THE WHISTLE, A BALLAD. As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, which, at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of vic tory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table. And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before-mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. On Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard won honors of the field. I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall- And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!" Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, * See Ossian's Caric-thura. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd: Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man. "By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More*, To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, lovely dame. A Bard is selected to witness the fray, See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. The dinner being over, the claret they ply, wet. Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er: Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink :- Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce JOHN BARLEYCORN*, A BALLAD. THERE went three kings into the east, They took a plough and plough'd him down, And they hae sworn a solemn oath But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong, The sober autumn enter'd mild, His bending joints and drooping head This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name. VOL. II.-S |