Sketch-New Year's Day [1790]
To Mrs.Dunlop.
This day,Time winds th'exhausted chain;To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see,the old bald-pated fellow,With ardent eyes,complexion sallow,Adjust the unimpair'd machine,To wheel the equal,dull routine.
The absent lover,minor heir,In vain assail him with their prayer;Deaf as my friend,he sees them press,Nor makes the hour one moment less,Will you (the Major's with the hounds,The happy tenants share his rounds;Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)From housewife cares a minute borrow,(That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow,)And join with me a-moralizing;
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First,what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year has gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what?what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time,amus'd with proverb'd lore,Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then,is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,And many a message from the skies,That something in us never dies:
That on his frail,uncertain state,Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone;Whether as heavenly glory bright,Or dark as Misery's woeful night.
Since then,my honour'd first of friends,On this poor being all depends,Let us th'important now employ,And live as those who never die.
Tho'you,with days and honours crown'd,Witness that filial circle round,(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,A sight pale Envy to convulse),Others now claim your chief regard;Yourself,you wait your bright reward.
Scots'Prologue For Mr.Sutherland On his Benefit-Night,at the Theatre,Dumfries.
What needs this din about the town o'Lon'on,How this new play an'that new sang is comin?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend,like brandy,when imported?
Is there nae poet,burning keen for fame,Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?
For Comedy abroad he need to toil,A fool and knave are plants of every soil;Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece,To gather matter for a serious piece;There's themes enow in Caledonian story,Would shew the Tragic Muse in a'her glory.-Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell How glorious Wallace stood,how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o'the name o'Bruce?
How here,even here,he first unsheath'd the sword 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord;And after mony a bloody,deathless doing,Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of Ruin!
O for a Shakespeare,or an Otway scene,To draw the lovely,hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th'omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong,ruthless,mad Rebellion's arms:
She fell,but fell with spirit truly Roman,To glut that direst foe-a vengeful woman;A woman,(tho'the phrase may seem uncivil,)As able and as wicked as the Devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,But Douglasses were heroes every age:
And tho'your fathers,prodigal of life,A Douglas followed to the martial strife,Perhaps,if bowls row right,and Right succeeds,Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done,if a'the land Would take the Muses'servants by the hand;Not only hear,but patronize,befriend them,And where he justly can commend,commend them;And aiblins when they winna stand the test,Wink hard,and say The folks hae done their best!
Would a'the land do this,then I'll be caition,Ye'll soon hae Poets o'the Scottish nation Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,And warsle Time,an'lay him on his back!
For us and for our Stage,should ony spier,"Whase aught thae chiels maks a'this bustle here?"My best leg foremost,I'll set up my brow-We have the honour to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns,e'en guide us as ye like,But like good mithers shore before ye strike;And gratefu'still,I trust ye'll ever find us,For gen'rous patronage,and meikle kindness We've got frae a'professions,sets and ranks:
God help us!we're but poor-ye'se get but thanks.
Lines To A Gentleman,Who had sent the Poet a Newspaper,and offered to continue it free of Expense.
Kind Sir,I've read your paper through,And faith,to me,'twas really new!
How guessed ye,Sir,what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,To ken what French mischief was brewin;Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper,Emperor Joseph,If Venus yet had got his nose off;Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks,Or if the Swede,before he halt,Would play anither Charles the twalt;If Denmark,any body spak o't;
Or Poland,wha had now the tack o't:
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin;How libbet Italy was singin;
If Spaniard,Portuguese,or Swiss,Were sayin'or takin'aught amiss;Or how our merry lads at hame,In Britain's court kept up the game;How royal George,the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St.Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,If Warren Hasting's neck was yeukin;How cesses,stents,and fees were rax'd.
Or if bare arses yet were tax'd;
The news o'princes,dukes,and earls,Pimps,sharpers,bawds,and opera-girls;If that daft buckie,Geordie Wales,Was threshing still at hizzies'tails;Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,And no a perfect kintra cooser:
A'this and mair I never heard of;
And,but for you,I might despair'd of.
So,gratefu',back your news I send you,And pray a'gude things may attend you.
Ellisland,Monday Morning,1790.
