Then let us drink the Stewartry,
Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that,
Our representative to be,
For weel he's worthy a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A House of Commons such as he,
They would be blest that saw that.
This is the first of several songs which Burns wrote to serve Patrick Heron of Kerroughtree, in two elections, in which he was opposed, first by Gordon of Balmaghie, and secondly by the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. They are known to the peasantry by the name of the "Heron Ballads." The Poet seems at first to have contemplated some such harmless and laughable effusions as those which he wrote on Miller's election. The first ballad, now published through the kindness of Mr. King of Glasgow, is gentle and moderate: it is a song of eulogium on Heron-not of reproof to his opposers. These ballads were printed at the time on one side of a sheet, and widely disseminated over the country: they were understood merely as election squibs, and none of the gentlemen lampooned looked otherwise upon them than as productions of poetic art: In this spirit they
are included now in the Poet's works and the Editor feels persuaded that some will smile and none be displeased.
Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin' there;
For Murray's light-horse are to muster,
And O, how the heroes will swear!
An' there will be Murray commander,
And Gordon the battle to win ;
Like brothers they'll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance an' kin.
An' there will be black-lippit Johnnie,
The tongue o' the trump to them a';
An he get na hell for his haddin'
The deil gets na justice ava';
An' there will be Kempleton's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane,
But, as for his fine nabob fortune,
We'el e'en let the subject alane.
An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff,
Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped,
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord, what's become o' the head?
An' there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
For the devil the prey will despise.
An' there will be Douglasses doughty,
New christ'ning towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
By kissing the — o' a peer;
An' there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous, Whose honour is proof to the storm, To save them from stark reprobation, He lent them his name to the firm.
But we winna mention Redcastle,
The body e'en let him escape!
He'd venture the gallows for siller,
An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape.
An' where is our king's lord lieutenant,
Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return?
The billie is gettin' his questions,
To say in St. Stephen's the morn.
An' there will be lads o' the gospel,
Muirhead wha's as gude as he's true;
An' there will be Buittle's apostle,
Wha's more o' the black than the blue
An' there will be folk from St. Mary's,
A house o' great merit and note,
The deil ane but honours them highly,-
The deil ane will gie them his vote!
An' there will be wealthy young Richard,
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck;
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing,
His merit had won him respect:
An' there will be rich brother nabobs,
Tho' nabobs yet men of the first,
An' there will be Collieston's whiskers,
An' Quintin, o' lads not the worst.
An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie,
Tak tent how ye purchase a dram;
An' there will be gay Cassencarrie,
An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam;
An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree,
Whose honour was ever his law,
If the virtues were packed in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a'.
An' can we forget the auld major,
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys,
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other,
Him only 'tis justice to praise.
An' there will be maiden Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming's gude knight,
An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle,
Wha, luckily roars in the right.
An' there, frae the Niddisdale's borders,
Will mingle the Maxwells in droves;
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' Walie,
That griens for the fishes an' loaves;
An' there will be Logan Mac Douall,
Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there,
An' also the wild Scot of Galloway,
Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair.
Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton,
An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring!
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
In Sodom 'twould make him a king ;
An' hey for the sanctified M- -y,
Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd;
He founder'd his horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig to the Lord.
|