I am,&c.
Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke,An'sun oursel's about the dyke;An'at our leisure,when ye like,We'll whistle owre the lave o't.
I am,&c.
But bless me wi'your heav'n o'charms,An'while I kittle hair on thairms,Hunger,cauld,an'a'sic harms,May whistle owre the lave o't.
I am,&c.
Recitativo Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,As weel as poor gut-scraper;He taks the fiddler by the beard,An'draws a roosty rapier-He swoor,by a'was swearing worth,To speet him like a pliver,Unless he would from that time forth Relinquish her for ever.
Wi'ghastly e'e poor tweedle-dee Upon his hunkers bended,An'pray'd for grace wi'ruefu'face,An'so the quarrel ended.
But tho'his little heart did grieve When round the tinkler prest her,He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve,When thus the caird address'd her:
Air Tune-"Clout the Cauldron."
My bonie lass,I work in brass,A tinkler is my station:
I've travell'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation;I've taen the gold,an'been enrolled In many a noble squadron;But vain they search'd when off I march'd To go an'clout the cauldron.
I've taen the gold,&c.
Despise that shrimp,that wither'd imp,With a'his noise an'cap'rin;An'take a share with those that bear The budget and the apron!
And by that stowp!my faith an'houp,And by that dear Kilbaigie,^1If e'er ye want,or meet wi'scant,May I ne'er weet my craigie.
And by that stowp,&c.
[Footnote 1:A peculiar sort of whisky so called,a great favorite with Poosie Nansie's clubs.-R.B.]
Recitativo The caird prevail'd-th'unblushing fair In his embraces sunk;Partly wi'love o'ercome sae sair,An'partly she was drunk:
Sir Violino,with an air That show'd a man o'spunk,Wish'd unison between the pair,An'made the bottle clunk To their health that night.
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,That play'd a dame a shavie-The fiddler rak'd her,fore and aft,Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord,a wight of Homer's craft,^2
Tho'limpin wi'the spavie,He hirpl'd up,an'lap like daft,An'shor'd them Dainty Davie.
O'boot that night.
He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed!
Tho'Fortune sair upon him laid,His heart,she ever miss'd it.
He had no wish but-to be glad,Nor want but-when he thirsted;He hated nought but-to be sad,An'thus the muse suggested His sang that night.
Air Tune-"For a'that,an'a'that."
I am a Bard of no regard,Wi'gentle folks an'a'that;But Homer-like,the glowrin byke,Frae town to town I draw that.
Chorus For a'that,an'a'that,An'twice as muckle's a'that;I've lost but ane,I've twa behin',I've wife eneugh for a'that.
[Footnote 2:Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record.-R.
B.]
I never drank the Muses'stank,Castalia's burn,an'a'that;But there it streams an'richly reams,My Helicon I ca'that.
For a'that,&c.
Great love Idbear to a'the fair,Their humble slave an'a'that;But lordly will,I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that.
For a'that,&c.
In raptures sweet,this hour we meet,Wi'mutual love an'a'that;But for how lang the flie may stang,Let inclination law that.
For a'that,&c.
Their tricks an'craft hae put me daft,They've taen me in,an'a'that;But clear your decks,and here's-"The Sex!"I like the jads for a'that.
Chorus For a'that,an'a'that,An'twice as muckle's a'that;My dearest bluid,to do them guid,They're welcome till't for a'that.
Recitativo So sang the bard -and Nansie's wa's Shook with a thunder of applause,Re-echo'd from each mouth!
They toom'd their pocks,they pawn'd their duds,They scarcely left to co'er their fuds,To quench their lowin drouth:
Then owre again,the jovial thrang The poet did request To lowse his pack an'wale a sang,A ballad o'the best;He rising,rejoicing,Between his twa Deborahs,Looks round him,an'found them Impatient for the chorus.
