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The Scots Week-End
Unlucky Numbers


Wink hard, and say the folks has done their best.



OLD doted foole! thy folly all may see,
Ingraven deepe, in thy great towre of tree,
If thou wilt have to be a mighty fort,
A towre of steel to save and to support
Thyself, thy sonnes, from peril and mishaps,
Which will the world swell with tempestuous claps.
How long's your ark, how high, how broad us tell,
Teach us, for yee in wisdom doe excell?
We heare the length three hundred cubits bee,
And that the breadth but fiftie which wee see,
And that the hight should thirtie cubits have,
Men, fowles, and beastes, from drowning for to save.
With all those, as it must be understood,
Yee must for all have ev'n sufficient food.
What if you with your sonnes and household dear,
And beastes and fowles remain there but a yeare?
Yea, if but half that space you there remaine,
Will the Ark you all, and food for you containe?
Bread for yourselves, and fodder for your Horses,
For Elephants, for Camells, and for Asses;
For Cowes and Sheepe, for Dogs and filthy Swine,
The Hart and Hind, for Goats and Porcupine;
For Weezles which haunt in the clefts of rocks,
For wittie Monkeys, and the wily Fox;
And thousands more of beasts and fowls also,
Which to the Ark, you must als make to goe?
There must be Peacocks, which with golden eyes,
Upon their feathers the beholders please;
There must be Lapwings, with their hooded tops,
And Eagles which still haunt among the rocks;
There must the Ostrich also have a place,
The Cran and Owle, with its ill-favor'd face;
The Swallow swift, and als the Cormorant,
The Brigander, Quaile, Barnacle, Feasant,
The Shovler, Brambline, Bitter and Hickway,
The Paret, Partridge, Dove, and the Ospray,
The Heron, Harefoot, Rooke, and the Woodpecker,
The Daker Hen, the Ganet, and the Plover,
The Kestrell, Cough, the Crow, Raven, Gull, the Jay,
The Jackdaw, and the Griphon strong for prey,
The Pelican, the Phenix, and the Thrush,
The Falcon fierce, which downe with force doth rush,
The Gosehawk, Tercell, Gerfalcon, and Seker,
The Merlin, Musket, Hobb, that's still a taker,
The Wagtail, Snipe, the Starling, and the Stork
The Cuckoo, Titling, Titmouse, and the Bat,
The Teele, and Mavis, and the chattering Py,
The Yelamber, and pratling Papingay,
The Goldfinch, Fieldfare, with Cock, Hen, and Kit,
And many moe, where will these fowles all sit?
What shall they eat if they continue long,
Within that house with beastes and fowles so strong?
Some eat but wormes, some grasse, and some but graine,
Some must have flesh their life for to maintaine;
For Horse, Kine, Sheep, and other beasts the fodder
Would fill an Ark that's longer, deeper, broader.
Count well your cubits, and consider all,
If that your Ark can beasts both great and small,
With fowles and foode within its bounds containe,
See if ye can by reason this maintaine.
Yet more of beastes and fowles all that be cleane,
Of every sort preserved must be sev'n;
Th' odde one for God a sacrifice must bee,
The other six must serve to multiplie;
The fodder, fowles, the beasts with biggest bulks,
Would surely fill a score of greater Hulks.

Zachary Boyd


Here apprehended I in prison ly,
What goods will ransom my captivity?
What house is this, where's neither fire nor candle,
Where I nothing but guts of fishes handle?
I and my table are both heere within,
Where day ne'er dawn'd, where sun did never shine.
The like of this on earth man never saw,
A living man within a monster's maw;
Buried under mountains which are high and steep
Plung'd under waters hundreth fathoms deep.
Not so was Noah in his house of tree,
For through a window hee the light did see;
He sailed above the highest waves a wonder,
I and my boat are all the waters under,
He in his ark might go and also come,
But I sit still in such a strait'ned roome
As is most uncouth, head and feet together
Among such grease, as would a thousand smother.
I find no way now from my shrinking hence,
But heere to lie and die for mine offence;
Eight prisoners were in Noah's hulk together,
Comfortable they were each one to other.
In all the earth like unto me is none,
Farre from all living I heere lye alone;
Where I entombed in melancholy sink,
Choak't suffocat with excremental stink.



