ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,
The Duke of Argyle and the Earl of Mar.
"O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or ware ye at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?"
I saw the battle, sair and tough,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart for fear gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads wi' black cockades
To meet them were na slaw, man;
They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man:
The great Argyle led on his files,
I wat they glanced twenty miles:
They hack'dand hash'd,while broadswords clash'd,
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa, man.
But had you seen the philibegs,
And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,
And covenant true blues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets oppos'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath,
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.
"O how deil Tam can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the north, man:
I saw myself, they did pursue
The horsemen back to Forth, man;
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a' their might,
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat
For fear amaist did swarf, man."
My sister Kate cam up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man ;
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebors' blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes,
And so it goes you see, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man:
I fear my lord Panmure is slain,
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man :
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world gude-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,
And whigs to hell did flee, man.*
*This was written about the time our bard made his
tour to the Highlands, 1787.
THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again :-
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer,
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachael's care to-day,*
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone forever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
*This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila from the Vision, Vol. iii, p. 99.
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