Dear Sawney,- I sit doon to writeA screed to you by candle light.In answer to your friendly letter--I ne'er had ane that pleased me better.Your letter cam by the Express,Eight shillins carriage--naethin' less.You'll think this awfu'--'tis, nae doot--(A dram's twa shillins here about);I'm sure if Tamie Ha'--the buddyWas here wi' his three-legged cuddyHe hauls ahent him wi' a tether,He'd beat the Express, faith a'thegither--To speak o't i' the truest way,'Tis Barnard's Cariboo Delay.
You'd maybe like to ken what payMiners get here for ilka day.Jist twa pound sterling, sure as death--It should be four--atweeh us baith.For gin ye count the cost o' livin'There's naething left to gang and come on;And should you bide the winter here,The shoppy-buddies'll grab your gear,And little wark ane finds to doA' the lang dreary winter thro'.
Sawney--had ye your tatties here,And neeps and carrots--dinna speerWhat price--tho' I could tell ye weel,Ye might think me a leein' chiel;Nae, lad, ye ken I never lee,Ye a'believe that fa's frae me;Neeps, tatties, carrots--by the pun'Jist twa for a penny--try for funHow muckle 'twad be for a ton.
Aitmeal four skillins, flour is twa,And milk's no to be had ava.For at this season o' the yearThere's naething for a coo up hereTo chaw her cud on--sae ye seeYe are far better aff than me--For while you're sittin' warm at hame,And suppin' parritch drooned in crame,The deil a drap o'milk hae I,But gobble up my parritch dry.Of course, I can get butter here,Twal shillin' a pund--it's far oure dear.Aye--a'thing sells at a lang price,Tea, coffee, sugar, bacon, rice,Four shillins a pund, and something mair,And e'en the weights are rather bare--Sae much for prices.
Noo for claims;And first a word about their names.Some folk were sae oppressed wi' wit,They cad' their claim by name "Coo--,"And tho' they struck the dirt by name,They ne'er struck pay dirt in their claim.Some ithers made a gae fine jokeAnd christen'd their bit ground "Dead Broke,"While some, to fix their fate at once,Ca'd their location "The Last Chance;"There's "Tinker," "Grizzly,"--losh, what names--There's "Prince o'Wales"--the best o'claims,There's "Beauregard" and "Never Sweat,"And scores o'ithers I forget--The "Richfield" and the "Montreal,"They say they struck the pay last fall--But will they strike it in the spring,Aye, Sawney, that's anither thing;But by-an'-bye they'll ken, nae doot,If they can pump their water oot.Some strike the bed-rock pitchin' in,And some the bed-rock canna win,But ne'er a color can they see,Until they saut it first a wee;And syne they tell to ilka man,They struck twa dollars to the pan.You'll see't in the Victoria PressAs twenty dollars--naething less.Aye, Sawney, here, a wee bit story,Gin aince it travels to Victoria,Is magnified a hundred fold.
The bed-rock here, doon there is gold;Some folks would manufacture leesTo mak' a bawbee on a cheese.Shame on the man who salts a claim,A man he is--but just in name--NO MANHOOD'S IN HIM, HE'S A CHEAT,A SMOOTH, DISSEMBLING HYPOCRITE,WHO, IF HE COULD BUT GAIN HIS END,WOULD E'EN DECEIVE HIS DEAREST FRIEND.
There is a set o' men up here,Wha never work thro' a' the year,A kind o' serpents, crawlin' snakes,That fleece the miner o' his stakes;They're gamblers--honest men some say,Tho its quite fair to cheat in play--IF IT'S NO KENT O'--I ne'er metAn honest man a gambler yet!O, were I Judge in Cariboo,I'd see the laws were carried thro',I'd hae the cairds o' every packTied up into a gunny sack,Wi' a' the gamblers chained thegither.And banished frae the creek forever.But, Sawney, there's anither clan,There's none o' them I'd ca' a man,The ca' them "jumpers"--my beliefIs--"jumper" simply means a thief;They jump folks' claims, and jump their lots,They jump the very pans and pots;But wait a wee--for a' this evil--Their friend 'll jump them, He's the deevil!
And sae ye think o' comin' here,And leavin' a' your guids and gear,Your wife, and bairns, and hame;Ah! Sawney! if ye wad listen to advice--And sae ye will, it ye be wise--This country's no for you ava'Sae bide at hame, and work awa',Ye mauna think we houk up gold,As ye the tatties frae the mould.Gude faith, ye'll maybe houk a twal mo'tAn' never even get a glisk o't!An' then, what comes o' us puir deevils?We get as thin and lean as weevils;O' wark we canna get a stroke,We're what they ca' out here "dead broke,"Which means we hinna e'en a groatTo line our stomach or our coat;Sae doon the country we maun gang,And this the burden o' our sangTo ilka ane that comes alang,"Freend, be advised, and turn aboot,For Cariboo is noo 'play'd out!'"
