FOOTNOTES:

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast;When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyteAnd infant frosts begin to bite,In hoary cranreuch drest;Ae night at e’en a merry coreO’ randie, gangrel bodies,In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore,To drink their orra duddies:Wi’ quaffing and laughing,They ranted an’ they sang;Wi’ jumping and thumping,The vera girdle rang.First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,And knapsack a’ in order;His doxy lay within his arm,Wi’ usquebae an’ blankets warm—She blinket on her sodger:An’ ay he gies the tozie drabThe tither skelpin’ kiss,While she held up her greedy gabJust like an aumous dish.Ilk smack still, did crack still,Just like a cadger’s whip,Then staggering and swaggeringHe roar’d this ditty up—

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,And knapsack a’ in order;His doxy lay within his arm,Wi’ usquebae an’ blankets warm—She blinket on her sodger:An’ ay he gies the tozie drabThe tither skelpin’ kiss,While she held up her greedy gabJust like an aumous dish.Ilk smack still, did crack still,Just like a cadger’s whip,Then staggering and swaggeringHe roar’d this ditty up—

AIR.

Tune—“Soldiers’ Joy.”

I am a son of Mars,Who have been in many wars,And show my cuts and scarsWherever I come;This here was for a wench,And that other in a trench,When welcoming the FrenchAt the sound of the drum.Lal de daudle, &c.My ‘prenticeship I pastWhere my leader breath’d his last,When the bloody die was castOn the heights of Abram;I served out my tradeWhen the gallant game was play’d,And the Moro low was laidAt the sound of the drum.Lal de daudle, &c.I lastly was with Curtis,Among the floating batt’ries,And there I left for witnessAn arm and a limb;Yet let my country need me,With Elliot to head me,I’d clatter on my stumpsAt the sound of a drum.Lal de dandle, &c.And now tho’ I must beg,With a wooden arm and leg,And many a tatter’d ragHanging over my bumI’m as happy with my wallet,My bottle and my callet,As when I used in scarletTo follow a drum.Lal de daudle, &c.What tho’ with hoary locksI must stand the winter shocks,Beneath the woods and rocksOftentimes for a home,When the tother bag I sell,And the tother bottle tell,I could meet a troop of hell,At the sound of a drum.Lal de daudle, &c.

My ‘prenticeship I pastWhere my leader breath’d his last,When the bloody die was castOn the heights of Abram;I served out my tradeWhen the gallant game was play’d,And the Moro low was laidAt the sound of the drum.Lal de daudle, &c.

I lastly was with Curtis,Among the floating batt’ries,And there I left for witnessAn arm and a limb;Yet let my country need me,With Elliot to head me,I’d clatter on my stumpsAt the sound of a drum.Lal de dandle, &c.

And now tho’ I must beg,With a wooden arm and leg,And many a tatter’d ragHanging over my bumI’m as happy with my wallet,My bottle and my callet,As when I used in scarletTo follow a drum.Lal de daudle, &c.

What tho’ with hoary locksI must stand the winter shocks,Beneath the woods and rocksOftentimes for a home,When the tother bag I sell,And the tother bottle tell,I could meet a troop of hell,At the sound of a drum.Lal de daudle, &c.

RECITATIVO.

He ended; and kebars sheukAboon the chorus roar;While frighted rattons backward leuk,And seek the benmost bore;A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,He skirl’d out—encore!But up arose the martial Chuck,And laid the loud uproar.

AIR.

Tune—“Soldier laddie.”

I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,And still my delight is in proper young men;Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,Transported I was with my sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch,The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;He ventur’d the soul, and I risk’d the body,’Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,The regiment at large for a husband I got;From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,I asked no more but a sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair,Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair;His rags regimental they flutter’d so gaudy,My heart is rejoic’d at my sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.And now I have liv’d—I know not how long,And still I can join in a cup or a song;But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,And still my delight is in proper young men;Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,Transported I was with my sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch,The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;He ventur’d the soul, and I risk’d the body,’Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,The regiment at large for a husband I got;From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,I asked no more but a sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair,Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair;His rags regimental they flutter’d so gaudy,My heart is rejoic’d at my sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

And now I have liv’d—I know not how long,And still I can join in a cup or a song;But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

RECITATIVO.

