solidity in "The 
 Gentle Shepherd." The scenic setting of that 
 inimitable rural drama must have been largely 
 copied from idealised recollections of his native 
 district, though undoubtedly with modifications 
 suggested by the softer Arcadian beauty of the 
 southern slopes of the Pentlands ; but Glaud and 
 Symon, Patie and Roger, and Peggy and Jenny 
 were certainly the matured and mellowed remem- 
 brance of real persons who lived and loved in the 
 end of the seventeenth century among the sheep- 
 farms of upper Clydesdale. 
 
 We may picture young Ramsay at this period of 
 his life as a small dark-complexioned boy of 
 slender make, but healthy and agile, and remark- 
 ably cheerful and vivacious. Even then he was 
 practising, under disappointment and discomfort, 
 the philosophy which, one may safely say, he had 
 not yet discovered in his school copy of Horace. 
 Here is his own retrospect of those early days : 
 
 " Aft have 1 wid thro' glens wi' chorking feet, 
 When neither kilt nor plaid could fend the weet j 
 Yet blithely wad I bang ootowre the brae 
 An' stend owre burns as licht as ony rae. 
 Hoping the mom might prove a better day," 
 
 But boyhood and the freedom of country life for 
 Allan came to an end with the century. The worst 
 
xvi BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 misfortune of his life, the death of his mother, is 
 said to have happened at the same time. This sad 
 event, which threw the care of a family of young 
 children upon the husband, may have hastened the 
 date of Allan's departure from home. He was now 
 in his fifteenth year, and the subject of a " trade " or 
 occupation for him had doubtless been exercising 
 the minds of his parents. It was at last decided, 
 but by what process of judfjment we can only 
 guess, that he should go to Edinburgh and learn to 
 make wigs for a livelihood. Mining and farm-work 
 were no doubt considered, and set aside as unsuit- 
 able. The other occupations of the village 
 probably offered no attraction. However it came 
 about, — and it is quite possible that the stepfather 
 had some connection with Edinburgh through 
 which the idea of wigmaking came to Leadhills, — 
 it is, in any reasonable view of the case, no proof of 
 the indifference of his guardian as to what became 
 of the lad that he resolved to apprentice him to a 
 wigmaker in Edinburgh. Scotland was not then 
 the commercial and manufacturing country it has 
 become since the union of the Parliaments, and 
 there was for that reason a narrower choice of 
 eligible occupations for a boy in the station of life 
 in which fortune had placed young Ramsay, 
 Then, wigmaking was a thriving business. It was, 
 besides, an occupation for which the boy's slightly- 
 built but active frame and his general smartness 
 seemed to be well adapted. One might almost 
 claim for it the rank of a fine art ; and at least it 
 was an art which brought its follower into contact 
 only with genteel company. It had absolutely no 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xvii 
 
 connection with shaving and haircutting in 
 Edinburgh till Ramsay had long ceased to practise 
 it. Allan's own opinion of the business to which 
 he was put apprentice will no doubt suggest itself 
 here, and it will be remembered that he speaks in 
 one of his familiar epistles of being "bred 
 but howe (humble) enough to a mean trade." But 
 this was the opinion of his later life, when he 
 could better estimate his abilities, and with more 
 reason, therefore, claim his deserts. It was, 
 besides, expressed after he had abandoned wig- 
 weaving for what he regarded as the more genteel 
 business of bookselling, and was thus considered 
 comparatively with his relation to literature, as 
 well as sympathetically with the status of his 
 correspondent. 
 
 The period of Ramsay's apprenticeship must be 
 passed over for the best of reasons — we know 
 nothing definite of the five or six years to which it 
 probably extended. It is neither known who his 
 apprentice-master was, nor where he lived, nor 
 whether he fell in with any of his own relatives — 
 for connections of lawyer Ramsay's family there 
 must have been, resident at that time in Edinburgh. 
 His companions, his private pursuits, his amuse- 
 ments are matter of speculation. Idle in business, 
 or listless when at leisure, we may be sure he was 
 not. There was much to learn independently of 
 the craft of wig-weaving, and much to interest 
 him in the extreme contrast which his change of 
 scene and manner of life necessitated. Fresh as he 
 was from the remote uplands of southern Scotland, 
 everything at first was of interest to him ; social 
 
xviii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 distinctions were more numerous and more accen- 
 tuated than he had hitherto known ; character 
 expressed itself differently and in richer variety ; 
 town architecture, town associations and traditions, 
 town life, its habits and fashions, opinions and 
 prejudices, were all equally novel, and to the 
 healthy curiosity of boyhood, equally interestin^j. 
 The unique scenery of the neighbourhood of 
 Edinburgh, to the production of which crag and 
 field and sea-arm so peculiarly combine, must have 
 given additional zest to his interest in his new 
 surroundings. In short, it was a new world into 
 which he was suddenly introduced, and the period 
 of his apprenticeship to the craft of wig-weaving 
 was also the period of his naturalisation to city 
 life. During these five or six years he was in a 
 special sense receiving impressions — afterwards, of 
 course, to be increased and perfected, and finally 
 utilised in the composition of poems descriptive of 
 the humours of town life. 
 
 Let us suppose that Ramsay's apprenticeship is 
 over. In virtue of that apprenticeship he is 
 enrolled a burgess of Edinburgh. He is possessed 
 of all the pride of a journeyman, more than earning 
 his own maintenance, and anticipating with a 
 double charm — for he has now attained his majority 
 — the responsibility of manhood. He has more 
 time on his hands. He is free of domestic 
 service, and can now saunter of an evening, when 
 work is done for the day, southwards over Brunts- 
 field, where the golfers are driving their balls, to 
 Maggie Johnston's, where there is always blithe 
 company. There he will taste the white ale which 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xix 
 
 has made the little farmhouse-hostel so famous, 
 and then in the company of a friend return to town 
 before the gates are closed for the night. But now 
 a new influence, the influence of Scottish literature, 
 begins to act upon him. James Watson's Choice 
 Collection of Comic aiid Serious Scottish Poeins^ 
 then just published, falls in his way, and many of 
 the pieces, expressed as they are in the current 
 vernacular, awaken in him a strange delight. 
 Robert SempilFs " Life and Death of the Piper of 
 Kilbarchan" is regarded by the young journeyman 
 as perfection, while little inferior is Hamilton of 
 Gilbertfield's poem of " The Last Dying Words of 
 Bonnie Heck." These are his favourites. He 
 commits them to memory, he recites them to his 
 friends, he praises them as worthy of everyone's 
 admiration, and, admiring them greatly himself, 
 wonders if he can imitate them. He is conscious 
 of a command of language, he fears no dearth of 
 subject, and there can be no doubt of the style and 
 stanza to be used — what other than the style of 
 Hamilton and the stanza of " Standard Habbie ? " 
 Only he has had no practice yet in versification. 
 Thus the matter of literary composition remains 
 with him for the next four or five years — studying 
 his models, and wondering if he can write, and 
 wishing to try. 
 
 Some thirteen years subsequently, when Ramsay's 
 fame had spread beyond Edinburgh, and he had 
 made the acquaintance and received by letter the 
 congratulations of Hamilton, he takes a retro- 
 spective view of this period, and acknowledges his 
 obligations in a rhymed reply, as follows ; — 
 
XX BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, 
 
 " When I begoiid first to cun verse, 
 All' could your Ardry Whins rehearse, 
 Where Bonnie Heck ran fast an' fierce, 
 
 It warni'd my breast ; 
 Then emulation did me pierce, 
 
 Wliilk since ne'er ceast." 
 
 It is characteristic of Burns that love made him 
 a poet, and was his earliest theme. It is no less 
 characteristic of Ramsay that his first inspiration 
 spr-^ng from conviviality, and was dedicated to 
 good fellowship. Twenty when he first began to 
 find delight in reading poetry, he was twenty-five 
 before he ventured on the pains and pleasures of 
 composition. But we had better omit mention of 
 pains in the case of Ramsay, for he wrote, when he 
 did commence, with ready facility — and, it may be 
 added inferentially, with unequal merit. He tells 
 us himself that from twenty-five to five-and-forly 
 his muse was neither "dour nor dorty." He was 
 twenty-five in 171 1 ; the first recorded specimen of 
 his versification bears the date of the following 
 year, and is in substance a rhymed petition to the 
 members of the Easy Club for admission to their 
 fraternity. In this address he says, or rather smgs, 
 for the verses are lyrical : — 
 
 " Were I but a prince or Icing 
 
 I'd advance ye, I'd advance ye ; 
 Were I but a prince or king 
 
 Sae highly 's I'd advance ye 1 
 Great sense and wit are ever found 
 Among you always to abound. 
 That like the orbs do still move round 
 
 No way constrain'd, but easy. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxi 
 
 Apollo's self unknown attends 
 And in good-hnmour re-ascends 
 The forkt Parnassus, and commends 
 Your being bl}i;he and easy. 
 
 Were I but a prince, etc. 
 
 I love ye well — 0, let me be 
 One of your blythe societee, 
 And like yourselves I'll strive to be 
 Aye hunioursome and easy. 
 
 Were I but a prince, etc. 
 
 May all you do successful prove, 
 And may you never fall in love 
 With what's not firm for your behoof, 
 Or may make you uneasy ! " etc. 
 
 The object of this address is characteristic of 
 Ramsay, but the style is not distinctive, and the 
 language is still less so. 
 
 To understand this petition it is necessary to 
 know something of the customs and social con- 
 dition of the time ; but we must first give attention to 
 an important event in Ramsay's life of which we are 
 significantly, though only incidentally, reminded 
 by a phrase in the lines we have just quoted. May 
 you, prays our petitioner, may you never fall in love 
 with what's not firm for your behoof! In the very 
 year in which this rather quaint wish for the 
 happiness of a convivial club came from his pen, 
 he was himself deep in love with a young Edinburgh 
 lady of a higher social rank than his own, and not 
 therefore to be won without many intervening 
 doubts to disturb the hopes of the wooer. One is 
 free to suppose that the quaint wish was suggested 
 
xxii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 by his own circumstances, and probably penned in 
 a moment of suspense when misgiving counter- 
 balanced expectation. Love and friendship were 
 in opposite scales, and the result was for the 
 moment doubtful. Fortunately for Ramsay, the 
 beneficent genius who regulated the whole course 
 of his life did not neglect him now, but with sin- 
 gular favour brought love and friendship together 
 in the same scale — gave him, that is to say, a wife 
 in Miss Christian Ross and membership in the 
 Easy Club at the same time. 
 
 An account of the courtship of Ramsay has been 
 published which, though it must be set down as 
 purely imaginary, may perhaps serve to illustrate, 
 and will at all events aid us in realising, this 
 interesting episode in his life. It is conjectured 
 that Ramsay was now a master wigmaker, attempt- 
 ing to gather a business for himself in a shop of 
 his own. He had left the Grassmarket, a short but 
 spacious street under the Castle Rock, in which a 
 doubtful tradition has placed the scene of his 
 apprenticeship and journeymanship, and was now 
 located in the heart of the town at a spot in the 
 long, single, stately street of which Edinburgh then 
 mainly consisted, nearly midway between its two 
 termini — the palace on the plain and the castle in 
 the air, as Robert Chambers has picturesquely put 
 it. Among other customers who found their way 
 to his shop, and whom his agreeable manner and 
 intelligent expression attracted and retained, was 
 a Mr. Ross, one of that class of attorneys in the 
 capital whose legal practice was confined to the 
 inferior courts. The superior grade of attorneys 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxiii 
 
 were the Clerks to the Signet, now represented by 
 the Writers to the Signet, who alone were entitled 
 to conduct cases in the supreme courts of the 
 country. By-and-by, in the freer society of those 
 days, the young wigmaker was introduced at a tea 
 party to the daughter of his patron, with whom he 
 commenced an acquaintance. Ere long it was 
 observed that Miss Ross superseded the servant 
 who had been accustomed to carry Lawyer Ross's 
 peruke to the wigmaker's for its hebdomadal dress- 
 ing. These visits, at first undertaken for the sake 
 of an occasional half-hour's chat and banter with a 
 young tradesman of superior address and social 
 disposition, rapidly developed a friendship which 
 deepened into a love so genuine and steady that, 
 whatever may have been the surmises of the lovers 
 as to the attitude of the young lady's relations when 
 the secret of their mutual attachment should be 
 disclosed, there was at least no doubt of the young 
 people being loyal to each other. Any difficulty 
 that pr-esented itself to the union of the lovers was 
 speedily overcome. Ramsay may have settled one 
 objection, the objection to his social standing, by a 
 reference to his ancestry, and more particularly to 
 his connection with the legal profession. The 
 question of maintaining a wife would be discussed, 
 and it would be allowed that Ramsay's prospects 
 were fair. Above all, his courteously deferential 
 and yet independent manner, and the charm of his 
 conversational powers, carried him over every 
 obstacle, and, in fine, the marriage took place with 
 the happiest auspices during the festivities that 
 ushered in the new year of 1712, 
 
xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, 
 
 We may here pause to take a survey of the bride* 
 j:^room as, standing on the threshold of his door, he 
 bids his wife welcome home, and invites her to the 
 manajrement of his house. His house, be it re- 
 membered, is beside his shop on the sunny side of 
 the High Street, and distinguished by the figure of 
 a flying Mercury. In the first place, then, he is 
 considerably under the middle size, being indeed 
 only five feet and four inches high. He is still, as 
 he was in boyhood, of slender make, but neither 
 lean nor unhealthy looking. His figure is in all its 
 parts well-proportioned to his height, and gives a 
 general air of dapper neatness and elasticity even 
 in repose, which is confirmed by his freedom and 
 natural grace of movement. He is of a dark com- 
 plexion of countenance, but far from saturnine, the 
 general expression, to which the roundness of his 
 face contributes, being that of intelligent good- 
 humour. What he afterwards said of another may 
 here be said of himself : 
 
 " A youth thus blest with manly frame, 
 Enlivened with a lively flaiue, 
 Will ne'er with sordid pinch control 
 The satisfaction of his soul." 
 
 But Ramsay's epicureanism was of a mild and 
 moderate type, well kept in hand by the dictates of 
 common sense. While a certain free-handedness, 
 arising from an original generosity of soul, marked 
 the whole course of his life, sufficient to have 
 excused an occasional excess, he was as far from 
 being the convivial buffoon which the cantankerous 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxv 
 
 Pinkerton has represented him to be, as he was 
 from being the parsimonious miser who 
 
 " Hell's ase-midden rakes for gain, 
 And never kens a blythesome hour, 
 Bnt, ever wanting, 's ever sonr." 
 
 We may complete this portrait by including the 
 description of his opinions, disposition, and social 
 character which he wrote for the curiosity of an 
 Irish correspondent, six or seven years after his 
 marriage. By that time Fame had set him up as 
 a small world's-wonder, and his apology for the 
 apparent egotism of being so minute in self- 
 description is that everybody is talking wildly 
 about him, the new wonder — 
 
 *' They wha have never seen 't are busy 
 Spierin' what like a carlie its he." 
 
 With respect, then, to the fabric of his mind — 
 
 " Tis mair to mirth than grief inclin'd. 
 I rather choose to langh at folly 
 Than show dislike by melancholy, — 
 Well-judging a sour heavy face 
 Is not the truest mark of grace." 
 
 Temperate himself at table, he is no friend to 
 intemperance in others — 
 
 " I hate a drunkard or a glutton, 
 Yet I'm nae fae to wine and mutton." 
 
 He frankly owns his ambition to be a poet — 
 
 ' ' I never could imagine 't vicious 
 Of a fair fame to be ambitious." 
 
xxvi BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, 
 
 In politics he is no partisan, believing that measures 
 are to be considered on their merits, ind^endently 
 of their Whig or Tory origin. In religion he is no 
 sectarian — 
 
 " Know }>n^itively T'm a Cliristian, 
 Believing truths, aud thinkiug free, 
 Wishing thrawn paities would agree." 
 
 He is equally explicit with his private affairs — 
 
 " Born to nae lairdsliip, mnir's the pity ! 
 Yet denizen of this fair city, 
 I male what honest shift 1 can, 
 And in my ain house am gudemau, — 
 Which stands in Kmljro's Street, tin- sun side. 
 I theek the oot, and line the in-side 
 0' mony a douce and witty pash, {head), 
 And baith ways gatlier in the cash." 
 
 Of this union, which was a long and happy one, 
 lasting till the death of Mrs. Ramsay in 1742, eight 
 children, three sons and five daughters, were born, 
 of whom the eldest, the inheritor of his father's 
 name, longevity, good fortune, and no inconsider- 
 able share of his genius, was born in October 1712. 
 
 It is now time to speak of the appearance and 
 condition of Edinburgh in the early part of last 
 century, when Ramsay's married life and public 
 career were commencing together. 
 
 In the beginning of the eighteenth century the 
 capital of Scotland was only a fourth of its present 
 size in respect of population, and considerably less 
 in respect of area. It consisted essentially of one 
 street, a mile in length — then known as the street, 
 or Edinburgh Street — lying along the ridge of a hiU 
 
BIOGRArmCAL INTRODUCTION, xxvii 
 
 which, culminating in the Castle Rock, extends east- 
 wards with a gradual slope to its termination in the 
 narrow valley beyond which rise the beetling cliffs 
 and green back of Arthur Seat. Branching off from 
 this long city of a single street were numerous 
 short, narrow, dark and winding " closes," as they 
 were chiefly called, which, with the open suburb of 
 the Grassmarket, were of course included in the 
 dimensions of the capital. The city as thus out- 
 lined was surrounded by a defensive wall, through 
 which entrance or exit was gained by several 
 fortified gates or " ports." Within the walls the 
 little city literally teemed with a population it could 
 hardly contain. As the population increased the 
 overgrowth descended into cellars and subterranean 
 habitations, or ascended to sixth and seventh 
 storeys, and found harbourage in garrets among the 
 chimney-tops. So confined were the troglodytic 
 part of the population that there was in many cases 
 absolutely not more than just room to turn in, and 
 report speaks of one of those dwellers under the 
 street level having developed a peculiar adaptation 
 of neck, from being obliged to hold his head at an 
 angle, so that he might command a view of the 
 outer world, as he sat in his burrow with his stock 
 of wares around him. The inhabitants of the aerial 
 garrets in the closes looked out upon life in " a 
 manner no less peculiar. It was a feature of many 
 of the Edinburgh houses of this time that as they 
 rose in height they extended also in width, so that 
 people inhabiting the upper flats on opposite sides 
 of the same close were brought into easy convers- 
 able neighbourhood, while, in the topmost storey 
 
xxviii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of all, friends mif];ht shake hands and Pyramus kiss 
 Thisbe across the narrow abyss. It was not till 
 the century had run half its course that the sim- 
 mering population rose above the brim and fairly 
 spilled over into the adjacent country. 
 
 This pressure of the inhabitants into scanty com- 
 pass in the first half of the eighteenth century 
 produced a picturesque liveliness in the appearance 
 of the street. It was not only that the architecture 
 was unique, but the character of the crowds also 
 was sui s,eneris. All sorts and conditions of people 
 were crammed into narrow limits. Nobles rubbed 
 shoulders with street porters ; ladies of rank 
 gathered in their silks as they swept past the 
 " fisher jades " of Newhaven ; wigged and gowned 
 advocates took snuff with bare-headed tradesmen 
 shouting their wares in front of their booths ; 
 drouthy neighbours met at the long-frequented 
 tavern in the close while St. Giles was sounding 
 the gill-bells at noon ; fools and naturals of various 
 grades and duly differentiated peculiarities moved 
 about, followed by troops of teasing children ; peri- 
 patetic vendors of fruit and fish bawled in every 
 variety of key for custom ; the city-guard with their 
 formidable axe-headed spears stalked scowling 
 along the causeway; ragged "cadies" whisked 
 about the close mouths on secret errands ; grimy 
 coalmen, scented fops, watermen with their glisten- 
 ing barrels, kilted warriors out of employment, 
 chairmen with their delicate freight of age or 
 beauty, — all were there, and formed but a fraction 
 of a constantly-changing scene that daily filled the 
 street of Edinburgh with a lively, noisy, unsavoury, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxix 
 
 and picturesque panorama of life which the fancy 
 can hardly realise. 
 
 During Ramsay's apprenticeship Scotland pos- 
 sessed an independent Parliam.ent, which necessarily 
 gave greater importance to Edinburgh than she 
 could claim after the Union of 1707. The Supreme 
 Law-Courts, however, remained, and while they 
 were open a vast amount of business was transacted 
 in and about the purlieus of the halls of justice, and 
 an incredible quantity of news, and scandal, and 
 harmless gossip discussed around the walls of St. 
 Giles's Cathedral. The market-cross stood in this 
 locality, and was a rallying-place and rendezvous 
 for busy-bodies, and quidnuncs, and a large host of 
 idlers whose opinions or minds were " to let." 
 The space around the cross was also a kind of 
 exchange, where at least the preliminaries of busi- 
 ness were gone through. Here, therefore, the stir 
 was greatest, and the scenery of the street most 
 varied and picturesque. 
 
 Business lingered on all over the town to a much 
 later period than is customary now, but by eight 
 o'clock every booth was deserted and every shop 
 was closed, and the citizens for the most part gave 
 themselves up to cheap conviviality and pastime 
 for the next hour or two. Almost every tradesman 
 had his favourite place in his favourite tavern, where 
 night after night he met a few friends with whom 
 he cracked a quiet bottle and a canny joke before 
 going home to his family. It was first business, 
 then friendship, and the claims of family after that. 
 Numerous small clubs of inexpensive habits began 
 to be formed early in the century from such a mode 
 
 3 
 
XXX BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of life, until towards the middle and all through the 
 later portion of the century they seem to have been 
 past counting. They were then founded for the 
 most absurd objects, and on the most frivolous 
 pretexts. There were, for example, the Pious 
 Club, the members of which ate pies together 
 every night in a pie-house ; the Industrious Club, 
 whose members m.et to drink porter at wholesale 
 prices from a stock they laid in for their own 
 consumption ; the Dirty Club, no unit of which was 
 to appear in clean linen ; the Boar Club, which 
 swilled in a tavern kept by Daniel Hogg, and kept 
 its fines in a " pig " ; the Black-wig Club, the 
 Whin-bush Club, etc. In fact, the latter half of 
 last century in Edinburgh was an age of clubs and 
 social sensuality. The earlier, or Ramsay's half, 
 however, was far less lax, and there were fewer 
 clubs. The puritan rule was still powerful and 
 prevalent, and there was much respect shown, at 
 least outwardly, for a somewhat austere morality. 
 The Sunday, or the Sabbath as it was quite 
 appropriately called, was kept in the letter of the 
 Mosaic law. There were pious prowlers to scout 
 the streets and pounce upon breakers of their 
 version of the fourth command. Their records tell 
 of the rigidity of their righteousness. On one 
 occasion, for example, they silenced a whistling 
 bird in a cage ; on another they confiscated a hot 
 roast to which they were nose-led from the street 1 
 There was no theatre or place of public amusement 
 anywhere in the town. Dancing was immoral, and 
 an institution of the devil — or at least of Herodias, 
 and was therefore to be put down. We are told of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxxi 
 
 an organised attack with red-hot spits being made 
 upon the door of a room in which dancing was 
 being peacefully practised, to the great terror and 
 danger of the dancers. 
 
 Ramsay, directly by his example, and directly 
 and indirectly by his writings, did a great deal to 
 destroy the narrow puritanical feeling which was 
 in the ascendant in Edinburgh when he first came 
 to town. His joyous nature had no sympathy with 
 asceticism, and it was only natural that he should 
 seek out those who were of kindred disposition with 
 himself. Of such there was a goodly sprinkling in 
 Edinburgh even in 17 12. There was even an ad- 
 vance party, prepared, in defiance of the attitude of 
 the rigidly righteous, to go to the opposite extreme. 
 These Corinthians were represented by such 
 coteries as the Hell-fire Club and the Horn Order. 
 But Ramsay had really as little sympathy with 
 profligacy as with puritanism. His course all 
 through life was emphatically the use, and neither 
 the abuse nor yet the disuse, of pleasure. He 
 approved of dancing, he believed in theatres. He 
 ate his cakes and drank his ale, and was virtuous ; 
 and called upon others to do, and to be, the same. 
 He was in his own way as effective a moralist, and 
 as happy a humorist, as his English contemporary, 
 Addison, who did more than all the parsons of his 
 time to plant and foster a healthy morality in 
 England. He was a satirist as gentle and as 
 genuine as Chaucer — as coarse, if you will, but also 
 as corrective of the vices of his age. 
 
 Ramsay, "the joyous Ramsay," as Sir Walter 
 Scott has called him. has been so much misunder- 
 
xxxii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, 
 
 stood that it may be news to some to hear him com- 
 mended as a satirist and social reformer ; — we will, 
 therefore, call him into court and take his state- 
 ment on the object of his poetical work from his 
 own lips. 
 
 '* I have pursued," he says, " these comical 
 characters, having gentlemen's health and pleasure, 
 and the good manners of the vulgar in view, — the 
 main design of comedy being to represent the 
 follies and mistakes of low life in a just light, 
 making them appear as ridiculous as they really 
 are, that each who is a spectator may avoid being 
 the object of laughter." 
 
 Such was the state of society in Edinburgh in 
 17 1 2, the year of Ramsay's marriage, when he 
 presented his petition to the Easy Club and was 
 admitted a fellow. The fellows seem to have been 
 gentlemen considerably above Ramsay's rank. 
 Ruddiman, the well-known scholar and printer, 
 was one ; Professor Pitcairn was another ; Dr. 
 Abercrombie a third : but most of the members, 
 only twelve in all, were young in 17 12. It was 
 ostensibly a non-political club, opposed to every 
 form of fanaticism and zealous partisanship ; but a 
 suspicion got about that its members were favour- 
 able to Jacobitism, and the suspicion, whether well 
 or ill founded, was sufficient, shortly after the fiasco 
 of " the Fifteen," to break up the club. Ramsay's 
 connection with this club was in a high degree 
 serviceable to him. It at once developed and 
 directed his poetical talent, and secured him 
 the patronage then necessary for an effective 
 introduction to the public. His manners and 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxxiii 
 
 conversation pleased his fellow associates before 
 his literary ability was recognised, and improved so 
 much on more intimate acquaintance that he, 
 along with Professor Pitcairn, was, after a probation 
 of three years, formally declared by the society to 
 be a gentleman by merit. His poetical faculty 
 next drew their attention. He became their 
 laureate, recited to them his compositions, and 
 even recorded their debates in verse : and received 
 every encouragement that their praise could give. 
 Praise was a strong stimulus to such a mind as 
 Ramsay's, and frequent essays at last gave him 
 confidence in his own powers. It was for them he 
 wrote his famous " Elegy on the death of Maggie 
 Johnston", a well-known suburban alewife — the 
 poem in which he first discovered his richest vein. 
 When the club was broken up Ramsay continued 
 to rhyme, and found an audience to whom he was 
 already not unknown as a poet in the general 
 public of Edinburgh. His compositions were at 
 first short pieces, hawked about the town, or sold at 
 his shop, for a trifling sum ; and so well did they 
 suit the popular fancy that it became a practice for 
 the citizens' wives to send out for Allan Ramsay's 
 last piece and discuss it with their afternoon tea. 
 In this way many of his humorous satires and 
 realistic descriptions of scenes in low life — such as 
 the "Elegy on Lucky Wood," the cleanly alewife 
 of the Canongate, and the two additions to 
 " Christ's Kirk on the Green " — first entered the 
 town, and got to be spoken about. 
 
 Ramsay created his own audience, and it is 
 wonderful how rapidly it grew and how widely it 
 
xxxiv BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 extended. There is scarcely any better proof of 
 the accuracy and piquancy of his descriptions, and 
 the thoroughly representative and national char- 
 acter of his sentiments and language, than is 
 afforded by this undeniable fact. It is true there 
 was a small reading public to welcome such a 
 collection as Watson's, and to form such a nucleus 
 as a new and original genius might successfully 
 utilise. But it is just as true that he had no 
 such audience as was waiting in Edinburgh for 
 Fergusson, and in lowland Scotland for Burns. 
 These later singers were indebted to him for several 
 ad\"antai;es, not the least of which was an audience 
 already familiarised with that freedom of subject 
 and sentiment in which both of them, though in 
 unequal degrees, excelled. 
 
 Ramsay's growing fame led to increased product- 
 iveness and superior workmanship, and while 
 people of high position in and near Edinburgh 
 began to offer the patronage which Ramsay knew 
 so well how to turn to account and still retain, men 
 of literature, and men friendly to literature at a 
 distance, sought his acquaintance and thought 
 themselves honoured by his correspondence. 
 Among the latter was Hamilton of Gilbertfield, 
 whose " Dying Words of Bonnie Heck" had first 
 inspired Ramsay with a spirit of emulation, and 
 who now addressed eulogistic verses to the risen 
 genius of Ramsay. This gentleman, it may interest 
 some readers to know, had held the commission of 
 lieutenant in Lord Hyndford's regiment, and was, 
 at the time of the correspondence now referred to, 
 living on half-pay and a small independency near 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxxv 
 
 Glasgow ; and it is to his credit that though he 
 was the only contemporary writer of the vernacular 
 at all worthy to be put in competition with Ramsay, 
 he hastened to acknowledge Ramsay's superiority, 
 and that, too, in verse scarcely if at all inferior to 
 Ramsay's own. In his first complimentary epistle 
 he writes : — 
 
 *' fam'd and celebrated Allan ! 
 Keuowned Ramsay ! canty callan ! 
 There's nouther Hielandman nor Lawlan, 
 
 In poetrie, 
 But may as soon ding doun Tantallau 
 
 As match wi' thee. 
 
 For ten times ten, and that's a hunner, 
 I hae been made to gaze and wonner, 
 When i'ra Parnassus thou didst thunner 
 
 Wi' wit and skill ; 
 Wherefore I'll soberly knock iinner 
 
 And quat my quill." 
 
 Fn his second he exclaims with genuine admira- 
 tion — 
 
 *' How thy saft sweet style 
 And bonnie auld words gar me smile I 
 Thou's travelled, surelj'', mony a mile 
 
 Wi' charge an' cost, 
 To learn them thus keep rank and file 
 
 And ken their post." 
 
 And in his third, in words which Ramsay himself 
 afterwards characterised as " a succinct cluster of 
 kindly wishes, elegantly expressed with a friendly 
 spirit," he thus concludes — 
 
xxxvi BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " A' blessings, Ramsay, on thee row ! 
 Lang may thou live, and thrive, and dow, 
 Until thou claw an auld man's pow ; 
 
 And, thro' thy creed, 
 Be keepit fra the wirricow 
 
 After thou's deid I " 
 
 Correspondence such as this was traditional 
 among the Scottish " Makkars," and may quite 
 accurately be described as a species of poetical 
 rivalry in which each alternately strove to excel 
 the other in boldness of flij:;^ht, and freedom and 
 fluency of numbers. "The Flyting of Dunbar and 
 Kennedy " was an encounter of this sort ; it had 
 really nothing hostile in its motive. Burns would 
 have continued the ancient game with the Lapraiks 
 and local bards of Ayrshire ; but the local bards 
 wisely for their own reputation forbore the contest, 
 and the balls that he threw them were unreturned. 
 This exchange of "rhyming ware" is one of the 
 minor features of Scottish poetical literature ; it 
 may remind the student of English literary history 
 of the wit-combats of the Elizabethans. 
 
 While Ramsay's fame was thus spreading, he was 
 at the same time improving his own acquaintance 
 with English literature by reading the compositions 
 of his contemporaries south of the Tweed. Pope 
 and Addison, Prior and Gay were then the expon- 
 ents of the French or Artificial school, which was 
 now at the height of its polish and perfection of 
 form. It would have been well if Ramsay had 
 been content to admire those writers, but he took 
 to imitating them, and though his imitations, as 
 such, are by no means despicable, some of them 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxxvit 
 
 being really clever, yet they are a poor substitute 
 for what he would have done if he had kept to 
 national themes and used his native speech. For 
 it was in the Scottish language as applied to Scot- 
 tish themes that his power as a poet lay, and of 
 this he was as clearly conscious as he was conscious 
 of the mission for which that power had been given 
 him. " Sir," he says — 
 
 " Sir, T have sung, and yet may sing. 
 Sonnets that owre the dales may ring ; 
 And in gash glee conch moral saw, 
 Reese virtue and keep vice in awe ; 
 Mak villainy look black and blue, 
 And give distinguished worth its due ; — 
 / have it even within my powW 
 The very kirk itself to scorer, 
 And that you'll say's a brag richt bauld : 
 But did not Lyndsay this of auld ? 
 Sir David's satires help'd our nation 
 To carry on the Eeformation, 
 And gave the scarlet harlot strokes 
 Mair snell than all the pelts of Knox." 
 
 Ramsay did not exercise his power against the 
 Kirk, but bequeathed the task of scouring it to 
 Burns. We do not quarrel with him for that ; but 
 there were other themes than the Kirk where the 
 satire of exposure vi^ould have found ample field, 
 and these he largely neglected, to take lessons at 
 the Artificial school. The influence of that school 
 upon his artistic faculty was indubitably for evil. 
 He seems to have become ambitious of an audience 
 south of the Tweed ; and the tedious " Morning 
 Interview," the prosy commonplace of "Health," and 
 sad but unsorrowful " Elegiacs," were laboriously 
 
xxxviii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 penned in the fond expectation that they were the 
 only means of attaining that object. Fortunately 
 his native genius was from time to time strong 
 enough to assert itself, and he lived to know that 
 his fame beyond Scotland rested only upon his 
 Scottish poems. 
 
 About the year 1720 Ramsay had produced a 
 quantity of pieces suflicient to fill a book, and these 
 he now set about collecting with a view to publi- 
 cation by subscription. He had only to make 
 known his intention to secure its success. His 
 patrons numbered between four and five hundred, 
 of whom about one-seventh were of aristocratic 
 rank. Among the subscribed names were those of 
 Pope and Arbuthnot, Burchet and Arbuckle, Ben- 
 net and Clarke, — names typical of the various 
 classes of men who had a lively interest in Ramsay. 
 Pope's acquaintance had probably come through 
 Dr. Arbuthnot, but Ramsay was not backward in 
 introducing himself to people of weight or wit with 
 whom he wished to stand well. Indeed, his selec- 
 tion of friends and patrons was a species of instinct. 
 It was unerring, and he seriously traced his life- 
 long prosperity to it. When Pope's Iliad made its 
 appearance, in 17 18, Ramsay procured himself a 
 copy, perused it thrice, and wrote to the translator 
 his opinion of it in a complimentary epigram with 
 which Pope must have been at once pleased and 
 amused. Here it is : 
 
 *' Three times I've read your Iliad o'er ; the first time 
 pleased me well ; 
 New beauties unobserved before next pleased me better 
 stilL 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xxxix 
 
 Ac^n.in T tried to find a flaw, examined ilka line, — 
 
 The thirci time jpleased me best of a', the labour seemed 
 
 divine. 
 Henceforward I'll not tempt my fate on dazzling rays to 
 
 stare, 
 Lest I should tine dear self-conceit, and read and write 
 
 nae mair," 
 
 Burchet is to be remembered as having been for 
 many years Secretary of the Admiralty, and a warm 
 admirer and correspondent and panegyrist of 
 Ramsay. With Arbuckle, too, a gentleman of 
 education belonging to Ireland, Ramsay kept up a 
 familiar correspondence ; while in the Clerks of 
 Pennycuik, and Sir William Bennet of Marlefield, 
 he found patrons of approved local influence, whose 
 hospitality he frequently enjoyed. 
 
 Ruddiman printed the collection, which made its 
 appearance in a quarto of four hundred pages in 
 1 72 1. This edition improved the fortunes of the 
 author by about four hundred guineas, at the same 
 time that it extended and established his name as 
 a true poet. Its complete success renewed and 
 increased his literary industry. He now entered 
 on the career of author, and wigmaking went to 
 the wall. His activity was astonishing — and even 
 his greatest admirers will allow that it might have 
 been restrained and regulated with advantage. He 
 wrote much that rose little, if at all, above the dead 
 levels of mediocrity. "Fables and Tales" were 
 thrown off in 1722, followed before the year was 
 done by a " Tale of Three Bonnets." " The Fair 
 Assembly," a short poem of two hundred lines in 
 praise of dancing, appeared in 1723. 1724 yielded 
 
xl BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 a triple crop in the " Tea-table Miscellany," a col- 
 lection of choice songs, both Scottish and English, 
 published at the commencement of the year, and 
 including much original work ; " Health," a satirical 
 poem in English, consisting of about two hundred 
 '' heroic " couplets ; and the " Evergreen," a series 
 of Scottish poems purporting to have been written 
 "by the ingenious" before 1600 — including, how- 
 ever, the " Vision " from his own pen (a noble 
 composition worthy of his genius), the "Wife of 
 Auchtermuchty," probably also his, and the well- 
 known magnificent ballad fragment of " Hardy- 
 knute," by Lady Wardlaw. Much of the " Tea-table 
 l^Iiscellany " had already appeared under the title 
 of " Scots Songs," and had proved so popular that a 
 second issue was called for in 1719. At last, in 1725, 
 Ramsay gave proof of the justness of his claim upon 
 the future for permanent remembrance by produc- 
 ing his inimitable pastoral comedy, " The Gentle 
 Shepherd." The study from which this lovely and 
 all but perfect pastoral sprang appeared in the 
 quarto of 1 721, where it was entitled " Patie and 
 Roger," and attracted little attention, A second 
 edition was printed in 1726. In 1727 he collected 
 the poems he had composed since 1721, and pub- 
 lished them in May of the following year as a 
 companion volume to the first quarto. He had 
 most of his former subscribers to this volume, and 
 some new names besides. Next year an octavo 
 edition of the second quarto volume was brought 
 out ; and in 1731 the London booksellers published 
 Ramsay's complete poetical works. Two years 
 later a similar edition came out in Dublin. We 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xli 
 
 have, however, anticipated the close of Ramsay's 
 active poetical career by three years, and must go 
 back to 1730 to notice that then was published, 
 when the poet was forty-five years old, his last 
 book of original verse. It was a collection of thirty 
 fables. 
 
 The long remainder of his life Ramsay sur- 
 rendered to business and the enjoyment of his 
 literary fame. A great object with him was to 
 prove that a poet might have a practical turn in 
 the conduct of his domestic affairs, and he took no 
 small credit to himself for establishing his point, 
 and succeeding where so many had failed. He 
 belongs emphatically to that class of the poets 
 whose prudence in worldly matters is scarcely 
 inferior to their imaginative genius. His fortune, 
 like that of Chaucer, or Shakespeare, or Pope, or 
 Scott, was the creation of his own hands. We 
 have long thought that Ramsay had much, alike in 
 his genius, his disposition, and his history, that 
 recalls the Father of English verse. Not the least 
 noticeable of those features which were common to 
 the history of both was the calamity which, after a 
 long course of prosperity, threatened, in their 
 advanced years, to overwhelm the peace and 
 prosperity of both. It is with the calamity that 
 overtook Ramsay we have here to deal. Previous 
 to 1726 he had clung to his first residence as a 
 householder in Edinburgh, on the sunny side ot 
 the High Street, opposite the entrance to Niddry's 
 Wynd, and had there gainfully followed the in- 
 dustry of wig-weaving, to which he had been bred. 
 It would seem that he had gradually conjoined to 
 
xlii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, 
 
 his original calling the business of bookselling, and 
 that, while he found the new occupation more 
 congenial to his tastes, and less humbling to his 
 pride in his intercourse with people of distinction, 
 he happily found at the same time that it was 
 much more lucrative and loss laborious. In 1726 
 he migrated further up the street, to the second 
 floor of a tall building that stood in the middle and 
 along the line of the street, side by side with the 
 Cathedral of St. Giles. His windows looked out 
 on the busiest, as it was the most central, scene of 
 Edinburgh, the space around the old Market Cross. 
 He left his former sign of the Flying Mercury 
 behind him, and set up, as an emblem of the new 
 occupation of bookselling to which he now entirely 
 committed himself, the heads of Ben Jonson and 
 Drummond of Hawthornden. It was here Gay 
 used to lounge and find amusement in the daily 
 drama of life and character at the Cross, inter- 
 preted and illustrated as it was by the humour 
 and satire of Ramsay. In fact, the bookseller's 
 shop became the " howf " of all the wits and 
 half the professional men of Edinburgh. Here 
 Ramsay prospered and was happy, and here 
 he instituted the Circulating Library. He was thus 
 the means of introducing into Edinburgh all the 
 publications of London at a cheap rate, and of 
 giving that impetus to reading and study the fruits 
 of which appeared a generation later in the success- 
 ful rivalry of Edinburgh with the great metropolis. 
 It is worthy of notice here, as significant at once 
 of his enterprising spirit and his fame, that when 
 Hogarth in 1726 published his Illustrations of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xliii 
 
 Hudibras the twelve plates were inscribed, in a 
 joint dedication, to Allan Ramsay, and that Ram- 
 say gave a bookseller's order for thirty copies. 
 Ramsay, however, was not without his opponents 
 and detractors. Them we may divide into two 
 classes, the "unco guid" and the envious. His 
 joyous nature and genial manners were a standing 
 offence to the former, and his prosperity the latter, 
 a small but virulent company, could never forgive. 
 They united their malicious energies to ruin him. 
 They accused him of " debauching the faculties of 
 the soul " of the rising generation " with his lewd 
 books," and predicted as a result the flight of piety 
 from Scotland with a bigoted complacency that 
 shewed how heartily they hoped Heaven would 
 sustain them in the role they had assumed. We 
 may laugh at, if we do not pity, their malevolence 
 now, but they were powerful then, and possessed 
 an acting majority in municipal affairs which might 
 be dangerous to Ramsay. Ramsay incurred the 
 danger, and was all but ruined. He proposed to 
 build a winter theatre in Edinburgh, and control 
 the management so that the drama might be 
 utilised in Edinburgh as in other large cities. It 
 was really a disgrace to the citizens that there was 
 no theatre in Edinburgh. 
 
 " Shall London have its houses twa 
 And we be doom'd to nane ava ? 
 Is om: metropolis, ance the place 
 Where lang syne dwelt the royal race 
 Of Fergus, this gate dwindled donn 
 To th' level o' a clachau toun, 
 "While thus she suffers the desertion 
 Of a maLst rational diversion \ " 
 
xliv BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 With his own money, the savings of his past 
 industry, he erected a theatre in Carrubbers' Close 
 and it was ready to be opened when the Licensing 
 Act of 1737 gave the magistracy the power (which 
 they summarily exercised) of keeping it shut. The 
 municipal order was heard with delight by Ram- 
 say's enemies ; and the injury it did to his fortunes, 
 — for it was put up at vast expense, and the load of 
 the cost lay on his " single back," — was followed by 
 such insulting lampoons as the " Dying Words of 
 Allan Ramsay," a *' Looking-glass for Allan Ram- 
 say," etc. Ramsay sought legal redress, but the 
 lawyers gave him only a fine distinction to console 
 him — he was damaged, they said, without being in- 
 jured. He tried a petition to the Lord President of 
 the Supreme Court, the famous Forbes of Culloden : — 
 
 " Either say that I'm a faulter, 
 Or thole me to employ my bigf^ng, 
 Or of the burden ease my rigs^ing 
 By ordering fra the public fund 
 A sum to pay for what I'm bund, — 
 S>Tie, in amends for what I've lost, 
 Edge me into some canny post 
 With the good liking of our king, 
 And your petitioner shall — sing." 
 
 He next resolved to make the best of his unfortu- 
 nate position, and applied himself to his legitimate 
 business. In this he succeeded so well that he 
 soon recovered his loss, and by-and-by so aug- 
 mented his gains that he shortly found himself not 
 only in easy but even affluent circumstances. He 
 built for himself a villa house of an octagonal shape 
 on a site on the north slope of the Castle hill, which 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xlv 
 
 commands (for the house is still habitable) a wide 
 and romantically varied view of typical Scottish 
 scenery. There he lived for ten years, — " faulding 
 his limbs in ease," yet still superintending his 
 business in the town, till about 1755. He was 
 then in his seventieth year. He next gave up his 
 shop, and spent the brief remainder of his life in his 
 Bower on the Castle Bank. He describes his 
 feelings on this occasion in a letter to his intimate 
 friend, the laird of Pennycuik — 
 
 " I plan to be 
 Fra shochling trade and danger free, 
 Tliat I may, loose fra cai-e and strife, 
 Witli calmness view the edge of life, 
 And, when a full ripe age shall crave, 
 Slide easily into my grave." 
 
 We have two or three glimpses of him about this 
 time which help us to realise his appearance, his 
 manners, and his feelings during the last portion of 
 his life. He was short and thickset, inclining 
 indeed to corpulence, and wore a short round wig 
 of a light colour, which agreeably became his 
 affable and open countenance. He had a pleasant 
 way with young people, and was a great favourite 
 with them at the juvenile parties which he encour- 
 aged his daughters to get up in Ramsay Garden 
 during the last ten years of his life. The members 
 of his own family that survived to his old age, 
 three in number only, greatly increased his happi- 
 ness by their filial conduct. In their success and 
 welfare, too, he found great pleasure. There had 
 been " no ae wally draigle " among his daughters 
 —they were all, he said, fine girls. 
 
 4 
 
xlvi BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 He died, as one inscription has it, "of old age." 
 But there is no doubt that death was hastened by 
 a scorbutic disease of the teeth. This event took 
 place on the seventh of January, 1758, when the 
 poet was in his seventy-second year. His mortal 
 r(;mains were quietly interred in Greyfriars' Church- 
 yard, Edinbur^di. His son Allan, the well-known 
 portrait-painter to Geor^^je HI., and the two 
 daughters. Christian and Janet, who survived him, 
 inherited the very respectable fortune he had so 
 honourably amassed. The house, Ramsay (harden, 
 remained in the family possession till 1845, vvhen it 
 changed hands at the death of General John 
 Ramsay, the poet's grandson, and the last of his 
 line. 
 
 Ramsay's death was much but unostentatiously 
 lamented both in social and literary circles. It 
 was followed by, perhaps, the usual number of 
 elegies and memorials. Of the latter the best, as 
 it is the latest, is the marble statue, by Sir John 
 Steell, which was erected beside the monument 
 of Sir Walter Scott in Princes Street Gardens, 
 Edinburgh, about twenty years ago. 
 
 In the story of Ramsay's life, as now related, 
 there are a few noteworthy and significant facts 
 which, on a hasty retrospect, at once take the eye, 
 and which may fitly be brought together in a 
 concluding summary. 
 
 And, first of all, with regard to his business 
 affairs : 
 
 There is, to begin with, the remarkable success 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xlvii 
 
 that attended his industry, and that was distinctly 
 the outcome of his capacity for business. At fifteen, 
 he stood alone in the world, an orphan in a strange 
 city, friendless and penniless, entirely dependent 
 for the means of earning a livelihood on the 
 prospect of being a wig-weaver. He gradually 
 raised himself to a position of honour and wealth, 
 became the associate and friend of some of the 
 most eminent men in bis neighbourhood, and the 
 correspondent of several of the leading literary men 
 of his time, gave his son a costly training in art 
 both at home and abroad, and left his children 
 well-provided in an easy independency. 
 
 His enterprise is another feature of his conduct. 
 He abandoned the trade to which he had been 
 bred, and by which he was securing an independ- 
 ency, for one of which he had little but an 
 onlooker's knowledge, and found without assistance 
 his advantage in the exchange. Then he was the 
 first to introduce that system of lending out books 
 which is now known as the Circulating Library. 
 He was further the first person to erect a house in 
 Edinburgh for dramatic representations, and 
 though the undertaking failed, and almost ruined 
 him, it failed only through the bigotry and timidity 
 of the city rulers. If the house had been licensed 
 there is no doubt that it would have been both a 
 profitable venture and a liberalising agency. 
 
 Secondly, with respect to his disposition and 
 character : 
 
 Here cheerfulness is the conspicuous quality, 
 cheerfulness, too, of the manliest type, based upon 
 common sense, brightened by hope, and safe- 
 
xlviii BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 guarded by humour. Ramsay was the last man to 
 fold his arms and fall into apathy or despondency 
 when the cloud of adversity lowered. He not only 
 economised (for in all thinpjs he was a temperate 
 man, using without abusing) the many varied 
 pleasures of life, but he had a brave habit of 
 persistently looking on the bright side, and making 
 the most of circumstances. Even his satire was 
 cheerful, and he made it a point nev^er to attack 
 individuals, but only actions. If his cheerfulness 
 ran loo nmch to compliment, it must be owned that 
 he never flattered : his eulogy, if it was sometimes 
 mistimed, was never misdirected. The best proof 
 of his cheerfulness, and the most permanent dis- 
 play of it, will be found in his "Gentle Shepherd." 
 This charming pastoral play was a rural world of 
 his own creation ; of this little world he was the 
 Providence ; and from the manner of its govern- 
 ment we can argue back to the disposition of its 
 governor, and find in him the union of a healthy 
 cheerfulness and a wise morality. He had 
 enemies, but he did not make them — they were 
 either the fault of the age or the evil growth of his 
 good fortune. He was magnanimous enough, and 
 wise enough, to leave them alone and unanswered 
 — "their malice," as he said "did not move his 
 mood." 
 
