FOOTNOTES:

Andro Gouk,[88], Andro Gouk,Ye may slander the book,And the book not the waur, let me tell ye;Ye are rich and look big,But lay by hat and wig,And ye’ll ha’e a calf’s head o’ sma’ value.Barr Steenie,[89]Barr Steenie,What mean ye, what mean ye?If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,Ye may ha’e some pretenceTo havins and sense,Wi’ people wha ken ye nae better.Irvine side,[90]Irvine side,Wi’ your turkey-cock pride,Of manhood but sum’ is your share,Ye’ve the figure ’tis true,Even your faes will allow,And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair.Muirland Jock,[91]Muirland Jock,When the L—d makes a rockTo crush Common sense for her sins,If ill manners were wit,There’s no mortal so fitTo confound the poor Doctor at ance.Holy Will,[92]Holy Will,There was wit i’ your skull,When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor;The timmer is scant,When ye’re ta’en for a saunt,Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.Calvin’s sons, Calvin’s sons,Seize your spir’tual guns,Ammunition you never can need;Your hearts are the stuff,Will be powther enough,And your skulls are storehouses o’ lead.Poet Burns, Poet Burns,Wi’ your priest-skelping turns,Why desert ye your auld native shire?Your muse is a gipsie,E’en tho’ she were tipsie,She could ca’ us nae waur than we are.

Andro Gouk,[88], Andro Gouk,Ye may slander the book,And the book not the waur, let me tell ye;Ye are rich and look big,But lay by hat and wig,And ye’ll ha’e a calf’s head o’ sma’ value.

Barr Steenie,[89]Barr Steenie,What mean ye, what mean ye?If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,Ye may ha’e some pretenceTo havins and sense,Wi’ people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine side,[90]Irvine side,Wi’ your turkey-cock pride,Of manhood but sum’ is your share,Ye’ve the figure ’tis true,Even your faes will allow,And your friends they dae grunt you nae mair.

Muirland Jock,[91]Muirland Jock,When the L—d makes a rockTo crush Common sense for her sins,If ill manners were wit,There’s no mortal so fitTo confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will,[92]Holy Will,There was wit i’ your skull,When ye pilfer’d the alms o’ the poor;The timmer is scant,When ye’re ta’en for a saunt,Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin’s sons, Calvin’s sons,Seize your spir’tual guns,Ammunition you never can need;Your hearts are the stuff,Will be powther enough,And your skulls are storehouses o’ lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,Wi’ your priest-skelping turns,Why desert ye your auld native shire?Your muse is a gipsie,E’en tho’ she were tipsie,She could ca’ us nae waur than we are.

FOOTNOTES:[76]This Poem was written a short time after the publication of M’Gill’s Essay.[77]Dr. M’Gill.[78]John Ballantyne.[79]Robert Aiken.[80]Dr. Dalrymple.[81]Mr. Russell.[82]Mr. M’Kinlay.[83]Mr. Moody, of Riccarton.[84]Mr. Auld of Mauchline.[85]Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree.[86]Mr. Young, of Cumnock.[87]Mr. Peebles, Ayr.[88]Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton.[89]Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr.[90]Mr. George Smith, of Galston.[91]Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk.[92]Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline.

[76]This Poem was written a short time after the publication of M’Gill’s Essay.

[77]Dr. M’Gill.

[78]John Ballantyne.

[79]Robert Aiken.

[80]Dr. Dalrymple.

[81]Mr. Russell.

[82]Mr. M’Kinlay.

[83]Mr. Moody, of Riccarton.

[84]Mr. Auld of Mauchline.

[85]Mr. Grant, of Ochiltree.

[86]Mr. Young, of Cumnock.

[87]Mr. Peebles, Ayr.

[88]Dr. Andrew Mitchell, of Monkton.

[89]Mr. Stephen Young, of Barr.

[90]Mr. George Smith, of Galston.

[91]Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk.

[92]Holy Willie, alias William Fisher, Elder in Mauchline.

[SECOND VERSION.]