Let other Nations boast of Golden Mines,
Fragrant Spices, and of Noble Vines,
Of Flowry Meadows, and of Silver Springs,
Of Fields, and Folds, and all delightful things,
We look not on them with envious eyes,
Since Caledon, in Men, them all outvies.

We do not value all the Indian fruits,
Nor care to ruffle in the Asian suites,
Nor sport with African baboons and apes,
Nor yet to press French and Canary grapes:
Our Countrey in its Heroes doth delight,
Who are its fame abroad, at home its light.

Is that a barren Country, which affords
Men glorious by their pen, and by their swords,
Where Cicero's matched in his golden tongue,
And Poets sing, as sweet as Virgil sung
And such brave souls have therein had abodes,
As duller Ancients would have called gods?

Lo one of them to us doth here return,
But ah! he's wafted hither in his Urne,
Yet even his dust doth kind acceptance claim,
Our hearts are elevated by his name,
Two Princes' darling (yea, and Heaven's that's more)
Aboard this Vessel comes unto our Shore.

I know it's not great matter, of what kind
A man is come, if of a generous mind;
Yet since the world makes some reck'ning here,
They cannot for a mean birth at him jeer;
An Herauld may, unblushing, say aloud,
He's come of ancient honourable blood.

These lands which he by industry hath won,
And which he hath bequeathed to his Son,
His Ancestors (once rank'd among the best)
Hundreds of years, (entitl'd Thanes) possest:
Though they were as struck trees, yet from their race
Heaven watered this branch to fill their place.

When others, at the highest price might be,
Did rate their sufferings and their loyalty,
Claim'd great rewards, thought, all they could desire
Was for their service but too mean a hire:
He who both did and suffer'd more than many,
Was yet as modest in his suits as any.

To him it was enough, when he did see
His King and Country happy both to be,
It pleased him much more than any wealth
To see his Prince's face, and tend his health,
This comfort he enjoyed, and providence
Did unsought riches unto him dispense.

Descend ye famous hills and levelled be,
And borrow tears from your neighbouring Dee,
Or heave you upward, and draw from the clouds,
And then his grave bedew with brinish flouds;
This is but just, for now his dust is here,
Who was to Heaven, his Prince, and Country dear.

John Barclay, Minister of Cruden


Men may esteem the Trespass small, but I
Will after such Offender strictly try:
My hand shall find them out, I will not spare
That vile presumptuous Wratch who's bold to dare,
In his vile mouth to take my Hallowed Name
Without due Reverence, and a Praying Frame.
I'll smite him through with darts of fiercest Wrath
And Sharpest Vengeance; yea Eternall Death,
And hightned Fury on his Soul shall seize,
Without the least hours Respite, Sist, or Ease
His tongue shall Fry in hotest Pot of Hell,
That thus offends; yea and his Soul shall Dwell
In most exquisit Torments in that cave,
Which for the Devils I Prepared have.
First to the Eye is represented there
Most dreadfull Spectres round them everywhere.
Hobgoblings dancing in prodigious Shapes,
Like Lyons, Tigers, Dragons, Bears, and Apes,
With Horns of Steel, and Iron-Teeth like Darts,
And forked Claws for tearing Sinners Hearts.
Thou no glad Musick in that place shall hear,
Nor other Noise shall touch thy Cursed Ear,
But Ruefull Strikes, and Knocks of Ratling Chains,
And mutual Curses of Dire Ghosts in Pains,
Who One Another tempted have to Sin,
Plagueing the Day their 'quaintance did begin.
No sweet Refreshing Smell shall there be found,
But noxious Savour Every Where abound,
Of all vile Filth, and stinking Sulphorous Smoak,
Least Smell of which all Mortal Flesh would Choak,
Were it not now so strongly Verg'd about
With thickest Earth that none thereof gets out.
No softer Touch is there than Scorpions Stings,
And Byting Asps; yea all Tormenting Things,
Do there combine, and all their Force Unite
To Plague the Body, and Torment the Sp'rit:
The Worm of Conscience Gnawing Within,
When thou Reflects upon thy By-Past-Sin,
Its gentlest Byts much sharper are by Far
Than Dragons Claws or red-hot Pincers were,
Thy Heart and Bowels plucking out At Once;
Or Rav'nous Birds thy Flesh tear from thy Bones.
Hot Burning Coals of juniper shall be
Thy Bed of Down, and then to Cover thee
A Quilt of Boyling Brimstone thou must take,
And Wrap thee in till thou full Payment make,
To Divine justice for thy Great Offence,
In that thou hast without due Reverence,
My Hallowed Name Prophan'd, and tane in Vain.
Thou surely shall endure Eternal Pain,
Because thy Sufferings no Proportion have,
To that Infinite Offence which thou gave.
The Head, the Hand, the Nose, the Ear, the Eye.
Yea, every Member shall tormented be
Apart, and such exquisite Tortures fill
Each joint as would great Leviathan kill.
Yet thy frail Body I'll make to subsist
Under such Torments, while I do exist.
No Wine or Beer is there to quench thy Drowth
Nor liquid Drop at all to cool thy Mouth.
But bitter Dreggs of that great Cup of Wine
Of Indignation in my hand Divine;
Which without Mixture every Soul shall Take,
And Drink and Vomit in that Burning Lake.

