In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me full length upon the floor.
On my face extended flat,
I was walloped with a cat
For listening at the keyhole of a door.
Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).
For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will
They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in an hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,
I have never never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.
But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page
ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN
Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus M‘Clan
Was the son of an elderly labouring man;
You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,
And p’r’aps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re right.
From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside,
Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,
There wasn’t a child or a woman or man
Who could pipe with Clonglocketty Angus M‘Clan.
No other could wake such detestable groans,
With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones:
All day and ill night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.
He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,
And the neighbouring maidens would gather around
To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een,
Especially Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen.
All loved their M‘Clan, save a Sassenach brute,
Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;
He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,
Tho’ his name it was Pattison Corby Torbay.