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

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.