10 Best Famous Dublin Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Dublin poems. This is a select list of the best famous Dublin poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Dublin poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of dublin poems.

• All Famous Dublin Poems

 Sorry, Neil Oram (with an orange in my pocket)

I can’t make ,your loch-side commune by bonny Drummadrochit.



Sorry Brenda Williams, I can’t share your park bench protest near the Royal Free

At sixty I need a fire and slippers, -4 outside just isn’t me.



Sorry, Chris Torrance, I can’t make your Welsh eyrie

Just spelling Gymmercher Isaf Pontneathvaughan quite fazes me.



Sorry, Seamus Famous, your hide away in Dublin Bay

No doubt is bloody grand but I can’t face the journey to a far off foreign land.



Sorry James Kirkup, your Andorran niche

Is just too complicated for me to ever reach.

Apologies especially to Emily Bronte’s ghost -

You are the mostest hostess that I could ever boast

Your heather moor and cobbled street’s allure

Are something I’ve put off until the braw New Year.

 ("O vous que votre âge défende") 
 
 {IX., February, 1840.} 


 In youthful spirits wild, 
 Smile, for all beams on thee; 
 Sport, sing, be still the child, 
 The flower, the honey-bee. 
 
 Bring not the future near, 
 For Joy too soon declines— 
 What is man's mission here? 
 Toil, where no sunlight shines! 
 
 Our lot is hard, we know; 
 From eyes so gayly beaming, 
 Whence rays of beauty flow, 
 Salt tears most oft are streaming. 
 
 Free from emotions past, 
 All joy and hope possessing, 
 With mind in pureness cast, 
 Sweet ignorance confessing. 
 
 Plant, safe from winds and showers, 
 Heart with soft visions glowing, 
 In childhood's happy hours 
 A mother's rapture showing. 
 
 Loved by each anxious friend, 
 No carking care within— 
 When summer gambols end, 
 My winter sports begin. 
 
 Sweet poesy from heaven 
 Around thy form is placed, 
 A mother's beauty given, 
 By father's thought is graced! 
 
 Seize, then, each blissful second, 
 Live, for joy sinks in night, 
 And those whose tale is reckoned, 
 Have had their days of light. 
 
 Then, oh! before we part, 
 The poet's blessing take, 
 Ere bleeds that aged heart, 
 Or child the woman make. 
 
 Dublin University Magazine. 


 

 The news came down on the Castlereagh, and went to the world at large, 
That twenty thousand travelling sheep, with Saltbush Bill in charge, 
Were drifting down from a dried-out run to ravage the Castlereagh; 
And the squatters swore when they heard the news, and wished they were well away: 
For the name and the fame of Saltbush Bill were over the country-side 
For the wonderful way that he fed his sheep, and the dodges and tricks he tried. 
He would lose his way on a Main Stock Route, and stray to the squatters' grass; 
He would come to a run with the boss away, and swear he had leave to pass; 
And back of all and behind it all, as well the squatters knew, 
If he had to fight, he would fight all day, so long as his sheep got through: 
But this is the story of Stingy Smith, the owner of Hard Times Hill, 
And the way that he chanced on a fighting man to reckon with Saltbush Bill. 

'Twas Stingy Smith on his stockyard sat, and prayed for an early Spring, 
When he started at sight of a clean-shaved tramp, who walked with a jaunty swing; 
For a clean-shaved tramp with a jaunty walk a-swinging along the track 
Is as rare a thing as a feathered frog on the desolate roads out back. 
So the tramp he made for the travellers' hut, to ask could he camp the night; 
But Stingy Smith had a bright idea, and called to him, "Can you fight?" 
"Why, what's the game?" said the clean-shaved tramp, as he looked at him up and down; 
"If you want a battle, get off that fence, and I'll kill you for half-a-crown! 
But, Boss, you'd better not fight with me -- it wouldn't be fair nor right; 
I'm Stiffener Joe, from the Rocks Brigade, and I killed a man in a fight: 
I served two years for it, fair and square, and now I'm trampin' back, 
To look for a peaceful quiet life away on the outside track." 