Air tune-"Jolly Mortals,fill your Glasses."See the smoking bowl before us,Mark our jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,And in raptures let us sing-Chorus A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.
What is title,what is treasure,What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,'Tis no matter how or where!
A fig for,&c.
With the ready trick and fable,Round we wander all the day;And at night in barn or stable,Hug our doxies on the hay.
A fig for,&c.
Does the train-attended carriage Thro'the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage Witness brighter scenes of love?
A fig for,&c.
Life is al a variorum,We regard not how it goes;Let them cant about decorum,Who have character to lose.
A fig for,&c.
Here's to budgets,bags and wallets!
Here's to all the wandering train.
Here's our ragged brats and callets,One and all cry out,Amen!
Chorus A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,Churches built to please the priest.
song-For A'That^1
tune-"For a'that."
Tho'women's minds,like winter winds,May shift,and turn,an'a'that,The noblest breast adores them maist-A consequence I draw that.
Chorus For a'that,an'a'that,And twice as meikle's a'that;The bonie lass that I loe best She'll be my ain for a'that.
Great love I bear to a'the fair,Their humble slave,an'a'that;But lordly will,I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that.
For a'that,&c.
But there is ane aboon the lave,Has wit,and sense,an'a'that;A bonie lass,I like her best,And wha a crime dare ca'that?
For a'that,&c.
In rapture sweet this hour we meet,Wi'mutual love an'a'that,[Footnote 1:A later version of "I am a bard of no regard"in "The Jolly Beggars."]
But for how lang the flie may stang,Let inclination law that.
For a'that,&c.
Their tricks an'craft hae put me daft.
They've taen me in,an'a'that;
But clear your decks,and here's-"The Sex!"I like the jads for a'that.
For a'that,&c.
Song-Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle tune-"The bob O'Dumblane."O Merry hae I been teethin'a heckle,An'merry hae I been shapin'a spoon;O merry hae I been cloutin'a kettle,An'kissin'my Katie when a'was done.
O a'the lang day I ca'at my hammer,An'a'the lang day I whistle and sing;O a'the lang night I cuddle my kimmer,An'a'the lang night as happy's a king.
Bitter in idol I lickit my winnins O'marrying Bess,to gie her a slave:
Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linnens,And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave!
Come to my arms,my Katie,my Katie;
O come to my arms and kiss me again!
Drucken or sober,here's to thee,Katie!
An'blest be the day I did it again.
The Cotter's Saturday Night Inscribed to R.Aiken,Esq.,of Ayr.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys,and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear,with a disdainful smile,The short and simple annals of the Poor.
Gray.
My lov'd,my honour'd,much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride,I scorn each selfish end,My dearest meed,a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing,in simple Scottish lays,The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene,The native feelings strong,the guileless ways,What Aiken in a cottage would have been;Ah!tho'his worth unknown,far happier there I ween!
November chill blaws loud wi'angry sugh;The short'ning winter-day is near a close;The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;The black'ning trains o'craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,-This night his weekly moil is at an end,Collects his spades,his mattocks,and his hoes,Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,And weary,o'er the moor,his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;Th'expectant wee-things,toddlin,stacher through To meet their dead,wi'flichterin noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle,blinkin bonilie,His clean hearth-stane,his thrifty wifie's smile,The lisping infant,prattling on his knee,Does a'his weary kiaugh and care beguile,And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Belyve,the elder bairns come drapping in,At service out,amang the farmers roun';Some ca'the pleugh,some herd,some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neibor town:
Their eldest hope,their Jenny,woman-grown,In youthfu'bloom-love sparkling in her e'e-Comes hame,perhaps to shew a braw new gown,Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,To help her parents dear,if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeign'd,brothers and sisters meet,And each for other's weelfare kindly speirs:
The social hours,swift-wing'd,unnotic'd fleet:
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
The parents,partial,eye their hopeful years;Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother,wi'her needle and her shears,Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;The father mixes a'wi'admonition due.