James Donaldson (fl. 1695)


O! Monstruous death, and bloody foe, thou enemy of man!
Thou's barbled all thy arrows great, from earth now has him tane,
That was a credit to the land, known by all of great note,
Though he was born an English man, he was a real Scot,
He coost a copy to all men, who ever shall succeed,
He teacht brave men his noble art, did not eat iddle bread:
Many may lament full sore, that he is dead and gone,
Beside his wife, and dearest friends, the poor will him bemoan,
Death with his fearful bloody syth, has cutt this Sedar down,
But he has left his art behind, even to his great renown;
His name will blosome in the dust, his actions were so good,
He was so kind to poor and rich, and still he feared God,
He was belov'd of every one, and namely by the common,
Though he was call'd Episcopal, be sure he was no Roman:
He wore a badge of secresie, and well did know its worth;
There was a motto upon it, and that was called Truth;
None dare but venerat his name, pious, good, and kind;
He's gone from earth to heavens glore, left not his match behind.
My quill cannot descrive him right, the truth of this I know:
For any thing that I can guess, there's few like him below.
I will not name his parentage: his breeding, nor his birth;
But he that runs may read his life, he was a man of worth;
He valued not this earth below, although he had it satis,
He lov'd to lay his stock above, and now he is beatis.



Chief of Grames Name, who always have been great,
Has seventy-one Kings Serv'd in War and State;
Has Thirteen hundred twenty-seven years stood:
With whom King Fergus-Second, Match'd in Blood:
To Royaltie may say, Truth to discover,
To King Eugenius-Second Bred Queen-Mother.
Thy jovial House, turns now the House of Woe,
No heart of Stone unbroke, can therein go:
Alace to see thy Lady Marquess state,
Heartless become, by this sad Stroke of Fate,
With her young Marquess sits whose doleful crys,
With Her to Joyn, moves all our Sphears and Skies;
Bereav'd of Her dear Lord, 'twixt whom was Love,
That Imitate Heavens Hierarchie above.
Ah! ah! young Marquess in Thy Bud, to see
Of Thy Paternal-root, Robed to be;
By which Thy Name and House Enervat are,
Of Chief and Master, of both who had Care.
Chronologizers Theam t'inlarge long Story,
The Soul of Virtue now is gone to Glory.

Mungo Murray


To this thrice worthy mate, an ample field
Is patent to her grief, she's big with child:
She weeps, the child shall ne'er his father see,
While the three born lisp out an elegie,
So great's her grief: sure she had lost her life,
Had not the Christian overcome the wife.
So great's his mother's sorrow, that her soul,
Were she not saint, would with his mount the pole.
Only well grounded hopes of his blest state,
Can their excessive agonies abate.

