1
10
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Text
SIR JAMES THE ROSE,
AN OLD
SCOTTISH
Tragic Song.
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS,
11.
�SIR JAMES THE ROSE.
Of all the Scottish northern chiefs
Of high and warlike name,
The bravest was Sir James the Rose,
A knight of meikle fame.
His growth was like a youthful oak;
That crowns the mountain's b r o w .
And waving o'er his shoulders broad
His locks of yellow flew.
Wide were his fields, his herds were large
And large his flocks of sheep,
And numerous were his goats
Upon the mountain steep.
The chieftain of the good clan Rose,
A firm and warlike band,
Five hundred warriors drew the sword
Beneath his high command.
In bloody fight thrice had he stood,
Against the English keen,
Ere two and twenty opening springs
The blooming youth had seen.
The fair Matilda dear he lov'd,
A maid of beauty rare ;
Even Margaret, on the Scottish throne,
Was never half so fair.
�3
Long had he woo'd, long she refused,
With seeming scorn and pride;
Yet oft her eyes confess'd the love
Her fearful words denied.
At length she blessed his well-tried love,
Allow'd his tender claim;
She vow'd to him her tender heart,
And own'd an equal flame.
Her father, Buchan's cruel lord,
Their passion disapprov'd;
He bade her wed Sir John the Græme,
And leave the youth she lov'd.
One night they met as they were wont,
Deep in a shady w o o d ;
Where on the bank, beside the burn,
A blooming saugh tree stood,
Conceal'd among the underwood
The crafty Donald lay,
The brother of Sir John the Graeme,
To watch what they might say:
When thus the maid began, My sire
Our passion disapproves;
He bids me wed Sir John the Graeme,
So here must end our loves.
M y father's will must be obey'd,
Nought boots me to withstand;
Some fairer maid in beauty's bloom,
Shall bless thee with her hand.
Soon will Matilda be forgot,
And from thy mind effac'd;
�But may that happiness be thine
Which I can never taste;
What do I hear ? is this thy vow ?
Sir James the Rose replied;
And will Matilda wed the Graeme,
Though sworn to be my bride ?
His sword shall sooner pierce my heart
Than 'reave me of thy charms ;
And clasp'd her to his throbbing breast ,
Fast lock'd within his arms.
I spoke to try thy love, she said,
I'll ne'er wed man but thee;
The grave shall be my bridal bed,
If Græme my husband be.
Take then, dear youth, this faithful kiss
In witness of my troth;
And every plague become my lot,
That day I break my oath.
They parted thus—the sun was set—
Up hasty Donald flies;
And turn thee, turn thee, beardless youth
He loud insulting cries.
Soon turned about the fearless Chief,
And soon his sword he drew;
For Donald's blade before his breast,
Had pierced his tartans through.
This for my brother's slighted love,
His wrongs sit on my arm—
Three paces back the youth retir'd,
And sav'd himself from harm.
�5
Returning swift, his sword he rear'd
Fierce Donald's head above ;
And through the brain, and crashing bone.
The furious weapon drove.
Life issued at the wound—he fell
A lump of lifeless clay ;
So fall my foes, quoth valiant Rose,
And stately strode away.
Through the green wood in haste he pass'd
Unto Lord Buchan's hall—
Beneath Matilda's window stood,
And thus on her did call:
Art thou asleep, Matilda dear,
Awake, my love ! awake;
Behold thy lover waits without,
A long farewell to take.
For I have slain fierce Donald Graeme,
His blood is on my sword;
And far, far distant are my men,
Nor can defend their lord.
T o Skye I will direct my flight,
Where my brave brothers bide;
And raise the mighty of the Isles,
To combat on my side.
O do not so, the maid replied,
With me till morning stay ;
For dark and dreary is the night,
And dang'rous is the way.
All night I'll watch you in the park,
My faithful page I'll send,
�6
In haste to raise the brave clan Rose,
Their master to defend.
He laid him down beneath a bush,
And wrapp'd him in his plaid—
While trembling for her lover's fate,
A t distance stood the maid.
Swift ran the page o'er hill and dale,
Till, in a lonely glen,
He met the furious Sir John Graeme,
With twenty of his men.
Where goest thou, little page, he said,
So late ? who did thee send ?—
I g o to raise the brave clan Rose,
Their master to defend.
For he has slain fierce Donald Graeme,
His blood is on his sword;
And far, far distant are his men,
N o r can assist their lord.
And has he slain my brother dear,
The furious chief replies;
Dishonour blast my name but he
By me ere morning dies.
Say, page, where is Sir James the Rose ?
I will thee well reward—
H e sleeps into Lord Buchan's park,
Matilda is his guard.
They spurred their steeds and furious flew,
Like lightning o'er the lee;
They reach'd Lord Buchan's lofty tow'rs,
By dawning of the day.
�7
Matilda stood without the gate,
Upon a rising ground—
And watch'd each object in the dawn,
All ear to every sound.
Where sleeps the Rose? began the Graeme,
Or has the felon fled ?
This hand shall lay the wretch on earth
By whom my brother bled.
And now the valiant knight awoke,
The virgin shrieking heard ;
Straight up he rose and drew his sword,
When the fierce band appeared.
Your sword last night my brother slew,
His blood yet dims its shine;
And e'er the sun shall gild the morn,
Your blood shall reek on mine.
Your words are brave the chief returned,
But deeds approve the man ;
Set by your men, and hand to hand,
W e ' l l try what valour can.
With dauntless step he forward strode,
And dared him to the fight;
The Graeme gave back : he feared his arm,
For well he knew his might.
Four of his men, the bravest four
Sunk down beneath his sword;
But still he scorned the poor revenge,
And sought their haughty lord.
Behind him basely came the Graeme,
And pierced him in the side;
�8
Out spouting came the purple stream,
And all his tartans dyed.
But yet his hand dropped not the sword.
N o r sunk he to the ground—
Till through his enemy's heart the steel
Had forced a mortal wound.
Græme,
like a tree by wind o'erthrown,
Fell breathless on the clay!
And down beside him sank the
And faint and dying lay.
Rose
Matilda saw and fast she ran—
O
spare his life, she cried—
Lord Buchan's daughter begs his life,
Let her not be denied.
Her well-known voice the hero heard,
He rais'd his death-clos'd eyes;
H e fix d them on the weeping maid,
And weakly thus replies :
In vain Matilda begs a life,
By death's arrest denied;
My race is run—adieu my love,
Then closed his eyes and died.
The sword yet warm from his left side.
With frantic hand she drew;
I
come, Sir James the Rose, she cried,
I
come to follow you.
The hilt she lean'd against the ground.
And bar'd her snowy breast;
Then fell upon her lover's face,
And sunk to endless rest.
�
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Title
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Woodcut on title-page portraying a man wearing a hat, kilt, and plaid socks holding an upright rifle. To his left is a door marked with the letter V
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Title
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Woodcut 026: Title-page illustration of a Highland soldier in a kilt and plaid socks holding an upright rifle in a outdoor scene. A door in background is imprinted with the letter "V".
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Title
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Sir James the rose, an old Scottish tragic song
Subject
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Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
Courtship and Marriage
Highlands
War
Description
An account of the resource
'11' is printed at the bottom of the title-page
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1840-1850 per University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923416743505154">s0153b19</a>
Coverage
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Isle of Skye, Scotland
Abstract
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A tragic love song about the romance between a highland chieftain, Sir James the Rose, and the fair Matilda, the daughter of the Lord Buchan. When Matilda’s father discovers her love for Sir James, he does not approve of the match and instead bids that she wed Sir John the Graeme. When she goes to tell her lover, they vow to wed anyway, which is overheard by Donald, Graeme’s brother, who then attacks James. In defending himself, James kills Donald. When he tries to flee to Skye to rouse the clan Rose, Matilda bids him to wait and sleep in the park instead where she can watch over him and sends a page instead to find his kin. The page is captured by the Graeme on his way where he discloses the plan and location of Sir James. Graeme attacks James with twenty men but James defends himself valiantly, slaying several of the knights as well as the Graeme himself, although he himself is mortally wounded in the process. As James dies, Matilda commits suicide by throwing herself on James’ sword as well.
Is Referenced By
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University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks <a href="http://www.lib.uoguelph.ca/find/find-type-resource/archival-special-collections/scottish-studies">http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/</a>
Extent
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8 pages
14 cm
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Publisher
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Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Type
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ballads & songs
biography
Creator
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Bruce, Michael, 1746-1767
# of Woodcuts: 1
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1841-1850
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Fashion (Clothing): feather bonnet
Fashion (Clothing): Highland attire
Fashion (Clothing): kilt
Fashion (Clothing): military
Fashion (Clothing): sporran
Gender: man/men
Occupation: soldier
Outdoor Scene
Weapons: gun(s)
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Woodcut on title-page portraying a man sleeping with head resting on hand sitting at a table. A skull and crossbones is on table and a lion is inside the table. In background are scenes of a town and rural scene with trees and hills (with 2 pillars atop) in front of which stands a man in a kilt and wearing a backpack, who is reading a book
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PDF Text
Text
THE
PILGRIM'S
PROGRESS
FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT WHICH IS TO COME.
Delivered under the similitude of a Dream.
PAISLEY:
PRINTED BY CALDWELL AND SON,
W
2,
NEW STREET.
©
�his worthy friend
the Author of The Third Part ofths
Progress,
upon the perusal
thereof
T H O U G H many things are writ to please the age r
Amongst the re^t for this I dare engage,
"Where virtue dwells, it will acceptance find,
And to your pilgrim, most that read be kind,
But all to please, would be a task as hard,
As for the winds from blowing to be barr'd.
The pious Christian, in a mirror here,
May see the promised land, and, without fear
Of threaten'd danger, bravely travel oil,
Until his juurney he has safely gone,
And does arrive upon the happy shore,
Where joys increase, and sorrow is no more*
This is a dream, not fabled as of old j
In this express the sacred truths are told,
That do to our eternal peace belong,
And, after mourning changes to a song
Of glorious triumph, that are without end,
I f we but bravely for the prize eontend.
No pilgrimage like this, can make us blest?.
Since it brings us to everlasting rest;
So well in every part the sense is laid,
That it to charm t/te reader may be said,
WitA curious fancy and great delight,
W/iieZr to an imitation must invite.
And Aappy are they, that, tArougA stormy seas,
And dangers, seek adventures like to tAese !
W&o sell the world for t/jis great pearl of price,
WAicA, once procured, will purchase Paradise I
H e who in sucA a bark dotA spread /lis sails.
Needs never fear at last tAese prosperous gales
That will conduct /am to a land, wAfere he
SAall feel no storms, but in a calm sAall be:
WAere crown'd witA glory he sAall sit and sing
Eternal praise to Ais redeeming King
Who conquer'd deatA, despoilM him of his sting.
So wishes yourfaithful
friend,
Pilgrim
�a
"rhe progress of the Pilgrim is here represented by
Christian leaving the City of Destruction, in terror and
alarm at his fate. He is met by Evangelist, who, perceiving his fear, asked him, Wherefore dost thou cry?
H e asnwered, I see by the Book in my hand that I am
condemned to die. Then Evangelist said, why standest
thou still; Fly from the wrath to come. Whether shall
I fly? said Christian. Then said Evangelist, Dost thou
see yonder shining light; keep that light in yotar eye,
and go up directly thereto, so shalt thou see the gate, at
which when thou kncckest, it shall be told thee w hat thou
shalt do. Christian begari to run, but he had not run far
when his wife and children began to cry after him to return, but he put his fingers in his ears, and ran on crying
Life, Life, Eternal Life.
�Christian bad not proceeded far, till wife and children
with many neighbours, entreated him to come back, but
all in vain. Christian persuaded two of them to go with
him, viz. Pliable and Obstinate. Obstinate soon rebels,
but pliable jogged on, till suddenly both he and Christian
plumped into the Slough of Despond. Pliable set his
face homewards, determined to get rid of such difficulties ;
but Christian struggled hard to g2in the other side, while
the burden of sin on his back had nearly overcome him.
A man called Help came to his assistance, and again set
him on his way. He soon after met Worldly-wiseman,
who directed him to the Town of Morality, where one
named Legality would relieve him of his burden. H e
immediately tcok the road, but had not gone far till
terror and alarm seizM hiro, arid again Evangelist met him
and checked him, and set him on the right road.
�After getting a severe reproof from Evangelist, Christi in was horror struck at his deviating from the right road,
and almost lost hope of ever attaining his object, when
Evangelist, taking him by the hand, cheered him on
warning him of the same danger in time. Christian at
length arrived at the gate, upon which was inscribed
* knock and it shall be opened/ H e knocked more than
once or twice, when a grave person came to the gate,
named Goodwill, who asked him what, he wanted. Christian replied, he was a poor hardened sinner from the City
of Destruction, bound for Mount Zion, will you let me
in?" "With all my heart," he replied. Beelzebub, as
he entered, gava him a pull, but Christian escaped.
�Christian having fairly escaped the attempts of Beelze°
bub and his emissaries to hold him back, and being fairlyentered in at the gate, received many wholesome advices
from Goodwill how to proceed; and coming to the house
of Interpreter, was kindly welcomed, and shewn many
strange and wondrous sights, at which Christian was sadly
alarmed; but being soothed by Interpreter, with kindly
directions to proceed on his journey, he again set off,
passed the walls of salvation, and came to a rising ground,
where stood a cross, and a little below a sepulchre. At
the cross, his bundle loosened off, and tumbled to the
mouth of the sepulchre, whe^e it fell in, and was no more
seen. Then was Christian glad, and said with a merry
heart, 'he hath giyen me rest by his sorrow, and life by
his death.
�Christian having now got rid of his burden, pushed on
more lightly. He soon fell in with three men, named
Simple, Sloth, and Presumtion, whom he endeavoured
to rouse and assist; but they would not listen to him, so
he left them, very grieved. He then saw two men come
tumbling over the wall, Formality and Hypocrisy, who
walked along with him in hope of reaching Mount Zion,
though having no passport, till they came to the hill
Difficulty, when the one took the road to Destruction,
and the other to Danger; but Christian took the narrow
path up the hill, and struggled hard till he arrived at the
arbour, prepared by the Lord of the place for weary pilgrims, where he sat and refreshed himself, and read his
scroll with great delight.
�When Christian had got to the top of the hill, two men
came running to meet him, named Timorous and Mistrust. 'What is the matter, said he, that you are running
the wrong way?'
Timorous said, 'We were for
Mount Zion, but the farther we went, the dangers became the greater, and we were turning back again; two
mighty lions are before us, ready to pull us in pieces.'
Then was Christian in great distress, and knew not what
to do. He put his hand in his bosom for the roll to comfort him, but behold it was gone. He remembered having slept at the arbour, and traced his way back with
weary steps to find it. H e fell on his knees and begged
forgiveness for his error, and while in that position his
eye catched the roll under the seat. H e put it in his
bosom with joy, again took the road, came in view of the
lions; but they, being chained, could not hurt him.
�9
r
^
j
'
When Christian lift up his eyes, he beheld the palace
of Beautiful, the porter's gate, and two lions. H e was
encouraged to come forward, being assured he should
receive no harm, as they were chained. After a few interrogations from the Porter as to his intentions, and how
he came to be so late at night, which was satisfactorily
answered. Christian requested lodgings for the night.
The Porter knocked at the door of the Palace, when a
damsel called Discretion answered, and after a long conversation with her two sisters, Piety and Prudence, regarding the nature of his journey, the difficulties that had
befallen him, and what could have moved him to leave
his wife and family, to undertake such a journey, thc^
found it was time to go to re&t, when he was conducted
to the Chamber of Peace.
�H e got up in the morning, and was shown all the rarities of the place, and clad with a suit of Armour. The
Porter informed him that one Faithful had just past,
Christian followed, but was met by Apollyon, with whom
he had a bloody struggle, but overcame. The valley of
the Shadow of Death was another horrific scene that he
also accomplished; and looking back, now with horror
the bones of many martyrs at the mouth, and soon came
in sight of faithful, with whom he held sweet converse,
till he came to Vanity Fair. Their manner and dress
attracted the attention of people, and caused a great demur. A merchant asked what they would buy; they
said, 'the Truth;—which he took amiss, and raised such
a hubbub, that they were both taken up, and put in a
cage for publiG view.
�Poor Christian and Faithful, while in the cage, belmved
themselves very meekly, in spite of all the insults they
received; and many others were buffered for taking their
part. They were dragged through the Fair, and again
conducted to their cage to stand their trial, which was
soon brought on. Envy, Superstition, and Hypocrisy
were brought forward as evidences, who did not fail to
tell a partial story, which a partial judge, Mr. Hategood,
and a partial packed jury did not fail to confirm; and
Faithful was found guilty of the crime libelled, and condemmned to die at the stake. Faithful was allowed to
make a defence, but instead of doing him any good, only
hardened them against him.
�12
Poor Faithful was then Lr u^ht out, to do with him
according to the law. First h"y scourged him, then they
buffetted him, then they lanced his flesh with knives,
after that they stoned him with stones, they pricked him
with their swords, and last of all they burnt him to ashes
at the stake.-—Thus came Faithful to his end. Then
stood behind the multitude a chariot and a couple of horses
waiting for Faithful, who was taken up into it, and carried
up through the clouds with sound of trumpet, the nearest
way to tho Celestial Gate. Christian he got some respite,
and was remanded back to prison; but he that overrules
all things, abated their rage, and he escaped thence, and
went his way.
�A,
Altho' Christian went away alone, Hopeful, a pilgrim
bound for the Celestial City, fell in with him, and they
went on joyfully. They then fell in with Byends, but
soon parted with him. They met with several otherg,
whose company they did net rel'sfo, and left them. One
Demas attempted to lead them astray with filthy lucre,
but they resisted him, and kept the right road.
They
afterwards passed Lot's wife, and slept on the banks of
Pleasant River. They then went off their way. but again
found it, and fell asleep in the policies of Doubting Castle,
where Giant Despair took them both prisoners, and treat
them very harshly,—they almost chose death rather than
life under such treatment. However a key found in
Christian's bosom opened the doors? &nd they made their
escape with difficulty,
0
�Having escaped from Giant Despair, they errected a
pillar at the stile, warning travellers to beware of Doubting Castle, there they went on singing till they came to
the Delectable Mountains, where they surveyed all the
beautiful gardens and orchards on Emmanuel's land, in
company with the shepherds. They were now in sight
of the city, and the shepherds showed them many wonderful things; among the rest, a dismal hole. They
bade the pilgrims look in: when they heard a rumbling
noise, and beheld all within it dark and smoky, and a cry
of some tormented. They were told this was the way
of the wicked. Leaving this country, they came to the
enchanted ground, where they fell in with some of the
shining inhabitants of the city, and had abundance of corn
and wine, and heard voices out of the city, saying, 'say
ye to the daughter of Zion, Behold thy salvation cemetli-
�15
Drawing nearer the city, they beheld it built of pearls
and precious stones, the streets were paved with gold.
Christian with desire fell sick ; Hopeful also had a fit or
two. They were strengthened, and went on, beholding
the vineyards and gardens of these delightful lands. Between them and the gate was a river, very deep, and no
bridge. The pilgrims were alarmed, but through it they
must pass. Christian began to sink, but Hopeful cheered
him on. Then said Christian, 4 the sorrows of death hath
compassed me about.' In sinking, they lost their earthly
garments, but rose and were welcomed on the other side
by two glorious persons, who ascended a very steep hill.
They went up with great ease, and landed safely in the
Celestial City, which they entered singing, with a loud
voice, 'Blessing, honour, glory, and power to him oil the
throne, and to the Lamb, for ever and ever.
�16
Ever since Christian went off on his journey to the
Celestial City, Christiana his wife and their children did
nothing but weep and lament for him; crying often out
in her sleep, 'Lord have mercy upon me a sinner/ An
heavenly messenger came to her, and gave her a letter.
The contents advised her to do as her husband had done,
and to dwell in his presence for ever. At this she was
quite overcome, and asked him to carry her hither. But
he said, 'You must go through the troubles as he has
done before you: yonder is the wicket gate over the
plain, and I wish thee speed. Several of the neighbours
advised her against it, but she took the road, with all her
children; and falling in with Mercy, they went on in the
sweet hope of shortly arriving at that happy place where
her husband was.
�IT
Mary expressed herself doubtful as to her right of
admission at the wicket gate, but Christiana encouraged
hw on, and assured her of a kind reception. Then Mercy
eaid, 'Had I as good ground to hope as you have, I think
no Slough of Despond would discourage me.' They got
all safe over the Slough, and arrived at ihe gate, whe®e
they knocked a long time, but nothing but an angry dog
barked at them. They got afraid to knock any more, till
venturing another knock, the keeper called 'Who's there,'
and opened to them. Christiana said, she came from
whence Christian came, who was there before, and upon
the same errand here are also my children. H e took her
by the hand, and said, 'Suffer little children to come unto
me." She interceded far Mercy, and she was admitted
also.
�With some difficulty, Mercy was admitted. She questioned the keeper what he meant by keeping such a dog.
H e said the dog was not his, but kept by a person to terify pilgrims from the gate, in which he was but too successful. In passing along, they were LS aulted by two
ill favoured ones, who did what they could to lead them
astray, but were defeat. After being with one or two
more, she arrived at the Interpreter's house, who, while
supper was getting ready, shewed them many wondrous
things, told them many curious stories, and related many
parables. Supper being ready, and thanks given, they
partook of a hearty repast, while masic played sweetly.
When supper and music was over, Interpreter asked
Christiana what moved her to try a pilgrim's life, she said
the loss of her husband, and the letter from the King of
Zion,
�The Interpreter also asked Mercy what induced her to
go in such an undertaking. She said, 'My friend telHng
me how many fine things her husband was enjoying,
tempted me to go.' In the morning they rose with the
sun, to depart, but they were ordered into the garden to
bathe and purify themselves before they went on their
journey, which they (lid, and were much refreshed.
Greatheart was sent along with them to guide them on
their way, and converse with them. They passed the
place where the load fell from Christian's back, and made
a pause. After musing a little, they came to the place
where Simple, Sloth, and Presumption were hanging in
chains. Mercy inquired the cause of this, when she was
told their crime was leading a number of pilgrims out of
their way, and giving an ill report of your Lord, saying
he was a hard taskmaster.
�j
Greathearfc wished Christiana and Mercy to go up and
see their crimes engraven on a pillar of brass, but they
would not go ; but wished their names might rot, and
their crimes live for ever against them, saying, it was fortunate they were hanged before they came hither. They
soon arrived at the foot of the Hill of Difficulty; Greatheart shewed them the Spring where Christian drank, and
the two byeways where Formality and Hypocrisy lost
themselves.
Yet there are people who will choose to
adventure in these paths, rather than go up the hill.
They began to go up the hill, and Christiana began to pant
and want a rest; but Greatheart encouraged them, telling
them they were not far from the Arbour, where they
woukl find rest.
4
\
�Being refreshed at the Arbour, and seeing many sights
that Christian recounted before, they again took the road
determined to resist all obstacles. Greatheart at all times
proved their faithful friend and sure defence. He encountered a ferocious giant and slew him. Shortly after, they
fell in with another, which he also overcame; and lastly
they approached Doubting Castle, which Greatheart determined to level to the ground. He sent the giant a
challange, and they had a severe fight, but the giant was
overcome, and hie head was severed from his body. Then
they fell to demolishing the castle, and released several
prisoners, who were almost starved to death. It took
seven days to demoMsh it, and many strange sights were
seen.
�22
They H W jogged on in the usual path of pilgrims, occasionally
O
meeting with difficulties and encouragement, carefully surveying all
the spots where Christian her husband happened with any tiling memorable, till they arrived at the land of Beulah, where the sun shines
night and day, and here because they were weary they betook themselves to rest. But a little while soon refreshed them here; for the
bells did so ringT and the trumpets continually sounded so melodiously,
that they could not sleep, and yet they received as much refreshment
as if they slept their sleep never so soundly.
N o w while they lay here, and wailed for the good hour, there was
a noise in the town, that there was a post come from the Celestial
City, with matters of great importance, lo one Christiana the wife of
Christian the pilgrim. So enquiry was made for her, and the house
was found out where she was; so the post presented her with a letter
the contents were, "Hail, good woman! I bring thee tidings the Master calleth for thee, and expecteth that thou shouldst stand in his presence, in clothes of immortality, within these ten days."
When he had read this letter to her, he gave her therewith a true
token that he was a true messenger, and was come to bid her make
haste to be gone. The token was, an airow sharpened with love, let
easily into her heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with her,
that at the time appointed s&e must be gone.
When Christiana saw her time was come, and that she was the first
of this company that was to go over, she called for Mr. Greatheart her
guide, and told him how matters were.
Then she called for her children, and gave them her blessing, and
told them, that she had read wi;h comfort the mark that was set in
their foreheads, and was glad to see them with her there, and that they
had kept their garments so white. Lastly, she bequeathed to the poor
that little she had, and commanded her sons and daughters to be ready
against the messenger should come for them.
When she had spoken these words to her guide, and to her children,
she called for Mr. Valiant-for-truth, and said unto him, Sir, You
have in all places shewed yourself true hearted, be faithful unto death,
and my King will give you a crown of glory. I would also entreat
you to have an eye to my children; and if at any time you see them
faint, speak comfortably to them; for my daughters, my sons* wives,
they have been faithful, and a fulfilling of the promise upon them will
be their end. But she gave Mr. Standfast a ring.
Then she aalled for old Mr. Honest, and she said of him, Behold an
Isr a elite indeed, in whom is no guile. Then said lie, I wish you a
fair day, when you set out for Mount Sion, and shall be glad to see
that you get over the river shod. But she answered, 'Come wet, or
come dry, I long to be gone; for however, the weather is in my journey, I shall have time enough when I come t/*ere, to sit down and rest
me, and dry me.
Then came in the good man Mr. Ready-to-halt, to see her. So she
said to him, Thy travail hitherto has been with difficulty: but that
will make thy rest the sweeter. But watch and be ready; for at an
hour when you think not, the messenger may come.
�%3
After him eaaae Mr. Despondency, and bis daughter Much-afraid ;
to whom she said, You ought with thankfulness, for ever, to remember your deliverance from the hand of Giant Despair, and out of Doubting Castle, The effect of that mercy is, that you are brought with
safety hither. Be yet watchful, and cast away fear; be sober and
hope to the end.
