The sober Autumn enter’d mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show’d he began to fail.
His colour sicken’d more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.
They’ve taen a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell’d him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turned him o’er and o’er.
They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe; And still, as signs of life appear’d, They toss’d him to and fro.
They wasted, o’er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller us’d him worst of all, For he crush’d him between two stones.
And they hae taen his very heart’s blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, ’Twill make your courage rise.
’Twill make a man forget his woe; ’Twill heighten all his joy; ’Twill make the widow’s heart to sing, Tho’ the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne’er fail in old Scotland!
1783
Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie, The Author’s Only Pet Yowe., The
An Unco Mournfu’ Tale
As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither, Was ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc he cam doytin by.
Wi’ glowrin een, and lifted han’s Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s; He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, wae’s my heart! he could na mend it! He gaped wide, but naething spak, At langth poor Mailie silence brak.
“O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu’ case! My dying words attentive hear, An’ bear them to my Master dear.
“Tell him, if e’er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep— O, bid him never tie them mair, Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair! But ca’ them out to park or hill, An’ let them wander at their will: So may his flock increase, an’ grow To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’!
“Tell him, he was a Master kin’, An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine; An’ now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.
“O, bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butcher’s knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel’; An’ tent them duly, e’en an’ morn, Wi’ taets o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn.
“An’ may they never learn the gaets, Of ither vile, wanrestfu’ pets— To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail! So may they, like their great forbears, For mony a year come thro the shears: So wives will gie them bits o’ bread, An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.
“My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ heir, O, bid him breed him up wi’ care! An’ if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast!
“An’ warn him—what I winna name— To stay content wi’ yowes at hame; An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
“An’ neist, my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string! O, may thou ne’er forgather up, Wi’ ony blastit, moorland toop; But aye keep mind to moop an’ mell, Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel’!
“And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath, I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith: An’ when you think upo’ your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither.
“Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, To tell my master a’ my tale; An’ bid him burn this cursed tether, An’ for thy pains thou’se get my blather.”
This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head, And clos’d her een amang the dead!
Poor Mailie’s Elegy
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi’ saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie’s fate is at a close, Past a’ remead! The last, sad cape-stane o’ his woes; Poor Mailie’s dead!
It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He’s lost a friend an’ neebor dear In Mailie dead.
Thro’ a’ the town she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi’ speed: A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead.
I wat she was a sheep o’ sense, An’ could behave hersel’ wi’ mense: I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence, Thro’ thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin’ Mailie’s dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe, For bits o’ bread; An’ down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o’ moorland tips, Wi’ tauted ket, an’ hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships, Frae ’yont the Tweed. A bonier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips Than Mailie’s dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing—a raip! It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape, Wi’ chokin dread; An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape For Mailie dead.
O, a’ ye bards on bonie Doon! An’ wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon O’ Robin’s reed! His heart will never get aboon— His Mailie’s dead!
Song—The Rigs O’ Barley
Tune—“Corn Rigs are bonie.”
It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonie, Beneath the moon’s unclouded light, I held awa to Annie; The time flew by, wi’ tentless heed, Till, ’tween the late and early, Wi’ sma’ persuasion she agreed To see me thro’ the barley.
Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, An’ corn rigs are bonie: I’ll ne’er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi’ Annie.
The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly; I set her down, wi’ right good will, Amang the rigs o’ barley: I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain; I lov’d her most sincerely;
I kiss’d her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o’ barley. Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.
I lock’d her in my fond embrace; Her heart was beating rarely: My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o’ barley! But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly! She aye shall bless that happy night Amang the rigs o’ barley. Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.
I hae been blythe wi’ comrades dear; I hae been merry drinking; I hae been joyfu’ gath’rin gear; I hae been happy thinking: But a’ the pleasures e’er I saw, Tho’ three times doubl’d fairly, That happy night was worth them a’, Amang the rigs o’ barley. Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.
Song Composed In August
Tune—“I had a horse, I had nae mair.”
Now westlin winds and slaught’ring guns Bring Autumn’s pleasant weather; The moorcock springs on whirring wings Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells, The plover loves the mountains; The woodcock haunts the lonely dells, The soaring hern the fountains: Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves, The path of man to shun it; The hazel bush o’erhangs the thrush, The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus ev’ry kind their pleasure find, The savage and the tender; Some social join, and leagues combine, Some solitary wander: Avaunt, away! the cruel sway, Tyrannic man’s dominion; The sportsman’s joy, the murd’ring cry, The flutt’ring, gory pinion!
But, Peggy dear, the ev’ning’s clear, Thick flies the skimming swallow, The sky is blue, the fields in view, All fading-green and yellow: Come let us stray our gladsome way, And view the charms of Nature; The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, And ev’ry happy creature.
We’ll gently walk, and sweetly talk, Till the silent moon shine clearly; I’ll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: Not vernal show’rs to budding flow’rs, Not Autumn to the farmer, So dear can be as thou to me, My fair, my lovely charmer!