Anon. (1701)


Not all the culinary arts can tame
To wholesome food the abominable growth
Of rest and gluttony; the prudent taste
Rejects like bane such loathsome lusciousness;
The languid stomach curses ev'n the pure
Delicious fat and all the race of oil,
For more the oily aliments relax
Its feeble tone, and with the eager lymph
(Fond to incorporate with all it meets)
Coyly they mix, and shun with slippery wiles
The woo'd embrace. Th' irresoluble oil,
So gentle late and blandishing, in floods
Of rancid bile o'erflows: what tumults hence
What horrours rise were nauseous to relate.
Chuse leaner viands, ye whose jovial make
Too fast the gummy nutriment imbibes,
Chuse sober meals, and rouse to active life
Your cumbrous clay, nor on th' enfeebling down
Irresolute protract the morning hours:
But let the man whose bones are thinly clad
With cheerful ease and succulent repast
Improve his habit if he can; for each
Extreme departs from perfect sanity.

John Armstrong, M.D.


For this the watchful appetite was giv'n,
Daily with fresh materials to repair
This unavoidable expense of life,
This necessary waste of flesh and blood:
Hence the concoctive pow'rs with various art
Subdue the cruder elements to chyle,
The chyle to blood, the foamy purple tide
To liquors, which through finer arteries
To diff'rent parts their winding course pursue,
To try new changes and new forms put on
Or for the publick or some private use.



Rang'd on the brink the weeping matrons stand,
The lovely wreck of fortune to survey;
While o'er the flood he wav'd his beauteous hand,
Or in convulsive anguish struggling lay,
By slow degrees they view'd his force decay,
In fruitless efforts to regain the shore;
They view'd and mourn'd his fate-O Heaven, they cou'd no more!

Thomas Blacklock, D.D.


Her robe, around her loosely thrown,
Gave to the shepherd's een
What could in innocence be shown;
The rest was all unseen.



Love too did oft our speech employ,
Love the pure source of social joy:
Love-but what visions, strike mine eyes!
What forms, what heav'nly forms arise?
Ammonia here!-ah me excuse
The sallies of a wanton muse,
That flies on fancy's wing away,
I cease-I cease the empty lay.

James Boswell


There was a time when this dull breast
Throbb'd wild to all that flitted by;
An angel spirit was its guest,
And nature charmed my laughing eye.

Has nature charms? or does the soul
Give all the colour that we know?
Are those the orbs that wont to roll?
Are these the streams that wont to flow?

Talk to the blind of joys of sight,
And tell the deaf of music's art,
And spread the tinsel of delight
Before a wounded broken heart.

She was-but let my accents fall
She is-but soars yon stars above!
I saw her in her father's hall
We met, we gazed, and all was love.

Yes, Seraph! 'twas his mandate proud,
That seas should part my love and me!
It was a father's wish. I bow'd,
And bade adieu to hope and thee.

I wandered, but in every land,
Thy lovely image wandered too;
Thy name I traced on every sand,
And mingled drops with every dew.

Yes, I returned, and she, my love,
No longer dwelt on Earth's bright scene;
Her angel spirit fled above,
And all-as she had never been!

Sir Alexander Boswell


Hail! mighty Pow'r, to whom we owe,
Beyond what words can fully show,
Or any art express!
To thee, O Diligence! we bend
To thee! on whom we all depend,
For bounties more or less!
Before thee all
May prostrate fall
When flushed with new success!

Should any object more inspire!
Should aught so far the grateful fire,
Or such affection claim!
How highly ought we all to prize,
The means by which we justly rise,
To wealth and endless fame!
And may explore
Immensely more
Than time permits to name!

When mountains heap'd on mountains high,
Approaching near the azure sky,
Our progress seem to stop,
By thy kind hand we're gently led,
And taught with care their brow to tread
Or mount their lofty top:
The highest tree
We climb by thee,
And all its branches lop!