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk,Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler hizzie;They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk,Between themselves they were sae busy:At length wi’ drink and courting dizzyHe stoitered up an’ made a face;Then turn’d, an’ laid a smack on Grizzie,Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.

AIR.

Tune—“Auld Sir Symon.”

Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou,Sir Knave is a fool in a session;He’s there but a ‘prentice I trow,But I am a fool by profession.My grannie she bought me a beuk,And I held awa to the school;I fear I my talent misteuk,But what will ye hae of a fool?For drink I would venture my neck,A hizzie’s the half o’ my craft,But what could ye other expect,Of ane that’s avowedly daft?I ance was ty’d up like a stirk,For civilly swearing and quaffing;I ance was abused in the kirk,Fer touzling a lass i’ my daffin.Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;There’s ev’n I’m tauld i’ the courtA tumbler ca’d the premier.Observ’d ye, yon reverend ladMaks faces to tickle the mob;He rails at our mountebank squad,Its rivalship just i’ the job.And now my conclusion I’ll tell,For faith I’m confoundedly dry;The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,Gude L—d! he’s far dafter than I.

Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou,Sir Knave is a fool in a session;He’s there but a ‘prentice I trow,But I am a fool by profession.

My grannie she bought me a beuk,And I held awa to the school;I fear I my talent misteuk,But what will ye hae of a fool?

For drink I would venture my neck,A hizzie’s the half o’ my craft,But what could ye other expect,Of ane that’s avowedly daft?

I ance was ty’d up like a stirk,For civilly swearing and quaffing;I ance was abused in the kirk,Fer touzling a lass i’ my daffin.

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;There’s ev’n I’m tauld i’ the courtA tumbler ca’d the premier.

Observ’d ye, yon reverend ladMaks faces to tickle the mob;He rails at our mountebank squad,Its rivalship just i’ the job.

And now my conclusion I’ll tell,For faith I’m confoundedly dry;The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,Gude L—d! he’s far dafter than I.

RECITATIVO.

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin,Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterling,For monie a pursie she had hooked,And had in mony a well been ducked.Her dove had been a Highland laddie,But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie!Wi’ sighs and sobs she thus beganTo wail her braw John Highlandman.

AIR.

Tune—“O an ye were dead, guidman.”

A Highland lad my love was born,The Lalland laws he held in scorn;But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,My gallant braw John Highlandman.

CHORUS.

Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman!Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman!There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’Was match for my John Highlandman.With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid,An’ gude claymore down by his side,The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,My gallant braw John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey,An’ liv’d like lords and ladies gay;For a Lalland face he feared none,My gallant braw John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.They banished him beyond the sea,But ere the bud was on the tree,Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,Embracing my John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.But, och! they catch’d him at the last,And bound him in a dungeon fast;My curse upon them every one,They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.And now a widow, I must mourn,The pleasures that will ne’er return:No comfort but a hearty can,When I think on John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.

Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman!Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman!There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his philibeg an’ tartan plaid,An’ gude claymore down by his side,The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,My gallant braw John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.

We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey,An’ liv’d like lords and ladies gay;For a Lalland face he feared none,My gallant braw John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.

They banished him beyond the sea,But ere the bud was on the tree,Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,Embracing my John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.

But, och! they catch’d him at the last,And bound him in a dungeon fast;My curse upon them every one,They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.

And now a widow, I must mourn,The pleasures that will ne’er return:No comfort but a hearty can,When I think on John Highlandman.Sing, hey, &c.

RECITATIVO.

A pigmy scraper, wi’ his fiddle,Wha us’d at trysts and fairs to driddle,Her strappan limb and gausy middleHe reach’d na higher,Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle,An’ blawn’t on fire.Wi’ hand on hainch, an’ upward e’e,He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three,Then in an Arioso key,The wee ApolloSet off wi’ Allegretto gleeHis giga solo.

A pigmy scraper, wi’ his fiddle,Wha us’d at trysts and fairs to driddle,Her strappan limb and gausy middleHe reach’d na higher,Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle,An’ blawn’t on fire.