Elegy On Willie Nicol's Mare Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,As ever trod on airn;But now she's floating down the Nith,And past the mouth o'Cairn.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,An'rode thro'thick and thin;But now she's floating down the Nith,And wanting even the skin.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,And ance she bore a priest;But now she's floating down the Nith,For Solway fish a feast.
Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,An'the priest he rode her sair;And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was,As priest-rid cattle are,-&c.&c.
The Gowden Locks Of Anna Yestreen I had a pint o'wine,A place where body saw na;Yestreen lay on this breast o'mine The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness,Rejoicing o'er his manna,Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna.
Ye monarchs,take the East and West Frae Indus to Savannah;Gie me,within my straining grasp,The melting form of Anna:
There I'll despise Imperial charms,An Empress or Sultana,While dying raptures in her arms I give and take wi'Anna!
Awa,thou flaunting God of Day!
Awa,thou pale Diana!
Ilk Star,gae hide thy twinkling ray,When I'm to meet my Anna!
Come,in thy raven plumage,Night,(Sun,Moon,and Stars,withdrawn a';)And bring an angel-pen to write My transports with my Anna!
Postscript The Kirk an'State may join an'tell,To do sic things I maunna:
The Kirk an'State may gae to hell,And I'll gae to my Anna.
She is the sunshine o'my e'e,To live but her I canna;Had I on earth but wishes three,The first should be my Anna.
Song -I Murder Hate I murder hate by flood or field,Tho'glory's name may screen us;In wars at home I'll spend my blood-
Life-giving wars of Venus.
The deities that I adore Are social Peace and Plenty;I'm better pleas'd to make one more,Than be the death of twenty.
I would not die like Socrates,For all the fuss of Plato;Nor would I with Leonidas,Nor yet would I with Cato:
The zealots of the Church and State Shall ne'er my mortal foes be;But let me have bold Zimri's fate,Within the arms of Cozbi!
Gudewife,Count The Lawin Gane is the day,and mirk's the night,But we'll ne'er stray for faut o'light;Gude ale and bratdy's stars and moon,And blue-red wine's the risin'sun.
Chorus.-Then gudewife,count the lawin,The lawin,the lawin,Then gudewife,count the lawin,And bring a coggie mair.
There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,And simple folk maun fecht and fen';But here we're a'in ae accord,For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
Then gudewife,&c.
My coggie is a haly pool That heals the wounds o'care and dool;And Pleasure is a wanton trout,An ye drink it a',ye'll find him out.
Then gudewife,&c.
Election Ballad At the close of the contest for representing the Dumfries Burghs,1790.
Addressed to R.Graham,Esq.of Fintry.
Fintry,my stay in wordly strife,Friend o'my muse,friend o'my life,Are ye as idle's I am?
Come then,wi'uncouth kintra fleg,O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,And ye shall see me try him.
But where shall I go rin a ride,That I may splatter nane beside?
I wad na be uncivil:
In manhood's various paths and ways There's aye some doytin'body strays,And I ride like the devil.
Thus I break aff wi'a'my birr,And down yon dark,deep alley spur,Where Theologics daunder:
Alas!curst wi'eternal fogs,And damn'd in everlasting bogs,As sure's the creed I'll blunder!
I'll stain a band,or jaup a gown,Or rin my reckless,guilty crown Against the haly door:
Sair do I rue my luckless fate,When,as the Muse an'Deil wad hae't,I rade that road before.
Suppose I take a spurt,and mix Amang the wilds o'Politics-Electors and elected,Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!)Septennially a madness touches,Till all the land's infected.
All hail!Drumlanrig's haughty Grace,Discarded remnant of a race Once godlike-great in story;Thy forbears'virtues all contrasted,The very name of Douglas blasted,Thine that inverted glory!
Hate,envy,oft the Douglas bore,But thou hast superadded more,And sunk them in contempt;Follies and crimes have stain'd the name,But,Queensberry,thine the virgin claim,From aught that's good exempt!
I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,Who left the all-important cares Of princes,and their darlings:
And,bent on winning borough touns,Came shaking hands wi'wabster-loons,And kissing barefit carlins.
