ROBIN THE GARDENER’S

New Zealand Colonist and Port Nicholson Advertiser, Volume I, Issue 3, 9 August 1842, Page 3

ROBIN THE GARDENER’S

UEfcrECTFU’ ADDRESS, AN* HUMBLE ADVICE,TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE GOVERNOR, THEIR HONOURS O* THE COUNCIL. HEch ! hech ! gude Sirs, what’s a’ this awfu’ clatter, That soughs frae Eden's Mount o’er lan’ an’ water; It reached us here in Mercury’s bonny dell, S’if wafted by the hefel-winged qhiel’ hirasel’. The elements were makin' sic a roht, Some thocht that the Volcano had broke out; Some that the Queen had got anither bairn, But the right cause fient ane o’ us could learn: Till some bit boat cam’ streight in frae the toun, An’ then, the news gaed briskly roun’ an’ roun’; That a’ the souns we heard frae glen an’ hill, Were nature’s poeans for death o' the Bill: The cursed Bill, that would hae dune sic scaith, An’ worriet mony an’ honest chiel’ to death. O you! ye three ! how could ye do sic evil, As mak’ a Bill t’wad fricht the vera deevil ? A Sailor ane, wha on th’embattled deck, To De’il or Dutchman ne’er wad deign to strike; Wha, wi’ the seaman’s rough an’ careless mood, Can never want the sailor’s traits o’ gude. A Lawyer heist, an’ ane baith bauld an’ clever, Wha wad outwrangle Auld Nick, or his brither, (Gin that he had ane); should na use his skill, To mak’ folkk rin red wud, an’ use them ill. The third's a chiel’t kdn but little o’, An' so say nocht about him con or pro; But gin Lavater liv’d till nOo tae ax, They’d say that face is stamp’d wi’ merles and placks.-

There’s ane ca’d Johnnie Russell, lives i’ Gourock, (I’ll wad a sov’reign tae a wither’d sourock, Ye dinna ken whar that is) ; an’ fient ane, Wi’ gab or pen, can Johnnie come abune. Noo Johnnie’s written till a frien’ out here, A lang epistle, statin’ strftught an’ clear, How ye might douce an’ wisely play your pirns, Without ye grippin’ puif folks i’ your gims. We wad do nought whilk o' the servil savours, We’ei* nae lick-spittles for west-kintry favours ; But we'd request, like douce an’ weel-faured men, Ye’d claw yer pows, look O’er yer plans again. An’ gin ye get a baud o’ Johnnie’s letter, (The Laird, I’m thinkin’, has’t), the de’il a better Plan or advice ye’ll get, than there ye’ll fin’; — Then buckle till’t, ’twill save an unco din. Ye maunna just believe in Doctor Lang (Bow), Tho’, by my faith, he draws an unco strang bow ; Wha says that a’ our folks, but ane or twa, Are naething else but outcasts o’ the law. But four lang days’ sojourn wi’ Gibbie Mair, Wha gied hirti clashes that he well could spare; The whilk the Doctor, in his pocket buke, Wi’ mony a sneerin’ laugh at Gibbie, took; Was a’ the Doctor had to foun' his letters, Whare he, wi’ Christian love , traduced his betters,— Betters in heart an’ min’, and a’ that can Do honour unto Him, gi’e worth to man. Did Gibbie to his learned frien’ then*tell, (A rin-away bit carpenter himsel’), That monie a dacent, honest chiel’ was there, Altho’ o’ rakehellies we had our share. That monie a ane, wi’ routh o’ cash an’ gear, Had bought waste grun’ ’twas neither gude nor dear j An’ spent their means in this new cursed kintry, Wherewi’ they might hae lived amaist like gentry. An’ monie a ane wha lang had braved the seas, An’ thought to sit doun here just at their ease, An’ bocht their bits o’ grun' in times unchancy, When clubs an’ tomahawks mixed i’ the dance aye. When thae confounded, lang red-shankit sinners, Thocht little aff a chiel’ to mak their dinners; When e’en your very life you couldna awn, — ’Twas then wi’ life, as noo it is wi' lan’. An’ when their bent led to a raid or splore', Nae Highlan’ chief was faster wi’ claymore, Than wad thae simple chiel’s, wi’ muckle bat, Come o’er your haffits wi* nae gentle clat. Their glowrin’ een an’ outspread tongues, the sight ■yad maist ha’e made ye swarf wi’ very fricht; An’ 'then their deevilish rush, an’ awsome yell, Ye’d thought they were a pack broke loose frae hell. An’ faith, whatever they asked, when they were at it, The diel was o’er Jock Wabster till they got it; To lift your tatties an’ to claut your pigs, Was naething to thir wily deevils’ rigs. They’d burn your wee bit house about your lugs, An’ little think o’ shootin’ hens an’ dugs; Syne tell ye (curse them !) see, I needs maun ban, Just gang an’ live on cockles gin ye can. . An’ when this happened, where was the remeid, Ye had to pouch up baith th’ affront an’ deed; The Mission folks ower busy savin’ sowls, Cared little how wi’ others rowed the bowls. 'i An’ now, great Sirs, but chiefly Mr. Spain, Just tak a thocht, an’ mak the case your ain; How wad ye like frae your hit cozie bielin’ To be houkit out, an no left e’en a’ shielin’. To coor your head in frae the win’ an’ Ai, Just think o’ that, gude folks, an’ MrTSpaih ; An’ clashed, the Lord kens where, ’mang stuntedbraikens, But dinna do’it, or faiks ye’ll get your paikin’s. Our twa gude sturdy champions I maun pguse, Tho’ course the rythme an’ ploughman-like the lays: , Confound that Martin wi’ his days an’ Hatch, \ Gude Lord,, he s maist made me bring out a batch. Wi’ chiel’s like Earp I’d sail the world about, An', faith, our Porter is real gude brown stout; But for our J. R. C. I needs maun say, Like our French lad here, that he’s toujours-pret;

