Volume 1 — AN IMPARTIAL HISTORY (continued 3)

Now France was hemm’d on ev’ry side, And Charles’ reward was humbling’s pride. By sea, by land, poor France was done; She begg’d for peace to draw her win. No ship durst from her harbours steer, Man of war, merchant, or privateer, Her trade was stopt by sea and land, Bold Britain did the seas command: She sued for peace at any price, But Charles’ affairs made it right nice. At Aix la Chapelle did the Congress hold, And when Charles thereof was told, He protested ’gainst what might be done, In prejudice of his pretension: For all his titles he would keep still, Let Britain and France do what they will: And this perplexed Lewis sore, And anger’d Britain still the more, So with France no peace there could be made, While She the Pretender harboured: France durst not on her part say No, Lest she should get the fatal blow. Britain now ask what you will, France can promise and not fulfil. The Articles were all agreed, But neither sign’d nor ratify’d, Until poor Charlie was sent away, Which he postponed every day, And instead of hastening to go, He gave the King’s gold-smith to know, That he wanted a service of plate, At twenty thousand crowns in rate, Charg’d to be ready ’gainst such a day, Without excuses or delay. Before this work was well begun, Another the King must have as soon, This put the jeweller in dread, Straight to the Prince he did proceed, Told him the matter, begg’d more time, No, said he, the first order’s mine, Go to the King and let him know—— Then said Lewis, Let it be so, Thinking that he was going away, But yet this caus’d some more delay. The plate was made and to him sent, Ev’n by the King’s commandement, And his Comptroller the charge to pay, Hoping ’twould hasten him away: But Charles told him very plain, That he in France would still remain, For he had full right to do so } By an alliance treaty long ago } And this he might let Lewis know. } On this the King wrote straight to Rome, To advise what plan he might assume. The Pope and Pretender did approve, That Charles should from France remove. As the King for him would provide, At Tribourg, a palace to reside, On what yearly pension he should demand, Sent him a Blank from his own hand, To name the sum though e’er so high, Sign’d by’s most Christian Majesty. The Duke de Graves with it was sent, Who begg’d he’d write the sum’s content Into the Blank with his own pen, But down he threw it with disdain, Saying, Bills and Bonds will seem but froth, If Sovereigns cannot keep their troth. Then came the Count de Maurepas, With Charles to argument the cause; As it was the King’s express command, That he should forthwith leave the land, If he chus’d not in peace to do it, Their scheme was to compel him to it, That the ministry were greatly struck, At his behaviour and conduct, In stopping the whole of their affairs This is what the Count’s commission bears. Your Ministry, cry’d he, with disdain, You’ll oblige me, tell your King and them, I’m born, I trust their schemes to break, And how to do’t, I could direct; But, I hope, the time will soon draw on, When that good work it will be done. About this time from London came, Two hostages of worthy fame, As pledges of the peace to be, And Articles to ratifie, While the French had none to London sent: At which the Prince a squib did vent, What! is Britain conquer’d, he did say, That their hostages are here away? And is French Faith so current grown, That hostages they ask for none? This league shall yet like poor mine go, Which was sworn to a few years ago. This did the Ministry enrage, And nought’s for Charlie but the cage, As the scheme was fully contriv’d, A courier from Rome arriv’d, Where the Pope and old Pretender too Did his whole conduct disavow, Ord’ring him forthwith to retire, To which he yet gave a deaf ear; But knowing that he must fall their prey, Order’d his plate and jewels away. His behaviour did through Paris spread, And all did own him, hard bestead. Then by the King an order’s sign’d, Directly to have him confin’d, Twelve hundred guards did close parade, Horse and grenadiers were had All armed and Cap-a-pee, Set round the Opera carefullie, The Duke de Biron had command, But loth to take the deed in hand; Caus’d Major Venderville execute, Who did not with much honour do’t. Six lusty ruffians were prepar’d, Who waiting stood within the guard, And