"This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy 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," Glenriddel replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend,

• See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.

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 ev'ry 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.

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!
Though fate said—a hero should perish in light;
So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.

Next uprose 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!

66

Thy line, that have 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!"

THE KIRK'S ALARM:*

A SATIRE.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience;
'There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast,
That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr Mac,+ Dr Mac, you should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil doers wi' terror;

To join faith and sense upon ony pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;

Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief,

And orator Bob is its ruin.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child, And your life like the new driven snaw,

Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye,

For preaching that three's ane and twa.

This poem was written a short time after the publication of Dr M'Gill's Essay, and has reference to the polemical warfare which it excited.

† Dr M'Gill.

Robert Aiken.

Di Dalrympie.

*

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan,

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ;

Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like adle,

And roar every note of the damn'd.

Simper James,† Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames

There's a holier chace in your view ;

I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny, Unconscious what evils await?

Wi' a jump, yell and howl, alarm every soul,

For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld,§ Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld,

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ;||

Tho' ye downa do skaith, ye'll be in at the death,
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster,¶ Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster,
The corps is no nice of recruits;

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose,** Jamy Goose, ye ha'e made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;

But the Doctor's your mark, for the Lord's haly ark,
He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Willie,++ Poet Willie, gi'e the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit;

O'er Pegasus's side ye ne'er laid a stride,
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh—t.

• Mr Russell.

+ Mr M'Kinlay.

+ Mr Moody. § Mr Auld, Mauchline. Mr Gavin Hamilton. ¶ Mr Grant, Ochiltree. ** Mr Young, Cumnock. Mr Peebles, Air.

Andro Gouk,* Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book,

And the book not the waur let me tell ye;

Ye are rich and look big, but lay by hat and wig,
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie,+ Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye?

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,

Ye may ha'e some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi' people wha' ken ye nae better.

Irvine side,‡ Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share;

Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow,
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock,§ Muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a

rock

To crush common sense for her sins,

If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

skull,

Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a saint,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther enough,
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire ;

Your Muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie,

She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are.

* Dr A. Mitchell.

Mr Stephen Young, Barr.

Mr. Smith, Galston. § Mr Shepherd. An Elder in Mauchline.