Poems on Various subjects
Orr, James
Published 1804
THE SPAE-WIFE
Tune — “Come under my Plaidy”
Ye frien’s o’ deep knowledge, if wise ye wad be,
Creep into my cave an’ a’ secrets ye’ll see;
If maiden, or mother, uncertainty bother,
Frae doubt an’ frae darkness, their min’s I can free:
Ilk lass, no tald lees on, wha deems, an’ wi’ reason,
The youth she oblig’t frae her fond arms will flee,
An’ wife, in a fear ay, that jilts meet her dearie,
May learn the hale truth by applyin’ to me.
Gif Chanticlear’s ta’en frae the roost whare he craw’t;
Or horse, key, or sheep, frae the pasture-fiel’ ca’t,
My head I’ll bestow ye, if I dinna shew ye
The leuks in a glass, o’ the loun that’s in faut:
Or else if ye cleek up, an’ toss my delft tea cup,
If danger, or death’s near, the gruns plain will shaw’t:
By cuttin’ o’ cartes folk, an’ no’ by black arts, folk,
O past, present, future, I’ll read ye a claut.
A spunkie reply’t, wha oureheard the dark dame —
“Guid wife! they wha trust ye defeat their ain aim;
“The henpecket taupie, wha’d wiss to be happy,
“Sud ax nane wha ken - what the wife does at hame:
“Ilk sport-lovin’ weary, might dread to come near ye,
“Wha ken’st the dark neuk whare she try’t the blythe game —
“The grand plan of Nature’s conceal’d frae a’ creatures;
“Nor cud their skill chang’t gif they kent the hale scheme.
“Ye promise promotion, an’ sin’ frae the mead
“The shepherd to sea, whare some shark soon he’ll feed;
“The young thing, sae bonie, weds some canker’t clownie,
“Because ye’ve presag’d that nae ither’s decreed —
“While dupes trust the sybil far mair than the bible,
“An’ change the last sixpence that ye may be fee’d,
“I’ll scorn the to-morrow, an’ banishin’ sorrow,
“Learn mair light frae whiskey than e’er fill’t your head.
TO A SPARROW
On seeing some boys rob her Nest
Wee, wanton, little thought o’ birdie!
Pert, keen, an’ crouse, an unco wordie,
The stapple that sae lang has co’erd ye
Your faes are seisin’;
Shame fa’ them! can they no afford ye
The cauld house easin’?
What head o’ wit, wi’ sev’n years lear,
Cou’d mak’ a nest sae feat, an’ fair?
Eydent thou gather’t grass an’ hair,
Frae daun till dark;
Fou scar’d, when school-boys chanc’d to stare
Upo’ thy wark.
Mony a day’s hunger didst thou see,
While sittin’ close as close cou’d be;
Yet now before thy anxious e’e
They’ve rack’d thy housie,
An’ made thy helpless familie
The prey o’ pousie.
E’enow thy breast is just as sair
As wife’s wad be, wha’d see, or hear,
Sic fate, perforce, befa’ her dear
An’ dauted weans;
But och! thy troublers dinna care
How vast thy pains!
An’ yet they’re friety — sots wha’d gie
Their breasts, the swallows shield to be,
Deem’t nae offence to harrie thee;
Tho’ minds mair noble
Wi’ less remorse wad steal a tree,
Than breed thee trouble.
Sae, when a wretched widow’s sent
Frae some bit bield, whase leash is spent,
Tho’ a’ they hae be put to cant,
She views it calmly,
Till rich, rude ruffians teaze and taunt
Her gentle fam’ly.
Sae, when a carle, wi’ mickle pains,
Scrapes up some gear to lea’ his weans,
A band breaks in, an’ bins the banes
That late lay achin’,
An’ lea’s him reft o’ a’ his gains,
Sair-skaith’d, an’ quakin’.
Sae, now there’s monie suffrin’ sair
By biggin’ castles in the air;
But we twa will hae haudins there
Sae lang’s we’ve breath;
An’ laugh at a’ the sons o’ care
Wha sneak beneath.
Thou needna think this outrage odd,
For man’s to man, like goose and tod;
But still the brave will rapine, blood,
An’ guile bewaur o’,
An’ spare the creature o’ their God,
Tho’ but a Sparrow.
ADDRESS TO MR. A********, CARRICKFERGUS
Written after a severe illness
This rhyme I sen’ to own I’m debtor
To Sandy for his frien’ly letter;
An’ certes, had I not grown better
Before this time,
I wad been makin’ scraps o’ metre
In some strange clime.
Twad mak’ an humbler body vain,
To think the burial I wad haen:
Sae monie brethren in a train
Wad gart ye won’er;
But faith! I’m fander to remain
An’ want the honour.
L—d help the Crock wham ailments master,
He meets wi’ monie a droll disaster:
Whae’er cam’ in prescrib’d some sluister,
An’ I must drink it;
I coupt it up, an’ gi’ed a gluister,
An grue’t, an’ winket.
This while my sea has been sae rough,
That at your jokes I wadna leugh;
My head was reft wi’ ilka cough,
My breast was strain’d.
Ay when I rav’d, or cry’d och! och!
My mither gran’d.
Ay when approch’t by lasses lo’esome,
I fand some easement in my bosom,
That cring’t wi’ fear when carlin’s gruesome
Discours’t o’ Nick:
Deel rive their jaws! what can dispose ’em
To scare the sick.
But Sandy, first in my esteem ay,
I’m pleased, an’ proud, ye cam’ to see me,
Gif folk like you, think something o’ me,
’Twill never pain me,
Tho’ a’ the grunters, grave an’ gloomy,
Quote texts again’ me.
