10 Best Famous Stephens Poems

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

• All Famous Stephens Poems

 WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood
 An’ did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
 Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
 And in the sea did jaw, man;
An’ did nae less, in full congress,
 Than quite refuse our law, man.


Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes,
 I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie’s Burn he took a turn,
 And Carleton did ca’, man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
 Montgomery-like did fa’, man,
Wi’ sword in hand, before his band,
 Amang his en’mies a’, man.


Poor Tammy Gage within a cage
 Was kept at Boston-ha’, man;
Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe
 For Philadelphia, man;
Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin
 Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork,
 Sir-Loin he hacked sma’, man.


Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip,
 Till Fraser brave did fa’, man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
 In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought,
 An’ did the Buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save,
 He hung it to the wa’, man.


Then Montague, an’ Guilford too,
 Began to fear, a fa’, man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,
 The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
 Nae mercy had at a’, man;
An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box,
 An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man.


Then Rockingham took up the game,
 Till death did on him ca’, man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
 Conform to gospel law, man:
Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise,
 They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an’ Fox united stocks,
 An’ bore him to the wa’, man.


Then clubs an’ hearts were Charlie’s cartes,
 He swept the stakes awa’, man,
Till the diamond’s ace, of Indian race,
 Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads,
 On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man;
An’ Scotland drew her pipe an’ blew,
 “Up, Willie, waur them a’, man!”


Behind the throne then Granville’s gone,
 A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous’d the class
 Be-north the Roman wa’, man:
An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heav’nly graith,
 (Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi’ kindling eyes, cry’d, “Willie, rise!
 Would I hae fear’d them a’, man?”


But, word an’ blow, North, Fox, and Co.
 Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man;
Till Suthron raise, an’ coost their claise
 Behind him in a raw, man:
An’ Caledon threw by the drone,
 An’ did her whittle draw, man;
An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ bluid,
 To mak it guid in law, man.

 So you think its Stephen?
Then I'd best make sure
Be on the safe side as it were.
Ah, theres been a mistake. The hair
you see, its black, now Stephens fair ...
Whats that? The explosion?
Of course, burnt black. Silly of me.
I should have known. Then lets get on.

The face, is that the face mask?
that mask of charred wood
blistered scarred could
that have been a child's face?
The sweater, where intact, looks
in fact all too familiar.
But one must be sure.

The scoutbelt. Yes thats his.
I recognise the studs he hammered in
not a week ago. At the age
when boys get clothes-conscious
now you know. Its almost
certainly Stephen. But one must
be sure. Remove all trace of doubt.
Pull out every splinter of hope.

Pockets. Empty the pockets.
Handkerchief? Could be any schoolboy's.
Dirty enough. Cigarettes?
Oh this can't be Stephen.
I dont allow him to smoke you see.
He wouldn't disobey me. Not his father.
But that's his penknife. Thats his alright.
And thats his key on the keyring 
Gran gave him just the other night.
Then this must be him.

I think I know what happened
... ... ... about the cigarettes
No doubt he was minding them
for one of the older boys.
Yes thats it.
Thats him.
Thats our Stephen.

Here the jack-hammer jabs into the ocean;
My heart, you race and stagger and demand
More blood-gangs for your ******-brass percussions,
Till I, the stunned machine of your devotion,
Clanging upon this cymbal of a hand,
Am rattled screw and footloose. All discussions

End in the mud-flat detritus of death.
My heart, beat faster, faster. In Black Mud
Hungarian workmen give their blood
For the martyrs Stephen who was stoned to death.

Black Myd, a name to conjure with: O mud
For watermelons gutted to the crust,
Mud for the mole-tide harbor, mud for mouse,
Mud for teh armored Diesel fishing tubs that thud
A year and a day to wind and tide; the dust
Is on this skipping heart that shakes my house,

House of our Savior who was hanged till death.
My heart, beat faster, faster. In Black Mud
Stephen the martyre was broken down to blood:
Our ransom is the rubble of his death.

