AUGUST THE TWELFTH.

OVER-NIGHT.

YOU must wake, and call me early—call me early—Willie Weir,

To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year;

The cockneys and the keepers will all be out of doors,

And I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie—I'm to shoot over the moors.

II.

There's many a pack of pointers, but none that point likemine;

There's Paragon and Pincher—there's Kit and Keelavine,

And my little Dandie Dinmont, that stands firm as any house,

So I'm to bag all the grouse, Willie—I'm to bag all the grouse.

III.

I sleep so soundly all the night that I shall never wake,

Unless you call me loudly when the dawn begins to break,

For I've to put on my philabeg and sporran's foxy tail,

To look like a genuine Gael, Willie, to look like a genuine Gael.

IV.

As I came up the valley, whom think you I should see?

Ben Moses of the Minories, he has rented Bonachree!

He wished to rent my moor, Willie, but boggled at the price,

So I went in by telegram, and nailed it in a trice.

Shelty Pony shall go to-morrow, to carry two fowls at least,

For a cockney on the hillside is a very ravenous beast;

And you shall bring the saddlebags to hold the birds I spot,

For I'll get my worth of the moors, Willie, at least in the powder and shot.

VI.

So you must wake me early—call me early, Willie Weir,

To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year.

From Cheapside unto Chelsea, they're envying me at home,

For I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie, as far as I can roam.

ON THE TWELFTH.

I bade you wake me early, with my shaving-jug and brogues,

But Scotch and English servants are all a pack of rogues.

It's the only Twelfth of August in the Highlands I shall see,

Yet you snored on your truckle-bed, Willie, and never thought of me.

II.

Last night I saw the sunset, he looked both wroth and red,

As if he knew when dawning came I'd still be lay-a-bed.

From crag and scaur and heather I hear the popping shot,

And not a single bird, Willie, has fallen to my lot.

III.

What say you? "'Tis a soft day, the roads are runnin' burns,

"The heather's a' wet blankets, ye might droon ye in the ferns;

Ye canna see a hand forenent, the mist's sae white and chill,

Ye'd sune be bogged amang the muirs, and lost upon the hill."

IV.

There's not a sportsman on the hills, the rain is on the pane,

I only wish to sleep until the sunshine comes again.

I wish the mist would lift, and the light break out once more,

I long to kill a grouse, Willie, ere the Twelfth of August's o'er.

I have been stiff and lazy, but I'll up and dress me now,

You'll fetch my breakfast, Willie, and my plaid before I go.

Nay, nay, you must not brush so hard, my very teeth you jolt,

You should not rub me down, Willie, as if I were a colt.

VI.

I'll bring back dinner, if I can, in a brace of cock and hen,

But if you do not see me, you will know I've dined with Ben.

If I cannot speak a sober word when I come back from the toddy,

Just tuck me into bed, Willie, like a canny Hieland body.

VII.

Good-bye, you rascal, Willie; call me earlier in the morn,

Or I'll thrash you into next week, as sure as you were born;

For I must get my money back from grouse and hare and deer,

So wake, and call me early—call me early, Willie Weir.

Will-o'-the-Wisp, August, 1869.