"Oh, it's not myself, but a drover chap," said Stingy Smith with glee, 
"A bullying fellow called Saltbush Bill, and you are the man for me. 
He's on the road with his hungry sheep, and he's certain to raise a row, 
For he's bullied the whole of the Castlereagh till he's got them under cow -- 
Just pick a quarrel and raise a fight, and leather him good and hard, 
And I'll take good care that his wretched sheep don't wander a half a yard. 
It's a five-pound job if you belt him well -- do anything short of kill, 
For there isn't a beak on the Castlereagh will fine you for Saltbush Bill." 

"I'll take the job," said the fighting man; "and, hot as this cove appears, 
He'll stand no chance with a bloke like me, what's lived on the game for years; 
For he's maybe learnt in a boxing school, and sparred for a round or so, 
But I've fought all hands in a ten-foot ring each night in a travelling show; 
They earned a pound if they stayed three rounds, and they tried for it every night. 
In a ten-foot ring! Oh, that's the game that teaches a bloke to fight, 
For they'd rush and clinch -- it was Dublin Rules, and we drew no colour line; 
And they all tried hard for to earn the pound, but they got no pound of mine. 
If I saw no chance in the opening round I'd slog at their wind, and wait 
Till an opening came -- and it always came -- and I settled 'em, sure as fate; 
Left on the ribs and right on the jaw -- and, when the chance comes, make sure! 
And it's there a professional bloke like me gets home on an amateur: 
For it's my experience every day, and I make no doubt it's yours, 
That a third-class pro is an over-match for the best of the amateurs --" 
"Oh, take your swag to the travellers' hut," said Smith, "for you waste your breath; 
You've a first-class chance, if you lose the fight, of talking your man to death. 
I'll tell the cook you're to have your grub, and see that you eat your fill, 
And come to the scratch all fit and well to leather this Saltbush Bill." 

'Twas Saltbush Bill, and his travelling sheep were wending their weary way 
On the Main Stock Route, through the Hard Times Run, on their six-mile stage a day; 
And he strayed a mile from the Main Stock Route, and started to feed along, 
And when Stingy Smith came up Bill said that the Route was surveyed wrong; 
And he tried to prove that the sheep had rushed and strayed from their camp at night, 
But the fighting man he kicked Bill's dog, and of course that meant a fight. 

So they sparred and fought, and they shifted ground, and never a sound was heard 
But the thudding fists on their brawny ribs, and the seconds' muttered word, 
Till the fighting man shot home his left on the ribs with a mighty clout, 
And his right flashed up with a half-arm blow -- and Saltbush Bill "went out". 
He fell face down, and towards the blow; and their hearts with fear were filled, 
For he lay as still as a fallen tree, and they thought that he must be killed. 

So Stingy Smith and the fighting man, they lifted him from the ground, 
And sent back home for a brandy-flask, and they slowly fetched him round; 
But his head was bad, and his jaw was hurt -- in fact, he could scarcely speak -- 
So they let him spell till he got his wits; and he camped on the run a week, 
While the travelling sheep went here and there, wherever they liked to stray, 
Till Saltbush Bill was fit once more for the track to the Castlereagh. 

Then Stingy Smith he wrote a note, and gave to the fighting man: 
'Twas writ to the boss of the neighbouring run, and thus the missive ran: 
"The man with this is a fighting man, one Stiffener Joe by name; 
He came near murdering Saltbush Bill, and I found it a costly game: 
But it's worth your while to employ the chap, for there isn't the slightest doubt 
You'll have no trouble from Saltbush Bill while this man hangs about." 
But an answer came by the next week's mail, with news that might well appal: 
"The man you sent with a note is not a fighting man at all! 
He has shaved his beard, and has cut his hair, but I spotted him at a look; 
He is Tom Devine, who has worked for years for Saltbush Bill as cook. 
Bill coached him up in the fighting yard, and taught him the tale by rote, 
And they shammed to fight, and they got your grass, and divided your five-pound note. 
'Twas a clean take-in; and you'll find it wise -- 'twill save you a lot of pelf -- 
When next you're hiring a fighting man, just fight him a round yourself." 

And the teamsters out on the Castlereagh, when they meet with a week of rain, 
And the waggon sinks to its axle-tree, deep down in the black-soil plain, 
When the bullocks wade in a sea of mud, and strain at the load of wool, 
And the cattle-dogs at the bullocks' heels are biting to make them pull, 
When the off-side driver flays the team, and curses tham while he flogs, 
And the air is thick with the language used, and the clamour of men and dogs -- 
The teamsters say, as they pause to rest and moisten each hairy throat, 
They wish they could swear like Stingy Smith when he read that neighbour's note.

