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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 ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they

were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phæbus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 'Till Cynthia binted 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.

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? Though fate said-a hero should perish in light; So up rose bright Phæbus-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!


Tune" Caledonian Hunt's delight.”

There was once a day, but old Time then was

young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung,

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : Her heavenly relations there fixed her to reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it


A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew: Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, -“ Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter

shall rue !” With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling

corn ; But chiefly the woods were her fav’rite resort, Her darling amusement the hounds and the


Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers

- A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand*: Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the

land: Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,

They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside ; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly,

The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the


The Romans.

+ The Saxons,

The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore* : O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, No arts could appease them, no arms could re

pel; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tellt.

The Camelion-savage disturbid her repose,

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife; Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his

lifef: The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver

flood; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free,

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run: For brave Caledonia immortal must be ;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangle-triangle the figure we'll chuse, The upright is chance, and old time is the

base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them


* The Danes.

+ I'wo famous battles, in which the Danes or Norwegians were defeated.

| The Picts.

§ This singular figure of poetry, taken from the mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a rightangled triangle, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the squares of the two other sides.



Between the duke of Argyle and the earl of Mar.

“ O cam ye here the fight to shun,

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or ware ye at the Sherra-muir,

And did the battle see, man?"
I saw the battle sair and tough,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart for fear gae sough for sough,
To bear the thuds, and see the cluds
O'clans frae woods, in tartan duds,

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades

To meet them were na slaw, man ;
They rush'd and push'd, and blood outgusb’d,

And mony'a bouk did fa', man :
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty miles :
They hack'd and hash'd, while broad swords

clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hewd and smash'd,

'Till feymen died awa, man.

But had you seen the philibegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man ;
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,

And covenant true blues, man ;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets oppos’d the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o’ death, 'till out o breath,

They fled like frighted doos, man.

“ O how deil, Tam, can that be true?

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; I saw myself, they did pursue

The horsemen back to Forth, mar ;

And at Dumblane in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a their might,
And straught to Stirling winged their flight ;
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ;
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat,

For fear amaist did swarf, man."

My sister Kate cam up the gate

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ;
She swoor she saw some rebels run

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebors' blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs or brose ; all crying woes,

And so it goes, you see, man.

They've lost some gallant gentlemen,

Amang the Highland claos, man ;
I fear my lord Panmure is slaiy,

Or fallen in whiggish hands, inan :
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world gude-night ;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores and muskets knell,
Wi’ dying yell, the tories fell,

And whigs to hell did flee, man".

* This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787.

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