Did you not say, in good Anne's day,
And vow, and did protest, Sir,
That when Hanover should come o'er,
We surely should be blest, Sir?
An auld sang made new again.
WHERE the braid planes in dowie murmurs wave
Their ancient taps out-owre the cauld-clad grave,
Where Geordie Girdwood, mony a lang spun day,
Houkit for gentles' banes the humblest clay,
Twa sheeted ghaists, sae grizly an' sae wan,
'Mang lanely tombs their douff discourse began.
Cauld blaws the nippin' North wi' angry sough,
An' showers his hailstanes frae the Castle Cleugh
Owre the Grayfriars, where, at mirkest hour,
Bogles an' spectres wont to tak their tour,
Harlin' the pows an' shanks to hidden cairns,
Amang the hemlocks wild, an' sun-burnt ferns;
But nane the night, save you an' I, hae come
Frae the drear mansions o' the midnight tomb.
Now when the dawnin's near, when cock maun
craw,
An' wi' his angry bougil gar's withdraw,
Ayont the kirk we'll stap, and there tak bield, While the black hours our nightly freedom yield.
I'm weel content: but binna cassen down,
Nor trow the cock will ca' ye hame owre soon;
For, though the eastern lift betokens day,
Changing her rokelay black for mantle grey,
Nae weirlike bird our knell of parting rings,
Nor sheds the cauler moisture frae his wings.
Nature has chang'd her course; the birds o' day
Dozin' in silence on the bending spray,
While owlets round the craigs at noontide flee,
An' bluidy hawks sit singin' on the tree.
Ah, Caledon! the land I ance held dear,
Sair maen mak I for thy destruction near :
An' thou, Edina! ance my dear abode,
When royal Jamie sway'd the sovereign rod,
In thae blest days, weel did I think bestow'd
To blaw thy poortith by wi' heaps o' gowd;
To mak thee sonsy seem wi' mony a gift,
An' gar thy stately turrets speel the lift.
In vain did Danish Jones, wi' gimgrack pains,
In Gothic sculpture fret the pliant stanes;
In vain did he affix my statue here,
Brawly to busk wi' flowers ilk coming year:
My towers are sunk; my lands are barren now;
My fame, my honour, like my flowers, maun dow.
Sure, Major Weir, or some sic warlock wight,
Has flung beguilin' glamour owre your sight;
Or else some kittle cantrip thrown, I ween,
Has bound in mirlygoes my ain twa een :
If ever aught frae sense cou'd be believ'd
(An' seenil hae my senses been deceiv'd),
This moment owre the tap o' Adam's tomb,
Fu' easy can I see your chiefest dome.
Nae corbie fleein' there, nor croupin craws,
Seem to forspeak the ruin o' thy ha's;
But a' your towers in wonted order stand,
Steeve as the rocks that hem our native land.
Thinkna I vent my well-a-day in vain ;
Ken'd ye the cause, ye sure wad join my maen.
Black be the day, that e'er to England's ground
Scotland was eikit by the Union's bond!
For mony a menzie of destructive ills
The country now maun brook frae mortmain bills,
That void our test'ments, an' can freely gie
Sic will an' scoup to the ordain'd trustee,
That he may tir our stateliest riggings bare,
Nor acres, houses, woods, nor fishings spare,
Till he can lend the stoiterin state a lift,
Wi' gowd in gowpins, as a grassum gift;
In lieu o' whilk, we maun be weel content
To tyne the capital for three per cent ;—
A doughty sum, indeed; when now-a-days
They raise provisions as the stents they raise;
Yoke hard the poor, an' let the rich chiels be
Pamper'd at ease by ithers' industry.
Hale interest for my fund can scantly now Cleed a' my callants' backs, an' stap their mou. How maun their wames wi' sairest hunger slack Their duds in targets flaff upon their back; When they are doom'd to keep a lastin' lent, Starvin' for England's weel at three per cent!
Auld Reekie, then, may bless the gowden times,
When honesty and poortith baith are crimes.
She little ken'd, when you an' I endow'd
Our hospitals for back-gaun burghers' gude,
That e'er our siller or our lands should bring
A gude bien livin' to a back-gaun king;
Wha, thanks to Ministry! is grown sae wise,
He downa chew the bitter cud o' vice:
For if, frae Castlehill to Netherbow,
Wad honest houses bawdyhouses grow,
The Crown wad never spier the price o' sin,
Nor hinder younkers to the deil to rin;
But, if some mortal grein for pious fame,
An' leave the poor man's prayer to sain his name,
His gear maun a' be scatter'd by the claws
O' ruthless, ravenous, an harpy laws.
Yet shou'd I think, although the bill tak place,
The council winna lack sae meikle grace
As let our heritage at wanworth gang,
Or the succeeding generations wrang
O' braw bien maintenance, an' wealth o' lear,
Whilk, else, had drappit to their children's skair;
For mony a deep, an mony a rare engine
Hae sprung frae Heriot's Wark, an' sprung frae mine.
I find, my friend, that ye but little ken,
There's e'en now on the earth a set o' men,
Wha, if they get their private pouches lin❜d,
Giena a windle-strae for a' mankind.
They'll sell their country, flae their conscience bare,
To gar the weigh-bauk turn a single hair.
The Government need only bait the line
Wi' the prevailin' flie-the gowden coin !
Then our executors, an' wise trustees,
Will sell them fishes in forbidden seas:
Upon their dwinin country girn in sport;
Laugh in their sleeve, an' get a place at court.
Ere that day come, I'll 'mang our spirits pick Some ghaist that trokes an' conjures wi' Auld
To gar the wind wi' rougher rumbles blaw,
An' weightier thuds than ever mortal saw :
Fireflaught an' hail, wi' tenfauld fury's fires,
Shall lay yird-laigh Edina's airy spires:
Tweed shall rin rowtin down his banks out-owre, Till Scotland's out o' reach o' England's power, Upon the briny Borean jaws to float,
An' mourn in dowie soughs her dowie lot.
Yonder's the tomb o' wise Mackenzie fam'd,
Whase laws rebellious bigotry reclaim'd;
Freed the hale land o' covenantin' fools,
Wha erst hae fash'd us wi' unnumber'd dools.
Till night, we'll tak the swaird aboon our pows,
An' then, whan she her ebon chariot rows,
We'll travel to the vau't wi' stealin' stap,
An' wauk Mackenzie frae his quiet nap;
Tell him our ails, that he, wi' wonted skill,
May fleg the schemers o' the Mortmain Bill.
EPISTLE TO MR ROBERT FERGUSSON.
Is Allan risen frae the dead,
Wha aft has tun'd the aiten reed,
An' by the Muses was decreed
To grace the thistle ?
Na-Fergusson's come in his stead,
To blaw the whistle.
In troth, my callant! I'm sae fain
To read your sonsy, canty strain;
You write sic easy style, an' plain,
An' words sae bonny;
Nae Southern loun dare you disdain,
Or cry, "Fye on ye!
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