as he entred the Opera door, They seiz’d him fast, and squeezed sore His hands and arms in the squabble, The guards around kept off the rabble, Who had the Prince in great esteem, And wish’d their help him to redeem, His servants and each favourite Were strictly order’d to retreat; Sword and pistols from him did wrest, This comes French vows to at the best. His arms and thighs with cords were knit, And in a coach they have him set, With a Major upon every side; In this posture they made him ride Unto the castle of Vincennes, While soldiers guarded all the lanes, Until that length they did proceed, As there an uproar was indeed; For ’mong the croud it was current told, That he was to the English sold: Some said this, and some said that, And thousands told they knew not what. The governor did him imbrace, And cried, “Ah my friend, Alas! “A noble Prince so bound with cord, “Upon my word, I’m sorry for’t.” And then in haste with his own hands, Respectfully unloos’d his bands: But to a dark apartment led him in, Was only ten feet square within, No window to look any way, A sky-light shew’d some peep of day. When he view’d his prison round and round, Said, he’d been worse into Scots ground; Poor Charlie this was hard to thole, To clap thee in a French black-hole! And there he was confin’d to ly, Till to depart he did comply, As the Pope and King James did desire, That he from French ground should retire. When finding that it must be so, He freely did consent to go. Two col’nels went, as it appears, To see him pass the French frontiers: They took the rout to Fountainbleau, And to his dungeon bade adieu, He did not love to be confin’d, So now the peace was fairly sign’d, And Charlie banish’d like a fool, Who was only us’d as a French tool, And to Scotland a scourge and curse, I mean by waste of blood and purse. But in time to come, dear countrymen, O do not do the like again! The Popish oaths ye’ll find a puff, When ye get on the neck a cuff; For in ages past you may see plain, These are the tricks of France and Spain, For to be peaceable and good, Till they are in a fighting mood, And then a quarrel they will breed For any thing they stand in need.

Now Charles, If thou want’st more sorrow, Thou may return if ’twere to-morrow, I know, the Pulpit and the Press Were the great means of thy distress, And thou hadst got no wit to guide it, No Principle thou had provided. Hadst thou, like Oliver appear’d In devout mood, thou might been heard: But a Prince without a principle! What thou couldst be, I cannot tell. The Protestants look’d badly on thee, So many wicked hang upon thee, And of thy forbearers, they plainly tell, Of Popery thou bearst a smell. Thou trustedst nought to ordination, But thought to force a crown and nation. I tell thee, Kings reign not by men, ’Tis a higher pow’r, thou’lt find it plain. The Pope, the Pagan, and the Turk, ’Tis all by fire and sword they work: We Quakers are of greater merit. We conquer none but by the Spirit; But thou, and each thy like’s a cheat, That pretend to rule the turns of fate, And will fight against the great decree, As of winds and waves would ruler be,—— The Pope pretends to curse and bless, And yet cannot create a Louse, Nor make a dead beast live again, For all the might he does preten’: Yet claims a power in heav’n and earth, Of judgment here there is a dearth, But O! what madness fills their head? To pray to saints thousand years dead! If dead men had such power to sell, Many of them wou’d been living still. And if those dead men they could hear us, They might sometimes send news to cheer us. By Yea and Nay, the Popes are thieves, And he’s as stupid that believes These roguish priests, who pardons sell, Or yet pray back a soul from hell. He’s surely of the devil’s kind, Who thus deludes the vulgar blind; And who adheres to such a college, Will be destroy’d for lake of knowledge, With Beads and Waffers, the Devil’s batter, Your musty Mass, and Holy Water, Wherewith ye blind the souls of men, For to encrease your worldly gain, Done with pretence of holiness: O hypocrites, why live ye thus? You thump, you mump, with face awray, And at one time ye rob and pray, Pretend so much to chastitie, None of your priests can married be, Yet run like rams, and lead lewd lives, Ye’re but a pack of venereal thieves: You practise cuckoldom and whoredom, That innocents have no freedom, Dreading