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Clan Donnachaidh Annual
Scotch Gent


The Poet Chief seems to have had the habit of scribbling verse on any odd scrap of paper he could find. Most of these have long been lost although his manservant gathered as many as he could find after Struan’s death in 1749 and had them published, for his own profit, in Edinburgh. The volume horrified the old chief’s friends since some of the verses therein were done for the poet’s amusement and that of his friends and were certainly not intended for a wider audience.

     This verse must come into this category. An illustration of the original from which this is transcribed is shown to demonstrate how ephemeral was the work. A rough financial account is on the same sheet of paper along with another ditty that looks indecipherable. This is the first time this ‘squib’ has been published and does little to dispel the chief’s reputation for misogyny. In a nutshell it appears some damsel – or perhaps old trout - had put it about that Struan wished to marry her. This he dustily denies.

‘The following lines by a certain Scotch gentleman directed to a certain Lady of the same nation Upon the said Gentleman’s hearing the said Lady had raised a false Report upon him he was making his addresses to her, tho in the Meantime such ane useless Bargain as she was never so much as entered in his thoughts. The said Lady of her self seeming Refeactory to all things being quite Modest and Chast from the Teeth up

Insipid Lonely Life abhorred by all
That have a taste of Matters Conjugal
To fares if with the Maid that strives to hide
Her itching Appetite, what’s worse may slide
Denying what she loves to feel each tyde
Quenching by Waters Stoln, what Nature guides
Me thinks ‘twere better for her longing heart
With honour Wedd, and wellcome Cupid’s Dart
Than to forget the blessed final Chase (ie To marrie)
Of all her Sex, so Eve Prolifick was

That Ground that Bears but thrice none can commend
(NB This lady had three children and there she Sticks is meant by the foregoing verse)
If ever after it no fruit can Lend
A barren poor and truly useless Land
Of Equale Virtue with the Lybian sande
Then Let her Stick to what doth fitt her mind
She may repent too late, when left behind
Obscure in Cloyster let this dame remain
Her mangled Parchment sucks no Mortall’s Pen’


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