THE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUHAPPLE. NORTH. Stop, stop, Beelzebub, and read aloud that bit of paper you have in your fist. Yes, sir. BEELZEBUB. SHEPHERD.. Lord sauf us, what a voice! They're my ain verses, too. Whisht, whisht 1 BEELZEBUB sings "The Great Muckle Village of Balmaquhapple," to the tune of "The Sodger Laddie." D'YE ken the big village of Balmaquhapple, The great muckle village of Balmaquhapple? 'Tis steep'd in iniquity up to the thrapple, An' what's to become o' poor Balmaquhapple ? Fling a' aff your bannets, an' kneel for your life, fo'ks, And pray to St Andrew, the god o' the Fife fo’ks; And thus you may cry on sic needfu' occasion: "O, blessed St Andrew, if e'er ye could pity fo'k, Frae drinking an' leeing, an' flyting an' swearing, An' cheating an' stealing; O, grant them redemption, "There's Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne'er to need ye, it "There's Cappie the cobbler, an' Tammie the tinman, An' Dickie the brewer, an' Peter the skinman, An' Geordie our deacon, for want of a better, An' Bess, wha delights in the sins that beset her. O, worthy St Andrew, we canna compel ye, If these gang to heaven, we'll a' be sae shockit, "But for a' the rest, for the women's sake, save them, Their bodies at least, an' their sauls, if they have them; But it puzzles Jock Lesly, an' sma' it avails, If they dwell in their stamocks, their heads, or their tails. NORTH (aside to TICKLER.) Hogg's, bad. SHEPHERD. What's that you twa are speaking about? Speak up! NORTH. These fine lines must be preserved, James. Pray, are they allegorical? SHEPHERD. Preserve's, what a dracht's in that lum! &c.NOCTES AMBROSIANÆ, No. XXVI. Christopher might well ask such a question, for I cannot conceive what could induce me to write a song like this. It must undoubtedly have some allusion to circumstances which I have quite forgot. CALLUM-A-GLEN. THE air of this Jacobite song is to be found in Smith's Scottish Minstrel. It was first published by Captain Fraser. WAS ever old warrior of suffering so weary? Was ever the wild beast so bay'd in his den? The southron bloodhounds lie in kennel so near me, That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen. My sons are all slain, and my daughters have left me, No child to protect me, where once there were ten; My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me, And wo to the grey hairs of Callum-a-Glen! The homes of my kinsmen are blazing to heaven, |