 Thirdly, with respect to the growth of his 
 poetical faculty : 
 
 He found in the scenery and society of his n-ative 
 parish those influences which awaken the slumber- 
 ing poetic sense, and in Crawford School he 
 acquired a glimmermg knowledge both of poetic 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, xlix 
 
 sentiinent and poetic form, which he could after- 
 wards advantageously recall. When he was about 
 twenty-one, and felt only the pride and not yet 
 the pressure of the responsibility of manhood, he 
 fell in, at that impressionable age, with a collection 
 of Scottish verse which captivated his imagination, 
 and awoke his memory, and finally roused the 
 spirit of poetical emulation within him. Three 
 pieces in this collection, all humorous and all 
 descriptive of such rustic characters and scenes as 
 he was familiar with, he especially admired and 
 sought to imitate — King James's " Christ's Kirk on 
 the Green," Sempill's " Death of Habbie Simson, 
 the Piper of Kilbarchan," and Hamilton's " Dying 
 Words of Heck, the Bonnie Greyhound." These 
 were his first models, and though he did not sur- 
 pass the first, he speedily improved on the other 
 two. To their influence we trace all that class of 
 his poems which humorously satirise, while they 
 depict, what is known as low life. Then came his 
 experience of club life in Edinburgh, more 
 particularly his connection with the Easy fraternity. 
 Here his knowledge of human nature was widened, 
 and a higher tone — not wholly without a mis- 
 chievous effect upon his style — imparted to his 
 sentiment ; but the great benefit of this connection 
 was the encouragement it gave to his poetical 
 essays, and the stimulus of publication which 
 it promised and provided. Fame, at first 
 local, was the consequence, and with the first 
 taste of it Ramsay's poetical career fairly com- 
 menced. The widening notice taken of his com- 
 positions brought him into correspondence with 
 
1 BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION, 
 
 English men of letters, and this connection, together 
 with the powerful influence upon his taste and style 
 of the school of poetry that was then fashionable, 
 created within him a desire to be appreciated in 
 England. This desire drove him from his proper 
 field to the cultivation of fashionable subjects and 
 a foreign style, and in this vain pursuit he wasted 
 both time and energy — to some purpose then, per- 
 haps, but to little purpose now. The examination 
 and collection of old but genuine Scottish poetry 
 recalled his efforts to what was after all more con- 
 genial to his nature, the composition of poems upon 
 themes of national interest, and expressed in the 
 national language. It was while thus engaged 
 that he produced the " Vision," the most ambitious 
 of all his poems, revealing a sweep of imagination 
 beyond what we usually associate with the power 
 of Ramsay, but disfigured by a grotesque episode, 
 which, though excellent in its way, and indeed 
 quite worthy of Lucian, breaks with ridiculous in- 
 congruity the lofty harmony of the composition. 
 But though he thus, at times, flung off the trammels 
 of the Artificial school, its pastorals, then a fashion- 
 able form, remained in his memory, and here, he 
 justly thought, was a field in which he might com- 
 pete with Pope, and, indeed, give him some lessons. 
 He must, however, have the freedom of his own 
 knowledge and his own speech. In this way he 
 discovered the true sphere of his genius in realistic 
 descriptions of rustic manners and rural scenes. 
 All his pastorals are excellent, but the gem of the 
 series, and the gem of his poetry, is the dramatic 
 pastoral of "The Gentle Shepherd" — a poem unique 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. II 
 
 in some respects, and in the true sense original and 
 classical. It is the genuine growth of the Arcadia 
 of Scotland, and more thoroughly and satisfactorily 
 representative of Lowland life and manners than 
 any other poem in the language. Its traditional 
 popularity among the people it describes is the 
 great proof of its truly representative nature. 
 
 We have now presented an outline, which might 
 easily be filled in, of the life and circumstances of 
 Allan Ramsay, mainly with the view of showing the 
 development of his poetical faculty and the sources 
 of his inspiration. A flying estimate of his poetry 
 has been occasionally taken in the course of the 
 sketch, but it has been thought preferable here 
 rather to introduce the author, than to criticise his 
 work, and to leave his poems, as here arranged and 
 presented, to the appreciation of the reader. 
 
 J. LOGIE ROBERTSON. 
 
 Edinburgh, ist March, 1886. 
 
1. 
 
 PASTORALS 
 
^ht |3cr0on0. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Sir William Worthy. 
 
 Patie, t/ic Gentle Shepherd^ in love with Peggy. 
 
 Roger, a rich young shepherd^ in love with Jenny. 
 
 Ci Aim' f '^^^ old shepherds y tenants to Sir William. 
 Bauldy, a hynd, engaged 7vith Neps. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 - Peggy, thought to be Gland's niece. 
 Jenny, Claud's only daughter. 
 Mause, an old womany supposed to be a witch. 
 Elspa, Symon^s wife. 
 Madge, Claud's sister. 
 
 Scene — A Shepherd's Village and Fields, some few 
 miles from Edinburgh. 
 
 Tivie of action within twenty hours. 
 
Zbc 6cntlc Sbcpberb^ 
 
 ACT FIRST. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 Beneath the south side of a craigy bield, 
 Where crystal springs their halesome waters yield, 
 Twa youthfu' shepherds on the gowans lay. 
 Tenting their flocks ae bonny morn of ftfay. 
 Poor Roger granes, till hollow echoes ring ; 
 But blyther Patie likes to laugh an' sing. 
 
 Time — 8 a.m. 
 
 PATIE AND ROGER. 
 
 Patie. This sunny morning, Roger, cheers my blood, 
 An' puts a' nature in a jovial mood. 
 How heartsome is't to see the rising plants ! 
 To hear the birds chirm o'er their pleasing rants ! 
 How halesome is't to snuff the cauler air, 
 An' a' the sweets it bears, when void o' care ! 
 What ails ye, Roger, then ? what gars ye grane ? 
 Tell me the cause o' thy ill-season'd pain. 
 
6 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Roger. I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate ! 
 I'm born to strive wi' hardships sad and great. 
 Tempests may cease to jaw the rowan flood, 
 Corbies an' tods to grien for lambkins blood ; 
 But I, opprest wi' never-ending grief, 
 Maun ay despair o' lighting on relief 
 
 Patie. The bees shall loath the flow'r, an' quit the hive, 
 The saughs on boggy ground shall cease to thrive. 
 Ere scornfu' queans, or loss o' worldly gear. 
 Shall spill my rest, or ever force a tear. 
 
 Roger. Sae might I say ; but it's no easy done 
 By ane whase saul's sae sadly out o' tune. 
 You hae sae saft a voice, an' slid a tongue, 
 Tkat you're the darling o' baith auld an' young. 
 If I but ettle at a sang, or speak. 
 They dit their lugs, syne up their leglins cleek. 
 An' jeer me hameward frae the lone or bught, 
 While I'm confus'd wi' mony a vexing thought. 
 Yet I am tall, an' as weel built as thee, 
 Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye. 
 For ilka sheep ye hae, I'll number ten, 
 An' should, as ane may think, come farer ben. 
 
 Patie. But aiblins, neibour, ye hae not a heart, 
 An' downa eithly wi' your cunzie part. 
 If that be true, what signifies your gear ? 
 A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care, [smoor'd, 
 Roger. My byar tumbl'd, nine braw nowt were 
 Three elf-shot were ; yet I these ills endur'd : 
 In winter last my cares were very sma', 
 Tho' scores o' wathers perish'd in the snaw. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 7 
 
 Patie. Were your bien rooms as thinly stock'd as 
 mine, 
 Less ye wad Joss, an' less ye wad repine. 
 He that has just enough can soundly sleep ; 
 The o'ercome only fashes fouk to keep. 
 
 Roger, May plenty flow upon thee for a cross, 
 That thou may'st thole the pangs o' mony a loss ! 
 
 may'st thou doat on some fair paughty wench, 
 That ne'er will lout thy lowan drowth to quench, 
 Till, bris'd beneath the burden, thou cry dool, 
 An' awn that ane may fret that is nae fool ! 
 
 Patie. Sax good fat lambs, I said them ilka clute 
 At the West-port, an' bought a winsome flute, 
 O' plum-tree made, wi' iv'ry virles round ; 
 A dainty whistle, wi' a pleasant sound ; 
 I'll be mair canty wi't, an' ne'er cry dool, 
 Than you, wi' a' your cash, ye dowie fool 1 
 
 Roger. Na, Patie, na ! I'm nae sic churlish beast, 
 Some other thing lies heavier at my breast ; 
 
 1 dream'd a dreary dream this hinder night. 
 That gars my flesh a' creep yet wi' the fright. 
 
 Patie. Now, to a friend, how silly's this pretence, 
 To ane wha you an a' your secrets kens ; 
 Daft are your dreams, as daftly wad ye hide 
 Your weel-seen love, an' dorty Jenny's pride : 
 Tak courage, Roger, me your sorrows tell. 
 An' safely think nane kens them but yourscll. 
 
 Roger. Indeed, now, Patie, ye hae guess'd owre 
 true. 
 An' there is naething I'll keep up frae you. 
 
8 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Me dorty Jenny looks upon asquint, 
 
 To speak but till her 1 daur hardly mint ; 
 
 In ilka place she jeers me air an' late, 
 
 An' gars me look bombaz'd, an' unco blate. 
 
 But yesterday I met her yont a knowe, 
 
 She fled, as frae a shelly-coated cow : 
 
 She Bauldy looes, Bauldy that drives the car, 
 
 But geeks at me, an' says I smell o' tar. 
 
 Patie. But Bauldy looes not her, right weel I wat, 
 He sighs for Neps — sae that may stand for that. 
 
 Roger. I wish I cou'dna looe her — but, in vain, 
 I still maun do't, an' thole her proud disdain. 
 My Bawty is a cur 1 dearly like. 
 Till he yowl'd sair, she strak the poor dumb tyke ; 
 If I had fiU'd a nook within her breast. 
 She wad hae shawn mair kindness to my beast. 
 When I begin to tune my stock an' horn, 
 Wi' a' her face she shaws a cauldrife scorn. 
 Last night I play'd, (ye never heard sic spite I) 
 O'ei- Bogie was the spring, an' her delyte ; 
 Yet, tauntingly, she at her cousin speer'd, 
 Gif she cou'd tell what tune I play'd, an' sneer'd. 
 I'Mocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care, 
 I'll break my reed, an' never whistle mair. 
 
 Patie. E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help rnisluck, 
 Saebiens she be sic a thrawn gabbit chuck ? 
 Yonder's a craig, sin' ye hae tint a' houp, 
 Gae till't your wa's an' tak the lover's loup. 
 
 Roger. I needna mak sic speed my blood to spill, 
 I'll warrant death come soon eneugh a-will. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 9 
 
 Pa fie. Daft gowk ! leave aflf that silly whinging way ; 
 Seem careless, there's my hand ye'll win the day. 
 Hear how I serv'd my lass I looe as weel 
 As ye do Jenny, an' wi' heart as leal. 
 Last morning I was gye an' early out, 
 Upon a dyke I lean'd, glowring about ; 
 I saw my Meg came linkan o'er the lee ; 
 I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw nae me ; 
 For yet the sun was wading thro' the mist, 
 An' she was close upon me e'er she wist ; 
 Her coats were kiltit, an' did sweetly shaw 
 Her straught bare legs, that whiter were than snaw. 
 Her cockernony snooded up fu' sleek, 
 Her haffet-locks hung waving on her cheek ; 
 Her cheeks sae ruddy, an' her een sae clear ; 
 An' oh ! her mouth's like ony hinny pear. 
 Neat, neat she was, in bustine waistcoat clean, 
 As she cam skiffing o'er the dew}' green : 
 Elythsome, I cry'd. My bonny Meg, come here, 
 I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer ; 
 Bat I can guess ye're gawn to gather dew ; 
 She scour'd awa, an' said. What's that to you? 
 Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, an' e'ens ye like, 
 I careless cried, an' lap in o'er the dyke ; 
 I trow, when that she saw, within a crack. 
 She cam wi' a right thieveless errand back ; 
 Misca'd me first, then bade me hound my dog. 
 To wear up three waff ewes stray'd on the bog. 
 I leugh, an' sae did she ; then wi' great haste 
 I clasp'd my arms about her neck an' waist ; 
 
lo THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 
 
 About her yielding waist, an' took a fouth 
 O' sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth. 
 While hard an' fast I held her in my grips, 
 My very saul came lowping to my lips. 
 Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka smack. 
 But weel I kend she meant nae as she spak. 
 Dear Roger, when your jo puts on her gloom, 
 Do ye sae too, an' never fash your thumb, 
 Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change htir mood -, 
 Gae woo anither, an' she'll gang clean wud. 
 
 Roger. Ivind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart, 
 Ye're ay sae cadgy, an' hae sic an art 
 To hearten ane : For now, as clean's a leek, 
 Ye've cherish'd me since ye began to speak. 
 Sae, for your pains, I "11 mak you a propine, 
 (My mother, rest her saul ! she made it fine ;) 
 A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo, 
 Scarlet an' green the sets, the borders blue ; 
 Wi' spraings like gowd an' siller, crossed wi' black ; 
 I never had it yet upon my back. 
 Weel are ye wordy o't, wha hae sae kind 
 Redd up my ravel'd doubts, an' clear'd my mind. 
 
 Patie. Weel, had ye there — an' since ye've frankly made 
 To me a present o' your braw new plaid. 
 My flute's be yours, an' she too that's sae nice, 
 Shall come a-will, gif ye'll tak my advice. 
 
 Roger. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't ; 
 But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't. 
 Now tak it out, an' gie's a bonny spring ; 
 For Fm in tift to hear you play an' sing. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, ii 
 
 Paiie. But first we'll tak a turn up to the height, 
 An' see gif a' our flocks be feeding right ; 
 By that time bannocks an' a shave o' cheese 
 Will mak a breakfast that a laird might please ; 
 Might please the daintiest gabs, were they sae wise 
 To season meat wi' health, instead o' spice. 
 When we hae tane the grace-drink at the well, 
 I'll whistle fine, an' sing t' ye like mysell. {^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 h fiow'rie howm, between twa verdant braeg, 
 Where lasses use to wash an' spread their claes, 
 A trotting buruie wimpling thro' the ground, 
 Its channel pebbles shining smooth an' round : 
 Here view twa barefoot beauties, clean an' clear ; 
 First please your eye, next gratify your ear : 
 While Jenny what she wishes discommends, 
 An' Meg, wi' better sense, true love defends. 
 
 PEGGY AND JENNY. 
 
 Jejiny. Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this green. 
 This shining day will bleach our linen clean ; 
 The water's clear, the lift unclouded blue, 
 Will mak them like a lily wet wi' dew. 
 
 Peggy. Gae farer up the bum to Habbie's Howe, 
 WTiere a' the sweets o' spring an' simmer grow : 
 Between twa birks, out o'er a little lin. 
 The water fa's an' maks a singan din : 
 A pool breast-deep, beneath as clear as glass, 
 Kisses, wi' easy whirls, the bord'ring grass. 
 
 5 
 
12 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 We'll end our washing while the morning's cool ; 
 An' when the day grows het, we'll to the pool, 
 There wash oursells — 'tis healthfu' now in May, 
 An' sweetly cauler on sae warm a day. 
 
 Jenny. Daft lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say 
 Gif our twa herds come brattling down the brae, 
 An' see us sae ? that jeering fallow Pate, 
 Wad taunting say, Ilaith lasses, ye're no blate. 
 
 Pe?gy. We're far frae ony road, an' out o' sight ; 
 The lads they're feeding far beyont the height. 
 But tell me now, dear Jenny (we're our lane), 
 What gars ye plague your wooer wi' disdain ? 
 The neibours a' tent this as weel as I, 
 That Roger looes ye, yet ye carena by. 
 What ails ye at him ? Troth, between us twa, 
 He's wordy you the best day e'er ye saw. 
 
 Jeiuiy. I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end ; 
 A herd mair sheepish yet I never kend. 
 He kaims his hair, indeed, an' gaes right snug, 
 Wi' ribbon knots at his blue bannet lug, 
 WTiilk pensylie he wears a-thought a-jee, 
 An' spreads his gartens diced beneath his knee : 
 He falds his o'erlay down his breast wi' care, 
 An' few gangs trigger to the kirk or fair : 
 For a' that, he can neither sing nor say, 
 Except, " How d'ye ? " — or " There's a bonny day." 
 
 Peggy. Ye dash the lad wi' constant slighting pride, 
 Hatred for love is unco sair to bide : 
 But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld : 
 What like's a dorty maiden when she's auld? 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 13 
 
 Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat, 
 That for some feckless whim will orp an' greet ; 
 The lave laugh at it, till the dinner's past ; 
 An' syne the fool thing is oblig'd to fast, 
 Or scart anither's leavings at the last. 
 Fy ! Jenny, think, an dinna sit your time. 
 
 Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime. 
 
 Peggy. Nor I — but love in whispers lets us ken, 
 That men were made for us, an' we for men. 
 
 Jemiy. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, 
 For sic a tale I never heard him tell. 
 He glowrs an' sighs, an' I can guess the cause ; 
 But wha's oblig'd to spell his hums an' haws? 
 Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, 
 I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again. 
 They're fool's that slav'ry like, an' may be free ; 
 The chiels may a' knit up themsells for me. 
 
 Peggy. Be doing your wa's ; for me I hae a mind 
 To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. 
 
 Jenny. Heh, lass ! how can ye looe that rattle- 
 skull ? 
 A very deil, that ay maun hae his will. 
 We'll soon hear tell, what a poor fechting life 
 You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man an' wife. 
 
 P^ggy- I'll rin the risk, nor hae I ony fear, 
 But rather think ilk langsome day a year, 
 Till I wi' pleasure mount my bridal-bed. 
 Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head. 
 There we may kiss as lang as kissing's gude, 
 An' what we do, there's nane daur ca' it rude. 
 
14 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 He's get his will : Why no ? it's good my part 
 To gie him that, an he'll gie me his heart. 
 
 Jenny. He may indeed, for ten or fifteen days, 
 Mak nieikle o' ye, wi' an unco fraise, 
 An' daut ye baith afore fouk, an' your lane ; 
 But soon as his newfangleness is gane, 
 He'll look upon you as his tether-stake, 
 An' think he's tint his freedom for your sake. 
 Instead then o' lang days o' sweet delyte, 
 Ae day be dumb, an' a' the neist he'll flyte : 
 An' may be, in his barlickhoods, ne'er stick 
 To lend his loving wife a loundering lick. [move 
 
 Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to 
 My settled mind ; I'm o'er far gane in love. 
 Patie to me is dearer than my breath, 
 But want o' him I dread nae other skaith. 
 There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green 
 Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing ecn : 
 An' then he speaks wi' sic a taking art, 
 His words they thirle like music thro' my heart. 
 How blythly can he sport, an' gently rave, 
 An' jest at feckless fears that fright the lave ! 
 Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill. 
 He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill 3 
 He is — but what need I say that or this? 
 I'd spend a month to tell ye what he is ! 
 In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate, 
 The rest seem coofs compar'd wi' my dear Pate. 
 His better sense will lang his love secure ; 
 Ill-nature hefts in sauls that's weak an' poor. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 15 
 
 Jenny. Hey, Bonny lass 0' Branksome ! or 't be 
 lang, 
 Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. 
 O 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride ; 
 Syne whinging getts about your ingle-side, 
 Yelping for this or that wi' fasheous din : 
 To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin. 
 Ae wean fa's sick, ane scads itsell wi' broe, 
 Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe ; 
 The Deil goes o'er Jock IVabsiery hame grows hell. 
 An' Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell, 
 
 Peggy, Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, 
 Wlien round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. 
 Gif I'm sae happy, I shall hae delight 
 To hear their little plaints, an' keep them right. 
 Wow ! Jenny, can there greater pleasure be. 
 Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee ; 
 
 \Vlien a' they ettle at their greatest wish, 
 
 Is to be made o', an' obtain a kiss ? 
 
 Can there be toil in tenting day an' night 
 
 The like o' them, when love maks care delight ? 
 
 Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a', 
 Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw, 
 But little love or canty cheer can come 
 Frae duddy doublets, an' a pantry toom. 
 Your nowt may die ; — the spate may bear away 
 Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks o' hay. 
 The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy thows, 
 May smoor your wathers, an' may rot your ewes, 
 A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese. 
 
1 6 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 But, or the day o' payment, breaks, an' flees : 
 \Vi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent ; 
 It's no to gie ; your merchant's to the bent : 
 His honour maunna want ; he poinds your gear : 
 Syne, driven frae house an' hald, where will ye steer? 
 Dear Meg, be wise, an' live a single life ; 
 Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife. 
 
 Peggy, May sic ill luck befa' that silly she 
 \Vha has sic fears, for that was never me. 
 Let fouk bode weel, an' strive to do their best ; 
 Nae mair's required ; let Heav'n mak out the rest. 
 I've heard my honest uncle aften say. 
 That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray ; 
 For the maist thrifty man could never get 
 A wecl-stor'd room, unless his wife wad let : 
 Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part. 
 To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart : 
 Wliate'er he wins, I'll guide wi' canny care, 
 An' win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, 
 For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware. 
 A flock o' lambs, cheese, butler, an' some woo, 
 Shall first be said, to pay the laird his due ; 
 
 Syne a behind's our ain. Thus, without fear, 
 
 Wi' love an' rowth, we thro' the warld will steer ; 
 An' when my Pate in bairns an' gear grows rife, 
 He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. 
 
 Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green, 
 Wi' dimpled cheeks an' twa bewitching een, 
 Shou'd gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, 
 An' her ken'd kisses, hardly worth a feg? 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 17 
 
 Peggy. Nae mair o' that — Dear Jenny, to be free, 
 There's some men constanter in love than we : 
 Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind 
 lias blest them wi' solidity of mind. 
 They'll reason calmly, an' wi' kindness smile, 
 "When our short passions wad our peace beguile : 
 Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame. 
 It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. 
 Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art 
 To keep him cheerfu', an' secure his heart. 
 At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill, 
 I'll hae a' things made ready to his will. 
 In winter, when he toils thro' wind an' rain, 
 A bleezing ingle, an' a clean hearth-stane ; 
 An' soon as he flings by his plaid an' staff, 
 The seething pat's be ready to tak aff ; 
 Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board, 
 An' serve him wi' the best we can afford ; 
 Good humour an' white bigonets shall be 
 Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. 
 
 Jenny. A dish o' married love right soon grows cauld, 
 An' dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld. 
 
 Peggy. But we'll grow auld thegither, an' ne'er find 
 The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind. 
 Bairns and their bairns mak sure a firmer tye, 
 Than aught in love the like of us can spy. 
 See yon twa elms that grow up side by side. 
 Suppose them, some years syne, bridegroom an' bride ; 
 Nearer an' nearer ilka year they've prest. 
 Till wide their spreading branches are increas'd 
 
1 8 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 An' in their mixture now are fully blest : 
 This, shields the other fiae the eastlin blast, 
 That, in return, defends it frae the wast. 
 Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you !) 
 Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow. 
 
 Jetiny. I've done — I yield, dear lassie, I maun yield : 
 Your better sense has fairly won the field, 
 With the assistance of a little fae 
 Lies darn'd within my breast this mony a day. 
 
 Peg;^. Alake, poor pris'ner ! Jenny, that's no fair, 
 That ye'll no let the wee thing tak the air : 
 Haste, let him out ; we'll tent as weel's we can, 
 Gif he be Bauldy's or poor Roger's man. 
 
 Jenny. Anither time's as good — for see, the sun 
 Is right far up, an' we're not yet begun 
 To freath the grailh — if canker'd Madge, our aunt. 
 Come up the burn, she'll gie's a wicked rant : 
 But when we've done, I'll tell ye a' my mind ; 
 For this seems true — nae lass can be unkind, \Exeuitt. 
 
777^ GENTLE SHEPHERD. 19 
 
 ACT SECOND. 
 
 Scene L 
 
 A snug thack-house, before the door a green ; 
 Hens ou the midden, ducks in dubs are seen. 
 On this side stands a barn, on that a bj're ; 
 A peat-stack joins, an' forms a rural square. 
 The house is Glaud's — there you may see him lean, 
 Au' to his divot-seat invites his frien". 
 
 Time — 11 a.m. 
 GLAUD AND SYMON. 
 
 Glaud. Good-morrow, neibour Symon — come, sit 
 down, 
 An' gie's your cracks. — What's a' the news in town ? 
 They tell me ye was in the ither day, 
 An' said your crummock, an* her bassen'd quey. 
 I'll warrant ye've coft a pund o' cut an' dry ; 
 Lug out your box, an' gie's a pipe to try. 
 
 Symon. Wi' a' my heart ; — an' tent me now, auld boy, 
 I've gather'd news will kittle your heart wi' joy. 
 I cou'dna rest till I cam o'er the burn. 
 To tell ye things hae taken sic a turn, 
 Will gar our vile oppressors stend like flaes, 
 An' skulk in hidlings on the heather braes. 
 
 Glmid. Fy, blaw ! — Ah, Symie ! rattling chiels ne'er 
 stand 
 To deck an' spread the grossest lies a(T-hand. 
 
20 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 
 
 Whilk soon flies round, like wild-fire, far an' near ; 
 But loose your poke, be't true or fause let's hear. 
 
 Symon. Seeing's believing, Glaud ; an' I have seen 
 Hab, that abroad has wi* our master been ; 
 Our brave good master, wha right wisely fled, 
 An' left a fair estate to save his head : 
 Because, ye ken fu' weel, he bravely chose 
 To stand his Liege's friend wi' great Montrose. 
 Now Cromwell's gane to Nick ; and ane ca'd Monk 
 Has play'd the Rumple a right slee begunk, 
 Restor'd King Charles, an' ilka thing's in tune ; 
 An' Habby says, we'll see Sir William soon, 
 
 Glaud. That maks me blyth indeed ! — but dinna 
 flaw : 
 Tell o'er your news again ! and swear till't a'. 
 An' saw ye liab ! an' what did Halbert say ? 
 They hae been e'en a dreary time away. 
 Now God be thanked that our laird's come hame ; 
 An' his estate, say, can he eithly claim ? 
 
 Symon. They that hag-rid us till our guts did grane, 
 Like greedy bears, daur nae mair do't again, 
 An' good Sir William sail enjoy his ain. 
 
 Glaud. An' may he lang ; for never did he stent 
 Us in our thriving, wi' a racket rent ; 
 Nor grumbled, if ane grew rich ; or shor'd to raise 
 Our mailens, when we pat on Sunday's claes. 
 
 Symon. Nor wad he lang, wi' senseless saucy air, 
 Allow our lyart noddles to be bare. 
 ** Put on your bonnet, Symon — tak a seat. — 
 How's a' at hame ? — How's Elspa? — How does Kate? 
 
THE' GENTLE SHEPHERD. 21 
 
 How sells black cattle ? — What gies woo this year ? " — 
 And sic-like kindly questions wad he speer. 
 
 Gland. Then wad he gar his butler bring bedeen 
 The nappy bottle ben, an' glasses clean, 
 Whilk in our breasts rais'd sic a blythsome flame. 
 As gart me mony a time gae dancing hame. 
 My heart's e'en raised ! — Dear neibour, will ye stay 
 An' tak your dinner here wi' me the day ? 
 We'll send for Elspa too — an' upo' sight, 
 I'll whistle Pate an' Roger frae the height ; 
 I'll yoke my sled, an' send to the neist town, 
 An' bring a draught o' ale baith stout an' brown ; 
 An' gar our cottars a', man, wife, an' wean, 
 Drink till they tine the gate to stand their lane. 
 
 Symon. I wadna bauk my friend his blyth design, 
 Gif that it hadna first of a' been mine : 
 For ere yestreen I brew'd a bow o' maut, 
 Yestreen I slew twa wathers, prime an' fat ; 
 A fiirlot o' guid cakes my Elspa beuk, 
 An' a large ham hangs reesting in the neuk ; 
 I saw mysell, or I cam o'er the loan. 
 Our meikle pat, that scads the whey, put on, 
 A mutton bouk to boil, an' ane we'll roast ; 
 An' on the haggles Elspa spares nae cost : 
 Sma' are they shorn, an* she can mix fu' nice 
 The gusty ingans wi' a cum o' spice : 
 Fat are the puddings — heads an' feet weel sung ; 
 An' we've invited neibours auld an' young, 
 To pass this afternoon wi' glee an' game. 
 An' drink our master's health an' welcome hamei 
 
22 71IE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 
 
 Ye maunna then refuse to join the rest, 
 Since ye're my nearest friend that I like best : 
 Bring wi' you a' your family ; an' then, 
 Whene'er you please, I'll rant wi' you again. 
 
 Gland. Spoke like yoursell, auld birky, never fear, 
 But at your banquet I sail first appear : 
 Faith, we sail bend the bicker, an' look bauld, 
 Till we forget that we are fail'd or auld. 
 Auld, said I ! — troth I'm younger be a score, 
 Wi' your guid news, than what I was before. 
 I'll dance or e'en I Hey, Madge, come forth ; d'ye hear? 
 
 Enter Madge. 
 Madge. The man's gane gyte ! — Dear Symon, wel- 
 come here — 
 WTiat wad ye, Glaud, wi' a' this haste an' din ! 
 Ye never let a body sit to spin. 
 
 Gland. Spin ! snutT ! — Gae break your wheel an' burn 
 your tow, 
 An' set the meiklest peat-stack in a low ; 
 Syne dance about the banefire till ye die. 
 Since now again we'll soon Sir William see, 
 
 Madge. Blyth news indeed ! An' wha was't tald 
 
 you o't ? 
 Glaud. What's that to you ? — Gae get my Sunday's 
 coat ; 
 W^ale out the whitest o' my bobit bands, 
 My white-skin hose, an' mittans for my hands ; 
 Syne frae their washing cry the bairns in haste, 
 An' mak yoursells as trig, head, feet, an' waist, 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 23 
 
 As ye were a' to get young lads or e'en. 
 For we're gaun o'er to dine wi' Sym bedeen. 
 
 Symon. Do, honest Madge — an', Glaud, I'll o'er the 
 gate, 
 An see that a' be done as I wad hae't. {Exeunt- 
 
 Scene H. 
 
 The open field. — A cottage in a glen, 
 
 An auld wife spinnin' at the sunnie en', 
 
 At a sraa' distance by a blasted tree, 
 
 Wi' faulded aims, an' hauf-rais'd looks, ye see 
 
 BAULDY, his lane, 
 
 Bauldy. What's this ! I canna bear't ! it's waur than 
 hell. 
 To be sae burnt wi' love, yet daurna tell ! 
 O Peggy, sweeter than the dawning day, 
 Sweeter than gowany glens or new mawn hay ; 
 Blyther than lambs that frisk out owre the knows ; 
 Straughter than aught that in the forest grows ; 
 Her een the clearest blob o' dew outshines ; 
 The lily in her breast its beauty tines ; 
 Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her mouth, her een, 
 Will be my dead, that will be shortly seen ! 
 For Pate looes her — waes me ! an' she looes Pate ; 
 An' I wi' Neps, by some unlucky fate, 
 Made a daft vow : O ! but ane be a beast, 
 That maks rash aiths till he's afore the priest ! 
 
24 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 I daurna speak my mind, else a' the three, 
 
 But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy : 
 
 It's sair to thole ; — I'll try some witchcraft art. 
 
 To break wi' ane an' win the other's heart. 
 
 Plere Mausy lives, a witch, that for sma' price 
 
 Can cast her cantrips, an' gie me advice : 
 
 She can o'ercast the night, an' cloud the moon. 
 
 An' mak the deils obedient to her crune : 
 
 At midnight hours, o'er the kirk-yard she raves, 
 
 An' howks unchristen'd weans out o' their graves ; 
 
 Boils up their livers in a warlock's pow : 
 
 Kins withershins about the hemlock low ; 
 
 An jcven times does her pray'rs backward pray, 
 
 Till riotcock comes wi' lumps o' Lapland clay, 
 
 Mixt wi' the venom o' black taids an' snaWes : 
 
 O' this unsonsy pictures aft she makes 
 
 O' ony ane she hates, — an' gars expire 
 
 Wi' slaw an' racking pains afore a fire ; 
 
 Stuck fu' o' prins, the devilish pictures melt ; 
 
 The pain by fouk they represent is felt. 
 
 An' yonder's Mause ; ay, ay, she kens fu' weel, 
 
 WTien ane like me comes rinnin' to the deil. 
 
 She an' her cat sit becking in her yard ; 
 
 To speak my errand, faith, amaist I'm fear'd ; 
 
 But I maun do't, tho' I shou'd never thrive : 
 
 They gallop fast that deils an' lasses drive. \^Exit. 
 
-3 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 A ^een kailyard ; a little fount, 
 
 Where water poplin springs ; 
 There sits a wife wi' wrinkled front, 
 
 An' yet she spins an' sings. 
 
 MAUSE sings. 
 
 Peggy, now the king's come, 
 
 Peggy, now the kings coine ; 
 
 Thou may dance a«' / shall sing, 
 
 Peggy, since the kings come. 
 
 Nae rnair the hatvkies shall thou jnilk, 
 Btit change thy plaiden coat for silk, 
 
 An^ be a lady d that ilk. 
 Now, Peggy, since the kings come. 
 
 Enter BAULDY. 
 
 Bauldy. How does auld honest lucky o' the glen ? 
 Ye lock baith hale an' fere at threescore ten. 
 
 Mause. E'en twining out a thread wi' little din, 
 An' beeking my cauld limbs afore the sun. 
 What brings my bairn this gate sae air at morn ? 
 Is there nae muck to lead ? — to thresh, nae corn ? 
 
 Bauldy. Eneugh o' baith — but something that 
 requires 
 Your helping hand employs now a' my cares. 
 
 Mause. My helping hand ! alake ! what can I do. 
 That underneath baith eild an' poortith bow ? 
 
26 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Bauldy. Ay, but ye' re wise, and wiser far than we, 
 Or maist part o' the parish tells a lie. 
 
 Manse. O' what kind wisdom think ye I'm possest, 
 That lifts my character aboon the rest ? [an' fell, 
 
 Bauldy. The word that gangs, how ye're sae wise 
 Ye'll maybe tak it ill gif I should tell. 
 
 Mause. What fouk say o' me, Bauldy, let me hear ; 
 Keep naething up, ye naelhing hae to fear. 
 
 Bauldy. Weel, since ye bid me, I shall tell ye a' 
 That ilk ane tanks about ye, but a flaw. 
 When last the wind made Glaud a roofless barn ; 
 When last the Imrn bore down my mither's yarn ; 
 When Brawny elf-shot never mair came hame ; 
 When Tibby kirn'd an' there nae butter came ; 
 W^hen Bessy Frectock's chuffy-cheeked wean 
 To a fairy tum'd, and cou'dna stand its lane ; 
 Wlien W^attie wander'd ae night thro' the shaw, 
 An' tint himsell amaist amang the snaw ; 
 Wlien Mungo's mare stood still, an' swat wi' fright, 
 WTien he brought east the howdy under night ; 
 \Vhen Bawsy shot to dead upon the green ; 
 An' Sara tint a snood was nae mair seen : 
 You, Lucky, gat the wyte o' a' fell out, 
 An' ilk ane here dreads you, a' round about ; 
 An' sae they may that mint to do ye skaith •, 
 For me to wrang ye, I'll be very laith : 
 But when I neist mak grots, I'll strive to please 
 You wi' a furlet o' them, mixt wi' pease. 
 
 Mause. I thank ye, lad.— Now tell me your demand, 
 An' if I can, I'll lend my helping hand. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 27 
 
 Bauldy. Then, I like Peggy. — Neps is fond o' me. — 
 Peggy likes Pate ; — an' Pate is bauld an' slee, 
 An' looes sweet Meg. — But Neps I downa see. — 
 Cou'd ye turn Patie's love to Neps, an' then 
 Peggy's to me, — I'd be the happiest o' men. 
 
 Mause. I'll try my art to gar the bowls row right ; 
 Sae gang your ways, an' come again at night : 
 'Gainst that time I'll some simple thing prepare, 
 Worth a' your pease an' grots ; tak ye nae care. 
 
 Bauldy. Weel, Mause, I'll come, gif I the road can 
 find: 
 But if ye raise the deil, he'll raise the wind ; 
 Syne rain an' thunder, maybe, when it's late, 
 Will mak the night sae mirk, I'll tyne the gate. 
 We're a' to rant in Symie's at a feast, 
 O will ye come like badrans for a jest? 
 An' there ye can our different 'haviours spy : 
 There's nane shall ken o't there but you an' I. 
 
 Mause. it's like I may — but let nae on what's past 
 'Tween you an' me, else fear a kittle cast. 
 
 Bauldy. If I aught o' your secrets e'er advance. 
 May ye ride on me ilka night to France. \_Exit Bauldy. 
 
 Mause, her lane. 
 Hard luck, alake ! when poverty an' eild, 
 Weeds out o' fashion, an' a lanely bield, 
 Wi' a sma' cast o' wiles, should, in a twitch, 
 Gie ane the hatefu' name, A wrinkled witch. 
 This fool imagines, as do many sic, 
 That I'm a wretch in compact wi' Auld Nick \ 
 
 6 
 
28 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Because by education I was taught 
 
 To speak an' act aboon their common thought. 
 
 Their gross mistake shall quickly now appear ; 
 
 Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me here ; 
 
 Nane kens but me ; — an' if the morn were come, 
 
 I'll tell them tales will gar th'=:m a' sing dumb. {^Exit, 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Behind a tree upon the plain, 
 
 Pate and his Pegpy meet ; 
 In love, without a vidous stain. 
 The bonny lass and cheerfu' swain 
 
 Change vows an' kiases aweet. 
 
 PATIE AND TEGGY. 
 
 /y.rc?'. O Patie, let me gang, I maunna stay ; 
 We're baith cry'd hame, an' Jeimy she's away. 
 
 Patie. I'm laith to part sae soon, now we're alane, 
 An' Roger he's awa' wi' Jenny gane ; 
 They're as content, for aught I hear or see, 
 To be alane themsells, i judge, as we. 
 Here, where primroses thickest paint the green, 
 Hard by this little burnie let us lean. 
 Hark, how the lav'rocks chant aboon our heads. 
 How saft the westlin winds sough thro' the reeds ! 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 29 
 
 Peggy. The scented meadows, — birds, — an' healthy 
 breeze, 
 For aught I ken, may mair than Peggy please. 
 
 Paiie. Ye wrang me sair, to doubt my being kind ; 
 In speaking sae, ye ca' me dull an' blind ; 
 Gif I cou'd fancy aught' s sae sweet or fair 
 As my dear Meg, or worthy o' my care. 
 Thy breath is sweeter than the sweetest brier, 
 Thy cheek an' breast the finest flow'rs appear. 
 Thy words excel the maist delightfu' notes, 
 That warble thro' the merl or mavis' throats. 
 Wi' thee I tent nae flow'rs that busk the field, 
 Or riper berries that our mountains yield. 
 The sweetest fruits that hing upon the tree 
 Are far inferior to a kiss o' thee. 
 
 Peggy. But, Patrick, for some wicked end, may 
 fleetch, 
 An' lambs shou'd tremble when the foxes preach. 
 I daurna stay ; ye joker, let me gang : 
 Anither lass may gar you change your sang; 
 Your thoughts may flit, and I may thole the wrang. 
 
 Patie. Sooner a mother shall her fondness drap, 
 An' wrang the bairn sits smiling on her lap : 
 The sun shall change, the moon to change shall cease. 
 The gaits to dim, — the sheep to )deld their fleece, 
 Ere aught by me be either said or done, 
 Shall skaith our love, I swear by a' aboon. 
 
 Peggy. Then keep your aith. — But mony lads will 
 swear, 
 An' be mansworn to twa in hauf-a-year. 
 
30 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Now I believe ye like me wonder weel ; 
 But if a fairer face your heart shou'd steal, 
 Your Meg, forsaken, bootless might relate, 
 How she was dawted anes by faithless Pate. 
 
 Patie. I'm sure 1 canna change ; ye needna fear: 
 Tho' we're but young, I've looed you mony a year. 
 I mind it weel, when thou cou'dst hardly gang. 
 Or lisp out words, 1 choos'd ye frae the thrang 
 O' a the bairns, an' led thee by the hand, 
 Aft to the tansy knowe, or rashy strand. 
 Thou smiling by my side : — I took delyte 
 To pou the rashes green, wi' roots sae white ; 
 O' which, as weel as my young fancy cou'd. 
 For thee I plet the flow'ry belt an' snood. 
 
 P^^D'' When first thou gade wi' shepherds to the 
 hill, 
 An' I to milk the ewes first try'd my skill, 
 To bear a leglcn was nae toil to me, 
 When at the bught at e'en I met wi' thee. 
 
 Patie. AVhen corn grew yellow, an' the heather-bells 
 Bloom'd bonny on the niuir an' rising fells, 
 Nae bims, or briers, or whins, e'er troubl'd me 
 Gif I cou'd find blae-berries ripe for thee. 
 
 Peggy. When thou didst wrestle, run, or putt the 
 stane, 
 An' wan the day, my heart was flight'rin' fain ; 
 At a' these sports thou still gie joy to me ; 
 For nane can wrestle, run, or putt wi' thee. 
 
 Patie. J^nny sings saft the Broom o Co'vdenknou'es ^ 
 An' Rosie lilts the Milking d the Ewes ; 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 31 
 
 There's nane like '^s.ncy Jenny Nettles sings; 
 At turns in Maggy Lauder^ Marion dings : 
 But when my Peggy sings, wi' sweeter skill, 
 The Boatman^ or the Lass Patie s Millj 
 It is a thousand times mair sweet to me ; 
 Tho' they sing weel, they canna sing like thee. 
 
 Peggy. How eith can lasses trow what they desire ! 
 An', roos'd by them we love, blaws up that fire ; 
 But wha looes best, let time an' carriage try ; 
 Be constant, an' my love shall time defy. 
 Be still as now ; an' a' my care shall be 
 Hov/ to contrive what pleasant is for thee. 
 
 Patie. Were thou a giglet gawky like the lave. 
 That little better than our nowt behave ; 
 At naught they'll ferly, senseless tales believe ; 
 Be blythe for silly heghts, for trifles grieve : — 
 Sic ne'er cou'd win my heart, that kenna hov/ 
 Either to keep a prize, or yet prove true ; 
 But thou, in better sense without a flaw, 
 As in thy beauty, far excels them a' : 
 Continue kind, an' a' my care shall be, 
 How to contrive what pleasing is for thee. 
 
 P^SSV' Agreed. — But hearken ! yon's auld aunty's cry, 
 I ken they'll wonder what can mak us stay. 
 
 Patie. An' let them ferly. — Now a kindly kiss, 
 Or five-score guid anes wadna be amiss ; 
 An' syne we'll sing the sang, wi* tunefu' glee, 
 That I made up last owk on you and me. 
 
 Peggy. Sing first, syne claim your hire. 
 
 Patie. Weel, I agree. 
 
32 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Patie sings. 
 
 By the delicious warmness of thy mouthy 
 An rowing een that smiling tell the truths 
 I guess ^ my lassie, that, as wee I as /, 
 You re made for love, an why should ye deny. 
 
 Peggy sings. 
 But ken ye, lad, gin we confess oer sooHy 
 Ye think us cheap, an' syne the wooing' s do)ie : 
 The maiden that der quickly tines her power. 
 Like unripe fruity will taste but hard an" sour. 
 
 Patie sings. 
 
 But gin they hing der lang upon the tree. 
 Their sweetness they may tine ; an sae may ye. 
 Ked-chceked ye completely ripe appear, 
 An^ I hae thol 'd and wodd a lang half-year. 
 
 Peggy, singing, fd s into Patie's arms. 
 
 TJien dinna pu me, gently thus / fa 
 Into my Patie's arms, for good aii a. 
 But stint your ivishes to this kind cmbrcue. 
 An 7)1 int ncu farer till we've got the grace. 
 
 Patie, lui' his left hand about her waist. 
 
 charming artnfu ! hence, ye cares, away, 
 
 1 'II kiss my treasure a the live-lang day : 
 A' night ril drea?)i my kisses der again, 
 Till that day come that ye II he a my ain. 
 
Siifi,§- hy both. 
 
 Sun, gallop down the westlin skies, 
 Gang soon to bed, an' qtiickly rise ; 
 
 lash your steeds, post time away. 
 And haste about our bridal day ! 
 
 An if ye re wearied, honest light, 
 Sleep, gin ye like, a week that rJghi, 
 
34 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 ACT THIRD. 
 
 Scene I, 
 
 Now turn your eyes beyond yon spreading Unie, 
 An' tent a man whase beard seems bleach'd wi' time, 
 An elwand tills his hand, his habit mean ; 
 Nae doubt ye'll tliiiik lie has a pedlar been. 
 But whisht 1 it is the Knij^ht in mascurad, 
 That comes, hid in his cloud, to see his lad. 
 Observe how pleas'd the loyal suff 'rer moves 
 Thro' his auld av'nues, ance delightfu' groves. 
 
 Time — 4 p.m. 
 
 Sir WILLIAM, solus. 
 
 Sir IVil. The gentleman, thus hid in low disguise, 
 I'll for a space, unknown, delight mine eyes 
 With a full view of ev'ry fertile plain, 
 \\Tiich once I lost — which now are mine again. 
 Yet, 'midst my joy, some prospects pain renew. 
 Whilst I my once fair seat in ruins view. 
 Yonder, ah me I it desolately stands 
 AVithout a roof, the gates fall'n from their bands ; 
 The casements all broke down — no chimney left — 
 The naked walls of tap'stry all bereft — 
 My stables and pavilions, broken walls, 
 That, with each rainy blast, decapng falls — 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 35 
 
 INIy gardens, once adorn'd the most complete, 
 
 With all that nature, all that art makes sweet ; 
 
 Where, round the figur'd green and pebble walks, 
 
 The dewy flow'rs hung nodding on their stalks : 
 
 But overgrown with nettles, docks, and brier, 
 
 No jaccacinths or eglantines appear. 
 
 How do those ample walls to ruin yield, 
 
 Where peach and nect'rine branches found a bield, 
 
 And bask'd in rays, which early did produce 
 
 Fruit fair to view, delightful to the use : 
 
 All round in gaps, the walls in rubbish lie, 
 
 And from what stands the wither'd branches fly. 
 
 These soon shall be repair'd ; and now my joy 
 
 Forbids all grief, when I'm to see my boy, 
 
 Jily only prop, and object of my care, 
 
 Since Heav'n too soon call'd home his mother fair : 
 
 Him, ere the rays of reason clear'd his thought, 
 
 I secretly to faithful Symon brought. 
 
 And charg'd him strictly to conceal his birth, 
 
 Till we should see what changing times brought forth. 
 
 Hid from himself, he starts up by the dawn, 
 
 And ranges careless o'er the height and lawn, 
 
 After his fleecy charge, serenely gay, 
 
 With other shepherds whistling o'er the day. 
 
 Thrice happy life ! that's from ambition free ; 
 
 Remov'd from crowns and courts, how cheerfully 
 
 A calm contented mortal spends his time. 
 
 In hearty health, his soul unstain'd with crime. 
 
 Now tow'rds good Symon's house I'll bend my way, 
 
 And see what makes yon gamboling to-day ; 
 
36 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 All on the green, in a fair wanton ring, 
 My youthful tenants gaily dance and sing. 
 
 \^Exit Sir William. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 It's Symon'a house, please to step in, 
 
 Au' vissy't round an' round ; 
 There's nought suporfl'oua to gie pain, 
 
 Or costly to be found. 
 Yet a' is clean — a clear peat-ingle 
 
 Glances amidst the floor ; 
 The green-horn spoons, beech luggies mingle 
 
 On .skelfs foregainat the door. 
 ^\^liIe the young brood sport on the green, 
 
 The auld anes think it best, 
 Wi' the brown cow to clear their een, 
 
 Snuff, crack, an' tak their rest. 
 
 SYMON, GLAUD, AND ELSPA. 
 
 Gland. We anes were young oursells — I like to see 
 The bairns bob round wi' other merrylie. 
 Troth, Symon, Patio's grown a strapan lad, 
 An' better looks than his I never bade ; 
 Amang our lads he bears the gree awa', 
 An' teUs his tale the clev'rest o' them a'. 
 
 Elspa. Poor man ! he's a great comfort to us haith ; 
 God mak him guid, an' hide him aye frae skaith. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 
 
 J/ 
 
 He is a bairn, I'll say't, weel worth our care, 
 That gae us nae vexation late or air. 
 
 Glaud. I trow, goodwife, if T be not niista'en, 
 He seems to be wi' Peggy's beauty ta'en ; 
 An' troth, my niece is a right dainty wean, 
 As weel ye ken — a bonnier needna be, 
 Nor better, be't she were nae kin to me. 
 
 Symoii. Ha, Glaud ! I doubt that ne'er will be a 
 match ; 
 My Patie's wild, an' will be ill to catch ; 
 An' or he were, for reasons I'll no tell, 
 I'd rather be mixt wi' the mools mysell. 
 
