Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Ramsay an' famous Fergusson While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Th' Illyssus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams and burnies shine Up wi' the best. We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' felle, Her moors red-brown with heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells, Frae southron billies. At Wallace' name what Scottish blood Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While through the braes the cushat croods With wailfu' cry! E'en winter bleak has charms for me, When winds rave through the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Darkening the day! O nature! a' thy shows an' forms To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! Whether the simmer kindly warms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The muse, nae poet ever fand her, The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive, Let me fair nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive, Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel," my rhyme-composing brither!" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither, In love fraternal: May envy wallop in a tether, Black fiend, infernal! While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, POSTSCRIPT. My memory's no worth a preen ; I had amaist forgotten clean, 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. “New-light” is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. This past for certain, undisputed; An' muckle din there was about it, Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was denied, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The reverend gray-beards raved an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' burnt. This game was play'd in monie lands, An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye'll find ane placed; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefaced. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better, Than mind sic brulzie. I've sent you home some rhyming ware, A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair; Yon sang,t ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, Though faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, An' danced my fill! I'd better gane an' sair't the king, At Bunker's Hill. 'Twas ae night lately in my fun, gaed a roving wi' the gun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun, And, as the twilight was begun, But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, I vow an' swear! The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, For this, niest year. As soon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee pouts begun to cry, Ld, I'se hae sportin by an' by, For my gowd guinea: Though I should herd the buckskin kye Trowth, they had muckle for to blame : 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce through the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me aye as mad's a hare; So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; But pennyworth's again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected sir, Your most obedient. TAM O'SHANTER. A TALE. Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke. WHEN chapman billies leave the street, This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter, O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And aye the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious: The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, But pleasures are like poppies spread, That flit ere you can point their place; Nae man can tether time or tide; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; Weel mounted on his gray mare Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet: Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and howlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, I Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious, They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit. And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies. But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, But here my muse her wing maun cour; As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When, pop! she starts before their nose; When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! It is a well known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. VOL. III.-15 Ae spring brought off her master hale, Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, SONGS. THE LEA-RIG. WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star, My ain kind dearie, O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, My ain kind dearie, O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo, At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; It maks my heart sae cheery, O, TO MARY. WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, O sweet grows the lime and the orange, But a' the charms o' the Indies, Can never equal thine. I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the heavens to be true; And sae may the heavens forget me, When I forget my vow! O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white band; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand. |