[This version is from the papers of Miss Logan, of Afton. The origin of the Poem is thus related to Graham of Fintry by the poet himself: “Though I dare say you have none of the solemn League and Covenant fire Which shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M’Gill, one of the clergymen of Ayr, and his heretical book, God help him, poor man! Though one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the poor doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of being thrown out (9th December, 1790) to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad on that business, is, I confess too local: but I laughed myself at some conceits in it, though I am convinced in my conscience there are a good many heavy stanzas in it too.” The Kirk’s Alarm was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. Cromek calls it, “A silly satire, on some worthy ministers of the gospel, in Ayrshire.”]

Orthodox, orthodox,Who believe in John Knox,Let me sound an alarm to your conscience—There’s a heretic blast,Has been blawn i’ the wast,That what is not sense must be nonsense,Orthodox,That what is not sense must be nonsense.

II.

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,Ye should stretch on a rack,And strike evil doers wi’ terror;To join faith and sense,Upon any pretence,Was heretic damnable error,Doctor Mac,Was heretic damnable error.

III.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,It was rash I declare,To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing;Provost John is still deaf,To the church’s relief,And orator Bob is its ruin,Town Of Ayr,And orator Bob is its ruin.

IV.

D’rymple mild, D’rymple mild,Tho’ your heart’s like a child,And your life like the new-driven snaw,Yet that winna save ye,Old Satan must have yeFor preaching that three’s are an’ twa,D’rymple mild,For preaching that three’s are an’ twa.

Calvin’s sons, Calvin’s sons,Seize your spiritual guns,Ammunition ye never can need;Your hearts are the stuff,Will be powder enough,And your skulls are a storehouse of lead,Calvin’s sons,And your skulls are a storehouse of lead.

VI.

Rumble John, Rumble John,Mount the steps with a groan,Cry the book is with heresy cramm’d;Then lug out your ladle,Deal brimstone like aidle,And roar every note o’ the damn’d,Rumble John,And roar every note o’ the damn’d.

VII.

Simper James, Simper James,Leave the fair Killie dames,There’s a holier chase in your view;I’ll lay on your head,That the pack ye’ll soon lead,For puppies like you there’s but few,Simper James,For puppies like you there’s but few.

VIII.

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie,Are ye herding the penny,Unconscious what danger awaits?With a jump, yell, and howl,Alarm every soul,For Hannibal’s just at your gates,Singet Sawnie,For Hannibal’s just at your gates.

IX.

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk,Ye may slander the book,And the book nought the waur—let me tell you;Tho’ ye’re rich and look big,Yet lay by hat and wig,And ye’ll hae a calf’s-head o’ sma’ value,Andrew Gowk,And ye’ll hae a calf’s-head o’ sma’ value.

Poet Willie, Poet Willie,Gie the doctor a volley,Wi’ your “liberty’s chain” and your wit;O’er Pegasus’ side,Ye ne’er laid a strideYe only stood by when he ——,Poet Willie,Ye only stood by when he ——.

XI.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie,What mean ye? what mean ye?If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,Ye may hae some pretence, man,To havins and sense, man,Wi’ people that ken ye nae better,Barr Steenie,Wi’ people that ken ye nae better.

XII.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose,Ye hae made but toom roose,O’ hunting the wicked lieutenant;But the doctor’s your mark,For the L—d’s holy ark,He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrong pin in’t,Jamie Goose,He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrong pin in’t.

XIII.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,For a saunt if ye muster,It’s a sign they’re no nice o’ recruits,Yet to worth let’s be just,Royal blood ye might boast,If the ass were the king o’ the brutes,Davie Bluster,If the ass were the king o’ the brutes.

XIV.

Muirland George, Muirland George,Whom the Lord made a scourge,To claw common sense for her sins;If ill manners were wit,There’s no mortal so fit,To confound the poor doctor at ance,Muirland George,To confound the poor doctor at ance.

XV.

Cessnockside, Cessnockside,Wi’ your turkey-cock pride,O’ manhood but sma’ is your share;Ye’ve the figure, it’s true,Even our faes maun allow,And your friends daurna say ye hae mair,Cessnockside,And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

XVI.

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld,There’s a tod i’ the fauldA tod meikle waur than the clerk;[93]Tho’ ye downa do skaith,Ye’ll be in at the death,And if ye canna bite ye can bark,Daddie Auld,And if ye canna bite ye can bark.

