The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Gaudy bird, of gorgeous hue,
How kind has nature been to you,
In formin' a' your feathers fair,
Your weel fledged wings, and stars so rare,
Glancin' by day, but dim by night,
Right fair for show, but dull for light.

Like fickle frien's, when Fortune twines us,
Will show their face, and proffer kindness;
But should misfortune's gloamin' shade us,
We'll fin', owre late, thae frien's hae fled us.
Thy gaudy neck and breast sae fine,
Where little tinted rainbows shine,
Twitterin' like dewdrops on the thorn,
When early sunbeams paint the morn.

Again thy glancin' een o' jet
Appear like studs in siller set;
Or pearls hung in gowden ring,
That near the ladies' luglocks hing:
Thy head appears majestic drest,
Crowned wi' a bonny wavin' crest;
Or like my Peggy's gumflowers gay,
That bloom, although it be not May;

Or like the raw recruit's cockade,
Who thinks himsel' a flashy blade,
While ribbons roun' his tap he gathers,
And thinks to fear the French wi' feathers;
Or dreams o' gear and great preferment,
Because he's pimpèd for his sergeant:
But lo! the hungry days o' drillin',
Of marchin', haltin', floggin', wheelin',
Bow down his feathery brain o' sallies,
And pluck his bonnet o' its walies.

While sprucely strutting o'er the grun',
Ye spread your beauties to the sun,
And veer about wi' airy pride,
To keep afore your fairest side;
Or jink aroun' wi' airy wheel,
To hide the bareness o' your keel.

So busked beau, around the ring,
Will flirt and ogle, dance and sing;
Wi' dashing wig o' mony a shade,
To grace him when his hair is fled;
Displays his snuff-box, hands a fan,
And shows himsel' a lady's man:
But should he deign the dance to wheel up,
Or miss a foot, and cock his keel up,
What dire disgrace might intervene,
And a' his lockless lugs be seen!

Alas! for human nature's frail!
A peacock soon may lose his tail:
Yet comin' spring wi' genial heat,
Can mak' the bird again complete:
But beaux may tine, and few to see them,
What belles or barbers ne'er can gie them.

What gars ye flutter roun' your hens?
Ye'll dirty a' your bonny pens;
And raise a stour might spoil your gloss,
And gar your beauties come to loss.
Is that the way ye show your passion,
Or is't the method now in fashion?—
I truly think it is the gait,
For yonder's ane ta'en wi' the bait.

Ah, Meg, wert thou as kind to me—
Fa' in my arms thus for a wee,
I'd hae mysel' wi' feathers stuck,
And for thy sake become a buck.

Thus fools o' fashion spread their lures,
And dashin' show their outward powers;
Will shake their frills wi' fuss and din,
But, O! it's vacuum a' within.

Yet thick and thrang are Folly's bairns,
That will be caught by outward charms.
How soon we see some female pet,
And like the Pea-hen catch the bait.

So theatre nymph in borough town,
Wi' silken hose and glancin' gown,
That's no distressed wi' meikle happin,
Disclose the beauties o' her crappin';
And should that fail, she'll dance a jig,
To shaw the shin-side o' her leg,
Keen to entrap some merchant loon,
Or countra laird new come to town.
Her capper clippin's glister fine,
He never saw ought sae divine;
Wi' love he's like to break his shins,
To win a wee ayont the screens:

He casts a wink, she's kirr and couth,
And draws the water to his mouth,
Then at the lang run pumps his purse,—
Great mercy gif it be nae worse!—
Syne draws the curtain roun' her spark,
Where love works wonders in the dark.

I never saw, but I've heard say
(Folks see not wonders ilka day),
And doubtna ye hae a' heard tell,
O' peacocks wi' a fiery tail,
Might show a man his goods to han'le,
And save him meikle coal and can'le.
So, haply, he may fin' bestowed,
Some sure memorial for his gowd.
'Tis thus declining female star,
That tines her blossom in the war;
Wha's beauty's worn to shreds and patches,
When nature fails, at art she catches;
Rubs o'er wi' reams her brows and mouth—
Like long-lived birds renews her youth.
Her cheeks turned pale, supplies wi' paint,
Still breath she smoors wi' oils and mint;
E'en Nature's knowes that now are fled,
Where love in youthfu' days has played,
She'll them supply wi' teats o' woo,
That cheat the unsuspecting view:
Yet though they hum the gazing youth,
A near encounter shows the truth.
Some forward spark, on midnight ramble,
Descries their fau'ts but coal or can'le.