Tell that fine chiel wha mens auld watches,
An’ him wha doctors crazy clatches,
To see ye a’ I’se lift your latches,
An’ tak’ a can,
Whene’er health men’s, wi’ braider patches,
My inner man.
THE PASSENGERS
How calm an’ cozie is the wight,
Frae cares an’ conflicts clear ay,
Whase settled headpiece never made,
His heels or han’s be weary!
Perplex’d is he whase anxious schemes
Pursue applause, or siller,
Success nor sates, nor failure tames;
Bandied frae post to pillar
Is he, ilk day.
As we were, Comrades, at the time
We mov’t frae Ballycarry,
To wan’er thro’ the woody clime
Burgoyne gied oure to harrie:
Wi’ frien’s consent we prie’t a gill,
An’ monie a house did call at,
Shook han’s, an’ smil’t; tho’ ilk fareweel
Strak, like a weighty mallet,
Our hearts, that day.
On shore, while ship-mates halt, tho’ thrang’t,
Wi’ lasses hearts to barter;
Nybers, an’ frien’s, in boatfu’s pang’t,
Approach our larboard quarter;
Syne speel the side, an’ down the hatch
To rest, an’ crack, an’ gaze on
The boles o’ births, that monie a wratch
Maun squeeze in, for a season,
By night, an’ day.
“This is my locker, yon’ers Jock’s,
“In that auld creel, sea-store is,
“Thir births beside us are the Lockes,[1]
“My uncle’s there before us;
“Here hang my tins an’ vitriol jug,
“Nae thief’s at han’ to meddle ’em” —
“L--d, man, I’m glad ye’re a’ sae snug;
“But och! ’tis owre like Bedlam
Wi’ a’ this day.
“All boats ashore!” the mate cries stern,
Wi’ oaths wad fear a saunt ay:
“Now Gude be wi’ ye, Brice, my bairn” —
“An’ Gude be wi’ ye, Auntie.”
What keep-sakes, an’ what news are sent!
What smacks, an’ what embraces!
The hurryin’ sailors sleely sklent
Droll leuks at lang wry faces,
Fu’ pale that day.
While “Yo heave O!” wi’ monie a yell
The birkies weigh the anchor;
Ilk mammies pet conceits itsel’
The makin’ o’ a Banker;
They’ll soon, tho’, wiss to lieve at hame,
An’ dee no worth a totam,
Whan brustin’ breast, an’ whamlin’ wame,
Mak’ some wise men o’ Gotham
Cry halt! this day.
Some frae the stern, wi’ thoughts o’ grief
Leuk back, their hearts to Airlan’;
Some mettle’t bucks, to work ay brief,
At en’s o’ rapes are harlin’;
Some haud aback frae dangers brow
Their toddlin’ o’er, no cautious;
An’ some, wi’ monie a twine an’ throe,
Do something wad be nauceous
To name, this day.
Meanwhile, below, some count their beads,
While prudes, auld-light sit cantin’;
Some mak’ their beds; some haud their heads,
An’ cry wi’ spite, a’ pantin’! —
“Ye brought us here, ye luckless cauf!
(“Aye did he; whisht my darlin’!)
L--d sen’ me hame! wi’ poke an’ staff,
“I’d beg my bread thro’ Airlan’,
My lane, that day.”
In twathree days the maist cam’ to,
Few heads were sair or dizzy;
An’ chiel’s wha scarce a turn cud do,
Begoud to be less lazy:
At night (to tell amang oursel’s)
They crap, wi’ fandness fidgin’,
To court - or maybe something else,
Gif folk becam’ obligin’,
Atween an’ day.
Roun’ the cambouse what motley ban’s
At breakfast-time cam’ swarmin’!
Tin, tankards, kettles, pots, an’ pans,
The braid flat fire was warmin’:
The guid auld rule, “first come first ser’t,”
Was urg’t by men o’ mettle;
An’ ay whan callens grew mislear’t,
The arm o’ flesh boost settle
Th’ affray, that day.
A bonie sight I vow it was,
To see on some lown e’nin’,
Th’ immense, smooth, smilin’ sea o’ glass,
Whare porpoises were stenin’:
To see at night the surface fine
That Cynthia made her path on;
An’ snove, an’ snore thro’ waves o’ brine,
That sparkle’t like a heath on
A bleaze some day.
But now a gale besets our bark,
Frae gulph to gulph we’re tumble’t;
Kists, kits, an’ fam’lies, i’ the dark,
Wi’ ae side-jerk are jumble’t:
Some stauchrin’ thro’ a pitch lays laigh —
Some, drouket, ban the breaker;
While surge, on surge, sae skelps her - Hegh!
Twa three like that will wreck her
A while ere day.
Win’s, wives, an’ weans, rampage an’ rave,
Three score at ance are speakin’;
While blacks wha a’ before them drave,
Lye cheepin’ like a chicken —
“What gart us play? or bouse like beasts?
“Or box in fairs wi’ venom?”
Hear how the captain laughs an’ jests,
An’ bit a bord between him
An’ death, this day.
’Tis calm again. While rightin’ things,
The heads o’ births are bizziet,
The seaman chews his quid, an’ sings,
An’ peys his frien’s a visit —
“Eh! dem my eyes! how is’t, goodman?
“Got clear of Davy’s locker?
“Lend me a facer till we lan’,
“Till blind as Newgate’s knocker
We’ll swig, that day.”
