Robert Burns,
Born January 25, 1759. Died July 21, 1796.
he date of the birth of Burns has been variously given as January 25 and January 29, the former date is probably correct judging from the lines:
“Our monarch’s hindmost year but ane.
Was five and twenty days begun,
’Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’
Blew hansel in our Robin.”
It is now generally adopted, and the celebration of the Centenary of Burns’s birth was certainly held at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, on January 25, 1859.
Of all the Poems written by Burns no one is so grand, or so generally popular as Bruce’s address to his troops, which Burns is said to have composed as he rode home through a heavy storm. He sent the following draft of it to his friend Mr. George Thomson, in September, 1793, suggesting that the poem might be set to the old Scotch air Hey Tuttie Taittie.
Bruce to his Troops.
On the Eve of the Battle of Bannockburn.
(As originally written by Burns.)
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the front o’ battle lower:
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a cowards grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa’,
Let him follow me?
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us DO or DIE!
Mr. Thompson, in acknowledging the Poem, remarked:—
“Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine yesterday with a party of your friends to whom I read it. They were all charmed with it, entreated me to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest or grandeur as ‘Hey tuttie taittie.’
I have been running over the whole hundred airs, of which I lately sent you the list; and I think ‘Lewie Gordon’ is most happily adapted to your ode; at least with a very short variation of the fourth line, which I shall presently submit to you. There is in ‘Lewie Gordon’ more of the grand than the plaintive, particularly when it is sung with a degree of spirit which your words would oblige the singer to give it. I would have no scruple about substituting your ode in the room of ‘Lewie Gordon,’ which has neither the interest, the grandeur, nor the poetry that characterize your verses. Now the variation I have to suggest on the last line of each verse, the only line too short for the air, is as follows:—
Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie.
2nd, Chains—chains and slaverie.
3rd, Let him, let him turn and flee.
4th, Let him bravely follow me.
5th, But they shall, they shall be free.
6th, Let us, let us do, or die!
If you connect each line with its own verse, I do not think you will find that either the sentiment or the expression loses any of its energy.”
Acting upon these suggestions Burns altered his Poem to suit the music, but in simplicity and grandeur the first version was far superior to the second.
Bannockburn.
Robert Bruce’s address to his Army.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled:
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour
See approach proud Edward’s power—
Edward! chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa’,
Caledonia! on wi’ me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins.
But they shall be—shall be free!
Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Forward: let us do or die!
Curiously enough one of the earliest Parodies of this Poem is a satirical effusion directed against a victim of foul wrong and oppression, Caroline of Brunswick, wife of George IV., and her sympathisers, Sir John Cam Hobhouse, Joseph Hume, Alderman Wood, and her advocate Henry Brougham (Broom), afterwards Lord Chancellor. Brandenburgh House, at Hammersmith, was the residence of Queen Caroline.
Gulls, who’ve heard what Hobhouse said!
Gulls whom Joseph Hume has led!
Who deem that Pater Moore has head
For Plans of Liberty!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the face of Gifford lour,
See approach the lawyer’s power,
Bags and knavery.
Who’ll believe Italian spies?
When honest Times indignant cries,
That all they say are monstrous lies,
Foul conspiracy!
Who for England’s Queen so bright,
To purchase Plate subscribes his mite,
Or signs addresses, wrong or right,
To Brandenburgh with me!
By our Wood that shields the Queen,
By our Broom that sweeps all clean,
We will go through thick and thin,
But she shall be free!
Lay her proud accusers low,
Pure she’ll prove as “unsunned snow,”
Can we but persuade them so,
Let us on and see!
Britons who have often Bled.
Britons who have often bled
In the cause that Hampden led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory,
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour,
See the front of battle lour,
See approach your tyrant’s power,
Chains and slavery!
Who would be a traitor knave?
Who would fill a coward’s grave?
Who so base as be a slave?
Traitor, coward, turn and flee!
Who at Liberty’s sweet cry
Freedom’s sword would raise on high?
Freeman stand, or freeman die,
Hark! your chief cries “on with me!”
By oppression’s woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay your proud oppressors low!
Tyrants fall in every blow!
For the cause of God below,
Is the cause of Liberty.
From The Republican, October 8, 1819.
R. Carlile, printer, 55, Fleet Street, London.
Glee.
Folks who’ve oft at Dolby’s fed!
Folks who’ve nibbled Batson’s bread!
Folks who’ve ta’en a Hummum’s bed!
Come not o’er the sea:
Victuals here are but so, so;
Hollands, too, run very low;
Scarce is coffee and cocoa;
Sojourn where you be.
Now’s the time and now’s the hour,
For little bread, there being no flour;
Liberty’s a glorious dower—
Though ragged, let’s be free!
We will walk the unlopp’d wood,
And taste what Nature grows for food—
Grumbling here does little good!
So hail, glad Liberty!
From The Fancy, a selection from the
Poetical remains of the late
Peter Corcoran, 1820.
The same volume also contains a poem entitled The Fields of Tothill: A Fragment. This is written in imitation of Lord Byron’s Don Juan.
In 1823 the John Bull newspaper contained a parody of “Scots wha hae,” entitled “Wilson’s Subscription,” but the subject is obsolete, and the parody inferior. It commenced:
Whigs! who have with Michael dined,
Whigs! who have with Bennet whined,
Hasten now to raise the wind,
For a Knight’s dismissed.
In the same year another skit at the Whig party appeared. The allusions it contains are to Lord Grey, who eventually passed the Reform Bill, Joseph Hume, the political economist and exposer of Parliamentary corruption; R. Carlile, the publisher of Tom Paine’s, and other advanced Radical works; Leigh Hunt, part proprietor of the Examiner, who had been imprisoned for calling the Prince Regent a “Fat Adonis of Fifty”; Henry Hunt, who had suffered a long imprisonment for attending a meeting at Manchester to agitate for the Reform of the House of Commons, in 1819; and Henry Brougham, afterwards Lord Chancellor, who was instrumental in eventually passing that measure.
Whigs whom Fox and Petty led,
Whigs who under Lord Grey fled,
Welcome, though three in a bed,
To the Treasury:
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour—
Starve the Tories out of power—
Cent. per cent. their wages lower,
They cannot choose but flee.
Who would be a grumbling knave,
Though but half a loaf he have?
Who prefer to toil and slave
Without pay or fee?
Who in spite of King and Laws,
Faction’s darling weapon draws,
Calls Hume’s and Bennet’s—Freedom’s cause,
Let him follow me!
Let Bennet boast his purity
In politics and pedigree,
Talk loud of his nihil-ity
By long service won.
Let Hume dissect each place and fee,
Each clerk, although a brother he,
And prove that Cocker’s Rule of Three
Means only Number One.
Whigs, with Carlile who condole,
Whigs, with Hunt now cheek by jowl,
Whigs, whom Tierney can’t control,
And swears at horribly!
Hume vows he has made a breach,
(Not a pair, as hirelings teach),
Out of little Bennet’s reach,
By Financery!
Let Wilson rear his fallen crest,
Let Log-Wood’s wisdom be confess’d,
Leave Creevey’s virtues—to be guess’d,
And Cam to form the line.
Let Brougham be taken off the shelf,
And make his fees from Michael’s pelf;
Michael’s a host, sirs, in himself,
So—let us in and dine!
By our long and hopeless pains,
By despair of office gains,
We will draw our dearest veins,
But we will get in.
Lay Lord Londonderry low,
Placemen fell at every blow;
Every placeman is our foe;
Let us—pray begin.
Parody.
Written when part of the Duty was taken
off Whiskey, in October, 1823.
Scots wha hae the duties paid;
Scots wham whiskies aft made glad:
Welcome, for the duty’s fled,
And it shall be free!
Now’s the time and now’s the hour;
See the shades of evening lour;
See the streams of toddy pour—
Pledge it three-times-three!
Wha wad be a brandy slave?
Wha wad shilpit claret lave?
Wha of rum wad ever rave?
When the whisky’s free?
Wha for Scotia’s ancient drink,
Will fill a bicker to the brink!
Scotsmen wake or Scotsmen wink,
Aquavitæ aye for me!
By taxation’s woes and pains!
By the smuggler’s ill-got gains!
We shall raise our wildest strains,
For it shall be free!
Lay the big gin bottle low!
In the fire the port wine throw!
Let the tide of whiskey flow!
Like liberty, aye free!
Robert Gilfillan.
Roasted Sucking Pig.
Cooks who’d roast a sucking-pig,
Purchase one not over big;
Coarse ones are not worth a fig
So a young one buy.
See that he is scalded well
(That is done by those who sell),
Therefore on that point to dwell,
Were absurdity.
Sage and bread, mix just enough,
Salt and pepper quantum suff.,
And the Pig’s interior stuff,
With the whole combined.
To a fire that’s rather high,
Lay it till completely dry;
Then to every part apply
Cloth, with butter lined.
Dredge with flour o’er and o’er,
Till the Pig will hold no more;
Then do nothing else before
’Tis for serving fit—
Then scrape off the flour with care;
Then a butter’d cloth prepare;
Rub it well; then cut—not tear—
Off the head of it.
Then take out and mix the brains
With the gravy it contains;
While it on the spit remains,
Cut the Pig in two.
Chop the sage, and chop the bread
Fine as very finest shred;
O’er it melted butter spread—
Stinginess won’t do.
When it in the dish appears,
Garnish with the jaws and ears;
And when dinner-hour nears,
Ready let it be.
Who can offer such a dish
May dispense with fowl and fish;
And if he a guest should wish,
Let him send for me!
“Bunn! Wha Hae.”
Bunn! wha hae wi’ Wallace sped,
Bunn! for whom Bruce oft has led,
Bunn! whom Jenny Lind doth dread,
Strike for victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
Don’t to Lumley’s programme cower;
See proud Beale approach in power,
Back’d by Royalty.
Though the [23] contract’s void, they say,
Though your ballet go away,
Though Baderna cannot stay,
Don’t desponding get.
By fair Thillon’s eyes and curls,
By Carlotta Grisi’s trils,
“Bondmen” and “Bohemian” girls,
You may be happy yet.
The Man in the Moon, Vol. I,
A Novel Turn,
to an Auld Sang.
Jews—as every one has read—
Jews—as Charles Bruce lately said—
Know that you are born and bred
The World’s Aristocracie,
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See auld Inglis looking sour;
On you he abuse doth shower—
Inglis, Cant, and Mummerie!
Wha would be a Jew-boy, Jew?
Sell auld almanacks for new,
When he’s one of—Bruce says true—
The World’s Aristocracie!
Wha for Israel’s right, by law,
In the house to sit, will draw—
Member stand, or member fa’—
Son of Judah, on wi’ me!
By auld London’s streets and lanes,
By great Rothschild’s cunning brains,
We will spend our hard earn’d gains
But he shall be an M.P.
