Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, etc., Mostly Written in the Dialect of the South
Author(s): Hogg, James
Options:
- Information about document and author
- View 67 colour images
- View 67 greyscale images
- View plain text
- Download plain text
- Cite this document
Highlight word:
Text
SCOTTISH
PASTORALS,
POEMS, SONGS, &c.
MOSTLY WRITTEN IN THE
DIALECT OF THE SOUTH.
By JAMES HOGG.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY JOHN TAYLOR, GRASSMARKET.
1801.
Price One Shilling.
ERRATA.
Page 22. line 8. for Stogſhaw read Staggſhaw
16. for an' read o'
41. 6. for lawn read town
15. for climb read ſpeel
42 for balm read hand
4. for viſion read viſions
45. 7. for ſpake read ſpoke
47. 19. for pale read pole
GEORDIE FA's DIRGE.
BAITH auld an' young come join wi' me;
Come greet as if ye'd loſt a plea;
Come ſhake your head, an' whinge, an' claw,
An' murn the death of Geordie Fa.
Auld 'oneſt hearty, jocun' carle!
Without a grane he left the warl':
Death in a twinklin' quite bereft us
O' a' our joy, whan Geordie left us.
He was mair true than ony Roman;
Was lov'd by all, and fear'd by no man;
The rich did woo, the poor did bleſs him;
But now he's dead, and ſair we'll miſs him.
For him my heart is nnco ſair,
O' a' his ſangs I gat a ſhare;
Nae mair I'll hear him play, wi' ſkill,
The Soger's Joy, nor Butcher's Reel,
Nor owr the Muir amang the Heather,
Nor Marion's Ewe p---t owr the tether.
The fiddle now may lie untun'd,
While I at Highland Donald croon'd,
Or try to ſtep the College horn-pipe,
She ſkirles like a laddie's corn-pipe.
For tales, an' tunes, and merry ſangs,
For breedin' toops, and fattin' lambs,
His like ne'er dwalt in town or city;
But now he's, dead, an' that's a pity.
He was a wannle, ſturdy man,
Wi' vigour at the baa he ran;
When he was ſtrippit to the ſark,
Amang them a' was ane as ſtark.
When luckleſs collies came afore him,
He didna ſtand to curſe and ſhare 'em.
But ſtrak them till they ran an' yelpit;
But now he's dead, an' whae can help it.
Langſyne, whan rebels rang'd at pleaſure,
He did a deed was wordy Cæſar;
Arm'd wi' a pleugh-ſtaff, fer out-bye,
Twa men wi' ſwords, he gart them lie.
His doughty deeds on Annan river,
What fiſh he kill'd, than young and clever,
How deep their ribs, how lang their meaſure,
I oft hae heard him tell wi' pleaſure.
What paetricks at a ſhot he grundit,
What cocks he kill'd, what hares he hundit,
Was aft his theme, and aye his pleaſure.
Tho' braw an' rich, he was nae miſer:
Nae cares had he about to-morrow;
But now he's dead, an' that's a ſorrow.
Ye poachers now ſcour up your guns;
Ye fiſhers try wha faſteſt runs;
The muirs an' ſtreams will ſport afford ye,
Their harmleſs tenants live for Geordie.
On days whan he was young an' keen,
In vain ye watch'd the curlin' ſtream;
In ſpite o' ye a', wi' muckle pride,
He haul'd his ſa'mon to the ſide.
Oft hae I ſtood hale days to ſee him
But now he's dead, an' peace be wi' him.
He was weel wordy imitation;
A man mair uſefu' in his ſtation
He ſcarce has left. Whatever rank
Chance plac'd him in, he ſtill was frank.
Wi' beggars, ſodgers, merchants, taylors,
Ev'n wi ' the warſt o' broken ſailors,
He wad hae crackit hale forenoons,
An' play'd them half a ſcore o' tunes,
Wi' a philoſopher or poet,
The way they took, was fond to know it
An' wi' the rich he kept decorum;
But now he's dead, an' waes me for him
DUSTY,
OR,
WATIE AN' GEORDIE'S REVIEW OF POLITICS,
An ECLOGUE.
ON June, the year, not lets nor mae
Than eighteen hunder a' but twae,
Foment a brig laid owr a pool,
A wee bit frae the pariſh ſcool,
Upon a brae baith dry and clean,
Twae 'oneſt lads ſat down to lean,
And haud the following converſation
About th' affairs o' their ain nation.
Geordie look'd ſowr and diſcontentit,
While Watie thus his wonder ventit:
Watie.
I wonder, Geordie, what's the matter,
I never ſaw a douther creature
Tho' twice a day this while I've met w'ye,
A heartſome crack I ne'er can get w'ye;
When I wad fain divert an' pleaſe ye,
In trouth you nouther hear nor ſees the;
Thy thoughts are wand'ring, L---d knows whi
they,
An' what upon, for I ken neither.
Caſt roun' your een on ilk thing near ye,
See, ilka thing combines to cheer ye;
Your friends are weel, your wages gude,
What then keeps up this dowie mude?
Come, tell me man, is Nelly faithleſs?
Or is ſhe turnin' round an' breathleſs?
Geordie.
I've nought like that my heart to grieve
My Nelly's true, and I believe
Her free frae ony man on earth,
This day, as that whilk gae her birth:
But how can I be blythe, while viewin'
My dear dear country gaun to ruin?
Watie.
Hey, maſter patriot! now I ſmoke ye,
An', on my ſaul, right fain wad 'nock ye
For mindin things o' ſic a nature;
But let us argue out the matter.
Shew me the ſigns o' Britain's ruin
An' wha's the cauſe o' her undoin'.
Geordie.
Alas! a cloud o' wrath hangs owr us,
Ready to burſt an' quite devour us.
Our fathers truth for error barters,
An' ſhed the blude o' ſants an' martyr's.
Their ſons are ſae degen'rate grown,
That ilka thing's turn'd upſide down.
Religion's grown a laughing ſtock,
A butt for fools whereat to mock,
An ugly thing, that, anes detectit,
The owner o't is ay ſuſpectit.
The ither day, when at the mill,
I heard ane thus deſcribin' Will:
"I own he is a man o' wit,
"And on ſome exc'llent ſchemes has hit;
"His wants are few, his wealth prodigious,
"But, rot his heart! he's damn'd relig'ous."
The gude commands that ſude direct us.
An', war they keepit, might protect us,
I' our bleſt days, it nae mair
Than Britiſh laws to ſave a maukin;
An', for the ſe'enth, keep it we wad,
If it requir'd what it forbade;
For you, and idle ſinners like you,
Count leſs o' yon than man an' wife do
A ſcourge then for this guilty land!
Nor can the time be fer frae hand;
Its faireſt flow'r already fadin',
As was foretold by Welch an' Peden.
Watie.
Faith, leave the' plowmen, join the tent
And unto ſinners preach repentance;
For I can gueſs, frae this oration,
Ye're join'd that headſtrong, dull perſwaſion;
But a' your Cameronian rants,
'Bout ſolemn leagues an' covenants,
'Bout kings, an' laws, and conſtitutions,
Supremacy an' perſecutions,
S'al never keep me frae inſiſtin'
On our laws bein' the beſt exiſtin'.
Nor are we juſt ſae ſair abandon'd,,
As you appear to underſtand it;
We've mair to ſhew of pious zeal
Than ony age that's paſt a deal;
What think ye o' ſic contributions,
For biggin ſhips an' ſendin' miſſions,
To mak the goſpel light to ſhine
I' nations fer ayont the line?
Our gentry, too, hae ſign'd a letter,
Whilk binds to keep the Sabbath better.
Geordie.
That bond, I fear, they'll keep but ill;
For ſen they paſt the Papiſh bill,
Frae ae miſchief they've run t'nother,
An' neer had luck i' ane nor other.
E'en at this time, nae fether
Our allies leave us ane by ane;
An' waur than that our faes they join,
To pay us hame i' our ain coin.
Fo'ks een are open'd now, they ſee
The French deſign them liberty;
By makin' laws which fo'ks admire,
They've won mair than by ſword an' fire.
Watie.
Fo'ks een are open'd now, 'tis true;
But 'tis owr late, when, frae their view,
Fair Liberty's entirely vaniſh'd;
Frae States, where ance ador'd, ſhe's baniſh'd
The French, my friend, are kittle maſters,
Likewiſe the cauſe o' ſair diſaſters;
Whae elſe can ony body blame
For this rebellion here at hame.
What glory if, by Britiſh thunder,
Theſe haughty knaves cou'd be brought under,
Then a the ſilly dogs aroun' them,
Whae, courin', let them tramp aboon them,
Tho' forc'd, e'en now, their rage to bury,
Wad turn an' bite wi' double fury.
Thus, when th' impetuous Prince o' Sweden
Thro' Saxony in blude came waedin,
For mony year nae force cude ſtand him,
Whae ever try'd, their maſter fand him;
Europe, embroil'd in bloody quarrels,
Stood trembling at the name of Charles;
Ilk pow'r around to friendſhip preſt him,
The proud did ſtoop, the brave careſt him.
But mark how ſoon they chang'd their mind,
When he to Bender was confin'd.
When muckle Pate, wi deſp'rate fuffle,
Had at Poltowa won the ſcuffle,
And cruſht the braveſt band o' men
That Europe e'er will boaſt again,
Then all around the Swedes dominions,
Forgetting former ties and unions,
On him turn'd a' their arms anon,
'Til a' his richeſt lands were won:
Juſt ſae great France wad ſoon be guidit,
Could Britain anes but lair the pride o't.
I own, like Amos, I'm nae prophet,
Yet on this head ſome notes I'll forfeit,
Who lives to ſee a few Decembers,
Will ſee this monſter loſin' members.
Geordie.
Faith, loſe they, win they, I'm indiff'rent;
For come they, bide they, we've ,a liferent
O ſlav'ry o' the hardeſt kind,
Whilk has ſae rous'd the public mind,
That, but for armies almaiſt countleſs,
Might gar our proud oppreſſors vaunt leſs.
When firſt this war i' France began,
Our blades bude hae a meddlin' hand;
Their raiſin' men for't rais'd the ceſſes,
Whilk rais'd our diſcontents and ſtreſſes;
Our grumblin' reachin' ſome fo'ks ears,
Of hameil brulies rais'd their fears;
Mae men they rais'd, and will perſwade us,
The French ir comin' to invade us;
But whether ever they deſign'd it,
Wi' a' my airt I ne'er can find yet;
Yet this I think, they'll gain their aim,
By threat'ning us afar thro' time.
Sic heaps o' men to cleed and pay,
Will brik the King, or breed a fray;
For if they raiſe the taxes higher,
They'll ſet alunt that ſmooſtin' fire,
Whilk ilka ſeſſion helps to beet,
An', when it burns, they'll get a heat.
The weſt ſide elſe hath gi'en a bleeze,
I mean the lads on Leinſter lees;
Whae rather chuſe to die wi' brav'ry,
Than grane out life in downright ſlav'ry.
Watie.
O Geordie, man! I'm wae to hear ye;
I like ye, elſe I cou'dna bear w' ye:
The taxes true, hae got a ſtretch,
Yet few ava to poor fo'k reach.
Theſe curſed notions you've imbibit,
Hae made your look - I can't deſcribe it. -
Your cheeks are thin, your colour ſallow,
The very white o'y'r een's turn'd yellow
Your brows hang down at ilka corner,
And knit like ony ancient mourner;
You've got a weary length of face,
Wi' mouth as wide as Sandy Rae's;
Your claes ir ſtrangely out of order,
Your hat has nouther ſtring nor border;
Ye're gaun withouten ſhoon or boots,
But ſlorpin loags about your coots.
They've baniſh'd frae your mind content,
The greateſt bliſs that heav'n has lent.
ſee the ſtem that feeds your fever,
Yet ſoon, I hope, the root will wither;
I ken that, frankit by Lord Napier,
Ilk week you read the Kelſo paper.
Geordie.
Well, what o' that? poor Jamie's lie'd o.