XVII.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,Wi’ your priest-skelping turns,Why desert ye your auld native shire?Tho’ your Muse is a gipsy,Yet were she even tipsy,She could ca’ us nae waur than we are,Poet Burns,She could ca’ us nae waur than we are.

POSTSCRIPT.

Afton’s Laird, Afton’s Laird,When your pen can be spar’d,A copy o’ this I bequeath,On the same sicker scoreI mentioned before,To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith,Afton’s Laird,To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.

FOOTNOTES:[93]Gavin Hamilton.

[93]Gavin Hamilton.

[These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol, of the High School of Edinburgh, by the poet, giving him on account of the unlooked-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic virago who attempted to murder George the Third.]

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,As ever trode on airn;But now she’s floating down the Nith,And past the mouth o’ Cairn.Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,And rode thro’ thick an’ thin;But now she’s floating down the Nith,And wanting even the skin.Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,And ance she bore a priest;But now she’s flouting down the Nith,For Solway fish a feast.Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,And the priest he rode her sair;And much oppress’d and bruis’d she was;As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,As ever trode on airn;But now she’s floating down the Nith,And past the mouth o’ Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,And rode thro’ thick an’ thin;But now she’s floating down the Nith,And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,And ance she bore a priest;But now she’s flouting down the Nith,For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,And the priest he rode her sair;And much oppress’d and bruis’d she was;As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.

“Should the poor be flattered?”

Shakspeare.

But now his radiant course is run,For Matthew’s course was bright;His soul was like the glorious sun,A matchless heav’nly light!

[Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of very agreeable manners and great propriety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fortune’s Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poem, says, “I loved the man much, and have not flattered his memory.” Henderson seems indeed to have been universally liked. “In our travelling party,” says Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, “was Matthew Henderson, then (1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more estimable character, than Matthew Henderson.”Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardkinglass, p. 17.]

O death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!The meikle devil wi’ a woodieHaurl thee hame to his black smiddie,O’er hurcheon hides,And like stock-fish come o’er his studdieWi’ thy auld sides!He’s gane! he’s gane! he’s frae us torn,The ae best fellow e’er was born!Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mournBy wood and wild,Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,Frae man exil’d!Ye hills! near neebors o’ the starns,That proudly cock your cresting cairns!Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,Where echo slumbers!Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,My wailing numbers!Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens!Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens,Wi’ toddlin’ din,Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens,Frae lin to lin!Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea;Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie,In scented bow’rs;Ye roses on your thorny tree,The first o’ flow’rs.At dawn, when ev’ry grassy bladeDroops with a diamond at its head,At ev’n, when beans their fragrance shedI’ th’ rustling gale,Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade,Come join my wail.Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood;Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud;Ye whistling plover;An’ mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood!—He’s gane for ever!Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;Ye fisher herons, watching eels:Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheelsCircling the lake;Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,Rair for his sake.Mourn, clam’ring craiks, at close o’ day,‘Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay;And when ye wing your annual wayFrae our cauld shore,Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,Wham we deplore.Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r,In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r,What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r,Sets up her horn,Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour’Till waukrife morn!O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!Oft have ye heard my canty strains:But now, what else for me remainsBut tales of woe?And frae my een the drapping rainsMaun ever flow.Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year!Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:Thou, simmer, while each corny spearShoots up its head,The gay, green, flow’ry tresses shearFor him that’s dead!Thou, autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,In grief thy sallow mantle tear:Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the airThe roaring blast,Wide, o’er the naked world declareThe worth we’ve lost!Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!Mourn, empress of the silent night!And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,My Matthew mourn!For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight,Ne’er to return.O, Henderson! the man—the brother!And art thou gone, and gone for ever?And hast thou crost that unknown riverLife’s dreary bound?Like thee, where shall I find another,The world around?Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great,In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state!But by thy honest turf I’ll wait,Thou man of worth!And weep the ae best fellow’s fateE’er lay in earth.

O death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!The meikle devil wi’ a woodieHaurl thee hame to his black smiddie,O’er hurcheon hides,And like stock-fish come o’er his studdieWi’ thy auld sides!

He’s gane! he’s gane! he’s frae us torn,The ae best fellow e’er was born!Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mournBy wood and wild,Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,Frae man exil’d!