But O! sic borrowed charms are frail:
'Tis whispered roun', her lovers fail;

She now leaves balls and sic-like places,
And scours to fairs and countra races,
Wi' ruffs and muffs, and trappin's mony,
To hook some simple countra Johnny.
But countra John likes countra Jenny,
And nane taks tent o' gentle Fanny.
Wi' dust gets a' her walies spoiled,
Or may be waur, her wishes foiled,
She fears her freaks are near an en',
And pines awa like “Jinken's hen”:
Yet still she sighs for youthfu' sport,
And now she tries the last effort.
Wi' haly reverence in her looks,
She buys a bunch o' preachin' beuks;
And o' the faith becomes defendant,
And lives a pious independent:
Wi' former frien's has mony a battle,
But they like nae sic cantin' cattle.
Till some pert lad that lives by weavin'
Her mim-mou'd looks and sighs deceivin',
Mistaks for grace her whines and rantin',
She traps him by the bait o' cantin'.

Now some may say this is a gay joke,
Comparin' ladies to a peacock.
Can sic-like rhymers and pretenders,
That's lost their reckonin' in the genders,
Set up their face wi' men o' letters,
To spin out satires on their betters;
Wi' crabbit mou' our fau'ts to hammer?—
They'd better stap and learn their grammar.

But I can tell my learned readers,
For a' their skill in tropes and figures,

'Tis better than to seek assistance,
Frae beings that ne'er had existence.
There's mony a lengthened learned head,
Has spun out rhymes for fools to read,
Wi' heathen gods and fictions drest,
Syrens and Sylphs, and a' the rest—
Gif pick out thae from every nook,
Their rhymes might gang in little bouk.
Poets o' panegyric or satire,
Ha'e studied fiction mair than nature:
So I, like them, may look about me,
And seek hyperboles to suit me.

II. Part II.

But still my story is nae done yet—
Perhaps the maist o't is to come yet;
So here I go, be't verse or prose,
To draw my similies to a close.
But faith I fear I've tint my subject,
And wi' my fancies lost the object;
My bird is no yet full surveyed,
We'll view him on the other side.

E'en thou, wi' a' thy outward shape,
Thy studded tail and glossy nape,
Hast e'en thy failings, cracks and flaws,
Thy eldritch scraichs and fiend-like claws:
Thy belly's but a dirty din,
Thy flesh and banes are foul within;
As I hae seen a stately biggin',
Restin' aboon the great folks riggin',

Contrived by pride to rot in state,
Engraved wi' mighty, lofty, great;
But search it closely, lo, ye'll fin'
But banes and dust and dross within.

But something whispers, Haud ye there!
In this ye dinna reason fair:
Your wame's fu' weel for a' our blethers,
Although it has nae bonny feathers;
They hap you weel and keep you warm,
And save your tenderer parts frae harm.
So things we never should abuse,
That's no for show, but made for use—
There's ither birds that I could name,
Has coarser feathers on their wame;
And mony a fowl, though brawly tappit,
That looks best when their legs are happit.

But then, again, pray what's your use?
Ye're seen about nae poor man's house—
Ye're no for travel, no for toilin',
Ye're no for roastin', stewin', boilin';
Your only being's but for show,
Or mind the ladies o' a beau.
Are ye contenter wi' your pens,
Than cock-malierie wi' his hens,
While he upon the midden craws,
And ye to sun spread out your braws?
Or can ye better bide the stour
Of comin' winter's chilly power;
Or dree misfortune's keener storm,
Than chucky in her hamely form?
I trow your trappin's then are vain,
And only catch the win' and rain;

And rather prove a source of sorrows—
But 'las! thou hast owre mony marrows.

Nature through a' her various roads,
Bestows nae pleasure wi' sic odds,
As whiles we think, in lowly state,
Viewin' the greatness o' the great;
For if content's within the breast,
Eneugh will do as weel's a feast:
'Tis true they ha'e the brawer houses,
Their naigs, and nowte, and rowth o' spouses;
Their chaise to ride in when they tire—
Their ease, their wine, their bleezin' fire;
Their titles, lands, and livin's braw,
Their crouchin' flunkies at their ca';
Their sumptuous meals are never scant,
They never ken the carle, Want—
But then, what signifies their treasure?
Their burden Plenty brings nae pleasure;
They're born to wealth, and think't nae blessin';
They ken nae pleasure in possessin'.
Gif nae restraint the object claim,
It leaves the wish without an aim.
Idle in life, they try a' schemes,
Adorn their backs, and fill their wames;
Fulfil ilk wish, be't right or wrang,
But never stay by ae thing lang.
They ken nae gude o' weel-timed meal,
That kitchens oft the poor man's kail;
They never ken the sweets o' toilin',
That keeps the gloomy mind frae spoilin';
They're seldom blest wi' rosy health,
For a' their lumps o' ease and wealth;

Or virtuous love and bairnies roun',
That keep the feeble hopes in tune.
In short, we've thoughtless joys and wants,
They wealth, wi' nervous thraws and gaunts.

