"What mak' ye, sae like a thief?"
"O come and see," quo' Findlay;
"Before the morn ye'll work mischief:"
Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
"Gif I rise and let you in "
"Let me in," quo' Findlay;
"Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din;"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay;
"In my bower if ye should stay
"Let me stay," quo' Findlay;
"I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
"Here this night if ye remain "-
"I'll remain," quo' Findlay;
"I dread ye'll learn the gate again:"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
"What may pass within this bower "-
"Let it pass," quo' Findlay;
"Ye maun conceal till your last hour:"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish
Beyond comparison the worst are those
By our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
In ev'ry other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say, "it was no deed of mine:"
But, when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added, “blame thy foolish self!"
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—
Of guilt, perhaps, when we've involvèd others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;
Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O happy, happy, enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!
EPITAPH ON WM. HOOD, SENR., IN TARBOLTON
HERE Souter Hood in death does sleep;
To hell if he's gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep;
He'll haud it weel thegither.
EPITAPH ON JAMES GRIEVE, LAIRD OF
BOGHEAD, TARBOLTON
HERE lies Boghead amang the dead
In hopes to get salvation;
But if such as he in Heav'n may be,
Then welcome, hail! damnation.
EPITAPH ON MY OWN FRIEND AND MY FATHER'S FRIEND, WM. MUIR IN TARBOLTON MILL
AN honest man here lies at rest
As e'er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth,
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so informed:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
EPITAPH ON MY EVER HONOURED FATHER
O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence, and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father, and the gen'rous friend; The pitying heart that felt for human woe,
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man-to vice alone a foe;
For "ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.""
BALLAD ON THE AMERICAN WAR
Tune-" Killiecrankie."
WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood
An' did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An' did nae less, in full congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's Burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en’mies a', man.
Poor Tammy Gage within a cage
Was kept at Boston-ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man;
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid to draw, man; But at New-York, wi' knife an' fork, Sir-Loin he hackèd sma', man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa', man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,
An' did the Buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.
Then Montague, an' Guilford too,
Began to fear a fa', man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,
The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a', man;
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.
Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man:
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an' Fox united stocks,
An' bore him to the wa', man.
Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes,
He swept the stakes awa', man,
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, mán:
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,
On Chatham's boy did ca', man;
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew,
"Up, Willie, waur them a', man!"
Behind the throne then Granville's gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class
Be-north the Roman wa', man:
An' Chatham's wraith, in heav'nly graith,
(Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, "Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear'd them a', man?"
But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man;
Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man:
An' Caledon threw by the drone,
An' did her whittle draw, man;
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid,
To mak it guid in law, man.
REPLY TO AN ANNOUNCEMENT BY J. RANKINE
I AM a keeper of the law
In some sma' points, altho' not a';
Some people tell me gin I fa',
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',
Breaks a' thegither.
I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice;
Yet never met wi' that surprise
That broke my rest;
But now a rumour's like to rise
A whaup 's i' the nest!
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