And roars out "Weel done, Cutty-sark!”
And in an instant all was dark;
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees buzz out with angry fuss,
When plundering herds assail their hive;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
With monie a frightful screech and hollow.
Ah Tam! ah Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
Once caught they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy coming!
Kate soon will be a woful woman!
Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone of the bridge.
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare not cross.
But ere the key-stone she could make
The fient a tail she had to shake.
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam with furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle—
One spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail.
Now who this tale of truth shall read,
Each man and mother's son take heed ;
Think ye may buy [some] joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
From THE KIRK'S ALARM.
Orthodox, Orthodox,
Who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience;
There's a heretic blast
Has been blown in the west,
That what is no sense must be nonsense.
From HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.
[The Calvinist's Doctrine.]
O Thou who in the heavens dost dwell,
Who, as it pleases best thysel',
Sends one to heaven, and ten to hell,
All for thy glory,
And not for any good or ill
They've done before thee.
ON CAPTAIN GROSE'S
Peregrinations through Scotland collecting Antiquities.
Hear! Land of Cakes, and brother Scots,
From Maidenkirk to John of Groat's;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you, 'tend it;
A chiel's among you taking notes,
And faith he'll prent it.
From A DREAM.
Guid-morning to your Majesty.
But facts are chiels that winna ding,1
And downa be disputed.
'Twas in that place of Scotland's isle
That bears the name of Old King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at home
Forgathered once upon a time.
The first I'll name, they called him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure :
His lock-ed, lettered, braw brass collar,
Showed him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was of high degree,
The fient a pride-nae pride had he.
The other was a Ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Who for his friend and comrade had him; . And in his freaks had Luath called him, After some dog in Highland sang
Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang.
Upon a knoll they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the Lords of the Creation.
I've often wondered, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
And when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies lived ava.
Our Laird gets in his rack-ed rents,
His coals, his kain, and all his stents:1
He rises when he likes himsel';
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He calls his coach, he calls his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse
As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks,2
The yellow-lettered Georgie peeps.
From morn till e'en its nought but toiling
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling.
But what poor cot-folk put their paunch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.
Troth, Cæsar, whyles they're fasht enough,
And when they meet with sore disasters,
Like loss of health, or want of masters,
Ye 'most would think a wee touch longer,
And they must starve of cold and hunger.
But how it comes I never kenned—yet,
They're mostly wonderfully contented,
And burly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in such a way as this is.
But then to see how ye're neglected,
How huffed, and cuffed, and disrespected. . .
I see how folk live that have riches,
But surely poor folk maun be wretches?
They're not so wretched's one would think;
Though constantly on poortith's brink :
They're so accustomed with the sight,
The view of't gives them little fright.
Then chance and fortune are so guided,
They're all in less or more provided;
And though fatigued with close employment,
A blink of rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort of their lives,
Their thriving weans and faithful wives,
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens all their fire-side. . . .
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the kirk and state affairs;
They'll talk of patronage and priests,
With kindling fury in their breasts.
Or tell what new taxation's comin';
Unfairly at the folk in Lon'on. . .
But will you tell me, Master Cæsar,
Sure great folks' life's a life of pleasure?
No cold or hunger e'er can steer them,
The very thought oft need not fear them.
O man, were you but whyles where I am,
The gentles ye would never envy them.
It's true they need not starve or sweat,
Through winter's cold or summer's heat;
They've no sore work to craze their bones,
And fill old age with gripes and groans;
But human bodies are such fools,
For all their colleges and schools,
That when no real ills perplex them,
They make enough themselves to vex them;
And all the less they have to sturt them
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the plough,
His acres tilled, he's right enow;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dozens done, she's unco weel ;—
But gentlemen, and ladies worst,
With right-down want of work are curst ; .
And e'en their sports, their balls, and races,
Their galloping through public places ;-
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