Here, gash guidmen, wi’ nightcaps on,
At ance baith pray an’ watch;
An’, there, for light, sits monie a loun
At Cartes beneath the hatch;
Here, some sing sangs, or stories tell,
To ithers bizzy knittin’;
An’, there some readin’ to themsels,
Nod owre asleep, while sittin’
Twa fold that day.
Now Newfoun’lan’s becalmin’ banks
Our ship supinely lies on;
An’ monie a ane his lang line fanks,
Whase heuk some captive dies on:
An’ now, disguis’t, a fore-mast-man
Shaves dry, the churls unwillin’
To pay the poll-tax on deman’ —
A pint, or else a shillin’
A piece, that day.
Aince mair luck lea’s us (plain ’tis now
A murd’rer in some mess is)
An English frigate heaves in view,
I’ll bail her board, an’ press us:
Taupies beneath their wives wha stole,
Or ’mang auld sails lay flat ay,
Like whitrats peepin’ frae their hole,
Cried, “is she British, wat ye,
Or French, this day?”
’Twas but a brig frae Baltimore,
To Larne wi’ lintseed steerin’;
Twa days ago she left the shore,
Let’s watch for lan’ appearin’:
Spies frae the shrouds, like laigh dark clouds,
Descried domes, mountains, bushes;
The Exiles griev’t - the sharpers thiev’t —
While cronies bous’t like fishes,
Conven’t, that day.
Whan glidin’ up the Delaware,
We cam’ forenent Newcastle,
Gypes co’ert the wharf to gove, an’ stare,
While out, in boats, we bustle:
Creatures wha ne’er had seen a black,
Fu’ scar’t took to their shankies;
Sae, wi’ our best rags on our back,
We mixt amang the Yankies,
An’ skail’t, that day.
EPISTLE TO S. THOMSON OF CARNGRANNY
A BROTHER POET
Dear Thomson! Fav’rite o’ the nine!
Wi’ wham I shar’t the feast of min’
Before the hag of strife,
Wi’ han’s that reek’t wi’ bluid she’d shed,
’Gan wi’ the hues o’ black an’ red,
To strip my wab o’ life.
Gaun thro’ the muir awee ere night
I mark’t Lyle’s lafty hill;
An’ min’t the minstrel, blythe an’ bright,
Wha fam’t it wi’ his quill;
An’ why now, thought I now,
Hae we been mute sae lang;
Ise sen’ now, an’ ken now,
How things wi’ Samie gang.
For me, we’ a’ that’s come an’ past,
I’m at my ain fire-side at last,
Fu’ blythe, tho’ fash’t awee,
When geckt at by the purse-proud drove; —
But deel-ma-care, sin’ little love
Is lost ’tween them an’ me.
Wi’ plackless deels, like us, to board,
They’d think a burnin’ shame,
An’ at their revels, tak’ my word,
We’d deem oursel’s frae hame:
While dealin’s, an’ mailin’s,
They dully egotize on,
Durst we, Sam, mak’ free, Sam,
To mention rhyme or reason?
L--d! what this pridefu’ heart has thol’d
To hear a cuif, whase useless gold
Ne’er made ae poor man happy,
Expose some selfless son o’ worth,
Because half-doil’d wi’ wine an’ mirth,
He kent na when to stap ay.
I’d rather drudge, an’ do-blacks roast,
An’ want hale breeks to shift me,
Than shine in ease, gif grubs cud boast
They lent me gear to lift me.
We’se debtless, an’ fretless,
Enjoy the mite we hae;
An’ drink whyles, an’ think whyles,
To trifle life away.
I needna fret; the han’ o’ heav’n
Has gi’en poor me, wham, hardship-driv’n,
It sav’t by lan’, an’ sea,
A feelin’ heart, a thinkin’ head,
An’ health, an’ han’s, to win my bread,
An’ comrades firm an’ free:
A landscape fine, that charms my e’en
While workin’ sair days-dark on’t;
An’ Sylvia, an engagin’ frien’,
Wha can mak’ fine remarks on’t:
Wi’ sense grac’d, an mense grac’d,
An’ fand o’ truth an’ taste,
While Spring’s sweet, she sings sweet,
She soothes this trampled breast.
Nae wreath shall grace my rustic brows,
But countra folk my dog’rels roose,
In terms that mak’ me blythe;
Tho’ whyles scarce worth ae bare babee,
Fancy an’ taste, I wadna gie
For a’ Braid-Islan’ tythe.
I’d rather, blest wi’ skill an’ grace,
Beg lodgin’ in a mill,
Than be the owner o’ the place,
An’ want baith taste an’ skill.
Thro’ life, frien’, my strife, frien’,
Has been to search an’ know:
But slight ay’s, the light ay,
That shines on want an’ woe.
But ne’er, tho’ pin’d, let’s be sae wee
As to implore on supple knee,
The proud folks patronage;
They ken, fu, brawly whare we stay,
An’ gif they notice us they may,
Aince they’ve luck’t owre our page:
Th’ inglorious thymes o’ countra clouns,
Get plenty to degrade ’em,
Wha wad reward wi’ laurel crowns,
Gif Kings or Priests had made ’em.
Tho’ vain folk disdain folk,
We’se sing the burns, an’ bow’rs,
O’ Airlan’, our fair lan’ —
Deel tak’ her faes an’ ours!
I’ll hae to quat my humble strains,
The moon-beams gild my frost-wrought panes,
An’ I’ve a bit to gang:
I hope your muirlan muse ye’ll woo,
To tell me how ye wrastle thro’,
Some time when ye’re no thrang.
