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SONGS AND POEMS, 
 
 REV. JOHN $K INNER, 
 
 AUTHOfi Or "T¥LL0CHG0BIJM. M 
 
 WITH A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE, 
 
 BY 
 
 H. G. REID, 
 
 EDITOR OF "PETERHEAD SENTINEL*" 
 
 PETERHEAD : 
 WILLIAM L. TAYLOR. 
 
 EDINBURGH : OLIVER & BOYD, GLASGOW : GRIFFIN Sc CO. 
 LONDON : SIMPEJN, MARSHALL, & CO. 
 
 MDCCCLIX. 
 
7J? 3**7 
 .56 S4 
 
 PETERHEAD : 
 
 PRINTED AT THE "SENTINEl" OFFICE, 
 
 BY CHARLES N I C L. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The Songs and Poems of the Eev. John Skinner 
 have been held in high estimation by his countrymen 
 for nearly a century, yet fifty years have elapsed 
 since they were published in a collected form. Even 
 those pieces which have appeared in modern collec- 
 tions are, in general, so altered and mutilated that 
 they almost lose their original beauty. These con- 
 siderations, combined with the growing taste for 
 genuine Scottish poetry, naturally suggested the 
 present publication. At the request of the Pub- 
 lisher, I have written a Sketch of the Author's Life, 
 and added Notes where 'explanations seemed neces- 
 sary and the facts could be ascertained. 
 
 Although a large number of Mr Skinneb's Manu- 
 scripts were unfortunately destioyed after his death, 
 a few were preserved, and to his relatives — especially 
 
17 PREFACE. 
 
 his aged grandson, Mr Eobert Ctjmming, Longside — 
 in whose possession they are, I have been greatly- 
 indebted for the facilities of reference and assistance 
 kindly afforded. 
 
 From the materials thus placed at my command, 
 and other resources, I have gathered some facts 
 hitherto unpublished, and been enabled to present 
 what, I trust, will be found a correct and compre- 
 hensive, though necessarily brief, narrative of the 
 incidents in the life of the venerable poet. 
 
 H. G. R. 
 Peterhead, April, 18D9. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 the monymusk Christmas ba'ing, 
 
 answer to an" epistle, 
 
 on the french contention, 
 
 epistle to a daughter, . 
 
 the owl and the ass, 
 
 on burns' address to a louse. 
 
 letter to a eriend on giving up a farm, 
 
 efistle to captain robert baigrie, 
 
 to a young bookseller, .... 
 
 to a young clergyman, .... 
 
 to the memory of a worthy farmer, . 
 
 to the memory of a young gentleman, 
 
 a monumental inscription, 
 
 on a farmer's grayestone, 
 
 to the author's grandson, c 
 
 Page 
 
 vii 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 13 
 
 , 17 
 
 . 19 
 
 . 24 
 
 . 23 
 
 . 31 
 
 , 37 
 
 . 42 
 
 . 46 
 
 . 49 
 
 . 51 
 
 . 54 
 
 . 55 
 
 . 56 
 
n 
 
 CONTEXTS, 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 TTJXLOCHGORtTM, 
 
 •TORN 0' BABEXYOX, . 
 
 THE ETYIE TTl' THE CEOOKIT HORX, 
 
 THE MARQUIS OF HTTNTLY's HEEL, 
 
 THE OLB MAN'S SONG, 
 
 STILL IX THE WROXG, 
 
 LIZZY LIBERTY, . 
 
 THE STIPEXBLESS PARSON, 
 
 THE MAX OF EOSS, 
 
 SOXG OX THE TIMES, . 
 
 SONG OX THE SCOTCH MILITIA, 
 
 THE AIILB MINISTER'S SONG, 
 
 GLOSSAEY, . 
 
 Page 
 59 
 
 63 
 
 67 
 71 
 74 
 
 77 
 79 
 84 
 87 
 89 
 91 
 93 
 95 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 The Ret. John Skixxer, one of our most popular lyric 
 poets, and a man of great learning, was born on the 3d of 
 October, 1721, at Balfour, in the parish of Birse, one of 
 the wildest and most romantic districts in Aberdeenshire. 
 His father, who had married the widow of Donald 
 Farquharson of Balfour, was then schoolmaster of the 
 parish ; but about two years afterwards, he removed to 
 Echt, a small hilly parish within twelve miles of Aberdeen. 
 For upwards of fifty years he faithfully discharged the 
 duties of parochial teacher there. A man of upright 
 character, and no mean attainments, he was much 
 esteemed in the locality, and, it is recorded, prepared 
 more young men for the University than most school- 
 masters of his day. Shortly after his new appointment, 
 his wife died, and, having been several years a widower, 
 he married a second time, and had a numerous family, 
 the youngest of whom, James, became a lawyer of some 
 distinction in Edinburgh. 
 
 John was the only fruit of the first union. Unlike 
 most men of eminence, he owed little to maternal 
 influence and teaching — 
 
 A mother ! — Ah ! the venerable name, 
 
 Which my young lips were never taught to frame. 
 
 These were the words of the man, and to a devoted father 
 he was indebted for his early training. No time was lost, 
 
Till BIOGRAPHIC A.L SKETCH. 
 
 and the boy soon gave indication of his peculiar genius, 
 He excelled in acquiring- a knowledge of the Latin 
 language, and evinced a taste for poetry at a very early 
 age. Endowed with an excellent memory, and especially 
 fond of poetry in the Scottish dialect, before his twelfth 
 year he could repeat, with evident appreciation, the long 
 poem of " Chryste-Kirk on the Green," attributed to 
 James the First. Some of our best old songs were also 
 stored up in his memory at this early period, and retained, 
 it is said, with youthful freshness, even when he had 
 become the venerable author of Tullochgorum. But study 
 had not been neglected. Having made rapid progress 
 under his father, in 1734, when only thirteen years of 
 age, we find him at the annual competition for bursaries 
 in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and, though the youngest 
 of his year, he was successful in gaining a considerable 
 one — no unimportant matter in these days to ihe son of 
 a parish schoolmaster with a large family. He attended 
 during the usual term of four sessions in that Univer- 
 sity, and passed with honour through all the stages of a 
 classical education. 
 
 Such was the early history of John Skinner — only yet 
 in his seventeenth year — and it resembles few others. 
 The usual periods in life — childhood, boyhood, manhood 
 — we can scarcely distinguish. Allowed to follow the 
 bent of his mind, the first dawnings of intellect were not 
 those of a child, and the boy of tw r elve an adept at Latin 
 and an enthusiast in poetry was altogether out of the 
 common course of things, and would even have been 
 deemed remarkable in our own advanced age. In all 
 this, however, we can trace indications of the scholar and 
 the poet. 
 
 Like most others in the same station, Mr Skinner com- 
 menced life as a teacher. After leaving College, he was 
 
B10G1UPHICAL SKETCH. IX 
 
 employed in that capacity for a few months in the parish 
 school of Kemnay, near Aberdeen; but in 1739, he 
 removed to Monymusk, having accepted the office of 
 assistant to the schoolmaster there. This parish, situated 
 on the banks of the Don, contained some of the finest 
 plantations in Aberdeenshire, and, with hill and dale, 
 wood and water, presented some beautiful and imposing 
 scenery. Here, it may be said, commenced the history of 
 the poet. Although we are aware that from his earliest 
 youth he delighted in the muse of his country, we have 
 no authentic account of any earlier attempts at composi- 
 tion, unless it be contained in his own words to Burns — 
 4t While I was young, I dabbled a good deal in these 
 things. " He was now about eighteen years of age, and 
 several pieces of a descriptive character were written about 
 this time. • Some of these having come under the notice 
 of the lady of Sir Archibald Grant, Bart., the proprietor 
 of the parish, gained for him the favour of that influential 
 family. Generously received into the mansion, the 
 library, consisting of many thousand well-selected works 
 in every branch of literature, was placed at his command, 
 and every facility afforded for the pursuit of his favourite 
 studies, - He had thus an opportunity of improving his 
 mind, and a stimulus to cultivate his rustic muse, for 
 which his distinguished patrons deserve honourable 
 mention. 
 
 One of the pieces referred to as having attracted the 
 notice of Lady Grant was a " Poem on a Visit to Paradise," 
 which has unfortunately been lost, but is said to have 
 described, in familiar terms, a beautiful little pleasure 
 ground which Sir Archibald had laid out on the banks of 
 the Don. Another was the u Monymusk Christmas 
 Ba'ing," which, being the earliest and longest of Skinner's 
 poems we possess, has been placed first in the present 
 
X BTOGllArniCAL SKETCH. 
 
 collection. It was suggested by the celebrated poem of 
 Chryste-Kirk on the Green, the favourite of his youth, 
 and of which, retaining his early predilection, he gave an 
 elegant translation into I^atin verse after he had passed 
 his fiftieth year. The poem of the Scottish Monarch has 
 produced many imitations — Allan Ramsay added two 
 cantos — and the humble effort of the Monymusk dominie, 
 taken altogether, will bear comparison with any of them. 
 The poem is descriptive of a Christmas sport, common at 
 the time, and still practised in some rural districts. The 
 scene was the kirkyard of the parish, and the actors, 
 whose characteristics are hit off in a few lines with so 
 much humour and effect, were chiefly young men in the 
 neighbourhood who had taken part in the amusement. 
 The author himself is introduced as the " insett dominie 
 — just riftin frae his dinner/ ' and some of the humorous 
 touches are indeed inimitable, as, for instance, after the 
 day's sport was over, and all had " consented to be 
 friens " — 
 
 At evening syne the fallows keen 
 
 Drank till the neist day's dawing, 
 Sae snell, that some tint baith their een, 
 
 And could na pay their lading 
 Till the neist day. 
 
 Altogether, this poem, so full of unaffected pbasantry, 
 forms a very complete and graphio description of the old 
 rural sport of Christmas Ba'ing. 
 
 Mr Skinner had been brought up a Presbyterian ; but, 
 while at Monymusk, and in frequent and familiar inter- 
 course with an Episcopal clergyman there, he saw reason 
 to change his views, and at once connected himself with 
 the Scottish Episcopal Communion. Although this step 
 may have disappointed his father and others who natur- 
 ally looked forward to his becoming an ornament in 
 
BIOGUArHICAL SKETCH. XI 
 
 the Presbyterian Establishment, casting his lot with a 
 small, despised, and persecuted people evinced the depth 
 and sincerity of his convictions, and, as it has been 
 expressed, the only sentiment which remained for the 
 father to cherish was a fervent wish that the son might 
 show himself sincere in his new profession, and do credit 
 to the principles he had adopted. That he did so, his 
 life will abundantly testify. 
 
 In the month of June, 1740, Mr Skinner accepted an 
 invitation to become tutor to the only son of a gentleman 
 in Shetland, Mr Sinclair of Scalloway. Here he remained 
 till the death of his pupil's father, about a year after- 
 wards, when the arrangements of the family rendered his 
 services unnecessary, and he left with the sincere regret 
 of all concerned. But the young man had gained other 
 friends, with whom he was soon to form a nearer connec- 
 tion. Having enjoyed the acquaintance of the Rev. Mr 
 Hunter, the only non-juring clergyman in the remote 
 islands of Shetland, ho had frequently been a visitor in 
 the house of this pious and devoted man. A deep attach- 
 ment had sprung up between him and Mr Hunter's 
 family, and before leaving the district, he had won the 
 affections of Grace, the minister's eldest daughter, and 
 received in marriage the hand of her who, indeed a help- 
 mate in many an hour of trial and affliction, was the 
 companion of his joys and sorrows for the long period of 
 fifty-eight years. 
 
 Returning to Aberdeenshire, in the summer of 1741, 
 Mr Skinner completed his studies for the ministry, and 
 was ordained a Presbyter of the Episcopal Church by 
 Bishop Dunbar at Peterhead. A vaoancy having occurred 
 in the congregation at Longside, he accepted an unani- 
 mous invitation to become their pastor, and in November, 
 1742, when only twenty-one years of age, he entered 
 upon his new and important charge. 
 
Xll BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Up to this time, Mr Skinner's life had bees one of 
 uninterrupted progress and unalloyed happiness ; but it 
 was not long to remain so. The church with which he 
 had allied himself was soon to pass through a period of 
 great oppression and suffering, in which he was destined 
 to have his full share. The last effort of the Stuarts, in 
 1 745-6, to regain their lost power had failed, and hard 
 indeed was the lot of all who were deemed their friends. 
 The adventurous band, under Prince Charlie, had been 
 completely routed on the field of Culloden, and their 
 brave-hearted leader, after wandering a fugitive among 
 the woods and glens, forced to seek refuge in a foreign 
 land. The scattered few were pursued by the victorious 
 army with relentless cruelty, and the country became one 
 scene of devastation. The Episcopalians, being in general 
 Jacobites, were subjected to the most barbarous treatment, 
 and the clergy became special objects of resentment. 
 Their houses were plundered, their chapels destroyed, 
 and their very lives endangered by the bands of lawless 
 and ruthless soldiers sent through the eoiintry. Among 
 others, Mr Skinner suffered in this vindictive persecution. 
 For some time a prisoner, either in custody or on parole, 
 he had often to leave his house and resort to stratagems 
 lest he should fall into the hands of the soldiers. On one 
 occasion, he attired himself in the garb of a miller, and 
 thus escaped observation ; and another most remarkable 
 instance of the lawless severity of the times has been re- 
 corded. Mr Skinner was visiting at some distance one day, 
 and on coming home in the evening, found his house in 
 the possession of a military party — some of them guarding 
 the door with fixed bayonets, and others searching the 
 several apartments, even the bed-chamber where Mrs 
 Skinner was lying-in of her fifth child. The house was 
 pillaged by these unfeeling visitors of everything they 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Xlll 
 
 could carry with them, hardly leaving a change of linen 
 to father, mother, or child. The little chapel, with all 
 its furniture, was burned, and a lady of some rank is 
 said to have manifested her zeal by riding in triumph 
 round the blazing pile, repeating, with great zest, to the 
 infuriated band — " Hold in the Prayer Books"! But 
 Mr Skinner remained stedfast to his principles, and mani- 
 fested his anxiety to maintain them by publishing, in 
 1746, a small tract, entitled a " Preservative against 
 Presbytery " — the first of his literary productions. 
 
 About this time the severest restrictions were placed 
 by Government on the Episcopal clergy. In 1746, an 
 act was passed which prevented them from officiating to 
 more than four persons, besides the members of the house- 
 hold, and in 1748, even that small privilege was taken 
 from them, and it was rendered illegal to " exercise the 
 function of a chaplain in any family. " The penalties for 
 infringement of these abominable enactments, which had 
 no parallel since the days of the Reformation, were, for 
 the first offence, six months' imprisonment, and, for the 
 second, banishment out of Britain, either for a period of 
 years, or for life, 
 
 Under such rigorous restrictions, the utmost caution 
 was necessary ; but Mr Skinner continued to visit among 
 his people with untiring devotion, and the oppression only 
 seemed to strengthen their attachment to him. Often, 
 too, the congregation assembled at his lowly cottage, 
 standing outside the house, in winter as well as summer, 
 while he spoke to them from the window or the open door. 
 It was on one of these occasions that the incident occurred 
 which determined his preaching extempore. He had just 
 commenced his sermon, when a hen which had got into 
 one of the apartments cackled, and, means being used to 
 get rid of her, the noisy visitor took flight, scattering in 
 
XIV BIOGEArHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 every direction the unstitched pages that lay before the 
 preacher. An effort was made to collect them, but with- 
 out success. " Never mind them," said Mr Skinner, " a 
 fowl shall not shut my mouth again"; and, true to his 
 vow, he never used a manuscript afterwards. Thoroughly 
 conversant with the Scriptures, and a firm, fluent speaker, 
 though, no doubt, annoying at the time, there was little 
 cause to regret this amusing and somewhat ludicrous 
 occurrence. 
 
 Quietly and inoffensively Mr Skinner continued to 
 discharge his duties as best he could, till several years 
 afterwards, when he was most unexpectedly apprehended 
 on a warrant from the Sheriff- Substitute of Aberdeen- 
 shire, and committed to prison. He at once acknowledged 
 before the Sheriff having been in the way of officiating as 
 a clergyman to more than four persons, besides his own 
 family, and was accordingly sentenced to six months' 
 imprisonment, which commenced on the 26th of May, 
 17<33, terminating on the same day in November. 
 
 This outrageous act — for in no other light can we look 
 upon it — naturally awakened the darkest fears in his 
 family, and the deepest sorrow and indignation in his 
 congregation. These feelings were shared in by many 
 others, and no wonder. Mr Skinner had six children 
 depending on him for their maintenance, and hard, 
 indeed, must it have been to see a beloved father carried 
 from their bosom like a common felon, it might be, to 
 share the felon's doom. Keenly, too, although resigned 
 to his lot, did the worthy man feel it, when thus cruelly 
 severed from all he loved. The elder children showed 
 the utmost anxiety, and one of them — the second son, 
 who became Bishop of Aberdeen — was so affected that, his 
 biographer tells us, he would have pined to death had not 
 his father been permitted to receive him as his companion 
 
BIOGltAPIirCAL SKETCH. XV 
 
 and bed-fellow in prison. To one of these sad incidents 
 in his life Mr Skinner thns adverts in the beautiful 
 Epistle to a Daughter, now published for the first time — 
 
 Ere yet three suns had warm'd thy tender form, 
 
 Ere yet thy mother had got o'er her storm, 
 
 A band of armed ruffians round the bed 
 
 Where child and mother were together laid ; 
 
 Thy father seized in silent hour of night, 
 
 Thy mother trembling, and half kill'd with fright ; 
 
 And thou, sweet babe, with many a whimpering cry, 
 
 Uncared for and neglected, forced to lie. 
 
 But those who had been left so helpless when their 
 guardian was taken from them were not forgotten. By 
 generous and sympathising friends they were well pro- 
 vided for, until the expiry of his term of imprisonment, 
 and welcome restoration to his family and his flock. A 
 gradual change having taken place in public sentiment, 
 more liberal laws were introduced, and in his humble 
 sphere the good man struggled on, without a wish to 
 change, till he had reached the venerable age of eighty- 
 six. 
 
 Though humble his position and few his privileges, 
 Mr Skinner attained great eminence as a scholar and 
 theologian. Besides various publications of a contro- 
 versial nature, he assisted Dr Grleig of Stirling, who had 
 then the management of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, in 
 preparing several articles for that work; and in 1788, 
 appeared in two volumes, his " Ecclesiastical History of 
 Scotland, from the First Appearance of Christianity in 
 the Kingdom to the Present Time." In 1 809, his post- 
 humous works were published in three volumes, with a 
 memoir by his son, the Bishop of Aberdeen, which 
 embraces many valuable letters, and gives a very inte- 
 resting and elaborate account of the progress of his 
 studies, and the part he took in the religious controversies 
 
XVI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 of the time. On these we cannot enter ; as a poet and a 
 man Mr Skinner is now chiefly remembered, and as such 
 it is our object to represent him. 
 
 "With the growing responsibilities of a household, and 
 placed in so straitened circumstances — literally passing 
 rich on forty pounds a-year — Mr Skinner thought of 
 bettering his position by farming. Accordingly, as nearly 
 as can be ascertained, about 1758, he entered Mains of 
 Ludquharn, a farm in the vicinity of Longside, which 
 then formed part of the estate of the Earl of ErrolL But, 
 devoted as he was to the duties of his profession, and 
 otherwise ill adapted for the work, this speculation proved 
 signally unsuccessful. After a hard struggle of nearly 
 seven years, the farm was given up in disgust; In the 
 " Letter to a Friend" on this occasion, one of the most 
 humorous of his poetical effusions, he has given us a very 
 minute account of his sufferings, and certainly they form 
 abundant reasons for his resolution — 
 
 Another course to try — 
 Sell corn and cattle off; pay every man ; 
 Get free of debt and duns as fast's I can ; 
 Give up the farm, with all its wants ; and then, 
 Why, even take me to the book and pen, — 
 The fittest trade, I find, for clergymen. 
 