Their master's and their mistress'command,The younkers a'are warned to obey;And mind their labours wi'an eydent hand,And ne'er,tho'out o'sight,to jauk or play;"And O!be sure to fear the Lord alway,And mind your duty,duly,morn and night;Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright."But hark!a rap comes gently to the door;Jenny,wha kens the meaning o'the same,Tells how a neibor lad came o'er the moor,To do some errands,and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e,and flush her cheek;With heart-struck anxious care,enquires his name,While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;Weel-pleased the mother hears,it's nae wild,worthless rake.
Wi'kindly welcome,Jenny brings him ben;A strappin youth,he takes the mother's eye;Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;The father cracks of horses,pleughs,and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi'joy,But blate an'laithfu',scarce can weel behave;The mother,wi'a woman's wiles,can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu'and sae grave,Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
O happy love!where love like this is found:
O heart-felt raptures!bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary,mortal round,And sage experience bids me this declare,-"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare-One cordial in this melancholy vale,'Tis when a youthful,loving,modest pair In other'sarms,breathe out the tender tale,Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."Is there,in human form,that bears a heart,A wretch!a villain!lost to love and truth!
That can,with studied,sly,ensnaring art,Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts!dissembling smooth!
Are honour,virtue,conscience,all exil'd?
Is there no pity,no relenting ruth,Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid,and their distraction wild?
But now the supper crowns their simple board,The halesome parritch,chief of Scotia's food;The sowp their only hawkie does afford,That,'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
The dame brings forth,in complimental mood,To grace the lad,her weel-hain'd kebbuck,fell;And aft he's prest,and aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie,garrulous,will tell How t'was a towmond auld,sin'lint was i'the bell.
The cheerfu'supper done,wi'serious face,They,round the ingle,form a circle wide;The sire turns o'er,with patriarchal grace,The big ha'bible,ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,He wales a portion with judicious care;And "Let us worship God!"he says with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise,They tune their hearts,by far the noblest aim;Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise;Or plaintive Martyrs,worthy of the name;Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame;The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these,Italian trills are tame;The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise;Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,How Abram was the friend of God on high;Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny;Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;Or Job's pathetic plaint,and wailing cry;Or rapt Isaiah's wild,seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;How He,who bore in Heaven the second name,Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
How His first followers and servants sped;The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
How he,who lone in Patmos banished,Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command.
Then,kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,The saint,the father,and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"^1That thus they all shall meet in future days,There,ever bask in uncreated rays,No more to sigh,or shed the bitter tear,Together hymning their Creator's praise,In such society,yet still more dear;While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere Compar'd with this,how poor Religion's pride,In all the pomp of method,and of art;When men display to congregations wide [Footnote 1:Pope's "Windsor Forest."-R.B.]
Devotion's ev'ry grace,except the heart!
The Power,incens'd,the pageant will desert,The pompous strain,the sacerdotal stole;But haply,in some cottage far apart,May hear,well-pleas'd,the language of the soul;And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,Would,in the way His wisdom sees the best,For them and for their little ones provide;But chiefly,in their hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these,old Scotia's grandeur springs,That makes her lov'd at home,rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,"An honest man's the noblest work of God;"And certes,in fair virtue's heavenly road,The cottage leaves the palace far behind;What is a lordling's pomp?a cumbrous load,Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,Studied in arts of hell,in wickedness refin'd!
O Scotia!my dear,my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health,and peace,and sweet content!
And O!may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion,weak and vile!
Then howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,A virtuous populace may rise the while,And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.
O Thou!who pour'd the patriotic tide,That stream'd thro'Wallace's undaunted heart,Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,Or nobly die,the second glorious part:
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,His friend,inspirer,guardian,and reward!)O never,never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot,and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise,her ornament and guard!
Address To The Deil O Prince!O chief of many throned Pow'rs That led th'embattl'd Seraphim to war-Milton.
