CXIV.

THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O' NITH.

[This short Poem was first published by Robert Chambers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which came over the Duke of Queensberry's opinions, when he supported the right of the Prince of Wales to a.s.sume the government, without consent of Parliament, during the king's alarming illness, in 1788.]

The laddies by the banks o' Nith, Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, But he'll sair them, as he sair'd the King, Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie.

Up and waur them a', Jamie, Up and waur them a'; The Johnstones hae the guidin' o't, Ye turncoat Whigs awa'.

The day he stude his country's friend, Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie: Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, That day the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie.

But wha is he, his country's boast?

Like him there is na twa, Jamie, There's no a callant tents the kye, But kens o' Westerha', Jamie.

To end the wark here's Whistlebirk,[94]

Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie; And Maxwell true o' sterling blue: And we'll be Johnstones a', Jamie.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 94: Birkwhistle: a Galloway laird, and elector.]

CXV.

EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.

OF FINTRAY:

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN

SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR

THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

["I am too little a man," said Burns, in the note to Fintray, which accompanied this poem, "to have any political attachment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both parties: but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience." This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton ma.n.u.scripts for that purpose: to both families the poet was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.]

Fintray, my stay in worldly strife, Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, Are ye as idle's I am?

Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, And ye shall see me try him.

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears, Who left the all-important cares Of princes and their darlings; And, bent on winning borough towns, Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode, Whistling his roaring pack abroad Of mad unmuzzled lions; As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd, And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war, Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; Besides, he hated bleeding: But left behind him heroes bright, Heroes in Caesarean fight, Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg, To muster o'er each ardent Whig Beneath Drumlanrig's banner; Heroes and heroines commix, All in the field of politics, To win immortal honour.

M'Murdo[95] and his lovely spouse, (Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the loves and graces: She won each gaping burgess' heart, While he, all-conquering, play'd his part Among their wives and la.s.ses.

Craigdarroch[96] led a light-arm'd corps, Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, Like Hecla streaming thunder: Glenriddel,[97] skill'd in rusty coins, Blew up each Tory's dark designs, And bar'd the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought, Redoubted Staig[98] who set at nought The wildest savage Tory: And Welsh,[99] who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round With Cyclopeian fury.

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, The many-pounders of the Banks, Resistless desolation!

While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 'Mid Lawson's[100] port intrench'd his hold, And threaten'd worse d.a.m.nation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, With these what Tory warriors clos'd.

Surpa.s.ses my descriving: Squadrons extended long and large, With furious speed rush to the charge, Like raging devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, The butcher deeds of b.l.o.o.d.y fate Amid this mighty tulzie!

Grim Horror grinn'd--pale Terror roar'd, As Murther at his thrapple shor'd, And h.e.l.l mix'd in the brulzie.

As highland craigs by thunder cleft, When lightnings fire the stormy lift, Hurl down with crashing rattle: As flames among a hundred woods; As headlong foam a hundred floods; Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die; As soon the rooted oaks would fly Before the approaching fellers: The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, When all his wintry billows pour Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, And think on former daring: The m.u.f.fled murtherer[101] of Charles The Magna Charter flag unfurls, All deadly gules it's bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame.

Bold Scrimgeour[102] follows gallant Graham,[103]

Auld Covenanters shiver.

(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose!

Now death and h.e.l.l engulph thy foes, Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns, The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; But fate the word has spoken: For woman's wit and strength o' man, Alas! can do but what they can!

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns, My voice a lioness that mourns Her darling cubs' undoing!

That I might greet, that I might cry, While Tories fall, while Tories fly, And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James!

Dear to his country by the names Friend, patron, benefactor!

Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save!

And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!

And Stewart,[104] bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow; And Thurlow growl a curse of woe; And Melville melt in wailing!

How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!

And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise, Thy power is all prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar He only hears and sees the war, A cool spectator purely; So, when the storm the forests rends, The robin in the hedge descends, And sober chirps securely.

FOOTNOTES: