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Part XVPart XV
Part XV
Postscript
Let half-starv`d slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clust`ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne`re envies,
But, blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys
Tak aff their whisky.
What tho` their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,
When wretches range, in famish`d swarms,
The scented groves;
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves!
Their gun`s a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o` powther;
Their bauldest thought`s a hank`ring swither
To stan` or rin,
Till skelp-a shot-they`re aff, a`throw`ther,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George`s will,
An` there`s the foe!
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi` fearless eye he sees him;
Wi`bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
An` when he fa`s,
His latest draught o` breathin lea`es him
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,
An` raise a philosophic reek,
An` physically causes seek,
In clime an` season;
But tell me whisky`s name in Greek
I`ll tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho` whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o` heather,
Ye tine your dam;
Freedom an` whisky gang thegither!
Take aff your dram!
The Ordination
For sense they little owe to frugal Heav`n-
To please the mob, they hide the little giv`n.
Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an` claw,
An` pour your creeshie nations;
An` ye wha leather rax an` draw,
Of a` denominations;
Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an` a`
An` there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie`s in a raw,
An` pour divine libations
For joy this day.
Curst Common-sense, that imp o` hell,
Cam in wi` Maggie Lauder;^1
But Oliphant^2 aft made her yell,
An` Russell^3 sair misca`d her:
This day Mackinlay^4 taks the flail,
An` he`s the boy will blaud her!
He`ll clap a shangan on her tail,
An` set the bairns to daud her
Wi` dirt this day.
[Footnote 1: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of
the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lihdsay to the "Laigh Kirk."-R.B.]
[Footnote 2: Rev. James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 3: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 4: Rev. James Mackinlay.]
Mak haste an` turn King David owre,
And lilt wi` holy clangor;
O` double verse come gie us four,
An` skirl up the Bangor:
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure;
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
For Heresy is in her pow`r,
And gloriously she`ll whang her
Wi` pith this day.
Come, let a proper text be read,
An` touch it aff wi` vigour,
How graceless Ham^5 leugh at his dad,
Which made Canaan a nigger;
Or Phineas^6 drove the murdering blade,
Wi` whore-abhorring rigour;
Or Zipporah,^7 the scauldin jad,
Was like a bluidy tiger
I` th` inn that day.
There, try his mettle on the creed,
An` bind him down wi` caution,
That stipend is a carnal weed
He taks by for the fashion;
And gie him o`er the flock, to feed,
And punish each transgression;
Especial, rams that cross the breed,
Gie them sufficient threshin;
Spare them nae day.
Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,
An` toss thy horns fu` canty;
Nae mair thou`lt rowt out-owre the dale,
Because thy pasture`s scanty;
For lapfu`s large o` gospel kail
Shall fill thy crib in plenty,
An` runts o` grace the pick an` wale,
No gi`en by way o` dainty,
But ilka day.
[Footnote 5: Genesis ix. 22.-R. B.]
[Footnote : Numbers xxv. 8.-R. B.]
[Footnote 7: Exodus iv. 52.-R. B]
Nae mair by Babel`s streams we`ll weep,
To think upon our Zion;
And hing our fiddles up to sleep,
Like baby-clouts a-dryin!
Come, screw the pegs wi` tunefu` cheep,
And o`er the thairms be tryin;
Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep,
And a` like lamb-tails flyin
Fu` fast this day.
Lang, Patronage, with rod o` airn,
Has shor`d the Kirk`s undoin;
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin:^8
Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin;
An` like a godly, elect bairn,
He`s waled us out a true ane,
And sound, this day.
Now Robertson^9 harangue nae mair,
But steek your gab for ever;
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,
For there they`ll think you clever;
Or, nae reflection on your lear,
Ye may commence a shaver;
Or to the Netherton^10 repair,
An` turn a carpet weaver
Aff-hand this day.
Mu`trie^11 and you were just a match,
We never had sic twa drones;
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,
Just like a winkin baudrons,
And aye he catch`d the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons;
But now his Honour maun detach,
Wi` a` his brimstone squadrons,
Fast, fast this day.
[Footnote 8: Rev. Wm. Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.]
[Footnote 9: Rev. John Robertson.]
[Footnote 10: A district of Kilmarnock.]
[Footnote 11: The Rev. John Multrie, a "Moderate," whom Mackinlay succeeded.]
See, see auld Orthodoxy`s faes
She`s swingein thro` the city!
Hark, how the nine-tail`d cat she plays!
I vow it`s unco pretty:
There, Learning, with his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty;
And Common-sense is gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Beattie
Her plaint this day.
But there`s Morality himsel`,
Embracing all opinions;
Hear, how he gies the tither yell,
Between his twa companions!
