Luath Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an’ harass’d For gear to gang that gate at last? O would they stay aback frae courts, An’ please themsels wi’ country sports, It wad for ev’ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an’ the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Feint haet o’ them’s ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o’ their timmer, Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer, Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, The ne’er-a-bit they’re ill to poor folk, But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, Sure great folk’s life’s a life o’ pleasure? Nae cauld nor hunger e’er can steer them, The very thought o’t need na fear them.
Caesar Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne’er envy them! It’s true, they need na starve or sweat, Thro’ winter’s cauld, or simmer’s heat: They’ve nae sair wark to craze their banes, An’ fill auld age wi’ grips an’ granes: But human bodies are sic fools, For a’ their colleges an’ schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsel’s to vex them; An’ aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, His acre’s till’d, he’s right eneugh; A country girl at her wheel, Her dizzen’s dune, she’s unco weel; But gentlemen, an’ ladies warst, Wi’ ev’n-down want o’ wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank an’ lazy; Tho’ deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an’ tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an’ restless. An’ev’n their sports, their balls an’ races, Their galloping through public places, There’s sic parade, sic pomp, an’ art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party-matches, Then sowther a’ in deep debauches. Ae night they’re mad wi’ drink an’ whoring, Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, As great an’ gracious a’ as sisters; But hear their absent thoughts o’ ither, They’re a’ run-deils an’ jads thegither. Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an’ platie, They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi’ crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil’s pictur’d beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer’s stackyard, An’ cheat like ony unhanged blackguard. There’s some exceptions, man an’ woman; But this is gentry’s life in common. By this, the sun was out of sight, An’ darker gloamin brought the night; The bum-clock humm’d wi’ lazy drone; The kye stood rowtin i’ the loan; When up they gat an’ shook their lugs, Rejoic’d they werena men but dogs; An’ each took aff his several way, Resolv’d to meet some ither day.
The Author’s Earnest Cry And Prayer
To the Right Honourable and Honourable Scotch Representatives in the House of Commons.1 Dearest of distillation! last and best— —How art thou lost!—
Parody on Milton. Ye Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires, Wha represent our brughs an’ shires, An’ doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple poet’s pray’rs Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse! Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce, To see her sittin on her arse Low i’ the dust, And scriechinhout prosaic verse, An like to brust! [Footnote 1: This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.—R.B.] Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction, E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction On aqua-vitae; An’ rouse them up to strong conviction, An’ move their pity. Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth The honest, open, naked truth: Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth, His servants humble: The muckle deevil blaw you south If ye dissemble! Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom? Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb! Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom Wi’ them wha grant them; If honestly they canna come, Far better want them. In gath’rin votes you were na slack; Now stand as tightly by your tack: Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, An’ hum an’ haw; But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack Before them a’. Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle; An’ damn’d excisemen in a bussle, Seizin a stell, Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel, Or limpet shell! Then, on the tither hand present her— A blackguard smuggler right behint her, An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a’ kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot, But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither’s pot Thus dung in staves, An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat By gallows knaves? Alas! I’m but a nameless wight, Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight? But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell,2 There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An’ tie some hose well. God bless your Honours! can ye see’t— The kind, auld cantie carlin greet, An’ no get warmly to your feet, An’ gar them hear it, An’ tell them wi’a patriot-heat Ye winna bear it? Some o’ you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an’ pause, An’ with rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues; Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s Auld Scotland’s wrangs. Dempster,3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;4 An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron, The Laird o’ Graham;5 An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’, Dundas his name:6 Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;7 True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay;8 [Footnote 2: James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson.] [Footnote 3: George Dempster of Dunnichen.] [Footnote 4: Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart.] [Footnote 5: The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose.] [Footnote 6: Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P.] [Footnote 7: Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine.] [Footnote 8: Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session.] An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;9 An’ mony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. See sodger Hugh,10 my watchman stented, If poets e’er are represented; I ken if that your sword were wanted, Ye’d lend a hand; But when there’s ought to say anent it, Ye’re at a stand. Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle; Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye’ll see’t or lang, She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle, Anither sang. This while she’s been in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play’d her that pliskie!) An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud About her whisky. An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t, Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, An’durk an’ pistol at her belt, She’ll tak the streets, An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, I’ the first she meets! For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair, An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, An’ to the muckle house repair, Wi’ instant speed, An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear, To get remead. [Footnote 9: Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone.] [Footnote 10: Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton.] Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks; But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! E’en cowe the cadie! An’ send him to his dicing box An’ sportin’ lady. Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, 11 I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s 12 Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, Was kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He needna fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She’s just a devil wi’ a rung; An’ if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, She’ll no desert. And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still you mither’s heart support ye; Then, tho’a minister grow dorty, An’ kick your place, Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty, Before his face. God bless your Honours, a’ your days, Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise, [Footnote 11: Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall.] [Footnote 12: A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.—R.B.] In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamie’s! Your humble poet sings an’ prays, While Rab his name is.
