An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff,
Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped,
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord! what's become o' the head?
An' there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
For the Devil the prey will despise.
An' there will be Douglasses doughty,
New christ'ning towns far and near!
Abjuring their democrat doings,
By kissing the
An' there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous,
Whose honour is proof to the storm,
To save them from stark reprobation,
He lent them his name to the firm.
But we winna mention Redcastle,
The body e'en let him escape!
He'd venture the gallows for siller,
An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape.
An' where is our King's lord lieutenant,
Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return?
The billie is gettin his questions,
To say in St. Stephen's the morn.
An' there will be lads o' the gospel,
Muirhead wha's as gude as he's true;
An' there will be Buittle's apostle,
Wha's more o' the black than the blue;
An' there will be folk from St. Mary's,
A house o' great merit and note,
The Deil ane but honours them highly-
The Deil ane will gie them his vote!
An' there will be wealthy young Richard,
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck;
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing,
His merit had won him respect:
An' there will be rich brother nabobs,
Though nabobs, yet men of the first,
An' there will be Collieston's whiskers,
An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst.
An' there will be Stamp-Office Johnnie,
Tak tent how ye purchase a dram;
An' there will be gay Cassencarrie,
An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam;
An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree,
Whose honour was ever his law,
If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a'.
An' can we forget the auld major,
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys,
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other,
Him only 'tis justice to praise.
An' there will be maiden Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming's gude knight,
An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle,
Wha, luckily, roars in the right.
An' there, frae the Niddisdale's borders,
Will mingle the Maxwells in droves;
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Walie,
That griens for the fishes an' loaves;
An' there will be Logan Mac Dowall,
Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there,
An' also the wild Scot o' Galloway,
Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair.
Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton,
An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring!
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
In Sodom 'twould make him a king;
An' hey for the sanctified Murray,
Our land who wi' chapels has stor❜d;
He founder'd his horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig to the Lord.
HA will buy my troggin,
Fine election ware;
Broken trade o' Broughton,
A' in high repair.
Buy braw troggin,
Frae the banks o' Dee;
Wha wants troggin,
Let him come to me.
There's a noble Earl's
Fame and high renown,
For an auld sang
It's thought the gudes were stown.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's the worth o' Broughton
In a needle's ee;
Here's a reputation
Tint by Balmaghie.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's an honest conscience Might a prince adorn; Frae the downs o' TinwaldSo was never worn.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's its stuff and lining,
Cardoness' head;
Fine for a sodger
A' the wale o' lead.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's a little wadset,
Buittle's scrap o' truth,
Pawn'd in a gin-shop
Quenching holy drouth.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's armorial bearings Frae the manse o' Urr; The crest, a sour crab-apple Rotten at the core.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here is Satan's picture,
Like a bizzard gled,
Pouncing poor Redcastle
Sprawlin' as a taed.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here's the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast;
By a thievish midge
They had been nearly lost.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here is Murray's fragments
O' the Ten Commands;
Gifted by black Jock,
To get them aff his hands.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Saw ye e'er sic troggin?
If to buy ye're slack,
Hornie's turnin' chapman,—
He'll buy a' the pack.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
E sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation;
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such
another
To sit in that honoured station.
I've little to say, but only to pray,
As praying's the ton of your fashion;
A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse, 'Tis seldom her favourite passion.
Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, Who marked each element's border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order;
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention
Or withered envy ne'er enter;
May secresy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly love be the centre!
|