Wi’ hand on hainch, an’ upward e’e,He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three,Then in an Arioso key,The wee ApolloSet off wi’ Allegretto gleeHis giga solo.

AIR.

Tune—“Whistle o’er the lave o’t.”

Let me ryke up to dight that tear,And go wi’ me and be my dear,And then your every care and fearMay whistle owre the lave o’t.

CHORUS.

I am a fiddler to my trade,An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d,The sweetest still to wife or maid,Was whistle owre the lave o’t.At kirns and weddings we’se be there,And O! sae nicely’s we will fare;We’ll house about till Daddie CareSings whistle owre the lave o’tI am, &c.Sae merrily the banes we’ll byke,And sun oursells about the dyke,And at our leisure, when ye like,We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.I am, &c.But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,And while I kittle hair on thairms,Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms,May whistle owre the lave o’t.I am, &c.

I am a fiddler to my trade,An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d,The sweetest still to wife or maid,Was whistle owre the lave o’t.

At kirns and weddings we’se be there,And O! sae nicely’s we will fare;We’ll house about till Daddie CareSings whistle owre the lave o’tI am, &c.

Sae merrily the banes we’ll byke,And sun oursells about the dyke,And at our leisure, when ye like,We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.I am, &c.

But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,And while I kittle hair on thairms,Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms,May whistle owre the lave o’t.I am, &c.

RECITATIVO.

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,As weel as poor gut-scraper;He taks the fiddler by the beard,And draws a roosty rapier—He swoor by a’ was swearing worth,To speet him like a pliver,Unless he wad from that time forthRelinquish her for ever.Wi’ ghastly e’e, poor tweedle-deeUpon his hunkers bended,And pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,And sae the quarrel ended.But tho’ his little heart did grieveWhen round the tinkler prest her,He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve,When thus the caird address’d her:

Wi’ ghastly e’e, poor tweedle-deeUpon his hunkers bended,And pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,And sae the quarrel ended.But tho’ his little heart did grieveWhen round the tinkler prest her,He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve,When thus the caird address’d her:

AIR.

Tune—“Clout the Caudron.”

My bonny lass, I work in brass,A tinkler is my station:I’ve travell’d round all Christian groundIn this my occupation:I’ve taen the gold, an’ been enrolledIn many a noble sqadron:But vain they search’d, when off I march’dTo go and clout the caudron.I’ve taen the gold, &c.Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,Wi’ a’ his noise and caprin,And tak a share wi’ those that bearThe budget and the apron.And by that stoup, my faith and houp,An’ by that dear Kilbaigie,[5]If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant,May I ne’er weet my craigie.An’ by that stoup, &c.

Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,Wi’ a’ his noise and caprin,And tak a share wi’ those that bearThe budget and the apron.And by that stoup, my faith and houp,An’ by that dear Kilbaigie,[5]If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant,May I ne’er weet my craigie.An’ by that stoup, &c.

RECITATIVO.

The caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing fairIn his embraces sunk,Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sair,An’ partly she was drunk.Sir Violino, with an airThat show’d a man of spunk,Wish’d unison between the pair,An’ made the bottle clunkTo their health that night.But urchin Cupid shot a shaft,That play’d a dame a shavie,A sailor rak’d her fore and aft,Behint the chicken cavie.Her lord, a wight o’ Homer’s craft,Tho’ limping wi’ the spavie,He hirpl’d up and lap like daft,And shor’d them Dainty DavieO boot that night.He was a care-defying bladeAs ever Bacchus listed,Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid,His heart she ever miss’d it.He had nae wish but—to be glad,Nor want but—when he thirsted;He hated nought but—to be sad,And thus the Muse suggestedHis sang that night.

But urchin Cupid shot a shaft,That play’d a dame a shavie,A sailor rak’d her fore and aft,Behint the chicken cavie.Her lord, a wight o’ Homer’s craft,Tho’ limping wi’ the spavie,He hirpl’d up and lap like daft,And shor’d them Dainty DavieO boot that night.

He was a care-defying bladeAs ever Bacchus listed,Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid,His heart she ever miss’d it.He had nae wish but—to be glad,Nor want but—when he thirsted;He hated nought but—to be sad,And thus the Muse suggestedHis sang that night.