 On the subject of agricultural improvement, Mr Skinner 
 held very peculiar opinions. He saw, or thought he saw 
 as his son very cautiously tells us, that innovations in 
 husbandry would lead the farmer into temptations, to 
 which hitherto, in his pristine state of rural simplicity, 
 when to plough, to sow, and to reap were all his care, he 
 had been a perfect stranger. Nay, such was his prejudice 
 against the landlord binding his tenant to a fixed rotation 
 of crop that the introduction of the subject never failed 
 to offend him. " What !" he would say, " has the boasted 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XY11 
 
 freedom of our land really come to this, that the man who 
 cultivates it is to become a slave, nay, the only slave to 
 be found in our country ? For, transfer a negro to the 
 happy soil of Britain, and the law pronounces him free." 
 As another illustration of this peculiarity — after all, not 
 so remarkable, considering the age in which he lived — we 
 may quote a few lines from an unpublished address which 
 he puts into the mouth of a humble swain bidding fare- 
 well to his native parish : — • 
 
 No need for bringing sage instructors north 
 From Nature's rich domains beyond the Forth 
 To teach thy farmers here, or spur them on 
 To what they find, or should, or can be done ; 
 These in-brought helps would soon thy fields engross. 
 And draw their profits from thy people's loss. 
 Would, for their own behoof, shut many a door, 
 Drive out the wealthies, and enslave the poor ; 
 Let but thy own have time — they have the skill — 
 And family regard will spur the will. 
 
 Notwithstanding this, agricultural improvements— to 
 the advantages of which he was not altogether blind — 
 often formed the subject of conversation with the farmers 
 in the neighbourhood, who were frequent visitors at his 
 dwelling. The rural population were then extremely 
 ignorant, and many an amusing instance of this came 
 under the notice of the learned and worthy pastor. One 
 may be here related. A good honest farmer had been 
 spending an hour with Mr Skinner on one occasion, when 
 the conversation happened to turn on the subject of the 
 motion of the earth. The farmer would not be convinced 
 that the earth moved at all. " The earth," he maintained, 
 " never gaes oot o' the pairt, and it maun be that the sun 
 gaes roun', for we a' ken that he rises in the east and sets 
 i' the west ;" and then, to silence his opponent, he put 
 the following question : — " If the sun didna gae roun' the 
 
xvin BiocnuruiCAL sketch. 
 
 earth, fn is it said in the Scriptures, that the Lord com- 
 manded the sun to stand still ?" " Ay," responded 
 Mr Skinner, in his own quiet way, " it's very true that 
 the sun was commanded to stand still, and there he stands 
 stilly for he never was commanded to take the road 
 again." As to the character of the people, however, he 
 hears the following testimony in the poem to which we 
 
 have referred : — 
 
 Cheerful, brisk, and keen, 
 In spirit lively, in apparel clean, 
 With proper feelings, and sufficient spring, 
 Good faithful subjects of their God and King. 
 
 But there were other visitors and other themes of con- 
 versation at Linshart. The lowly cottage, with its but- 
 and-ben, was, in its day, a centre of attraction to young 
 as well as old. Many a bright happy company met within 
 its walls, presenting a pleasant contrast to the general 
 austerity of the times ; people could be " cheerful, brisk, 
 and keen," even in those days, at Linshart. Mr Skinner 
 had a rich fund of wit, a fluency in conversation, and a 
 faculty of producing a laugh by grotesque combinations, 
 especially in controversy, which made his company very 
 fascinating. Perhaps, too, there were other attractions 
 at the parsonage, for the daughters were growing up, and 
 had all the pleasant art of "modulating the voice to 
 melody." Be this as it may, the youth of the neighbour- 
 hood often met at the cottage to spend the evening, and 
 the " old man," who delighted in mingling with such, 
 had always some amusing story or appropriate song with 
 which to entertain them. It was under these inspiring 
 influences that most of his songs were composed, and in 
 some of them, as the Old Man's Song, and the admirable 
 allegory of Lizzy Liberty, we can easily trace the inspira- 
 tion. When the daughters had any favourite tune 
 without words, he was applied to, and would gratify their 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XIX 
 
 wishes — perhaps leaning backward in his chair, and 
 without the slightest effort — while they gathered round 
 him and eagerly committed the lines to memory ; and 
 when any love adventure came to light, he seldom failed 
 to make it the theme of some appropriate song or epistle, 
 which he would relate, to the infinite delight of the 
 youthful listeners, who were never satisfied till it also 
 was learned. Thus produced and treasured up, the songs 
 passed from one to another, and, long before their publi- 
 cation, some of them had become popular in many parts 
 of Scotland. 
 
 In " The Old Man's Song," we have a sketch from 
 real life — a genuine fireside picture — and delightful 
 indeed it must have been to see the worthy sire with his 
 " old wife sitting by," and children and grandchildren 
 around him. Here, too, he used to show the readiness 
 and versatility of his poetic faculty. Possessing a singular 
 power of adapting himself to the humble capacities of the 
 " young folks," as the Bishop, who himself had formed 
 one of the happy circle, tells us, he would make them 
 verses by the hour, and try to call forth the latent spark 
 of genius by proposing questions which, though simple in 
 themselves, were so arranged and expressed as to convey 
 the idea of extreme difficulty. A little occurrence, on 
 one occasion of this kind, is worthy of being preserved. 
 His eldest grandson having failed to discover the little 
 artifice employed to perplex him, was not a little alarmed 
 by hearing his grandfather say that even Thomas the 
 Rhymer had prophesied on the subject of the fourth 
 John Skinner's lamentable weakness of mind and want 
 of capacity : — 
 
 The -world shall four John Skinners see, 
 
 The first shall teach a school ; 
 The other two shall parson? he, 
 
 And the fourth shall he a fool ! 
 
XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 The prophet, however, was wrong. The young man 
 became a clergyman, and the old man lived to make an 
 honourable reparation. For after grandfather, father, 
 and son had officiated at the same diet of worship in the 
 chapel at Longside, he presented him with a beautiful 
 compliment in Latin, which has been thus quaintly but 
 expressively put into English : — 
 
 Of the same blood in pulpit now three Johns appear, — 
 Grandfather, Father, and — alike to both — a Grandson dear ; 
 The^r^ for geuius famed, the second for the preacher's art, 
 In both of which the third now plays a shining part ; 
 The powers of Nature's self no farther stretch could bear, 
 The Son she with the Father blends, and does the Grandson 
 rear. 
 
 Many more instances of Skinner's peculiar facility in 
 versifying might be presented ; in his day, not a few 
 could have quoted them by the dozen, and even yet there 
 are old people who remember some of them. Being 
 informed once of the somewhat sudden death of an 
 individual whose life had not been characterised by either 
 virtue or good deeds, he thus expressed himself — 
 
 Beneath this sod lies Scott who lived like a fool and 
 
 died like a sot, 
 But it's needless to argue whether he wa3 so or not ; 
 He was a man was despised and will soon be forgot, 
 
 and there is sound philosophy in the last line. There is 
 an old prophecy of the famous Rhymer, which goes- 
 Dec and Don shall run in one, 
 
 And Tweed shall run in Tay, 
 And the bonny water of Ury 
 Shall bear the Bass away, 
 
 of which he furnished the following interpretation, when 
 the union was first proposed between King's and Marischal 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxi 
 
 Colleges ; from recent transactions it seems, in more ways 
 than one, to have had a modern application : — 
 
 Ere Scotia was by Longshanks thrall' d, 
 
 A noted bard she had, 
 And Thomas Ehymer he was call'd, 
 
 As I have somewhere heard ; 
 
 Thro' Albion's regions far and wide, 
 
 Of mighty fame he was ; 
 And wond'rous things he prophesied 
 
 Should sometime come to pass. 
 
 That " Dee and Don shall run in one,'' 
 
 'Mong other things he told ; 
 But to this day 'twas never known 
 
 How such a thing could hold. 
 
 In mystic garb his speech he drest, 
 
 As prophets used to do , 
 And what he darkly thus exprest 
 
 Begins to open now. 
 
 'Twas not that Don should run to Dee, 
 
 Or Dee run into Don, 
 But that their Colleges should be 
 
 United into one. 
 
 In honour, then, of Scotland's bard, 
 
 May King and Earl agree, 
 And royal Don not think it hard 
 
 To join with martial Dee. 
 
 So shall Philosophy's fair streams 
 
 Enlarge their former course, 
 And Learning's congregated beams 
 
 Shall shin© with double force. 
 
 According to his favourite maxim that an intermix- 
 ture of the jocular with the serious is always pleasant, 
 
 b 
 
XXU BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH, 
 
 Mr Skinner often employed a leisure hour during his 
 studies in composing some familiar strain, but it is 
 worthy of remark that all his best productions were 
 written at the suggestion of others. His muse seemed 
 to require some special stimulus to exert its full strength. 
 Although he possessed great powers as a controversialist, 
 and could wield them unsparingly when occasion de- 
 manded, in company he was not only agreeable himself, 
 but had a happy facility in making all others agreeable. 
 The famous song of " Tullochgoruin " is a striking 
 example of what we have said, and we will here relate — 
 not exactly as it generally is — the incident which led to 
 its production. On the occasion of a meeting of the 
 Scotch clergy at Ellon, a small village in Aberdeenshire, 
 Mr Skinner had gone to spend the day, with some others, 
 at the house of a Mrs Montgomery, After dinner, a warm 
 dispute of a political nature arose, during which the lady 
 expressed to Mr Skinner — who was taking little part in 
 it — her surprise that no appropriate words had been com- 
 posed to the "fine old strathspey called the Reel of 
 Tulloehgorum," and, having asked for a song, he at once 
 gratified her wishes, and, as Burns has observed, " the 
 wishes of every lover of Scottish song, in this most 
 excellent ballad. " Our national poet was so fond of 
 Tulloehgorum, that he speaks of it at one time as " the 
 first of songs," and at another as " the best Scotch song 
 ever Scotland saw." Robert Chambers says something of 
 a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed 
 for it, and certainly no song has taken a deeper hold on 
 the affections of the people, or attained a wider celebrity. 
 It is sung at our social gatherings, printed in every 
 " collection," and there are few in Scotland who could 
 not quote some of its sparkling, pithy lines. What is 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXlll 
 
 more common, when speaking of the tunes of other 
 
 countries, than — 
 
 I wadna gic our ain strathspeys 
 For half a hunder score o' them. 
 
 Or, again, on certain occasions — 
 
 For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 
 As lang as w« hae breath to draw, 
 And dance, till we be like to fa', 
 
 Tbe Reel o* Tullochgorum. 
 
 Besides its intrinsic excellencies — generous sentiment, and 
 lively, vigorous expression, the song gives a pleasant and 
 faithful picture of Scottish character and customs. 
 
 Another song, which has attained a popularity only 
 surpassed by that of Tullochgorum, affords a marked 
 illustration of some of Skinner's peculiarities. " The 
 Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn " is generally supposed to be 
 a metaphor for the whisky still, and this vulgar error may- 
 have been* fallen into from the fact that the words were 
 written to an old Highland tune which had been so named. 
 The song was requested of Mr Skinner, and the circum- 
 stance possesses some interest. About the time he 
 occupied the farm of Mains of Ludquharn, Dr Beattie, 
 then Professor of Moral Philosophy in Marischal College, 
 Aberdeen, had been requested to write a pastoral song, 
 and, having made the attempt, produced the following 
 stanza, but could get no farther : — 
 
 The Ewie wi* the crookit horn, 
 Sic a ewe was never born, 
 Hereabout nor far awa* . 
 
 These lines the Professor — himself already an acknow- 
 ledged poet — sent to Mr Skinner, as the " best qualified 
 in Scotland," with the request to write a song that would 
 suit the tune. With this hint, Mr Skinner at once set 
 
XXIV BTOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 to work, and produced the song which justly occupies so 
 high a place among our household favourites. The 
 heroine was a real character, and what could he more 
 exquisitely touching than the discovery of her sad end : — 
 
 Yet last ouk, for a'my keeping — 
 Wha can speak it without greeting ? — 
 A villain cam when I was sleeping, 
 
 Sta* my Ewie, horn and a'. 
 I sought her sair upo' the morn, 
 And down aneath a buss o' thorn 
 I got my Ewie's crookit horn, 
 
 But my Ewie was awa\ 
 
 And then the genuine lament, and generous call on other 
 bards to join, in which Skinner recognises himself as a 
 poet : — ■ v 
 
 But thus, poor thing ! to lose her life 
 Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, 
 I'm really fley't that our guidewife 
 
 Will never win aboon't ava. 
 Oh ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 
 Call your muses up and mourn, 
 Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 
 Stown frae's, and fell'd and a' ! 
 
 This song suggested Burns' Elegy on his "pet yowe," Poor 
 Mailie, whieh, although a very elegant morsel, as Hogg 
 says, resembles the " Ewie " too closely to be admired as 
 original. The similarity in some verses is, indeed, very 
 striking, as, for instance, when Burns says — 
 
 Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon, 
 An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune, 
 Come, join the melancholius croon 
 
 0' Bobin's reed ! 
 His heart will never get aboon — 
 
 Poor Mailie' s dead ! 
 
 As a song writer, Skinner justly ranks high. There 
 in nothing forced or artificial about his effusions ; natural, 
 
BIOGliAPHICAL SKETCII. XXV 
 
 simple, and pathetic, they bear the stamp of sincerity 
 and breathe our common sentiments, sympathies, and 
 aspirations. One has remarked that their titles have only 
 to be named to remind us how mueh is due to Skinner as 
 a song writer; and Dr Rogers has said, " no song com- 
 positions of any modern writer in Scottish verse have, 
 with the exception of those of Burns, maintained a 
 stronger hold of the Scottish heart, or been more com- 
 monly sung in the social cirele." 
 
 But a greater than either — even Robert Burns himself 
 — was a warm admirer equally of the man and the poet, 
 and many a hearty compliment did he give them. When 
 Burns paid his visit to the north in 1787, he spent a short 
 time in Aberdeen, and was introduced to Bishop Skinner 
 at the printing office of Mr Chalmers. To the Ayr- 
 shire poet this was an interesting meeting, and with the 
 worthy son of Tuilochgorum he spent a most agreeable 
 hour. " Did not your father write ' The Ewie wi' the 
 Crookit Horn?" said Burns. "Yes," was the reply. 
 " Oh, an I had the loun that did it !" he continued in a 
 rapture of praise ; " but tell him how I love, and esteem, 
 and venerate his truly Scottish muse." In the course of 
 the conversation, Barns remarked that he had been at 
 Gordon Castle, and came by Peterhead. "Then," said 
 the Bishop, "you were within four Scotch miles of 
 Tuilochgorum' s dwelling." This changed the scene. 
 Burns was deeply grieved at having missed the oppor- 
 tunity of seeing one for whom he entertained so sincere a 
 regard, and whom he delighted to honour as a " brother 
 bard." "When parting with the Bishop, shaking his hand 
 as if he had been really a brother, "Well," said the first 
 of Scottish poets, " I am happy in having seen you, and 
 thereby conveying my long-harboured sentiments of 
 regard for your worthy sire; assure him of it in the 
 
XX VI BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 heartiest manner, and that never did a devotee of the 
 Virgin Mary go to Loretto with more fervour than I would 
 have approached his dwelling, and worshipped at his 
 shrine." On learning what had taken place, the humble 
 parson poet, though now nearly seventy years of age as 
 lively and social as ever, was duly gratified, and sincerely 
 sorry that he had missed seeing the famous ploughman 
 poet. He at once produced an acknowledgment, in the 
 form of a " Familiar Epistle to Robie Burns, the Plough- 
 man Poet, in his own style." We have first an ex- 
 pression of satisfaction that his son, or " chill," as he 
 calls him, had met with Burns, and then with genuine 
 regret he says — 
 
 "Wae's my auld heart I wasna wi' you, 
 Tho' worth your while I couldna gie you ; 
 But sin' I hadna hap to see you 
 
 "Whan ye was north, 
 I'm bauld to send my service to you, 
 
 Hyne o'er the Forth. 
 Sae proud' s I am that ye hae heard 
 0' my attempts to be a bard, 
 And think my muse nae that ill-fawrd, 
 
 Seil o' your face ! 
 I wadna wish for mair reward 
 
 Than your guid grace, 
 
 Then we have a graceful and generous compliment to the 
 poet — 
 
 Your bonny beukie, line by line, 
 I've read, and think it freely fine ; 
 Indeed, I winna ca't divine, 
 
 As others might; 
 For that, ye ken, frae pen like mine, 
 
 Wad no be right. 
 But, by my sang, I dinna wonner, 
 That ye've admirers mony hun'er; 
 Let gowkit fleeps pretend to skunner, 
 
 And tak offence, 
 Ye've naething said that leuks like blun'er 
 
 To fowk o' sense. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XX YU 
 
 After particularising several poems, and pronouncing the 
 ploughman a miracle — " deny't wha may " — a hope ia 
 expressed that he may long continue to write as he had 
 been doing — 
 
 But thanks to praise, ye're i' your prime, 
 And may chant on this lang, lang, time ; 
 For, lat me tell you, 'tware a crime 
 
 To haud your tongue, 
 Wi' sic a knack's ye hae at rhyme, 
 
 And ye sae young. 
 
 In a few easy, friendly verses, Mr Skinner proposes a 
 correspondence with Burns ; this is one of them, and there 
 is a touch of fine devotion in it — 
 
 An hour or sae, hy hook or crook, 
 And maybe twa, some orra ouk, 
 That I can spare frae haly beuk, 
 
 For that's my hobby, 
 I'll slip awa' to some bye neuk, 
 
 And crack wi' Robie. 
 
 And then, concludes the good-hearted old man — 
 
 Sae, canty ploughman, fare ye weel, 
 Lord bless you lang wi' hae and heil, 
 And keep you aye the honest chiel 
 
 That ye hae been ; 
 Syne lift ye to a better biel 
 
 When this is dane. 
 