Ye hills! near neebors o’ the starns,That proudly cock your cresting cairns!Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,Where echo slumbers!Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!Ye haz’lly shaws and briery dens!Ye burnies, wimplin’ down your glens,Wi’ toddlin’ din,Or foaming strang, wi’ hasty stens,Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells o’er the lea;Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie,In scented bow’rs;Ye roses on your thorny tree,The first o’ flow’rs.

At dawn, when ev’ry grassy bladeDroops with a diamond at its head,At ev’n, when beans their fragrance shedI’ th’ rustling gale,Ye maukins whiddin thro’ the glade,Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o’ the wood;Ye grouse that crap the heather bud;Ye curlews calling thro’ a clud;Ye whistling plover;An’ mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood!—He’s gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals;Ye fisher herons, watching eels:Ye duck and drake, wi’ airy wheelsCircling the lake;Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels,Rair for his sake.

Mourn, clam’ring craiks, at close o’ day,‘Mang fields o’ flowering clover gay;And when ye wing your annual wayFrae our cauld shore,Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow’r,In some auld tree, or eldritch tow’r,What time the moon, wi’ silent glow’r,Sets up her horn,Wail thro’ the dreary midnight hour’Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!Oft have ye heard my canty strains:But now, what else for me remainsBut tales of woe?And frae my een the drapping rainsMaun ever flow.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year!Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear:Thou, simmer, while each corny spearShoots up its head,The gay, green, flow’ry tresses shearFor him that’s dead!

Thou, autumn, wi’ thy yellow hair,In grief thy sallow mantle tear:Thou, winter, hurling thro’ the airThe roaring blast,Wide, o’er the naked world declareThe worth we’ve lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!Mourn, empress of the silent night!And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,My Matthew mourn!For through your orbs he’s ta’en his flight,Ne’er to return.

O, Henderson! the man—the brother!And art thou gone, and gone for ever?And hast thou crost that unknown riverLife’s dreary bound?Like thee, where shall I find another,The world around?

Go to your sculptur’d tombs, ye great,In a’ the tinsel trash o’ state!But by thy honest turf I’ll wait,Thou man of worth!And weep the ae best fellow’s fateE’er lay in earth.

THE EPITAPH.

Stop, passenger!—my story’s brief,And truth I shall relate, man;I tell nae common tale o’ grief—For Matthew was a great man.If thou uncommon merit hast,Yet spurn’d at fortune’s door, man,A look of pity hither cast—For Matthew was a poor man.If thou a noble sodger art,That passest by this grave, man,There moulders here a gallant heart—For Matthew was a brave man.If thou on men, their works and ways,Canst throw uncommon light, man,Here lies wha weel had won thy praise—For Matthew was a bright man.If thou at friendship’s sacred ca’Wad life itself resign, man,Thy sympathetic tear maun fa’—For Matthew was a kind man!If thou art staunch without a stain,Like the unchanging blue, man,This was a kinsman o’ thy ain—For Matthew was a true man.If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,And ne’er guid wine did fear, man,This was thy billie, dam and sire—For Matthew was a queer man.If ony whiggish whingin sot,To blame poor Matthew dare, man,May dool and sorrow be his lot!For Matthew was a rare man.

Stop, passenger!—my story’s brief,And truth I shall relate, man;I tell nae common tale o’ grief—For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast,Yet spurn’d at fortune’s door, man,A look of pity hither cast—For Matthew was a poor man.

If thou a noble sodger art,That passest by this grave, man,There moulders here a gallant heart—For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways,Canst throw uncommon light, man,Here lies wha weel had won thy praise—For Matthew was a bright man.

If thou at friendship’s sacred ca’Wad life itself resign, man,Thy sympathetic tear maun fa’—For Matthew was a kind man!

If thou art staunch without a stain,Like the unchanging blue, man,This was a kinsman o’ thy ain—For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,And ne’er guid wine did fear, man,This was thy billie, dam and sire—For Matthew was a queer man.

If ony whiggish whingin sot,To blame poor Matthew dare, man,May dool and sorrow be his lot!For Matthew was a rare man.

