He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead, And a green gra.s.sy hillock hides his head; Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed.

Man Was Made To Mourn: A Dirge

When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care; His face furrow'd o'er with years, And h.o.a.ry was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?"

Began the rev'rend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me to mourn The miseries of man.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride;-- I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return; And ev'ry time has added proofs, That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time!

Mis-spending all thy precious hours-- Thy glorious, youthful prime!

Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious pa.s.sions burn; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law.

That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported in his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then Age and Want--oh! ill-match'd pair-- Shew man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest: But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land, All wretched and forlorn, Thro' weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn.

"Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame!

And man, whose heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn,-- Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor pet.i.tion spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave, By Nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet, let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast: This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn!

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy fear thy blow From pomp and pleasure torn; But, oh! a blest relief for those That weary-laden mourn!"

The Twa Herds; Or, The Holy Tulyie

An Unco Mournfu' Tale

"Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool is barbarous civil war,"--Pope.

O a' ye pious G.o.dly flocks, Weel fed on pastures orthodox, Wha now will keep you frae the fox, Or worrying tykes?

Or wha will tent the waifs an' crocks, About the d.y.k.es?

The twa best herds in a' the wast, The e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast These five an' twenty simmers past-- Oh, dool to tell!

Hae had a bitter black out-cast Atween themsel'.

O, Moddie,^1 man, an' wordy Russell,^2 How could you raise so vile a bustle; Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle, An' think it fine!

The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, Sin' I hae min'.

O, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit To wear the plaid; But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank?-- Sae hale and hearty every shank!

Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank He let them taste; Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, drank,-- O, sic a feast!

[Footnote 1: Rev. Mr. Moodie of Riccarton.]

[Footnote 2: Rev. John Russell of Kilmarnock.]

The thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod, Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, He smell'd their ilka hole an' road, Baith out an in; An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, An' sell their skin.

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale; His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, Owre a' the height; An' saw gin they were sick or hale, At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, Or n.o.bly fling the gospel club, And New-Light herds could nicely drub Or pay their skin; Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Or heave them in.

Sic twa--O! do I live to see't?-- Sic famous twa should disagree't, And names, like "villain," "hypocrite,"

Ilk ither gi'en, While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite, Say neither's liein!

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, There's Duncan^3 deep, an' Peebles^4 shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,^5 We trust in thee, That thou wilt work them, het an' cauld, Till they agree.

Consider, sirs, how we're beset; There's scarce a new herd that we get, But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, I winna name; I hope frae heav'n to see them yet In fiery flame.

[Footnote 3: Dr. Robert Duncan of Dundonald.]

[Footnote 4: Rev. Wm. Peebles of Newton-on-Ayr.]

[Footnote 5: Rev. Wm. Auld of Mauchline.]

Dalrymple^6 has been lang our fae, M'Gill^7 has wrought us meikle wae, An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,^8 And baith the Shaws,^9 That aft hae made us black an' blae, Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow^10 lang has hatch'd mischief; We thought aye death wad bring relief; But he has gotten, to our grief, Ane to succeed him,^11 A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef; I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell, Wha fain wad openly rebel, Forby turn-coats amang oursel', There's Smith^12 for ane; I doubt he's but a grey nick quill, An' that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks o'er a, the hills, By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, Come, join your counsel and your skills To cowe the lairds, An' get the brutes the power themsel's To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, An' Learning in a woody dance, An' that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair, Be banished o'er the sea to France: Let him bark there.