But tellna me o' poor fo'ks freedom;
If ane eſcape the taxes a',
Then that ſame ane has nought ava:
Our hats, our claes, our drink, our meat,
Our ſnuff, our baca, ſhoon o'ur feet,
Our candles, watches, horſes,
The very bleſſed light o' heaven;
Our dogs - but now, for want o' patience,
How I cou'd curſe the vile taxations -
Thou wert my friend, poor 'oneſt DUSTY,
A faithful ſervant, true and truſty;
My fate an' me thou follow'd after,
Thro' froſt an' ſnaw, thro' fire an' water:
But thou'rt rewarded gratefully,
Hang'd like a thief outowr a tree!
That plaguy PITT! cude I yoke wi' him,
The loſs o' thee might forgie him.
Watie.
That tax on dogs is right miſchievous,
On highland fo'k 'tis vaſtly grievous.
Geordi'e.
What! lad it ye ſae ſoon forgettin',
That nave on yirth hae laws like Britain
Watie.
Weel man, I dinna grudge, tho' dear,
I pay twall ſhillin's ilka year,
An' wad gie mair wi' a my heart,
Wad ilka ane contribute part.
The nation's rich; if a were willin'
The King might ne'er be aun a ſhillin'.
His debt's become a cant right common
The debt is our's, he's aun to no man,
When ye come next wi' corn to Johny,
On this brae ſide I'll wait upon ye;
An' then I'll baith convince, you fairly
That government has acted ſquarely,
An' that our Britiſh helm's confidit
To hands that unco weel can guide it;
An' when we reach the mill I'll treat ye
Wi' a' their healths in acquavitty.
Geordie.
I canna do't, their names diſguſt me,
An' gar me mind my heartſome Duſty;
Yet their defence I'll gladly hear,
Wad they mak peace within a year,
An' mak the taxes ſomewhat leucher,
I'd rather ſee't than farm the Deuchar.
Watie.
I wiſh as much for peace as ye do,
Tho' little ill the war I ſee do;
In gen'ral ilka thrifty man
Is richer than when it began.
Wi' faes we ne'er had ſic a tilt,
In which leſs Britiſh blude was ſpilt;
Quite maſters o' the ſea they find us,
An' heavy neibers i' the Indies.
But man 'tis queer to mak ſic ſike
About an uſeleſs gauffin tike;
That ne'er cude gie a decent turn
At ſheddin', fauldin', bought, nor burn;
But ran wi' inconſid'rate force,
An' bate their heels as they'd been horſt
I never thought, for a' your ruſe,
That e'er he was for muckle uſe,
Except for drivin' nout to fairs,
Or rinnin' whinkin' after hares.
But if ye ſaw that ye wad need him,
Five ſhillins yearly wad hae freed him.
Geordie.
I never ſaw a finer beaſt,
Sin' I cou'd ken the weſt frae eaſt;
But yet a crown was unco ſair
On ane that cou'd ſae little ſpare;
For a the wages e'er I won
Can ſcarcely keep my head aboon:
But I bude either flit or ſlay him,
For nae man off my hand wad hae him;
I didna like to flit, for fear
I might have idle lien a year;
My friends war poor, an' had nae need
That I ſude hang on them for bread;
Sae was I forc'd, tho' vext and anger'd,
To gie conſent to hae him hanged,
He had ſome proſpect o' the deed,
For back he drew, and wadna lead.
His looks to me, I'll ne'er forget them,
Nae doubt he look-it for protection;
While I, unfeeling as the tree,
Stood ſtill, an' ſaw him hung on hie.
At firſt he ſpurr'd, an' fell a bocking,
Then gollar'd, piſht, and juſt was choaking
Deil tak the King, an' burn his crown,
Quoth I, an' ran to cut him down
When, poor, unlucky, ſenſeleſs brute!
(Afore I never ſaw him do't)
He bate me till the blude did ſpring;
Confus'd an' hurt, I loot him hing
Owr lang for life; for on the green
He ſprawl'd to death before my een.
I really felt extrodner pain;
I kend we ne'er wad meet again.
I grat for grief, his death to ſee
Whae aft had ventur'd life for me:
For ay when I wi' ane had grips,
He ran an' bit their heels or hips;
An' when I warſtled wi' the women,
He tugg'd their tails, an' held them
Laſt year he play'd a deſp'rate prank,
When gaun wi' me to Stogſhaw-bank:
I wi' a man, that houn'd our hogs,
Kooſtout an' feught, ſae did our dogs
I own I was but roughly guidit,
Nor was the quarrel weel decidet;
But ere we ceas'd frae rough contention,
The Saxon's dog was paſt redemption.
When weazels ſnirtit, frae the dykes,
Or fumerts frae the braes an' ſykes,
He cock'd his tail, an' geed his head,
O' ſcores o' them he was the dead.
Nae beaſt on yirth cude hae defy'd him
If I had ſaid the word, he try'd him.
But yet for a' his grueſome dealins',
He was a dog o' tender feelin's;
When I lay ſick an' like to die,
He watch'd me wi' a conſtant eye;
An' then when e'er I ſpak' or ſturr'd,
He wagg'd his tail, an' whing'd, an nurr'd.
When ſaams were ſung at any meetin',
He yowl'd, an' thought the fock war greetin'.
For wearin' corn of hens an cocks,
For huntin' o' the hare or fox,
For chaſin' cats, an' craws, an' hoodies,
An' chackin mice, an' howkin moudies,
An' ſettin moorfowl, ſnipes, an' petrics,
His match was never made for thae tricks.
But now, poor beaſt, he's dead an' rotten,
An' his good deeds are a' forgotten.
Watie.
I ken what grief I felt myſel'
In partin' wi' my auld Springkell;
I wadna been as muckle troubl'd
For a' his value ten times doubl'd,
Geordie.
But night draws on, and I'm to meet
My Nelly up on Annan's treat.
Be o' our cracks a wee diſcreeter,
For HOGG pits a' we ſay to meter.
Fare-weel; I hope ere lang to ſee thee
Watie:
Fare-weel; ſucceſs an' joy gang wi' thee.
WILLIE AN' KEATIE,
A PASTORAL.
DON'T you ſee yon lofty mountain,
Where the wanton lambies play,
Round an' round the cryſtal fountain,
Springin' frae the ſunny brae.
Round its ſummits, beat wi' weather,
See, it wears a purple crown,
Made o' bonny bloomin' heather,
Beauties wild, but Nature's own!
There the mountain daiſies bloſſom;
There the tender vi'lets bloom;
There the thyme, ſpread on its boſom,
Fills the air with ſweet perfume.
How romantic is the proſpect
Down below there winds a lake,
Where are fiſhes bred an' foſter'd;
So are fowls that haunt the brake.
There the cunning foxie,
Mocks his cruel hunter's rage;
Hawks and ravens, there reſiding,
In perpetual wars engage.
From theſe rugged proſpects turn ye;
Mark yon rauntree ſpreading wide,
Where the clear, but noiſy burnie
Ruſhes down the mountain's ſide.
There a lovely bloomin' ſhepherd
Every day a while reclin'd,
There, in accents ſoft, related
Thus, his love an' tortur'd mind,
"Pity me, ye tender lovers!
You can gueſs at what I bear;
Once careſs'd, but now another
Has her heart, to me ſae dear.
"When I firſt beheld my KEATIE,
I forgot to hear or ſee;
A' the girls I prized lately
Ne'er were minded mair by me.
"Hame I came, but took nae dinner,
Went to bed, but ſleepit nane;
Young, an' blate, an' quite a ſtranger,
What to do I didna ken.
"Ten lang days I thought upon her,
Quite depriv'd o' peace an' reſt;
Findin' I cude bruik nae langer,
I reſolv'd to do my beſt.
"Now my yellow hair I plaited,
Gae my downy chin a ſhave,
Thrice my tales of love repeated,
Fearin' I would miſbehave.
"Far away I took my journey,
Left our hills ſae high an' green,
Thro' a pleaſant fertile country,
Which I ne'er before had ſeen.
"Here we're charm'd wi' works o Nature,
Craggy cliff, an' lonely glen;
There I oft ſtood like a ſtatue,
Wond'ring at the works o' men.
"Verdant paſtures, grand incloſures;
Thrivin' woods, an' buildins new,
Hale hill ſides ſawn up wi' clover,
Ev'ry where aroſe in view,
"Lang I gaed, and kendna whither,
Struck wi' ilka thing I ſaw,
Where yon little windin' river
Murmers owr the ſtanes ſae ſma',
"Phebus, now in all his glory,
Sunk into the weſtern main;
Frae his labour, ſoft an' ſlowly,
Hameward trudg'd the weary ſwain.
"Nature, freed frae her auld lover
Roughſome Winter, gaunt and lean;
Spring to charm, whaſe airs had mov'd her
Rob'd herſelf in chearful green.
"A' their little feather'd tenants
Sweetly ſung on ilka tree;
Lads an' laſſes, wives an' callants,
A' war gay but lonely me.
Walkin' thro' the elms ſae ſtately,
Thinkin' on the ſtep I'd ta'en,
There I met my bonny KEATY,
Comin' thro' the wood her lane.
"Fear'd an' fond, when I approach'd her,
How my heart began to beat!
But I ventur'd to accoſt her,
Aſkin'where ſhe gaed ſae late?
"Wi' a ſmile, that quite bewitch'd me,
She return'd; "What's that to thee?
"Ere you reach the town that's next ye,
"Lad, yell be as late as me."
"Mony queſtion I ſpeer'd at her,
Mony ane I kend fu' weel,
If an inn ſtood on the water,
Where a ſtranger wad get biel?
Where ſhe liv'd, an' what they ca'd her,
Father's name an' mother's too,
Ilka burn an' ilka water,
Ilka houſe within our view.
"Lang we ſtood amang the timber,
Frae me ſhe could never win;
Now the ſterns began to glimmer,
Drowſy Twilight cloſs'd his een.
"Shepherd," ſaid ſhe, "I wad thank ye,
"Wad ye turn an' ſet me hame;
"Ghaiſts an' witches are ſae plenty,
"I'm afraid to gang my lane.
"When we reach my father's dwellin',
"Ye's hae bed an' ſupper- free;
"They'll requite ye, when I tell them
"How ye've been ſae kind to me."
"Happy in the fair occaſion,
How I bleſt her bonny face,
Nor refus'd the invitation,
Proffer'd me wi' ſic a grace.
"Hand in hand, away we waukit;
She was pleas'd, an' I was fain;
Tho' on others loves we taukit,
Never durſt I name my ain.
"Till we reach'd yon willow buſhes.
Pretty buſhes, ſweet an' green!
How her face o'erſpread wi' bluſhes,
Shepherds, O! had you but ſeen.
Think nae ſhame, my bonny KEATIE,
"Come ſit down an' reſt a while;
"I've, in hopes myſel' to get thee,
"Travell'd mony a weary mile."
"Shepherd, ceaſe your vain entreating,
"Here wi' thee I will not ſtay;
"My poor parents will be fretting,
"I hare ſtaid ſae late away.
"Think ye, I'll neglect my duty,
"For a fond an' fooliſh boy;
"Love that's merely rai'd by beauty,
"Seldom fails in haſte to cloy."
"Hold, my deareſt, I implore thee;
"Hear me ſwear by all above -
"Ere I ceaſe for to adore thee,
"Earth no more ſhall harbour love.
"Solway's ſtream ſhall ſwell the Teviot,
"Eilden hills unite in ane;
"Tweed rin owr the tops o' Cheviot;
Berwick ſtand at Eric ſtane.
"Pity me; my bonny laſſie;
"Come, ſit down, an' think nae ſhame;
"In my boſom let me houſe thee;
Here ye're ſafer than at hame."
"Let me firſt go eaſe my parents;
"When they've ſeen me ſafely home,
"I'll return and prove thoſe talents,
"Seemingly for flatt'ry form'd."
"Where the ſtream, wi' mony a turnie,
Wimpled thro' the ſandy plain,
Willows, loutin, kiſs'd the burnie,
There I'm left to lie my lane.
"From yon eaſtern ſummit bending,
Orions radient circle beams;
Venus, in the weſt deſcending,
Flames like light'ning on the ſtreams.
"Hail, ye ſtars, that o'er me hover!
Hail, ye beaming orbs of light!
Shine propitious on a lover,
Shed your influence here to night!
"Oft, to ev'ry care unuſed,
When the day-light ceas'd to ſhine;
Oft on you I've gaz'd and muſed;
Oft ador'd that pow'r divine,
"Who thoſe fluid films, that wheeled
Looſely thro' primæval night,
By a breath to worlds congealed;
Maſſes of illuvid light!
"From his hand then bowl'd you flaming
Thro' old dreary Night's domain;
Order ſtraight thro' nature reigning,
Dungeon Darkneſs ſmil'd ſerene.
"Now the joys of contemplation
On ſuch things, to me ſeem nought;
Lovely ſhe, whoſe ſweet diſcretion
Left me here, pervades each
"Back ſhe came, I kiſs'd, I woo'd her,
Row'd her gently in my plaid;
Where we lay, till Phœbus ſhew'd her
To my eyes the lovelieſt maid.
"E'er me thought the ſun aroſe on,
When ſhe bade me riſe an' gang,
Mind my vows, my faith repoſe on,
An' come back ere it was lang.
"Mony letter I ſent to her,
Mony raik I gaed myfel';
Never was a luckier wooer,
Never lover us'd ſo well.
"Now ſhe's quite ta'en up wi' Jokey;
Woman, thou'rt a myſtery!
What, alas! was all her motive?
He was twice as rich as me.
I had plenty, wi' a bleſſing,
Plenty baith for her an' me
O my Keatie! what was miſſing.
Lack Of gold has ſtartl'd thee.
"Yet, my bonny ſmillin' laſſie,
Thou art never frae my ſight;
Thou'rt my ſorrow, joy, an' fancy;
Thought by day, an' dream by night.
Weel I mind the weeping willow,
Weel I mind the riggs o' rye,
Weel the primroſe grove ſo yellow,
Often preſt by you an' I.
"Fare-ye-weel, my bonny Keatie,
Happy ever may you be;
Live to love the lad that gets ye;
Never ſpend a thought on me.
"If I die, I die wi' pleaſure;
If I live, I'll live in pain -
Thee, my deareſt, chiefeſt treaſure
Thee I'll never ſee again.
Mirth and muſic, now I hate ye;
'Dieu ye ſwains an' laſſes fair;
Since I've loſt my bonny Keatie,
I can live nor love nae mair."
Up ſpake Jamie, young an' wittie,
"Willie, ye are quite miſtaen;
"A' the love ye bear for Keatie,
"Keatie bears for you again.
"When I ſaw ye ſad an' wae man
"I a project ſtraight did try,
"Paſſing for a wond'rous ſpae-man,
"Through the country travell'd I.
"Wi' a bonnet, auld an' cloutit,
"Silver locks, an' hollow een;
"Coat an' cloak, ye wad hae doubtit
"What had their orig'nal been.
"Having a their ſtories fitted;
"Bred amang them frae my
Whatſoever I predicted
"Paſt wi' them for goſpel truth.
"Soon I fand that Keaty lov'd ye,
"Wi' a heart baith true an' leel,
"That ſhe'd try'd a ſcheme to prove ye
"Happy when ye took it ill.
Now, like you, ſhe's ſad an' fretty,
"Frae her cheeks the roſes fly;
"When I tald her ſhe wad get ye,
"Gladneſs ſparkl'd in her eye."
Shepherds, wad ye hear the iſſue?
WILL an' KEAT their wiſhes prove
Happy pair! ſure Heav'n will bleſs you,
And reward your conſtant love.
Conſtancy an' perſeverance
Ever will rewarded be;
Tho' I ſing't wi' little rev'rence,
Heav'n to their rights will ſee.
A DIALOGUE IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
THE mountain's wither'd brow look'd wan,
Chill flew the blaſt the braes between,
Swift o'er the lake the eddies ran,
And loud and harſh roll'd on the ſtream
Dim ſwept the ſhow'r alongſt the vale,
The miſty vale of verdure bare;
And low and mournful, in the gale,
Grief's heavy accents load the air.
The day had dawn'd, the morning paſt,
That ſacred day to Chriſtians dear;
The morning bell had toll'd, and faſt
The hour of public praiſe drew near,
When by a tomb two ſwains did meet,
And thus ſad Nicolas began;
Wild were his looks, down Colin's cheek
The dews of heart-felt ſſorrow ran.
Nicholas.
What do I ſee! what ſad event
Hath chang'd the ſwains of Ettrick now
The native air of ſweet content
Is fled, and grief broods on each brow.
From home, a weary length of way,
I've trode to day, in hopes to find
Some comfort, or ſome ſweet allay
Of horrors which oppreſs my mind.
But no one heeds me: all intent
On grief, relate ſome diſmal tale;
Elſe o'er a grave or monument
Hang ſolitary, and bewail.
Of what diſaſter dire they've learn'd,
Declare, dear ſhepherd, if you know;
Of Nature's exit, tho' forwarn'd,
What lamentations more could flow?
Colin.
Oh! Nicholas, their grief is real;
No feign'd affected tears you ſee;
Nor is't in vain they thus bewail;
But what, dear ſwain, hath happen'd thee?
Nicholas.
That will I tell you, tho' you ſcorn
My weakneſs, as indeed you may;
'Twill eaſe a mind quite overborne
By preſages of great diſmay.
Laſt night, when ſunk in deep repoſe,
My guardian angel did unveil
Such ſcenes - and to my ſoul diſclos'd
What mortal tongue can ne'er reveal.
Upbraid me not - if life and breath
Remain - ere Sol hath Libra gain'd -
I'm not more certain of my death,
Than ſeeing theſe my dreams explain'd.
Acknowledge, haſt thou never yet,
When acting ſcenes in nature o'er,
An inward recollection met
Of having view'd the ſame before?
Nor is it ſtrange: Futurity,
Though wrapt in miſt, to human ken
Seem ſhapeleſs; yet a ſpirit's eye
Some giant features may diſcern.
And in the wild and dreary walk;
The village fair, or noiſy lawn,
Wherever ſmiles the human face,
There ſpirits ſkim their airy round.
A guardian friend, his fav'rite charge
May thus of hid events apprize,
By great outlines, unfurl'd at large
In ſleep, to Fancy's lidleſs eyes.
The ſun had drop'd beyond the hill,
The welkin topaz blaz'd and died;
The wat'ry moon began to climb,
With aſpect cold, the cieling wide.
Our frugal meal, our home, our health,
With gratitude our hearts inſpire
To him who gives us all our wealth;
Him thank'd, to reſt we all retire.
Scarce had the downy balm of sleep
Begun to preſs my weary eyes,
When howling wilds, and caverns deep,
In viſion ſtrange began to riſe.
Me thought a long long journey preſt;
Fond I ſet out, with proſpects gay;
But wants, and woes, and fears increas'd
Ere I had wander'd half my way.
A diſmal lake before my ſight
Aroſe, to which fair paths led on;
Where oft I ſaw the headlong wight
Sink, utt'ring many a piteous moan.
Thrice, by deluſive ſweets betray'd,
Into thoſe faithleſs roads I ran;
As oft, by more than mortal aid,
Eſcap'd, all ſpent with toil and pain.
Grown cautious now - while ſlow and faint
I wander'd on, by fear compell'd
To gaze around: What tongue can paint
The horrors which I then beheld?
O'er caves of death, and dens of woe;
On rocks the blaſted foreſts hung;
The owlet and the raven too,
To dancing ſatyrs doleful ſung.
Near to that awful lake I drew,
Thro' which a paſſage ne'er was found;
Black vapours, hugging billows blue,
In deepeſt ſhades the proſpect drown'd.
Alongſt its ſhores, both high and ſteep,
Millions of mortals thoughtleſs play'd
Faſt, faſt they dropt into the deep,
Yet ſtill the throng no fear betray'd.
All bent on trifles, ill enjoy'd
When once in the purſuer's pow'r;
And millions nothing elſe employ'd
Than puſhing others headlong o'er.
By wither'd roots what objects hung!
Eager the ſummit to regain: -
Mad hope! - they ſprawl'd, and graſp'd and clung,
Till efforts broke the thread in twain.
Infantile ſcreams, and groans, and cries,
Now mix'd on ev'ry ſide aroſe;
Trembling I turn'd, and try'd to fly,
But precipieces rude oppoſe.
Now, on my ſoul a beam of joy
Began to dawn, with placid ſmile,
As thou haſt ſeen the orient dye
Triumph o'er night in fair April.
A ſwain I ſaw, whole children fair,
Like beauteous plants, around him ſprung
For him I heard the ſervent pray'r,
For him the wiſh of ev'ry tongue.
Pale Miſery and haggard Want,
Evaniſh'd quite before his eye;
I ſaw a thouſand boſoms pant
With gratitude for each ſupply.
No ſhade of oſtentatious glare
O'er one of all his actions ran;
No mortal e'er more juſtly bare
That nobleſt name, the FRIEND OF MAN.
Firm were his roots, his branches fair,
No guſt his folli'ge e'er could ſhake;
When, lo! a whirlwind in the air
Aroſe, and plung'd him in the lake.
"Great God!" I cry'd, and ſtarting woke,
All bath'd and palſy'd ev'ry limb;
"Great God! Great God!" nought elſe I ſpake,
Till certain what ſtate I was in.
The clock now ſtruck the hour eleven,
Mild ſleep had ſhaded ev'ry eye;
The watchful pallid queen of heaven
Into my cot began to pry;
While I, all ſick, revolving lay
On what this viſion ſtrange could mean,
Till near the dawning of the day
I doz'd again, and thus did dream:
I thought that low, on Yarrow fair,
I ſtray'd 'mong flow'rs of ev'ry hue;
The birds flew warbling thro' the air,
The trees all green with foliage grew.
I heard a groan, and ſoon perceiv'd
The ground all crimſon'd where I ſtood,
The ſwans, that late in ſilver div'd,
Now moan'd, and ſwam in waves
I wak'd - but what I then did feel,
Omniſſcient King! thou knoweſt besſt;
Had ev'ry thing I ſaw been real,
Not deeper had they been impreſt.
Colin.
What aerial whiſper this convey'd,
Thou know'ſt, who ſtudy'ſt nature's laws;
But all theſe ſcenes thy fancy ey'd,
Unweari'd Time hath brought to paſs.
Of human life, thy bloated view,
Did previouſly thy mind prepare
To HIM ſubmiſſively to bow
Whoſe hand the ſhafts of fate do bear.
We've loſt a friend - that tender friend,
That rais'd us both when preſs'd
For him thou heard the ſigh aſcend,
And ſaw the tear of ſorrow flow.
On Yarrow's banks, while ſound and whole,
Cruſh'd by a dreadful ſtroke he lay,
And yielded up the ſweeteſt ſoul
E'er animated mould of clay.
Yon ſun, that grimly thro' a cloud
Of ſnowy vapour ſeems to frown;
His daily circle bath not rode,
Since he to death's dark ſhades went down.
Nicholas.
And is it thus! - What deep diſtreſs
The partner of his breaſt muſt bear!
Do thou, kind Heav'n, his children bleſs,
Nor let the widow's heart deſpair.
But my dear BRYDEN, on thy tomb,
The roſe of gratitude ſhall grow;
And o'er it, (when I paſs alone)
Long long the tear of love ſhall flow.
Farewell, dear man! thy ſpotleſs ſoul
In heav'nly raptures aye ſhall glow;
And from thy high congenial pale,
Smile at our ſilly toils below.
But holy veſpers now begun,
Our ſwains with heavy ſteps retire;
Soon with loud peals the conclave rung,
While all to angels work aſpire.
THE DEATH OF
SIR NIEL STUART,
AND
DONALD M'VANE, ESQ.
AN AULD TALE MADE NEW AGAIN.
Tune - JONNY FA.
ON yon fair iſle, beyond Argyle,
Where flocks and herds are plenty,
Liv'd a rich heir, whole ſiſter fair
Was flow'r of all that county.
A knight, Sir NIEL, had woo'd her lang,
Expecting ſoon to marry;
When a Highland laird his ſuit preferr'd,
Young, handſome, briſk, and airy.
She'd lang reſpected brave Sir NIEL,
Becauſe he lov'd ſincerely;
But when ſhe ſaw the young GLENGYLE,
He won her heart entirely.
But lies of Fame to'r brother came,
How Niel had boaſted proudly
Of favours from that lady young,
Which caus'd him vow thus rudely.
"I fwear by all our friendſhip paſt,
If I do ſee the morning,
That knight or me ſhall breathe our laſt
"He ſhall know who he's ſcorning.".
To meet by th' ſhore, where loud waves roar,
In a challenge he defy'd him:
Ere the ſun was up theſe young men met
No living creature nigh them.
"What ails, what ails my deareſt friend?
Why want you to deſtroy me?"
"I want no flatt'ry, baſe Sir Niel!
"But draw your ſword and try me."
"Why ſhould I fight with thee, M'VANE?
You ne'er have me offended;
And whate'er I to thee have done,
"I'll own my fault and mend it."
"Is this thy boaſted courage, knave!
"Who would not now deſpiſe thee?
"But if you ſtill refuſe to fight
"I'll like a dog chaſtiſe thee."
"Forbear, fond fool, tempt not thy fate;
"Do not preſume to ſtrike me;
"Remember, none in fair Scotland
"Can wield the broad-ſword like me."
"Combin'd with guilt, thy wond'rous ſkill
"From vengeance ſha'nt defend thee:
"My ſiſter's wrongs ſhall brace my arm;
"This ſtroke to death ſhall ſend thee."
But that, and many well-aim'd blow,
The gen'rous baron warded;
Yet, loth to hurt his true love's friend,
Himſelf he only guarded.
Till, mad at being thus abus'd,
A furious paſs he darted,
That pierc'd the brain of bold M'Vane.
Who with a groan departed.
"Curſe on my ſkill, what have I done!
"Raſh man! - but thou would'ſt have it;
"Thou'ſt forc'd a friend to take thy life,
"Who would have bled to ſave it.
"Oh! woe's my heart for this ſad deed!
"Yet now it can't be mended:
"Our happineſs, that ſeem'd ſo nigh,
"By one raſh ſtroke I've ended.
"An exile now, in ſome ſtrange land,
"To fly, I know not whither;
"Nor dare I ſee my lovely ANN,
"Since I have ſlain her brother."
Then caſting round his mournful eyes,
To ſee if none were nigh him,
There he beheld the young Glengyle,
Who like the wind came flying.
"I come too late to ſtop the ſtrife;
"But ſince thou art victorious
"I'll be reveng'd, or loſe my life;
"Mine honour bids me do this."
"I know thy brav'ry, young Glengyle:
"Of life tho' I'm regardleſs,
"Why am I forc'd my friends to kill?
"There bold M‘Vane lies breathleſs."
"Does this become ſo brave a knight?
"Does blood ſo much affright thee?
"Glengyle will not diſgrace thy ſword;
"Unſheath it then, and fight me."
"Unhappy lad! put up thy blade;
"Tempt me no more, I pray thee;
"This ſword that pierc'd the ſquire rude,
"Soon low in duſt will lay thee."
Again with young Glengyle he clos'd,
Reſolved not to harm him;
Three times with gentle wounds him pierc'd,
Yet never could diſarm him.
Yield up thy ſword to me, Glengyle;
"On what's our quarrel grounded
"I could have pierc'd thy dauntleſs heart
"Each time I have thee wounded.
"And if thou thinkeſt me to ſlay,
"In faith thou art miſtaken;
"Yet if you ſcorn to yield your ſword,
"In pieces ſtraight we'll break them."
While talking thus, he quit his guard;
Glengyle in haſte advancing,
Then pierc'd his gen'rous manly breaſt,
The ſword behind him glancing.
Then down he fell, and cri'd "I'm ſlain;
"Adieu to all things earthly:
"Adieu, Glengyle, the day's thy ain;
"But thou haſt gain'd it baſely."
When tidings came to Lady Ann,
Time after time ſhe fainted;
Then ran, and kiſs'd their clay cold lips,
And thus their fate lamented:
"Illuiſtrous, brave, but hapleſs men!
"This horrid ſight doth move me!
"My deareſt friends roll'd in their blood,
"The men that beſt did love me!
"For thee, the guardian of my youth!
"My dear, my only brother;
"For this thy ſad untimely death
"I'll mourn till life be over.
"O brave Sir Niel, how art thou fa'en!
"How wither'd in thy bloſſom!
"No more I'll love the treach'rous man
That pierc'd my hero's boſom.
"A kind and faithful heart was thine;
"Thy friendſhip was abuſed;
"A braver man ne'er fac'd a foe,
"Had'ſt thou been fairly uſed.
"For thee a maid I'll live and die,
"Glengyle ſhall ne'er eſpouſe me;
"And for the ſpace of ſev'n long years
"The dowie black ſhall ſhall clothe me.
SONG I.
Tune -TUSHILAWS LINES.
'TWAS up yon wild an' lonely glen,
Beſet wi' mony lofty mountain,
Far frae the buſy haunts o' men,
Ae day that I gaed out a huntin';
It was a happy day to me,
A day that fixt my rovin' fancy;
For herdin' lambs on yonder ley,
There firſt I ſaw my lovely Nancy.
Sae braw a laſs amang the fells,
Drew me frae aff the brae to view her,
Her hat was ſet wi' heather bells,
Her yellow hair hang round ilk ſhoulder,
Her gown was white, her coatie green,
Her ſhape was handſome, tall, an' ſlender,
Her downcaſt look and glitt'ring een,
Firm fixt my heart nae mair to wander.
Goode'en to you, my lovely maid,
Why ſtray you here amang the heather?
My father's gaen frae hame, ſhe ſaid,
An' I maun wear his lambs thegither.
But, bonny laſs, if ye'll be mine,
An' ſleep wi' me in bed o' feather,
In ſilk an' ſcarlet you ſhall ſhine,
An' leave the muir amang the heather.
Kind Sir, ye offer very fair,
Tho' weel I ken 'tis but in laughter;
I ken ye are a rich ſquire's heir,
While I'm a hamely ſhepherd's daughter.
But I hae travell'd far awa,,
I've been at London an' Bewhither;
But the the bonni'ſt laſs that e'er I ſaw,
I've met wi' here amang the heather.
Nae mair o' that, dear Sir, ſhe ſaid,
Sic tales will a deceiver prove ye;
Yet had ye been a ſhepherd lad,
Wi' a' my heart then I could love ye.
Hae thou nae fears; I'll gie my hand
Nane e'er for likin' me ſhall ſcance ye;
I'll ſet your father a' my land,
An' herd his ewes, but I'll hae Nancy.
Young man, I've heard my father ſay,
Your focks wad frae ſuſpicion ſcreen ye;
I'm fear'd ye ſteal my heart away,
An' then I better ne'er had ſeen ye.
What tho' I ſhould, my lovely laſs,
I vow y've ſtolen mine already;
An' e'er that this day month ſhall paſs,
If ye'll conſent, ye's be a lady.
My love can read, an' write, an' ſing,
An' ſhape an' ſew as weel as ony;
An' dance the round amid the ring,
Wi' finer air an' grace than mony.
Tho' I'm my father's heir to a',
I ken he'll never croſs my fancy;
For a' the beauties e'er he ſaw
Come fer fer ſhort o' my ſweet Nancy.,
Adieu, ye maſquerades an' balls;
Tho' my love's nouther rich nor gaudy,
She's lovlier wi' her heather bells
Than ony powder'd painted lady
In her I've found what long I've ſought;
Wi' her I'll live at hame contentit;
Nae mair I'll change, or value aught
Save her whae a' my fears has ended.
SONG II.
O SHEPHERD, the weather is miſty and changing,
Will you ſhew me over the hills to Traquair?
I will, gentle ſtranger, but where are you ranging?
So briſk a young gentleman walking is rare.
I came to the Foreſt to ſee the fine laſſes,
And ſing wi' the ſhepherds on ilka green hill;
And now I am leaving this modern Parnaſſus,
Of ilka thing in it I have got my fill.
I fear y'll hae left ſome fair laſſes a moaning;
As lovely a youth in my life I ne'er ſaw,
Your een are like diamonds, your hair like the gowan,
I wiſh you an' them may hae keepit the law.
But pray, gentle ſhepherd, have you got a wife yet?
Or are you a bachelor, tell me the truth?
For if you are ſingle, you'll have a ſweet life o't,
Of bloomin' young laſſes you have ſic a routh.
I'm ſingle; yet all the fair maids in the forest
I mind little mair than the leaves on yon tree
Save one pretty creature, to whom I am promis'd
In marriage, as ſoon as my ſtock is got free:
She's young and ſhe's witty, ſhe's lovely an' pretty,
She's chaſte as the ſwans upon Lochfell at Yule,
She's conſtant and true, and ſhe'll ſoon make me
happy;
I've lov'd her ſince ever we were at the ſchool.
O Shepherd, you'r fooliſh to bind to a woman;
My life for't ye'll rue that ye tether'd ſae ſoon
And if ſhe be conſtant, 'tis very uncommon,
There's ſcarcely another lives under the moon.
For me, I'm deſign'd ne'er to yoke with marrow,
But court ilka fair maid that comes in my way,
This very laſt ſummer, in Ettrick and Yarrow,
I've lien beſide twenty, who ne'er ſaid me nay;
But the fondeſt young laſſie that ever I ſpoke wi',
She lives wi' her mother, an' nae mae ava.
Ae night I gaed to her, an', O I was lucky;
For that very night the auld wife was awa.
She made up a bed, an' ſhe bade me gang wi' her;
I got all I aſked without e'er a frown;
She kiſs'd me an' bleſs'd me, an', ere I came frae her,
She promis'd to ſee me this winter in town.
Where dwells this fond laſſie? you may tell me freely;
What was it they ca'd her? what age did ſhe ſeem?
She lives upon Tyma, her name it is Jeanie,
A tall handſome laſſie about ſeventeen.
Now curſes light on thee, an' him that begat thee,
An' all thy anceſtors, thou limb of the de'il;
Thou wolf, thou deſtroyer, thou villain, have at thee,
For that was the laſſie that I lov'd ſae weel.
O ſhepherd, O ſhepherd! I pray thee forgie me;
For tho' I've wrong'd thee, 'twas more than I
knew;
Yet wed her, forgie her, ſhe's ay thy ain Jeanie;
She'll paſs for a maiden wi' ony but you.
I wed her! - She'll paſs for a maiden! - Confound
her!
Afore I forgie her I'll pit out her breath:
An' had I her here, for a vengeance upon her,
With this hiſſel ſtaff I wad finiſh you baith.
O laddie, be canny, ſic threats are unmanly;
Your paſſion, dear Jamie, has dazzled your een:
Conſider, look round ye, and think what's come on ye;
Ye ken-na the looks nor the voice o' your Jean.
O Jeanie! dear Jeanie! why did you thus teaze me?
I'll no be myſel for this eight days an' mair:
But, come to my boſom, for, ere I forgie thee,
I'll hae a' the kiſſes ye're able to ſpare.
O Jamie, I thought that your mind had been
changin';
'Tis twenty lang weeks ſince I ſaw you, an twa;
I went to a neiber an' borrow'd this cleathin';
An' was-na amind ye ſude ken me ava.
But come to my arms, wi' my plaidie I'll ſcreen ye;
My love is now double, tho' ay it was fair;
On the green banks o' Tyma I'll live with my Jeanie,
The langer I ken her I'll love her the mair.
Printed by JOHN TAYLOR
Graſsmarket, Edinburgh.
FINIS.
PASTORALS,
POEMS, SONGS, &c.
MOSTLY WRITTEN IN THE
DIALECT OF THE SOUTH.
By JAMES HOGG.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY JOHN TAYLOR, GRASSMARKET.
1801.
Price One Shilling.
ERRATA.
Page 22. line 8. for Stogſhaw read Staggſhaw
16. for an' read o'
41. 6. for lawn read town
15. for climb read ſpeel
42 for balm read hand
4. for viſion read viſions
45. 7. for ſpake read ſpoke
47. 19. for pale read pole
GEORDIE FA's DIRGE.