 Glaud. What reason can ye bae ? There's nane, I'm 
 sure, 
 Unless ye may cast up that she's but poor ; 
 But gif the lassie marry to my aiind, 
 I'll be to her, as my ain Jenny, kind. 
 Fourscore o' breeding ewes o' my ain birn, 
 Five kye, that at ae milking fills a kirn, 
 I'll gie to Peggy that day she's a bride ; 
 By an attour, gif my guid luck abide. 
 Ten lambs, at spaining-time, as lang's I live, 
 An' twa quey cawfs, I'll yearly to them give. 
 
 Elspa. Ye offer fair, kind Glaud, but dinna speer 
 Wliat maybe is nae fit ye yet shou'd hear. 
 
 Symon. Or this day aught-days likely he shall learn, 
 That our denial disna slight his bairn. 
 
 Glaud. Weel, nae mair o't — come, gie's the other bend ; 
 We'll drink their healths, whatever way it end. 
 
 [ Their healths gae round. 
 
3b THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Symon. But, will ye tell me, Gland ; by seme it's 
 said, 
 Vour niece is but a fundling, that was laid 
 Down at your hallen-side, ae morn in May, 
 Right clean row'd up, an' bedded on dry hay? 
 
 Glaud. That clatterin' Madge, my titty, tells sic flaws. 
 Whene'er our Meg her canker'd humour gaws. 
 
 Enter Jenny. 
 
 Jenny. O father, there's an auld man on the green, 
 The fellcst fortune-teller e'er was seen : 
 lie tents our loofs, an' syne whups out a book, 
 Turns o'er the leaves, an' gie's our brows a look ; 
 Syne tells the oddest tales that e'er ye heard. 
 His head is grey, an* lang an' grey his beard. 
 
 Symon. Gae bring him in ; we'll hear what he can say, 
 Nane shall gae hungry by my house the day : 
 
 \^Exit Jenny. 
 But for his telling fortunes, troth, I fear, 
 He kens nae mair o' that than my grey mare. 
 
 Gland. Spae-men ! the truth o' a' their saws I doubt ; 
 For greater liars never ran thereout. 
 
 Jenny returns^ bringing in SiR William ; with them 
 Patie. 
 
 Symon. Ye're welcome, honest carle, here tak a seat. 
 Sir IVil. I gie ye thanks, goodman, Fse no be blate. 
 Glaiul [drinks']. Come, here's t'ye, friend — How far 
 cam' ye the day? 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 39 
 
 Sir Wil. I pledge ye, neibour, e'en but little way : 
 Rousted wi' eild, a wee piece gate seems lang : 
 Twa mile or three's the maist that I dow gang. 
 
 Syinon, Ye're welcome here to stay a' night wi'' me, 
 An' tak sic bed an' board as we can gie. 
 
 Sir Wil. That's kind unsought. — Well, gin ye hae a 
 bairn 
 That ye like weel, an' wad his fortune learn, 
 I shall employ the farthest o' my skill 
 To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill. 
 
 Symon [pointing to Patie.'\ Only that lad: — alake ! 
 I hae nae mae, 
 Either to mak me joyfu' now, or wae. [ye sneer ? 
 
 Sir Wil. Young man, let's see your hand ; what gars 
 
 Patie. Because your skill's but little worth, I fear. 
 
 Sir Wil. Ye cut before the point ; but, billy, bide, 
 I'll wager there's a mouse-mark on your side. 
 
 Elspa. Betouch-us-too ! — an' well I wat that's true ; 
 Awa, awa, the deil's o'er grit wi' you ; 
 Four inch aneath his oxter is the mark, 
 Scarce ever seen since he first wore a sark. 
 
 Sir Wil. I'll tell ye mair ; if this young lad be spar'd 
 But a short while, he'll be a braw rich laird. 
 
 Elspa. A laird ! Hear ye, goodman — what think ye 
 now? 
 
 Symon. I dinna ken I Strange auld man, what art 
 thou? 
 Fair fa' your heart, it's guid to bode o' wealth ; 
 Come, turn the timmer to laird Patie's health ; 
 
 [Patie s health goes romid. 
 
40 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Patie. A laird o' twa gude whistles an' a kent, 
 Twa curs, my trusty tenants on the bent. 
 Is a' my great estate — an' like to be : 
 Sae, cunning carle, ne'er break your jokes on me. 
 
 Symon. V\lii5ht, Patie, — let the man look o'er your 
 hand, 
 Aft times as broken a ship has come to land. 
 
 [Sir William looks a little at Patie's handy then 
 counterfeits fallins^ into a trance^ ivhile they 
 endeavour to lay him riijht. 
 
 Ehpa. Preserve's ! — the man's a warlock, or possest 
 Wi' some nae good, or second-sight, at least ; 
 W'here is he now ? 
 
 Glaud. lie's seeing a' that's done 
 In ilka place, beneath or yont the moon. [here !) 
 
 Ehpa. These second-sighted fouk (his peace be 
 See things far aff, an' things to come, as clear 
 As I can see my thumb. — Wow ! can he tell 
 (Speer at him, soon as he comes to himsell) 
 How soon we'll see Sir William? Whisht, he heaves, 
 An' speaks out broken words like ane that raves. 
 
 SyfHon. He'll soon grow better ; — Elspa, haste ye, gae 
 An' fill him up a tass o' usquebae. 
 
 Sir William starts up, and speaks. . 
 
 A Knight that for a Lyon fought, 
 
 Against a herd of bears, 
 Was to lang toil and trouble brought, 
 
 In which some thousands shares. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 41 
 
 But now again the Lyon rares, 
 
 And joy spreads o'er the plain : 
 The Lyon has defeat the bears. 
 
 The Knight returns again. 
 That Knight, in a few days, shall bring 
 
 A shepherd frae the fauld, 
 And shall present him to his king, 
 
 A subject true and bauld. 
 He Mr. Patrick shall be call'd :— 
 
 All you that hear me now. 
 May well believe what I have tauld, 
 
 For it shall happen true. 
 
 Symon. Friend, may your spaeing happen soon an' 
 weel ; 
 But, faith, Fm redd you've bargain'd wi' the deil. 
 To tell some tales that fouks wad secret keep ; 
 Or, do you get them tauld you in your sleep ? 
 
 Sir IVil. Howe'er I get them, never fash your beard, 
 Nor come I to read fortunes for reward ; 
 But Fll lay ten to ane wi* ony here, 
 That all I prophecy shall soon appear. 
 
 Symon. You prophecying fouks are odd kind men ! 
 They're here that ken, and here that disna ken. 
 The whimpled meaning o' your unco tale, 
 \Vhilk soon will mak a noise o'er muir an' dale. 
 
 Glaud. It's nae sma* sport to hear how Sym believes, 
 An' taks't for gospel what the spaeman gives 
 O' flawing fortunes, whilk he ev'ns to Pate : 
 But what we wish, we trow at ony rate. 
 
42 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 
 
 Sir Wil. WTiisht I doubtfu' carle ; for ere the sun 
 
 Has driven twice down to the sea, 
 "WTiat I have said, ye shall see done 
 
 In part, or nae mair credit me. 
 Glaud. Weel be't sae, friend ; I shall say naething 
 mair ; 
 But I've twa sonsy lasses, young an' fair. 
 Plump ripe for men : I wish ye cou'd foresee 
 Sic fortunes for them, might prove joy to me. 
 Sir Wil. Nae mair thro' secrets can I sift, 
 
 Till darkness black the bent : 
 I hae but anes a day that gift ; 
 
 Sae rest a while content. 
 Symon. Elspa, cast on the claith, fetch butt some 
 meat, 
 An' o' your best gar this auld stranger eat. 
 
 Sir Wil. Delay a while your hospitable care \ 
 I'd rather enjoy this ev'ning calm an' fnir, 
 Around yon ruin'd tower, to fetch a walk 
 Wi' you, kind friend, to have some private talk. 
 
 Symoti. Soon as you please I'll answer your desire: — 
 An', Glaud, you'll tak your pipe beside the fire; — • 
 We'll but gae round the place, an' soon be back. 
 Syne sup together, an' tak our pint an' crack. 
 
 Glaud. I'll out a while, an' see the young anes play: 
 My heart's still light, albeit my locks be grey. 
 
 {Exeunt, 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 43 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Jenny pretends an errand harao ; 
 
 Young Roger draps the rest, 
 To whisper out his melting flame, 
 An' thow his lassie's breast. 
 Behind a hush, weel hid frae sight, they meet : 
 See, Jenny's laughing ; Roger's like to greet. 
 Poor Shepherd I 
 
 ROGER AND JENNY. 
 
 Roger. Dear Jenny, I wad speak t' ye, wad ye let ; 
 An' yet I ergh, ye're ay sae scornfu' set. 
 
 Jenny. An' what wad Roger say, gif he cou'd speak ? 
 Am I oblig'd to guess what ye're to seek ? 
 
 Roger. Yes, ye may guess right eith for what I grein, 
 Baith by my service, sighs, an' langing een. 
 An' 1 maun out wi't, tho' I risk your scorn ; 
 Ye're never frae my thoughts, baith e'en an' morn. 
 Ah ! cou'd I looe ye less, I'd happy be ; 
 But happier, far 1 cou'd ye but fancy me. 
 
 Jenny. An' wha kens, honest lad, but that I may ? 
 Ye canna say that e'er I said you nay. 
 
 Roger. Alake ! my frighted heart begins to fail, 
 Whene'er I mint to tell ye out my tale, 
 For fear some tighter lad, mair rich than I, 
 Hae win your love, an' near your heart may lie. 
 
 Jenny. I looe my father, cousin Meg I lovej 
 But, to this day, nae man my mind cou'd move : 
 Except my kin, ilk lad's alike to me, 
 An' frae ye a' I best had keep me free. 
 
44 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Roger. How lang, dear Jenny ? — sayna that again : 
 What pleasure can ye tak in giving pain ? 
 I'm glad, however, that ye yet stand free ; 
 \Vlia kens but ye may rue, an' pity me ? 
 
 Jenny. Ye hae my pity else, to see you set 
 On that whilk maks our sweetness soon forget. 
 Wow ! but we're bonny, guid, an' ev'ry thing ; 
 IIow sweet we breathe whene'er we kiss or sing ! 
 But we're nae sooner fools to gie consent, 
 Than we our daffm an' tint pow'r repent : 
 When prison'd in four wa's, a wife right tame, 
 Allho' the first, the greatest drudge at hame. 
 
 Roger. That only happens, when, for sake o' gear, 
 Ane wales a wife as he wad buy a mare : 
 Or when dull parents bairns together bind, 
 O' different tempers, that can ne'er prove kind. 
 But love, true downright love, engages me, 
 (Tho' thou shou'dst scorn) still to delyte in thee. 
 
 Jenny. \Vhat sugar'd words frae wooers' lips can fa' 1 
 But girning marriage comes an' ends them a', 
 I've seen, wi' shining fair, the morning rise. 
 An' soon the sleety clouds mirk a' the skies. 
 I've seen the siller spring a while rin clear. 
 An' soon in mossy puddles disappear ! 
 The bridegroom may rejoice, the bride may smile ; 
 But soon contentions a' their joys beguile. 
 
 Roger. I've seen the morning rise wi' fairest light, 
 The day, unclouded, sink in calmest night. 
 I've seen the spring rin wimpling thro' the ftlain. 
 Increase, an' join the ocean without stain : 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 45 
 
 The bridegroom may be biythe, the bride may smile ; 
 Rejoice thro' life, an' a' your fears beguile. 
 Jenny. Were I but sure ye lang wad love main- 
 tain, 
 The fewest words my easy heart cou'd gain : 
 For I maun own, since now at last you're free, 
 Altho' 1 jok'd, I looed your company ; 
 An' ever had a warn^.ness in my breast, 
 That made ye dearer to me than the rest. 
 
 Roger. I'm happy now ! o'er happy ! baud my head ! 
 This gust o* pleasure's like to be my dead. 
 Come to my arms ! or strike me ! I'm a' fir'd 
 Wi' wond'ring love ! let's kiss till we be tir'd. 
 Kiss, kiss ! we'll kiss the sun an' starns away, 
 An* ferly at the quick return o' day ! 
 O Jenny ! let my arms about thee twine, 
 An' briss thy bonny breast an' lips to mine. 
 
 Jenny. Wi' equal joy my easy heart gies way, 
 To own thy weel-try'd love has won the day. 
 Now, by thae warmest kisses thou hast tane. 
 Swear thus to looe me, when by vows made ane. 
 
 Roger. I swear by fifty thousand yet to come. 
 Or may the first ane strike me deaf an' dumb ; 
 There sail not be a kindlier dawted wife. 
 If ye agree wi' me to lead your life. 
 
 Jenny. Weel, I agree — neist to my parent gae. 
 Get his consent.. — he'll hardly say ye nae ; 
 Ye hae what will commend ye to him weel, 
 Auld fouks, like them, that want na milk an' meal. 
 
 Roger, My faulds contain twice fifteen forrow nowt, 
 
46 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 As mony newcal in my byars rout ; 
 Five packs o' woo 1 can at Lammas sell, 
 Shorn frae my bob-tail'd bleeters on the fell : 
 Guid twenty pair o' blankets for our bed, 
 Wi' meikle care, my thrifty mither made. 
 Ilk thing that maks a hearlsome house an' tight 
 Was still her care, my father's great delight. 
 They left me a', whilk now gies joy to me, 
 r.ecause I can gie a', my dear, to thee : 
 An' had i fifty times as meikle niair, 
 Nana but my Jenny shou'd the samen skair. 
 My love an' a' is yours ; now baud them fast, 
 An' guide them as ye like, to gar them last, 
 Jenny. I'll do my best. — But s;::e wha comes this 
 
 way, 
 Patie an' Meg ; — besides, I mauna stay : 
 Let's steal frae ither now, an' meet the morn ; 
 If we be seen, we'll dree a deal o' scorn. 
 Roger. To where the saugh-tree shades the mennin- 
 
 pool, 
 I'll frae the hill come down, when day grows cool : 
 Keep tryst, an' meet me there ; — there let us meet. 
 To kiss, an' tell our love ; — there's nought sae sweet. 
 
 \_Excunt. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 47 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 This scene presents the knight an' Sym, 
 
 Within a gall'ry o' the place, 
 Where a' looks ruinous an' grim ; 
 
 Nor has the baron shawn his face. 
 But joking ^vi' his shepherd leal, 
 
 Aft speers the gate he kens fu' weel. 
 
 SIR WILLIAM AND SYMON. 
 
 Sir Wil. To whom belongs this house so mucb 
 decay'd ? 
 
 Simon. To ane that lost it, lending gen'rous aid 
 i'o bear the head up, when rebellious tail 
 Against the laws o' nature did prevail. 
 Sir William Worthy is our master's name, 
 Wliilk fills us a' \vi' joy, now hes co?He hame. 
 
 (Sir William draps his masking-beard ; 
 
 Symon. transported, sees 
 The welcome knight, wi' fond regard, 
 An' grasps him round the knees.) 
 
 My master ! my dear master !— Jo I breathe 
 To see him healthy, strong, an' free frae skaith ! 
 Return'd to cheer his wishing tenants' sight ! 
 To bless his son, my charge, the warld's delight. 
 
 Sir Wil. Rise, faithful Symon, in my arms enjoy 
 A place thy due, kind guardian of my boy : 
 
48 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 I came to view thy care in this disguise, 
 And am contirm'd thy conduct has been wise ; 
 Since still the secret thou'st securely seal'd, 
 And ne'er to him his real birth reveal'd. 
 
 Symon, The due obedience to your strict command 
 
 Was the first lock neist, my ain judgment fand 
 
 Out reasons plenty since, without estate, 
 
 A youth, tho' sprung frae kings, looks bauch an' blate. 
 
 Sir Wil. And often vain and idly spend their time. 
 Till grown unfit for action, past their prime, 
 Hang on their friends — which gives their souls a cast. 
 That turns them downright beggars at the last. 
 
 Symon. Now, wecl I wat. Sir, you hae spoken true ; 
 For there's laird Kytie's son, that's looed by few ; 
 His father stcght his fortune in his wame, 
 An' left his heir nought but a gentle name. 
 He gangs about, soman frae place to place, 
 As scrimpt o' manners as o' sense an' grace, 
 Oppressing a', as punishment o' their sin. 
 That are within his tenth degree o' kin : 
 Kins in ilk trader's debt, wha's sae unjust 
 To his ain family as to gie him trust. 
 
 Sir Wil. Such useless branches of a commonwealth, 
 Should be lopt off, to give a state more health. 
 
 Unworthy bare reflection. Symon, run 
 
 O'er all your observations on my son : 
 A parent's fondness easily finds excuse, 
 But do not, with indulgence, truth abuse. 
 
 Symon. To speak his praise, the langest simmer day 
 Wad be owre short, cou'd I them right display. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 49 
 
 In word an' deed he can sae weel behave, 
 That out o' sight he rins afore the lave ; 
 An' when there's ony quarrel or contest, 
 Patrick's made judge to tell wha's cause is best ; 
 An' his decreet stands guid — he'll gar it stand — 
 \Vha daurs to grumble, finds his correcting hand ; 
 Wi' a firm look, an' a commanding way, 
 lie gars the proudest o' our herds obey. 
 
 Sir Wil. Your tale much pleases — My good friend, 
 proceed : 
 What learning has he ? Can he write and read ? 
 
 Symon. Baith wonder weel ; for, troth ! I didna spare 
 To gie him at the school eneugh o' lair ; 
 An' he delytes in books — he reads an' speaks, 
 Wi' fowks that ken them, Latin words an' Greeks. 
 
 Sir Wil. Where gets he books to read ? and of what 
 kind? 
 Tho' some give light, some blindly lead the blind. 
 
 Symon. Whene'er he drives our sheep to Edinburgh 
 port, 
 He buys some books o' hist'ry, sangs, or sport ; 
 Nor does he want o' them a rowth at will. 
 An' carries ay a pouchfu' to the hill. 
 About ane Shakespeare, an* a famous Ben, 
 He aften speaks, an' ca's them best o' men. 
 How sweetly Hawthornden an' Stirling sing. 
 An' ane ca'd Cowley, loyal to his king. 
 He kens fu' weel, an' gars their verses ring. 
 I sometimes thought he made owre great a phrase 
 About fine poems, histories, an' plays. 
 
so THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 ^Vhen I reprov'd him ance, a book he brings, 
 
 *'\Vi' this," quoth he, " on braes, I crack wi' kings." 
 
 Sir Wil. He answer'd well ; and much ye glad my ear, 
 When such accounts I of my shepherd hear — 
 Reading such books can raise a peasant's mind 
 Above a lord's that is not thus inclin'd. 
 
 Symon. What ken we better, that sae sindle look, 
 Except on rainy Sundays, on a book ; 
 When we a leaf or twa hauf read, hauf spell. 
 Till a' the rest sleep round as weel's oursell. 
 
 Sir IVil. Well jested, Symon. — But one question more 
 I'll only ask ye now, an' then give o'er. 
 The youth's arriv'd the age when little loves 
 P'lighter around young hearts like cooing doves : 
 Has no young lassie, with inviting mien, 
 And rosy cheeks, the wonder of the green, 
 Engag'd his look, and caught his youthful heart ? 
 
 Symon. I fear'd the warst, but kend the sma'est part, 
 Till late, I saw him twa three times mair sweet 
 Wi' Glaud's fair niece, than I thought right or meet : 
 I had my fears ; but now hae nought to fear, 
 Since like yoursell your son will soon appear. 
 A gentleman enrich'd wi' a' thae charms. 
 May bless the fairest, best-born lady's arms. 
 
 Sir Wil. This night must end his unambitious fire, 
 When higher views shall greater thoughts inspire. 
 Go, Symon, bring him quickly here to me ; 
 None but yourself shall our first meeting see. 
 Vender's my horse and servants nigh at hand ; 
 They come juit at the time 1 gave command ; 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 51 
 
 Straight in my own apparel I'll go dress : 
 Now ye the secret may to all confess. 
 
 Symon. Wi' how much joy I on this errand flee, 
 There's nane can ken that is nae downright me. 
 
 {^Exii Symon. 
 Sir William, solus. 
 
 Sir Wil. When the event of hope successfully 
 appears, 
 One happy hour cancels the toil of years ; 
 A thousand toils are lost in Lethe's stream, 
 And cares evanish like a morning dream ; 
 V/hen wish'd for pleasures rise like morning light, 
 The pain that's past enhances the delight. 
 These joys I feel that words can ill express, 
 I ne'er had known, without my late distress. 
 But from his rustic business and love, 
 I must, in haste, my Patrick soon remove 
 To courts and camps that may his soul improve. 
 Like the rough diamond, as it leaves the mine. 
 
 Only in little breakings shows its light, 
 Till artful polishing has made it shine : 
 
 Thus education makes the genius briglit. {_ExU. 
 
52 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 
 
 ACT FOURTH. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 The scene describ'd in former page, 
 Ulaud's onset. Entor Mause and Madge. 
 
 Time — 9 p.m. 
 
 MAUSE AND MADGE. 
 
 Madge. Our laird's come hame ! an' owns young P?.tc 
 his heir I 
 
 Alaiise. That's news indeed ! 
 
 Madge. As true as ye stand there. 
 As they were dancing a' in Symon's yard, 
 Sir William, like a warlock, wi' a beard 
 Five nioves in length, an' white as driven snaw, 
 Amang us cam, cry'd, Iloii ye merry a . 
 We ferly'd meikle at his unco look, 
 While frae his pouch he whirled out a book. 
 As we stood round about him on the green, 
 He view'd us a', but fixt on Pate his een ; 
 Then pawkily pretended he cou'd spae, 
 Yet for his pains an' skill wad naething hae. 
 
 Mause. Then sure the lasses, an' ilk gaping coof, 
 Wad rin about him, an' haud out their loof. 
 
 Madge. As fast as flaes skip to the tate o' woo 
 Whilk slee tod-lowrie bauds without his mow, 
 When he, to drown them, an' his hips to cool. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 53 
 
 In simmer days slides backward in a pool : 
 
 In short, he did for Pate braw things foretell, 
 
 Without the help o' conjuring or spell. 
 
 At last, when weel diverted, he withdrew, 
 
 Pou'd aflf his beard to Symon : Symon knew 
 
 His welcome master ; — round his knees he gat. 
 
 Hang at his coat, an' syne, for blytheness, grat. 
 
 Patrick was sent for ; — happy lad is he ! 
 
 Symon tauld Elspa, Elspa tauld it me. 
 
 Ye'll hear out a' the secret story soon : 
 
 An' troth it's e'en right odd, when a' is done, 
 
 To think how vSymon ne'er afore wad tell, 
 
 Na, no sae meikle as to Pate himsell. 
 
 Our Meg, poor thing, alake ! has lost her jo. 
 
 Alause. It may be sae, wha kens ? an' may be no : 
 To lift a love that's rooted is great pain ; 
 Ev'n kings hae tane a queen out o' the plain ; 
 An' what has been before may be again. 
 
 Madge. Sic nonsense ! love tak root, but tocher guid, 
 'Tween a herd's bairn, an' ane o' gentle bluid ! 
 Sic fashions in King Bruce's days might be ; 
 But siccan ferlies now we never see. 
 
 Mause. Gif Pate forsakes her, Bauldy she may gain : 
 Yonder he comes, an' wow but he looks fain ! 
 Nae doubt he thinks that Peggy's now his ain. 
 
 Madge. He get her ! slaverin' doof ; it sets him weel 
 To yoke a pleugh where Patrick tliought to teel. 
 Gif I were Meg, I'd let young master see 
 
 Mause. Ye'd be as dorty in your choice as he ; 
 An' sae wad I. But whisht ! here Bauldy comes. 
 
54 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Enter Bauldy, singing, 
 
 Jenny said to Jockey ^ gin ye winna telly 
 Ye sail be the la.i, Fll be the lass my sell ; 
 Ye re a bonny lad, an Fni a lassie free^ 
 Ye re welcotner to tak me than to let me he. 
 
 I trow sae ! — Lasses will come to at last, 
 
 Tho' for a while they maun their snaw-ba's cast. 
 
 Alause. Weel, Bauldy, how gaes a' ? 
 
 Bauldy. Faith, unco right : 
 I hope we'll a' sleep sound but ane this night. 
 
 Madge. An' wha's th' unlucky ane, if we may ask ? 
 
 Bauldy. To find out that is nae difficult task : 
 Poor bonny Peggy, wha maun think nae mair 
 On Tate, turn'd Patrick, an* Sir William's heir. 
 Now, now, guid Madge, an' honest Mause, stand be. 
 While Meg's in dumps, put in a word for me, 
 I'll be as kind as ever Pate cou'd prove, 
 Less willfu', an' ay constant in my love. 
 
 Aladge. As Neps can witness, an' the bushy' thorn, 
 Where mony a time to her your heart was sworn : 
 Fy ! Bauldy, blush, an' vows o' love regard ; 
 Vv'hat ither lass will trow a mansworn herd ? 
 The curse o' heav'n hings ay aboon their heads, 
 That's ever guilty o' sic sinfu' deeds. 
 I'll ne'er advise my niece sae grey a gate ; 
 Nor will she be advis'd, fu' weel I wale. 
 
 Bauldy. Sac grey a gate ! mansworn I an' the rest ! 
 Ye lied, auld roudes, — an', in fai'.h, had best 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 55 
 
 Eat in your words ; else I shall gar ye stand, 
 Wi' a het face, afore the haly band. 
 
 Madge. Ye'll gar nie stand ! ye shevelling-gabbit 
 brock ; 
 Speak that again, an' trembling, dread my rock, 
 An' ten sharp nails, that when my hands are in, 
 Can flyp the skin o' ye'r cheeks out o'er your chin. 
 
 Bavldy. I tak ye witness, Mause, ye heard her say, 
 That I'm mansworn. — I winna let it gae. 
 
 Madge. Ye' re witness, too, he ca'd me bonny names, 
 An' should be serv'd as his guid-breeding claims. 
 
 Ye filthy dog ! 
 
 \_Flees to his hair like a fury. — A stout battle. — 
 Mause endeavours to redd the?n. 
 
 Mause. Let gang your grips ; fy^ Madge ! howt, 
 Bauld)', leen : 
 I wadna wish this tulzie had been seen, 
 It's sae daft like. 
 
 [Bauldy gets otit of Madge's clutches ivith a 
 bleeding nose. 
 
 Madge. It's dafter like to thole 
 An ether-cap like him to blaw the coal. 
 It sets him weel, wi' vile unscrapit tongue, 
 To cast up whether I be auld or young ; 
 They're aulder yet than I hae married been, 
 An', or they died, their bairns' bairns hae seen. 
 
 Mause. That's true ; an' Bauldy, ye was far to blame. 
 To ca' Madge aught but her ain christen'd name. 
 
 Baiddy. My lugs, my nose, an' noddle find the same. 
 
 Madge. Auld roudes ! filthy fallow ; I sail auld ye. 
 
$6 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Mause. Howt, no ! — ye'll e'en be friends wi' honest 
 Bauldy. 
 Come, come, shake hands ; this maun nae farder gae : 
 Ye maun forgi'e 'm ; I see the lad looks wae. [spite : 
 
 Bauldy. In troth now, Mause, I hae at Madee nae 
 Eut she abusing first was a' the wyte 
 O' what has happen'd ; an' should therefore crave 
 My pardon first, an' shall acquittance have. 
 
 Madge. I crave your pardon ! gallows-face, gae greet, 
 An' own your faut to her that ye wad cheat ; 
 Gae, or be blasted in your health an' gear, 
 Till ye learn to perform as weel as swear. 
 Vow, an' lowp back ! — was e'er the like heard tell ? 
 Swith, tak him deil ; he's o'er lang out o' hell. 
 
 Bauldy. \ju7ining off.\ His presence be about us! — 
 curst were he 
 That were condemn'd for life to live wi' thee. \^Exit. 
 
 Aladge. \laughing.'\ I think Ive towz'd his harigalds 
 a wee ; 
 He'll no soon grein to tell his love to me. 
 He's but a rascal, that wad mint to serve 
 A lassie sae, he does but ill deserve. 
 
 Mause. Ye towin'd him tightly. — I commend ye for't ; 
 His bluiding snout gae me nae little sport : 
 For this forenoon he had that scant o' grace. 
 An' breeding baith, — to tell me to my face, 
 He hop'd I was a witch, an' wadna stand 
 To lend him, in this case, my helping hand. 
 
 Madge. A witch ! how had ye patience this to bear, 
 An' leave him een to see, or lugs to hear ? 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 57 
 
 Mause. Auld wither'd hands, an' feeble joints like 
 mine, 
 Obliges fouk resentment to decline ; 
 Till aft it's seen, when vigour fails, then we 
 Wi' cunning can the lack o' pith supplie. 
 Thus I pat aff revenge till it was dark. 
 Syne bad him come, an' we should gang to wark : 
 I'm sure he'll keep his tryst ; an' I cam here 
 To seek your help, that we the fool may fear. 
 
 Madge. An' special sport we'll hae, as I protest ; 
 Ye' 11 be the witch, an' I sail play the ghaist. 
 A linen sheet wund round me like ane dead, 
 I'll cawk my face, an' grane, an' shake my head. 
 We'll flag him sae, he'll mint nae mair to gang 
 A conjuring, to do a lassie wrang. 
 
 Mause. Then let us gae ; for see, it's hard on night, 
 The westlin clouds shine red wi' setting light. {ExeunL 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 When birds begin to nod upon the bough, 
 
 An' the green swaird grows damp wi' falling dew, 
 
 While gTiid Sir William is to rest retii-'d, 
 
 The Gentle Shepherd, tenderly inspir'd. 
 
 Walks thro' the broom wi' Roger ever leal, 
 
 To meet, to comfort Meg, an' tak fareweel. 
 
 PATIE AND ROGER. 
 
 Roger. Wow ! but I'm cadgie, an' my heart loups light 
 O, ]Mr, Patrick ! ay your thoughts were right : 
 
58 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Sure gentle fouk are farer seen than we, 
 
 That naething hae to brag o' pedigree. 
 
 My Jenny now, wha brak my heart this morn, 
 
 Is perfect yielding, — sweet, — an' nae mair scorn. 
 
 I spak my mind — she heard — I spak again ; — 
 
 She smil'd — I kiss'd — I wooed, nor wooed in vain, [day 
 
 Paiie. I'm glad to hear't — But O ! my change this 
 Heaves up my joy, and yet I'm sometimes wae. 
 I've found a father, gently kind as brave, 
 An' an estate that lifts me boon the lave. 
 Wi' looks a' kindness, words that love confest, 
 He a' the father to my soul exprest, 
 While close he held me to his manly breast. 
 Such were the eyes, he said, thus smil'd the mouLh 
 Of thy lov'd mother, blessing of my youth ; 
 WTio set too soon ! — An' while he praise bestow'd, 
 Adown his gracefu' cheeks a torrent flow'd. 
 My new-born joys, an' this his tender tale, 
 Did, mingled thus, o'er a' my thoughts prevail , 
 That speechless lang, my late kend sire I view'd, 
 ^Vhile gushing tears my panting breast bedew'd, 
 Unusual transports made my head turn round, 
 Wliilst 1 mysell, wi' rising raptures, found 
 The happy son o' ane sae much renown'd. 
 But he has heard ! — Too faithful Symon's fear 
 Has brought my love for Peggy to his ear : 
 WTiich he forbids. — Ah ! this confounds my peace, 
 WQiile thus to beat, my heart shall sooner cease. 
 
 Roger, How to advise ye, troth I'm at a stand : 
 But were't my case, ye'd clear it up atThand. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 59 
 
 Patie. Duty, an' haflen reason, plead his cause : 
 But what cares love for reason, rules, an' laws ? 
 Still in my heart my shepherdess excels, 
 An' part o' my new happiness repels. 
 
 Roger. Enjoy them baith — Sir William will be won ; 
 Your Peggy's bonny ; — you're his only son. 
 
 Patie. She's mine by vows, an' stronger ties o' love ; 
 An' frae these bands nae change my mind shall move. 
 I'll wed nane else ; thro' life I will be true, 
 But still obedience is a parent's due. 
 
 Roger, Is not our master an' yoursell to stay 
 Amang us here ? — or, are ye gawn away 
 To London court, or ither far aff parts, 
 To leave your ain poor us wi' broken hearts ? 
 
 Patie. To E'nburgh straight, to-morrow we advance ; 
 To London neist, an' afterwards to France, 
 Where I maun stay some years, an' learn to dance, 
 An' twa three ither monkey tricks. — That done, 
 I come hame strutting in my red-heel'd shoon. 
 Then it's design'd, when I can weel behave. 
 That I maun be some petted thing's dull slave, 
 For twa-three bags o' cash, that, I wat weel, 
 I nae mair need nor carts do a third wheel. 
 But Peggy, dearer to me than my breath, 
 Sooner than hear sic news, shall hear my death. 
 
 Roger. They wha hoe just eneugh can soundly sleep ; 
 
 The ercome only fashes fouk to keep. 
 
 Guid Maister Patrick, tak your ain tale hame. 
 
 Patie. What was my morning thought, at night's the 
 
 same: 
 
 8 
 
6o THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 
 
 The poor an' rich but differ in the name. 
 Content's the greatest bliss we can procure 
 Frae 'boon the lift : — without it, kings are poor. 
 
 Roger. But an estate like yours yields braw content, 
 When we but pick it scantly on the bent : 
 Fine claiths, saft beds, sweet houses, an' red wine, 
 Guid cheer, an' witty friends, whene'er ye dine ; 
 Obeysant servants, honour, wealth, an' ease : 
 ^Vha's no content wi' thae are ill to please. 
 
 Ta'ie. Sae Roger thinks, an' thinks nae far amiss ; 
 But mony a cloud hings hov'ring o'er the bliss. 
 The passions rule the roast ; — an', if they're sour. 
 Like the lean kye, will soon the fat devour. 
 The spleen, tint honour, an' affronted pride, 
 Stang like the sharpest goads in gentry's side. 
 The gouts an' gravels, an' the ill disease. 
 Are frequentest wi' fouk o'erlaid wi' ease ; 
 While o'er the muir the shepherd, wi' less care, 
 Enjoys his sober wish, an' halesome air. 
 
 Roger. Lord, man ! I wonder ay, an' it delights 
 My heart, whene'er I hearken to your flights. 
 How gat ye a' that sense, I fain wad hear, 
 That I may easier disappointments bear ? 
 
 Patie. Frae books, the wale o' books, I gat some 
 skill, 
 Thae best can teach what's real guid an' ill. 
 Ne'er grudge, ilk year, to ware some stanes o' cheese. 
 To gain thae silent friends, that ever please. 
 
 Roger. I'll do't, an' ye sail tell me whilk to buy : 
 Faith I'se hae books, the' I shou'd seii my kye. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 6i 
 
 But now, let's hear how you're design'd to move 
 Between Sir William's will and Peggy's love. 
 
 Patie. Then here it lies : — his will maun be obey'd, 
 My vows I'll keep, an' she shall be my bride: 
 But T some time this last design maun hide. 
 Keep ye the secret close, an' leave me here ; 
 I sent for Peggy. — Yonder comes my dear. 
 
 Roger. Pleas'd that ye trust me wi' the secret, I, 
 To wyle it frae me, a' the deils defy. \^Exit Roger. 
 
 Patie \sohis\ Wi' what a struggle maun I now 
 impart 
 My father's will to her that bauds my heart ! 
 I ken she looes, an' her saft saul will sink. 
 While it stands trembling on the hated brink 
 O' disappointment. — Heav'n support my fair, 
 An' let her comfort claim your tender care. — 
 Her eyes are red ! 
 
 Enter Peggy. 
 My Peggy, why in tears ? 
 
 Smile as ye wont, allow nae room for fears : 
 Tho' I'm nae mair a shepherd, yet I'm thine. 
 
 Peggy. I daurna think sae high : — I now repine 
 At the unhappy chance, that made nae me 
 A gentle match, or still a herd kept thee. 
 WTna can, withoutten pain, see frae the coast 
 The ship that bears his a' like to be lost ? 
 Like to be carried by some reever's hand, 
 Far frae his wishes, to some distant land. 
 
62 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Patie. Ne'er quarrel fate, whilst it \vi' me remains 
 To raise thee up, or still attend thae plains. 
 My father has forbid our loves, T own : 
 But love's superior to a parent's frown. 
 I falsehood hate : come kiss thy cares away ; 
 I ken to love as weel as to obey. 
 Sir William's gen'rous ; leave the task to me, 
 To mak strict duty an' true love agree. 
 
 Peggy. Speak on I speak ever thus, an' still mygriof; 
 But short I daur to hope the fond relief. 
 New thoughts a gentler face will soon inspire, 
 That wi' nice air swims round in silk attire ; 
 Then I, poor me ! — wi' sighs may ban my fate, 
 "When the young laird's nae mair my heartsome Pate ; 
 Nac mair again to hear sweet tales exprcst, 
 By the blythe shepherd that excell'd the rest : 
 Nae mair be envy'd by the tattling gang. 
 When Patie kiss'd me, when I danc'd or sang : 
 Nae mair, alake ! we'll on the meadow play. 
 An' rin hauf breathless round the rucks o' hay ; 
 As aft-times I hae fled frae thee right fain, 
 An* fa'n on purpose, that I might be tane. 
 Nae mair around the foggy knowe I'll creep. 
 To watch an' stare upon thee while asleep. 
 But hear my vow — 'twill help to gie me ease — 
 May sudden death, or deadly sair disease, 
 An' warst o' ills attend my wretched life. 
 If e'er to ane, but you, I be a wife 1 
 
 Fade. Sure Heav'n approves ; an' be assur'd o' me, 
 I'll ne'er gang back o' what I've sworn to thee : 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 63 
 
 An' time, tho' time maun interpose a while, 
 An' I maun leave my Peggy an' this isle ; 
 Yet time, nor distance, nor the fairest face, 
 If there's a fairer, e'er shall fill thy place. 
 I'd hate my rising fortune, shou'd it move 
 The fair foundation o' our faithfu' love. 
 If at my feet were crowns an' sceptres laid. 
 To bribe my saul frae thee, delightfu' maid ! 
 For thee I'd soon leave thae inferior things, 
 To sic as hae the patience to be kings, — 
 Wherefore that tear ? believe, an' ca'm thy mind. 
 
 Peggy, I greet for joy, to hear thy words sae kind. 
 WTien hopes were sunk, an' nought but mirk despair 
 Made me think life was little worth my care, 
 My heart was like to burst ; but now I see 
 Thy gen'rous thoughts will save thy love for me. 
 Wi' patience, then, I'll wait ilk wheeling year, 
 Hope time away, till thou wi' joy appear ; 
 An' a' the while I'll study gentler charms 
 To male me fitter for my traveller's arms ; 
 I'll gain on uncle Glaud — he's far frae fool. 
 An' will not grudge to put me thro' ilk school. 
 Where I may manners learn. 
 
 Patie. That's wisely .vaid. 
 An' what he wares that way shall be weel paid. 
 Tho', without a' the little helps o' art, 
 Thy native sweets might gain a prince's heart ; 
 Yet now, lest in our station we offend. 
 We must learn modes to innocence unkend ; 
 Affect ai timeb to like the thing we hate : 
 
64 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD, 
 
 An' drap serenity to keep up state ; 
 
 Laugli when we're sad, speak when we've nought to say, 
 
 An', for the fashion, when we're blythe, seem wae ; 
 
 Pay compliments to them we aft hae scorn'd, 
 
 Then scandalise them when their backs are turn'd. 
 
 P^gSy' If this is gentry, 1 had rather be 
 What I am still — but I'll be aught wi' thee. 
 
 Patic. Na, na, my Pegg}', 1 but only jest 
 Wi' gentry's apes ; for still, amangst the best. 
 Good manners gie integrity a bleeze, 
 When native virtues join the arts to please. 
 
 Pe^^. Since wi' nae hazard, an' sae sma' expense, 
 My lad frae books can gather siccan sense ; 
 Then why, ah ! why should the tempestuous sea 
 Endanger thy dear life, an' frighten me ? 
 Sir William's cruel, that wad force his son, 
 For watna-whals, sae great a risk to run. 
 
 Patie. There is nae doubt but trav'ling does improve ; 
 Yet I wad shun it for thy sake, my love ; 
 But soon as I've shook aff my landart cast 
 In foreign cities, hame to thee I'll haste. 
 
 P^:<Sy- ^"^ ev'ry setting day an' rising morn, 
 I'll kneel to Ileav'n an' ask thy safe return. 
 Under that tree, an' on the Suckler-brae, 
 \Vhere aft we wont, when bairns, to rin an' play j 
 An' to the Hissel-shaw, where first ye vow'd 
 Ye wad be mine, an' I as eithly trow'd, 
 I'll aften gang, an' tell the trees an' flow'rs, 
 Wi' joy, that they'll bear witness I am yours. 
 
 PatU. My dear, allow me, frac thy temples fair, 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 65 
 
 A shining ringlet o' thy flowing hair, 
 WTiich, as a sample o' each lovely charm, 
 I'll aften kiss, an' wear about my arm. 
 
 Peggy. Were't in my pow'r wi' better boons to please, 
 I'd gie the best I cou'd wi' the same ease ; 
 Nor wad I, if thy luck had fa'en to me, 
 Been in ae jot less generous to thee. 
 
 Patie. I doubt it nae ; but since we've little time, 
 To ware't on words wad border on a crime : 
 Love's safter meaning better is exprest 
 When it's wi' kisses on the heart imprest. {Exeunt. 
 
66 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 ACT FIFTH. 
 Scene I. 
 
 See hov/ poor Baaldy stares like ane possest. 
 An' roars up Sjiuon frae his kindly rest ; 
 liare-legg'd, wi' night-cap, an' unbutUni'd coat, 
 See, the auld man cornea forward to the sot. 
 
 Time — Daylight next morning. 
 SYMON AND BAULDY. 
 
 Symon. What want j'o, Bauldy, at this early hour, 
 Wliile drowsy sleep keeps a' beneath its pow'r ? 
 Far to the north the scant approaching light 
 Stan's equal 'twixt the morning an' the night, 
 ^\^lat gars ye shake, an' glow'r, an* look sae wan ? 
 Your teeth they chitter, hair like bristles stan'. 
 
 Bauldy. O len' me soon some water, milk, or ::le, 
 My head's grown dizzy — legs wi' shaking fail ; 
 I'll ne'er daur venture out at night my lane ; 
 Alake ! I'll never be mysell again. 
 I'll ne'er o'erput it ! Symon ! O Symon ! O ! 
 
 \Symon gives him a drink. 
 
 SymcTi. What ails thee, gowk I to mak sae loud ado? 
 You've wak'd Sir William — he has left his bed — 
 He comes, I fear, ill-pleas'd — I hear his trcd. 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 67 
 
 Enter SiR William. 
 
 Sir Wil. How goes the night? Does daylight yet 
 appear ? 
 Symon, you're very timeously asteer. 
 
 Sy?tion. I'm sorry, Sir, that we've disturb'd your 
 rest ; 
 But some strange thing has Bauldy's sp'rit opprest j 
 He's seen some witch, or warsled wi' a ghaist. 
 
 Bauldy. O ay, — dear Sir, in troth it's very true. 
 An' I am come to male my plaint to you. 
 
 Sir Wil. \smiling\ I lang to hear't. 
 
 Bauldy. Ah 1 Sir, the witch ca'd Mause, 
 That wins alDOon the mill amang the haws, 
 First promis'd that she'd help me, wi' her art. 
 To gain a bonny thrawart lassie's heart. 
 As she had trysted, I met wi'er this night ; 
 But may nae friend o' mine get sic a fright ! 
 For the curst hag, instead o' doing me guid, 
 (The very thought o't's like to freeze my bluid !) 
 Rais'd up a ghaist, or deil, I kenna whilk. 
 Like a dead corse, in sheet as white as milk ; 
 Black hands it had, an' face as wan as death j 
 Upon me fast the witch an' it fell baith, 
 An' gat me down ; while I, like a great fool. 
 Was labour'd as I us'd to be at school. 
 My heart out o' its hool was like to loup, 
 I pithless grew wi' fear, an' had nae houp, 
 Till, wi' an elritch laugh, they vanish'd quite ; 
 Syne I, hauf dead wi' anger, fear, an' spite, 
 
68 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Crap up, an' fled straught frae them, Sir, to you, 
 Ilouping your help to gie the deil his due. 
 I'm sure my heart \vill ne'er gie o'er to dunt, 
 Till, in a fat tar-barrel, Mause he brunt. 
 
 Sir Wil. Well, Bauldy, whate'er's just shall granted 
 be ; 
 Let Mause be brought this morning down to me. 
 
 Bauldy. Thanks to your honour, soon shall I obey ; 
 But first I'll Roger raise, an' twa three mae, 
 To catch her fast, e'er she get leave to squeel, 
 An' cast her cantrips that bring up the deil. \^Exit. 
 
 Sir Wil. Troth, Symon, Bauldy's more afraid than 
 hurt. 
 The witch and ghaist have made themselves good sport. 
 What silly notions crowd the clouded mind. 
 That is, thro' want of education, blind ! 
 
 Symon. But does your honour think there's nae sic 
 thing 
 As witches raising deils up thro' a ring, 
 Syne playing tricks ? a thousand I cou'd tell, 
 Cou'd never be contriv'd on this side hell. 
 
 Sir Wil. Such as the devil's dancing in a moor, 
 Amongst a few old women, craz'd and poor, 
 Who are rejoic'd to see him frisk and lowp 
 O'er braes and bogs, with candles in his dowp ; 
 Appearing sometimes like a black -horn'd cow, 
 Aft-times like bawty, baudrans, or a sow : 
 Then with his train thro' airy paths to glide. 
 While they on cats, or clowns, or broom-staffs ride ; 
 Or in an egg-shell skim out o'er the main, 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 69 
 
 To drink their leader's health in France or Spain : 
 Then oft, by night, bombaze hare-hearted fools. 
 By tumbling down their cupboards, chairs, and stools. 
 "Whate'er's in spells, or if there witches be, 
 Such whimsies seem the most absurd to me. 
 
 Symon. It's true enough, we ne'er heard that a witch 
 Had either meikle sense, or yet was rich ; 
 But Mause, tho' poor, is a sagacious wife, 
 An' lives a quiet an' very honest life ; 
 That gars me think this hobbleshew that's past 
 Will end in naething but a joke at last 
 
 Sir Wil. I'm sure it will : — but see, increasing light 
 Commands the imps of darkness down to night ; 
 Bid raise my servants, and my horse prepare, 
 Whilst I walk out to take the morning air, 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 While Peggy laces up her bosom fair, 
 Wi' a blue snood, Jenny binds up her hair: 
 Glaud, by his morning ingle, taks a beek. 
 The rising sun shines motty thro' the reek ; 
 A pipe his mouth, the lasses please his een, 
 An' now an' then his joke maun inter veen. 
 
 GLAUD, JENNY, AND PEGGY. 
 
 Gland. I wish, my bairns, it may keep fair till night, 
 Ye dinna use sae soon to see the light. 
 
70 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Nae doubt, now, ye intend to mix the thrang, 
 To talc your leave o' Patrick or he gang : 
 But do ye think, that now, when he's a laird, 
 That he poor landwart lasses will regard? 
 
 Jenny. Tho' he's young master now, I'm very sure, 
 lie has mair sense than slight auld friends, tho' poor. 
 But yesterday, he gae us mony a tug, 
 An' kiss'd my cousin there frae lug to lug. 
 
 Glaiui. Ay, ay, nae doubt o't, an' he'll do't again ; 
 But be advis'd, his company refrain : 
 Before, he, as a shepherd, sought a wife, 
 \Vi' her to live a chaste an' frugal life ; 
 But now grown gentle, soon he will forsake 
 Sic godly thoughts, an' brag o' being a rake. 
 
 Peggy. A rake ! what's that ? — Sure, if it means 
 aught ill, 
 He'll never be't, else I hae tint my skill. 
 
 Gland. Daft lassie, ye ken nought o' the affair > 
 Ane young, an' guid, an' gentle's unco rare. 
 A rake's a graceless spark, that thinks nae shame 
 To do what like o' us thinks sin to name : 
 Sic are sae void o' shame, they'll never stap 
 To brag how aften they hae had the clap. 
 They'll tempt young things like you, wi' youdith flush'd. 
 Syne mak ye a' their jest whan ye're debauch'd. 
 Be wary then, I say, an' never gie 
 Encouragement, or bourd wi' sic as he. 
 
 Peggy. Sir William's virtuous, an' o' gentle blood ; 
 An' may na Patrick, too, like him, be good ? 
 
 Claud. That's true ; an' mony gentry mae than he, 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. -71 
 
 As they are wiser, better are than we, 
 But thinner sawn : they're sae puft up wi' pride, 
 There's mony o' them mocks ilk haly guide, 
 That shaws the gate to heav'n. — I've heard myseli, 
 Some o them laugh at doomsday, sin, an' hell. 
 
 Jen7iy. Watch o'er us, father ! heh ! that's very odd, 
 Sure him that doubts a doomsday, doubts a God. 
 
 Glaud. Doubt ! why, they neither doubt, nor judge, 
 nor think, 
 Nor hope, nor fear ; but curse, debauch, an' drink ; 
 But I'm nae saying this, as if I thought 
 That Patrick to sic gates will e'er be brought. 
 
 Peggy. The Lord forbid ! Na, he kens better things : 
 But here comes aunt ; her face some ferly brings. 
 
