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The Reprobate's Reply
Three droving men, some three weeks sync,
Sat drinking the Queensland rum;
'Twas four a.m. when twa o' them
Saw jock M'Phee succumb.
Hech! they were giddy songs he'd sung,
And the yarns which he'd spun were 'free'! -
For the liquor that nicht had loosed the tongue
O' gudeman Jock M'Phee.
They taul,t the meenister what befell,
So he tuk braw Jock to task:-
'Jock, gie me noo an answer true
To one question I wull ask.
'An' it happened the Laird had stricken ye,
A reprobate, graceless mon,
Whan ye war a bletherin' yestere'en -
D'ye ken whare ye wad hae gone?'
'Whare wad I hae gone?' - and Jockie wunk -
'Dinna ye fash yersel' mair -
For I wad ha' bin too terrible drunk
To ha' gone anywhere.'
poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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My Eppie Macnab
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab?
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab?
She's down in the yard, she's kissin the laird,
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab.
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab;
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab;
Whate'er thou hast dune, be it late, be it sune,
Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab.
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab?
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab?
She let's thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab.
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab!
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab!
As light as the air, and as fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab.
poem by Robert Burns
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The laird may be laird and need his hind's help.
Jock O The Side
Now Liddisdale has ridden a raid,
But I wat they had better staid at hame;
For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead,
And my son Johnie is prisner tane?
With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.
For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane,
Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;
And down the water wi speed she rins,
While tears in spaits fa fast frae her eie.
Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton:
'What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?'
'Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton;
Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.'
'Neer fear, sister Downie,' quo Mangerton;
'I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie,
My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a' weel filld,
And I'll part wi them a' ere Johnie shall die.
'Three men I'll take to set him free,
Weel harnessd a' wi best of steel;
The English rogues may hear, and drie
The weight o their braid swords to feel
'The Laird's Jock ane, the Laird's Wat twa,
O Hobie Noble, thou ane maun be!
Thy coat is blue, thou has been true,
Since England banishd thee, to me.'
Now, Hobie was an English man,
In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banished him neer to return.
Lord Mangerton then orders gave,--
'Your horses the wrang way maun a' be shod;
Like gentlemen ye must not seem,
But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road.
'Your armour gude ye maunna shaw,
Nor ance appear like men o weir;
As country lads be all arrayd,
Wi branks and brecham on ilk mare.'
Sae now a' their horses are shod the wrang way,
And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine,
Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse behind,
And on they rode for the water o Tyne.
At the Cholerford they a' light down,
And there, wi the help o the light o the moon,
A tree they cut, wi fifteen naggs upon each side,
To climb up the wall of Newcastle toun.
But when they came to Newcastle toun,
And were alighted at the wa,
They fand their tree three ells oer laigh,
They fand their stick baith short aid sma.
Then up and spake the Laird's ain Jock,
'There's naething for't; the gates we maun force.'
But when they cam the gate unto,
A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.
His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung;
Wi foot or hand he neer play'd paw;
His life and his keys at anes they hae taen,
And cast his body ahind the wa.
Now soon they reached Newcastle jail,
And to the prisner thus they call:
'Sleips thou, wakes thou, Jock o the Side,
Or is thou wearied o thy thrall?'
Jock answers thus, wi dolefu tone:
'Aft, aft I wake, I seldom sleip;
But wha's this kens my name sae weel,
And thus to hear my waes does seek?'
Then up and spake the good Laird's Jock:
'Neer fear ye now, my billie,' quo he;
'For here's the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat,
And Hobie Noble, come to set thee free.'
'Oh, had thy tongue, and speak nae mair,
And o thy talk now let me be!
For if a' Liddesdale were here the night,
The morn's the day that I maun die.
'Full fifteen stane o Spanish iron,
They hae laid a' right sair on me;
Wi locks and keys I am fast bound
Into this dungeon mirk and drearie.'
'Fear ye no that,' quo the Laird's Jock;
'A faint heart neer wan a fair ladie;
Work thou within, we'll work without,
And I'll be sworn we set thee free.'