Atween an’ May, gif bowls row right,
I’ll meet ye in Roughfort,
An’ aince again devote a night
To frien’liness an’ sport.
Meanwhile, sir, sud bile, sir,
Mak’ factious prose-men fight,
May leisure, an’ pleasure,
An’ peace be ours! — Good night.
TEA
Welcome, my frien’s, — ye’re just in time,
The kettle’s on, an’ soon will chyme;
An’ gif, tho’ us’d to strains sublime,
Ye’ll listen me,
I’ll clear my throat, an’ rudely rhyme
In praise o’ Tea.
What mak’s ye nice? I’m no yet stintet
To mashlin bread an’ weel-won mint to’t;
The far-fetch’d leaf is maistly grantet
Sev’n times a week’
An’, tak’ my word, the day I want it
The pipe does reek.
Leeze me on Tea! — the maskin pot
Keeps peace about the poor man’s cot:
Nae waitin’ wife misca’s the sot,
Wha stauchers hame wi’
A grain o’ pouther an’ o’ shot,
To charge the wame wi’!
The L—d leuk on her wretched bield,
Whase pence are out, and hank unreel’d!
Nae griddle’s het, nae pratoe peel’d,
To mak’ a bap o’t;
Nor weed nor head-ach tak’s the field
Without a drap o’t.
But blast the smuggler, fause an’ fell,
Wha brews’t in tinfu’s by hersel’;
An’ bribes the sma’-craft no to tell
Their drudgin’ daddy;
Deel nor he’d ay bounce in, pell-mell,
Just when ’tis ready.
When Riggie’s yell, an’ kitchen dear,
’Tis the poor cotter’s cheapest cheer:
The creamless blash, that sugar fair
Has little share in,
Sen’s glibly owre, his bonnoch bare,
An’ saut, saut herrin.
The poorest bodies far or near,
Their pipes wi’t ay on Sunday clear:
And a’ the state-days o’ the year;
But, chiefly, yule,
Wife, wean, an’ cat, can hardly bear
To let it cool.
At breakin’ clovin’, kirn, an’ quiltin’,
’Tis ay the base that bliss is built on;
An’ when the spae-wife to the Mill-town
In hiddlin’s slips,
Without it, vain were her consultin’
Divinin’ cups.
While roun’ the hag the young things catch
The story o’ their future match,
Tho’ a’ her skill’s no worth a fitch,
Sud at her haunch
Bauld Moses rise to “slay the witch,”
They’d mak’ him gaunch.
When claughin wives, wi’ heads in flannin’,
Forgether’d on a sabbath e’enin’,
Pit spoonfu’s twa a piece o’ green in;
(While wi’ the mother
The splain an’ stuffin’ — a’ compleenin’
Sit whazzlin’ throuther.)
Losh! how they rauner, rail, an’ ripple
Their nybers names, an’ mumph an sipple!
But, conscience! gif the auld delft nipple
Nae ooze wad bring,
The priest, an’ parish, king, an’ people,
Might tak their swing.
One wha oure-night has play’d the weary,
An’ crept frae slumber, half deleery,
Wi’ achin’ banes, an’ blinkers bleerie,
An’ tortur’d nerves:
While some slee jilt, wi’ mirth sincere ay,
His plight observes.
When wash’d his face, and camb’d his hair,
An’ in again frae takin’ air,
Sax reekin’ roun’s, or may be mair,
Can mak’ him able,
To think, an’ speak, an’ labour share,
In barn or stable.
Yet “Tea mak’s man a nerveless wrig,”
The doctor says — p-x on the prig!
Its juice has gladden’d monie a big,
An’ brave leel heart,
Wha’d firm as Gabbin keep the trig,
Or forward dart —
But, harkee! there’s a blyther singer;
I tald ye ’twad be nae lang hinger:—
Yestreen I daftly still’d the clangour
I’ the auld twin’d blether;
Or pints a piece o’ something stronger
We’d bouse thegither.
To the Potatoe
I ledge we’d fen gif fairly quat o’
The weed we smoke, an’ chow the fat o’;
An’ wadna grudge to want the wat o’
Wealth-wastin’ Tea;
But leeze me on the precious Pratoe,
My country’s stay!
Bright blooms the Bean that scents the valley,
An’ bright the Pea, that speels the salie,
An’ bright the Plumb tree, blossom’t brawly,
An’ blue-bowed lint;
But what wi’ straught rais’t raws can tally,
That sun-beams tint.
Waeworth the proud prelatic pack,
Wha Point an’ Prataoes downa tak!
With them galore, an’ whyles a plack
To mak’ me frisky,
I’ll fen, an’ barley freely lack —
Except in whisky.
What wad poor deels on bogs an’ braes,
Whase dear cot-tacks nae meal can raise;
Wha ne’er tase butter, beef or cheese,
Nor pit new clais on;
While a’ they mak’ can harly please
Some rack-rent messon.
What wad they do without Do-blacks,
Their weans wi’ sarkless wames to rax?
They boost to forage like the fox
That nightly plun’ers,
Or wi’ the ’Squires turn out an’ box,
In hungry hun’ers.
Sweet in the mornin’, after dashlin’,
Thy daigh is, pouther’t owre wi’ mashlin;
Creesh’t scons stan’ pil’t on plates, or brislin’
A’ roun’ the ingle,
While a fand Wifie fast is fislin,
An tea-cups jingle.
Sweet to the boons that blythely enter
At dinner-time, the graise in centre,
Champ’t up wi’ kail, that pey the planter,
Beans, pa’snips, peas!