the power of curse and bless, You thus put modesty in distress, Pretending Miracles and Charms, To keep from evil spirits harms, Such as Clover-leaves, and branch of Yew, Will keep the devil from man or cow, And that Holy Water has such effect, As make him run and break his neck; Ay, to the vulgar too you’ll tell, Of sending letters to heaven or hell, Bring half burnt souls from Purgatory, For gold you’ll harle them out in hurry, And those who cannot money raise, You’ll do it for butter, beef or cheese; But they may there stay, eternalie, Whose friends will not pay you a fee: I think a stronger delusion, Was never in any ages known, The Turk, the Pagan and the Jew, More mercy have to show than you, Your ceremonies so ye cook, The devil gets none but poor fo’k, Who cannot pay the priest his fee; Accurs’d be such belief for me.—— And now, dear Charles, how dost thou think, Such doctrine would in Britain stink, Into a Presbyterian’s nose, Or any who good plain sense knows? Dissenters and we they Quakers call, Protest, they’re not of Israel, Who pretend a power to damn or save, Or bear a rule beyond the grave. All is given us from above, And souls are saved by mere love; But the sp’rit of men, which some hold money, I term it but the devil’s honey, Wherewith you blind the ignorant, And cozen them who hate repent: But as thou profess no principle, Thou might have turn’d a What ye will: But those who no profession own, Are of kin to the beasts alone: They surely have but little wits, Who esteem no God above their guts. What wa’st thou sought? What wa’st thou got? Surely ’twas nothing but thy lot. Though Popes pretend to rule the earth, They cause nought but a sp’ritual dearth, As they can neither rule earth nor sea, Witness what has behappen’d thee: It surely makes your Pope a knave, To pretend a pow’r beyond the grave: Had his apostolic pow’r been true, Thou wou’dst been King of Britain now. Wert thou a Protestant in heart, I’d wish thee very well in part; But the last wish thoul’t get from me, Is, God keep our land of Pop’ry free! May the throne continue in Protestant race, And ne’er a Papist fill his place. Thus saith to thee an honest Quaker, Thou ne’er shalt here be a partaker: For all Rome’s plots and magic spell, ’Tis seldom now they prosper well, Her days of witchcraft are near run, Few Ave’s or Te Deum’s sung, A Mass that’s mumbled o’er in haste, Spoke in the language of the beast, Which but by few is understood, Poor chaff instead of sp’ritual food: But ignorance, the Papists say, Is unto heaven the nearest way: But, O ye wretches, this I doubt, While you the sp’ritual light keep out, And teach so freely, and off hand, To break the very Lord’s command, And on no other things lay hold; But trust the priest, and give him gold. All sins by them are pardoned, So by the nose the poor are led; Not blinded nations or ideots, But the rich, learned reprobates, Who will not from sinning hold, As long’s they have one bit of gold. Wo will be to such priests, I say: For hell’s prepar’d for such as they.

When that I from my darling pass’d, My love increas’d like young Leander, With the parting kiss, the tears fell fast, Crying, woes my heart that we should sunder. O’er mountains, glens, and raging seas, When wind and waves did roar like thunder, Them I’d encounter again with ease, That we were ne’er at all to sunder. O yet I did to Malton go, And left my darling Swain to wander; Where was one friend, were fifty foe; And I myself was then brought under. By a rude band of bloody hue, Because I lov’d a young Pretender; If it were undone, I would it do, O’er hills and dales, with him I’d wander. From ship to ship, was toss’d about, And to the Nore did me surrender; Crouds of rude hands, I stood them out, And lov’d none like my young Pretender.[42] To great London, I came at last, And still avow’d my passion tender; Thinking for death I would be cast, For serving of my young Pretender. But thanks be to the Georgian race, And the English laws, I judg’d untender; For they thought nought of all my case, Although I lov’d a young Pretender. They charg’d me to the Highlands go, For womens’ wit, and strength was slender; As I ne’er in arms appear’d as foe, In defence of a young Pretender. O were my Swain at Malton gate, Or yet at Sky I’d be his lover; In spite of all the laws of late, I would call him sweet darling Rover.