 After this, a short but interesting correspondence took 
 place between these rhyming brothers, and an attachment 
 was formed, the depth and strength of which can only be 
 known to the sons of the muse. Burns responded to the 
 Epistle, not in " rhyming ware," but, as he tells us, 
 " in plain dull prose," and designates it the best poetical 
 compliment he ever received. The letter, though without 
 
XXV111 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 a date, would appear to have been written at Edinburgh 
 about the end of October, 1787 : — 
 
 Reverend and Venerable Sir, — Accept, in plain, dull 
 prose, my most sincere thanks for the best poetical compliment 
 I ever received. I assure you, Sir, as a poet, you have con- 
 jured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best 
 abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I 
 regret, and, while I live, sball regret, that when I was in the 
 north, I had not the pleasure of paying a younger brother's 
 dutiful respect to the author of the best Scotch song ever Scot- 
 land saw — " Tullochgorum's my delight!" The world may 
 think slightingly of the craft of song-making if they please, but, 
 as Job says, " Oh, that mine adversary had written a book !" 
 let them try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch 
 songs — a wild happiness of thought and expression — which 
 peculiarly marks them, not only from English songs, but also 
 from the modern efforts of song-wrights, in our native manner 
 and language. The only remains of this enchantment — these 
 spells of the imagination — rests with you. Our true brother, 
 Ross of Lochlee, was likewise "owre cannie " — a " wild war- 
 lock " — but now he sings among the " sons of the morning." 
 I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour, to form a 
 kind of common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of 
 Caledonian song. The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, 
 may overlook most of us ; but " reverence thyself." The world 
 is not our peers, so we challenge the jury. VTe can lash that 
 world, and find ourselves a very great source of amusement and 
 happiness independent of that world. There is a work going on 
 in Edinburgh just now, which claims your best assistance. An 
 engraver in this town has set about collecting and publishing 
 all the Scotch songs, with the music, that can be found. Songs 
 in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted ; but 
 the music must all be Scotch. Drs Beattie and Blacklock are 
 lending a hand, and the first musician in town presides over 
 that department. I have been absolutely crazed about it, col- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXIX 
 
 lecting old stanzas, and every information remaining, respecting 
 their origin, authors, &c. This last is but a very fragment 
 business, but at the end of his second number — the first is 
 already published — a small account will be given of the authors, 
 particularly to preserve those of latter times. Your three songs 
 — "Tullochgorum," " John o' Badenyon," and " Ewie wi' the 
 Crookit Horn" — go in this second number. I was determined, 
 before I got your letter, to write you, begging that yo u would 
 let me know where the editions of these pieces may be found, 
 as you would wish them to continue to future times ; and if 
 you would be so kind to this undertaking as send any songs, of 
 your own or others, that you would think proper to publish. 
 Your name will be inserted among the other authors, " nill ye, 
 will ye. 1 ' One half of Scotland already give your songs to other 
 authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear from you — the sooner 
 the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or three weeks. 
 1 am, with the warmest sincerity, Sir, your obliged humble 
 servant, Robert Burns. 
 
 The work referred to in this letter was " Johnson's 
 Museum," a Musical Miscellany, and it will be seen from 
 the following, dated 14th November, with what readiness 
 Mr Skinner gave his assistance : — 
 
 Sir, — Your kind return, without date, but of post-mark 
 October 2oth, came to my hand only this day ; and, to testify 
 my punctuality to my poetic engagement, I sit down immedi- 
 ately to answer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of my poor 
 but just encomiums on your surprising genius, and your opinion 
 of my rhyming excursions, are both, I think, by far too high, 
 The difference between our two tracks of education, and ways 
 of life, is entirely in your favour, and gives you the preference 
 every manner of way. I know a classical education will not 
 create a versifying taste, but it mightily improves and assists 
 it ; and though, where both these meet, there may sometimes 
 be ground for approbation, yet where taste appears single, as it 
 **were, and neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, I will 
 
\XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 always sustain the justice of its prior claim to applause. A 
 small portion of taste this way I have had almost from childhood, 
 especially in the old Scottish dialect, and it is as old a thing 
 as I remember, my fendness for " Chryste-Xirk on the Green," 
 which I had by heart ere I was twelve years of age, and which, 
 some years ago, I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I 
 was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things ; but, on 
 getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my 
 daughters grow up, who, being all tolerably good singers, 
 plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so 
 extorted those effusions which have made a public appearance 
 beyond my expectations, and contrary to my intentions— at the 
 same time that I hope there is nothing to be found in them un- 
 characteristic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always 
 w r ish to see respected. As to the assistance you propose fiom 
 me in the undertaking you are engaged in, I am sorry I cannot 
 give it so far as I could wish, and you, perhaps, expect. My 
 daughters, who were my only intelligencers, are all foris- 
 familiate, and the old woman, their mother, has lost that taste. 
 There are two from my own pen which I might give you, if 
 worth the while — one to the old Scotch tune of " Dumbarton's 
 Drums." The other perhaps you have met with, as your noble 
 friend, the Duchess has, I am told, heard of it. It was 
 squeezed out of me by a brother parson in her neighbourhood, 
 to accommodate a new Highland reel for the Marquis birth- 
 day, to the stanza of 
 
 Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly. 
 If this last answer your purpose, you may have it from a 
 brother of mine, Mr James Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, 
 I believe, can give the music too. There is another humorous 
 thing, I have heard, said to be done by the Catholic priest, 
 Geddes, and which hit my taste much :— 
 
 There was a wee wifeikie was comin' frae the fair, 
 Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her meikle care ; 
 It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began to spew, 
 And quo' the wee wifeikie I wish I binna fou. 
 
BIOGKArniCAL SKETCH. XXXI 
 
 I have heard of another new composition by a young plough- 
 man of my acquaintance, that I am vasily pleased with, to the 
 tune of the "Humours of Glen," which, I fear, won't do, as the 
 music, I am told, is of Irish origin. I have mentioned these, 
 such as they are, to show my readiness to oblige you, and to 
 contribute my mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
 in hand, and which I wish all success to. You have only to 
 notify your mind, and what you want of the above shall be sent 
 you. Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I may say, 
 employed, do not sheath youi own proper and piercing weapon, 
 From what I have seen of yours already, I am inclined to hope 
 for much good. One lesson of virtue and morality delivered in 
 your amusing style, and from such as you, will operate mere 
 than dozens would do from sueh as me, who shall be told it is 
 our employment, and be never more minded ; whereas, from a 
 pen like yours, as being one of the many, what comes will be 
 admired. Admiration will produce regard, and regard will 
 leave an impression, especially when example goes along. 
 
 Now binna saying I'm ill bred, 
 Else, by my troth, I'll no be glad ; 
 For cadgers, ye ha'e heard it said, 
 
 And sic like fry, 
 Maun aye be harlin in their trade, 
 
 And sae maun I. 
 
 "Wishing you, from my poet -pen, all success, and in my other 
 character, all happiness and heavenly direction, I remain, with 
 esteem, your sincere friend, John Skinner. 
 
 We may mention here that, although some have doubted 
 it, "The Wee Wifeikie " is now attributed, by good 
 authorities, to the well-known translator of the Bible and 
 polemical writer, Dr Geddes, who was a native of Banff- 
 shire, and officiated as a priest for several years in 
 different parts of the north of Scotland. The "young 
 ploughman " was Mr William Lillie, of Inverugie, near 
 Peterhead, who wrote several songs and poems of con- 
 
XXX11 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 siderable merit. The next letter from Burns is dated at 
 Edinburgh, the 14th February, 1788 :— 
 
 Reverend and Dear Sir, — I have been a cripple now near 
 three months, though I am getting vastly better, and have been 
 very mueh hurried beside, or else I would have wrote you sooner. 
 I must beg your pardon for the epistle you sent me appearing 
 in the Magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my 
 intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the 
 publication of the Magazine. However, as it does great honour 
 to us both, I hope you will forgive it. The second volume of 
 the songs I mentioned to you in my last, is published to-day. 
 I send you a copy, which I beg you will accept as a mark of 
 the veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your 
 character, and of the claim I make to your continued acquaint- 
 ance. Your songs appear in the third volume, with your name 
 in the index, as I assure you, Sir, I have heard your " Tulloch- 
 gorum," particularly among our west country folks, given to 
 many different names, and most commonly to the immortal 
 author of the "Minstrel," who, indeed, never wrote anything 
 superior to " Gie's a sang Montgomery cried." Your brother 
 has promised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntly's Reel, 
 which certainly deserve a place in the collection. My kind 
 host, Mr Cruickshank ot the High School here, and said to be 
 one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to make you his 
 grateful acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got in 
 a Latin publication of yours that I borrowed for him from your 
 acquaintance, and my much respected friend, in this place, the 
 Rev. Dr "Webster. Mr Cruickshank maintains that you write 
 the best Latin since Buchanan. I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, 
 but shall return in three weeks. Your song you mentioned in 
 your last, to the tune of " Dumbarton's Drums," and the other, 
 which you say was done by a brother by trade of mine, a 
 ploughman, I shall thank you much for a copy of each. I am 
 ever, reverend Sir, with the most respectful esteem, and sincere 
 veneration, yours, Robert Burns. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXXlll 
 
 The high compliment here paid to Skinner's Latin poems 
 has been confirmed by others. They have been much 
 admired by men of learning for their purity and elegance. 
 His facility in turning English into Latin was most 
 wonderful, and a translation from Homer, it has been 
 said, loses nothing of the vigour and spirit of the Greek 
 original. The reply to this last letter was written on the 
 28th of April, in the same year : — 
 
 Dear Sir, — I received your last, with the curious present 
 you have favoured me with, and would have made proper 
 acknowledgments before now, but that I have been necessarily 
 engaged in matters of a different complexion. And now that I 
 have got a little respite, I make use of it to thank you for this 
 valuable instance of your good- will, and to assure you that, 
 with the sincere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem both 
 the gift and the giver — as a small testimony of which I have 
 herewith sent you, for your amusement (and in a form which I 
 hope you will excuse, for saving postage) the two songs I wrote 
 about to you already. " Charming Nancy " is the real produc- 
 tion of genius in a ploughman of twenty years of age at the 
 time of its appearing, with no more education than what he 
 picked up at an old farmer grandfather's fire-side. And I doubt 
 not but you will find in it, a simplicity and delicacy, with some 
 turns of humour, that will please one of your taste ; at least it 
 pleased me when I first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- 
 tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of my own 
 sentiments, and you may make use of one or both as you shall 
 see good. You will oblige me by presenting my respects to 
 your host, Mr Cruickshank, who has given such high approba- 
 tion to my poor Latinity. You may let him know, that as I 
 have likewise been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two 
 things that I would, if he desires it, submit, not to his judgment, 
 but to his amusement — the one, a translation of " Chryste-Kirk 
 o' the Green," printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other, 
 " Batrachomyomachia Homer i latinis vestita cum additamentis" 
 
XXXIV BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 given in lately to Chalmers to print, if he pleases. Mr C. will 
 know u Seria non semper delectant, non jom semper. Semper 
 delectant seria mixta jocis." I have just room to repeat compli- 
 ments and good wishes from, Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 John Skinner. 
 
 It is pleasant to see such men as Robert Burns and 
 the Rev. John Skinner thus conversing together, and we 
 think all the more of the " noble twain " in light of their 
 warm and disinterested devotion. Speaking of Skinner's 
 songs on one occasion, Burn's adds — " and what is of 
 still more consequence, he is one of the worthiest of man- 
 kind." This was seen in every relation of life. The 
 district around Linshart was perhaps one of the most 
 barren and desolate in Scotland. A plam of almost two 
 miles square was unbroken by either house, or tree, or 
 stone, or shrub ; in her gayest moods, it was observed, 
 Nature never wore a pleasant aspect in Long-gate (the 
 appropriate name of one part of the uninhabited waste), 
 nor did the distant prospect compensate for the dreary 
 gloominess of the surrounding landscape. But over the 
 solitude there was always one cheering ray. Every 
 visitor was welcome at the little cottage, and in the 
 darkest night there was a star to guide the humble 
 pedestrian. "What consolation have I," the good man 
 used to say ; " my taper never burns in vain. For should 
 it fail to cheer myself and family, it never fails to T)heer 
 some roaming youth or solitary traveller, since the polar 
 star itself is not truer to its position than is the Linshart 
 candle, its rise and set, true to the Buchan hind;" and 
 never did he retire to rest with comfort while there was 
 the chance of any human creature traversing the Long- 
 gate. Living in a scene so little calculated to] invite 
 poetic inspiration, may account for the fact that Skinner 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. XXAV 
 
 has written nothing on natural scenery, for we know that 
 he could appreciate the beauties of nature. But all is 
 changed now. The low thatched cottage, which still 
 stands about half a mile southwards of the village of 
 Longside, has been improved, and in place of the dreary 
 waste, the lands are highly cultivated, and the prospect 
 diversified with trees and comfortable dwellings. 
 
 About the end of the year 1799, Mr Skinner lost his 
 beloved partner, who had taken her part so joyfully in 
 the cares and responsibilities of rearing a family of seven, 
 and had been the devoted companion of his life for eight 
 years more than half a century. This was a sad affliction 
 to the old man, now nearly eighty, and we cannot better 
 express his feelings and wishes than in the following 
 verses, written about two years afterwards, on being 
 asked by Mr Ferguson of Pitfour what he could do to 
 make him comfortable : — 
 
 Lodged in a canty cell of nine feet square, 
 Bare bread and sowans and milk my daily fare ; 
 Shoes for my feet, soft clothing for my back — 
 If warm, no matter whether blue or black : 
 In such a sober, low, contented state, 
 What comfort now need I from rich or great ? 
 
 Now in my eightieth year, my thread near spun, 
 My race through poverty and labour run, 
 Wishing to be by all my flock beloved, 
 And for long service by my Judge approved ; 
 Death at my door, and heaven in my eye, 
 From rich or great what comfort now need I ? 
 
 Let but our sacred edifice go on 
 With cheerfulness until the work be done ; 
 Let but my flock be faithfully supplied, 
 My friends all with their lot well satisfied ; 
 Then, oh, with joy and comfort from on high, 
 Let me in Christian quiet calmly die, 
 And lay my ashes in my Grizel's grave, 
 'Tis all I wish upon the earth to have ! 
 
XXXvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Several years after his bereavement, Mr Skinner 
 reoeived a pressing invitation from his son, the Bishop, 
 to go to Aberdeen and spend his last days in a family 
 where every attention could be shown to his weakness 
 and his wants. His acceptance of this invitation was 
 intimated in a letter dated May 25, 1807, and the follow- 
 ing are the last words he wrote : — " I cordially embrace 
 your proposal, and am making preparations to be with 
 you, God willing, next week. By that time you will 
 have got your Forfar friends about you, and I wish much 
 to share in that pleasure, and see once more my children's 
 grand- children, and peace upon Israel. So God grant us 
 a happy meeting, even here, and at last, a still more 
 happy meeting in Abraham's bosom hereafter. This is 
 the constant, and shall, I hope, be the dying wish of your 
 truly and deservedly affectionate father." 
 
 Although he may have felt a momentary regret on 
 leaving his rural abode — the scene of his labours for 
 nearly sixty-five years — and resigning his flock to the 
 care of another, Mr Skinner removed to Aberdeen on the 
 4th of June, but was not long to enjoy the company and 
 kindness of his devoted relatives. After a slight illness, 
 he fell asleep, without a struggle or a sigh, in the arms 
 of his son, on the 16th of June, 1807, being thus in his 
 eighty-sixth year. According to his request, his remains, 
 attended by a large assemblage of sorrowing friends, were 
 carried to the churchyard of Longside, and over the grave 
 was erected a handsome monument, which bears a noble 
 tribute to the memory of him who — Lived so justly 
 Respected, and Died so sincerely Lamented, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 THE MONYMUSK CHRISTMAS BA'ING. 
 
 Has ne'er in a' this countra been, 
 
 Sic shou'dering and sie fa'ing, 
 As happen' d but few ouks sin syne, 
 
 Here at the Christmas Ba'ing. 
 At evening syne the fallows keen 
 
 Drank till the niest day's dawing, 
 Sae snell, that some tint baith their een, 
 
 And could na pay their la wing 
 Till the niest day. 
 
 Like bumbees bizzing frae a byke, 
 
 Whan birds their riggins tirr ; 
 The swankies lap tbro' mire and syke, 
 
 Wow as their heads did birr ! 
 They yowff'd the ba' frae dyke to dyke . 
 
 Wi' unco speed and virr ; 
 Some baith their shou'ders tip did fyke, 
 
 For blythness some did nirr 
 
 Their teeth that day. 
 
 A 
 
THE MONTMUSK CHKIST3IAS BA'lNG* 
 
 Rob Roy, I wat he was na dull, 
 
 He first leit at the ba', 
 Syne wi' a rap clash' d Geordie's skull 
 
 Hard to the steeple- wa\ 
 Wha was aside but auld Tani Tull ? — « 
 
 His Men's mishap he saw, — 
 Syne rair'd like ony baited bull, 
 
 And wi' a thud dang twa 
 
 To the yird that day. 
 
 The tanner was a piimpit bit, 
 
 As flimsy as a feather, 
 He thought it best to try a hit, 
 
 Ere a' the thrang shou'd gadyr : 
 He ran wi' neither fear nor wit, 
 
 As fu' o' wind's a bladder ; 
 Unluckily he tint the fit, 
 
 And tann'd his ain buin-lether 
 Fell weel that day. 
 
 Syne Francie Winsy steppit in, 
 
 A sauchin slivery slype, 
 Ran forrat wi' a furious din, 
 
 And drew a swinging swype. 
 But Tammy Norie thought nae sin 
 
 To come o'er him wi' a snype, 
 Levell'd his nose flat wi's chin, 
 
 And gart his swall'd een sype, 
 
 Sawt tears that day. 
 
THE MOXYMUSK CHRISTMAS BA'l^G, 
 
 Bockin red bleed the fleep mair caum, 
 
 Ran hame to his nam mammy : 
 " Alas !" co' Katie, when she saw him, 
 
 " Wha did yon this, my lammie ?" 
 " A meikle man," co' he, " foul faw him," 
 
 But kent na it was Tammie, 
 " Rax'd me alang the chafts a wham 
 
 " As soon as e'er he saw me, 
 
 " And made me blae." 
 
 "Deil rax his chandler chafts," co' Kate, 
 
 " For doing you sic wrang, 
 " Gin I had here the skypel skate, 
 
 " Sae weel's I shou'd him bang !" 
 The gilpy stood, and leuk't fell blate, 
 
 To see her in sic a sang ; 
 He squeel'd to her, like a young gyte, 
 
 But wad na raird to gang 
 
 Back a' that day. 
 
 The hurry- hurry now began, 
 
 Was right weel worth the seeing, 
 "Wi' routs and raps frae man to man, 
 
 Some getting, and some gieing ; 
 And a' the tricks of fit and hand, 
 
 That ever was in being ; 
 Sometimes the ba' a yirdlins ran, 
 
 Sometimes in air was fleeing, 
 
 Fu' heigh that clay. 
 
THE 3IOXT3irSK CHBISTMAS BA 7 IXG. 
 
 Stout Steen gart mony a fallow stoifc, 
 
 And ilang them o'er like fail ; 
 Said, "he'd na care ae elippit doit, 
 
 " Tho' a' should turn their tail." 
 But wi' a yark Gib made his queet 
 
 As dwabil as a flail, 
 And o'er fell he, maist like to greet, 
 
 Just at the eemest ga'ill, 
 
 0' the kirk that day. 
 
 The sutor like tod-iowrie lap, 
 
 Three fit at ilka stend : 
 He did na miss the ba' a chap, 
 
 Ilk ane did him eommend. 
 But a lang trypall there was Snap, 
 
 Cam 7 on him wi 1 a bend ; 
 Gart him, ere ever he wist, cry clap 
 
 Upon his nether end ; 
 
 And there he lay. 
 
 Sanny soon saw the sutor slaiu, 
 
 He was his ain hawf-brither ; 
 I wat right well he was fu' brain, 
 
 And fu' could he be ither ? 
 He heez'd in ire a puttin-stane, 
 
 Twa fell on him thegither, 
 Wi' a firm gowfF he fell'd the tane, 
 
 But wi' a gowfF the tither 
 
 Fell'd him that day. 
 
THE 1C0NTMUSK CHBISTKAS BA'XNG. 
 
 In came the insett Dominie, 
 
 Just riftin frae his dinner, 
 A young mess John, as a,ne cou'd see, 
 
 Was neither saint nor sinner. 
 A braltlin band, unhappily, 
 
 Drave by him wi' a binner, 
 Aud heels-o'er-goudie eoupit he, 
 
 And rave his guid horn penner 
 In bits that day. 
 
 Leitch lent the ba' a loundrin lick, 
 
 She flew fast like a ilain ; 
 Syne lighted whare faes were maist thick, 
 
 Gart ae gruff Grrunsie grain. 
 He whippit up a rotten stick, 
 
 I wat he was na fain, 
 Leitch wi's fit gae 'im sic a kick, 
 
 Till they a' thought him slain, 
 That very day. 
 
