Town Mouse OR COUNTRY COUSIN? KAIL OR COFFEE?

Happy National Poetry Day! 
Perceptions of life in the Perthshire Parish of Kinclaven around 1725. A poem which was penned to Mrs Fisher the wife of Rev. James Fisher by her cousin Margaret Erskine, Dunfermline. It was published by Dr. John Brown in his narrative on the life of Rev Fisher.
Coffee or Kail? Not sure if we'd cope here with that - though we love making Kail crisps and Kail is of course the new Broccoli!

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Dear Cousin, this may let you know

That I am well and wish you so.

Glad should I be, could I hear tell

By word or writ, that you are well:

For now you’re gone so far away,

A-fishing up the River Tay,

I know not if it be the Highlands,

Or north among the Pearl Islands;

Be where it will, by land or sea,

You’re in a manner dead to me.

For many long months in the year

No single word from you I hear,

By common post, nor common chance,

No more than if you were in France.

Nay, we have here, who dwell at Forth,

So little converse with the North,

Perhaps it would not be in vain

For me to wish you were in Spain,

That I might hear when climates alter,

As oft from you as from Gibraltar.

But now, when we’re so far asunder,

I think it needs be no great wonder,

Though I in writing at this time,

Would fain cheer up myself with rhyme;

While grieved to think I am bereft "

Of you, dear Coz, e’er since you left

The good old loch and water Leven,

For these wild moors about Kinclaven.

I also thought some merry chat

When you re in such a place as that,

To speak of it without aspersion.

Would meet your need of some diversion.

Pray, do not think that I am rude,

I would not be misunderstood;

I speak in case of your dejection,

And don t intend to cast reflection;

The thing at present in my view,

Is to divert myself and you;

To which I am the more inclined,

While thinking you are now confined

Unto a spot that wants the vogue

Of old Dunfermline or Portmoak.

If herein I mistake, I beg

Excuse your little cousin Meg.

And I’ll take care, the next I send you,

If I hear tell that this offend you.

I do not think your soil is such

That I need pity you too much,

For as I hear by common clatter

You want for neither wood nor water;

You have, they say, a goodly manse,

And that upon a pleasant stance;

You have a river at your hand,

A Fisher also at command;

You want not peats, as I am told,

To warm your feet in winter cold.

Only I hear you re scarce of coals,

And burn your peats among your soles.

Well, since you would needs be a wife,

So far without the bounds of Fife,

And trace the Fisher’s hook when harling

Your feet so far from warm Dunfermline,

Tis well bestowed upon you now,

That you want coals and chimneys too,

And burn your toes with Norland commons,

Because you left the lofty Lomonds.

But yet I hear you are riot scant

Of other things that here we want.

Although you have not gentle lairds.

Nor good stone-dyke about your yards,

Nor deep coal pits, nor good stone quarries,

Nor other Southland necessaries;

Yet you have many things, I hear,

Instead of our South country gear;

Instead of stone dykes, you have fail;

Instead of coffee, you have kail;

Instead of spring-wells, yon have floods;

Instead of orchards, you have woods;

Instead of pastry, you have plants;

Instead of music, Highland rants;

Instead of pinners, you have plaids;

Instead of coaches, you have sleds;

Instead of gentles, you have jockeys;

Instead of ladies, you have luckies;

Instead of meadows, you have moors;

Instead of chimneys, you have floors;

Instead of houses, you have huts;

Instead of apples, you have nuts.

Which brings your promise to my mind,

And makes me think you are not kind;

You said, (but now I find you re slack,)

That you would send me nuts to crack;

Mind then, or else I’ll say in anger,

That out of sight and out of languor

Twas your neglect, for which I m sorry,

Made this digression to my story.

But to return, without more fash

I’ll tell you what they farther clash ;

I am informed by country chat,

Instead of this thing, you have that;

Old ruined walls instead of castles;

And huts instead of Dinnibirsels,

Brown heather cowes instead of clavers;

And bonnets blue instead of beavers;

Well-toasted snuff instead of musk;

Plain dress instead of gentle busk;

In many things you thus excel

The people in the South that dwell.

The busk among your country lasses,

By far our gaudy garb surpasses.

Perhaps in practice I may err,

Yet in my judgment I prefer

Your good blue laces, hoods and loops,

To filthy flaring girds and hoops.

But over and above all this,

You have rare things that here we miss.

Your water doth afford you pearls

Such as are worn by Dukes and Earls;

And having store of pearl-fish,

You do not want the richest dish.

Yet without jesting, to be grave,

You want for nothing that you have.

But while I mention all the rest,

I had almost forgot the best;

For you have also something else

That’s rarer yet, as rumour tells

Hard by your kirks your woods have bells,

To conjure fairies down like spells;

For if I trust what people say,

The Pope of Rome did once a- day

Such bells with holy water sprinkle,

To banish bogles with a tinkle;

As good as beads and Ave-Maries,

To fright and drive away the fairies.

I hear the bell by you possess d

Was consecrated with the rest.

You therefore, having such a thing,

What have you more ado but ring,

Then off scours every hurtful elf,

That you may safe enjoy yourself.

Dear Cousin, it may well content you,

If all the word be true I’ve sent you.

But lest my lines your patience weary,

Which hope to find or make you cheery,

I send my love to Mr. Fisher,

And rest your hearty welfare wisher."

Mrs Fisher was the wife of the Rev. James Fisher who was the minister at Kinclaven Church from 1725 and seceeded as one of 'The four Brethren' from the Church of Scotland. He established The Kirk O' Muir and took most of the Kinclaven Church congregation with him. The poem addressed to Mrs Fisher was written by her cousin Mary Erskine and appended by Dr. John Brown in his biography of Fisher "Memorials of the Rev. James Fisher ... in a narrative of his life ... and a selection from his writings'' In: Young (1849)
Memorials of Alexander Moncrieff, M.A., and James Fisher, fathers of the United Presbyterian Church.

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