[This is a local and political Poem composed on the contest between Miller, the younger, of Dalswinton, and Johnstone, of Westerhall, for the representation of the Dumfries and Galloway district of Boroughs. Each town or borough speaks and acts in character: Maggy personates Dumfries; Marjory, Lochmaben; Bess of Solway-side, Annan; Whiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all the Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberry was exerted, and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone: the poet’s heart was with the latter. Annan and Lochmaben stood staunch by old names and old affections: after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind remembered, the Whig interest prevailed.]

There were five carlins in the south,They fell upon a scheme,To send a lad to London town,To bring them tidings hame.Not only bring them tidings hame,But do their errands there;And aiblins gowd and honour baithMight be that laddie’s share.There was Maggy by the banks o’ Nith,A dame wi’ pride eneugh;And Marjory o’ the mony lochs,A carlin auld and teugh.And blinkin’ Bess of Annandale,That dwelt near Solway-side;And whiskey Jean, that took her gillIn Galloway sae wide.And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel,O’ gipsey kith an’ kin;—Five wighter carlins were na foundThe south countrie within.To send a lad to London town,They met upon a day;And mony a knight, and mony a laird,This errand fain wad gae.O mony a knight, and mony a laird,This errand fain wad gae;But nae ane could their fancy please,O ne’er a ane but twae.The first ane was a belted knight,Bred of a border band;And he wad gae to London town,Might nae man him withstand.And he wad do their errands weel,And meikle he wad say;And ilka ane about the courtWad bid to him gude-day.The neist cam in a sodger youth,And spak wi’ modest grace,And he wad gae to London town,If sae their pleasure was.He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,Nor meikle speech pretend;But he wad hecht an honest heart,Wad ne’er desert his friend.Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse,At strife thir carlins fell;For some had gentlefolks to please,And some wad please themsel’.Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ Nith,And she spak up wi’ pride,And she wad send the sodger youth,Whatever might betide.For the auld gudeman o’ London courtShe didna care a pin;But she wad send the sodger youthTo greet his eldest son.Then slow raise Marjory o’ the LochsAnd wrinkled was her brow;Her ancient weed was russet gray,Her auld Scotch heart was true.“The London court set light by me—I set as light by them;And I wilt send the sodger ladTo shaw that court the same.”Then up sprang Bess of Annandale,And swore a deadly aith,Says, “I will send the border-knightSpite o’ you carlins baith.“For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,And fools o’ change are fain;But I hae try’d this border-knight,I’ll try him yet again.”Then whiskey Jean spak o’er her drink,“Ye weel ken, kimmersa’,The auld gudeman o’ London court,His back’s been at the wa’.“And mony a friend that kiss’d his caup,Is now a fremit wight;But it’s ne’er be sae wi’ whiskey Jean,—We’ll send the border-knight.”Says black Joan o’ Crighton-peel,A carlin stoor and grim,—“The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman,For me may sink or swim.“For fools will prate o’ right and wrang,While knaves laugh in their sleeve;But wha blaws best the horn shall win,I’ll spier nae courtier’s leave.”So how this mighty plea may endThere’s naebody can tell:God grant the king, and ilka man,May look weel to himsel’!

There were five carlins in the south,They fell upon a scheme,To send a lad to London town,To bring them tidings hame.

Not only bring them tidings hame,But do their errands there;And aiblins gowd and honour baithMight be that laddie’s share.

There was Maggy by the banks o’ Nith,A dame wi’ pride eneugh;And Marjory o’ the mony lochs,A carlin auld and teugh.

And blinkin’ Bess of Annandale,That dwelt near Solway-side;And whiskey Jean, that took her gillIn Galloway sae wide.

And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel,O’ gipsey kith an’ kin;—Five wighter carlins were na foundThe south countrie within.

To send a lad to London town,They met upon a day;And mony a knight, and mony a laird,This errand fain wad gae.

O mony a knight, and mony a laird,This errand fain wad gae;But nae ane could their fancy please,O ne’er a ane but twae.

The first ane was a belted knight,Bred of a border band;And he wad gae to London town,Might nae man him withstand.

And he wad do their errands weel,And meikle he wad say;And ilka ane about the courtWad bid to him gude-day.