Then she said to Mr. Feeble-mind, Thou wast delivered from the
mouth of the Giant Slay good, that«thou mightest live in the light of
the living for ever, and see the King with comfort: only I advise thee
to repent thee of thy aptness to fear and doubt of his goodness, before
he sends for thee ; lest thou shouldest, when he comes, be forced to
stand before him, for the fault, with blushing.
Now the day drew on, that Christiana must be gone. So the road
was full of people to see her take her journey. But Behold ! all the
banks beyond the river were full of horses and chariots, which were
come down from above to accompany her to the city-gate. So she
came forth and entered the river with a beckon of farewell to those
that followed her to the river-side. The last words that she was heard
to say, were, "I come, Lord, to be with thee, and bless thee."
So her children and friends returned to their place; for that those
that waited for Christiana had carried her out of their sighv So
she went and called, and entered in at the gate with all the ceremonies of joy that her husband Christian had entered before her.
Then k came to pass a while after, that there was a post in the
t )wn that inquired for Mr. Honest, So he came to his house where lie
was, and delivered ieto his hands these lines, Thou art commanded to
be ready against this day sevennight to present thyself before thy
Lord, at his father's house. And for a token that my message is true,
All the daughters of the muse shall be brought low.
Then Mr.
Honest called for his friends, and said unto them, I die, but shall make
no will. As for my Honesty, it shall go with me; let him that comes
after be told this. When the day that he was to be gone was come,
he addressed himself to go over. Now this river at that time overflowed the banks in some places; but Mr. Honest in his lifetime had
spoken to one Good-Conscience to meet him there, the which he also
did, and lent him his hand, and so helped him over. The last Words
of Mr. Honest were, Grace reigns. So he left the world.
Now, while he was thus in discourse, his countenance changed, his
strong man bowed under him ; and after he had said, Take me, for I
come unto thee, he ceased to be seen of them.
In process of time, there came a post to the town again, and his
business was with Mr. Ready-to-halt. So he enquired him out and
said, I am come to thee in the name of Him whom thou hast loved
and followed, though upon crutches; and my message is, to tell thee,
that he expects thee at his table to sup with him in his kingdom, the
next day after Easter: wherefore prepare thyself for thy journey.
Then he also gave him a token that he was a true messenger, saying, I have broken the golden bowl, and loosed the silver cord*
After this, Mr. Ready-to-hal't called for his fellow pilgrims, and to
them, saying, I am sent for, and God shall surely visit you also. So
�24
he desired Mr. Valiant to make bis will; and because he had nothing
to bequeath them that should survive him, but his crutches, and hia
good wishes, therefore thus he said , These crutches I bequeatA to my
son that shall tread in my steps, with an hundred warm wishes that
he may prove better than I have been.
Then he thanked Mr. Great-heart for his conduct and kindness, and
so addressed himself to his journey. When he came to the brink of
the river, he said. N o w I shall hifve no more need of these crutches,
since yonder are chariots and horses for me to ride on. The last words
he was heard to say, were, Welcome life! So he went his way.
After this Mr. Feehle-mind had tidings brought him, that the post
sounded his horn at his chamber door. Then he came in, and told
liim, saying, l a m come to tell thee, that thy Master hath need of thee;
and that in a very little time thou must behold his face in brightness.
And take this as a token of the truth of my message : Those that look
out at the windows shall be darkened.
Then Mr. Feeble-mind called for his frie^ds^ and told them what
errand had been brought unto him, and what token he had received of
the truth of the message. Then he said, Smce I have nothing to bequeath to any, to what purpose should I make a will ? As for my feeblemind, that I will leave behind, for that I have no need of it in the
place whither I go : nor is it worth bestowing upon the poorest pilgrims, wherefore, when I am gone, I desire that you, Mr. Valiar\J,
would bury it in a dung-hill. This done, and the day being come in
which he was to depart, he entered the river as the rest: his last
words were, Hold out faith and patience. So he went over to the
other side.
But glorious it was to see how the opeu region w&s filled with
horses and chariots, with trumpets and pipers, with singers and players «n stringed instruments, to welcom the pilgrims as they went up,
and followed one another in at the beautiful gate of the city.
As for Christiana's children, the four boys that Christiana brought,
with their wives and children, I did not stajr where I was till they
were gone over. Also since I came away, 1 heard one say they were
yet alive, and so would be, for the Increase of the church ia that place
where they were for a time.
Shall it be my lot to go that way again, I may give those that desire it an account »f what 1 here am silent about. Mean time I bid
my reader
FAREWELL.
�
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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The Pilgrim's Progress from this world to that which is to come. Delivered under the similitude of a Dream.
Date
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1839
Extent
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24 pages
16 cm
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9935661083505154">s0587b45</a>
<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923386473505154">s0221b12</a>
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Is Part Of
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Chapbook #21 in a bound collection of 22 chapbooks (s0221b12)
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Publisher
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Paisley: G. Caldwell and Son
Subject
The topic of the resource
Chapbooks - Scotland - Paisley
Religion and Morals
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Bunyan, John, 1628-1688
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
allegory
# of woodcuts: 20
Animal: lion(s)
Architecture: pillar(s)
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1831-1840
Chapbook Genre: allegory
Chapbook Publisher - Paisley: G. Caldwell and Son
Fashion (Clothing): upper class
Furniture: table(s)
Gender: man/men
Nature: hill(s)
Nature: tree(s)
Object: backpack(s)
Object: book(s)
Object: walking stick/ staff
Occupation: peddler
Outdoor Scene
Symbols: skull & crossbones
-
https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/ef67430a4821f90545c81b8e8a271551.pdf
1949a852dbb44919eb4407177ecaa2ac
PDF Text
Text
SIX
P o p u l a r Seiig^
Coming through the rye.
Say, my heart, why wildly beatingWhen I was an infant.
Jockie to the fair.
Katty O'Lynch.
There was a jolly miller.
KILMARNOCK:
PRINTED
m
FOR T H E
BOOKSELLERS*
�POPULAR SONGS.
C0MEN' T H R O U G H T H E
RYE.
I F a body meet a body comin' through the rye,
if a body kiss a body, need a body cry ?
Ev'ry Jassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say hae I!
Yet a' the lads they smile on me
W h e n comin' thro" the rye.
Amang the train there is a swain
I 4§;vrly loe myself
But whare his hame,
what his name ?
I dinna care to telL
If a body meet a body com in* frae the town.
If a body greet a body, need a body frown ?
Ev'ry iassie has her laddie,
Nane they say hae I !
Yet a* the lads they smile on m e
W h e n comin' thro 1 the rye.
Amang the train, &c.
SAY,
M Y
H E A R T ,
W H Y
BEATING.
SAT, my heart, why wildly beating,
Dost thou auch emotion prove?
W I L D L Y
�3
Canst thou* when thy lover meeting,
Fear his truth, or doubt his love ?
N o , fondly no, my bosom sighs !
No, gently no, my heart replies.
T h e n , fond heart, be silent ever,
Be thy wild emotion o'er ;
For with doubt and fearing never
Shalt thou throb—no, no, no, never more,
No, no, no, never never more.
Light of life, and life's best blessing
Is the love that meets return *
,
Shall J, that rich boon possessing,
E'er the matchless blessing spurn ?
No, fondly no, my bosom sighs !
No, gently no, my heart replies,
T h e n be joy my inmate ever,
^
Since each anxious dread is o'er,
For with fear and doubting never
Shall it throb—no, no, no, neve* more,
No, no, no, never never more.
W H E N I W A S AN I N F A N T .
I was an infant, mammy would say,
Fd when older>
Be a soldier!
Rattles and toys, I threw them away,
Unieis a gun or a sabre.
W h e n a younker, up I grew*
Saw one day a grand review*
WHEN
�4
Colours flying,
Set me dying,
T o embark in life so new.
Roll drums merrily, march away,
Soldiers 1 glory
Lives in story,
His laurels are green when his locks are grey !
T h e n hey for the life of a soldier.
Listed—to battle I march'd along,
Courting danger,
Fear a stranger;
The cannon beat time to the trumpet's song,
And made my heart a hero's.
< Charge l* the gallant leaders cry v
On like iions then we fly,
Blood and thunder,
Foes knock under,
Then huzza for a victory.
Roll drums merrily, &c.
W h o so merry as we in camp ?
Battle over,
Live in clover,
Care and his cronies are forc'd to tramp ;
And all is social pleasure.
Then we laugh, we quafF, we sing,
Time goes gaily on the wing.
Smiles of beauty,
Sweeten duty,
And each private is a king!
Roil drums merrily, &c»
NIL
�5
JOCKIE
TO
T H E
FAIR.
on the morn of sweet May-day,
W h e n Nature painted all things gay,
Taught birds to sing, and lambs to play*
And gild the meadows fair !
Young Jockie with the early dawn,
His Sunday's coat the youth put on,
For Jenny had vow'd away to run
With Jockie to the f a i r ;
For Jenny had vow'd, &c.
'TWAS
T h e cheerful parish-bells had r u n g ;
W i t h eager steps he trudg'd along;
While fiow'ry garlands round him hung,
W h i c h shepherds us'd to wear :
H e tapp'd the window, Haste, my dear:
Jenny, impatient, cried, W h o ' s there I
' T i s I, my love? and no one near,
Step gently down, you've nought to fear,
W i t h Jockie to the fair;
Step gently down, &c.
My dad and man are fast asleep,
My brother's up and with the sheep,
And will you still your promise keep,
Which I have heard you swear i
And will you ever constant prove ?
I will, by all the powers above;
And ne'er deceive my charming dove;
Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love,
W i t h Jockie to the fair.
Dispel these doubts, &c.
�6
Behold the ring, the shepherd cried*
Will Jenny be my charming bride,
Let Cupid be our happy guide,
And Hymen meet us there.
T h e n Jockie did his vows renew,
H e would be constant, would be true ;
His word was pledg'd, away she flew,
O'er cowslips tipt with balmy dew,
W i t h Jockie to the fair;
O'er cowslips, &c>
In raptures meet the joyful throng,
Their gay companions blythe and young,
Each joins the dance, each joins the song,
To hail the happy pair;
In turns there's none so fond as they,
T h e y bless the kind propitious day,
T h e smiling morn of blooming May,
W h e n lovely Jenny ran away
With Jockie to the f a i r ;
W h e n lovely Jenny, &c.
KATTY
G'LYNCH.
Katty O'Lynch lived at Ballinahinch,
And her sweetheart was called Mister Casey ;
H o w sweetly she'd cry, as he'd constantly sigh,
O h ! Paddy now can't you be easy !
And don't be coming over me with your
T u ral lal la, tu rai, Bee.
SWEET
�7
Oh ! Paddy now can't you be easy,
One morning, 'twas own'd, in her chamber
he found
A man that was not Mister Casey;
Arrali! who's this, says he ? 'tis my brother, says
she:
O h ! Katty, now can't you be easy,
And don't be coming over me with your
Fu rai lal, &c.
The next time they met, she cried out in a pet,
Arrah ! Paddy you've drove me quite crazy j
Since you are the boy, won't you marry me, joy*
Marry you, marry you,
Arrah ! Katty now can't you be easy*
And don't be coming over me with your
T u ra! lal, &c.
T H E R E W A S A JOLLY
MILLER.
was a jolly miller
Ance liv'd on the river D e e ;
H e work'd and sung from morn till night,
No lark more blythe than h e :
And thus the burthen of his song
For ever us'd to be,
I care for nobody* no, not I,
If no one cares for me*
THERE
�8
I live by my mill, how happy I,
She's kindred, child, and wife ;
I would not change my station
For any other in life.
No lawyer, surgeon, or doctor.
E'er had a grost from m e ;
I care for nobody» no, not I,
If nobody cares for me.
W h e n spring begins its merry career,
Oh how his heart grows gay;
N o summer drouth alarms his fears.
Nor winter's sad decay.
No foresight mars the miller's joy,
Who's wont to sing and say,
Let others toil from year to year,
I live from day to day.
Thus, like the miller bold and free,
Let us rejoice and sing,
T h e days of youth are made for glee,
And time is on the wing
This song shall pass from me to thee.
Along this jovial ring;
Let heart and voice and all agree,
To say long live the king.
FINIS.
�
https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/e464717c781f7223d2686ce029b9cb7e.jpg
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Omeka Image File
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Bit Depth
8
Channels
3
Height
3155
Width
1848
Dublin Core
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Title
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Illustration of a man and a woman in an outside scene; the
man is facing the woman and the woman is facing the viewer.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Woodcut 088:Title-page illustration of a man and a woman. The man is facing the woman and the woman is facing the viewer. Outdoor scene.
Document
A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Six Popular Songs. Coming through the rye. Say, my heart, why wildly beating. When I was an infant. Jockie to the fair. Katty O'Lynch. There was a jolly miller.
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953133903505154">s0499b33</a>
Alternative Title
An alternative name for the resource. The distinction between titles and alternative titles is application-specific.
Coming through the rye.
Say, my heart, why wildly beating.
When I was an infant.
Jockie to the fair.
Katty O'Lynch.
There was a jolly miller.
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Burns, Robert, 1759-1796
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[1820?] per G. Ross Roy Collection, University of South Carolina Libraries
Extent
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8 pages
Description
An account of the resource
Woodcut #88: <span>Illustration of a man and a woman in an outside scene; the man is facing the woman and the woman is facing the viewer. </span>
Subject
The topic of the resource
Chapbooks--Scotland--Kilmarnock
Courtship and Marriage
Contributor
An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource
Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Is Referenced By
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<a title="G. Ross Roy Collection, University of South Carolina Libraries" href="http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/britlit/roycol.html">G. Ross Roy Collection, University of South Carolina Libraries </a>
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Is Part Of
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Chapbook #20 in a bound collection of 40 chapbooks
Language
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English
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
ballads & songs
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Publisher
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Kilmarnock: Printed for the Booksellers
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
# of Woodcuts: 1
Architecture: fence
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1811-1820
Chapbook Genre: ballads & songs
Chapbook Publisher - Edinburgh: Printed for the Booksellers
Gender: man/men
Gender: woman/women
Nature: tree(s)
Outdoor Scene
-
https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/879ab04bba45407b9cc1d9768944f1d2.jpg
4e789af8c96ff79f8955ea645ce4a869
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Title
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Woodcut portraying a old man wearing hat, long coat, and striped socks and leaning against a walking stick in outdoor scene
https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/0b478e22f5a12229a1e5f91220cc6b2c.pdf
68a04b002354c7db90fea2f406fd94e0
PDF Text
Text
BUKMS'
SONGS.
No. 1.
ILLUSTRATED.
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
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LORD
GREGORY.
O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour
And loud the tempest r o a r ;
A waefu' wanderer se.eks thy iojv'r,
Lord Gregory, op^th^abor.'
A n exile frae her father's ha',
And a' for loving tllee ; .» >Uh:
A t least some .pity, on -me show^
If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not."the grove,
B y boimie Irwine" side,
Where first I own'd that virgin love
I lang, lang had denied.
�SONGS.
How afberi didst thou pledge and vow,
Thou would for ay be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
And flinty is thy breast:
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou giye me rest !
Ye mustering thunders from above,
Your willing victim see !
But spare, and pardon my false love,
His wrangs to heaven and me !
•worf ^rTginlurfi
si A-iim r;Aii err O
• 'iKO't T^wnwt of • • hoof btfA
v A
H I G H L A N D MARY.
Ye banks, and braes and streams around,
The castle o' Montgomery,
©reen be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie !
There summer first unfolds her robes,
And there tke laugest tarry;
F©r there I took the last fareweel
©' my sweet Highland Mary.
'
4
i
�SONGS.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay geeen birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
As underneath the fragrant shade,
1 clasp'd her to my bosom;
The golden hours on angel wings,
Flew o're me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu5 tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursel's asunder;
But Oh! fell death's untimely frost,
'i hat nipt my flower sae early !
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay,
/I'laat wraps my Highland Mary !
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
1 aft hae lriss'd sae fondly S
And closed for ay, the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'd me dearly!
Bnt still within my bosom's core,
Shall live my Highland Mary,
CLARINDA.
Clarinda, mistress of my soul,
The measured time is run !
The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest stin.
To what dark cave of frozen night,
Shall poor Sylvander H e ; —
Deprived of thee,Ins life and light,
The sun of all his joy.
We part—but, by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes I]
No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright bea<ms arise.
She, the fair sun of all her sex,.
Hast blest my glorious day ;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to; its v ay ?
�SONGS.
MY WIFE'S A WINSOME W E E T H I N G .
( ii aiini. txsmsLi «aii t&a sl&a O
She is a winsome wee thing-,
She is a hansorae wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
ttkrjjp jri&Iia in wofi •%nvLOvitJOhi uni.
I never saw a fairer,
I never lo'ed a dearer,
And niest my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
The is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.
The warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't;
Wi' her I'll blithly bear it,
And think my lot divine *
gq
, •• ; I vrf Jud—i-isq <>7/
\\.Sro vb'/ol vdi lift JsiiT
tbw-g Iteite Jdfcjl isdio oV\
TO MARY.
Will ye go to the Indies my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore ?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's roar ?
6
�SONGS.
0 sweet grows th6 lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;
But a' the charms o' the Indies,
Can never equal thine.
1 hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true
And sae may the heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!
O plight me your faith my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
• O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.
We have plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affecton to join,
And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour and the moment o' time!
,ed vrobnin yds 3n
O
! i sod boi-rii si 1 J ,5'rieifr edi ei j l
GALLA WATER.
There's braw, braw lads on Yrrow braes,
That wander thro' the blooming heather;
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws,
Can match the lads o' Galla water.
7
�SONGS.
Bat there is ane, a secret ane,
Abyn t i e n a* I ,lo'e him better;
And I'll be his, and heUl be'mine,
The bonnie, lad o* Galla water.
Altho' his daddie was iiae laird,
And tho • 1 hae nae meikle tocher;
Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
We'll ten tour flocks by Galla water.
; y/O'/ (tn jtygio'* I nod//"
It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,
That coft contentment,
peace, or pleasure}
The bands and chiefest mutual love,
0 that's the bliss o* warld's treasure I
#
viu .flto-si 'uwfeai-flaitcr§*«rf »W
.( O{
H
j\t')l>7h Ifillturn.
i !£(i HndsJBdi oau&j.oilj od Sa'fiF) } ttJ
MARY MORIS ON.
0 Mary at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the tryted hour !
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor ;
How blithly wad I bide* the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
€k>uld I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,
1 sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And you the toast of a' the town,
1 sigh'd, and said amang them a',
" Ye are na Mary Morison."
I
'
SPH S £
, ' O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only ftiut i? lo.ving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown!
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.
8
�SONGS.
:<>
OT >fOOO MMT WZIO
, ua-;i>. iti /jhi :>aiof, t700b 9ih inqo tdO
—
•
a o (1iO
lorfT
/nogo r- ul Oil8 t'ioofo odJ fj'aoqo er>rf
*
; obiv/
• ;h t
, ; - . • jt
• :.! '• ti •
- > .•«
W A N D E R I N G WILLIE.
* fM
/jbw
Here awa, there awfc, pandering Wilie,
Now tired with wandering, haud away hame
Come to my bosom my ae only dearie,
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the
same.
Loud blaw the cauld winter winds at pu^
•
parting
(TAJ YJfi
*
It was na a blast brouglifc the tear to my
:
11
JMIrV ® >
< X d<no6 i n bme •iteidwO
Now welcome the summer, and welcome my
Willie^
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. <
<om fuioo 03 omoo ov (foih/
vlhev?
:
M8Y><ioad oiij easlnxr tut dxnoQ bnA
Ye hurricane rest in the cave o' your slum^
bers,
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms!
Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows,
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my
orn
aa on > ,,».
..uu te 10 t>fiiif $ a
.•"''•- i
O[it Vti
But if.he's forgottenhis faithfullest Nannie,
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring
main;
.o».jtooi.J®Y
v
May I never see it, may X never trotw it,
But dving believe tfyat iny Willie's my ain.
9
�SONS .
OPEN THE DOOR T O ME, OT
Oh, open the door, some pity to show,
Oh, open the door to me, Oh!
Tho' thou hast been f&lse, 111 ever prove true
Oh, open the door to me, Oh !
Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But eaulder thy o ve for me, Oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh !
The wan moon is setting behind th' white wave
And time is setting with me, Oh !
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh f
She has open'd the door, she has opened it
wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh !
My true love, she cried, arid sank down by his
side,
Never t© rise again, Oh!—
WHISTLE, A N D I'LL COME TO Y O U
MY L A D .
O whistle and I'll come to you my lad:
O whistle and I'll come to you my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mady
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yet t be a-jee ;
Sine up the back-stile, and let na body see*,
And come as ye were na comin to me,
And come, &c.
O whistle, &c.
At kirk, or at market, whene're you see me
Gang by me as tho' ye car'd na a flie;
But steal me a blink o'your bonnie black ere
Yet look as ye were na looking at me.
Yet look, &c.
O whistle, &c.
10
�SONGS.
A y vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But courtnaanither, tho'jokin ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
For fear, &c.
O whistle, &e.
B O N N I E JEAN.
There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and matket to be seen,
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonny Jean.
And aye she wrought her minnie's wark,
And aye she sang sae mirrilie :
The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will robe the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowr's,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep and kye,
And waton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
A s in the bossom o' the stream,
The moon beams dwell at dewy e'en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love,
Within the breast o' bonny Jean.
And now she works her mammie's wark
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail may be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love.
Ae e'enm' on the lily lea?
IX
�S O ^ .
T t e sttii l ^ ' p & i i i g in tfie * e s t ,
'The birds sing stteet in ilka grove 1 ;
His cheek to hers he foundly prest,
And if htepei'd timfc his ta3e o' love:
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee, dear^
O canst thou think to fancy me,
Or wilt thou leave t h y TEinmmie's cot,
And learn t o teiil t h e fems wi' me ?
A t barn Qr¥tre thoii shalt na drudge,
Or nathing else to trouble thee *
y
But stray amang ,tM heather bells,
And tent the waving ^orn wi'me.
Now "ivhat could artless Jeanie do ?
u I.
She had ma ^iH to say him nd: /j- u , /
>
A t length she-blush'd a sweet cbnseiit,
'
And love was aye between them t w i .
eYOf.ioi>j«9i odJ ad07 II iw aiiv/Bfi one?
A
taohiwoe
oils ilwid
IIiw e vol 1mA
oiM a£w oidofl
rn hi
M E G O' T H E MILL.
O ken ye what Meg o 7 the Mill his gotten,
An' ken y6 what Meg o' the Mill has gotten
She has gotton a coof wir a Claut o' siller.
And broken the heart o7 the Mrley Miller.
12
�SONGS.
The Miller was stfappen,the Miller was ruddy
A heart like a lord, an4 a hue like a M y :
The laird was a widdiefii', bleerit knurl
She's left the guid fellow and taen the chttrl.
The miller he hecht her a heart leal and l i v ing
[moving,
The Laird did address her tri' matter rfikir
A fine pacing horse wi'|a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-sadle.
. a r T & Q TYVAJXl
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevaling,
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a malen .
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle
But, gie me my love, ahd a fig for the WEtrl!
wonrf >' •i>hr. k -j ? J no ' m J9sM
f
rt-nitI ,'i;»ijtb teivi>a xHvsiil
; 'jv.' vid) 01ii ln*HB h i r.-v.d?
JOHN A N D E R S O N MY JO.
John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquant,
Your locks were like the ravens,
Your bonny brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
13
�SONGS.
John Anderson, my joe, John,
"We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi* ane anither ;
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in had we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my j o.
DAINTY DAVIE.
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers,
And now comes in my happy hours,
To wander wi' my Davie.
Chorus.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie,
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear dainty Davie.
The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a*,
The s«ented breezes round us blaw
A wandering wi' my Davie,
Meet me, &c.
When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dews I will repair.
To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me, &e.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o* nature's rest.
I flee to his arms I lo'e best,
And that's my ain dear Davie.
Meet me, &c.
AULD L A N G SYNE.
Should
And
Should
And
auld acquaintance be forgot,
never brought to min' ?
auld acquaintance be forgot,
days o* lang syne ?
14
�SONGS.
Chorus.
For auld land syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
"We'll tak a cup a' kindness yet
For auld laug syne.
We twa hae rnn about the braes,
And pu't the gowans fine
Bu^ we've wandered mony a weary foot.
Sin auld lang syne,
For auld, &c.
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
Frae mornin sun till dine :
But seas between braid hae roar'd,
Sin auld lang syne.
For auld, &e.
And here's a hand my trusty fier,
And gie's a hand o* thine;
And we'll talk a guid willie-waught,
For auld lang syne,
For auld, &c.
And surely ye'll be your pint stoup>
And surely I'll be mine ;
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld (^c.
BANNOCK B U R N .
Scots wha ha wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has often led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victory.
Now's the day and now's the hour;
See the front of battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power—r
Edward I chaius and slavery r
Wha will be a trator knave ?
Wha would fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Traitor, coward, turn and flee.
15
�SONGS.
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand or free-man fa'
Caledonia, 911 wi' me !
By oppression's woes^'and
!
By your sons in sea-vile chains,
We will dram our dearest veins,
But th§y shali be—shall be free ! <«v\- .
!
Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe ?
liberty's in every, bio
,
Forward, let us.
or
J/lJJOl 9.RfI biiild lIOOYf lsd
1uS
.•en V . 'grr^I bix/js alti
P
t19ft
7J :i "li .:f bajii! «
ItiA
j'offiflj ?o baud s;
bnA
Ifow baA
t3/I-goiiW-9ini\Y f'tr.t^ b
,007)5 <>;irJ bfi/Biol
CONTENED WI' L I T T L E .
Contented wi' little and can tie wi' nuiir,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie him a skelp, as they're creeping alang
Wi'.a cod o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish
sang.
•
' ? " I whyles claw the elbow 0' troublesome
Thought;
But man is a soger, amd 1'ife is a fauglit:
it
�SONGS.
My mirth and gyid humpnr are coin in my
pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch
dare touch.
