Part 2 / Act 5 — SONGS.

THE FALSE ALARM. 1803.

On the crest of Dunselaw the red beacon is blazing,

That startles the swan as she sails in Henpoo’!

Home Castle and Hounam the signals are raising,

And far gleams St Abb o’er the waves curling blue.

Arm, arm! gallant yeomen! to meet the fierce foeman,

His eagles are planted on Lothian’s fair shore;

Your cities are burning, your maidens are mourning,

To victory march, as your fathers of yore.

Come from the Ettrick, the Tweed, and the Teviot;

Come from where Leader and Whitadder gleams;

Come from the sylvan Jed; come from the Cheviot,

Fierce as the thunder-cloud, pure as your streams.

Swear by the cairns of your hills ere you leave them—

Swear by the heroes in Freedom’s cause slain,

That your swords will be bared until victory sheathe them,

If e’er you return to your mountains again.

398On the dark heights of Cheviot her sabres are glancing,

With Hagerston’s horsemen in battle array,

While Berwickshire’s legions are blithely advancing,

And Selkirk and Roxburgh rush to the fray.

From Lammermoor’s heather the warriors gather,

Their swords though a thousand, their hearts are but one;

While Dunse and Dunbar send their sons to the war,

To join British veterans led on by brave Don.

Return to your revels and beauty’s fair charms;

Return, gallant yeomen! where peace beams serene;

Those signals were but patriotic alarms,^[27]

The foes whom you seek now repose by the Seine.

But should foreign ranks ever tread the Tweed’s banks,

Or a hostile Flotilla in Forth ever lie,

You will rush to the shore as your fathers of yore,

And like patriots conquer, or patriots die!

399

GEORGE THE FOURTH’S WELCOME.

August, 1822.

Sweet, Sir, for your courtesie,

When ye come by the Bass, then;

For the love ye bear to me,

Buy me a keeking glass, then.—Old Ballad.

Come, list the pibroch’s martial strain,

That ca’s the clans to Lothian’s plain;

For Scotland’s got her king again,

She welcomes royal Geordie!

Chorus.

O, ye’ve been lang o’ coming,

Lang, lang, lang o’ coming;

O, ye’ve been lang o’ coming,

Welcome, royal Geordie!

O blaw, ye breezes! favouring blaw

Around North Berwick’s lofty Law,

And gently on the squadron fa’,

That brings us royal Geordie!

400The king has pass’d St Abb’s rough head,

Now loyal laird of Spott mak’ speed,

Your guns and bonfire quickly feed,

And welcome royal Geordie.

Dunbar, your ancient fort prepare,

(In a’ that’s guid you tak’ a share,)

Your burghers to the beach repair,

And welcome royal Geordie.

The cannon’s voice is heard afar,

The royal fleet has pass’d Dunbar;—

Upon his breast he wears a star,

A stately lad is Geordie!

Thou ancient crag, romantic Bass!

Salute the squadron as they pass:

Let Janet get her keeking glass,

And busk her braw for Geordie.

North Berwick’s lads your sweethearts bring,

Your idle violins blithely string,

Till Fidra’s isle and Craig Leith ring

A blithe salute to Geordie.

401He leaves his royal rich domains,

That stand so beauteous by the Thames,

To see our blooming nymphs and swains,

A courteous lad is Geordie.

And, O! amang our mountains blue,

Dwell loyal chiefs, to valour true;

And beauteous dames, may wind a clue

Around the heart o’ Geordie.

Thrice welcome to green Albyn’s shore,

As Bruce and Wallace were of yore;—

Our ancient kings the lion bore,

And sae does royal Geordie!

Auld Holyrood again looks gay,

Her martial files, in bright array,

Are glitt’ring in the gouden ray,

To welcome royal Geordie.

And Calton’s terrace-walks so green

Are fringed with tents and culverin;

On Sal’sbury’s craigs the same is seen,

To welcome royal Geordie.