O Thou!whatever title suit thee-
Auld Hornie,Satan,Nick,or Clootie,Wha in yon cavern grim an'sootie,Clos'd under hatches,Spairges about the brunstane cootie,To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me,auld Hangie,for a wee,An'let poor damned bodies be;I'm sure sma'pleasure it can gie,Ev'n to a deil,To skelp an'scaud poor dogs like me,An'hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r an'great thy fame;
Far ken'd an'noted is thy name;
An'tho'yon lowin'heuch's thy hame,Thou travels far;An'faith!thou's neither lag nor lame,Nor blate,nor scaur.
Whiles,ranging like a roarin lion,For prey,a'holes and corners tryin;Whiles,on the strong-wind'd tempest flyin,Tirlin the kirks;Whiles,in the human bosom pryin,Unseen thou lurks.
I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,In lanely glens ye like to stray;Or where auld ruin'd castles grey Nod to the moon,Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,Wi'eldritch croon.
When twilight did my graunie summon,To say her pray'rs,douse,honest woman!
Aft'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,Wi'eerie drone;Or,rustlin,thro'the boortrees comin,Wi'heavy groan.
Ae dreary,windy,winter night,The stars shot down wi'sklentin light,Wi'you,mysel'I gat a fright,Ayont the lough;Ye,like a rash-buss,stood in sight,Wi'wavin'sough.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,Each brist'ld hair stood like a stake,When wi'an eldritch,stoor "quaick,quaick,"Amang the springs,Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,On whistlin'wings.
Let warlocks grim,an'wither'd hags,Tell how wi'you,on ragweed nags,They skim the muirs an'dizzy crags,Wi'wicked speed;And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,Owre howkit dead.
Thence countra wives,wi'toil and pain,May plunge an'plunge the kirn in vain;For oh!the yellow treasure's ta'en By witchin'skill;An'dawtit,twal-pint hawkie's gane As yell's the bill.
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen,fond,keen an'crouse,When the best wark-lume i'the house,By cantrip wit,Is instant made no worth a louse,Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,An'float the jinglin'icy boord,Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,By your direction,And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd To their destruction.
And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an'drunk is:
The bleezin,curst,mischievous monkies Delude his eyes,Till in some miry slough he sunk is,Ne'er mair to rise.
When masons'mystic word an'grip In storms an'tempests raise you up,Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,Or,strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye wad whip Aff straught to hell.
Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard,When youthfu'lovers first were pair'd,An'all the soul of love they shar'd,The raptur'd hour,Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,In shady bower;^1Then you,ye auld,snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,[Footnote 1:The verse originally ran:"Lang syne,in Eden's happy scene When strappin Adam's days were green,And Eve was like my bonie Jean,My dearest part,A dancin,sweet,young handsome quean,O'guileless heart."]
An'play'd on man a cursed brogue,(Black be your fa'!)An'gied the infant warld a shog,'Maist rui'd a'.
D'ye mind that day when in a bizz Wi'reekit duds,an'reestit gizz,Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk,An'sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu'joke?
An'how ye gat him i'your thrall,An'brak him out o'house an hal',While scabs and botches did him gall,Wi'bitter claw;An'lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul',Was warst ava?
But a'your doings to rehearse,Your wily snares an'fechtin fierce,Sin'that day Michael^2did you pierce,Down to this time,Wad ding a Lallan tounge,or Erse,In prose or rhyme.
An'now,auld Cloots,I ken ye're thinkin,A certain bardie's rantin,drinkin,Some luckless hour will send him linkin To your black pit;But faith!he'll turn a corner jinkin,An'cheat you yet.
But fare-you-weel,auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an'men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-
Stil hae a stake:
I'm wae to think up'yon den,Ev'n for your sake!
[Footnote 2:Vide Milton,Book vi.-R.B.]