Though flauntin', for a slight inspection,
Ye downa thole a close dissection;
And thus the proverb does declare,
That far aff fowls hae feathers fair.

Again, we hae the sage's word,
That feathers often form the bird;
But twine thee o' thy trappins a',
Thou'rt waur faur'd than a pluckit daw.

Now, should our men o' holy order,
Be strippit o' their bands and border,
And sic-like trappin's o' the sect,
That draws a reverence o' respect;
Tak aff the mystic wig and cloak,
A priest might look like—ither folk.
His face or flank indeed might shine—
Though no wi' guzzlin' beef or wine;
But by the grace beams frae within,
Or blushin' for his country's sin;
Or knops on's knees, worn hard as horn,
Wi' lengthened kneelin's night and morn.
Aiblins, through sleep's forgetfu' potion,
The foul thief whiles might draw his notion,
When reason's pores and doors are steekit,
To dream o' glebes and stipen's eekit,
And ither things there's nae great harm in,
As wenches, manses, horns, or farmin';
Or guns, or gloves, or ither whims—
But wha can answer for their dreams?

So Soldier shape in scarlet dashes,
Wi' sword-knots, tassels, cane, and sashes;
Wi' frills and feathers on his tappin,
He flegs through a' the nooks o' Wappin',
Some tailor loon or pander spark,
That made his court to Lucky C---k.
But should some former shopmate meet him,
And thus in cantin' dialect greet him:
“What, neighbour Snip! upon my word,
He's changed his bodkin for a sword;
Though thread and thimble low do lie,
The “goose,” I see, is fit to fly:
If duly taught, may answer soon,
For an invasion of the moon.”
He'd prance and stare—“Why, demme, I
Never knew thee, thou chattering pye.
Decamp, or by my bloody weapons,
I'll cut thy buckram soul to shapins!”
Then ruthless draws his glancin' rapier,
And round his comrade cuts a caper.
But should the route direct his courses
To join afar his country's forces;
Or battle burst and him but hear o't,
He'd faint and fa' wi' perfect fear o't;
There bloodless lie amang the slain,
And wish him at his wark again.

So Dominies, wi' great pretences,
Because they're up to verbs and tenses,
And 'cause bairns cower, and ca' them Master,
And 'cause they use the lance and clyster;
Alike in every science happy,
To pluck a tooth or set a capy;

Think they can judge o' verse or prose,
And pert pop in their word and nose;
Will tell you a' what's right, what's wrang;
How this line's short, and that line's lang;
Yet ken nae mair o' fancy's power
Than Peacocks, kickin' up a stour.

And Lawyers, too, that brazen tribe,
That tak nae pains their fau'ts to hide,
Like Pharaoh's lean kye, hard they bite,
And live upon their nei'bour's spite.—
To paint their pranks I'm nae proficien':
We'll try some easier acquisition.

III. Part III.

Again my bird, we'll try to find
The matchless beauties o' your mind.

Frae ither fowls ye stan' abeigh,
And, like a' fools, wad fain be high:
Proud, on a wa', or half-grown tree,
Or chimly tap, ye like to be;
There cock your crest, wi' airy show,
And squint on scrapin' birds below.

But should the sky begin to lower,
And wake your second-sighted power,
Ye then disclose your cowardly failin's,
And grate a' roun' you wi' your yellin's.
Nae croakin' raven, wi' his note,
Can equal what comes through your throat;
Nor clamorous cats, wham midnight summons,
Can equal half your yells and omens.

Ye fright the heron where he flies,
And weary Echo wi' your cries.

So hae I seen great fuss and caperin'
'Mang mystic knighthood o' the apron;
Wi' empty pride, in monkish gown,
Travish a Bible through the town:
Wi' painted poles and pictured duds,
And aprons new come frae the suds,
Or stunted frae the wife's sark tail—
Aiblins the pock that hauds his meal;
For H---r---m's sons hae mony wants,
For a' their outward shows and rants,
Though patronised by weeds and saints.
The lengthened legends, tales, and histories,
And dark sublime Egyptian mysteries,
Are kindly meant, by your designment,
To draw the warld to refinement.
Your mystic draughts, wi' keel and cauk,
Gar mony a cudroch chiel to quak;
Joinin' some green-horn for a blether,
Ye light his purse and een thegither;
Then roun' him ring, and prance, and squeel,
To gar folks trow ye raise the de'il:
But de'il a de'il wad show his face,
Sic bare-faced mummery e'er to grace.
Yet gie nae way to dark despondence,
Although the de'ils deny attendance;
Though lazy Cloots sits still within,
Ye'll aiblins grape the way to him;
Where ye may herd in future times,
Unscaithed by ony Cowan's rhymes.