402From hill to hill the tidings fly,

Proud Arthur’s crest is blazing high,

Trapren glowers up, and lights the sky,

To welcome royal Geordie.

Dunedin’s streets are in a blaze,

As when great Nelson ruled the seas!

Is Wellington upon the breeze?—

O, no! it’s royal Geordie!—

Come, Scotia! tune your aiken reed,

Sir Walter’s blithely ta’en the lead;

And blaw your chanters till they screed

To welcome royal Geordie!

The wine-cup, flowing, pass around,

A flourish let the trumpets sound,

While ships and castle’s cliffs resound

A blithe salute to Geordie!

403

SONG, WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION, AND SUNG AT A DINNER GIVEN IN THE ASSEMBLY ROOM, ON THE HADDINGTON ST JOHN’S KILWINNING LODGE LAYING THE FOUNDATION STONE OF THE EARL OF HOPETOUN’S MONUMENT ON BYRES-HILL, 3D MAY, 1824.

While nations enjoy the glad blessings of peace,

We meet in the hall to remember the brave,

Who bought with their blood bonded Europe’s release,

And fought for their country’s repose or a grave.

Then charge, brethren, charge, a full bumper is due

To Abercrombie’s name

And his comrade in fame,

Great Hopetoun, in battle so val’rous and true.

O bright were the laurels they won on that strand,

Where Gallia’s tricolour’d flag was unfurl’d;

They conquer’d Napoleon’s Egyptian band,

Invincible deem’d by the rest of the world.

404With Hope and Abercrombie, O ne’er be forgot

Our Ramsay and Hay,^[28]

Both worthy the bay,

Where the battle is raging ’mongst sabres and shot.

While Scotia weeps on Corunna’s sad shore

The fate of her warriors, Iberia mourns,

And hallows the memory of glorious Moore,

Who died like a soldier in victory’s arms!

As lone on the field her Baird wounded lay,

Great Hopetoun when crost,

Of himself was a host,

And led his brave comrades triumphant away.

Then high raise the cairn upon the green hill,

To valour ’twill rouse as we gaze on the pile,

Though the eyes of the veteran with tears it may fill,

And cloud as she passes young beauty’s fair smile.

Now peace be to Hopetoun, who rests with the brave,

While Ramsay and Hay

Must contend for the bay,

Should the tempest of war in our valleys e’er rave.

405

MASONIC SONG. WRITTEN AND SUNG ON OCCASION OF MR WILLIAM FERME’S PORTRAIT (PAINTED BY WATSON) BEING PLACED IN THE MASONIC LODGE OF HADDINGTON, 1823.

O Willie is a canty chiel!

The mason-art he kens sae weel,

To raise a laugh or—raise the de’il—

It’s just the same to Willie, O!

We’ve had him lang, we’ll haud him fast,

This night auld Fame shall blaw a blast,

While far away our cares we cast,

And drink success to Willie, O!

Our sacred art, by Heav’n refined,

That joins and blesses all mankind,

For such as Willie was design’d,

Wha counts each man his brither, O!

Wi’ mystic lore, and humorous art,

He steals sae o’er the craftsmen’s heart,

That when we meet we scarce can part—

Sae blest wi’ ane anither, O!

406Immortal be great Hiram’s name,

And Solomon’s undying fame!—

We hail their bright united flame,

Reflected in our Willie, O!

The rule and square is still his badge;

Nor orient seer, nor Tyrian sage,

Could ever handle plumb or gauge

Like our great master, Willie, O!

How oft our little social band

Has met beneath his high command,

While beauteous order round did stand,

Supported aye by Willie, O!

No faction e’er our lodge divides,

Where truth and friendship still abides;

Nor ever shall, while here presides

Our gude auld master, Willie, O!

407

THE GARDENER’S SONG.

A garden was the blest retreat

Where love at first began,

When Eve was queen of womankind,

And Adam, king of man;

And ever since the garden’s been

The sacred bower of love,

Where youth and innocence convene,

In friendship’s paths to rove.