Scotch Drink Gie him strong drink until he wink,That's sinking in despair;An'liquor guid to fire his bluid,That's prest wi'grief and care:
There let him bouse,an'deep carouse,Wi'bumpers flowing o'er,Till he forgets his loves or debts,An'minds his griefs no more.
Solomon's Proverbs,xxxi.6,7.
Let other poets raise a fracas "Bout vines,an'wines,an'drucken Bacchus,An'crabbit names an'stories wrack us,An'grate our lug:
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,In glass or jug.
O thou,my muse!guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro'wimplin worms thou jink,Or,richly brown,ream owre the brink,In glorious faem,Inspire me,till I lisp an'wink,To sing thy name!
Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,An'aits set up their awnie horn,An'pease and beans,at e'en or morn,Perfume the plain:
Leeze me on thee,John Barleycorn,Thou king o'grain!
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,In souple scones,the wale o'food!
Or tumblin in the boiling flood Wi'kail an'beef;But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,There thou shines chief.
Food fills the wame,an'keeps us leevin;Tho'life's a gift no worth receivin,When heavy-dragg'd wi'pine an'grievin;But,oil'd by thee,The wheels o'life gae down-hill,scrievin,Wi'rattlin glee.
Thou clears the head o'doited Lear;
Thou cheers ahe heart o'drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o'Labour sair,At's weary toil;Though even brightens dark Despair Wi'gloomy smile.
Aft,clad in massy siller weed,Wi'gentles thou erects thy head;Yet,humbly kind in time o'need,The poor man's wine;His weep drap parritch,or his bread,Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o'public haunts;
But thee,what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o'the saunts,By thee inspired,When gaping they besiege the tents,Are doubly fir'd.
That merry night we get the corn in,O sweetly,then,thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin on a New-year mornin In cog or bicker,An'just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,An'gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,An'ploughmen gather wi'their graith,O rare!to see thee fizz an freath I'th'luggit caup!
Then Burnewin comes on like death At every chap.
Nae mercy then,for airn or steel;
The brawnie,banie,ploughman chiel,Brings hard owrehip,wi'sturdy wheel,The strong forehammer,Till block an'studdie ring an reel,Wi'dinsome clamour.
When skirling weanies see the light,Though maks the gossips clatter bright,How fumblin'cuiffs their dearies slight;Wae worth the name!
Nae howdie gets a social night,Or plack frae them.
When neibors anger at a plea,An'just as wud as wud can be,How easy can the barley brie Cement the quarrel!
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,To taste the barrel.
Alake!that e'er my muse has reason,To wyte her countrymen wi'treason!
But mony daily weet their weason Wi'liquors nice,An'hardly,in a winter season,E'er Spier her price.
Wae worth that brandy,burnin trash!
Fell source o'mony a pain an'brash!
Twins mony a poor,doylt,drucken hash,O'half his days;An'sends,beside,auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes.
Ye Scots,wha wish auld Scotland well!
Ye chief,to you my tale I tell,Poor,plackless devils like mysel'!
It sets you ill,Wi'bitter,dearthfu'wines to mell,Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his blather wrench,An'gouts torment him,inch by inch,What twists his gruntle wi'a glunch O'sour disdain,Out owre a glass o'whisky-punch Wi'honest men!
O Whisky!soul o'plays and pranks!
Accept a bardie's gratfu'thanks!
When wanting thee,what tuneless cranks Are my poor verses!
Thou comes-they rattle in their ranks,At ither's a-s!
Thee,Ferintosh!O sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips,an'barkin hoast May kill us a';For loyal Forbes'charter'd boast Is ta'en awa?
Thae curst horse-leeches o'the'Excise,Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han',Deil!ance,twice,thrice!
There,seize the blinkers!
An'bake them up in brunstane pies For poor damn'd drinkers.
Fortune!if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks,a scone,an'whisky gill,An'rowth o'rhyme to rave at will,Tak a'the rest,An'deal't about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.
