Rough Scan



Here sall I say how Crail’s-men broke
=Out frae their beds wi’ beir,
And how nae less the Anster folk
=Were pit in meikle steir;
And how they owr the muirs did flock,
=Array’d in graith o’ weir;
And George Buchanan, canty cock,
=How he drew to them near

Dan Phoebus in his eastland bow’r
Startit frae sleep ‘tween three and four,
And busk’t him in his dandiest duds,
For his lang journey thro the cluds,
His velvet breeks, as red as fire,
The snoddest pairt o’ his attire,
Whilk a’ the nations do admire,
=He drew up on his galliard thies
His spanglet glairy-flairy vest,
The Ethiops’ wonder east and west,
He button’d bonny round his waist,
=Settin’ his belly in a bleis;
His coat, wi’ gowden sleeves bedicht,
Whase fiery neck gleams out sae bricht,
The sterns are blindet wi’ the licht,
=Apparyll’d his braid showthers weil,
His cockit-hat wi’ canny care
He clapt upon his roseat hair;
His jewell’d shoon (a bonny pair!)
=He strappit fast round ilka heel;
Syn to the Hours he cry’d, My staff,
My staff, ye jads, and let me aff!
‘Tis time o’ day by Anster clock
That I was over India’s rock!
=And, swith! they bring his staff
And throu’ Aurora’s gildet gate,
Whistlin’, he took his gladsome gait,
And up the pend at furious rate
=Gaed spielin’, spankin’, aff!

The lavrick yet was scarcely singin’
When Grail’s auld bell was set a ringin’;
For what throu’ Momus, what throu’ zeal,
Clerk Diston sleepit nae great deal;
The gallant spirit in his breast
Was set against the Roman beast,
Wi’ sticks and stanes to clash and clout him,
And batter down his den about him;
Forthwith to congregate the people,
He socht the bell-tow i’ the steeple;
He gript it like a man distrackit;
The bell-wheel, as it gaed round, cracket,
And rattlet a tremendous racket:
Out flew, fram ilka hole and cleft,
The swallows and the dows like drift;
Frac its foundation to its spinnel
The steeple’s length did dirl and dinnel;
Nac marvel then, that at the din
Scarr’d bodies frae their hames did rin;
Ae man ran out without the breiks,
Though he had kept his bed for weeks;
Ane bangit out in sic a flither,
He took ae shae, and left the tither;
On stockin’ soles ran out anither;
Peter’s richt leg was in a breik,
The tither leg was bare and bleak;
Out to the causeys birr’d the women;
Their weanies lay in cradles screamin’,
Doors reessil’d up, and made a blatter;
Causeys did claik wi’ clitter-clatter;
Ane cry’d out, _What a-deil’s the matter,_
Ane answer’t, _Kirkmay is a-fire!_
Anither, _Satan’s in the spire!_
Ane cry’d, _The Pape, the Pape is near!_
_He’s landit at Sanct Androis’ pier_
_Wi’ hosts o ‘friers, a monstrous pack,_
_And tenscore Cardinals at his back!_
_They‘re arm‘t wi’ swerds baith tane and tither;_
_Deil tak it, we’re a’ dead thegither!_
They ran a’ throuther in their hurry,
Reel-rall, hallooin’, hurry-scurry;
Bairns screegh’d; dogs yamff’d and youll’d outricht;
The swine ran thro’ the streets wi’ fricht,
And drown’t themselves intill the sea;
That fricht nae langer could they dree:—
Sic dridder drear, sic panic pale
Took ilka livin’ thing in Crail!

