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With melting heart, and brimful eye,
l'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.
And spent the chearful, festive night:
Presided o'er the sons of light : And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw! Strong mem’ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa'!
Unite you in the grand design,
The glorious Architect divine !
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.
IV. And you
farewell! whose merits claim, Justly, that highest badge to wear! Heav'n bless your honourd, noble name,
To masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a', One round, I ask it with a tear,
To him, the bard that's far awa'.
Tane, “ Prepare, my dear brethren, to the taverna
No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No sly man of business contriving á snare,
II. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
III. Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse ; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; Bat see you the crown how it waves in the air, There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.
V. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck, But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
VI. "Life's cares they are comforts*"-a maxim laid
down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the
black gown : And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair; For a big-belly'd bottle 's a heaven of care.
A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.
Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,
Young's Night Thoughts.
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care ; But ah ! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!
Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,
To hope may be forgiv'n ;
So much in sight of Heav'n.
As the authentic prose history of the whistle is curious, I shall here give it.- In the train of Ann of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a 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 credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany: and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority--After many overthrows on the part of the
ts. the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of tbe present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 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 had continued ; and Alex. ander Fergusson, 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,
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
Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
* See Ossian's Caric-thura.
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
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
A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day ;
* See Jobuson's tour to the Hebrides.