Says Black Joan frae Crichton Peel,
A carline stoor and grim,
The auld guidman, and the young guidman,
For me may sink or swim;
For fool will freit o' right or wrang,
While knaves laugh them to scorn:
But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best,
So he shall bear the horn.
Then Whisky Jean spak owre her drink,
Ye weel ken, kimmers a'.
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court,
His back's been at the wa':
And mony a friend that kiss'd his cup,
Is now a fremit wight:
But it's ne'er be said o' Whisky Jean-
I'll send the border knight.
Then slow raise Marjory o' the Loch,
And wrinkled was her brow,
Her ancient weed was russet grey,
Her auld Scots bluid was true;
There's some great folks set light by me-
I set as light by them;
But I will sen' to Lon'on town
Wham I like best at hame.
Sae how this weighty plea may end,
Nae mortal wight can tell:
God grant the king and ilka man
May look weel to himsel'.
WHOM Will you send to London town,
To Parliament and a' that?
Or wha in a' the country round
The best deserves to fa' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Thro' Galloway, and a' that:
Where is the laird or belted knight
That best deserves to fa' that?
Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett?
And wha is't never saw that?
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree's met,
And has a doubt of a' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent patriot,
The honest man, and a' that.
Tho' wit and worth in either sex,
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that;
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for a' that
But why should we to nobles jouk?
And is't against the law that?
For why, a lord may be a gouk,
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A lord may be a lousy loun,
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that.
A beardless boy comes o'er the hills,
Wi' uncle's purse and a' that;
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels,
A man we ken, and a' that,
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
For we're not to be bought and sold, Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that. Then let us drink the Stewartry, Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that,
Our representative to be,
For well he's worthy a' that,
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A House o' Commons such as he,
They would be blest that saw that.
THE ELECTION,
[BALLAD THIRD.]
Fr, let us a' to Kircudbright,
For there will be bickerin' there;
For Murray's light horse are to muster,
And oh, how the heroes will swear!
And there will be Murray commander,
And Gordon the battle to win;
Like brothers they il stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance an sin.
And there will be black-lippit Johnnie
The tongue o' the trump to them a;
An' he gets na hell for his haddin,
The deil gets us justice ava';
And there will be Kempleton's birkic,
A boy no sac black at the bane,
But, as for his fine nabob fortune,
We'll c'en let the subject alane.
And there will be Wigton's new sheriff;
Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped;
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord, what's become o' the head?
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
For the deil the prey will despise.
And there will be Douglasses doughty,
New christ'ning towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
By kissing the-o' a peer;
And there will be Kenmure sac gen'rous!
Whose honour is proof to the storm;
To save them from stark reprobation,
He lent them his name to the firm.
But we winna mention Redcastle,
The body, e'en let him escape;
He'd venture the gallows for siller,
An' 'twere not the cost o' the rape.
And where is our king's lord lieutenant,
Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return?
The billic is getting his questions,
To say in St. Stephen's the morn.
And there will be lads o' the gospel,
Muirhead wha's as guid as he's true:
And there will be Buittle's apostle,
Wha's more o' the black than the blue;
And there will be folk from St. Mary's,
A honse o' great merit and note,
The deil ane but honours them highly-
The deil ane will gie them his vote!
And there will be wealthy young Richard,
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck;
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing,
His merit had won him respect:
And there will be rich brother nabobs,
Tho' nabobs, yet men of the first,
And there will be Collieston's whiskers,
And Quentin, o' lads not the warst.
And there will be stamp-office Johnnie,
Tak tent how ye purchase a dram;
And there will be gay Cassencarrie,
And there will be gleg Colonel Tam;
And there will be trusty Kerroughtree,
Whose honour was ever his law;
If the virtues were packed in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a'.
And can we forget the auld major,
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in tho Greys?
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other,
Him only 'tis justice to praise.
And there will be maiden Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming's guid knight,
And there will be roarin' Birtwhistle,
Wha, luckily, roars in the right.
And there frae the Niddesdale borders.
Will mingle the Maxwells in droves:
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Wattie,
That griens for the fishes and loaves;
And there will be Logan Mac Douall,
Sculdudd'ry and he will be there,
And also the wild Scot o' Galloway,
Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair.
Then hey the chaste int'rest o' Broughton,
And hey for the blessings 'twill bring!
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
In Sodom 'twould make him a king;
And hey for the sanctifled Murray,
Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd;
He founder'd his horse among harlots,
But gied the old naig to the Lord.
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. [BALLAD FOURTH.]
Tune-" Buy broom besoms."
WHA will buy my troggin
Fine election ware;
Broken trade o' Broughton,
A' in high repair.
Buy braw troggin,
Frae the banks o' Dee;"
Who wants troggin
Let him come to me.