AIR

Tune—“For a’ that, an’ a’ that.”

I am a bard of no regardWi’ gentle folks, an’ a’ that:But Homer-like, the glowran byke,Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,I’ve wife enough for a’ that.I never drank the Muses’ stank,Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that;But there it streams, and richly reams,My Helicon I ca’ that.For a’ that, &c.Great love I bear to a’ the fair,Their humble slave, an’ a’ that;But lordly will, I hold it stillA mortal sin to thraw that.For a’ that, &c.In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,Wi’ mutual love, an a’ that:But for how lang the flie may stang,Let inclination law that.For a’ that, &c.Their tricks and craft have put me daft.They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that;But clear your decks, and here’s the sex!I like the jads for a’ that

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,I’ve wife enough for a’ that.

I never drank the Muses’ stank,Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that;But there it streams, and richly reams,My Helicon I ca’ that.For a’ that, &c.

Great love I bear to a’ the fair,Their humble slave, an’ a’ that;But lordly will, I hold it stillA mortal sin to thraw that.For a’ that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,Wi’ mutual love, an a’ that:But for how lang the flie may stang,Let inclination law that.For a’ that, &c.

Their tricks and craft have put me daft.They’ve ta’en me in, and a’ that;But clear your decks, and here’s the sex!I like the jads for a’ that

CHORUS

For a’ that, an’ a’ that,An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;My dearest bluid, to do them guid,They’re welcome till’t for a’ that

RECITATIVO

So sung the bard—and Nansie’s wa’sShook with a thunder of applause,Re-echo’d from each mouth:They toom’d their pocks, an’ pawn’d their duds,They scarcely left to co’er their fuds,To quench their lowan drouth.Then owre again, the jovial thrang,The poet did request,To loose his pack an’ wale a sang,A ballad o’ the best;He rising, rejoicing,Between his twa DeborahsLooks round him, an’ found themImpatient for the chorus.

AIR

Tune—“Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.”

See! the smoking bowl before us,Mark our jovial ragged ring!Round and round take up the chorus,And in raptures let us sing.

CHORUS.

A fig for those by law protected!Liberty’s a glorious feast!Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.What is title? what is treasure?What is reputation’s care?If we lead a life of pleasure,’Tis no matter how or where!A fig, &c.With the ready trick and fable,Round we wander all the day;And at night, in barn or stable,Hug our doxies on the hay.A fig, &c.Does the train-attended carriageThrough the country lighter rove?Does the sober bed of marriageWitness brighter scenes of love?A fig, &c.Life is all a variorum,We regard not how it goes;Let them cant about decorumWho have characters to lose.A fig, &c.Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!Here’s to all the wandering train!Here’s our ragged brats and wallets!One and all cry out—Amen!A fig for those by law protected!Liberty’s a glorious feast!Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.

A fig for those by law protected!Liberty’s a glorious feast!Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.

What is title? what is treasure?What is reputation’s care?If we lead a life of pleasure,’Tis no matter how or where!A fig, &c.

With the ready trick and fable,Round we wander all the day;And at night, in barn or stable,Hug our doxies on the hay.A fig, &c.

Does the train-attended carriageThrough the country lighter rove?Does the sober bed of marriageWitness brighter scenes of love?A fig, &c.

Life is all a variorum,We regard not how it goes;Let them cant about decorumWho have characters to lose.A fig, &c.

Here’s to budgets, bags, and wallets!Here’s to all the wandering train!Here’s our ragged brats and wallets!One and all cry out—Amen!

A fig for those by law protected!Liberty’s a glorious feast!Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.

FOOTNOTES:[5]A peculiar sort of whiskey.

[5]A peculiar sort of whiskey.

[John Wilson, raised to the unwelcome elevation of hero to this poem, was, at the time of its composition, schoolmaster in Tarbolton: he as, it is said, a fair scholar, and a very worthy man, but vain of his knowledge in medicine—so vain, that he advertised his merits, and offered advice gratis. It was his misfortune to encounter Burns at a mason meeting, who, provoked by a long and pedantic speech, from the Dominie, exclaimed, the future lampoon dawning upon him, “Sit down, Dr. Hornbook.” On his way home, the poet seated himself on the ledge of a bridge, composed the poem, and, overcome with poesie and drink, fell asleep, and did not awaken till the sun was shining over Galston Moors. Wilson went afterwards to Glasgow, embarked in mercantile and matrimonial speculations, and prospered, and is still prospering.]