Then, brethren, round the goblet crown

With draughts of rosy wine,

And drink the memory of our sire,

Who rear’d the purple vine.

To Noah, that aquatic lord,

A bumper next be given;

The second gard’ner on record,

The favour’d child of heaven;

’Twas he at first distill’d those sweets

That cheer our social hours,

And strew’d the darker paths of life

With artificial flowers.

408Then, brethren, round the goblet crown

With draughts of rosy wine,

And drink the patriarch’s memory

Who first distill’d the vine.

And, lastly, toast the Hebrew sage,

Who sat on Judah’s throne,

Surrounded by his harem fair,

So blest to look upon.

Oh, when he sought the garden’s walk!

Its flowery pomp to see,

The virgin lily, on its stalk,

Was richer far than he!

Then, sons of flowers, the goblet crown,

And toast our art divine!

’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape,

Who rear the purple vine.

The world, since creation’s dawn,

Has own’d the gard’ner’s skill;

We paint with flowers the sunny lawn,

And shade with groves the hill.

Physicians borrow from our stores

The glory of their art;

We feed the hungry, cleed the bare,

And balm to life impart.

409And woman, Nature’s darling child,

Looks never half so fair,

As when the rose-bud decks her breast,

And garlands crown her hair.

Our friendship like the ivy spreads,

But, grafted as the oak,

Secure it stands in sun and storm,

Against each random shock.

Our hearts are as the snowdrop pure,

That dips in crystal wave,

But, like the thistle of the hill,

Oppression’s blast we brave;

And he that’s false in heart or hand,

Oblivious may he sink,

May hemlock be his laurel-crown,

And wormwood be his drink!

O! may the flowery paths of youth,

Where weeds too often glow,

Conduct us to those green retreats

Where fruits autumnal grow;

And when the blighting dews of age

Have chill’d our drooping wing,

May He, who heavenly Eden keeps,

Give us a second spring.

410Then, brethren, round the goblet crown

With draughts of rosy wine,

’Tis meet that we should quaff the grape,

Who rear the purple vine.

THE HAMMERMAN’S SONG.

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A HADDINGTON HAMMERMAN.

You may talk of your gard’ners and masons so fine,

Their craft is so ancient, ’tis all but divine;

But where were their tools or their implements made

Till old Tubal Cain the grand hammer display’d?

Like barbarous nations, with wood and with stone

They work’d in the dark till the hammerman shone,

Then the plough and the trowel on the anvil had birth,

And fair Cultivation descended to earth.

Descended to earth—descended to earth—

Then fair Cultivation descended to earth.

411He curbs the fierce steed in its fiery career,

Gives the bit to the bridle—the point to the spear;—

When the thunder-charged leven terrific doth play,

His magnetic rod leads it harmless away.

The hammerman’s art is both nice and sublime,

He tells to a moment the marches of Time;

Yes: the hour-telling watch, let them match it who will,

We owe to the hammerman’s glorious skill.

When Bell and her tabby sit down by the fire,

And a cup of Souchong is her pleasant desire,

As the nice-shining kettle its melody hums,

In fancy her sweetheart, the hammerman, comes!

May the sons of the anvil, the vice, and the file,

Have hearts pure as gold, and untainted with guile.

Whether on the earth’s surface, or deep in its mines,

Success to the hammer wherever it shines!

412

THE COUNTRY LAIRD’S COURTSHIP.

O far hae I wander’d through frost and through snaw,

My mither aye tauld me that I was to blame

In courting the lasses sae flirtish and braw,

So I’ll just tak’ my staff and I’ll haud awa’ hame.

CHORUS.

And it’s hooly, hooly, up the brae side;

And it’s hooly, hooly, haud awa’ hame;

My neighbours wad think that I was nae John Rue,

Kenn’d they the errand that I had gane.

This morning I met the sun high in the muirs,

But now in the wave he has dipt his red chin,

While I’ve waited on Janet, and counted the hours,

Exposed to the sneers o’ the hale o’ her kin.