Lay our proud opponents low—
Agnews[24] fall in every foe—
Parliament’s in every blow—
Opposition’s all my eye!
The Puppet-Show, April 15, 1848.
Louis Napoleon’s Address to his Army.
Guards! who at Smolensko fled—
No—I beg your pardon—bled!
For my Uncle blood you’ve shed,
Do the same for me.
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
Heads to split and streets to scour;
Strike for rank, promotion, power,
Swag, and eau de vie.
Who’s afraid a child to kill?
Who respects a shopman’s till?
Who would pay a tailor’s bill?
Let him turn and flee.
Who would burst a Goldsmith’s door,
Shoot a dun, or sack a store?
Let him arm, and go before—
That is, follow me!
See the mob, to madness riled
Up the barricades have piled;
In among them, man and child,
Unrelentingly.
Shoot the men! there’s scarcely one
In a dozen’s got a gun:
Stop them, if they try to run,
With Artillery.
Shoot the boys! each one may grow
Into—of the state—a foe
(Meaning by the state, you know,
My supremacy!)
Shoot the girls and women old!
Those may bear us traitors bold—
These may be inclined to scold,
Our severity.
Sweep the streets of all who may
Rashly venture in the way,
Warning for a future day
Satisfactory.
Then, when still’d is ev’ry voice,
We, the nation’s darling choice,
Calling on them to rejoice,
Tell them, France is Free.
William E. Aytoun.
A Briton’s Address
to his Brother Countrymen.
Britons! at your country’s call,
Freely live, or bravely fall;
Honour’d death awaits us all,
Death, or glorious victory.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour!
See the front of battle lour:
See approach proud Gallia’s power—
Gallia! chains and slavery!
Who will be a traitor knave?
Who can fill a coward’s grave?
Who so base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee.
No—in this our sacred cause
For Britannia’s King and Laws,
Freedom’s sword each Freeman draws
’Gainst the insulting enemy.
Who would fear, or who would flee?
Fix’d is Britain’s destiny—
Death with Glory welcome be,
If not Life with Liberty.
Briton! by thy wife’s warm tear,
By thy spotless Daughter’s fear,
By thy menac’d Altars swear
That this Island shall be free.
Lay the base Invaders low,
Tyrants fall in every foe.
Freedom hangs on every blow,
Oh! to conquer or to die!
Printed for J. Hatchard, 190, Piccadilly,
Price Three-pence per dozen.
J. Hales, Old Boswell Court. No date.
Wing-Kee-Fum’s
Address to the Patriot’s Army.
A Parody, with the above title, was published in Diogenes (a London comic journal), in September, 1853. It was in reference to the Revolution in China against the Tartar dynasty, when the rebels made it incumbent upon their adherents to shave off their pigtails, hitherto the badge of the conquered race. As the parody has little merit or historical interest, the following extracts will suffice:—
Cut away! No coward fears
Shall restrain our warlike shears;
We shout defiance in the ears
Of all the Tartar race.
Now the day is nobly won,
Now the deed is nobly done;
We hurl our pigtails, every one,
In the Mantchoo’s face!
Victory! our country’s free!
The pigtail gone, no longer we
By any alien race shall be
Trampled on—kept down.
The day’s our own—we’ll wear our hair
Just as we please; and boldly swear
The Mantchoo’s pigtail now shall ne’er
Aspire to China’s crown.
* * * * *
Travellers, who’ve so oft been Bled.
Travellers, who’ve so oft been bled,
When you’re poorly lodged and fed,
At the Blue Boar, or King’s Head.
Or the Victory;
Ye who’ve paid a crown, or so,
For a pint of Cape, or sloe,
Join your powers to overthrow
Such cool knavery!
Down with every monstrous tax,
Chambermaids, and lights of wax!
Who will pay for these, I ax,
Shillings two or three?
With each breast the feeling chimes,
Well to punish such foul crimes;
To the castigating Times,
Biffin, write with me!
By the dinners, dear and bad,
By the items, never had,
Charged and paid for, yet too glad
To escape so free,—
Deal mine host a deadly blow:
Tell the boots that he may go
To the gentleman below!
Forward—what a spree!
Diogenes, October 15, 1853.
Song, by an “Old Shaver.”
Ye whose chins have often bled,
Who, no doubt, each morn have said,
“Why should blood of mine be shed
To please Society?”
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
Though your close-shorn friends look sour,
Defiance bid to barberous power,
Soap and slavery!
Who’d be goose enough to shave
When he might the trouble save?
Who’d to custom be a slave,
Lest folks call him, Guy?
Who, from old-established raw,
Fresh blood each day are wont to draw
While scraping at your nether jaw,
Fling your razors by!
By the cuts upon my chin,
By the smarting of my skin,
By the rage it puts me in,
No more shave for me!
Let moustache and whisker grow,
O’er your breast the long beard flow;
Let the barefaced shavers know
What a beard should be!
Diogenes, February, 1854.
The Czar’s Address to his Army.
Serfs, wha hae wi’ Kut’soff bled!
Serfs, like beasts of burden led,
Though readier far to go to bed—
Come to glorious victory!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
Let Europe taste despotic power;
Make the base pretenders cower;
Down with Right and Liberty!
Who will be a traitor knave,
Shun the knout our fathers gave,
And freedom from the Saxon crave?
Patriot rebel, turn and flee!
Who would feast on tallow fat,
Strike a blow at Kalafat!
Cossacks, lick your lips at that;
Valiant Finsmen, on wi’ me!
By our nobles’ crafty gains,
By our vassals’ cherish’d chains,
We will give our dullest brains;
But we won’t, we won’t be free!
Lay the Gaul and Saxon low;
Crush a Turk at every blow;
Liberty’s our greatest foe!
Forward, or you’ll all be d——!
Diogenes, 1854.
The Liberal Party.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE ECHO.
Sir,—If you think the enclosed worthy of appearing in the Echo I shall be glad.—Yours respectfully,
W. Lothian.
31, Ferntower-road, Highbury, Jan. 31.
Address to the Liberal Army.
A’ wha hae wi’ Russell sped,
A’ wham Gladstone’s often led;
Welcome to a Tory bed
Or to victory!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour,
See approach a would-be power—
Lord B. Disraeli!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Follow Disraeli.
Wha, for Parliament and Law,
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw;
Freemen stand, while Tories fa’,
Let him Liberal be!
By Oppression’s woes and pains!
We’ll not brook Imperial chains,
For the blood in Liberal veins
Boils at Disraeli!
Lay all such usurpers low!
Tories fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Down wi’ Disraeli!
The Echo, February 1, 1879.
“Scots wha’ Are.”
Scots! wha are on oatmeal fed,
Scots! wha sold your Royal Head
To his foeman to behead—
For a mere baubee,
Now’s the day and now’s the hour
To throw your noble landlord ower,
And bring your Willie into power,
Scotsmen, I am he!
Wha can be a traitor knave?
Wha his chance of power to save
Shame and infamy can brave?
Scotsmen, I am he!
Wha’s for Disestablishment?
Wha can’t tell whatever’s meant
By “Home Rule” and “Don’t pay rent,”
Let him follow me.
By the law of hypothec,
Hung like chains around your neck,
Scotsmen join with me to wreck
The Tory Ministry.
England to the wall may go,
Russia jubilant may crow
O’er her fall. Yet be it so,
I avenged shall be.
March, 1850.
From “They are Five,” by W. E. G. (A small collection of Conservative parodies published by David Bogue, London, 1880).
“Scott Wha Ha’;”
Or Jumbo’s Address to his Keeper.
Scott wha ha’ your Jumbo fed,
Scott wham Jumbo aft hath led,
Soonest mended least that’s said
Of your shabby victory!
Wha dare ask how I behave?
Here I’m caged up like a slave;—
Guess if I’d got loose, a shave
They’d all had to turn and flee!
What’s the good of British law?
Chitty only finds a flaw!—
Though I bang my head half raw,
Their sole game is “On wi’ me!”
There,—I call the whole thing low:
E’en my trumpet I can’t blow;
Off! Here, let me gang below—
Steward! Let me do, or die!
Punch, 1882.
When the elephant Jumbo was sent from the Zoological Gardens, London, to the United States he was accompanied by his keeper, Scott, who was with him when he was killed by a locomotive engine.
Salisbury to the Conservatives.
Friends, by Whig retrenchment bled,
Friends, whom Beaconsfield has led,
Rally round your Tory head,
On to victory come!
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See the front of Gladstone lour,
See laid low the Caucus’ power,
Rads and Brummagem!
Who would come at Bradlaugh’s call,
Who would see Great Britain Small,
Who would be a Radical,
Let him turn and flee!
Who “For God and Queen” will cry
Eager he to do as I,
Loyal live and loyal die,
Let him follow me!
By the woes seditions bring,
We would rather have one King
Than five hundred in the ring
Brummagem would give.
Lay the platform-spouters low!
Liberty is ours we know!
Change may tyrants bring and woe!
Change we not and—live!
From A Pen’orth o’ Poetry for the Poor.
London, 1884.
A Call to Arms.
Men by wise example led,
From England’s greatest statesmen dead;
Men whose fathers fought and bled
For England’s liberty;
Now’s the day and now’s the hour,
See the front of battle lour,
Scatter wide the Tory power,
And let us still be free!
Who would be a Jingo knave?
Who would Tory banners wave?
Let him ever be a slave
To Tory tyranny.
Who would justice, right and law,
Free from Tories’ greedy maw,
To the poll in thousands draw,
And poll for liberty!
Ere oppression’s woes and pains
Load your sons with servile chains,
Poll your full elect’ral gains
To keep the people free;
Lay the Tory braggarts low,
A tyrant falls in every foe,
Strike! for every Liberal blow
Is dealt for liberty!
From Songs for Liberal Electors, 1885.
——:o:——
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent:
But now your brow it beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow.
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
Robert Burns.
The above is the version of this song as given in the Works of Burns, but John Anderson, my jo, existed as a song, under different forms, long before his time. In Percy’s Reliques of Ancient Poetry it is traced back to the time of the Reformation, when many ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung to the tunes of favorite hymns in the Latin Service, to ridicule the Roman Catholic faith. The explanation is important, and should be borne in mind, as accounting for the fact that many of the absurd and nonsensical old Scotch Songs, which Burns either entirely re-wrote, or remodelled, were wedded to really grand original music.
The first, and only, verse fit to quote originally ran thus:
“John Anderson, my jo, cum in as ye gae bye,
And ye sail get a sheips heid, weel baken in a pye;
Weel baken in a pye, and the haggis in a pot:
John Anderson, my jo cum in, and ye’s get that,”
In the first volume of a collection entitled, Poetry Original and Selected, printed by Brash & Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as follows:
John Anderson, my jo, Improved.
By Robert Burns.