See, how she peels the skin an` fell,
As ane were peelin onions!
Now there, they`re packed aff to hell,
An` banish`d our dominions,
Henceforth this day.
O happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
Come bouse about the porter!
Morality`s demure decoys
Shall here nae mair find quarter:
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys
That heresy can torture;
They`ll gie her on a rape a hoyse,
And cowe her measure shorter
By th` head some day.
Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
And here`s-for a conclusion-
To ev`ry New Light^12 mother`s son,
From this time forth, Confusion!
If mair they deave us wi` their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,
We`ll light a spunk, and ev`ry skin,
We`ll rin them aff in fusion
Like oil, some day.
[Footnote 12: "New Light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those
religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.-
R. B.]
Epistle To James Smith
Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet`ner of Life, and solder of Society!
I owe thee much-Blair.
Dear Smith, the slee`st, pawkie thief,
That e`er attempted stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-brief
Owre human hearts;
For ne`er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.
For me, I swear by sun an` moon,
An` ev`ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye`ve cost me twenty pair o` shoon,
Just gaun to see you;
An` ev`ry ither pair that`s done,
Mair taen I`m wi` you.
That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She`s turn`d you off, a human creature
On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on ev`ry feature
She`s wrote the Man.
Just now I`ve ta`en the fit o` rhyme,
My barmie noddle`s working prime.
My fancy yerkit up sublime,
Wi` hasty summon;
Hae ye a leisure-moment`s time
To hear what`s comin?
Some rhyme a neibor`s name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu` cash;
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
An` raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash;
I rhyme for fun.
The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An` damn`d my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,
Has blest me with a random-shot
O`countra wit.
This while my notion`s taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I`m that way bent,
Something cries "Hooklie!"
I red you, honest man, tak tent?
Ye`ll shaw your folly;
"There`s ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o` letters,
Hae thought they had ensur`d their debtors,
A` future ages;
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages."
Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!
Henceforth I`ll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistlin` thrang,
An` teach the lanely heights an` howes
My rustic sang.
I`ll wander on, wi` tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,
I`ll lay me with th` inglorious dead
Forgot and gone!
But why o` death being a tale?
Just now we`re living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave Care o`er-side!
And large, before Enjoyment`s gale,
Let`s tak the tide.
This life, sae far`s I understand,
Is a` enchanted fairy-land,
Where Pleasure is the magic-wand,
That, wielded right,
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu` light.
The magic-wand then let us wield;
For ance that five-an`-forty`s speel`d,
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild,
Wi` wrinkl`d face,
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
We` creepin pace.
When ance life`s day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;
An` fareweel cheerfu` tankards foamin,
An` social noise:
An` fareweel dear, deluding woman,
The Joy of joys!
O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning,
Young Fancy`s rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution`s lesson scorning,
We frisk away,
Like school-boys, at th` expected warning,
To joy an` play.
We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Among the leaves;
And tho` the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.
Some, lucky, find a flow`ry spot,
For which they never toil`d nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;
And haply eye the barren hut
With high disdain.
With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen hope does ev`ry sinew brace;
Thro` fair, thro` foul, they urge the race,
An` seize the prey:
Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.
And others, like your humble servan`,
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin,
To right or left eternal swervin,
They zig-zag on;
Till, curst with age, obscure an` starvin,
They aften groan.
Alas! what bitter toil an` straining-
But truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is fortune`s fickle Luna waning?
E`n let her gang!
Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let`s sing our sang.
My pen I here fling to the door,
And kneel, ye Pow`rs! and warm implore,
"Tho` I should wander Terra o`er,
In all her climes,
Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o` rhymes.
"Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
And maids of honour;
An` yill an` whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.
"A title, Dempster^1 merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;
Gie wealth to some be-ledger`d cit,
In cent. per cent.;
But give me real, sterling wit,
And I`m content.
[Footnote 1: George Dempster of Dunnichen, M.P.]
"While ye are pleas`d to keep me hale,
I`ll sit down o`er my scanty meal,
Be`t water-brose or muslin-kail,
Wi` cheerfu` face,
As lang`s the Muses dinna fail
To say the grace."
An anxious e`e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune`s blows
As weel`s I may;
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.
O ye douce folk that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an`cool,
Compar`d wi` you-O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!
Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!
Nae hair-brain`d, sentimental traces
In your unletter`d, nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces
Ye never stray;
But gravissimo, solemn basses
Ye hum away.
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye`re wise;
Nae ferly tho` ye do despise
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattling squad:
I see ye upward cast your eyes-
Ye ken the road!
Whilst I-but I shall haud me there,
Wi` you I`ll scarce gang ony where-
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,
But quat my sang,
Content wi` you to mak a pair.
Whare`er I gang.
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