So drover blades, wha drink and sot,

Wha's light's confined to stirk and stot,
That's scraped their gear frae lowly stations,
Wi' quirks, and breaks, and sequestrations,
Club roun', and tell their loathsome jokes,
Or plot to cheat douce countra folks;
Wi' arle-penny in their han',
Will belch out something like a d---n,
How that's the highest groat they'll gie,
And be mansworn thrice in a day,
Then mount, and hame, wi' saucy gloom:
Ilk likes to ride his neighbour down,
Because he has an Irish horse,
And ithers' gowd within his purse.

So countra Laird, that's stout and frisky,
Bred up 'mang grooms, and drinkin' whisky
And footin't fairly o'er the bogs,
Pursuing hares and hounding dogs;
Taught by his mither that his talents
Surpasses ither countra callants,
Scours aff, ne'er dreaming on defection,
And buys the votes at neist election;
Syne up to London in a wheel,
And thinks himsel' a clever chiel.
In House o' Commons glowers and gaunts,
And langs to tell his countra's wants;
Or rather show his pert essays,
So, like a jack-ass, starts and brays;
And what in point o' sense is lackin'
He'll eith supply wi' stamps and brakin.
I kenna how it comes to pass,
But court folks whiles will keep an ass;
Whether for ridin' or for milk,

Or length o' lugs, I kenna whilk;
They'll hear their cracks, and ne'er confute them;
They'll bear their kicks, and ne'er dispute them.

Thus hae I seen a simple lad,
Amang the braes o' Galloway bred,
If no o'ergane wi' information,
At least quite free frae affectation,
When siller lured or wark was slack,
Cross Bowness burn to bear a pack;
There serve a time, but gowd or fee,
To learn, to cheat, and gab, and lie;
Schooled by some greedy, gripin' elf,
To smother every tie but self,
Till by degrees he learns the knack
Of logic, how to blaw the pack:
Though aft his traffic and resort
Is but amang the baser sort.
Yet hame he comes, baith proud and braw,
His new acquirements fair to shaw,
In Lon'on boots and broad-brimmed hat,
Wi' yeas and nays, and G*d knows what;
Queer whirrs and burrs, eneugh to fley folk,
Wi' a' the scum o' Yorkshire dialect.—
He d---s the reek, and rubs his e'en,
And tells what unco sights he's seen.
His mither e'es her hopefu' lad,
And thinks him truly learned and bred.

Bright similies might here be spun,
In number like motes i' the sun,
And on the mind so thick lie fraught,
As maks ane dizzy wi the thought.

IV. Part IV.

Now see what passion rules thy heart,
And how thou act'st the parent's part.
If a' be true that I've heard said,
Ye're but a vile ungratefu' blade:
Ye daut your dames through a' the year,
Till ance the clockin' time draws near,
Then if ane wanders frae the rest,
To hatch her young or right her nest,
Ye follow in your surly flegs,
And paik the hen and break the eggs,
Then leave her pained in waesome manner,
Her liefu' lane through woods to wan'er,
Till sair for-fought wi' grief and pinin',
She finds a nest ayont your kennin';
A twig o' hazel's a' her happin',
To hatch her young wi' hungry crappin',
There tossed by wind and beat wi' rain:
But Hope, that soothes the parent's pain,
Calms a' the sorrows o' her breast,
And points wi' pleasure to her nest.

Parental kindness, child o' Nature,
That warms the breast o' every creature,
Beeted by feelin's finest fires,
Unstained by ony base desires,
Thou maks ilk' bein' kind and heedfu',
As lang as Nature sees it's needfu',
Savin' the scum o' earth accurst;
Wha's ends are sordid gain and lust.

Yet thou in this art no thy lane,—
To seek for pleasure without pain;

To like the night, but shun the day,
To hate the toil, but like the play.
So baudrons likes the trout to eat,
But downa think to douk her feet;
So patriots for their country's glory,
Will act the Whig, and hate the Tory;
Will raise a lengthened learned digression,
On law, and rights, and constitution;
Will stand by liveries and petitions,
And rail at wars and expeditions.—
As lang's the birkie wants a place,
Or unta'en tent o' by His Grace—
E'en then he'll whiles pay some attention,
Till fairly tongue-tacked wi' a pension;
He'll then sit down amang the monniest,
And think the braidest road the bonniest,
Syne leaves his countra, where he got her—
Mang wants and woes and war to swatter.