A twomond o' trouble, should that be my
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a%
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has
past
Blind chanca, let her snapper and sfayte on
her way,
gae,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade
Come ease, or come travail, come pleasure
or pain.
My warst word is—" Welcome and welcome
1 ' n f ^ r f / ^ rr A ti?
[« };> worfa Vhnrv bnA
Mi07 ?l9noi erii oaf oiO
- ban
yyrab »dT
SHE*-.SAYS
SHE L©*ES:- M E B E S T
OF A ' .
Sae flaxen were her ringlets,
Her eyebrows of a darker hue,
B e witchin giy ! o'^r-ar ch ing
Twa laughmg' een o' bonny blue,
Her smiling sae wyling,
Wad make a wretch forget his woe ;
What pleasure,'" what treasure,
Utito these rosy lips to gvqw!
�SONGS.
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face,
When first her bonnie face I saw;
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Like harmony her motion;
Her pretty ancle is a spy
Betraying fair proportion,
Wad make a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,
Her faultless form, andgracefu' air;
Ilk feature—auld nature
Declared that she could do namair.
Her's are the willing chains o' love,
By conquering beauty's sovereign law;
And aye my Chloris' dearest charms,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Let others love the city,
And gaudy show at sunny noon ;
Gie me the lonely valley,
The dewy eve, and rising moon:
<
Fair beaming, and streaming,
Her silvery light the boughs amang;
While falling, recalling,
The amrous thrust concludes her sang;
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove
By whimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o' truth and love^
And say thou lo'es best of a'
O, W A T YE WHA'S IN YON
TOWN
O, wat ye wha' in yon town,
Ye see the e'ening sun upon ?
The fairest dame's in yon town,
That e'ening sun is shining on.
Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.
�SONGS.
How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year!
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.
The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.
Without my love, not
the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.
My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tlio' raging winter rent the air :
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.
O, sweet is she in yon town,
Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon,
A fairer than's in yon town.
His setting beam ne'er shone upon.,
If angry fate is sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom'd to bear;
I careless quit aught else below.
But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear.
For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart,
And she—as fairest is her form,
She has the truest kindest heart.
\vd m i d a i r
.h^ibwoo alT
.j^rf* 'J- tot ™oq od o-ifii) oW
ft > BBitiiB18 e,j
LASSIE
wr
THE
LINT
WHITE
LOCKS.
lOlZCfT li jiU •.: J
/." bilis
Vhorus.
i' -. 'i'ioflt ?.TxO-'n oiO
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
Wilt thou wi' me tend the flocks,
Wilt thou be my dearie, O ?
19
�SONGS.
Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
And a' is young and sweet like thee ;
O wilt thou share its sweets wi' me,
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O
La^ie wi', &c.
•
And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheered ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
A t sultry noon my dearie, O.
Las&ie wi', &c,
When Cynthia lights, with silver ray,
The weary shearer's hameward way ;
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,
And talk o' love my dearie, O.
Lassie wi', &c.
And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest ;
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O.
Lassie wi', &c.
\
.•:
>m
.0U£
FOR A' T H A T A N D A' THAT.
J'mq& itfzHS IIisifH -nd eatf iif^uorft 9 A
Is there, for honest poverty.
That hangs his head and a' that,
The coward slave we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that.
For a' that an a' that.
Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden gray an' a' that,
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,
Their tinsel show and a'that,
The honest man, tho' ne'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
20.
�SONG&
Y e see yon birkie ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that,
Tho' hundreds worship J at his wbrd',;
He's but a coof for a ' t ^ a t . ^ worioa Jtr££
For a' that anil .a' that,
..
His riband ;( star, a o d j i ' that,
The man of independ^t nwid r
He looks and laughs at a' that. ..
A prince can mak a belted knight, ;
'
A marquis, duke, and a' that,
But an honest' man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that I
F o r a' that and a' that*
Their dignities and a ' t h a t ,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.
, ' .;
I I >- r - i -'Hi
..
Then let us pray that pome it may,
A s come it will for a' that,
That sense- and worth o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree and a' that>
F o r a ' t h a t and a ' t h a t ,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man the warld <5'br,
Shall brothers, be for a' that,
' t-,h&H i'Sd m Tiff 9% 'Sittbaff I
v/Cr 'a 'Ur sodx 'coB!
9B8 Hoof 'jmbeen o T
Z 'l t e s d I , / d d i T O
TIBBY I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
.TTTAM O /IO:W A (VYl'dUtl Y J J I W
Chorus.
,'
0 Tifcbv, I hae seen the day,
Y e would na bo ^ae shy,
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care, na by.
Yestr^eoi I met you on the moor,
Y e spak na, but gaed by like stoure :
Y e geek at me t|ceause I'm ppor,
But fi'.ent a Jlare care I ?
O Tibby, &c.
1 doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' eMuk,
21
�SONGS.
That ye can please me at a winkj
Whene'er ye like to try.
O Tibby I hae, &c.
nr
But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean,
Although his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
AT
That looks sae proud and high.
O Tibby, I hae, &c.
Altho' a lad were ne'er so smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head auither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
O Tibby, I hae, &c.
But if he hae the uame o' gear,
Ye'11 fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
O Tibby, I hae, &o.
But, Tibby, lass, tak' my advice,
Your daddie's gear make ycu sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I,
O Tibby, I hae, &c.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I wadna' gie her in her sark,
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark;
Ye needna' look sae high.
O Tibby, I hae, &c.
'
'
"
•
WILLY BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' mau't,
And Rab and Allan cam to see;
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna'find in Christendie.
We are na' fov, we'rena that fou,
But just a drappy in our e'e ;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
But aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Jlere are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And mony mair we hope to be.
We are na fou, &c.
22
�SONGS.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,
That's blinkin' in the lift sae high;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee,
"We are na fou, &c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
A cuckold, coward loon is he,
Wha last beside his chair shall fa'
H e is the king amang us three.
We are na fou, &c.
BlO
W H A T CAN A YOUNG LASSIE D O
.....
WI' A N AULD M A N ?
What ean a young lassie, what shall a young
lassie,
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld
man ?
Bad luck to the penny that tempted my
minnie,
T o sell her poor Jenny for siller an' lan',
Bad luek
the penny, &o.
o r . He's always oompleenin, raornin to e'enin,
He hosts an' he hirples the weary day lang,
He's dole and he's dozen his bluid it is frozen
0 dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man,
He hums and he hankers, he frets and he
cankers,
1 never can please him do a' that I can;
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young
ei: —
fellows:
O, 4oo! on the day I met wi' an auld man,
01.
02. My auld auntie Katie upon me taks pity,
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan;
12,
I'H erOss him, and wrack him, until I heartbreak him, • u! C
22.
And then his auld brags will buy me anew
pan.
,.. c a£ffi via,: ii£
�moil 'ion no>l I Jroom Offi si JI
CONTENTS.
.,! - T ft4
tn^'M •
ciMiiiirf .>;• -
.rwg - acv, oi oah IteiiafcrrftfiriV/"
Lord Gregory,.,,
................................ 3
Highland
4
Clarinda,
5
My Wiije 's a .Winsome Wee
T h i n g , 6
To Mary,
6
Galla Water,:..
Mary Morison,
8
Wandering Willie,
9
Open the Door to me*, O . . . . . . .vj. ...
_
. T
. r-rhrt
Bonnip Jean,
......
Meg o' the Mill,
.. 10
, .
~
12
Whistle,and I'll come to you, my M , . , ; ^ . 1 0
Dainty Davie,
Auld Lang
Bannockbura,.
...
.... .....
14
r
14
Htrmfvtff" 1 5
She says she lo'es me best of
Wat ye wha's in yon town,.
Lassie wi' the lint white locks..^...q..**;••••«••••-••
19
Contented wi' little,.
For a' that and a' that...................
16
—.20
Tibby I ha'e $ee,n the day*.
Willy brew'd a peck o' maut...<.
22
John can a young jo,
13
What Anderson my lassie d^ wi' an auld man?...23
�
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Title
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Woodcut 031: Title-page illustration of a man wearing a hat, long coat, and long striped socks, leaning against a walking stick in an outdoor scene.
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Burns' Songs. No.1. Illustrated.
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923277513505154">s0556b39</a>
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Extent
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24 pages and 11 Woodcuts
16 m
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
ca.1860 per National Library of Scotland
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Creator
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Burns, Robert, 1759-1796
Publisher
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Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Type
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poetry
Subject
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Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
# of Woodcuts: 11
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1851-1860
Chapbook Date: 1861-1870
Chapbook Genre: ballads & songs
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Fashion (Clothing): Highland attire
Fashion (Clothing): working class
Gender: man/men
Nature: hill(s)
Object: sporran/purse
Object: walking stick/ staff
Outdoor Scene
-
https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/6beedec18e2a31cdb1483ec32c147fc4.pdf
6dbde01f3accedc1419588129af841fd
PDF Text
Text
THE
Wife of Beitk
With a description of her
JOURNEY TO HEAVEN.
FALKIRK
PRINTED F R THE BOOKSELLERS.
O
�THE
i
W I F E
OF
B E I T H t
In Beith once dwelt a worthy wife,
Of whom brave Chaucer mention makes
She lived alicentiot s life,
And namely in venereal acts ;
Bnt death did come for all her cracks,
When years were spent and days outdriven,
Then suddenly she sickness takes,
Deceast forthwith and went to heaven.
But as she went upen the way.
There followed 1 er a certain guide ;
And kindly to her did say,
Where mean you dame for to abide ?
I know you are the Wife of Beith,
And would not then that you go wrong
For I'm your friend, and will not loath
That you i»o thro 4 this narrow throng,
This way is broader,
with me.
And very pleasant is the way ;
I'll bring thee where you would be,
Go with me friend say me not nay.
She looked on him. then did speer,
I pray you sir, what is your name ?
Show me the way how came you here?
T o tell it to me is no shame.
�s
Is that a favour 'bout your neck ?
And what is that upon your side ?
Is it a bag or silvei sack ?
What are you then where do you bide ?
I was a servant unto Christ,
And Judas likewise is my name.
I knew you by your colours first.
Forsooth indeed you are to blame;
Your master did you not betray ?
And hang yourself when ye had done ?
Where'er you bide I will not stay ;
Go then yo'i knave let me alone.
Whatever I be I'll be your gtiidf*,
Because yo i know not well the way j
Will you at once in me confide,
I'll do rill friendship that 1 may.
What would you me ?
Where do you dwell,
I have nought will go with t h e e ;
I fear it is some lower cell,
I pray thee therefore let me be.
This is a stormy night and cold,
III bring you to a warmer inn ;
Will you g o forward and be bold,
And mend your pace till ye win in.
I fear your inn will be too warm,
For too much hotness is not b e s t ;
Such hotness there may do me harm,
And keep me that I do not r e s t ;
I know your way it is to hell.
For you are not one of the eleven ;
�4
Go haste you then unto your cell,
My way is only unto heaven.
That way is by the gates of hell,
I f you intend there for to go,
Go dame I will not you compel,
Bnt I with you will go also.
Then down they went a right steep
hill,
Where Smbke and darkness did abound
And pitch and sulphur burned still,
With yells and cries hills did resound,
T h e fiend himself cime to the gate,
And asked him where he had been ;
D o you not know and have forgot,
Seeking this wife could not be »een.
Good dame said he will you be here
I pray you then tell me your name ;
T h e wife of Beith since lltat you speer,
But to come in 1 were to blame,
I will not have you then good dame
For you were mistress of the fly ting,
If once within this gaite you come,
I will be troubled with your biting.
Cummer go back and let me be,
II ere are too many of youi rout j
For women lewd like unto thee,
I cannot turn my foot about.
Sir t! let I say i shall bide out,
But gossip thou wast ne'er to me y
For to come in, I'm not so stout,
And of my biting thoil'st be free j
�5
Bill Lucifer what that on thee ?
Hast thou n?o'water in this place P
Thou look'st so black it seems to mei
Thou nener drost wash thy ugly face;
If we had water here to drink,
We would not care for washing then,
Into these flames and filthy stink.
We burn with fire in the doom:
Upbraid me then good wife no more,
For first when I heard of the name ;
1 knevr thou had such words in store,
Would make the devil to think shame.
Forsooth Sir thief thou art to blame,
If I had time now to abide ;
Once ye were well but may think shame
That lost heaven for rebellious pride;
Who traitor-like -fell with the rest,
Because ye would not be content,
And now of bliss are dispossest,
Without all grace for to repent,
Thou made'st poor Eve long since
consent,
To eat of the forbidden tree ;
(Which we her daughters may repent)
And made us almost like to thee j
But God be blest who past thee by.
And did a Saviour provide ;
For /fdam's w hole posterity,
All those who do in him confide,
Adieu false fiend, I may not bide,
With thee I may no longer stay ;
�6;
My God in death he was my Guide*
O ' e r hell I'll pet the victory.
Then up the hill the poor wife went
Opprest with stinking flames and fear.
Weeping right sore with gieat relent.
For to go else she wist not w h e r e ;
a narrow way with thorns and briers,
and full of mires was here b e f o r e ;
She sighed oft with sobs and tears.
T h e poor wife's heart was wond 4 rous
sore;
Tired and torn she went on still,
Sometimes she sat anil sometimes fell,
aye till she came to a high hill,
and then <?ne looked back to hell.
When that she hatl climbM up the hill,
Before her was a goodly plain ;
Where she did rest and weep her fill,
Then rose and to her feet again.
H e r heart was glad the way was good
Up to the hill she hied with haste,
T h e f l o u e r s were fair where there she
stood,
The field were pleasant to her taste.
Then she espied Jerusalem,
O n Zion's mount where that it stood:
Shining with gx>ld light as the sun,
H e r silly soul was then right glad ;
T h e ports of pearls shining bright,
Were very glorious to behold,
With precious stones g a \ e such a light
�7
T h e walls were of transparent gold;
high were tWe walls thegates were shut
and long she thought for to be in $
But then for fear of biding out,
She knocked hard and made some dinT o knock and cry she did not spare
Till father Adam did her h e a r ;
Who is't that raps so rudely there,
Heaven cannot well be vvcn by weir;
T h e wife of Beith since that you spier,
Hath stood these two hours at the gate*
Go back quoth he, thou must forbear,
Here may rio sinners entrance get.
Adam, quoth she, 1 shall be in,
In spite of all such churls as thee j
T h o u ' r t the original of all sin.
For which thou art not flvting free.
But for thy soul offences fled.
Adam went back and let her be,
Looking as if his nose had bled.
Then mother Eve did at him speer,
Who was it there that made such din?
He said, a woman would be here,
For me I durst not let her in.
I'll go, said she, and ask her will,
Her company I would have fain ;
But aye she cried anil knocked still,
And in no ways she would refrain.
Daughter, said Eve, you will do well,
T o come a^ain another t i u i e ;
Heaven is not won by sword or steel,
�8
Nor none that's guilty of a crime.
Mother said she, the fault is thine,
That knocking here so long I stand;
Thy guilt is more than that of mine,
If thou wilt rightly understand,
Thou wast the cause of all our sin,
Wherein we were bom and conceived.
Our misery thou did'st begin,
By thee thy husband was deceived.
Eve went back where Noah was,
and told him all how she was blam'd
Of her great sin and first trespass,
Whereof she was so much asham'd.
Then Noah said i will go down,
and will forbid her that she knock ;
Go back, he said, ye drunken lawn,
Your none of the celestial flock.
Noah she said, now hold thy peace,
Where I drank ale thou didst drink wine
Discover'd was to thy disgrace,
When thou wast full like to a swine,
If I was drunk 1 learned at the
For thou'rt the father and the first,
T h a t others taught and likewise me,
T o drink when as vve had 110 thirst.
Then Noah turned back with speed
and told the patriarch Abra'am then,
How that the carlin made him dread,
And how she all his deeds did ken.
Abra'am then said now get you gone
Let us no more hear of your din ;
�9
No lying wife as I suppose,
May enter in these gates within.
Abra'am, she said will you but spare
I hope you are not 'flyting fre^ ;
You of yourself had such a care,
Deny'd your wife and made a lie;
Go then I pray you let me be
For 1 repent of all my sin;
Do thou but ope the gates to me,
and let me quietly come in.
Abra'am went back to Jacob then,
and told his grandson how to speed,
How that of her nothing he wan,
an 1 that he thought the cariin mad,
Then down came J a t o b thro* 1 he close
and said go backward clown to h e l l ;
Jacob quoth she I know your voice,
That gate pertaineth to thyself,
Of thy old trumpheiies I can tell,
With two sisters thou led*st thy life,
and the third part of these tribes twelve
Thou got with maids besides thy wife ;
and stole thy father's bennison,
Only by fi aud t ly father frae ;
Gave thou not him for venison,
A kid instead of breaken rae ?
Jacob himself was tickled so
H e went to Lot where he was lying,
and to the gate prayed him to go,
T o staunch the carlin of her crying
Lot says fair dame make less ado,
�10
and come again another day.
Old harlot carle and drunkard too,
T h o u with thine own two daughters lay
Of thine untimely se d I say,
Proceeded nevei good hut ill.
Poor Lot for shame then stole away,
And left the wife to knock her fill,
M e e k Moses then went down at last,
T o pacify the carlin then ;
Now dame said he, knock not so fast,
Your knocking will not let you ben.
Good sir, she said, 1 am aghast,
Whene'er i look you in the f a c e ;
If that your law till now had last,
T h e n surely I had ne'er got g r a c e :
But Moses, sir, now by your leave,
although in heaven you be possesst,
For all you saw did not believe.
But you in Horeb once transgressed,
Wherefore by all it is confest.
You hut got up the land to see,
and in the mount were put to rest,
Yea buried there where you did die.
Moses meekly turned back,
and told his brother Aaron there,
H o w the old carlin did so crack,
and in no ways did him forbear.
Tl en Aaron sail), I will not swear.
But Ml conjure her as I can ;
and I will make her now forbear,
So that she shall not rap again.
�11
Then Aaron said, you whorish wife,
Get you g*one anil rap no more ;
(With idols you have led your life,)
Or then you will repent it sore,
(rood Aaron priest 1 know you well,
This golden calf you may remember.
Who made the people plagues to see*
T h e is of you recorded ever ;
your priesthood now is nothing worth,
Christ is my only priest, and he.
My lord, who shall not keep rive forth,
So I'll get in in spite of t hee.
U p started Sampson at the length,
Unto the gate apace came he,
T o drive away the wife with strength,
But all in vain it would not l>e.
Sampson, quoth she, t h e world may
Thou was a j u d p e that proved unjust ;
Those gracious girts which God gave
thee,
Thou I >st by thy licentious lust,
From Delila thy wicked wife,
Thy secrets chief couldst not refrain,
She daily sought to take thy life,
Thou lost thy locks and then was slain.
Though thou wast strong it was in vain
Haunted with harlots heie and there,
Then Sampson turned back again,
And with the wife would mell nae tnair,
T h e n said king David knock no more,
�12
We ara troubled with thy cry,
David quoth she, how cam'st thou
here ?
Thou migju^st bide out as well as I,
Thy dee,is no ways thou canst deny,
Is not thy sin far worse than mine ?
Who with Uriah's wife did lie,
And caus'cj him to be murder'd synt?,
Then Jeditii said who's there that
knocks, ?
, ?
And to our n e i g h b o u r t h e s e notes
Madam said she k t he your macks,
I came not here for qntting throats:
I am a sinner full of blots,
Yet through Chiist's blood I shall be
clean.
If you and I be judged by votes,
T h e thing you did was worse than mine
Then said the sapient Solomon,
Thou art a sinner all men say,
Therefore our Saviour, I suppose.
Thee heavenly entrance will deny,
Mind quoth she thy latter days,
What idol gods thou did upset,
And wast so lewd in Venus' plays,
Thou didst thy maker quite forget.
Then Jonas said fair dame content
you,
If you intend to come to grace.
You must dree penance and repent you
Ere you conae within tins place.
�13
Jonas quoth she how stands the case ?
How came you here to be with Christ?
How dare you look me in the face ?
Considering how you broke your tryst,
To go God's ei rand thou withstood him
And heldfhis council in disdain ;
The raven messenger thou play'd him,
And brought noitBtssage back again
With meray'thou wast Bot; darken t*.
When that the Lord i t e did them spare
Although the city did repent,
It grieved tbieAhy he!ai?t was sair :
Let me alone and speakt no more,
Go back again in:© the whale,
For now my heart is^ako gorej
]>ut yet I hope 1 shall prevail.
Good Jonas said crack on your fill,
For here I may no longer tarry,
Y£t knock as long as e'er you will,
And go into a firry farry.
Jonas she says ye do miscarry,
As I have done in former time,
You're no Saint Peter nor Saint Mary,
T h y blot's as black as ever mine,
So Jonas then he was asham'd,
Because he was not fly ting free,
Oi all his faults she had him blam'd
He left the wife and let her be.
Saint Thomas then / council thee,
Go speak unto yon wicked wife,
She shames u s all, aad as for me,
to*
�14
Her like I never heard all my life.
Thomas then said, you make such
din,
When you are out, and meikle din
If you were here, P11 lay my life.
No peace the saints would get within}
I t is your trade for to be fly ting,
Still in a fever as one raves.
N o marvel though you wives be biting,
Your tongues are ma le of a*pen leaves
Thomas quoth she, let be your taunts,
You play the pick-thank I perceive,
Though ye be brother to the saints,
An unbelieving heart you have ;
Thou brought the Lord unto the grave.
But wouht no more with him remain,
And wast the last of all the lave,
T h a t did believe he rose again,
There mi^ht no doctrine do thee good,
Nor miracles make thee confide,
Till thou beheld Christ's wounds and
blood,
And put'st thy hands unto his side ;
Didst thou not daily with him bide,
And see the wonders which he wrought
But blest are they who do confide,
And do believe yet saw him n o t ;
Thoma.«, she says, will you speei,
If that my sister Magdalene,
Will come to me if she be here ;
For comfort sure you give me nane.
�15
H e was so blythe he turned back f
and thanked God that he was gane,
He had no will to hear her crack t
But told it Mary Magdalene.
When she did hear her sister's mocks,
She went unto the gate with speed :
and asked her who is't that knocks?
*Tis I, the wife of Btith indeed,
She said g ood mistress you must stand
Till ye be tried by tiibuhtioiV.
Sister, quoth she, g w e me your hand,
are we not both of one vocation?
It is not through your occupation,
That you are placet! so divine,
My faith is fixed on Christ's passion.
My soul shail be as safe as thine.
Then Mary went away in haste,
T h e carlin made her so aslram'd,
She had no will of such a guest,
T o lose her pains and be so blamed.
Now good St. Paul, said Magdalenet
-Because you are a learned man,
Go and convince this woman then,
For I have done all that I can :
Sure if she were in hell I doubt,
They would not keep her longer there
Cut to the gate would turn hei out ;
and send her back to be elsewhere.
Then went the good apostle Paul,
T o put the wife in better tune.
Wash off the filth that fylea thy soul,
�,
16
Then shall heav'n's gates be open soon.
Remember Paul what thou hast idone,
For the epistles thou didst compile,
Though now thou sittest up above,
Thou persecuted Christ awhile.
Woman he said, thou art not r%ht f
That which I did, I did not know;
But thou did sin with all thy might ,
Although th^ preachers did thee show,
Saint Paul, rhe said, it is not So,
I did not know as well asye,
But I will to my Saviour go;
Who will his favour show to mfe ;
You think you are of flvting free,
Because you were wrapt up above.
But yet it was Christ's grace to thee,
and matchlessness of his dear love,
Then, Paul she says let Peter come,
If he be lying let him rise,
To him I will confess my sin.
and let him quickly bring the keys.
Too long I stand, he'll let me in,
Fcr why I cannot longer tarry,
Then shall ye ail be quit of din,
For I must speak with good saint Mary.
The good apostle discontent,
Right suddenly he turned back,
For he did very much repent,
T o hear the carhn proudly crack,
Paul says good brother now arise,
and make an end of all this din,
�17
And if be so you have the keys,
Open and l ?l the p ^ i g ^ g iprdm oT
T h e apostle Paul arose at last,
and to the gate with speed he he hies*:
Carlin quoth he knock not so fast,
You cumber Mary with your cries.
Peter she said let Christ arise,
and grant me mercy in my need ;
For why, 1 ne'er denied him thrice,
as though thyself hast don?e indeed..
Thou calling bold what's that to thee ?
1 got remission for my sin ;
It cost many sad tears to me,
Before I entered here within.
/ 1 will not be thy m uckle din,
W ill cause heaven ^ates opened be,
Thou must be purified of sin ;
and of all sins must be made free.
Saint Peter then its nought to you
That you were rid of your fears,
It was Christ's gracious look I trow
That made ye wipe those bitter tears,
T h e door of mercy is not closed,
I may get grace as well as ye,
It is not so as ye supposed
/ will be in, in jspiite } Jsh&f&o odW
But wicked wife it is too late,
Thou shouldest have mourn'd upon
earth,
Repentance now is out of date :
/ 1 should have been before thy death ;
�18
Thau mightest then have turned wrath
T o mercy then and mercy £feat,
But now the Lord is very loth,
and all thy crys not worth a jot.
Ah ! Peter then what shall I do?
H e will not hear me as i hear,
Shall I despair of mercy too!
No, no, 1,11 trust in mercy d e a r :
and if I perish here I'll stay,
and never go from heaven bright;
I'll ever hope and always pray,
Tntil 1 get my Saviour's sight.
I think indeed you now are right,
if you had faith you would win in ;
Importune then with all your mi^ht,
Faith is the feet wherewith you come.
It is che hands will hoi i him fast
But weak faith never may presume ;
'Twill let you sink and be aghast.
Stongly believe, < r your undone.
But good Saint Peter, let me be,
Had you &m:h faith did it abound ?
When you did walk upon the sea,
Were ye not lik iiy to he drown'd ?
Had not our Saviour helped thee,
Who came and took thee by the hand ;
So c*n my Lord do ui to me,
and bring- me to the promised land,
Is my faith weak ? Yea he is still
T h e same and ever shall remain ;
His mercies last and his good will,
�w
T o bring me to his flock again;
He will me help and me relieve,
and will increase my faith also,
If weakly J can but believe,
For from this place Til never go.
But Peter said how can that be*
How dar'st thou look him in the face ?