 MOSES ON THE NILE. 
 
 ("Mes soeurs, l'onde est plus fraiche.") 
 
 {TO THE FLORAL GAMES, Toulouse, Feb. 10, 1820.} 


 "Sisters! the wave is freshest in the ray 
 Of the young morning; the reapers are asleep; 
 The river bank is lonely: come away! 
 The early murmurs of old Memphis creep 
 Faint on my ear; and here unseen we stray,— 
 Deep in the covert of the grove withdrawn, 
 Save by the dewy eye-glance of the dawn. 
 
 "Within my father's palace, fair to see, 
 Shine all the Arts, but oh! this river side, 
 Pranked with gay flowers, is dearer far to me 
 Than gold and porphyry vases bright and wide; 
 How glad in heaven the song-bird carols free! 
 Sweeter these zephyrs float than all the showers 
 Of costly odors in our royal bowers. 
 
 "The sky is pure, the sparkling stream is clear: 
 Unloose your zones, my maidens! and fling down 
 To float awhile upon these bushes near 
 Your blue transparent robes: take off my crown, 
 And take away my jealous veil; for here 
 To-day we shall be joyous while we lave 
 Our limbs amid the murmur of the wave. 
 
 "Hasten; but through the fleecy mists of morn, 
 What do I see? Look ye along the stream! 
 Nay, timid maidens—we must not return! 
 Coursing along the current, it would seem 
 An ancient palm-tree to the deep sea borne, 
 That from the distant wilderness proceeds, 
 Downwards, to view our wondrous Pyramids. 
 
 "But stay! if I may surely trust mine eye,— 
 It is the bark of Hermes, or the shell 
 Of Iris, wafted gently to the sighs 
 Of the light breeze along the rippling swell; 
 But no: it is a skiff where sweetly lies 
 An infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest 
 Looks as if pillowed on his mother's breast. 
 
 "He sleeps—oh, see! his little floating bed 
 Swims on the mighty river's fickle flow, 
 A white dove's nest; and there at hazard led 
 By the faint winds, and wandering to and fro, 
 The cot comes down; beneath his quiet head 
 The gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave 
 Appears to rock the child upon a grave. 
 
 "He wakes—ah, maids of Memphis! haste, oh, haste! 
 He cries! alas!—What mother could confide 
 Her offspring to the wild and watery waste? 
 He stretches out his arms, the rippling tide 
 Murmurs around him, where all rudely placed, 
 He rests but with a few frail reeds beneath, 
 Between such helpless innocence and death. 
 
 "Oh! take him up! Perchance he is of those 
 Dark sons of Israel whom my sire proscribes; 
 Ah! cruel was the mandate that arose 
 Against most guiltless of the stranger tribes! 
 Poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes, 
 I would I were his mother; but I'll give 
 If not his birth, at least the claim to live." 
 
 Thus Iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride 
 Of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh, 
 Wandered along the Nile's meandering side; 
 And these diminished beauties, standing by 
 The trembling mother; watching with eyes wide 
 Their graceful mistress, admired her as stood, 
 More lovely than the genius of the flood! 
 
 The waters broken by her delicate feet 
 Receive the eager wader, as alone 
 By gentlest pity led, she strives to meet 
 The wakened babe; and, see, the prize is won! 
 She holds the weeping burden with a sweet 
 And virgin glow of pride upon her brow, 
 That knew no flush save modesty's till now. 
 
 Opening with cautious hands the reedy couch, 
 She brought the rescued infant slowly out 
 Beyond the humid sands; at her approach 
 Her curious maidens hurried round about 
 To kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch; 
 Greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh 
 Their faces o'er his large, astonished eye! 
 
 Haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear, 
 Dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy— 
 The loved of heaven! come like a stranger near, 
 And clasp young Moses with maternal joy; 
 Nor fear the speechless transport and the tear 
 Will e'er betray thy fond and hidden claim, 
 For Iphis knows not yet a mother's name! 
 
