(Revised by Trotwood and brought up to date.)
A chieftain to the Highland bound
Would steal Lord Ullin’s daughter;
He bought a new machine in town--
A thing he hadn’t auto.
He sought the castle by the sea
And stopped behind the kitchen;
“This beats a pony bad,” said he,
“Because it don’t need hitchin’.”
He got the girl and started out
By pullin’ of a lever,
And then that auto turned about--
It was a gay deceiver.
It snorted, backed, went round and round,
Broke belly-band and breechin’,
Reared up and kicked--then, with a bound,
It started through the kitchen.
In there was Ullin fast asleep,
His stomach full of mutton;
That auto knocked him in a heap
It broke his only button.
“O, haste, thee--haste!” the Lady cries,
“Tho’ steams around me gather,
I’ll meet the ragings of the skies
But not a naked Father.”
“Aha--farewell--and now we’ll go,”
Said Laddy, smiling grimly;
He tried to head her for the door--
She started for the chimney.
“Come back--come back!” old Ullin cries,
“Not up there--that’s my larder;
You’ll ruin my meat and pies--
Come back an’ take my darter.”
By this the thing grew loud of pace,
Its waterworks were shrieking;
It started for the old staircase,
While Ullin was a-speaking.
It met Mrs. Ullin coming down--
She’d tucked the kids to cover;
She wore her night-cap and her gown--
She never wore another!
It buzzed amid the trundle beds,
Ran over lairds and lasses,
Went through the window, down the sheds,
And waked up all the asses.
It chased the hound-pups round the yard,
Ran over kairn and cattle;
The clans turned out with tunics barr’d,
And pibrocks, armed for battle.
The girl had fainted, sore dismayed,
Twice had it turned her over:
One lovely arm was stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.
Up spake a hardy Highland wight--
(A rope was round him, ready):
“Just watch me rope her hind leg tight
And stop her, staunch and steady!”
He threw and caught her fast and fair,
It set their blood to fighting--
They saw him sailing through the air,
A tail he was--and kiting!
Now Ullin had a mother-in-law,
A saint she was from Zion;
Her lungs were rubber, cheeks were bra’,
Her body--well, SCRAP iron!
She waked and heard the dreadful din,
Ran down, the thing to worst it;
It struck her, knocked its inwards in,
It wheezed and groaned--and burst it!
They slew poor Laddy where he sat
With blunderbuss and bullit;
“’Tis not,” said Ullin, “’cause the brat
Was monkeyin’ with my pullit,
“But comin’ here in this vile car
To run off with my darter,
An’ not like neighbor Lochinvar,
On hoss-flesh, as he orter.”
--JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
* * * * *
_Humor is a great thing, but it has never yet won a battle, built a
city or bred a horse._