Such horrid sinners like to thee,
Can have no courage to have grace ;
Here none comes in but they that's
stout,
and suffer'd have for the good cause?
Like unto thee are keeped cut.
For thou hast kroken all Moses* laws.
Peter she said, 1 do appeal,
From Moses and from thee also,
With him and you Ml not prevail,
But to my Saviour 1 will go;
Indeed of old you were right stout,
When ysu did cut off Malchtis' ear ;
But after that you went about.
And a poor maid then did you fear.
Wherefore Saint Peter do forbear,
A comforter indee 1 your n o t ;
Let me alone, 1 do not fear,
Take home the wissd of your g r o a t ;
Was it your o\rn or Paul's good sword
When that your courage was so keen,
You were ri^ht stout upon my word,
Then you would fain at fishing been j
For ere the crowing of the cock,
�20
You 4id deny your master thrice.
For all your stoutness turned: a block,
Now flyte no more if ye be wise.
Yet at the last the Lord arose,
Environ§d with angels bright.
And to the wife in haste he goes,
l i e f i ^ d her to pass out of sight,
() Lord quoth she, cause me do right
But not according to my sin,
tlave yoi) not promised day and night,
When sinners knocks t j let them in ?
v He said thou wrests the scriptures
wrong.
The night is come thou spent the day
In whoredom thou hast lived lon£,
And do repent thou didst d e l a y ;
Still my commandments thou abus'd
And vice committed busily,
Since now,my mercy thou refused,
Go down to hell eternally,
O Lord, my sou! doth testify,
That I have spent my life in vain ;
Ah ! mak^ a wandering sheep of me,
And bring me to thy flock again.
I'nink'st thou tbore is no count to
crave,
Of all th;e#e gifts in thee was planted,
I gave thee beauty 'hove*the lave,
A pregnant wit thou ntver ro anted.
Master, quoth she it must be granted,
My sins are great give me contrition ;
�M
The forlorn son when he repented.
Obtain'd his father's full remission.
I spar'd my judgment many times,
And sp'ritual pastors did thee send ;
Hut thou renew'd'st thy former crimes,
Aye more and more me to offend.
My Lord, quoth she, I do amend,
Lamenting for my former vice,
The poor thief at the latter end,
For one word went to paradise.
T h e t hief heard never of my teachings,
My heavenly precepts and my laws,
But thou wast daily at my preachings,
Both heard and saw and yet misknowl,
Master quoth she the scriptures shows,
T h ie J e w i sh w o m a n w h 0 p I ay' d t h e 1 o w ii
Conform unto the Hebrew laws,
Was brought to thee to he put down ;
Y ut nevertheless thou let 4 st her go,
And made the P h a r k e e ^ afraid.
Indeed, says Christ, it was right so,
And that my bidding was obey'd,
Woman, he sail), I may not cast,
The chi 1 dren's bread to dog's like thee,
Although my mercics yet do last,
There's mercy here but none for thee,
But, loving Lord, may I presume,
Poor worm, that I may speak again,
The dogs for hunger were undone,
Arid for the crumbs they were right
fain ;
�22
Grant me one crumb that then doth fall
From thy blest children's table Lord,
That I may be lefresh'd withal,
It will me help enough afford.
The gates of mercy now are clos'd,
And thou canst hardly enter in ;
It is not so as thou supposed.
For thou art deadly sick in sin.
*Tis true indeed my lord most meek,
My sore and sickness 1 do f e e l ;
Yet thou the lamb dost truly seek,
Who lay long* at Bethseda's pool,
Of that thee never sought,
Like to the poor Samaritan;
Whom thou into thy fold has brought,
Even as thou didst the widow of Nain :
Most giacious God, didst thou not bid
All that were weary eorre to thee ?
Behold I come! even oVrload
With sin, have mercy upon me.
The issues of tiw soul are great,
Thou art both leprous and unclean,
To be with me thou art not fit,
Go from me then, let me alone.
Let me thy garments once but touch,
My bloody issue will be whole,
It will not cost thee very much,
To Fave a poor distressed soul.
Speak thou the word I shall be vhole,
One look of thee shall do me good,
Save now good lord my silly soul,
�23
Bought with thine own most precious
blood.
L e t me alone, none of my blood,
Was ever shed for such as thee,
I t was my mercy patience good.
Which from damnation sec them free.
I t is confest thou hast been just,
Altho 4 thou had condemned m e ;
But O ! thy mercies still do last,
T o save the soul that tiust in thee :
Let me not then condemned be.
Most humbly Lord, I thee request,
O f sinners all none, like me,
So much the more thy praise shall last,
Thy praising me is profite,
My saints shall praise me e v e r m o r e :
In sinners I have no delight,
Such sacrifice 1 do abhor.
T h e n she unto the Lord did say,
At footstool of thy grace Ml lie ;
Sweet Lord my God sav me not nay,
For if I perish here I'll die.
Poor silly wretch then speak no mor*
Thy faith poor soul hath saved thee ;
Enter thou into my glory,
And rest through all eternity.
How soon our Saviour these words
said,
A lon«r white robe to her was given
And then the angels did her lead
Forthwith within the gates of heaven
�24
A laurel crown set on her Head.
Spangled with rubies and with gold ;
A bright white palm she always had,
Glorious itWas for to behold ;
Her face did shine like to the sun,
like threads of gold her hair hung dpwn
Her eyes like lamps unto the moon :
Of precious stones ri Jh Was her croVHi,
Angels and saints did welcome her,
:The heavenly choir did sing rejoice ;
King David w ith his harp was t h e r e ;
The silver bells gave a great noise.
Such music and such melody,
Was neither ever heard or seen,
When this poor saint was plac'd t o high
:And of her sins made freely clean ;
But then when thus she Was p<issest,
And looked back on all 11er fears,
And that she was come to her rest,
KreeM from her sins, and all her tears,
She from her head did take the crown,
Giving all praise to Christ on high,
Amd a t I vis feet-she laid it down,
For that the Lamb hath made her free,
Now doth she sing triumphantly,
And shall rejoice for eventiore
O'er death and hell victoriously,
With lasting spirits laid in store.
*
.
FINIS. .
�
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1ef8316199229655d5e0eb7b7a723547
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Title
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Illustration on title-page of the Resurrection showing Jesus Christ rising from the tomb in a burst of light with 4 soldiers displayed in pairs of two on the ground.
Dublin Core
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Title
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Woodcut 075:Title-page illustration in single ruled border of the Resurrection showing Jesus Christ rising from the tomb in a burst of light with 4 soldiers displayed in pairs of two on the ground.
Document
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Title
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The Wife of Beith; With a description of her Journey to Heaven.
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953133953505154">s0141b34</a>
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
[1840-1850?] per National Library of Scotland
Extent
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24 pages
Is Part Of
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a bound collection of 54 chapbooks
Is Referenced By
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<a title="National Library of Scotland" href="http://www.nls.uk/">National Library of Scotland</a>
<a title="University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks" href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks</a>
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Abstract
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"The Wife of Bath's Tale (Middle English: the Tale of the Wyf of Bathe) is among the best-known of Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. " <a title="Wikipedia" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wife_of_Bath%27s_Tale">Wikipedia</a>
Coverage
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Bath, England
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Publisher
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Edinburgh: Printed for the Bookseller
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Creator
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Chaucer, Geoffrey, -1400
Type
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poetry
Subject
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Chapbooks - Scotland - Edinburgh
Description
An account of the resource
Woodcut #75: Illustration on title-page of the Resurrection showing Jesus Christ rising from the tomb in a burst of light with 4 soldiers displayed in pairs of two on the ground.
# of Woodcuts: 1
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1841-1850
Chapbook Genre: religion & morals
Chapbook Publisher - Edinburgh: Printed for the Booksellers
Nature: cloud(s)
Nature: tree(s)
Occupation: soldier
Outdoor Scene
Religious Figures: Jesus Christ
-
https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/bd3b3c6db8c4fd85e918eff53df46caf.jpg
de342b26b8bc86c0452a2b1babff372b
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Woodcut on title page portraying Beehive with motto: Industry, Honesty, and Integrity
https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/f24f19d8ccfc0944f4cb9f032d8d0fa8.pdf
ce5a8e41d30f0bb9c31e4efabf58c8f1
PDF Text
Text
FUN UPON FUN;
OK,
LEPER,
THE
IN
TAILOR.
TWO
WITH
PARTS:
A
SELECTION OF ENTERTAINING ANECDOTES.
GLASGOW:
PKINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS
�THE
MERRY
TRICKS
OF
LEPER,
THE
TAILOR.
LEPEK'S father lived in a village about six
miles from Glasgow, and died when he was
but very young; he left a widow and three
children, two daughters and a son ; Leper
being the youngest, was greatly idolized by
his mother, who was a good soft-natured
woman, very industrious, and followed -th|e
bleaching of cloth;.
As Leper grew up he grew a very mischievous boy, playing many tricks in the
neighbourhood, such as tying cats to dogs
tails, breaking hens' legs, stopping people's
lums, or chimney-tops.; >so that his poor
Another was sadly vexed with complaints
against him.
•
\ To get him kept from mischief, she prevailed with;a tailor to take him as an apprentice; he settled and was very peaceable
for some time, untillie got as much of his
trade on his finger ends as he might pass
for a journeyman, aild then he was indifferent whether he stayed with his master or
Hot; his mistress gave him but very little
meat when he wrought at home, so he liked
�3
best to be in other houses, where he got
meat and diversion.
Leper being resolved on revenge against
his mistress for her thin kail, no kitchen,
and little bread; for though flesh was boiled
in the pot, none was for poor Leper and
his master* but a little bit on Sundays,
and all the bones were kept and put in the
pot, to make the broth through the week.
Leper perceived* always when she took off
the pot, she turned her back and took out
the flesh, and set it on a shelf in her own
bed-room ; one niglit, after work, he steals
out a pan, cuts a piece of flesh out of a dead
horse, and then goes to a lime kiln, and
boils it; next day, his master being from
home, his landlady and lie being in the
house, after she had/ set the pot as usual,
and taken out her bit of-good beef, he goes*
out for some time and then comes in, saying, c the ministers lass is wishing to see
you, to go directly and speak to her mistress/ Off she goes in all haste; Leper runs
and takes away her bit of good meat, and
lays down his horse flesh ; and knowing she
would return in a passion, and sit down
with a soss in her cushioned chair, as slie
used, he takes a large pin and staps it
straight through the,cushion, with its head
on the chair?fand the point to Her b^clfside.
So in she chines in a rage, and down she
w-
�4
sits with all her weight on the pin point ;
and she roars out murder! murder! for she
was sticket in the a—e ; the neighbours
came running in. and Leper went out with
his bit of good beef, leaving the wives to
doctor his landlady's do up, as they pleased;
hestill denied the doing of it, and his master
believed it might happen accidentally, but
the houdie was very oft to be had before it
was got hale again ; and his landlady by
eating of the horse beef took such a loathing at flesh, that Leper and his master got
all the beef ever after, and his landlady
turned one of the kindest mistresses a prentice could Wish for.
There was a neighbour wTife on whom
Leper used to play tricks sometimes, for
which she came and complained to his
master and had him severely beaten several
times. Leper resolved to be revenged on
her, so one night he came to the backside
of the house (110 one being in but herself),
and took up a big stone and runs along the
rough wall with all his strength, which roared like thunder in the inside of the house,
ami frighted the wife so that she thought the
house was tumbling down about her ears,
and she ran out and sat down at a distance,
looking every minute when the house would
fall down, till her husband came home and
persuaded her to go in, to whom she told
�the above story ; ' lio'ut tout, daft tapie/ said
he, 4 the house will staftd these hundred
years/ Leper knowing they were both in,
comes and plays the same trick over again,
which also frightened the good man so much
that he cried out, ' run, Maggy, run, for my
heart plays pitty patty/ And they would
not lodge in the house any more, till the
masons convinced them of its sufficiency.
There was another neighbour who had a
*
snarling cur dog, which bit Leper's leg..
Leper resolved to be revenged on the clog,
and so one night he catches the dog, and
carries him to the kirk, where the rope of
the bell hung on the outside, so with his
garter lie tied the dog's fore foot to the rope,
and left him hanging; the dog struggling to
get free set the bell a ringing, which alarmed
the whole village, every one cried out 'wonderful fire! wonderful fire! the devil is ringing the bell/ When they saw the black
colley hanging at the rope, I trow it set the
minister and all the people to their prayers:
but Leper fearing he would be detected by
his garter, came to the minister's side, and
asked the reverend gentleman what was the
matter; indeed, my bairn,' said he,' 'tis the
deil ringing the kirk bell;' says Leper ' I'll
go and see him, for I never saw the devil;'
the minister cried stop the mad laddie, but
Leper ran and losed the dog, crying 1 its
�6
such a man's dog, which had the rope in its
teeth i they all cried out, 'the deils i' the
cur, the deil's i' the dog/ then took up stones
and felled poor colley, and the devil got the
blame of making the dog ring the bell
This spread Leper's fame, for being one of
the wisest and most courageous tailors that
was in all the kingdom; and many shaking
their heads, said, 'it was a pity he was a
tailor, but a captain or a general of an army,
as the devil could not fear him.'After this, a farmer in the neighbourhood
hearing the fame of Leper, how he had
frighted the deil frae being a bellman, sent
for him to an alehouse, and drank with him
very heartily, and told him he was sadly
borne down by a spirit of jealousy against
his wife; and a suspicion of her being too free
with a servant lad he had before; and if he
w^ould keep it a secret and learn him to find
it out, he would give his mother a load of
meal, to which Leper agreed; so he gave the
poor supposed cuckold instructions how to
behave.. So home he goes and feigns himself
very sick, and every day worse and worse,
taking death to him ; blesses his three small
children, and charges his wife not to marry
until his children could do something for
themselves; this hypocritical woman takes a
crying, ' Aha! marry,'she would never marry! ' no, no, there should never a man lie by
�7
my side, or kiss my Hps after thee r my am
dear lamb Johnny.' Then he acts .the. dead
man as well as he possibly could? [pta neighbours were called in, and he'sjfajrly o'erseen, as the old saying is, befp^e^^^n^ig^if
bours.
The sorrowful widow.. am^e ^fidlament, wrung her hands and'tpfQ her Imir.
The reverend women about began to dross
the corpse, askcc|>her for a shirt. • ^ y , ay,'
said she, ' he has twa new linen ^arks, and
there is an auld ane in the bottom o' the.
kist, that naebody can wear ; ony thing7a
good enough for the grave;' ' well/ said
they, ' we must have some linen for,a winding sheet; 'aweel,' quo' she, ' I ha'e twa
cut o' linen i' the Ifist neuk> but there's a
pair o' auld linen sheets, hol'd i' the middle,
may do well enough, I had need to be qarefu', I'm a poor widow the day, wi' three sma'
bairns.'
Well, the corpse is dressed and laid on
the tap of the big chest, while neighbours
sat by her condoling her paisfortune, and
how the funeral raisins were t;o be provided.
Said one, 'the coffin must need be se$n abput
first.' 'Ay, ay, he has some new fljeals in the
barn ; he bought them to make a bed o ;
but we'll no break them, there's thq auld
barn door, and the caff kist will do well
enough, ony thing's gude enough, to gang
to the grave wi'; but 0,' quo' she, 'send for
�8
Sandy, my honest auld servant, and hell
see every thing right done ; 111 tell him
where hell get siller to do anything wi';
he's the lad that will not see me wrang'd.'
Then Sandy comes wrying his face, and
rubbing his eyes. ' 0 , Sandy, there's a sad
alteration here,' and ba-a, she cries like a
bitten calf, ' 0 sirs, will ye gang a' butt the
house till I tell ye what to do.' Butt they
went, and there she fell a kissing of Sandy,
and said, ' now, my dear, the auld chattering
ghaist is awa and we'll get our will o' ither;
be as haining of everything as ye can, for
thou kens it's a' thy ain ;' but the corpse'
sister and some other people coming in, ben
they came to see the corpse, lifts up the
cloth off his face, and seeing him all in a
pour of sweat, said, ' heigh, he's a bonny
corp, and a lively like colour.' When he
could no longer contain himself to carry on
the joke, up he got among them. A deal
of people ran for it, and his wife cried out
" 0 , my dear, do you ken me?' ' Ay, you
base jade and whore, better than ever I did.'
Jumps on the floor, gets his staff and runs
after Sandy, and catches him in the fields,
a little from the house ; and ate and drank
with his sister and neighbours who came to
see his corpse. Poor Sandy w^ent home with
a skin full of terror, and a sorting of sore
bones, took a sore fever, and died a few
�9
days after ; so he got quit of his cockolder,
and Leper's mother got her load of meal.
Leper's mother was a careful industrious
wife, but as the bye-word is, ' a working
mother makes a dally daughter,' and so it
happened here, for she had two glaikit sluts
of daughters that would do nothing but lie
in their bed in the morning, till, as the saying is, ' the sun was like to burn a hole in
their backsides.' The old woman, who was
bleaching some cloth, was very early at
work in the mornings, and Leper s patience
being worn out with the laziness of his two
sisters, he resolved to play a trick 011 them,
for their reformation, so he goes and gets a
mortcloth, and spread it on the bed above
them, and sends the dead bell through the
town, inviting the people next day, at four
o'clock afternoon, to the burial of his two
sisters, for they had died suddenly. This
brought all the neighbouring wives in, who
O
©
O
R
one after another lifted up the mortcloth,
and said, with a sigh, f they've gone to their
rest; a sudden call indeed!' Their aunt"
hearing of this sudden news, came running
in all haste, and coming where the jades'
mither was at work, and was ignorant of the
story, she cries out, ( Fye upon ye, woman,
fye upon ye!' ' What's the matter, sister,'
says she, ' what's the matter ?' ' I think you
might let your wark stand for a'e day, when
�10
your daughters are baith lying corpse/ 'My
bairns corpse! I am certain they went to
bed hale and fair last night/ 4 But, I tell
you/ said the other, 'the dead bell has been
thro' warning tho folks to the burial/ then
the mother cries out, ' 0 the villain! 0 the
villain, that he did not send me word/ So
they both ran, and the mother as soon as
she entered the house, flies, to the bed, crying, ' 0 , my bairn0, my dear bairns / on
which the sluts rose'up in a consternation,
to the great surprise, of the beholders, and
the great mortification of the girls, who
thought shame to set their noses out of
doors, and to the great diversion of the
whole town.
Leper and his'master went to a gentleman's. house to work, where there was a
saucy houserkeeper, who had more ignorance and pride than good sense and manners; she domineered over her fellow servants
in a tyrannical manner. Leper resolved to
mortify her pride; so. he finds an ant's nest,
and takes their white eggs, grinds them to
a powder, ancl puts them into the dish her
supper so wen s was to be put in. After she
had taken her supper, as she was covering
the table, the imno6k powder began to operate, and she let a great f—. ' Well done,
Margaret, said the Laird, your a— would
take a cautioner/ Before she got out of the
�11
eh amber door slie let fly another crack;
then she goes to order her fellow servant to
give the: Laird hi& stippieiy but before she
could give t.he necessary directions, she gave
fire again, which ;set them all a laughing;
she runs into a room herself, and there she
played away her one gun battery so fast
that you wotildhave thought she had been
beseigittg the Savannah. The Laird and
Lady came to hear the fun, they were like
to split their sides at proud Maggy. So
next morniiVg she left her place, to the great
satisfaction of all her fellow servants.
PART
II.
L E P E R ' S landlady became very harsh to his
master, and very often abused him exceedingly sore with. her tongue and hands, and
always called upon him for more money,
and to have all the money in her keeping,
which Leper was sorry for. It so happened
on a day that the tailor had got a hearty
drubbing, both with tongue and tongs, that
he pouched his thimble and was going to
make a queen of her. When she saw that,
she cried out, 'Of will you leave'a poor
tender dying woman/ But Leper knowing
the cause of her ill nature better than his
�12
master did, advised him to take her on a fine
day, like a mile out of town and give her a
walk, and he would stay at home and study
a remedy for her disorder. Away they both
go ; but as she was also complaining for
want of health, and that she was very weak,
she cried out frequently, ' 0 ! 'tis a crying
sin to take a woman in my condition out
o'er a door.' During their absence, Leper
goes and searches the bed, and below the
bolster gets a bottle of rare whisky, of which
he takes a hearty pull, and then pisses in it
to make it up ; gets a halfpenny worth of
snuff, and puts it in also, shakes all together, and so sets it in its place again.
Home they came, and she was exceedingly
distressed as a woman could be, and cried
out, it was a horrid thing to take her out
of the house. The tailor seeing her so bad,
thought she would have died, ran as fast as
he could for a dram, but she in her hypocrisy pretended she could not take it, and
called on him to help her to bed, into which
he lays her. She was not well gone when
she fell to her bottle, taking two or three
hearty gluts ; then she roars out, 1 Murder,
I'm poisoned, I'm poisoned.' Bocking and
purging began, and the neighbours were
called in ; she lays her blood upon poor
Leper, and tells how snich an honest woman
brought her a'e bottle as another was done,
�and the murdering loon had stolen it and
put in a bottle of poison instead of it. Leper
took to his heels, but was pursued and
carried before a Justice of the Peace, where
he told all he had done, which made the
J ustice laugh heartily at the joke; and the
tailors wife was well purged from her
feigned sickness, laziness, and cursed ill
nature; for always when she began to curl
her nose for the future, the tailor had no
more to say, but ' Maggy mind the bottle/
Leper was working with a master-tailor
in Glasgow, who hungered his men ; and
one morning, just when breakfast was set
on the table, in comes a gentleman to try
on a suit of clothes. The master being
obliged to rise, desired the lads to say the
grace themselves. Every one refused it,
and put it to his neighbour, till Leper undertook it, and said with an audible voice,
that the stranger gentleman might overhear him, as follows:— 'Ocli, hoch! we are
a parcel of poor beastly bodies, and we are
as beastly minded; if we do not work we
get nothing to eat; yet we are always eating and always fretting; singing and half
starving is like to be our fortune ; scartings
and scrapings are the most of our mouthfuls. We would fain thank Thee, for our
benefactors are not worthy the acknowledging ;—hey. Amen/ The gentleman
�14
laughed till his sides were like to bursty and
gave Leper half-a-crown to drink.
Leper was not long done with his apprenticeship till he set up for himself, and
got a journeyman and an apprentice, was
coming into very good business, and had
he restrained his roguish tricks, he might
have done very well. He and his lads being employed to work in a farmer's house,
where the housewife was a great miser, and
not very cle&hly in making meat, and
snivelled through her nose greatly when
she spoke. In the morning, when she went
to make the potage, she made a fashion of
washing the pot, which to appearance
seemed to him to have been among the first
that had been made; then sets it before the
fire till she went to the well, in which time
Leper looking into it, sees two great-holes
etapped with clouts, he takes up his goose*
and holds it as high as his head, then lets
it drop into the pot, which knocked oiit the
bottom of it. Presently in comes the wife
with the water, and pours it into the pot,
which set the fireside all in a dam. for still
as she poured in, it ran out: the wife being
short-sighted, or what they call sand blind,
looks into the pot, holds up both her hands
and cries, ' Losh, preserve me, sirs, for the
grip atween the twa holes is broken.* Says
Leper, * the pot was old enough; but do you
�15
not ken that tailof's potage is heavier than
other men's.' ' Indeed, lad, I believe it, but
they say ye're a warlock ; it's Wednesday
to me indeed, my pot might ha'e served
me this fifty year, a sae wad it e'en.'
This sport diverted Leper and his lads
through the day, and after supper, knowing
he was to get some dirty bed, as the cows
and the people lived all in one apartment,
he chose rather to go home; and knowing
the moon was to rise a little after midnight,
he sat by the fire, told them many a fine
story to drive away the time, and bade the
wife make the bed to see how it might be.
To save candle she made it in the dark, just
on the floor behind where they sat, shaking down two bottles of straw. A calf
which chanced to be lying on that place,
and which the wife did not notice, was
covered with the straw, and the bed clothes
spread over it. The most of the family
being in bed, the wife told them to go to
bed also, but Leper knowing of the calf,
said, ' I'll make my bed come to me,' on
which the wife began to pray for herself
and all that was in the house ; so up he
gets his ellwand, and gives a stroke on the
bed which caused the brute to rise, and
not seeing where to go, it fell a crying and
turned round, which set the whole house
a roaring out murder in their own tongue.
�16
The gooclwife ran to bed above the goodman, and the whole family cried out, not
knowing what it was; but Leper and his
two lads whipt off the blankets, and the
brute ran in among the rest unperceived;
then Leper lighted a candle, and all of
them got out of bed, paid Leper for his
work, and more if he pleased, and begged
him to go away, and take the devil with
him. So home he went, but never was
employed by that wife any more.
Leper had a peal of the best customers
both in town and country; so one time he
had occasion to go to the parish of Inchinan,
to make a wedding suit for a gentleman.
After they were finished, he desired drink
money for his lads, which the gentleman
refused. Leper resolved to be even with
him, so he goes to the hay loft where the
groom slept, and takes his stockings,
breeches, and jacket, sewed them together,
and stuffs them full of hay; makes a head,
puts a rope about the neck, and hangs it
on a tree, opposite to the laird's window ;
then goes to the laird and tells him that
his groom had hanged himself, and that if
he would open his window he would see
him hanging; the laird was struck with
astonishment, and knew not what to do;
Leper advises him to bury him privately.
The laird said he had not a servant he
�17
could trust, so begged Leper to do it.
Leper refuses, till the laird promises him
a load of meal; then Leper pulls out all
the hay out of the groom's clothes ; goes
and gets his load of meal, and sendirit to
Glasgow; then goes to the groom, and
says, 4 Thy master is wanting thee/ So
the lad in all haste runs to see what his
master wanted. The laird no sooner saw
him open the door than he cried out,
'Avoid thee, Satan; avoid thee, Satan!'
The lad says, ' What's the matter?' 'Did
you not hang yourself this morning?'
' Lord forbid!' said the lad. The laird says,
' If thou be an earthly creature, take that
tankard and drink;' which he did. Then
says he to his master, ' Leper called me
up, and said you wanted me in all haste/
' Ho, ho/ said the laird, ' I find out the
story now; if I had Leper, I would run
my sword through him/ But Leper before
that was gone to Glasgow with his meal.
