Chapter XIV: Canto VII

O, Caledonia! very stern and wild,[34]
And only dear to those who travel through you:
The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child,
But you do not believe such nonsense, do you?
What Scotchman is there that would not be riled,
If he was bound for life to stick close to you?
No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor,
You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour.

O, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles;
O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and Cant,――
Of lofty mountains and of very high hills,
Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant
O land which Dr. Johnson foully libels,
To sound thy praises does our hero pant;
And to relate how, from engagements freed,
He calmly vegetated north of Tweed.

He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat,
And thought the modern Athens a fine city;
Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street,
And wished the lassies could have been more pretty――
With smaller bones, and less decided feet;
He found the cabmen insolent, though witty:
The Castle “did,” and, ere he slept, had been on
The Calton Hill, and seen the new Parthenon.

The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though,
’Twas like being in a city of the dead;
With solemn steps, and faces full of woe,
The people to their kirks and chapels sped,
Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms, and so
Went home again with Puritanic tread;
Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening glooms,
Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms.

* * * * *

From _Jon Duan_.

――――

Ye Grand Adventures
of some
MODERN MEN OF MIGHT.

Showing how Don Salisbury Quixote de la Hatfield set out to keep watch over his arms and armour, ere he could be admitted a Knight of the Primrose.

_The Don’s Midnight Vigil._

The sky was dark, the air was cold,
But firm Don Salisbury was and bold,
As, undeterred by nights alarms,
He vigil kept to watch his arms.

Above him, as he humbly kneel’d,
Rose the bronze form of Beaconsfield――
The man whom once he had reviled,
But whom long since, with fervour wild,
He’d seemed to love; but who looked down
As ’twere with a sardonic frown,
As, very far from being at ease,
Don Salisbury groaned upon his knees.

Each side him, on the Statue’s base,
He for his armour’d found a place,
And there he watch’d it, till, so sore,
That he could bear to kneel no more,
He staggered to his feet again,
And sighing from excessive pain,
His lance he grasped, and with a moan
Limped lamely on his vigil lone.

The gas-jets round but flickered dim,
And in their light it seemed to him
That with a look of scorn intent
The Statue’s eyes were on him bent.
Nay, more, as he returned the gaze,
He thought he saw the Statue raise
Its dexter arm and point south-west,
As though his notice to arrest.

Nor was the intimation vain,
For as the Don his eye did strain,
He saw folks in Victoria Street,
Caught, too, the tramp of many feet;
And, listening still, soon overheard
Such sounds that he at once inferred,
It was the promised delegation
Sent by the Primrose Habitation
To take him to the Hall of Light
Where he was to be dubbed a Knight.

* * * * *

_Truth, Christmas Number_, 1885.

――――

ALBERT GRAEME.

It was an English ladye bright,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)
And she would marry a Scottish Knight,
For love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun,
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
* * * * *
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle Wall,)
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all!

WALTER SCOTT.
_The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Canto VI._

――――

THE LAY OF THE POOR FIDDLER.
WILLIE.

It was a toper one Saturday night,
(The fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall,)
And he would spend a shilling so bright,
For strong liquor will still be lord of all.

Blithely he posted with jolly red face,
To where the fire shines on yon Ale-house wall,
But that night was scarce o’er when in piteous case,
He found that strong liquor was lord of all.

He pawned his shirt and his breeches both,
Where the fire shines bright on yon Ale-house wall;
He then did swear a terrible oath,
For ire that liquor was lord of all.

In a hurry home he naked ran
From where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall;
The night was too cold for a naked man,
Tho’ strong liquor was still the lord of all.

His limbs were cold, though his face was red
As the fire that shines on yon ale-house wall;
He craved for admission, his wife was in bed,
For strong liquor was there the lord of all.

She looked through the window and bade him go
Where the fire shines bright on yon ale-house wall;
Or she on his hot skull would throw
The liquor that is not lord of all!

He shivering ran with might and main,
To where the fire shines on yon ale-house wall;
But the door was locked he bawled in vain,
For strong liquor was there the lord of all.

When morning came, quite dead he lay,
Close by the door in yon ale-house wall;
The frost his blood had chilled they say,
And strong liquor is still the lord of all.

Now all ye topers when ye view
The fire shining bright on an ale-house wall;
Pray for his soul who once did rue
That strong liquor was e’er the lord of all.

This ballad is from _The Lay of the Poor Fiddler_, by an admirer of Walter Scott. B. and R. Crosby & Co., London, 1814.

This scarce little volume of 167 pages, is a tolerably close Parody of “_The Lay of the Last Minstrel_.” It is, like the original, in six Cantos, and is accompanied by numerous notes, in which the legendary lore, and archæological learning of Scott, are humourously and ingeniously burlesqued.

The opening lines of each Canto are modelled upon those of Scott’s poem, a few extracts may be given:――