Volume I Part 47 (1/2)
When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!
For money in a great degree; Ah, George's daughter--generous la.s.s-- Ne'er lets my pockets empty be; She keepeth me in drink, and stays By me in ale-houses and all, An' at once, without a word, she pays For every stoup I choose to call!
An' every turn I bid her do She does it with a willing grace; She never tells me aught untrue, Nor story false, with lying face; She keeps my rising family As well as I could e'er desire, Although no labour I do try, Nor dirty work for love or hire.
I labour'd once laboriously, Although no riches I ama.s.s'd; A menial I disdain'd to be, An' keep my vow unto the last.
I have ceased to labour in the lan', Since e'er I noticed to my wife, That the idle and contented man Endureth to the longest life.
'Tis my musket--loving wife, indeed-- In whom I faithfully believe, She 's able still to earn my bread, An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive; I 'll have no lack of linens fair, An' plenty clothes to serve my turn, An' trust me that all worldly care Now gives me not the least concern.
[124] The ”Auld Town Guard” of Edinburgh, which existed before the Police Acts came into operation, was composed princ.i.p.ally of Highlandmen, some of them old pensioners. Their rendezvous, or place of resort, was in the vicinity of old St Giles's Church, where they might generally be found smoking, snuffing, and speaking in the true Highland vernacular. Archie Campbell, celebrated by Macintyre as ”Captain Campbell,” was the last, and a favourable specimen of this cla.s.s of civic functionaries. He was a stout, tall man; and, dressed in his ”knee breeks and buckles, wi' the red-necked coat, and the c.o.c.ked hat,” he considered himself of no ordinary importance. He had a most thorough contempt for grammar, and looked upon the Lord Provost as the greatest functionary in the world. He delighted to be called ”the Provost's right-hand man.” Archie is still well remembered by many of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, as he was quite a character in the city. In dealing with a prisoner, Archie used to impress him with the idea that he could do great things for him by merely speaking to ”his honour the Provost;” and when locking a prisoner up in the Tolbooth, he would say sometimes--”There, my lad, I cannot do nothing more for you!” He took care to give his friends from the Highlands a magnificent notion of his great personal consequence, which, of course, they aggrandised when they returned to the hills.
[125] A byeword for a regimental firelock.
[126] A favourite fowling-piece, alluded to in Bendourain, and elsewhere.
JOHN MACODRUM.
Jan Macodrum, the Bard of Uist, was patronised by an eminent judge of merit, Sir James Macdonald of Skye,--of whom, after a distinguished career at Oxford, such expectations were formed, that on his premature death at Rome he was lamented as the Marcellus of Scotland.
Macodrum's name is cited in the Ossianic controversy, upon Sir James's report, as a person whose mind was stored with Ossianic poetry, of which Macpherson gave to the world the far-famed specimens. A humorous story is told of Macodrum (who was a noted humorist) having trifled a little with the translator when he applied for a sample of the old Fingalian, in the words, ”Hast thou got anything of, or on, (equivalent in Gaelic to _hast thou anything to get of_) the Fingalian heroes?” ”If I have,”
quoth Macodrum, ”I fear it is now irrecoverable.”
Macodrum, whose real patronymic is understood to have been Macdonald, lived to lament his patron in elegiac strains--a fact that brings the time in which he flourished down to 1766.
His poem ent.i.tled the ”Song of Age,” is admired by his countrymen for its rapid succession of images (a little too mixed or abrupt on some occasions), its descriptive power, and its neatness and flow of versification.
ORAN NA H-AOIS,
THE SONG OF AGE.
Should my numbers essay to enliven a lay, The notes would betray the languor of woe; My heart is o'erthrown, like the rush of the stone That, unfix'd from its throne, seeks the valley below.
The _veteran of war_, that knows not to spare, And offers us ne'er the respite of peace, Resistless comes on, and we yield with a groan, For under the sun is no hope of release.
'Tis a sadness I ween, how the glow and the sheen Of the rosiest mien from their glory subside; How hurries the hour on our race, that shall lower The arm of our power, and the step of our pride.
As scatter and fail, on the wing of the gale, The mist of the vale, and the cloud of the sky, So, dissolving our bliss, comes the hour of distress, Old age, with that face of aversion to joy.
Oh! heavy of head, and silent as lead, And unbreathed as the dead, is the person of Age; Not a joint, not a nerve--so prostrate their verve-- In the contest shall serve, or the feat to engage.
To leap with the best, or the billow to breast, Or the race prize to wrest, were but effort in vain; On the message of death pours an Egypt of wrath,[127]
The fever's hot breath, the dart-shot of pain.
Ah, desolate eld! the wretch that is held By thy grapple, must yield thee his dearest supplies; The friends of our love at thy call must remove,-- What boots how they strove from thy bands to arise?
They leave us, deplore as it wills us,--our store, Our strength at the core, and our vigour of mind; Remembrance forsakes us, distraction o'ertakes us, Every love that awakes us, we leave it behind.
Thou spoiler of grace, that changest the face To hasten its race on the route to the tomb, To whom nothing is dear, unaffection'd the ear, Emotion is sere, and expression is dumb; Of spirit how void, thy pa.s.sions how cloy'd, Thy pith how destroy'd, and thy pleasure how gone!