 Enter Madge. 
 
 Madge. Haste, haste ye ; we're a' sent for o'er the 
 gate. 
 To hear, an' help to redd some odd debate 
 'Tween Mause an' Bauldy, 'bout some witchcraft spell, 
 At Symon's house : the knight sits judge himsell. 
 
 Glaud. Lend me my staff; — Madge, lock the outer 
 door, 
 An' bring the lasses wi' ye : I'll step before. \^Exit. 
 
 Madge. Poor Meg ! Look, Jenny, was the like e'er 
 seen? 
 How bleer'd an' red wi' greeting look her een ! 
 This day her brankan wooer taks his horse, 
 To strut a gentle spark at E'nburgh cross : 
 
72 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 To change his kent, cut frae the branchy plain, 
 
 For a nice sword an' glancing-headed cane ; 
 
 To leave his ram -horn spoons, an' kitted whey, 
 
 For gentler tea, that smells like new-won hay ; 
 
 To leave the green-swaird dance, whan we gae milk, 
 
 To rustle 'mang the beauties clad in silk. 
 
 But Meg, poor Meg ! maun wi' the shepherds stay, 
 
 An' tak what God will send, in hodden-grey. 
 
 Peggy. Dear aunt, what need ye fash us wi' your 
 scorn ; 
 It's no my faut that I'm nae gentler born. 
 Gif I the daughter o' some laird had been, 
 I ne'er had notic'd Patie on the green. 
 Now, since he rises, why shou'd I repine ? 
 If he's made for another, he'll ne'er be mine ; 
 An' then, the like has been, if the decree 
 Designs him mine, I yet his wife may be. 
 
 Madge. A bonny story, troth ! — But we delay ; 
 Prin up your aprons baith, an' come away. \Exeunt, 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Sir William fills the twa-arra'd chair, 
 
 While Syraon, Roger, Glaud, an' ISIause, 
 Attend, an' wi' loud laughter hear 
 
 Daft Bauldy bluntly plead his cause : 
 For now it's tell'd him that the taz 
 
 Was handled by revenfu' Madge, 
 Because he brak guid-breeding's laws, 
 
 An' wi' his nonsense rais'd their rage. 
 
 SIR WILLIAM, PATIE, ROGER, SYMON, 
 GLAUD, BAULDY, AND MAUSE. 
 
 Sir Wil. And was that all? — Well, Bauldy, ye was 
 servd 
 No otherwise than what ye well deserv'd. 
 Was it so small a matter, to defame. 
 And thus abuse an honest woman's name? 
 Besides your going about to have betray'd, 
 By perjury, an innocent young maid. 
 
 Bauldy. Sir, I confess my faut Ihro' a' the steps, 
 An' ne'er again shall be untrue to Neps. 
 
 Mause. Thus far, Sir, he oblig'd me on the score, 
 I kendna that they thought me sic before. 
 
 Bauldy. An't like your honour, I believ'd it weel ; 
 But, troth, I was e'en doilt to seek the deil : 
 Yet, wi' your honour's leave, tho' she's nae witch, 
 
 She's baith a slee an* a revengefu' , 
 
 An' that my some-place finds — but I had best 
 Haud in my tongue, for yonder comes the ghaist., 
 
74 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 An' the young bonny witch, whase rosy cheek 
 Sent me, without my wit, the deil to seek. 
 
 Enfer Madge, Peggy, a«<ar Jenny. 
 
 Sir Wil. {looking at Peggy.'] Whose daughter's she 
 that wears th' Aurora gown, 
 With face so fair, and locks a lovely brown ? 
 How sparkling are her eyes ! what's this? I find 
 The girl brings all my sister to my mind. 
 Such were the features once adorn'd a face 
 \Vlnch death too soon depriv'd of sweetest grace. 
 Is this your daughter, Glaud ? 
 
 Glatid. Sir, she's my niece, — 
 An' yet she's not — but I shou'd haud my peace. 
 
 Sir Wil. This is a contradiction. What d'ye mean ? 
 She is, and is not ! pray thee, Glaud, explain. 
 
 Glaud. Because I doubt, if I shou'd mak appear 
 WTiat I hae kept a secret thirteen year — 
 
 Alause. You may reveal what I can fully clear. 
 
 Sir Wil. Speak soon ; I'm all impatience ! — 
 
 Pade. Sae am I ! 
 For much I hope, an' hardly yet ken why. 
 
 Glaud. Then, since my master orders, I obey. — 
 This bonny foundling, ae clear morn o' May, 
 Close by the lee-side o' my door I found, 
 A' sweet an' clean, an' carefully hapt round, 
 In infant weeds, o* rich an' gentle make. 
 ^Vhat cou'd they be, thought I, did thee forsake ? 
 \Vha, warse than brutes, cou'd leave expos'd to air 
 Sae much o' innocence, sae sweetly fair, 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 75 
 
 Sae helpless young ? for she appear'd to me 
 Only about twa towmands auld to be. 
 I took her in my arms ; the bairnie smil'd 
 Wi' sic a look, wad made a savage mild, 
 I hid the story : she has pass'd sinsyne 
 As a poor orphan, an' a niece o' mine : 
 Nor do I rue my care about the wean, 
 For she's weel worth the pains that I hae tane. 
 Ye see she's bonny ; I can swear she's guid, 
 An' am right sure she's come o' gentle bluid ; 
 O' wham I kenna. — Naething I ken mair. 
 Than what 1 to your honour now declare. 
 
 Sir Wil. This tale seems strange 1 
 
 Paiie. The tale delights my ear ! [appear. 
 
 Sir Wil. Command your joys, young man, till truth 
 
 Mause, That be my task. — Now, Sir, bid a' be hush ; 
 Peggy may smile ; — thou hast nae cause to blush. 
 Lang hae I wish'd to see this happy day, 
 That I might safely to the truth gie way ; 
 That 1 may now Sir William Worthy name, 
 The best an' nearest friend that she can claim : 
 He saw't at first, an' wi' quick eye did trace 
 His sister's beauty in her daughter's face. 
 
 Sir Wil. Old woman, do not rave — prove what you 
 say; 
 It's dang'rous in affairs like this to play. 
 
 Patie, What reason. Sir, can an auld woman have 
 To tell a lie, when she's sae near her grave ? 
 But how, or why, it should be truth, I grant, 
 I every thing that looks like reason want. 
 
76 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Omnes. The story's odd ! we wish we heard it out. 
 Sir Wil. Make haste, good woman, and resolve each 
 doubt. 
 
 \^Mause goes forward^ leading Peggy to Sir William. 
 Mause. Sir, view me weel ; has fifteen years sae 
 plow'd 
 A wrinkled face that you hae aft en view'd, 
 That here I, as an unknown stranger, stand, 
 \Vlia nurs'd her mother that now hauds my hand ? 
 Yet stronger proofs I'll gie, if you demand. 
 
 Sir Wil. Ha ! honest nurse, where were my eyes 
 before ! 
 I know thy faithfulness, and need no more ; 
 Yet from the lab'rinth, to lead out my mind, 
 Say, to expose her, who was so unkind ? 
 S^Sir William embraces Peggy ^ and makes her sit by him. 
 Yes, surely, Ihou'rt my niece ; truth must prevail, 
 But no more words till Mause relate her tale. 
 
 Patie. Guid nurse gae on ; nae music's hauf sae fine, 
 Or can gie pleasure like thae words o' thine. 
 
 Maiise. Then it was I that sav'd her infant life, 
 Her death being threat en'd by an uncle's wife. 
 The story's lang ; but I the secret knew, 
 How they pursu'd, wi' avaricious view, 
 Her rich estate, o' which they're now possest : 
 All this to me a confident confest. 
 I heard, wi' horror, and wi' trembling dread, 
 They'd smoor the sakeless orphan in her bed. 
 That very night, when all were sunk in rest, 
 At midnight hour, the floor I saftly prest, 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 77 
 
 An' staw the sleeping innocent away, 
 
 Wi' whom I travell'd some few miles ere day. 
 
 A' day I hid me ; — whan the day was done, 
 
 I kept my journey, lighted by the moon. 
 
 Till eastward fifty miles I reach'd these plains. 
 
 Where needfu' plenty glads your cheerfu' swains. 
 
 Afraid of being found out, I, to secure 
 
 My charge, e'en laid her at this shepherd's door, 
 
 An' took a neibourin' cottage here, that I, 
 
 Whate'er should happen to her, might be by. 
 
 Here honest Glaud himsell, an' Symon, may 
 
 Remember weel, how I that very day 
 
 Frae Roger's father took my little cruve. 
 
 Glaud [wi* tears of joy happing down his beard\ 
 I weel remember't : Lord reward your love ! 
 Lang hae I wish'd for this ; for aft I thought 
 Sic knowledge some time should about be brought. 
 
 Patie. It's now a crime to doubt ; — my joys are full, 
 Wi' due obedience to my parent's will. 
 Sir, wi' paternal love, survey her charms. 
 An' blame me not for rushing to her arms. 
 She's mine by vows ; an' wad, tho' still unknown, 
 Hae been my wife, whan I my vows durst own. 
 
 Sir WiL My niece, my daughter, welcome to my 
 care. 
 Sweet image of thy mother, good and fair, 
 Equal with Patrick. Now my greatest aim 
 Shall be to aid your joys and well-match'd flame. 
 My boy, receive her from your father's hand. 
 With as good will as either would demand. 
 
78 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 yPatie and Peggy embrace., and kneel to Sir William. 
 
 Pat:e. Wi' as much joy this blessing 1 receive, 
 As ane wad life, that's sinking in a wave. 
 
 Sir Wil. {raises themJ\ I give you both my blessing; 
 may your love 
 Produce a happy race, and still improve. 
 
 Peggy. My wishes are complete — my joys arise, 
 While I'm hauf dizzy wi' the blest surprise. 
 An' am I then a match for my ain lad, 
 That for me so much gen'rous kindness had ? 
 Lang may Sir William bless thae happy plains, 
 Happy while Heaven grant he on them remains. 
 
 Patie. lie lang our guardian, still our master be ; 
 We'll only crave what you shall please to gie : 
 The estate be yours, my Peggy's ane to me. 
 
 Gland. I hope your honour now will tak amends 
 O' them that sought her life for wicked ends. 
 
 Sir Wil. The base unnatural villain soon shall know, 
 That eyes above watch the afTairs below. 
 I'll strip him soon of all to her pertains, 
 And make him reimburse his ill-got gains. 
 
 P^.^}D'' '^^ "^s ^'^^ views o' wealth, an' an estate, 
 Seem light, when put in balance wi' my Pate : 
 For his sake only, I'll ay thankfu' bow 
 For sic a kindness, best o' nten, to you. 
 
 Symon. \Vhat double blytheness wakens up this day I 
 I hope now, Sir, you'll no soon haste away. 
 Shall I unsaddle your horse, an' gar prepare 
 A dinner for ye o' hale country fare ? 
 See how much joy unwrinkles ev'ry brow ; 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 79 
 
 Our looks hing on the twa, an' doat on you : 
 E'en Bauldy, the bewitch'd, has quite forgot 
 Fell INIadge's taz, an' pawky Mause's plot. 
 
 Sir IVil. Kindly old man ! remain with you this day ! 
 I never from these fields again will stray : 
 Masons and wrights shall soon my house repair, 
 And busy gard'ners shall new planting rear : 
 My father's hearty table you soon shall see 
 Restor'd, and my best friends rejoice with me. 
 
 Synion. That's the best news I heard this twenty 
 year ! 
 New day breaks up, rough times begin to clear. 
 
 Glaud. God save the king, and save Sir William lang, 
 T' enjoy their ain, an' raise the shepherd's sang. 
 
 Roger, Wlia winna dance, wha will refuse to sing? 
 WTiat shepherd's whistle winna lilt the spring ? 
 
 Bauldy. I'm friends wi' Mause — wi' very Madge I'm 
 'greed, 
 Altho' they skelpit rae when woodly flied : 
 I'm now fu' blythe, an' frankly can forgive, 
 To join an' sing, " Lang may Sir William live." 
 
 Madge. Lang may he live : — an', Bauldy, learn to 
 Steele 
 Your gab a-wee, an' think before ye speak j 
 An' never ca' her auld that wants a man, 
 Else ye may yet some witch's fingers ban. 
 This day I'll wi' the youngest o' ye rant, 
 An' brag for ay that I was ca'd the aunt 
 O' our young lady, — my dear bonny bairn J 
 R^SK}'' ^^<^ ither name I'll ever for you learn. — 
 
8o THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 An', my guid nurse, how shall I gratefu' be 
 For a' thy matchless kindness done for me ? 
 
 Mause. The flowing pleasures o' this happy day 
 Does fully a' I can require repay. 
 
 Sir Wil, To faithful Symon, and, kind Glaud, to 
 you. 
 And to your heirs, I give, in endless feu, 
 The mailens ye possess, as justly due, 
 For acting like kind fathers to the pair. 
 Who have enough besides, and these can spare. 
 Mause, in my house, in calmness, close your days, 
 With nought to do but sing your Maker's praise. 
 
 Omiies. The Lord o' Heav'n return your honour's 
 love. 
 Confirm your joys, an' a' your blessings roove ! 
 
 [Palie, presenting Roger to Sir William. 
 
 Fade. Sir, here's my trusty friend, that always shar'd 
 My bosom secrets, ere I was a laird : 
 Claud's daughter, Janet (Jenny, think na shame), 
 Rais'd, an' maintains in him a lover's flame. 
 Lang was he dumb ; at last he spak an' won. 
 An' hopes to be our honest uncle's son : 
 Be pleas'd to speak to Glaud for his consent, 
 That nane may wear a face o' discontent. [crave. 
 
 Sir IVil. My son's demand is fair. — Glaud, let me 
 That trusty Roger may your daughter have. 
 With frank consent ; and, while he does remain 
 Upon these fields, I make him chamberlain. [say, 
 
 Glaud. You crowd your bounties. Sir ; what can we 
 But that we're dy^'ours that can ne'er repay ? 
 
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. Si 
 
 Whate'er your honour wills, I sail obey. 
 Roger, my daughter, wi' my blessing, tak, 
 An' still our master's right your bus'ness male. 
 Please him, be faithfu', an' this auld grey head 
 Sail nod wi' quietness down amang the dead. 
 
 Roger. I ne'er was guid o' speaking a' my days. 
 Or ever loo'd to mak o'er great a fraise ; 
 But for my master, father, an' my wife, 
 I will employ the cares o' a' my life. 
 
 Sir Wil. My friends, I'm satisfy'd you'll all behave, 
 Each in his station, as I'd wish or crave. 
 Be ever virtuous, soon or late you'll find 
 Reward, and satisfaction to your mind. 
 The maze of life sometimes looks dark and wild ; 
 And oft, when hopes are highest, we're beguil'd. 
 Oft when we stand on brinks of dark despair, 
 Some happy turn, with joy, dispels our care, 
 Now all's at right, who sings best, let me hear. 
 
 Peggy. When you demand, I readiest shou'd obey i 
 I'll sing you ane, the newest that I hae. 
 
 Sings to the tune of " Corn-riggs are bonny." 
 
 My Patie is a lover gay^ 
 
 His mind is never ?nuddy ; 
 His breath is sweeter than new hay, 
 
 His face is fair and ruddy : 
 His shape is handsome^ middle size ; 
 
 He's comely in his wauking : 
 The shining d his een surprise ; 
 
 It's heavn to hear him tanking. 
 
82 THE GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
 Last night I met him on a bawk^ 
 
 Whare yellow corn was growiugy 
 There viony a kindly word he spak^ 
 
 That set viy lieart a-glowing. 
 He kissd an vow''d he wad be mine^ 
 
 An loo'd me best d ony ; 
 That gars me like to sing sinsyiu^ 
 
 O corn-riggs are bonny. 
 
 Let lasses o' a silly mind 
 
 Refuse what maist they're wanting ; 
 Since we for yielding were designed^ 
 
 We chastely shoud he granting. 
 Then I'll comply an ?narry Rate ; 
 
 An syne my cocker nony 
 lie s free to touzle air or late., 
 
 Where corn-riggs are bonny. 
 
 [Exeunt ouincs. 
 
 END OF GENTLE SHEPHERD. 
 
IRtcbp an& Sanb^* 
 
 Ricky. What gars thee look sae dowf, dear Sandy, 
 say? 
 Cheer up, dull fellow, tak thy reed, an' play 
 My apron deary, — or some wanton tune : 
 Be merry, lad, an' keep thy heart aboon. 
 
 Sandy. Na, na, it winna do ! leave me to mane ; 
 This aught days twice o'ertell'd I'll whistle nane. 
 
 Ricky. Wow man ! that's unco sad — Is't that ye'r jo 
 Has ta'en the strunt ? Or has some bogle bo, 
 Glowring frae 'mang auld wa's, gi'en ye a fleg ? 
 Or has some dauted wedder broke his leg? 
 
 Sandy. Naithing like that, sic troubles eith were 
 born ; 
 What's bogles, wedders, or what's Mausy's scorn ? 
 Our loss is meikle mair, an' past remead ; 
 Edie, that play'd an' sang sae sweet, is dead. 
 
 Ricky. Dead ! say'st thou : Oh ! haud up my heart, 
 O Pan! 
 Ye gods, what laids ye lay on feckless man ! 
 
84 RICHY AND SANDY. 
 
 Alake ! therefore, I canna wyte ye'r wae ; 
 
 I'll bear ye company for year an' day. 
 
 A better lad ne'er lean'd out o'er a kent, 
 
 Or hounded colly o'er the mossy bent : 
 
 Blythe at the bught, how aft hae we three been ; 
 
 Heartsome on hills, an' gay upon the green. 
 
 Sandy. That's true indeed I but now thae days are 
 gane, 
 An', wi' him, a' that's pleasant on the plain. 
 A simmer-day I never thought it lang, 
 To hear him niak a roundel or a sang. 
 How sweet he sung, where vines an' myrtles grow, 
 O' wimpling waters which in Latium flow. 
 Titry, the Mantuan herd, wha, lang sinsyne. 
 Lest sung, on aiten reed, the lover's pine ; 
 Had he been to the fore now in our days, 
 Wi' Edie he had frankly dealt his bays. 
 As lang's the warld shall Amaryllis ken. 
 His Rosamond shall echo thro' the glen ; 
 While on burn-banks the yellow gowan grows, 
 Or wand'ring lambs rin bleating after ewes, 
 His fame shall last ; last shall his sang o' weirs, 
 While British bairns brag o' their bauld forbears. 
 We'll meikle miss his blythe an' witty jest 
 At spaining time, or at our Lammas feast. 
 O Richy, but it's hard that death ay reaves 
 Away the best fouk, an' the ill anes leaves. 
 Hing down ye'r heads, ye hills, greet out ye'r springs. 
 Upon ye'r edge nae mair the shepherd sings. 
 Ricky. Then he had ay a guid advice to gie, 
 
RICHY AND SANDY. 85 
 
 An' kend my thoughts amaist as weel as me : 
 Had I been thowless, vext, or oughtlins sour, 
 He wad hae made me blythe in hauf an hour. 
 Had Rosie ta'en the dorts — or had the tod 
 Worry'd my lamb — or were my feet ill shod, 
 Kindly he'd laugh, when sae he saw me dwine, 
 An' tauk o' happiness like a divine : 
 O' ilka thing he had an unco skill. 
 He kend, be moon-light, how tides ebb an' fill ; 
 He kend — what kend he no ? E'en to a hair 
 He'd tell, or night, gin neist day wad be fair. 
 Blind John, ye mind, wha sang in kittle phrase. 
 How the ill sp'rit did the first mischief raise : 
 Mony a time, beneath the auld birk-tree. 
 What's bonny in that sang he loot me see. 
 The lasses aft flang down their rakes an' pails, 
 An' held their tongues, O strange ! to hear his tales. 
 
 Sandy, Sound be his sleep, an' saft his wak'ning be ; 
 Pie's in a better case than ye or me : 
 He was o'er guid for us — the gods hae ta'en 
 Their ain but back — he was a borrow'd len'. 
 Let us be guid, gin virtue be our drift, 
 Then may we yet forgether 'boon the lift. 
 But, see, the sheep are wysing to the cleugh ; 
 Thomas has loos'd his ousen frae the pleugh ; 
 Maggy by this has bewk the supper scones ; 
 An' nuckle kye stan' rowting on the loans : 
 Come, Richy, let us truce, an' hameward bend, 
 An' mak the best o' what we canna mend. 
 
♦ 
 
 RINGAN AND COLIN. 
 
 Ringan. She loot us ne'er gae hungry to the hill, 
 An' a' she gae, she gied it wi' guid will ; 
 Fu' mony, mony a ane will mind that day 
 On which frae us she's ta'en sae soon away ; 
 Baith hynds an' herds, wha's cheeks bespak nae scant, 
 An' thro' the howms cou'd whistle, sinj;, an' rant, 
 Will miss her sair, till happily they find 
 Anither in her place sae guid an' kind. 
 The lasses, wha did at her graces mint, 
 Hae by her death their bonniest pattern tint. 
 
 ilka ane, wha did her bounty skair. 
 Lament, for gen'rous Keitha is nae mair. 
 
 Colin. O Ringan, Ringan ! things gang sae unev'n, 
 
 1 canna weel tak up the will o' Heav'n. 
 Our crosses teughly last us mony a year, 
 But unco soon our blessings disappear. 
 
FROM ''KEITHA:' 87 
 
 Ringan. I'll tell thee, Colin, my last Sunday's note, 
 I tented weel Mess Thomas ilka jot. 
 The pow'rs aboon are cautious as they're just, 
 An' dinna like to gie owre meikle trust 
 To this inconstant earth, wi' what's divine, 
 Lest in laigh damps they shou'd their lustre tyne. 
 Sae let's leave aff our murmuring an' tears, 
 An' never value life by length o' years ; 
 But as we can in guidness it employ, 
 Syne wha dies first, first gains eternal joy. 
 Come, Colin, dight your cheeks, an' banish care, 
 Our lady's happy, tho' wi' us nae mair. 
 
IRobcit, 1R(cbi\ anb San^i\ 
 
 Recitative. 
 
 Robert the Good, by a' the swains rever'd, 
 Wise are his words, Hke siller is his beard ; 
 Near saxty shining simmers he has seen, 
 Tenting his hirsle on the miiirland green ; 
 Unshaken yet wi' mony a winter's wind, 
 Stout are his limbs, an' youthfu' is his mind ; 
 But now he droops, ane wad be wae to see 
 Ilim sae cast down ; ye wadna trow it's he. 
 By break o' day he seeks the dowie glen, 
 That he may scowth to a' his mourning len' : 
 Nane but the clinty craigs, an' scroggy briers, 
 "Were witnesses o' a' his granes an' tears. 
 Howder'd wi' hills a crystal burnie ran, 
 ^Vhere twa young shepherds fand the guid auld man 
 Kind Richy Spec, a friend to a' distrest. 
 An' Sandy, wha o' shepherds sings the best ; 
 
ROBERT, RICHY, AND SANDY. 89 
 
 Wi' friendly looks, they speer'd wherefore he niourn'd, 
 He rais'd his head, an' sighing, thus return'd : 
 
 Robert. Matt ! poor Matt ! — My lads, e'en tak a skair 
 O' a' my grief — sweet singing Matt's nae mair. 
 Ah, heav'ns ! did e'er this lyart head o' mine 
 Think to have seen the cauldrife mools on thine ! 
 
 Richy. My heart misgae me, whan I cam this way, 
 His dog, its lane, sat yowling on a brae ; 
 I cry'd, Isk, isk — poor Ringwood — sairy man ; 
 He wagg'd his tail, cour'd near, an' lick'd my lip.n' ; 
 I clapp'd his head, which eas'd a wee his pain ; 
 But soon's I gaed away, he yowl'd again. 
 Poor kindly beast ! Ah, sirs ! how sic shou'd be 
 Mair tender-hearted mony a time than we ! 
 
 Sandy. Last owk, 1 dream'd my tup, that bears the 
 bell 
 An' paths the snaw, out o'er a high craig fell, 
 An' brak his leg — I started frae my bed, 
 Awak'd, an' leugh. — Ah ! now my dream is read. 
 How dreigh's our cares, our joys how soon away, 
 Like sun-blinks on a cloudy winter's day ! 
 Flow fast, ye tears, ye have free leave for me ; 
 Dear sweet-tongu'd Matt, thousan's sail greet for thee, 
 
 Robert. Thanks to my friends, for ilka briny tear 
 Ye shed for him — he to us a' was dear. 
 Sandy, I'm eas'd to see thee look sae wan ; 
 Richy, thy sighs bespeak the kindly man. 
 
 Richy. But twice the simmer's sun has thaw'd the 
 snaw. 
 Since, frae our heights, Edie was ta'en awa. 
 
90 ROBERT, RICHY, AND SANDY. 
 
 Fast Matt has followed. — O' sic twa bereft, 
 
 To smooth our sauls, alake ! wha have we left ? 
 
 Waes me ! o'er short a tack o' sic is given ; 
 
 But wha may contradict the will o' Heav'n ? 
 
 Yet mony a year he liv'd to hear the dale 
 
 Sing o'er his sangs, an' tell his merry tale. 
 
 Last year I had a stately tall ash-tree, 
 
 Braid were its branches, a sweet shade to me ; 
 
 I thought it might have flourish'd on the brae, 
 
 (Tho' past its prime) yet twenty years or sae ; 
 
 But ae rough night, the blatt'ring winds blew snell, 
 
 Torn frae its roots, adown it soughan fell ; 
 
 Twin'd o' its nourishment, it lifeless lay. 
 
 Mixing its wither'd leaves amang the clay. 
 
 Sae flourish'd Matt ; but whare's the tongue can tell 
 
 How fair he grew ? — how much lamented fell ? 
 
 Sandy. How snackly cou'd he gie a fool reproof, 
 E'en wi' a canty tale he'd tell aff-loof ? 
 How did he warning to the dosen'd sing, 
 By auld Purganty, an' the Dutchman's ring? 
 An' Lucky's siller ladle, shaws how aft 
 Our greatest wishes are but vain an' daft. 
 The wad -be wits, he bad them a' but pop 
 Their crazy heads into Tam Timman's shop ; 
 There they wad see a squirrel wi' his bells 
 Ay wrestling up, yet rising like themsells. 
 Thousands o' things he wittily cou'd say, 
 Wi' fancy Strang, an' saul as clear as day : 
 Smart were his tales ; but whare's the tongue can tell 
 How blythe he was ? — how much lamented fell ? 
 
ROBERT, RICHY, AND SANDY. 91 
 
 Richy. An' as he biythesome was, sae was he wise, 
 Our laird himsell wad aft tak his advice : 
 E'en cheek for chew he'd sit amang them a'. 
 An' tauk his mind 'bout kittle points o' law. 
 When clan Red-yards, ye ken, wi' wicked feud, 
 Had skail'd o' ours, but mair o' his ain bluid ; 
 \Vhen I, an' mony mae, that were right crouse, 
 Wad fain about his lugs hae brunt his house : 
 Yet Lady Anne, a woman meek an' kind, 
 A fae to weirs, an' o' a peacefu' mind, 
 Since mony in the fray had got their dead, 
 To mak the peace, our friend was sent wi' speed. 
 The very faes had for him just regard, 
 Tho' sair he jib'd their foremast singing bard. 
 Carefu' was Matt ; but whare's the tongue can tell 
 How wise he was ? — how much lamented fell ? 
 
 Sandy. Wha cou'd, like him, in a short sang define 
 The bonny lass, an' her young lover's pine ? 
 I'll ne'er forget that ane he made on May, 
 WTia brang the poor blate Symie to his clay ; 
 To gratify the paughty wench's pride. 
 The silly shepherd bowdy obeyd, an died. 
 Sic constant lasses as the Nit-brown ATaid, 
 Shall never want just praises duly paid ; 
 She claim'd his sang, an' still it was his care, 
 Wi' pleasing words, to guide an' rouse the fair. 
 How sweet his voice, when beauty was in view, 
 Smooth ran his lines, ay grac'd wi' something new ; 
 Nae word stood wrang : but whare the tongue can tell 
 How saft he sung ? — how much lamented fell ? 
 
 10 
 
92 ROBERT, RICHY, AND SANDY, 
 
 Richy. An' whan he had a mind to be mair grave, 
 A minister nae better cou'd behave. 
 Far out o' sight o' sic he aften flew, 
 Whan he o' hally wonders took a view : 
 Weel cou'd he praise the Pow'r that made us a', 
 An' bid us, in return, but tent his law ; 
 Wha guides us, whan we're waking or asleep, 
 Wi' thousand times mair care than we our sheep. 
 While he o' pleasure, pow'r, an' wisdom sang, 
 My heart lap high, my lugs wi' pleasure rang : 
 These to repeat, braid -spoken, I wad spill, 
 Altho' I shou'd employ my utmost skill. 
 He tow'r'd aboon ; but, ah 1 what tongue can tell 
 How high he flew? — how much lamented fell ? 
 
 Robert. My bennison, dear lads, light on you baith, 
 Wha hae sae true a feeling o' our skaith : 
 
 Sandy, draw his likeness in smooth verse. 
 As weel's ye can, then shepherds shall rehearse 
 His merit, while the sun metes out the day, 
 Wliile ewes shall bleet, an' little lambkins mae. 
 
 I've been a fauter, now three days are past, 
 While I for grief have hardly broke my fast ; 
 Come to my shiel, there let's forget our care, 
 
 1 dinna want a rowth o' country fare, 
 Sic as it is, ye're welcome to a skair. 
 Besides, my lads, I hae a browst o' tip. 
 As guid as ever wash'd a shepherd's lip ; 
 We'll tak a scour o't to put afF our pain, 
 For a' our tears an' sighs are but in vain. 
 Come, help me up — ^yon sooty cloud shores rain. 
 
3Bett^ an^ TRate* 
 
 Betty. Dear Katie, Willy's e'en away 
 
 Willy, o' herds the wale, 
 To feed his flock, an' mak his hay 
 
 Upon a distant dale, 
 Far to the southward o' this height 
 
 Whare now we dowie stray, 
 Ay heartsome when he cheer'd our sight, 
 
 An' leugh wi' us a' day. 
 Kate. O Willy, can dale dainties please 
 
 Thee mair than muirland ream ? 
 Does Isis flow wi' sweeter ease 
 
 Than Fortha's gentle stream ? 
 Or taks thou rather mair delyte. 
 
 In the strae-hatted maid. 
 Than in the blooming red an' white, 
 
 O' her that wears the plaid ? 
 Betty. Na, Kate, for that we needna mourn 
 
 He is na gi'en to change ; 
 
94 BETTY AND KA TE. 
 
 But sauls o' sic a shining turn, 
 
 For honours like to range. 
 Our laird, an' a' the gentry round, 
 
 Wha mauna be said nay, 
 Sic pleasure in his art hae found. 
 
 They winna let him stay. 
 Blythe I hae stood frae morn to e'en, 
 
 To see how true an' weel 
 He could delyte us on the green 
 
 Wi' a piece cawk an' keel : 
 On a smooth stane, or smoother sclate, 
 
 He can the picture draw 
 O' you or me, or sheep or gait. 
 
 The likcst e'er ye saw. 
 Lass, thinkna shame to ease your mind ; 
 
 I see ye're like to greet : 
 Let gae thae tears, it's justly kind. 
 
 For shepherd sae complete 
 Kate. Far, far ! o'er far frae Spey an' Clyde, 
 
 Stands that great town o' Lud, 
 To whilk our best lads rin an' ride, 
 
 That's like to put us wud ; 
 For sindle times they e'er come back, 
 
 Wha anes are heftit there : 
 Sure, Bess, thae hills are nae sae black, 
 
 Nor yet thir howms sae bare. 
 Betty. Our liggs are rich, an' green our heights. 
 
 An' weel our cares reward ; 
 But yield, nae doubt, far less delights. 
 
 In absence of our laird : 
 
BE TTY AND KA TE. 95 
 
 But we maun ca'mly now submit, 
 
 An' our ill luck lament, 
 An' leave to his ain sense, an' wit, 
 
 To find his heart's content. 
 A thousand gates he had to win 
 
 The love o' auld an' young ; 
 Did a' he did wi' little din. 
 
 An' in nae deed was dung. 
 Kate. William an' Mary never fail'd 
 
 To welcome wi' a smile, 
 An' hearten us, whan aught we ail'd, 
 
 Without designing guile : 
 Lang may she happily possess, 
 
 Wha's in his breast infeft ; 
 An' may their bonny bairns increase, 
 
 An' a' wi' rowth be left. 
 O William, win your laurels fast, 
 
 An' syne we'll a' be fain. 
 Soon as your wand'ring days are past, 
 
 An' you're return'd again. 
 Betty. Revive her joys by your return, 
 
 To whom you first gae pain ; 
 Judge how her passions for you burn. 
 
 By thae you bear your ain. 
 Sae may your kirn wi' fatness flow, 
 
 An' a' your kye be sleek ; 
 An* may your heart wi' gladness glow, 
 
 In finding what ye seek. 
 
 END OF PASTORALS. 
 
II. 
 SONGS. 
 
THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR. 
 
 The last time I came o'er the moor, 
 
 I left my love behind me : 
 Ye pow'rs ! what pain do I endure, 
 
 Wlaen soft ideas mind me : 
 Soon as the ruddy morn display'd 
 
 The beaming day ensuing, 
 I met betimes my lovely maid 
 
 In fit retreats for w^ooing. 
 
 Beneath the cooling shade we lay, 
 
 Gazing and chastely sporting ; 
 We kiss'd and promis'd time away, 
 
 Till night spread her black curtain. 
 I pitied all beneath the skies, 
 
 Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me ; 
 In raptures I beheld her eyes, 
 
 Which could but ill deny me. 
 
 Should I be call'd where cannons roar, 
 Wliere mortal steel may wound me. 
 
 Or cast upon seme foreign shore. 
 Where dangers may surround me ; 
 
loo THE LASS OF PA TIE'S MILL. 
 
 Yet hopes again to see my love. 
 To feast on glowing kisses, 
 
 Shall make my cares at distance move, 
 In prospect of such blisses. 
 
 In all my soul there's not one place 
 
 To let a rival enter ; 
 Since she excels in ev'ry grace, 
 
 In her my love shall center. 
 Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, 
 
 Their waves the Alps shall cover, 
 On Greenland ice shall roses grow, 
 
 Before I cease to love her. 
 
 The next time I go o'er the moor 
 
 She shall a lover find me ; 
 And that my faith is firm and pure, 
 
 Tho' I left her behind me : 
 Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain 
 
 My heart to her fair bosom, 
 There, while my being does remain, 
 
 My love more fresh shall blossom. 
 
 THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 
 
 The lass of Patie's mill, 
 So bonny, blythe, and gay, 
 
 In spite of all my skill, 
 She stole my heart away. 
 
THE LASS OF FATIE[S MILL, ; .i.oi 
 
 When tedding of the hay, 
 
 Bare-headed on the green, 
 Love 'midst her locks did play, 
 
 And wanton'd in her een. 
 
 Her arms, white, round, and smooth. 
 
 Breasts rising in their dawn, 
 To age it would give youth, 
 
 To press them with his hand. 
 Thro' all my spirits ran 
 
 An extasy of bliss, 
 Wlien I such sweetness fan' 
 
 Wrapt in a balmy kiss. 
 
 Without the help of art, 
 
 Like flowers which grace the wild. 
 She did her sweets impart. 
 
 Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. 
 Her looks they were so mild, 
 
 Free from affected pride, 
 She me to love beguil'd ; 
 
 I wish'd her for my bride. 
 
 O had I all the wealth 
 
 Hopetoun's high mountains fill, 
 Insur'd lang life and health, 
 
 And pleasure at my will ; 
 I'd promise and fulfil, 
 
 That none but bonny she, 
 The lass of Patie's mill, 
 
 Shou'd share the same with me. 
 
I :.2 BESS y BELL JAP MAR V GRA Y. 
 
 BESSY BELL AN' MARY GRAY. 
 
 O Bessy Bell an' Mary Gray, 
 
 They are twa bonny lasses, 
 They bigg'd a bow'r on yon burn-brae, 
 
 An' theek'd it o'er wi' rashes. 
 Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen, 
 
 An' thought I ne'er cou'd alter ; 
 But Mary Gray's twa pawky een, 
 
 They gar my fancy falter. 
 
 Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap, 
 
 She smiles like a May morning, 
 When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap, 
 
 The hills wi' rays adorning : 
 White is her neck, saft is her hand, 
 
 Her waist an' feet's fu' genly, 
 Wi' ilka grace she can command, 
 
 Her lips, O wow ! they're dainty. 
 
 An' Mary's locks are like the crav/, 
 
 Her een like diamonds glances ; 
 She's ay sae clean redd up, an' braw. 
 
 She kills whene'er she dances : 
 Blythe as a kid, wi' wit at will. 
 
 She blooming, tight, an' tall is ; 
 An' guides her airs sae gracefu' still, 
 
 O Jove ! she's like thy Pallas. 
 
THE YOUNG LAIRD. 103 
 
 Dear Bessy Bell an' Mary Gray, 
 
 Ye unco sair oppress us, 
 Our fancies jee between ye twa, 
 
 Ye are sic bonny lasses : 
 Waes me, for baith I canna get, 
 
 To ane by law we're stented ; 
 Then 111 draw cuts, an' tak my fate, 
 
 An* be wi' ane contented. 
 
 THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH KATY. 
 
 Now wat ye wha I met yestreen 
 
 Coming down the street, my jo. 
 My mistress in her tartan screen, 
 
 Fu' bonny, braw, an' sweet, my jo. 
 My dear, quoth 1, thanks to the night 
 
 That never wish'd a lover ill ; 
 Since ye're out o' your mither's sight. 
 
 Let's tak a wauk up to the hill. 
 
 O Katy, wiltu gang wi' me, 
 
 An' leave the dinsome town a while ? 
 The blossom's sprouting frae the tree, 
 
 An* a' the simmer's gawn to smile ; 
 The mavis, nightingale, an' lark, 
 
 The bleating lambs, an' whistling hind ; 
 In ilka dale, green shaw, an' park. 
 
 Will nourish health an' glad ye'r mind. 
 
I04 LOCHABER NO MORE. 
 
 Soon as the clear guidman o' day 
 
 Does bend his morning drauglit o' dew, 
 We'll gae to some burn-side an' play, 
 
 An' gather flow'rs to busk yer brow. 
 We'll pu' the daisies on the green, 
 
 The lucken gowans frae the bog ; 
 Between hands now an' then we'll lean, 
 
 An' sport upon the velvet fog. 
 
 There's up into a pleasant glen, 
 
 A wee piece frae my father's tow'r, 
 A canny, saft, an' flow'ry den, 
 
 Which circling birks has form'd a bower 
 Wliene'er the sun grows high an' warm. 
 
 We'll to the cauler shade remove. 
 There will I lock thee in my arm. 
 
 An' love an' kiss, an' kiss an' love. 
 
 LOCIIALER NO MORE. 
 
 Farewell to Lochaber, an' farewell my Jean, 
 WTiere heartsome wi' thee I've mony day been ; 
 For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more. 
 We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. 
 These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear. 
 An' no for the dangers attending on weir, 
 Tho' borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
 Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 
 
LASS Wr A LUMP a LAND. loc 
 
 Tho' hurricanes rise, an' rise every wind, 
 They'll ne'er mak a tempest like that in my mind ; 
 Tho' loudest o' thunders on louder waves roar. 
 That's naithing like leaving my love on the shore. 
 To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd ; 
 By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd ; 
 An' beauty an' love's the reward o' the brave, 
 An' [ must deserve it before I can crave. 
 
 Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse ; 
 Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? 
 Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, 
 An' without thy favour I'd better not be. 
 I gae, then, my lass, to win honour an' fame. 
 An' if I shou'd luck to come gloriously hame, 
 I'll bring a heart to thee wi' love running o'er, 
 An' then I'll leave thee an' Lochaber no more. 
 
 LASS wr A LUMP O* LAND. 
 
 GiE me a lass wi' a lump o' land. 
 
 An' we for life shall gang thegither ; 
 Tho' daft or wise I'll ne'er demand. 
 
 Or black or fair, it maksna whether. 
 I'm aff wi' wit, an' beauty will fade, 
 
 An' bluid alane is no worth a shilling 
 But she that is rich her market is made. 
 
 For ilka charm about her is killing. 
 
io6 POL WART ON THE GREEN, 
 
 Gie me a lass wi' a lump o' land, 
 
 An' in my bosom I'll hug my treasure ; 
 Gin I had ance her gear in my hand, 
 
 vShou'd love turn dowfif, it will find pleasure. 
 Laugh on wha likes, but there's my hand, 
 
 I hate wi' poortith, tho' bonny, to meddle ; 
 Unless they bring cash, or a lump o' land, 
 
 They'se ne'er get me to dance to their fiddle. 
 
 There's meikle good love in bands an' bags. 
 
 An' siller an' guwd's a sweet complexion ; 
 But beauty, an' wit, an' virtue in rags, 
 
 Have tint the art o' gaining affection. 
 Love tips his arrows wi' woods an' parks, 
 
 An' castles, an' riggs, an' muirs, an' meadows ; 
 An' naithing can catch our modern sparks. 
 
 But weel tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows. 
 
 rOLWART ON THE GREEN. 
 
 At Polwart on the green, 
 
 If you'll meet me the morn. 
 Where lasses do conveen 
 
 To dance about the thorn ; 
 A kindly welcome ye shall meet 
 
 Frae her wha likes to view 
 A lover an' a lad complete, 
 
 The lad an' lover you. 
 
THE YELLOW-HAIR' D LADDIE. 107 
 
 Let dorty dames say na, 
 
 As lang as e'er they please, 
 Seem caulder than the snaw 
 
 WHiile inwardly they bleeze ; 
 But I will frankly shaw my mind, 
 
 An' yield my heart to thee ; 
 Be ever to the captive kind, 
 
 That lanc;s na to be free. 
 
 At Polwart on the green. 
 
 Among the new mawn hay, 
 Wi' sangs an' dancing keen 
 
 We'll pass the heartsome day. 
 At night if beds be o'er thrang laid, 
 
 An' thou be twin'd o' thine, 
 Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad, 
 
 To tak a part o' mine. 
 
 THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE. 
 
 In April, when primroses paint the sweet plain, 
 
 And summer approaching rejoiceth the swain, 
 
 The yellow-hair'd laddie would oftentimes go 
 
 To wilds and deep glens, where the hawthorn trees grow. 
 
 There, under the shade of an old sacred thorn, 
 With freedom he sung his loves, ev'ning and morn ; 
 He sung with so soft and enchanting a sound, 
 That sylvans and fairies, unseen, danc'd around. 
 
 11 
 
io8 NANNY O. 
 
 The shepherd thus sung : Tho' young Maia be fair, 
 Her beauty is dash'd with a scornful proud air ; 
 But Susie was handsome, and sweetly could sing, 
 Pier breath like the breezes, perfum'd in the spring. 
 
 That Maia in all the gay bloom of her youth, 
 Like the moon was inconstant, and never spoke truth ; 
 But Susie was faithful, good-humour'd, and free. 
 And fair as the goddess who sprung from the sea. 
 
 That mamma's fine daughter, with all her great dow'r, 
 Was aukwardly air}', and frequently sour : 
 Then sighing, he wished, wou'd parents agree, 
 The witty sweet Susie his mistress might be. 
 
 NANNY O. 
 
 While some for pleasure pawn their health, 
 
 'Twixt Lais and the Bagnio, 
 
 I'll save myself, and without stealth 
 
 Kiss and caress my Nanny O. 
 
 She bids more fair t'engage n Jove, 
 Than I^eda did, or Danae O : 
 Were I to paint the Queen of I^ove, 
 None else should sit but Nanny O. 
 
 How joyfully my spirits rise. 
 When dancing she moves finely O j 
 
AULD LANG SYNE. log 
 
 I guess what heav'n is by her eyes, 
 Which sparkle so divinely O. 
 
 Attend my vow, ye gods, while I 
 Breathe in the blest Britanni' O, 
 None's happiness I shall envy, 
 As long's ye grant me Nanny O. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 My bonny, bonny Nanny O, 
 My lovely, charming Nanny O, 
 I care not tho' the world do know 
 How dearly I love Nanny O. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 Tho' they return with scars ? 
 These are the noble hero's lot, 
 
 Obtain'd in glorious wars : 
 Welcome, my Vara, to my breast, 
 
 Thy arms about me twine, 
 And make me once again as blest 
 
 As I was lang syne. 
 
 Methinks around us on each bough 
 
 A thousand Cupids play. 
 Whilst thro' the groves I walk with you, 
 
 Each object makes me gay ; 
 
no VP IN THE AIR. 
 
 Since your return the sun and moon 
 With brighter beams do shine, 
 
 Streams murmur soft notes while they run, 
 As they did lang syne. 
 
 Despise the court and din of state. 
 
 Let that to their share fall 
 Who can esteem such slav'ry great, 
 
 While bounded like a ball ; 
 But sunk in love, upon my arms, 
 
 Let your brave head recline, 
 We'll please ourselves with mutual charms. 
 
 As we did lang s)Tie. 
 
 O'er moor and dale with your gay friend 
 
 You may pursue the chacc ; 
 And after a blylhe bottle, end 
 
 All cares in my embrace : 
 And in a vacant rainy day 
 
 You shall be wholly mine ; 
 We'll make the hours slide smooth away. 
 
 And laugh at lang syne. 
 
 UP IN THE AIR. 
 
 Now the sun's gane out o' sight, 
 Beet the ingle, an' snuff the light : 
 In glens the fairies skip an' dance. 
 An' witches wallop o'er to France, 
 
UP IN THE AIR, nr 
 
 Up in the air 
 On my bonny grey mare ; 
 An' I see her yet, an' I see her yet. 
 Up in, etc. 
 
 The wind's drifting hail an' snav/ 
 O'er frozen hags like a foot ba', 
 Nae s tarns keek thro' the azure slit. 
 It's cauld an' mirk as cny pit. 
 
 The man i' the moon 
 
 Is carousing aboon. 
 D'ye see, d'ye see, d'ye see him yet. 
 
 The man, etc. 
 
 Tak your glass to clear your een, 
 It's the elixir hales the spleen, 
 Baith wit an' mirth it will inspire, 
 An' gently puffs the lover's fire. 
 
 Up i' the air, 
 
 It drives away care, 
 Hae wi' ye, hae wi' ye, an' hae wi' ye, lads, yet. 
 
 Up in, etc. 
 
 Steek the doors, keep out the frost, 
 Come, Willy, gie's about your toast, 
 Till't lads, an' lilt it out. 
 An' let us hae a blythesome bowt, 
 
 Up wi't there, there, 
 
 Dinna cheat, but drink fair. 
 Huzza, huzza, an' huzza, lads, yet. 
 
 Up wi't, etc. 
 
112 THE WIDOW, 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 The widow can bake, and the widow can brew, 
 The widow can shape, an' the widow can sew, 
 An' mony braw things the widow can do ; 
 
 Then have at the widow, my laddie. 
 Wi' courage attack her baith early an' late ; 
 To kiss her an' clap her ye maunna be blate : 
 Speak weel, an' do better : for that's the best gate 
 
 To win a young widow, my laddie. 
 
 The widow she's youthfu', an' never ae hair 
 The waur o' the wearing, an' has a good skair 
 O' everything lovely ; she's witty an' fair, 
 
 An' has a rich jointure, my laddie. 
 WTiat could ye wish better, your pleasure to crown, 
 Than a widow the bonniest toast in the town, 
 Wi' naithing but draw in your stool and sit down, 
 
 An' sport wi' the widow, my laddie. 
 
 Then till her, an' kill her wi' courtesy dead, 
 Tho' stark love an' kindness be a' ye can plead ; 
 Be heartsome an' airy, an' hope to succeed 
 
 W^i' a bonny gay widow, my laddie. 
 Strike iron while it's het, if ye'd have it to wald ; 
 For fortune ay favours the active an' bauld, 
 But ruins the wooer that's thoughtless an' cauld, 
 
 Untit for the widow, my laddie. 
 
MY PEGGY, 113 
 
 MY PEGGY. 
 
 My Peggy is a young thing 
 Just enter'd in her teens, 
 Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 
 Fair as the day, and always gay. 
 My Peggy is a young thing, 
 
 And I'm na very auld, 
 Yet weel I like to meet her at 
 The wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 
 Whene'er we meet alane, 
 I wish nae mair to lay my care, 
 I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare, 
 My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, 
 
 To a' the lave I'm cauld, 
 But she gars a' my spirits glow 
 At wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 My Peggy smiles sae kindly 
 Whene'er I whisper love, 
 That I look doun on a' the toun, 
 That I look doun upon a croun. 
 My Peggy smiles sae kindly, 
 
 It maks me blythe an' bauld, 
 An' naething gies me sic delight 
 As wauking o' the fauld. 
 
1 14 AT SETTING DA V. 
 
 T^Iy Peggy sings sae Faftly 
 When on my pipe I play, 
 By a' the rest it is confest, 
 By a' the rest that she sings best. 
 My Peggy sings sae saftly, 
 
 And in her sangs are tauld 
 \Vi' innocence, the wale o' sense. 
 At wauking o' the fauld. 
 
