The Nith shall run to Corsincon,*
And Criffelt sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
Fall de rall, &c.

O let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided;
Till slap come in an unco loun
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true
Amang oursels united;
For never but by British Eands
Maun British wrangs be righted.
Fall de rall, &c.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a claut may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loun
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.
Our father's bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By heaven the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.

Fall de rall, &c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch, his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be d-n'd together!

Who will not sing, "God save the King,"
Shall hang as high's the steeple;

But while we sing, "God save the King,"
We'll ne'er forget the People.

THE WHISTLE.

A BALLAD.

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall here give it.

In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Seetland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a

*A high hill at the source of the Nith.

All-known mountain at the mouth of the Solway

matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced crcdentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and severa, of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or elee of acknowledging their inferiority.

After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nighis' hard contest, left the Scandina vian under the table,

And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before-mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.

On Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it ad continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard won honours of the field.

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the north,

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda* still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-
"This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champious ventur'd, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the Lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he

*See Ossian's Caric-thura.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd:
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw,
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.
"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies,
"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,*
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend,
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dams.

A Bard is selected to witness the fray,

And tell future ages the feats of the day;

A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,

And every new cork is a new spring of joy;

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the lighter the more they were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er :

Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthin hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
-When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.

See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend?
Tho' fate said-a hero should perish in light;
So up rose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.
Next up rose our Bard, like a prophet in drink :-
"Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink;
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime!
Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;
The field thou hast won. by yon bright god of day!"

JOHN BARLEYCORN.*

A BALLAD,

THERE went three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale,

His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

This is partly composed on the pian of an old song known by the same name.

132

POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH.

His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age,

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee:
Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore,
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,"
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swiin.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther wo,
And still as signs of life appeared,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;

Put a miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,

For, if you do but taste his blood,

"Twill make your courage rise.

"Twill make a man forget his wo;
"Twill heighten all his joy;

"Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in auld Scotland!

THE END.