BAITH auld an' young come join wi' me;
Come greet as if ye'd loſt a plea;
Come ſhake your head, an' whinge, an' claw,
An' murn the death of Geordie Fa.
Auld 'oneſt hearty, jocun' carle!
Without a grane he left the warl':
Death in a twinklin' quite bereft us
O' a' our joy, whan Geordie left us.
He was mair true than ony Roman;
Was lov'd by all, and fear'd by no man;
The rich did woo, the poor did bleſs him;
But now he's dead, and ſair we'll miſs him.
For him my heart is nnco ſair,
O' a' his ſangs I gat a ſhare;
Nae mair I'll hear him play, wi' ſkill,
The Soger's Joy, nor Butcher's Reel,
Nor owr the Muir amang the Heather,
Nor Marion's Ewe p---t owr the tether.
The fiddle now may lie untun'd,
While I at Highland Donald croon'd,
Or try to ſtep the College horn-pipe,
She ſkirles like a laddie's corn-pipe.
For tales, an' tunes, and merry ſangs,
For breedin' toops, and fattin' lambs,
His like ne'er dwalt in town or city;
But now he's, dead, an' that's a pity.
He was a wannle, ſturdy man,
Wi' vigour at the baa he ran;
When he was ſtrippit to the ſark,
Amang them a' was ane as ſtark.
When luckleſs collies came afore him,
He didna ſtand to curſe and ſhare 'em.
But ſtrak them till they ran an' yelpit;
But now he's dead, an' whae can help it.
Langſyne, whan rebels rang'd at pleaſure,
He did a deed was wordy Cæſar;
Arm'd wi' a pleugh-ſtaff, fer out-bye,
Twa men wi' ſwords, he gart them lie.
His doughty deeds on Annan river,
What fiſh he kill'd, than young and clever,
How deep their ribs, how lang their meaſure,
I oft hae heard him tell wi' pleaſure.
What paetricks at a ſhot he grundit,
What cocks he kill'd, what hares he hundit,
Was aft his theme, and aye his pleaſure.
Tho' braw an' rich, he was nae miſer:
Nae cares had he about to-morrow;
But now he's dead, an' that's a ſorrow.
Ye poachers now ſcour up your guns;
Ye fiſhers try wha faſteſt runs;
The muirs an' ſtreams will ſport afford ye,
Their harmleſs tenants live for Geordie.
On days whan he was young an' keen,
In vain ye watch'd the curlin' ſtream;
In ſpite o' ye a', wi' muckle pride,
He haul'd his ſa'mon to the ſide.
Oft hae I ſtood hale days to ſee him
But now he's dead, an' peace be wi' him.
He was weel wordy imitation;
A man mair uſefu' in his ſtation
He ſcarce has left. Whatever rank
Chance plac'd him in, he ſtill was frank.
Wi' beggars, ſodgers, merchants, taylors,
Ev'n wi ' the warſt o' broken ſailors,
He wad hae crackit hale forenoons,
An' play'd them half a ſcore o' tunes,
Wi' a philoſopher or poet,
The way they took, was fond to know it
An' wi' the rich he kept decorum;
But now he's dead, an' waes me for him
DUSTY,
OR,
WATIE AN' GEORDIE'S REVIEW OF POLITICS,
An ECLOGUE.
ON June, the year, not lets nor mae
Than eighteen hunder a' but twae,
Foment a brig laid owr a pool,
A wee bit frae the pariſh ſcool,
Upon a brae baith dry and clean,
Twae 'oneſt lads ſat down to lean,
And haud the following converſation
About th' affairs o' their ain nation.
Geordie look'd ſowr and diſcontentit,
While Watie thus his wonder ventit:
Watie.
I wonder, Geordie, what's the matter,
I never ſaw a douther creature
Tho' twice a day this while I've met w'ye,
A heartſome crack I ne'er can get w'ye;
When I wad fain divert an' pleaſe ye,
In trouth you nouther hear nor ſees the;
Thy thoughts are wand'ring, L---d knows whi
they,
An' what upon, for I ken neither.
Caſt roun' your een on ilk thing near ye,
See, ilka thing combines to cheer ye;
Your friends are weel, your wages gude,
What then keeps up this dowie mude?
Come, tell me man, is Nelly faithleſs?
Or is ſhe turnin' round an' breathleſs?
Geordie.
I've nought like that my heart to grieve
My Nelly's true, and I believe
Her free frae ony man on earth,
This day, as that whilk gae her birth:
But how can I be blythe, while viewin'
My dear dear country gaun to ruin?
Watie.
Hey, maſter patriot! now I ſmoke ye,
An', on my ſaul, right fain wad 'nock ye
For mindin things o' ſic a nature;
But let us argue out the matter.
Shew me the ſigns o' Britain's ruin
An' wha's the cauſe o' her undoin'.
Geordie.
Alas! a cloud o' wrath hangs owr us,
Ready to burſt an' quite devour us.
Our fathers truth for error barters,
An' ſhed the blude o' ſants an' martyr's.
Their ſons are ſae degen'rate grown,
That ilka thing's turn'd upſide down.
Religion's grown a laughing ſtock,
A butt for fools whereat to mock,
An ugly thing, that, anes detectit,
The owner o't is ay ſuſpectit.
The ither day, when at the mill,
I heard ane thus deſcribin' Will:
"I own he is a man o' wit,
"And on ſome exc'llent ſchemes has hit;
"His wants are few, his wealth prodigious,
"But, rot his heart! he's damn'd relig'ous."
The gude commands that ſude direct us.
An', war they keepit, might protect us,
I' our bleſt days, it nae mair
Than Britiſh laws to ſave a maukin;
An', for the ſe'enth, keep it we wad,
If it requir'd what it forbade;
For you, and idle ſinners like you,
Count leſs o' yon than man an' wife do
A ſcourge then for this guilty land!
Nor can the time be fer frae hand;
Its faireſt flow'r already fadin',
As was foretold by Welch an' Peden.
Watie.
Faith, leave the' plowmen, join the tent
And unto ſinners preach repentance;
For I can gueſs, frae this oration,
Ye're join'd that headſtrong, dull perſwaſion;
But a' your Cameronian rants,
'Bout ſolemn leagues an' covenants,
'Bout kings, an' laws, and conſtitutions,
Supremacy an' perſecutions,
S'al never keep me frae inſiſtin'
On our laws bein' the beſt exiſtin'.
Nor are we juſt ſae ſair abandon'd,,
As you appear to underſtand it;
We've mair to ſhew of pious zeal
Than ony age that's paſt a deal;
What think ye o' ſic contributions,
For biggin ſhips an' ſendin' miſſions,
To mak the goſpel light to ſhine
I' nations fer ayont the line?
Our gentry, too, hae ſign'd a letter,
Whilk binds to keep the Sabbath better.
Geordie.
That bond, I fear, they'll keep but ill;
For ſen they paſt the Papiſh bill,
Frae ae miſchief they've run t'nother,
An' neer had luck i' ane nor other.
E'en at this time, nae fether
Our allies leave us ane by ane;
An' waur than that our faes they join,
To pay us hame i' our ain coin.
Fo'ks een are open'd now, they ſee
The French deſign them liberty;
By makin' laws which fo'ks admire,
They've won mair than by ſword an' fire.
Watie.
Fo'ks een are open'd now, 'tis true;
But 'tis owr late, when, frae their view,
Fair Liberty's entirely vaniſh'd;
Frae States, where ance ador'd, ſhe's baniſh'd
The French, my friend, are kittle maſters,
Likewiſe the cauſe o' ſair diſaſters;
Whae elſe can ony body blame
For this rebellion here at hame.
What glory if, by Britiſh thunder,
Theſe haughty knaves cou'd be brought under,
Then a the ſilly dogs aroun' them,
Whae, courin', let them tramp aboon them,
Tho' forc'd, e'en now, their rage to bury,
Wad turn an' bite wi' double fury.
Thus, when th' impetuous Prince o' Sweden
Thro' Saxony in blude came waedin,
For mony year nae force cude ſtand him,
Whae ever try'd, their maſter fand him;
Europe, embroil'd in bloody quarrels,
Stood trembling at the name of Charles;
Ilk pow'r around to friendſhip preſt him,
The proud did ſtoop, the brave careſt him.
But mark how ſoon they chang'd their mind,
When he to Bender was confin'd.
When muckle Pate, wi deſp'rate fuffle,
Had at Poltowa won the ſcuffle,
And cruſht the braveſt band o' men
That Europe e'er will boaſt again,
Then all around the Swedes dominions,
Forgetting former ties and unions,
On him turn'd a' their arms anon,
'Til a' his richeſt lands were won:
Juſt ſae great France wad ſoon be guidit,
Could Britain anes but lair the pride o't.
I own, like Amos, I'm nae prophet,
Yet on this head ſome notes I'll forfeit,
Who lives to ſee a few Decembers,
Will ſee this monſter loſin' members.
Geordie.
Faith, loſe they, win they, I'm indiff'rent;
For come they, bide they, we've ,a liferent
O ſlav'ry o' the hardeſt kind,
Whilk has ſae rous'd the public mind,
That, but for armies almaiſt countleſs,
Might gar our proud oppreſſors vaunt leſs.
When firſt this war i' France began,
Our blades bude hae a meddlin' hand;
Their raiſin' men for't rais'd the ceſſes,
Whilk rais'd our diſcontents and ſtreſſes;
Our grumblin' reachin' ſome fo'ks ears,
Of hameil brulies rais'd their fears;
Mae men they rais'd, and will perſwade us,
The French ir comin' to invade us;
But whether ever they deſign'd it,
Wi' a' my airt I ne'er can find yet;
Yet this I think, they'll gain their aim,
By threat'ning us afar thro' time.
Sic heaps o' men to cleed and pay,
Will brik the King, or breed a fray;
For if they raiſe the taxes higher,
They'll ſet alunt that ſmooſtin' fire,
Whilk ilka ſeſſion helps to beet,
An', when it burns, they'll get a heat.
The weſt ſide elſe hath gi'en a bleeze,
I mean the lads on Leinſter lees;
Whae rather chuſe to die wi' brav'ry,
Than grane out life in downright ſlav'ry.
Watie.
O Geordie, man! I'm wae to hear ye;
I like ye, elſe I cou'dna bear w' ye:
The taxes true, hae got a ſtretch,
Yet few ava to poor fo'k reach.
Theſe curſed notions you've imbibit,
Hae made your look - I can't deſcribe it. -
Your cheeks are thin, your colour ſallow,
The very white o'y'r een's turn'd yellow
Your brows hang down at ilka corner,
And knit like ony ancient mourner;
You've got a weary length of face,
Wi' mouth as wide as Sandy Rae's;
Your claes ir ſtrangely out of order,
Your hat has nouther ſtring nor border;
Ye're gaun withouten ſhoon or boots,
But ſlorpin loags about your coots.
They've baniſh'd frae your mind content,
The greateſt bliſs that heav'n has lent.
ſee the ſtem that feeds your fever,
Yet ſoon, I hope, the root will wither;
I ken that, frankit by Lord Napier,
Ilk week you read the Kelſo paper.
Geordie.
Well, what o' that? poor Jamie's lie'd o.
But tellna me o' poor fo'ks freedom;
If ane eſcape the taxes a',
Then that ſame ane has nought ava:
Our hats, our claes, our drink, our meat,
Our ſnuff, our baca, ſhoon o'ur feet,
Our candles, watches, horſes,
The very bleſſed light o' heaven;
Our dogs - but now, for want o' patience,
How I cou'd curſe the vile taxations -
Thou wert my friend, poor 'oneſt DUSTY,
A faithful ſervant, true and truſty;
My fate an' me thou follow'd after,
Thro' froſt an' ſnaw, thro' fire an' water:
But thou'rt rewarded gratefully,
Hang'd like a thief outowr a tree!
That plaguy PITT! cude I yoke wi' him,
The loſs o' thee might forgie him.
Watie.
That tax on dogs is right miſchievous,
On highland fo'k 'tis vaſtly grievous.
Geordi'e.
What! lad it ye ſae ſoon forgettin',
That nave on yirth hae laws like Britain
Watie.
Weel man, I dinna grudge, tho' dear,
I pay twall ſhillin's ilka year,
An' wad gie mair wi' a my heart,
Wad ilka ane contribute part.