 There was nane there could Cowlie byde, 
 
 The gryte guidman, nor nane, 
 He stenn'd bawk-height at ilka stride, 
 
 And rampag'd o'er the green : 
 For the kirk- yard was braid and wide, 
 
 And o'er a knabliek stane, 
 He rumbl'd down a rammage glyde, 
 
 And pcel'd the gardy-bane 
 
 0' him that clay. 
 
THE MONTKUSK CHRISTMAS EA'iXG. 
 
 His cousin was a bierly swank, 
 
 A derf young man, hecht Hob ; 
 To mell wi' twa he wad na mank 
 
 At staffy neyel-job : 
 I wat na fu' but on a bank, 
 
 Whare gadder' d was the mob, 
 The cousins bicker' d wi' a clank, 
 
 Gart ane anither sob, 
 
 And gasp that day. 
 
 Tho' Rob was stout, his cousin dang 
 
 Him down wi' a gryte shudder ; 
 Syne a' the drochlin hempy thrang^ 
 
 Gat o'er him wi' a f udder ; 
 Gin he should rise, and hame o'ergang, 
 
 Lang was he in a swidder ; 
 For bleed frae's mou' and niz did bang, 
 
 And in gryte burns did biudder 
 His face that day. 
 
 But, waes my heart, for Petrie Gib, 
 
 The carlie's head 'twas scaw't, 
 Cpo' the crown he got a.skib, 
 
 That gart him yowll and elaw't. 
 Sae he wad slip his wa' to Tib, 
 
 And spy at hame some fawt ; 
 I thought he might hae gott'n a snib, 
 
 >5ae thought ilk ane that saw't, 
 
 0' th' green tiiat day. 
 
THE HONYXUSK CHRISTMAS BALING. 
 
 But taylor Hutchin met him there, 
 
 A curst unhappy spark, 
 Saw Pate had caught a camshack cair 
 
 At this uncanny wark. 
 He bade na lang to seek his lare, 
 
 But, wi' a yawfu' yark, 
 Whare Pate's right spawl, by hap, was bare, 
 
 He derfly dang the bark 
 
 Frae's shins that day. 
 
 Poor Petrie gae a weary winch, 
 
 He could na do but bann ; 
 The taylor baith his sides did pinch, 
 
 Wf laughing out o' hand ; 
 He jee'd na out o' that an inch, 
 
 Afore a menseless man, 
 Came a' at anes athort his hinch 
 
 A sowff, and gart him prann 
 
 His bum that day. 
 
 The Priest's hireman, a chid as stark 
 
 As ony giant cou'd be, 
 He kent afore o' this day's wark, 
 
 For certain that it wou'd be, 
 He ween'd to drive in o'er the park, 
 
 And ilk ane thought it shou'd be ; 
 Whether his foot had mist its mark, 
 
 I canna tell, but fou't be, 
 
 He fell that day. 
 
THE MONYMUSK CHRISTMAS BA'I3S T G. 
 
 'Ere lie eou'd change th' uncanny lair* 
 
 And nae help to "be gi'en him, 
 There tumbled a mischievous pair 
 
 0' mawten'd lolls aboon him. 
 It wad ha made your heart fu' sair, 
 
 Gin ye had only seen him ; 
 An't had na been for Davy Mair. 
 
 The rascals had ondune him,- 
 Eelyve that day. 
 
 Cry'd black Fate Mill, " God save the King i n 
 
 Cry'd gley'd Gib Gun, " God grant it ; ,? 
 Syne to the ba' like ony thing, 
 
 Baith ran, and baith loud vauntit, 
 But auld James Stuart drew his sting, 
 
 Tauld them they could na want it ; 
 He sware he'd gar their harnpans ring 
 
 Till black Pate Mill maist fantit, 
 For fear that day. 
 
 A stranger bra', in Highland claise, 
 
 Leit mony a sturdy aith, 
 To bear the ba' thro' a' his faes, 
 
 And nae kep meikle skaith. 
 Rob Roy heard the fricksome fraise, 
 
 Weel girded in his graith ,* 
 GowfFd him alang the shins a blaize, 
 
 And gart him tyne his faith 
 
 And feet that dav, 
 
TIIE M0KYMI7SK CHBISTMAS BA'IIW. 
 
 His neiper was a man o' might, 
 
 Was few there could ha' quell' d him, 
 He did na see the dreary sight, 
 
 Till some yap gilpy tell'd him. 
 To Robin syne he flew outright, 
 
 As he'd been garni' to geld Rim ; 
 But, dolefu' chance, frae some curst wight, 
 
 A clammy-houit fell'd him. 
 
 Hawf dead that day. 
 
 The millart's man, a suple fallow, 
 
 Ran's he had been red wucl ; 
 He fethir'd fiercely like a swallow, 
 
 Cry'd, hech ! at ilka thud. 
 A gawsie gurk, wi' phiz o' yellow, 
 
 In youthood's sappy bud, 
 jNae twa there wad ha gart him wallow, 
 
 Wi' fair play i' the mud 
 
 On's back that day. 
 
 Tarn Tull upon him cuist his ee, 
 
 Saw him sae mony fuilzie ; 
 He green' d again some play to pree, 
 
 And raise anither bruilzie. 
 Up the kirk-yard he fast did jee, 
 
 I w at he was na hoilie, 
 And a' the kenzies glowr'd to see 
 
 A bonnie kind o' tuilzie 
 
 Atween them twa, 
 
10 
 
 The inillart never notic'd Tarn, 
 
 Sae browden'd he the ba', 
 He runibl'd rudely like a ram, 
 
 Dang o'er whiles ane, whiles twa. 
 His enemy in afore him cam', 
 
 Ere ever he him saw ; 
 Raught him a rap on the forestani, 
 
 But had na time to draw 
 Anither sae. 
 
 Afore he could step three inch back, 
 
 The millart drew a knife, 
 A curst-like gullie and a snack, 
 
 Some blacksmith's wark in Fife. 
 The lave their thumbs did blythly knack, 
 
 To see the stalwart strife ; 
 But Tarn, I ken, wad gien a plack 
 
 T' hae been safe wi' his wife, 
 
 At hame that day. 
 
 The parish-clark came up the yard, 
 
 A man fu' meek o' mind ; 
 Eight jinch he was, and fell weel-fawr'd, 
 
 His claithing was fu' fine. 
 Just whare their feet the dubs had glawr'd, 
 
 And barken' d them like bryne, 
 Gley'd Gibby Gun wi' a derf dawrd, 
 
 Beft o'er the grave divine 
 
 On's bum that day. 
 
the MOjmrcrsK chkistmas ba'ixg-. 11 
 
 When a' were pitying Lis mishap, 
 
 And swarm' d about the clark, 
 Wi' whittles some his hat did scrap, 
 
 Some dighted down his sark, 
 AVill Winter gae the ha' a chap, 
 
 He ween'd he did a wark, 
 While Sanny wi' a weel-wyl'd wap, 
 
 Youff'd her in o'er the park 
 
 A space and inair, 
 
 Wi' that Rob Roy gae a rair, 
 
 A rierfu' rout rais'd he, 
 'Twas heard, they said, three mile and mair, 
 
 Wha likes may credit gie. 
 I wyte his heart w r as m' o' care, 
 
 And knell' d fell sair to see, 
 The cleverest callant that was there, 
 
 Play himsel' sic a slee 
 
 Begeck that day. 
 
 Jock Jalop shouted like a gun, 
 
 As something had him ail'd : 
 Fy, Sirs, co' he, the ba' spel's won, 
 
 And we the ba' ha'e hail'd. 
 Some green'd for hawf an hour's mair fun, 
 
 'Cause fresh and nae sair fail'd : 
 Ithers did Sanny gryte thanks cunn, 
 
 And thro' their haffats trail' d 
 
 Their nails that day. 
 
12 THE MONYMTTSK CHRISTMAS BA'OTG. 
 
 Syne a' consented to be Men's, 
 
 And lap like sucking fillies : 
 Some red their hair, some niaen'd their banes, 
 
 Some bann'd the bensome billies. 
 The pensy blades doss'd down on stanes, 
 
 Whipt out their snishin millies ; 
 And a' ware blyth to tak' their einds, 
 
 And club a pint o' Lillie's 
 
 Best ale that day. 
 
 Has ne'er in Monymuss been seen 
 
 Sae mony weel-beft skins : 
 Of a' the bawmen there was nane 
 
 But had twa bleedy shins. 
 TVT strenzied shouders mony ane 
 
 Dree'd penanco for their sins • 
 And what was warst, scoup'd hame at e'en, 
 
 May be to hungry inns, 
 
 And cauld that day. 
 
ANSWEK TO AX EPISTLE. 
 
 |The following was written as an answer "in kind'-' to an Epistle from 
 Portsoy, Which appeared in the Aberdeen Journal, January 11, 1779.] 
 
 What can ye be that cou'd employ 
 Your pen in a sic a tirly-toy, 
 Frae hyne awa' as far's Portsoy 
 
 Aside the sea, 
 TThare I ken neither man nor boy, 
 
 Nor ane kens me ? 
 
 Be wha ye will, ye're unco frush 
 At praising what's nae worth a rush, 
 Except it be to show how flush 
 
 Ye're at sic sport, 
 Yet tho' ye even gar me blush, 
 
 I thank you for't. 
 
 For, troth, I ha'ena seen a letter 
 
 This mony a day I likit better ; 
 
 Ye ken there's something in our nature 
 
 Likes to be reez'cl ; 
 Be't just or no, makes little matter, 
 
 An we be pleas' d. 
 
14 
 
 My sangs, it seems, hae made a din, 
 But still I hope it's nae a sin, 
 Sometimes to tirl a merry pin 
 
 As weel's we're able, 
 Whan fWks are in a laughin bin 
 
 For sang or fable, 
 
 It's bat about sie smeerless things, 
 That my auld doited maiden sings, 
 She never fykes wi' nighty flings 
 
 Of heathen gods ; 
 E"or seeks to please or pester kings 
 
 Wi 3 birth-day odes. 
 
 And yet may be some girnin gowks 
 May tak' the pett at harmless jokes, 
 And think sic simple silly strokes 
 
 0' poetrie, 
 Far unbecomin' sacred fowks 
 
 The like o' me. 
 
 What tho' some Sage o' holy quorum, 
 Should lightlie me for Tillygorum, 
 I'll never steer my sturdy for him, 
 
 Wha e'er he be ; 
 As lang's I ken to keep decorum 
 
 As well as he. 
 
ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE, 15 
 
 Indeed T wad on nae pretence 
 "Wiss to tyne sight o' reverence ; 
 Sac, if sic fowk be men o' sense, 
 
 I ask their pardon, — 
 But value not a fool's offence 
 
 Ae single fardin. 
 
 Your M.A.s and your L.L.D.s, 
 That get a vogue and mak' a fraize, 
 I dinna hadd them worth three straes, 
 
 TVT a' their fame ; 
 Nor do I envy ony praise 
 
 That's gi'en to them, 
 
 A Men' like you delights me sair, 
 An' hits my fancy till a hair, 
 Sae couthy and sae debonnair, 
 
 An' then sae plain ; 
 It does nae need a birn o' lair 
 
 To write again. 
 
 Now, honest onkent, fare ye weel, 
 I guess you be some pawky chiel. 
 That's may be been at Allan's skuil 
 
 Some orra time, 
 And seems to understand the tweel 
 
 0' rustic rhyme. 
 
16 
 
 ASTSWEB TO AX EPISTLE. 
 
 But print nae mair, I beg it o' you, 
 Lest Cha'mers say, he's plaguit wi' yon, 
 You see I have nae thing to gie you 
 
 That's worth your while, 
 But only send my wisses to you, 
 
 In your ain style. 
 
 Lord keep you, man, frae sin and shame • 
 Frae skaith a' outing, and at hame ; 
 An gie you ay, (blest be His name !) 
 
 What He thinks fit ; 
 Tak' this frae me in kindly frame, 
 
 Instead o' wit. ^ 
 
ON THE FIIENCH CONVENTION. 
 
 What stupid creatures are the French, 
 
 Quite free from superstition ; 
 Yet when they die, 'tis hard to say, 
 
 "What can be their condition ? 
 
 Of Heaven they entertain no thought, 
 Since it can no way fit them ; 
 
 And as for Hell, the despot there 
 Has more sense than admit them. 
 
 If then for Hell they have no chance, 
 And to Heav'n have no pretension ; 
 
 Some other dwelling must be found, 
 To lodge the Feexch Convextiox. 
 
 Or, as their new philosophy 
 
 Has laid the fine foundation, 
 Their only prospect now must be 
 
 A blest annihilation. 
 
 How must these miscreant wretches move 
 
 Our anger, or our laughter, 
 Who wish to live like monsters here, • 
 
 And nothing be hereafter ! 
 
18 OX THE FRENCH CONVENTION. 
 
 Preserve us, Reason, taught by Grace, 
 From reveries so beastly ; 
 
 By whomsoever set afloat, 
 
 By Price, or Payne, or Priestly. 
 
 May Britons thankful still, and wise, 
 Beware of Gallic leaven ; 
 
 So we need have no fear of Hell, 
 And grace will give us Heaven, 
 
EPISTLE TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 This affectionate epistle, addressed to a daughter who had patiently endured 
 many afflictions, is dated January 29, 1795, and now published for the 
 first time. The "two blooming youths" referred to, had been led 
 into a dispute which resulted in their being apprehended on a grave 
 charge ; but, having been tried at Aberdeen, they were proved innocent 
 and sent home to their sorrowing parents, with "honour and applause." 
 
 Accept, dear , of a father's strain, 
 
 To soothe a daughter's heart-corroding pain. 
 Thy Charlie gone ! — Poor, sweet, engaging child, 
 In looks so charming, and in mind so mild. 
 The last of nine thy tender care had rear'd, 
 And well deserving of thy fond regard, 
 Pull'd from this world in dawn of youthful years, 
 From all thy prospects, and from all thy fears ; 
 Not hy the quick-paced march of fever's rage, 
 Nor childish malady, of childish age, 
 Chin-cough, and measles, ev'n the frightful power 
 Of loathsome small-pox, all got safely o'er ; 
 But slow and lingering, under many a groan 
 Of tortured weeks and months, from cruel stone, 
 Beyond the reach of medicinal cure, 
 Beyond the strength of childhood to endure; 
 With manhood's agonies, poor infant tern, 
 "With manhood's courage, by poor infant horn ; 
 In writhing posture clinging round thy knee, 
 And looking up with wistful eyes to thee, 
 
20 EPISTLE TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 Now wishing Death to ease his shatter' d frame, 
 Now lisping out, for help, his Saviour's name, 
 His face convulsed, his once bright eyes aghast, 
 And pained, yet patient, breathing out — his last ! 
 Distressful scene ! to a fond mother's breast, 
 'Bove what in saddest lays can be exprest ! 
 
 Yet think, my dear, how different is this blow 
 From what thou felt not twenty months ago : 
 Two blooming youths, their drooping father's prop, 
 Their brethren's favourites, and their mother's hope. 
 All of a sudden driv'n from peaceful home 
 To underly the law's severest doom, 
 By Falsehood charg'd, by Malice quick pursti'd, 
 Their near relations thirsting for their blood, 
 One dragg'd to jail, the other forc'd to fly, 
 Not stung by guile, but seeking remedy : 
 Thy anxious heart uncertain of their fate, 
 And bleeding o'er their miserable state, 
 'Twixt fears and hopes nine long weeks on the rack — 
 Fears for their loss and hopes to get them back — 
 Thy parents sunk in unavailing grief, 
 Thy husband wand'ring to procure relief, 
 And thou alone within thy walls to mourn, 
 Once happy there, now weeping and forlorn ; 
 No neighbour near vouchsafing to condole. 
 In soft compassion with thy wounded soul, 
 
EPISTLE TO A DAUGHTER, 21 
 
 But standing off, all Christian ties forgot, 
 
 And shunning, like the plague, the wretched cot ! 
 
 Not so this present cause of second woe- 
 No stroke from hellish or from human foe, 
 But gentle touch of Heavenly Father's rod, 
 The gracious pleasure of a gracious God, 
 Calling thy Charlie to more lasting bliss 
 In other worlds than could be found in this, 
 Through rugged paths, but such as Heav'n thought best, 
 To lead the sufferer to his bed of rest ; 
 Thy neighbours crowding now about thy door 
 And showing what they had not shown before, 
 Their Hint of soul, or soften'd or subdued 
 By grace or guilt, to more becoming mood. 
 Thy mother using all love's arts to drown 
 Thy sorrows in the memory of her own ; 
 Thy father acting, with scarce-smother' d tear, 
 His last good office o'er a grandchild's bier ; 
 Thy husband, with his yet remaining seven, 
 Conveying to the grave a guest for heaven ; 
 Sweet balsam this to mollify the smart, 
 And still the throbbings of a mother's heart ! 
 
 Remember, too, how lively were thy joys 
 To clasp again thy persecuted boys, 
 When Heav'n and Law had justified their cause, 
 And sent them home with honour and applause, 
 
22 EPISTLE TO A LAUGHTER. 
 
 In spite of all that malice could devise 
 
 To drive and keep them from thy longing eyes ; 
 
 More joy in this to find them thus reliev'd, 
 
 Than if thou ne'er hadst for their absence griev'd : 
 
 And such, in God's good time, thy joy shall be 
 
 To find this absent child restor'd to thee, 
 
 And thee again to him, no more to part — 
 
 No separation more to thrill the heart. 
 
 Thy heart, poor ! Poor has been thy life 
 
 From new-born infant up to married wife, 
 
 Ere yet three suns had warm'd thy tender form^ 
 
 Ere yet thy mother had got o'er her storm, 
 
 A band of armed ruffians round the bed 
 
 Where child and mother were together laid, 
 
 Thy father seized in silent hour of night, 
 
 Thy mother trembling and half-kill' d with fright, 
 
 And thou, sweet babe, with many a whimpering cry, 
 
 Uncared for, and neglected, forced to lie ; 
 
 Thy maiden years with weakness often vext, 
 
 Thy married state with toils and cares perplext, 
 
 Yet cheerful under all and still content, 
 
 Without envying, and without complaint, 
 
 Resigned to God, and pleased with all His ways ; 
 
 'Tis He sustains thee — His be all the praise. 
 
 ! may we all at labt be called to meet 
 In heavenly mansions at our Saviour's feet, 
 
EPISTLE TO A DAUGHTER. 2o 
 
 Thyself, thy husband, parents, boys, and all, 
 With church trumphant at th' enliv'ning call, 
 Purg'd from the stains and sorrows of this earth, 
 And by grace fitted for celestial mirth, 
 Where no insulting foe can dash our joy, 
 No rotten- hearted friend our peace annoy ; 
 But all with love and harmony abound, 
 Combining all in one melodious sound 
 Of tuneful song, with raptures to adore 
 The great Preparer of eternal store, 
 Through endless ages of — one evermore ! 
 
 Take this and keep it, till gray hairs come on — 
 'Twill mind thee of thy father when he's gone. 
 
THE OWL AND THE ASS, 
 
 AJSt INNOCENT FABLE. 
 
 O^ce on a time, no matter when, 
 
 Nor under what a king, 
 But so it was, in yonder wood,v 
 
 An Owl began to sing ; 
 
 With phiz so grave, and whoop so loud, 
 
 He made a learned din, 
 And all the burden of his song 
 
 Was " ! the light within ! 
 
 "This inward light, this jewel hid, 
 
 u Is all in all to me, 
 11 By it I know, I judge, and act, 
 
 " Nor would I wish to see. 
 
 " What blockheads call external guides, 
 
 " I'm wiser far without, 
 " And had I eyes, as others have, 
 
 " I'd surely pluck them out. 
 