When hard and intricate the course,
We find thee still the chief resource;
Thou all prevailing spring!
May then each tongue in tuneful lays,
A grateful revenue of praise,
And honours to thee bring!
And may the Nine
Inspire each line,
While thus of thee we sing!

George Hay (fl. 1'785)


Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected
A name which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despised and neglected.

Though something like moisture conglobes in my eye
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
A poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that wanderer were royal.



Besides the sweets of Ceres' reign,
The farmer boasts of lowing kine,
Whose lusty udders never fail
To fill the gold-begetting pail,
With many a white refulgent stream;
Whence the nectareous, mantling cream,
From which, express'd by homely toil,
The richly butyraceous oil:
The serous parts with equal ease,
Are formed into the lusty cheese,
Which is, in spite of all that's rare,
The chiefest still of Scotia's fare.

John Bell (fl. 1816)


Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war;
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade,
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star,
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.



O thou Ocean! as a sea boy, I have lain upon thy breast,
Ere a dream of evil after-days could steal upon my sleep;
I have gazed upon thy beauty when thy spirit was at rest,
Till my heart's full founts o'erflowing made me turn away and weep.
I have plough'd thee in the tempest, I have plough'd thee in the calm,
I have plough'd thee when the cannon roar and battle din was loud,
At midnight, and at morn, when an Ether fraught with balm,
Was hanging o'er thy bosom in a rosy-colour'd cloud.

I have thought upon thy nature, but have found all efforts vain,
To make myself acquainted with the changes thou hast seen;
I have heard of mighty cities, but could find no stone remain,
To point me with a certainty where such a one has been.
But I loved thee in my boyhood, and will love thee in my age,
Thou vast unconquer'd element, which man would vainly brave!
And when my weary spirit has obtain'd her skyward gage,
Oh! in some of thy recesses, let my body find a grave.

J. L. Denovan (1798-1827)


The priest undid two doors that hid
The inn's adjacent room,
And there a lovely woman stood,
Tears bathed her beauty's bloom.

One moment may with bliss repay
Unnumbered hours of pain;
Such was the throb and mutual sob
Of the Knight embracing Jane.

Thomas Campbell


Light rued false Ferdinand to leave a lovely maid forlorn,
Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.
One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted bower of love,
Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above.

But the scene was swiftly changed into a church yard's dismal view,
And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's delicious hue.
What more he dreamt he told to none; but shuddering, pale, and dumb,
Look'd out upon the waves, like one who knew his hour was come.

'Twas now the deadwatch of the night-the helm was lashed a-lee,
And the ship rode where Mount Aetna lights the deep Levantine sea;
When beneath its glare a boat came, row'd by a woman in her shroud,
Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud.

"Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven!
Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with Heaven!"
It was in vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call,
Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thrall.

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,
 For the Spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;
Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand,
And round they went, and down they went, as the crock crew from the land.



And are all the gay pictures I've painted of life,
Youth's dreams of romance, ever gone?
From scenes which with bliss, love, and beauty were rife,
Must I now awaken to nothing but strife,
But self and discordance alone?

find we have got appellations for much
Here rarely or ne'er to be found,
1 how much are we forc'd to acknowledge as such
Things shunning alike both the sight and the touch,
And charming alone by the sound.

Edward Allan (1837)


Loyal-hearted citizens!
Great news there's come to town;
I have not got the particulars yet,
But they'll be in the afternoon.

Loyal-hearted citizens!
Great news I've got to tell,
Of the wars in Spain and Portingall,
And how the town of Badajos fell.

There was one Aleck Pattison,
A man of great renown;
He was the first that did mount Badajos walls,
And the first that did tumble down.

He was a handsome tall young gentleman,
As ever my eyes did see;
A captain, colonel, or major,
He very soon would be.

I am the author of every word I sing,
Which you may very well see,
The music alone excepted,
But just of the poetree.

I've travelled the world all over,
And many a place beside:
But I never did see a more beautifuller city,
Than that on the banks of the navigatable river, the Clyde.

I left Inverness without e'er a guide,
And arrived in Glasgow city,
Where I've been informed that bold John Bull,
Again beat the French so pretty.