 O DEAR PEGGY. 
 
 O DEAR Peggy, love's beguiling, 
 Wc ought not to trust his smiling ; 
 Better far to do as I do. 
 Lest a harder luck betide you. 
 Lasses, when their fancy's carried, 
 Think of nought but to be married ; 
 Running to a life, destroys 
 Heartsome, free, an' youthful joys. 
 
 AT SETTING DAY. 
 
 At setting day and rising morn 
 Wi' soul that still shall love thee, 
 
 I'll ask o' Heaven thy safe return 
 \Vi' a' that can improve thee. 
 
O WHA'S THAT? it? 
 
 V\\ visit aft the birken bush 
 
 Wliere first thou kindly tauld me 
 Sweet tales o' love, and hid my blush 
 
 Wliilst round thou didst infauld me. 
 
 To a' our haunts I will repair, 
 
 To greenwood, shaw, or fountain, 
 Or where the summer day I'd share 
 
 Wi' thee upon yon mountain. 
 There will I tell the trees an' flooers 
 
 From thoughts unfeign'd an' tendei;^ — 
 By vows you're mine, by love is yours 
 
 A heart that cannot v/ander. 
 
 O WHA'S THAT? 
 
 O wha's that at my chamber door ? 
 
 " Fair widow, are ye waukin? " 
 Auld carle, your suit give o'er. 
 
 Your love lies a' in talkin'. 
 Gie me the lad that's young an' tight, 
 
 Sweet as an April meadow, 
 'Tis sic as he can bless the sight 
 
 And bosom of a widow. 
 
 " O widow, wilt thou let me in ? 
 
 I'm pawky, wise, an' thrifty, 
 And come of a right gentle kin,— 
 
 An' little mair than fifty." 
 
ii6 HE CAME O'ER THE CR0F7\ 
 
 Daft carle, dight your mouth ; 
 
 What signifies how pawky 
 Or gentle born ye be ? But youth, 
 
 In love you're but a gawky. 
 
 " Then, widow, let thir guineas speak 
 
 That powerfully plead clinkin' ; 
 If they should fail my mouth I'll steek, 
 
 An' ne'er mair love I'll think on." 
 They court, indeed, I maun confess ; 
 
 I think they mak you young, sir, 
 And ten times better can express 
 
 Affection than your tongue, sir ! 
 
 THE CARLE HE CAME O'ER THE CROFT. 
 
 The carle he came o'er the croft 
 
 And his beard new shaven, 
 He look'd at me as he'd been daft. 
 
 The carle trows that 1 wad hae hira. 
 Hoot awa ! I winna hae him : 
 
 Na, forsooth, I winna hae him j 
 For a' his beard's new shaven 
 
 Ne'er a bit will I hae him. 
 
 A siller broach he gae me neist, 
 To fasten on my curtchea nocked ; 
 
 I wore't a wee upon my briest 
 But soon, alake ! the tongue o't crooked : 
 
JENNY NE TTLES, 1 1 7 
 
 And sae may his — T winna hae him ; 
 
 Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ; 
 Ane twice a bairn's a lass's jeist, 
 
 Sae ony fule for me may hae him. 
 
 The carle has nae faut but ane, 
 
 For he has land and dollars plenty ; 
 But wae's me for him ! skin and bane 
 
 Are no' for a plump lass o' twenty. 
 Hoot awa 1 I winna hae him, 
 
 Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ; 
 What signifies his cash an' riggs 
 
 Unless there be a man wi' them ! 
 
 JENNY NETTLES. 
 
 Saw ye Jenny Nettles, 
 
 Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, - 
 Saw ye Jenny Nettles 
 
 Comin' fra the market, — 
 Bag and baggage on her back, 
 Her fee and bountith in her lap. 
 Bag and baggage on her back, 
 
 And a baby in her oxter ? 
 
 I met ayont the cairnie 
 
 Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, 
 Singin' till her bairnic, 
 
 Robin Rattle's bastard, 
 
1 18 JENNY NE TTLES. 
 
 To flee the dool upon the stool, 
 An' ilka ane that mocks her. 
 
 She round aboot seeks Robin oot 
 To stap it in his oxter. 
 
 Fy ! fy ! Robin Rattle, 
 
 Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle,— 
 Fy ! fy ! Robin Rattle, 
 
 Use Jenny Nettles kindly ! 
 Score oot the blame an' shun the shame. 
 
 An' withoot mair debate o't, 
 Tak hame your wean, mak Jenny fain 
 
 The leal an' leesome gate o't ! 
 
 XND OF SONGS. 
 
III. 
 HUMOROUS POEMS, 
 
Cbrfsrs fdrl? on the CBreem 
 
 « 
 
 Canto I, 
 
 Tkis eanto is attributed to King James I. of Scotland. 
 Ramsay supposes the scene to be laid near Leslie, in Fife- 
 shire. The follo7ving prose version^ which is partly 
 translation and partly conjecture of the original , has been 
 made on the lines of Ramsay s interpretations : — 
 
 Such a scene of dancing, fighting, and wild confusion 
 as was witnessed one day lately at the celebration of a 
 rustic wedding at Christ's Kirk, was never seen or heard 
 of in Scotland beiore, — neither on Falkland green nor in 
 Peebles at the play season. Quite a number of country 
 girls were present, looking fresh and tidy, and remark- 
 ably smart in their new dresses, got no doubt for the 
 occasion. They were equipt in expectation of a dance 
 with neatly-fitting gloves and shoes, and short skirts of a 
 light grey fabric, ornamented with innumerable plaits. 
 They were free, almost to wantonness, in their manners. 
 
123 CHRIS rS KIRK ON THE GREEN. 
 
 but so excited at first that when the lads came near them 
 they would squeal like as many goals. Of all these 
 honey-sweet maidens, none was so delicately shaped as 
 Julie. Her complexion was of a clear red and white, 
 and her hair of a golden yellow. Everybody knew of 
 her attachment to Willie, whom and whom only she 
 would have for her lover, though it was against the 
 wishes and even with the enmity of the whole of her kin. 
 As for Jock, she despised him, mocked him, and made 
 mouths at him. Willingly would he have been her 
 lover, but in spite of his yellow locks she would have 
 nothing to do with him. He addressed her in terms of 
 entreaty and endearment : she bade him go hang, — 
 counted him not worth a couple of beetles. But, indeed, 
 he had a body which no coat could become, and his legs 
 were veritable spindleshanks. 
 
 Tam Luttar was worthy to be their fiddler. He was 
 no less famous as a dancer. He began with a plaintive 
 and penetrating air, accompanying the music with his 
 voice, while a shock-headed swain stept solemnly about 
 in the belief that he was dancing. It was no quick 
 Scotch air, such as Lightfoot and other old favourites, 
 but a French imitation, requiring on the dancer's part a 
 slow, morrice-like movement, which was little likely to 
 exhaust him. Then Steen came tripping in— Steen, the 
 quickest dancer in the country, whom the sv/iftest playing 
 could not put out. He would leap up now and again 
 with an agility that was perfectly wonderful. A splay- 
 footed rustic bobbed about, dancing rather with his body 
 than with his feet, however, and presently called out for 
 
CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 123 
 
 a certain Mause to come and be his partner. Gaining 
 confidence, he tried a leap like Steen's, and measured 
 his length on the grass. He made such haste to get up 
 that he lost all his wind, and retired from view coughing 
 and panting amid the laughter of the spectators. It was 
 now that Robin Roy began to be noisy, and create a 
 disturbance. He began by roughly dragging Dawnie 
 towards him. " Let be ! " said Jock, calling him at 
 the same time by an offensive name, and pulling him 
 back by the coat-tails. A crowd gathered round the 
 quarrel, and the two were by the ears in a moment. 
 They parted in a manly way, that is, only after a fair 
 stand-up fight, — though it was reported that they pulled 
 each other's hair when they got the chance. This 
 disturbance either frightened or excited one fellow, 
 who thereupon bent a bow, and choosing such an 
 arrow as suited his purpose, stood ready to shoot. 
 It is a dangerous thing to meddle with a madman 
 — but that is just what is too often done. Some- 
 body called out in an ironical tone, " We'll all 
 be murdered now!" Taking a general aim at this 
 person's body, the madman with the bow hastily let fly. 
 He missed by an acre's breadth. What spoilt his aim is 
 more than I can say. With that, a friend of his cried 
 *• Fie ! " and, fitting an arrow, drew the string with such 
 fury that his bow flew into flinders. The accident was 
 providential, for had the wood been sound, they that 
 knew his archery declared he might have slain more 
 than enough that day. A smart active fellow, called 
 Harry, well-known as a good marksman, was so 
 
 12 
 
124 CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 
 
 provoked by these occurrences, that he hurriedly got ready 
 his shooting tackle. Harry, however, was not up to his 
 usual form, for the man he aimed at escaped, — thanks, 
 no dou]:)t, to the Virgin ! It is possible he was a 
 friend of Harry's ; at all events he escaped, as he 
 deserved to do, for he meant no ill to any one. Lowrie 
 next leaped up, and soon fitted an arrow, and took aim, 
 wagering a sheep that he would strike the breast. 
 He struck the belly, which, as it was fortunately 
 defended by a leathern doublet, resisted the blow 
 with a hollow bladder-like sound. It was em- 
 phatically a stunning stroke, and took the person 
 so unexpectedly that he dropt at once. Lowrie, thinking 
 he had committed manslaughter, took to his heels, and 
 was seen no more in the town, for that day at least. 
 Forth came the wives, and raising the slain man's head, 
 discovered that there was life in the rascal. Then giving 
 three simultaneous shouts, and reserving a combined 
 eflbrt for the last one, they pulled him up till he had 
 regained the perpendicular, and then suddenly letting go 
 their hold, they forced him to come out of his pretended 
 swoon. A young man, who had been standing beside 
 him when he fell, was on the alert, and indignantly 
 loosed o(T a shot at the breast of Lowrie before Lowrie 
 had time to turn and flee. The bolt flew over the cow- 
 house I " Fie I " cried somebody: "he has slain a 
 priest a mile on the other side of the mire." Hearing 
 this the young man cast bow and quiver from him, and 
 fled like fire from flint. 
 
 The fight now became general. The combatants 
 
CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. T25 
 
 thoughtlessly seized what came readiest to hand, and 
 struck great blows at each other with pitchforks and 
 flails : even the rafters of an old barn were improvised 
 as weapons of offence. Bonnets were knocked off, and 
 bodies were knocked down and trodden on. The noise 
 increased. Raps were dealt fast and freely. Cudgels 
 descended on backbones, and backbones descended 
 beneath them, while the women added confusion to the 
 scene by alternately screaming and clapping. The com- 
 batants grinned, and let drive at each other great and 
 injurious strokes, accompanied with groans. Some 
 wielded sticks, some threw stones, some fled, and some 
 stayed to perpetuate mischief. The fiddler, like a wise 
 man, got between two carts, and so kept out of the fray. 
 He proved his discretion by being about the only unin- 
 jured man on the green at the conclusion of the fight. 
 Big Hutcheon undertook to separate the combatants by 
 rushing through them with a huge hazel bough. He did 
 not bungle the work either, but sent them right and left 
 like mice. However, strong though he was, he had to 
 pay for his interference. It was only a blow on the 
 thumb, it is true, but it was on the joint, and it made 
 him bellow. "A parley!" he roared; "I'm killed." 
 The wound was bleeding, for a strip of skin had been 
 knocked off". The sight of his own blood greatly 
 alarmed him. Some one, he thought, must be in the 
 crowd who had a grudge against him. He imagined he 
 heard this forgotten enemy shouting, " Have at him ! " 
 and made his feet defend his head by a hasty flight, which 
 became him better than fighting. In an incredibly short 
 
126 CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 
 
 time he was beyond earshot, and the man would have 
 been swift of foot indeed that could then have overtaken 
 him. 
 
 The town -cobbler had got more than his share of grief. 
 He had been in the thick of the fight, and his body was 
 besmeared with blood, while he groaned like a person 
 painfully yielding up the ghost. His wife was clinging 
 to his waist, her long yellow hair half concealing him, 
 and with her arms around him he was constrained to flee 
 from the fray. In his flight he showed no sign of 
 fatigue certainly. 
 
 The miller was of manly proportions. It was no sport 
 to tackle him. He was a master in the management of 
 a cudgel, and perfectly able to give employment to half- 
 a-score at a time. At last his adversaries organized a 
 simultaneous rush upon him, and while some thrashed 
 him with their bows in front, another party treacherously 
 assailed him in the rear and meanly hamstrung him. 
 
 Two shepherds dashed at each other with lowered 
 heads like a pair of butting rams. Then followed a 
 scrimmage in which bludgeons of the most nondescript 
 sort were used in tne most abandoned and indiscriminate 
 fashion. There were cracked crowns and bloody 
 noses, and many a beard was stiff with gore. Many 
 countenances thus presented an appearance savage in the 
 extreme. How the women screamed 1 But it got worse 
 than this. The crowd increased, individuals joining it at 
 full speed. Clubs rose and fell and were flourished about, 
 and blood streamed out wastefully from mouths and noses. 
 The noise of the steeple-bell added to the clamour ; some 
 
CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 127 
 
 one with lusty arms was at the rope, for the very steeple 
 seemed to rock. 
 
 But such riotous fury was bound to exhaust itself, and 
 by-and-by they were as meek as mules fatigued with 
 heavy loads and a long way. Many of the fools were so 
 tired with fighting that they tumbled over, and lay as 
 they fell, like peats. The victory was to the fresher men, 
 before whom the others were strewn about in heaps on 
 the ground. When all v/as over, valiant Dick put in an 
 appearance with an axe on his shoulder: "Where are 
 the scoundrels," he cried, " that wanted to kill my 
 brother ? " His wife bade him go home for a braggart, 
 and his mother, Meg, repeated the advice. Whereupon 
 he turned his valour against the women. 
 
 Canto II. 
 
 But there had been mair blood an' skaith, 
 
 Sair hardship an' great spulie, 
 An' mouy a ane had gotten his death 
 
 Fy this unsonsy tooly ; 
 But that the bauld guid-wife o' Braith, 
 
 Arm'd wi' a great kail-guilly, 
 Came belly flaught, an' loot an aith, 
 
 She'd gar them a' be hooly 
 
 Fou fast that day, 
 
 Blyth to win aff sae wi' hale banes, 
 Tho' mony had ciowr'd pows ; 
 
128 CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 
 
 An' dragl'd sae 'mang muck an' stanes, 
 
 They look'd like wirykows : 
 Quoth some, wha 'maist had tint their aynds, 
 
 Let's see how a' bowls rows, 
 An' quat this brulziement at anes j 
 
 Yon gully is nae mows. 
 
 Forsooth this day. 
 
 Quoth Hutchon, I am weel content, 
 
 I think we may do waur : 
 Till this time towmond I'se indent 
 
 Our claiths o' dirt will sa'r. 
 Wi' nevels I'm amaist fa'n faint, 
 
 My chafts are dung a char ; 
 Then took his bannet to the bent. 
 
 An' daddit aff the glar 
 
 Fou clean that day. 
 
 Syne a' wi' ae consent shook hands, 
 
 As they stuid in a ring ; 
 Some redd their hair, some set their bands, 
 
 Some did their sark-tails wring ; 
 Then for a hap to shaw their brands, 
 
 They did their minstrel bring, 
 Whare clever houghs like willi-wands, 
 
 At ilka blythsome spring, 
 
 Lap high that day. 
 
 Claud Peky was nae very blate, 
 He stood nae lang a-dreigh ; 
 
CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 129 
 
 For by the briest he gripped Kate, 
 
 An' gar'd her gi'e a skreigh : 
 Haud aff, quoth she, ye filthy slate, 
 
 Ye stink o' leeks, O figh ! 
 Let gae my hands, I say, be quait ; 
 
 An' wow gin she was skeigh 
 
 An' mim that day. 
 
 The manly miller, half an' half, 
 
 Cam out to shaw guid will, 
 Flang by his mittans an' his staff, 
 
 Cry'd, Gi'e me Paty's Mill ; 
 He lap bawk-hight, an' cry'd, Haud aff. 
 
 They roos'd him that had skill ; 
 He wad do't better, quoth a cawff, 
 
 Had he anither gill 
 
 O' Usquebae. 
 
 Furth started neist a pensy blade. 
 
 An' out a maiden took, 
 They said that he was Falkland bred. 
 
 An' danced by the book ; 
 A souple taylor to his trade. 
 
 An' whan their hands he shook, 
 Ga'e them what he got frae his dad, 
 
 Videlicet, the yuke. 
 
 To claw that day. 
 
 WTian a' cry'd out he did sae weel. 
 He Meg an' Bess did call up ; 
 
I30 CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 
 
 The lassies babb'd about the reel, 
 Gar'd a' their hurdies wallop, 
 
 An' swat like pownies whan they speel 
 Up braes, or wlian they gallop ; 
 
 But a thrawn knublock hit his heel, 
 An' wives had him to haul up, 
 
 Haff fell'd that day. 
 
 But mony a pauky look an' tale 
 
 Gaed round, whan glowming hous'd them, 
 The hostler wife brought benn guid ale, 
 
 An' bade the lassies rouse them : 
 Up wi' them lads, and I'se be bail 
 
 They'll looe ye an' ye touse them ; 
 Quoth Gawssie, this will never fail 
 
 Wi' them that this gate woo's them, 
 On sic a day. 
 
 Syne stools and furms were drawn aside, 
 
 An' up raise Willy Dadle, 
 A short bought man, but fou o' pride. 
 
 He said the fiddler play'd ill ; 
 Let's hae the pipes, quoth he, beside ; 
 
 Quoth a', That is nae said ill ; 
 He fits the floor syne wi' the bride 
 
 To Cuttyman an' Treeladle, 
 
 Thick, thick, that day. 
 
 Auld Steen led out Maggy Forsyth, 
 He was her ain guid-brither ; 
 
CHRIS T\S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 131 
 
 An' ilka ane was unco blylh, 
 
 To see auld Ibiik sae clover. 
 Quoth Jock, wi' laughing like to rive, 
 
 What tliink ye o' my mither ? 
 Vv'ere my dad dead, let me ne'er thrive 
 
 But she wad get anither 
 
 Guidman this day. 
 
 The letter-gae o' haly riiyme, 
 
 Sat up at the boord-head, 
 An' a' he said was thought a crime 
 
 To contradict indeed : 
 For in clerk lear he was right prime, 
 
 An' could baith write an' read, 
 An' drank sae firm, till ne'er a styme 
 
 He could keek on a bead 
 
 Or book that day. 
 
 Whan he was strute, twa sturdy chiels, 
 
 Be's oxter an' be's collar. 
 Held up frae cowping o' the creels 
 
 The liquid logic scholar. 
 \Mian he cam hame, his wife did reel, 
 
 An' rampage in her choler, 
 Wi' that he brak the spinning-wheel, 
 
 That cost a guid rix-dollar 
 
 An' mair, some say. 
 
 Near bed-time now, ilk weary wight 
 Was gaunting for his rest ; 
 
132 CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 
 
 For some were like to tjnie their sight, 
 Wi' sleep an' drinking strest. 
 
 But ithers that were stomach-tight, 
 Cry'd out, It was nae best 
 
 To leave a supper that was dight, 
 To brownies, or a ghaist, 
 
 To eat or day. 
 
 On whumelt tubs lay twa lang dails, 
 
 On them stuid mony a goan, 
 Some fiU'd wi' brachan, some wi' kail. 
 
 An' milk het frae the loan. 
 O' dainties they had routh an' wale, 
 
 O' which they were right fon' ; 
 But naething wad gae down but ale 
 
 Wi' drunken Donald Don, 
 
 The smith, that day. 
 
 Twa times aught bannocks in a heap, 
 
 An' twa guid junts o' beef, 
 Wi' hind an' fore-spaul o' a sheep, 
 
 Drew whitles frae ilk sheath : 
 Wi' graivie a' their beards did dreep, 
 
 They kempit wi' their teeth ; 
 A kebbuck s}'ne that maist cou'd creep 
 
 Its lane, put on the sheaf 
 
 In stous that day. 
 
 The bride was now laid in her bed, 
 Her left leg ho was flung ; 
 
CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 153 
 
 An' Geordie Gib was fidgen glad. 
 
 Because it hit Jean Gun : 
 She was his jo, an' aft had said, 
 
 Fy, Geordie, haud your tongue, 
 Ye's ne'er get me to be your bride : 
 
 But chang'd her mind, whan bung, 
 That very day. 
 
 The souter, miller, smith, an' Dick, 
 
 Lawrie, an' Hutchon bauld. 
 Carles that keep nae very strict 
 
 Be hours, tho' they were auld : 
 Nor cou'd they e'er leave off that trick ; 
 
 But whar guid ale was said, 
 They drank a' night, e'en tho' Auld Nick 
 
 Shou'd tempt their wives to scald 
 
 Them for't neist day. 
 
 Was ne'er in Scotland heard or seen, 
 
 Sic banqueting an' drinkin. 
 Sic ravelling an' battles keen, 
 
 Sic dancing, and sic jinkin, etc. 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Now frae east nook o' Fife the dawn 
 Speel'd westlins up the lift. 
 
 Carles wha heard the cock had craw'n, 
 Begoud to rax an' rift : 
 
An' greedy wives wi' girning thrawn, 
 
 Cry'd, Lasses up to thrift ; 
 Dogs barked, an' the lads frae hand 
 
 Bang'd to their breeks like drift, 
 Be break o' day. 
 
 But some wha had been fou yestreen. 
 
 Sic as the letter-gae, 
 Air up, had nae will to be seen, 
 
 Grudgin their groat to pay. 
 Bui what aft fristed's no forgicn, 
 
 Whan fouk has nought to say ; 
 Yet sweer were they to rake their een, 
 
 Sic dizzy heads had they, 
 
 An' het that day. 
 
 Be that time it was fair foor days, 
 
 As fou's the house cou'd pang, 
 To see the young fouk 'ere they raise, 
 
 Gossips came in ding dang, 
 An' wi' a soss aboon the claiths. 
 
 Ilk ane their gifts down flang : 
 Twall toop-horn spoons down Maggy lays, 
 
 Baitli muckle-mou'd an' lang. 
 For kail or whey. 
 
 Her aunt a pair o' tangs fush in, 
 Right bald she spak an' spruce, 
 
 " Gin your guidman shall mak a din, 
 An' gabble like a goose, 
 
CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 13 = 
 
 Shorin, whan fou, to skelp ye'r skin, 
 
 Thir to.ngs may be o' use : 
 Lay them en'Iang his pow or shin, 
 
 WTia wins syne may mak roose 
 Between you twa." 
 
 Auld Bessy in her red coat braw, 
 
 Came wi' her ain oe Nanny, 
 An odd-like wife they said that saw, 
 
 A moupin runkled granny : 
 She fley'd the kimmers ane an' a', 
 
 Word gaed she was nae canny ; 
 Nor wad they let Lucky awa', 
 
 Till she was fou wi' branny, 
 Like mony mae. 
 
 Kind Kirsh was there, a canty lass, 
 
 Black ey'd, black hair'd, an' bonny ; 
 Right weel red up, an' jimp she was, 
 
 An' wooers had fu' mony : 
 I wat na how it cam to pass, 
 
 She cutled in wi' Jonnie, 
 An' tumbling wi' him on the grass, 
 
 Dang a' her cockernony 
 
 A-jee that day. 
 
 Het drink, fresh butter'd caiks, an' cheesC; 
 
 That held their hearts aboon, 
 Wi* clashes, mingled aft wi' lies, 
 
 Drave aflf the hale forenoon ; 
 
136 CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 
 
 But after dinner, an' ye please, 
 
 To weary not o'er soon, 
 We down to e'ening edge wi' ease 
 
 Shall loup, an' see what's done 
 
 r the doup o' day. 
 
 Now what the friends wad fain been at, 
 
 They that were riglit true blue, 
 Was e'en to get their wysons wat, 
 
 An' fill young Roger fou ; 
 Bui the bauld billy took his maut, 
 
 An' was right stiff to bow ; 
 He fairly ga'e them tit for tat, 
 
 An' scour'd aff healths anew, 
 
 Clean out that day. 
 
 Syne the blyth carles, tooth an' nail. 
 
 Fell keenly to the wark ; 
 To ease the gantrees o' the ale. 
 
 An' try wha was maist stark ; 
 Till boord an' floor, an' a' did sail 
 
 Wi' spilt ale i' the dark : 
 Gart Jock's fit slide, he, like a fail, 
 
 Play'd dad, an' dang the bark 
 
 Affs shin that day. 
 
 The souter, miller, smith, an' Dick, 
 
 Et cet'ra, closs sat cockin. 
 Till waisted was baith cash an' tick, 
 
 Sae ill they were to slocken : 
 
CHRIST'S KIRK ON THE GREEN. 137 
 
 Gane out amang the gutters thick, 
 Some fell, an' some gade rockin, 
 
 Sawney hang sneering on his stick. 
 To see bauld Hutchon bockin 
 
 Rainbows that day. 
 
 The smith's wife her black deary sought, 
 
 An' fand him skin an' birn ; 
 Quoth she, *' This day wark's be dear bought ;" 
 
 He bann'd an' ga'e a girn, 
 Ca'd her a jad, an' said she mucht 
 
 Gae hame an' scum her kirn : 
 " Whish't ladren i for gin ye say ought 
 
 Mair, I'se wind ye a pirn 
 
 To reel some day." 
 
 ^' Ye'll wind a pirn ! ye silly snool, 
 
 Wae worth yer drunken saul," 
 Quoth she, an' lap out o'er a stool, 
 
 An' claught him by the spaul : 
 He shook her, an' sware *' Muckle dool, 
 
 Ye'se thole for this, ye scaul ; 
 I'se rive frae aff your back the hool. 
 
 An' learn ye to be haul 
 
 On sic a day." 
 
 " Y'er tippanizing, scant o' grace," 
 Quoth she, " gars me gang duddy : 
 
 Our nibour Pate sin break o' day's 
 Been thumpin at his studdy ; 
 
I3S CHRIS rs kirk on the green. 
 
 An' it be true that some fouk says, 
 
 Ye'll girn yet in a woody : " 
 Syne wi' her nails she rave his face, 
 
 Made a' his black beard bloody 
 
 Wi' scarts that day. 
 
 A gilpy that had seen the faught, 
 
 I wat he was nae lang, 
 Till he had gather'd seven or aught 
 
 Wild hempies stout and Strang ; 
 They frae a barn a kaber laught, 
 
 Ane mounted wi' a bang, 
 Betwish't twa's shoulders, an' sat straught 
 
 Upon't, an' rade the stang 
 
 On her that day. 
 
 The wives an' gytlings a* spawn'd out 
 
 O'er middins, an' o'er dykes, 
 Wi' mony an unco skirl an' shout, 
 
 Like bumbees frae their bykes ; 
 Thro' thick an' thin they scour'd about, 
 
 Plashing thro' dubs an sykes. 
 An' sic a reird ran thro' the rout, 
 
 Gart a' the hale town tykes 
 
 Yamph loud that day. 
 
 But, d'ye see, fu' better bred 
 Was mensfu' Maggy Murdy, 
 
 She her man like a lammy led 
 ITame wi' a weel-wail'd wordy. 
 
CHRIST'S kirk: on the green. 139 
 
 Fast frae the company he fled, 
 
 As he had ta'en the sturdy ; 
 She fleech'd him fairly to his bed, 
 
 Wi' ca'ing him her burdy. 
 
 Kindly that day. 
 
 But Lawrie he took out his nap 
 Upon a mow o' pease ; 
 
 An' Robin in his ain wife's lap- 
 He said it gie'd him ease : 
 
 Hutchon, wi' a three-lugged cap, 
 His head bizzin wi' bees. 
 
 Hit Geordy a mislushios rap, 
 An' brak the brig o's neese 
 
 Right sair that day. 
 
 Syne ilka thing gaed arse o'er head, 
 
 Chanlers, boord, stools, an' stoups, 
 Flew thro' the house wi' muckle speed, 
 
 An' there was little hopes 
 But there had been some ill-done deed, 
 
 They gat sic thrawart cowps ; 
 But a' the skaith that chanc'd indeed, 
 
 Was only on their doups, 
 
 Wi' fa's that day. 
 
 Sae whiles they toolied, whiles they drank, 
 
 Till a' their sense was smoor'd ; 
 An' in their maws there was nae mank ; 
 
 Upon the furms some snor'd : 
 
 13 
 
I40 ON MAGG V JOHNS TON. 
 
 Ithers frae aff the bunkers sank, 
 Wi* een like col lops scor'd ; 
 
 Some ramm'd their noddles wi' a clank. 
 E'en like a thick -scull'd lord, 
 
 On posts that day. 
 
 ON MAGGY JOHNSTON. 
 
 AuLD Reekie, mourn in sable hue, 
 Let fouth o' tears dreep like May-dew : 
 To braw tippeny bid adieu, 
 
 Which we wi' greed 
 Bended as fast as she cou'd brew. 
 
 But, ah ! she's dead. 
 
 To tell the truth, now Maggy dang, 
 O' customers she had a bang ; 
 For lairds an' souters a' did gang 
 
 To drink bedeen : 
 The barn an' yard was aft sae thrang, 
 
 We took the green ; 
 
 An' there by dizzens we lay down ; 
 Syne sweetly ca'd the healths aroun', 
 To bonny lasses, black or brown. 
 
 As we loo'd best : 
 In bumpers we dull cares did drown, 
 
 An' took our rest. 
 
ON MAGGY JOHNSTON. 141 
 
 When in our pouch we fand some clinks, 
 An' took a turn o'er Bruntsfield Links, 
 Aften in Maggy's, at hy-jinks, 
 
 We guzzl'd scuds, 
 Till we could scarce, wi' hale-oot drinks, 
 
 Cast aff our duds. 
 
 We drank an' drew, an' fill'd again, 
 O wow but we were blythe an' fain ! 
 WTien ony had their count mistane, 
 
 O it was nice ! 
 To hear us a' cry, " Pike ye'r bane 
 
 An' spell ye'r dice." 
 
 Fu' close we us'd to drink an' rant, 
 Until we did baith glowr an' gaunt, 
 . . . an' yesk, an' maunt. 
 
 Right swash I true ; 
 Then o' auld stories we did cant 
 
 Whan we were fou. 
 
 Whan we were weary'd at the gowff. 
 Then Maggy Johnston's was our howff ; 
 Now a' our gamesters may sit dowff, 
 
 Wi' hearts like lead, 
 Death wi' his rung rax'd her a yowff, 
 
 An' sae she's dead. 
 
 Maun we be forc'd thy skill to tine, 
 For which we will right sair repine? 
 
142 ON MAGG V JOHNSTON. 
 
 Or hast thou left to bairns o' thine 
 The pauky knack 
 
 iy brewing ale amaist like wine, 
 That gar'd us crack. 
 
 Sae brawly did a pease -scon toast 
 Biz i' the queff, an' flie the frost : 
 There we got fou wi' little cost, 
 
 An' muckle speed ; 
 Now, wae worth Death ! our sport's a' lost,. 
 
 Since Maggy's dead. 
 
 Ae summer night I was sae fou, 
 
 Amang the rigs I gaed . , . 
 
 Syne down on a green bawk, I trow, 
 
 I took a nap. 
 An' soucht a' night balillilow. 
 
 As sound's a tap. 
 
 An' whan the dawn begoud to glow, 
 
 I hirsl'd up my dizzy pow, 
 
 Frae 'mang the corn, like wirricow, 
 
 Wi' banes sae sair, 
 An' ken'd nae mair than if a ewe 
 
 How I cam there. 
 
 Some said it was the pith o' broom 
 That she stow'd in her masking-loom, 
 Which in our heads rais'd sic a foom ; 
 
 Or some wild seed, 
 Which aft the chappin-stoup did toom, 
 
 But fill'd our head. 
 
THE MONK. 143 
 
 But now since it's sae that we must 
 Not in the best ale put our trust, 
 But whan we're auld return to duit, 
 
 Without remead, 
 Why shou'd we tak it in disgust 
 
 That Maggy's dead. 
 
 O' warldly comforts she was rife, 
 An' liv'd a lang an' hearty life, 
 Right free o' care, or toil, or strife, 
 
 Till she was stale. 
 An' ken'd to be a canny wife, 
 
 At brewing ale. 
 
 Then fareweel Maggy, douce an' fell, 
 O' brewers a' thou boor the bell : 
 Let a' thy gossips yelp an' yell, 
 
 An' without feed, 
 Guess whether ye're in heav'n or hell, 
 
 They're sure ye're dead. 
 
 THE MONK AND THE MILLER'S WIFE. 
 
 Now lend your lugs, ye benders fine, 
 Wha ken the benefit o' wine ; 
 An' you wha laughing scud brown ale, 
 Leave jinks a wee, an' hear a tale. 
 
144 THE MONK. 
 
 An honest miller won'd in Fife, 
 That had a young an' wanton wife ; 
 The parish priest paid visits till her, 
 An' to keep in wi' Ilab the miller, 
 Endeavour'd aft to mak him happy, 
 Where'er he kent the ale was nappy. 
 Sic condescension in a pastor 
 Knit Halbert's love to him the faster ; 
 An' by his converse, troth 'tis true, 
 Hab learn'd to preach when he was fou. 
 
 When equal is the night an' day, 
 An' Ceres gies the schools the play, 
 A youth, sprung frae a gentler pater, 
 Bred at St. Andrew's ahna-maier^ 
 Ae day gaun hameward, it fell late. 
 An' him benighted by the gate : 
 To lye without, pit-mirk did shore him, 
 He coudna see his thumb before him : 
 But, clack — clack — clack, he heard a mill, 
 Whilk led him by the lugs theretill. 
 To tak the thread of tale alang, 
 This mill to Halbert did belang ; 
 Not less this note your notice claims, 
 The scholar's name was Master James. 
 Now, smiling muse, the prelude past. 
 Smoothly relate a tale shall last 
 As lang as Alps, an' Grampian hills, 
 As lang as wind or water-mills. 
 
 In enter'd James, Hab saw an' kend him, 
 And offer'd kindly to befriend him 
 
THE MONK. 145 
 
 Wi' sic guid cheer as he cou'd make 
 Baith for his ain an' father's sake. 
 The scholar thought himself right sped. 
 An' gae him thanks in terms weel bred. 
 Quoth Hab, " I canna leave my mill 
 As yet ; — but step ye west the kiln 
 A bowshot, an' ye'll find my hame : 
 Gae warm ye, an' crack wi' our dame, 
 'Till I set aff the mill, syne we 
 Shall tak what Betsy has to gie." 
 James, in return, what's handsome said, 
 O'er lang to tell ; an' afif he gade. 
 Out o' the house some light did shine, 
 Whilk led him till't as wi' a line ; 
 Arriv'd, he knock'd, for doors were steekit ; 
 Straight thro' a window Bessy keekit. 
 An* cries, " Wha's that gi'es fowk a fright 
 At sic untimous time o' night ? " 
 James wi' guid humour maist discreetly, 
 Tauld her his circumstance completely. 
 *' I dinna ken ye," quoth the wife, 
 " An' up an' down the thieves are rife ; 
 Within my lane, I'm but a woman, 
 Sae I'll unbar my door to nae man ; 
 But since 'tis very like, my dow, 
 That a' ye're telling may be true, 
 Hae, there's a key, gang in your way, 
 At the neist door there's braw ait strae : 
 Streek down upon't, my lad, an' learn 
 They're no ill lodg'd that get a barn." 
 
146 THE MONK. 
 
 Thus, after meikle clitter clatter, 
 James fand he coudna mend the matte: ; 
 An' since it might nae better be, 
 Wi' resignation took the key, 
 Unlock't the barn — clam up the mou, 
 Where was an opening near the hou, 
 Through whilk he saw a glent o' light, 
 That gae diversion to his sight : 
 By this he quickly could discern 
 A thin wa' sep'rate house an' barn, 
 An' thro' this rive was i' the wa', 
 A' done within the house he saw : 
 He saw, and was himself unseen, 
 Yet scarce gae credit to his een, 
 The parish priest, of reverend fame. 
 In courtship with the miller's dame — 
 He saw the wife, as fast as able, 
 Spread a clean servite on the table. 
 An' syne, frae the ha' ingle, bring ben 
 A pyping het young roasted hen, 
 An' twa guid bottles stout an' clear, 
 Ane o' strong ale an' ane o' beer. 
 
 But wicked luck, just as the priest, 
 Shot in his fork in chucky's breast, 
 Th' unwelcome miller gae a roar, 
 Cry'd, " Bessy, haste ye ope the door." 
 Wi' that the haly faither fled, 
 An' darn'd himsel' behint a bed ; 
 Wliile Bessy huddl'd a' things by, 
 That nought the miller might espy ; 
 
THE MONK. 147 
 
 Syne loot him in, — but out of tune, 
 
 Speer'd why he left the mill sae soon : 
 
 " I come," said he, " as manners claims. 
 
 To crack an' wait on Master James, 
 
 Whilk I shou'd do, tho' ne'er sae bizzy : 
 
 I sent him here, guidwife, where is he ? " 
 
 " Ye sent him here " (quoth Bessy, grumbling), 
 
 " Kend I this James ? A chiel cam rumbling ; 
 
 But how was I assur'd, when dark, 
 
 That he had been nae thievish spark, 
 
 Or some rude wencher gotten a dose. 
 
 That a weak wife cou'd ill oppose ? " 
 
 " An' what cam o' him ? speak nae langer," 
 
 Cries Halbert, in a Highland anger. 
 
 " I sent him to the barn," quoth she ; 
 
 " Gae quickly bring him in," quoth he. 
 
 James was brought in — the wife was hawked — 
 
 The priest stood close — the miller cracked — 
 
 Then ask'd his sunkan, gloomy spouse. 
 
 What supper she had in the house, 
 
 That might be suitable to gie 
 
 Ane o' their lodger's qualitie ? 
 
 Quoth she, " Ye may weel ken, guidman, 
 
 Your feast comes frae the parritch pan : 
 
 The stov'd an' roasted we afford, 
 
 Are aft great strangers on our board." 
 
 ** Parritch," quoth Hab, " ye senseless tawpie I 
 
 Think ye this youth's a gilly-gawpie ? 
 
 An' that his gentle stamock's master 
 
 To worry up a pint o' plaster ? 
 
T48 THE MONK. 
 
 Like our mill-knaves that lift the laiding, 
 
 Wtiase kytes can streek out like raw plaiding. 
 
 Swith roast a hen, or fry some chickens. 
 
 An' send for ale frae Maggy Pickens." 
 
 " Hout I," quoth she, " ye may weel ken, 
 
 'Tis ill brought butt that's na there ben ; 
 
 When but last owk, nae farder gane, 
 
 The laird gat a' to pay his kain." 
 
 Then James, wha had as guid a guess 
 
 O' what was in the house as Bess, 
 
 \Vi' pawky smile, this plea to end, 
 
 To please himsel' an' ease his friend, 
 
 First open'd, wi' a slee oration, 
 
 His wond'rous skill in conjuration ; 
 
 Said he, " By this fell art I'm able 
 
 To whop aff any great man's table 
 
 Whate'er I like to mak a meal of. 
 
 Either in part or yet the haill of, — • 
 
 An' if ye please I'll shaw my art." 
 
 Cries Halbert, " Faith, wi' a' my heart ! " 
 
 Bess sain'd hersel',— cry'd, *' Lord, be here 1 " 
 
 An' near hand fell a swoon for fear. 
 
 James leugh, an' bade her naithing dread, 
 
 Syne to his conj'ring went wi' speed: 
 
 An' first he draws a circle round. 
 
 Then utters mony a magic sound 
 
 O' words, part Latin, Greek, an' Dutch, 
 
 Enow to fright a very witch : 
 
 That done, he says, " Now, now 'tis come, 
 
 An' in the boal beside the lum ; 
 
THE MONK. 149 
 
 Now set the board ; guidwife, gae ben, 
 
 Bring frae yon boal a roasted hen. " 
 
 She wadna gang, but Haby ventur'd ; 
 
 An' soon as he the ambrie enter'd, 
 
 It smell'd sae weel he short time sought it, 
 
 An' wond'ring, 'tween his hands he brought it. 
 
 He view'd it round, an' thrice he smelt it, 
 
 Syne wi' a gentle touch he felt it. 
 
 Thus ilka sense he did conveen, 
 
 Lest glamour had beguil'd his een ; 
 
 They all in an united body, 
 
 Declar'd it a fine fat how towdy. 
 
 *' Nae mair about it," quoth the miller, 
 
 " The fowl looks weel, an' we'll fa' till her." 
 
 ** Sae be't," says James ; an' in a doup. 
 
 They snapt her up baith stoup an' roup. 
 
 ** Neist, O ! " cries Halbert, " cou'd your skill 
 But help us to a waught o' ale, 
 I'd be oblig'd t' ye a' my life, 
 An' offer to the deil my wife, 
 To see if he'll discreeter mak her, 
 But that I'm fleed he winna tak her." 
 Said James : *' Ye offer very fair. 
 The bargain's hadden, say nae mair." 
 
 Then thrice he shook a willow-wand, 
 Wi' kittle words thrice gae command ; 
 That done, wi' look baith learn'd an' grave, 
 Said, " Now ye'll get what ye wad have ; 
 Twa bottles o' as nappy liquer 
 As ever ream'd in horn or bickerj 
 
ISO THE MONK, 
 
 Behind the ark that hauds your meal, 
 Ye'U find twa standing corkit week" 
 He said, an' fast the miller flew, 
 An' frae their nest the bottles drew ; 
 Then first the scholar's health he toasted, 
 Whase art had gart him feed on roasted ; 
 
 His father's neist, an' a' the rest 
 
 O' his guid friends that wish'd him best, 
 "Which were o'er Jangsome at the time, 
 In a short tale to put in rhyme. 
 
 Thus, while the miller an' the youth 
 Were blythly slock'ning o' their drowth, 
 Bess, fretting, scarcely held frae greeting. 
 The priest inclos'd, stood vex'd an' sweating. 
 
 " O wow ! " said Hab, *' if ane might spear, 
 Dear Master James, wha brought our chear ? 
 Sic laits appear to us sae awfu', 
 We hardly think your learning lawfu'." 
 
 " To bring your doubts to a conclusion," 
 Says James, "ken I'm a Rosicrucian ; 
 Ane o' the set that never carries 
 On traffic wi' black deils or fairies ; 
 There's mony a sp'rit that's no a dcil. 
 That constantly around us wheel. 
 There was a sage call'd Albumazor, 
 Whase wit was gleg as ony razor : 
 Frae this great man we learn'd the skill 
 To bring these gentry to our will ; 
 An' they appear, when we've a mind, 
 In ony shape o' human kind : 
 
THE MONK. 151 
 
 Now, if you'll drap your foolish fear, 
 I'll gar my Pacolet appear." 
 Hab fidg'd an' leugh, his elbuck clew» 
 Baith fear'd an' fond a sp'rit to view : 
 At last his courage wan the day, 
 He to the scholar's will gae way. 
 
 Bessy be this began to smell 
 A rat, but kept her mind to'r sell : 
 She pray'd like howdy in her drink, 
 But meantime tipt young James a wink. 
 James frae his eye an answer sent, 
 Which made the wife right weel content : 
 Then turn'd to Hab, an' thus advis'd, 
 " Whate'er you see, be nought surpris'd, 
 But for your saul move not your tongue ; 
 An' ready stand wi' a great rung, 
 Syne as the sp'rit gangs marching out, 
 Be sure to lend him a sound rout : 
 I bidna this by way o' mocking, 
 For nought delytes him mair than knocking." 
 
 Hab got a kent — stood by the hallan. 
 An' straight the wild mischievous callan 
 Cries, " Radamanthus Husky Mingo, 
 Monk, Horner, Hipock, Jinko, Jingo, 
 Appear in likeness o' a priest, 
 No like a deil in shape o' beast, 
 Wi' gaping chafts to fleg us a' : 
 Wauk forth, the door stands to the wa'." 
 
 Then frae the hole where he was pent, 
 The priest approach'd right weel content. 
 
152 ON LUCKY WOOD. 
 
 Wi' silent pace strade o'er the floor, 
 'Till he was drawing near the door, 
 Then to escape the cudgel ran, 
 But was nae miss'd by the giiidman, 
 Wha lent him on the neck a loundcr, 
 That gart him o'er the threshold founder. 
 Darkness soon hid him frae their sight, 
 Ben flew the miller in a fright ; 
 " I trow," quoth he, " I laid weel on ; 
 But, wow I he's like our ain Mess John ! " 
 
 ON LUCKY WOOD, IN THE CANONGATE. 
 
 O Canigate ! poor elritch hole, 
 
 What loss, what crosses does thou thole ! 
 
 London an' death gars thee look droll, 
 
 An' hing thy head ; 
 Wow ! but thou has e'en a cauld coal 
 
 To blaw, indeed. 
 
 Hear me, ye hills, an' ev'ry glen. 
 Ilk craig, ilk cleugh, an' hollow den, 
 An' echo shrill, that a' may ken 
 
 The waefu' thud 
 By rackless death, wha cam unseen 
 
 To Lucky Wood. 
 
ON L UCK V WOOD. 153 
 
 She's dead, o'er true, she's dead an' gane, 
 
 Left us an' Willie, burd alane, 
 
 To bleer an' greet, to sab an' mane, 
 
 An' rugg our hair, 
 Because we'll ne'er see her again 
 
 For evermair. 
 
 She gaed as fait as a new preen, 
 
 An' kept her housie snod an' bien : 
 Her peuther glanc'd upo' your een 
 
 Like siller plate ; 
 She was a donsie wife and clean, 
 
 Without debate. 
 
 It did ane guid to see her stools, 
 Her boord, fireside, an' facing tools ; 
 Rax, chandlers, tangs, an' fire-shools, 
 
 Basket wi' bread. 
 Poor Facers now may chew pea-hools, 
 
 Since Lucky's dead. 
 
 She ne'er gae in a lawin fause. 
 
 Nor stoups a' froath aboon the hause, 
 
 Nor kept dow'd tip within her wa's, 
 
 But reaming swats ; 
 She never ran sour jute, because 
 
 It gies the batts. 
 
 She had the gate sae weel to please 
 Wi' gratis beef, dry fish, or cheese, 
 
154 ON L UCK V WOOD. 
 
 Wliich kept our purses ay at ease, 
 An' health in tift. 
 
 An' lent her fresh nine-gallon trees 
 A hearty lift. 
 
 She gae us aft hale legs o' lamb, 
 An' did nae hain her mutton ham ; 
 Then ay at Yule, whene'er we cam, 
 
 A braw goose pye ; 
 An' was nae that guid belly baum ? 
 
 Nana daur deny. 
 
 The writer lads fu' weel may mind her, 
 Furthy was she, her luck design 'd her 
 Their common mither, sure nane kinder 
 
 Ever brak bread ; 
 She has nae left her mak behind her. 
 But now she's dead. 
 
 To the sma' hours we aft sat still, 
 
 Nick'd round our toasts an' sneeshin'-mill ; 
 
 Guid cakes we wanted ne'er at will, 
 
 The best o' bread, 
 Which aften cost us mony a gill 
 
 To Aikenhead. 
 
 Cou'd our saut tears like Clyde down rin, 
 An' had we cheeks like Corra's lin, 
 That a' the warld might hear the din 
 
 Rair frae ilk head ; 
 She was the wale o' a' her kin. 
 
 But now she's dead. 
 
ELEG y ON PA TIE BIRNIE. 1 5 5 
 
 O Lucky Wood ! it's hard to bear 
 The loss ; but, oh ! we maun forbear ; 
 Yet sail thy memory be dear 
 
 While blooms a tree ; 
 An' after ages bairns will speer 
 
 'Bout thee an' me. 
 
 ELEGY ON PATIE BIRNIE. 
 
 The famous Fiddler d KingJwrn. 
 
 In sonnet slee, the man I sing, 
 His rare ingine in rhyme shall ring, 
 Wha slade the stick out o'er the string, 
 
 Wi' sic an art : 
 Wha sang sae sweetly to the spring, 
 
 An' rais'd the heart. 
 
 Kinghorn may rue the ruefu' day 
 That lighted Patie to his clay, 
 Wha gart the hearty billies stay. 
 
 An' spend their cash, 
 To see his snout, to hear him play. 
 
 An' gab sae gash. 
 
 When strangers landed, wow sae thrang. 
 Puffing an* peghing, he wad gang, 
 
 14 
 
1 56 ELEG Y ON PA TIE BIRNIE. 
 
 An' crave their pardon that sae lang, 
 He'd been a coming ; 
 
 Syne his bread-winner out he'd bang, 
 An' fa' to bumming. 
 
 Your honour's father, dead an' gane, 
 For him he first wad mak his mane, 
 But soon his face wad mak ye fain, 
 
 \Vhen he did sough, 
 O wiltn^ wiltu do t again 1 
 
 An' grain'd an* leugh. 
 
 This sang he made frae his ain head, 
 An' eke The atild mans mare shes dead, 
 Thd peats an turfs an a's to lead : 
 
 O fy upon her ! 
 A bonny auld thing this indeed, 
 
 An't like your honour. 
 