Meantime while thus, aside the clerk,
=Affairs gaed on wi’ siccan dirdom,
Guid Fisher-Willie for the werk
Set up his spirit nae less sterk;
=Sae fiercelins had his wid-dreme stirr’d him:
Nae sooner clapt he on his claes,
Than, boun for bus’ness, aff he gaes;
He soucht his henchman that did stand
Wi’ ane pow-axe intill his hand,
=Aye watchin’ at his yett,
Ready, when robbers did appear,
To bring his wappen down wi’ beir,
And cleeve their heads from ear to ear,
=Wi’ terrible down-sett;
That henchman’s name, as I’ve heard say,
Was galland Andrew Halliday;
Warder! quo he, gang straucht and tell
Dan Oliphant to ring his bell;
Alswa, bid Barclay grip his tow,
And gi’e the great kirk-bell a jow:
Out-ring frae kitchen and frae ha’
My burghers dear, and get them a’
=Convenit at the cross;
The weird-set day begins to daw,
(Its sign upon the heiven I knaw),
Whan we maun at a noble ca’
=Bring Papistrie to loss:
Thus said, Dan Andrew, at his biddin’,
Unslot his yell, and out gaed whiddin’,
His bastoun in his hand to rap
The slum’brous Barclay frae his nap:
Meanwhile the mauchty fisher-knicht
Upspiel’d his staircase fleet and licht,
E’en to the gerret’s leaden heicht,
=Wi’ swesch-trump in his hand;
Aye as he mountit ilka stair,
Some fairy sough’d intill his ear;
_Blaw loud, Sir Knicht, and dinna fear,_
=_To sturtle up the land:_
Heigh on the bartisan he stood;
He saw the day keek owr the flood;
He kent upon the eastern cloud
=Weird’s lucky sign hung out;
He pat the trumpet till his mou;
Sae lang, sae terrible, he blew,
The dinnel’d sky dreep’t draps o’ dew,
=And tremblet at the tout;
‘Twas heard at back o’ Largo-law,
At Cupar cross they kent the blaw;
_The lift, the lift is fa’n, but dout,_
A man in Falkland streets cry’d out;
The prior o’ Sanct Androis town,
Whair he on bed was sleepin’ soun’,
Bumbazit at the blastin’ soun’,
=Up frae his blankets jumpet;
The monks and canons on their beds
Did bang up frae the cods their heads,
And tauld in mazermcnt their beads;
=They thocht it the last trumpet;
Nae marvel, then, that men and wives,
=In Anster, and the towns about it,
Were frichtit for their vera lives
=Whan Fisher-Willie’s trumpet toutit;
And, mair to magnifie their wonder,
At anes the bells haith up and under
Begoud to rattle on like thunder.
For in his bell-house, David Barclay
Ne’er flourished his tow mair starkly;
Lang Geordie, syn his buik was langer,
Tugg’d at his dancin’ tow the stranger:
Ilk clapper gaif ilk bell sic paiks,
They swat on baith sides wi’ the straiks;
Sae what wi’ swesch-trump, what wi’ bells,
The Anster folks were jimp themsells;
Bailie and burgher, man and woman,
Flew frae their doors like bullets bummin’,
Auld Saunders Clerk, a man o’ echty,
Though eild-encumber’t now and wechty,
His breeks has like a lion tane,
And birrs them on wi’ micht and main:
Jean Grieve, as frae her bed she loupit,
Puir body! owr the bed-stock coupit,
And, lichtin’ on the cauld flure-stane,
Maist dislocate her henchle-bane;
Exceptin’ her (for she lay sprauchin’),
And Robie Brown and David Strachan,
=(For they were bedrals baith),
The fient a body that had feet,
That didna skirr into the street,
=Effrayt, and out o’ breath;
And some flew hither, some flew thither,
They overthrew the tane the tither;
Sic feerie-farie and sic flither
Were never in a’ Fife thegither:
As when at Rome, upon the day
When Casca did brave Julius slay,
The Roman people in a fray
=Ran to the forum flockin;
The Capitol amaist was shiftet
Wi’ crowds that hither-thither driftet;
Great skreighs were to the skies upliftet;
=Ilk house wi’ fricht was rockin’:
Sae to the cross o’ Anster ran
Hirdie-girdie, woman and man:
Whan they were a’ forgadder’d there,
A man stood up upon a stair:
(Nane kent him wha he was or whence;
Nane saw him e’er before or since;
Some Papists said it was the Deil:
Na, na; it was some better chiel;
I ken _his_ grunkle unca weil:)
He cry’d, — "O, friends!  I’m glad to see ye;
Sae mickle zeal and smeddum wi’ ye:
Ay, ay, your heads hae’ routh o’ zeal
‘Gainst Pape, and Papistry, and Deil;
Nae doubt o’ that, I see it weel,
=Het on your noses burnin’;
But, will-a-wins! your hands are toom
O’ chappin-stick and weirlike loom,
To batter at the bawd o’ Rome,
=And mak’ her monks gae mournin’;
Arm, arm your hands wi’ shools and sticks;
And sweys, and cuddy-rungs, and picks;
March to the martyr-murderin’ town,
And pu’ the pridefu’ biggings down;
Rive but the auld nests aff the tree,
The fient ae howdie-craw you’ll see:—
But my advice is, short and lang,
Tak’ your disjeunes afore you gang!"
This spoke, the man did disappear;
Some said he flew up in the air;
Some said he doukit down at anes
Betwixt the weil-pav’d causey-stanes,
As ghaists through treuch-stanes in a blink
Hame to their graves are seen to sink;
And some said ae thing, some anither;
But it was a’ a perfect blether:
Ye needna mind their clash a feather.
When he was gone, they didna fail
To tak’ his counsel, and to skail:
Aff, sae they skeygit, man and dame,
As gin cauld Hunger by the wame
Had grippit them, and nipt them hame,
=Wi’ vengeance, hurry-scurry:—
Their ambries then they did assail;
Some ran to parritch, some to kail;
Some ran to claret, some to ale,
=And some to tartan-burry;
Some knapp’d awa’ at kebbuck-stumps,
Some riv’d and ramsh’d at beefy rumps;
Some nibblet bits, some gobblet lumps;
Chaft-blades and chafts, and teeth and stumps,
=Now rattlet in a hurry:
Bannocks of a’ kinkind o’ meal,
Great baps and scones were swallow’d hail;
Mountains o’ bread and seas o’ ale
=Were down their pechans pour’d;
Frae Cellardyke to Perth or Creiff,
There never was, in my belief,
In capons, parritch, wine, and beef,
=Sic a disjeune devour’d!