Christ walks on the black water. In Black Mud
Darts the kingfisher. On Corpus Christi, heart,
Over the drum-beat of St. Stephen's choir
I hear him, Stupor Mundi, and the mud
Flies from his hunching wings and beak--my heart,
he blue kingfisher dives on you in fire.

 YE Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires,
Wha represent our brughs an’ shires,
An’ doucely manage our affairs
 In parliament,
To you a simple poet’s pray’rs
 Are humbly sent.


Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her ****
 Low i’ the dust,
And scriechinh out prosaic verse,
 An like to brust!


Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction,
E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction
 On aqua-vit&æ;
An’ rouse them up to strong conviction,
 An’ move their pity.


Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth
The honest, open, naked truth:
Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth,
 His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blaw you south
 If ye dissemble!


Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom?
Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb!
Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom
 Wi’ them wha grant them;
If honestly they canna come,
 Far better want them.


In gath’rin votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back,
 An’ hum an’ haw;
But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack
 Before them a’.


Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle;
An’ d—mn’d excisemen in a bussle,
 Seizin a stell,
Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel,
 Or limpet shell!


Then, on the tither hand present her—
A blackguard smuggler right behint her,
An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner
 Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouch as bare as winter
 Of a’ kind coin.


Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot,
But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld mither’s pot
 Thus dung in staves,
An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat
 By gallows knaves?


Alas! I’m but a nameless wight,
Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,
 Or gab like Boswell, 2
There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
 An’ tie some hose well.


God bless your Honours! can ye see’t—
The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,
An’ no get warmly to your feet,
 An’ gar them hear it,
An’ tell them wi’a patriot-heat
 Ye winna bear it?


Some o’ you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an’ pause,
An’ with rhetoric clause on clause
 To mak harangues;
Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s
 Auld Scotland’s wrangs.


Dempster, 3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4
An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron,
 The Laird o’ Graham; 5
An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’,
 Dundas his name: 6


Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 8
An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie; 9
 An’ mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
 Might own for brithers.


See sodger Hugh, 10 my watchman stented,
If poets e’er are represented;
I ken if that your sword were wanted,
 Ye’d lend a hand;
But when there’s ought to say anent it,
 Ye’re at a stand.


Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle,
 Ye’ll see’t or lang,
She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle,
 Anither sang.


This while she’s been in crankous mood,
Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,
 Play’d her that pliskie!)
An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud
 About her whisky.


An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t,
Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt,
An’durk an’ pistol at her belt,
 She’ll tak the streets,
An’ rin her whittle to the hilt,
 I’ the first she meets!


For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair,
An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair,
An’ to the muckle house repair,
 Wi’ instant speed,
An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear,
 To get remead.


Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks;
But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks!
 E’en cowe the cadie!
An’ send him to his dicing box
 An’ sportin’ lady.


Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, 11
I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s 12
 Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,
 Was kindly seek.


Could he some commutation broach,
I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He needna fear their foul reproach
 Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie, ***** hotch-potch,
 The Coalition.


Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
She’s just a devil wi’ a rung;
An’ if she promise auld or young
 To tak their part,
Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,
 She’ll no desert.


And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mither’s heart support ye;
Then, tho’a minister grow dorty,
 An’ kick your place,
Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty,
 Before his face.


God bless your Honours, a’ your days,
Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,
In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes,
 That haunt St. Jamie’s!
Your humble poet sings an’ prays,
 While Rab his name is.


POSTSCRIPTLET half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies,
 But, blythe and frisky,
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys
 Tak aff their whisky.


What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms,
When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,
 The scented groves;
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
 In hungry droves!


Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o’ powther;
Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither
 To stan’ or rin,
Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther,
 To save their skin.


But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal George’s will,
 An’ there’s the foe!
He has nae thought but how to kill
 Twa at a blow.


Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;
Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
 An’ when he fa’s,
His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him
 In faint huzzas.


Sages their solemn een may steek,
An’ raise a philosophic reek,
An’ physically causes seek,
 In clime an’ season;
But tell me whisky’s name in Greek
 I’ll tell the reason.


Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather,
 Ye tine your dam;
Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither!
 Take aff your dram!