Now gentle readers, I have let you ken, My very thoughts, from heart and pen, ’Tis needless now for to conten, Or yet controule, For there’s not a word o’t I can men’, So ye must thole. For on both sides, some were not good, I saw them murd’ring in cold blood, Not th’ gentlemen, but wild and rude, The baser sort, Who to the wounded had no mood, But murd’ring sport. Ev’n both at Preston and Falkirk, That fatal night ere it grew mirk, Piercing the wounded with their durk, Caus’d many cry, Such pity’s shown from Savage and Turk, As peace to die. A woe be to such a hot zeal, To smite the wounded on the fiel’, It’s just they get such groats in kail, Who do the same, It only teaches cruelty’s real, To them again. I’ve seen the men call’d Highland Rogues, With Lowland men, make shange a brogs, Sup kail and brose, and fling the cogs Out at the door, Take cocks, hens, sheep and hogs, And pay nought for. I see’d a Highlander, ’twas right drole, With a string of puddings, hung on a pole, Whip’d o’er his shoulder, skipp’d like a fole, Caus’d Maggy bann, Lap o’er the midden and midden-hole, And aff he ran. When check’d for this, they’d often tell ye, Indeed her nainsel’s a tume belly. You’ll no gi’et wanting bought, nor sell me, Hersel will haet, Go tell King Shorge, and Shordy’s Willie, I’ll hae a meat. I see’d the soldiers at Linton-brig, Because the man was not a Whig, Of meat and drink, leave not a skig Within his door, They burnt his very hat and wig, And thumpt him sore. And thro’ the Highlands they were so rude, As leave them neither clothes nor food, Then burnt their houses to conclude, ’Twas tit for tat, How can her nainsel’ ere be good, To think on that. And after all, O shame and grief, To use some worse than murd’ring thief, Their very gentlemen and chief, Unhumanly, Like Popish tortures, I belief, Such cruelty. Ev’n what was act on open stage, At Carlisle in the hottest rage, When mercy was clapt in a cage, And pity dead, Such cru’lty approv’d by every age, I shook my head. So many to curse, so few to pray, And some aloud huzza did cry, They curs’d the Rebel Scots that day, As they’d been nout Brought up for slaughter, as that way Too many rowt. Therefore, Alas! dear countrymen, O never do the like again, To thirst for vengeance, never ben Your guns nor pa’ But with th’ English, e’en borrow and len, Let anger fa’. Their boasts and bullyings, not worth a louse, As our king’s the best about the house, ’Tis ay good to be sober and douce, To live in peace, For many I see, for being o’er crouse, Gets broken face.

