A lad brought up in Highland vale
Who did believe each fairy tale,
Which his grannie oft’ to him told,
And of witches and of warlocks bold,
And he himself would often pour
For hours reading wizard lore.
One night his mother to the town
In a hurry sent him down,
So o’er his pony he did stride,
And to the town did fearful ride,
He thought that demons they would rush
On him from every rock and bush,
And as he rode through the quarry
It did great increase his flurry,
He felt that fiends with fiercest hate
Would surely there seal fast his fate.
But town he reached and ’neath his vest
He parcel pressed close to his breast,
The pony now he mounts once more
For to pass quarry as before,
But, alas, at that fatal spot
He heard a gun, he was elf shot,
He felt that from his breast a flood
Was pouring down of his heart’s blood,
But he clung fast to pony’s back,
Though loss of blood his frame did rack,
But in spite of his alarms
He resolved to die in mother’s arms,
And when he reached his own door
He said that he was drenched in gore,
From bullet hole all in his breast.
His father opened up his vest,
And he did sadly fear the worst
But found yeast bottle had but burst.
Gordon Cumming—The Lion Hunter
Some thirty years ago, in conversation with an old sea captain who had visited or voyaged to all quarters of the globe, he was denouncing fiercely the degeneracy of these costermonger times. He said there was a book in our town library which was a tissue of falsehood from beginning to end, and that there never existed such a man as Gordon Cumming, the Lion Hunter. I told the old gentleman that I had seen the Lion Hunter hundreds of times and conversed with him in the woods of Aylter, and that be was a descendant of the Royal Comyn, one of whom was killed by King Robert the Bruce, and that I had seen the magnificent person of Gordon Cumming in the garb of old Gaul, successfully punish a huge prize fighter who kept grossly insulting him during the excitement of a general election—when Cumming’s uncle, Major Cumming Bruce, was running for member, this Major being father-in-law to Lord Elgin, formerly Governor of Canada. I also told him that Hugh Millar was a warm friend of the Lion Hunter’s mother, as she was distinguished both as a geologist and a botanist, and that Livingstone, the great traveller, was a great admirer and intimate friend of the Hunter. After his return to Britain he exhibited himself and his magnificent trophies throughout all the cities and towns of Britain and Ireland. His own noble figure in full Highland costume was perhaps no insignificant part of the exhibition. Barnum afterwards secured the noble specimens of hides and horns and monstrous tusks for his New York museum.23
Now the youth in fertile Moray
Do in Gordon Cumming glory,
Bold lion hunter-first who made
With Africa tribes successful trade;
First in those wilds to fire a gun,
While he the mighty trophies won.
Book Agent Story
An American Yarn ground into rhyme in our Poetical Mill.
As we have given several humorous Scottish stories in verse we will venture to trespass on your good nature by giving an American specimen. The scene is laid in the suburbs of New York. It was a prose tale, and we fancy we have not diminished the height, breadth or depth of the humour by grinding it in our poetical mill and having it flow out in rhyme.
There is a man, his name is Brown,
He lives in a suburban town
And has an office in the city,
His misfortunes you will pity.
His mind it was on stocks and change,
He cared not for things new or strange;
But agent managed him to hook
And sold to him a costly book.
Brown cared not for those glorious names—
Died for religion in the flames;
Now he felt agent was a Tartar
For selling him a book of martyr.
The agent knew it would make strife,
But sold another to his wife;
She did not know that Brown had bought,
And agent on her easy wrought.
Approaching her with winning smile
He poor woman did beguile.
He made her believe without a doubt
No Christian could do without
This book, which would all inspire
With spark of celestial fire,
With feelings like the first martyr
Who had died for Christian charter.
When Brown did home return at night
His wife, to add to his delight,
Resolved that she would, after tea,
Get chatting with her husband free
And tell him of fine book she bought;
Of trouble fresh she never thought,
But she noticed a gloomy frown
On the brow of her husband Brown,
But thought when I my purchase tell
Those dark clouds they will dispel;
She said, my dear, I bought martyr,
He looked as if he her could quarter.
And said the scoundrel sold me book;
Out of the window then he did look
And saw the agent haste to train;
He tried to stop him, but in vain;
Smith then was passing in spring wagon,
And he had his trotting nag on;
He told him to stop book agent;
His escape for to prevent,
Smith told him Brown wanted him;
But agent-nothing daunted him;
Said he: He only wants to barter
With me for my book of Martyr.
If thats all, said Smith, with quick dash,
Give me his book, and here’s your cash;
Book agent