I came into the Star Inn and Hotel
First, they gave me brandy, and then they gave me gin;
Here's success, to all the waiters
Of the Star Hotel and Inn!

Alexander MacDonald ("Blind Alick")


For they're the men I do declare,
I mean the Royal Lanarkshire Volunteers.

The first comes Colonel Hunter,
In a kilt see he goes,
Every inch is a man
From the top to the toes.

He is the loyal Editor,
Of the Herald news-pa-per-
And no man at the punch-bowl,
The punch can better stir.

Like the fiery god of war,
Colonel Geddes does advance,
On a black horse, that belonged
To the murdered King of France.

And then comes Major Paterson,
You'll say he's rather slim;
But 'twill take a clever ball,
For to hit the like of him.



Ye hills and ye mountains surrounding Balmoral,
Ye groves and ye valleys, ye surely can tell,
Frae the mouth of the Dee to the fam'd Ballochbui,
Where cannons and pibrochs made a' the woods yell?

The eighth of September will ne'er be forgotten,
A merrier day we never hae seen,
We ran and we jumpit ower moorlands and mosses
To bonnie Aboyne to welcome the Queen.

The Queen and her Consort and three bonnie bairnies
Arrived at twelve on Charleston's Green;
The blackbirds were singin', the church bells were ringin',
The minstrels o' Tarland played "God save the Queen".

All in a sudden the royal coach started,
Wi' four bonnie steeds 'maist the colour o' cream;
Though the Queen was a stranger, she was in nae danger,
They a' wished her weel to her ain Hieland hame.

Lang! lang may she reign as the Queen o' our nation,
Wi' health and contentment and wealth at her call,
Lang may she be spared to comfort her children,
And spouse to Prince Albert, the Laird o' Birkhall.

Bothy song

[As sung at the Banquet given her in Edinburgh, on Wednesday, 20th April 1853]

Come, Scotland, tune your stock and horn,
And hail with song this joyous morn,
When on Love's eagle pinions borne,
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.

Chorus: Freedom's angel now's come,
Mercy's sister now's come,
Grim Oppression drees his doom:
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.

Through hostile ranks our sires of yore,
Fair Freedom's flag unsullied bore,
And still she fills our bosom's core:
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.

A woman's arm Truth's falchion bears,
A sweet low voice stern Conscience fears,
And stony hearts dissolve in tears:
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.

And far as rolls the ocean wave,
Is heard that voice now raised to save,
Alike the slaver and the slave:
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.

And tyrants scared the writing scan,
O'er-arching heaven with rainbow span,
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.

Then welcome be that honoured name,
So dear to freedom and to fame;
Come, rend the welkin with acclaim:
Harriet Beecher Stowe's come.

James Ballantine


There were two brothers, both noted warriors,
Who fell in love with a lady gay;
And for to win her was their endeavour
They tried to gain her both night and day.
The one of them he was a captain,
Commanded by brave Colonel Carr;
While the other he was a brisk lieutenant
On board the Tiger, a man-of-war.

The lady made a bold resolution
That she would wed no man but he
Who would prove himself to be a man of valour,
Either on the land or on the sea.
She called her coach to be made ready
In early morning by the break of day,
And with her two gallants rode o'er the mountains
Until they came where the lions lay.

And when they came into the tower
She threw her fan in the lions' den,
Saying - "Either of you that would gain a lady
Must bring me back my fan again".
Then out did speak the faint-hearted captain,
For he was sore distressed in mind -
"In battle I was ne'er called a coward,
And to fight my foes I am well inclined;

"But among these lions, bears, and tigers,
I think my life would no ransom prove;
I will not venture my life in danger,
Though I should never gain your love".
Then out did speak the bold lieutenant,
With a voice like thunder, both loud and shrill,
"Oh, I will venture my life in danger,
All for to gain my love's goodwill".

So while they went into the tower
The lions all looked fierce and grim,
But well behav'd the bold lieutenant,
His looks were ten times as fierce as them.
Then from his side he drew a rapier,
Two of the lions then he did kill;
When the others saw his manly courage
Down at their conqueror's feet they fell.