TIIE OWL ANT) THE ASS, 25 
 
 11 No foreign help do I require, 
 
 " To guide my flights of youth, 
 1 ' For common sense is all I need 
 
 11 To lead me into truth. 
 
 i( When in self -cogitation wrapt, 
 
 " I use my Light innate, 
 " 'Tis then I search th* eternal laws 
 
 " Of nature and of fate. 
 
 " Your outward light may be of use 
 
 11 To yonder herd of fools, 
 " The light within is what directs 
 
 " Philosophers and owls." 
 
 An Ass, who long had been his friend, 
 
 Pricks up his leathern ears, 
 And gapes and swallows every note, 
 
 Like music of the spheres. 
 
 " So sweet a song so wondrous sweet, 
 
 " Was ever such a strain ? 
 " And ! my dearest Doctor Owl, 
 
 " Repeat it o'er again !" 
 
 Charm' d with the sound of booby's praise, 
 
 The self-taught Sage agrees, 
 And makes additions here and there 
 
 A second time to please, 
 
26 THE OWL AND THE ASS. 
 
 Then o'er and o'er like minstrels meet. 
 
 They both in concert act, 
 And what the one demurely sings, 
 
 The other echoes back, 
 
 And now the Ass is qualified 
 To play the Teacher's part, 
 
 Till every ass in yonder wood 
 Has got the song by heart. 
 
 [Some silly remarks on the foregoing, having appeared in the Newspapers, under 
 the mask of "A Scampering Wolf," produced the following appro- 
 priate reply.] 
 
 How must fair vScience now revive, 
 
 And Truth lift up her head, 
 When owls thus sing, and asses learn, 
 
 And wolves vouchsafe to read ? 
 
 That birds and beasts in old times spoke, 
 
 We know from iEsop's page, 
 But never one essay'd to read, 
 
 Till this enlightened age. 
 
 Thrice happy age above what has 
 
 In former ages been, 
 And blest the land, above all lands, 
 
 Where such rare sights are seen. 
 
THE OWL AM) THE ASS. 27 
 
 Philosophy shall surely now 
 
 Her blossoms wide expand, 
 And good old heathen wisdom shed 
 
 Her blessings o'er the land. 
 
 Long therefore may Minerva's bird 
 
 Possess unrivall'd fame, 
 And long may all the long -ear' d tribe 
 
 Their praises loud proclaim ! 
 
 And ! that every " Scampering Wolf" 
 
 Would thus employ his time, 
 To li sport himself with paper scraps" 
 
 And snarl in harmless rhvme. 
 
ON BURNS' ADDRESS TO A LOUSE. 
 / 
 
 These verses were written at the suggestion of a lady who did not like Burns 
 address to the "crawlin ferlie" which he saw on a lady's bonnet in 
 the church of Mauchline. 
 
 A Lousie on a lady's bonnet ! 
 Disgracefu' dirgy ! fie upon it ! 
 An' you, forsooth, to write a sonnet 
 
 On sic a theme ! 
 Guid fa' me, man, I wad na done it 
 
 For a' your fame. 
 
 Nae doubt your ballad's wise and witty ; 
 But fowks will say it was na pretty 
 To yoke sic twa in conjunct ditty, 
 
 Them baith to hit ; 
 And ca' you but a twa-fac'd nitty, 
 
 Wi' a' your wit. 
 
 For a' your being a bard of note, 
 Ye shou'd na minded sic a mote, 
 To mak' a warl's wonner o't, 
 
 As ye hae dane ; 
 But past it for an orra spot, 
 
 Whare't shou'd na bren. 
 
ON BURNS' ADDRESS TO A LOUSE. 
 
 Your philosophic fitty fies, 
 Tho' clad in sweet poetic guise, 
 The ladies will them a' despise, 
 
 Gin ye express 
 The least rebaghle ony wise 
 
 Upo' their dress. 
 
 When ye bemoan' d the herryt mousie, 
 Panning as gin't had been frae pousie ; 
 When couter-nib down-stroy'c 1 her housie, 
 
 Ye pleas' d us a' ; 
 But thus to lilt about a lousie, 
 
 Black be your fa' ! 
 
 Wnat tho' at godly Ayrshire meeting, 
 Sic thing had happened past dispeeting, 
 Was that eneugh to fa' a writing 
 
 About a story, 
 That ladies canna hear repeating 
 
 Wi' ony glory ? 
 
 Its nae mows matter, man, to jibe, 
 Your jeer-cuts at the sweet-fac'd tribe ; 
 Their charms will ay some body bribe 
 
 To tak' side wi' them, 
 Whan ehiels like you set up to scribe 
 
 O'er freely o' them. 
 
30 OX ErRXS' ADDRESS TO A LOTTIE, 
 
 The bonny Duchess, seil upon her ! 
 That's heez'd you up to a' your honour, 
 And been to you sae braw a Donor, 
 
 May say " what raiks !" 
 And think ye've flung some wee dishonour 
 
 At a' the sex. 
 
 Fouk wad do well to steek their een, 
 At sights that shou'd na a' be seen, 
 Or whan they see, lat jokes alane, 
 
 Gin they had sense ; 
 For little jokes hae aften gi'en 
 
 Fell great offence. 
 
 I'se warran' ye hae read or heard, 
 Of an aid hairuni-skairum bard, 
 Saw anes a sight was as ill-fawrd,t 
 
 As your's cou'd be ; 
 An for his sight got sma' reward, 
 
 And sae may ye. 
 
 Sae, Robie Bttexs, tak' tent in time, 
 And keep mair haivins wi' your rhyme, 
 Else you may come to rue the crime 
 
 0' sic a sonnet, 
 And wiss ye had ne'er seen a styme 
 
 0' Louse nor Bonnet. 
 
 fOvid. 
 
LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 The following was written, probably in 1765, on giving up the farm of Mains of 
 Ludquharn, near Longside, which Mr Skinner held of the Karl of 
 Errol for several years. 
 
 You ask, my friend, whence comes this sudden flight 
 Of parting thus with husbandry outright ? 
 "What mean I by so strange a foolish whim, 
 Am I in earnest, or think you I but dream ? 
 True, you may think so, but suspend, I pray, 
 Your judgment, till you hear what I can say, 
 
 I join with you that there is no great harm 
 In clergy-folks to hold a little farm. 
 
 But poverty's the scourge, and I can tell, 
 As dire a scourge as any out of Hell : 
 The farm indeed can furnish malt and meal, 
 But gentrj- must have more than cakes and ale. 
 There's wife, and sons, and daughters to maintain, 
 Sons must be bred, and daughters will be vain, 
 What signifies, that they can knit or spin? 
 There's twenty needs for all that they can win. 
 Thus one needs this, another she needs that, 
 Ribbons, and gloves, and lace, and God knows what. 
 As far as their own penny goes they pay, 
 When that is spent, they then must take a day, 
 
 II Papa will clear' t ;" they have no more to say, 
 
32 LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 You can't imagine how much I'm distrest, 
 There's not a day that I enjoy rest: 
 Except on that blest day the first in seven, 
 That day appointed, as it was in Heaven ! 
 Then I'm myself : For when the gown goes on, 
 I'm no more Farmer, than, but Pres'ter John. 
 The folks with pleasure hear me sermonize, 
 And once a week I'm reckon' d learn' d and wise ; 
 The pulpit brings me into people's favours, 
 And Sunday screens from creditors and cravers : 
 But Monday comes, of course, and then begins 
 A new week's penance for the last week's sins. 
 The mistress takes the morning by the top, 
 She must have tea and sugar, starch and soap, 
 Candles and hops, all which are now so dear, 
 I answer nothing, but am forc'd to hear. 
 
 In comes the ploughman with important brow, 
 " Well, Thomas lad, and what would you say now ?" 
 " We're out of iron, the horses must be shod, 
 " The coulter needs a lay :" — " That's very odd ; 
 " Go to the merchant" — " He has none come home," 
 (I know the cause, but must conceal't from Tom,) 
 " Why, then, we'll get it somewhere else."-* i That's true, 
 " The pleugh needs clai thing and must have it new, 
 " We cannot do without a foremost yoke, 
 " And t'other day the meikle stilt was broke." 
 " Well I shall see about it." — Tom goes out, 
 And I get clear of him for once about. 
 
LETTER TO A FRIEND. 33 
 
 There's one knocks — " Is the minister within ?" 
 The servant answers " yes," and he comes in : 
 " Well, John, I'm glad to see you ; howxT ye do P" 
 U [I tbank you, Parson, how goes all with you ?" 
 " Sit do wn ! what news ?" — "Not much, the times are hard : 
 (I know what's coming now, and am prepar'd,) 
 11 I've got a rub, I ne'er got any such." 
 " I'm sorry for't, but hope it is not much." 
 " Why, faith, a great deal, forty pounds and more, 
 
 I can assure you, will not clear the score : " 
 
 II What way ?" — " By that damn'd rascal, Duncan Aire. 
 Losses like this must soon make merchants bare, 
 
 And force them many times to seek their own, 
 
 Sooner than otherwise they would have done." 
 
 " Afflictions, John, you know will always be, — " 
 
 11 The little trifle, Sir, 'twixt you and me," 
 
 " Betty, bring in a drink — here's to you, John," 
 
 " Your good health, Parson," drinks and then goes on : 
 
 I study all I can to ward the blow, 
 
 And try to shift the subject, but no — no ; 
 
 What can I do, but tell how matters stand ; 
 
 u I cannot pay you, — money's not at hand, 
 
 As soon's I can I'll do't," — John in a huff, 
 
 Says, "Parson, fare ye well" — and so walks off. 
 
 Now I expect some ease, when, in a crack, 
 In comes a note, with Reverence on the back : 
 c 
 
34 LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 " Sir, times are bad, I know not what to do, 
 I'm in a strait, else had not troubled yon, 
 Have sent you your account, which please peruse, 
 Errors excepted — hopes your kind excuse. 
 A draught conies on me, money must be got, 
 And I'll be ruined, if you send it not ; 
 At any other time you may command, 
 And shall be serv'd with what I have in hand, 
 So, Sir, no more at present, but remains." 
 This must be answered, so I rack my brains, 
 And fall to work, part argue, partly flatter, ' 
 Be't taken well or ill makes little matter ; 
 Debtors must still be dungeons of good nature. 
 My Lord's officer comes next, with " Sir, I'm sent, 
 To warn you in to pay the Whitsun' rent : 
 The factor's angry, and bade tell you so, 
 That you're so long in paying what you owe, 
 Expects you will with speed provide the sum, 
 And be more punctual in time to come :" 
 I hing my head betwixt chagrin and awe, 
 For officers, you know, are limbs of law. 
 
 Thus farm and house demands come on together, 
 Both must be answer'd, I can answer neither ; 
 I put them off till Lammas, Lammas comes, 
 Our vestry meets, and I get in my sums ; 
 The half year's stipend makes a pretty show, 
 But twenty ways poor fifteen pounds must go : 
 
LETTER TO A FRIEND. 35 
 
 Scarce one night does it in my coffers stay, 
 
 Like Jonah's gourd that wither' d in a day ; 
 
 First come, first serv'd with me, is still the way ; 
 
 Then for my Lord, whatever comes to pass, 
 
 My Lord must even wait till Martinmas : 
 
 Well, Martinmas a few weeks hence comes on, 
 
 As certainly it will : what's to he done ? 
 
 Shoemakers, tailors, butchers, to he paid, 
 
 For shoes, and clothes, and meat, must all he had: 
 
 There's servants' fees, and forty things beside ; 
 
 How then can fifteen pounds so far divide? 
 
 Why ! we'll set through, and try another year, 
 
 The worst is but the worst, let's never fear ; 
 
 My Lord, God bless him, is a gracious man, 
 
 And he can want awhile, if any can ; 
 
 We'll sell some meal, perhaps, or spare a cow ; 
 
 But what will be the case, if that wont do : 
 
 Why then I'll borrow ! I have many a friend, 
 
 There's such and such a one, all rich, and surely kind 5 
 
 Well they're applied to, and behold the end : 
 
 They all condole indeed, but cannot lend ; 
 
 They're griev'd to see the minister in strait, 
 
 And fain would help him, but I come too late. 
 
 And, after trying every shift in vain, 
 
 The old distressful life returns again. 
 
 Would any friend advise me thus to bear 
 
 Repeated strokes like these, from year to year ? 
 
36 LETTEK TO A FRIEND. 
 
 No ! th' event, be what it will, prepared am I, 
 And now resolv'd another course to try : 
 Sell corn and cattle off; pay every man; 
 Gret free of debt and duns as fast's I can : 
 Give up the farm with all its wants, and then, 
 Why even take me to the book and pen, 
 The fittest trade I find, for clergymen. 
 
EPISTLE TO CAPTAIN ROBERT BAIGRIE, 
 
 Captain Baigrie, who had been an early and intimate friend of the Author, and 
 a frequent visitor at Linshart, from being a Jamaica shipmaster became 
 a farmer. He was for some time in Mill of Rora in the vicinity of 
 Longside, but afterwards removed to Sutherlandshire. 
 
 " Ay, ay, what's this ?" I ken you'll say, 
 " And whare comes this epistle frae ?" 
 Forsooth, it conies frae Linshart brae, 
 
 Whare anes we twa 
 Us'd to be merry mony a day : 
 
 But that's awa'. 
 
 I want to crack a touchie wi' you, 
 Since now I've little chance to see you, 
 It's a' the guid that I can do you 
 
 To wiss you weel, 
 And pray the Lord may ever gie you, 
 
 Baith hae and heal ! 
 
 Ye've ta'en a jump leuks right gigantic, 
 To norland hills frae gulf Atlantic ; 
 And fowk may think ye some wee frantic, 
 
 In sic a lowp ; 
 But tarry breeks was ay romantic, 
 
 And lykit scowp. 
 
38 EPISTLE TO CAPTAIN BAGRIE. 
 
 Better, ye'll say, be telling tales 
 Aneath a reef o' highland dales, 
 Or greeving follows at their flails, 
 
 In barns weel thackit, 
 Than hoize and furl at flappin' sails 
 
 "Wi* droukit jacket. 
 
 I doubt na, whan ye steer' d your ship, 
 The bleed has aft gane frae your lip, 
 Now ye may lie upo' your hip, 
 
 And tak' your ease ; 
 Or thro' the hills a huntin' skip 
 
 As far's you please. 
 
 Your hawsers and your fleeand sheets, 
 Ye've turn'd them into sowms and theets, 
 An' a' your sough o' sonsie fleets, 
 
 An' shippin' news, 
 Is fawin awa' to coupin breets, 
 
 An' trailin pleughs. 
 
 Yet mony a risk's in farmin'-wark, 
 Tho' pleugh, and purse, and a' be stark, 
 It's but like rinnin' i' the dark, 
 
 Whare mony ane 
 Has run fou sair and mist their mark, 
 
 When a' was dane. 
 
EPISTLE TO CAPTAIN BAGKIE. 39 
 
 I wadna hae ye o'er soon boast, 
 
 Or count your winnin's by your cost, 
 
 A dreel o' wind, or nip o' frost, 
 
 Or some sic flap, 
 Has aft the farmer's prospects croat, 
 
 And fell'd the crap. 
 
 Sae live at land's ye did at sea, 
 Uncertain now what neist may be, 
 There's naething sure to you nor me, 
 
 Aneath the meen, 
 But that we baith sometime maun die, 
 
 Lord kens how sein ! 
 
 Nae doubt your schemes may right weel wirk, 
 'Mang girssy glens and braes o' birk, 
 Wi' mony a staig, and mony a stirk, 
 
 An' fowth o' gear ; 
 But what comes o' ye for a Kirk, 
 
 Gin I might speir ? 
 
 I've spoken to a frien' o' mine, 
 An 'onest aefauld soun' divine, 
 Gin he cou'd sometimes wi' you dine, 
 
 Ye've seen the man, 
 And do't he will, I ken his stryne, 
 
 As far's he can. 
 
40 EPISTLE TO CAPTAIX BAGKRIE. 
 
 Be that as't may, keep true and tight, 
 To what ye ken to be the right, 
 An' whare ye hae na best o' light, 
 
 Tak' what ye hae, 
 But dinna turn a graceless wight, 
 
 For ony say. 
 
 Xow binna say in' I'm ill bread, 
 Else o' my troth, I'll no be glad, 
 For cadgers, ye hae heard it said, 
 
 And sic like fry, 
 Maun ay be harlin in their trade, 
 
 An sae maun I. 
 
 An' yet I wad on nae pretence, 
 Incline to gie a frien' offence, 
 Xor wad I had sae little mense, 
 
 As gane sae far, 
 Had ye not been the lad o' sense, 
 
 I'm seer ye are. 
 
 Ye ken or e'er ye got a frock, 
 I took you in to my sma' flock, 
 An' ye and I have had a trock 
 
 This forty year, 
 Sae what I gab in sooth or joke, 
 
 Ye e'en maun bear. 
 
EPISTLE TO CAPTAIN BA&BIE. 41 
 
 My love to a' about Midgairty, 
 To Menie, Bob, and bonny Bertie, 
 I hope ye fin't as braw a pairtie 
 
 As mill o' Rora, 
 Lang may ye a' keep haill and hairtie, 
 
 An' free o' sorrow. 
 
 Now, Robie, fareweel for a time, 
 My muse ye see's nae way sublime, 
 But's rattled out a leash o' rhyme, 
 
 Sic as was in her, 
 An' a' to tell you just that I'm 
 
 Your frien', John Skinner. 
 
TO A YOUNG BOOKSELLEB. 
 
 I got your letter, honest cock, 
 
 And thank you for your kindly joke ; 
 
 But d'ye think a saughin block 
 
 The like o' me, 
 Can furnish out a decent stock 
 
 0' poetrie ? 
 
 "Wad ye hae me be sic a fiel, 
 As gin I were but at the skuil, 
 To gather ilka rhyme or reel 
 
 That I hae scrawl'd, 
 An' gie them out to ony chiel, 
 
 Tobeo'erhawl'd? 
 
 Na, na, my lad, that winna do, 
 
 I ken the warld better now ; 
 
 "Whan I was young and daft like you 
 
 It might hae dane, 
 But near threescore wad best I trow, 
 
 Lat them alane. 
 
TO A YOUNG BOOKSELLER. 43 
 
 Besides, I'm tauld, the singin' Lasses, 
 That heft sae aft about Parnassus, 
 Were never fond o' sober asses, 
 
 That cou'd na drink 
 A score or twa o' bumper glasses, 
 
 To mend their clink. 
 
 Your buoks that birl the forain berry, 
 Claret, and port, and sack, and sherry, 
 Or ev'n as muckle English perry 
 
 As they can draw ; 
 I dinna mein them to be merry, 
 
 And lilt awa\ 
 
 But that camsteary — what-d'ye-caw't ? 
 (I think it's genius, walie fa't,) 
 That helps the Poet to create 
 
 Baith form and matter, 
 Will never dreep frae draffy mawt, 
 
 Or bare spring water. 
 
 An' then there's that ill hadden ghaist, 
 That Gerard has sae finely grac'd 
 Wi' stately stile, and ca't her " Taste" 
 
 A pox upon her, 
 She winna let a poor auld Priest 
 
 Grain muckle honour. 
 
44 TO A YOUNG BOOKSELLEK. 
 
 3iow baith o' them's aboon my reach, 
 For a' that I can fraise or neitch, 
 What tho' fowk says that 1 can preach. 
 
 Nae that dein ill, 
 I tell you, man, I hae na speech 
 
 For critics' skill. 
 
 It's them that neys me wi' their taws, 
 Their cankart cuffs, and whitty whaws, 
 An' troth the carlies might hae cause, 
 
 To curse and bann, 
 Gin I were ane that sought applause 
 
 Frae ony man. 
 