 With a glad heart, and a triumphal face, 
 The princess to the haughty Pharaoh led 
 The humble infant of a hated race, 
 Bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed; 
 While loudly pealing round the holy place 
 Of Heaven's white Throne, the voice of angel choirs 
 Intoned the theme of their undying lyres! 
 
 "No longer mourn thy pilgrimage below— 
 O Jacob! let thy tears no longer swell 
 The torrent of the Egyptian river: Lo! 
 Soon on the Jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell; 
 And Goshen shall behold thy people go 
 Despite the power of Egypt's law and brand, 
 From their sad thrall to Canaan's promised land. 
 
 "The King of Plagues, the Chosen of Sinai, 
 Is he that, o'er the rushing waters driven, 
 A vigorous hand hath rescued for the sky; 
 Ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven! 
 Attend, be humble! for its power is nigh 
 Israel! a cradle shall redeem thy worth— 
 A Cradle yet shall save the widespread earth!" 
 
 Dublin University Magazine, 1839 


 

 It brings to mind Swift leaving a fortune to Dublin

‘For the founding of a lunatic asylum - no place needs it more’.

The breathing beauty of the moors and cheap accommodation

Drew me but the total barbarity of the town stopped me from

Writing a single line: from the hideous facade of its railway

Station - Betjeman must have been drunk or mad to praise it -

To that lump of stone on Castle Hill - her savage spirit broods.

I remember trying to teach there, at Bradley, where the head

Was some kind of ex-P.T. teacher, who thought poetry something

You did to children and his workaholic jackass deputy, obsessed

With practical science and lesson preparation and team teaching

And everything on, above and beneath the earth except ‘The Education

Of the Poetic Spirit’ and without that and as an example of what

Pound meant about how a country treats its poets "is a measure

Of its civilisation". I once had a holiday job in a mill and the

Nightwatchman’s killer alsatian had more civilisation than

Huddersfield’s Deputy Direction of Education.

For a while I was granted temporary asylum at Royds Hall -

At least some of the staff there had socialism if not art -

But soon it was spoilt for everyone when Jenks came to head

English, sweating for his OU degree and making us all suffer,

The kids hating his sarcasm and the staff his vaulting ambition

And I was the only one not afraid of him. His Achilles’ heel was

Culture - he was a yob through and through - and the Head said to me

"I’ve had enough of him throwing his weight around, if it comes

To a showdown I’ll back you against him any day" but he got

The degree and the job and the dollars - my old T.C. took him

But that was typical, after Roy Rich went came a fat appointee

Who had written nothing and knew nothing but knew everyone on

The appointing committee.

Everyday I was in Huddersfield I thought I was in hell and

Sartre was right and so was Jonson - "Hell’s a grammar school

To this" - too (Peter Porter I salute you!) and always I dreamed

Of Leeds and my beautiful gifted ten-year olds and Sheila, my

Genius-child-poet and a head who left me alone to teach poetry

And painting day in, day out and Dave Clark and Diane and I,

In the staffroom discussing phenomenology and daseinanalysis

Applied to Dewey’s theory of education and the essence of the

Forms in Plato and Plotinus and plaiting a rose in Sheila’s

Hair and Johns, the civilised HMI, asking for a copy of my poems

And Horovitz putting me in ‘Children of Albion’ and ‘The

Statesman’ giving me good reviews.



Decades later, in Byram Arcade, I am staring at the facade of

‘The Poetry Business’ and its proprietors sitting on the steps

Outside, trying to look civilised and their letter, "Your poetry

Is good but its not our kind" and I wondered what their kind was

And besides they’re not my kind of editor and I’m back in Leeds

With a letter from Seamus Heaney - thank you, Nobel Laureate, for

Liking ‘My Perfect Rose’ and yes, you’re right about my wanting

To get those New Generation Poets into my classroom at Wyther

Park and show them a thing or two and a phone call from

Horovitz who is my kind of editor still, after thirty years,

His mellifluous voice with its blend of an Oxford accent and

American High Camp, so warm and full of knowledge and above all

PASSIONATE ABOUT POETRY and I remember someone saying,

"If Oxford is the soul of England, Huddersfield is its arsehole".

 There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.
 For it was: -- "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!"
 An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!"
 O buckle an' tongue
 Was the song that we sung
 From Harrison's down to the Park!