Whan they had endit their disjeune,
They raik’d about for wappens soon;
Some ran to aiken-rungs and sticks;
Some ran to pinches and to picks;
Some grippet, for the greater skaith,
Great iron stanchels in their wraith;
Some haurl’d at cart and barrow trams,
For laik o’ better batterin’-rams;
Some flourish’d sweys and masons’ tools,
And graips, and forks, and guid shod-shools;
Taylors stole swerds, and sae did souters;
Plewmen cam heavy-arm’t wi’ couters;
Wabsters their looms in pieces brak,
And up the beams for wappens tak;
The bluidy butchers, and the baxters,
Had chappin’-knives beneath their oxters;
The barbers, fraithy as their suds,
Instead o’ razors, flourish’d cuds;
Blacksmiths cam’ arm’t wi’ tangs and nippers;
Wi’ handspakes, fishermen and skippers;
Bailiies rush’d out frae council-chalmers
Wi ‘halberts and wi’ knappin’-hammers;
A’ wi’ the same fers wraith were gapin’,
But ilk ane had a different weapon:
This man bare wood, and that bare iron,
But ilka saul wi’ zeal was birrin’.

As they were armin’ a’ this time,
Town’s-piper Jock, wi’ glee sublime,
Gacd skrieghin’ throu’ the streets and skirlin’,
Settin’ the windocks a’ a-dirlin’;
Wi’ spraichs o’ bairns, a royat pack,
Loupin’ and shoutin’ at his back;
His pipes wi’ sic a sequeal did squeak,
In the seven sterns they heard the skriek;
His drone did gruntch sae dour a sound,
Black Pluto heard it underground:
Sae what wi’ gruntlin’, what wi’ squealin’,
The causey-stanes were maist set reelin’;
Aye at ilk corner evermair
He stopt, and gaif a hearty rair;
"_Gae to the loan, and muster there!_"

As whan, at michty Hector’s ca’,
The folks within the Trojan wa’,
Clad in their coats o’ armour bra’,
=Ran frae the Scaean yett;
‘Tween the wild fig-tree and the watter
The weiriors gather’d wi’ a clatter;
Chariots and horse-hoofs round did scatter
Scamander’s sand wi spairge and splatter,
=Till in mid plain they mett;
Sae, at the skriegh o’ Piper Jock,
The burghers to the loan did flock;
Aye as they spank’d alang and sprung,
Their arms, stick, pick, and cuddy-rung,
On ane anither clank’t and rung;
As whan in tail o’ hairst, some day,
Whan skiffs o’ wind blaw aff the brae,
A field o’ beans (lang dainty strae!)
=Are touslet by the blast;
The bean-taps slap on ane anither,
Ilk meikle stalk assails his brither,
The reisslin’ cods wag hither-thither,
=The shearers look aghast;
Sic like the breissil and the clatter,
As to the loan the burghers blatter.

