Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE GHAISTS: A KIRK-YARD ECLOGUE, by ROBERT FERGUSSON


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THE GHAISTS: A KIRK-YARD ECLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Whare the braid planes in dowie murmurs wave
Last Line: May fleg the schemers o' the mortmain bill.
Alternate Author Name(s): Ferguson, Robert
Subject(s): Ghosts; Graves; Supernatural; Tombs; Tombstones


Whare the braid planes in dowie murmurs wave
Their ancient taps out owr the cald, clad grave,
Whare Geordie Girdwood, mony a lang-spun day,
Houkit for gentlest banes the humblest clay,
Twa sheeted ghaists, sae grizly and sae wan,
'Mang lanely tombs their dowf discourse began.

WATSON
Cauld blaws the nippin north wi angry sough,
And showers his hailstanes frae the Castle Cleugh
Owr the Greyfriars, whare, at mirkest hour,
Bogles and spectres wont to tak their tour,
Harlin the pows and shanks to hidden cairns,
Amang the hamlocks wild and sun-burnt fearns;
But nane the night save you and I hae come
Frae the dern mansions of the midnight tomb.
Now whan the dawning's near, whan cock maun craw,
And wi his angry bougil gar's withdraw,
Ayont the kirk we'll stap, and there tak bield,
While the black hours our nightly freedom yield.

HERRIOT
I'm weel content; but binna cassen doun,
Nor trou the cock will ca ye hame owr soon,
For tho' the eastern lift betakens day,
Changing her rokelay black for mantle grey,
Nae weirlike bird our knell of parting rings,
Nor sheds the caller moisture frae his wings.
Nature has chang'd her course; the birds o' day
Dosen in silence on the bending spray,
While owlets round the craigs at noon-tide flee,
And bludey bawks sit singand on the tree.
Ah, Caledon! the land I yence held dear,
Sair mane mak I for thy destruction near;
And thou, Edina! anes my dear abode,
Whan royal Jamie sway'd the sovereign rod,
In thae blest days, weel did I think bestow'd,
To blaw thy poortith by wi heaps o' gowd;
To mak thee sonsy seem wi mony a gift,
And gar thy stately turrets speel the lift:
In vain did Danish Jones, wi gimcrack pains,
In Gothic sculpture fret the pliant stanes:
In vain did he affix my statue here,
Brawly to busk wi flow'rs ilk coming year;
My tow'rs are sunk, my lands are barren now,
My fame, my honour, like my flow'rs, maun dow.

WATSON
Sure Major Weir, or some sic warlock wight,
Has flung beguilin glamer owr your sight;
Or else some kittle cantrup thrown, I ween,
Has bound in mirlygoes my ain twa een,
If ever aught frae sense could be believ'd
(And seenil hae my senses been deceiv'd),
This moment, owr the tap of Adam's tomb,
Fu easy can I see your chiefest dome:
Nae corbie fleein there, nor croupin craws,
Seem to forspeak the ruin of thy haws,
But a' your tow'rs in wonted order stand,
Steeve as the rocks that hem our native land.

HERRIOT
Think na I vent my well-a-day in vain;
Kent ye the cause, ye sure wad join my mane.
Black be the day that e'er to England's ground
Scotland was eikit by the Union's bond;
For mony a menzie of destructive ills
The country now maun brook frae mortmain bills,
That void our test'ments, and can freely gie
Sic will and scoup to the ordain'd trustee,
That he may tirr our stateliest riggins bare,
Nor acres, houses, woods, nor fishins spare,
Till he can lend the stoitering state a lift
Wi gowd in gowpins as a grassum gift;
In lieu o' whilk, we maun be weel content
To tyne the capital at three per cent.
A doughty sum indeed, whan now-a-days
They raise provisions as the stents they raise,
Yoke hard the poor, and lat the rich chiels be,
Pamper'd at ease wi ithers' industry.
Hale interest for my fund can scantly noo
Cleed a' my callants' backs, and stap their mou:
How maun their weyms wi sairest hunger slack,
Their duds in targets flaff upo' their back,
Whan they are doom'd to keep a lasting Lent,
Starving for England's weel at three per cent.

WATSON
Auld Reikie than may bless the gowden times,
Whan honesty and poortith baith are crimes:
She little kend, whan you and I endow'd
Our hospitals for back-gaun burghers gude,
That e'er our siller or our lands should bring
A gude bien living to a back-gaun king,
Wha, thanks to ministry! is grown sae wise,
He downa chew the bitter cud of vice;
For gin, frae Castlehill to Netherbow,
Wad honest houses bawdy-houses grow,
The Crown wad never spier the price o' sin,
Nor hinder younkers to the deil to rin;
But gif some mortal grien for pious fame,
And leave the poor man's pray'r to sain his name,
His gear maun a' be scatter'd by the claws
O' ruthless, ravenous, and harpy laws.
Yet, should I think, altho' the bill tak place,
The council winna lack sae meikle grace
As lat our heritage at wanworth gang,
Or the succeeding generations wrang
O' braw bien maintenance and walth o' lear,
Whilk else had drappit to their children's skair;
For mony a deep and mony a rare ingyne
Hae sprung frae Herriot's wark, and sprung frae mine.

HERRIOT
I find, my friend, that ye but little ken,
There's eenow on the earth a set o' men,
Wha, if they get their private pouches lin'd,
Gie na a winnelstrae for a' mankind;
They'll sell their country, flae their conscience bare,
To gar the weigh-bauk turn a single hair.
The government need only bait the line
Wi the prevailing flee, the gowden coin,
Then our executors, and wise trustees,
Will sell them fishes in forbidden seas,
Upo' their dwyning country girn in sport,
Laugh in their sleeve, and get a place at court.

WATSON
Ere that day come, I'll 'mang our spirits pick
Some ghaist that trokes and conjures wi Auld Nick,
To gar the wind wi rougher rumbles blaw,
And weightier thuds than ever mortal saw:
Fire-flaught and hail, wi ten-fald fury's fires,
Shall lay yird-laigh Edina's airy spires;
Tweed shall rin rowtin down his banks out owr,
Till Scotland's out o' reach o' England's pow'r;
Upo' the briny Borean jaws to float,
And mourn in dowy soughs her dowy lot.

HERRIOT
Yonder's the tomb of wise Mackenzie fam'd,
Whase laws rebellious bigotry reclaim'd,
Freed the hale land o' covenanting fools,
Wha erst hae fash'd us wi unnumber'd dools;
Till night we'll tak the swaird aboon our pows,
And than, whan she her ebon chariot rowes,
We'll travel to the vaut wi stealing stap,
And wauk Mackenzie frae his quiet nap:
Tell him our ails, that he, wi wonted skill,
May fleg the schemers o' the mortmain bill.





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