There was a row in Silver Street -- the regiments was out,
They called us "Delhi Rebels", an' we answered "Threes about!"
That drew them like a hornet's nest -- we met them good an' large,
The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.
 Then it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- an' I was in it too;
We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
 O it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.
 For it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- it might ha' raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;
'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:
An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
 While it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- but that put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin' to his next: "'Twas never work o' mine!"
We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
 When it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- it isn't over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
There was a row in Silver Street -- begod, I wonder why!
 But it was: -- "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!"
 An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!"
 O buckle an' tongue
 Was the song that we sung
 From Harrison's down to the Park!

 ("Lorsque avec ses enfants Cain se fût enfui.") 
 
 {Bk. II} 


 Then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes, 
 Dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm, 
 Cain fled before Jehovah. As night fell 
 The dark man reached a mount in a great plain, 
 And his tired wife and his sons, out of breath, 
 Said: "Let us lie down on the earth and sleep." 
 Cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot. 
 Raising his head, in that funereal heaven 
 He saw an eye, a great eye, in the night 
 Open, and staring at him in the gloom. 
 "I am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up 
 His sleeping sons again, and his tired wife, 
 And fled through space and darkness. Thirty days 
 He went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind; 
 Pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound; 
 No rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand 
 Where the sea washes that which since was Asshur. 
 "Here pause," he said, "for this place is secure; 
 Here may we rest, for this is the world's end." 
 And he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky, 
 The selfsame Eye on the horizon's verge, 
 And the wretch shook as in an ague fit. 
 "Hide me!" he cried; and all his watchful sons, 
 Their finger on their lip, stared at their sire. 
 Cain said to Jabal (father of them that dwell 
 In tents): "Spread here the curtain of thy tent," 
 And they spread wide the floating canvas roof, 
 And made it fast and fixed it down with lead. 
 "You see naught now," said Zillah then, fair child 
 The daughter of his eldest, sweet as day. 
 But Cain replied, "That Eye—I see it still." 
 And Jubal cried (the father of all those 
 That handle harp and organ): "I will build 
 A sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze, 
 And set his sire behind it. But Cain moaned, 
 "That Eye is glaring at me ever." Henoch cried: 
 "Then must we make a circle vast of towers, 
 So terrible that nothing dare draw near; 
 Build we a city with a citadel; 
 Build we a city high and close it fast." 
 Then Tubal Cain (instructor of all them 
 That work in brass and iron) built a tower— 
 Enormous, superhuman. While he wrought, 
 His fiery brothers from the plain around 
 Hunted the sons of Enoch and of Seth; 
 They plucked the eyes out of whoever passed, 
 And hurled at even arrows to the stars. 
 They set strong granite for the canvas wall, 
 And every block was clamped with iron chains. 
 It seemed a city made for hell. Its towers, 
 With their huge masses made night in the land. 
 The walls were thick as mountains. On the door 
 They graved: "Let not God enter here." This done, 
 And having finished to cement and build 
 In a stone tower, they set him in the midst. 
 To him, still dark and haggard, "Oh, my sire, 
 Is the Eye gone?" quoth Zillah tremblingly. 
 But Cain replied: "Nay, it is even there." 
 Then added: "I will live beneath the earth, 
 As a lone man within his sepulchre. 
 I will see nothing; will be seen of none." 
 They digged a trench, and Cain said: "'Tis enow," 
 As he went down alone into the vault; 
 But when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair, 
 And they had closed the dungeon o'er his head, 
 The Eye was in the tomb and fixed on Cain. 
 
 Dublin University Magazine 


 

 ("Je suis la Charité.") 
 
 {February, 1837.} 


 "Lo! I am Charity," she cries, 
 "Who waketh up before the day; 
 While yet asleep all nature lies, 
 God bids me rise and go my way." 
 
 How fair her glorious features shine, 
 Whereon the hand of God hath set 
 An angel's attributes divine, 
 With all a woman's sweetness met. 
 
 Above the old man's couch of woe 
 She bows her forehead, pure and even. 
 There's nothing fairer here below, 
 There's nothing grander up in heaven, 
 
 Than when caressingly she stands 
 (The cold hearts wakening 'gain their beat), 
 And holds within her holy hands 
 The little children's naked feet. 
 