Her nainsel into Glasgow went, An errand there to see’t, And she never saw a bonnier town Standing on her feet. For a’ the houses that be tere Was theekit wi’ blue stane, And a stane ladder to gang up, No fa’ to break her banes. I gang upon a stany road, A street they do him ca’, And when me seek the chapman’s house, His name be on the wa’. I gang to buy a snish tamback, And standing at the corse, And tere I see a dead man, Was riding on his horse. And O! he be a poor man, And no hae muny claes, Te brogues be worn aff his feet, And me see a’ his taes.[43] Te horse had up his muckle fit For to gie me a shap, And gaping wi’ his great mouth To grip me by the tap. He had a staff into his hand, To fight me an’ he coud, But hersel be rin awa frae him, His horse be unco proud. But I be rin around about, And stand about the guard,[44] Where I see the deil chap the hours, Tan me grew unco feared.[45] Ohon! Ohon! her nainsel said, And whare will me go rin? For yonder be the black man That bums the fouk for sin. I’ll no pe stay nae langer tere, But fast me rin awa, And see the man thrawin te rapes Aside te Broomielaw.[46] An’ O she pe a lang tedder, I spier’t what they’ll do wi’t, He said to hang the Highlandmen For stealing o’ their meat. Hout, hersel’s an honest shentleman, I never yet did steal, But when I meet a muckle purse, I like it unco weel. Tan fare ye weel ye saucy fellow, I fain your skin wad pay; I cam to your toun the morn but, An’ I’ll gang out yesterday. Fan I gang to my quarter-house, The door was unco braw, For here they had a cow’s husband, Was pricked on the wa’.[47] O tere me got a shapin ale, An’ ten me got a supper, A filthy choud o’ chappit meat Boiled amang a butter. It was a filthy dirt o’ beef, His banes was like te horn, She was a calf wanting the skin, Before that she was born. I gang awa into the kirk To hear a Lawland preach, And mony a bonny sang they sing, Tere books they did them teach. And tere I saw a bonny mattam, Wi’ feathers on her waim, I wonder an’ she be gaun to flee, Or what be in her myn.[48] Another mattams follow her, Wha’s arse was round like cogs! And clitter clatter cries her feet— She had on iron brogues.[49] And tere I saw another mattam Into a tarry seck, And twa mans pe carry her, Wi’ rapes about hims neck. She pe sae fou o’ vanity, As no gang on the grun, But twa poor mans pe carry her In a barrow covert aboon.[50] Some had a fish-tail to their mouth,[51] And some pe had a ponnet, But my Janet and Donald’s wife Wad rather hae a bannock.

Her sel pe Highland shentleman, Pe auld as Pothwell prig, man; And mony alterations seen Amang the Lawland whig, man. Fal lal, &c. First when her to the Lowlands came, Nain sell was driving cows, man: There was nae laws about hims narse, About the breeks or trouse, man. Fal lal, &c. Nain sell did wear the philapeg, The plaid prik’t on her shouder; The gude claymore hung pe her pelt, The pistol sharg’d wi’ pouder. Fal lal, &c. But for whereas these cursed preeks, Wherewith mans narse be lockit, O hon, that ere she saw the day! For a’ her houghs pe prokit. Fal lal, &c. Every thing in the Highlands now, Pe turn’t to alteration; The sodger dwal at our door cheek, And that’s te great vexation. Fal lal, &c. Scotland be turn’t a Ningland now, And laws pring on the cadger: Nain sell wad durk him for hur deeds, But oh she fears the sodger. Fal lal, &c. Another law came after that, Me never saw the like, man; They mak a lang road on the crund, And ca’ him turnimspike, man. Fal lal, &c. And wow she pe a ponny road, Like Louden corn rigs, man; Whare twa carts may gang on her, And no break others legs, man. Fal lal, &c. They sharge a penny for ilka hors, In troth they’l be nae sheaper, For nought but gaen upo’ the crund, And they gie me a paper. Fal lal, &c. They tak the hors then pe the head, And there they mak them stand, man. I tell’d them that I seen the day They had na sic command, man, Fal lal, &c. Nae doubts nain-sell maun draw his purs, And pay them what him’s like, man: I’ll see a shudgement on his store, That filthy turnimspike, man. Fal lal, &c. But I’ll awa to the Highland hills, Where nere a ane sall turn her; And no come near your turnimspike, Unless it pe to purn her. Fal lal, &c.