John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean,
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e’en,
Ye’ll blear out all your e’en, John, and why should you do so
Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began
To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;
And you amang them a’, John, sae trig frae tap to toe,
She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit,
And ye need na think it strange, John, tho’ I ca’ ye trim and neat.
Tho’ some folk say ye’re auld, John, I never think ye so,
But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, we’ve seen our bairns’ bairns,
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I’m happy in your arms,
And sae are ye in mine, John—I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no,
Tho’ the days are gane, that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie,
To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up ’tween you and me,
And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go,
Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent.
But now your head’s turned bald, John, your locks are like the snaw,
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past,
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last;
But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne’er our foe,
While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John, we’ve had wi’ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we’ll go.
And we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.
The stanza with which this song begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. With regard to the five additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably by Burns, every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them, ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given, to the world, as the production of Burns.
Jane Barnaby.
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
I’m wearing wan, and old
As herds at close of eve, Jane,
Are summon’d to the fold,
I soon to mine shall be, Jane,
My close of life is near,
And much I need our Shepherd’s care,
Jane Barnaby, my dear.
* * * * *
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
Thy tenderness is sweet,
And grateful is this heart
That soon will cease to beat.
Thou wert its earliest love, Jane,
Thou art its solace here,
Thou’lt be its last remembrance.
Jane Barnaby, my dear.
* * * * *
Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane,
Life’s flood is ebbing fast,
A few more soft’ning sighs, Jane,
The shoals will all be past.
To bear my spirit hence, Jane,
Death’s bark is hov’ring near;
Adieu, adieu, a short adieu,
Jane Barnaby, my dear.
(Seven verses in all.)
From Attempts in Verse, by John Jones, an old servant.
(Edited by Robert Southey, Poet Laureate. 1831.)
By a Glasgow Bookmaker.
(Dedicated to G. Anderson, M.P.)
George Anderson my Geo., George, before you did invent
That Bill of yours, I made a book on every big event;
But now my book is blank, George, and now my purse is low,
So cusses on your Betting Bill, George Anderson, my Geo.
George Anderson, my Geo., George, my clerk and I together,
With lists in hand, would brave it out, in fine or rainy weather;
Now we must take them down, George (for lists we must not show).
And shout the prices out instead, George Anderson, my Geo.!
Punch.
Parody on John Anderson, my Jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
When we were first acquent,
A tighter hizzy never brush’d
The dew frae aff the bent.
But now ye’re turn’d as stiff’s a tree,
And your pow’s as white’s the snow,
There’s naething supple but your tongue
My bonnie Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
I wonder what ye mean,
Ye’re flyting everlastingly—
Frae morning light till e’en.
Some folks say that ye’re failing Meg
But I scarce can think it so,
For ye flyte as weel as ere ye did,
My bonny Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
When nature first began,
She gaed every wife a yard o’ tongue
To torture her gudeman.
She’s been kind to you aboon the lave,
An’ I can prove it so,
For she’s gien you half a yard to boot,
My bonny Meg, my jo.
My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a devilish dust we’ve had
Sin’ we met ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, Meg,
And cheek for chow we’ll go,
And we’ll girn at ither at the fit,
My bonnie Meg, my jo.
Anonymous.
Jean Anderson, My Jo.
(An Imitation.)
When nature first began, Jean,
To try her canny hand,
It’s true she first made man, Jean,
And gave him great command;
But naething wad content him, Jean,
Though king o’ a’ below,
Till heaven in pity sent him, Jean,
What maist he wish—a jo.
Tho’ some may say I’m auld, Jean.
And say the same o’ thee,
Ne’er fret to hear it tauld, Jean,
You still look young to me;
And weel I mind the day, Jean,
Your breast was white as snow,
An waist sae jimp one might it span,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
Our bonnie bairns’ bairns, Jean,
Wi’ rapture do I see,
Come todlin’ to the fireside,
Or sit upon my knee;
If there is pleasure here, Jean,
Or happiness below,
This surely maun be likest it,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
Tho’ age has siller’d o’er my pow,
Sin’ we were first acquent,
An’ changed my glossy raven locks,
It’s left us still content;
And eld ne’er comes alane, Jean
But oft brings many a wo.
But we’ve nae cause for sic complaints,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
In innocence we’ve spent our days,
An’ pleasant looks the past.
Nae anxious thoughts alarm us,
We’re cheerful to the last;
Till death knock at our door, Jean,
And warn us baith to go,
Contented we will live and love,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
It’s now a lang lang time, Jean,
Sin’ you and I begun,
To sprachel up life’s hill, Jean,
Our race is nearly run;
We baith hae done our best, Jean
Our sun is wearin low,
Sae let us quietly sink to rest,
Jean Anderson, my jo.
Anonymous.
John Bull and Joseph Chamberlain.
[“I should like to see this Government drink to the dregs the cup of humiliation which they have filled for themselves.”—Birmingham Speech, December 17, 1885.]
Joe Chamberlain, my Jo—John
Has still his word to say;
Although you rate him low, John
Was not born yesterday:
Though acres three seem fair to men,
And cows in fancy low,
Yet Bulls will answer now and then,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo!
There’s Radical and Radical;
In that time-honoured throng
Men stout and bold have battled all
’Gainst many a grievous wrong:
Then think you never man on earth
That sturdy name might owe,
Till Birmingham brought you to birth,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo?
So loud your trumpets clang and slang,
That doubts John often feels,
Bewildered by the “sturm und drang,”
Which are his head and heels:
For Liberal Captains staunch and true,
Is he bestead so sorely,
That he’s but Morley, Dilke, and you,
And—you, and Dilke, and Morley?
Is Forster but a poor pretence?
Is Goschen but a traitor?
Upon a Tory providence
Is Hartington a waiter?
Is Gladstone but the Tame Old Man
Whose strings you deign to pull?
You’ve much to do before you can
Prove all these facts to Bull.
Observe, good Joseph, if you’re wise,
The Winkles you condemn
Got pretty round majorities,
To show my trust in them:
Would you my loyal servant stay,
(I’m stedfast, if I’m slow),
A little modesty, I pray,
Jo Chamberlain, my Jo.
You’d have your foes “drain to the dregs”
The cup you say they fill?
If so, John Bull your pardon begs—
He pays the liquor-bill.
Ye Jacobins and Josephins,
’Tis time to think, you know,
Less of yourselves and Outs and Ins,
And more of me—come Jo!
Punch, January 2, 1886.
In Punch of October 3, 1885, there was another parody commencing “Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,” being an appeal by a moderate Liberal to Mr. J. Chamberlain not to endanger the unity of the party at the coming general election.
——:o:——
FOR A’ THAT AND A’ THAT.
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a’ that!
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that!
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that,
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin’ grey, and a’ that:
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man’s a man for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that.
Their tinsel show, and a’ that,
The honest man, though e’er sae poor;
Is king o’ men for a’ that!
You see yon birkie, ca’d a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a’ that.
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He’s but a coof for a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a’ that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke and a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith, he manna fa’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their dignities, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ worth,
Are higher ranks than a’ that!
Then let us pray that come it may—
As come it will for a’ that—
That sense and worth o’er a’ the earth,
May bear the gree, and a’ that,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Its comin’ yet, for a’ that,
That man to man, the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a’ that!
Robert Burns.
This Song was rendered into French, by Father Prout, and published in Bentley’s Miscellany:—
Quoi! Pauvre honnête, baisser la tête?
Quoi! rougir de la sorte?
Que l’âme basse s’éloigne et passe
Nous—soyons gueux! n’importe travail obscur—
N’importe!
Quand l’or est pur, n’importe!
Qu’il ne soit point marqué au coin
D’un noble rang—qu’importe?
Quoiqu’on dût faire bien maigre chère
Et vêtir pauvre vêtement;
Aux sots leur soie, leur vin, leur joie;
Ca fait il L’Homme? eh, nullement
Luxe et grandeur, qu’importe!
Train et splendeur, qu’importe!
Cœurs vils et creux, un noble gueux
Vaut toute la cohorte!
Voyez ce fat, un vain éclat
L’entoure, et on l’encense,
Mais après tout ce n’est qu’un fou,—
Un sot, quoiqu’il en pense;
Terre et maison,—qu’il pense—
Titre et blazon,—qu’il pense—
Or et ducats, Non! ne font pas
La vraie indépendence!
Un roi peut faire Duc, dignitaire,
Comte et marquis, journellement;
Mais ce qu’on nomme un Honnete Homme,
Le peut-il faire? eh, nullement!
Tristes faveurs! Réellement;
Pauvres honneurs! Réelement;
Le fier maintien des gens de bien
Leur manque essentiellement.
Or faisons vœu, qu’à tous, sous peu,
Arrive un jour de jugement;—
Amis, ce jour aura son tour,
J’en prends, j’en prends, l’engagement.
Espoir et encouragement,
Aux pauvres gens soulagement;
’Lors sur la terre vivrons en frères,
Et librement, et sagement!
“For a’ that and a’ that”
“A man’s a man,” says Robert Burns,
“For a’ that and a’ that,”
But though the song be clear and strong,
It lacks a note for a’ that.
The lout who’d shirk his daily work,
Yet claim his wage and a’ that,
Or beg when he can earn his bread,
Is not a man for a’ that.
If all who dine on homely fare
Were true and brave, and a’ that;
And none whose garb is “hodden grey”
Was fool and knave and a’ that;
The vice and crime that shame our time,
Would fade and fall and a’ that;
And ploughmen be as good as kings,
And churls as earls, for a’ that.
You see yon brawny, blustering sot,
Who swaggers, swears, and a’ that;
And thinks, because his strong right arm
Might fell an ox, and a’ that.
That he’s as noble, man for man,
As duke or lord and a’ that,
He’s but a brute, beyond dispute,
And not a man for a’ that.
A man may own a large estate,
Have palace, park, and a’ that;
And not for birth, but honest worth,
Be thrice a man for a’ that;
And Donald herding on the muir,
Who beats his wife and a’ that,
Be nothing but a rascal boor,
Nor half a man for a’ that.
It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,
The truth is old and a’ that,
The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.
And though you put the minted mark
On copper, brass, and a’ that,
The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,
And will not pass, for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that
’Tis soul and heart, and a’ that,
That makes the king a gentleman,
And not his crown, and a’ that.
And man with man, if rich or poor,
The best is he, for a’ that,
Who stands erect in self-respect,
And acts the man for a’ that.
Anonymous.
Dear Freedom.
Tune.—A Man’s a Man for a’ that.
Dear Freedom! sair they’ve lightlied thee,
An’ ca’ed thee thief an’ a’ that,
Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.
An’ a’ that an’ a’ that,
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that,
Thy faithfu’ friens hae borne for thee
Baith scorn an’ grief an’ a’ that.