Gosh! cud a cautious Covenanter
Wait for the grace?
Sweet to the badger, aft a lander
At day-light-gaun, thou’rt on the brander,
Brown skin’t, an’ birslet. Nane are fander
To hear thee crisp,
Ere in some neuk, wi’ goose and gander
He share the wisp.
The weel-pair’t peasants, kempin’, set ye;
The weak wee boys, sho’el, weed, an’ pat ye;
The auld guid men thy apples get ay
Seedlin’s to raise;
An’ on sow’n-seeves the lasses grate ye,
To starch their claes.
Then, in hin-hairst, when wee an’ big ane,
Tak’ to the fiel’s, an’ fa’ a diggin’,
Spades risp — tubs rumble — cars are jiggin’ —
L—d! what a noise is?
While monie a pit’s prodigious riggin’
High-archin’, rises.
Thou feeds our beasts o’ ilka kin’,
The gen’rous steed, and grov’lin’ swine:
An’ poultry tribes; the doves ay fine,
An’ ducks besmear’d ay:
Dear was the man, an’ half divine,
Wha here first rear’d ye.
How comfortable, an’ how couthy
We’d lieve, gif they wha bake cud brew thee!
Losh! ’twad be fine gif ilka youth ay,
O’ social tempers,
Might steep, an’ still, for comrades drouthy
A bing o’ hampers.
O Airlan! thou may weel be crouse,
Thy soger on his butter’d stews;
An’ tar-breeks on the fat lab-scouse
His ladle laves,
Can bear the gree frae hosts, an’ crews,
O’ fine-fed knaves.
Upsettin’ England sudna ding
Thee just sae sair - she’s no the thing:
Gif thou’d withdraw for ae camping,
Thy brow-beat callens,
Whaever pleas’d cud clip her wing,
An’ pare her talons.
What pity, folk thou sairst, sud tythe ay,
The poor man’s rig, that maks him blythe ay!
May proud oppression ne’er come nigh thee,
Nor sloth’s fause smiles,
’Till time, wi’ warl-destroyin’ scythie
Pass owre the isles!
THE PENITENT
Inscribed to the Rev. J. Bankhead
Written in the year 1800.
--------------- Not all the pride of empire,
Ere gave such blest sensations, as one hour
Of penitence, tho’ painful.
Brooke.
Earth feels the triple scourge wild warfare spreads,
Emaciate famine gnaws the husks and pines,
And ev’ry friend, forsaking, inly dreads
The fated wretch, whom pestilence confines: —
Say, will Bankhead, who piously declines
Man’s ev’ry vice, and mourns his woes severe;
Will he, the guide, who feels what he enjoins,
The fervent love of ev’ry faith and sphere,
The Penitent’s memoirs, tho’ mean, be pleas’d to hear?
His name, if I min’ right, was Christy Blair:
Fu’ aft I’ve pass’d the wa’-stead whare he leev’d;
An’ auld ash tree stan’s branchless now an’ bare,
Aboon the spring, unnotic’d an’ unpreev’d:
The side wa’ co’ers the causey that he pav’d,
The beasts rub doon the cheeks o’ ilka door;
Rank nettles hide the hearth on which he shav’d
The nybers ance a week in years o’ yore —
I learn’d his life frae Brice, the auld herd on the moor.
He weav’d himsel’, an’ keepet twathree gaun,
Wha prais’d him ay for hale weel-handled yarn;
His thrifty wife an’ wise wee lasses span,
While warps and queels employ’d anither bairn;
Some stript ilk morn an’ thresh’d, the time to earn
To scamper wi’ the houn’s frae hill to hill;
Some learn’d the question-beuk in nyb’ring barn —
Christy wrought unco close, whyles took a gill,
But when his wab was out had ay a hearty fill.
An’ nae mean spunge was he; but was hae lent
Sums to poor sots, wha basely brak their word;
Rich rakes admir’d his sprie, sae weel he kent
The way to heel, an han’, a guid game bird:
An’ in the pit he wadna twice be dar’d,
The odds were shamefu’ when he cried “fair play”;
His nieve, that nail’d the messons to the sward,
Wad stapt to lift their weanies frae his way:
He harm’d himsel’ at times was a’ that folk cud say.
But och! if vice the least indulgence claim
’Twill wax, an’ strengthen, like a wean at nurse;
Belyve he staid hale days an’ nights frae hame,
Tho’ ae nights absence, ance he deem’d a curse;
An’ aft brought hame nought but an empty purse,
O’ a’ the hale wabs price he took to sell;
Then, sick niest day, poor Mary boost disburse
Her pence, to get a glass his qualms to quell:
She grudg’d - he storm’d - the weans grat - hame grew hell.
At length he turn’d a doonright ne’er-do-weel,
For ilka draught, he swore, but made him dryer;
The kye gaed baith for debt. A sorry chiel’
Was he to cleave their stakes to men’ the fire:
Mary ne’er min’t the house - mair like a byre,
But clash’d wi’ nyber wives. Unkent to him
For tea, an’ snuff, the troubled dames desire,
She’d smuggled meal an’ seeds; tho’ hunger grim
Devour’d the duddy weans, now in a wretched trim.
Gif ye had pass’d his door, ye’d either heard
Him we his comrades madly makin’ noise,
Or squabblin’ wi’ the wife. He seldom car’d
To wake the looms mair profitable voice:
The weans were wicked mair thro’ chance than choice,
How marvellous wad been their mense an’ grace!