Would you’ll know me, my name it is Tugal M‘Tagger, She’ll brought hersel’ down frae the braes o’ Lochaber, To learn her nainsel’ to be praw haberdabber, Or fine linen-draber, the tane or the twa. She’ll being a stranger, she’ll look very shy-like: She’s no weel acquaint wi’ your laigh kintra dialect; But hoogh! never heed, she’s got plenty o’ Gaelic— She comes frae ta house at the fit o’ Glendoo. [But her kilt she’ll exchange for ta praw tandy trowser, An’ she’ll learn to ta lady to scrap an’ to pow, sir, An’ say to ta shentlemans—How did you’ll do, sir? An’ ten she’ll forget her poor friens at Glendoo. An’ when she’ll pe spoket the laigh kintra jabber, She’ll gi’e hersel’ out for ta Laird o’ Lochaber, Shust come for amusements to turn haberdabber, For tat will pe prawer tan herding ta cow.][52] She’ll got a big shop, an’ she’ll turn’d a big dealer; She was caution hersel’, for they’ll no sought no bailer, But Tugal M‘Tagger hersel’ mak’s a failure— They’ll call her a bankrumpt, a trade she’ll not know. They’ll called a great meeting, she’ll look very quate now, She’ll fain win awa’, but they’ll tell her to wait now; They’ll spoket a lang time, ’pout a great estate now: She’ll thocht that they’ll thocht her the laird o’ Glendoo. They’ll wrote a long while about a trust deeder, She’ll no write a word, for hersel’ couldna read her, They’ll sought compongzition, hoogh, hoogh, never heed her— There’s no sic a word ’mang the hills o’ Glendoo. But had she her durk, hersel’ would devour them, They’ll put her in jail when she’ll stood there before them; But faith she’ll got out on a hashimanorum,[53] And now she’s as free as the win’s on Glendoo.

O will you hae the tartan plaid, Or will you hae ta ring, mattam, Or will you hae ta kiss o’ me, And dats ta pretty ting, mattam. Had awa’, bide awa’, Had awa’ frae me, Donald, I’ll neither kiss, nor hae a ring, Nae tartan plaids for me, Donald. O see you not her ponny progues, Her fecket plaid, plew, creen, mattam, Her twa short hose, and her twa spiogs, And a shoulter pelt apoon, mattam. Had awa’, bide awa’, Had awa’ frae me, Donald, Nae shoulder belts, nae trink abouts, Nae tartan hose for me, Donald. Hur can peshaw a petter hough Tan him wha wears the crown, mattam; Her sell hae pistol and claymore, Tae flie ti’ lallant loon, mattam. Had awa’, had awa’, Had awa’ frae me, Donald, For a your houghs and warlike arms, You’re not a match for me, Donald. Hur sell hae a short coat pi pote, No trail my feets at rin, mattam, A cutty sark of guide harn sheet, My mitter he pe spin, mattam. Had awa’, had awa’, Had awa’ frae me, Donald; Gae hame and hap your naked houghs, And fash nae mair wi’ me, Donald. You’s ne’er pe pidden work a turn At ony kind o’ spin, mattam, But shug your lenno in a scull, And tidel highland sing, mattam. Had awa’, had awa’, Had awa’ frae me, Donald, Your jogging sculls, and highland sang, Will sound but harsh wi’ me, Donald. In ta morning, when him rise, Ye’s get fresh whey for tea, mattam, Sweet milk an ream, as much you please, Far sheaper tan pohea, mattam. Had awa’, bide awa’, Had awa’ frae me, Donald, I wadna quit my morning’s tea; Your whey will ne’er agree, Donald. Haper Gallick yes pe learn, An tats ta ponny speak, mattam, Ye’s get a cheese, and putter kirn, Come wi’ me kin ye like, mattam. Had awa’, had awa’, Had awa’ frae me, Donald, Your Gallick, and your Highland chear, Will ne’er gae doun wi’ me, Donald. Fait yes pe ket a silder protch, Pe pigger as the moon, mattam, Ye’s ride in curroch stead o’ coach, And wow put ye’ll pe fine, mattam. Had awa’, had awa’, Had awa’ frae me, Donald, For all your Highland rarities, You’re not a match for me, Donald. What’s tis ta way tat ye’ll pe kind To a protty man like me, mattam, Sae lang claymore pe po my side, I’ll nefer marry thee, mattam. O come awa’, run awa’, O come awa’ wi’ me, Donald, I wadna quit my Highland man, Frae Lallands set me free, Donald.