Some books are lies frae end to end,And some great lies were never penn’d:Ev’n ministers, they ha’e been kenn’d,In holy rapture,A rousing whid, at times, to vend,And nail’t wi’ Scripture.But this that I am gaun to tell,Which lately on a night befel,Is just as true’s the Deil’s in h—llOr Dublin-city;That e’er he nearer comes oursel‘S a muckle pity.The Clachan yill had made me canty,I was na fou, but just had plenty;I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ayTo free the ditches;An’ hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn’d ayFrae ghaists an’ witches.The rising moon began to glow’rThe distant Cumnock hills out-owre:To count her horns with a’ my pow’r,I set mysel;But whether she had three or four,I could na tell.I was come round about the hill,And todlin down on Willie’s mill,Setting my staff with a’ my skill,To keep me sicker;Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will,I took a bicker.I there wi’ something did forgather,That put me in an eerie swither;An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther,Clear-dangling, hang;A three-taed leister on the itherLay, large an’ lang.Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa,The queerest shape that e’er I saw,For fient a wame it had ava:And then, its shanks,They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’As cheeks o’ branks.“Guid-een,” quo’ I; “Friend, hae ye been mawin,When ither folk are busy sawin?”It seem’d to mak a kind o’ stan’,But naething spak;At length, says I, “Friend, where ye gaun,Will ye go back?”It spak right howe,—“My name is Death,But be na fley’d.”—Quoth I, “Guid faith,Ye’re may be come to stap my breath;But tent me, billie;I red ye weel, take care o’ skaith,See, there’s a gully!”“Guidman,” quo’ he, “put up your whittle,I’m no design’d to try its mettle;But if I did, I wad be kittleTo be mislear’d,I wad nae mind it, no that spittleOut-owre my beard.”“Weel, weel!” says I, “a bargain be’t;Come, gies your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;We’ll ease our shanks an’ tak a seat,Come, gies your news!This while ye hae been mony a gateAt mony a house.“Ay, ay!” quo’ he, an’ shook his head,“It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeedSin’ I began to nick the thread,An’ choke the breath:Folk maun do something for their bread,An’ sae maun Death.“Sax thousand years are near hand fledSin’ I was to the butching bred,An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid,To stap or scar me;Till ane Hornbook’s ta’en up the trade,An’ faith, he’ll waur me.“Ye ken Jock Hornbook i’ the Clachan,Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan!He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan[6]An’ ither chaps,The weans haud out their fingers laughinAnd pouk my hips.“See, here’s a scythe, and there’s a dart,They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart;But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his artAnd cursed skill,Has made them baith no worth a f——t,Damn’d haet they’ll kill.“’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,I threw a noble throw at ane;Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain;But-deil-ma-care,It just play’d dirl on the bane,But did nae mair.“Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art,And had sae fortified the part,That when I looked to my dart,It was sae blunt,Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heartOf a kail-runt.“I drew my scythe in sic a fury,I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry,But yet the bauld Apothecary,Withstood the shock;I might as weel hae tried a quarryO’ hard whin rock.“Ev’n them he canna get attended,Although their face he ne’er had kend it,Just sh—— in a kail-blade, and send it,As soon’s he smells’t,Baith their disease, and what will mend it,At once he tells’t.“And then a’ doctor’s saws and whittles,Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles,A’ kinds o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles,He’s sure to hae;Their Latin names as fast he rattlesAs A B C.“Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees;True sal-marinum o’ the seas;The farina of beans and pease,He has’t in plenty;Aqua-fortis, what you please,He can content ye.“Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,Urinus spiritus of capons;Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,Distill’dper se;Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings,And mony mae.”“Waes me for Johnny Ged’s-Hole[7]now,”Quo’ I, “If that thae news be true!His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,Sae white and bonie,Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew;They’ll ruin Johnie!”The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,And says, “Ye need na yoke the plough,Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh,Tak ye nae fear;They’ll a’ be trench’d wi’ mony a sheughIn twa-three year.“Whare I kill’d ane a fair strae death,By loss o’ blood or want of breath,This night I’m free to tak my aith,That Hornbook’s skillHas clad a score i’ their last claith,By drap an’ pill.“An honest wabster to his trade,Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel bred,Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,When it was sair;The wife slade cannie to her bed,But ne’er spak mair