Leper was in use to give his lads their
Sunday's supper, which obliged him to stay
from the kirk in the afternoon, he having
neither wife nor servant maid; so one Sunday afternoon, as he was cooking his pot,
John Mueklecheek, and James Puff-andblaw, two civileers, having more zeal than
knowledge, came upon him, and said,
' What's the matter5 sir, you go not to the
�-—A^HFEI
18
kirk? Leper replied, ' I ' m reading my
book and cooking my pot, which I think
is a work of necessity/ Then says the one
to the other, ' Don't answer that graceless
fellow; well make him appear before his
betters/ So they took the kail pot, and
puts a staff through the bools, and bears
it to the Clerk's chamber. Leper, who was
never at a loss for invention, goes to the
Principal of the College's house, no body
being at home but a lass roasting a leg of
mutton. Leper says, ' My dear, will you
go and bring me a drink of ale, and I'll
turn the spit till you come back/ The lass
was no sooner gone than he runs away
with the. leg of mutton, wdiich served his
lads and him for their supper. When the
Principal came home, he was neither to
hand nor to bind, he viras so angry ; so on
Monday he goes and makes a complaint to
the Lord Provost, who sends two officers
for Leper, who came immediately. My
Lord asked hitn how lie dared to take away
the Principal's mutton. Leper replied,
' How dared your civileers to take away
my kail: pot ?. I'm sure there is less sin
in making a pot full of kail, , than roasting
a leg of mutton; law makers should not
be law breakers, so I demand justice on
the civileers.' The Provost askbdr him
what justice he would have.
Says he,
�19
* make them cai;ry the pot back again; and
to the Principal, a leg of mutton will not
make him and me fall out.' So they were
forced to carry the pot back again ; and
Leper caused the boys to huzza after them
to their disgrace. ?
There was a barber who always plagued
Leper, and called him ' Prick-the-louse/
Leper resolved to be even writh him, so he
goes and buys three sheep heads, £ind sends
for the barber, and told him that there
were three fine Southland gentlemen just
come to his house, which much wanted to
be shaved ; and he assured him he would
receive sixpence for each of them. This
good news made the shaver send for a
dram. Leper was still praising them for
quiet good natured gentlemen. So Leper
takes him to the bed where the sheep heads
lay covered, and desired him to awaken
them for they would not be angry; or say
an ill word to him. The barber lifts the
covering and sees the sheep heads, runs
out cursing and swearing, and Leper crying after him, ' Sheep head barber/
The barber resolved to be revenged on
Leper, so when he -was shaving Mess John,
he tells him "that Leper was the drunkeftest
fellow in the parish. So Mess John w:arns
him to the session. Leper comes and says,
' What do you want with me, Sir ? 6 Come
�- NTH X
NQ F .
So
away, Leper/ says Mess John, 6 1 hear a
bad report of yon/ * Me Sir, I am sure
they were not my'frieiids that told you
that/ 'Indeed, I am informed you are a
drunkard/ 4 1 a drunkard ; you have not
a soberer man in your parish. Stop, Sir,
I will tell you how I lead my life:—In
the morning, I take a choppin of ale and
a bit of bread, that I call my morning ;
for breakfast, I generally take a herring
and a choppin of ale, for I cannot sup brose
like my lads ; the herring makes me dry,
so at eleven hours I take a pint, and sometimes three choppins; at supper, I take a
bit of bread and cheese and a pint, and so
go to bed/ Mess John says, ' It's excessive drinking ; I allow you one half of it
for a quarter of a year/ Says Leper, ' 111
try it, Sir, and come back and tell you/
At the end of the quarter he draws out his
account, and goes to Mess John, who was
sitting with his elders in the Session-house,
and says, ' Sir, I have a demand on you/
1 On me, Sir/
4 Yes, on you, Sir ; don't
you remember you allowed me so much
drink for a quarter of a year, and I want
the money/ 4 Am I to pay your reckoning,
Sir/ ' You allowed it, and if you wont
pay it, 111 take you before the Provost/
The elders advised him to pay it or he
would be affronted; so Leper got the
�21
money. When he was at the door, he says,
4 Sir, will you stand another quarter.' 4 Get
away, says Mess John, and don't trouble
me.' Leper says, ' I am sure you may,
for I am always twopence to your penny.'
THE END.
A N E C D O T E S .
INCONVENIENCE OF A PETITION.
A reverend Gentleman, when visiting
his parishioners, was in one house first saluted with the growling of a dog, and afterwards by the cheering voice of a female.
D—ning the dog for his ill-bi*eeding, he
advanced and enquired for the master of
the house. c What do ye want wi' that?'
said the female. 4 W e are wishing to see
him,' said the Reverend Gentleman, 'will
ye be so good as bring him to us ?' • I'll
gang nae sic an errand,' said she; ' ye may
gang doon to the market yersel', an' ye'll
see him there; they're thrang killin' the
day. But what are ye wantin' wi' Pate,
if a body micht speir.' ' This is the minister,' said the elder who accompanied him,
4 he is wishing to have some conversation
with Peter, and to put up a petition.' 4 A
petition! a petition!' exclaimed the matron,
4 ye'll put up nae patition here; the house
�22
is wee eneugh already, an' wha do ye
think's gaunjto be fashed wi' masons an*
wrightS, an' a' thae elanjamfray about their
house? Faith no—the devil a petition will
be putten up in this house as lang's am
in't; we're gaun to flit at Whitsunday, so
ye may come then an' put up as mony
petitions as ye like/
DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH.
Henry, Duke of Buccleueh was greatly
beloved by his numerous tenantry. One of
his small tenants, Jamie Howie by name,
had a son about four years of age, who,
having heard much of the great Duke of
Buccleuch, was very anxious to see him.
Honest Jamie, in a few days, was honoured
with a visit from the Duke; when Jamie
doffing his bonnet, and making a reverential
bow, says, 4 0 , my lord! ye maunna be
angry wi' me, but it's God's truth, my
lord, there's a daft wee callant o' mine
that canna rest, nor let others rest, nicht
nor d a y ; he has ta'en in his head sic a
notion o' seeing what like ye are ; gudesakc; my lord, I dinna think he has ony
y edea ye are a man at a', but some far awa,
outlandish, ower sea creature.' The Duke,
mightily tickled with this fancy, desired
Jamie to bring the youngster into his presence forthwith. Out comes the juvenile
�23
inquisitor with his finger in f his mouth,
and cautiously recqnnoitres the personage
before . Mmi ; A t last quoth the urchin,
' G m y& soorn,?' ' N o , my little fellow/'
replied his grace, ' I canna sootn/ ' Can
ye flee?' ' No, I canna flee/ 1 Weel, man,
for as muckle's ye're, I wadna gie ane o'
my father's dukes for ye, for they can baith
soom an flee/
A BAMS' TO PIKE.
Some boys diverting themselves in one
of the streets of Edinburgh, observed on a
door, a brass plate with A1—-x>—rid—r
Guthrie, W.S., engraved on it. In their
diversion, they broke a pane of glass in one
of the windows, upon which Mrs. Guthrie
and the maid sallied forth and seized one
of the delinquents.
' Y e young rascal,
what's yer name?'-says the lady. ' Saundy/
replied the boy. ' What's yer ither name? ;
J Guthrie/
< Wha's yer mither?'
< My
mither sells bird's cages/ ' Whaur does
she live? '' I' the Patter R a w / 4 Wha's
yer father?' ' I dinna ken/' c D o ye no
ken yer faither?' 4 Na! he.ne'er comes but
whan it's dark, an' naebody kens bit my
mither.' Upon hearing this, the lady in
a passion let gb 'her victim, and running
into the room where her husband was sitsing, fell a-scolding him like a fury about
�24
his infidelity
rogue laughed
his fraud, and
said to them,
bane to pike!'
towards her. The young
heartily at the success of
turning to his companions,
' I think I've gi'en her a
SEEING- ONE DRUNK.
The late Rev. Mr. C
of D
,
Aberdeenshire, was fond of his friend and
a bottle; he sacrificed so often and so freely
to the jolly god, that the presbytery could
110 longer overlook such proceedings, and
summoned him before them to answer for
his conduct. One of the elders, and constant companion in his social hours, was
cited as a witness against him. ' Well,
John (says one of the presbytery to the
elder), did you ever see the Eev. Mr. C
the worse of drink ?' ' Weel a wy te, n o ;
I've mony a time seen him the better o ; t,
but I ne'er saw him the waur o't.' ' But,
did you never see him drunk?' ' That's
what I'll ne'er see, for before he be half
slockened, I'm aye blind fu'/
§
FINIS.
§
�
Dublin Core
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Title
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Full .pdf reproduction of chapbook.
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Title
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Woodcut 002: Title-page illustration of a beehive with swarming bees. A motto, "Industry, Honesty, and Integrity" is displayed on a ribbon at the bottom.
Document
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Dublin Core
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Title
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Fun Upon Fun; or, Leper, the Tailor. In Two Parts: With a Selection of Entertaining Anecdotes
Subject
The topic of the resource
Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
Creator
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Dougal, Graham, 1724-1779
Date
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1840-1850 per University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks
Language
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English
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9935661183505154">s0587b43</a>
Extent
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24 pages
16 cm
Is Referenced By
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<p><span>University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks </span><a href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/</a></p>
<div> </div>
Alternative Title
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Leper the Tailor
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Publisher
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Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
wit & humor
Description
An account of the resource
Woodcut #02: Illustration on title-page of a beehive with swarming bees. A motto, "Industry, Honesty, and Integrity" is displayed on a ribbon at the bottom.
Animal: bee(s)
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1841-1850
Chapbook Genre: wit & humor
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Nature: flower(s)
Outdoor Scene
-
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Title
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Illustration on title page of a large house with a horse
drawn carriage at front door and a man standing before a
woman seated in the carriage .
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Woodcut 077: Title-page illustration of a large two-story house with a horse drawn carriage in front and a man standing before a woman seated in the carriage .
Document
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The Way to Wealth, with maxims for married ladies and gentlemen, &c.
Alternative Title
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Maxims for married ladies and gentlemen, &c.
Date
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1850
Extent
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24 pages.
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9953133963505154">s0098b48</a>
Is Part Of
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Chapbook #31 in a bound collection of 34 chapbooks
Description
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"Price One Penny" at bottom of title page
Woodcut # Illustration on title page of a large house with a horse drawn carriage at front door and a man standing before a woman seated in the carriage .
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Publisher
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Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Subject
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Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
Courtship and Marriage
Religion and Morals
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Creator
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Franklin, Benjamin, 1706-1790
Type
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wit & humor
# of Woodcuts: 1
Animal: horse(s)
Architecture: chimney(s)
Architecture: house
Architecture: window(s)
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1841-1850
Chapbook Genre: religion & morals
Chapbook Genre: wit & humor
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Gender: man/men
Gender: woman/women
Outdoor Scene
Transportation: carriage
-
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Woodcut in single-ruled rectangular border on title-page of a soldier with sword and shield wearing a bonnet and plaid socks. In the background are a house and trees.
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Woodcut 010: Title-page illustration in single ruled rectangular border of a Highland soldier with sword and shield standing in outdoor scene with a house and trees in the background.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
A Tale of Three Bonnets in Four Cantos
Extent
The size or duration of the resource.
24 pages
17 cm
Identifier
An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context
<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9951650233505154">s0031Ab027</a>
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Creator
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Ramsay, Allan, 1685-1758
Publisher
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Glasgow: J. & M. Robertson
Date
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1787
Subject
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Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Type
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poetry
# of Woodcuts: 1
Architecture: house
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1781-1790
Chapbook Genre: poetry
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: J. & M. Robertson
Fashion (Clothing): belted plaid
Fashion (Clothing): bonnet (military)
Fashion (Clothing): Highland attire
Fashion (Clothing): kilt
Fashion (Clothing): military
Gender: man/men
Nature: hill(s)
Nature: tree(s)
Occupation: soldier
Outdoor Scene
Weapons: shield(s)
Weapons: sword(s)
-
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PDF Text
Text
ROB ROY,
THE
Celebrated Highland Freebooter;
or,
MEMOIRS
OF THE
OSBALDISTONE FAMILY
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
2.
��ROB
ROY.
Frank OSBALDISTONE, a young man of a respectable family,
had been several years at Bourdeaux, for the purpose of being
instructed in the mercantile profession, when he was suddenly
recalled by his father. During his residence abroad, Frank had
devoted more time to the pursuits of literature than the ledger,
and, therefore, when interrogated by his father with regard to
the state of commerce in France, he discovered so much ignorance,
that the old gentleman was highly displeased, and blamed
Mr. Dubourg, to whose charge he had been committed. Frank
exculpated that gentleman from all blame, and said that it was
his own fault, as he felt no inclination for business.
However,
as he intended Frank to take a management hi his own extensive
concerns, M r . Osbaldistone wished to put him under the charge
of M r . Owen, who had been long his own principal clerk, and
had now a small share in the banking business ; but Frank professed
his dislike to the profession, and refused to comply with
his father's wishes.
M r . Osbaldistone then asked his son what
his own grave projects were ; and on Frank saying he should
like, either to travel for a few years, or attend the university, or
obtain a commission in the army, he told him, in a rage, that
unless he consented to his wishes, his nephew should inherit all
his property, and gave him a month to consider of the proposal.
During this interval, M r . Owen tried to prevail with Frank, by
every argument he could adduce, to come into his father's terms ;
but it was to no purpose ; for, on the day appointed, he repeated
to his father the aversion he had to the mercantile profession,
hoping, at the same time, that by his refusal he would not forfeit
the affection of a parent. M r . Osbaldistone, on hearing Frank's
ultimatum, told him, that since he refused to remain at home, he
should immediately go to his uncle's, at Osbaldistone Hall, in
Yorkshire, until some other arrangements were made.
Accordingly, next day, Frank set off on horseback for Yorkshire,
with fifty guineas in his pocket.
During the journey, he
began to reflect that he had probably made himself an outcast
from his family, and lost the affection of his father by his stubbornness
; but, although he regretted what he had done, yet his
pride would not allow him to return, and he continued his journey
in very depressed spirits.
In the country through which he passed there were few objects
to amuse a young traveller, except the conversation of a few
strangers, such as country parsons, farmers, graziers, merchants,
travellers, and now and then a recruiting officer; from whom
Frank received information about creeds and tithes, cattle and
�4
corn, price of commodities, and a discription of battles. A leading
topic with all of them was robberies ; and such details were
given, as to raise serious apprehensions of being attacked. There
was one man in particular, with whom Frank travelled a day
and a half, who was very much afraid of highwaymen ; and this
man had a large portmanteau, which he always carried into the
inns himself, suffering no one to touch it. Frank, in order to
amuse himself, inquired the weight and contents of his portmanteau;
which alarmed the man so much, that he grew pale, his
teeth chattered, and his hair stood e r e c t ; but on approaching to
Darlington his fears subsided, and they soon arrived in safety at
the sign of the Black Bear.
Formerly, it was the custom o f travellers to rest on the Sunday,
and f o r the landlords of inns, on that day, to invite all their
guests to a family dinner.
Frank and his companion having
taken up their quarters for the Sunday at the above inn, sat
down to a public dinner with the other guests, among whom there
was a Scotchman of hardy features and athletic figure. Frank
had been early prejudiced against Scotsmen by the stories of his
nurse, and he regarded him with a settled dislike ; but the shrewd
remarks, ready answers, and confidently-delivered opinions of the
Scotsman, M r . Campbell, gave him no small importance on the
present occasion. A quarrel having taken place about politics,
the dispute was referred to and settled b y M r . Campbell over
another bottle, and then the company separated.
Next day Frank pursued his journey, and was delighted with
the fine diversified scenes that everywhere met his view till he
came in sight of Osbaldistone Hall, a huge antique castle, surrounded
by stately oaks. H e was only at a short distance from
the mansion, when the blast of a French horn was heard, and a
pack of fox-hounds crossed the road, followed b y the hunters.
Frank drew up his horse to let them pass without interruption,
and had an opportunity of examining the whole group, which
consisted of five young men and a very handsome female, all well
mounted and well dressed. In passing, the lady's horse started
out of the course, and Frank hastened to offer his services ; but
there was no occasion, for she easily brought the animal to order,
and gallopped off. Frank followed her, and soon heard the signal
of the fox's death ; but the young lady, on reaching her companions,
drew their attention towards Frank, and requested one
of her cousins to speak to him. However, as the young man
declined it, she rode up to Frank, and inquired, if, in the course
of his travels, he had met with a M r . Francis Osbaldistone, whom
they expected at the Hall.
On Frank acknowledging himself to be the person, the lady
informed him that her name was Diana Vernon, a relation
of his uncle's, and then introduced him to Squire Thorncliffe
�5
Osbaldistone, his cousin. As Miss Vernon accompanied Frank
to the castle, she interrogated him by the way without any ceremony,
and on their reaching the gate, put the bridle of her horse
into his hand.
After waiting a considerable time, he was at last relieved by
one of the huntsmen, who took the horses, and a servant conducted
him into a hall, where he met with his uncle Sir Hildebrand,
and was introduced to the rest of the family. After dinner,
the bottle was circulated so freely, that the company soon
exhibited a scene of boisterous mirth and intoxication; but Frank,
being temperate in his habits, made his escape into the garden.
W h e n Frank returned to the castle, and had retired to his
apartment for the night he began to reflect seriously on his situation.
The society of his cousins would furnish him with little or
no entertainment, as they delighted only in horses, hounds, and
drinking; but he anticipated much pleasure from the company of
the lively Miss Vernon, who had made a deep impression on his
heart. Next morning Frank accompanied his cousins and Miss
Vernon on a hunting expedition, and when the party were engaged
in pursuing the fox, Miss Vernon told Frank she had
something particular to communicate, and taking him to the summit
of an adjoining hill, she pointed out Scotland, which she said
he might reach in two hours. Frank asked, why she wished him
to go there? " To provide for your safety," answered Miss
Vernon ; " you are accused of having robbed one Morris, whom
you travelled with to Darlington." Frank was startled at so unfounded
a charge, and begged to know before whom this extraordinary
accusation was laid, that he might instantly refute it.
Miss Vernon told him, that the information had been lodged
with 'Squire Inglewood, whose house was only a few miles distant,
whither she would accompany him. Frank remonstrated
with her on the impropriety of the proposal; but the young lady
would have her own way, and accordingly they proceeded towards
the residence of the justice.
On arriving at Inglewood Place, they found Sir Hildebrand
Osbaldistone and Rashleigh in the court-yard. Miss Vernon
accosted the latter, and asked whether he had been talking to
the Justice about Frank's affair ? Rashleigh replied that he had
been exerting all his influence to serve his cousin ; and then
turning to Frank, said that it would be more advisable for him
to retreat into Scotland till the business could be "smoothed
over," than appear before the Justice when presumptions were
so strong against him. Frank, indignant at Rashleigh for recommending
such a subterfuge, and entertaining suspicions of his
criminality, replied, that he would have the matter investigated,
and his character cleared from such a vile calumny. Rashleigh
insisted that Miss Vernon at least should not interfere in the
�6
business; but when he found her determined to remain till it was
fully settled, he left them ; and the young lady conducted Frank
into the house. Frank had followed Miss Vernon up stairs to
the door of the dinning-room, where she left him to find a servant
to introduce h e r ; but, being tired with waiting, Frank
opened the door, and told the justice that his name was Osbaldistone,
and that he had come to inquire into a charge, which some
scoundrel had laid against him for alledged robbery. It so happened
that Morris was present at dinner, and the Justice inquired
of him, whether this was the gentleman he implicated ? Morris,
alarmed at Frank's resolute appearance, replied, that " he
charged nothing against the gentleman," at the same time whispered,
that he withdrew his accusation against Frank, as he did
not know " how many rogues might be in the house to back him."
Miss Vernon now entered the room, where she was kindly received
by the old Justice, and telling him her errand, requested to hear
the charge against Frank. It stated, that the declarant, Mr.
Morris, had been attacked by two highwaymen in masks, who
took his portmanteau from him, and that he heard one of them
call the other Osbaldistone, whom he suspected to be the same
person who accompanied him to Darlington. Frank protested
against the evidence, as incompetent to prove that he was the
robber, and was offering to produce arguments to shew his innocence
of the charge, when a servant entered and told the Justice
that a strange gentleman wished to see him.
This stranger was Mr. Campbell, the cattle-dealer, whom
Morris and Frank had met at Darlington, who, having heard
that Frank was unjustly accused, had come to relieve him from
the prosecution. He stated, that Morris accompanied him several
miles on the road towards Scotland, where he was attacked by
two highwaymen, who carried of his portmanteau ; but that one
of them, whom his companion addressed by the name of Osbadistone,
was a much shorter and thicker man, and had a different
complexion and visage from the young gentleman present.
After delivering this deposition, he asked Morris if he would not
forego his prosecution of Mr. Osbaldistone ; to which Morris
consented, and Campbell offering to conduct him safely home,
they departed together. Matters being thus settled, Miss Vernon
and Frank also took leave of 'Squire Inglewood, who was
happy in having got rid of this troublesome business.
Next day, at breakfast, Sir Hildebrand congratulated Frank
on his escape, and advised him to be more cautious of his future
conduct. Frank could not help expressing indignation at the
suspicions which his uncle entertained, and Rashleigh was apparently
displeased at his father also; but the old gentleman
looking stedfastly at Rashleigh, told him " he was a sly loon,"
but that " two faces under one head was not true heraldry," and
�Instantly left the room. Frank, being left alone with Rashleigh,
signified to him the unpleasant nature of his situation, in living
with an uncle who believed him guilty of so disgraceful a crime,
and said that he was determined to leave Osbaldistone Hall immediately.
Rashleigh approved of his resolution, and said, that
from Frank's attainments in literature, he might soon make a
figure in the world ; but his own case was still more deplorable,
for his father had resolved that he should follow the mercantile
profession. After some conversation on these subjects, Frank
requested Rashleigh to give him some information; but it was
with evident reluctance that he complied. H e told Frank, that
he had been formerly more intimate With Miss Vernon ; but had
thought it prudent to withdraw as much as possible from the company
of a susceptible girl, whose heart must be either given to
the cloister, or to a betrothed husband ; that, by a family contract,
she was destined to marry one of Sir Hildebrand's sons,
and that Thorncliffe had been pitched upon by his father as her
partner ; but that, if he, Rashleigh, acquired wealth in the mercantile
profession, he would marry her himself.
Frank, being strongly attached to Miss Vernon, was much
mortified to find that she was the destined wife of another, and,
after reproaching himself for becoming the dupe of her artifices,
and blaming her for not informing him of the situation in which
she stood with the Osbaldistone family, came down to dinner in
a very bad humour. A t table, Miss Vernon, as usual, began to
play of her raillery upon Frank ; but he returned it with such
acrimony, that she was offended, and, accusing him of impoliteness
to a female who wished to be on good terms with him, she
soon after left the room. Frank began to regret the shameful
manner in which he had behaved to Miss Vernon, and, in order
to stifle his reflections, drank till he became so intoxicated, that
he quarrelled with his cousins, and struck Rashleigh, who, however,
did not think it worth while to resent the outrage. Thorncliffe
challenged Frank to decide their quarrel with the sword ;
but, after exchanging one or two thrusts, the combatants were
separated, and Frank was carried off and locked in his apartment,
from which he in vain attempted to break out. In the
morning his passion had abated, and, sensible of the impropriety
of his conduct, he made an apology to Rashleigh, which was
accepted in a very gracious manner. This disagreeable business
being settled amicably, Frank next thought of procuring an explanation
with Miss Vernon, who anticipated his wish, by requesting
his attendance in the library to expound an obscure passage
in Dante which she had met with. On reaching the library,
Miss Vernon began to rally Frank most unmercifully upon the
exhibition he had made at table the night before, and, in a strain
of irony,
complimented
him
proofs, of courage he had dis-
�8
displayed in his attack on Rashleigh, and in his combat with Thorncliffe,
at the same time expressing her extreme sorrow that such
an unpleasant affair had happened. Frank apologized for his
behaviour, by alleging, that the provocation he received had
urged him to resent it in an unguarded moment, when his passions
were roused by the influence of liquor. Miss Vernon then
spoke of the indiscretion with which he had treated her during
dinner, and inquired if he had heard anything to lessen her in
his estimation. Frank, confounded at this question, at first declined
giving any reply ; but she persisted in demanding an explanation,
and particularly, whether Rashleigh had said any
thing prejudicial to her character. However, he evaded her request,
on the pretext that it was improper to disclose the subject
of a private conversation, which was delivered in confidence ;
but she grew so importunate, that Frank at last related all that
he had heard from Rashleigh. Miss Vernon, shuddering with
indignation, said, that she would rather die than marry such a
villain as Rashleigh ; and disclosed the methods which he had
employed to corrupt her moral principles in the course of her
juvenile education, and the artifices he afterwards employed to
seduce her. On discovering Rashleigh's intentions, she withdrew
from his society, and had ever after regarded him with
detestation. Frank, astonished at this disclosure, drew his sword,
and was preparing to leave the room in order to take vengeance
on Rashleigh, but was prevented by Miss Vernon.
In a few days after this, Rashleigh set out for London, and
Frank then enjoyed the company of Diana Vernon without reserve;
and being intrusted to superintend the finishing of her
education, he found her one of the most intelligent and accomplished
of her sex.
Frank now endeavoured to render himself as agreeable as possible
to the family at Osbaldistone Hall, and succeeded in gaining
the good graces of his uncle, by assisting in settling his accounts
; and he became a still greater favourite with his cousins,
by joining in their amusements. As Frank was often strolling
about, he occasionally took a walk into the garden, where he was
much diverted with the remarks of Andrew Fairservice. One
day Andrew informed him, that he had met with one Pate Macready,
a pedlar, who told him that the affair of Morris and his
portmanteau had been brought before the Parliament at Lunnan
and also, that 'Squire Inglewood, Sir Hildebrand Osbaldistone,
and some other folks besides, had been mentioned ; and that,
after much altercation, the business had been dismissed as a false
and calumnious libel. Frank expressed a wish to see Macready;
which Andrew immediately gratified, by bringing him to the
garden. Macready related to Frank the particulars of the trial,
from which it appeared, that the depositions of Morris were so
�9
contradictary, that they could not be received as competent evidence.