The first strong dore that they came at,
They loosed it without a key;
The next chaind dore that they cam at,
They gard it a' in flinders flee.
The prisner now, upo his back,
The Laird's Jock's gotten up fu hie;
And down the stair him, irons and a',
Wi nae sma speed and joy brings he.
'Now, Jock, I wat,' quo Hobie Noble,
'Part o the weight ye may lay on me,'
'I wat weel no,' quo the Laird's Jock
'I count him lighter than a flee.'
Sae out at the gates they a' are gane,
The prisner's set on horseback hie;
And now wi speed they've tane the gate;
While ilk ane jokes fu wantonlie.
'O Jock, sae winsomely's ye ride,
Wi baith your feet upo ae side!
Sae weel's ye're harnessd, and sae trig!
In troth ye sit like ony bride.'
The night, tho wat, they didna mind,
But hied them on fu mirrilie,
Until they cam to Cholerford brae,
Where the water ran like mountains hie.
But when they came to Cholerford,
There they met with an auld man;
Says, 'Honest man, will the water ride?
Tell us in haste, if that ye can.'
'I wat weel no,' quo the good auld man;
'Here I hae livd this threty yeirs and three,
And I neer yet saw the Tyne sae big,
Nor rinning ance sae like a sea.'
Then up and spake the Laird's saft Wat,
The greatest coward in the company;
'Now halt, now halt, we needna try't;
The day is comd we a' maun die!'
'Poor faint-hearted thief!' quo the Laird's Jock,
'There'll nae man die but he that's fie;
I'll lead ye a' right safely through;
Lift ye the prisner on ahint me.
Sae now the water they a' hae tane,
By anes and 'twas they a' swam through
'Here are we a' safe,' says the Laird's Jock,
'And, poor faint Wat, what think ye now?'
They scarce the ither side had won,
When twenty men they saw pursue;
Frae Newcastle town they had been sent,
A' English lads right good and true.
But when the land-sergeant the water saw,
'It winna ride, my lads,' quo he;
Then out he cries, 'Ye the prisner may take,
But leave the irons, I pray, to me.'
'I wat weel no,' cryd the Laird's Jock,
'I'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be;
My good grey mare; for I am sure,
She's bought them a' fu dear frae thee.'
Sae now they're away for Liddisdale,
Een as fast as they coud them hie;
The prisner's brought to his ain fireside,
And there o's airns they make him free.
'Now, Jock, my billie,' quo a' the three,
'The day was comd thou was to die;
But thou's as weel at thy ain fireside,
Now sitting, I think, 'tween thee and me.'
They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl,
And after it they maun hae anither,
And thus the night they a' hae spent,
Just as they had been brither and brither.
poem by Andrew Lang
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A Wraith In The Mist. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fifth)
On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
So brave with his targe and claymore?
His form is the form of a giant,
But his face wears an aspect of pain;
Can this be the Laird of Inchkenneth?
Can this be Sir Allan McLean?
Ah, no! It is only the Rambler,
The Idler, who lives in Bolt Court,
And who says, were he Laird of Inchkenneth,
He would wall himself round with a fort.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Argument
Said Jock McBrown to Tam McSmith,
"A little bet I'm game to take on,
That I can scotch this Shakespeare myth
And prove Will just a stoodge for Bacon."
Said Tam McSmith to Jock McBrown,
"Ye gyke, I canna let ye rave on.
See here, I put a shilling down:
My betting's on the Bard of Avon."
Said Jock McBrown to Tam McSmith,
"Come on, ye'll pay a braw wee dramlet;
Bacon's my bet - the proof herewith . . .
He called his greatest hero - HAMlet."
poem by Robert William Service
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The Turncoat
Set me out forewarned
While the heather glistened,
Tramped the starbright road
While my lady listened,
Soldiers at the doors,
Muskets at the casement,
All Kilmarnock groaned,
Milady in the basement.
There the road to Ayr
There the road to Dumfries
Torn by here or there
Mauchline; there lay Humphries:
‘Where’s the Laird o’ Fife? ’
Pikemen swarm all over,
All the red stained coats
By Portsmouth, and by Dover.