| Ready to v shiffc to the maist sunny’side, Ready to swirl about wl’ win’ an'.'tide, • Reddy , maybe, to do what’s right, but still Reddy to knuckle to a great man’s will. ; <- An’ neist to you, our much respeckit chief, Wha see’st the deepnin’gloom', nae doubt, wi’*grief, That’s fast o’erspreadin’ this ance sunny isle, . I wad mysel’ address, though gowks may smile. . O sailors’ ways I little ken about, But, hech ! I noticed on the passage out, As lang’s the Captain walked the deck, in sight. The ship gaed straught, an’ a’ the ropes were fight; But when below the mates wi’ lasses daffin’, The steersman Whiles wi’ passengers a-laughin’., The yards wad get agee, and slack the braces, j The sea ahint aye makin’ muckle SS. And, hech ! the mates at first had muckle sway, Because the captain gied them their ain way ; Until they got sae uppish and camsteerie, Whate’er he bid them do they did contrary. But when it came to this, lie changed their tune, And garred them walk the deck, baith up an’ doun. Gin your case is the same, ye’ve this gude plaister, Just gar your mates be mates, an’ you be master. Take charge o’ your own deck, and blow, sweet breeze ! The stately Ulster nobly breasts the seas ; And tho’ the stonn may rage, and breakers roar, You’ll work your bark aff e’en this dead lea shore. Then with a favourin’ breeze aft’ followin’ sea, The shoals of discontent left far” a-lea, In safety steer 'mid your own sftnny isles, With blessings followed, met wi’ nought but smiles.

More Haste, Worse Speed !—ln 1837, a candidate for parliamentary honors proceeded by post to the election going on at St. Brieu. He was preceded by a courier, who, equally impatient as his master, made such merciless use of his whip and spurs, that his poor Ijeast of a horse made (as they sometimes say of young ladies) a faux pas, fell down and grievously wounded himself. As for the “ candidate,” lie gave his name and address, and requested those around to attend to the wounded animal, and to dress his hurts, after which he continued his journey to the electoral college, where, notwithstanding, he was defeated. We suppose that his political occupations shortened his memory', for the postmaster was obliged to go and claim and even to bring an action against him, for the value of his horse, "killed,” as he alleged, “by an election race.” The candidate, on the contrary, maintained that he ought rather to demand an indemnity from the postmaster, inasmuch as he had, in consequence of the accident, experienced a delay which had proved fatal to his election. The Tribunal, after hearing a variety of evidence, condemned the defendant to pay M. Lochalard (the postmaster) 20Of. damages, as well as the costs of the action. Festina lente !—Paris Paper.