 Note 1. This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.—R. B. [back]
Note 2. James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson. [back]
Note 3. George Dempster of Dunnichen. [back]
Note 4. Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. [back]
Note 5. The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. [back]
Note 6. Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P. [back]
Note 7. Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine. [back]
Note 8. Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session. [back]
Note 9. Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone. [back]
Note 10. Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. [back]
Note 11. Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall. [back]
Note 12. A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.—R. B. [back]

 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!
And there will be Murray, Commander,
 And Gordon, the battle to win;
Like brothers they’ll stand by each other,
 Sae knit in alliance and kin.


And there will be black-nebbit Johnie,
 The tongue o’ the trump to them a’;
An he get na Hell for his haddin’,
 The Deil gets na justice ava.
And there will be Kempleton’s birkie,
 A boy no sae black at the bane;
But as to his fine Nabob fortune,
 We’ll e’en let the subject alane.


And there will be Wigton’s new Sheriff;
 Dame Justice fu’ brawly has sped,
She’s gotten the heart of a Bushby,
 But, Lord! what’s become o’ the head?
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
 Sae mighty in Cardoness’ eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
 The Devil the prey will despise.


And there will be Douglasses doughty,
 New christening towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
 By kissin’ the —— o’ a Peer:
And there will be folk frae Saint Mary’s
 A house o’ great merit and note;
The deil ane but honours them highly—
 The deil ane will gie them his vote!


And 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 in the Firm.
And there will be lads o’ the gospel,
 Muirhead wha’s as gude as he’s true;
And there will be Buittle’s Apostle,
 Wha’s mair o’ the black than the blue.


And there will be Logan M’Dowall,
 Sculdudd’ry an’ he will be there,
And also the Wild Scot o’ Galloway,
 Sogering, gunpowder Blair.
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.


But where is the Doggerbank hero,
 That made “Hogan Mogan” to skulk?
Poor Keith’s gane to hell to be fuel,
 The auld rotten wreck of a Hulk.
And where is our King’s Lord Lieutenant,
 Sae fam’d for his gratefu’ return?
The birkie is gettin’ his Questions
 To say in Saint Stephen’s the morn.


But mark ye! there’s trusty Kerroughtree,
 Whose honor was ever his law;
If the Virtues were pack’d in a parcel,
 His worth might be sample for a’;
And strang an’ respectfu’s his backing,
 The maist o’ the lairds wi’ him stand;
Nae gipsy-like nominal barons,
 Wha’s property’s paper—not land.


And there, frae the Niddisdale borders,
 The Maxwells will gather in droves,
Teugh Jockie, staunch Geordie, an’ Wellwood,
 That griens for the fishes and loaves;
And there will be Heron, the Major,
 Wha’ll ne’er be forgot in the Greys;
Our flatt’ry we’ll keep for some other,
 HIM, only it’s justice to praise.


And there will be maiden Kilkerran,
 And also Barskimming’s gude Knight,
And there will be roarin Birtwhistle,
 Yet luckily roars i’ the right.
And there’ll be Stamp Office Johnie,
 (Tak tent how ye purchase a dram!)
And there will be gay Cassencarry,
 And there’ll be gleg Colonel Tam.


And there’ll be wealthy young Richard,
 Dame Fortune should hing by the neck,
For prodigal, thriftless bestowing—
 His merit had won him respect.
And there will be rich brother Nabobs,
 (Tho’ Nabobs, yet men not the worst,)
And there will be Collieston’s whiskers,
 And Quintin—a lad o’ the first.


Then hey! the chaste Interest o’ Broughton
 And hey! for the blessin’s ’twill bring;
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
 In Sodom ’twould make him a king;
And hey! for the sanctified Murray,
 Our land wha wi’ chapels has stor’d;
He founder’d his horse among harlots,
 But gied the auld naig to the Lord.

 KIND Sir, I’ve read your paper through,
And faith, to me, ’twas really new!
How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin;
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks,
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the twalt;
If Denmark, any body spak o’t;
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t:
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin;
How libbet Italy was singin;
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin’ or takin’ aught amiss;
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain’s court kept up the game;
How royal George, the Lord leuk o’er him!
Was managing St. Stephen’s quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hasting’s neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax’d.
Or if bare a—— yet were tax’d;
The news o’ princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshing still at hizzies’ tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser:
A’ this and mair I never heard of;
And, but for you, I might despair’d of.
So, gratefu’, back your news I send you,
And pray a’ gude things may attend you.ELLISLAND, Monday Morning, 1790.