The neist cam in a sodger youth,And spak wi’ modest grace,And he wad gae to London town,If sae their pleasure was.

He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,Nor meikle speech pretend;But he wad hecht an honest heart,Wad ne’er desert his friend.

Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse,At strife thir carlins fell;For some had gentlefolks to please,And some wad please themsel’.

Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ Nith,And she spak up wi’ pride,And she wad send the sodger youth,Whatever might betide.

For the auld gudeman o’ London courtShe didna care a pin;But she wad send the sodger youthTo greet his eldest son.

Then slow raise Marjory o’ the LochsAnd wrinkled was her brow;Her ancient weed was russet gray,Her auld Scotch heart was true.

“The London court set light by me—I set as light by them;And I wilt send the sodger ladTo shaw that court the same.”

Then up sprang Bess of Annandale,And swore a deadly aith,Says, “I will send the border-knightSpite o’ you carlins baith.

“For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,And fools o’ change are fain;But I hae try’d this border-knight,I’ll try him yet again.”

Then whiskey Jean spak o’er her drink,“Ye weel ken, kimmersa’,The auld gudeman o’ London court,His back’s been at the wa’.

“And mony a friend that kiss’d his caup,Is now a fremit wight;But it’s ne’er be sae wi’ whiskey Jean,—We’ll send the border-knight.”

Says black Joan o’ Crighton-peel,A carlin stoor and grim,—“The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman,For me may sink or swim.

“For fools will prate o’ right and wrang,While knaves laugh in their sleeve;But wha blaws best the horn shall win,I’ll spier nae courtier’s leave.”

So how this mighty plea may endThere’s naebody can tell:God grant the king, and ilka man,May look weel to himsel’!

[This short Poem was first published by Robert Chambers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which came over the Duke of Queensberry’s opinions, when he supported the right of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, without consent of Parliament, during the king’s alarming illness, in 1788.]

The laddies by the banks o’ Nith,Wad trust his Grace wi’ a’, Jamie,But he’ll sair them, as he sair’d the King,Turn tail and rin awa’, Jamie.Up and waur them a’, Jamie,Up and waur them a’;The Johnstones hae the guidin’ o’t,Ye turncoat Whigs awa’.The day he stude his country’s friend,Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie:Or frae puir man a blessin’ wan,That day the Duke ne’er saw, Jamie.But wha is he, his country’s boast?Like him there is na twa, Jamie,There’s no a callant tents the kye,But kens o’ Westerha’, Jamie.To end the wark here’s Whistlebirk,[94]Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie;And Maxwell true o’ sterling blue:And we’ll be Johnstones a’, Jamie.

The laddies by the banks o’ Nith,Wad trust his Grace wi’ a’, Jamie,But he’ll sair them, as he sair’d the King,Turn tail and rin awa’, Jamie.

Up and waur them a’, Jamie,Up and waur them a’;The Johnstones hae the guidin’ o’t,Ye turncoat Whigs awa’.

The day he stude his country’s friend,Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie:Or frae puir man a blessin’ wan,That day the Duke ne’er saw, Jamie.

But wha is he, his country’s boast?Like him there is na twa, Jamie,There’s no a callant tents the kye,But kens o’ Westerha’, Jamie.

To end the wark here’s Whistlebirk,[94]Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie;And Maxwell true o’ sterling blue:And we’ll be Johnstones a’, Jamie.

FOOTNOTES:[94]Birkwhistle: a Galloway laird, and elector.

[94]Birkwhistle: a Galloway laird, and elector.

[“I am too little a man,” said Burns, in the note to Fintray, which accompanied this poem, “to have any political attachment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both parties: but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience.” This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton manuscripts for that purpose: to both families the poet was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.]