Thus countra lasses, void o' care,
Like water lilies, saft and fair,
When love's within and charms without them,
Like flies the lads will buzz about them;
While each his art and fortune tries,
The fausest aften wins the prize:
For mony a merry tale he'll speak,
To keep the dimple on her cheek;
Brings claps and squeezes to's assistance—
For what are words when at a distance?—
Then tells the same dull story o'er,
That he has said to mony a score—
As how she kills him wi' her glances,
That cut his heart-strings through like lances;

Swears by his saul he doesna flout her;
And that he canna live without her;
That she, wha has the power to save,
Should deign some pity to her slave—
At least, to let him live in hope,
And no, at ance, his breath to stop:
“Whae'er is dearest to this breast—
He surely maun be truly blest;”
Then steals a kiss, looks in her e'e,
And thinks she'll hardly let him die.
Sic ravings gars her bosom heave—
'Tis woman's province to believe;
And a' her kind that e'er I kent o',
Are fully fond to be ta'en tent o'.

It needs sma' foresight what's to follow,
Or how his sensual saul and hollow,
Stoops down below the rax o' truth,
To cheat her unsuspecting youth;
And when her feckless virtue's gane,
She's left to sab and greet her lane:
I've seen her reaved o' a' her charms,
Her helpless affspring in her arms,
Wi' few to ask her how she fares,
Or sooth her grief or share her cares;
Despised, in want, and deep distress,
Gars a' her feelings bleed afresh.

But wha can paint the parent's woes,
Wha's breast wi' piercing sorrow throes—
Their joy, where a' their hopes were centred,
Owre far on faithless seas has ventured?
Haply the parent's lowly laid,
That reared wi' care the luckless maid.

Then mae will toy and praise her beauty,
Than teach the thoughtless maid her duty,
Till left at large to passion's snare,
That aften leads to dark despair.—
When, lost to notice, lost to shame,
She dares the deed we darena name.

Alas! where's a' thy beauties now,
Thy dimpled cheek and cherry mou'—
The takin' twinkles o' your een,
The maiden blush and modest mien—
The matchless ringlets o' your hair,
Might made a moderate face look fair—
That native note, of tunefu' glee,
That carried aye the charm to me—
And simple kindness without art,
That never failed to touch the heart?—
They're feckly fled, what could prevent them?
And those still left hae few to tent them.

Beauty, though sages sair dispute thee,
Poets like aye to rhyme about thee.
Thou cheer'st the heart when'er we see thee,
And fettered fancy canna leave thee;
Thou plead'st thy cause in silent looks,
Better than orators or books;
Canst smooth the brow o' gloomy thought,
And set our re-resolves at nought.
Gif weel adorned wi' truth and love,
Thou'd picture a' the joys above;
For what has life to gie that's sweeter,
To make our earthly joys completer?
Yet aft thou'st been a great transgressor,
And proved a bane to the possessor—

100

Hast fostered pride and marred instruction,
And robbed the mind by deep deduction;
A sign-post set to gather knaves,
And ruins ten for twa thou saves:
Then, Oh!—but stop, where's this I'm gaun?
My story's surely fully lang;
So here my similies shall cease,
And let my readers rest in peace,
To rax their banes and rub their een,
For fear they fret and tak the spleen—
Only, I'd slightly wish to mention,
How, that it ne'er was my intention
To point at ony trade or callin',
Or triumph in a nei'bour's failin':
For, 'las! we always fin't owre true,
We're a' possessed o' fau'ts enow:
But, as for fashion's silly tools,
And empty, dull, conceited fools,
That seem to tell us, by their ways,
That sauls o' men are shown in claes;
And wit and worth and a' respects,
Are tacked to certain sorts and sects:—
It shall not hurt my expectation,
Although I want their approbation;
And should some passage pet or pout them,
They ken best if the bonnet suit them.
There's mony mae I haena noted,
Deserve't as weel as those ha'e got it:—
For selfish pride and affectation,
Ha'e spread their wings sae o'er the nation,
That scarce a vestige now ye'll see,
O' what like mankin' ought to be—

101

Like beggar's cloak o' Bethnal Green,
Wha's origin could scarce be seen:—
But time would fail me—here I'll en',
And leave them to some abler pen;
Or try mysel', some future time,
When I'm again disposed for rhyme.