 To every den of want and toil 
 She goes, and leaves the poorest fed; 
 Leaves wine and bread, and genial oil, 
 And hopes that blossom in her tread, 
 
 And fire, too, beautiful bright fire, 
 That mocks the glowing dawn begun, 
 Where, having set the blind old sire, 
 He dreams he's sitting in the sun. 
 
 Then, over all the earth she runs, 
 And seeks, in the cold mists of life, 
 Those poor forsaken little ones 
 Who droop and weary in the strife. 
 
 Ah, most her heart is stirred for them, 
 Whose foreheads, wrapped in mists obscure, 
 Still wear a triple diadem— 
 The young, the innocent, the poor. 
 
 And they are better far than we, 
 And she bestows a worthier meed; 
 For, with the loaf of charity, 
 She gives the kiss that children need. 
 
 She gives, and while they wondering eat 
 The tear-steeped bread by love supplied, 
 She stretches round them in the street 
 Her arm that passers push aside. 
 
 If, with raised head and step alert, 
 She sees the rich man stalking by, 
 She touches his embroidered skirt, 
 And gently shows them where they lie. 
 
 She begs for them of careless crowd, 
 Of earnest brows and narrow hearts, 
 That when it hears her cry aloud, 
 Turns like the ebb-tide and departs. 
 
 O miserable he who sings 
 Some strain impure, whose numbers fall 
 Along the cruel wind that brings 
 Death to some child beneath his wall. 
 
 O strange and sad and fatal thing, 
 When, in the rich man's gorgeous hall, 
 The huge fire on the hearth doth fling 
 A light on some great festival, 
 
 To see the drunkard smile in state, 
 In purple wrapt, with myrtle crowned, 
 While Jesus lieth at the gate 
 With only rags to wrap him round. 
 
 Dublin University Magazine 


 

 SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn’d:
Ev’n ministers they hae been kenn’d,
 In holy rapture,
A rousing whid at times to vend,
 And nail’t wi’ Scripture.


But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befell,
Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell
 Or Dublin city:
That e’er he nearer comes oursel’
 ’S a muckle pity.


The clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher’d whiles, but yet too tent aye
 To free the ditches;
An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes, kenn’d eye
 Frae ghaists an’ witches.


The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi’ a my pow’r,
 I set mysel’;
But whether she had three or four,
 I cou’d na tell.


I was come round about the hill,
An’ todlin down on Willie’s mill,
Setting my staff wi’ a’ my skill,
 To keep me sicker;
Tho’ leeward whiles, against my will,
 I took a bicker.


I there wi’ Something did forgather,
That pat me in an eerie swither;
An’ awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
 Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-tae’d leister on the ither
 Lay, large an’ lang.


Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e’er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava;
 And then its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’
 As cheeks o’ branks.


“Guid-een,” quo’ I; “Friend! hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are busy sawin!” 1
I seem’d to make a kind o’ stan’
 But naething spak;
At length, says I, “Friend! whare ye gaun?
 Will ye go back?”


It spak right howe,—“My name is Death,
But be na fley’d.”—Quoth I, “Guid faith,
Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath;
 But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care o’ skaith
 See, there’s a gully!”


“Gudeman,” quo’ he, “put up your whittle,
I’m no designed to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle
 To be mislear’d;
I wad na mind it, no that spittle
 Out-owre my beard.”


“Weel, weel!” says I, “a bargain be’t;
Come, gie’s your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;
We’ll ease our shanks an tak a seat—
 Come, gie’s your news;
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
 At mony a house.” 2


“Ay, ay!” quo’ he, an’ shook his head,
“It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin’ I began to nick the thread,
 An’ choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
 An’ sae maun Death.


“Sax thousand years are near-hand fled
Sin’ I was to the butching bred,
An’ mony a scheme in vain’s been laid,
 To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook’s 3 ta’en up the trade,
 And faith! he’ll waur me.


“Ye ken Hornbook i’ the clachan,
Deil mak his king’s-hood in spleuchan!
He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan 4
 And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
 An’ pouk my hips.


“See, here’s a scythe, an’ there’s dart,
They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art
 An’ cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a f—t,
 D—n’d haet they’ll kill!


