by Allan Cunningham.
Originally published in Fraser's Magazine (James Fraser) vol.1 #4 (May 1830).
I'll tell a tale—and sic a tale
As ne'er was tauld in rhyme—
John Menzies was a mason gude
As e'er laid stane in lime.
Head-stanes he hewed, and biggit kirks,
Carved shank-banes and sand-glasses,
Wrote epitaphs in rhyme, and winked
At sermons on the lasses.
It happened in that doleful year
In which Mirk-Monday fell,
That meat was dear, and work was slack,
And winter sharp and snell.
All kirks were built, all cots complete—
All seemed on dale and down,
What douce Lochmaben looked to Pat,
Ye powers! a finished town.
With trowel in his apron-string,
And hammer in his hand,
John left auld Aberdeen, to seek
Work in some wider land.
Along the greenwood side he trudged,
Where Tyne runs deep and strong;
And whiles he went hap-step an' loup,
Whiles hummed a pleasant song.
Day closed—night came—and with the night
There came a sweeping breeze,
With snow upon its rustling wings,
To powder towers and trees.
The frost ruled king owre all, and reigned
On furrow and on fell—
John wi' his hammer strack the ground,
The ground rang like a bell.
Night round him gathered in her wings,
As dark as any raven;
"Fiend cares," quo' John, and hummed a song,
"There's sappy queans in Craven."
A churchyard lay upon his right,
With all its grim grave-stones—
A gibbet creaked upon his left,
Where swung a felon's bones.
John glowered, and took a pinch o' snuff,
His wallet higher heized;
Loot out a langer stride, and said,
"The land seems civilised!"
A hand was laid on Johnnie's arm,
A tongue, of merry tone,
Said, "Mason, are ye seeking wark?"
"Ye may say that," said John.
"I've sought for work in tower and town,
And journeyed to and fro;
There seems nae work aboon the earth,
I watna what's below."
The stranger laughed, and loot an oath,
One national and hot—
"I want a mason, come wi' me,
My gay and cannie Scot.
"My wark is light—time ower full,
The payment all in gold;
My workmen have complained of heat,
But never yet of cold."
John clinked his tools, and cocked up queer
The corner o' his ee,
"I like your words—I like your looks—
But wha the deil are ye?"
The stranger on John Menzies laid
A kindly hand and hot,
"Far kenned and noted is my name,
My slee and sleeky Scot.
"Douce Scotland calls me, when she prays,
Auld Nick and Cloven-cloots,
Judge ye." He shewed as fair a leg
As ever trode in boots.
"Some cast me in a burning lake,
And tie me with a tether"—
He turned him round, a manlier form
Ne'er trod the land in leather.
"And some," he said, "add horns, and give
A tail both lang and swinging,
And sooty curls, like a tup's head
,
When it is at the singeing."
"I see, and I jalouse," quo' John,
"Ye're no the thing ye should be;
But fiend may care—I'll tell ye mair,
There's few sae gude's they could be."
Loud laughed the stranger—cried, "That's gude!
Ye are a merry chap,
Can take a joke, and pass a joke;
I see ye're up to trap.
"So come and work and bide wi' me
While Winter wears her cloak;
This is the wide way to my home,
I see the chimneys smoke."
"Aweel," quo' John, "the bargain's made"—
He gaured his tools play clink,
And took a stride, and said aside,
"He seems to have the chink."
The first mile was of gude hard road,
The second was of mire;
John floundered on—cried, "Deil ma' care!
He keeps a rousing fire."
The third mile was a weary waste,
Beside a raging flood—
The fourth mile was a way that went
Right through a gloomy wood.
The trees stood there like sapless shapes,
That seemed as they wou'd speak;
A gray smoke crawled along the ground,
John swore 'twas brimstone reek.
A rill ran trickling 'mongst the trees,
And glowed as glows the brass
When from the melting pot it runs—
It seemed to singe the grass.
There gleamed a light along the ground
That round its rays did toss,
Like Willie's lantern once that led
Me moist through Lochermoss.
"There has been thunder here," said John;
"I see the lightning's scars;
But where the mischief is the moon,
Wi' her unnumbered stars?"
"My firmament it owns no star,
And has nor sun nor moon;
And yet my dwelling shines as bright
As shines the sun at noon."
John cocked his ee, and wi' his hand
He strove his sight to clear,
"If there's a rum ane in the land,
I'm bothered but he's here."
John passed his right hand o'er a brow
That seemed in doubt to labour—
"I wish I were in Aberdeen;
He seems a kittle neighbour."
They came unto a mansion huge,
John's friend nor calls nor hollos,
But stamped his foot—the ground it reeled,
As when the thunder bellows.