Postscript Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies, But, blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys Tak aff their whisky. What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms, When wretches range, in famish’d swarms, The scented groves; Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves! Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o’ powther; Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither To stan’ or rin, Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George’s will, An’ there’s the foe! He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An’ when he fa’s, His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek, An’ raise a philosophic reek, An’ physically causes seek, In clime an’ season; But tell me whisky’s name in Greek I’ll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather, Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather, Ye tine your dam; Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither! Take aff your dram!
The Ordination
For sense they little owe to frugal Heav’n— To please the mob, they hide the little giv’n. Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an’ claw, An’ pour your creeshie nations; An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw, Of a’ denominations; Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a’ An’ there tak up your stations; Then aff to Begbie’s in a raw, An’ pour divine libations For joy this day. Curst Common-sense, that imp o’ hell, Cam in wi’ Maggie Lauder;1 But Oliphant2 aft made her yell, An’ Russell3 sair misca’d her: This day Mackinlay4 taks the flail, An’ he’s the boy will blaud her! He’ll clap a shangan on her tail, An’ set the bairns to daud her Wi’ dirt this day. [Footnote 1: Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lihdsay to the “Laigh Kirk.”—R.B.] [Footnote 2: Rev. James Oliphant, minister of Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock.] [Footnote 3: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.] [Footnote 4: Rev. James Mackinlay.] Mak haste an’ turn King David owre, And lilt wi’ holy clangor; O’ double verse come gie us four, An’ skirl up the Bangor: This day the kirk kicks up a stoure; Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, For Heresy is in her pow’r, And gloriously she’ll whang her Wi’ pith this day. Come, let a proper text be read, An’ touch it aff wi’ vigour, How graceless Ham5 leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a nigger; Or Phineas6 drove the murdering blade, Wi’ whore-abhorring rigour; Or Zipporah,7 the scauldin jad, Was like a bluidy tiger I’ th’ inn that day. There, try his mettle on the creed, An’ bind him down wi’ caution, That stipend is a carnal weed He taks by for the fashion; And gie him o’er the flock, to feed, And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gie them sufficient threshin; Spare them nae day. Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, An’ toss thy horns fu’ canty; Nae mair thou’lt rowt out-owre the dale, Because thy pasture’s scanty; For lapfu’s large o’ gospel kail Shall fill thy crib in plenty, An’ runts o’ grace the pick an’ wale, No gi’en by way o’ dainty, But ilka day. [Footnote 5: Genesis ix. 22.—R. B.] [Footnote : Numbers xxv. 8.—R. B.] [Footnote 7: Exodus iv. 52.—R. B] Nae mair by Babel’s streams we’ll weep, To think upon our Zion; And hing our fiddles up to sleep, Like baby-clouts a-dryin! Come, screw the pegs wi’ tunefu’ cheep, And o’er the thairms be tryin; Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep, And a’ like lamb-tails flyin Fu’ fast this day. Lang, Patronage, with rod o’ airn, Has shor’d the Kirk’s undoin; As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, Has proven to its ruin:8 Our patron, honest man! Glencairn, He saw mischief was brewin; An’ like a godly, elect bairn, He’s waled us out a true ane, And sound, this day. Now Robertson9 harangue nae mair, But steek your gab for ever; Or try the wicked town of Ayr, For there they’ll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear, Ye may commence a shaver; Or to the Netherton10 repair, An’ turn a carpet weaver Aff-hand this day. Mu’trie11 and you were just a match, We never had sic twa drones; Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, Just like a winkin baudrons, And aye he catch’d the tither wretch, To fry them in his caudrons; But now his Honour maun detach, Wi’ a’ his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast this day. [Footnote 8: Rev. Wm. Boyd, pastor of Fenwick.] [Footnote 9: Rev. John Robertson.] [Footnote 10: A district of Kilmarnock.] [Footnote 11: The Rev. John Multrie, a “Moderate,” whom Mackinlay succeeded.] See, see auld Orthodoxy’s faes She’s swingein thro’ the city! Hark, how the nine-tail’d cat she plays! I vow it’s unco pretty: There, Learning, with his Greekish face, Grunts out some Latin ditty; And Common-sense is gaun, she says, To mak to Jamie Beattie Her plaint this day. But there’s Morality himsel’, Embracing all opinions; Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Between his twa companions! See, how she peels the skin an’ fell, As ane were peelin onions! Now there, they’re packed aff to hell, An’ banish’d our dominions, Henceforth this day. O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Come bouse about the porter! Morality’s demure decoys Shall here nae mair find quarter: Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys That heresy can torture; They’ll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th’ head some day. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here’s—for a conclusion— To ev’ry New Light12 mother’s son, From this time forth, Confusion! If mair they deave us wi’ their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We’ll light a spunk, and ev’ry skin, We’ll rin them aff in fusion Like oil, some day. [Footnote 12: “New Light” is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has so strenuously defended.—R. B.]