And you deep-read in a' black grammar,
Warlocks and witches;
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight WRETCHES.
It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
But now he's quat the spurtle blade,
And dog-skin wallet,
And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets,
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont guid;
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.
Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philabeg;
The knife that nicket Abel's craig,
He'll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,
Or lang-kail gully.
told, soldier
one, would, fallen quitted, thin sword
abundance, old iron
keep, shoe-nails twelvemonth full porridge-pot, [salt-box
besides, off quickly
To send a lad to Lon'on town,
They met upon a day,
And mony a knight and mony a laird
Their errand fain would gae.
O mony a knight and mony a laird
This errand fain would gae;
But nae ane could their fancy please,
O ne'er a ane but twae.
The first he was a belted knight,
Bred o' a Border clan,
And he wad gae to Lon'on town,
Might nae man him withstan'.
And he wad do their errands weel,
And meikle he wad say,
And ilka ane at Lon'on court,
Would bid to him guid-day.
Then next came in a sodger youth,
And spak wi' modest grace,
well much, would each one good-day
(Captain Miller)
And he wad gae to Lon'on town,
If sae their pleasure was.
For far-aff fowls hae feathers fair,
And fools o' change are fain;
But I hae tried the Border knight,
And I'll try him yet again.
Says Black Joan frae Crichton Peel,
A carline stoor and grim,
The auld guidman, and the young guidman,
For me may sink or swim;
For fools will freit o' right or wrang,
While knaves laugh them to scorn;
But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best,
So he shall bear the horn.
Then Whisky Jean spak owre her drink,
Ye weel ken, kimmers a',
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court
His back's been at the wa';
And mony a friend that kiss'd his cup
Is now a fremit wight:
But it's ne'er be said o' Whisky Jean-
I'll send the Border knight.
Then slow raise Marjory o' the Loch's,
And wrinkled was her brow,
Her ancient weed was russest gray,
Her auld Scots bluid was true;
THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpaired machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a-moralising,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amused with proverbed lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night.
Since, then, my honoured, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Though you, with days and honours crowned,
Witness that filial circle round
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight, pale envy to convulse),
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
SPOKEN AT The theatre, DUMFRIES, ON NEW-YEAR'S-DAY
EVENING, 1790.
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o'er our taste-the more's the pity
Though, by the by, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,
I come to wish you all a good new-year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage grave ancient coughed, and bade me say:
"You're one year older this important day."
If wiser, too-he hinted some suggestion,
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink,
He bade me on you press this one word-" think!"
Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way:
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;
That though some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forins, high Heaven's peculiar care !
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you'll mind the important now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere, though haply weak endeavours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours;
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.
PROLOGUE FOR MR SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT
NIGHT, DUMFRIES.
WHAT need's this din about the town o' Lon'on,
How this new play and that new sang is comin'?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he needna toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic Muse in a' her glory.
Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
Now here, even here, he first unsheathed the sword
Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrenched his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
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