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CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME

BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD
SPRING

This imitation of an old Jacobite ditty was written on the appearance, in the Frith of Forth, of the fleet which conveyed his Majesty King George the Fourth to Scotland, in August, 1822, and was published as a broadside. The reader will recall the enthusiasm of Scott over this royal visit as set forth graphically by Lockhart in Chapter lvi. of the Life.

PART FIRST

THE news has flown frae mouth to mouth,
The North for ance has banged the South;
The deil a Scotsman 's die o' drouth,
Carle, now the King's come!

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I've seen the day they would been scaured
Wi' the Tolbooth or wi' the Guard,
Or maybe wud hae some regard
For Jamie Laing -

The Water-hole was right weel wared
On sic a gang.

But whar's the gude Tolbooth gane now? Whar's the auld Claught, wi' red and blue?

The village maid steals through the shade, Mysell being in the public line,

Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.

I look for howfs I kenned lang syne,
Whar gentles used to drink gude wine
And eat cheap dinners;
But deil a soul gangs there to dine
Of saints or sinners!

The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know But where is County Guy?

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Fortune's and Hunter's gane, alas !
And Bayle's is lost in empty space;
And now if folk would splice a brace
Or crack a bottle,
They gang to a new-fangled place
They ca' a Hottle.

The deevil hottle them for Meg!
They are sae greedy and sae gleg,
That if ye 're served but wi' an egg
And that's puir picking -
In comes a chiel and makes a leg,
And charges chicken!

'And wha may ye be,' gin ye speer,

That brings your auld - warld claven here?'

Troth, if there 's onybody near
That kens the roads,
I'll haud ye Burgundy to beer
He kens Meg Dodds.

I came a piece frae west o' Currie;
And, since I see you 're in a hurry,

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THE sages for authority, pray, look Seneca's morals or the copy-book The sages to disparage woman's power, Say beauty is a fair but fading flower; I cannot tell- I've small philosophyYet if it fades it does not surely die, But, like the violet, when decayed in bloom, Survives through many a year in rich perfame.

Witness our theme to-night; two ages gone, A third wanes fast, since Mary filled the throne.

Brief was her bloom with scarce one sunny day Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotheringay:

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