We dare na meet, we dare na speak,
We dare na sing nor a’ that:
Our dearest rights we dare na seek—
We’ll see them swing for a’ that, &c.
And then the de’il will be to pay,
Wi’ tyrants, priests, an’ a’ that,
Wi’ a’ their childish trumpery,
Their fasts an’ feasts, and a’ that, &c.
Whan peace an truth wi’ freedom dwell,
Fraternity an’ a’ that,
Nae mair we’ll need the fear o’ hell,
Eternity an’ a’ that, &c.
Their auld wives cants at length grown stale,
(The light will soon do a’ that)
Plain truth will e’en support hersel,
But priestcraft mauna fa’ that, &c.
Then cheerfully wi’ harmless mirth,
We’ll spend our days an’ a’ that,
And bless the hour that gae us birth,
An’ Freedom praise for a’ that, &c.
From The Wreath of Freedom,
or Patriots Song Book. Newcastle, 1820.
For a’ that and a’ that.
(Supposed to be sung by a chorus of Jews,
in the neighbourhood of Bevis Marks.)
Success to honest usury,
And flying kites and a’ that;
Post obit bonds, and mortgages,
With notes of hand a’ that;
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’ll drive a trade in a’ that,
Receipts are but a penny stamp:
A bills’ a bill for a’ that.
When needy spendthrifts seek our dens,
With embryo lord and a’ that,
We tell them that we’re short of cash—
We’ll try a friend for a’ that,
For a’ that and a’ that,
We know the dodge for a’ that,
And only ask our cent. per cent.
For kindly doing a’ that.
Our friend a mixture p’rhaps may have,
Which we Madeira ca’ that;
And daubs which bear a heavy price,
They’re “vary sheep” for a’ that,
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’ll drive a trade in a’ that;
Receipts may be a penny stamp,
We’ll do our bills for a’ that.
Diogenes. August, 1853.
“A Girl’s a Girl for a’ That.”
Is there a lady in all the land
That boasts her rank and a’ that?
With scornful eye we pass her by,
And little care for a’ that;
For nature’s charm shall bear the palm—
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
What though her neck with gems she deck,
With folly’s gear and a’ that,
And gaily ride in pomp and pride;
We can dispense with a’ that.
An honest heart acts no such part—
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
The nobly born may proudly scorn
A lonely lass and a’ that;
A pretty face has far more grace
Than haughty looks and a’ that!
A bonny maid needs no such aid—
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
Then let us trust that come it must,
And sure it will for a’ that,
When faith and love, all arts above,
Shall reign supreme and a’ that,
And every youth confess the truth—
A girl’s a girl for a’ that.
N. E. R., Fence Houses.
Once a Week, 1869.
A Cad’s a Cad for a’ That.
Is there a Jingo, proud and high,
“Who cocks his nose and a’ that?
The swaggering sumph, we pass him by—
We dare be just for a’ that!
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His sniggering scorn, and a’ that:
The sneer is but the club-room’s stamp,
The clay is Cad’s for a’ that!
What though on civic fare he dine,
Wear Court attire and a’ that;
Give churls their turtle, clowns their wine,
A Cad’s a Cad for a’ that:
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their patriot show and a’ that:
The selfish Snob, or rich or poor,
Is Cad at heart for a’ that!
Ye see yon trickster, late clubbed Lord,
Who dodges, dupes, and a’ that;
Though thousands shout at each smart word,
He’s charlatan for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
His riband, star, and a’ that;
The man of just considerate mind,
He smiles—or sighs—at a’ that!
A Cad may boast of power of fight,
Of patriot zeal, and a’ that;
But trust in right’s above his flight;
He has not pluck for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their blatant bounce and a’ that:
Fair play, stern justice, steadfast calm,
Show truer grit than all that!
Then let us pray that come it may—
As come it will for a’ that—
That Jingo rant and Cad-dom’s cant
May hush their row and a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
It’s coming yet for a’ that,
When patriots true the wide world o’er
Shall brothers be for a’ that!
Punch, November 30, 1878.
“Our Old Nobility.”
Is there, for princely opulence,
That hangs his head, and a’ that?
We wish the coward better sense,
And dare be rich for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
We’re noble Peers and a’ that.
The commoner’s a common scamp;
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
What though on plate we daily dine,
Wear coronets and a’ that?
Let knaves have beer instead of wine,
We stick to hock and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,—
Their pewter pots and a’ that,—
For all our gold we never blush,
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
Yon bragging pauper struts about,
And rants and raves and a’ that;
However loudly he may shout
He’s but an ass for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that—
His People’s Rights and a’ that;
In pride of birth and money’s worth
A Lord’s a Lord for a’ that!
Fun, January 22, 1879.
It is among the things not generally known that Sir Arthur Guinness is a poet. He is said to have replied to the Prime-Minister’s offer of a Peerage in the following strain:—
Your kind intention I must damp,
The game of rank’s not worth my candle;
It is, sir, but the Guinness’ stamp;
My honest pewter needs no handle.
A Song for Midlothian.
Is there, for double U. E. G.,
That curls his lip and a’ that?
The Tory loon, we’ll let him be,
And gae oor ways for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Election-cries, and a’ that;
The rank may be the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the man for a’ that.
Ye see yon Dalkeith, ca’d a lord,
Wha tries to speak, and a’ that;
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word,
He’s nae sae great for a’ that;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
His ancestry, and a’ that;
The man o’ dauntless eloquence,
He comes and wins for a’ that.
A candidate may be a knight,
A lord, an earl, and a’ that,
But the ballot’s far aboon his might—
Guid faith, he mauna fa’ that!
For a’ that, for a’that,
Their faggot-votes, and a’ that,
The pith o’ sense and pride o’ speech
Do bigger things than a’ that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a’ that,
That Gladstone’s worth o’er a’ the earth
May bear the gree, and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’that,
It’s comin’ yet, for a’ that
When man to man the kingdom o’er,
Shall own his worth for a’ that.
This Parody appeared in Funny Folks, which contained another, on the same original, on March 14, 1885, which is not now of sufficient interest to be included.
A Political Song.
(By a Man of no Party.)
Is there for Whig and Tory men
Who fumes and frets and a’ that,
Who dips in gall his loveless pen,
With wrath of man and a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their factions, feuds, and a’ that;
In quiet nook we know to brook,
A fruitful life for a’ that.
What though we make no mighty din
With place and power and a’ that;
We wear, within a healthy skin,
An honest heart for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
There’s outs and inns and a’ that;
Let Whig and Tory bark and bite,
The good cause wins for a’ that!
You see yon loon who taks his stand
On blood and pedigree here,
And thinks the Lord God made the land
For him and his degree here,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their pridefu’ pranks and a’ that;
We turn the sod, and claim from God
Stout labours due for a’ that.
You see yon big-mouthed bawling boy,
Of bright millennium dreaming here,
From equal votes to ragged coats,
And brainless men and women here;
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their high-flown prate and a’ that;
Clear heads, firm will, and subtle skill,
Will rule the State for a’ that.
You see yon keen-eyed lank-faced lad,
Who pleads the workmen’s cause here,
And knows to surgeon all things bad,
With patent brand new laws here.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their Communistic brag here;
The sharpest eye, the game to spy,
Will make the biggest bag here.
You see yon lean and lanky lad,
Who flings his pulpit ban here,
Save the elect of his own sect,
On all the human clan here,
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Though priests may curse and ban here,
The God who sits in heaven shall laugh
At vain conceit of man here.
You see yon chiel who wags his tongue
And bobs his wig and a’ that.
Though he can prove that right is wrong,
He’s but a prig for a’ that.
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Their shifty arts and a’ that;
The pulse of right will beat with might,
In human hearts for a’ that.
Then let us pray, though for a day
Wild seas may overwhelm here,
That counsel mild may bear the sway,
And wisdom hold the helm here!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their party spite and a’ that;
We’ll win the fight for truth and right,
In God’s own time for a’ that.
John Stuart Blackie,
Emeritus Prof. of Latin, Mar. Coll., Abdn., 1841-52.
From Alma Mater: Aberdeen University Magazine November 11, 1885.
——:o:——
JENNY’S A WAT, POOR BODY.
Coming through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye,
Jenny’s a’ wat, poor body,
Jenny’s seldom dry;
She draiglet a’ her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the world ken.
Robert Burns.
Tak Cauler Water I.
Gin a body meet a body,
When he’s passin’ by,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Though ilka chap should tak his drap,
Tak ne’er a drap wad I,
’Mang friens or faes for a’ my days,
Tak cauler water I.
Gin a body meet a body,
Though to sell or buy,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Though yon big sea were barley-bree
Tak ne’er a drap wad I;
Abroad, at hame, its a’ the same,
Tak cauler water I.
Gin a body meet a body
Whar folk wed or die,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
Amang the gay, amang the wae,
Tak ne’er a drap wad I;
The dram an’ pray’r are queer-like fare—
Tak cauler water I.
Gin a body meet a body.
His lass jist by the by,
Need a body gar a body
Drink that isna dry?
The lassie mine, I’d need nae wine,
Ne’er a drap wad I,
Though her sweet lip I’d aiblins sip,
Tak cauler water I.
Walneerg.
“Meetin’ on the Sly.”
Gin a nursey meet a bobby,
Meet him on the sly,
Gin a nursey leave a babby,
Need a babby cry?
Gin a bobby to a babby
Acts in way unkind,
Need the nursey stop that bobby—
Need that babby mind?
Gin a nursey smack a babby
With a strength extreme,
Gin a nursey pinch a babby,
Need that babby scream?
Gin a bobby shake a babby,
Need that babby yell?
Gin a nursey kiss that bobby,
Need that babby tell?
Judy, December 10, 1879.
——:o:——
DUNCAN GRAY.
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule night when we were fu’,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
Look’d asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh:
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
* * * * *
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, &c.,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, &c.,
Shall I like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may go to—France for me!
Ha, ha, &c.
* * * * *
Robert Burns.
Sam Sumph.[25]
Sam Sumph cam’ here for Greek,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
Frae Dunnet Head he cam’ for Greek,
Wi’ sair thirst for the Greeking o’t;
Brains he had na unco much,
His schooling was a crazy crutch,
But like the crab he had a clutch,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
Latin Syntax vexed him sore,
When he tried the Greeking o’t,
For Cæsar stands at Homer’s door
When folks try the Greeking o’t.
Quod and ut he understood,
At “speech direct” they called him good,
But qui with the subjunctive mood
Was the crook in the lot at the Greeking o’t!
One thing truth commands to tell,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
English he could hardly spell,
But what’s that to the Greeking o’t?
English fits the vulgar clan,
The buying and the selling man,
But for the learned the only plan
Is a close grip at the Greeking o’t.
How he wandered through the verb,
It pains my tongue the speaking o’t,
He said it was a bitter herb,
When he tried the Greeking o’t.