 But now and then to spin a line 
 Or twa, nor fash the tunefu' nine ; 
 I'm seir, there's nae man needs repine, 
 
 Whae'er he be, 
 Critic, or bard, o' hamil kine,. 
 
 Or high degree. 
 
 Yet after a' I'm unco' sweir 
 To lat you print the idle geir 
 That I've made up this forty year, 
 
 And some guid mair, 
 Ye wadna clear the cost, I fear, 
 
 Wi' a' the ware. 
 
TO A YOUNG BOOKSELLER. 45 
 
 But, may be, gin I live as lang, 
 
 As nae to fear the chirmin chang 
 
 Of Grosses grave, that think me wrang, 
 
 And even say't, 
 I may consent to lat them gang, 
 
 And tak' their fate. 
 
 Remember me to a' yonr frien's, 
 The lads like you that lie their lanes, 
 And them that's gotten bonny Jeans 
 
 To lie aside them, 
 Lang may they fitt the causey stanes, 
 
 An' guid betide them ! 
 
TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN. 
 
 The young Clergyman, to whom these sympathetic lines were addressed, was 
 the late Bishop Torry, for many years Incumbent of Peterhead. 
 They were written at his own suggestion on the death of his mother 
 and a brother, who were crushed by the sudden fall of their dwel- 
 ling-house. 
 
 How hard, Lorenzo, is the boon yon ask, 
 
 And how unequal I to snch a task ? 
 
 I, whose weak mnse, borne down with weight of years, 
 
 O'er common griefs might shed some tender tears, 
 
 But finds her powers of lamentation fail, 
 
 And sinks and sickens at thy doleful tale ? 
 
 A Mother ! (ah, the venerable name, 
 Which my young lips were never taught to frame,) 
 She, whose warm bowels form'd thy infant span, 
 Whose tenderest watchings nurs'd thee up to man, 
 She, earthly image of the highest love, 
 "Which ev'n the yearnings of a God could move ! * 
 
 A Brother, too ! the next congenial tie 
 Of strongest force in nature's symmetry ! 
 Thy partner thro' a course of prattling years, 
 In all youth's fondnesses, and all its fears! 
 Both in a moment robb'd of vital breath, 
 And quick and sudden hurry' d into death ! 
 
TO A YOUNG CLERGYMAN. 47 
 
 No hasty fever, no slow pae'd decay, 
 To snatch the young, or wear the old away ; 
 The humble cot, which, for convenience rear'd, 
 Harbour' d no mischief, and no danger fear'd, 
 "Where, by the cheerful fire in peace secure, 
 They now had spent the pleasant evening hour, 
 Crush' d all at once by one stupendous shock 
 Of tumbling rubbish from th' impending rock ! 
 No sturdy pillars to support the weight 
 Of such a burthen, thrown from such a height ; 
 The unsuspecting victims, half undrest, 
 In preparation for a sweet night's rest ; 
 No boding omen heard, no warning giv'n, 
 No time to lift their souls and eyes to heav'n ; 
 Bury'd beneath th' enormous mass all round, 
 And breathing, tomb'd in dust above the ground ; 
 Their shatter' d limbs all into atoms crash' d, 
 And bones and bowels to one chaos dash'd! ! 
 
 But why attempt description ? words are vain ! 
 The dreadful ruin mocks my languid strain — 
 And does my friend need counsel how to bear 
 This wound so piercing — stroke indeed severe ; 
 Then think on what thy hoary sire must feel, 
 (For sure thy sire had not a heart of steel) 
 "When by next dawn return' d from distant toil, 
 In hopes of welcome from thy mother's smile, 
 He saw, and star'd, and gaz'd at this and that, 
 And hop'd, and fear'd, and wish'd he knew not what ? 
 
48 TO A YOUNG CLEEGYMAN, 
 
 'Till, like a voice, he heard from menial maid, 
 With wife and son in dire sepulchre laid, 
 Who ten long hours had groan'd an age of pain, 
 And just expiring, breath'd the how and when. 
 Now view him in a gulph of horror cast, 
 His heart-strings breaking, and his eyes aghast, 
 Like pictur'd patience, all benumb'd he stands, 
 And tries to lift, but drops his trembling hands ; 
 No groan his heart emits, his eye no tear — 
 G-ood heaven ! what more can mortals suffer here ? 
 
 'Tis this, you say, that aggravates the smart, 
 'Tis this that doubly rends the filial heart. 
 True, unfledg'd sufferer, thou hast much to do, 
 To act the Son, and shine the Christian too : 
 Insensible to this what heart can be, 
 Not form'd of marble, or hewn out of tree ? 
 Lorenzo's heart, tho' cut, must not repine 
 At what, it knows, comes from a hand divine ; 
 But strive in due submission to comply, 
 Nor boldly dare to guess the reason why. 
 The philosophic sage, from self's proud school, 
 May act, or feign to act, th' heroic fool : 
 At nature's feelings may pretend to mock, 
 And wisely sullen stand th' appalling shock. 
 The heav'n-taught Christian may, and must do more, 
 May grieve from nature, must from grace adore ; 
 Adore the love of ev'n a chast'ning God, 
 And kiss the gracious hand that wields the rod. 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY FARMER, 
 
 What ! shall my rural muse in feeble strain 
 
 Of pompous deaths and titled woes complain, 
 
 And shall she he asham'd to drop a tear 
 
 In public, o'er a worthy Farmer's bier ? 
 
 A Farmer ! name of universal praise, 
 
 And noble subject for the poet's lays : 
 
 This one, a Farmer of superior mind, 
 
 For higher spheres from early love designed, 
 
 Taught to converse with men of rank and note, 
 
 Yet stooping to adorn the rural cot ; 
 
 There, calm and quiet in his humble state, 
 
 Lov'd by the good, and valu'd by the great, 
 
 Disdaining flattery, yet without offence, 
 
 The man of manners, virtue, grace, and sense. 
 
 In agriculture's wide extended tract, 
 
 Skill'd and instructive, punctual and exact, 
 
 Prudent from principle in every part, 
 
 Which or concerns the head, or moves the heart, 
 
 To God religious, to his neighbour just, 
 
 And strictly honest in each branch of trust ; 
 
 Ne'er jarring from himself, but still the same, 
 
 Olear in his thoughts and steady in his aim 
 
 D 
 
50 TO THE MEMORY OF A WOBTHY FAEMEK* 
 
 In speech engaging and in taste refin'd, 
 
 The Farmer's pattern, and the scholar's friend. 
 
 To such a Farmer surely praise is due, 
 
 And all who knew him can declare it true, 
 
 Can tell how uniform o'er life's vain stage 
 
 He stept in virtue's paths to good old age. 
 
 Fair was his life, and blest, we hope, his end ; 
 
 To each good man may Heav'n such mercy send ! 
 
 Asks any reader who this man could be, 
 
 So much esteem' d by all, and prais'd by me : 
 
 Know, honest friend, that in thy way to fame, 
 
 A Farmer's footsteps do thy notice claim, 
 
 And James Arbtjthnot was that Farmer's name, 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN 
 
 WHO DIED OF TIIE SMALL POX. 
 
 'Twas winter, and the sickly sun was low, 
 Thro' yonder fields I took my lonely way ; 
 
 Musing on many a gloomy scene of woe, 
 As oft I wont in evening calm to stray. 
 
 With languid step, advancing I perceiv'd 
 
 A passenger of aspect pale and wan ; 
 With frequent sighs his labouring bosom heav'd, 
 
 And down his cheek the briny torrent ran. 
 
 " What ails thee, friend ?" I ask'd in pitying tone 
 
 Of sympathetic mood to speak relief 
 " Say, what's the cause that makes thee thus to moan, 
 
 And why thy visage pictur'd thus with grief?" 
 
 " Shall I not moan ?" the stranger sad reply'd, 
 " And thus in sighs my inward grief express ? 
 
 How can my troubled heart its sorrows hide ? 
 My melting soul conceal its deep distress ? 
 
 " Last week a darling brother was my boast, 
 The last born product of my mother's womb ; 
 
 This darling brother t'other day I lost, 
 To day I laid him in the silent tomb. 
 
52 TO THE MEMOKY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Meek his deportment, and his manners mild, 
 In all his carriage undisguis'd and plain ; 
 
 As virgin chaste, and soft as new born child, 
 Comely his features, and his look serene. 
 
 " Steady in principle, and in practice pure, 
 
 With modesty and manly sense endued ; 
 His honest heart from vanity secure, 
 
 The paths of vice with just abhorrence view'd, 
 
 " ISTot poorly mean, nor anxious to be great, 
 His mind tho' lofty, and his genius bright ; 
 
 Yet pleas' d and happy in his humble state, 
 And Music, heavenly gift, his dear delight ! 
 
 11 How gracefully, amidst th' applauding ring, 
 His well taught fingers mov'd the lyre along ; 
 
 Whether to mirth he briskly struck the string, 
 Or on soft psalt'ry touch'd the sacred song ! 
 
 " Oft have I seen, when jocund friends were met, 
 In summer's evenings or hj winter's fire ; 
 
 The listening choir in emulation set ! 
 What tongue should most th' enchanting youth admire 
 
 4 ' But now no more his notes shall charm the fair, 
 No more his Numbers soothe th' attentive Swain, 
 
 With Tullochgorum's dance-inspiring air, 
 Or Roslin-oastle's sweet, but solemn strain. 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN. 53 
 
 " In early dawn of merit and of fame, 
 
 To wish'd-for health, from sickness just restored ; 
 
 The loathsome pustules seiz'd his tender frame, 
 And sudden gave the stroke that's now deplor'd ! 
 
 " 'Tis this that grieves me, — this the loss I mourn, 
 
 Excuse a sorrowing brother's heavy tale ; 
 No more shall he to earth and me return, 
 
 Nor sighs, nor tears, nor love, can now prevail !" 
 
 He stopt, the tears again began to flow, 
 
 And sigh on sigh burst from his throbbing breast ; 
 
 My feeling heart soon catch'd the poor man's woe, 
 And soon mjL eye the rising tear confest. 
 
 " Dear youth," I cry'd, " whom heav'n has call'd away, 
 'Midst early innocence from this vain stage ; 
 
 Safe now, we hope, in fields of endless day, 
 Above the follies of a sinful age ! 
 
 " In these bright regions fill'd with many a Saint, 
 Sweet be thy rest, and blest thy wakening be ! 
 
 And may kind Heav'n at last in mercy grant 
 A happy meeting to thy friends and thee ! " 
 
A MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION 
 
 And is she gone, the once so lovely maid, 
 Gone hence, and now a dear departed shade ! 
 Snatch'd from this world in early dawn of life, 
 "When but beginning to be call'd a wife ? 
 
 Ye virgin tribe, whom chance may lead this way « 
 Where brightest beauty moulders into clay, 
 Behold this stone, nor be asham'd to mourn, 
 A while o'er Maey Alexander's urn — 
 Then pause a little, while these lines you read, 
 And learn to draw instruction from the dead — 
 She, who lies here, was once lik© one of you, 
 Youthful and blyth, and fair, as you are now : 
 One week beheld her a bright blooming bride, 
 In marriage pomp laid by her lover's side ; 
 The next we saw her in death's livery drest, 
 And brought her breathless body here to rest. 
 Not all this world's gay hopes, nor present charms. 
 Nor parents tears, nor a fond husband's arms, 
 Could stamp the least impression on her mind, 
 Or fix to earth a soul for heav'n design'd ; 
 Calmly she left a scene so lately try'd, 
 Heav'n call'd her hence, with pleasure she complied, 
 Embrac'd her sorrowing friends, then smil'd — and dy'd, 
 
ON A FARMER'S GRAVESTONE. 
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD OF LONGSIDE. 
 
 Here lies, consign'd a while to promis'd rest, 
 
 In hopes to rise again among the blest, 
 
 The precious dust of one, whose course of life 
 
 Knew neither fraud, hypocrisy, nor strife : 
 
 A Husband loving, and of gentle mind ; 
 
 A Father careful, provident and kind ; 
 
 A Farmer active, from no sordid view ; 
 
 A Christian pious, regular, and true : 
 
 One who, in quiet, trod the private stage 
 
 Of rural labour, to a ripe old age. 
 
 Lov'd by his neighbours, honour' d by his own ; 
 
 Liv'd without spot, and died without a groan. 
 
 Long may his humble virtues be rever'd ; 
 Long be his name remember' d with regard ; 
 And long may Agriculture's school produce 
 Such honest men as Alexander Bruce. 
 
 Si musa3 fas sit pietatis pangere laudes, 
 Quid vetat Agricolas commemorasse pios ? 
 
TO THE AUTHOR'S GRANDSON, 
 
 ON HIS MARRIAGE AT FORFAR, ATOF/ST 19, 1798. 
 
 Oxe trifling sixpence more, dear Forfar John, 
 
 To pay for this poor scrawl, and I have done. 
 
 The subject opens up a brilliant scene, 
 
 And calls for something from my rustic pen : 
 
 But don't expect a flow of warbling lays 
 
 To charm your ear, or chant your Fair-one's praise, 
 
 Unfit for such a task, my torpid muse, 
 
 "Were I to ask it, would the task refuse, 
 
 Nor venture to debase the theme sublime 
 
 "With fustian stanzas of Paganic rhyme. 
 
 My brink of eighty wears a frozen hue, 
 
 Too sable for the charms of such a view : 
 
 Yet, old and languid, I remember well, 
 
 With pleasing retrospect what you now feel ; . ^ 
 
 And can, on memory's chart, the beauties trace 
 
 Of my once blooming, now decrepit, Grace, 
 
 Tottering tho' both with age, yet both uncloy'd 
 
 "With sweets thro' Fifty- Se vex long years enjoy'd. 
 
 The rapt' ro us flush of youth not folly gone, 
 
 But into solid friendship mellow' d down, 
 
TO THE AUTHOR* S GltANDSO>\ 57 
 
 Such be my Reverend Grandson's future lot 
 In brighter life, and line of higher note. 
 Then let me, thus in low, but friendly, strain, 
 Express my love, and your acceptance gain. 
 
 Long may you glad recall the happy hour 
 That join' d you, hand-in- hand to ***** *** 
 And gave you solace sweet of mortal life ! 
 A young, a lovely, and a virtuous wife, 
 To share your comforts, and to soothe your fears, 
 Your joy in youth, your stay in drooping years ; 
 A dear companion thro' the chequer' d path 
 That leads from marriage to the gate of death : 
 May you be long in one another blest 
 With love increasing to adorn the feast, — 
 The feast of matrimonial joys refin'd 
 By mutual sympathy of heart and mind, 
 With soft contentment, and abundance full 
 Of all that can delight the pious soul ! 
 And may fair branches, in succession, run 
 From your conjunction, as from ours have done, 
 With many a nourishing and fertile shoot, 
 Springing in order from the parent-root, 
 Till in decline of years, like mine, you see 
 Descendents down to third and fourth degree, 
 Spreading, some more, some less, their leaves abroad, 
 In Israel's peace, as promis'd by her God ! 
 
68 TO THE author's GKAJTBSOff. 
 
 Be this your conjunct state, on earth's vain stage. 
 Thro' bloom of youth-hood to the frowns of age, 
 Pleas' d with yourselves, and favourites of Heaven, 
 Your conduct worthy, and defects forgiven, 
 Ready, when call'd, together to remove, 
 By angels led to those blest seats above, 
 Where all is harmony, and all is love ! 
 
 Accipe, chare Nepos, tenuis pia vota Camaenae, 
 Nee sperne obscuri nubile munus Avi. 
 
I 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 TULLOCHQORUM. 
 
 This, as Burns' says, " the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw" vras suggested, 
 during a political dispute, by Mrs Montgomery, at whose house in the 
 village of Ellon, Aberdeenshire, Mr Skinner had been on a visit. It 
 was first printed in the Scots Weekly Magazine for April 1776, a con- 
 siderable time after the date of its composition. 
 
 Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd, 
 And lay your disputes all aside, 
 What signifies't for folks to chide 
 
 For what was done before them : 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree, 
 
 Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
 Whig and Tory all agree, 
 
 To drop their Whig-mig-morum 5 
 Let Whig and Tory all agree 
 To spend the night wi' mirth and glee. 
 And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me 
 
 The Reel 0' Tullochgorum, 
 
60 
 
 0' Tullochgorum' s my delight, 
 
 It gars us a' in ane unite, 
 
 And ony sumph that keeps a spite, 
 
 In conscience I abhor him : 
 For blyth and cheerie we'll be a', 
 
 Blyth and cheerie, blyth and cheerie, 
 Blyth and cheerie we! 11 be a', 
 And mak' a happy quorum ; 
 For blyth and cheerie we'll be a' 
 As lang as we hae breath to draw, 
 And dance till we be like to fa' 
 
 The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 
 
 What needs there be sae great a fraise 
 Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 
 I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys 
 
 For half a hunder score o' them ; . 
 They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
 
 Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, 
 Dowf and dowie at the best, 
 "Wi' a' their variorum ; 
 They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
 Their allegros and a' the rest, 
 They canna' please a Scottish taste 
 
 Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum. 
 
 Let warldly worms their minds oppress 
 Wi fears o' want and double cess, 
 
TULLOCHGORUM:. Gl 
 
 And sullen sots themsells distress 
 
 Wi' keeping up decorum : 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
 
 Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, 
 Sour and sulky shall we sit 
 Like old philosophorum ! 
 Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
 "Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, 
 Nor ever try to shake a fit 
 
 To th' Reel o' Tullochgorum ? 
 
 May choicest blessings aye attend 
 Each honest, open-hearted friend, 
 And calm and quiet be his end, 
 
 And a' that's good watch o'er him ; 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 
 Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, 
 Peace and plenty be his lot, 
 
 And dainties a great store o' them ; 
 May peace and plenty be his lot, 
 Unstain'd by any vicious spot, 
 And may he never want a groat, 
 
 That's fond o Tullochgorum ! 
 
 But for the sullen frumpish fool, 
 That loves to be oppression's tool, 
 May envy gnaw his rotten soul, 
 
 And discontent devour him ; 
 
62 
 
 TTJLLOCHGOKinrro 
 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 
 Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
 Dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 And nane say, wae's me for him 
 May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
 Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, 
 Wha e'er he be that winna dance 
 
 The Reel o' Tnllochgorum, 
 
JOHN 0' BADENYON. 
 
 1 This excellent song,'' says Burns, " is the composition of my worthy friend 
 old Skinner at Linahart.'' 
 
 When first I came to be a man 
 
 Of twenty years or so, 
 I thought myself a handsome youth, 
 
 And fain the world would know ; 
 In best attire I stept abroad, 
 
 With spirits brisk and gay, 
 And here and there and every where 
 
 Was like a morn in May ; 
 No care I had nor fear of want, 
 
 But rambled up and down, 
 And for a beau I might have past 
 
 In country or in town ; 
 I still was pleas'd where'er I went, 
 
 And when I was alone, 
 I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself 
 
 Wi' John o' Badenyon. 
 
 Now in the days of youthful prime 
 
 A mistress I must find, 
 For love, I heard, gave one an air 
 
 And ev'n improved the mind : 
 
64 
 
 JOHX O 7 BADEXYOX. 
 