Fintray, my stay in worldly strife,Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life,Are ye as idle’s I am?Come then, wi’ uncouth, kintra fleg,O’er Pegasus I’ll fling my leg,And ye shall see me try him.I’ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,Who left the all-important caresOf princes and their darlings;And, bent on winning borough towns,Came shaking hands wi’ wabster lowns,And kissing barefit carlins.Combustion thro’ our boroughs rode,Whistling his roaring pack abroadOf mad unmuzzled lions;As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl’d,And Westerha’ and Hopeton hurl’dTo every Whig defiance.But cautious Queensberry left the war,Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star;Besides, he hated bleeding:But left behind him heroes bright,Heroes in Cæsarean fight,Or Ciceronian pleading.O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,To muster o’er each ardent WhigBeneath Drumlanrig’s banner;Heroes and heroines commix,All in the field of politics,To win immortal honour.M’Murdo[95]and his lovely spouse,(Th’ enamour’d laurels kiss her brows!)Led on the loves and graces:She won each gaping burgess’ heart,While he, all-conquering, play’d his partAmong their wives and lasses.Craigdarroch[96]led a light-arm’d corps,Tropes, metaphors and figures pour,Like Hecla streaming thunder:Glenriddel,[97]skill’d in rusty coins,Blew up each Tory’s dark designs,And bar’d the treason under.In either wing two champions fought,Redoubted Staig[98]who set at noughtThe wildest savage Tory:And Welsh,[99]who ne’er yet flinch’d his ground,High-wav’d his magnum-bonum roundWith Cyclopeian fury.Miller brought up th’ artillery ranks,The many-pounders of the Banks,Resistless desolation!While Maxwelton, that baron bold,‘Mid Lawson’s[100]port intrench’d his hold,And threaten’d worse damnation.To these what Tory hosts oppos’d,With these what Tory warriors clos’d.Surpasses my descriving:Squadrons extended long and large,With furious speed rush to the charge,Like raging devils driving.What verse can sing, what prose narrate,The butcher deeds of bloody fateAmid this mighty tulzie!Grim Horror grinn’d—pale Terror roar’d,As Murther at his thrapple shor’d,And hell mix’d in the brulzie.As highland craigs by thunder cleft,When lightnings fire the stormy lift,Hurl down with crashing rattle:As flames among a hundred woods;As headlong foam a hundred floods;Such is the rage of battle!The stubborn Tories dare to die;As soon the rooted oaks would flyBefore the approaching fellers:The Whigs come on like Ocean’s roar,When all his wintry billows pourAgainst the Buchan Bullers.

I’ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,Who left the all-important caresOf princes and their darlings;And, bent on winning borough towns,Came shaking hands wi’ wabster lowns,And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro’ our boroughs rode,Whistling his roaring pack abroadOf mad unmuzzled lions;As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl’d,And Westerha’ and Hopeton hurl’dTo every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star;Besides, he hated bleeding:But left behind him heroes bright,Heroes in Cæsarean fight,Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,To muster o’er each ardent WhigBeneath Drumlanrig’s banner;Heroes and heroines commix,All in the field of politics,To win immortal honour.

M’Murdo[95]and his lovely spouse,(Th’ enamour’d laurels kiss her brows!)Led on the loves and graces:She won each gaping burgess’ heart,While he, all-conquering, play’d his partAmong their wives and lasses.

Craigdarroch[96]led a light-arm’d corps,Tropes, metaphors and figures pour,Like Hecla streaming thunder:Glenriddel,[97]skill’d in rusty coins,Blew up each Tory’s dark designs,And bar’d the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought,Redoubted Staig[98]who set at noughtThe wildest savage Tory:And Welsh,[99]who ne’er yet flinch’d his ground,High-wav’d his magnum-bonum roundWith Cyclopeian fury.

Miller brought up th’ artillery ranks,The many-pounders of the Banks,Resistless desolation!While Maxwelton, that baron bold,‘Mid Lawson’s[100]port intrench’d his hold,And threaten’d worse damnation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos’d,With these what Tory warriors clos’d.Surpasses my descriving:Squadrons extended long and large,With furious speed rush to the charge,Like raging devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate,The butcher deeds of bloody fateAmid this mighty tulzie!Grim Horror grinn’d—pale Terror roar’d,As Murther at his thrapple shor’d,And hell mix’d in the brulzie.

As highland craigs by thunder cleft,When lightnings fire the stormy lift,Hurl down with crashing rattle:As flames among a hundred woods;As headlong foam a hundred floods;Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die;As soon the rooted oaks would flyBefore the approaching fellers:The Whigs come on like Ocean’s roar,When all his wintry billows pourAgainst the Buchan Bullers.

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