The nation's rich; if a were willin'
The King might ne'er be aun a ſhillin'.
His debt's become a cant right common
The debt is our's, he's aun to no man,
When ye come next wi' corn to Johny,
On this brae ſide I'll wait upon ye;
An' then I'll baith convince, you fairly
That government has acted ſquarely,
An' that our Britiſh helm's confidit
To hands that unco weel can guide it;
An' when we reach the mill I'll treat ye
Wi' a' their healths in acquavitty.
Geordie.
I canna do't, their names diſguſt me,
An' gar me mind my heartſome Duſty;
Yet their defence I'll gladly hear,
Wad they mak peace within a year,
An' mak the taxes ſomewhat leucher,
I'd rather ſee't than farm the Deuchar.
Watie.
I wiſh as much for peace as ye do,
Tho' little ill the war I ſee do;
In gen'ral ilka thrifty man
Is richer than when it began.
Wi' faes we ne'er had ſic a tilt,
In which leſs Britiſh blude was ſpilt;
Quite maſters o' the ſea they find us,
An' heavy neibers i' the Indies.
But man 'tis queer to mak ſic ſike
About an uſeleſs gauffin tike;
That ne'er cude gie a decent turn
At ſheddin', fauldin', bought, nor burn;
But ran wi' inconſid'rate force,
An' bate their heels as they'd been horſt
I never thought, for a' your ruſe,
That e'er he was for muckle uſe,
Except for drivin' nout to fairs,
Or rinnin' whinkin' after hares.
But if ye ſaw that ye wad need him,
Five ſhillins yearly wad hae freed him.
Geordie.
I never ſaw a finer beaſt,
Sin' I cou'd ken the weſt frae eaſt;
But yet a crown was unco ſair
On ane that cou'd ſae little ſpare;
For a the wages e'er I won
Can ſcarcely keep my head aboon:
But I bude either flit or ſlay him,
For nae man off my hand wad hae him;
I didna like to flit, for fear
I might have idle lien a year;
My friends war poor, an' had nae need
That I ſude hang on them for bread;
Sae was I forc'd, tho' vext and anger'd,
To gie conſent to hae him hanged,
He had ſome proſpect o' the deed,
For back he drew, and wadna lead.
His looks to me, I'll ne'er forget them,
Nae doubt he look-it for protection;
While I, unfeeling as the tree,
Stood ſtill, an' ſaw him hung on hie.
At firſt he ſpurr'd, an' fell a bocking,
Then gollar'd, piſht, and juſt was choaking
Deil tak the King, an' burn his crown,
Quoth I, an' ran to cut him down
When, poor, unlucky, ſenſeleſs brute!
(Afore I never ſaw him do't)
He bate me till the blude did ſpring;
Confus'd an' hurt, I loot him hing
Owr lang for life; for on the green
He ſprawl'd to death before my een.
I really felt extrodner pain;
I kend we ne'er wad meet again.
I grat for grief, his death to ſee
Whae aft had ventur'd life for me:
For ay when I wi' ane had grips,
He ran an' bit their heels or hips;
An' when I warſtled wi' the women,
He tugg'd their tails, an' held them
Laſt year he play'd a deſp'rate prank,
When gaun wi' me to Stogſhaw-bank:
I wi' a man, that houn'd our hogs,
Kooſtout an' feught, ſae did our dogs
I own I was but roughly guidit,
Nor was the quarrel weel decidet;
But ere we ceas'd frae rough contention,
The Saxon's dog was paſt redemption.
When weazels ſnirtit, frae the dykes,
Or fumerts frae the braes an' ſykes,
He cock'd his tail, an' geed his head,
O' ſcores o' them he was the dead.
Nae beaſt on yirth cude hae defy'd him
If I had ſaid the word, he try'd him.
But yet for a' his grueſome dealins',
He was a dog o' tender feelin's;
When I lay ſick an' like to die,
He watch'd me wi' a conſtant eye;
An' then when e'er I ſpak' or ſturr'd,
He wagg'd his tail, an' whing'd, an nurr'd.
When ſaams were ſung at any meetin',
He yowl'd, an' thought the fock war greetin'.
For wearin' corn of hens an cocks,
For huntin' o' the hare or fox,
For chaſin' cats, an' craws, an' hoodies,
An' chackin mice, an' howkin moudies,
An' ſettin moorfowl, ſnipes, an' petrics,
His match was never made for thae tricks.
But now, poor beaſt, he's dead an' rotten,
An' his good deeds are a' forgotten.
Watie.
I ken what grief I felt myſel'
In partin' wi' my auld Springkell;
I wadna been as muckle troubl'd
For a' his value ten times doubl'd,
Geordie.
But night draws on, and I'm to meet
My Nelly up on Annan's treat.
Be o' our cracks a wee diſcreeter,
For HOGG pits a' we ſay to meter.
Fare-weel; I hope ere lang to ſee thee
Watie:
Fare-weel; ſucceſs an' joy gang wi' thee.
WILLIE AN' KEATIE,
A PASTORAL.
DON'T you ſee yon lofty mountain,
Where the wanton lambies play,
Round an' round the cryſtal fountain,
Springin' frae the ſunny brae.
Round its ſummits, beat wi' weather,
See, it wears a purple crown,
Made o' bonny bloomin' heather,
Beauties wild, but Nature's own!
There the mountain daiſies bloſſom;
There the tender vi'lets bloom;
There the thyme, ſpread on its boſom,
Fills the air with ſweet perfume.
How romantic is the proſpect
Down below there winds a lake,
Where are fiſhes bred an' foſter'd;
So are fowls that haunt the brake.
There the cunning foxie,
Mocks his cruel hunter's rage;
Hawks and ravens, there reſiding,
In perpetual wars engage.
From theſe rugged proſpects turn ye;
Mark yon rauntree ſpreading wide,
Where the clear, but noiſy burnie
Ruſhes down the mountain's ſide.
There a lovely bloomin' ſhepherd
Every day a while reclin'd,
There, in accents ſoft, related
Thus, his love an' tortur'd mind,
"Pity me, ye tender lovers!
You can gueſs at what I bear;
Once careſs'd, but now another
Has her heart, to me ſae dear.
"When I firſt beheld my KEATIE,
I forgot to hear or ſee;
A' the girls I prized lately
Ne'er were minded mair by me.
"Hame I came, but took nae dinner,
Went to bed, but ſleepit nane;
Young, an' blate, an' quite a ſtranger,
What to do I didna ken.
"Ten lang days I thought upon her,
Quite depriv'd o' peace an' reſt;
Findin' I cude bruik nae langer,
I reſolv'd to do my beſt.
"Now my yellow hair I plaited,
Gae my downy chin a ſhave,
Thrice my tales of love repeated,
Fearin' I would miſbehave.
"Far away I took my journey,
Left our hills ſae high an' green,
Thro' a pleaſant fertile country,
Which I ne'er before had ſeen.
"Here we're charm'd wi' works o Nature,
Craggy cliff, an' lonely glen;
There I oft ſtood like a ſtatue,
Wond'ring at the works o' men.
"Verdant paſtures, grand incloſures;
Thrivin' woods, an' buildins new,
Hale hill ſides ſawn up wi' clover,
Ev'ry where aroſe in view,
"Lang I gaed, and kendna whither,
Struck wi' ilka thing I ſaw,
Where yon little windin' river
Murmers owr the ſtanes ſae ſma',
"Phebus, now in all his glory,
Sunk into the weſtern main;
Frae his labour, ſoft an' ſlowly,
Hameward trudg'd the weary ſwain.
"Nature, freed frae her auld lover
Roughſome Winter, gaunt and lean;
Spring to charm, whaſe airs had mov'd her
Rob'd herſelf in chearful green.
"A' their little feather'd tenants
Sweetly ſung on ilka tree;
Lads an' laſſes, wives an' callants,
A' war gay but lonely me.
Walkin' thro' the elms ſae ſtately,
Thinkin' on the ſtep I'd ta'en,
There I met my bonny KEATY,
Comin' thro' the wood her lane.
"Fear'd an' fond, when I approach'd her,
How my heart began to beat!
But I ventur'd to accoſt her,
Aſkin'where ſhe gaed ſae late?
"Wi' a ſmile, that quite bewitch'd me,
She return'd; "What's that to thee?
"Ere you reach the town that's next ye,
"Lad, yell be as late as me."
"Mony queſtion I ſpeer'd at her,
Mony ane I kend fu' weel,
If an inn ſtood on the water,
Where a ſtranger wad get biel?
Where ſhe liv'd, an' what they ca'd her,
Father's name an' mother's too,
Ilka burn an' ilka water,
Ilka houſe within our view.
"Lang we ſtood amang the timber,
Frae me ſhe could never win;
Now the ſterns began to glimmer,
Drowſy Twilight cloſs'd his een.
"Shepherd," ſaid ſhe, "I wad thank ye,
"Wad ye turn an' ſet me hame;
"Ghaiſts an' witches are ſae plenty,
"I'm afraid to gang my lane.
"When we reach my father's dwellin',
"Ye's hae bed an' ſupper- free;
"They'll requite ye, when I tell them
"How ye've been ſae kind to me."
"Happy in the fair occaſion,
How I bleſt her bonny face,
Nor refus'd the invitation,
Proffer'd me wi' ſic a grace.
"Hand in hand, away we waukit;
She was pleas'd, an' I was fain;
Tho' on others loves we taukit,
Never durſt I name my ain.
"Till we reach'd yon willow buſhes.
Pretty buſhes, ſweet an' green!
How her face o'erſpread wi' bluſhes,
Shepherds, O! had you but ſeen.
Think nae ſhame, my bonny KEATIE,
"Come ſit down an' reſt a while;
"I've, in hopes myſel' to get thee,
"Travell'd mony a weary mile."
"Shepherd, ceaſe your vain entreating,
"Here wi' thee I will not ſtay;
"My poor parents will be fretting,
"I hare ſtaid ſae late away.
"Think ye, I'll neglect my duty,
"For a fond an' fooliſh boy;
"Love that's merely rai'd by beauty,
"Seldom fails in haſte to cloy."
"Hold, my deareſt, I implore thee;
"Hear me ſwear by all above -
"Ere I ceaſe for to adore thee,
"Earth no more ſhall harbour love.
"Solway's ſtream ſhall ſwell the Teviot,
"Eilden hills unite in ane;
"Tweed rin owr the tops o' Cheviot;
Berwick ſtand at Eric ſtane.
"Pity me; my bonny laſſie;
"Come, ſit down, an' think nae ſhame;
"In my boſom let me houſe thee;
Here ye're ſafer than at hame."
"Let me firſt go eaſe my parents;
"When they've ſeen me ſafely home,
"I'll return and prove thoſe talents,
"Seemingly for flatt'ry form'd."
"Where the ſtream, wi' mony a turnie,
Wimpled thro' the ſandy plain,
Willows, loutin, kiſs'd the burnie,
There I'm left to lie my lane.
"From yon eaſtern ſummit bending,
Orions radient circle beams;
Venus, in the weſt deſcending,
Flames like light'ning on the ſtreams.
"Hail, ye ſtars, that o'er me hover!
Hail, ye beaming orbs of light!
Shine propitious on a lover,
Shed your influence here to night!
"Oft, to ev'ry care unuſed,
When the day-light ceas'd to ſhine;
Oft on you I've gaz'd and muſed;
Oft ador'd that pow'r divine,
"Who thoſe fluid films, that wheeled
Looſely thro' primæval night,
By a breath to worlds congealed;
Maſſes of illuvid light!
"From his hand then bowl'd you flaming
Thro' old dreary Night's domain;
Order ſtraight thro' nature reigning,
Dungeon Darkneſs ſmil'd ſerene.
"Now the joys of contemplation
On ſuch things, to me ſeem nought;
Lovely ſhe, whoſe ſweet diſcretion
Left me here, pervades each
"Back ſhe came, I kiſs'd, I woo'd her,
Row'd her gently in my plaid;
Where we lay, till Phœbus ſhew'd her
To my eyes the lovelieſt maid.