‘Take the road, ’ she said,
‘Take it, I’ll come after,
Find the Laird o’ Fife,
Lead us back to laughter,
Tell them Scotland’s sons
Have been led to slaughter,
Let them beat their drums
And save the old Laird’s daughter.’
On to Auckinleck
While the moon shines brightly
Cumnock came and went,
The horse drops dead beside me;
Sleep I by the light,
Tramp by wood and water
Lonely, night by night
For the old Laird’s daughter.
Eyes that gleamed like stars
Lips that would despair me,
Hands so soft and fair,
Heart that would not spare me
Sat at Marchburns stream
Met a man called Donald:
‘The army’s in some dream,
The Laird is at Kirconnel.’
One more night on foot
I found the army lying –
‘Where’s the Laird of Fife? ’
‘In grief, the Laird is dying! ’
Then I saw his head
Bowed and grey and broken,
‘A horseman brought the news,
And news has brought a token.’
He showed me where the brooch
Was stained with bitter blood there,
From where Milady lay
He’d took it from her throat there,
And there the clasp was broke
Just where the pike had thrust it,
Had entered at her throat
And there the blood had rust it.
Late, by Kirk and brae
These nights there, have I wandered,
Each eve I sit and pray
For love so basely squandered;
I have worn the red,
Lain long in the heather,
Sought Milady’s bed
And loved her as no other.
‘Take the road, ’ she said,
But I had long betrayed her,
Left her with the dead,
With Humphries men, dismayed her,
On some night as this
And where my love is lying
Death will come as bliss,
And red will stain my piping.
13 August 1996
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Jock
There's a soldier that's been doing of his share
In the fighting up and down and round about.
He's continually marching here and there,
And he's fighting, morning in and morning out.
The Boer, you see, he generally runs;
But sometimes, when he hides behind a rock,
And we can't make no impression with the guns,
Oh, then you'll hear the order, "Send for Jock!"
Yes -- it's Jock -- Scotch Jock.
He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.
For he's hairy and he's hard,
And his feet are by the yard,
And his face is like the face what's on a clock.
But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry --
"Send for Jock!"
The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance;
Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.
The Mounted Foot are hampered in advance
By holding of their helmets on their head.
And, when the Boer has dug himself a trench
And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock,
These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French --
They have to sit and wait and send for Jock!
Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks,
With their music that'd terrify an ox!
When the bullets kick the sand
You can hear the sharp command --
"Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!"
And the charge is like a hood
When they warmed the Highland blood
Of the Jocks!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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First I Look At The Purse
(william robinson/robert rogers)
Some fellows look at the eyes
Some fellows look at the nose
Some fellows look at the size
Some fellows look at the clothes
I dont care if her eyes are red
I dont care if her nose is long
I dont care if shes underfeed
I dont care if her clothes are wrong
First I look at the purse.
Some fellows like the smiles they wear
Some fellows like the legs that talk
Some fellows like the style of their hair,
They want the waist line to be small.
I dont care if their legs all vein
I dont care if their teeth are big
I dont care if she wears a ring
Why waste time looking at the waist line
Cause first I look at the purse....yeah!
A woman can be as fine as can be
Kisses sweeter than honey
That dont mean a thing to me,
If you aint got no money, baby.
Cause if the purse is fat, thats where its at. yeahaa...
Some fellows like the way they walk,
The way they swing and sway.
Some fellows like the way they talk,
If they can talk talk all day.
I dont care if she waddles like a duck or talks with a lisp
I still think Im in good luck if the dollar bills are crisp
Cause first I look at the purse....yeah yeah
Keep an eye on the money
Womans got to have some fine greenbacks hah
I aint greedy guys,
Oh I dont wanna work no more
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jock of Hazeldean
Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen"--
But aye she loot the tears sown fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha'
His sword in battle keen"--
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
"A chain of gold you sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen"--
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladie was not seen!