He stooped down the fan to lift up,
This courteous warrior made no delay;
While the lady in her coach sat trembling,
Lest he'd become the lions' prey.
But when she saw the bold hero coming,
And that to him no harm was done,
With open arms she did embrace him,
Says-"Take the prize, love, ye now have won".

It was not long till the King got notice
That two of his lions had been slain;
Yet he was not at all displeased,
But gave him honour for the same.
He advanced him from being a first lieutenant,
And made him Admiral of the Blue,
And soon the lady and he were married;
This lets us see what love can do.

Bothy song


My earthly pleasures now are fled,
My joyful days are done,
Since Ellen in her grave was laid
And her sands of life are run.

No friends on earth young Ellen had
To shed a silent tear,
Of parents both she was bereft
In her eleventh year.

The trouble that my Ellen had
Defied the doctor's skill;
She closed her eyes, and bade farewell
At her Redeemer's will.

Her days were numbered on this earth,
Her age scarce seventeen;
She was an honour to the female sex,
And the pride of Aberdeen.

Bothy song


Would'st thou reap life's golden treasure?
Young man, be wise!
Cease to follow where light pleasure
Cheats blinking eyes,
Let no flattering voices win thee,
Let no vauntful echoes din thee,
But the peace of God within thee
Seek, and be wise!

Where the fervid cup doth sparkle,
Young man, be wise!
Where quick glances gleam and darkle,
Danger surmise!
Where the rattling car is dashing,
Where the shallow wave is plashing,
Where the coloured foam is flashing,
Feast not thine eyes!

Rocking on a lazy billow
With roaming eyes,
Cushioned on a dreamy pillow,
Thou art not wise;
Wake the power within thee sleeping,
Trim the plot that's in thy keeping;
Thou wilt bless the task when reaping
Sweet labour's prize.

Since the green earth had beginning,
Land, sea, and skies,
Toil their rounds with sleepless spinning,
Suns sink and rise,
God, who with His image crowned us,
Works within, above, around us,
Let us, where His Will hath bound us,
Work and be wise!

All the great, that won before thee
Stout labour's prize,
Wave their conquering banners o'er thee;
Up, and be wise!
Wilt thou from their sweat inherit,
Fruits of peace, and stars of merit,
While their sword, when thou should'st wear it,
Rust-eaten lies?

Work, and wait, a sturdy liver
(Life fleetly flies!);
Work, and pray, and sing, and ever
Lift hopeful eyes;
Let no blaring folly din thee!
Wisdom, when her charm may win thee,
Flows a well of life within thee;
Young man, be wise!

John Stuart Blackie


Beautiful new railway bridge of the silvery Tay,
With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array;
And your thirteen central girders, which seems to my eye,
Strong enough all windy storms to defy.
And as I gaze upon thee my heart feels gay,
Because thou art the greatest railway bridge of the present day;
And can be seen for miles away,
From north, south, east, or west, of the Tay,
On a beautiful and clear sunshiny day,
And ought to make the hearts of the Mars boys feel gay;
Because thine equal nowhere can be seen,
Only near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.

Beautiful new railway bridge of the silvery Tay,
With your beautiful side screens along your railway;
Which will be a great protection on a windy day,
So as the railway carriages won't be blown away;
And ought to cheer the hearts of the passengers night and day,
As they are conveyed along thy beautiful railway.
And towering above the silvery Tay,
Spanning the beautiful river from shore to shore;
Upwards of two miles and more,
Which is most wonderful to be seen -
Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.

Thy structure, to my eye, seems strong and grand,
And the workmanship most skilfully planned;
And I hope the designers, Messrs. Barlow & Arrol,
will prosper for many a day,
For erecting thee across the beautiful Tay.
And I think nobody need have the least dismay,
To cross o'er thee by night or day;
Because thy strength is visible to be seen
Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.

Beautiful new railway bridge of the silvery Tay,
I wish you success for many a year and day,
And I hope thousands of people will come from far away,
Both high and low, without delay,
From the north, south, east and the west,
Because as a railway bridge thou art the best;
Thou standest unequalled to be seen
Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.