Wi’ mony a wrench and mony a screw,
At last he warstled bravely through,
All except a tense or two,
When he tried the Greeking o’t!
How he fared with ἣ and ἄν
When he tried the Greeking o’t.
Δὴ and γε, and all their clan,
It’s weel worth the speaking o’t.
These feckless dots of words, quo’ he.
They are nae bigger than a flea,
We’ll skip them ow’r, and let them be,
They’ll nae be missed at the Greeking o’t!
A’ the story for to tell,
Were nae end to the speaking o’t,
But this thing in the end befell,
When he tried the Greeking o’t;
Though his heart was free frae vice
(Men are sometimes trapped like mice),
They plucked him ance, they plucked him twice,
When he tried the Greeking o’t!
Sair cast doun was learned Sam
At this end o’ the Greeking o’t;
He could dae nae mair wi’ cram,
At this stage o’ the Greeking o’t,
But he was teugh as ony Scot,
He was plucked, but yield would not,
Sooner would he hang and rot,
Than thus be balked at the Greeking o’t.
At the door he made a din,
Rap, rap, for the Greeking o’t!
Is the Greek Professor in?
Yes, yes, for the Greeking o’t!
Sam his plea wi’ tears would win,
He fleeched and grat his een quite blin’,
To pluck him twice was just a sin,
For a sma’ fault at the Greeking o’t!
Professor was a kindly man,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
Felt for a’ the student clan
That swat sair at the Greeking o’t,
“Though your nae just in the van,
My heart is wae your worth to ban
Ye hae done the best ye can,
So ye may past at the Greeking o’t!”
Sam Sumph is now M.A.,
Ha, ha, for the Greeking o’t!
He can preach and he can pray,
That’s the fruit of the Greeking o’t.
He can thunder loud and fell,
An awfu’ power in him doth dwell,
To ope and shut the gates of hell,
That’s the prize o’ the Greeking o’t.
Wait a year and ye will see,
Ha, ha, the Greeking o’t!
High upon the tap o’ the tree,
Sam perch’d by the Greeking o’t!
In the Kirk Assembly he
Sits as big as big can be,
Moderator Sam, D.D.,
That’s the crown o’ the Greeking o’t!
John Stuart Blackie.
From Alma Mater; Aberdeen University
Magazine, December 9, 1885.
——:o:——
The Whigs of Auld Lang Syne.
(The Premier and the New Peers.)
Should auld supporters be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld Whigs be remembered not
By Whigs of auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne my friends,
For auld lang syne;
We’ll gie ye baith a Peerage yet,
For auld lang syne.
We three hae tasted aft, at times,
The sweets of office fine;
And sighed for place for mony a day,
Sin’ auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
We three hae paddled, in our turn,
The River down, to dine,
And whiles without the whitebait gane,
’Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
Noo, gie’s a lift, my trusty friends,
And here’s a lift o’ mine;
And we’ll tak’ a right guid Johnnie-waught
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang, &c.
And surely ye’ll be your staunch votes,
As sure ye’re friends o’ mine,
And we’ll tak’ a stoup o’Gladstone yet
For auld lang syne.
For auld, &c.
Punch, December 30, 1865.
Sir M. Hicks Beach singing:—
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
As I’ve forgotten mine?
Yes, certainly; for it is rot
To talk o’ auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne forsooth!
For auld lang syne!
I stabbed my auld frien’[26] in the back,
For auld lang syne!
He’d been a trusty frien’ to me,
Right gude to me and mine;
And as I drove the foul blow home,
I cried “For auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, kind frien,’
For auld lang syne!
Take that!” and so I laid him flat,
“For auld lang syne!”
[He goes out.
Truth, Christmas Number, 1885.
——:o:——
GREEN GROW THE RASHES.
A Fragment.
Chorus.
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!
There’s nought but care on every han’,
In every hour that passes, O!
What signifies the life o’ man,
An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O!
Green grow, &c.
* * * * *
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears,
Her noblest work she classes, O!
Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O!
Green grow, &c.
Robert Burns.
Life in Malvern.
We’ve dinners, sprees, concerts and glees,
As yearly they come roun’ O!
We’ve social teas, and grand soirées,
For ever in the town, O!
The town, O! the town, O!
The lively, pleasant town, O!
There’s healthy strife and active life,
There’s spirit in the town, O!
Though whiles we dream and whiles we scheme
How we will yet sit down, O!
And end our days in rural braes;
We’ll never leave the town, O!
The town, O! the town, O!
The active, stirring town, O!
Old Zimmerman would change his plan
To live in Malvern town, O!
From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch,
by Dr. J. B. Oddfish, London, 1865.
Hey for Social Science, O!
A Song for the Social Science Meeting,
at Glasgow, in 1860.
Air—Green grow the rashes, O!
A pleasant week I lately passed
In Glasgow town,—no city, O!
With men of state and merchants great,
And sages wise or witty, O!
Chorus:—Hey for social science, O!
Hey for social science, O!
When wisdom, wine, and wit combine,
They make a good alliance, O!
We meet to show that all below
To ruin fast is tending, O!
That laws and schools and prison rules
Are much in need of mending, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
But though, no doubt, t’was well made out
That things are old and wheezy, O!
O cursed spite! to set them right
Was not so very easy, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Yet though the task may patience ask,
We’re here convened to try it, O!
To see if schools will root out fools,
Or crime be cured by diet, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
The blood-red sun had scarce begun
To shine out strong and hearty, O!
When up we rose and donned our clo’es
To join Bell’s breakfast-party, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Delicious doles of meat and rolls
Disposed to mirth and laughter, O!
The inspiring tea brought out Macnee,
And others followed after, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
When hunger’s rage we thus assuage,
Succeeds the thirst for knowledge, O!
Then, horse and foot, we take the route,
And hurry to the college, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Here in we press for some address
That lasts two hours or longer, O!
And if a word is seldom heard,
The applause is all the stronger, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
The section meetings next we try,
Some worse and others better, O!
But if the days are somewhat dry,
The nights will prove the wetter, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
That sense alone conspicious shone
I can’t declare in conscience, O!
But great’s the use to introduce
A safety-valve for nonsense, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
A few who well their tale could tell
Did ably fill the rostrums, O!
While many a goose his clack let loose,
And quacks proclaimed their nostrums, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Just ere the welcome hour of six
We gladly cut our cable, O!
And in some port of refuge fix,
Hard by a well spread table, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
While all things good in drink and food
Our weary souls are cheering, O!
The ills of life, before so rife,
Seem quickly disappearing, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
Around us eyes and faces bright
Our softened hearts are winning, O!
Fair matrons in meridian light,
And morning stars beginning, O!
Hey for social science, O!
The best of social science, O!
Is when its power, in hall or bower,
To Beauty we affiance, O!
With ardour fired, by love inspired,
I rise and give “The Ladies,” O!
And they who shrink the toast to drink
May hang and go to Hades, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
We talk, we quaff, we sing and laugh,
Then part with tears and sighing, O!
And when at last the week is past
We’re dead with mirth—or dying, O!
Hey for social science, &c.
But I ordain that soon again,
These pleasant hours repeating, O!
We learn some more of social lore
At such an evening meeting, O!
Hey for social science, O!
For genuine social science, O!
A summons here to recompear
Would find a quick compliance, O!
This song was written by the late Charles Neaves, Advocate, who, on his elevation in 1854 to the Bench of the Supreme Court in Scotland, sat as Lord Neaves. He was an able judge, a genial, witty man, and a frequent contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine. Some of his best pieces were collected and published in a small volume, entitled “Songs and Verses, by an Old Contributor to Maga,” by W. Blackwood and Sons. Lord Neaves was over 77 years of age when he died in 1877.
——:o:——
HOLY WILLIE’S PRAYER.
The following Parody was written after thanksgiving services had been used in the churches on account of the victory at Tel-el-Kebir.
Holy Willie’s Prayer.
(Supposed to be written by the Right Honourable W. E.
G—dst—e, assisted by his G—ce the A—b—p of York.)
O Thou, wha in the heav’ns dost dwell,
Wha, since it pleased best thysel’,
Sent Arabi, that chiel o’ hell,
A’ for thy glory,
To brew amaist as muckle ill
As ony Tory.
I bless and praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands left our shores to fight,
Thou did’st uphaud Britannia’s right,
And, by thy grace,
We gied the Egyptian deils a fright
Ower a’ the place.
What was I or my ministry
That we should sae exalted be?
A glaikit mongrel company
O’ bleth’rin’ b——
Some three years syne—O L—— forgie
Our liein’ speeches.
When frae my post aewhile I fell,
I fum’d and sulk’d, and swore mysel’
Wad never mair wi’ office mell
In Church or State,
But wi’ the blust’ring outcasts dwell
Outlaw’d by fate.
Yet here I’m i’ the highest station,
To prove the power o’ thy salvation,
I’m noo the bulwark o’ the nation,
Strong as a rock,
Head maister o’ tergiversation
’Mang a’ the flock.
O L——, thou kens what zeal I bear,
When Liberals fyke, and Tories swear,
And speakin’ here, and scoffin’ there
Wi’ great and sma’,
O L—— confound them everywhere,
Ilk ane an a’.
But yet, O L——, confess I must,
I’m fash’d wi’ mad, ambitious lust,
Since me the doited fules still trust,
Thro’ thick an’ thin;
Sae I rave on, L——, I’m but dust,
Forgie my sin.
Besides, I further maun allow,
Wi’ Ireland, three times I trow,—
But L——, my hands are always fu’,
When I come near her,
Or else thou kens thy servant true
Wad safely steer her.
Maybe thou lets this Irish thorn—
Murder and outrage, night and morn—
Beset thy servant in their turn,
Cause he’s sae gifted;
Obstruction’s han’ maun e’en be borne
Until thou lift it.
L——, bless my followers in this place,
Puir goavan coofs—a haverel race
Led by the nose—but curse the face
And blast the name
O’ Northcote’s crew; bring them disgrace
An’ public shame.
L——, mind Rab Salisbury’s deserts,
He flouts and jeers, by fits and stairts,
Yet has sae mony takin’ airts
Wi’ grit an’ sma’,
I fear least he the people’s hairts
Should steal awa.’
And whan we chasten him therefore,
Thou kens how he breeds sic a splore,
As sets the country in a roar
O’ boist’rous laughin’;
Curse thou his ermine and his fur,
His sneers an’ chaffin’.
L——, hear my earnest supplication
Against that cause o’ my vexation,
The House o’ Lords—bane o’ the nation—
Curse on their heeds;
L——, visit them wi’ swift damnation
For their misdeeds.
O! L—— my G——, that glib-tongued Cowen,
Wi’ gall and bitterness o’erflowin’,
And a’ the ruck sae forward growin’
Still mair an’ mair;
Wha keep thy servants’ choler glowin’,
An’ fill wi’ fear.