Frank was both vexed and perplexed that this affair
should, have become so notorious ; and after ordering the pedlar
so send him some articles, and giving a small present to Andrew
Fairservice for his trouble, he returned home, deliberating how
he should vindicate his character.
As Frank's mind could not be at ease while the robbery of
Morris was laid to his charge, he determined on setting out for
London to explain the whole affair to his father, and take his
advice respecting the most effectual means o f disproving the
calumny. Before departing, however, he wrote to his father the
object of his visit; and, while delivering his letter at the postoffice, he received one from Owen, endorsing a draft for £100,
to supply his present necessities. On returning to Osbaldistone
Hall, Frank found that the family had gone to Trinlay-knowe,
and he sauntered into the garden to hear if Fairservice had
picked up any fresh news. While engaged in conversation, they
observed the door of a small room in the corner of the garden
half open, and were at a loss to conjecture who could be there,
as it was never freqented by any of the family but Rashleigh.
Andrew supposed that it was then occupied by Father Vaughan,
a grave old Catholic priest, a particular acquaintance of
Rashleigh's,
and a confidant of Miss Vernon, with whom he had
frequent
interviews. Frank could not comprehend this mysterious
intercourse, and suspected that the priest was either giving her
religious instruction, or preparing her for the cloister ; and these
conjectures made him very unhappy, from the attachment he
entertained
for that lady. Frank now began to watch every motion
of Miss Vernon with minute attention, which gave her great
offence
; yet they never came to an explanation. One day, as
they
were sitting in the library, she inquired if he had lately heard
from his father. On Frank replying in the negative, she
observed
that it was very strange, for his father had gone to
Holland
on some urgent business, leaving Rashleigh with the sole
management of his affairs till he returned, and she urged him to
set of immediately for London, lest his cousin should involve his
father's business in irretrievable ruin. Frank expressed his
concern
at this intelligence, and great reluctance to leave her, whom
he loved above all the world ; but Miss Vernon told him, that
his affections were misplaced, as she had resolved to spend the
remainder of her days in a convent. After quitting the
apartment,
Frank retired to his own, where the thoughts of his father's
affairs, and the resolution of Miss Vernon, prevented him from
enjoying any rest the ensuing night; but he determined, before
leaving Osbaldistone Hall, to find out the reason, if possible, or
her mysterious conduct, and ascertain her real character.
Accordingly, one Sunday evening, he took his station in the
�10
garden.
After waiting impatiently for some time, he saw the
glimmering of a candle, and he entered the library, where he
found Diana alone and much flnrried. On her inquiring the
cause o f his visit at so unseasonable an hour, he pretended to
have come for Orlando Furioso, and turning over some books, he
descried a man's glove lying on the table.
Diana, blushing
deeply, said it was her grandfather's, which she kept as a relic ;
but as this explanation did not satisfy Frank, she told him that
it belonged to a friend whom she honoured, esteemed, and loved.
Frank made some sarcastic observations, and Miss Vernon told
him that she would discover no more than she had already done ;
but that, as they were soon to part for ever, she begged that they
might still be friends, and gave him a letter she had received
from London, containing the intelligence of Rashleigh having
carried off bills to a very large amount belonging to his father,
with which he had departed for Scotland, and that Frank's relatives
wished him to repair to Glasgow in search of the fugitive.
Next morning Frank prepared to leave, Osbaldistone H a l l ;
but his feelings were much agitated, both by the state of his
father's affairs, and on account of his separation from Miss Vernon.
A t Glasgow, he was to meet with Owen, who had already
gone their in pursuit of Rashleigh ; but, being unacquainted with
the road to Scotland, he repaired to Andrew Fairservice for instruction
respecting the route he should pursue, and found him
reading a volume of Dr. Lightfoot aloud, to frighten away the
ghaists, as he said, by godly exercise. Andrew offered to accomany
him, as he had been long thinking of flitting from Osbaldistone
Hall ; and, accordingly, it was agreed that they should
set off together next morning by five o'clock. Frank was up by
two o'clock, and, after leaving a letter on the table for his uncle,
he saddled his horse, and arrived at the cottage ofAndrewFairservice,
who was already mounted on a naig and waiting to attend
him. Frank ordered him to ride as quickly. as possible, and
Andrew pushed on his naig at the rate o f eight or ten miles an
hour, by unfrequented paths, through moors and bogs, and over
hill and dale, without diminishing his speed, Frank, unable to
keep up with him, hallooed in vain to him to stop ; but on threatening
to blow out his brains, A n d r e w drew up his naig, and
apologized for riding so fast, by saying, that " he had taken a
stirrup-cup of brandy at parting with his old cronies, which made
him a little flighty that morning." Having arrived at Glasgow
on a Sunday, when the people were all in church, they alighted
at an inn, and Frank inquired at the landlady for Messrs Macvittie,
Macfin, and Company, from whom he expected to hear of
M r . Owen ; but he was told that these good people would be attending
public worship at the Barony Laigh Kirk.
Frank proceeded
thither, accompanied by Andrew Fairservice, and was
�11
struck with admiration at the magnificent appearance of that
ancient edifice, which Andrew informed him had been saved from
destruction at the Reformation, by the townsmen agreeing to deliver
up the idolatrous statues of the sants.
Frank looked round the congregation, to see if he could discover
Owen among them, but in vain ; and was just about to
leave the church to go in quest of him, when he heard a voice
from behind a pillar whisper distinctly in his ear, " You are in
danger in this city." He startled at this mysterious caution,
especially as he could not perceive from whence it proceeded, and
resolved to remain, to afford the unknown monitor an opportunity
of renewing his warning. In a few minutes the voice repeated,
" You are in danger in this place—so am I ; — m e e t me on the
brig at twelve precisely ;—keep at home till the gloaming, and
avoid observation." Frank saw and attempted to follow the
stranger down stairs ; but as he could not overtake him, he
waited till the congregation was dismissed.
When Frank reached the inn, he reflected seriously on the
admonition given him, and whether he ought to keep the appointment
with the stranger ; but, after some consideration, he determined
to meet his mysterious counsellor. Having walked about
till twelve o'clock, Frank entered upon the bridge, and saw a
person wrapped up in a cloak, who told him that he was the person
whom he came to meet; and desired him to follow, that he
might see with his own eyes what was of importance for him to
know. Frank was rather unwilling to accompany the stranger ;
but, lest he should be thought a coward, he followed his conductor.
As they passed along the streets, the stranger gave such a
suspicious account of himself, that Frank would hardly consent
to go farther, till he urged the necessity of his proceeding in order
to learn from a person in prison the danger of his own situation.
On arriving at the prison gate the stranger knocked ; and, after
saying something to the turnkey, which Frank did not understand,
they both entered the jail, where a friendly conversation took
place betwixt his guide and the turnkey, who seemed to be old
acquaintances. The turnkey then gave a sign to Frank to follow
him, and led him up several stairs, till they came to a small
apartment, where he observed a person asleep. This was, poor
Mr. Owen, who, on recognising Frank, conjectured
was also
brought to jail, and he began to lament the misfortunes which
had befallen his father ; but Frank interrupted him, by inquiring
the cause of his imprisonment. Owen told him, that immediately
on his arrival at Glasgow, he had called on Messrs Macvittie,
Macfin, and Company, with whom Mr. Osbaldistone, his
father, did most of his business, to consult them about the state
of his affairs ; but, on finding that the house of Osbaldistone and
Tresham was considerably indebted to them, they behaved very
�12
ill and had thrown him into jail, on account of his being a partner
of the London firm: that, in these deplorable circumstances,
he had sent an account of his situation to Bailie Nicol Jarvie, a
Glasgow merchant, with whom Mr. Osbaldistone sometimes did
business; but that he had no sanguine expectations from that
quarter.
However, in this Owen was agreeably disappointed ; for all
though the Bailie was going to bed when the letter came, he
immediately dressed himself, and set out for the prison, where
he arrived shortly after Frank's introduction to Owen.
The
noise which the Bailie made at the door alarmed Frank's guide,
who attempted to make his escape ; but the worthy magistrate
prevented him, by giving orders to the captain of the jail, when
hecame in, to lock the door and allow no one to pass upon his
peril. The stranger entered their apartment before the Bailie ;
and the latter, after some conversation with Owen on the affairs
of Mr. Osbaldistone, and blaming him for extending his speculations
so far, produced his own ledger, from which it appeared
that the London house owed him also a large balance. Nevertheless,
the Bailie told Owen, that, as it was impossible for him
to redd up the business in prison, he should find caution for his
appearance, and then he would be set at liberty ; but, as Owen
said he knew of no one to whom he could apply, the Bailie
generously offered to become bail himself.
W h i l e conversing with Owen, the Bailie had taken no notice
of Frank and his conductor ; but, when about to leave the apartment,
he examined, the stranger, and then exclaimed, " Y e robber,
ye cateran, ye born deevil, that ye are, can this be you ? "
" E ' e n as you say," replied he. The Bailie continued his abuse,
and even added threats of punishment; but the stranger told him,
calmly, that he would never put them in execution, for the sake
of auld langsyne, for their relationship, and for fear of the consequences.
The honest Bailie was reproaching him for his acts
of theft-boot, black-mail, spreaghs, and gill-ravaging, when the
stranger requested he would not speak more on these subjects,
and his " counting-room should not be cleaned out when the
Gillan-a-naillie came to redd up the Glasgow buiths" The
Bailie consented not to inform against him, and then pointing to
Frank, inquired if that was not some gill-ravager he had listed
into his service ? Owen said it was Mr. Francis Osbaldistone,
the only son of his worthy master. The Bailie observed, that he
had heard of the hopeful youth before; and then reproached
Frank for renouncing the mercantile profession to become a poet
and a gentleman, and asked if his poetry would " procure him
five thousand pounds to answer his father's bills, which would be
due in ten days ? " Frank was displeased at the Bailie's taunt;
but, while musing on what he heard, he hastily drew out a letter
�13
given him by Diana Vernon, which was not to be opened till
within ten days of any emergency. Another letter was enclosed,
which fell at the feet of the Bailie, who took it up, and, seeing
it was addressed to Robert Campbell (the unknown stranger), he
delivered it into his hands. Frank was confounded to recognise
in his guide his old acquaintance the drover, and wondered what
could be the purport of Miss Vernon's letter to him ; but conjecturing
that it might be sent to entreat Campbell to discover
the retreat of Rashleigh, he was led to enquire where his kinsman
was. Campbell gave an indirect answer, but requested
Frank and the Bailie to meet him at the clachan of Aberfoyle,
where he would disclose something that might be of service to
them both, and he would pay Bailie Jarvie a thousand pounds
Scots which he then owed him. After giving their consent to
pay Rob a visit, they all left the prison, and Frank accompanied
the Bailie to his house, where, being warned by him not to keep
company wi' Hielandmen and thae wild cattle, he received an
invitation to breakfast next morning, and then took his leave.
Next morning, Owen and Frank breakfasted with the Bailie,
and in the course of conversation, Frank made some inquiries
about Mr. Campbell. The Bailie said, that Rob, as he called
him, had once been a Highland drover, but was now a gentleman,
and commanded " thirty waur cattle ; " and he declined
entering farther into his history, saying, it was more necessary to
examine his father's accounts. After putting on his spectacles,
he looked into the ledger, and found that the sum which Osbaldistone and Company owed him was considerable; but, with
great generosity, he said, that if he should lose by them, he had
also gained, and therefore he would just " l a y the head of the
sow to the tail of the grice."
Meditating on his present prospects, and projecting schemes
for his future conduct, Frank strolled first into the College, and
then into a solitary adjoining walk, at the end of which he observed
three men in earnest conversation. To his surprise, he
found them to be Rashleigh, Macvittie, and Morris, the two last
of whom went away, and afforded him an opportunity of accosting
Rashleigh, who was much confused at the rencounter. Frank
demanded an account of the property with which he had absconded,
or to go before a magistrate ; but as Rashleigh declined
doing either, he insisted on satisfaction, and they retired to a
more remote place to settle the quarrel with their swords. They
fought with equal skill and courage for some time, until Frank's
foot slipped, and then Rashleigh made a home-thrust at him,
which grazed his ribs. The pain it occasioned made Frank
furious, and grappling with his adversary, he was attempting to
run him through the body, when they were stopt by the powerful
arm of Campbell, who swore he would "cleave to the brisket
�14
the first that minted another stroke." After trying in vain to
bring about a reconciliation between them, Campbell forcibly disengaged
Frank's hand from his antagonist's collar, and desired
Rashleigh to leave them. At departing, Rashleigh said, that
as the quarrel had not been settled, they would meet again at
some future opportunity ; and Frank was for following him but
Campbell mentioned that Rashleigh had engaged Morris to renew
his accusation against him for the robbery, therefore Frank
thought it prudent to delist.
Campbell warned him to keep
out of the sight of Rashleigh, Morris, and Macvittie, and then,
after renewing his invitation to visit him at the clachan of
Aberfoyle, he went away.
Frank called at an apothecary's to get his wound dressed, and
then went to dine with the Bailie. Frank related his meeting
with Rashleigh, and mentioned what he had learned from
Campbell ; to which the Bailie and Owen listened with amazement.
He then asked the worthy magistrate's advice regarding
the propriety and safety of visiting Campbell. The Bailie,
highly pleased at being consulted, thought that it would be advisable,
that Frank should leave Glasgow for a while ; and
described the Highlanders as an uncivilized and lawless set:
That Robert Campbell alias Rob Roy Macgregor, was once a
great drover, or grazer and dealer in cattle, a business followed
by gentlemen of property in the Highlands, and had by his
bold speculations suffered some severe losses, which so reduced
him that he became a levier of the black-mail, a customary tributary
tax, imposed by those lawless depredators, of four pounds
Scots on one hundred pounds of vauled rent, to secure property
from Skaith, or to recover any cattle that were stolen: That any
one refusing to pay this tribute was certain of being plundered
by Rob, who could raise five hundred men, all devoted to his
service ; and that, although Morris suspected him of the robbery,
he was afraid to accuse him. The Bailie added, That as Frank's
father, had granted bills for a great quantity of wood bought in
the Highlands, which he had no means of retiring, unless the
assets and money carried off by Rashleigh to some of the Highland
haulds could be recovered, and that it was in Rob Roy's
power to de this if he liked ; but as this could not be done in
time to save his father's credit, that he had got three individuals
in Glasgow to advance a sum sufficient for the purpose. The
Bailie undertook to accompany Frank to Aberfoyle, where, by
representing the matter to Rob, who had a good heart, he hoped,
through his means, to gain possession of it.
Accordingly, next morning, at five o'clock, he was equipped
in his trot-cosey, jack-boots, and other riding-gear, ready to
mount, when Frank arrived at his door. After some delay,
occasioned by the knavery of Andrew Fairservice, and by the
�15
Bailie's housekeeper. Mattie, tying a silk handkerchief round
her master's neck, they out for the Highlands, and the party
in due time arrived at the clachan of Aberfoyle.
Having drawn up their horses at the inn, the sound of several
voices made them hesitate to alight; at last they rapped, but
the landlady refused to admit them, saying, " h e r house was
ta'en up wi' them that wadna like to be intruded on wi' strangers."
The Bailie was unwilling to enter; but Frank insisted, that he
must have some refreshment, and therefore ordered the horses to
be put into the stable. On entering the principal room of this
paltry inn, they saw a blazing fire of turf, near which sat three
men, drinking and engaged in conversation ; two of them dressed
in the Highland costume, and the other in the Lowland, all boldlooking, stout,men, equipped with swords and pistols, and their
naked dirks were stuck upright on the table, while another
Highlander lay slumbering on the floor. Frank and his two
comrades having seated themselves near the fire, desired the
landlady to give them something for supper. The three men
turned round, and after staring at them for a few minutes, one
of them asked how they could have the assurance to break in
upon "gentlemens that had taken up the public-house on their
ain business." Frank and the Bailie apologized, by saying that
they meant no offence, and had come to the inn to get some refreshment,
but this explanation not satisfying them, the Highlander,
unsheathing his broad-sword, desired them to draw ; and as they
were three to three, he advanced to Frank, who put himself in
a posture of defence. The other Highlander, with his sword
drawn, confronted the Bailie, who in vain tried to pull out his
sword, which was so rusted in the sheath from long disuse, that
he was forced to look about for some other weapon of defence.
However, as a substitue, he drew a red-hot poker from the fire,
and brought it against his antagonist with such effect, that he
set his plaid in a blaze. Andrew immediately took to his heels,
and his antagonist, the Lowlander, crying out, " f a i r play,"
would take, no part in the fray, but remained neuter. Frank
and the Bailie were still maintaining the contest, when the peeping
Highlander, who was no other than Dougal, the, turnkey,
started up to their assistance, and said he would " fight for
Bailie Jarvie," at the same time he attacked his countryman.
This auxiliary, with the assistance of the Lowlander, soon succeeded
in separating the combatants, and in effecting a reconciliation
between the parties, the Bailie promising to send the
Highlander a new plaid to replace the one he had burnt. When
supper was nearly ready, Frank missed Andrew Fairservice,
who had not been seen since the beginning of the fray, and he
was going out to seek him in the stable, when the landlady took
him aside, and put into his hand a written communication from
�16
Rob Roy to this effect : That he durst not meet the Bailie and
him at the clachan of Aberfoyle, as the night-hawks were abroad ;
but that the bearer of the letter was trusty, and would guide
them to a place where he could meet them with safety. —In the
stable he found Andrew, who was in great dismay, as he had
seen one of Rob's gillies give the letter to the landlady for his
master. During supper, Frank overheard them concerting the
best means of catching Rob Roy, and expressing their impatienc,
for the arrival of some red-coats, who were to assist them. Their
discourse was interrupted by the entrance of an officer, who inquired
if they were the gentlemen he was appointed to meet with
there; and, on their answering in the affirmative, he shewed
them a warrant which he had received, " to search for and
arrest two persons accused of treasonable practices." On looking
at the Bailie and Frank, he observed, that they answered the
description exactly; and, notwithstanding their protestations to
the contrary, he caused them to be searched. The only paper
found on Frank was Rob Roy's letter, which made the officer
suspect that they were his confederates, and therefore he ordered
them into custody till further inquiry.
Frank and his companion having retired to rest, they were
roused from their slumber in the middle of the night, by the
noise of soldiers dragging in a culprit. This prisoner was poor
Dougal, the ex-turnkey, whom they found, on examination, to
be one of Rob Roy's accomplices, and by his own confession to
have parted with him about an hour before. The officer threatened
to hang Dougal on the next tree unless he discovered Rob
Roy's retreat, and a piece of cord being actually prepared before
his eyes, the poor creature was obliged to consent to conduct
them. Having drawn up his men, the officer forced Frank and
the Bailie to join them, and then the whole set out under the
guidance of Dougal. The road was at first open, but it afterwards
took a winding direction among the hills, and led to a
narrow pass, scarcely sufficient to admit the troops. Here they
made a halt, as they found a commanding position of the path
before them occupied by Highlanders, and heard the sound of
bagpipes in their rear ; but Captain Thornton, the officer, having
resolved to force the pass, seized his pike from one of the soldiers,
and putting himself at their head, gave the word to march forward.
The party had advanced within twenty yards of the spot
which was occupied by the enemy, when they observed the
Highlanders, with their bonnets and long guns, crouching among
the brushwood on the eminence, and were stopped by the sudden
appearance of a female on the summit of a rock, who ordered
them to stand, and demanded what they sought in the country of
the Macgregor. Captain Thornton replied, that he came in
search of Rob Roy Macgregor Campbell, and if any resistance
�17
was made to prevent him, he was determined to force his way.
The strange female, who was no other than Rob's wife, told
him, that, not content with depriving her and her family of every
comfort, they were now come to seek their lives; but notwithstanding
her remonstrances, the Captain ordered his men to march
forward, and the soldiers were attempting to gain the ascent, when
a volley of musketry from the heights killed three of the soldiers.
The king's troops returned the fire of their concealed enemies,
but with little effect; yet, being overpowered by numbers, they
at last laid down their arms, and submitted at discretion. During
the conflict, Dougal and Frank had escaped from danger, by
creeping into a thicket which overhung the road, and then
ascended the rocks ; but the Bailie, in clambering up after them,
had fallen down, and would have perished, had not the branch
of a tree caught hold of his coat, and supported him in a hanging
posture. Here the worthy magistrate dangled like the pendulum
of a clock, till he was observed by Dougal, who, by cutting the
tails from his coat, extricated him from this perilous situation.
When the battle was over, Frank sallied out to see what was
become of his companions, and, having descried the Bailie sitting
under the covert of a rock on the bank, ascended up the height
till he reached his friend. On looking around, they saw Andrew
Fairservice surrounded by some Highlanders, who stripped him of
all his wearing apparel, and gave him some old clothes in return.
Frank and the Bailie were dragged from their retreat, and would
likely have shared the fate of Andrew, had not Dougal prevented
it. They were carried before Helen Campbell, whom the Bailie
accosted as his cousin, and endeavoured to prove himself her
kinsman, by mentioning a long list of ancestors ; at the same
time expressing his regret, that any of his relations should have
disgraced themselves by becoming freebooters. Helen disdained
to acknowledge him as her kinsman, and, being piqued at the
reproaches he had uttered, gave orders to throw Frank and the
Bailie into the adjoining loch ; but at this crisis Dougal interposed
to save their lives. He had scarcely finished his supplications
intheirfavour, when the sound of a pibroch was heard at
a distance, and instantly a troop of thirty Highlanders came towards
them. They brought the melancholy news, that her husband
was taken prisoner by Galbraith's militia ; but that his men
had carried off a captive, whom they intended to keep as an
hostage for Macgregor's safety. This hostage was Frank's
accuser, Morris, whom Helen commanded to be dragged before
her; and he, anticipating the fate which awaited him, pleaded
hard for his life, and protested that he was only the agent of
Rashleigh. However, the vindictive Helen would not listen to
his entreaties ; but commanded him to be rolled in a plaid, with
a stone round his neck and thrown into the adjoining lake. Her
�18
orders were instantly executed, and the poor wretch sunk to rise
no more.
Helen Macgregor now ordered Frank before her, and interrogated
him. On his giving satisfactory answers to her inquiries,
Helen said, that being a neutral person, he was not liable to be
detained a prisoner, and therefore she would send him with a
message to the commander of the party who had taken her husband.
The purport of this communication was, that if her enemies
put to death, or even maltreated, Rob Roy Macgregor
Campbell, she would not only take vengeance on the whole
country, but slay all the prisoners in her possession. After some
explanation on the subject, Frank, attended by Andrew Fairservice, having Rob's youngest son for a guide, travelled a considerable
distance, before he arrived at the station of the king's
troops, where he found the Duke of Montrose, and delivered the
message. He immediately ordered the prisoner to be brought
before him, and Rob made his appearance, with his arms buckled
tight down to his body with a horse-girth, and on each side a
non-commissioned officer had a hold of him, besides a file of men
before and another behind, with their bayonets fixed, to prevent
the possibility of his escape.
On entering, he bowed to the Duke, who observed, that it
was long since they had met, and accused him of being the oppressor
and terror of the country by his depredations ; but that
he was now drawing near the end of his career. Rob, in turn,
accused the Duke of being the author of his misfortunes, by
driving him to that kind of life which he now led, and said, that
if he suffered death, many would lose their lives in return.
In order to secure the prisoner, the Duke had caused him to
be placed on horseback behind one of the strongest men in the
troop, whose name was Ewan of Brigglands, and both were
buckled on so tightly, that it was impossible for Rob to escape.
The cavalcade pursued their journey, till they came to a ravine,
down which one horseman only could descend after another in
succession ; and while apart from the rest, Rob whispered to his
companion, that it was barbarous " t o carry an auld friend to
death like a calf to the shambles
begging him to cut the thong
which bound him. After much solicitation, Ewan cut the leather
while they were crossing the Forth, and his prisoner slipped from
the horse and plunged into the river. The Duke had reached
the opposite side, and, by the waning light, was engaged in putting
his troops in order as they landed, and directing the prisoners
to be brought over when he heard the plunge. He immediately
suspected the cause, and finding on Ewan's landing, that
hit suspicions were verified, he cried out, " Rascal, where's the
prisoner ? " and then fired a pistol at him, vociferating, " Gentlemen,
disperse and follow him; a hundred guineas to him that
�19
secures Rob Roy," All was confusion; some of the troopers
fearlessly rushed into the water, while others rode up and down
the banks to discover where he would land, and firing at every
object which attracted their notice ; but, as a great part of them
wished to favour his escape, the search was not made with sufficient
eagerness. A t one time, being closely pursued, he disengaged
himself from his plaid, which he allowed to float down the
stream and deceived his pursuers. However, the evening began
to grow darker, and the banks so precipitous, that it was found
impossible to continue the pursuit. The commanding officer
therefore, ordered a retreat to be sounded. Frank now heard
some one inquiring where the English stranger was, and then exclaiming
that he had given R o b Roy the knife to cut the belt.
This exclamation was followed by threatenings of vengeance On
him, and finding there was some risk of his being shot on the
spot, he leapt off his horse, and hid himself in some bushes.
When the noise of the troopers had subsided, and all was quiet,
Frank left his hiding-place, with the determination of making
the best of his way to Aberfoyle. On his way thither he was
overtaken by two strangers on horseback, one of whom accosted
him, and inquired, in the English tongue, where he was bound
for, and if the passes were open. Frank, who had been whistling,
told where he was going, but could not say whether the passes
were open or not, and advised them to turn back, as there had
been some disturbance in that quarter. After somefurtherconversation,
the other rider said, in a voice, which vibrated through
all his nerves, " W h e n M r Francis Osbaldistone does not wish
to be discovered, he ought to refrain from whistling his favourite
airs." Frank discovered the last speaker to be Dianna Vernon,
who was disguised in a horseman's cloak. Some conversation
ensued, in which Frank discovered his jealousy of her companion.
Miss Vernon took out a small case, which she gave to Frank,
telling him it was the property that Rashleigh had carried off
from his father, and which he had been forced to give up. She
then, after many expressions of endearment and sorrow, with tears
in her eyes, bade him farewell for ever, and rode off with her
companion, leaving poor Frank in a state of stupefaction.