 On Phillis fair above the rest 
 
 Kind fortune fixt my eyes, 
 Her piercing beauty struck my heart, 
 
 And she became my choice ; 
 To Cupid now with hearty prayer 
 
 I offer' d many a vow ; 
 And danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore, 
 
 As other lovers do ; 
 But, when at last I breath' d my name, 
 
 I found her cold as stone ; 
 I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 When love had thus my heart beguil'd 
 
 With foolish hopes and vain ; 
 To friendship' s port I steer'd my course, 
 
 And laugh' d at lovers' pain ; 
 A friend I got by lucky chance, 
 
 'Twas something like divine, 
 An honest friend's a precious gift, 
 
 And such a gift was mine ; 
 And now whatever might betide 
 
 A happy man was I, 
 In any strait I knew to whom 
 
 I freely might apply ; 
 A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; 
 
 He heard, and spurn' d my moan ; 
 I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
JOHN o' HAUENYOX. 65 
 
 Methought I should be wiser next 
 
 And would a patriot turn, 
 Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes, 
 
 And cry up Parson Home.* 
 Their manly spirit I admir'd, 
 
 And prais'd their noble zeal, 
 Who had with flaming tongue and pen 
 
 Maintain'd the public weel ; 
 But e'er a month or two had past, 
 
 I found myself betray' d, 
 'Twas self and. party after all, 
 
 For a' the stir they made ; 
 At last I saw the factious knaves 
 
 Insult the very throne, 
 I curs' d them a', and tun'd my pipe 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 What next to do I mus'd a while, 
 
 Still hoping to succeed, 
 I pitch' d on books for company 
 
 And gravely try'd to read : 
 I bought and borrowed every where 
 
 And study' d night and day, 
 Nor mist what dean or doctor wrote 
 
 That happen' d in my way ; 
 
 * This Song was composed when Wilkes, Home, &c, were making a noise 
 about liberty. 
 
JOIIX o' BADEN YOST, 
 
 Philosophy I now esteem'd - 
 
 The ornament of youth, 
 And carefully through, many a page 
 
 I hunted after truth, 
 A thousand various schemes I try'd, 
 
 And yet was pleas' d with none, 
 I threw them hy, and tun'd my pipe 
 
 To John o' Badenyon. 
 
 And now ye youngsters everywhere, 
 
 That wish to make a show, 
 Take heed in time, nor fondly hope 
 
 For happiness "below ; 
 What you may fancy pleasure here, 
 
 Is hut an empty name, 
 And girls, and friends, and books, and so, 
 
 You'll find them all the same ; 
 Then he advised and warning take 
 
 From such a man as me ; 
 I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal, 
 
 Nor one of high degree ; 
 You'll meet displeasure every where ; 
 
 Then do as I have done, 
 Ev'n tune your pipe and please yourselves 
 
 With John o' Badenvon. 
 
THE EWIE WP THE CROOKIT HORN. 
 
 This song was written to an old Highland reel tune at the request of Dr. Beattie 
 of Aberdeen about the time Mr Skinner occupied the farm of Mains 
 of Ludquharn. 
 
 Weke I but able to rehearse 
 My Ewie's praise in proper verse, 
 I'd sound it forth as loud and fierce 
 
 As ever piper's drone could blaw ; 
 The Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 Wha had kent her might hae sworn 
 Sic a Ewe was never born, 
 
 Hereabout nor far awa', 
 Sic a Ewe was never born, 
 
 Hereabout nor far awa', 
 
 I never needed tar nor keil 
 To mark here upo' hip or heel, 
 Her crookit horn did as weel 
 
 To ken her by amo' them a' ; 
 She never threaten' d scab nor rot, 
 But keepit aye her ain jog-trot, 
 Baith to the fauld and to the cot, 
 
 . "Was never sweir to lead nor caw, 
 Baith to the fauld and to the eot, &c. 
 
68 THE EWIE WI ? THE CEOOKIT HOE2T. 
 
 Cauld nor hunger never dang her, 
 Wind nor wet could never wrang her, 
 Anes she lay an ouk and langer 
 
 Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw 
 Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke, 
 And eat the kail for a' the tyke, 
 My Ewie never play'd the like, 
 
 But tyc'd ahout the harn wa' ; 
 My Ewie never play'd the like, &c. 
 
 A better or a thriftier beast, 
 
 Xae honest man could weel hae wist, 
 
 For, silly thing, she never mist, 
 
 To hae ilk' year a lamb or twa' ; 
 The first she had I gae to Jock, 
 To be to him a kind o' stock, 
 And now the laddie has a flock 
 
 0' mair nor thirty head ava' ; 
 And now the laddie has a flock, &c. 
 
 I lookit aye at even' for her, 
 
 Lest mishanter shou'd come o'er her, 
 
 Or the fowmart might devour her, 
 
 Gin the beastie bade awa ; 
 My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 Well deserved baith girse and corn, 
 Sic a Ewe was never born, 
 
 Hereabout nor far awa. 
 Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. 
 
THE EWIE Wl' THE CROOKIT HOKK. 
 
 Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, 
 (Wha can speak it without greeting ?) 
 A villain cam' when I was sleeping, 
 
 St a' my Ewie, horn and a' : 
 I sought her sair upo' the morn. 
 An down aneath a buss o' thorn 
 I got my Ewie's crookit horn, 
 
 But my Ewie was awa\ 
 I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c. 
 
 ! gin I had the loun that did it. 
 Sworn I have as well as said it, 
 Tho' a' the warld should forbid it, 
 
 I wad gie his neck a thra' : 
 
 1 never met wi' sic a turn, 
 As this sin ever I was born, 
 My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 
 Silly Ewie stown awa', 
 My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. 
 
 ! had she died o' crook or cauld, 
 As Ewies do when they grow auld, 
 It wad na been, by mony fauld, 
 
 Sae sair a heart to nane o's a' : 
 For a' the claith that we hae worn, 
 Frae her and her's sae aften shorn, 
 The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, 
 
 Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa'. 
 The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c. 
 
70 THE EWIE Wi' THE CROOKIT HOKPT. 
 
 But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, 
 Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, 
 I'm really fley't that our guidwife 
 
 Will never win aboon't ava : 
 ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 
 Call your muses up and mourn, 
 Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 
 
 Stown frae's, and fellt and a' ! 
 ^ Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. 
 
THE MARQUIS OF HUNTLY'S REEL, 
 
 In mentioning that the " Non-juring Clergyman at Linshart, near Peterhead,'' 
 composed this Song, Burns adds, " and what is of still more consequ- 
 ence, he is one of the worthiest of mankind." It was written to an 
 fcir, "The Marquis of Huntly's Reel,'' by William Marshall, butler to 
 the Duke of Gordon, a distinguished composer of Scottish airs, and 
 also eminent as a violinist. 
 
 Ttj^e your fiddles, tune them sweetly, 
 Play the Marquis' reel discreetly, 
 Here we are, a band completely 
 
 Fitted to be jolly. — 
 Come, my boys, blythe and gawcie, 
 Every youngster chuse his lassie, 
 Dance wi' life, and be not saucy, 
 
 Shy nor melancholy. 
 Come, my boys, &c. 
 
 Lay aside your sour grimaces, 
 Clouded brows, and drumly faces, 
 Look about, and see their Graces, 
 
 How they smile delighted ; 
 Now's the season to be merry, 
 Hang the thoughts of Charon's ferry, 
 Time enough to turn camsterry 
 
 When we're auld and doited, 
 2vow's the season, &c. 
 
72 
 
 Butler, put about the claret, 
 Thro 7 us a' divide and share it, 
 Gordon- Castle well can spare it, 
 
 It has claret plenty. 
 Wine's the true inspiring liquor, 
 Drany drink may please the Vicar, 
 When he grasps the foaming bicker, 
 
 Vicars are not dainty. 
 Wine's the true inspiring liquor, &c. 
 
 We'll extoll our noble Mastee, 
 Sprung from many a brave ancestor, — ■ 
 Heaven preserve him from disaster, 
 
 So we pray in duty. 
 Prosper, too, our pretty Duchess, 
 Safe from all distressful touches, 
 Keep her out of Pluto's clutches, 
 
 Long in health and beauty. 
 Prosper, too, our pretty Duchess, &c. 
 
 Angels guard their gallant boy, 
 Make him long his father's joy, 
 Sturdy, like the heir of Troy, 
 
 Stout and brisk and healthy. 
 Pallas, grant him every blessing, 
 Wit and strength and size increasing, 
 Plutus, what's in thy possessing, 
 
 Make him rich and wealthy. 
 Pallas, grant him every blessing, &c. 
 
IHE MARQUIS OF IIUXTLY'S KEEL. 
 
 Youth, solace him with thy pleasure, 
 In refin'd and worthy measure ; 
 Merit, gain him choicest treasure, 
 
 From the Royal donor. 
 Famous may he be in story, 
 Full of days, and full of glory, 
 To the grave, when old and hoary. 
 
 May he go with honour ! 
 Famous may he be in story, &c. 
 
 Gordons, join our hearty praises, 
 Honest, though in homely phrases, 
 Love our cheerful spirits raises, 
 
 Lofty as the lark is : 
 Echo, waft our wishes daily, 
 Thro' the grove, and thro' the alley, 
 Sound o'er every hill and valley, 
 
 Blessings on our Marquis 
 Echo, waft our wishes daily, &c. 
 
THE OLD MAX'S SONG. 
 Tuxe — Dumbarton Drums. 
 
 This song, the author says, in a letter to Bur^s, "is entirely descriptive of 
 
 my own sentiments," and the beautiful picture of contentment-- the 
 venerable old man with his children and grandchildren around him 
 —was fully realised in his own experience. 
 
 ! why should old age so much wound us, ? 
 There is nothing in it all to confound us, ; 
 
 For how happy now am I, 
 
 With my old wife sitting by ; ^ 
 And our bairns and our oys all around us, ; 
 
 For how happy now am I, &c 
 
 We began in the warld wi' naething, 0, 
 And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing, ; 
 We made use of what we had, 
 And our thankful hearts were glad j 
 When we got the bit meat and the claithing, 0, 
 We made use of what we had, &c. 
 
 We have liv'd all our life-time contented, 0, 
 Since the day we became first acquainted, : 
 
 It's true we've been but poor, 
 
 And we are so to this hour ; 
 But we never yet repin'd or lamented, 0. 
 
 It's true we've been but poor, &c. 
 
THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 
 
 "When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit, 0, 
 Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit, ; 
 
 But we always gave a share 
 
 Of the little we could spare, 
 When it pleas' d a kind Heaven to grant it, 0. 
 
 But we always gave a share, &c. 
 
 We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, 0, 
 By means that were cunning or stealthy, ; 
 But we always had the bliss, 
 And what further could we wiss, 
 To be pleas'd with ourselves, and be healthy, 0. 
 But we always had the bliss, &c. 
 
 What tho' we cannot boast of our guineas, 0, 
 We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, ; 
 
 And these, I'm certain, are 
 
 More desirable by far 
 Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies, 0, 
 
 And these, I am certain, are, &c. 
 
 We have seen many wonder and ferly, 0, 
 Of changes that almost are yearly, 0, 
 
 Among rich folks up and down, 
 
 Both in country and in town, 
 Who now live but scrimply and barely, 0, 
 
 Among rich folks up and down, &c. 
 
76 THE OLD MAN'S SOXO. 
 
 Then why should people brag of prosperity, ? 
 
 A straiten' d life we see is no rarity, ; 
 Indeed we've been in want, 
 And our living's been but scant, 
 
 Yet we never were reduced to need charity, 0. 
 Indeed we've been in want, &c. 
 
 In this house we first came together, 0, 
 Where we've long been a father and mither, ; 
 
 And tho' not of stone and lime, 
 
 It will last us all our time ; 
 And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither, 0. 
 
 And tho' not of stone and lime, &c. 
 
 And when we leave this poor habitation, 0, 
 We'll depart with a good commendation, ; 
 
 We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, 
 
 To a better house than this, 
 To make room for the next generation, 0. 
 
 We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c. 
 Then why should old age so much wound us, &c, 
 
STILL IN THE WRONG. 
 To its oivn Tune, 
 
 It has long been my fate to be thought in the wrong, 
 
 And my fate it continues to be ; 
 The wise and the wealthy still make it their song, 
 
 And the clerk and the cottar agree. 
 There is nothing I do, and there's nothing I say, 
 
 But some one or other thinks wrong ; 
 And to please them I find there is no other way, 
 
 But do nothing, and still hold my tongue. 
 
 Says the free-thinking Sophist, " The times are refin'd 
 
 In sense to a wondrous degree ; 
 Your old fashion' d faith does but fetter the mind, 
 
 And it's wrong not to seek to be free." 
 Says the sage Politician, li Your natural share 
 
 Of talents would raise you much higher, 
 Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere, 
 
 And it's wrong in you not to aspire." 
 
 Says the Man of the World, " Your dull stoic life 
 
 Is surely deserving of blame ? 
 You have children to care for, as well as a wife, 
 
 And it's wrong not to lay up for them." 
 Says the fat Gormandizer, " To eat and to drink 
 
 Is the true summum bonum of man : 
 
TS STILL IX THE WEONG. 
 
 Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think, 
 And it's wrong not to live while you can.' 7 
 
 Says the new made Divine , " Your old modes we reject, 
 
 Nor give ourselves trouble about them : 
 It is manners and dress that procure us respect, 
 
 And it's wrong to look for it without them." 
 Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen, 
 
 " Ah ! me, but your manners are vile : 
 A parson that's blythe is a shame to be seen, 
 
 And it's wrong in you even to smile." 
 
 Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought, 
 
 " Sir, whatever your character be, 
 To obey you in this I will never be brought, 
 
 And it's wrong to be meddling with me." 
 Says my Wife, when she wants this or that for the house, 
 
 " Our matters to ruin must go : 
 Your reading and writing is not worth a souse, 
 
 And it's wrong to neglect the house so." 
 
 Thus adjudge of me by their taste or their wit, 
 
 And I'm censur'd by old and by young, 
 Who in one point agree, though in others they split, 
 
 That in something I'm still in the wrong. 
 But let them say on to the end of the song, 
 
 It shall make no impression on me : 
 If to differ from such be to be in the iv?'ong, 
 
 In the wrong I hope always to be. 
 
LIZZY LIBERTY. 
 
 Tune — Tibbie Fowler i* the Glen, 
 
 This song was written during the political commotions which agitated Europe 
 shortly after the great French Revolution of 1789. 
 
 There lives a lassie i' the braes, 
 
 And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her, 
 Whan she has on her Sunday's claes, 
 
 Ye never saw a lady brawer ; 
 So a' the lads are wooing at her, 
 
 Courting her but canna get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony wooing at her ! 
 
 Her mither ware a tabbit mutch, 
 
 Her father was an honest dyker, 
 She's a black eyed wanton witch, 
 
 Ye winna shaw me mony like her, 
 So a' the lads are wooing at her, 
 
 Courting her but canna get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, so mony's wooing at her : 
 
 A kindly lass she is, I'm seer, 
 
 Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her, 
 
 And nae a swankie far nor near. 
 
 But tries wi' a' his might to win her : 
 
80 LIZZY LIBERTY. 
 
 They're wooing at her, fain would hae her, 
 Courting her but canna get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony wooing at her. 
 
 For kindly tho' she be nae doubt, 
 
 She manna thole the marriage tether, 
 
 But likes to rove and rink about, 
 
 Like highland cowt amo' the heather ; 
 
 Yet a* the lads are wooing at her, 
 Courting her but canna get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her. 
 
 If 3 seven year, and some guict mair, 
 
 Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her, 
 
 A merchant bluff and fu' o' care, 
 Wi chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller ; 
 
 So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her, 
 Courting her but cudna get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty, has ow'r mony wooing at her. 
 
 Neist to him came Baltic John, 
 
 Stept up the brae, and leukit at her, 
 
 Syne wear his wa wi' heavy moan, 
 And in a month or twa forgat her ; 
 
 Baltic John was wooing at her, 
 Courting her but cudna get her, 
 Filthy elf she's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her. 
 
 Syne after him cam Yanhie Doodle, 
 Frae hyne ayont the muckle water ; 
 
LTZZY LIBERTY. 81 
 
 Tho' Yankie's nae yet worth a boddle, 
 Wi' might and main he would be at her ; 
 
 Yankie Doodle's wooing at her, 
 Courting her, but canna get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her. 
 
 Now Monkey French is in a roar, 
 
 And swears that nane but he sail hae her, 
 
 Tho' he sud wade thro' bluid and gore, 
 It's nae the king sail keep him frae her : 
 
 So Monkey French is wooing at her, 
 Courting her, but canna get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her. 
 
 For France, nor yet her Flanders frien', 
 Need nae think that she'll come to them ; 
 
 They've casten aff wi' a' their kin, 
 
 And grace and guid have flown fae them : 
 
 They're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, 
 Courting her, but canna get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her. 
 
 A stately chiel, they ca' John Bull, 
 Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her ; 
 
 And gin he cud get a' his wull, 
 
 There's nane can say what he wad gi'e her : 
 
 F 
 
82 LIZZY LIBEKTY. 
 
 Johnny Bull is wooing at her, 
 Courting her, but canna get her, 
 Filthy Ted, she'll never wed, as lang's sae mony's wooing 
 at her. 
 
 Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast, 
 
 T \Yadna care to speir about her ; 
 And swears, till he sail breathe his last, 
 
 He'll never happy be without her : 
 Irish Teague is wooing at her. 
 
 Courting her, but canna get her, • 
 Bonny Lizzie Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her. 
 
 But Donald Scotfs the happy lad, 
 Tho' a' the lave sud try to rate him ; 
 
 Whan he steps up the brae sae glad 
 She disna ken maist whare to set him : 
 
 Donald Scot is wooing at her, 
 Courting her, will maybe get her, 
 Bonny Lizzie Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her, 
 
 Now Donald tak' a frien's advice, 
 I keen fu' weel ye fain wad liae her, 
 
 As ye are happy, sae be wise, 
 
 And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her : 
 
 Ye're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, 
 Courting her, will maybe get her, 
 Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony wooing at her. 
 
LIZZY LIBERTY. 83 
 
 Ye're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they're sayin' 
 
 Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her ; 
 And gin ye had her a' your ain, 
 
 Ye might nae find it mows to guide her, 
 Ye're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, 
 Courting her, will maybe get her, 
 Cunning quean, she's ne'er be mine, as lang's sae mony's 
 wooing at her. 
 
THE SIIPENDLESS PARSON, 
 
 Ttoe — A Cobler there teas, fyc. 
 
 The humble parson whose position, pursuits, and wishes are here bo happily 
 sketched was no imaginary character, and of the worthy author him- 
 self it may be truly said that "contented he lived and lamented he 
 died." 
 
 How, happy a life does the parson possess, 
 Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less ; 
 Who depends on his book and his gown for support, 
 And derives no preferment from conclave or court, 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Without gleb or manse settl'd on him by law, 
 No stipend to sue for, nor vie' rage to draw ; 
 In discharge of his office he holds him content, 
 With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 With a neat little cottage and furniture plain, 
 And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then, 
 With a good humour' d wife in his fortune to share, 
 And ease him at all times of family care. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best, 
 And some modern Extracts pick'd out from the rest, 
 With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek, 
 To afford him instruction each day of the week. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
THE STIPENDLESS PARSON. 85 
 
 With a pony to carry him when he has need, 
 And a cow to provide him some milk to his bread ; 
 With a mug of brown ale when he feels himself for't 
 And a glass of good whisky in place of red port. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 What children he has, if any are given, 
 He thankfully trusts to the kindness of heaven ; 
 To religion and virtue he trains them while young, 
 And with such a provision he does them no wrong. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 With labour below, and with help from above, 
 He cares for his Jlock, and is blest with their love : 
 Tho' his living perhaps in the main may be scant, 
 He is sure, while, they have, that he'll ne'er be in want. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 With no worldly projects nor hurries perplext, 
 He sits in his closet and studies his text ; 
 And while he converses with Moses or Paul, 
 He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great, 
 Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state, 
 He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere, 
 And finds. work sufficient in preaching and pray'r, 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
86 
 
 THE STIPEXDLESS PARSON. 
 
