The poems of John G. C. Brainard A new and authentic collection, with an original memoir of his life |
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EPISTLE FROM ONE ABSENT EDITOR TO ANOTHER. |
 | The poems of John G. C. Brainard |  |
212
EPISTLE FROM ONE ABSENT EDITOR TO ANOTHER.
Subscribers to ye! J. T. B.
Where'er ye flit, where'er ye flee—
And though ye'll na remember me
In your braw lodgin,
I trust ye'll ha'e the grace to see
Friends wi'out dodgin.
Where'er ye flit, where'er ye flee—
And though ye'll na remember me
In your braw lodgin,
I trust ye'll ha'e the grace to see
Friends wi'out dodgin.
O gin I were in stage or boat,
Wi' stuffed valise and dapper coat,
How blithely wad I ride or float
On land an' water;
But here I am na worth a groat—
'T is nae great matter.
Wi' stuffed valise and dapper coat,
How blithely wad I ride or float
On land an' water;
But here I am na worth a groat—
'T is nae great matter.
I hope, dear sir, it winna vex ye
To hear I borrow the Galaxy,
Wherein ye rave at sic as tax ye
Wi' a that loss—
But dinna let thae things perplex ye,
And be na cross.
To hear I borrow the Galaxy,
Wherein ye rave at sic as tax ye
Wi' a that loss—
But dinna let thae things perplex ye,
And be na cross.
I ken ye 're crouse, and gi'e sma' glint
At rhyme, when there 's nae meaning in 't,
And sae, my verse I weel may stint
For a' you read on 't;
And my puir muse begins to hint
There 's little need on 't.
At rhyme, when there 's nae meaning in 't,
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For a' you read on 't;
And my puir muse begins to hint
There 's little need on 't.
I only meant to let ye ken
That I, like ither absent men,
Have not been busy at my pen
In Hartford City,
But only scribbled now and then—
“The mair's the pity.”
That I, like ither absent men,
Have not been busy at my pen
In Hartford City,
But only scribbled now and then—
“The mair's the pity.”
I greet thee frae the banks and braes
That saw me in my childish days,
Where neither sylphs nor pranking fays
Buttoned my jacket;
The nearest I saw, in my strays,
Was auld Till Becket.
That saw me in my childish days,
Where neither sylphs nor pranking fays
Buttoned my jacket;
The nearest I saw, in my strays,
Was auld Till Becket.
May you, by Tiber's favored burn,
Or where Potomac sees the urn
That patriot-poets stop and turn
To make a verse on,
Or 'mid the rigs o' Southern corn,
Meet nae worse person.
Or where Potomac sees the urn
That patriot-poets stop and turn
To make a verse on,
Or 'mid the rigs o' Southern corn,
Meet nae worse person.
In a note to one of Burns' sweetest songs, “The Land o' the Leal”—republished in the Mirror a few months before the above was written—Brainard says,—“It may show what too few understand, that nobody can write a real Scottish song but a Scotchman. Bad spelling, misapplied provincialisms, and cockney sensibility, will never pass as the production of Allan Cunningham or Robert Burns.”
| The poems of John G. C. Brainard | |