# The Book of Scottish Song/Captain Paton's Lament

Captain Paton’s Lament.
[This vivid personal portraiture of a gentleman of the old school first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine for September, 1819, and its authorship is generally ascribed, we believe with truth, to J. G. Lockhart. Captain Paton was a real personage, and lived for many years with two maiden sisters in a tenement of his own opposite the Old Exchange, Glasgow. His title of Captain he claimed from a commission which he held in a regiment that had been raised in Scotland for the Dutch serrice. His death took place on the 30th of July, 1807, at the age of 63. Mr. lockhart's description of him is said by these who remember "the venerable beau" to be accurate as it is graphic. In an old view of the Trongate of Glasgow, the captain is seen picking his way with his rattan across the street, which proves that he was in his own day, before the poet immortalized him, a somewhat noted personage. The "Wynd Kirk," mentioned in the last verse but two, although situated in a narrow lane of Glasgow, was, in the captain's day, the most fashionable place of worship in the town. In 1809, Dr. Porteous and his congregation there transferred themselves to an elegant new church built for them, called St. George's. Captain Paton, it seems, was not in reality buried "by the Ram's-horn-kirk," now St. David's, as stated in the ballad, but in the High Church burying ground.]
Touch once more a sober measure, And let punch and tears be shed, For a prince of good old fellows, That, alack-a-day! is dead; For a prince of worthy fellows, And a pretty man also, That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe— Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
His waistcoat, coat, and breeches, Were all cut off the same web, Of a beautiful snuff-colour, Or a modest genty drab; The blue stripe in his stocking Round his neat slim leg did go, And his ruffles of the cambric fine They were whiter than the snow— Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e! ​His hair was curled in order, At the rising of the sun, In comely rows and buckles smart That about his ears did run; And before there was a toupee That some inches up did grow, And behind there was a long queue That did o'er his shoulders flow— Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And whenever we foregathered He took off his wee three-cockit, And he proffered you his snuff-box Which he drew from his side pocket, And on Burdett or Bonaparte He would make a remark or so, And then along the plainstones Like a provost he would go— Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
In dirty days he picked well His footsteps with his rattan, Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck On the shoes of Captain Paton: And on entering the coffee-room About two, all men did know, They would see him with his Courier In the middle of the row— Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Now and then upon a Sunday He invited me to dine, On a herring and a mutton-chop Which his maid dressed very fine; There was also a little Malmsay And a bottle of Bourdeaux, Which between me and the Captain Passed nimbly to and fro— O! I ne'er shall take pot-luck with Captain Puton no mo'e!
Or if a bowl was mentioned, The Captain he would ring, And bid Nelly run to the West-port, And a stoup of water bring; Then would he mix the genuine stuff As they made it long ago, With limes that on his property In Trinidad did grow— Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo'e!
And then all the time he would discourse So sensible and courteous, Perhaps talking of last sermon He had heard from Dr. Porteous, Of some little bit of scandal About Mrs. so and so, Which he scarce could credit, having heard The con but not the pro— Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Or when the candles were brought forth, And the night was fairly setting in, He would tell some fine old stories About Minden-field or Dettingen— How he fought with a French Major, And despatched him at a blow, While his blood ran out like water On the soft grass below— Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
But at last the Captain sickened, And grew worse from day to day, And all missed him in the coffee-room, From which now he staid away; On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd Kirk Made a melancholy show, All for wanting of the presence Of our venerable beau— Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
And in spite of all that Cleghorn And Cork..dale could do, It was plain, from twenty symptoms, That death was in his view; So the Captain made his test'ment And submitted to his foe, And we laid him by the Ram's-horn-kirk, 'Tis the way we all must go— Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!
Join all in chorus, jolly boys, And let punch and tears be shed, For this prince of good old fellows, That, alack-a-day! is dead; For this prince of worthy fellows And a pretty man also, That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe! For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!