She's o'er the Border and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Highland Hospitality
Unto his housemaid spoke the Laird:
"Tonight the Bishop is our guest;
The spare room must be warmed and aired:
To please him we will do our best.
A worthy haggis you must make,
And serve a bowl of barley bree;
We must be hearty for the sake
Of Highland Hospitality.
The feast was set, the candles lit,
The Bishop came with modest mien,
And (one surmised) was glad to sit
And sup in this ancestral scene.
A noble haggis graced the board;
The Laird proposed a toast or two,
And ever and anon he poured
His guest a glass of Mountain Dew.
Then to his maid the Laird gave tongue:
"My sonsie Jean, my friend is old.
Comparatively you are young,
And not so sensitive to cold.
Poor chiel! His blood austerely beats,
Though it be sped by barley bree . . .
Slip half an hour between the sheets,
Brave lass, and warm his bed a wee.
Said she: "I'll do the best I can
So that his couch may cosy be,
And as a human warming pan
Prove Highland Hospitality."
So hearing sounds of mild carouse,
As in the down she pillowed deep:
"In half an hour I will arouse,"
She vowed, then soundly went to sleep.
So when the morn was amber-orbed
The Bishop from a dream awoke,
And as his parritch he absorbed,
Unto his host he slyly spoke:
"Your haggis, Laird, was nobly bred,
And braw your brew of barley bree -
But oh your thought to warm the bed!
That's Highland Hospitality.
poem by Robert William Service
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Money Money Money Can't Buy
Years of toil sweat and struggle
Looking for gold in all that rubble,
Now Jock and I struck it rich
In the middle of a no where ditch.
Now it's all safe in the bank
An' put us up a little in life's rank,
Being so perplexed I sent to Jock a text,
"Now what on earth are we going to look for next? "
NB Money does not bring happiness,
but you can buy a yacht and moor next to it.
Then sail away to find another no where ditch,
But it's in the bottom of your head, which
If you listen it's your happiness shouting
WAITING ONLY TO BE LET OUT!
poem by Ken e Hall
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The friendly are not the brave
Rabbits move with fellows.
Elephants move with fellows
Tigers roam single. So are foxes.
Who is coward, who is brave?
10.08.2002, Chennai
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Auld Rob Morris
There's Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the King o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
But oh! she's an Heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction nae words can express.
poem by Robert Burns (1792)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Give up your relentless moralizing, the continual pinpricks which pierce the skin of your fellows. The distinction between good and evil is the sickness of the mind. Give up your morals, and the people will regain a love of their fellows.
Save yourself frae the deil and the laird's bairns.
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Election - Ballad First
Whom will you send to London town,
To Parliament and a' that?
Or wha in a' the country round
The best deserves to fa' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Thro' Galloway and a' that,
Where is the Laird or belted Knight
The best deserves to fa' that?
Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,
(And wha is't never saw that?)
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met,
And has a doubt of a' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent patriot,
The honest man, and a' that.
Tho' wit and worth, in either sex,
Saint Mary's Isle can shaw that,
Wi' Dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for a' that.
But why should we to Nobles jouk,
And is't against the law, that?
For why, a Lord may be a gowk,
Wi' ribband, star and a' that,
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A Lord may be a lousy loun,
Wi' ribband, star and a' that.
A beardless boy comes o'er the hills,
Wi' uncle's purse and a' that;
But we'll hae ane frae mang oursels,
A man we ken, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
For we're not to be bought and sold,
Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that.
Then let us drink-The Stewartry,
Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that,
Our representative to be,
For weel he's worthy a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A House of Commons such as he,
They wad be blest that saw that.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The defeats and victories of the fellows at the top aren't always defeats and victories for the fellows at the bottom.
quote by Bertolt Brecht
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Finding Joe
Deepak Chopra, Mick Fleetwood, Akiva Goldsman, Laird John Hamilton, Catherine Hardwicke, Tony Hawk, Rashida Jones
from Finding Joe (2011)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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This person should not be directly connected with the President Ford Committee nor should he be seen as a member of the liberal wing of the Republican Party. He should be someone like Laird or Rogers Morton.
quote by Robert Teeter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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