Here's a noble Earl's
Fame and high renown
For an auld sang
It's thought the gudes were stown. Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's the worth o' Broughton
In a needle's c'e: Here's a reputation
Tint by Balmaghie.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's an honest conscience,
Might a prince adorn;
Frae the downs o Tinwald-
So was never worn.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here its stuff and lining,
O' Cardoness's head;
Fine for a sodger
A' the wale o' lead.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's a little wadset,
Buittle's scrap o' truth,
Pawn'd in a gin shop,
Quenching holy drouth.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's armorial bearings,
Frae tho manse o' Urr;
The crest, an auld crab-apple
Rotten at the core.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here is Satan's picture,
Like a bizzard gled,
Pouncing poor Redcastle,
Sprawlin' like a taed.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's the worth and wisdom
Collieston can boast;
By a thievish midge
They had been nearly lost.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here is Murray's fragments
O' the ten commands;
Gifted by black Jock,
To get them aff his hands.
Buy braw troggin, &c,
Saw ye c'er sic troggin?
If to buy ye'er slack,
Hornie's turnin' chapman-
He'll buy a' the pack.
Buy braw troggin
Frae the banks o' Dee;
Wha wants troggin
Let him come to me.
JOHN BUSHBY'S473 LAMENTATION. [BALLAD FIFTH ]
Tune---"The Babes in the Wood."
"TWAS in the seventeen hundred year
O' Christ, and ninety-five.
That year I was the wac'est man
O' ony man alive.
In March, the three-and-twentieth day,
The sun rose clear and bright;
But oh, I was a waeful man
Ere toofa' o' the night.
Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land
Wi' equal right and fame,
And thereto was his kinsman join'd
The Murray's nable name!
Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land
Made me the judge o' strife;
But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's broke,
And eke my hangman's knife.
'Twas by the banks o' bonnie Dee,
Beside Kirkcudbright towers.
The Stewart and the Murray there,
Did muster a' their powers.
The Murray, and the auld gray yaud,
Wi' winged spurs did ride,
That auld gray yaud, yea, Nidsdale rade,
He staw upon Nidside.
And there had been the Yerl himsel,
Oh, there had been nae play:
But Garlies was to London gane,
And sae the kye might stray.
And there was Balmaghie, I ween,
In the front rank he wad shine;
But Balmaghie had better been
Drinking Madeira wine.
Frac the Glenkens came to our aid
A chief o' doughty deed,
In case that worth should wanted be,
O' Kenmore we had need.
And there sac grave Squire Cardoness
Look'd on till a' was done;
Sae, in a tower o' Cardoness,
A howlet sits at noon.
And there led I the Bushbys a';
My gamesome billie Will,
And my son Maitland, wise as brave,
My footsteps follow'd still.
The Douglas and the Heron's name,
We set nought to their score:
The Douglas and the Heron's name
Had felt our weight before.
But Douglasses o' weight had we,
The pair o' lusty lairds,
For building cot-houses sae famed,
And christening kail yards.
And by our banners march'd Muirhead,
And Buittle was na slack:
Whose holy priesthood nane can stain,
For wha can dye the black?
THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT.
On! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Without a penny in my purse,
To buy a meal to me.
It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the countrie wide
Sae happy was as me.
For then I had a score o' kye,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Feeding on the hills so high,
And giving milk to n
And there I had three score o' yowes,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo' to me.
I was the happiest o' a clan,
Sair, sair may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest lad,
And Donald he was mine.
Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last,
Sae far to set us free:
My Donald's arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.
heir waefu' fate what need I tell? Right to the wrang did yield. My Donald and his country fell Upon Culloden's field.
Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Nae woman in the world wide
Sae wretched now as me.
ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.174 Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme nor sing nae mair; Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,
Nae mair shall fear him;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care
E'er mair come near him.
To tell the truth, they seldom fash'd him,
Except the moment that they crush'd him;
For soon as chance or fate had hush'd em,
Though e'er sac short,
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash'd em,
And thought it sport.
Though he was born to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robert's mark,
To mak a man:
But tell him he was learn'd and clark,
Ye roosed him then!
EPISTLE TO JOHN GOUDIE,
OF KILMARNOCK, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 175
On Goudie! terror of the Whigs,
Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girnin', looks back,
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.
Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition:
Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician,
To see her water;
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple;
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;
See, how she fetches at the thrapple,
And gasps for breath!
Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gane in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her.
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
Death soon will end her.
'Tis you and Taylor176 are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief,
But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel
And twa rad peats wad send relief,
And end the quarrel.
HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 177
OH thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',
Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,
A' for thy glory.
And no for ony gnid or ill
They've done afore thee!
I bless and praise thy matchless might,
When thousands thou hast left in night,
That I am here afore thy sight,
For gifts and grace,
A burnin' and a shinin' light
To a' this place.
What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,
Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause!
When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me in hell,
To gnash iny gums, to weep and wail,
In burning fake,
Where damned Devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a stake.
Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,
Strong as a rock,
A guide, a buckler, and example
To a' thy flock.
O Lord! thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,
And singin' there, and dancin' here,
Wi' great and sma',
For I am keepit by thy fear,
Free frae them a'.
O Lord! yestreen, thou kens, wi' MegThy pardon I sincerely beg
Oh! may't ne'er be a livin' piague,
To my dishonour,
And I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg
Again upon her.
Besides, I further maun avow,
Wi' Leezie's lass, three times, I trow;
But, Lord! that Friday I was fou,
When I came near her,
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true
Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.
