Jock Blawhard was a ploughman
On a farm
in East Kilbride,
A better man could not be found
Roun’ a’
that kintraside;
At least, that’s what he said himsel’,
An’ his
frien’s for mony a day,
Tho’ they micht ha’e doots yet never daur’d
Jock’s
notion to gainsay.
At the bothy fire on winter’s nichts,
Among the
servant folk;
O’ a’ the story tellers there,
Nae ane
could equal Jock.
O’ awfu’ sichts an’ hair-breadth ‘scapes,
An’
daurin’ feats he’d tell;
Yet aye, in a’ the frichtsome tales,
The hero
was himsel’.
He tauld how he ae Whister’s
term
Got drunk in
Glasca’ toon,
An’ did, wi’ his bare steekit nieves,
Knock
twenty police doon.
An’ then again in Hamilton,
This was
his great exploit,
He focht a haill militia corps,
An’ put
them a’ tae rout.
An’ as he was a sonsie chiel’,
Baith
strappin an’ stout made,
Nae ane that heard him daur’d to cast
A doot on what he said.
An sae thro’ course o’ time his name
An’ fame
spread far and wide,
An folk would whisper “There goes Jock,
The lion
o’ Kilbride.”
Now envy is a frailty that
Does fash
a deal o’ folk,
An’ some there were wha grued to hear
Sic
praises laved on Jock;
An’ just for want o’ courage,
Some
deep-laid schemes did fail,
A’ plann’d to bring discredit on
The hero
of this tale.
But ae nicht, ‘twas a Hallowe’en,
Jock tae a
spree was gaun,
Some neighbour chaps aboot the place
Determined
on a plan,
To meet him at a certain place,
Whaur nane
wad be aboot,
An’ wi’ a weapon they had got,
To test
his courage oot.
As snod’s a new preen Jock set aff,
On fun an
pleasure bent,
Thinkin’, nae doot, on some bit lass
As doon
the road he went.
A mile, or maybe mair, alang
The
lanesome road he’d gane,
When by an eerie path he cam’
That thro’
a plantin ta’en.
Thro sic a dismal place at nicht
Few folk
wad care to gang,
An’ Jock felt queer as cautiously
He push’d
his way alang;
But to his horror, a’ at ance,
A cauld
thing touch’d his broo,
An some ane cried – “Stand or I’ll shoot
Ye like a
cooshie doo!”
Jock couldna, for his very life,
Move either hand or foot,
But wi’ a tremblin’ voice he cried –
“For
guidsake dinna shoot.
I’m only a puir plooman chiel’
An’ little
gear I’ve got;
Yet what I ha’e yer welcome tae,
But keep
awa’ the shot.”
He geid the thief his watch an’ purse,
But faith
that wadna dae,
He gar’d him strip his guid new coat
An’ ta’en
his felt hat tae;
An’ then he swore gin Jock but mov’d
For
hauf-an-hour tae come,
He’d get a shot wad dootless mak’
His skull
as toom’s a drum!
Puir Jock in perfect horror stood,
Frichted
to turn his head,
For fear the pistol micht gae aff
An plug
his skull wi’ lead;
An tho’ the nicht was bitter cauld,
An’ his
hat an coat were gane,
The sweat gaed trintlin’ owre his cheeks
In draps like Lammas rain.
To ken when his hauf-hour was up
Was far
ayont his po’er,
As to his terror-sticken heart
Each
minute seemed an hour;
But just as if to fricht him waur
A hoolet cried, too whoo,
An Jock ran yellin’ oot the wood
Just like
a sticket soo.
Jock managed hame, the how or why,
He kenned
best himsel’
An when he stept inside the house
A’ hauns
jumped up pell mell –
Wi cries “ O, guid preserve us, Jock,
What has
gane wrang the nicht?”
Tae a’ whilk Jock at length replied,
“There’s
mair gaen wrang than richt
Haill fifty Ru’glen colliers a’
Yoked on
me in the wud,
But, faith, I faced them like a man,
An’ geid
them scud for scud;
My guid new coat was torn to rags
Before
they got me doon,
An’ while they stole my things ane held
A pistol
to my croon.”
Sic hearty roars of laughter
At the
story he had telt
Gar’d Jock look roun’ in great surprise
An guess
he had been selt;
An’ when his coat, hat, watch, an’ purse
Were a’
brocht safe to han’
The far-famed lion o’ Kilbride
Wi’ shame,
could hardly stan’
An’ then the dreaded pistol
That had
gi’en him sic a fricht,
A guid sized garden carrot was
Held up
before his sicht;
An’ lang it was a standin’ joke
A’ roun the kintraside ,
To ask what kind of pistol scaured
The lion
o’ Kilbride?