Noo, Sawney, I'll blaw oot the light,I'll finish this some ither night,I'll cast my coat and breeks, that's a',And sleep until the daylight daw.
Dear Sawney,--I noo tak the timeTo feenish out my thread o' rhyme,But as my bobbin's gettin' bare,I'll no can spin ye muckle mair.
An' sae ye're guid auld mither's dead,This aye keeps runnin' in my head.Eh, weel I mind the awfu' lickin'She gaed us twa, for pusie stickin'!Noo, even whan I think o' that,What gar'd her flyte sae 'boot a cat?An' it had worried oor she rabbit,An' feckly a' the young anes grabbit;But when ye're mither fand this out,She ca'd the cat a clarty brute,An' as she'd skelped us sae cruel,She fill'd our stamachs fu' o' gruel.Aye, Sawney, lad, auld folks maun dee,An' young' anes may--so let us beTwo doonright, honest, trustin' men,Syne we'll be ready noo or then.An' ye hae got anither bairn,Anither stane to haip the cairn,Aye, aye, for ilka ane that dees--There's ane, an' mavbe mair, that sees.Sae dander-headed Smiddy JockIs rivet'd wi' Maggie Locke!I canna think hoo she could mairySic a blethrin' harum-scairy;Some folks dislike what ithers like,An' some see guid in the warst tyke,Sae Maggie may see this in Jonnie,But, certes me, he is no bonnie!Ye ken I liked this lass fu' weelAn' thocht mysel' a happy chiel.Ah, I should ne'er had trusted Mag,She's like her mither Eve--the hag--Wha fell in love, lang time ago,Wi' that auld blacksmith doon below;Believin' a' his words were true,She put the aiple in her mou',An' whan auld Aidam she had gotten,They ate it, but they fand it rotten!They lost the guid, an' got the evil,A' thro' oor mither's bein' sae ceevil!Ye ken that like produces like,That bees are bred in a bee's byke.Sae evil doon frae Aidam ranA' thro' the veins o' every man,An' woman, too--SAE MAGGIE LOCKEFORGAT HER JEAMES, AND SPLICED WI' JOCK!
There are some women on this creek,Sae modest, and sae mild and meek!The deep red blush aye pents their cheek,They never swear but when they speak.Each ane's a mistress, too, ye'll find,To mak guid folks think that she's joinedIn honest wedlock unto one;"She's yours or any other man's!"But dinna fear, for me at least,I'll never mak mysel' a beast!But let this drap--"to err is human,"An' "Frailty, thy name is woman."
"Love in itsel' is very guid.But 'tis by nae means solid fuid"--Whan man and woman's tied thegither,They are made one till death does sever;So says the pastor--but is't true?Has Kate an' you the self same mou?Whan ye sit doon to eat betimes,Does this same mou' fill baith ye're waimes?It may be sae, but this I ken,Gif ye war ane, ye noo are ten;There's Jeames, and Sawney, Kate and Meg,An' Georgie with the crookit leg,There's Wull and Hairry, Shuse and Jock,Nae langer than his father's sock--An' noo, this other brat ye've got--Oh, Sawney! faigs, ye shud be shot!Oure mony bairns--oure mony cares--Oure mony saut and pepper hairs!TWA MAY MAK OOT TO LIVE AS ANEBY PICKIN' GAE CLOSE TO THE BANE,BUT WHAN THERE'S MAIR YE'LL FIND THIS TRUE,THAT ILKA ANE HAS GOT A MOU!
I'm glad to hear ye hae sic oats,And sold sae weel ye're sax fat stots;That a' gangs right aboot the fairm,That Tam's fee'd for anither term;An' that ye're pluin's no ahent,That ye could pay the Laird his rent.
As water's to a thirsty soul,Or drinkin' toddy frae a bowl--Wi' twa-three freens--sae is guid newsTo him wha's far frae them he loes.
Gie my respecks to ye're guid wife;If ever I get back to Fife,I'll teach her hoo to mak loaf bread,Wi' sour dough--oot o' HER ain head!An' gie my love to a' ye're bairns,To guid John Thampson, o' the Cairns;To ilka ane that speers for me,My kind regards be sure to gie.
An' noo, dear Sawney, naething mairI hae to say, yet canna bearThe thocht o' finishin' my rhyme,'Tis like we parted second time;But I'll no fret--whate'er it seems--Ye ken that I'm ye're true freend
Jeames.