“’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gane,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,
It just play’d dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.


“Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art,
An’ had sae fortify’d the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
 It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart
 Of a kail-runt.


“I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I near-hand cowpit wi’ my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
 Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae tried a quarry
 O’ hard whin rock.


“Ev’n them he canna get attended,
Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it,
Just —— in a kail-blade, an’ sent it,
 As soon’s he smells ’t,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
 At once he tells ’t.


“And then, a’ doctor’s saws an’ whittles,
Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles,
A’ kind o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles,
 He’s sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
 As A B C.


“Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum o’ the seas;
The farina of beans an’ pease,
 He has’t in plenty;
Aqua-fontis, what you please,
 He can content ye.


“Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus spiritus of capons;
Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
 Distill’d per se;
Sal-alkali o’ midge-tail clippings,
 And mony mae.”


“Waes me for Johnie Ged’s-Hole 5 now,”
Quoth I, “if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
 Sae white and bonie,
Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew;
 They’ll ruin Johnie!”


The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,
And says “Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be till’d eneugh,
 Tak ye nae fear:
They’ll be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh,
 In twa-three year.


“Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death,
By loss o’ blood or want of breath
This night I’m free to tak my aith,
 That Hornbook’s skill
Has clad a score i’ their last claith,
 By drap an’ pill.


“An honest wabster to his trade,
Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
 When it was sair;
The wife slade cannie to her bed,
 But ne’er spak mair.


“A country laird had ta’en the batts,
Or some curmurring in his guts,
His only son for Hornbook sets,
 An’ pays him well:
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
 Was laird himsel’.


“A bonie lass—ye kend her name—
Some ill-brewn drink had hov’d her wame;
She trusts hersel’, to hide the shame,
 In Hornbook’s care;
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
 To hide it there.


“That’s just a swatch o’ Hornbook’s way;
Thus goes he on from day to day,
Thus does he poison, kill, an’ slay,
 An’s weel paid for’t;
Yet stops me o’ my lawfu’ prey,
 Wi’ his d—n’d dirt:


“But, hark! I’ll tell you of a plot,
Tho’ dinna ye be speakin o’t;
I’ll nail the self-conceited sot,
 As dead’s a herrin;
Neist time we meet, I’ll wad a groat,
 He gets his fairin!”


But just as he began to tell,
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal’,
 Which rais’d us baith:
I took the way that pleas’d mysel’,
 And sae did Death.


 Note 1. This recontre happened in seed-time, 1785.—R. B. [back]
Note 2. An epidemical fever was then raging in that country.—R. B. [back]
Note 3. This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, is professionally a brother of the sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, by intuition and inspiration, is at once an apothecary, surgeon, and physician.—R. B. [back]
Note 4. Burchan’s Domestic Medicine.—R. B. [back]
Note 5. The grave-digger.—R. B. [back]

 Which was Held in the Queens Hotel, Perth, on the Evening of 5th September 1894


'Twas in the year of 1894, and on the 5th of September,
Which for a long time I will remember,
And the gentlemen I entertained in the city of Perth,
Which is one of the grandest cities upon the earth. 

At the Banquet there were gentlemen of high degree,
And the viands they partook of filled their hearts with glee;
There was Beef, Fish, and Potatoes galore,
And we all ate until we could eat no more 

The gentlemen present were very kind to me,
And the entertainment I gave them filled their hearts with glee;
Especially the Recital I gave them from "Macbeth",
They were so much fascinated they almost lost their breath. 

The audience were orderly and all went well,
As cheerily and as smoothly as a marriage bell.
Mr James Speedie was the chairman, and behaved right manfully,
And sang a beautiful song, which filled our hearts with glee. 

But when I sang my "Rattling Boy from Dublin Town",
The audience were like to pull the house down
With the hearty applause they showered upon me,
Because I sang the song so merrily. 

But, in conclusion, I must honestly say
I haven't been so well treated for manv a day;
Because I got a Splendid Bed in the Queen's Hotel,
And the breakfast I got there I liked right well. 

The treatment I received there would please the Queen,
Because the cooking is most excellent and the beds are clean;
And, in conclusion, I return my thanks to one and all,
Especially the members of the Lyric Club, big and small,
Also the landlord of the Queen's Hotel, yours truly,
McGonagall.