Poem by Alexander («Saunders») Tait

Illumination of Tarbolton on the Recovery of His Majesty [George III]

My voice I’ll raise and sing the praise
	Of Hugh Montgomerie;
May he hae mony merry days
	In bonnie Skelmorlie.

He drums gart sound Tarbolton round,
	His fanners to invite;
His feuars they must all be found
	Upon Montgomerie Street.

Our Provost, and the Bailies too,
	Were in the finest trim,
And all the Council, in our view,
	They were exceeding prim.

Our Council they went up the street,
	The fiddles play’d so fine,
When them and Colsfield all did meet,
	The town with lights did shine.

The drums did roar at Quintan’s door,
	When the Comal did appear,
And guns went off, below ten score,
	And then gae him a cheer.

The town was hung with lights for that,
	Just every street out through;
And then a tun of rum we gat,
	And drank till we were fu’.

Then Colsfield did begin the toasts,
	Twa bowls where ships might swim;
For it was him who bare the costs,
	We all do him esteem.

The King and Queen, with merry glee,
	Their health he drank them round,
And all the Royal family,
	And then the drums did sound.

Likewise, at that he waved his hat,
	Three cheers so loud and high,
The guns did crack so loud at that,
	The squibs did upward fly

And then the noble Prince of Wales,
	His health he round did toast,
To banish Popery o’ Versailles
	Quite from our British coast:

To gallant Pitt, long may he sit
	Our minister of state;
For if he die, or slip a fit,
	His match we’ll never get:

To the land of cakes, and good beef-steaks
	The farmers bear the gree,
And them that fattest cattle makes,
	Wi’ their industry.

When all these healths were drunk around,
	To dance we then did fa’;
That merry night therefore to crown,
	Till Colsfield went awa’.

The bells did ring, the fiddles sing,
	The de’il come stick the priest,
Since hale and tight is George our King;
	This is Montgomerie’s jest.

He is our head, we are his feet,
	His lady she’s the waist,
His children they are mild and sweet,
	And modestly they’re placed.

There’s pretty plants in Colsfield banks,
	So pleasant to the view,
The trees grow straightly on their shanks,
	You’ll see as ye gang through.

With velvetaire, and walks so fair,
	Surrounded wi’ a hem,
Wi’ gallant greyhounds for the hare,
	And hawks to take the game.

To his garden side I could you guide,
	There’s a serpent walk so fine;
The peacocks sit in muckle pride,
	Their tails like Phoebus shine.

The lion he does watch his yard,
	The bear his pretty hall;
May He above them watch, the laird,
	Lady, and children all.

Mr Archibald he is gone abroad
	Unto High Germany,
Ye guardian angels, clear his road
	Safe home to his country.

Mr Roger he is for the seas,
	O Eolus, calm the squalls!
And, Neptune, roll him curiously,
	Thro’ large tempestuous gales.

The crows they fly high in the air,
	And make such pretty mirth;
Few parts with Colsfield can compare,
	That’s yet upon the earth.

There’s the goldfinch, the linnet, and thrush,
	The blackbird skipping through,
The warblers chant frae every bush,
	Farewell, Colsfield, adieu!

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