He stamped his foot—the mansion large
Its gate wide open flings,
And takes them in as takes the hen
The brood aneath her wings.
"I've roamed o'er Ireland wide," quo' John,
"And England, too, on tramp;
But this cowes a'—there's neither star,
Nor candle-light, nor lamp.
"And what wild shape is that wi' horns,
In its black tail a sting is;
I've seen lang-nebbit things, but nought
Like that," quo' Johnnie Menzies.
"These are my servants—this my hame—
Yon is my burning throne;
This is the pit, and I'm auld Cloots."
"I guessed as much," quo' John.
"That lang-backed fiend who comes this way,
He brings to me in squadrons
The prime o' earth; yon dun one dips
Them in my cleansing caudrons.
"The sword, the law, the poison cup,
The guillotine, the gallows,
And woman's wiles"—" I'll swear," quo' John,
"They bring ye clever fallows!"
"Ay, we have rank—look there!" A hole
Yawned blacker than the steerage
Of Leith's grim smacks. John peeped and cried,
"Here's sundry of the peerage!"
A wee fiend wi' a ladle stood,
And fed them all by turns;
"Take that for poisoning Chatterton—
Sup that for starving Burns."
John glowered in gladness, and he leugh—
"Weel done, wee deil," he muttered;
"Give them a dose of brimstone brose,
And give them't het and buttered."
John's friend here, with an aspect grave,
Said, "Cut yere speech more nice;
Be pure in word, and gross in deed—
There's decency in vice."
John glowered into another hole,
Where harpies stood for jailors—
Away like army tailors.
Old Nick looked in, and smiled, and said,
"With such the world is swarming,
For knowledge, like Prince Julian's beard,
Is populous with vermin!"
John peeped into another hole,
A cry rose loud and furious,
"Let no light in, thou heretic"—
It cured him of the curious.
"My son," quoth Satan, "heed them not,
They live best in the dark:
Time flies apace—souls come in shoals,
And we maun to our wark."
John Menzies "tween twa lasses stood,
On earth they had been queens—
"To wark!" said John, and fidged and leugh,
"I marvel what he means!"
John Menzies nigh twa spirits stood—
One was a learned clerk,
And one a justice. "Fiends!" quo' John,
"Is this a place for wark?"
"My son," quoth Satan, "purge your speech,
Fit for a learned ear;
Such words are rude—be smooth of mood,
There's reverend people here."
"Weel, what's your will wi' me?" said John,
For I was bred to whunstane
And tempered lime—I never trowed
To lay a trowel on brunstane."
"My will," quo' Clootie, "take thy tools,
And furnaces build three,
For purging sundry sorts of sin—
Their names I'll tell to thee.
"The first is insolence of wealth—
The second is the pride
Of vulgar violence—the third
Is worse than all beside.
"It is the sin which shuts the sight
When lights of knowledge shine:
So take your tools." John's face grew red,
As crystal glows with wine.
"Were I to take my tools," quo' John,
"I'd make right crooked wark;
Am I a monk, think ye, or mole,
To labour in the dark?"
Nick pulled a tailor from his perch,
Lit him, and fanned him prime—
John dashed his hammer down, and cried,
"I canna see a styme!"
Nick caught a new-come quean—she squeeled;
"Be mute, ye flaunting limmer,"
Quo' he, "and lend us light." "I vow,"
Cried John, "its just a glimmer."
Nick laughed, and said, "I thought so. Lo!
Here, come my choicest spunks:"
John looked, and through the darkness came
A troop of jolly monks.
He nabbed the foremost ane, and said,
"Though this be but a splinter
Of Spain's fat church, I'll pledge my word,
He'll burn a Lapland winter!"
Nick tossed him up, and like a torch
He flamed. As one delirious
Wi' joy, John wrought, and muttered oft,
"He burns, and spitters furious."
All cried, "A light—a splendid light!"
And clanked their brazen sandals;
For all was bright, as if he'd light
Ten thousand dipped candles.
John wrought and wrought, and better wrought,
And still the light burned prime;
"It never sets," quo' John; "and how
Am I to keep my time?"
John wrought and wrought, and muttered whiles,
"Wow but it burns fu' bonnie;
There's nae sic light in Aberdeen,
For either love or money."
John wrought his darke, and wiped his brow,
And said, "Now, Symmie, trow me,
The wark's done weel—be a gude deil,
And dinna try to do me."
"Ye've wrought your wark, John Menzies, weel,
Its right and tight and nice,"
Quo' Nick; "I'll now baste haggard sin
Wi' fat and jolly vice.
"Ye've wrought your work, Jolin Menzies, weel,
Its right and tight and sound,
Sae there's your wage in good red gold
Coin, heavy, large, and round."