He learn’d the lasses smut, an’ gart the boys
Drink dreadfu’ toasts, an’ box for pence or praise;
They’d ca’ their mother le’er, an’ curse her till her face.
Whyles wi’ his auld colleagues he blam’d his wife;
He kent that she was slack, an’ they were fause:
She sometimes took a drap, an’ by the life
A drinkin’ wife’s ay deem’d for greater flaws:
Ance when they differ’d, like a thoughtless ass,
He listed wi’ the sogers on the street,
Yet when he ru’d, wrang’d Mary pledg’d her braws
To raise the smart money. To see her greet
Wad thow’d the hardest heart in army or in fleet.
Yet shame owrecam’ him whyles, an’ when advice
Was properly applied it rous’d his pride,
He’d kiss the beuk, an’ swear by a’ the skies,
He’d in nae change house drink till hallon-tide;
Then, then he thrave; but och! he cudna bide
Frae worthless spen’thrifts, nor cud they frae him;
At first he’d drink his glass in some backside,
But at the table when his brains ’gan swim;
When tald o’ a’ niest morn he’d tremble ev’ry limb.
At lang an’ last, when to the frightfu’ edge
O’ dreary ruin, by his courses brought,
(For a’ was gaen he had to sell or pledge
The times were hard and nane would trust him ought)
To pass a painfu’ hour, the barn he sought
Whare Smyth, the methodie, harangu’d the folk:
They mourn’d, an’ cried amen - he fleech’d and fought,
Christy grew grave, an’ thought he’d join the flock,
An’ imitate their lives wham ance he us’d to mock.
An’ change his life he did; the bull-beat came,
He wadna gang; but ca’d it savage vice:
A serious nyber ’cause he stay’d at hame
Gi’ed him a wab to weave, an’ lent the price:
Late, late did he sit up, an’ early rise,
An’ eat the bread o’ care to get it weav’d;
Syne took it hame, gat meal, an’ monie nice
Auld claes, to thack the weans, we thanks receiv’d;
Somebody ay will help the poor an’ weel-behav’d.
Nature a while, tho’ thought forbearance hard,
An’ Habit, like a bough by force held straight,
Sprang till its ain auld thraw. When aff his guard,
Twathree rash gills wad set him till’t a’ night;
An’ much he’d said an’ done that was na right: —
Ilk short relapse the clashes met to track o’;
But practice soon made irksome trials light;
As ane, at first, wha trys the pipe for lack o’
His health, halts, coughs, an’ greus, yet learns to like tobacco.
While perseverin’ in his heav’n-ward way,
He lea’s pale want behin’, his cant’ an’ zeal,
Sae quite remarkable, mak’ grave an’ gay
Laugh hearty at him, tho’ they like him weel;
Has he a band to fill? he soon fin’s bail,
Nae pross ere plagues him now, sloth leas his hame;
He has baith kye an’ corn, an’ sells some meal,
His frien’s outbye add mister till his name;
An’ alter’d Mary’s now a douse an’ dainty dame.
(Hail! good old Wesley - this they owe to thee,
The wise of all professions bless thy birth;
Believing what you taught, without a fee,
“A poor way-faring man,” you ventur’d forth,
Striving where’er you went to free the earth
From sin, enslaver of the human mind: —
As godlike Howard, friend of woe an’ worth,
In many a realm consol’d the cells where pin’d
Poor persecuted slaves, kept there by kings unkind.)
Whase arm ance rash as Christy’s? now tho’ strong,
Nae bangster tholes his nieve or sla-thorn black;
Wha ance blasphem’d like Christy? now his tongue
Without minc’d oaths the lee-lang day can crack:
His nights ance spent with gamesters owre the pack,
Are pass’t wi’ deein’ wights, or at his beuk;
The lyin’ cash he ance wad sent to wrack,
Lent, int’rest-free, sets up new-married folk —
He’s far owre wise to jibe; but no owre grave to joke.
The weans and Mary kept the cottage neat;
She was affectionate, an’ fond were they;
They work’t an’ sang their hymns, and crack’t, an’ gree’t,
Fine was their speech, an’ affable their way.
They werena stupes, wha fient na word can say
For what they b’lieve; tho’ first to rail an’ rage
At a’ wha differ. ’Mang some bolefu’s mae,
Ane Fletcher’s warks, a bra unbiass’d sage,
Gart ’em wi’ might an’ mense the Calvinists engage.
An’ searchin’ for the Truth improv’d their taste:
How nat’ral Joseph’s life was weel they kent;
How Moses’ muse her notes sublimely rais’d,
An’ Jeremiah’s deeply did lament;
The spen’thrift son’s fine scene they weel cud paint,
An guid Samaritan’s - an’ nearer han’,
How Young made night mair solemn wi’ his plaint;
How Milton’s Eve was fair, his Adam fand;
How Gray was sad an’ grave, an’ Shakespeare wildly grand.
They min’t baith warls. In warps boil’d by their han’
Did thrice ten shuttles lose their entrails sma’;
An’ on a scoup o’ cheap, but mountain lan’,
They graz’d yell kye, an’ drain’d, an’ lim’d the shaw.
Beasts, yarn, an’ claith, aft call’d the sons awa’;
The daughters wash’d, an’ sew’d, an’ span wi’ care:
Christy did little, but directed a’;
An’ cute was he when unco folk were there;
For at the very warst he had baith sense an’ lear.