Ere they were a’ assemblet out,
=The sun rode o’er the isle o’ May,
‘Twas acht o’ clock, or thairabout,
=By the school-dial near the way;
At that time in the east was seen,
Owr Innergellie’s greenwood green,
A cloud o’ stour, that owr the trees
Cam’ swirlin’ wi’ the eastern breeze
And westlins aye it swirl’d and blew,
And nearer aye and nearer drew,
As if a whirlwind, derf and dour,
Had ridden post frae Denmark owr,
And now was busy wi’ the stour.
As on it swiff’d and swirl’d mair near,
A scharp-ee’d man, whase sicht was clear,
Beneath the stowry tourbillon,
Micht see slow movin’ westlins on,
Shouthers and pows, an unco crowd,
A hundert-headed multitude,
And owr their heads lang rungs amid cuds
Wavin’ atween them and the cluds;
And swerds and halberts, braid and clear,
Glitterand baith i’ the front and rear;
And the town’s colours, heiz’d on hie,
Flaffin’ and flamin’ gallandlie;
And the town’s drum, as if for battle,
Reirdin’ awa’ wi’ furious rattle:
"_The men o’ Crail!_" a man did shout;
"_The men o’ Crail!_" cried hundreds out;
=_Clerk Diston in the van!_
"_Harro!_" the folk o’ Caryl cry’d;
"_Hurra!_" the Anster folk reply’d;
="_Harro!_" cry’d wife and man:
"_Death to the Paip!_" screamed Caryl’s crowd;
"_Down wi’the Paip!_" skriech’d Anster loud;
"_Together ‘gainst the Beast!_" together
They vy’d in shouts wi’ ane anither,
As to embrace ilk man his brither
=Fordwarts they rush’t and ran:
Bra thing it was, perfay, to view
Sae blithe and brisk a hallybaloo,
As intill ither’s arms they flew,
And caps and cowls, and bannets blue,
=To spiel the lift began.
While they were thus in frisky flither,
Salutin’ ilka man the tither,
And speirin’ things at ane anither,
Lo! frae the country-seats around,
The lairds, wi’ flunkie and wi’ hound,
=Come daidlin’, drappin’ in;
For they had heard the trumpet-sound,
That had the kintra round and round
=Bedunder’t wi’ its din;
And up they bangit ftae their beds,
And out at windocks shot their heads,
=Effrayt what this might mean:
They’d heard the bells far-soundin’ jow;
They kent there was some hobbleshow;
Horses in haste were order’t now,
=And whips and spurs bedien:
So down they come; and you may hear
Their bridles jinglin’ loud and clear,
And flunkies’ whistle, as mair near
=Down frae their lands they ride:
And you may see a mile awa’
Their gowden-laced waistcoats bra’
Whairon the sun-blenks,as they fa’,
=Appeir to rest wi’ pride
I see Grangemuir; — he comes in glee;
His face, contorted funnilie,
Haulds in its faulds a prophecie
=O’ meikle mirth and ploy;
I see Balcaskie; — as he rides
Spleen-burstin’ lauchter shakes his sides;
The very naig that he bestrides
=Seems neicherin’ too for joy:
See Sipsie! how he skewls his mou’,
And glooms and gluntches at the crew
O’ chisel’d saints and gods untrue,
=Whilk he in fancy views!
And look! how douce lang-headet Barns,
Wi’ lades o’ learnin’ in his harns,
Comes trottin’ cannily alang,
At’s Latin Bible searchin’ thrang
=For texts that he may use!
But the bauld laird of Innergellie,
Himsel’ in green, baith back and bellie,
(His varlet flamin’ out in yellow,)
=Comes bannin’ unabash’t;
See how his cheeks do storm and lour
Wi’ angry puffs against the stour,
That his ain horse-cluifs, as they scour,
=Up in his face hae dash’d;
Mair soberlie trots Airdrie on,
And Renniehill, and Gibliston,
And lesser lairdies, four or five,
Wham here to name, or to descrive,
=I canna now be fash’d.