L——, since I am sae plaguit by ’em,
Confound the loons wha’ do employ ’em,
And in the day o’ vengeance try ’em,
Heed not their prayer,
But for thy servant’s sake destroy ’em
For evermair.
But, L——, remember me and mine,
Wi’ mercies temp’ral and divine,
For aye let me and H—b—t shine,
Excell’d by nane,
And a’ that glory shall be thine,
Amen, amen,
J. B. C., Northumberland,
The Newcastle Weekly Chronicle, July 5, 1884.
The Fisher’s Welcome.
We twa ha’ fished the Kale sae clear,
And streams o’ mossy Reed;
We’ve tried the Wansbeck and the Wear,
The Teviot and the Tweed;
An’ we will try them ance again,
When summer suns are fine;
An’ we’ll throw the flies thegither yet,
For the days o’ lang syne.
’Tis mony years sin’ first we sat
On Coquet’s bonny braes,
An’ mony a brither fisher’s gane,
An’ clad in his last claithes.
An’ we maun follow wi’ the lave,
Grim death he heucks us a’;
But we’ll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we’re ta’en awa’.
For we are hale and hearty baith,
Tho’ frosty are our pows,
We still can guide our fishing graith,
And climb the dykes and knowes;
We’ll mount our creels and grip our gads,
An’ throw a sweeping line,
An’ we’ll hae a splash amang the lads,
For the days o’ lang syne.
Tho’ Cheviot’s top be frosty still,
He’s green below the knee,
Sae don your plaid and tak’ your gad,
An’ gae awa’ wi’ me.
Come busk your flies, my auld Compeer,
We’re fidgen a’ fu’ fain,
We’ve fished the Coquet mony a year,
And we’ll fish her ance again.
An’ hameward when we toddle back,
An’ nicht begins to fa,
An’ ilka chiel maun hae his crack,
We’ll crack aboon them a’.
When jugs are toomed and coggens wet,
I’ll lay my loof in thine;
We’ve shown we’re gude at water yet,
An’ we’re little warse at wine.
We’ll crack how mony a creel we’ve filled,
How mony a line we’ve flung,
How many a ged and saumon killed,
In days when we were young.
We’ll gar the callants a’ look blue,
An’ sing anither tune;
They’re bleezing, aye, o’ what they’ll do,
We’ll tell them what we’ve dune.
This old Border ballad was written by Mr. Doubleday before 1855, and, whilst being professedly an imitation of Burns, has exquisite pathos and spirit of its own.
——:o:——
To Burns.
And wha is he that syngs sae weel,
And pens “Addresses to the Deil?”
Wha gies the sang syke bonny turns?
Daft Gowk! ye ken it’s sonsie Burns!
His gabby tales I looe to hear,
They please sae meikle, run sae clear;
That ilka time, good traith, I read,
I’se wiser baith i’ heart an’ head.
I wad advise, when runkled care
Begins to mak ye glow’r and stare,
That ye wad furst turn ow’r his leaf,
’T’will mak ye sune forget ye’r grief!
And should auld mokie sorrow freeten,
His blythesome tale ye’r hearts will leeten;
And sure I am, ye grief may banter,
By looking ow’r his “Tam O’ Shanter.”
And, while I breathe, whene’er I’se scant,
O’ cheerful friends—and fynde a want
Of something blythe to cure my glumps,
And free me frae the doleful dumps,
I’ll tak his beuk, and read awhile,
Until he mak me wear a smile;
And then, if I hae time to spare,
I’ll learn his “Bonny Banks of Ayr!”
From The Bards of Britain, contained in The Remains of Joseph Blachet, 1811, which work also contains imitations of Chatterton, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Young, Thompson, Shenstone, Collins, Gray, and Goldsmith.
TAM O’SHANTER.
In a recent number of Notes and Queries (December 19, 1885), there was a long article, by Mr. Shirley Hibberd, on the origin of Burns’s masterpiece. It contains so much interesting information that readers of Burns will, no doubt, be pleased to have the following extracts:—
“In the year 1790, when Burns wrote Tam o’Shanter, stories of witches were current in Scotland, and there was yet a large survival of popular belief in their power and the diabolical source thereof. The poem bears evidence of a reality that has hitherto failed of recognition.
The confession of certain Scotch witches at the assizes held at Paisley, February 15, 1678, must have been well known to Burns, for it was a theme of fireside conversation in his youth, and there were many living who remembered the whole of the circumstances. That confession establishes the reality of witchcraft. The confession is cited in Demonologia (Bumpus, 1827).
In a letter to Francis Grose, Burns gives three prose versions of the story. In one, a farmer who “had got courageously drunk in the smithy,” saw the “infernal junto” play their antics in Alloway Kirk, and managed to carry off the cauldron in which the hell-broth was prepared from the bodies of the unchristened children. In another, a farmer of Carrick witnessed the incantation, and, losing his self-command in admiring a buxom lass who danced with peculiar liveliness, shouted the dread words, “Weel luppen, Maggie, wi’ the short sark.” In this case the speed of the horse was insufficient for his complete escape, for at “the keystane o’ the brig” the witches despoiled the horse of its tail, and the stumpy steed became a witness of the truth of the farmer’s declaration. The third story is of no account in this connexion.
In Robert Chambers’s Life and Works of Burns, iii. 152, we are told that “the country people of Ayrshire unmythicise the narration, and point to a real Tam and Souter Johnny,” the first being Douglas Graham, farmer, of Shanter; the other, his neighbour, John Davidson, noted for telling the “queerest stories.”
That a drunken freak and the lies told to cover it explain the form of the poem is well enough. But we have in these “facts of the case” no explanation of the motive, no indication of the source of the inspiration, no key to the supernatural business. The moral is obvious for the dénoûment proves the impotency of witches, and mocks the prevalent belief in their powers. These considerations, however, do not remove witches and witchcraft from the category of historical facts.
An important commentary on the subject will be found in a volume entitled Interesting Roman Antiquities recently discovered in Fife, by Rev. Andrew Small (Edinburgh, 1823.) In this work it is stated that near the Castle Law, Abernethy, were twenty-two graves of witches, and near by is the hill on which they were burned. A Mr. Ross, laird of Invernethy in the reign of James VI., became, as justice of the peace, responsible for the apprehension of certain witches, and made the discovery that their names were entered in a book. He set his mind upon obtaining this written record, and, as one step thereto, he persuaded a women who was a member of the gang to permit him to accompany her to a meeting. The laird went to the meeting on a fast mare, and kept his seat while the orgies proceeded, and obtained possession of the book wherein to inscribe his name with his own blood. But instead of complying with the rule he put spurs to his steed and fled with the book, “while out the hellish legion sallied.”
The witches swarmed upon him, but the laird kept his seat, and the mare kept her tail, and he outran them and got home, and quickly locked himself in and copied the names from the book. By this time the clamouring crowd had reached the house, and he dispersed them by throwing out the book, which they gladly seized and carried away.
In introducing the story Mr. Small says: “If ever the poet Burns had been in this part of the country, I would have said he had taken the leading ideas or hints from it in his humorous and excellent poem.”
The Political Tam O’Shanter.
Adapted, Fragmentarily, from Burns.
Application—obvious.
No man can tether time or tide,
And he who holds the reins must ride;
And such a night Weg takes the road in
As seldom rider was abroad in.
With Boreas at his fullest blast,
And Eurus whistling fierce and fast,
There was a shindy never fellowed.
Loud, deep, and long they raved and bellowed,
That night o’ nights a Scot might say
The Deil (of Hatfield) was to pay.
Well mounted on his mare was Weg,
(A stouter never lifted leg,)
Through Irish-bog-like mud and mire,
Wartonian wind, and Woodcock fire,
Fought iron frame and shrewd head on it.
Weg, holding fast his good Scots bonnet,
Looked sharp around with prudent care,
Lest bogies take him unaware,
Or watchful foemen “wipe his eye”
With that confounded thing, a “cry,”
By this time he was cross the ford
(Where he was very nearly floored),
And passed the bog so dark and dank
Where Snobdom’s “Charlie” sprawled and sank,
And through the sand-pit, Egypt-dark,
Where war-dogs seemed to lurk and bark;
And the thorn-thicket, wild and wide,
Where one had need be Argus-eyed.
Before him doom appears at flood,
Redoubling storm roars through the wood;
Tongued lightnings flash from pole to pole,
And vocal thunders fiercely roll.
* * * * *
But there was pluck in Weg’s shrewd noddle,
He cared no more for threats than twaddle,
His mare, though, was a bit astonished,
Until, by hand and heel admonished,
She ventured forward on the light,
And eh! Weg saw a wondrous sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance,
Egyptian whirls, and jigs from France;
Drum-thumpings loud, and fife-like squeals,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
High on a seat, with flaming eyes,
There sat old Nick in human guise;
Mastiff-like, stern, black, grim and large;
To set the measures was his charge.
He pitched the pipes and made them skirl,
Till the wild troop seemed all a-whirl.
Coffins stood round like open presses,
And showed dead Bills in foolscap dresses,
And by some dark, prophetic sleight
Each held a boding spectral light,
By which our wary Weg was able
To spy, spread out upon a table,
Late-murdered measures; cord or knife
Had robbed the innocents of life.
A proud Peer’s garter one had strangled,
And many more were maimed and mangled;
In short the scene was simply awful,
And Weg considered quite unlawful.
* * * * *
But Weg knew what was what right well,
And one young witch there bore the bell.
One late enlisted in the rout
(At Woodstock known and thereabout)
At many a measure she had shot,
And many a plan had sent to pot;
Made many a plucky wight feel queer,
And shook e’en her own side with fear.
Her “cutty sark” of true-blue yarn,
Which, up to now, the witch had worn,
In cut and fit was scant and strange,
Some thought she hankered for a change,
And that ’twas sad her youth’s bright riches
Should e’er have graced a dance of witches.
But here my muse must faster flutter,
’Tis scarce within her power to utter
How Rannie leapt, and twirled, and flung
(A supple jade she was and young),
And how Weg stood like one bewitched,
How his eyes gleamed, how his mouth twitched.
Even Satan glowered as though in pain,
And puffed and blew with might and main,
Till with one caper and another,
No longer Weg his words could smother,
But roars out “Well danced, Cutty Sark!”
When in a moment all was dark;
And scarce his mare and he had rallied
When out the yelling legion sallied.
As bees buzz round a sugar-tub,
Or workmen round an opening “pub,”
As M.P.’s rush to chase the grouse
When Prorogation clears the House,
So the mare runs, the witches follow,
With many an eldritch shriek and hollow.
Ah, Weg! ah, Weg! they’re nearing, nearing,
Like hounds on trail of a red herring.
Midlothian, Weg, awaits thy coming;
They’ll think you’re lost, dear Weg, or humming,
Now, ride thy very hardest, Weg!