On recovering from his stupor, Frank, feeling a strong desire
to see her again, quickened his pace to reach Aberfoyle, where
he supposed they must stop for the night. While hurrying forward,
he was accosted, in a deep voice, by a Highlander, with,
" There's
a braw night, Maister Osbaldistone;" and in the
speaker he immediately recognised Rob Roy, who had got clear
off from his pursuers. Frank congratulated him on escaping from
his enemies. Rob inquired the particulars of all that had happened
to him since he left Glasgow, and Frank recounted the affray
at the clachan of Aberfoyle the arrest of the Bailie and himself by
�20
Captain Thornton, the skirmish at the pass, and, lastly, the
recovery of his father's property from Rashleigh.
Rob was highly diverted on hearing the Bailie's exploits with
the red-hot poker at Aberfoyle, and observed, that his cousin,
Nicol Jarvie, had got some good blood in his veins, although
bred to a mechanical business. He told Frank, that his enemies
were laying snares to catch him (Rob Roy) on his return from
Glasgow, of which he had been apprized ; therefore he found it
impossible to meet the Bailie and him at the clachan of Aberfoyle.
They had nearly reached the village, when three armed Highlanders
sprung upon them ; but Rob uttering the word Gregarach
they recognised him, and burst into joyful acclamations. After
an extravagant but kindly embrace, two of them ran off to communicate
the pleasing intelligence ; and so speedily did the information
spread, that, before Frank and he could reach the inn
at Aberfoyle, they were surrounded by a multitude. When Rob
had satisfied the curiosity of his friends, by relating the story
above a dozen times, they were suffered to enter the house, where
they found the Bailie seated at the fireside. The welcomes,
apologies, and congratulations, being over, the Bailie, after filling
up a stoup of brandy, which held above three ordinary glasses,
drank it off to the health of Rob and his family, and then began
to descant on the impropriety of Rob's bringing up his sons in the
same wicked ways with himself; and he proposed to take them,
without any apprentice-fee, and to discharge the debt of 1000
pounds Scots which he owed him. Rob, in high indignation, rejected
the proposal; and ordering one of his retainers to bring in
his sporran, he took out 1000 pounds Scots, which he gave to the
Bailie. With great formality the Bailie produced the bond for
the debt, regularly discharged, which he wished to get attested
by witnesses; but Rob laid hold of the paper, and threw it into the
fire, saying, it was the way he settled accounts in the Highlands.
Next morning, the Bailie was observing, that they should immediately
set out for Glasgow, when Rob entered, and persuaded
them to visit his abode. Frank learned from Rob, that Rashleigh,
finding he could not get Diana, and then being obliged
to give up Mr Osbaldistone's papers, was so irritated, that he
posted to Stirling, and betrayed all the plans of KingJames'adherents
to the commander, who was induced to send the detachment
by whom Rob was taken prisoner. Rob concluded his information
with the most deadly threats of vengeance on Rashleigh,
and at the time, frowning darkly, he grasped the handle of his
dirk. They had now proceeded along the sides of the Lake
about six miles, when they came to a number of Highland huts,
and found a numerous party of the Macgregors assembled to receive
them, with Rob's wife and two sons at their head. Helen
gave them a kindly but dignified welcome, and apologizing for
�21
the rough manner in which they had been formerly treated, invited
them to partake of a plentiful repast on the Green. On
rising to take their leave, Helen bade the Bailie farewell, and
then turning to Frank, put into his hand a ring, which, she said,
had been given to her by Miss Vernon, accompanied with these
words, " Let him forget me for ever." At a late hour they
arrived in Glasgow; and Frank, after consigning the Bailie to
the care of Mattie, proceeded to his former residence, where he
found there was still a light in the window. On knocking, the
door was opened by Andrew Fairservice, who, giving a loud cry
of joy, ran up stairs, and Frank followed him into a parlour,
where, to his great surprise, he found his father and Owen, both
of whom embraced him tenderly. Mr Osbaldistone, who had
arrived in London shortly after Owen left it, only waited there
till he collected sufficient funds to pay every demand on the house,
which, from his extensive resources, he easily accomplished, and
then had posted to Scotland for the purpose of bringing Rashleigh
to justice, and putting his affairs in order in that quarter. His
arrival with sufficient funds to fulfil all his engagements was a
dreadful blow to Macvittie and Company, who tried, by the
most servile apologies, to gain his favour; but he paid the balance
owing them, and closed their account.
Andrew Fairservice, who, after undergoing an examination,
had been sent back to Glasgow by the Duke, only reached the
inn a few hours before Frank, gave such an account of the dangerous
situation of his master to Mr Osbaldistone, that he resolved
to set out for the Highlands in the morning, and endeavour to
get his son liberated.
Next day Mr Osbaldistone waited on Bailie Jarvie to thank
him for his kindness, and for the trouble he had taken to recover
the papers, and then offered him that part of his business which
Macvittie and Company formerly transacted. The Bailie accepted
the offer with gratitude; and, after conversing a while
with Mr Osbaldistone, took Frank aside to request of him not to
speak a word about the queer adventures they met with in the
Highlands; for if Bailie Graham heard of him fighting with
Highlandmen, and singeing their plaids, and the suspension by
the coat-tails, " it wad be a sair hair in his neck as lang as he
lived."
As the object of their journey was accomplished, Frank and
his father, after spending a comfortable day with Bailie Jarvie,
took their leave, and began to prepare for leaving Glasgow. The
Bailie continued to thrive in business, adding to his wealth and
credit, and, in due time, attained the office of chief magistrate,
but, growing tired of the life of a bachelor, hemarriedhishousekeeper,
Mattie, whom he considered to be a proper wifeforhim,
because " s h e was akin to the Laird of Limmerfield."
�22
One morning, before M r Osbaldistone and Frank had left
Glasgow, they were alarmed by Andrew Fairservice bursting into
the parlour, to communicate the intelligence of a rebellion having
broken out in the West Highlands to restore King James ; that
the clans had all risen to a man, and that Rob Roy and all his
petticoat bands would be there in twenty-four hours. Andrew's
news was not without foundation, for it proved to be the beginning
of the great Rebellion of 1715, which was headed by the Earl
of Mar, and involved in ruin so many noblemen and gentlemen,
both in Scotland and England. The rebellion having extended
to England, Frank's uncle, Sir Hildebrand, joined the insurgents;
but, lest his estates should be confiscated, he left it to all his sons
in succession, except Rashleigh, whom he cut off with a shilling;
and, in the event of their death, it was to descend to Frank. It
is somewhat strange, that all Sir Hildebrand's sons died, or were
killed, a short time afterwards. B y his uncle's will Frank
succeeded
to Osbaldistone Hall, and he set off, attended by Andrew
Fairservice ; but, as his right to the property was disputed by
Rashleigh, before going there, he called on his old friend Justice
Inglewood, the holder of his uncle's original will, from whom he
met with a kind reception. The will being produced after dinner,
rank found that every thing was correct; and when they had
nk a few glasses, the Justice insisted on a bumper to Miss
Vernon's health, which led to some conversation about that lady.
From him Frank learned, that it was Diana's father, Sir
Frederick
Vernon, who accompanied her to the Highlands, and who
had assumed the disguise of Father Vaughan at Osbaldistone
H a l l : that he was a rigid Roman Catholic, and had formerly
been tried and condemned for high treason ; but he made his
escape to France, and a report of his death was circulated, which
every one believed, until he returned to Britain as the agent of
King James: that Rashleigh, being privy to Sir Frederick's
concealment,
kept poor Diana in awe lest he should betray him to government:
that her father had solemnly engaged to Sir Hildebrand
that she should either marry one of his sons or take the veil, and
she had positively refused to marry any one of her cousins. The
loss of Diana, together with the wresting of the property of
Osbaldistone and Company from him, had so irritated Rashleigh,
that he deserted the cause of the rebels, and turned informer.
Frank having heard that Rashleigh was at M r Jobson's house,
in the neighbourhood, he, next morning, accompanied by Andrew
Fairservice, directed his course to Osbaldistone Hall; and on
drawing near it, the recollection that all its late inhabitants were
buried in the grave, excited in his mind those melancholy feelings
which local associations leave of those who are no more. When
they reached the Hall, Andrew knocked loudly at the door, at
which the aged butler, appeared, and inquired their business.
�23
Frank having explained to him the purport of Sir Hildebrand's
will, and his own right to inherit the property and mansion-house
of Osbaldistone Hall, the old man admitted them, though with
apparent reluctance. The butler asked where his honour would
please to have a fire lighted and Frank requested it might be put
on in the library; but he made many excuses, that the room
smoked, and that the daws had built up the chimney, in order to
deter him from going. However, Frank insisted on being instantly
shewn there, and the butler was forced to comply with his
orders. On entering the library, Frank was not a little astonished
at finding a good fire, and every thing having the appearance of
being lately occupied ; but, anxious to enjoy his own reflections,
he desired the land-steward to be called, and the butler, with
evident reluctance, withdrew to execute his orders.
As Frank knew of Rashleigh being in the neighbourhood, and
that he was capable of any desperate action, he made Andrew
Fairservice bring two stout fellows to guard the premises. After
convincing the steward, who had come immediately on receiving
the summons, of the validity of his titles to the property, Frank,
being left alone, sat down by the fire, and, in a reverie, uttered
these words: " Is this, then, the progress and issue of human
wishes ? " H e had scarcely finished these words, when a
issued from the other side of the room, and Diana Vernon presented
herself, leaning on her father's arm. Frank was almost
petrified with terror, as he believed them to be phantoms of his
own imagination, till Sir Frederick Vernon accosted him, and
begged he might protect them from the imminent danger that
threatened them. Frank replied, with great emotion, that he
could never forget their kindness in recovering his father's property,
and that no exertions would be wanting on his part to provide
for their safety. Sir Frederick now explained the causes
of his present situation ; that he had joined the Earl of Mar in
Scotland to support King James ; that he had afterwards followed
Lord Derwentwater into England; that, after the defeat at
Preston, he had retired northward, and taken refuge at Osbaldistone
Hall, till a trusty friend should find a vessel to convey
them to France. Sir Frederick then expatiated on his daughter's
virtues ; and having declared his intention to devote her to the
service of her Maker, he withdrew along with her behind the
tapestry.
After their departure, Frank fell into a long train of painful
reflections; at one time accusing Sir Frederick for his bigotry,
at another time Diana for yielding to his wishes; and, last of all,
himself for loving one who seemed determined not to become his
wife. In such a state of mind he could not sleep; and in the
middle of the night was alarmed by a loud knocking at the door.
This was occasioned by Justice Standish, who came with a warrant
�24
to apprehend Sir Frederick Vernon, Diana, and Frank
himself, for high treason. Frank having learned this intelligence,
informed Sir Frederick and his daughter, for whom he procured
the key of the garden, where they might hide themselves. "But
Rashleigh had observed their movements, and soon brought them
back into the house, where he also found Frank, who, he said,
must instantly quit Osbaldistone Hall, as he had come to take
possession of it. Rashleigh also told them, that he would convey
them away in his carriage to a place of safety; and, in the meantime,
dismissed Andrew Fairservice, to get rid of his blustering
noise. Andrew strolled up the avenue in search of a night's
quarters from an old acquaintance, when he fell in with a number
of Highlanders, who obliged him to tell them the late transactions
at Osbaldistone Hall. W h e n they heard that a carriage
was to carry away Diana, Sir Frederick, and Frank, they cut
down trees, and laid across the road, to intercept its passage.
W h e n the carriage, escorted by Rashleigh, had arrived at the
place were the Highlanders were, some of his attendants dismounted
to remove the trees, when a scuffle ensued betwixt the
two parties. Rashleigh attacked the leader of the band, who
wounded him severely; and, taking hold of him, asked if he
would beg forgiveness. " N o , n e v e r ; " said Rashleigh; upon
which his antagonist (who was Rob Roy) plunged his sword into
his bowels. Rob then handed out Miss Vernon fromthecarriage,
and conducted her and Sir Frederick into the forest, accompanied
by his troop of Highlanders. Frank then directed
his whole attention to Rashleigh, who was instantly conveyed
by the carriage to Osbaldistone Hall, and placed in an easy
chair till a surgeon should be sent for to dress his wounds. Rashleigh
begged that they would save themselves the trouble, as he
was a dying man; and, addressing Frank, declared, that he
hated him, for having thwarted him in all his projects of love,
ambition, and interest; and now that the estate would become
his, " Take it," he said, " and may the curse of a dying man
cleave to i t . " Shortly after, Rashleigh breathed his last. After
the funeral obsequies were performed, Frank repaired to London,
where he received a letter from Miss Vernon, informing him of
their escape under the guidance of Macgregor, towards the west
of Scotland, and their safe conveyance by a vessel to France,
where she was placed in a convent. Frank now determined, if
possible, to marry Miss Vernon; and having procured his father's
consent to the match, he succeeded in gaining her affections, and
making her his wife. They long lived happily together, a blessing
to all the country round.
FINIS.
�
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Title
A name given to the resource
Illustration on title-page of a soldier in Highland dress in
an outdoor scene.
Dublin Core
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Title
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Woodcut 076:Title-page illustration of a soldier in Highland dress holding a sword.
Document
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Title
A name given to the resource
Rob Roy, the Celebrated Highland Freebooter; or, Memoirs of the Osbaldistone Family.
Subject
The topic of the resource
Crime
Highlands
Jacobites
Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
Description
An account of the resource
Variant exists without '2' printed at foot of title page and type set slightly differently per University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks
'2' is printed at the bottom of the title page
Date
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1840-1850 per University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks
Language
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English
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9923405603505154">s0181b20</a>
Alternative Title
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Memoirs of the Osbaldistone Family.
Extent
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24 pages
16 cm
Abstract
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This is a condensed version of Sir Walter Scott's historical novel (part of the Waverly novel series) <em>Rob Roy, </em>which was originally published in 1817. It appears to have been set in 1715, the year of the first Jacobite Rising.
Is Referenced By
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University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks <a href="University%20of%20Glasgow%20Union%20Catalogue%20of%20Scottish%20Chapbooks%20%20http%3A//special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/">http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/</a>
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Rights
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In public domain; For higher quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Publisher
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Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Creator
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Scott, Walter, 1771-1832
Type
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fiction
# of Woodcuts: 1
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1841-1850
Chapbook Genre: fiction
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Fashion (Clothing): feather bonnet
Fashion (Clothing): Highland attire
Fashion (Clothing): kilt
Fashion (Clothing): military
Fashion (Clothing): sporran
Gender: man/men
Occupation: soldier
Outdoor Scene
Weapons: sword
-
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Title
A name given to the resource
Woodcut on title-page portraying a young man wearing hat. He is standing in a field sharpening a scythe
https://scottishchapbooks.lib.uoguelph.ca/files/original/fc29e9f5d0a14ca495f111f702fa7cd3.pdf
d3547247af5ffe12c8882fcddc443066
PDF Text
Text
THE
COMICAL SAYINGS
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Coat B u t t o n e d
Behind.
BEING AN ELEGANT CONFERENCE BETWEEN
E H 0 L I S H TOM KED
I R I S H TEAGTJE;
WITH PADDY'S CATECHISM,
And his Supplication when a Mountain Sailor.
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FOR THE B O O K S E L E R S .
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Tom. GOOD morrow, Sir, this is a very cold day.
Teag. A IT a, dear honey, yesternight was a very cafat
Tozra.
Teag.
Torn.
Teag.
Well brother traveller of what nation art thou:
Arra clear shoy, I came from my own kingdom.
Why, I know that, but where is thy kingdom ?
Allelieu dear hnriey, don't you know Cork in
Tom* You fool, Cork is not a kingdom but a city.
Teag. Then dear shoy, I'm sure it is in a kingdom,
Tom. And what is the reason you have come and left
your own dear country ?
</
- 4
Teag. Arra dear honey, by shaint Patrick, they have
got such comical laws in our country, that they will put
a man to death in perfect health; so to be free and plain
with you, neighbour, I was obliged to come away, for
I did not choose to stay among such a people that can
hang a poor man when they please, if he either steals,
robs, or kills a man,
Tom. Ay, but I take you to be more of an i
man, than to steal, rob, or kill a man.
a child, my mother would have trusted me with a 1
full of
Tom. What was the matter, was you guilty of nothing,
Teag. Arra, dear honey, I did harm to nobody, but
fancied an old guitieman's gun, and afterwards made it
my ewi,
�Tom. Very well boy, and did you keep it so ?
Teag. Keep it, I would have kept it with ail my heart
while I lived, death itself could not have parted us, but
fcha old rogue, the gentleman, being a justice of peace
himself, had in? tried for the rights of it, and how I came
by it, and so took rt again.
Tom. And how did you clear yourself without punishment ?
Teag. Arra dear shoy, I told him a parcel of lies, but
they would not believe me ; for I said that I got it from
my father when it was a little pistol, and I had kept it
till it had grown a gun, and was designed to use it well
until it had grown a a big cannon, and then sell it to the
military. They all fell a laughing at me as I had been
a fool, and bade me go home to my mother ana clean
the potatoes.
lorn. How long is it since you left your own country ?
Teag. Arra, dear honey, I do not mind whether it be
a fortnight or four months, but I think myself, it is a
long time; they tell me my mother is dead since, but I
wont believe it until 1 get a letter from her own hand,
for she is a very good scholar, suppose she can neither
write nor read.
Tom. Was you ever in England before ?
Teag. A y , that I was, and in Scotland too.
Tom. And were they kind to you when you was La
Scotland ?
Teag. They were that kind that they kick't my arse
for me, and the reason was because I would not pay the
whole of the liquor that was drunk in the company,
though the landlord and his two sons got mouthful about
of & all, and I told them it was a trick upon travellers,
first to drink his liquor, and then to kick him out of
doors.
Tom. I really think they have used you badly, but
could you not beat them ?
Teag. That's what I did, beat them all to their own
c«Hitentment, but there was one of them stronger than me,
who would have killed me, if the other two had not pulled
�5
me away, and I had to run for it, till his passion was
over, then they made us drink and gree again ; we shook
hands, and made a bargain, never to harm other more ;
but this bargain did not last long, for, as I was kissing
his mouth, by shaint Patrick, I bit his nose, which
caused him to beat me very sore for my pains.
Tom. Well Paddy, what calling was you when in
Scotland.
Teag. Why sir, I was no business at all, but what
do you call the green tree that's like a whin bush,
people makes a thing to sweep the house of it 1
Tom. 0 yes, Paddy, they call it the broom.
Teag. A y , ay, you have it, I was a gentleman's broom,
only waited on his horses, and washed the dishes for the
cook : and when my master rode a hunting, I went behind with the dogs.
Tom. O yes, Paddy, it was the groom you mean.
But I fancy you was cook's mate, or kitchen boy.
Teag. No, no, it was the broom that I was, and if
I had staid there till now, I might have been advanced
as high as my master, for the ladies loved me so well,
that they laughed at me.
Tom. They might admire you for a fool.
Teag. What sir, do you imagine that I am not a fool ?
no, no, my master asked counsel of me in all his matters,
and I always give him a reason for every thing: I told
him one morning, that he went too soon to the hunting,
that the hairs were not got out of their beds, and neither
the barking of horns, nor the blowing of dogs could make
them rise, it was such a cold morning that night; so
they all ran away that we catched, when we did not
see them. Then my master told my words to several
gentlemen that were at dinner with him, and they admired me for want of judgment, for my head was all of
a lump: adding, they were going a-fishing along with
my master and me in the afternoon ; but I told them
that it was a very unhappy thing for any man to go
a hunting in the morning, and afishingiri the afternoon ;
they wouH try it, but they had better staid at horiie^
�6
for it CSQ16 ust a most terrible fine night of south west rain,
and even down wind; so the fishes got all below the
water to keep themselves dry from'the shower, and we
catched them all but got none.
Tom. How long did you serve that gentleman, Paddy.
Teag. A n a , dear honey, I was with him six weeks,
and he beat me seven times.
Tom. For what did he beat you P was it for your
madness and foolish tricks ?
Teag. Dear shoy, it was not; but for being too inquisitive, and going sharply about business. First, he
sent me to the post-office to enquire if there were any
letters for him ; so when I came there, said I, is tliere
any letters here for my master to-day ? Then tliey
asked who was my master; sir, said I, it is very bad
manners in you to ask any gentleman's name ; at this
they laughed, mocking me, and said they could give me
none, if I would not tell my master's name; so I returned to my master and told him the impudence of the
fellow, who would give me no letters unless I would
tell him your name, master. M y master at this flew
in a passion, aad kicked me down stairs, saying, go you
rogue, and tell my name directly, how can the gentleman give letters whea he knows not who is asking for
them. Then I returned and told m j master's, name, so
they told me there was one for him. I looked at %
being very small, and asking the price of it, they told
me it was sixpence: sixpence,'said I, wi$ you take
sixpence for that small thing, and selling bigger ones for
twopence; faith I am not such # big fool; you think
to cheat me now, this is not a conscionable way of dealing, I'll acquaint my master with it first; so I came
and told my master how tliey would have sixpence for
his letter, and was selling bigger ones for twopence ; he
took up my head and broke his cane with it, calling me
a thousand fools, saying, the man was more just than to
take any thing but the right for it; but I was sure there
was none of them right, buying and selling such dear
penny-worths. So I came again for my dear sixpence
�7
letter ; and as the fellow wus shuffling through a parcel
of them, seeking for it again, to make the best of a dear
market, I pict up two, and home I comas to my master,
thinking he would be pleased with what I had done ;
now, said I, master, 1 think I have put a trick upon
them fellows, for selling the letter to you. What have
you done P I have only taken other two letters : here's
one for you master, to help your dear penny-worth,'''and
I'll send the other to my mother to see whet/ier she be
dead or alive, for she's always angry I don't write to
her. I had not the word well spoken, till he got up
his stick and beat me heartily for it, and sent me habk
to the fellows again with the two. I had a very ill will
to go, but nobody would buy them of me.
Tom. Well, Paddy, I think you was to blame, and
your master too, for he ought to have taught you how
to go about these affairs, and not beat you so.
Teag. Arra dear honey, I had too much wit of my
own to be teached by him, cr any body else ; he began
to instruct me after that how I should serve the table,
and such nasty things as those : one night I took ben a
roasted fish in one hand, and a piece of bread in the
other; the old gentleman whi so saucy he woiilc! not
take it, and told me I should bring nothing to him without a trencher below it. The same night as he was
going to bed, he called for his slippers and pish-pot, so
I clapt a trencher below the pish-pot, and another below
the slippers, and ben I goes, one in every hand; no
sooner did I enter the room than he threw the pish-pot
at me, which broke both my head and the pish-pot at
one blow ; now, said I, the devil is in my master altogether, for what he commands at one time he countermands at another. Next day I went with him to the
market to buy a sack of potatoes, I went to the potatoemonger, and asked what he took for the full of a Scot's
cog, he weighed them in, he asked no less than fourpence ; fourpence, said I, if I were but in Dublin, I
could got the double of that for nothing, and in Cork
and Linsale far cheaper ; them is but small things like
�8
pease, said I, but the potatoes in my country is as big as
your head, fine meat, all made up in blessed mouthful? ;
the potatoe-merchant called me a liar, and my master
called me a fool, so the one fell a-kicking me, and the
other a cuffing me, I was in such bad bread among them,
that I called myself both a liar and a fool to get oil
alive.
Tom. And how did you carry your potatoes home from
the market.
Teag. Arra dear shoy, I carried the horse and them
both, besides a big loaf, and two bottles of wine ; for I
put the old horse on my back, and drove the potatoes
before me, and when I tied the load to the loaf, I had
nothing to do but to carry the bottle in my hand : but
bad luck to the way as I came home, for a nail out of
the heal of my foot sprung a leak in my brogue, which
pricked the very bone, bruised the skin, and made my
brogue itself to blood, and I having no hammer by me,
but a hatchet I left at home, I had to beat down the
nail with the bottom of the bottle: and by the book,
dear shoy, it broke to pieces, and scattered the wine in
my mouth.
Tom. And how did you recompense your master for
the loss of the bottle of wine ?
Teag. Arra dear shoy, I had a mind to cheat him
and myself too, for I took the bottle to a blacksmith,
and desired him to mend it that I might go to the butcher and get it full of bloody water, but he told me he
could not work in any thing but steel and iron. Arra,
said I, if 1 were in my own kingdom, I could get a
blacksmith who would make a bottle out of a stone, and
a stOne out of nothing.
Tom. And how did you trick your master out of it ?
Teag. Why the old rogue began to chide me, asking
me what way I broke it, then I held up the other as
high as my head, and let it fall to the ground on a stone,
which broke it all in pieces likewise : now said I, master, that's the way, and he beat me very heartily until
I had to shout out mercy and murder all at once.
�9
Tbm. W h y did you not leave him when he used yon
so badly.
Teag. Arra, dear shov, I could never think to leav<i
him while I could eat, he gave me soT many good victuals, and promised to prefer me to be his own bonepicker. But by shaint Patrick, I had to run away
with my life or all was done, else I had lost rny dear
shoul and body too by him, and then come home much
poorer than I went away. The great big bitch dog,
which was my master's best beloved, put his head into
a pitcher, to lick out some milk, and when it was in he
could not get it out; and I to save the pitcher got the
hatchet and cut off the dog's head, and then I had to
break the pitcher to get out the head; by this I lost
both the dog and the pitcher. M y master hearing of
this swore he would cut the head off me, for the poor
dog was made useless, and could not see to follow any
body for want of his eyes. And when I heard of this,
I ran away with my own head, for if I had wanted it
I had lost my eyes too, then I wTould not have seen the
road to Port Patrick, through Glen-nap; but by shaint
Patrick I came home alive in spite of them.
Tom. O larely done, Paddy, you behaved like a
man! but what is the reason that you Irish people
swear always by saint Patrick?
Teag. Arra dear honey, he was the best shaint in
the world, the father of all good people in the kingdom,
he lias a great kindness for an Irishman, when he hears
hiin calling on his name.
Tom. But, Paddy, is saint Patrick yet alive ?