A’ thae did mix, and meet and gather
Upo’ the musterin’-ground thegither;
The fisher-knicht enarmed them weil
Wi’ Swerds and pow-axes frae Dreel:
As they up-gript ilk man his wappen,
Aboon their heads a thing did happen,
=Whilk, tho’ the mob were ramp already,
Render’d their hearts mair keen and crouse
T'attack within her bordel-house,
=Rome’s king-debauchin’ lady:
For, lo! fram Innergellie’s trees,
Careerin’ on the pirrin’ breeze,
A greedy gled, intent to seize,
=Cam’ wi’ a soundin’ clang,
And cleik’t his felon claws upon
A laverock, that owr the loan
=Sang lustilie her sang;
As he wi’ crabbit cruel claw
That innocent did gulligaw,
Some gentle cushie-dows, that saw
=The leesome la’rick’s wae,
Aff frae their sinny dow-coat whirr’d,
And, lichtin’ on the robber-bird,
Wi’ peck and straik, and dusche and dird,
They forc’d and flappit to the yird
=That spulyier and fae:
Wi’ angry bill, and wing theretill,
They wapp’t and swapp’t, and flapp’t and slapp’t
=Till, owercome at last,
Leavin’ his ruffian life in air,
At Diston’s feet he lichtet fair,
Wayme uppermost, and wamblit there
=In deadthraw grim and ghast;
The clerk took up the diein’ glede,
And helm him sprowlin’ owr his head;
=Than to the people cry’d,
"Behauld the greedy gled o’ Rome,
By bills of innocents owrcome,
=In his ain heart’s-bluid dy’d!
As feckless dows hae slachter’d sae
This grippin’, grim, strang-talon’d fae,
Sae shall we, Calvin’s feckless fowls,
Gie to the strumpet bluidy dools,
And cast her corp among the mools:
Tak’ ye the omen, than, wi’ joy,
And, — forward! — let us to the ploy!"
So speakin’, heich aboon his head,
He swung in air the greedy gled;
The people caucht the augerie,
And testified their ready glee
=Wi’ multi-son’rous noise;
And, "_Let us march!_" was cry'd aloud,
Thorough the wide-convulsit crowd,
=By monie a bellerin voice.

Anon, the marchin’-sign was gien;
=Bagpipes begoud to drunt and rair,
And the town’s colours, in their sheen,
=Wallop’t and shimmer’t in the air;
Trumpets and drums, wi’ blithsom brattel,
Begoud agen to blaire and rattle,
As if advancin’ straucht for battle,
Awa’ they set wi’ merry cheer;
There never march’d for open weir
A troop sae lifey and sae jolly,
Sae little fash’d wi' melancholy.
As up they travell’d, reirdin’ on,
Atween Pitkirie and the loan,
Dan Momus, god o’ lauchter, over
Their hobblin’ heads did hop and hover;
Sometimes, owr the hail regiment glancin’,
Frae pow to pow he held a-dancin’;
Sometimes he cock’t himself upon
The peak o’ the town’s-piper’s drone;
Sometimes, he grinnin’, took a rest on
The showther o’ the stalwart Diston;
Eftsoons he settlet, in a whip,
On Fisher-Willie’s halbert’s tip;
Than sought the borough’s flappin’ flags,
And row’d himsel’ amang the rags:
He never blindit in his daffin’,
Fliskin’ like fire about, and gaffin’,
Till to Dun-nino’ s upponland,
Y-fere wi’ that rejoicin’ band
=He cam; whan, in a gliffin,
He saw the Vicar owr the Kenly
In fuffel’d garb, and plicht ungainly,
=Fast scamperin’ and skiffin’:
He was a bitter Papist black,
And sauld God’s blessin’ for a plack:
His garments he had thrown about
In terrour, amaist wrang-side-out;
His loose, unbuttoned, waff briek-knees
Danglit in draperie round his thies;
His stockins, o’ het haste the types,
Cam’ flappin’ owr his shoon in flypes:
‘Tis addet, too, (sae, to this day,
Douce bodies in that kintra say,)
That, whan that squadron cam’ in sicht
Wi’ bannerols and pensels bricht,
Frichtsomely fleein’ owr the heicht,
He had been at that vera time
Debarbin’, wi’ a razor prime,
=His week-negleckit beard;
He saw the troop, and, at the sicht o’t,
He bangit up sae doons affrichtit,
Ae cheek was shav’d, the tither slichtet;
=And aff he flew afeard:
Than, hurry-scurry, hop, hop, hop,
Awa’ he ran withouten stop:
Ahent his back he never looket,
Till he was past Strathtyrum dowcot;
His feet ne’er blindit aff their journey
Untill they landit at Balmernie;
And there he took hole like a rabbit,
And denner’d gustily with th’ abbot,
Acquentin’ him ‘tween ilka gabbot,
How near he ‘scap’t frae being stabbit.
At a’ this quakin’, flichterin’, rinnin’,
Dan Momus’ face was constant grinnin’,
Whan, lo! upon the eastern heicht,
My grand-grand-grandsher (Taylor hight),
Appears in his braid-showther’d micht;
A merrie man, and stark theretill,
The tacksman o’ Dun-nino mill;
His house stood round ahent the hill;
Owr a’ the millers o’ the shire
His buirdly stature did aspire;
And, as he by the head towr’d higher,
He shone for frankness, fun, and fire;
His hearthstane, swept and garnish’d clean,
Wi’ yill and brandie aye was bein,
And rang wi’ jokes baith morn and een;
Merry men there were aye at hame;
Whilk spread abrede my forbeir’s fame:
He was the first leil laick true
That had read a’ the Testaments throw,
=And had digest them well;
Albeit, Dan Vicar, wi’ his ban’,
Did blast and calumnie the man,
For readin’ mair at wangyle than
=Lord Bishop or himsel’;
For Vicar’s ban’, or Bitesheep’s bark,
He had but little care or cark:
Sae up he comes to join the host,
(He'd got some tithand frae the coast),
=Wi’ a’ his miller-feir,
Thick Jamie Bud, lang Sandy Kay,
And three or four as stout as they,
In coats meal-melvied, powther’d gay
Wi’ flows o’ flour, like milky-way
=Whan thick sterns do appear;
Dan Momus, as he did perceive
My forbeir, smudgit in his sleeve.