If the bridge key-stane fees her leg,
Thy mare at them her tail may toss,—
That running stream they cannot cross.
But ere the key-stone she could make,
The deuce a tail had she to shake,
For Nickie, far before the rest,
Hard on that nag so nimble prest,
And flew at Weg with hope to settle;
But little knew he that mare’s mettle.
One spring brought Weg off safe and hale,
But left behind her own grey tail;
For with Nick’s pull and the mare’s jump,
Weg’s nag was left with ne’er a stump!
Punch, August 16, 1884.
“Here’s a Health.”
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,
May never guid luck be their fa’!
It’s guid to be merry and wise,
It’s guid to be honest and true,
It’s guid to support Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health to Charlie, the chief o’ the clan,
Although that his band be sae sma.’
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue
It is guid to support Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.
Here’s freedom to him that would read,
Here’s freedom to him that would write,
There’s nane ever feared that the truth should be heard,
But they who the truth would indite.
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,
Hurrah for the bonnets of blue,
It’s guid to be wise, to be honest and true,
And bide by the bonnets of blue.
The above is a modern Jacobite song, author unknown. The original song from which it was taken is old, and was altered by Allan Ramsay and Burns, and several verses added. This version of it was very popular, and the following is a parody of it.
“The Brobdignag Bonnets” of Blue.—A Parody.
(Dedicated most respectfully to the Play-going Ladies of the Pit.)
“If the following playful little parody should obtain a smile or two from some of the lady readers of the Mirror, the writer will feel amply rewarded. It will in some degree make up for the smiles of which he has been often deprived at the theatre, by having just before him three or four bonnets, three feet by two, or somewhere thereabout. He speaks feelingly, even if he has not written so.”
Here’s health to the ladies at home
Here’s health to the ladies awa’,
And wha winna pledge it wi’ a’ their soul,
May they ne’er be smiled on at a’.
It’s guid to be pretty and fair,
It’s guid to be smilin’ like you;
It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,—
But na by broad bonnets of blue.
Awa’ wi’ those bonnets of blue,
Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!
It’s guid to be stealin’ the gentlemen’s hearts,—
But nae by sic bonnets of blue.
Here’s health to the bright eyes at hame,
Here’s health to the bright eyes awa’,
Here’s health to the beauties of every clime,—
But na to their bonnets at a’.
I’ve a bracelet for her wha is wed,
For the maiden a sweet billet-doux:
Dear darlings, I’d give them whate’er they might ask,—
Except a broad bonnet of blue.
Then hence wi’ those bonnets of blue,
Those Brobdignag bonnets of blue!
Oh bright eyes beam brighter from bonnets when sma’,
Than hid by broad bonnets of blue.
The Mirror, Vol. II., March 1828.
See Dr. Charles Mackay’s “Jacobite Songs and Ballads of Scotland,” London and Glasgow, 1861.
——:o:——
We twa hae dune a little Bill.
Air—“Auld Lang Syne.”
Should auld acceptance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acceptance be forgot,
All drawn, endorsed, and signed?
Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend,
Endorsed, drawn, and signed:
And noo ’tis time to tak’ it up,
The siller we must find!
We twa hae dune a little bill,
To raise the bonnie wind,
And, tak’ the matter hoo we will,
That document will bind.
Endorsed, &c.
And Shadrach will nae time alloo,
And therefore a’m inclined
To think that we had better do
Anither o’ the kind.
Endorsed, &c.
And surely ye’ll be your bit stamp,
And I’ll nae be behind,
And we’ll do a richt gude billie-wacht
The needfu’ cash to find.
Endorsed, drawn, and signed, my friend,
Endorsed, drawn, and signed,
We’ll do anither billie yet,
Just the wherewitha’ to find!
Punch, 1848.
There was a paraphrase of “Auld Lane Syne” in the second volume of “The Comic Offering,” for 1832, and a long, but very dull, parody of “Willie brewed a peck o’ Maut” in Punch of November 29, 1884, apropos of Bismarck and the Congo question. Funny Folks, for June 14, 1879, had a few lines on a young man who kissed a girl on Peckham Rye, and was fined for so doing. They ran thus:—
If a body meet a body
Coming through the Rye,
Can a body kiss a body?
Yes—if no one’s nigh.
Every bobby has his hobby,
And some like to spy
In a way distinctly “snobby,”
At young lovers spry.
In the same journal there was a poem (singularly appropriate at present), referring to the importation of American meat, which the butchers retailed as Scotch, in the same way that they now openly sell Australian, or New Zealand frozen mutton as English, and realise enormous and unfair profits by so doing.
“Scots!” although in New York bred;
“Scots,” whom Yankees well have fed,
Welcome either live or dead
Safely o’er the sea.
Now we’re in the butcher’s power,
Who, complaining every hour,
Grudge to see us meat devour—
Cheap and savo-ree.
Every one has need to save,
Times are bad and prospects grave:
Why should butchers play the knave,
Or such tyrants be?
Wha sells “Scot” fat, firm and braw,
At a price that’s fair to a’,
Butcher stand, or butcher fa’,
He’s the man for me!
Funny Folks, February 10, 1877.
There was also a political Parody of “For a’ That” in Funny Folks of March 14, 1885.
——:o:——
For a’ that an a’ that.
The following imitation of Burns’s song was written by Sir Walter Scott, in praise of the “Holy Alliance,” and was sung at the first meeting of the Pitt Club of Scotland; and published in the Scots Magazine for July, 1814.
A New Song to an Old Tune.
1814.
Though right be aft put down by strength,
As mony a day we saw that,
The true and leilfu’ cause at length
Shall bear the grie for a’ that.
For a’ that, an a’ that,
Guns, guillotines, and a’ that,
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right,
Is Queen again for a’ that!
We’ll twine her in a friendly knot
With England’s Rose and a’ that;
The Shamrock shall not be forgot,
For Wellington made braw that.
The Thistle, though her leaf be rude,
Yet faith we’ll no misca’ that,
She shelter’d in her solitude
The Fleur-de-lis, for a’ that,
The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine
(For Blucher’s sake, hurra that),
The Spanish Olive, too, shall join,
And bloom in peace for a’ that.
Stout Russia’s Hemp, so surely twined
Around our wreath we’ll draw that,
And he that would the cord unbind,
Shall have it for his gra-vat!
Or, if to choke sae puir a sot,
Your pity scorn to thaw that
The Devil’s elbow be his lot,
Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might,
In spite of brags and a’ that,
The lads that battled for the right
Have won the day, and a’ that!
There’s ae bit spot I had forgot,
America they ca’ that!
A coward plot her rats had got
Their father’s flag to gnaw that:
Now see it fly top-gallant high,
Atlantic winds shall blaw that,
And Yankee loon, beware your croun,
There’s kames in hand to claw that!
For on the land or on the sea,
Where’er the breezes blaw that,
The British Flag shall bear the grie,
And win the day for a’ that.
Walter Scott.
To Women of the Period.
Is it because she cannot rule,
That curls her lip and a’ that?
Such froward dame is but a fool,
And shames her sex for a’ that!
For a’ that and a’ that,
Poor worldly fame and a’ that,
She strives but for a gilded badge,
Herself’s the gold for a’ that.
What though we will not let her vote,
“Electioneer” and a’ that;
’Tis best that man should wear the coat,
The “breeches,” vest, and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
She’s but a “rib” for a’ that!
Man’s work requires a man complete,
Not “half” a man for a’ that.
She does not need Newmarket tribe,
The walking-stick and a’ that;
They but expose to jest and gibe
The cause they plead and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
Their wrongs and rights and a’ that,
The woman who respects herself,
Just looks and laughs at a’ that.
“Master Henpeck,” give a lady place,
At vestry boards and a’ that;
But she with bonnie modest face,
Will stay at home for a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that.
“Equality” and a’ that,
She was not made to rush and race,
And elbow man for a’ that.
The hearth and home are woman’s sphere,
Her proper place and a’ that;
Where she may bear and nurse and rear,
The “Babes of Grace” and a’ that.
For a’ that and a’ that,
She shows most sense and a’ that.
Who wins and wears the rank and name,
Of mother, wife, and a’ that.
Anonymous.
——:o:——
The Ballad of Sir T. Tea-leaf.
(Being a humble Parallel to
the Ballad of Sir John Barleycorn.)
It was three gallant Chinamen,
With long tail and pig eye,
And they have sworn a solemn oath,
Sir T. Tea-leaf must die.
And they have ta’en and flung him down
Upon an iron bed,
And underneath, with cruel hand,
Have heaped the ashes red.
They’ve spread him out, and pressed him down,
And turned him o’er and o’er,
They’ve dried him up, until he curled,
And writhed in suffering sore.
In vain he twisted and he turned,
In vain he cried for grace;
They kept him so, and scorched him till
He grew black in the face.
But finding he was still alive,
Their malice waxed more keen;
They dosed him first with Prussian blue
Till his poor face turned green.
What sparks of life might still remain
Determined to foredo,
They gave him next a bitter draught
Of gum and catechu.
And on his death his name they changed,
Lest men their crime should know,
And when men asked, “Who’s that lies there?”
They answered, “Young Pekoe.”
Whereas his name and family,
It really was Souchong,
Related to the old Congous,
A race both rough and strong.
Lest men should recognise his dust,
To dust when passed away,
His calcined bones they kneaded up
With lumps of China clay.
Their poison’d victim then they wrapp’d
In lead, with well-feign’d grief,
And wrote the epitaph outside,
“Here lies Sir T. Tea-leaf.”
And though their grief was all a sham,
The epitaph was true,
For “here” it said, “a Tea-leaf lies.”
And “lie” such Tea-leaves do.
Now Tea-leaf’s name is in repute
In lands beyond the sea,
Where maiden ladies love him much,
Under the name Green-tea.
Ah! little dream these ancient maids
Of Chinaman’s vile craft,
Nor think, while chatting o’er their cups,
There’s poison in the draught.
And little know they of the fate
Poor Tea-leaf had to dree,
Or in their teapots they would weep
Tears bitter as their tea;
Till with the water of their woe
E’en the first brew was spiled,
And the presiding maid would be
Obliged to draw it mild!
Then to poor Tea-leaf drop a tear,
By poison doomed to fall;
And when there’s green-tea in the pot,
May I not drink—that’s all.
Punch, November 29, 1851.
——:o:——
MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS.
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe—
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.
* * * * *
Song for a Scotch Duke.
(Equally applicable to a Yankee Dog in the Manger.)
My harts in the Highlands shall have their hills clear,
My harts in the Highlands no serf shall come near—
I’ll chase out the Gael to make room for the roe,
My harts in the Highlands were ever his foe.
Punch, November 8, 1856.
——:o:——
“O, Whistle, and I will come to you.”