“The e’e that saw them bless’d them.” Much they shar’d
Wi’ frien’s, wi’ strangers, an’ wi’ a’ in need;
Folk thought the fam’ly fey if e’er they err’d,
Bonnier an’ better ne’er brak warls bread:
Christy ne’er strave to cross their loves; but gied
Mailin’s, an’ gear, to ev’ry lad an’ lass,
He leev’d to train their weans, an’ when he died,
Was what they ca’ the leader o’ a class. —
Brice gied me this account, an’ right weel pleas’d I was.
May my wild brethren turn to wisdom’s path
An’ grace poor Erin, plagu’d with want and dearth!
And banish from her shores religious wrath,
Desponding sloth, and dissipated mirth!
May sun-like Science from the poor man’s hearth
Chase Ignorance, the owl that haunts the stys!
So patriots brave, when we lie low in earth,
“Harmless as doves, and yet as serpents wise,”
Shall follow Truth and Right, and guard the land they prize.
A FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO MR. W. H. D —
’Tis no the malice o’ the hale,
’Tis no the looms untunefu’ peal,
The ragged coat, an’ hamely meal,
That keenly sting;
But something else — I see and feel,
But canna sing.
O Nature! cud I set your stage,
Wi’ a its scen’ry on my page!
My rainbows points the earth sud guage,
My wild-fire wander;
An’ lakes an’ rivers smile and rage,
Wi’ grace an’ grandeur.
The purplin’ morn, and pensive eve,
Sud a their fine, fair tints receive;
My cliff sud frown, my echo rave,
My shamrock smell,
My night appear as gran’ly grave
As night hersel.
My thun’er dreadfully sud soun’,
An’ still the hum o’ hazy noon;
Hill, wood, an’ grove, sud (smiling roun’)
Sing, low, and bleat;
An’ rough cascades come dashin’ down,
In savage state.
Or cud my manners-paintin’ rhymes
“Haud up the mirror” to the times,
I’d sing how av’rice gnaws folks wymes,
How folly tipples,
An’ how ambition thins the climes
That love re-peoples.
The tragedy o’ doeless Dodd
Frae shame sud free him if I cud:
Some “village Hampdens” patriot blood
Sud issue, glorious,
Some Wolfe aince mair sud thank his God,
And die victorious —
I needna strive. My want and woe
Unnerves the energies, you know;
Yet Nature prompts my muse, tho’ slow
An’ faints her fires:
The cuckoo sings obscurely low,
The lark aspires.
Coy science spurn’d me frae her knee,
An’ fortune bad my shuttle flee;
But, a’ the while, smit strangely wi’
The love o’ sang,
I rudely rhyme the scenes I see,
Whare’er I gang.
EPISTLE TO N— P—, OLDMILL
“The chief musician on the string’d instrument!”
Dear Thaunie! musick’s gentle sinn,
A thread o’ rhyme to thee I’ll spin;
Tho’ unexpressive is your blin’
An’ beamless e’e:
Your brightness has the light within
That pleases me.
I’m glad, my frien’, ye mak’ a shift
To keep the strings in proper tift;
Ere this new moon forsake the lift
We’se hae some sport,
Tho’ my auld treadles sud move swift,
At midnight for’t.
’Tis you may brag; man, wife, an’ lassie,
Wad to their bosoms hug an’ hause ye;
Some deep divines, wha poor folk awe sae,
They flee the kirk,
Wad fald a flock might make them saucie,
Gif ye were clerk.
Let us be tir’d, or barley-sick,
Or crav’d for debts, wad cowe auld Nick,
Or pierc’d wi’ love, aye to the quick,
Or scandal foutie,
Ae flourish o’ your fiddle-stick,
Sen’s care to Cloutie.
On auld fair days, when folk’s no’ sicker,
You’re ay the brither o’ the Bicker;
Frae ilka neuk the spunkies staucher
To hear your stories;
The roof re-echoes ev’ry nicher,
An’ every chorus.
An’ when ye gravely try your skill
On ordination an’ free-will,
E’en whiggish drones chap in a gill,
You’re sic a bright man;
For a’ you’re owre like Rabin Hill,
A black New-light-man.
When labour calls, ye doon can lay
Your han’s, an’ waur the sons o’ day;
An’ were a wake three mile away
Ye straught cud gang till’t,
An’ let them hear ye baith cud pray
And pit the twang till’t.
I ’ledge you’re wonderfu’ content ay,
An’ weel ye may, for fate has sent ye
A bairn-time, thrifty, crouse an’ cantie,
Bless’d be the Maker!
They’ve bra’ stout stilches; tho’ they haunt ay
The “fiddler’s acre”.
An’ sic a wife — but phrase I mannie,
In fegs, I wiss ye saw her Thaunie!
My conscience, ye hae graipet cannie,
While seein’ chiels
Wale jads, as gruesome as my grannie,
Thraun reestet deels.
An’ ye hae sense might sair a king,
An’ ye’ve a muse can glibly sing;
Gif I’m to judge, I’ll swear by jing!
There’s few who gaze on
The scenes o’ life, can paint the thing
Like “fine boat-racin.”
An’ tho’ on Nature’s bonie beuk,
Ye canna cast a conscious leuk
Ye’ve peace an’ ease, ’boon monie folk
Wha glour fu’ keen,
An’ wadna be a cleigh’rin crock
For baith his e’en.
Your case is common; heaps, my frien’,
Benight themsel’s, wha might hae seen;
Some’s blin wi’ love; some’s blin wi’ spleen;
An some wi’ pride;
An’ some stap out their reasons e’en
That faith may guide.
I’d rather than my twa new shoen
I’d view mankin’ as ye hae done;
Experience (tho’ that camna soon)
Will surely keep
My insight clear, an’ save my crown
Till my last sleep.
