主播大秀

By Francis Boyle

Escap't frae Baxter's in Crossgear,

Ane Patrick Brawney that liv't there;
His Ounah left wi' heart fu' sair,
'Cause he was drawn,
In the militia corps to sair
Awa' he ran.

Afore day light young Pat set aff,
Wi' his guid aik Shillela staff,
He travel't on to Monegaff,
On river Cree,
Then Patrick thought he was far aff,
Ayont the sea.

He travel't on a day or two,
An' Mahir's country had past through,
But cud'na find a turn to do,
To his vexation;
Poor Patrick then began to rue,
His emigration.

His yellow Geordie near was spent,
He turned him roun' nae farther went,
But sat him down in discontent,
To pause a while.
This voyage poor Patrick did repent,
To Britain's isle.

A callan that was herdin' sheep,
Cam' rinin' down the brae sae steep,
An' o' the traveller took a peep,
Wha hung his head;
"Fie, Paddy, man, are ye asleep,?
Get up wi' speed."

But just as he began to tell,
Out o' a bush beneath the fell,
Sprang a lang adder near an ell,
An' monstrous thick;
Which made poor Patrick gie a yell,
An' draw his stick.

Then soon he loupt upon his pump,
An' gied the adder sick a thump;
"O shoul," says Pat, "I'll scratch your rump,
Or cut your head;
Before you give another jump,
I'll kill you dead.

Yon day as I sat down to sh-e,
One of them thought my a-se to bite,
I jump't in rage, and with the fright,
As high's the steeple;
These cursed things have all a spite,
At Irish people.

Beyond the old town of Glenluce,
Just at the ruins of a house,
A little black thing like a mouse,
Or like a rat,
Up in my face look'd cursed crouse,
And venom spat.

What Devil's that howks all your land,
Where'er 'tis hazelly, black, or sand,
My dear, I cannot understand
This cursed vermin,
That all you Scots have at command,
The country swarmin'.

Are these your flocks o' moorland sheep,
That climb the rocks and mountains steep,
While mauks about their a-s creep,
Until they're rotten,
And this for winter beef you keep,
Or braxie mutton.

Is this ye'r boasted lan' o' cake,
That breed the adder, toad, and snake,
An' clatty wives their scons to bake,
O' barley meal;
An' souple whores that rin an' rake,
Wi' every chiel."

A scornfu' Scot replied in jeer,
"What brought this Irish randie here?
Sae monie questions he maun spier,
At this young caddie;
For stealing o' a horse or mare,
My new swam Paddy:

A maid ye've forc'd, or kill'd a man,
Or aiblins left some tory ban',
Which made ye flee your native lan',
An' cross the tide;
To the tolbooth ye'll go aff han',
If here ye bide.

Patrick ye're come owre far afiel',
An' hae nae erran' here I'tweel,
Unless it be to pick an' steal,
Then tak' your flight;
Just like anither Irish chiel,
Lodged here ae night."

"Shoul if I had you in Crossgear,
I by my beads and primer swear,
The blood should trinkle down your hair,
You senseless coof;
And then a f-t I would not care,
For your tolbooth.

But was not I a damn'd whore's son,
Out of my country thus to run?
I rue I did not take a gun,
And stand my chance;
Militia men when all is done,
Dont go to France.

If I were safe on Patrick's shore,
Between Slieve-Donard and Dromore,
With the sweet maid that I adore,
Dear Ouna Coats;
North Britain I would see no more,
Nor you damn'd Scots."

Ae louring morn an' unco wat,
As frae Stranrawr out we gat,
Then wha cam' up, but weary Pat,
O' Scotland fou;
An' gie'd us a' this roughsome chat,
An' oaths enew.