Thus Robert, victorious, the triumph has gain'd;
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd.
Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw;
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.
"By the gods of the ancients!" Glendriddel replies,
"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,1
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."
Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech could pretend,
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe or his friend,
Said, "Toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,
And knee-deep in claret, he 'd die, or he'd yield."
To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;
But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.
A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And every new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.
Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er:
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.
1 See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.
Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.
Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage:
A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend?
Tho' fate said-a hero should perish in light;
So up rose bright Phœbus-and down fell the knight.
Next up rose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:
"Craigdarroch, thou 'lt soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime!
"Thy line, that has struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce;
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"
Afton Water is one of the tributary streams of the Nith. The song was written in honor of Mrs. Dugald Stewart, of Afton Lodge, a lady of considerable literary abili ties. She wrote the beautiful and well-known song-"The tears I shed must ever fall."
FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among the green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills!
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk' shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,'
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
This is one of our Bard's early productions.-Miss Armour was afterwards Mrs. Burns.
IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,
The pride of the place and its neighborhood a',
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a':
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland 's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw;
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.
MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY.
"The oldest title," says Burns, "I ever heard to this air was 'The Highland Watch's Farewell to Ireland.' The chorus I picked up from an old woman in Dun. blane; the rest of the song is mine."
TUNE-Highlander's Lament.
My Harry was a gallant gay,
Fu' stately strade he on the plain!
But now he's banish'd far away,
I'll never see him back again.
1 Birch-tree.-2 The slope of a hill.
Oh for him back again,
Oh for him back again,
I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land
For Highland Harry back again.
When a' the lave' gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen;
I sit me down and greets my fill,
And ay I wish him back again.
Oh for him, &c.
Oh were some villains hangit high,
And ilka body had their ain,
Then I might see the joyfu' sight,
My Highland Harry back again!
Oh for him, &c.
WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD.
This ballad made its first appearance in the Edinburgh edition of the Poet's works. When Dr. Blair read it, he uttered this pithy criticism-"Burns's politics always smell of the smithy."
WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood,
And did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,*
And in the sea did jaw," man;
An' did nae less, in full congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.
Then through the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man!
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man:
1 Rest.-2 Worn with grief.-3 Cry.-4 Teapot.
5 To pour out-to jerk, or cast away. It will be recollected that when the English parliament imposed an excise duty upon tea imported into North America, the East India Company sent several ships laden with that article to Boston, and the natives went on board those ships by force of arms, and emptied all the chests of tea into the sea.
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his enemies a', man.
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage,
Was kept at Boston ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe'
For Philadelphia, man:
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian blood to draw, man;
But at New York, wi' knife an' fork,
Sirloin he hackéd sma', man.
Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,
Till Fraser brave did fa', man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,2
An' did the buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive1 frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.
Then Montague, and Guilford too,
Began to fear a fa', man;
And Sackville doure," wha stood the stoure,
The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a', man;
And Charlie Fox threw by the box,
And lows'd his tinkler' jaw, man.
Then Rockingham took up the game,
Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man;
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man,
For North an' Fox united stocks,
An' bore him to the wa', man.
A hillock.-2 Was able.-3 Natives of Virginia.-4 A sword.-5 Stcut, stubborn.-6 Dust.-7 Let loose in a strain of coarse raillery against the Ministry.
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