Teag, Arra dear honey, I dont know whether he be
dead or alive, but it is a long time since they killed .him;
the people all turned heathens, but he would not change
his profession, and was going to run the country with it,
and for taking the gospel away to England, so the
barbarous tories of Dublin cutted off his head ; and he
swimmed over to England, and carried his head in his
teeth,
�10
P A R T XI
tbm. H o w did you get safe out of Scotland P
Teag. By the law dear honey, when I came to Peart
Patrick, and saw my own kingdom* I knew I was safe
at home, but I was clean dead, and almost drowned before I could get riding over the water; for I with nine
passengers more, leapt into a little young boat, having
• Silt four mei dwelling in a little house, in the one end
of it, which was all thacked with deals: and after they
had pulled up her tether-stick, and laid her long halter
oVeibjber mane, they pulled up a long sheet, like three
oair bf blankets, to the riggen of the house, and the wind
• blew in that, which made her gallop up one hill and
down another, till I thought she would have run to the
• world's end..
Tom. Well Paddy, and where did you go when you
camd to Ireland again ?
Tmg* Arra dear honey, and where did I go but to
triy own dear cousin, who was now become very rich by
the death of the old buck his father; who died but a few
weeks before I went over, and the parish had to bury
him out of pity, it did not ,cost him a farthing.
Tpm. And what entertainment, did you get there ?
Teag. 0 my dear slioy, I was kindly used as another
gendeman, and would have staid there long enough, but
when a man is poor his friends think little of him: I told
him I was going to see my brother Harry: Harry, said
he, Harry is dead; dead said
and who killed him?
W h y , said he, death : Allelieu, dear honey, and where
did he kill him ? said I. In his bed, says he. Arra
dear honey, said I , if he had been upon Newry mountains with his brogues on, and his broad sword by his
side, all the death's in Ireland had not have killed him:
O that impudent fellow death, if he had let him alone
till he died for want of butter milk and potatoes, I am
sure he had lived all the days of his life.
Torn. In all your travels when abroad, did you a*mi
�I1
see none of your countrymen to inform you of what
happened at home concerning your relations ?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I saw none but Tom Jack,
one day in the street; but when I came to him, it was
not him, but one just like him.
Tom. On what account did you go a travelling ?
Teag. W h y a recruiting sergeant listed me to be a
captain, and after all advanced me no higher than a
soldier itself, but only he called me his dear countryman
recruit; for I did not know what the regiment was
when I saw them. I thought they were all gentlemen's sons, and coilegioners, when I saw a box like a
bible upon their bellies; until I saw G for King George
upon it, and R for God bless him: ho, ho, said I , I
shan't be long here.
Tom. O then Paddy you deserted from them ?
Teag. That's what I did, and ran to the mountains
like a buck, and ever since when I see any soldiers I
close my eyes, lest they should look and know me.
Tom. And what exploits did you when you was a
soldier ?
Teag. Arra, dear honey, I killed a man.
Tom. And how did you do that ?
Teag, Arra, dear honey, when he dropt his sword I
drew mine, and advanced boldly to him, and then
cutted off his foot.
Tom. O then what a big fool was you; for you
ought first to have cut off his head.
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, his head was cutted off before I engaged him, else I had not done it.
ffim. O then Paddy you acted like a fool: but you
are not such a big fool as many take you to be, you
might pass for a philosopher.
Teag. A fulusipher, my father was a fulusipher, besides he was a man under great authority by law, condemning the just and clearing the guilty. Do you know
how they call the horse's mother ?
Tom. W h y they call her a mare.
�12
Teag. A mare, ay, very well minded, my fathei was
a mare in Cork.
Tom. And what riches was left you by the death of
your mother ?
Teag. A. bad luck to her own bairen belly, fur she
lived in great plenty, and died in great poverty; devoured
tip all or she died but two hens, and a pockful of potatoes,
a poor estate for an Irish gentleman, in faith.
Tom. And what did you make of the hens, and
potatoes, did you sow them ?
Teag. A n a , dear shoy, I sowed them in my belly,
and sold the hens to a cadger.
Tom. What business did your mother follow after ?
Teag. Greatly in the merchant way.
Tom. And what sort of goods did she deal in P
Teag. Dear honey, she went through the country and
sold small fishes, onion's and apples, bought hens and
eggs and then hatched them herself. I remember of a
long-necked cock she had, of an oversea brood, that
stood on the midden and picked all the stars out of the
north-west, so they were never so thick there since.
Tom. Now Paddy, that's a bull surpasses all: but is
there none of that cock's offspring alive now.
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I don't think there are, but
it is a pity but they had, for they would fly with people
above the sea, which would put the use of ships out of
fashion, and nobody be drowned at all.
Tom,, Very well. Paddy, but in all your travels did
you ever get a wife ?
Teag. A y , that's what I did, and a wicked wife too,
and my dear shoy, I can't tell whether she is gone to
Purgatory, or the parish of Pig-trantrum; for she told
me she should certainly die the first opportunity she
could get, as tins present evil world wTas not worth
the waiting on, so she would go and see what good
tilings is in the world to come; so when that old rover
called the Fever came raging over the whole kingdom,
she went away and died out of spite, leaving me nothing
but two motherless children.
�13
Tom. 0 but Paddy, you ought to have gone to a
doctor, and got some pills and physic for her.
Teag. By shaint Patrick, I had as good a pill of my
own as any doctor in the kingdom could give her.
Tom. O you fool, that is not what I mean; you
ought to have brought the doctor to feel her pulse, and
let blood of her if he thought it needful.
Teag. Yes that's what I did, for I ran to the doctor
whenever she died, and sought something for a dead 01
dying woman; the old foolish devil was at his dinner,
and began to ask me some dirty questions, which I answered distinctly.
Tom. And what did he ask Paddy ?
Teag. W h y , he asked me, How did my wife go to
stool ? to which I answered, the same way that other
people go to a chair: no, said he, thfet's not what I
mean, how does she purge ? Arra, Mr. Doctor, said
I, all the fire in Purgatory wont purge her clean; for
she has both a cold and stinking breath. Sir, said he,
that is not what I ask you ; whether does she shit thick
or thin P Arra, Mr. Doctor, said I, it is sometimes so
thick and hard, that you may take it in your hand, and
cut it like a piece of cheese, or pudding, and at other
times you may drink it, or sup it with a spoon. A t
this he flew into a most terrible rage, and kicked me
down stairs, and would give me nothing to her, but
called me a dirty vagabond for speaking of shit before
ladies.
Tom. And in what good order did you bury your wife
when she died.
Teag. O my dear shoy she was buried in all manner
of pomp, pride, and splendour: a fine coffin with cords
in it, and within the coffin along with herself, she got a
pair of new brogues, a penny candle, a good hard-headed
old hammer, with an Irish sixpenny piece, to pay her
passage at the gate, and what more could she look for.
Tom. I really think you gave her enough along with
her, but you ought to have cried for her, if it was no
more but to be in the fashion.
�14
And why should I cry without sorrow ? whm
d two criers to cry all the way before her to keep
her in the fashion.
Tom. And what do they cry before a dead woman?
Teag* Why they cry the common cry, or funeral
lament that is used in our Irish country.
Tom. And what manner of cry is that Paddy ?
Teag* Dear Tom, if yen don't know Til tell you, when
v my person dies, there is a number of criers goes before,
saying, Luff, fuff, fou, allelieu, dear honey, what aileth
ihee to die ! it was not for want oF good buttermilk and
potatoes,
P A R T III.
.te*. WELL Paddy, and what did you do wheri youi
Wife died ?
*
Teag. Dear honey, what would I do? do you think 1
Was such a big fdol as to die too, I am lure if I had I
would not have got fair play when I to not so old yet
as my father was when he died.
Tomi No, Paddy/ it is not that I mean, Was fifty
sorry, or did you weep for her ?
Teag. Weep for her, by shaint Patrick I would not
weep, nor yet be sorry, suppose my own mother and all
the women in Ireland had died seven years before I was
bom.
'
Tom. What did you do with your children when sh#
died?
Teag. Do you imagine I was "such a big fool as bury
my children alive along with a dead woman; Arra, dear
honey, We always commonly give nothing along with a
dead person, but an old shirt, a winding sheet, a big
hathiner, with a long candle, and an Irish silver threepenny piece ?
Tom. Dear Paddy, and what do they make of all
these things ?
Teag. Then Tom, since you are so inquisitive, you
mu^t go ask the Priest.
Ihm, What did you make of your children Paddy f
�li
Teag. And what should I make of them, do you
Imagine that I should give them into the hands of the
butchers, as they had been a parcel of young hogs : by
shaint Patrick' I had more unnaturality in me, than to
put them in an hospital as others do.
Tom. No, I suppose you woul<Heave them with your
friends ?
Teag. Ay, ay, a poor man's friends is sometimes worse
Ihan a profest enemy, the best friend I ever had in the
Vorld was my own pocket while my money lasted j but
1 left two babes betweeii the priest's door and the parish
church, because I thought it was a place of mercy, and
then set out for England in quest of another fortune.
Tpm. I fancy, Paddy, you came off with what they
call a moon-shine flitting.
Teag. You lie like a thief now, for I did not see sun,
moon, nor stars, all the night then: for I set out from
Cork at the dawn of night, and I had travelled twenty
miles all but twelve, before gloaming in the morning.
Tom. And where did you go to take shipping?
Teag. Arra, dear honey, I came to a country village
called Dublin, as big a city ^s any market-town in all
England, where I got myself aboard of a little young
boat, with a parcel of fellows, and a long leather bag.
I supposed them to be tinklers, until I asked what they
carried in that leather sack; they told me it was the
English mail they were going over with; then said I , is
the milns so scant in England, that they must send over
their com to Ireland to grind it, the comical cunning
fellows persuaded me it was so: then I went down to a
little house below the water, hard by the rigg-back of
the boat, and laid xm down on their leather sack, where
I slept myself almost to death with hunger. And dear
Tom to tell you plainly when I waked I did not know
where I was, but thought I was dead and buried, for I
found nothing all round me but wooden walls and timber
above.
Tom. And how did ye,
to yourself to know
where you w*s at last.
�16
Teag. By tfie law* dear shoy, I scratched my head
m a hundred parts, and then set rne down to think upon
it, so I minded it was my wife that was dead and not
me, and that I was alive in the young boat, with the
fellows that carries over the English meal from the Irish
milns.
Tom. O then Paddy, I am sure you was glad when
you found yourself alive ?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I was very sure I was alive,
but I did not think to live long, so I thought it was
better for me to steal and be hanged, than to live all my
days and die directly with hunger at last.
Tom. Had you no meat nor money along with you ?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I gave all the money to the
captain of the house, or gudeman of the ship, to take me
into the sea or over to England, and when I was like to
eat my old brogues for want of victuals I drew my
hanger and cut the lock of the leather sack to get a lick
of their meal; but allelieu, dear shoy, I found neither
meal nor seeds, but a parcel of papers and letters—a
poor morsel for a hungry man.
Tom. 0 then paddy you laid down your honesty foi
nothing.
Teag. A y , ay, I was a great theif but got nothing to
steal.
Tom. And how did you get victuals at last ?
Teag. Allelieu, dear honey, the thoughts of meat and
drink, death and life, and every thing else was out of
mind, I had not a thought but one.
Tom. And what was that Paddy ?
Teag. To go down among the fishes and become a
whale; then I would have lived at ease all my days,
having nothing to do but to drink salt water, and eat
caller oysters.
Tom. What was you like to be drowned again ?
Teag. A y , ay, drowned, as cleanly drowned as a fish,
£>r the sea blew very loud, and the wind ran so high,
that we were all cast safe on shore, and not one of us
drowned at all.
�17
Tom. Where did you go when you came on shore ?
Teag. Arra, dear honey, I was not able to go any
where* you might cast a knot on my belly, I was so
hollow in the middle, so I went into a gentleman's house
and told him the bad fortune I had of being drowned
between Ireland and the foot of his garden; where we
came all safe ashore. But all the comfort I got from
him was a word of truth.
Tom. And what was that Paddy ?
Teag. W h y he told me, if I had been a good boy at
home, I needed not to have gone so far to push my fortune with an empty pocket; to which I answered, and
what magnifies that, as long as I am a good workman
at no trade at all.
Tom. I suppose, Paddy, the gentleman would make
you dine with him ?
Teag. I really thought I was, when I saw them
roasting and skinning so many black chickens which was
nothing but a few dead crows they were going to eat;
ho, ho, said I , them is but dry meat at the best, of all
the fowls that flee, commend me to the wing of an o x :
but all that came to my share was a piece of boiled herring and a roasted potatoe, that was the first bit of bread
I ever eat in England.
Tom. Well, Paddy, what business did you follow
after in England when you was so poor.
Teag. What sir, do you imagine I was poor when I
came over on such an honourable occasion as to list, and
bring myself to no preferment at all. As I was an able
bodied man in the face, I thought to be made a brigadeer,
a grandedeer, or a fuzeleer, or even one of them blew
gowns that holds the flerry stick to the bung-hole of the
big cannons, when they let them off, to fright away the
French; I was as sure as no man alive ere I came from
Cork, the least preferment I could get, was to be riding-master to a regiment of marines, or one of the black
horse itself.
Tom. And where in England was it you listed ?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I was going through that
�18
little country village, the famous city of Chester, the
streets were very sore by reason of the hardness of my
feet, and lameness of my brogues, so I went but very
slowly across the streets, from port to port is a pretty
long way, but I being weary thought nothing of it; then
the people came all crowding to me as I had been a
world's wonder, or the wandering jew; for the rain blew
In my face, and the wind wetted all my belly, which
caused me to turn the backside of my coat before, and
my buttons behind, which was a good safegaurd to iny
body, and the starvation of my naked body, for I had not
a good shirt.
Tom. I am sure then, Paddy, they would take you
for a fool ?
Teag. No, no, sir, they admired me for my wisdom,
for I always turned my buttons before, when the wind
blew behind, but ;! wondered how the people knew my
name and where I came from: for every one told another,
that was Paddy from Cork: I suppose they knew my
fece by seeing my name in the newspapers*
Tom, Well,. Paddy, what business did you follow in
Chester ?, '
Teag,. To be sure I was not idle, working at nothing
at all, till a decruiting seargeant came to town with two
or three fellows along with him, one beating on a fiddle,
and another playing on a drum, tossing-their airs thro'
the streets, as if they were going to be married, I saw
them courting none but young men; so to bring mysell
to no preferment at all, I listed for a soldier,—I was too
big for a grandedeer.
Tom. What listing money did you get, Paddy ?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I got five thirteens and a pah
of English brogues ; the guinea and the rest of the gold
was sent to London, to the King, my master, to buy
me new shirts, a cockade, and common treasing for my
hat, they made me swear the malicious oath of devilrie
against the King, the colours, and my captain, telling
me if ever I desert, and not run away, that I should be
-hot, find then whipt to death through the regiment
�If
Tom. No Faddy: it is first whipt and then shot yon
mean.
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, it is all one thing at last, but
it is best to be shot and then whipt, the cleverest way
to die I'll warrant you.
Tom. How much pay did you get, Paddy ?
Teag. Do you know the little tall fat seargeant that
feed me to be a soldier ?
Tom. And how should I know them I never saw you
fool
Teag. Dear shoy, you may know him whether you
see him or not, his face is all Jjored in holes with the
small pox, his no«a is the colour of a lobster-toe, and
Ids chin like a well washen potatoe, he's the biggest
rogue in our kingdom, you'll know him when you meet
him again : the rogue height me sixpence a day, kill or
no kill: and when I laid Sunday and Saturday both
together, and all the days in one day, I can't make 8
penny above fivepence of it.
Tom. You should have kept an account, and asked
your arrears once a month.
Teag. That's what I did, but he reads a paternoster
out of his prayer book, wherein all our names are written;
so much for a stop-hold to my gun, to bucklers, to a
pair of comical ham-hose, with leather buttons from top
to toe ; and worst of all, he would have no less than a
penny a week, to a doctor; arra, said I, I never had
a sore finger, nor yet a sick toe, all the days of my life,
then what have 1 to do with the doctor, or the doctor
to do with me.
Tom. And did he make you pay all these things ?
Teag. A y , ay, pay and better pay: he took me before
his captain, who made me pay all was in his book.
Arra, master captain, said I, you are a comical sort of
a fellow now, you might as well make me pay for my
coffin before I be dead, as to pay for a doctor before I
be sick; to which he answered in a passion, sir, said he,
I have seen many a better man buried without a coffin;
sir, said I, then I'll have a coffin, die when I will, if
�20
there be as much wood in all the world, or I shall not
be buried at all. Then he called for the sergeant, saying, you sir, go and buy that man's coffin, and put it in
the store till he die, and stop sixpence a week of his pay
for it: No, no, sir, said I, I'll rather die without a coffin,
and seek none when I'm dead, but if you are for clipping
another sixpence off my pay, keep it all to yourself, and
I'll swear all your oaths of agreement we had back again,
and then seek soldiers where you will.
Tom. O then Paddy, how did you end tke matter ?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, by the nights of shaint Patrick
and help of my brogues, J both ended it, and mended it,
for the next night before that, I gave them leg bail foi
my fidelity, and went about the country a fortune-teller,
dumb and deaf as I was not.
Tom. How old was vou Paddy when you was a soldiei
last ?
Teag. Arra, dear honey, I was three dozen all but
two, and it is only two years since, so I want only foui
years of three dozen yet, and when I live six dozen more,
I'll be older than I am, I'll warrant you.
Tom. O but Paddy, by your account, you are three
dozen of years old already.
Teag. O what for a big fool are you now Tom, when
you count the years I lay sick; which time I count no
time at all.
A N E W C A T E C H I S M , &c.
Tom. OF all the opinions professed in religion tell me
now, Paddy, of what profession art thou P
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, my religion was too weighty
a matter to carry out of mine own country: I was afraid
that you English Presbyterians should pluck it away from
me.
Tom. What, Paddy, was your religion «uch a load
that you could not carry it along with you ?
Teaq* Yes, that it was, but I carried it always about
With me when at home my sweet cross upon my deai
breast, bonnd to my dear button hole.
�21
Tom. and what manner of worship viid you perform
by that ?
Teag. Why I adored the cross, the pope, and the
priest, cursed Oliver as black as crow, and swears myself a cut throat against all Protestants and church of
Englandmen.
Tom. And what is the matter but you would be a
church of Englandman, or a Scotch Presbyterian yourself, Paddy ?
Teag. Because it is unnatural for an Irishman: but
had shaint Patrick been a Presbyterian, I had been the
same.
Tom. And for what reason would you be a Presby*
terian then, Paddy?
Teag. Because they have liberty to eat flesh in lent*
and every thing that's fit for the belly. *
Tom. What, Paddy, are you such a lover of flesh that
you would change your profession for it ?
Teag. O yes, that's what I would, I love flesh of all
kinds, sheep's beef, swine's mutton, hare's flesh, and
hen's venison; but our religion is one of the hungriest in
all the world, ah J but it makes my teeth to weep, and
my belly to water, when I see the Scotch Presbyterians,
and English churchmen, in time of lent, feeding upon
bulls' bastards, and sheep's young children.
Tom. Why Paddy, do you say the bull is a fornicator
and gets bastards ?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I never saw the cow and her
husband all the days of my life, nor before I was born,
going to the church to be married, and what then can
his sons and daughters be but bastards ?
Tom. What reward will you get when you are dead,
for punishing your belly so while you are alive ?
Teag. By shaint Patrick I'll live like a king when
I'm dead, for I will neither pay for meat nor drink.
Tom. What, Paddy, do you think that you are fcc
come alive again when you are dead ?
Teag. O yes, we that are true Roman Catholicswill live a long time after we are dead; when we d»
�m
k lore with the Priests, and the good people of em
profession.
Tom. And what assurance can your priest give von
of that?
Tmg. Arra, dear shoy, our priest is a great shaint,
a good shoul, who can repeat a pater-noster and Ave
Maria, which will fright the very horned devil himself,
and make him run for it, until he be like to fall and
break his neck.
Tom. And what does he give you when you are dying
that makes you come alive again ?
rTeag.
Why he writes a letter upon our tongues, sealed with a wafer, gives us a sacrament in our mouth, with
a pardon, and direction in our right hand, who to call for
at the ports of Purgatory.
Tom. And what money design you to give the priest
for your pardon ?
Teag. Dear shoy 1 wish I had first the money he
would take for it, I would rather drink it myself, and
then give him both my bill and my honest word, payable
in the other world.
Tom. And how then are you to get a passage to the
other world, or who is to carry you there ?
Teag. 0 my dear shoy, Tom, you know nothing of
the matter: for when I dies they will bury my body,
flesh, blood, dirt, and bones, only my skin will be blown
up full of wind and spirit, my dear shoul I mean; and
then I will be blown over to the other world on the
wings of the wind ; and after that I'll never be lolled,
hanged nor drowned, nor yet die in my bed, for when
hxiy hits rne a blow, my new body will play buff upon it
Lke a bladder.
Tom. But what way will you go to the new world,
or where is it P
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, the-priest knows where it is
but I do not, but the Pope of Rome keeps the outerport, shaint Patrick the inner-port, and gives us a direction of the way to shaint Patrick's palace, which sstands
�m th* head of the SfcaHan loch, where Pi) have rs© mere
to ito but chap at the gate,
Tom. What is the need for chapping at the gate, is
it not always open ?
Teag. Dear shoy, you know little about it, for there
is none can enter but red hot Irishmen, for when I call
Alieh'eu, dear honey, shaint Patrick countenance your
own dear countryman if you will, then the gates will be
opened directly for me, for lie knows and loves an Irishman's voice, as he loves his own heart.
Tom. And what entertainment will you get when you
are in ?
Teag. 0 my dear, we are all kept there untill a general
review, which is commonly once in the week; and then
we are drawn up like as many young recruits, and all
the blackgaurd scoundrels is pict out of the ranks, and
one half of them is sent away to the Elysian fields, to
curry the weeds from among the potatoes, the other half
of them to the River sticks, to catch fishes for shaint
Patricks table, and them that is owing the priests any
money is put in the black-hole, and then given to the
hands of a great black bitch of a de?il, which is keeped
for a hangman, who whips them up and down the smoky
dungeon every morning for six months.
Toift, Well Paddy, are you to do as much justice to
a Protestant as a Papist ?
Teag. 0 my dear shoy, the most justice we are commanded to do a Protestant, is to whip and torment them
until, they confess themselves in the Romish faith ; and
then cut their throats that they may die believers.
Tom. What business do you follow after at present ?
Teag. Arra, dear shoy, I am a mountain sailor and
my supplication is as follows.
PADDY'S
HUMBLE PETITION,
OR
SUPPLICATION.
Christian people, behold me a man ! who has com'd
through a world of wonders, a hell full of hardships,
dangers by sea, and dangers by land, and yet I am alive;
you may see my hand crooked like a fowl's foot, and
GOOD
�that is no wonder at all considering my sufferings and
sorrows. Oh! oh ! oh ! good people. I was a man
in my time who had plenty of the gold, plenty of the
silver, plenty of the clothes, plenty of the butter, the
beer, beef, and biscuit. And now I have nothing:
being taken by the Turks and relieved by the Spaniards,
lay sixty-six days at the siege of Gibralter, and got
nothing to eat but sea wreck and raw mussels ; put to
sea for our safety, cast upon the Barbarian coast, among
the wicked Algerines, where we were taken and tied
with tugs and tadders, horse-locks, and cow-chains:
then cut and castcate yard and testicle quite away, put
in your hand and feel how every female's made smooth
by the sheer bone, where nothing is to be seen but what
is natural. Then made our escape to the desart wild
wilderness of Arabia; where we lived among the wild
asses, upon wind, sand, and sapless ling. Afterwards
put to sea in the hull of an old house, where we were
tossed above and below the clouds, being driven through
thickets and groves by fierce, coarse, calm, and contrary
winds: at last, was cast upon Salisbury plains, where
our vessel was dashed to pieces against a cabbage stock.
And now my humble petition to you, good Christian
people is, for one hundred of your beef, one hundred of
your butter, another of your cheese, a cask of your biscuit, a tun of your beer, a keg of your rum, with a pipe
of your wine, a lump of your gold, a piece of your silver,
a few of your half-pence or farthings, a waught of your
butter-milk, a pair of your old breeches, stockings, m
shoes, even a chaw of tobacco for charity's sake.
�
Dublin Core
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Title
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Full .pdf reproduction of the item.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Woodcut 001: Title-page illustration of a young farmer sharpening a scythe in a field.
Document
A resource containing textual data. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre text.
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The Comical Sayings of Paddy From Cork, with his Coat Buttoned Behind. Being An Elegant Conference Between English Tom and Irish Teague; With Paddy's Catechism, And his Suplication when a Mountain Sailor.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1850? per National Library of Scotland
Identifier
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<a href="https://ocul-gue.primo.exlibrisgroup.com/permalink/01OCUL_GUE/mrqn4e/alma9934228423505154">s0585b37</a>
Extent
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24 pages
16 cm
Is Referenced By
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<p><span>University of Glasgow Union Catalogue of Scottish Chapbooks </span></p>
<p><a href="http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/"><span>http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/chapbooks/search/</span></a></p>
Rights
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In the public domain; For high quality reproductions, contact Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph. libaspc@uoguelph.ca, 519-824-4120, Ext. 53413
Format
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JPEGs and PDF derived from master file, which was scanned from the original book in 24-bit color at 600 dpi in TIFF format using an Epson Expression 10000XL scanner.
Contributor
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Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario, Canada
Publisher
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Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Subject
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Chapbooks - Scotland - Glasgow
Travel
Source
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Archival & Special Collections, University of Guelph Library, Guelph, Ontario
Coverage
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Cork, Ireland
Type
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wit & humor
Description
An account of the resource
Woodcut #01: Illustration on title-page of a young farmer sharpening a scythe in a field.
# of Woodcuts: 1
Bib Context: title-page
Chapbook Date: 1841-1850
Chapbook Genre: ballads & songs
Chapbook Genre: wit & humor
Chapbook Publisher - Glasgow: Printed for the Booksellers
Fashion (Clothing): bonnet
Fashion (Clothing): jacket
Fashion (Clothing): pants
Fashion (Clothing): working class
Gender: man/men
Occupation: farmer
Outdoor Scene
Tools: scythe(s)