Some books are lies frae end to end,And some great lies were never penn’d:Ev’n ministers, they ha’e been kenn’d,In holy rapture,A rousing whid, at times, to vend,And nail’t wi’ Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,Which lately on a night befel,Is just as true’s the Deil’s in h—llOr Dublin-city;That e’er he nearer comes oursel‘S a muckle pity.

The Clachan yill had made me canty,I was na fou, but just had plenty;I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ayTo free the ditches;An’ hillocks, stanes, and bushes, kenn’d ayFrae ghaists an’ witches.

The rising moon began to glow’rThe distant Cumnock hills out-owre:To count her horns with a’ my pow’r,I set mysel;But whether she had three or four,I could na tell.

I was come round about the hill,And todlin down on Willie’s mill,Setting my staff with a’ my skill,To keep me sicker;Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will,I took a bicker.

I there wi’ something did forgather,That put me in an eerie swither;An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther,Clear-dangling, hang;A three-taed leister on the itherLay, large an’ lang.

Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa,The queerest shape that e’er I saw,For fient a wame it had ava:And then, its shanks,They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’As cheeks o’ branks.

“Guid-een,” quo’ I; “Friend, hae ye been mawin,When ither folk are busy sawin?”It seem’d to mak a kind o’ stan’,But naething spak;At length, says I, “Friend, where ye gaun,Will ye go back?”

It spak right howe,—“My name is Death,But be na fley’d.”—Quoth I, “Guid faith,Ye’re may be come to stap my breath;But tent me, billie;I red ye weel, take care o’ skaith,See, there’s a gully!”

“Guidman,” quo’ he, “put up your whittle,I’m no design’d to try its mettle;But if I did, I wad be kittleTo be mislear’d,I wad nae mind it, no that spittleOut-owre my beard.”

“Weel, weel!” says I, “a bargain be’t;Come, gies your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;We’ll ease our shanks an’ tak a seat,Come, gies your news!This while ye hae been mony a gateAt mony a house.

“Ay, ay!” quo’ he, an’ shook his head,“It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeedSin’ I began to nick the thread,An’ choke the breath:Folk maun do something for their bread,An’ sae maun Death.

“Sax thousand years are near hand fledSin’ I was to the butching bred,An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid,To stap or scar me;Till ane Hornbook’s ta’en up the trade,An’ faith, he’ll waur me.

“Ye ken Jock Hornbook i’ the Clachan,Deil mak his kings-hood in a spleuchan!He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan[6]An’ ither chaps,The weans haud out their fingers laughinAnd pouk my hips.

“See, here’s a scythe, and there’s a dart,They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart;But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his artAnd cursed skill,Has made them baith no worth a f——t,Damn’d haet they’ll kill.

“’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,I threw a noble throw at ane;Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain;But-deil-ma-care,It just play’d dirl on the bane,But did nae mair.

“Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art,And had sae fortified the part,That when I looked to my dart,It was sae blunt,Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heartOf a kail-runt.

“I drew my scythe in sic a fury,I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry,But yet the bauld Apothecary,Withstood the shock;I might as weel hae tried a quarryO’ hard whin rock.

“Ev’n them he canna get attended,Although their face he ne’er had kend it,Just sh—— in a kail-blade, and send it,As soon’s he smells’t,Baith their disease, and what will mend it,At once he tells’t.

“And then a’ doctor’s saws and whittles,Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles,A’ kinds o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles,He’s sure to hae;Their Latin names as fast he rattlesAs A B C.

“Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees;True sal-marinum o’ the seas;The farina of beans and pease,He has’t in plenty;Aqua-fortis, what you please,He can content ye.

“Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,Urinus spiritus of capons;Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,Distill’dper se;Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings,And mony mae.”

“Waes me for Johnny Ged’s-Hole[7]now,”Quo’ I, “If that thae news be true!His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,Sae white and bonie,Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew;They’ll ruin Johnie!”

