LITMIR.BIZ

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mean ye? what mean ye?

      If ye’ll meddle nae mair wi’ the matter,

      Ye may hae some pretence, man,

      To havins and sense, man,

      Wi’ people that ken ye nae better,

      Barr Steenie,

      Wi’ people that ken ye nae better.

      XII.

      Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose,

      Ye hae made but toom roose,

      O’ hunting the wicked lieutenant;

      But the doctor’s your mark,

      For the L—d’s holy ark,

      He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrong pin in’t,

      Jamie Goose,

      He has cooper’d and ca’d a wrong pin in’t.

      XIII.

      Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,

      For a saunt if ye muster,

      It’s a sign they’re no nice o’ recruits,

      Yet to worth let’s be just,

      Royal blood ye might boast,

      If the ass were the king o’ the brutes,

      Davie Bluster,

      If the ass were the king o’ the brutes.

      XIV.

      Muirland George, Muirland George,

      Whom the Lord made a scourge,

      To claw common sense for her sins;

      If ill manners were wit,

      There’s no mortal so fit,

      To confound the poor doctor at ance,

      Muirland George,

      To confound the poor doctor at ance.

      XV.

      Cessnockside, Cessnockside,

      Wi’ your turkey-cock pride,

      O’ manhood but sma’ is your share;

      Ye’ve the figure, it’s true,

      Even our faes maun allow,

      And your friends daurna say ye hae mair,

      Cessnockside,

      And your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

      XVI.

      Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld,

      There’s a tod i’ the fauld

      A tod meikle waur than the clerk;[93]

      Tho’ ye downa do skaith,

      Ye’ll be in at the death,

      And if ye canna bite ye can bark,

      Daddie Auld,

      And if ye canna bite ye can bark.

      XVII.

      Poet Burns, Poet Burns,

      Wi’ your priest-skelping turns,

      Why desert ye your auld native shire?

      Tho’ your Muse is a gipsy,

      Yet were she even tipsy,

      She could ca’ us nae waur than we are,

      Poet Burns,

      She could ca’ us nae waur than we are.

      POSTSCRIPT

      Afton’s Laird, Afton’s Laird,

      When your pen can be spar’d,

      A copy o’ this I bequeath,

      On the same sicker score

      I mentioned before,

      To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith,

      Afton’s Laird,

      To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith.

      CXI. PEG NICHOLSON

      [These hasty verses are to be found in a letter addressed to Nicol, of the High School of Edinburgh, by the poet, giving him on account of the unlooked-for death of his mare, Peg Nicholson, the successor of Jenny Geddes. She had suffered both in the employ of the joyous priest and the thoughtless poet. She acquired her name from that frantic virago who attempted to murder George the Third.]

      Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

      As ever trode on airn;

      But now she’s floating down the Nith,

      And past the mouth o’ Cairn.

      Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

      And rode thro’ thick an’ thin;

      But now she’s floating down the Nith,

      And wanting even the skin.

      Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

      And ance she bore a priest;

      But now she’s flouting down the Nith,

      For Solway fish a feast.

      Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

      And the priest he rode her sair;

      And much oppress’d and bruis’d she was;

      As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c.

      CXII. ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD

      “Should the poor be flattered?”

Shakspeare.

      But now his radiant course is run,

      For Matthew’s course was bright;

      His soul was like the glorious sun,

A matchless heav’nly light!

      [Captain Matthew Henderson, a gentleman of very agreeable manners and great propriety of character, usually lived in Edinburgh, dined constantly at Fortune’s Tavern, and was a member of the Capillaire Club, which was composed of all who desired to be thought witty or joyous: he died in 1789: Burns, in a note to the Poem, says, “I loved the man much, and have not flattered his memory.” Henderson seems indeed to have been universally liked. “In our travelling party,” says Sir James Campbell, of Ardkinglass, “was Matthew Henderson, then (1759) and afterwards well known and much esteemed in the town of Edinburgh; at that time an officer in the twenty-fifth regiment of foot, and like myself on his way to join the army; and I may say with truth, that in the course of a long life I have never known a more estimable character, than Matthew Henderson.” Memoirs of Campbell, of Ardkinglass, p. 17.]

      O death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!

      The meikle devil wi’ a woodie

      Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

      O’er hurcheon hides,

      And like stock-fish come o’er his studdie

      Wi’ thy auld sides!

      He’s gane! he’s gane! he’s frae us torn,

      The ae best fellow e’er was born!

      Thee, Matthew, Nature’s sel’ shall mourn

      By wood and wild,

      Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,

      Frae man exil’d!

      Ye hills! near neebors o’ the starns,

      That proudly cock your cresting cairns!

      Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,

      Where echo slumbers!

      Come join, ye Nature’s sturdiest bairns,

      My wailing numbers!

      Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!

      Ye

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