For three-quarters of a century, this poetical narration has been one of the most popular ditties in Scotland. Purporting to describe in simple verse the miseries produced by intemperance, its publication in the present slightly abridged form cannot, it is hoped, fail to prove generally acceptable. The author, Hector Macneill, was born at Rosebank, near Roslin, in 1746, and he died in Edinburgh in 1818: Will and Jean was first published in
Such was Jean when Will first, mawing,
Spied her on a thrawart beast;
Flew like fire, and just when fa’ing,
Kepp'd her on his manly breast.
Soon they lo'ed, and soon were buckled;
Nane took time to think and rue :
Youth and worth and beauty coupled-
Love had never less to do.
Three short years flew by fu' canty,*
Jean and Will thought them but ane;
Ilka day brought joy and plenty,
Ilka year a dainty wean.
Will wrought sair, but aye wi' pleasure,
Jean, the hale day, spun and sang-
Will and weans, her constant treasure,
Blest wi' them, nae day seemed lang.
Neat her house, and, oh! to busk aye
Ilk sweet bairn was a' her pride!
But at this time NEWS AND WHISKY
Sprang na up at ilk road-side.
Luckless was the hour when Willie,
Home returning frae the fair,
Owretook Tam, a neighbour billie,
Six miles frae their hame and mair.
On they travelled, warm and drouthy,
Cracking owre the news in town;
The mair they cracked, the mair ilk youthy
Prayed for drink to wash news down.
Fortune, wha but seldom listens
To poor merit's modest prayer,
And on fools heaps needless blessings,
Hearkened to our drouthy pair.
In a holm, whose bonnie burnie
Whimpering rowed its crystal flood,
Near the road, where travellers turn aye,
Neat and beild, a cot-house stood.
Up the gavel-end, thick spreadin',
Crept the clasping ivy green ;
Back owre firs the high craigs cleadin',
Raised a' round a cozie screen.
Down below, a flowery meadow
Joined the burnie's rambling line,
Here it was Meg Howe, the widow,
This same day set up her sign.
Brattling down the brae, and near its
Bottom, Will first marvelling sees—
'PORTER, ALE, and BRITISH SPIRITS,'
Painted bright between twa trees.
'Here, then, Tam, here's walth for drinking; (Wha can this new comer be?')
'Hoot,' quo' Tam, 'there's drouth in thinking-Let's in, Will, and syne we'll see.'
Nae mair time they took to speak or
Think of ought but reaming jugs,
Till three times in humming liquor
Ilk lad deeply laid his lugs.
Slokened now, refreshed and talking,
In cam Meg (weel skilled to please)— 'Sirs, ye're surely tired wi' walkingYe maun taste my bread and cheese.'
'Thanks,' quo' Will; 'I cannot tarry ;
Pit mirk night is setting in;
Jean, poor thing! 's her lane, and eerie-
I maun to the road and rin.'
'Hoot,' quo' Tam, 'what's a' the hurry?
Hame's now scarce a mile o' gate-
Come! sit down-Jean winna weary:
Dear me, man, it's no sae late!'
After ae gill cam anither
Meg sat cracking 'tween them twa ;
Bang! cam in Mat Smith and 's brither,
Geordie Brown and Sandy Shaw.
Neibours wha ne'er thought to meet here,
Now sat down wi' double glee;
Ilka gill grew sweet and sweeter
Will got hame 'tween twa and three.
Jean, poor thing, had lang been greetin';
Will, next morning, blamed Tam Lowes;
But, ere lang, a weekly meetin'
Was set up at Maggy Howe's.
Maist things ha'e a sma' beginning,
But wha kens how things will end?
Weekly clubs are nae great sinning,
If folk ha'e enough to spend.
But nae man o' sober thinking,
E'er will say that things can thrive,
If there's spent in weekly drinking
What keeps wife and weans alive.
Drink maun aye ha'e conversation,
Ilka social soul allows;
But in this reforming nation,
Wha can speak without the NEWS?
Maggie's club, wha could get nae light
On some things that should be clear,
Found ere lang the fault, and ae night
Clubbed, and got the Gazetteer.*
Twice a week to Maggie's cot-house,
Swift by post the papers fled;
Thoughts spring up, like plants in hothouse,
Every time the news are read.
'Mid this sitting up and drinking,
Gathering a' the news that fell,
Will, wha wasna yet past thinking,
Had some battles wi' himsel.
On ae hand, drink's deadly poison
Bore ilk firm resolve awa';
On the ither, Jean's condition
Rave his very heart in twa.
Weel he saw her smothered sorrow,
Weel he saw her bleaching cheek; Marked the smile she strave to borrow, When, puir thing, she couldna speak!
Jean, at first, took little heed o'
Weekly clubs 'mang three or four;
Thought, kind soul! that Will had need o'
Heartsome hours when wark was owre.
But when now that nightly meetings
Sat and drank frae six till twa-
* The Edinburgh Gazetteer, a violent opposition paper; 1793-4.
When she found that hard-earned gettings
Now on drink were thrown awa';
Saw her Will, wha ance sae cheerie
Raise ilk morning wi' the lark,
Now grown useless, dowf, and sweer aye
To look near his farm or wark;
Saw him tine his manly spirit,
Healthy bloom, and sprightly e'e;
And o' love and hame grown wearit,
Nightly frae his family flee-
Wha could blame her heart's complaining?
Wha condemn her sorrows meek?
Or the tears that now ilk e'ening
Bleached her lately crimsoned cheek?
Will, wha lang had rued and swithered
(Aye ashamed o' past disgrace),
Marked the roses as they withered
Fast on Jeanie's lovely face.
But, alas! when habit's rooted,
Few ha'e pith the root to pu';
Will's resolves were aye nonsuited-
Promised aye, but aye got fou.
Things at length draw near an ending-
Cash runs out; Jean, quite unhappy,
Sees that Will is now past mending,
Tines a' heart, and takes a-drappy!
Robin Burns, in mony a ditty,
Loudly sings in whisky's praise; Sweet his sang!-the mair's the pity E'er on it he wared sic lays.
O' a' the ills poor Caledonia
E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste,
Brewed in hell's black Pandemonia,
Whisky's ill will scaith her maist!
Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace-
Wha in neighbouring town or farm?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,
Deadly strength was in his arm!
When he first saw Jeanie Miller,
Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?
Thousands had mair braws and siller,
But were ony half sae fair?
* Loses heart and takes to dram-drinking.
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