 In what little dealings he's forc'd to transact, 
 He determines with plainness and candour to act ; 
 And the great point on which his ambition is set, 
 Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Thus calmly he steps thro' the valley of life, 
 Unencumbered with wealth, and a stranger to strife ; 
 On the bustlings around him unmov'd he can look, 
 And at home always pleas' d with his wife and his book. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 And when in old age he drops into the grave, 
 This humble remembrance he wishes to have ; 
 * By good men respected, by the evil oft tried, 
 1 Contented he liv'd, and lamented he died ! 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
THE MAX OF ROSS. 
 
 Tujs t e — Miss Ross's Reel. 
 
 When fops and fools together prate, 
 O'er punch or tea, of this or that, 
 What silly poor unmeaning chat 
 
 Does all their talk engross ? 
 A nobler theme employs my lays, 
 And thus my honest voice I raise 
 In well deserved strains to praise 
 
 The worthy Man of Ross. 
 
 His lofty soul (would it were mine) 
 Scorns ev'ry selfish low design, 
 And ne'er was known to repine, 
 
 At any earthly loss : 
 But still contented, frank, and free, 
 In ev'ry state, whate'er it he, 
 Serene and stay'd we always see 
 
 The worthy Man of Ross. 
 
 Let misers hug their worldly store, 
 And gripe and pinch to make it more ; 
 Their gold and silver's shining ore, 
 He counts it all but dross : 
 ? Tis better treasure he desires ; 
 A surer stock his passion fires, 
 
88 THE MAN OF ROSS, 
 
 And mild benevolence inspires 
 
 The worthy Man of Ross. 
 
 When want assails the widow's cot, 
 Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut, 
 "When blasting winds or foggy rot 
 
 Augment the farmer's loss : 
 The sufferer straight knows where to go, 
 With all his wants and all his woe, 
 For glad experience leads him to 
 
 The worthy Man of Ross. 
 
 This man of Ross I'll daily sing, 
 With vocal note and lyric string, 
 And duly, when I've drank the king, 
 
 He'll be my second toss. 
 May heaven its choicest blessings send, 
 On such a man, and such a friend ; 
 And still may all that's good attend 
 
 The worthy Man of Ross. 
 
 Now if you ask about his name, 
 And where he lives with such a fame, 
 Indeed I'll say you are to blame, 
 
 For truly inter no8, 
 'Tis what belongs to you and me, 
 And all of high or low degree, 
 In every sphere to try to be 
 
 The worthy Man of Ross e 
 
A SONG ON THE TIM I- 
 Tune — Broom of the Cowdenknows. 
 
 When I began the world first, 
 
 It was not as 'tis now, 
 For all was plain and simple then, 
 
 And friends were kind and true : 
 
 ! the times, the weary weary times, 
 The times that I now see, 
 
 1 think the world's all gone wrong, 
 From what it nsed to be. 
 
 There were not then high capering heads, 
 
 Prick' d up from ear to ear, 
 And clocks and caps were rarities, 
 
 For gentle folks to wear, 
 ! the times, the weary weary times, &c. 
 
 There's not an upstart mushroom now, 
 
 But what sets up for taste, 
 And not a lass in all the land, 
 
 But must be lady-drest. 
 ! the times, the weary weary times, &c. 
 
 Our young men married then for love, 
 So did our lasses too ; 
 
90 A SONG ON THE TIMES. 
 
 And children lov'd their parents dear, 
 
 As children ought to do. 
 ! the times, the weary weary times, &c 
 
 For ! the times are sadly chang'd, 
 
 A heavy change indeed ! 
 For truth and friendship are ,no more, 
 
 And honesty is fled. 
 ! the times, the weary weary times, &c. 
 
 There's nothing now prevails but pride, 
 
 Among both high and low, 
 And strife, and greed, and vanity, 
 
 Is all that's minded now, 
 ! the times, the weary weary times, &c. 
 
 When I look through the world wide, 
 How times and fashions go, 
 
 It draws the tears from both my eyes, 
 And fills my heart with woe, 
 
 ! the times, the weary weary times, 
 The times that I now see, 
 
 1 wish the world were at an end, 
 For it will not mend for me ! 
 
SONG ON THE SCOTCH MILITIA, 
 Tune — Roy's Wife of Aldivallock. 
 
 Saw ye e'er a lawland lassie 
 
 Happy in her lawland laddie ? 
 I was she sae blythe and gawsie, 
 
 As though I'd ca'd the king my daddie, 
 My laddie was my heart's delight, 
 
 Kind and canty was my Johnnie, 
 In liking him had I the wyte, 
 
 Whan a' the warld ca'd him bonnie ? 
 
 Our bridal day was set, and a' thing 
 
 Ready made to pit's togither, 
 My tartan plaid, and mony bra' thing 
 
 I gat frae my honest mither. 
 A short fourteen days, Johnnie sware it, 
 
 Wu'd make me a' his ain for ever, 
 And right glad was I to hear it, 
 
 "We sud now be parted never. 
 
 But ! there cam a wearie order, 
 About a thing they ca' militie ; 
 
 Ye cam frae hyn ayont the border, 
 ! waly fa' the chiel that feish ye ! 
 
 Cam to tak my Johnnie frae me, 
 Left me here to mourn about him, 
 
92 SONG ON THE SCOTCH MILITIA. 
 
 And till lie back again cnm to me. 
 I'll never easy be without him. 
 
 Sae anee I thought, till ae lang night, 
 
 About my Johnnie I was dreamin, 
 When i' my sleep I saw. him bright, 
 
 Wi' mony gentlemen and wimen ; 
 He took my hand afore them a' 
 
 And gae me kindly kisses plenty, 
 A saxpence fyte he brak in twa, 
 
 His words were sweet as ony dainty. 
 
 " Till my militia days are ended, 
 
 Jeanie ye maun wait wi' pleasure, 
 Whan King and Country I've defended, 
 
 Ye shall then be a' my treasure. 
 Ye shall hear my gallant story, 
 
 How I fought in Jeanie' s favour ; 
 Fought wi' Frenchmen a' for glory, 
 
 And from their cruel claws to save her." 
 
 When Scotland's faes are fairly frighten' d, 
 
 Never mair to glory o'er her, 
 Then our hearts will a' be lighten' d 
 
 Frae ony fear o 7 the great devourer. 
 Sae I'll yield to my country's laws, 
 
 And pray for her and Johnnie's honour ; 
 Whan he is fighting in her cause, 
 
 May blessings ever light upon her ! 
 
THE AULD MINISTER'S SONG 
 Tune — " Auld lang syne" 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 Or friendship e'er grow cauld ? 
 Should we nae tighter draw the knot, 
 
 Aye as we're growing auld ? 
 How comes it then, my worthy frien', 
 
 Who used to be sae kin', 
 We dinna for each ither speer, 
 
 As we did langsyne ? 
 
 What though I am some aulder grown, 
 
 An' ablins nae sae gay ; 
 What though these locks, ance hazel brown, 
 
 Are now well mix'd wi' gray : 
 I'm sure my heart nae caulder grows, 
 
 But as my years decline, 
 Still friendship's name as warmly glows 
 
 As it did langsyne. 
 
 Sae well's I min' upo' the days 
 
 That we in youthfu' pride 
 Had used to ramble up the braes 
 
 On bonnie Boggie's side. 
 
94 THE AULD MINISTER'S SONG. 
 
 Nae fairies on the haunted green, 
 Where moonbeams twinkling shine, 
 
 Mair blithely frisk aroun' their queen, 
 Than we did langsyne. 
 
 Sae well's I min' ilk bonny spring 
 
 Ye on your harp did play ; 
 An' how we used to dance and sing 
 
 The livelang simmer's day. 
 If ye hae not forgot the art 
 
 To strike that harp divine, 
 Te'll fin' I still can play my part, 
 
 An' sing as auld langsyne. 
 
 Though ye live on the banks o' Doun, 
 
 And me besooth the Tay, 
 Ye well might ride to Faukland town 
 
 Some bonny simmer's day. 
 And at that place where Scotland's king 
 
 Aft birl'd the beer and wine, 
 Let's drink, an' dance, an' laugh, an' sing, 
 
 An' crack o' auld langsyne. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 Aith, oath. 
 Athort, across. 
 Ava', in whole, at all. 
 
 Ba'ing, balling, playing at 
 the ball. 
 
 Bann, to curse. 
 
 Barkin'd, coated. 
 
 Bauk, the cross beam in a 
 barn. 
 
 Batjld, bold. 
 
 Beft, threw, beat. 
 
 Begeck, trick, disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 Beil, home, or shelter. 
 
 Belyye, quickly. 
 
 Bin, humour or mood. 
 
 Binner, noise. 
 
 Binsome, quarrelsome. 
 
 Birl, push about. 
 
 Birr, stand upright ; also, 
 noise, force. 
 
 Bierly, big. 
 
 Blae, pale. 
 
 Blaize, blow. 
 
 Bludder, to cover with blood 
 
 Booking, vomiting. 
 
 Braw, finely clad. 
 
 Brain, angry. 
 
 Brattling, running tumult- 
 uously. 
 
 B reeks, trousers. 
 
 Browdlnd, was keen for. 
 
 Brtjilzib, fighting match. 
 
 Bumbees, wild bees. 
 
 Burns, streams. 
 
 Byke, bee-hive in the earth. 
 
 Cadger, a man who drives 
 fish in a cart for sale. 
 
 Call ant, young fellow. 
 
 Camshack-kair, unlucky 
 concern. 
 
 Camsterie, perverse. 
 
 Cantie, cheerful, merry. 
 
 Cankart, ill-natured. 
 
 Chafts, mouth, lower part of 
 the face. 
 
 Chap, stroke. 
 
 Claise, clothes. 
 
 Clammy -houit, heavy blow. 
 
 Clank, noise. 
 
 Couping, exchanging, 
 
 Cotjpit, tumbled. 
 
 Couthy, kind, familiar. 
 
 Cuist, cast. 
 
 Cunn, owe, give, pay. 
 
 Dang, drove. 
 Dawing, dawning. 
 Dawrd, push or fling. 
 Derf, stout. 
 
 Doited, stupid with age. 
 Dossd-down, threw them- 
 selves down. 
 Dowf, dull. 
 Dowie, sad, spiritless, 
 Drafty, made of malt. 
 
96 
 
 GIOSSJLRY. 
 
 Dree o' wind, a hurricane. 
 Dreed, suffered. 
 Drochlin, tottering. 
 Droukit, drench' d. 
 Drumly, gloomy, muddy. 
 Dwabil, loose, weak. 
 
 Eemest, uppermost. 
 Einds, refreshment. 
 
 Fantit, fainted. 
 
 Fat, what.* 
 
 Fawt, fault. 
 
 Feish ye, brought ye= 
 
 Feil, ioolish. 
 
 Fell-blate, right foolish. 
 
 Fell, pretty much, not a 
 
 little." 
 Ferly, something strange. 
 Fether'd, flew. 
 Flain, feather. 
 Flbep, stupid fellow. 
 Flirr, gnash. 
 Fleyt, afraid. 
 Forestam, forehead. 
 Forrat, forward. 
 Foumart, polecat. 
 Fotj't be, however it be. 
 Fouth, plenty. 
 Fricksome-fraise, vain 
 
 talking. 
 Frumpish, ill-humoured. 
 Frush, frank, forward. 
 Fu', why. 
 Fudder, hurry. 
 Fuilzie, get the better of, 
 Furth, out of doors. 
 Fyke, shrugg. 
 Fykes, troubles. 
 Fyte, white. 
 
 Gab, speak s 
 
 Gae, gave. 
 
 Gar, make, force. 
 
 Gardy, arm. 
 
 Gawsie, well-looking. 
 
 Gilpy, blockhead. 
 
 Girse, grass. 
 
 Glaiket, over fond, giddy. 
 
 Glawr'd, make slippery. 
 
 Glowr'd, looked wistfully. 
 
 Gosses, dolts, 
 
 Gowf, blow. 
 
 Grain, groan. 
 
 Greet, to shed tears. 
 
 Grunsie, sour fellow, 
 
 Gryte, big. 
 
 Gullie, large knife. 
 
 Gyte, goat. 
 
 Hae and Heil, wealth and 
 health. 
 
 Haffets, sides of the bead. 
 
 Harlan, trailing, bringing. 
 
 Harnpans, sculls. 
 
 Harrum-skairum, light- 
 headed. 
 
 Hecht, called. 
 
 Heels- o'er-goudie,. heels 
 over head. 
 
 Heft, dwelt. 
 
 Hempy, name of reproach. 
 
 Herryt, beggard. 
 
 Heez'd, raised up. 
 
 Hinch, thigh. 
 
 Huilie, wait, slow. * 
 
 Hyne, far. 
 
 Tinch, neat. 
 
 I wat xa fu, I know not 
 how. 
 
 * It may not be improper to remark, that in the Aberdeenshire dialect " wh" 
 is uniformly pronounced "f" ; as what, "fat"; white, "fite'* &c. 
 

 Ill-faurd, ugly. 
 Ill hadden ghaist, ill-man- 
 nered visitor. 
 
 Jee'd moved, 
 
 Kexzies, fighting throng. 
 Ivxahlick, sharp pointed. 
 
 Lap, leaped. 
 Lave, the rest. 
 Lawing, shot, tavern bill. 
 Lett, gave a stroke, or utter- 
 ance. 
 
 Main'd, moaned, 
 Mank, fail, 
 Maun, must. 
 Mavvt, malt. 
 
 Mawtix'd lolls, heavy- 
 clumsy fellows. 
 Meix them, thank them. 
 Wexsless, without thought. 
 Mell, fight. 
 Mird, venture. 
 Mishaxter, misfortune. 
 Mows, xae mows, not easy. 
 Meex, moon. 
 Mutch, a woman's cap, 
 
 Naix, own, 
 Neiper, neighbour. 
 Nitty, little knave. 
 Niest, next. 
 Niz, nose. 
 
 Oxkext, unknown, 
 Orra, idle, spare. 
 Ouk, week. 
 Outixg, abroad. 
 Oys, grandchildren. 
 
 Pawky, witty, good hum- 
 oured. 
 
 Pexsy blades, nice look • 
 lads. 
 
 Praxx. to hurt or bruise. 
 
 Pree, taste. 
 
 Primpit, delicate. 
 
 Puttix-stoxe, a large round 
 stone used in Scotland in 
 the game called putting or 
 (throwing) the stone. 
 
 Queet, ancle. 
 
 Raird, roared. 
 
 Rammage, rough set. 
 
 Rave, tore, to rave, to stretch. 
 
 Rlftix, hiccuping, 
 
 Riggix, the roof. 
 
 Raught, reached. 
 
 To Rate, to slander, 
 
 Rax'd, reached. 
 
 Reef, roof. 
 
 Rebaghle, reproach. 
 
 Red, combed. 
 
 Red wed, stark mad. 
 
 Rixk, run about. 
 
 Reeze, to praise. 
 
 Reirfu rout, roaring noiec. 
 
 Sair, very much, sore. 
 
 Sark, Shirt. 
 
 Sauchix, soft. 
 
 Sawt, hot as with salt, 
 
 Scawt, scabbed. 
 
 Scib, stroke. 
 
 Scouf'd hame, went home. 
 
 Sell, blessing. 
 
 Six', since. 
 
 Skaith, hurt, or loss, 
 
 Skaxce, view. 
 
 Skuxxer, be disgusted. 
 
 Skypel skate, ugly fellow. 
 
 Slee, sly. 
 
 Slip his wa, go his way. 
 
 Slype, coarse fellow. 
 
96 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Smeddxjm, cleverness. 
 Smeerless. simple. 
 Snack, fit for the purpose. 
 Snap, ready, clever. 
 Sxeeshix, snuff. 
 Sxibe, a small blow. 
 Sxype, smart blow. 
 Sowr, stroke. 
 Sowme, the chain connecting 
 
 the oxen in a plough. 
 Spawl, leg. 
 S quelled, squale'd. 
 Sta, stole. 
 
 Staepy -xiyed, cudgelling. 
 Staig, a young horse. 
 Stalwart, strong, stout. 
 Steer, shut, 
 Steer my sturdy, trouble my 
 
 head. 
 Stexx, to spring or jump. 
 Stoit, stumble. 
 Stowex, stolen. 
 Strae -death, a natural 
 
 death. 
 Strexzeed, sprained. 
 Stryxe, turn of mind. 
 Sttme, the least glimpse. 
 Sumph, a soft stupid fellow. 
 Sutor, a shoemaker. 
 Swaxkies, clever lads. 
 Sweir, slow, backward. 
 Switker, doubt, perplexity. 
 Swype, stroke. 
 Syke, bog 
 Sype, run out. 
 
 Ted, toad. 
 
 Text, care. 
 
 Theats, traces by which the 
 
 horses draw. 
 Thole, bear. 
 
 Thraxg, busy. 
 Thra, twist. 
 Thud, stroke. 
 Tint, lost. 
 Tirr, uncover. 
 Tod-lowrie, a fox. 
 Trypal, ill made fellow. 
 Tuilzie, struggle. 
 Tweed, texture. 
 Tyc'd about, went sbwly 
 about. 
 
 Uncanny, dangerous. 
 
 Yirr, force, fury. 
 
 \Yally pa, T»oe be to. 
 
 TTeeb-wyled wap, well cho- 
 sen stroke. 
 
 Weed beet, weel beaten. 
 
 T\ t ham, a blow. 
 
 What-raiks ! what do you 
 deserve ! 
 
 YrHiTTY-WHArs, silly pre- 
 tences. 
 
 "Wow, an exclamation of 
 pleasure, or wonder. 
 
 Wreath o' sxaw, drift, or 
 heap of snow. 
 
 "Wile, to choose. . 
 
 \Yyte, fault. 
 
 Wed, mad. 
 
 Yap, forward. 
 Yarr, hard stroke. 
 Yaweu, awful. 
 Yird, earth. 
 Yirdltxs, earthwards. 
 Yowef'd, drave. 
 Yowl, yell. , 
 
 THE END. 
 
Just Published^ Price 6d., free ly Post, Id. ; icith 
 Portrait 9c/., free by Post \0d., 
 
 THE LIFE AND TIMES 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM JOHNSTON, 
 
 HORTICULTURAL CHEMIST, GARDENER, AND CARTWRIGHT, 
 
 PETERHEAD ; 
 
 WEITTEN BY HIMSELF. 
 
 The story is of interest and value as a kind of historic 
 record, however humble, of a period of marked progress, in 
 which the town of Peterhead has certainly not lagged behind 
 other places. ~VTe shall not quote from a work which is so easily 
 accessible, but recommend William's story to a large circle of 
 readers. — Aberdeen Journal. 
 
 u There is a history in every man's life," and the narrative 
 of humble William Johnston's " warsle wi' the warld" for 
 eighty-one years, may be read with interest and instruction. 
 This work is mainly composed of the record of traits of the 
 manners, thoughts, and opinions existing in Peterhead during 
 the last half century. — Aberdeen Herald. 
 
 There is an individuality and purpose about William, which, 
 although simple in its wav, we like exceedingly. He had a 
 mind of his own, and an objeet in living, which can be said of 
 comparatively few. Most men are mere stray waifs in the tide 
 of time — carried hither and thither just as circumstances may 
 determine. It was otherwise with the subject of this story, 
 and this is an important lesson which all may learn from the 
 simple record before us. — Aberdeen Free Press. 
 
 This is a little work that will be interesting to all who were 
 acquainted with the autobiographer, and not devoid of interest 
 even to those who had not this pleasure. The value of the work 
 is enhanced by a well executed and- characteristic Portrait of 
 "Wil Ham . — Banffshire Journal. 
 
 PETEItHEAD : 
 WILLIAM L. TAYLOR. 
 
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