"I've wrought sax weeks," said John, "and do
Think on this sultry clime;
A groat a-day for grog, and then
There was some overtime."
"Man, have a conscience," quoth old Nick,
"Ye lost sax hours carousing
Wi' twa fair queans frae Aberdeen—
Then there was three days' bousing.
"With yon wild lads from gay Dumfries,
Dunfermline town, and Newry;
Ye've lost three days and sax lang hours,
If it were tried by jury."
"Now, cannie Cloots, and Symmie dear,"
Quo' John, wi' speech like honey,
"I've wrought your work, and wrought it weel,
Sae hand me owre the money.
"Ye came a broken bankrupt here—
I hate all tick and trust;
My siller works while I'm asleep,
Sae knuckle down the dust."
Nick grimly smiled, and said, "There—there"—
John roared as soon's he felt it,
"Its heavy and red-het," quo' John,
"What mischief made ye melt it?"
He took his tools in wrath, and cried,
"If ye wad coin in guineas
Your cloven foot and baith ye're horns,
I'd scorn't," quo' Johnnie Menzies.
"Quo' Cloots, though ye're a chield o' spunk,"
He fair and fleeching spoke,
"Ye're northern skin is far owre thin
To stand a pleasant joke!"
"A joke," said Johnnie, holding up
His right hand flayed and smoking,
"My hale loof's to a gloyder gane:
I winna stand sic jokin,"
"My son," quoth Satan, "ye might learn
From your north-country carritch,
Man's wrath cools, and comes to itself,
Like Will Macgibbon's parritch."
"Your son!" quo' Johnnie, and he sneered,
And proudly looked and hie,
"Can your black bairn time kindred claim
Wi' man as white as me?"
"Yes, thou'rt a brother of the worms,
On earth thy day is dated
From dust—and, John, I speak it free,
Ye might be worse related."
"Related!" John set forth his leg,—
"That word were better spared;
My brither is a gauger gude,
My uncle is a laird.
"My cousin is a critic keen,
And lives by wise opinions
On men and books—he'll write you down,
You and your dark dominions.
"He wrote Montgomery down—he wrote
Down Coleridge, Lamb, and Byron—
Quenched Wordsworth's light—stayed Southey's flight—
Bound Moore in triple iron.
"He plucked fair Fancy by the nose,
Froze up all noble passion;
Wrote Genius down—and now he'll write
Your fires out of fashion."
"Enough, enough," cried Satan; "John,
Pray, in your speech have patience—
Ye've proved the pedigree—I see
We stand as blood relations.
"Of posts of honour pick and choose,
Look round, there is a dozen;
I wish to do all honour to
Thy mighty Cousin's Cousin."
"I own, good cousin Cloots," quo' John,
"Your offers smooth and fair;
But look—there's fires at my right hand,
And ten times hotter there.
"And then your dubs of darkness too,
Are no that safe to swim in;
There's far owre mony masters here,
And far owre mony women.
"Your dinner broth—if it be broth,
Is black as that of Sparta;
And then your flaying taws—have ye
Ne'er heard of Magna Charta?
"Your private cells, whence issue yells,
Are far mair than suspicious;
Besides I'm tender of the heart,
And not at all ambitious."
O, fierce of spirit—hot of head,
Are they who work in fire;
Nick proved the proverb true, his face
O'erflamed with living ire.
He caught up Johnnie by the sleeve,
And round and round he swung him—
Then whistled and cried, "Plotcock!" thrice,
And high and high he flung him.
Away flew Johnnie, leaving quick
Nick's fiery cleugh afar;
And now he drops in Aberdeen,
As drops a shooting star.
Out wife and maiden ran:
"O, marvels they are manifold,
For here's a flying man!"
One came with clap of hand and cry,
Another with a prayer,
"What news frae the celestial land,
And how long were ye there?"
"Sax weeks I lived," quo' John, and groaned,
"Right glad I'm to get back—
I dwelt wi' angels hand and glove,
But they were maistly black!"
An old and coifless carline cried,
"Hegh, sirs! what tales ye bring us;
Let me see this romancing loon—
Losh, bairns, its Johnnie Menzies.
"Up, up, and rin, ye ne'er-do-weel!
Went ye, O wicked rhymer!
To get auld Cloots to mend your wit,
And make yere lies sublimer?
"Rise up and rin—start, neer-do-weel!
Art come from hell to tempt us
Wi' glosing tales to love auld Nick?
Rin if ye're compos-mentis."
Then up got Johnnie Menzies syne,
And he ran down the stair,
And all the wives o' Aberdeen
Were hinging in his hair.