 I am the maker,
The builder, the breaker,
The eagle-winged helper,
The speedy forsaker!

The lance and the lyre,
The water, the fire,
The tooth of oppression,
The lip of desire!

The snare and the wing,
They honey, the sting!
When you seek for me--look
For a different thing!

I, careless and gay,
Never mean what I say,
For my thoughts and my eyes
Look the opposite way!

 My enemy came nigh, 
And I 
Stared fiercely in his face. 
My lips went writhing back in a grimace, 
And stern I watched him with a narrow eye. 
Then, as I turned away, my enemy, 
That bitter heart and savage, said to me: 
"Some day, when this is past, 
When all the arrows that we have are cast, 
We may ask one another why we hate, 
And fail to find a story to relate. 
It may seem then to us a mystery 
That we should hate each other." 

Thus said he, 
And did not turn away, 
Waiting to hear what I might have to say, 
But I fled quickly, fearing had I stayed 
I might have kissed him as I would a maid.

 O WHA will to Saint Stephen’s House,
 To do our errands there, man?
O wha will to Saint Stephen’s House
 O’ th’ merry lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a man o’ law?
 Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o’er Scotland a’
 The meikle Ursa-Major? 1


Come, will ye court a noble lord,
 Or buy a score o’lairds, man?
For worth and honour pawn their word,
 Their vote shall be Glencaird’s, 2 man.
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,
 Anither gies them clatter:
Annbank, 3 wha guessed the ladies’ taste,
 He gies a Fête Champêtre.


When Love and Beauty heard the news,
 The gay green woods amang, man;
Where, gathering flowers, and busking bowers,
 They heard the blackbird’s sang, man:
A vow, they sealed it with a kiss,
 Sir Politics to fetter;
As their’s alone, the patent bliss,
 To hold a Fête Champêtre.


Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing
 O’er hill and dale she flew, man;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,
 Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man:
She summon’d every social sprite,
 That sports by wood or water,
On th’ bonie banks of Ayr to meet,
 And keep this Fête Champêtre.


Cauld Boreas, wi’ his boisterous crew,
 Were bound to stakes like kye, man,
And Cynthia’s car, o’ silver fu’,
 Clamb up the starry sky, man:
Reflected beams dwell in the streams,
 Or down the current shatter;
The western breeze steals thro’the trees,
 To view this Fête Champêtre.


How many a robe sae gaily floats!
 What sparkling jewels glance, man!
To Harmony’s enchanting notes,
 As moves the mazy dance, man.
The echoing wood, the winding flood,
 Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at Adam’s yett,
 To hold their Fête Champêtre.


When Politics came there, to mix
 And make his ether-stane, man!
He circled round the magic ground,
 But entrance found he nane, man:
He blush’d for shame, he quat his name,
 Forswore it, every letter,
Wi’ humble prayer to join and share
 This festive Fête Champêtre.


 Note 1. James Boswell, the biographer of Dr. Johnson. [back]
Note 2. Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird or “Glencaird.” [back]
Note 3. William Cunninghame, Esq., of Annbank and Enterkin. [back]

 Mad Patsy said, he said to me,
That every morning he could see
An angel walking on the sky;
Across the sunny skies of morn
He threw great handfuls far and nigh
Of poppy seed among the corn;
And then, he said, the angels run
To see the poppies in the sun.

A poppy is a devil weed,
I said to him - he disagreed;
He said the devil had no hand
In spreading flowers tall and fair
Through corn and rye and meadow land,
by garth and barrow everywhere:
The devil has not any flower,
But only money in his power.

And then he stretched out in the sun
And rolled upon his back for fun:
He kicked his legs and roared for joy
Because the sun was shining down:
He said he was a little boy
And would not work for any clown:
He ran and laughed behind a bee,
And danced for very ecstasy.