 How first he practis'd ye shall hear : 
 
 The ham-pan o' an umquhile mare, 
 
 He strung, an' strak sounds saft an' clear, 
 
 Out o' the pow, 
 Which fir'd his saul, an' gart his ear 
 
 Wi' gladness glow. 
 
 Sae some auld-gabbet poets tell, 
 Jove's nimble son an' lackey sneil 
 Made the first fiddle o' a shell, 
 
 On which Apollo, 
 Wi' meikle pleasure play'd himsell, 
 
 Baith jig an' solo. 
 
ELEG V ON PA TIE BIRNIE. i^i 
 
 O Johnny Stocks, what's come o' thee ? 
 I'm sure thou'lt break thy heart an' die : 
 Thy Birnie gane, thou'lt never be 
 
 Nor blythe, nor able 
 To shake thy short houghs merrily 
 
 Upon a table. 
 
 How pleasant was't to see thee diddle, 
 An' dance so finely to his fiddle, 
 Wi' nose foregainst a lass's middle, 
 
 An' briskly brag, 
 \Vi' cutty steps to ding their striddle, 
 
 An' gar them fag. 
 
 Pate was a carle o' canny sense, 
 
 An' wanted ne'er a right bien spence ; 
 
 An' laid up dollars in defence, 
 
 'Gainst eild an' gout, 
 Weel judging gear in future tense 
 
 Cou'd stand for wit. 
 
 Yet prudent fouk may tak the pet : 
 Ance thrawart porter wadna let 
 Ilim in while latter meat was hett. 
 
 He gaw'd fu' sair, 
 Flang in his fiddle owre the yett, 
 
 Whilk ne'er did mair. 
 
 But profit may arise frae loss, 
 Sae Pate got comfort by his cross j 
 
1 58 ELEG V ON PA TIE BIRNIE, 
 
 Soon as he wan within the close, 
 He dously drew in 
 
 Mair gear frae ilka gentle goss 
 
 Than bought a new ane. 
 
 When lying bedfast, sick an' sair. 
 To parish priest he promis'd fair. 
 He ne'er wad drink fou ony mair ; 
 
 But hale an' tight, 
 He prov'd the auld man to a hair, 
 
 Strute ilka night. 
 
 The haly dad, wi' care essays 
 To wile him frae his wanton ways, 
 An' tell'd him o' his promise twice 5 
 
 Pate answer'd clever ; 
 Wha tents luhat people raving says 
 
 Whan in a fever '^ 
 
 At Bothwell Brig he gaed to fight ; 
 
 But being wise as he was wight, 
 
 He thought it shaw'd a saul but slight, 
 
 Daftly to stand, 
 An' let gunpowder wrang his sight, 
 
 Or fiddle hand. 
 
 Right pawkily he left the plain. 
 Nor o'er his shouther look'd again. 
 But scour'd o'er moor an' moss amain, 
 
 To Reeky straight, 
 An' tald how mony Whigs were slain 
 
 Before they faught. 
 
CUPID. 159 
 
 Sae I've lamented Patie's end ; 
 
 But lest your grief o'er far extend, 
 
 Come, dight your cheeks, your brows unbend, 
 
 An' lift your head, 
 For to a' Britain be it kend 
 
 He isna dead. 
 
 CUPID. 
 
 When a' the warld had closed their een, 
 Fatigu'd wi' labour, care, an' din, 
 An' quietly, ilka weary wight 
 Enjoy'd the silence o' the night : 
 Then Cupid, that ill-deedy gett, 
 Wi' a' his pith rapt at my yett. 
 Surpris'd, thro' sleep, I cry'd, "Wlia's that? 
 Quoth he, " A poor young wean a' wat ; 
 Oh ! haste ye apen — fear nae skaith. 
 Else soon this storm will be my death." 
 Wi' his complaint my saul grew wae, 
 For as he said I thought it sae : 
 I took a light, an' fast did rin 
 To let the chitterin' infant in : 
 An' he appear' d to be nae kow, 
 For a' his quiver, wings, an' bow. 
 His bairnly smiles and looks gae joy, 
 He seem'd sae innocent a boy : 
 I led him benn but any pingle, 
 An' beekt him brawly at my ingle r 
 
i6o THE CLOCK AND DIAL. 
 
 Dighted his face, his handles thovv'd, 
 
 Till his young cheeks like roses glow'd. 
 
 But soon as he grew warm an' fain, 
 
 *' Let's try," quoth he, " if tliat the rain 
 
 Has wrang'd ought o' my sporting gear, 
 
 An' if my bow-string's hale an' fier." 
 
 Wi' that his arch'ry graith he put 
 
 In order, an' made me his butt j 
 
 Mov'd back a piece — his bow he drew, 
 
 Fast thro' my breast his arrow flew. 
 
 That done, as if he'd found a nest, 
 
 He leugh, an' wi' unsonsy jest, 
 
 Cry'd, " Neibour, I'm right blythe in mind, 
 
 That in good tift my bow I find : 
 
 Did not my arrow flee right smart ? 
 
 Ye'll find it sticking in your heart," 
 
 THE CLOCK AND DIAL. 
 
 Ae day a Clock wad brag a Dial, 
 
 An' put his qualities to trial : ■ 
 
 Spake to him thus — " My neighbour, pray, 
 
 Can'st tell me what's the time o' day ? " 
 
 The Dial said, " I dinna ken." 
 
 •• Alake, what stand ye there for then ?" — 
 *' I wait here till the sun shines bright. 
 For nought I ken but by his light." 
 " Wait on," quoth Clock, " I scorn his help; 
 Baith night and day my lain I skelp ; 
 
THE TWA CUT-PURSES. i6i 
 
 Wind up my weights but anes a-week, 
 Without him I can gang an' speak ; 
 Nor Hke a useless sumph I stand, 
 But constantly wheel round my hand : 
 Hark, hark, I strike just now the hour ; 
 And I am right, ane, twa, three, four." 
 
 While thus the Clock was boasting loud. 
 The bleezing sun brak thro' a cloud ; 
 The Dial, faithfu' to his guide. 
 Spake truth, an' laid the thumper's pride : 
 *' Ye see," said he, " I've dung ye fair, 
 'Tis four hours an' three quarters mair. 
 My friend," he added, "count again, 
 An' learn a wee to be less vain : 
 Ne'er brag of constant clavering cant, 
 An' that you answers never want ; 
 For you're not ay to be believ'd ; 
 Wha trust to you may be deceiv'd. 
 Be counsell'd to behave like me; 
 For when I dinna clearly see, 
 I always own I dinna ken. 
 An' that's the way o' wisest men." 
 
 THE TWA CUT-PURSES. 
 
 In Burrows-town there was a fair. 
 An' mony a landart coof was there, 
 Baith lads an lasses busked brawly. 
 To glowr at ilka bonny waly, 
 
i62 THE TWA CUT-PURSES. 
 
 An' lay out ony ora bodies 
 
 On sma' gimcracks that pleas'd their noddles, 
 
 Sic as a jocktaleg, or sheers, 
 
 Confeckit ginger, plums, or pears. 
 
 These gaping gowks twa rogues survey, 
 An* on their cash this plot they lay : 
 The tane, less like a knave than fool, 
 Unbidden clam the high cock-stool, 
 An' pat his head an' bailh his hands 
 Thro' holes where the ill-doers stands ; 
 Now a' the crowd, wi' mouth an' een, 
 Cry'd out, " Wliat does the ideot mean ? " 
 They glowr'd an' leugh, an' gather'd thick. 
 An' never thought upon a trick. 
 Till he beneath had done his job, 
 Ey tooming pouches o' the mob, 
 Wha, now possess'd o' rowth o' gear, 
 Scour'd aff as lang's the coast was clear. 
 But, wow, the ferly quickly chang'd. 
 Whan thro' their empty fobs they rang'd ; 
 Some girn'd an' some look'd blae wi' grief ; 
 While some cry'd out, ** Fy, haud the thief; " 
 But ne'er a thief or thief was there, 
 Or cou'd be found in a' the fair. 
 The jip, wha stood aboon them a', . 
 His innocence began to shaw ; 
 Said he, " My friends, I'm very sorry 
 To hear your melancholy story ; 
 But sure, where'er your tinsel be, 
 Ye canna lay the wyte on me." 
 
THE CATS AND THE CHEESE. 163 
 
 THE TWA CATS AND THE CHEESE. 
 
 TwA Cats anes on a Cheese did light, 
 To which baith had an equal right ; 
 But disputes, sic as aft arise. 
 Fell out in sharing o' the prize. 
 Fair play, said ane, ye bite o'er thick, 
 Thae teeth o' your's gang wonder quick : 
 Let's part it, else, lang or the moon 
 Be chang'd, the kebbuck will be doon. 
 But wha's to do't? — They're parties baith. 
 An ane may do the other skaith. 
 Sae wi' consent away they trudge. 
 An' laid the Cheese before a judge : 
 A Monkey, wi' a campsho face, 
 Clark to a justice o' the peace ; 
 A judge he seem'd in justice skill'd. 
 When he his master's chair had fill'd. 
 Now umpire chosen for division ; 
 Baith swore to stand by his decision. 
 Demure he looks — the Cheese he pales — 
 He prives — it's guid — ca's for the scales ; 
 His knife whop's throw' t — in twa it fell ; 
 He puts ilk hauf in either shell : 
 Said he, we'll truly weigh the case. 
 An' strictest justice shall hae place ; 
 Then lifting up the scales, he fand 
 The tane bang up, the other stand : 
 Syne out he took the heaviest hauf, 
 An' ale a noost o't quickly aff. 
 
i64 THE CATS AND THE CHEESE. 
 
 An' try'd it syne ; — it now prov'd light : 
 Friend Cats, said he, we'll do ye right. 
 Then to the other hauf he fell. 
 An' laid till't teughly tooth an' nail, 
 Till weigh'd again it lightest prov'd. 
 The judge, wha this sweet process lov'd, 
 Still weigh'd the case, an' still ate on, 
 Till clients baith were weary grown : 
 An' tenting how the matter went, 
 Cry'd, Come, come, sir, we're baith content. 
 Ye fools, quoth he, and Justice too 
 Maun be content as weel as you. 
 Thus grumbl'd they, thus he went on. 
 Till baith the ha'ves were near-hand done : 
 Poor Pousies now the daffin saw, 
 O' gawn for nignyes to the law ; 
 An' bill'd the judge, that he wad please 
 To gie them the remaining cheese : 
 To which his worship grave reply'd, 
 " The dues of court maun first be paid. 
 Now Justice pleas'd ; — what's to the fore 
 Will but right scrimply clear your score ; 
 That's our decreet — gae hame an' sleep, 
 An' thank us ye' re win aff sae cheap." 
 
 END OF HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
IV. 
 
 IMAGINATIVE POEMS. 
 
3maotuat!\>e poems, 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 Bedoun the bents of Banquo brae 
 Mi-lane I wandert waif an' wae, 
 Musand our main mischaunce ; 
 How be tlie faes we are undone, 
 That staw the sacred stane frae Scone, 
 
 And lead us sic a daunce : 
 Quhile Ingland's Edert taks our tours, 
 
 And Scotland ferst obeys, 
 Rude ruffians ransakk ryal hours, 
 An' Baliol homage pays ; 
 Troch feidem our freidom 
 Is blotit with this skore, 
 Quhat Romans, or no man's 
 Pith culd eir do befoir. 
 
 The air grew ruch with bousteous thuds, 
 Bauld Boreas branglit out throw the cluds, 
 Maist lyke a drunken wicht ; 
 
1 68 THE VISION. 
 
 The thunder crackt, and flauchts did rift 
 Frae the black vissart of the lift ; 
 The forest schuke with fricht : 
 Nae birds abune thair wing exten, 
 They ducht not byde the blast ; 
 Ilk beist bedeen bang'd to thair den, 
 Until the storm was past : 
 Ilk creature in nature, 
 That had a spunk of sence, 
 In need then, with speed then, 
 Methocht crj^t, "In defence." 
 
 To see a morn in May sae ill, 
 
 I deimt dame Nature was gane wil, 
 
 To rair with rackles reil ; 
 Quairfor to put me out of pain, 
 And skonce my skap and shanks frae rain, 
 
 I bure me to a biel. 
 Up ane hich craig that lundgit alaft, 
 
 Out owre a canny cave, 
 A curious cruif of Nature's craft, 
 Quhilk to me scheltcr gaif ; 
 Ther vexit, perplexit, 
 I leint me doun to weip, 
 In breif ther, with grief ther 
 I dottard owre in sleip. 
 
 Heir Somnus in his silent hand 
 Held all my sences at command, 
 Quhile I forgot my cair ; 
 
THE VISION. 169 
 
 The myklest meid of mortall wichts 
 Quha pass in piece the private nichts, 
 
 That wauking finds it rare ; 
 Sae in saft slumbers did I ly, 
 But not my wakryfe mynd, 
 Quhilk still stood watch, and couth espy 
 A man with aspeck kynd, 
 
 Richt auld lyke, and bauld 15'ke, 
 With baird thre quarters skant, 
 Sae braif lyke, and graif lyke, 
 lie seimt to be a sanct. 
 
 Grit daring dartit frae his ee, 
 
 A braid-sword schogled at his Ihle, 
 
 On his left arm a targe ; 
 A shinand speir fiUd his richt-hand, 
 Of stalwart mak, in bane and brawnd, 
 
 Of just proportions large ; 
 A various rainbow-colourt plaid 
 Owre his left spawl he threw, 
 Doun his braid back, frae his quhyte heid, 
 The silver wymplers grew ; 
 Amaisit, I gaisit 
 To se, led at command, 
 A strampant and rampant 
 Ferss lyon in his hand ; 
 
 Quhilk held a thistle in his paw, 
 And round his collar graift I saw 
 This poesie pat and plain, 
 
Tro THE VISION. 
 
 Nemo me impune lacess- 
 
 'Et: — In Scots, Nane sail oppress 
 
 Me, unpunisit with pain ; 
 Still schaking, I durst naithing say, 
 
 Till he with kynd accent 
 Sayd, Fere, let nocht thy hairt affray, 
 I cum to heir thy plaint ; 
 Thy graining and maining 
 Haith laitlie reik'd m}Tie eir, 
 Debar then affar then 
 All eiryness or feir ; 
 
 For I am ane of a hie station, 
 
 The Warden of this auntient nation, 
 
 And can nocht do thee wrang ; 
 I vissyt him then round about. 
 Syne with a resolution stout, 
 
 Spierd, Quhair he had l:)een sae lang ? 
 Quod he, Althocht I sum forsuke, 
 
 Becaus they did me slicht. 
 To hills and glens I me betuke. 
 To them that luves me richt ; 
 Quhase mynds zet inclynds zet 
 To damn the rappid spate, 
 Devysing and prysing 
 Freidom at ony rate. 
 
 Our trechour peirs thair tyranns treit, 
 Quha jib them, and thair substance eit. 
 And on thair honour stramp ; 
 
THE VISION. 171 
 
 The puire degenerate ! bend thair baks, 
 The victor, Langshanks, proudly cracks 
 
 He has blawn out our lamp : 
 Quhyle trew men, sair complainand, tell, 
 
 With sobs, thair silent greif, 
 How Baliol their richts did sell, 
 With smal howp of reliefe ; 
 Regretand and fretand 
 Ay at his cursit plot, 
 Quha rammed and crammed 
 That bargain down thair throt. 
 
 Braif gentrie sweir, and burghers ban, 
 Revenge is muttert by ilk clan 
 That's to their nation trew ; 
 The cloysters cum to cun the evil. 
 Mail -payers wiss it to the devil. 
 
 With its contryving crew. 
 The hardy, wald with heirty wills, 
 
 Upon dyre vengance fall ; 
 The fechless fret owre heuchs and hills. 
 And eccho answers all, 
 Repetand and gretand. 
 With mony a sair alace. 
 For blasting and casting 
 Our honour in disgrace. 
 
 Waes me ! quod 1, our case is bad. 
 And mony of us are gane mad, 
 Sen this disgraceful paction ; 
 
172 THE VISION. 
 
 We are felld and herryt now by forse, 
 And hardly help fort, that's zit warse, 
 
 We are sae forfairn with faction. 
 Then has not he gude cause to grumble, 
 
 That's forst to be a slaif ? 
 Oppression dois the judgment jumble, 
 And gars a wyse man raif. 
 
 May cheins then, and pains then 
 Infernal be thair hyre, 
 Quha dang us, and flang us, 
 Into this ugsum myre. 
 
 Then he, with bauld forbidding luke 
 And staitly air, did me rebuke, 
 For being of sprite sae mein : 
 Said he, Its far beneath a Scot 
 To use weak curses, quhen his lot 
 
 May sumtyms sour his splein ; 
 He rather sould, mair lyke a man, 
 
 Some braif design attempt ; 
 Gif its not in his pith, what than ! 
 Rest but a quhayle content, 
 Nocht feirfull, but cheirful. 
 And wait the will of Fate, 
 Which mynds to, desynds to, 
 Renew zour auntient state. 
 
 I ken sum mair than ze do all 
 Of quhat sail afterwart befall, 
 In mair auspicious t}'mes ; 
 
THE VISION. 173 
 
 For aften, far abufe the mnne, 
 We watching beings do convene, 
 
 Frae round card's utmost clymes, 
 Quhair evry Warden represents 
 
 Cleirly his nation's case, 
 Gif famine, pest, or sword torments, 
 Or vilains hie in place, 
 
 Quha keip ay, and heip ay, 
 CJp to themselves grit store, 
 By rundging and spunging 
 The leil laborious puire. 
 
 Say then, said I, at zour hie state, 
 Lernt ze oucht of auld Scotland's fate, 
 
 Gif eir schoil be her sell ? 
 With smyle celest, quod he, I can, 
 But its nocht fit an mortall man 
 
 Sould ken all I can tell : 
 But part to the I may unfold. 
 
 And thou may saifly ken, 
 Quhen Scottish peirs slicht Saxon gold, 
 And turn trew heartit men ; 
 Quhen knaivrie and slaivri;: 
 Ar equally dispysd, 
 And loyalte, and royalte, 
 Universalie are prysd. 
 
 Quhen all zour trade is at a stand, 
 And cunzie clene forsaiks the land, 
 Quhilk will be verj' sune. 
 
174 THE VISION. 
 
 Will priests without thair stypands preich ? 
 For noucht will lawyers causes streich, 
 
 Faith thatis nae sae easy dune. 
 All this, and mair maun cum to pass, 
 
 To cleir zour glamourit sicht ; 
 And Scotland maun be maid an ass, 
 To set hir judgment riclit. 
 Theyil jade hir, and blad hir, 
 Until scho brak hir tether, 
 Thoch auld schois, zit bauld schois, 
 And teuch lyke barkit lether. 
 
 But mony a corse sail braithless ly, 
 And wae sail mony a widow cry, 
 
 Or all rin richt again ; 
 Owr Cheviot, prancing proudly north, 
 The faes sail tak the field near Forth, 
 
 And think the day thair ain ; 
 But burns that day sail ryn with blade 
 
 Of them that now oppress ; 
 Thair carcasses be corbys' fude, 
 By thousands on the gress, 
 A king then sail ring then 
 Of wyse renoun and braif, 
 Quhase puisans and sapiens 
 Sail richt restoir and saif. 
 
 The view of freidomis sweit, quod I, 
 O say, grit tannent of the skye. 
 How neiris that happie tyme ? 
 
THE VISION. 175 
 
 We ken things but be circumstans : 
 N.ae mair, quod he, I may advance, 
 
 Lest I commit a cryme. 
 Quhat eir ye pleis, gae on, quod I, 
 
 I sail not fash ze moir, 
 Say how, and quhair ze met, and quhy, 
 As ye did hint befoir. 
 
 With air then sae fair then, 
 That glanst like rais of glory, 
 Sae godlyk and oddlyk 
 He thus resumit his storie. 
 
 Fiae the sunis rysing to his sett. 
 All the pryme rait of Wardens met. 
 
 In solemn bricht array. 
 With vechicles of aither cleir ; 
 Sic we put on quhen we appeir 
 
 To sauls rowit up in clay ; 
 Ther in a wyd and splendid hall, 
 Reird up with shynand beims, 
 Quhais rufe-tries were of rainbows all, 
 And paift with starrie gleims, 
 Quhilk prinkled and twinkled 
 Brichtly beyont compair 
 Much famed, and named 
 A cos till in the ayr ; 
 
 In the midst of quhilk a tabill stude, 
 A spacious oval, reid as blude, 
 Made of a fyre-flaucht, 
 
176 THE VISION. 
 
 Arround the dazeling walls were drawn, 
 With rays, be a celestial hand, 
 Full mony a curious draucht. 
 Inferiour beings tlew in haist, 
 Without gyde or derectour, 
 Millions of myles throch the wyld waist, 
 To bring in bowlis of nectar ; 
 Then roundly and soundly 
 We drank lyk Roman gods ; 
 Quhen Jove sae dois rove sae, 
 That Mars and Bacchus nods. 
 
 Quhen Phebus' heid turns licht as cork, 
 And Neptune leans upon his fork, 
 And limpand Vulcan blethers : 
 Quhen Pluto glowrs as he were wyld, 
 And Cupid, luves wee wingit chyld, 
 
 Fals down and fyls his fethers. 
 Quhen Pan forgets to tune his reld, 
 
 And flings it cairless bye. 
 And Hermes, wingd at heils and heid, 
 Can nowther stand nor lye : 
 
 Quhen staggirand and swaggirand, 
 They stoyter hame to sleip, 
 Quhyle centeries at enterics 
 Immortall watches keip. 
 
 Thus we tuke in the hich brown liqueur, 
 And bangd about the nectar biquour. 
 But evir with this ods, 
 
THE VISION. 177 
 
 We neir in drink our judgments drensch, 
 Nor scour about to seik a wensch 
 
 Lyk these auld baudy gods ; 
 But franklie at ilk uther ask, 
 
 Quhats proper we suld know, 
 How ilk ane has performt the task, 
 Assignd to him below. 
 
 Our mynd then, sae kynd then, 
 Is fixt upon our care, 
 Ay noting and ploting 
 Quhat tends to thair weilfair. 
 
 Gothus and Vandall baith lukt bluff, 
 Quhyle Gallus sneerd and tuke a snuff, 
 
 Quhilk made Alhifiane to stare ; 
 Latinus bad him naithing feir. 
 But lend his hand to haly weir, 
 And of cowd crouns tak care ; 
 Batavius with his paddock-face 
 Luking asquint, cry'd, Pisch ! 
 Zour monks are void of sence or grace, 
 I had leur ficht for fisch ; 
 
 Your schule-men ar fule-men, 
 Carvit out for dull debates, 
 Decoying and destroying 
 Baith monarchies and states. 
 
 Iberus, v/ith a gurlie nod, 
 Cry'd, " Ilogan, zes, we ken zour God, 
 Its herrings ye adore. " 
 
lyB THE VISION. 
 
 Heptarchus, as he used to be, 
 
 Can nocht with his ain thochts agre. 
 
 But varies bale and fore ; 
 Ane quhile he says, It is not richt 
 
 A monarch to resist ; 
 Neist braif all ryal powir will slicht, 
 And passive homage jest : 
 He hitches and fitches 
 Betwein the hie and hocj 
 Ay jieand and flcand 
 Round lyk a wedder-cock : 
 
 I still support my precedens 
 Abune them all, for sword and sens, 
 
 Thoch I haif layn richt lown, 
 Quhilk was, becaus I bure a grudge 
 As sum fule Scotis, quha lykd to drudge 
 
 To princes no thair awin ; 
 Sum Thanis their tennants pykit and squeist, 
 
 And pursit up all thair rent. 
 Syne wallopit to far courts, and bleist. 
 Till riggs and schaws war spent ; 
 Syne byndging, and whyndging, 
 Quhen thus redusit to howps, 
 They dander and wander 
 About, puire misanthrowps. 
 
 But now its tyme for me to draw 
 My shynand sword against club-law, 
 And gar my lyon ruir ; 
 
THE VISION. 179 
 
 He sail or lang gie sic a sound, 
 The eccho sail be heard around 
 Europe frae schore to schore ; 
 Then let them gadder all thair strength, 
 
 And strave to wirk my fall, 
 Thoch numerous, zit at the lenth 
 I will owrcum them all, 
 And raise zit and blaze zit 
 My braifrie and renown, 
 By gracing and placing 
 Aright the Scottis crown. 
 
 Quhen my braif Bruce the same sail weir 
 Upon his ryal heid, full cleir 
 
 The diadem will shyne ; 
 Then sail zour sair oppression ceis. 
 His intrest zours he will not fleice. 
 
 Or leif zou eir inclyne : 
 Thoch millions to his purse be lent, 
 
 Ye'll neir the puirer be, 
 But rather ritcher, quhyle its spent 
 Within the Scottis se : 
 
 The field then sail yield then 
 To honest husbands welth, 
 Gude laws then sail cause then 
 A sickly state haif helth. 
 
 Quhyle thus he talkit, methocht ther came 
 A wondir fair etherial dame. 
 And to our Warden sayd, 
 
i8o THE VISION. 
 
 Gtit Callidon, I cum in scrch 
 Of zou, frae the hich starry arch, 
 
 The counsill wants zour aid ; 
 P'rae every quarter of the sky, 
 
 As swift as a quhirl-wind, 
 With spirits' speid the chieftains hy, 
 Sum grit thing is desygnd, 
 Owre muntains, be funtains, 
 And round ilk fairy ring, 
 I have chaist ye, O haist ye, 
 They talk about zour King. 
 
 With that my hand methocht he schuke, 
 And wischt I happyness micht bruke, 
 
 To eild by nicht and day. 
 Syne quicker than an arrow's flicht, 
 lie mountit upwarts frae my sicht, 
 
 Straicht to the Milkie Way ; 
 My mynd him followit throw the skycs, 
 
 Untill the brynie streme. 
 For joy, ran trickling frae myne eyes, 
 And wakit me frae my dreme ; 
 Then peiping, half sleiping, 
 Frae furth my rural beild. 
 It eisit me, and plesit me, 
 To se and smell the feild. 
 
 For Flora in her clene array. 
 New washen with a showir of May, 
 Lukit full sweit and fair ; 
 
THE EAGLE, i8i 
 
 Quhile hir cleir husband frae abuif 
 Sched doun his rayis of genial luve, 
 
 Hir sweits perfumit the ayr ; 
 The wynds war husht, the welkin cleird, 
 
 The glumand clouds war fled, 
 And all as saft and gay appeird 
 As ane Elysian sched ; 
 Quliil heisit and bleisit 
 My heart with sic a fyre. 
 As raises these praises, 
 That do to heaven aspyre. 
 
 THE EAGLE AND ROBIN RED-BREAST. 
 
 The prince o' a' the fetherit kind. 
 That wi' spread wings out-flies the wind. 
 An' tow'rs far out o' human sicht 
 To view the shynand orb of licht ; 
 This ryall bird, tho' braif an' great. 
 An' armit Strang for stern debait, 
 Nae tyrant is, but condescends 
 Aftjrmes to treit inferior friends. 
 
 Ane day at his command did flock 
 To his hie palace on a rock, 
 The courtiers of ilk various size 
 That swiftly swim in chrystal skies ; 
 
i82 THE EAGLE, 
 
 Thither the valiant Tersals doup, 
 An' here rapacious Corbies croup, 
 Wi' greidy Gleds an' slie Gormahs, 
 An' dinsome Pyis an' clatterin Daws ; 
 Proud Pecocks, an' a hundred mae, 
 Bruscht up their pens that solemn day. 
 Bow'd first submissive to my Lord, 
 Then tuke their places at his borde. 
 
 Meintime, quhile feisting on a fawn, 
 An' drinking bluid frac Lammies drawn, 
 A tunefull Robin, trig an zung, 
 Hard by upon a bour-tree sung. 
 He sang the Eagle's ryall lyne, 
 His persing ee an' richt divyne 
 To sway out-owre the fetherit thrang, 
 Quha dreid his martial bill an' fang : 
 Plis fiicht sublime, an' eild renewit, 
 His mind with clemencie endewit ; 
 In safter notes he sang his luve, 
 Mair hie his beiring bolts for Jove. 
 
 The monarch bird, with biythness heard 
 The chanting litil silvan bard, 
 Calit up a Buzart who was then 
 His favourite an' chamberlane. 
 *' Swith to my treasury," quod he, 
 ** An' to zon ca«ty Robin gie 
 As meikle o' our current geir 
 As may mentain him thro' the zeir ; 
 We can weel spair't, an' it's his due." 
 He bad, an' furth the Buzart flew, 
 
THE EAGLE. 183 
 
 Straight to the brench quhair Robin sung, 
 
 An' wi' a wickit leand tung, 
 
 Said, " Ah I ze sing sae dull an' ruch, 
 
 Ze haif deivt our lungs mair than enuch. 
 
 Her Majestic has a nyse eir, 
 
 An' nae mair o' zour stufif can beir ; 
 
 Poke up zour pypes, be nae mair sene 
 
 At court, I warn ze as a frien'." 
 
 He spak, quhyle Robinis swelling breist, 
 An' drouping wings his greif confest, 
 The teirs ran happing doun his cheik, 
 Grit grew his hairt, he cou'd nocht speik. 
 Nor for the tinsell o' rewaird, 
 But that his notis met nae regaird ; 
 Straight to the schaw he spred his wing, 
 Resolvit again nae mair to sing, 
 Quhair princelie bountie is supprest. 
 By sic with quhome they are opprest, 
 Quha cannot beir (because they want it) 
 That ocht suld be to merit grantit. 
 
 Quod. Ar. Scot. 
 {Sc, Allan Ramsay, Scotus.) 
 
IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 
 
Jmltattons of tborace. 
 
 Car. I. I. 
 
 Dalhousie of an auld descent, 
 My chief, my stoup, and ornament. 
 For entertainment a wee while, 
 Accept this sonnet wi' a smile ; 
 Setting great Horace in my view, 
 He to Mecenas, I to you ; 
 But that my muse may sing wi' ease, 
 I'll keep or drap him as I please. 
 
 How differently are folk inclin'd, 
 There's hardly twa of the same mind : 
 Some like to study, some to play. 
 Some on the links to win the day, 
 An' gar the courser rin like wud, 
 A' drappin down wi' sweat an' blood : 
 The winner syne assumes a look 
 Might gain a monarch or a duke. 
 
i38 IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 
 
 Neist view the man with pauky face 
 Has mounted to a fashions place, 
 Inclin'd by an o'er-ruling fate, 
 He's pleas'd with his uneasy state : 
 Glowr'd at a while, he gangs fu' braw, 
 'Till frae his kittle post he fa'. 
 
 The Lothian farmer he likes best 
 To be of good faugh riggs possest, 
 An' fen upon a frugal stock, 
 Where his forbears had us'd the yoke ; 
 Nor is he fond to leave his wark, 
 An' venture in a rotten bark. 
 Syne imto far aff countries steer, 
 On tumbling waves, to gather gear. 
 
 The merchant wreck'd upon the main. 
 Swears he'll ne'er venture on't again j 
 That he had rather live on cakes, 
 An' shyrest swats, wi' landart maiks, 
 As rin the risk by storms to have, 
 ^Vhen he is dead, a living grave, 
 r.ut seas turn smooth an' he grows fain, 
 An* fairly taks his word again, 
 Tho' he shou'd to the bottom sink ; 
 Of poverty he downa think. 
 
 Some like to laugh their time away, 
 To dance while pipes or fiddles play, 
 A.n' hae nae sense o' ony want 
 As lang as they can drink an' rant. 
 
 The rattling drum an' trumpet's tout 
 Delight young swankies that are stout : 
 
IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 1S9 
 
 What his kind frighted mother ugs, 
 Is music to the soccer's lugs. 
 
 The hunter, wi' his hounds an' liawks, 
 Bangs up before his wife awakes ; 
 Nor spears gin she has ought to say, 
 But scours o'er heighs an' howes a' day. 
 Thro' moss an' muir, nor does he care 
 Whether the day be foul or fair, 
 If he his trusty hounds can cheer 
 To hunt the tod or drive the deer. 
 
 May I be happy in my lays, 
 An' won a lasting wreath o' bays. 
 Is a' my wish ; well-pleas'd to sing 
 Beneath a tree, or by a spring, 
 \\Tiile lads an' lasses on the mead 
 Attend my Caledonian reed. 
 An' with the sweetest notes rehearse 
 My thoughts, and roose me for my verse. 
 
 If you, my Lord, class me ainang 
 Those who have sung baith saft an' Strang. 
 O' smiling love or doughty deed, 
 To starns sublime I'll lift my head. 
 
 Car. I. 3. 
 
 O Cyprian goddess, twinkle clear, 
 An' Helen's brithers ay appear ; 
 Ye stars wha shed a lucky light, 
 Auspicious ay keep in a sight ; 
 
iQo IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 
 
 King Eol grant a tydie llrl, 
 
 But boast the blast that rudely whirl : 
 
 Dear ship, be canny wi' your care, 
 
 At Athens land my Virgil fair, 
 
 Syne soon an' safe, bailh lith an' spaul, 
 
 Bring hame the tae hauf o' my saul. 
 
 Daring an' unco stout he was, 
 Wi' heart hool'd in three sloughs o' brass, 
 Wha ventur'd first on the rough sea, 
 Wi' hempen branks, an' horse o' tree : 
 Wha in the weak machine durst ride 
 Thro' tempests, an' a rairing tide ; 
 Nor clinty craigs, nor hurricane, 
 That drives the Adriatic main, 
 An' gars the ocean gowl an' quake, 
 Cou'd e'er a soul sae sturdy shake. 
 The man wha cou'd sic rubs win o'er, 
 Without a wink at death might glowr, 
 Wha unconcern'd can tak his sleep 
 Amang the monsters o' the deep. 
 
 Jove vainly twin'd the sea an' card, 
 Since mariners are not afraid, 
 Wi' laws o' nature to dispense, 
 An' impiously treat Providence. 
 Audacious men at nought will stand, 
 When vicious passions hae command. 
 Prometheus ventur'd up, an' staw 
 A lowan coal frae heav'n's high ha' ; 
 Unsonsy thift, which fevers brought 
 In bikes, which fouk like sybows bought : 
 
I MIT A TIONS OF HORA CE, 191 
 
 Then death erst slaw began to ling, 
 An' fast as haps to dart his sting. 
 Neist Dedalus must contradict 
 Nature, forsooth, an' feathers stick 
 Upon his back, syne upward streek, 
 An' in at Jove's high winnocks keek. 
 While Hercules, wi's timmer mell, 
 Plays rap upo' the yates o' hell. 
 What is't man winna ettle at ? 
 E'en wi' the gods he'll bell the cat ; 
 Tho' Jove be very laith to kill. 
 They winna let his bowt lye still. 
 
 Car. I. 4. 
 
 Now gowans sprout, an' lavrocks sing. 
 An' welcome wast winds warm the spring, 
 O'er hill an' dale they saftly blaw, 
 An' drive the winter's cauld awa. 
 The ships, lang gyzen'd at the peer, 
 Now spread their sails, an' smoothly steer ; 
 The nags an' nowt hate wissen'd strae, 
 An' frisking to the fields they gae ; 
 Nor hynds wi' elson an' hemp lingle, 
 Sit soiling shoon out o'er the ingle. 
 Now bonny haughs their verdure boast, 
 That late were clade wi' snaw an' frost ; 
 Wi' her gay train the Paphian Queen, 
 
192 IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 
 
 By moon-light dances on the green, 
 
 She leads, while Nymphs an' Graces sing, 
 
 An' trip around the fairy ring ; 
 
 Meantime, poor Vulcan, hard at thrift, 
 
 Gets mony a sair an' heavy lift, 
 
 Whilst rinnin' down, his hauf blind lads 
 
 Blaw up the fire, an' thump the gads. 
 
 Now leave your fit-sted on the dew. 
 An' busk yoursell in habit new. 
 Be gratefu' to the guiding pow'rs, 
 An' blythely spend your easy hours. 
 
 O canny F ! tutor time, 
 
 An' live as lang's ye'r in your prime j 
 That ill-bred death has nae regard 
 To king, or cottar, or a laird ; 
 As soon a castle he'll attack, 
 As wa's o' divots roofd wi' thack, 
 Immediately we'll a' tak flight 
 Unto the mirky realms o' night. 
 As stories gang, wi' ghaists to roam, 
 In glomie Pluto's gousty dome ; 
 Bid fair guid-day to pleasure syne, 
 O' bonny lasses an' red wine ; 
 
 Then deem ilk little care a crime, 
 Daurs waste an hour o' precious time ; 
 An' since our life's sae unco short, 
 Enjoy it a', ye've nae mair for't. 
 
IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 193 
 
 Car I, g. 
 
 Look up to Pentland's tow'ring taps, 
 Buried beneath big wreaths o' snaw, 
 
 O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar an' slap, 
 As high as ony Roman wa'. 
 
 Driving their ba's frae whins or tee, 
 There's no ae gowfer to be seen ; 
 
 Nor douser fouk, wysing a-jee 
 The byas bouls on Tamson's green. 
 
 Then fling on coals, an' ripe the ribs, 
 An' beek the house baith butt an' ben ; 
 
 That mutchkin-stoup it bauds but dribs, 
 Then let's get in the tappit hen. 
 
 Guid claret best keeps out the cauld, 
 An' drives awa the winter soon ; 
 
 It maks a man baith gash an' bauld, 
 An' heaves his saul ayont the moon. 
 
 Leave to the gods your ilka care ; 
 
 If that they think us worth their while. 
 They can a rowth o' blessings spare, 
 
 Which will our fashions fears beguile. 
 
 For what they hae a mind to do, 
 
 That will they do, shou'd we gang wud ; 
 
 If they command the storms to blaw, 
 Then upo' sight the hailstanes thud. 
 
1 94 IMITA TIONS OF MORA CE. 
 
 But soon as e'er they cry, Be quiet, 
 
 The blatt'ring winds daur nae mair move, 
 
 But cour into their caves, an' wait 
 The high command o' supreme Jove. 
 
 Let neist day come as it thinks lit, 
 The present minute's only ours ; 
 
 On pleasure let's employ our wit, 
 An' laugh at fortune's feckless pow'rs. 
 
 Be sure ye dinna quat the grip 
 O' ilka joy whan ye are young, 
 
 Before auld age your vitals nip, 
 An' lay ye twafald o'er a rung. 
 
 Sweet youth's a blythe an' heartsome time ; 
 
 Then, lads an' lasses, while it's May, 
 Gae pou the gowan in its prime, 
 
 Before it wither an' decay. 
 
 Watch the saft minutes o' delyte, 
 
 Whan Jenny speaks beneath her breath, 
 
 An' kisses, laying a' the wyte 
 On you, if she kepp ony skaith. 
 
 Ilaith ye're ill-bred, she'll smiling say, 
 Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook ; 
 
 Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, 
 Ax\ hide hersell in some dark nook ; 
 
IMITATIONS OF HORACE, 195 
 
 Her laugh will lead you to the place 
 Whare lies the happiness you want, 
 
 An* plainly tells you to your face, 
 Nineteen nay-says are hauf a grant 
 
 Now to her heaving bosom cling, 
 
 An' sweetly toolie for a kiss, 
 Frae her fair finger whup a ring, 
 
 As taiken o' a future bliss. 
 
 These bennisons, I'm very sure, 
 
 Are o' the gods' indulgent grant ; 
 Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear 
 
 To plague us wi' your whining cant. 
 
 Car. I. 18. 
 
 O Bin NY, cou'd thae fields o' thine 
 Bear, as in Gaul, the juicy vine. 
 How sweet the bonny grape wad shine 
 
 On wa's, whare now 
 Your apricock an' peaches fine 
 
 Their branches bow. 
 
 Since human life is but a blink. 
 Then why shou'd we its short joys sink : 
 He disna live that canna link 
 
 The glass about ; 
 Whan warm'd wi' wine, like men we think, 
 
 An' grow mair stout. 
 
IMITATIONS OF HORACE, 
 
 The cauldrife carlies, clogged wi' care, 
 Wha galh'ring gear gang hyt an' gare, 
 If rammed wi' red, they lanl an' rair 
 
 Like mirthfu' men j 
 It soothly shaws them they can spare 
 A rowth to spen'. 
 
 What soger, whan wi' wine he's bung, 
 Did e'er complain he had been dung, 
 Or o' his toil, or empty spung ; 
 
 Na, o'er his glass, 
 Nought but braw deeds employ his tongue. 
 
 Or some sweet lass. 
 
 Yet trouth, its proper we shou'd stint 
 Oursells to a fresh mod'rate pint ; 
 Why shou'd we the blythe blessing mint 
 
 To waste or spill, 
 Since, aften, whan our reason's tint, 
 
 We may do ill. 
 
 Let's set thae hair-brain'd fouk in view. 
 That whan they're stupid, mad, an' fou, 
 Do brutal deeds, which aft they rue 
 
 P'or a' their days, 
 WTiich frequently prove very few 
 
 To such as these. 
 
 Then let us grip our bliss mair sicker, 
 An' tak our heal an' sprightly liquor, 
 
IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 197 
 
 V\liich sober taen maks wit the quicker. 
 
 An' sense mair keen ; 
 V/liile graver heads, that's muckle thicker, 
 
 Grane wi' the spleen. 
 
 Aray ne'er sic wicked fumes arise, 
 In me that break a' sacred ties, 
 An' gar me like a fool despise, 
 
 Wi' stiffness rude, 
 Whatever my best friends advise, 
 
 Tho' ne'er so guid. 
 
 It's best then to evite the sin 
 O' bending till our sauls gae blin'. 
 Lest, like our glass, our breasts grow thin, 
 
 An' let fouk peep 
 At ilka secret hid within, 
 
 That we shou'd keep. 
 
 Car. I. 31. 
 
 Frae great Apollo, poets say, 
 
 What is thy wish, what wadst thou hae, 
 
 Whan thou bows at his shrine ? 
 Not Carse o' Cowrie's fertile field. 
 Nor a' the flocks the Grampians yield. 
 That are baith sleek an' fine : 
 Not costly things brought frae afar. 
 
 As iv'ry, pearl, an' gems ; 
 Nor those fair straths, that water'd are 
 
 Wi' Tay an' Tweed's smooth streams, 
 
198 I MIT A TIONS OF MORA CE. 
 
 Which gentily, and daintily 
 Eat down the flow'ry braes, 
 
 As greatly, an' quietly, 
 They wimple to the seas. 
 
 Whaever be his canny fate 
 Is master o' a guid estate, 
 
 That can ilk thing afford, 
 Let him enjoy't withoutten care, 
 An' wi' the wale o' curious fare 
 Cover his ample board. 
 Much dawted by the gods is he, 
 Wha to the Indian plain 
 Successfu' ploughs the wally sea, 
 An' safe returns again 
 Wi' riches, that hitches 
 
 Him high aboon the rest 
 O' sraa' fouk, an' a' fouk 
 That are wi' poortith prest. 
 
 For me, I can be weel content 
 To eat my bannock on the bent, 
 An' kitchen't wi' fresh air ; 
 O' lang-kail I can mak a feast. 
 An' cantily haud up my creesl. 
 An' laugh at dishes rare. 
 Nought frae Apollo I demand. 
 
 But thro' a lengthen'd life, 
 My outer fabric firm may stand. 
 
 An' saul clear without strife. 
 
IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 199 
 
 May he then but gie then 
 Those blessings for my skair, 
 
 I'll fairly, an' squairly, 
 
 Quit a', an' seek nae mair. 
 
 Epist. I. 20. 
 
 Dear vent'rous book, e'en talc thy will, 
 An' scowp around the warld thy fill : 
 Wow ! ye're newfangle to be seen, 
 In gilded Turkey clad, an' clean. 
 Daft giddy thing ! to daur thy fate, 
 An' spang o'er dykes that scar the blate ; 
 But mind when ance ye're to the bent, 
 (Altho' in vain) ye may repent. 
 Alake ! im fley'd thou aften meet 
 A gang that will thee sourly treat. 
 An' ca' thee dull for a' my pains. 
 When damps distress their drouzie brains. 
 I dinna doubt, whilst thou art new, 
 Thou'lt favour find frae not a few ; 
 But when thou'rt rufll'd an' forfairn, 
 Sair thumb'd by ilka coof or bairn ; 
 Then, then by age ye may grow wise. 
 An' ken things common gie nae price. 
 I'd fret, waes me ! to see thee lie 
 Beneath the bottom o' a pye ; 
 Or cow'd out, page by page, to wrap 
 Up snuff, or sweeties in a shap. 
 
200 IMITATIONS OF HORACE. 
 
 Awa sic fears, gae spread my fame, 
 An' fix me an immortal name ; 
 Ages to come shall thee revive, 
 An' gar thee wi' new honours live. 
 The future critics, I foresee, 
 Shall hae their notes on notes on thee : 
 The wits unborn shall beauties find 
 That never enter'd in my mind. 
 
 Now, when thou tells how I was bred 
 But hough eneugh to a mean trade ; 
 To balance that, pray let them ken 
 My saul to higher pitch cou'd sten' ; 
 An' when ye shaw I m scarce o' gear, 
 Gar a* my virtues shine mair clear. 
 Tell, I the best an' fairest please, 
 A little man that looes my ease, 
 An' never thole these passions lang, 
 That rudely mint to do me wrang. 
 
 Gin ony want to ken my age, 
 See Anno Dom."^ on title-page ; 
 This year, when springs by care an' skill 
 The spacious leaden conduits fill, 
 An' first flow'd up the Castle-hill ; 
 When South Sea projects cease to thrive, 
 An' only North Sea seems alive. 
 Tell them your author's thirty-five. 
 
 '• The flrat edition of his Poems was published in 1720. 
 
VI. 
 
 ENGLISH POEMS. 
 
lEmUsb t>ocm9. 
 
 ON RECEIVING SOME FRUIT FROM A LADY. 
 
 Now, Priam's son, thou may'st be mute, 
 For i can biythly boast with thee — 
 
 Thou to the fairest gave the fruit. 
 The fairest gave the fruit to me. 
 
 TO MR. POPE. 
 
 Three times I've read your liiad o'er ; 
 
 The first time pleas'd me 7vell ; 
 New beauties, unobserv'd before. 
 
 Next pleas'd me better still. 
 
 Again I try'd to find a flaw, 
 
 Examin'd ilka line ; 
 
 The third time pleas'd me best of a', 
 
 The labour seem'd divine. 
 
 17 
 
204 THE MORNING INTERVIEW, 
 
 Henceforward I'll not tempt my fate 
 
 On dazzling rays to stare, 
 Lest I shou'd tine dear self-conceit, 
 
 An' read an' write nae mair. 
 
 FROM "THE MORNING INTERVIEW." 
 
 When from debauch, with sp'rituous juice opprest, 
 The sons of Bacchus stagger home to rest, 
 With tatted wigs, foul shoes, and uncock'd hats, 
 And all bedaub'd with snuff their loose cravats. 
 The sun began to sip the morning dew, 
 As Damon from his restless pillow flew. 
 
 Fatigu'd with running errands all the day, 
 Happy in want of thought his valet lay. 
 
 Recruiting strength with sleep His master calls, 
 
 He starts with lock'd up eyes, and beats the walls. 
 
 A second thunder rouses up the sot, 
 
 He yawns, and murmurs curses thro' his throat : 
 
 Stockings awry, and breeches knees unlac'd, 
 
 And buttons do mistake their holes for haste. 
 
 His master raves, — cries, Roger, make dispatch, 
 
 Time flies apace. He frown'd, and look'd his watch ; 
 
 Haste do my wig, ty't with the careless knots, 
 
 And run to Civet's, let him fill my box. 
 
 Go to my laundress, see what makes her stay, 
 
 And call a coach and barber in your way. 
 
THE MORNING INTERVIEW. 205 
 
 Thus orders justle orders in a throng : 
 Roger with laden mem'iy trots along. 
 His errands done ; with brushes next he must 
 Renew his toil amidst perfuming dust ; 
 The yielding comb he leads with artful care, 
 Thro' crook'd meanders of the flaxen hair ; 
 E'er this perform'd he's almost choak'd to death, 
 The air is thicken'd, and he pants for breath. 
 The trav'ller thus in the Numidian plains, 
 A conflict with the driving sands sustains. 
 
 Two hours are past, and Damon is equipt, 
 Pensive he stalks, and meditates the fight : 
 Arm'd cap-a-pee, in dress a killing beau, 
 Thrice view'd his glass, and thrice resolv'd to go. 
 
 Where Aulus oft makes law for justice pass, 
 And Charles's statue stands in lasting brass, 
 Amidst a lofty square which strikes the sight, 
 With spacious fabrics of stupendous height ; 
 Whose sublime roofs in clouds advance so high. 
 They seem the watch-tow'rs of the nether sky ; 
 \Vhere once, alas ! where once the three estates 
 Of Scotland's parliament held free debates : 
 Here Celia dwelt, and here did Damon move, 
 Press'd by his rigid fate, and raging love. 
 
 To her apartment straight the daring swain 
 Approach'd, and softly knock'd, nor knock'd in 
 
 vain. 
 The nymph, new wak'd, starts from the lazy down, 
 And rolls her gentle limbs in morning gown ; 
 But half awake, she judges it must be 
 
2o6 TO SIR JOHN CLERK. 
 