Maybe thou lets't this fleshly thorn,
Beset thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud should turn,
'Cause he's sae gifted:
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne,
Until thou lift it.
Lord! bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace
And public shame.
Lord! mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts,
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts
He steals awa'.
And when we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar
O' laughin' at us:
Curse thou his basket and his store,
Lord! hear my earnest cry and pray'r,
Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo' their heads,
Lord! weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.
O Lord my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken,
My very heart and saul are quakin',
To think how we stood groanin', shakin'
And swat wi' dread,
While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin',
Held up his head.
Lord! in the day of vengeance try him,
Lord! visit them wha did employ him,"
And pass not in thy mercy by 'ein,
Nor hear their pray'r;
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.
But, Lord! remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,
And a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen! Amen!
EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay Taks up its last abode;
His soul has ta'en some other way, I fear the left-hand road. Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nac wonder he's as black's the grun', Observe wha's standing wi' him. Your brunstane devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance you've heard my story. Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye hae nane: -Justice, alas! has given him o'er, And Mercy's day is gaen.
But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.
THIRD EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 178
September 13, 1785.
GUID speed and furder to you, Johnny,
Guid health, hale han's and weather bonny;
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y
To clear your head.
May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and haggs
Like drivin' wrack;
But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack!
I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi' muckle wark,
And took my jokteleg and whatt it,
Like ony clark.
It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature
While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better,
But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sel's;
We'el cry nae jauds frae heathen hills
To help, or roose us,
But browster wives and whiskey stills,
They are the Muses.
Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,
And if ye mak objections at it,
Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,
And witness take,
And when wi' usquebae we've wat it,
It winna break.
But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
And a' the vittel in the yard,
And theekit right,
I mean your ingle-side to guard
Ae winter night.
Then muse-inspiring' aqua-vitæ
Shall make us baith sae blythe and witty,
Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty,
And be as canty
As ye were nine year less than thretty,
Sweet ane and twenty.
But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast,
And now the sin keeks in the west,
Then I maun rin amang the rest
And quat my chanter;
Sae I subscribe myself in haste
Your's Rab the Ranter.
EPISTLE TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATI 1:9
WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r,
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,
Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r
To pass the time,
To you I dedicate the hour
In idle rhyme.
My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet
On gown, and ban', and douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,
Lest they should blame her,
And rouse their holy thunder on it,
And anathem her.
I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy,
That I, a simple, countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,
Wha, if they ken me,
Can easy, wi' a single wordie,
Loose hell upon me.
But I gae mad at their grimaces,
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces,
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,
Their raxin' conscience,
Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces,
Waur not their nonsense.
There's Gawn180 misca't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid's the priest
Wha sae abus't him,
And may a bard no crack his jest
What way they're used him?
See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
And shall his fame and honour bleed
By worthless skellums,
And not a Muse erect her head
To cowe the blellums?
Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
And tell aloud,
Their jugglin', hocus-pocus arts
To cheat the crowd.
God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be,
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be,
But twenty times I rather wou'd be
An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be,
Just for a screen.
An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, and malice fause,
He'll still disdain,
And then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.
They take religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth,
For what?-to gie their malice skouth
On some puir wight,
And hunt him down, o'er right and ruth,
To ruin straight.
All hail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a Muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line,
Thus daurs to name thee;
To stigmatise false friends o' thine
Can ne'er defame thee.
Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain,"
And far unworthy of thy train,
With trembling voice I tune my strain,
(RECOMMENDING A BOY.)
Moss giel, May 3, 1786.
I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty,
To warn you how that Master Tootic,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,
Was here to hire yon lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
And wad hae don't aff han':
But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As, faith, I muckle doubt him,
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks181
And tellin' lies about them:
As lieve, then, I'd have, then,
Your clerkship be should sair,
If sae be, ye may be
Not fitted other where.
Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,
And 'bout a house that's rude and rough,
The boy might learn to swear:
But then wi' you he'll be sac taught,
An' get sic fair example straught,
I have nae only fear.
Ye'll catechise him every quirk,
And shore him weel wi' hell:
And gar him follow to the kirk-
-Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye, then, maun be, then
Frae hame this comin' Friday;
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.
My word of honour I hae gien,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,
To meet the warld's worn;
To try to get the twa to gree,
And name the airles182 and the fee,
In legal mode and form:
I ken he weel a snick can craw,
When simple bodies let him;
And if a Devil be at a'.
I faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you, and praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray'r still. you share still,
Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.
WILLIE CHALMERS.183
Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I'm got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin;
Whiles owre a bush, wi' downward crush,, The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and off he sets
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.
I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes;
I am nae stranger to your fame,
Nor his warm urgèd wishes.
Your bonnie face, sac mild and sweet
His honest heart enamours,
And faith, ye'll no be lost a whit,
Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.
Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,
And honour safely back her,
And modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:
And sic twa love inspiring e'en
Might fire even holy palmers:
Nae wonder, then, they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.
I doubtna fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestic,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie :
But oh what significs to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers
Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird,
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And hoast up some palaver.
My bonnie maid. before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp,
Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.
Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my Muse to gie'm his dues,
For deil a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.
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