[A youth was prosecuted at Newcastle Petty Sessions, County Limerick, in 1881, for having whistled at Mr. Hugh Murray Gunn, J.P., in a tone of derision.]
O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,
O whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad;
Though your father and mother and all should go mad,
O, whistle, and I will arrest you, my lad,
But warily act, when you’re passing by me,
And do not indulge in irreverent glee;
Derisive deportment let nobody see,
And pass as you were not a passing by me.
O whistle, &c.
But mind you are always respectful to me,
Since rudeness with magistrates doesn’t agree;
But far from the converse of naughty boys flee,
For fear they should set you a-laughing at me.
O whistle, &c.
John Barley-Corn, My Foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
The song I have to sing
Is not in praise of you, John,
E’en though you are a king.
Your subjects they are legion, John,
I find where’er I go;
They wear your yoke upon their necks,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
By your despotic sway
The people of our country, John,
Are suffering to-day.
You lay the lash upon their backs;
Yet willingly they go
And pay allegiance at the polls,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
You’ve broken many a heart,
And caused the bitter tear, John,
From many an eye to start.
The widow and the fatherless
From pleasant homes to go,
And lead a life of sin and shame,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
May heaven speed the hour,
When Temperance shall wear the crown
And rum shall lose its power;
When from the East unto the West
The people all shall know
Their greatest curse has been removed,
John Barley-Corn, my foe!
Charles F. Adams.
To the Daring Duckling.
(By a Moderate Liberal)
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,
You seemed but lately bent
On preaching Liberal Unity,
To our extreme content.
But now you say you will not play,
Unless your pace we go.
How about Liberal Unity, now,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe?
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe, Sir,
We’re facing roughish weather;
Our only chance of victory, Joe,
Seems pulling all together.
Though slow the pace, why should you stop?
Up hill we all would go,
And we’ll meet together at the top,
Joe Chamberlain, my Joe!
Punch, October 3, 1885.
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.
(A Radical Parody.)
[Mr. Chamberlain still adheres to the famous “three points” of the South London speech.]
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Conservatives may ban,
But more and more the rest of us
Support the “Grand Young Man.”
We do not grumble at your pace,
We would not have you slow,
So put your best leg foremost still,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe!
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Though Stanhopes rise and row you,
You will not let their silly talk
“Three-acres-and-a-cow” you.
You wait not for the “jumping cat,”
Your mind you seem to know,
Which counts for something nowadays,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe, lad,
Your colours are attractive,
And now you’ve nailed them to the mast,
The Whigs will grow more active.
Keep up the stride—press home those “points”
That rankle in the foe,
And leave the polls to do the rest,
Joe Chamberlain, our Joe.
Funny Folks, October 17, 1885.
——:o:——
Many short Parodies of Burns’s poems are scattered about in various old periodicals, but comparatively few are worthy of preservation, whilst some of the best, which have appeared in Scotch newspapers, are so broad in their dialect that few English readers would understand them. Trading on this ignorance of the northern dialect, some authors have composed poems, in imitation of Burns, which, whilst retaining some of the sound, contain none of the sense of the original.
A good example of this style of Parody is to be found in Cruikshank’s Comic Almanac for 1846, it is entitled:—
An Unpublished Poem.
By Robert Burns.
“Lilt your Johnnie.”
Wi’ patchit brose and ilka pen,
Nae bairns to clad the gleesome ken;
But chapmen billies, a’ gude men,
And Doon sae bonnie!
Ne’er let the scornfu’ mutchit ben;
But lilt your Johnnie!
For whistle binkie’s unco’ biel,
Wad haggis mak of ony chiel,
To jaup in luggies like the deil,
O’er loop or cronnie:
You wadna croop to sic a weel;
But lilt your Johnnie!
Sae let the pawkie carlin scraw,
And hoolie, wi’ outlandish craw,
Kail weedies frae the ingle draw
As blyth as honie;
Amang the thummart dawlit wa’
To lilt your Johnnie.
A still funnier parody was published in Punch, also said to be an unpublished poem by Burns. It consisted of three verses, but the first is quite sufficient to show the nature of the joke:
Justice to Scotland.
(Communicated by the Edinburgh Society
for promoting civilization in England.)
O Mickle yeuks the keckle doup,
An’ a’ unsicker girns the graith,
For wae and wae! the crowdies loup
O’er jouk an’ hallan, braw an’ baith.
Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,
And blithesome poortith toomed the loof,
There’s nae a burnie giglet rare
But blaws in ilka jinking coof.
* * * * *
Some Parodies of National Songs have appeared in Judy, amongst them was the following:—
Scotch National Song.
Air—“The Breeks o’ Balquidder.”
Greet na mair, ma sonsie lassie,
Greet na mair, ma pawkie chiel,
Mither’s yout the wee bit hallan,
An’ ye ken I loe ye weel!
Gin your tocher’s guid, ma hinnie,
What for gar the tear-draps fa’,
Bring it ben, and pin the door, lass,
An’ your jo will tak’ it a’!
There’s a hantle Kebbuck waitin’,
Bonnie farls, and haggis richt,
Pit yere haffits gaily frae ye,
Brawly a’ will gang the nicht!
Dinna croon, the braxy’s ready,
Tane a tither’s i’ the brae,
Daddy’s fou ahint the bothy,
What suld gar ye fashin’ sae?
Loup an’ leuch, an’ skirl, ma lassie,
Blithely toone the collops ben,
Heed na lang thripplin—kame, luve,
Fear na mair the tappit-hen;
Till the kirk we’ll gang the morrow,
Whiles the pipes sae gaily blaw,
Syne we’ll crack o’ auld Balquidder,
Soughing ’neath the simmer snaw!
Judy. Sept. 10, 1884.
——:o:——
A HISTORY OF THE BURNS’ FESTIVAL;
or, Centenary Celebration of the Birth of Robert Burns,
held at the Crystal Palace, on January 25, 1859,
On November 9, 1858, the Directors of the Crystal Palace Company published an advertisement, stating their intention of celebrating the Centenary of the birth of Robert Burns, by a grand festival at the Crystal Palace. At the same time, they offered a prize of Fifty Guineas, under certain conditions, for the best poem celebrating the occasion, to be recited during the Festival, while they solicited the loan of relics and memorials of the Poet, which were to be exhibited on the occasion. An ample response was made. On the 2nd of January, 621 poems were collected, of which 9 came from America. Shortly before this, the Directors had solicited Monckton Milnes, Esq., M.P., Tom Taylor, Esq., and Theodore Martin, Esq., to act as judges to award the prize; and these gentlemen having kindly consented, commenced their examination. In order to carry out the competition with the utmost fairness, it was decided that the names of the authors should not be communicated, but that two mottoes should be inscribed, for identification, on each poem, and that the name of the author should be forwarded in a sealed envelope, which should bear corresponding mottoes to the poem which it accompanied. The Judges reported in favor of a poem bearing the mottoes “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,” and “A man’s a’ man for a’ that.” On the day of the Festival there was a large attendance at the Crystal Palace, many interesting relics and several portraits of Burns were exhibited, and there was a concert of Scotch music, including many of Burns’s own songs.
The late Mr. S. Phelps opened the sealed envelope, and announced that the Prize poem was composed by a lady, named “Isa Craig.” He then recited the ode which, it must be confessed, was a somewhat disappointing work, with little that was either distinctively Scotch, or reminiscent of Burns in its composition. The poem was printed in full in the Crystal Palace programme for the day, also in the Times, of January 26, 1859.
That the Prize poem was unworthy of the occasion was pretty generally admitted, the Times sneered at the whole concern, principally because it was used by the C. P. Company as an attraction to the Palace, though why that should be a rebuke to managers of public entertainments is not very clear. And, of course, as in the case of all advertised poetical competitions, a collection of burlesque poems was published about the same time as the Festival, by Routledge, Warne and Routledge. This little volume has since been assigned to the pen of Samuel Lover, and it contains a few pieces of really smart, clever burlesque, but the general effect is not very inspiriting. It is entitled:
Rival Rhymes,
In honour of Burns;
With curious illustrative matter.
Collected and edited by
Ben Trovato
“If Maevius scribble in Apollo’s spight,
There are who judge still worse than he can write.”
Pope.
Contents.
- The Bard of Ayr. By Father Prout,
- A Remonstrance to the Directors of the Crystal Palace. By a Proverbial Philosopher.
- A Spirit Lay from Hades. By Thomas Campbell.
- A Voice from the Far West. By H. W. Longfellow.
- A Few Words on Poets, &c. By the Ghost of Thomas Hood.
- Ode by an Ardent Admirer of Milton.
- Letter of Fergus McFash, enclosing an unpublished Poem, supposed to be by Robert Burns.
- The Penny-a-Liner’s Hope. By Barry Cornwall.
- The Poet’s Birth; a Mystery. By the Poet Laureate.
- Groves of Sydenham. By an Enraged Bard.
- Battle of the Lake Glenlivit. By Lord Macaulay. Author of “The Lays of Ancient Rum.”
- Lay of the Rapt Spirit. By the Ghost of Alexander Pope.
- Letter to the Directors of the Crystal Palace. By W. M. Thackeray (prose).
Appendix.
Lord Brougham on Burns and the Language of Scotland.
(At the Burns’ Centenary Festival, held in the Music Hall in Edinburgh, when Lord Ardmillan presided, a letter from Lord Brougham was read by the Chairman. It was dated from Cannes, January 17, 1859.)
Several of the poems in this little volume have already been quoted in “Parodies.” It is only necessary here to give the lines, supposed to be from an early and unfinished work by Robert Burns. These lines are introduced with a statement that they were found in an old escritoire, and are worthy of being preserved with the other relics of Robert Burns.
Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,[27]
Couthie dearie,
Paukie dearie,
Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie,
And lasses buskit gaily, O!
Waukrife a’ the nicht I lay,
Whigmaleerie’s toom to spae,
Laith and lang, till blink o’ day
Wad gie to me my Mallie, O!
Gang wi’ me to Lixmaleerie,
Couthie dearie,
Paukie dearie,
Where Clinkumbell is clatterin’ cleerie,
We’re aiblin’s baith expeckit, O!
The hushion’d cowt afore the yett,
Wi’ chaup o’ cloot, and crankous fret,
Seems bletherin “Lassie, bide ye yet?
Mess-John maun’t be negleckit, O!”
* * * * *
Scotchmen are ever ready to do honour to the memory of Burns, and enthusiastically celebrate his birthday every year.
Last year the Aberdeen Burns Club had a dinner at the Imperial Hotel, after which, one of the members, Sir William Cadenhead read some poems on Burns, purporting to have been composed for the occasion by Lord Tennyson, Mr. Gladstone, and Mr. Oscar Wilde.
Unfortunately these Parodies are too long to reproduce here, but they may be found in The Aberdeen Daily Free Press, of January 26, 1885.