To buy a new cledin’ I sald my auld cow,

In the eyes of the lassie to mak’ me look fine,

While I’ve just got ae kiss, hauf an inch frae her mou,

Though I bribed her auld dad wi’ the wale o’ my swine.

413He took up his staff, made a bow wi’ his bannet,

(Thinks he we’ll no meet in a hurry again:)

He gave a bit sigh when he thought upon Janet,

He dighted his een, and was better again.

As down the fir plantin’ he gaed to the mill,

O wha did he see but young Jenny, I ween?

Wha lean’d on the auld doitit laird o’ the hill,

A body that weel might her grandfather been.

“Now deil tak’ the lassie, an’ deil tak’ the laird!”

John jumped and roar’d as he was na himsel;

He cross’d like a maukin down Lizzy’s kail-yard,

Nor stopt till he plunged in the baker’s draw-well.

O, love it is warm—but water is cool!

And a frost-bitten body is ill to endure:

The lasses had led Johnny Rue like a fool,

Yet for ance in his life he has met wi’ his cure.

But, waes me! wee Johnnie’s been couthie of late,

Which maks the auld wife shake her head by the fire;

For he casts a sheep’s-ee on his young cousin Kate,

And goud often warms up a lassie’s desire.

414

MY AULD MAIDEN AUNTY

I’ve naething to do but to sit and to spin,

And crack wi’ my auld maiden aunty;

Our gossiping neighbours come dribbling in,

And aye keep a body fu’ canty, fu’ canty,

And aye keep a body fu’ canty.

But our thoughts, like the weather, are given to change,

I sigh’d day and night to get married;

And I’m sure gif there aught like a man had made love,

His suit wi’ me soon he had carried—had carried—

His suit wi’ me soon he had carried.

My aunty’s sae peevish, her temper’s sae sour,

She wearies us a’ wi’ inspection;

She frowns at the mark o’ a prin on the floor,

Our neighbours a’ ca’ her Perfection—Perfection—

Our neighbours a’ ca’ her Perfection.

The hale o’ her pleasure is snuff and green tea,

And her auld-fashion’d satins to number;

Ae day she wad try how her hoops fitted me,

And ne’er squeezed my body asunder—asunder—

And ne’er squeezed my body asunder.

415She sneers like the fox when I speak about men,

I wonder what she makes a wark at—

For I’m sure if her mother’s example she’d ta’en,

She never had stood in the market—the market—

She never had stood in the market.

But wha but our neighbour’s son Johnny’s come hame

Since the wars were so happily ended?

He tells me my beauty has kindled a flame—

My aunt wad gang daft if she kenn’d it,—she kenn’d it—

My aunt wad gang daft if she kenn’d it.

’Twas only yestreen like a statue I sat,

When to hand me the kettle he hurried,

He trod on the tail o’ my aunt’s tabby cat,

She raved sae, I wish’d the brute worried—brute worried—

She raved sae, I wish’d the brute worried.

To-morrow she’ll scandal the hale o’ the sex,

And ca’ me the vilest o’ ony;

For I’ll bid her guid day ere the sun’s in the east,

And aff to the Highlands wi’ Johnny—wi’ Johnny—

And aff to the Highlands wi’ Johnny.

416

TO ——.

Give me, sweet Maid! before we part,

One beauteous curl of thine;

And I will wear it next my heart,

Twined in a wreath of mine;

And should the gaudy world e’er wring

A moment’s sigh from thee,

That gentle ringlet, love, will bring

Thy memory back to me.

When gazing on that amulet dear,

Thou’lt bless my raptured sight,

As when thou beauteous did’st appear

In hours of soft delight.

Though homage only is thy due,

Thou first of womankind,

Thou’lt never meet a heart so true

As his thou leav’st behind.

THE END.

PRINTED BY OLIVER & BOYD.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.

Renumbered footnotes and moved them all to the end of the final chapter.