=But mair he leugh, whan, frae the wast,
Stravithie’s laird cam’ spankin’ fast,
To list himsel’ amang that band,
And chase Corruption frae the land:
A laird he was, though somedeal auld,
In spreit yet juvenil and bauld;
Upon his face you mith discern,
Written quite clear to onie bairn,
A deidly hatred and a dour
To Satan, arm’d wi’ monkish power:
He had a staff-swerd, straucht and lang,
That overhead he swapt and swang,
Develin’ the air wi’ monie a bang,
Whairwi’ he thraten’d, in his wraith,
To dirk Diabolus to death:
At him, my grandsher arid the Vicar,
As they march’t up, and aff did bicker,
The god o’ gaups did laugh and smikker;
He leugh sae loud, and lang, and sair,
That day, he couldna laugh nae mair!

Thus up, resoundin’ frae the coast,
Travell’t that monie-wappen’d host,
And keppit frae the lairdships round,
And cottar-towns throu’ a’ that bound,
Hinds, plewmen, lairds, and collar callans,
That frae their spences, ha’s, or hallans,
Did congregate in rairin’ glee,
Enarm’t with airn or rung o’ tree,
To be partakers frank and free
O’ whatsome’er that weir mith be.

As they cam’ to the Prior-muir,
And saw Sanct Androis town and towr
=Atween them and the sea,
A wee they haltit to look down
Upon the multi-towred town,
That on her mountain o’ renown
=Sat in her majestie;
Her sindry steeples, shootin’ high,
Amid the schimmer o’ the sky,
They set themsels, wi’ curious eye,
=To reckon up and tell:
Her goodlie, great cathedral, spread
Upon the mountain’s lordlie head,
In leviathan length, becrown’d
I’ the middle, and at ilka bound,
Wi towr and spindyl turrets round,
=They mark’d and noted well,
The gowd that glitter’d on ilk spire,
The capper roofs that flared like fire,
Heigh sparklin’ ower kirk and quire,
Wi’ langsame gaze they did admire:
=But whan they thocht upon
The idolatries and sins confest,
That there did brood as in their nest;
The monie murder’t saints that there,
Thro’ persecutions sharp and sair,
=Had to their Maker gone;
How poor Paul Craw, for speakin’ true,
Was burnt wi’ brass-ba’ in his mou’;
How Wishart, gentle, guid, and kind,
The friend and favourite o’ mankind,
=Had, frae her causey-crown,
Ascendit upwarts frae his pyre
In chariot of whirlin’ fire:
=_Ah! martyr-murderin’ town!_
Thus thocht they in their hearts, and said
And cry’d, "_Aha!_" and shook the head
=Wi’ bannin’ and wi’ frown;
"Thy end is come!" cry’d Barns aloud,
"Thou Scottish Babel lewd and proud!
Thou Rome o’ Scotland! ah, the day
Is come, or just upon its way,
Whan Retribution, dour but just,
Thy gawcy glorie down shall thrust,
To rot amang the kirkyard dust
=Like carrion-corp for aye;
As asks and dragons now abide
Whare Babylon, in gowden pride
=Ance like a queen did ring;
Sae whair thy altars glister now,
Shall craps o’ gosky dockens grow,
And jag-arm’d nettles soon, I know,
=The passer-by shall sting;
And schule-bairns, on a future day,
Shall be rampagin’ in their play
Whare ance thy priests, in lang array,
=Their matin-sangs did sing!"