Combustion thro'our boroughs rode,Whistling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions;As Queensberry blue and buff unfurl'd,And Westerha'and Hopetoun hurled To every Whig defiance.
But cautious Queensberry left the war,Th'unmanner'd dust might soil his star,Besides,he hated bleeding:
But left behind him heroes bright,Heroes in Caesarean fight,Or Ciceronian pleading.
O for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,To muster o'er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig's banners;Heroes and heroines commix,All in the field of politics,To win immortal honours.
M'Murdo and his lovely spouse,(Th'enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!)Led on the Loves and Graces:
She won each gaping burgess'heart,While he,sub rosa,played his part Amang their wives and lasses.
Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd core,Tropes,metaphors,and figures pour,Like Hecla streaming thunder:
Glenriddel,skill'd in rusty coins,Blew up each Tory's dark designs,And bared the treason under.
In either wing two champions fought;
Redoubted Staig,who set at nought The wildest savage Tory;And Welsh who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round With Cyclopeian fury.
Miller brought up th'artillery ranks,The many-pounders of the Banks,Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton,that baron bold,'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold,And threaten'd worse damnation.
To these what Tory hosts oppos'd With these what Tory warriors clos'd Surpasses my descriving;Squadrons,extended long and large,With furious speed rush to the charge,Like furious devils driving.
What verse can sing,what prose narrate,The butcher deeds of bloody Fate,Amid this mighty tulyie!
Grim Horror girn'd,pale Terror roar'd,As Murder at his thrapple shor'd,And Hell mix'd in the brulyie.
As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,When lightnings fire the stormy lift,Hurl down with crashing rattle;As flames among a hundred woods,As headlong foam from a hundred floods,Such is the rage of Battle.
The stubborn Tories dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before th'approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers.
Lo,from the shades of Death's deep night,Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,And think on former daring:
The muffled murtherer of Charles The Magna Charter flag unfurls,All deadly gules its bearing.
Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame;
Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham;
Auld Covenanters shiver-
Forgive!forgive!much-wrong'd Montrose!
Now Death and Hell engulph thy foes,Thou liv'st on high for ever.
Still o'er the field the combat burns,The Tories,Whigs,give way by turns;But Fate the word has spoken:
For woman's wit and strength o'man,Alas!can do but what they can;The Tory ranks are broken.
O that my een were flowing burns!
My voice,a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs'undoing!
That I might greet,that I might cry,While Tories fall,while Tories fly,And furious Whigs pursuing!
What Whig but melts for good Sir James,Dear to his country,by the names,Friend,Patron,Benefactor!
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save;
And Hopetoun falls,the generous,brave;
And Stewart,bold as Hector.
Thou,Pitt,shalt rue this overthrow,And Thurlow growl a curse of woe,And Melville melt in wailing:
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice,And Burke shall sing,"O Prince,arise!
Thy power is all-prevailing!"
For your poor friend,the Bard,afar He only hears and sees the war,A cool spectator purely!
So,when the storm the forest rends,The robin in the hedge descends,And sober chirps securely.
Now,for my friends'and brethren's sakes,And for my dear-lov'd Land o'Cakes,I pray with holy fire:
Lord,send a rough-shod troop o'Hell O'er a'wad Scotland buy or sell,To grind them in the mire!
Elegy On Captain Matthew Henderson A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours immediately from Almighty God.
Should the poor be flattered?-Shakespeare.
O Death!thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi'a woodie Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,O'er hurcheon hides,And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi'thy auld sides!
He's gane,he's gane!he's frae us torn,The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee,Matthew,Nature's sel'shall mourn,By wood and wild,Where haply,Pity strays forlorn,Frae man exil'd.
Ye hills,near neighbours o'the starns,That proudly cock your cresting cairns!
Ye cliffs,the haunts of sailing earns,Where Echo slumbers!
Come join,ye Nature's sturdiest bairns,My wailing numbers!
Mourn,ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'ly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies,wimplin'down your glens,Wi'toddlin din,Or foaming,strang,wi'hasty stens,Frae lin to lin.
Mourn,little harebells o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves,fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonilie,In scented bow'rs;Ye roses on your thorny tree,The first o'flow'rs.