And for beauty thou art most lovely to be seen,
As the train crosses o'er thee with her cloud of steam;
And you look well painted with the colour of marone,
And to find thy equal there is none;
Which, without fear of contradiction, I venture to say,
Because you are the longest railway bridge of the present day;
That now crosses o'er a tidal river stream,
And the most handsome to be seen
Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.

The New Yorkers boast about their Brooklyn Bridge,
But in comparison to thee it seems like a midge,
Because thou spannest the silvery Tay,
A mile and more longer I venture to say;
Besides the railway carriages are pulled across by a rope,
Therefore Brooklyn Bridge cannot with thee cope;
And as you have been opened on the 20th day of June,
I hope Her Majesty Queen Victoria will visit thee very soon;
Because thou art worthy of a visit from Duke, Lord, or Queen,
And strong and securely built, which is most worthy to be seen
Near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green.

William McGonagall


Oh! mighty city of London, you are wonderful to see,
And thy beauties no doubt fills the tourist's heart with glee,
But during my short stay and while wandering there,
Mr Spurgeon was the only man I heard speaking proper English I do declare.



'Twas after the great Majuba fight:
And the next morning, at daylight,
Captain Macbean's men were ordered to headquarters camp
So immediately Captain Macbean and his men set out on tramp.

And there they were joined by the Blue jackets and 58th men,
Who, for unflinching courage, no man can them condemn,
And that brave little band was commissioned to bury their dead,
And the little band numbered in all about one hundred.

And they were supplied with a white flag, fit emblem of death,
Then they started off to O'Neill's farm, with bated breath,
Where their comrades had been left the previous night,
And were lying weltering in their gore, oh! what a horrible sight.

And when they arrived at the foot of Majuba Hill
They were stopped by a Boer party, but they meant no ill,
Who asked them what they wanted without dismay,
And when they said their dead, there was no further delay.

Then the brave heroes marched on, without any dread,
To the Hill of Majuba to collect and bury their dead;
And to see them climbing Majuba it was a fearful sight,
And much more so on a dark pitch night.

And on Majuba there was a row of dead men,
Numbering about forty or fifty of them;
There were also numbers of wounded men lying on the ground,
And when Captain Macbean's party gazed on them their sorrow was profound.

Oh, heaven! what a sight of blood and brains!
While the grass was red all o'er with blood-stains;
Especially at the edge of the Hill, where the 92nd men were killed,
'Twas there that the eyes of Macbean's party with tears filled,

When they saw their dead and dying comrades-inarms,
Who were always foremost in the fight during war's alarms;
But who were now lying dead on Majuba Hill,
And, alas! beyond the aid of all human skill.

They then went about two hundred yards down the Hill,
And collected fourteen more bodies, which made their blood run chill;
And, into one grave, seventy-five bodies they buried there,
All mostly 92nd men, who, I hope, are free from all care.

Oh! think of that little gallant British band,
Who, at Majuba, made such a heroic stand,
And, take them altogether, they behaved like brave men,
But, alas! they were slaughtered like sheep in a pen.

Poor fellows! there were a few of them left to retire,
Because undauntedly they faced that murderous fire,
That the mighty host poured in upon them, left and right,
From their numerous rifles, day and night.

The conduct of the 92nd was most brave through out,
Which has always been the case, without any doubt;
At least, it has been the case in general with the Highland Brigade,
Because in the field they are the foremost, and seldom afraid.

And to do the British justice, at Majuba they behaved right well,
But by overwhelming numbers the most of them fell,
Which I'm very sorry to relate,
That such a brave little band met with such a fate.

The commanders and officers deserve great praise,
Because they told their men to hold Majuba for three days;
And so they did, until the most of them fell,
Fighting nobly for their Queen and country they loved right well.

But who's to blame for their fate I'm at a loss to know,
But I think 'twas by fighting too numerous a foe;
But there's one thing I know, and, in conclusion will say,
That their fame will be handed down to posterity, for many a day!


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