"As monie steeples as you see
Cockin’ atween you and the sea,
Sae mony heads," cry’d out the Clerk,
"Cock on our Babylonish kirk,
They maun be a’ shorn aff and clean’d:
Than fordwart ilka wangile friend!
Fordwart on bishop, friar, and fiend!"
This said, he northlins wagg’d his wappen,
And down the hill the host gaed stappin’,
Wi’ bagpipes blairing, banners flappin’,
And a’ their diff’rent armours rappin’:
Syn auld St Rule cam’ owr the sea,
The hill o’ Boars did never see
Sae monie goodly chevalrie
Toddlin’ and marchin’ wi’ sic glee.
By what time they were comin’ down
The Prior-acres near the town,
The Sun, whase bernin’ feet gae swift
Skelpin’ alang the marble lift,
Owrspangit at ae single stend
The gowden key-stane o’ the pend;
It was the vera ee o’ the day,
=What time the carefu’ kimmers keek
Aneath the kail-pat’s lid to sey
The boilin’ o’ the beef, ere they
=The kettle upheese frae the kleek.
It sae bechanced at that hour,
That in Sanct Leonard’s tapmast tower
Dan George Buchanan, douce and meek,
Was reading, by his windock-cheek,
(After a three-hours’ spele at Greek,)
=His Hebrew Bible richt:
His ee was glidin’ owr that part
Whair gude Josiah, wise in heart,
=A bairn in wisdom wicht,
Extirpate idols frae the temple,
And brized lewd priests for ane ensample;
And how, frae ‘neath the burial-stanes,
He disinterr’d their murlin’ banes,
And grund them into powther sma’,
And winnow’d them i’ the wind awa’,
A’ this he cannilie was readin’,
Wi’ guid sweet lear his spirit feedin’,
Whan to his stoundit ear there comes
The blair o’ trumpets and o’ drums;
He frae his windock keekit out
To ken the reason o’ the rout;
He saw the crowd that made the shout
=Thick on the Anster road:
Their borough-flags that flar’d and flap’t,
Their wappens’ points that overtapp’t
The veil o’ waffin’ stour that wrapt
=That army as they yode;
He kent the shape, and swaup confest
O’ learned Barns afore the rest,
=That, on his brankin’ steed,
Seem’d the fore-rider o’ that weir,
Whilst loftily his hand did rear
A flag, whairon was written clear,
=In gowden letters breid,—
_Wreth, wreth! and bluidie fede and ill_
_To the vile Strumpet on the Hill!_
Whairat douce George took merry cheer;
For, though to him his book was dear,
He liket FUN nae less than LEAR:
And mairattour, in sam’ degree,
As Greek and Latin liket he,
He did dislike baith Pape and Deil;
(Thir twa thegither sortit weil:)
And aft Dan George, in mirthfu’ day,
Was overheard to sing and say,—
"_This warld’d wickedness, alace!_
_Like Janus, has a double face;_
_The rotten Deil has ane; the tither_
_Belangs unto the Pape his brither:_
_Their heads are double, yet but ane_
_Their buiks are, if I’m na’ mistaen!_"
Nae marvel than that George was glad
To see that Pape-assailin’ squad:
=Nor laith was he, nor lang
To leave his Hebrew and his lear;
His shanks cam’ lampin’ down the stair
=As fast as they could spang:
Nae faster ran they on the day
Whan frae the Sea-tow’r, in a fray,
He skeyg’d frae Card’nal’s wreth away,
Glad to escape his cleuks, perfay,
=Ere thrapple suffer’d wrang.