"E'er me thought the ſun aroſe on,
When ſhe bade me riſe an' gang,
Mind my vows, my faith repoſe on,
An' come back ere it was lang.
"Mony letter I ſent to her,
Mony raik I gaed myfel';
Never was a luckier wooer,
Never lover us'd ſo well.
"Now ſhe's quite ta'en up wi' Jokey;
Woman, thou'rt a myſtery!
What, alas! was all her motive?
He was twice as rich as me.
I had plenty, wi' a bleſſing,
Plenty baith for her an' me
O my Keatie! what was miſſing.
Lack Of gold has ſtartl'd thee.
"Yet, my bonny ſmillin' laſſie,
Thou art never frae my ſight;
Thou'rt my ſorrow, joy, an' fancy;
Thought by day, an' dream by night.
Weel I mind the weeping willow,
Weel I mind the riggs o' rye,
Weel the primroſe grove ſo yellow,
Often preſt by you an' I.
"Fare-ye-weel, my bonny Keatie,
Happy ever may you be;
Live to love the lad that gets ye;
Never ſpend a thought on me.
"If I die, I die wi' pleaſure;
If I live, I'll live in pain -
Thee, my deareſt, chiefeſt treaſure
Thee I'll never ſee again.
Mirth and muſic, now I hate ye;
'Dieu ye ſwains an' laſſes fair;
Since I've loſt my bonny Keatie,
I can live nor love nae mair."
Up ſpake Jamie, young an' wittie,
"Willie, ye are quite miſtaen;
"A' the love ye bear for Keatie,
"Keatie bears for you again.
"When I ſaw ye ſad an' wae man
"I a project ſtraight did try,
"Paſſing for a wond'rous ſpae-man,
"Through the country travell'd I.
"Wi' a bonnet, auld an' cloutit,
"Silver locks, an' hollow een;
"Coat an' cloak, ye wad hae doubtit
"What had their orig'nal been.
"Having a their ſtories fitted;
"Bred amang them frae my
Whatſoever I predicted
"Paſt wi' them for goſpel truth.
"Soon I fand that Keaty lov'd ye,
"Wi' a heart baith true an' leel,
"That ſhe'd try'd a ſcheme to prove ye
"Happy when ye took it ill.
Now, like you, ſhe's ſad an' fretty,
"Frae her cheeks the roſes fly;
"When I tald her ſhe wad get ye,
"Gladneſs ſparkl'd in her eye."
Shepherds, wad ye hear the iſſue?
WILL an' KEAT their wiſhes prove
Happy pair! ſure Heav'n will bleſs you,
And reward your conſtant love.
Conſtancy an' perſeverance
Ever will rewarded be;
Tho' I ſing't wi' little rev'rence,
Heav'n to their rights will ſee.
A DIALOGUE IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
THE mountain's wither'd brow look'd wan,
Chill flew the blaſt the braes between,
Swift o'er the lake the eddies ran,
And loud and harſh roll'd on the ſtream
Dim ſwept the ſhow'r alongſt the vale,
The miſty vale of verdure bare;
And low and mournful, in the gale,
Grief's heavy accents load the air.
The day had dawn'd, the morning paſt,
That ſacred day to Chriſtians dear;
The morning bell had toll'd, and faſt
The hour of public praiſe drew near,
When by a tomb two ſwains did meet,
And thus ſad Nicolas began;
Wild were his looks, down Colin's cheek
The dews of heart-felt ſſorrow ran.
Nicholas.
What do I ſee! what ſad event
Hath chang'd the ſwains of Ettrick now
The native air of ſweet content
Is fled, and grief broods on each brow.
From home, a weary length of way,
I've trode to day, in hopes to find
Some comfort, or ſome ſweet allay
Of horrors which oppreſs my mind.
But no one heeds me: all intent
On grief, relate ſome diſmal tale;
Elſe o'er a grave or monument
Hang ſolitary, and bewail.
Of what diſaſter dire they've learn'd,
Declare, dear ſhepherd, if you know;
Of Nature's exit, tho' forwarn'd,
What lamentations more could flow?
Colin.
Oh! Nicholas, their grief is real;
No feign'd affected tears you ſee;
Nor is't in vain they thus bewail;
But what, dear ſwain, hath happen'd thee?
Nicholas.
That will I tell you, tho' you ſcorn
My weakneſs, as indeed you may;
'Twill eaſe a mind quite overborne
By preſages of great diſmay.
Laſt night, when ſunk in deep repoſe,
My guardian angel did unveil
Such ſcenes - and to my ſoul diſclos'd
What mortal tongue can ne'er reveal.
Upbraid me not - if life and breath
Remain - ere Sol hath Libra gain'd -
I'm not more certain of my death,
Than ſeeing theſe my dreams explain'd.
Acknowledge, haſt thou never yet,
When acting ſcenes in nature o'er,
An inward recollection met
Of having view'd the ſame before?
Nor is it ſtrange: Futurity,
Though wrapt in miſt, to human ken
Seem ſhapeleſs; yet a ſpirit's eye
Some giant features may diſcern.
And in the wild and dreary walk;
The village fair, or noiſy lawn,
Wherever ſmiles the human face,
There ſpirits ſkim their airy round.
A guardian friend, his fav'rite charge
May thus of hid events apprize,
By great outlines, unfurl'd at large
In ſleep, to Fancy's lidleſs eyes.
The ſun had drop'd beyond the hill,
The welkin topaz blaz'd and died;
The wat'ry moon began to climb,
With aſpect cold, the cieling wide.
Our frugal meal, our home, our health,
With gratitude our hearts inſpire
To him who gives us all our wealth;
Him thank'd, to reſt we all retire.
Scarce had the downy balm of sleep
Begun to preſs my weary eyes,
When howling wilds, and caverns deep,
In viſion ſtrange began to riſe.
Me thought a long long journey preſt;
Fond I ſet out, with proſpects gay;
But wants, and woes, and fears increas'd
Ere I had wander'd half my way.
A diſmal lake before my ſight
Aroſe, to which fair paths led on;
Where oft I ſaw the headlong wight
Sink, utt'ring many a piteous moan.
Thrice, by deluſive ſweets betray'd,
Into thoſe faithleſs roads I ran;
As oft, by more than mortal aid,
Eſcap'd, all ſpent with toil and pain.
Grown cautious now - while ſlow and faint
I wander'd on, by fear compell'd
To gaze around: What tongue can paint
The horrors which I then beheld?
O'er caves of death, and dens of woe;
On rocks the blaſted foreſts hung;
The owlet and the raven too,
To dancing ſatyrs doleful ſung.
Near to that awful lake I drew,
Thro' which a paſſage ne'er was found;
Black vapours, hugging billows blue,
In deepeſt ſhades the proſpect drown'd.
Alongſt its ſhores, both high and ſteep,
Millions of mortals thoughtleſs play'd
Faſt, faſt they dropt into the deep,
Yet ſtill the throng no fear betray'd.
All bent on trifles, ill enjoy'd
When once in the purſuer's pow'r;
And millions nothing elſe employ'd
Than puſhing others headlong o'er.
By wither'd roots what objects hung!
Eager the ſummit to regain: -
Mad hope! - they ſprawl'd, and graſp'd and clung,
Till efforts broke the thread in twain.
Infantile ſcreams, and groans, and cries,
Now mix'd on ev'ry ſide aroſe;
Trembling I turn'd, and try'd to fly,
But precipieces rude oppoſe.
Now, on my ſoul a beam of joy
Began to dawn, with placid ſmile,
As thou haſt ſeen the orient dye
Triumph o'er night in fair April.
A ſwain I ſaw, whole children fair,
Like beauteous plants, around him ſprung
For him I heard the ſervent pray'r,
For him the wiſh of ev'ry tongue.
Pale Miſery and haggard Want,
Evaniſh'd quite before his eye;
I ſaw a thouſand boſoms pant
With gratitude for each ſupply.
No ſhade of oſtentatious glare
O'er one of all his actions ran;
No mortal e'er more juſtly bare
That nobleſt name, the FRIEND OF MAN.
Firm were his roots, his branches fair,
No guſt his folli'ge e'er could ſhake;
When, lo! a whirlwind in the air
Aroſe, and plung'd him in the lake.
"Great God!" I cry'd, and ſtarting woke,
All bath'd and palſy'd ev'ry limb;
"Great God! Great God!" nought elſe I ſpake,
Till certain what ſtate I was in.
The clock now ſtruck the hour eleven,
Mild ſleep had ſhaded ev'ry eye;
The watchful pallid queen of heaven
Into my cot began to pry;
While I, all ſick, revolving lay
On what this viſion ſtrange could mean,
Till near the dawning of the day
I doz'd again, and thus did dream:
I thought that low, on Yarrow fair,
I ſtray'd 'mong flow'rs of ev'ry hue;
The birds flew warbling thro' the air,
The trees all green with foliage grew.
I heard a groan, and ſoon perceiv'd
The ground all crimſon'd where I ſtood,
The ſwans, that late in ſilver div'd,
Now moan'd, and ſwam in waves
I wak'd - but what I then did feel,
Omniſſcient King! thou knoweſt besſt;
Had ev'ry thing I ſaw been real,
Not deeper had they been impreſt.
Colin.
What aerial whiſper this convey'd,
Thou know'ſt, who ſtudy'ſt nature's laws;
But all theſe ſcenes thy fancy ey'd,
Unweari'd Time hath brought to paſs.
Of human life, thy bloated view,
Did previouſly thy mind prepare
To HIM ſubmiſſively to bow
Whoſe hand the ſhafts of fate do bear.
We've loſt a friend - that tender friend,
That rais'd us both when preſs'd
For him thou heard the ſigh aſcend,
And ſaw the tear of ſorrow flow.
On Yarrow's banks, while ſound and whole,
Cruſh'd by a dreadful ſtroke he lay,
And yielded up the ſweeteſt ſoul
E'er animated mould of clay.
Yon ſun, that grimly thro' a cloud
Of ſnowy vapour ſeems to frown;
His daily circle bath not rode,
Since he to death's dark ſhades went down.
Nicholas.
And is it thus! - What deep diſtreſs
The partner of his breaſt muſt bear!
Do thou, kind Heav'n, his children bleſs,
Nor let the widow's heart deſpair.
But my dear BRYDEN, on thy tomb,
The roſe of gratitude ſhall grow;
And o'er it, (when I paſs alone)
Long long the tear of love ſhall flow.
Farewell, dear man! thy ſpotleſs ſoul
In heav'nly raptures aye ſhall glow;
And from thy high congenial pale,
Smile at our ſilly toils below.
But holy veſpers now begun,
Our ſwains with heavy ſteps retire;
Soon with loud peals the conclave rung,
While all to angels work aſpire.
THE DEATH OF
SIR NIEL STUART,
AND
DONALD M'VANE, ESQ.
AN AULD TALE MADE NEW AGAIN.
Tune - JONNY FA.
ON yon fair iſle, beyond Argyle,
Where flocks and herds are plenty,
Liv'd a rich heir, whole ſiſter fair
Was flow'r of all that county.
A knight, Sir NIEL, had woo'd her lang,
Expecting ſoon to marry;
When a Highland laird his ſuit preferr'd,
Young, handſome, briſk, and airy.
She'd lang reſpected brave Sir NIEL,
Becauſe he lov'd ſincerely;
But when ſhe ſaw the young GLENGYLE,
He won her heart entirely.
But lies of Fame to'r brother came,
How Niel had boaſted proudly
Of favours from that lady young,
Which caus'd him vow thus rudely.
"I fwear by all our friendſhip paſt,
If I do ſee the morning,
That knight or me ſhall breathe our laſt
"He ſhall know who he's ſcorning.".
To meet by th' ſhore, where loud waves roar,
In a challenge he defy'd him:
Ere the ſun was up theſe young men met
No living creature nigh them.
"What ails, what ails my deareſt friend?
Why want you to deſtroy me?"
"I want no flatt'ry, baſe Sir Niel!
"But draw your ſword and try me."
"Why ſhould I fight with thee, M'VANE?
You ne'er have me offended;
And whate'er I to thee have done,
"I'll own my fault and mend it."
"Is this thy boaſted courage, knave!
"Who would not now deſpiſe thee?
"But if you ſtill refuſe to fight
"I'll like a dog chaſtiſe thee."
"Forbear, fond fool, tempt not thy fate;
"Do not preſume to ſtrike me;
"Remember, none in fair Scotland
"Can wield the broad-ſword like me."
"Combin'd with guilt, thy wond'rous ſkill
"From vengeance ſha'nt defend thee:
"My ſiſter's wrongs ſhall brace my arm;
"This ſtroke to death ſhall ſend thee."
But that, and many well-aim'd blow,
The gen'rous baron warded;
Yet, loth to hurt his true love's friend,
Himſelf he only guarded.
Till, mad at being thus abus'd,
A furious paſs he darted,
That pierc'd the brain of bold M'Vane.
Who with a groan departed.
"Curſe on my ſkill, what have I done!
"Raſh man! - but thou would'ſt have it;
"Thou'ſt forc'd a friend to take thy life,
"Who would have bled to ſave it.
"Oh! woe's my heart for this ſad deed!
"Yet now it can't be mended:
"Our happineſs, that ſeem'd ſo nigh,
"By one raſh ſtroke I've ended.
"An exile now, in ſome ſtrange land,
"To fly, I know not whither;
"Nor dare I ſee my lovely ANN,
"Since I have ſlain her brother."
Then caſting round his mournful eyes,
To ſee if none were nigh him,
There he beheld the young Glengyle,
Who like the wind came flying.
"I come too late to ſtop the ſtrife;
"But ſince thou art victorious
"I'll be reveng'd, or loſe my life;
"Mine honour bids me do this."
"I know thy brav'ry, young Glengyle:
"Of life tho' I'm regardleſs,
"Why am I forc'd my friends to kill?
"There bold M‘Vane lies breathleſs."
"Does this become ſo brave a knight?
"Does blood ſo much affright thee?
"Glengyle will not diſgrace thy ſword;
"Unſheath it then, and fight me."
"Unhappy lad! put up thy blade;
"Tempt me no more, I pray thee;
"This ſword that pierc'd the ſquire rude,
"Soon low in duſt will lay thee."
Again with young Glengyle he clos'd,
Reſolved not to harm him;
Three times with gentle wounds him pierc'd,
Yet never could diſarm him.
Yield up thy ſword to me, Glengyle;
"On what's our quarrel grounded
"I could have pierc'd thy dauntleſs heart
"Each time I have thee wounded.
"And if thou thinkeſt me to ſlay,
"In faith thou art miſtaken;
"Yet if you ſcorn to yield your ſword,
"In pieces ſtraight we'll break them."
While talking thus, he quit his guard;
Glengyle in haſte advancing,
Then pierc'd his gen'rous manly breaſt,
The ſword behind him glancing.
Then down he fell, and cri'd "I'm ſlain;
"Adieu to all things earthly:
"Adieu, Glengyle, the day's thy ain;
"But thou haſt gain'd it baſely."
When tidings came to Lady Ann,
Time after time ſhe fainted;
Then ran, and kiſs'd their clay cold lips,
And thus their fate lamented:
"Illuiſtrous, brave, but hapleſs men!
"This horrid ſight doth move me!
"My deareſt friends roll'd in their blood,
"The men that beſt did love me!
"For thee, the guardian of my youth!
"My dear, my only brother;
"For this thy ſad untimely death
"I'll mourn till life be over.
"O brave Sir Niel, how art thou fa'en!
"How wither'd in thy bloſſom!
"No more I'll love the treach'rous man
That pierc'd my hero's boſom.
"A kind and faithful heart was thine;
"Thy friendſhip was abuſed;
"A braver man ne'er fac'd a foe,
"Had'ſt thou been fairly uſed.
"For thee a maid I'll live and die,
"Glengyle ſhall ne'er eſpouſe me;
"And for the ſpace of ſev'n long years
"The dowie black ſhall ſhall clothe me.
SONG I.
Tune -TUSHILAWS LINES.
'TWAS up yon wild an' lonely glen,
Beſet wi' mony lofty mountain,
Far frae the buſy haunts o' men,
Ae day that I gaed out a huntin';
It was a happy day to me,
A day that fixt my rovin' fancy;
For herdin' lambs on yonder ley,
There firſt I ſaw my lovely Nancy.
Sae braw a laſs amang the fells,
Drew me frae aff the brae to view her,
Her hat was ſet wi' heather bells,
Her yellow hair hang round ilk ſhoulder,
Her gown was white, her coatie green,
Her ſhape was handſome, tall, an' ſlender,
Her downcaſt look and glitt'ring een,
Firm fixt my heart nae mair to wander.
Goode'en to you, my lovely maid,
Why ſtray you here amang the heather?
My father's gaen frae hame, ſhe ſaid,
An' I maun wear his lambs thegither.
But, bonny laſs, if ye'll be mine,
An' ſleep wi' me in bed o' feather,
In ſilk an' ſcarlet you ſhall ſhine,
An' leave the muir amang the heather.
Kind Sir, ye offer very fair,
Tho' weel I ken 'tis but in laughter;
I ken ye are a rich ſquire's heir,
While I'm a hamely ſhepherd's daughter.
But I hae travell'd far awa,,
I've been at London an' Bewhither;
But the the bonni'ſt laſs that e'er I ſaw,
I've met wi' here amang the heather.
Nae mair o' that, dear Sir, ſhe ſaid,
Sic tales will a deceiver prove ye;
Yet had ye been a ſhepherd lad,
Wi' a' my heart then I could love ye.
Hae thou nae fears; I'll gie my hand
Nane e'er for likin' me ſhall ſcance ye;
I'll ſet your father a' my land,
An' herd his ewes, but I'll hae Nancy.
Young man, I've heard my father ſay,
Your focks wad frae ſuſpicion ſcreen ye;
I'm fear'd ye ſteal my heart away,
An' then I better ne'er had ſeen ye.
What tho' I ſhould, my lovely laſs,
I vow y've ſtolen mine already;
An' e'er that this day month ſhall paſs,
If ye'll conſent, ye's be a lady.
My love can read, an' write, an' ſing,
An' ſhape an' ſew as weel as ony;
An' dance the round amid the ring,
Wi' finer air an' grace than mony.
Tho' I'm my father's heir to a',
I ken he'll never croſs my fancy;
For a' the beauties e'er he ſaw
Come fer fer ſhort o' my ſweet Nancy.,
Adieu, ye maſquerades an' balls;
Tho' my love's nouther rich nor gaudy,
She's lovlier wi' her heather bells
Than ony powder'd painted lady
In her I've found what long I've ſought;
Wi' her I'll live at hame contentit;
Nae mair I'll change, or value aught
Save her whae a' my fears has ended.
SONG II.
O SHEPHERD, the weather is miſty and changing,
Will you ſhew me over the hills to Traquair?
I will, gentle ſtranger, but where are you ranging?
So briſk a young gentleman walking is rare.
I came to the Foreſt to ſee the fine laſſes,
And ſing wi' the ſhepherds on ilka green hill;
And now I am leaving this modern Parnaſſus,
Of ilka thing in it I have got my fill.
I fear y'll hae left ſome fair laſſes a moaning;
As lovely a youth in my life I ne'er ſaw,
Your een are like diamonds, your hair like the gowan,
I wiſh you an' them may hae keepit the law.
But pray, gentle ſhepherd, have you got a wife yet?
Or are you a bachelor, tell me the truth?
For if you are ſingle, you'll have a ſweet life o't,
Of bloomin' young laſſes you have ſic a routh.
I'm ſingle; yet all the fair maids in the forest
I mind little mair than the leaves on yon tree
Save one pretty creature, to whom I am promis'd
In marriage, as ſoon as my ſtock is got free:
She's young and ſhe's witty, ſhe's lovely an' pretty,
She's chaſte as the ſwans upon Lochfell at Yule,
She's conſtant and true, and ſhe'll ſoon make me
happy;
I've lov'd her ſince ever we were at the ſchool.
O Shepherd, you'r fooliſh to bind to a woman;
My life for't ye'll rue that ye tether'd ſae ſoon
And if ſhe be conſtant, 'tis very uncommon,
There's ſcarcely another lives under the moon.
For me, I'm deſign'd ne'er to yoke with marrow,
But court ilka fair maid that comes in my way,
This very laſt ſummer, in Ettrick and Yarrow,
I've lien beſide twenty, who ne'er ſaid me nay;
But the fondeſt young laſſie that ever I ſpoke wi',
She lives wi' her mother, an' nae mae ava.
Ae night I gaed to her, an', O I was lucky;
For that very night the auld wife was awa.
She made up a bed, an' ſhe bade me gang wi' her;
I got all I aſked without e'er a frown;
She kiſs'd me an' bleſs'd me, an', ere I came frae her,
She promis'd to ſee me this winter in town.
Where dwells this fond laſſie? you may tell me freely;
What was it they ca'd her? what age did ſhe ſeem?
She lives upon Tyma, her name it is Jeanie,
A tall handſome laſſie about ſeventeen.
Now curſes light on thee, an' him that begat thee,
An' all thy anceſtors, thou limb of the de'il;
Thou wolf, thou deſtroyer, thou villain, have at thee,
For that was the laſſie that I lov'd ſae weel.
O ſhepherd, O ſhepherd! I pray thee forgie me;
For tho' I've wrong'd thee, 'twas more than I
knew;
Yet wed her, forgie her, ſhe's ay thy ain Jeanie;
She'll paſs for a maiden wi' ony but you.
I wed her! - She'll paſs for a maiden! - Confound
her!
Afore I forgie her I'll pit out her breath:
An' had I her here, for a vengeance upon her,
With this hiſſel ſtaff I wad finiſh you baith.
O laddie, be canny, ſic threats are unmanly;
Your paſſion, dear Jamie, has dazzled your een:
Conſider, look round ye, and think what's come on ye;
Ye ken-na the looks nor the voice o' your Jean.
O Jeanie! dear Jeanie! why did you thus teaze me?
I'll no be myſel for this eight days an' mair:
But, come to my boſom, for, ere I forgie thee,
I'll hae a' the kiſſes ye're able to ſpare.
O Jamie, I thought that your mind had been
changin';
'Tis twenty lang weeks ſince I ſaw you, an twa;
I went to a neiber an' borrow'd this cleathin';
An' was-na amind ye ſude ken me ava.
But come to my arms, wi' my plaidie I'll ſcreen ye;
My love is now double, tho' ay it was fair;
On the green banks o' Tyma I'll live with my Jeanie,
The langer I ken her I'll love her the mair.
Printed by JOHN TAYLOR
Graſsmarket, Edinburgh.
FINIS.
Cite this Document
APA Style:
Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, etc., Mostly Written in the Dialect of the South. 2024. In The Corpus of Modern Scottish Writing. Glasgow: University of Glasgow. Retrieved 20 April 2024, from http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/cmsw/document/?documentid=112.
MLA Style:
"Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, etc., Mostly Written in the Dialect of the South." The Corpus of Modern Scottish Writing. Glasgow: University of Glasgow, 2024. Web. 20 April 2024. http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/cmsw/document/?documentid=112.
Chicago Style
The Corpus of Modern Scottish Writing, s.v., "Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, etc., Mostly Written in the Dialect of the South," accessed 20 April 2024, http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/cmsw/document/?documentid=112.
If your style guide prefers a single bibliography entry for this resource, we recommend:
The Corpus of Modern Scottish Writing. 2024. Glasgow: University of Glasgow. http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/cmsw/.
Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, etc., Mostly Written in the Dialect of the South
Document Information
| Document ID | 112 |
| Title | Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, etc., Mostly Written in the Dialect of the South |
| Year group | 1800-1850 |
| Genre | Verse/drama |
| Year of publication | 1801 |
| Wordcount | 8125 |
Author information: Hogg, James
| Author ID | 234 |
| Forenames | James |
| Surname | Hogg |
| AKA | The Ettrick Shepherd |
| Gender | Male |
| Year of birth | 1770 |
| Place of birth | Ettrick, Selkirkshire, Scotland |
| Occupation | Author, farmer, journalist |
| Father's occupation | Farmer |
| Education | Little formal schooling |
| Locations where resident | Ettrick, Edinburgh |
Top
