A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 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 Phoebus 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 Phœbus-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; CALEDONIA, 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 good. 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 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 horn. Long quiet she reigned; 'till thitherward steers They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land: Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shoret ; 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 repel; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tellt. The Camelion-savage disturb'd her repose, And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his lifet: The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 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 always§. *The Danes. Two 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. E. ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, Between the duke of Argyle and the earl of Mar. "O cam ye here the fight to shun, The red-coat lads wi' black cockades To meet them were na slaw, man; I wat they glanced twenty miles: They hack'd and hash'd, while broad swords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, 'Till feymen died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man; In lines extended lang and large, "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, man ; And at Dumblane in my ain sight, My sister Kate cam up the gate They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: And whigs to hell did flee, man*. This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787. E. |