 Frankalia come to take her morning tea ; 
 Cries, Welcome, cousin. But she soon began 
 To change her visage when she saw a man : 
 Her unfix'd eyes with various turnings range, 
 And pale surprise to modest red exchange : 
 Doubtful, 'twixt modesty and love, she stands, 
 Then ask'd the bold impertinent's demands. 
 
 TO SIR JOHN CLERK, 
 On the Death of his Son. 
 
 T {< tears can ever be a duty found, 
 
 'Tis when the death of dear relations wound j 
 
 Then you must weep, you have too just a ground. 
 
 A son, whom all the good and wise admired, 
 
 Shining with every grace to be desired. 
 
 Raised high your joyful hopes — and then retired ! 
 
 By his great Author man was sent below, 
 Some things to learn, great pains to undergo, 
 To fit him for what further he's to know. 
 
 This end obtained without regarding time, 
 1 le calls the soul home to its native clime, 
 U u happiness and knowledge more sublime. 
 
TO SIR JOHN CLERK. 207 
 
 Perform'd the task of man so well, so soon, 
 He reached the sea of bliss before his noon, 
 And to his memory lasting laurels won. 
 
 When life's tempestuous billows ceased to roar, 
 And ere his broken vessel was no more, 
 His soul serenely viewed the heavenly shore. 
 
 Bravely resigned, obeying fate's command, 
 
 He fixed his eyes on the immortal land, 
 
 Where crowding seraphs reached him out the hand. 
 
 Think, in the world of sp'rits, with how much joy 
 His tender mother would receive her boy, 
 Wliere fate no more their union can destroy. 
 
 His good grandsire, who lately went to rest, 
 How fondly would he clasp him to his breast, 
 And welcome him to regions of the blest ! 
 
 From us, 'tis true, his youthful sweets are gone, 
 Which may plead for our weakness when we moan; 
 The loss, indeed, is ours, he can have none. 
 
 Thus sailors, with a crazy vessel crost. 
 Expecting every minute to be lost. 
 With weeping eyes behold a sunny coast, 
 
 Thus your loved youth, whose bright aspiring mind 
 
 Could not to lazy minutes be confin'd, 
 
 Sailed down the stream of life before the wind. 
 
2o8 TO SIR JOHN CLERK. 
 
 AVhere happy landsmen safely breathe the air, 
 
 Bask in the sun, or to cool shades repair. 
 
 They longing sigh, and wish themselves were there. 
 
 Then grieve no more, nor vex yourself in vain, 
 
 To latest age the character maintain 
 
 You now possess, you'll find your son again. 
 
VII. 
 EPISTLES. 
 
lEptstles^ 
 
 FIRST EPISTLE TO WILLIAM HAMILTON 
 OF GILBERTFIELD. 
 
 Edinburgh, July lo, 1719. 
 
 SONSE fa' me, witty, wanton Willy, 
 
 Gin blyth 1 was nae as a filly : 
 
 Nor a fow pint, nor short-hought gilly, 
 
 Or wine that's better, 
 Cou'd please sae meikle, my dear billy. 
 
 As thy kind letter. 
 
 Before a lord, and eik a knight 
 Tn gossy Don's be candle light, 
 There first I saw't, an' ca'd it right, 
 
 An' the maist feck 
 "Wha's seen't sinsyne, they ca'd as tight 
 
 As that on Heck. 
 
;i2 EPISTLES. 
 
 Ha, heh ! thought I, I canna say 
 But I may cock my nose the day, 
 When Hamilton, the bauld an' gay, 
 
 Lends me a heezy. 
 In verse that slides sae smooth away, 
 
 Weel tell'd an' easy. 
 
 Sae roos'd by ane o' weel kend mettle, 
 Nae sma' did my ambition pettle, 
 My canker'd critics it will nettle, 
 
 An' e'en sae be't : 
 This month I'm sure I winna settle, 
 
 Sae proud I'm wi't. 
 
 When I begoud first to cun verse, 
 An' cou'd your Ardry Whins rehearse, 
 Where Bonny Heck ran fast an' fierce, 
 
 It warm'd my breast j 
 Then emulation did me pierce, 
 
 Whilk since ne'er ceast. 
 
 May I be licket wi' a bittle. 
 
 Gin of your numbers I think little ; 
 
 Ye're never rugget, shan, nor kittle. 
 
 But blyth an' gabby j 
 An' hit the spirit to a tittle, 
 
 O' standart Habby. 
 
 Ye'll quat your quill ! that were ill-willy, 
 Ye's sing some mair yet, nill ye will ye, 
 O'er meikle haining wad but spill ye. 
 An' gar ye sour, 
 
EPISTLES. 213 
 
 Then up an' war them a' yet, Willy, 
 'Tis in your pow"r. 
 
 To knit up dollars in a clout, 
 
 An' then to eard them round about. 
 
 Syne to tell up, they downa lout 
 
 To lift the gear ; 
 The malison lights on that rout, 
 
 Is plain an' clear. 
 
 The chiels o' London, Cam, an' Ox' 
 
 Hae rais'd up great poetic stocks 
 
 O' Rapes, o' Buckets, Sarks, an' Locks, 
 
 While we neglect 
 To shaw their betters. This provokes 
 
 Me to reflect 
 
 On the lear'd days o' Gawn Dunkell ; 
 Our country then a tale cou'd tell, 
 Europe had nane mair snack an' snell 
 
 At verse or prose ; 
 Our kings were poets too themsell, 
 
 Bauld an' jocose. 
 
 To Edinburgh, Sir, whene'er ye come, 
 I'll wait upon ye, there's my thumb, 
 Were't frae the gill-bells to the drum * 
 
 An' tak a bout. 
 An' faith I hope we'll no sit dumb, 
 
 Nor yet cast out. 
 
 * From noon till ten p.m. 
 
214 EPISTLES. 
 
 SECOND EPISTLE TO THE SAME. 
 
 Edinburgh, ^?<^Mj/ 4, 1719. 
 
 Dear Hamilton, ye'll turn me dyver, 
 My muse sae bonny ye descrive her ; 
 Ve blaw her sae, I'm fear'd ye rive her, 
 
 For \\\ a whid. 
 Gin ony higher up ye drive her. 
 
 She'll rin red-wood. 
 
 Said I. '■' Whish't, quoth the vougy jade, 
 William's a wise, judicious lad. 
 Has havins mair than e'er ye had, 
 
 Ill-bred bog-stalker ; 
 But me ye ne'er sae crouse had craw'd, 
 
 Ye poor skull-thacker. 
 
 *' It sets you weel indeed to gadge ! 
 E'er I t' Apollo did ye cadge. 
 An' got ye on his honour's badge, 
 
 Ungratefu' beast, 
 A Glasgow capon an' a fadge * 
 
 Ye thought a feast. 
 
 ** Swith to Castalia's fountain-brink, 
 Dad down a grouf an' tak a drink. 
 Syne whisk out paper, pen, an' ink, 
 
 An' do my bidding ; 
 Be thankfu', else I'se gar ye stink 
 
 Yet on a midding " 
 
 • A salt herring and a coarse roll. 
 
EPISTLES. 215 
 
 (( 
 
 My mistress dear, your servant humble," 
 Said I, ** I shou'd be laith to drumble 
 Your passions, or e'er gar ye grumble; 
 
 'Tis ne'er be me 
 Shall scandalize, or say ye bummil 
 
 Your poetrie." 
 
 Frae what I've tell'd, my friend may leara 
 How sadly I hae been forfairn, 
 I'd better been ayont side Kairn- 
 
 amount,* I trow; 
 I've kiss'd the taws, like a guid bairn, — - 
 
 Now, Sir, to you. 
 
 Heal be your heart, gay couthie carle, 
 Lang may ye help to toom a barrel : 
 Be thy crown ay unclowr'd in quarrel, 
 
 \Vh«n thou inclines 
 To knoit thrawn-gabbit sumphs that snarl 
 
 At our frank lines. 
 
 Ilk guid chiel says, yc're weel worth gowd, 
 An' blythness on ye's weel bestow'd, 
 'Mang witty Scots your name's be row'd. 
 
 Ne'er fame to tine ; 
 The crooked clinkers shall be cow'd, 
 
 But ye shall shine, 
 
 •■ A hill in the north of Scotland. 
 
2i6 EPISTLES, 
 
 Set out the burnt side o' your shin,* 
 For pride in poets is nae sin ; 
 Glory's the prize for which they rin, 
 
 An' fame's their jo ; 
 An' wha blaws best the horn shall win : 
 
 An' wherefore no ? 
 
 Quisquis vocahit vos vain glorious, 
 Shaws scanter skill than /nalos ?HoreSy 
 Multi et magni men before us 
 
 Did stamp and swagger, 
 Probatum est, exeinphim Horace 
 
 Was a bauld bragger. 
 
 Then let the doofarts, fash'd wi' spleen, 
 Cast up the wrang side o' their een, 
 Pegh, fry, an' girn, wi* spite an' teen, 
 
 An' fa' a flyting ; 
 Laugh, for the lively lads will screen 
 
 Us frae back -biting. 
 
 If that the gypsies dinna spung us, 
 An' foreign whiskers ha'e nae dung us ; 
 Gin I can snifter thro' mundungus, 
 
 Wi' boots an' belt on, 
 I hope to see you at St. Mungo'sf 
 
 Atwecn an' Beltan, % 
 
 * As if one would say, " Walk with your toes out." An 
 expression used when one would ])id a person (merrily) look 
 brisk. 
 
 t Glasgow. X Between this and May-day. 
 
EPISTLES. 217 
 
 THIRD EPISTLE TO THE SAME. 
 
 Edinburgh, Sept. 2, 17 19, 
 
 My Trusty Trojan, 
 Thy last oration orthodox, 
 Thy innocent auldfarren jokes, 
 An' sonsie saw o' three, provokes 
 
 Me anes again, 
 Tod-lowrie like*, to lowse my pocks, 
 
 An' pump my brain. 
 
 By a' your letters I ha'e read, 
 I eithly scan the man weel-bred, 
 An' soger that, where honour led. 
 
 Has ventur'd bauld ; 
 Wha now to youngsters leaves the yed, 
 
 To 'tend his fauld. 
 
 That bangster billy, Coesar July, 
 Wlia at Pharsalia wan the tooly. 
 Had better sped, had he mair hooly, 
 
 Scamper'd thro' life, 
 An' midst his glories sheath'd his gully, 
 
 An' kiss'd his wife. 
 
 Had he, like you, as weel he cou'd, 
 Upon burn banks the muses woo'd. 
 
 Like Reynard the fox, to betake myself to some more wUes. 
 
2i8 EPISTLES. 
 
 Retir'd betimes frae 'mang the crowd, 
 
 Wha'd been aboon him ? 
 
 The senate's durks, an' faction loud, 
 
 Had ne'er undone him. 
 
 Yet sometimes leave the riggs an' bog, 
 Your howms, an' braes, an' shady scrog, 
 An' helm-a-lee the claret cog, 
 
 To clear your wit : 
 Be blyth, an* let the warld e'en shog, 
 
 As it thinks fit. 
 
 Ne'er fash about your neist year's state, 
 Nor wi' superior pow'rs debate, 
 Nor cantrips cast to ken your fate ; 
 
 There's ills anew 
 To cram our days, which soon grow late ; 
 
 Let's live just now. 
 
 Wlien northern blasts the ocean snurl, 
 An' gars the heights an' hows look gurl, 
 Then left about the bumper whirl, 
 
 An' toom the horn, 
 Grip fast the hours which hasty hurl, 
 
 The morn's the morn. 
 
 Thus to Leuconoe sang sweet Flaccus, 
 Wlia nane e'er thought a gillygapus : 
 All' why shou'd we let whimsies bauk us, 
 
 When joy's in season, 
 An' thole sae aft the spleen to whauk us 
 
 Out o' our reason ? 
 
EPISTLES. 219 
 
 Tho' I were laird o' ten-score acres, 
 
 Nodding to jouks o' hallenshakers, 
 
 Yet crush'd wi' humdrums, which the v/caker's 
 
 Contentment ruins, 
 I'd rather roost wi' causey-rakers. 
 
 An' sup cauld sowens. 
 
 I think, my friend, an' fouk can get 
 A doll of roast beef pypin het, 
 An' wi' red wine their wyson wet, 
 
 An' claithing clean, 
 An' be nae sick, or drown'd in debt, 
 
 They're no to mean. 
 
 I read this verse to my ain kimmer, 
 Wha kens I like a le-^ o' gimmer, 
 Or sic an' sic, guid belly-timmer ; 
 
 Quoth she, an' leugh, 
 '* Sicker o' thae, winter an' simmer, 
 
 Ye're weel eneugh. " 
 
 My hearty goss, there is nae help, 
 But hand to nive we twa maun skelp 
 Up Rhine an' Thames, an' o'er the Alp- 
 pines an' Pyrenians, 
 Tlie cheerfu' carles do sae yelp 
 
 T' hae's their minions. 
 
 Thy raffan rural rhyme sae rare. 
 Sic wordy, wanton, hrind-wail'd ware, 
 
 18 
 
220 EPISTLES. 
 
 Sae gash an' gay, gars fouk gae gare * 
 
 To hae them by them ; 
 
 Tho' gaffin they, wi' sides sae sair, 
 
 Cry, *' Wae gae by him." 
 
 Fair fa* that soger did invent 
 To ease the poets' toil wi' print : 
 Now, William, we maun to the bent, 
 
 An' pouse our fortune, 
 An' crack wi' lads wha're weel content 
 
 Wi' this our sporting. 
 
 Gin ony sour-mou'd girning bucky 
 
 Ca' me conceity keckling chucky, 
 
 That we like nags whase necks are yucky, 
 
 Hae us'd our teeth ; 
 I'll answer fine, — Gae kiss your Lucky, t 
 
 She dwalls i' Leith. 
 
 I ne'er wi' lang tales fash my head, 
 But when I speak, I speak indeed : 
 Wha ca's me droll, but ony feed, 
 
 I'll own I am sae : 
 An' while my champers can chew bread, 
 
 Yours, Allan Ramsay. 
 
 * l\Take people very earnest. 
 
 + It is a cant phrase, made use of when one thinks it i3 not 
 worth while to give a direct answer. 
 
EPISTLES. 221 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM AIRMAN. 
 
 'Tis granted, Sir, pains may be spar'd 
 
 Your merit to set forth, 
 When there's sae few wha claim regard, 
 
 That disna ken your worth. 
 
 Yet poets give immortal fame 
 
 To mortals that excell, 
 Which if neglected they're to blame ; 
 
 But you've done that yoursell. 
 
 WTiile frae originals o' )'ours 
 
 Fair copies shall be tane, 
 An' fix'd on brass to busk our bow'rs, 
 
 Your mem'ry shall remain. 
 
 To your ain deeds the maist deny'd, 
 
 Or o' a taste o'er fine, 
 Maybe ye' re but o'er right, afraid 
 
 To sink in verse like mine. 
 
 The last can ne'er the reason prove, 
 Else, wherefore with good will 
 
 Do ye my nat'ral lays approve. 
 An' help me up the hill ? 
 
 By your assistance unconstrain'd 
 
 To courts I can repair. 
 An' by your art my way I've gain'd 
 
 To closets o' the fair. 
 
222 EPISTLES. 
 
 Had I a muse, like lofty Pope, 
 For tow'ring numbers fit, 
 
 Then I th' ingenious mind might hope 
 In truest light to hit. 
 
 But comic tale, an' sonnet slee, 
 Aie coosten for my share, 
 
 An' if in these I bear the gree, 
 m think it verj' fair. 
 
 EDINBURGPI'S SALUTATION TO THE MOST 
 HON. THE MARQUIS OF CARNARVON. 
 
 Welcome, my Lord, Heav'n be your guide, 
 
 An' furder your intention, 
 To whate'er place you sail or ride, 
 
 To brighten your invention. 
 The book o' mankind lang an' wide, 
 
 Is weel worth your attention : 
 "Wherefore, please, sometime here abide, 
 
 An' measure the dimension 
 
 O' minds right stout. 
 
 O that ilk worthy British peer 
 
 Wad follow your example. 
 My auld grey head I yet wad rear, 
 
 An' spread my skirts mair ample. 
 Shou'd London poutch up a' the gear, 
 
 She might spare me a sample ; 
 
EPISTLES. 223 
 
 In troth his Highness shou'd live here, 
 For without oil our lamp will 
 
 Gang blinkan out. 
 
 Lang syne, my Lord, I had a couit. 
 
 An' no'ulcs till'd my causey ; 
 But since I hae been fortune's sport, 
 
 I look nae hauf sae gawsy. 
 Yet here brave gentlemen resort, 
 
 An' mony a handsome lassie : 
 Now that you're lodg'd within my port, 
 
 Fow wecl I wat, they'll a' say, 
 
 Welcome, my Lord, 
 
 For you my best cheer I'll produce, 
 
 I'll no mak muckle vaunting ; 
 But routh for pleasure an' for use, 
 
 WTiatever you be wanting, 
 You's hae at will to chap an' chuse, 
 
 For few things am I scant in ; 
 The wale of weel-set ruby juice,* 
 
 When you like to be rantin, 
 I can afford. 
 
 Than I, nor Paris, nor Madrid, 
 
 Nor Rome, I trow's mair able 
 To busk you up a better bed. 
 
 Or trim a tighter table. 
 My sons are honourably bred. 
 
 To trutli and friendship stable ; 
 
 » Claitt. 
 
224 EPISTLES. 
 
 What my detracting faes hae said, 
 You'll find a feigned fable, 
 
 At the first sight. 
 
 May classic lear, an' letters belle, 
 
 An' travelling conspire, 
 Ilk unjust notion to repell, 
 
 An' godlike thoughts inspire ; 
 That, in ilk action, wise an' snell 
 
 You may shaw manly fire ; 
 Sae the fair picture o' himsell, 
 
 Will gie his Grace, your sire, 
 Immense delight. 
 
 TO MY KIND AND WORTHY FRIENDS IN 
 IRELAND, 
 Who^ on a Report of my Death, made and published 
 several Elegies^ Lyric and Pastoral, very much to 
 my honour. 
 
 Sighing shepherds o' Hibernia, 
 Thank ye for your kind concern a', 
 WTien a fause report beguiling, 
 Prov'd a drawback on your smiling ; 
 Dight your een, an' cease your grieving, 
 Allan's hale, an' weel, an' living, 
 Singing, laughing, sleeping soundly, 
 Cowing beef, an' drinking roundly ; 
 
EPISTLES. 225 
 
 Drinking roundly rum an' claret, 
 Ale and usquae, bumpers fair out, 
 Supernaculum but spilling, 
 The least diamond drawing, filling ; 
 Sowsing sonnets on the lasses. 
 Hounding satires at the asses ; 
 Smiling at the surly critics, 
 An' the pack-horse o' politics ; 
 Painting meadows, shaws, an' mountains, 
 Crooking burns an' flovv'ing fountains, 
 Flowing fountains, where ilk gowan 
 Grows about the borders glowan, 
 Swelling sweetly, an' inviting 
 Poets' lays, an' lovers' meeting ; 
 Meeting kind to niffer kisses. 
 Bargaining for better blisses. 
 
 Hills in dreary dumps now lying, 
 An' ye zephyrs swiftly flying. 
 An' ye rivers gently turning. 
 An' ye Philomellas mourning, 
 An' ye double sighing echoes. 
 Cease your sobbing, tears, an' hey-ho's S 
 Banish a' your care an' grieving, 
 Allan's hale, an' weel, an' living, 
 Early up on morning's shining. 
 Ilka fancy warm refining. 
 Giving ilka verse a burnish 
 That maun second volume furnish, 
 To bring in frae lord an' lady 
 Meikle fame an' part o' ready ; 
 
226 EPISTLES. 
 
 Splendid thing o' constant motion, 
 Fish'd for in the southern ocean ; 
 Prop o' gentry, nerve o' battles ; 
 Prize for which the gamester rattles ; 
 Belzie's banes, deceitfu', kittle. 
 Risking a' to gain a little. 
 Pleasing Philip's tunefu' tickle, 
 Philomel, an' kind Arbuckle ; 
 Singers sweet, baith lads an' lasses, 
 Tuning pipes on hill Parnassus ; 
 Allan kindly to you wishes 
 Lasting life, an' rowth o' blisses ; 
 An' that he may, when ye surrender 
 Sauls to heaven, in numbers tender, 
 Gie a' your fames a happy heezy, 
 An* gratefully immortalize ye. 
 
 TO MR. JAMES ARBUCKLE. 
 
 As errant-knight, wi' sword an' pistol, 
 Bestrides his steed wi' mighty fistle, 
 Then stands some time in jumbled swither. 
 To ride in this road or that ither ; 
 At last spurs on, an' disna care for 
 A how, a what way, or a wherefor. 
 Thus I bang'd up my blyth auld whistle. 
 To sowf ye o'er a short epistle, 
 Without rule, compasses, or charcoal. 
 
EPISTLES, 227 
 
 Or serious study in a dark hole. 
 
 Three times I gae the muse a rug, 
 
 Then bit my nails, an' claw'd my lug ; 
 
 Still heavy, at the last, my nose 
 
 I prim'd wi' an inspiring dose, 
 
 Then did ideas dance (dear save us !) 
 
 As they'd been daft here ends the preface. 
 
 Guid Mr. James Arbuckle, Sir 
 (That's merchants' style as clean as fir), 
 Ye're welcome back to Caledonie, 
 Lang life an' thriving light upon ye, 
 Harvest, winter, spring, an' summer. 
 An' ay keep up your heartsome humour. 
 That ye may thro' your lucky task go. 
 Of brushing up our sister Glasgow ; 
 Whar lads are dext'rous at improving, 
 An' docile lasses fair an' loving ; 
 But never tent thae fellows girning, 
 Wha wear their faces ay in mourning. 
 An' frae pure dullness are malicious, 
 Terming ilk turn that's witty, vicious. 
 
 Now, Jamie, in neist place, secundo, 
 To gi'e you what's your due ui mundo ; 
 That is to say, in hame-o'er phrases. 
 To tell ye men of mettle praises 
 Ilk verse of yours, whan they can light on't, 
 An' trouth I think they're in the right on't ; 
 For there's ay something sae auldfarran, 
 Sae slid, sae unconstrain'd, an' darin', 
 In ilka sample we hae seen yet 
 
228 EPISTLES, 
 
 That little better e'er has been yet ; 
 
 Sae much for that. My friend Arbuckle, 
 
 I ne'er afore roos'd ane sae muckle. 
 
 Fause flatt'ry nane but fools will tickle, 
 
 That gars me hate it like auld Nicol ; 
 
 But when ane's of his merit conscious, 
 
 He's in the wrang, when prais'd, that glunshes. 
 
 Thirdly, Not tether'd to connexion, 
 But rattling by inspir'd direction, 
 Whenever fame, with voice like thunder, 
 Sets up a chield a warld's wonder, 
 Either for slashing fowk to dead. 
 Or having wind-mills in his head, 
 Or poet, or an airy beau. 
 Or ony twa-legg'd rary show ; 
 They wha hae never seen't are bisy 
 To spccr, what like a carlie is he. 
 
 hnprimis^ Then, for tallness T 
 Am five foot an' four inches high ; 
 A black-a-vic'd snod dapper fallow. 
 Nor lean, nor overlaid wi' tallow ; 
 Wi' phiz of a Morocco cut, 
 Resembling a late man of wit, 
 Auld gabbet Spec,* wha was sae cunning, 
 To be a dummie ten years running. 
 
 Then, for the fabric of my mind, 
 *Tis mair to mirth than grief inclin'd ; 
 I rather choose to laugh at folly. 
 Than show dislike by melancholy ; 
 * The Spectator. 
 
EPISTLES. 229 
 
 Well judging a sour heavy face 
 Is not the truest mark of grace. 
 
 I hate a drunkard or a glutton, 
 Yet I'm nae fae to wine an' mutton : 
 Great tables ne'er engag'd my wishes, 
 When crowded wi' o'er mony dishes; 
 A healthfu' stomach sharply set 
 Prefers a back-sey pypin het. 
 
 I never cou'd imagine't vicious 
 Of a fair fame to be ambitious ; 
 Proud to be thought a comic poet, 
 An' let a judge of numbers know it, 
 I court occasion thus to show it. 
 
 Second of thirdly : Pray tak heed, 
 Ye's get a short swatch o' my creed : 
 Weel then, I'm nowther Whig nor Tory, 
 Nor credit gie to purgatory ; 
 
 Neist Anti-Toland, Blunt, an' Whiston, 
 Know positively I'm a Christian, 
 Believing truths an' thinking free, 
 Wishing thrawn parties wad agree. 
 Say, wad ye ken my gate o' fending. 
 My income, management, an spending? 
 Born to nae lairdship, mair's the pity ! 
 Yet denison o' this fair city, 
 I mak what honest shift I can. 
 An' in my ain house am guidman. 
 Which stands on Edinbrugh's street the sun- 
 side : 
 Where I theek th' out an' line the inside 
 
230 EPISTLES. 
 
 O' niony a douse an' witty pash, 
 An' baith ways gather in the cash ; 
 Contented I hae sic a skair 
 As does my bus'ness to a hair, 
 An' fain wad prove to ilka Scot 
 That poortith's no the poet's lot. 
 
 TO THE HON. DUNCAN FORBES, LORD 
 ADVOCATE. 
 
 Shut in a closet six foot square. 
 No fash'd wi' meikle wealth or care, 
 
 I pass the live-lang day : 
 Yet some ambitious thoughts I have, 
 Which will attend me to my grave, 
 
 Sic busked baits they lay. 
 
 These keep my fancy on the wing, 
 Something that's blyth an' snack to sing, 
 
 An' smooth the wrunkled brow ; 
 Thus care I hai)pily beguile, 
 Hoping a plaudit an' a smile 
 
 Frae best o' men, like you. 
 
 You wha in kittle casts o' state, 
 Whan property demands debate, 
 
 Can right what is dung wrang • 
 Yet blythly can, whan ye think fit, 
 Enjoy your friend an' judge the wit 
 
 An' slidness o a sang. 
 
EPISTLE.S. 231 
 
 ITow mony, your reverse, imblest, 
 \Vhase minds gae wand'ring thro' a mist, 
 
 Proud as the thief in hell, 
 Pretend, forsooth, they're gentle fouk, 
 'Cause chance gies them o' gear the yowl:, 
 
 An' better chiels the shell ! 
 
 I've seen a wean aft vex itsell, 
 /iJi' greet because it was not tall : 
 
 Heez'd on a boord, O then ! 
 Rejoicing in the artfu' height, 
 How smirky look'd the little wight ! 
 
 An' thought itsell a man. 
 
 Sic bairns are some, blawn up a wee 
 Wi' splendour, wealth, an' quality, 
 
 Upon these stilts grown vain ; 
 They o'er the pows o' poor fouk stride, 
 An' neither are to baud nor bide. 
 
 Thinking this height their ain. 
 
 Now shou'd ane speer, at sic a puff, 
 What gars thee look sae big an' bluff? 
 
 Is't an attending menzic ? 
 Or fifty dishes on your table ? 
 Or fifty horses in your stable ? 
 
 Or heaps o' glancing cunzie ? 
 
 Are these the things thou ca's thysell ? 
 Come, vain gigantic shadow, tell ; 
 If thou say'st yes — I'll shaw 
 
232 EPISTLES. 
 
 Thy picture — Mean's thy silly mind, 
 Thy wit's a croil, thy judgment blind. 
 An' love worth nought ava. 
 
 TO MR. JOHN GAY, 
 
 On hearing her Grace the Duchess of Queensherry 
 commend some of his Poems. 
 
 Dear lad, wha linkan o'er the lee, 
 Sang Blowzalind an' Bowzybee, 
 And like the lav' rock, merrily 
 
 Wak'd up the morn, 
 When thou didst tune, wi' heartsome glee. 
 
 Thy bog-reed horn. 
 
 To thee frae edge o' Pentland height, 
 Where fawns an' fairies tak delight, 
 An' revel a' the livelang night, 
 
 O'er glens an' liraes, 
 A bard that has the second sight 
 
 Thy fortune spaes. 
 
 Now lend thy lug, an' tent me, Gay, 
 Thy fate appears like flow'rs in May, 
 Fresh, flourishing, an' lasting ay, 
 
 Firm as the aik, 
 Which envious winds, when critics bray. 
 
 Shall never shake. 
 
EPISTLES. 233 
 
 Come, shaw your loof — Ay, there's the line 
 Fortells thy verse shall ever shine, 
 Dauted, whilst living, by the Nine, 
 
 An' a' the best, 
 An' be, when past the mortal line. 
 
 Of fame possest. 
 
 Immortal Pope, an' skilfu' John,* 
 The learned Leach from Caledon, 
 Wi' mony a witty dame an' don, 
 
 O'er lang to name, 
 Are of your roundels very fon'. 
 
 An' sound your fame. 
 
 An' sae do I, wha roose but few, 
 "Which nae sma' favour is to you ; 
 For to my friends I stand right true, 
 
 Wi' shanks aspar : 
 An' my guid word (ne'er gi'en but due) 
 
 Gangs unco far. 
 
 Her mettled men my muse maintain, 
 
 An' ilka beauty is my frien' ; 
 
 Which keeps me canty, brisk, an' bien, 
 
 Ilk wheeling hour, 
 An' a sworn fae to hatefu' spleen, 
 
 An' a' that's sour. 
 
 But bide ye, boy, the main's to say, 
 Clarinda, bright as rising day, 
 
 * Dr. Arbuthnot. 
 
234 FPISTLES. 
 
 Divinely bonny, great, an' gay, 
 
 Of thinking even, 
 
 WTiase words, an' looks, an' smiles, display 
 Full views of heaven. 
 
 To rumage nature for what's braw, 
 Like lilies, roses, gems, an' snaw, 
 Compar'd wi' her's, their lustre fa', 
 
 An' bauchly tell 
 Her beauties ; she excels them a', 
 
 An's like hersell. 
 
 As fair a form as e'er was blest, 
 To hae an angel for a guest ; 
 Happy the prince who is possest, 
 
 O' sic a prize, 
 Wliase virtues place her wi' the best 
 
 Beneath the skies. 
 
 O sonsy Gay ! this heav'nly born. 
 Whom ev'ry grace strives to adorn, 
 Looks not upon thy lays wi' scorn : 
 
 Then bend thy knees, 
 An* bless the day that ye was born 
 
 Wi' arts to please. 
 
 She says thy sonnet smoothly sings, 
 Sae ye may craw an' clap your wings. 
 An' smile at ethercapit stings 
 
 Wi' careless pride, 
 When sae much wit an' beauty brings 
 
 Strength to your side. 
 
EPISTLES. 235 
 
 Lilt up your pipes, an' rise aboon 
 Vour Trivia an' your niuirland tune. 
 An' sing Clarinda late an' soon, 
 
 In tow'ring strains, 
 Till gratefu' gods cry out, Weel done, 
 
 An' praise thy pains. 
 
 Exalt thy voice, that all around 
 
 May echo back the lovely sound, 
 
 Frae Dover cliffs, wi' samphire crown'd. 
 
 To Thule's shore, 
 ■WTiere northward no more Britain's found. 
 
 But seas that roar. 
 
 Thus sing— while I frae Arthur's height, 
 O'er Chiviot glowr wi' tired sight. 
 An' langing wish, like raving wight, 
 
 To be set down 
 Frae coach an' sax, baith trim an' tight, 
 
 In London town. 
 
 But lang I'll gove an' bleer my ee. 
 Before, alake ! that sight I see ; 
 Then, best relief, I'll strive to be 
 
 Quiet an' content, 
 An' streek my limbs down easily 
 
 Upon the bent. 
 
 There sing the gowans, broom, an' trees, 
 The crystal burn an' westlin breeze, 
 
 19 
 
236 EPISTLES. 
 
 The bleeting flocks an' bisy bees, 
 
 An' blythsome swains, 
 
 Wha rant an' dance, wi' kiltit knees, 
 O'er mossy plains. 
 
 Fareweel — but e'er we part, let's praj', 
 God save Clarinda night an' day, 
 An' grant her a' she'd wish to hae, 
 
 Withouten end ! — 
 Nae mair at present I've to say, 
 
 But I'm your friend. 
 
 TO ROBERT YARDE, Esq., OF DEVONSHIRE. 
 
 Frae northern mountains clad wi' snaw, 
 Where whistling winds incessant blaw, 
 In time now when the curling-stane, 
 Slides murmuring o'er the icy plain. 
 What sprightly tale in verse can Yarde 
 Expect frae a cauld Scottish bard, 
 Wi' brose an' bannocks poorly fed, 
 In hodden grey right hashly cled, 
 Skelping o'er frozen hags wi' pingle, 
 Picking up peets to beet his ingle ; 
 While sleet, that freezes as it fa's, 
 Theeks as wi' glass the divot wa's 
 Of a laigh hut, v/here sax thegither 
 Lie heads an' thraws on craps o' heather. 
 
EPISTLES, 237 
 
 Thus, Sir, o' us the story gaes, 
 By our mair dull an' scornfu' faes ; 
 But let them tauk an' gouks believe, 
 While we laugh at them in our sleeve ; 
 For we, nor barbarous nor rude, 
 Ne'er want guid wine to warm our bluid ; 
 Hae tables crown'd — and heartsome beils, 
 An' can in Cumin's, Don's, or Steil's, 
 Be serv'd as plenteously an' civil, 
 As you in London at the Devil. 
 You, Sir, yoursell, wha cam an' saw, 
 Own'd that we wanted nought at a', 
 To mak us as content a nation 
 As ony is in the creation. 
 
 This point premis'd, my canty muse 
 Cocks up her crest without excuse. 
 An' scorns to screen her natural flaws, 
 Wi' ifs, an' hits, an' dull because ; 
 She pukes her pens, an' aims a flight 
 Thro' regions of internal light, 
 Frae fancy's field, these truths to bring 
 That you should hear, an' she should sing. 
 
 Lang syne, when love an' innocence 
 Were human nature's best defence, 
 Ere party jars made lawtith less. 
 By cloathing't in a monkish dress ; 
 Then poets shaw'd these ev'nly roads, 
 That lead to dwellings o' the gods. 
 In these dear days, weel kend to fame, 
 Divini vates was their name ; 
 
238 EP/STLES, 
 
 It was, and is, and shall be ay, 
 While they move in fair virtue's way. 
 Tho' rarely we to stipends reach, 
 Yet nane dare hinder us to preach. 
 
 Believe me, Sir, the nearest way 
 To happiness, is to be gay ; 
 For spleen indulg'd will banish rest 
 Far frae the bosoms o' the best ; 
 Thousands a year's no worth a prin, 
 Whene'er this fashious guest gets in : 
 But a fair competent estate 
 Can keep a man frae looking blate, 
 Sae eithly it lays to his hand 
 What his just appetites demand. 
 Wha has, an' can enjoy, O wow ! 
 How smoothly may his minutes flow : 
 A youth thus blest wi' manly frame, 
 Enliven'd wi' a lively flame. 
 Will ne'er wi' sordid pinch controul 
 The satisfaction o' his soul. 
 Poor is that mind, ay discontent, 
 That canna use what God has lent ; 
 But envious girns at a' he sees, 
 That are a crown richer than he's ; 
 Which gars him pitifully hane. 
 An' hell's ase-middens rake for gain ; 
 Yet never ken's a blythsome hour — 
 Is ever wanting, ever sour. 
 
 Yet ae extreme should never make 
 A man the gowden mean forsake, 
 
EPISTLES. 239 
 
 It shaws as much a shallow mind, 
 An' ane extravagantly blind, 
 If careless o' his future fate. 
 He daftly wastes a good estate, 
 An' never thinks till thoughts are vain, 
 An' can afford him nought but pain. 
 Thus will a joiner's shavings bleeze. 
 Their low will for some seconds please ; 
 But soon the glaring leam is past. 
 An' cauldrife darkness follows fast : 
 While slaw the faggots large expire, 
 An' warm us wi' a lasting fire. 
 Then neither, as i ken ye will, 
 Wi' idle fears your pleasures spill ; 
 Nor wi' neglecting prudent care, 
 Do skaith to your succeeding heir : 
 Thus steering cannily thro' life, 
 Your joys shall lasting be an' rife. 
 Gie a' your passions room to reel. 
 As lang as reason guides the wlieel : 
 Desires, tho' ardent, are nae crime, 
 When they harmoniously keep time ; 
 But when they spang o'er reason's fence, 
 We smart for't at our ain expence : 
 To recreate us we're allow'd. 
 But gaming deep boils up the blood, 
 An' gars ane, as groom-porters, ban 
 The Being that made him a man. 
 When his fair gardens, house, an' lands, 
 Are fa'n amang the sharper's hands. 
 
240 EPISTLES, 
 
 A cheerfu* bottle soothes the mind, 
 Gars carles grow canty, free, an' kind ; 
 Defeats our care, an' heals our strife, 
 An' brawly oils the wheels o' life : 
 But when just quantums we transgress, 
 Our blessing turns the quite reverse : 
 
 To love the bonny smiling fair, 
 Nane can their passions better ware ; 
 Yet love is kittle and unruly. 
 An' shou'd move tentily an' houly ; 
 For if it get o'er meikle head, 
 'Tis fair to gallop ane to dead : 
 O'er ilka hedge it wildly bounds, 
 An' grazes on forbidden grounds ; 
 Where constantly, like furies, range 
 Poortith, diseases, death, revenge. 
 
 Then wale a virgin worthy you, 
 "Worthy your love an* nuptial vow ; 
 Syne frankly range o'er a' her charms, 
 Drink deep of joy within her arms ; 
 Be still delighted wi' her breast, 
 An' on her love wi' rapture feast. 
 
 May she be blooming, saft, an' young, 
 Wi' graces melting frae her tongue ; 
 Prudent, an' yielding to maintain 
 Your love, as weel as you her ain. 
 
 Thus, wi' your leave. Sir, I've made free 
 To gie advice to ain can gie 
 As guid again — But, as Mess John 
 Said, whan the sand tauld time was done. 
 
EPISTLES. 241 
 
 " Ha'e patience, my dear friends, a wee, 
 An' talc anither glass frae me ; 
 An' if ye think there's doublets due, 
 I shanna bauk the like frae you." 
 
 TO MR. WILLIAM STARRAT. 
 
 Frae fertile fields, where nae curs'd ethers creep, 
 To stang the herds that in rash-busses sleep ; 
 Frae where Saint Patrick's blessings freed the bogs 
 Frae taids, an' asks, an' ugly creeping frogs ; 
 Welcome to me's the sound of Starrat's pipe, 
 Welcome, as westlin winds, or berries ripe, 
 When speeling up the hill, the dog-days' heat 
 Gars a young thirsty shepherd pant an' sweat : 
 Thus, while I climb the muses' mount wi' care, 
 Sic friendly praises gi'e refreshing air. 
 O ! may the lasses looe thee for thy pains, 
 An' may thou lang breathe healsome o'er the plains; 
 Lang may'st thou teach, wi' round an' nooked lines^ 
 Substantial skill, that's worth rich siller mines ; 
 To shaw how wheels can gang wi' greatest ease, 
 An' what kmd barks sail smoothest o'er the seas ; 
 How wind-mills shou'd be made — an' how they wurk 
 The thumper that tells hours upon the kirk — 
 How wedges rive the aik — how pullisees 
 Can lift on highest roofs the greatest trees — ■ 
 Rug frae its roots the craig o' Edinbrugh castle, 
 
242 EPISTLES. 
 
 As easily as I cou'd break my whistle — 
 \Vliat pleugh fits a wet soil, an' whilk the dry, 
 An' mony a thousand usefu' things forbye. 
 
 I own 'tis cauld encouragement to sing, 
 When round ane's lugs the blattran hailstanes ring 
 But feckfu' fouk can firont the bauldest wind, 
 An' slunk thro' muirs, an' never fash their mind. 
 Aft hae I waid thro' glens wi' chorking feet. 
 When neither plaid nor kilt cou'd fend the weet ; 
 Yet blythly wad I bang out o'er the brae, 
 An' stend o'er burns as light as ony rae, 
 Hoping the morn might prove a better day. 
 Then let's to lairds an' ladies leave the spleen, 
 Wliile we can dance an' whistle o'er the green. 
 Mankind's account o' guid an' ill's a jest, 
 Fancy's the rudder, an' content's a feast. 
 
 Dear Friend o' mine, ye but o'er meikle roose 
 The lowly mints o' my poor muirland muse, 
 Wha looks but blate, when even'd to ither twa 
 That luU'd the de'il or bigg'd the Theban wa' ; 
 But trowth 'tis natural for us a' to wink 
 At our ain fauts, an' praises frankly drink : 
 tair fa' ye then, an' may your flocks grow rife, 
 An' may nae elf twin Crummy o' her life. 
 
 The sun shines sweetly, a' the lift looks blue, 
 O'er glcns hing hov'ring clouds o' rising dew ; 
 Maggy, the bonniest lass o' a' our town. 
 Brent is her brow, her hair a curly brown, 
 I hae a tryst wi' her, an' maun away. 
 Then ye'U excuse me till anither d^y, 
 
EPISTLES. 243 
 
 VVlier. I've mair time ; for shortly I'm to sing 
 Some dainty sangs that sal round Crochan ring. 
 
 TO WILLIAM SOMERVILLE, POET. 
 
 Sir, I had yours, and own my pleasure 
 On the receipt exceeded measure. 
 You write with so much sp'rit an' glee, 
 Sae smooth, sae strong, correct, an' free, 
 That any he (by you allowed 
 To have some merit) may be proud. 
 If that's my fau't, bear you the blame, 
 Wlia've lent me sic a lift to fame. 
 Your ain tow'rs high, an' widens far. 
 Bright, glancing like a tirst-rate star. 
 An' a' the warld bestow due praise 
 On the collection o' your lays ; 
 Where various arts an' turns combine, 
 Which even in parts first poets shine. 
 Like Mat an' Swift ye sing wi' ease, 
 An' can be Waller whan you please. 
 Continue, Sir, an' shame the crew 
 That's plagu'd with having nought to do, 
 WTia fortune in a merry mood 
 Has overcharg'd wi' gentle blood, 
 But has deny'd a genius fit 
 For action or aspiring wit ; 
 Sic ken na how t' employ ihcir time, 
 
244 EPISTLES. 
 
 An* think activity a crime : 
 
 Aught they to either do, or say, 
 
 Or walk, or write, or read, or pray ! 
 
 When money, their Factotum's able 
 
 To furnish them a numerous rabble, 
 
 Wha will, for daily drink an' wages. 
 
 Be chairmen, chaplains, clerks, an' pages? 
 
 Could they, like you, employ their hours 
 
 In planting these delightful flowers, 
 
 Which carpet the poetic fields. 
 
 An' lasting funds o' pleasure yields ? 
 
 Nae mair they'd gaunt an' gove away. 
 
 Or sleep, or loiter out the day. 
 
 Or waste the night, damning their sauls, 
 
 In deep debauch, an' bawdy brawls : 
 
 Whence pox an' poverty proceed 
 
 An earlie eild, an' spirits dead. 
 
 Reverse o' you ; an' him you love, 
 
 Whose brighter spirit tow'rs above 
 
 The mob o' thoughtless lords an' beaux, 
 
 Wha in his ilka action shows 
 
 " True friendship, love, benevolence. 
 
 Unstudied wit, an' manly sense." 
 
 Allow here what you've said yoursell, 
 
 Nought can b' exprest so just an' well : 
 
 To him an' her, worthy his love, 
 
 An' every blessing from above, 
 
 A son is given, God save the boy. 
 
 For theirs an ev'ry Som'rile's joy. 
 
 Ye wardens, round him tak your plac^; 
 
EPISTLES, 245 
 
 An' raise him with each manly grace ; 
 Make his meridian virtues shine, 
 To add fresh lustres to his line : 
 An' many may the mother see 
 O' sic a lovely progeny. 
 
 Now, sir, when Boreas nae mair thuds 
 Hail, snaw, an' sleet frae blacken'd clouds ; 
 While Caledonia's hills are green, 
 An' a' her straths delight the een ; 
 While ilka flower with fragrance blows, 
 An' a' the year its beauty shows ; 
 Before again the winter lour. 
 What hinders then your northern tour ? 
 Be sure of welcome ; nor believe 
 These wha an ill report wad give 
 To E'nburgh an' the Land o' Cakes, 
 That nought what's necessary lacks. 
 Here Plenty's goddess frae her horn 
 Pours fish an' cattle, claith an' corn. 
 In blyth abundance ; — an' yet mair, 
 Our men are brave, our ladies fair. 
 Nor will North Britain yield for fouth 
 O' ilka thing, an' fellows couth, 
 To ony but her sister South. 
 True, rugged roads are cursed dreigh, 
 An' speats aft roar frae mountains heigh ; 
 The body tires, — poor tott'ring clay. 
 An' likes wi' ease at hame to stay ; 
 Wliile sauls stride warlds at ilka stend. 
 An' can their wid'ning views extend. 
 
246 EPISTLES. 
 
 Mine sees you, while you cheerfu' loam 
 
 On sweet Avona's flow'ry howm, 
 
 There, recollecting, with full view, 
 
 Those follies which mankind pursue ; 
 
 \\liile, conscious o' superior merit, 
 
 You rise with a correcting spirit ; 
 
 An' as an agent o' the gods, 
 
 I/ash them wi' sharp satyric rods ; 
 
 Labour divine ! — Next, for a change. 
 
 O'er hill an' dale i see you range 
 
 After the fox or whidding hare, 
 
 Confirming health in purest air ; 
 
 While joy frae heights an' dales resounds, 
 
 Rais'd by the holo, horn, an' hounds : 
 
 Fatigu'd, yet pleas'd, the chase out-run, 
 
 I see the friend, an' setting sun, 
 
 Invite you to the temp'rate bicker, 
 
 Wliich makes the blood an' wit flow quicker. 
 
 The clock strikes twelve, to rest you bound, 
 
 To save your health by sleeping sound. 
 
 Thus with cool head an' healsome breas*, 
 
 You see new day stream frae the east : 
 
 Then all the muses round you shine. 
 
 Inspiring ev'ry thought divine ; 
 
 Ee lang their aid — Your years an' blisses, 
 
 Your servant, Allan Ramsay, wishes. 
 
EPISTLES, 247 
 
 TO DOCTOR BOSWELL. 
 
 {With the two vohimes of my Poe?ns.) 
 
 These are the flowings from my quill 
 
 When in my youthful days 
 I scamper'd o'er the Muses' hill 
 
 And panted after praise. 
 
 Ambitious to appear in print 
 
 My labour was delight, 
 Regardless of the envious squint 
 
 Or growling critic's spite. 
 
 While those of the best taste and sense 
 
 Indulged my native fire, 
 It blazed by their benevolence 
 
 And heaved my genius higher. 
 
 Dear Doctor Boswell, such were they 
 
 Resembled much by you, 
 Wliose favours were the genial ray 
 
 By which to fame 1 grew. 
 
 From my first setting out in rhime 
 
 Near forty years have wheel'd ; 
 Like Israel's sons, so long a time 
 
 Through fancy's wiles I've reel'd. 
 
 May powers propitious by me stand, 
 
 Since it is all my claim — 
 As they enjoyed their promised land, 
 
 May I my promised fame. 
 
248 EPIS TLBS. 
 
 While blytheness then on health attends, 
 
 And love on beauties young, 
 My merry tales shall have their friends, 
 
 My sonnets shall be sung. 
 
 Allan Ramsay, 
 
 Fro7n my Bower on the Castle Bank of Edinburgh 
 March the \othy 1747. 
 
 FROM AN EPISTLE FROM PENNYCUIK, 
 
 ( To a friend in the City. ) 
 
 Come, rouse ye from your dozing dreams, 
 And view with me the golden beams 
 Which Phoebus ilka morning pours 
 Upon our plains adorned with flow'rs. 
 With me thro' howms and meadows stray 
 Wliere wimpling waters make their way ; 
 Here fra the aiks and elms around 
 You'll hear the saft melodious sound 
 Of a' the quiristers on high, 
 Whase notes re-echo thro' the sky, 
 Better than concerts in your town, 
 Yet do not cost you half-a-crown. 
 Here blackbirds, mavises, and linnets 
 Excel your fiddles, flutes, and spinnets. 
 Our jetty rooks e'en far excels 
 Your strim-strams and your jingling bells, 
 
EPISTLES. 249 
 
 As do the cloven-footed tribes 
 
 And rustics whistling o'er the glybes. 
 
 I'his is the life poets have sung, 
 Wish'd for, my friend, by auld and young ; 
 By all who would heaven's favour share : 
 Where least ambition, least of care, 
 Disturbs the mind. 
 
 TO JOHN WARDLAW.* 
 
 My worthy friend, I here conjure ye 
 
 By the respect I ever bure ye, 
 
 Ye'll let me ken by your neist letter 
 
 Why ye hae been sae lang my debtor. 
 
 I chairge ye by the royal names 
 
 Fra Fergus first to octave James, 
 
 As loyalty you still exprest 
 
 To mind your friend when he's distrest, — 
 
 Distrest, wi' little trading gawin 
 
 And the dreich income of what's awin, 
 
 The curst peremptor, London bills. 
 
 That, gif return'd, our credit kills. 
 
