But now he makes our hearts fu sad,

He takes the field wi his White Cockade.

I’ll sell my rock, my reel, my tow,

My gude gray mare and hawkit cow;

To buy mysel a tartan plaid,

To follow the boy wi the White Cockade.

SCOTS PROLOGUE FOR MRS. SUTHERLAND’S BENEFIT NIGHT, SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE DUMFRIES

What needs this din about the town o Lon’on,

How this new play an that new sang is comin?

Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?

Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported?

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,

Will bauldly try to gie us plays at hame?

For Comedy abroad he need na toil,

A knave and fool are plants of every soil.

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece

To gather matter for a serious piece:

There’s themes enow in Caledonian story,

Would show the tragic Muse in a’ her glory.

Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell

How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?

Where are the Muses fled, that could produce

A drama worthy of the name of Bruce?

How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword

’Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord,

And after monie a bloody, deathless doing,

Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of Ruin!

O, for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene,

To paint the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!

Vain ev’n th’omnipotence of female charms,

’Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms!

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:

A woman (tho the phrase may seem uncivil),

As able – and as cruel – as the Devil!

One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page,

But Douglasses were heroes every age:

And tho your fathers, prodigal of life,

A Douglas followed to the martial strife,

Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land

Would take the Muses’ servants by the hand,

Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them,

And where ye justly can commend, commend them;

And aiblins, when they winna stand the test,

Wink hard, and say: ‘The folks hae done their best.’

Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be caition,

Ye’ll soon hae Poets o the Scottish nation,

Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,

And warsle Time, an lay him on his back!

For us and for our stage, should ony spier,

‘Whase aught thae chiels maks a’ this bustle here?’

My best leg foremost, I’ll set up my brow,

We have the honour to belong to you!

We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like,

But like good mithers, shore before ye strike;

And gratefu still, I trust, ye’ll ever find us,

For gen’rous patronage, and meikle kindness,

We’ve got frae a’ professions, sorts an ranks:

God help us! we’re but poor – ye’se get but thanks!