Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man. By the gods of the ancients!' Glenriddel replies, Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 'I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More," And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.' Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend, Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. * See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. VOL. XXXVIII. вь To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; [fame, But for wine and for welcome not more known to Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray, The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy ; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er; Bright Phœbus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did. Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage; A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine! He left the foul business to folks less divine. The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend? Though fate said-a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phœbus-and down fell the knight. Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink: 'Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! 'But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 'Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime! Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with 'Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; |