 Then there's the necessars of life, 
 
 That crave, fra him that has a wife, 
 
 * Factor to the laird of Gartshore, and accustomed to pay 
 annually to Ramsay the interest on a bond for £200, due to our 
 poet by the laird. This was written in 1736, about the time of 
 the theatre collapse. 
 
250 EPISTLES. 
 
 House-haldin' baith in milk and meal 
 
 And mutton, beef, and shanks o' veal ; 
 
 Wi', now and then, care afF to syne, 
 
 A snecker, or a waucht o' wine ; 
 
 Then, that the getlins be na fules, 
 
 They maun be halden at the schules. 
 
 All these require the read)' doun 
 
 Fra us wha live in burrowstoun, 
 
 That neither hae nor barn, nor byre, 
 
 Washing, nor eldin for the fire ; 
 
 Nor sheep, nor swine, nor hens, nor geese, 
 
 Nor sarking lint, nor claithing fleece. 
 
 Unless that Dubbies-land be stakit 
 
 By us, we e'en may strut stark nakit 
 
 And sterve ; while ye jouk upo' lands. 
 
 Have ilka think laid to your hands 
 
 Of whatso'er ye stand in need 
 
 Of your ain growth and your ain breed. 
 
 Fra udders of your kine and ewes 
 
 Your cream, your cheese, your butter flows 
 
 Your eggs and chickens (best o' fare) 
 
 Are yours, withouten ony care ; 
 
 The nursing hen asks nae niair pay 
 
 Than only what ye fling away ; 
 
 \\Tiene'er ye like ye cram your creels 
 
 Wi' trouts and pikes and carps and eels ; 
 
 Horse-laids o' fruit bob on your trees. 
 
 The honey's brocht you by the bees ; 
 
 Roots for your pot you hae in plenty 
 
 Wi' artichokes and bow kail dainty ; 
 
EPISTLES. 251 
 
 For grice and gaislings, calves and Iamb, 
 Ye've mickle mair than can ye cram ; 
 Your bannocks grow upon your strae, 
 Your barley brings you usquebae. 
 From what I've said it's eith to prove 
 Y^e shouldna filthy lucre love ; 
 What use for cash hae landwart lairds, 
 Unless to play 't at dice or cairds ? 
 It useless in your pouch, 't wears less 
 Until it grows as smooth as gless. 
 Now, since it obvious is, and plain, 
 That coin sae worthless is and vain, 
 Wi' such as you, let me advise ye 
 Ne'er let regairds for it entice ye. 
 To haud your hands ower hard aboot it ; 
 And, since we canna fend without it, 
 Pray gaither 't up, white, yellow, brown, 
 And pack it in to our poor town. 
 
 Now either do this same fra hand, 
 Or keep it, and gie us the land. 
 Before your een set wicked Tray 
 That barking sat upon the strae, 
 Yet couldna mak a meal o' meat o't. 
 Nor wadna let poor pownie eat o't. 
 Wad ye to what 1 say agree, 
 Ye soon wad ken what drinkers dree. 
 
 Thus far, Sir, I have merry been, 
 As a sworn enemy to spleen, 
 And hearty friends, like us, weel ken, 
 
 20 
 
EPISTLES. 
 
 There's nocht ill said that's no ill ta'en. 
 My proper view ye'U eithly find 
 Was mainly to put you in mind ; 
 I wad be vext were ye unkind. 
 But never having reason gien, 
 I hope ye're still what ye have been, 
 As you in mony ways did show it, 
 The friend and patron of your poet. 
 
 A. R. 
 
 TO JAMES CLERK OF PENNVCUIK, 
 
 Blythe may we be, wha o'er the haugh, 
 All free o' care, can sing and laugh ; 
 Whase owsen lunges o'er a plain 
 Of wide extent that's a' his ain. 
 No humdrum fears need break his rest 
 Wha's not with debts and duns opprest ; 
 Wha has enough, e'en tho' it's little, 
 If it can ward fra dangers kittle. 
 That chiels, fated to skelp vile dubs thro' 
 For living are obliged to rub thro', 
 To fend by trokin', buyin', sellin' — 
 The profit aft's no worth the tellin'. 
 When after, in an honest way, 
 We've gained by them that timely pay_, 
 In comes a customer, looks big, 
 Looks generous, and scorns to prig, 
 Buys heartily, bids mark it down — 
 
EPISTLES. 253 
 
 He'll clear before he leaves the town ; 
 Which tho' they say, they ne'er intend it ; 
 We're bitten sair, but canna mend it. 
 A year wheels round, we hing aboot — 
 He's sleepin', or he's just gane oot : 
 If caught, he glooms like ony deevil, 
 Swears braid, and ca's us damned unceevil ; 
 Or else oor doitit lugs abuses 
 Wi' a ratrime of cant excuses ; 
 And promises they'll stoutly ban to 
 Whilk they have ne'er a mind to stan' to. 
 As lang's their credit hads the feet o'l, 
 They hound it round to seek the meat o't, 
 Till jointly we begin to gaud them, 
 And Enbrugh grows owre het to had them ; 
 Then aff they to the country scowp, 
 An' reave us baith o' cash an' howp. 
 Syne we, the lovers o' fair dealing, 
 Wha deem ill payment next to stealing, 
 Rin wood with care how we shall pay 
 Oor bills against the destined day ; 
 For lame excuse the banker scorns, 
 And terriiies with caps and horns ; 
 Nae trader stands of trader awe, 
 But gars him nolens volens draw. 
 
 "Tis hard to be laigh poortith's slave, 
 And like a man of worth behave. 
 Wha creeps beneath a lade o' care, 
 When interest points, he's gleg an' gare. 
 An' will at naething stap or stand 
 
254 EPISTLES. 
 
 That reiks him oot a helping hand. 
 But here, dear sir, do not mistake me. 
 As if grace did sae far forsake me, 
 As to allege that all poor fellows, 
 Unblest wi' wealth, deserv'd the gallows. 
 Na, God forbid that 1 should spell 
 Sae vile a fortune to mysel ! 
 Tho' born to no ae inch o' ground, 
 1 keep my conscience white an' sound ; 
 An', tho' 1 ne'er was a rich heaper, 
 To mak that up I Uve the cheaper ; 
 By this ae knack I've made a shift 
 To drive ambitious care a -drift ; 
 And now, in years and sense grown auld, 
 In ease I like my limbs to fauld. 
 Debts 1 abhor, an* plan to be 
 Fra shochlin' trade an' danger free, 
 That J may, loos'd fra care an' strife. 
 With calmness view the edge o' life, 
 And when a full ripe age shall crave 
 Slide easily into my grave. 
 Now seventy years are o'er my head, 
 And thirty mae may lay me dead ; 
 Should dreary care then stunt my muse 
 And <^ar me aft her jog refuse ? 
 Sir, 1 have sung, and yet may sing, 
 Sonnets that o'er the dales may ring, 
 And in gash glee couch moral saw, 
 Reese virtue and keep vice in awe, 
 Mak villainy look black an blue. 
 
EPISTLES, 255 
 
 And give distinguished worth its due ; 
 
 Fix its immortal fame in verse 
 
 That men till doomsday shall rehearse ! 
 
 I have it even within my power 
 The very kirk itsel to scower — 
 And that you'll say 's a brag richt bauld ; 
 But didna Lyndsay this of auld ? 
 Sir David's satires helped our nation 
 To carry on the Reformation, 
 And gave the scarlet dame a box 
 Mair snell than all the pelts of Knox. 
 
 Thus far, sir, with no mean design, 
 To you I've poured out my min', 
 And sketched you forth the toil and pain 
 Of them that have their bread to gain 
 With cares laborious, that you may 
 In your blest sphere be ever gay. 
 Enjoying life with all the spirit 
 That your good sense and virtues merit. 
 Adieu ! And may ye 's happy be 
 As ever shall be wished by me, 
 
 Allan Ramsay. 
 
 ^ay 9> ^755' 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 ABEET, albeit 
 Aboon, above 
 A-char, a-jar, a-wiy 
 Aiblins, perhaps 
 Alk, oak 
 Air, early 
 Ambrie, cupboard 
 Aneu, enough 
 Aries, earnest-money 
 Ase, ashes 
 Asteer, astir 
 Attour, out-over 
 Auld-farren, shrewd 
 Aynd, breath 
 
 BACK-SEY, sirloin 
 
 Baudrans, cat 
 
 Baid, abode 
 
 Balen, whalebone 
 
 Bang, band 
 
 Bangster, blusterer 
 
 Bannock, barley cake, or 
 
 scon 
 Barlikhood, fit of drunken 
 
 passion 
 Batts, colic 
 
 Bauch, wanting ' go ' ; sorry 
 Bawbee, baby ; half-penny 
 Bawk, rafter ; strip of land 
 Bawsy, bawsand, having a 
 
 white stripe down face 
 Bawty, common name for a 
 
 sheep-dog 
 Be, by 
 Bedeen, at once 
 
 Bedoun, a-down 
 
 Beft, beat 
 
 Begoud, began 
 
 Begrutten, stained with tears 
 
 Beik, bask 
 
 Beild, shelter 
 
 Bein, comfortable 
 
 Beet, beit, warm, repair, help 
 
 Bellyflaught, flying all abroad 
 
 Beltan, May day 
 
 Belzie, Beelzebub 
 
 Bend, drink 
 
 Ben, in ; the inner room of a 
 house 
 
 Bensell, blow, force 
 
 Bent, coarse grass ; open field 
 
 Between hands, occasionally 
 
 Beuk, baked 
 
 Bicker, wooden platter 
 
 Bigg, build 
 
 Biggonet, linen cap 
 
 Billy, brother ; youth 
 
 Bink, bench 
 
 Bire, byar, cow-house 
 
 Birle, spend in drinking 
 
 Birn, burn 
 
 Birrens, birns, stems of burnt 
 shrubs 
 
 Birr, force ; noise of flying 
 swiftly 
 
 Bittle, beetle, wooden mallet 
 
 Black-a-viced, of a dark com- 
 plexion 
 
 Blae, bluish 
 
 Blaflum, beguile 
 
2q5 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Blate, bashful 
 
 Blawart, a blue wild-flower 
 
 Blether, foolish talk 
 
 Blin, cease 
 
 Boast, scold 
 
 Boak, boke, retch 
 
 Boal, bole, small recess in 
 
 wall 
 Bodin, provided ; offered 
 Bodword.an ominous message 
 Bogle-bo, goblin 
 Bonny-walys, pretty toys 
 Boss, empty, hollow 
 Bouk, bulk 
 
 Bountith, charity ; alma 
 Bourd, jest 
 Bouse, drink 
 Bowt, bolt 
 Brander, gridiron 
 Brands, calves of the legs ; 
 
 brawn 
 Brang, brought 
 Brankan, prancing 
 Branks, wooden curb 
 Branny, brandy 
 Brattle, quick race ; fury 
 Brats, coarse aprons 
 Braw, brave ; line 
 Brecken, fern 
 Brent, smooth 
 Brig, bridge 
 Briss, press ; bruise 
 Brock, badgtT 
 Bro', broth 
 Brochan, porridge 
 Brownies, fairy drudges 
 Browster, brewer 
 Brulziement, broil 
 Buckie, shell ; a cross-grained 
 
 fellow 
 Buff, nonsense 
 Bught, fold in which the ewes 
 
 are milked 
 Bumbazed, confused 
 Bummlc, bungle 
 
 Burd-alane, bird alone 
 
 Bung, tipsy 
 
 Busk, dress, deck 
 
 Bustine, fustian 
 
 But, without, or wanting 
 
 Bykes, hives 
 
 CADGE, carry 
 
 Callan, boy 
 
 Camsho, cross, crooked 
 
 Canny, mild, inoffensive 
 
 Cant, tell merry tales 
 
 Cantrips, incantations 
 
 Canty, cheerful 
 
 Capernoited, whimsical, ill- 
 natured 
 
 Carle, old man 
 
 Carline, old woman 
 
 Cathel, caudle 
 
 Cauldrife, spiritless 
 
 Cauler, cool and fresh 
 
 Cawk, chalk 
 
 Cawsy, causeway : street 
 
 Chafts, cheeks ; chops 
 
 Chapin, chopin : a measure 
 
 Chanler, candlestick 
 
 Chiel, fellow 
 
 Chirm, chirp and sing 
 
 Chucky, chicken ; hen 
 
 Clashes, chat ; idle talk 
 
 Claught, caught, clawed 
 
 Claver, speak nonsense 
 
 Cleck, hatch 
 
 Cleugh, a rocky hollow 
 
 Cloit, fall soft 
 
 Clour, lump raised by a blow 
 
 Clute, hoof 
 
 Cockernony, the eathering nf 
 a woman's hair when it i.s 
 tied up in a knot 
 
 Cod, pillow 
 
 Coft, bought 
 
 Cog, wooden dish 
 
 Coof, stupid, or co'A'ardly 
 fellow 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 2^9 
 
 Cogle, shake unsteadily 
 
 Corbie, raven 
 
 Couth y, affably, frank 
 
 Cowed, cut 
 
 Cowp, turn over ; fall ; also 
 exchange, or barter ; also 
 a company 
 
 Crack, chat 
 
 Creepy, low stocl 
 
 Croil, hunchback, dwarf 
 
 Cro-use, bold, pert 
 
 Crummy, cow 
 
 Cruve, hut 
 
 Cryne, shrink 
 
 Cudeigh, present 
 
 Culzie, entice, flatter 
 
 Cun, taste, or learn 
 
 Cunzie, coin 
 
 Cum, small lot 
 
 Cursche, curtchea, kerchief 
 
 Cutled, used persuasive arts 
 for obtaining love or friend- 
 ship 
 
 Cutty, short 
 
 DAD, to knock ; father 
 
 Dails, deals, planks 
 
 Daft, foolish, mad 
 
 Dafiin, folly, fun 
 
 Dang, beat 
 
 Darn, hide 
 
 Dawty, darling; one doated 
 
 on 
 Dees, deys, dairymaids 
 Diced, woven in squares 
 Dink, prim 
 Dinna, do not 
 Dirl, smart ; tremble 
 Dit, stop up 
 Divot, thin turf 
 Doilt, confused, and silly as 
 
 if through tire 
 Doited, crazy as with age 
 Doll, dole, supply 
 Doofart, dull fellow 
 
 Dule or dool, goal, as in foot- 
 ball ; also grief 
 Dorty, proudly displeased and 
 
 not to be spoken to 
 Dosend, cold and powerless 
 Dought, could, availed 
 Douks, ducks, dives 
 Dour, hard, obstinate 
 Douse, grave, quiet 
 Dow, can, thrive ; dove 
 Dow'd, withered, dea,d, flat 
 Dowf-an'-dowie, spiritless and 
 
 sickly 
 Dree, suffer, endure 
 Dreigh, slow, reluctant 
 Drouket, drenched 
 Dub, shallow muddy pool 
 Duds, rags 
 Dung, driven ; overcome ; 
 
 beaten 
 DjTiles, trembles 
 Dyvour, bankiupt 
 
 EARD, earth 
 
 Eild, old age 
 
 Eildeens, of same age 
 
 Eith, easy 
 
 Elritch, wild and uncanny 
 
 Elson, awl 
 
 Ergh, to be scrupulous ; hesi- 
 tate through fear 
 
 Ether, adder 
 
 Ethercap, spider, or venomous 
 creature 
 
 Ettle, aim 
 
 Even'd, compared 
 
 Evite, shun, avoid 
 
 Eydent, diUgent 
 
 FA', trap 
 
 Facing-tools, drinking pots 
 
 Fadge, coarse roll 
 
 Fae, foe 
 
 Fail, fiel, turf 
 
 Fair -fa', good fortune befall 
 
26o 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Fait, neat 
 
 Fash, trouble 
 
 Faugh-rips. fallow-land 
 
 Faught, tight 
 
 Fause, false 
 
 Feck, quantity 
 
 Feckfou, able 
 
 Feckless, feeble 
 
 Feed, feud, quarrel 
 
 Fen', shift 
 
 Ferlie, wonder 
 
 Fern-zier, last year 
 
 'File, defile 
 
 Fireflaught, fire-flash 
 
 Fit-stcd, foot-print 
 
 Flaughter, to cut turf 
 
 Flaw, to lie ; a lie 
 
 Fleech, flatter 
 
 Fleg, fright 
 
 Flet, flyte, scolded, scold 
 
 Flegeeries, gewgaws 
 
 Flewet, smart blow 
 
 Fley, affrighten 
 
 Fog, moss 
 
 Foordays, fair daylight 
 
 Forbye, besides 
 
 Forebears, ancestors 
 
 Forfairn, overcome with 
 fatigue 
 
 Forfoughten, forfairn 
 
 Forgather, meet 
 
 Forleet, forsake 
 
 Fou', full ; drunk 
 
 Fouth, abundance 
 
 Fow-weel, full well 
 
 Fozy, spongy 
 
 Fraise, noise ; to-do 
 
 Freath, froth 
 
 lYeik, impertinent fellow 
 
 Fremit, foreign, strange 
 
 Furder, prosper 
 
 Furthy, forward, frank, cheer- 
 ful 
 
 Fuish, fetched 
 
 Fyke, be restless 
 
 Furlet, four pecks; 
 
 Gab, mouth ; to prate 
 
 Gadge, dictate imperiously 
 
 Gawfaw, loud laughter 
 
 Gait, goat 
 
 Gantrees, ale-barrel stand 
 
 Gar, make 
 
 Gash, sagacious 
 
 Gaunt, yawn 
 
 Gaw, to" be galled, offended 
 
 Gawd, goad, or rod 
 
 Gawky, idle staring fool 
 
 Gawsy, jolly, buxom 
 
 Geed, gade, went 
 
 Get, a child 
 
 Gillygawpus, silly fool 
 
 Gilpy, roguish youth 
 
 Gimmer, young ewe 
 
 Gin, gif, if 
 
 Girn, grin ; snare 
 
 Glaikit, foolish, wanton 
 
 Glar, mire ; mud 
 
 Glee, squint 
 
 Gleg, sharp 
 
 Glunch, giumble 
 
 Goss, person 
 
 Goolie, knife [birdg 
 
 Gorlings, young and unfledged 
 
 Gove, stare 
 
 Gowans, daisies 
 
 Gowf, golf 
 
 Gowk, cuckoo 
 
 Gousty, large, waste and 
 
 ghastly 
 Graith, furniture, or harness 
 Graith, soap-suds 
 Green, grien, long for 
 Grieve, bailiff 
 Growf, lie flat ; belly 
 Gryse, pig 
 
 (Kail) Gully, cabbage-knife 
 Gumption, good sense 
 Gurly, rough, cold 
 Gut-cher, good-sire, giand- 
 
 father 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 261 
 
 Gusty, savoury 
 
 Gyseued, shrunk with dryness 
 Gytlinga, young children 
 Gye-an-early, rather early 
 Gyte, crazy 
 
 Had, haud, hold 
 
 Haffet, cheek ; side of head 
 
 Hain, save 
 
 Hale, whole, healthy ; to heal 
 
 Halfan'-half, half-drunk 
 
 Hallan, hall-en', partition, or 
 screen 
 
 Hally, haly, holy 
 
 Barl, drag 
 
 Harns, brains 
 
 Harship, mischance 
 
 Hash, a slovenly person 
 
 Haverel, a chatterer 
 
 Havins, sense, and good- 
 breeding 
 
 Hauslock, neck-tress of wool 
 
 Ilawky, white-faced cow 
 
 Hawse, hause, throat 
 
 Hecht, promised ; a promise 
 
 Heepy, fool, a soft person 
 
 H eeze, lift up 
 
 Heftit, domiciled 
 
 Hempy, a roguish fellow 
 
 Herreit, harried, ruined 
 
 Hirple, cripple 
 
 Kirsle, to move with a rust- 
 ling noise ; herd of cattle 
 
 Ho, single stocking 
 
 Hobbleshew, racket, noise 
 
 Hodden-grey, coarse grey 
 cloth 
 
 Hog, two-year-old sheep 
 
 Hool, husk 
 
 Hoolie, slowly 
 
 Host, cough 
 
 Hought, legged 
 
 Howdered, hidden 
 
 Howdy, mid-wife 
 
 HowtF, haunt 
 
 Howk, dig 
 
 Howtowdy, young hen 
 Hurkle, crouch 
 Hyt, mad 
 
 Hyt-an'-gare, mad and avari- 
 cious 
 
 JAW, gush of water 
 Jaup, a dash of water 
 Jee, incline to one side 
 Jimp, slender 
 Jip, gipsy 
 Hka, each, every 
 Ingan, onion 
 Tngine, genius 
 Ingle, fireside 
 Jo, sweetheart 
 Jo-ckteleg, fold-knife 
 Jouk, duck down 
 Irie, eerie, fearful 
 I'se, 1 shall 
 Isles, aisles, embers 
 Jute, sour drink 
 
 KABER, rafter 
 
 Kaiu, part of farm-rent paid 
 
 in fowls 
 Kame, comb 
 Kebuck, cheese 
 Kedgy, cadgy, happy, cheer* 
 
 ful 
 Keek, peep 
 Keel, red chalk 
 Kelt, coarse cloth with the 
 
 nap long 
 Kemp, to strive to do most 
 
 (S'c. reapers) 
 Kent, shepherd's long staff 
 Kepp, catch and hold 
 Kimmer, cummer, female 
 
 gossip 
 Kitchen, anything eaten with 
 
 bread or potatoes, as meat, 
 
 cheese, etc. 
 Kittle, ditlicult ; to tickle 
 
262 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Knacky, ingenious (in small 
 
 things) 
 Knoit, knap 
 Knowe, knoll 
 Knublock, knob of wood 
 Kow, wiiri-kow, cow, goblin 
 Ky, kine, cowa 
 Kyth, appear 
 Kyte, belly 
 
 LADREN, ladrone, sloven, 
 thief 
 
 Laids, loads 
 
 Laigh, low 
 
 Laits, manners, ways 
 
 Lak, reproach, undervalue 
 
 Landart, landwart, rustic 
 
 Lang-kail, cole worts not shorn 
 
 Lap, leapt 
 
 Lappered, clotted 
 
 Lair, lare, bog 
 
 Lave, what's left, the re- 
 mainder 
 
 Lawin, tavern bill 
 
 Lawty, lawtith, justice, 
 loyalty 
 
 Leal, loyal, true 
 
 Leara, flame 
 
 Lear, learning ; to learn 
 
 Leen, cease 
 
 Leglin, a one-handled milk- 
 pail 
 
 Leraan, sweetheart 
 
 Letter-gae, precentor 
 
 Lift, sky 
 
 Limmer, woman of loose 
 manners 
 
 Lin, waterfall 
 
 Ling, walk with long steps 
 
 Linkan, walking smartly 
 
 Lirk, wrinkle, fold 
 
 Lith, joint; listen 
 
 Loan,' grass path leading to 
 pasture land 
 
 Loe, looe, love 
 
 Locif, leaf of hand, palm 
 
 Looms, lumes, tools, utensils 
 
 Loot, let 
 
 Lowan, flaming 
 
 Lown, calm 
 
 Lout, stoop 
 
 Lucken, locked, closed 
 
 Lucky, granny 
 
 Luggie, dish with one handle, 
 
 or ear 
 Lum, chimney 
 Lurdane, blockhead 
 Lure, rather 
 Lyart, grey 
 
 MAIDEN, guillotine 
 
 Maik, match 
 
 Mailen, farm 
 
 Maksna, makes nothing, is of 
 
 no consequence 
 Mank, want 
 Mant, stammer 
 Maws, stomachs 
 Marrow, mate, companion 
 Mean, monn ; lament for 
 Meith, liniit, sign 
 Mennin, minnow 
 Mense, discretion 
 Menzie, men attendants 
 Messen, small dog 
 Midden, dunghill 
 Mim, modest j prim 
 Mint, aim, try 
 Mirk, dark 
 
 Mislushious, malicious 
 Mools. grave mould 
 Moup, eat with lips 
 Mow, a heap {Sc. hay) ; mock 
 Murgullied, mismanage, spoil 
 INIutch, close white cap for 
 
 women 
 Mutchkin, a measure (pint) 
 
 NEESE, nose 
 Novels, blows of fist 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 263 
 
 Nick, slang for drink heartily 
 Niest, nearest, next 
 Niffer, exchange 
 Niffnaffan, trifling 
 Nignays, trifles 
 Nip, bit, bite, pinch 
 Nithered, half-starved 
 Nieve, fist 
 Nowte, nolt, cattle 
 Nuckle, newcal, new calved 
 
 OE, grandchild 
 
 Or, ere, before 
 
 Ora, orra, anything over what's 
 
 needful 
 Orp, to sob and weep 
 Owk, week 
 
 Owrelay, over-lay, cravat 
 Owsen, oxen 
 Oxter, armpit 
 
 PAIK, beat ; stroke 
 Pang, press, cram 
 Pasement, livery lace 
 Pash, head 
 
 Pauehty, proud, haughty 
 Pawky, sly with no bad design 
 Pech, pegh, pant 
 Pensy, conceited 
 Perquire, by heart (Vr.) 
 l^ig, earthenware vessel 
 Pingle, strive, work hard 
 Pirn, spool, reel 
 Plenishing, furniture 
 Poind, to distrain for rent 
 Popple, bubble 
 Poortith, poverty 
 Pou', pu', pull 
 Pouss, pouse, push 
 Poutch, pouch 
 Pow, poll, head 
 Powny, pony 
 Pret, trick 
 
 Prig, cheapen by importunity 
 Prin, pin 
 
 Prive, prove, taste 
 Propine, gift 
 
 QUEGH, queff, wooden drink- 
 ing cup 
 Quat quit 
 Quey, young cow 
 
 PACKLESS, reckless 
 
 Ralfan, roving, meiTy 
 
 Ivaird, loud sound 
 
 Pack, rook, reek, or mist 
 
 Rape, rope 
 
 Eat-ryme, rjme said by rote 
 
 Rax, stretch 
 
 Ream, cream 
 
 Redd, unravel, cleared up, 
 
 separated 
 Rede, counsel 
 Reese, extol 
 Reest, smoke-dry 
 Reif, rapine 
 Rife, plenty 
 Rift, belch 
 
 Rigging, back ; roof -ridge 
 Rock, distaff 
 Roove, rivet 
 Rottan, rat 
 Rowt, roar {Sc. bulls) 
 Rowth, plenty 
 Rug, tug 
 
 Rungs, rough stout sticks 
 Rype, search, stir up 
 
 SAEBIENS, since it is 
 
 Saikless, guiltless, free 
 
 Sained, blessed 
 
 Sairv, poor ; silly 
 
 SaU; shall 
 
 Sape, soap 
 
 Sar, saur, suvour 
 
 Sark. shirt 
 
 Saugh, willow 
 
 Saul, soul 
 
 Scaud, scold 
 
264 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Scaur, escarpment 
 
 Scart, scratch 
 
 Scawp, bare stony ground, 
 
 scalp 
 Schois, she's 
 
 Scon, kind of bannock (7. v.) 
 Scowp, leap about with free 
 
 scope 
 Scowth, room, freedom 
 Scroggy, shrubby, rough 
 Scuds, slancf for ale 
 Scunner, be disgusted 
 Sel, sell, self 
 Seuch, sheugh, ditch 
 Sey, try 
 
 Shan, silly, trifling 
 Shaw, plantation, forest 
 Shawl, shallow 
 Shawps, empty busks 
 Shellycoat, water-sprite 
 Shiel, a shelter, cot 
 Shire, shyre, clear, thin 
 Shog, sliake 
 Shool, shovel 
 Shore, tlireaten, offer 
 Shotle, drawer 
 Sib, blood-related 
 Sic, such 
 Siccar, sure, firm 
 Sike, a rill 
 Siller, silver 
 Sindle, seldom 
 Sinsyne, since then 
 Skail, spill, disperse 
 Skair, share 
 Skaith, hurt, loss 
 Skeigh, skittish 
 Skelp, smite with open hand, 
 
 or foot 
 Sklate, slate 
 Skowry, ragged ; showery and 
 
 windy 
 Skreed, rent ; a long diink 
 Skriegh, siiriek 
 Skybald, tatterdemalion 
 
 Skyte, to fly out hastily 
 
 Slade, slided 
 
 Slate, sloven 
 
 Slap, breach ; pass 
 
 Slee, sly 
 
 Slid, smooth 
 
 Sicken, slake 
 
 Slonk, mire 
 
 Slot, door-bolt 
 
 Smaik, pitiful rascal 
 
 Smirk, smile 
 
 Smittle, infectious 
 
 Smoor, smother 
 
 Snack, nimble 
 
 Sned, cut 
 
 Snell, sharp 
 
 Snishing, snufT 
 
 Snod, neat, tidy 
 
 Snood, band fur hair 
 
 Snool, dis{)irit by constant 
 
 chiding 
 Sonse, felicity 
 Sonsy, large and lusty 
 Sorn, to sponge 
 Soss, heavy soft sonnd 
 Sowens, flunnncry 
 Souter, cohbler 
 Sowft', to con over a tune, on 
 
 an instrument 
 Spae, foretell, divine 
 Spain, wean 
 Spate, flood 
 Spang, jump 
 Spaui, shoulder 
 Spiel, climb 
 Speer, ask 
 
 Spelder, split ; stretch out 
 Spence, parlour, or pauti*y 
 Spulzie, spoil, booty 
 Sprainga, stripes of different 
 
 tints {Sc. tartan) 
 Spring, tune on instrument 
 Sprush, spruce 
 Spunk, tinder 
 Stank, stagnant pool 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 265 
 
 stark, robust 
 
 Starns, stars 
 
 Staw, stole 
 
 Stey, steep 
 
 Steek, shut 
 
 Stegh, cram 
 
 StencI, spring suddenly 
 
 Stent, stint ; extend 
 
 Stirk, bullock 
 
 Stock - and - horn, shepherd's 
 
 pipe 
 Stoit, stot, reboimcl 
 Stoor, rough, austere 
 Stou, to crop : a piece 
 Stoup, a measure ; a pail 
 Stour, dust 
 Stowth, stealth 
 Strute, full ; drunk 
 Strunt, sulky tit 
 Studdy, anvil 
 
 Sturdy, a giddy head ; strong 
 Sturt, trouble 
 Styme, blink, gliiiipse 
 Suddle, soil or sully 
 Sumple, blockhead' 
 Swankie, supple young fellow 
 Swarf, swoon 
 Swatch, pattern 
 Swats, small ala 
 Sweir, loth 
 Swith, quickly 
 Swither, hesitate 
 Sybo, small onion 
 Syke, runnel 
 Syne, then 
 
 TACK, lease 
 
 Taid, toad 
 
 Tangs, tongs 
 
 Taip, use sparingly 
 
 Tappit-hen, a quart measure 
 full of liquor with a foaming 
 top. (Sc. the Scot's quart.) 
 
 Tarrow, to refuse what we 
 want from crossness 
 
 Tass, a cup, a dram 
 Tate, small quantity 
 Tawpie, a foolish wench 
 Taz, taws, leather strap, used 
 
 as a scourge 
 Ted, scatter, or lay out 
 Tee, a little earth on whic;h 
 
 the golfer places his ball 
 
 before striking off 
 Teel, till, cultivate 
 Teet, peep 
 Tent, care : to notice, attend 
 
 to 
 Thairms, entrails ; catgut 
 Theek, thatch 
 Thieveless, unprofitable from 
 
 want of energy ; useless 
 Thig, beg, or borrow 
 Thir, thae, these, those 
 Thole, endure 
 Thrawart, cross 
 Thrawn-gabbit, wry-mouthed 
 Threep, to keep on alleging 
 Thud, blow 
 
 Tift, good order; health 
 Till, to 
 Tine, lose 
 
 Tip, tippuny, a cheap ale 
 Tirr, uncovui- 
 Tit, titty, sister 
 Tocher, dowry 
 Tod, fox 
 Tooly, tight 
 Toom, empty 
 Toop, ram 
 Tosh, comfortable 
 Tosie, comfortably fuddled 
 To the fore, alive, existent 
 Touzle, crumple 
 Tout, blow on horn 
 'J'ow, ro]»e 
 Towin, tame 
 Towmond, twelve-month 
 Tree, a cask of liquor 
 Trig, neat 
 
2C5 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Troke, exchange 
 
 Troll, weighing place 
 
 Tryst, appointment 
 
 Twyn, part with ; separated 
 
 from 
 Twall, twelve 
 
 [JG, hate 
 Ugsome, hateful 
 Virrle, ferrule, or ring 
 Vissy, view leisurely 
 Umquhile, late ; of old 
 Unco, uncouth, uncommon 
 Unsonsy, unlucky 
 Vogie, vougy, vain, proud 
 
 WAD, wager, would 
 Wae, isad 
 Waff, vagrant 
 Wale, pick and choose 
 Wally, large, beautiful 
 Wame, womb, belly 
 Wandought, impotent 
 Wangrace, wickedness 
 Wanter, a man who wants u. 
 
 wife 
 Waur, worse 
 Warlock, wizard 
 Wat, know 
 Waught, big drink 
 Waukin, watching 
 Wean, wee ane, little one 
 Weir, war 
 
 Weird, fate, destiny 
 Weit, wet, rain 
 Wersli, insipid 
 Whilk, which 
 
 Whillywha, cheat 
 Whindging, winning 
 Whommel'd, turned upside 
 
 down 
 Wiltu? wilt thou? 
 Win, won, dwell 
 Winna, will not 
 Wisent, parched and withered 
 Withershins, motion against 
 
 the sun, contrary 
 Woo, GO, wool 
 Wood, mad 
 
 Woody, witliy, gallows, rope 
 Wordy, worthy 
 Wow 1 wonderful ! 
 Wyliecoat, wrapper, jacket 
 Wysing, guiding 
 Wyson, weasand, gullet 
 Wyte, blame 
 
 YAIMPH, bark of small dog 
 
 Yap, hungry 
 
 Yed, contend, wrangle 
 
 Yeld, barren 
 
 Yesk, hiccough 
 
 Yett, gate 
 
 Yestreen, yester-evening 
 
 Youdith, youthfulness 
 
 Yowl, yell, howl, 
 
 Youf, swinging blow 
 
 Vuke, itch 
 
 Yule, Christmas 
 
 ZEIR. year 
 
 Zet, yet 
 
 Zour, your, etc. 
 
 Z often Y 
 
 THR WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., FELI.IXG-ON-T-\'NE 
 
 I I 06 
 
The canterbury POETS. 
 
 1/- Vols., Square 8vo. Photogravure Edition, 2/-. 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 Longfellow, 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 Wordsworth, 
 
 Blake. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 Poe. 
 
 Chatterton. 
 
 Burns. Poein3. 
 
 Burns. Songs. 
 
 Marlowe. 
 
 Keats. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 Shakespeare: Songs, etc. 
 
 Kmerson. 
 
 Sonnets of this Century. 
 
 Whitman. 
 
 Scott. Marmion, etc. 
 
 Scott. Laily of the Lake, etc. 
 
 Praed, 
 
 Hogg. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 Mackay's Love Letters. 
 
 Sr>enser. 
 
 Children of the Poets, 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 Byron (2 Vols.). 
 
 Sonnets of Europe. 
 
 Allan Ramsay. 
 
 Sydney Dobell. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Heine. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Bowles, Lamb, etc. 
 
 Sea Music. 
 
 Early English Poetry. 
 
 Herrick. 
 
 Ballades and Rondeaus. 
 
 Irish Minstrelsy. 
 
 Milton's Parfidise Lost. 
 
 Jacobite Ballads. 
 
 Australian Ballads. 
 
 Moore's Poems. 
 
 Border Ballads. 
 
 Song-Tide. 
 
 Odes ot Horace. 
 
 Cssian. 
 
 Fairy Music. 
 
 Southey. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Golden Treasury. 
 
 Poems of Wild Life. 
 Paradise Regained. 
 Crabbe. 
 
 Dora Greenwell. 
 Goethe's Faust. 
 American Sonnets 
 Lander's Poems. 
 Greek Anthology 
 Hunt and Hood. 
 Humorous Poems. 
 Lytton's Plays. 
 Great Odes. 
 
 Owen Meredith's Poems. 
 Imitation of Christ. 
 Painter-Poets. 
 Women-Poets. 
 Love Lyrics. 
 American Humor. Verse. 
 Scottish Minor Poets 
 Cavalier Lyrists. 
 German Ballads. 
 Songs of Beranger. 
 Poems by Koden Noel. 
 Songs of Freedom. 
 Canadian Poems. 
 Cent. Scottish Verse. 
 Poems of Nature. 
 Cradle Songs. 
 Poetry of Sport. 
 Matthew Arnold. 
 The Bothie (Ciough). 
 Biowniug's Poems, Vol. 1 
 Browning's Poem^, Vol. 2. 
 Browning's Poems, Vol. 3. 
 Mackay's Lover's Missal. 
 Henry Kirke White. 
 Lyra Nicotiana. 
 Aurora Leigh. 
 Naval Songs 
 Tennyson's Poems, Vol. 1. 
 Tennyson's Poems, Vol. 2. 
 War Songs. 
 James Thomson. 
 Alexander Smith. 
 Lee-Hamilton. 
 Paul Verlaine, 
 B'ltidelaire. 
 New Zealand Verse 
 Contemporary German 
 
 Poetry. 
 Contemporary Belgian 
 
 Poetry. 
 Contemporary French 
 
 Poetry. 
 The Angel at the Loom. 
 
THE WORLD'S BEST BOOKS. 
 
 The Scott Library. 
 
 Maroon Cloth, Gilt. Price i/- net per volume. 
 
 Homance of King Arthur. 
 Tlioreau's Walden. 
 Thoreau's Week. 
 Thorean's Essays. 
 Confessions of an Engftish 
 
 Opium-Eater. 
 Lander's Conversations. 
 Plutarch's Lives. 
 Browne's Heligio Medici. 
 Essays and Letters of 
 
 P. 3. Sheilcy. 
 Prose Writings of Swift. 
 My Study Windows. 
 Lowell's Essays on the 
 
 English Poets. 
 The Biglow Papers. 
 Great English Painters. 
 Lord Byron's Letters. 
 Essays by Leigh Hunt. 
 Longfellow's Prose. 
 Great Musical Comp osers. 
 Marcus Aurelius. 
 Epictetus. 
 Seneca's Morals. 
 Whitman's Specimen 
 
 Days in America. 
 Whitman's Democratic 
 
 Vistas. 
 White's Natural History. 
 
 Captain Singleton. 
 Ilssays by Mazzini. 
 Prose Writings of Heina 
 Reynolds' Discourses. 
 The Lover: Papers of 
 
 Steele and Addison. 
 Durns's Letters. 
 Volsunga Saga. 
 Sartor Resartuai. 
 Writings of i^mersoo. 
 Life of Lord Herbert. 
 English Prose. 
 The Pillars of Society. 
 Fairy and ZToIk Tales. 
 Essays of Dr. Johnson. 
 Essays of Wm. Hazlitt. 
 Iiondcr's Pentameron, izo. 
 Foe's Tales and Essays. 
 Vicar of Wakefield. 
 .Political Orations. 
 Holmes's Autocrat. 
 Holmes's Poet. 
 Holmes's Professor. 
 Chesterfield's Letters. 
 Stories from Carlcton. 
 Jane Eyre. 
 
 Elizabethan England. 
 Davis's Writings 
 Speuce's Anecdotes. 
 
 THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., 
 LONDON AND FELLING-ON-TYKE. 
 
THE SCOTT LIBRARY— continued. 
 
 More's Utopia. 
 Sadi's Gulistan. 
 English Folk Tales. 
 Northern Studies. 
 Famous Reviews. 
 Aristotle's Ethics. 
 Landor'3 Aspasia* 
 Tacitus. 
 Essays of Ella. 
 Balzac. 
 
 De Musset's Comedies. 
 Darwin's Coral-Keefs. 
 Sheridan's Plays. 
 Our Village. 
 Humphrey's Clock, &c. 
 Douglas Jerrold. 
 Rights of Woman. 
 Athenian Oracle. 
 Essays of Sainte-Beuve. 
 Selections from Plato. 
 Heine's Travel Sketchea 
 Maid of Orleans. 
 Sydney 3mith. 
 The New Spirit. 
 
 Marvellous Adventures. 
 
 (From tae Morte d' Arthur.) 
 
 Helps's idlssays. 
 Montaigne's Essays. 
 Luck of Barry Lyndon. 
 William Tell. 
 Carlyle's German Essays. 
 Lamb's Essays. 
 Wordsworth's Prose. 
 Leopardi's Dialogues. 
 Inspector-General (Gogol). 
 Bacon's Essays. 
 Prose of Milton. 
 Plato's Republic. 
 Passages from Froissart. 
 Prose of Coleridge. 
 
 Heine in Art and Letters. 
 
 Essays of De Quincey. 
 
 Vasari's Lives. 
 
 The Laocoon. 
 
 Plays of Maeterlinck. 
 
 Walton's Angler. 
 
 Lessing's Nathan the Wise 
 
 Renan's Essays. 
 
 Goethe's Maxims. 
 
 Schopenhauer's Essays. 
 
 Renan's Life of Jesus. 
 
 Confessions of St. Augus- 
 tine. 
 
 Principles of Success in 
 Literature (Q. H. Lewes). 
 
 Walton's Lives. 
 
 Renan's Antichrist. 
 
 Orations of Cicero. 
 
 Reflections on the Revolu- 
 tion in France (Burke). 
 
 Letters of the Younger 
 Pliny. 2 vols., 1st and 2nd 
 Series. 
 
 Selected Thoughts of 
 Blaise Pascal. 
 
 Scots Essayists. 
 
 Mill's Liberty. 
 
 Descartes's Discourse 
 on Method, etc. 
 
 K4lidasa's Sakuntala, etc. 
 Newman's University 
 
 Sketches. 
 Newman's Select Essays. 
 Renan's Marcus Aurelius. 
 Froude's Nemesis of Faith 
 Political Economy. \ 
 
 What is Art? 
 The Oxford Movement. 
 Hume's Political Essays. 
 Rydberg's Singoalla. 
 Petronius (Trimalohio's 
 
 Banquet). 
 
 Senancour's Obermann. 
 
 THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., 
 LONDON AND FELLING-QN-TYNB. 
 
THE WORLD'S GREAT AUTHORS. 
 
 IWew Series of Critical moQvaphics. 
 
 GEEAT WEITEES. 
 
 B/iie Cloth, Gilt, Price \s. net. 
 ALREADY ISSUED— 
 
 LIFE OF LONGFELLOW. Prof. E. S. Robertsox 
 
 LIFE OF COLERIDGE. Hall Caine. 
 
 LIFE OF DICKENS. Frank T. Marzials. 
 
 LIFE OF D. G. BOSSETTI. Joseph Knight. 
 LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. By Col. F. Grant. 
 LIFE OF DARWIN. G. T. Bettany. 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTR Awgustine Birrell. 
 
 LIFE OF CARLYLE. Richard Garnett, LLD. 
 LIFE OF ADAM SMITH. R. B. Haldank, M^. 
 
 LIFE OF KEATS. W. M. Rossetti. 
 
 LIFE OF SHELLEY. William Suahp. 
 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. Austin Dobson. 
 LIFE OF SCOTT. Professor Yonge. 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. Professor Blackie. 
 
 LIFE OF VICTOR HUGO. Frank T. Marzuls. 
 LIFE OF EMERSON. Richard Garnett, LL.D. 
 LIFE OF QOETHE. James Sime. 
 LIFE OF CONGREVE. Edmund Gossa. 
 LIFE OF BUNYAN. Canon VENABLizaL 
 
GREAT WRITE RS—continiieS, 
 LIFE OP ORABBB. T. E. Kebbel, M.A, 
 LIFE OP HEINE. William Sharp. 
 LIFE OP MILL. W. L. Courtney. 
 LIFE OP SCHILLER. H. W. Nevinson. 
 
 LIFE OF CAPTAIN MARRY AT. David Hannay. 
 LIFE OP LESSING. T. W. Rollkston, 
 
 LIFE OP MILTON. Richard Garnett. 
 LIFE OP GEORGE BLIOT. Oscar Browning. 
 LIFE OP BALZAC. Frederick Wedmore. 
 LIFE OP JANE AUSTEN. Goldwin Smith. 
 LIFE OP BROWNING. William Sharp. 
 LIFE OP BYRON. Hon. Roden Noel. 
 
 LIFE OF HAWTHORNE. Moncure Conway. 
 LIPP OP SCHOPENHAUER. Professor Wallace. 
 
 LIFE OP SHERIDAN. Lloyd Sanders. 
 
 LIFE OF THACKERAY. Merivalk and Marzials. 
 
 LIFE OF CERVANTES. H. E. Watts. 
 
 LIFE OP VOLTAIRE. Francis Espinasse. 
 
 LIFE OP LEIGH HUNT. Cosmo Monkuousb. 
 
 LIFE OP WHITTIER. W. J. Linton. 
 
 LIFE OP RBNAN. Francis Espinasse. 
 
 LIFE OF THORBAU. H. S. Salt. 
 
 LIFE OF RUSKIN. Ashmore Wingate. 
 
 LIFE OP MAETERLINCK. Jethro Bithell, M.A. 
 Bibliography to each, by J. P. Anderson, British Museum. 
 
 LIBRARY EDITION OF "GREAT WRITERS." 
 
 Printed on large paper of extra quality, in handsome binding, 
 Demy 8vo, price 2s. 6d. per volume. 
 
(0 
 
 c 
 
 
 
 The Useful Red Series. 
 
 Red Cloth, Pocket Size, Price Is. 
 
 NEW IDEAS ON BRIDGE. By Archibald 
 Dunn, Jun. 
 
 INDIGESTION. By Dr. F. Herbert 
 
 Alderson. 
 
 ON CHOOSING A PIANO. By Algernon 
 S. Rose. 
 
 CONSUMPTION. By Dr. Sicard de 
 Plauzoles. 
 
 BUSINESS SUCCESS. By G. G. Millar. 
 
 PETROLEUM. By Sydney H. North. 
 
 INFANT FEEDING. By a Physician. 
 
 DAINTY DINNER TABLES, AND HOW 
 TO DECORATE THEM. By Mrs. 
 Alfred Praga. 
 
 fTHE LUNGS IN HEALTH AND 
 
 DISEASE. By Dr. Paul Niemeyer. 
 
 ALL ABOUT TROUT FISHING. By J. 
 A. Riddell (''Border Rod"). 
 
 HOW TO PRESERVE THE TEETH. By 
 A Dental Surgeon. 
 
 MOTHER A N D C H I L D. By L. M. 
 Marriott, 
 
i/- Booklets by Count Tolstoy. 
 
 Bound in White Grained Boards, with Gilt Lettering. 
 
 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO. 
 
 THE TWO PILGRIMS. 
 
 WHAT MEN LIVE BY. THE GODSON. 
 
 IF VOU NEGLECT THE FIRE, YOU DON'T PUT IT OUT. 
 
 WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT A MAN ? 
 
 2/- Booklets by Count Tolstoy. 
 
 NEW EDITIONS, REVISED. 
 
 Small i2mo, Cloth, with Embossed Design on Cover, each 
 containing Two Stories by Count Tolstoy, and Two 
 Drawings by H. R. Millar. In Box, Price 2s. each. 
 
 Volume I. contains — 
 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO. 
 THE GODSON. 
 
 , : Volume II. contains — 
 
 WHAT MEN LIVE BY. 
 V/HAT SHALL IT PROFIT A MAN? 
 
 Volume III. contains — 
 
 THE TWO PILGRIMS. 
 IF YOU NEGLECT THE FIRE, YOU DON'T PUT IT OUT, 
 Volume IV. contains — 
 
 MASTER AND MAN. 
 Volume V. contains — 
 
 TOLSTOY'S PARABLES. 
 
 THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., 
 LONJjQxN AND FELLING-ON-TYME. 
 
Musicians' Wit, Humour, 
 and Anecdote : 
 
 BEING 
 
 ON DITS OF COMPOSERS, SINGERS, AND 
 INSTRUMENTALISTS OF ALL TIMES. 
 
 BY 
 
 Frederick J. Crowest, 
 
 Aiithor of ''The Great Tone Poets,'' ''The Story of 
 British Music,'' Editor of " The Master Musicians" 
 Series, etc., etc. 
 
 Profusely Illustrated with Quaint Drawings 
 by J. P. DONNE. 
 
 In One Volwnc — Crown 8vo, Cioth^ Richly Gilt., 
 Price 3/6. 
 
 Among the hundreds of stories abounding in wit and 
 pointed repartee which the volume contains, will be 
 found anecdotes of famous musicians of all countries 
 and periods. 
 
 Tnii Walter Scott Publishing Company, Ltd., 
 
 LONDON AND FELLING-ON-TYNE. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RITURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subjea to immediate recall. 
 
 ..,,;:'^wii - 
 
 
 RtLCD . 
 
 
 DECli!%2 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ttCMomn f^*^^ ^3 
 
 
 
 
 OCT 2 lasq 
 
 ' Vd 
 
 rwi'd circ. APR 2 8 198 
 
 J - - 
 
 FEB 07 1992 
 
 
 AiiTHfiiscFEBirei 
 
 
 NOV 2 7 im 
 
 
U C BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 CD3123MaaT 
 
 263'283 
 
 <^ 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA IvIBRARY