The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,And says, “Ye need na yoke the plough,Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh,Tak ye nae fear;They’ll a’ be trench’d wi’ mony a sheughIn twa-three year.

“Whare I kill’d ane a fair strae death,By loss o’ blood or want of breath,This night I’m free to tak my aith,That Hornbook’s skillHas clad a score i’ their last claith,By drap an’ pill.

“An honest wabster to his trade,Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel bred,Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,When it was sair;The wife slade cannie to her bed,But ne’er spak mair

“A countra laird had ta’en the batts,Or some curmurring in his guts,His only son for Hornbook sets,An’ pays him well.The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,Was laird himsel.“A bonnie lass, ye kend her name,Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame;She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,In Hornbook’s care;Hornsent her aff to her lang hame,To hide it there.“That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;Thus goes he on from day to day,Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,An’s weel paid for’t;Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,Wi’ his d—mn’d dirt:“But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,Though dinna ye be speaking o’t;I’ll nail the self-conceited sot,As dead’s a herrin’:Niest time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,He gets his fairin’!”But just as he began to tell,The auld kirk-hammer strak’ the bellSome wee short hour ayont the twal,Which rais’d us baith:I took the way that pleas’d mysel’,And sae did Death.

“A countra laird had ta’en the batts,Or some curmurring in his guts,His only son for Hornbook sets,An’ pays him well.The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,Was laird himsel.

“A bonnie lass, ye kend her name,Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame;She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,In Hornbook’s care;Hornsent her aff to her lang hame,To hide it there.

“That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;Thus goes he on from day to day,Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,An’s weel paid for’t;Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,Wi’ his d—mn’d dirt:

“But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,Though dinna ye be speaking o’t;I’ll nail the self-conceited sot,As dead’s a herrin’:Niest time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,He gets his fairin’!”

But just as he began to tell,The auld kirk-hammer strak’ the bellSome wee short hour ayont the twal,Which rais’d us baith:I took the way that pleas’d mysel’,And sae did Death.

FOOTNOTES:[6]Buchan’s Domestic Medicine.[7]The grave-digger.

[6]Buchan’s Domestic Medicine.

[7]The grave-digger.

[The actors in this indecent drama were Moodie, minister of Ricartoun, and Russell, helper to the minister of Kilmarnock: though apostles of the “Old Light,” they forgot their brotherhood in the vehemence of controversy, and went, it is said, to blows. “This poem,” says Burns, “with a certain description of the clergy as well as laity, met with a roar of applause.”]

O a’ ye pious godly flocks,Weel fed on pastures orthodox,Wha now will keep you frae the fox,Or worrying tykes,Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,About the dykes?The twa best herds in a’ the wast,That e’er ga’e gospel horn a blast,These five and twenty simmers past,O! dool to tell,Ha’e had a bitter black out-castAtween themsel.O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,How could you raise so vile a bustle,Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistleAnd think it fine:The Lord’s cause ne’er got sic a twistleSin’ I ha’e min’.O, sirs! whae’er wad ha’e expeckitYour duty ye wad sae negleckit,Ye wha were ne’er by lairds respeckit,To wear the plaid,But by the brutes themselves eleckit,To be their guide.What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank,Sae hale and hearty every shank,Nae poison’d sour Arminian stank,He let them taste,Frae Calvin’s well, ay clear they drank,—O sic a feast!The thummart, wil’-cat, brock, and tod,Weel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood,He smelt their ilka hole and road,Baith out and in,And weel he lik’d to shed their bluid,And sell their skin.What herd like Russell tell’d his tale,His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale,He kend the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail,O’er a’ the height,And saw gin they were sick or hale,At the first sight.He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,Or nobly fling the gospel club,And New-Light herds could nicely drub,Or pay their skin;Could shake them o’er the burning dub,Or heave them in.Sic twa—O! do I live to see’t,Sic famous twa should disagreet,An’ names, like villain, hypocrite,Ilk ither gi’en,While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin’ spite,Say neither’s liein’!An’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld,There’s Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul,But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,We trust in thee,That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld,Till they agree.Consider, Sirs, how we’re beset;There’s scarce a new herd that we getBut comes frae mang that cursed setI winna name;I hope frae heav’n to see them yetIn fiery flame.Dalrymple has been lang our fae,M’Gill has wrought us meikle wae,And that curs’d rascal call’d M’Quhae,And baith the Shaws,That aft ha’e made us black and blae,Wi’ vengefu’ paws.Auld Wodrow lang has hatch’d mischief,We thought ay death wad bring relief,But he has gotten, to our grief,Ane to succeed him,A chield wha’ll soundly buff our beef;I meikle dread him.And mony a ane that I could tell,Wha fain would openly rebel,Forbye turn-coats amang oursel,There’s Smith for ane,I doubt he’s but a grey-nick quill,An’ that ye’ll fin’.O! a’ ye flocks o’er a’ the hills,By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,Come, join your counsel and your skillsTo cow the lairds,And get the brutes the powers themselsTo choose their herds;Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,And Learning in a woody dance,And that fell cur ca’d Common Sense,That bites sae sair,Be banish’d o’er the sea to France:Let him bark there.Then Shaw’s and Dalrymple’s eloquence,M’Gill’s close nervous excellence,M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense,And guid M’Math,Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance,May a’ pack aff.