Hale be your han’, to earn a drapie,
By makin’ creatures, blythe an’ happy!
An’ he who peys ye wi’ a rap ay,
’Cause ye maun trust him,
Let him be Orangeman, or crappie,
I’ll say — Deel brust him!
DONEGORE HILL
Ephie’s base bairntime, trail-pike brood,
Were arm’d as weel as tribes that stood;
Yet on the battle ilka cauf
Turn’d his backside, an’ scamper’d aff.
Psalm 78, v. 9
The dew-draps wat the fiels o’ braird,
That soon the war-horse thortur’d;
An falds were op’d by monie a herd
Wha lang ere night lay tortur’d;
Whan chiels wha grudg’d to be sae tax’d
An tyth’d by rack-rent blauth’ry,
Turn’d out en masse, as soon as ax’d —
And unco throuither squath’ry
Were we, that day.
While close-leagu’d crappies rais’d the hoards
O’ pikes, pike-shafts, forks, firelocks,
Some melted lead - some saw’d deal-boards —
Some hade, like hens in byre-neuks:
Wives baket bonnocks for their men,
Wi’ tears instead o’ water;
An’ lasses made cockades o’ green
For chaps wha us’d to flatter
Their pride ilk day.
A brave man firmly leain’ hame
I ay was proud to think on;
The wife-obeyin’ son o’ shame
Wi’ kindlin’ e’e I blink on:
“Peace, peace be wi’ ye! — ah! return
Ere lang and lea the daft anes” —
“Please guid,” quo he, “before the morn
In spite o’ a’ our chieftains,
An’ guards, this day.”
But when the pokes o’ provender
Were slung on ilka shou’der,
Hags, wha to henpeck didna spare,
Loot out the yells the louder. —
Had they, whan blood about their heart
Cauld fear made cake, an’ crudle,
Ta’en twa rash gills frae Herdman’s quart,
’Twad rous’d the calm, slow puddle
I’ their veins that day.
Now Leaders, laith to lea the rigs
Whase leash they fear’d was broken,
An’ Privates, cursin’ purse-proud prigs,
Wha brought ’em balls to sloken;
Repentant Painites at their pray’rs,
An’ dastards crousely craikin’,
Move on, heroic, to the wars
They meant na to partake in,
By night, or day.
Some fastin’ yet, now strave to eat
The piece, that butter yellow’d;
An’ some, in flocks, drank out cream crocks,
That wives but little valu’d:
Some lettin’ on their burn to mak’,
The rear-guard, goadin’, hasten’d;
Some hunk’rin’ at a lee dyke back,
Boost houghel on, ere fastened
Their breeks, that day.
The truly brave, as journeyin’ on
They pass by weans an’ mithers,
Think on red fiel’s, whare soon may groan,
The husbands, an’ the fathers:
They think how soon thae bonie things
May lose the youths they’re true to;
An’ see the rabble, strife ay brings,
Ravage their mansions, new to
Sic scenes, that day.
When to the tap o’ Donegore
Braid-islan’ corps cam’ postin’,
The red-wud, warpin, wild uproar,
Was like a bee scap castin’;
For ******* ***** took ragweed farms,
(Fears e’e has ay the jaundice)
For Nugent’s red-coats, bright in arms,
An’ rush! the pale-fac’d randies
Took leg, that day.
The camp’s brak up. Owre braes, an’ bogs,
The patriots seek their sections;
Arms, ammunition, bread-bags, brogues,
Lye skail’d in a’ directions:
Ane half, alas! wad fear’d to face
Auld Fogies, faps, or women;
Tho’ strong, untried, they swore in pride,
“Moilie wad dunch the yeomen,”
Some wiss’d-for day.
Come back, ye dastards! — Can ye ought
Expect at your returnin’,
But wives an’ weans stript, cattle hought,
An’ cots, an’ claughin’s burnin’?
Na, haste ye hame; ye ken ye’ll ’scape,
’Cause martial worth ye’re clear o’;
The nine-tail’d cat, or choakin’ rape,
Is maistly for some hero,
On sic a day.
Saunt Paul (auld Knacksie!) counsels weel —
Pope, somewhere, does the samen,
That, “first o’ a’, folk sud themsel’s
Impartially examine;”
Gif that’s na done, whate’er ilk loun
May swear to, never swith’rin’,
In ev’ry pinch, he’ll basely flinch —
“Guidbye to ye, my brethren.”
He’ll cry, that day.
The leuks o’ wheens wha stay’d behin’,
Were mark’d by monie a passion;
By dread to staun, by shame to rin,
By scorn an’ consternation:
Wi’ spite they curse, wi’ grief they pray,
Now move, now pause a bit ay;
“’Tis mad to gang, ’tis death to stay,”
An unco dolefu’ ditty,
On sic a day.
What joy at hame our entrance gave!
“Guid God! is’t you? fair fa’ ye! —
’Twas wise, tho’ fools may ca’t no’ brave,
To rin or e’er they saw ye.” —
“Aye wife, that’s true without dispute,
But lest saunts fail in Zion,
I’ll hae to swear *** forc’d me out;
Better he swing than I, on
Some hangin’ day.”
My story’s done, an’ to be free,
Owre sair, I doubt, they smarted,
Wha wad hae bell’d the cat awee,
Had they no been deserted:
Thae warks pat skill, tho’ in my min’
That ne’er was in’t before, mon,
In tryin’ times, maist folk, you’ll fin’,
Will act like Donegore men
On onie day.
Execution time: 0.078 seconds