O a’ ye pious godly flocks,Weel fed on pastures orthodox,Wha now will keep you frae the fox,Or worrying tykes,Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a’ the wast,That e’er ga’e gospel horn a blast,These five and twenty simmers past,O! dool to tell,Ha’e had a bitter black out-castAtween themsel.

O, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,How could you raise so vile a bustle,Ye’ll see how New-Light herds will whistleAnd think it fine:The Lord’s cause ne’er got sic a twistleSin’ I ha’e min’.

O, sirs! whae’er wad ha’e expeckitYour duty ye wad sae negleckit,Ye wha were ne’er by lairds respeckit,To wear the plaid,But by the brutes themselves eleckit,To be their guide.

What flock wi’ Moodie’s flock could rank,Sae hale and hearty every shank,Nae poison’d sour Arminian stank,He let them taste,Frae Calvin’s well, ay clear they drank,—O sic a feast!

The thummart, wil’-cat, brock, and tod,Weel kend his voice thro’ a’ the wood,He smelt their ilka hole and road,Baith out and in,And weel he lik’d to shed their bluid,And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell tell’d his tale,His voice was heard thro’ muir and dale,He kend the Lord’s sheep, ilka tail,O’er a’ the height,And saw gin they were sick or hale,At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,Or nobly fling the gospel club,And New-Light herds could nicely drub,Or pay their skin;Could shake them o’er the burning dub,Or heave them in.

Sic twa—O! do I live to see’t,Sic famous twa should disagreet,An’ names, like villain, hypocrite,Ilk ither gi’en,While New-Light herds, wi’ laughin’ spite,Say neither’s liein’!

An’ ye wha tent the gospel fauld,There’s Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul,But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,We trust in thee,That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld,Till they agree.

Consider, Sirs, how we’re beset;There’s scarce a new herd that we getBut comes frae mang that cursed setI winna name;I hope frae heav’n to see them yetIn fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,M’Gill has wrought us meikle wae,And that curs’d rascal call’d M’Quhae,And baith the Shaws,That aft ha’e made us black and blae,Wi’ vengefu’ paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch’d mischief,We thought ay death wad bring relief,But he has gotten, to our grief,Ane to succeed him,A chield wha’ll soundly buff our beef;I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,Wha fain would openly rebel,Forbye turn-coats amang oursel,There’s Smith for ane,I doubt he’s but a grey-nick quill,An’ that ye’ll fin’.

O! a’ ye flocks o’er a’ the hills,By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,Come, join your counsel and your skillsTo cow the lairds,And get the brutes the powers themselsTo choose their herds;

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,And Learning in a woody dance,And that fell cur ca’d Common Sense,That bites sae sair,Be banish’d o’er the sea to France:Let him bark there.

Then Shaw’s and Dalrymple’s eloquence,M’Gill’s close nervous excellence,M’Quhae’s pathetic manly sense,And guid M’Math,Wi’ Smith, wha thro’ the heart can glance,May a’ pack aff.

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