Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] A New Edition with Illustrations by A. S. Boyd |
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Hughie's Winter Excuse for a Dram. |
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 | Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] |  |
42
Hughie's Winter Excuse for a Dram.
“Vides ut alta stet nive candidum
Soracte.”
—Car. i. 9.
Soracte.”
—Car. i. 9.
Fra whaur ye hing, my cauldrife frien',
Your blue neb owre the lowe,
A snawy nichtcap may be seen
Upon Benarty's pow;
An' snaw upon the auld gean stump,
Whas' frostit branches hang
Oot-owre the dyke abune the pump
That's gane clean aff the fang.
The pump that half the toun's folk ser'd,
It winna gie a jaw,
An' rouch, I ken, sall be your beard
Until there comes a thaw!
Your blue neb owre the lowe,
A snawy nichtcap may be seen
Upon Benarty's pow;
An' snaw upon the auld gean stump,
Whas' frostit branches hang
Oot-owre the dyke abune the pump
That's gane clean aff the fang.
The pump that half the toun's folk ser'd,
It winna gie a jaw,
An' rouch, I ken, sall be your beard
Until there comes a thaw!
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Come, reenge the ribs, an' let the heat
Doun to oor tinglin' taes;
Clap on a gude Kinaskit peat
An' let us see a blaze.
An' since o' water we are scant
Fess ben the barley-bree—
A nebfu' baith we sanna want
To wet oor whistles wi'!
Noo let the winds o' Winter blaw
Owre Scotland's hills an' plains,
It matters nocht to us ava—
We've simmer in oor veins!
Doun to oor tinglin' taes;
Clap on a gude Kinaskit peat
An' let us see a blaze.
An' since o' water we are scant
Fess ben the barley-bree—
A nebfu' baith we sanna want
To wet oor whistles wi'!
Noo let the winds o' Winter blaw
Owre Scotland's hills an' plains,
It matters nocht to us ava—
We've simmer in oor veins!
The pooers o' Nature, wind an' snaw,
Are far abune oor fit,
But while we scoog them, let them blaw;
We'll aye hae simmer yet.
An' sae wi' Fortune's blasts, my frien',—
They'll come an' bide at will,
But we can jink ahint a screen
An' jook their fury still.
Then happy ilka day that comes,
An' glorious ilka nicht;
The present doesna fash oor thooms,
The future needna fricht!
Are far abune oor fit,
But while we scoog them, let them blaw;
We'll aye hae simmer yet.
An' sae wi' Fortune's blasts, my frien',—
They'll come an' bide at will,
But we can jink ahint a screen
An' jook their fury still.
44
An' glorious ilka nicht;
The present doesna fash oor thooms,
The future needna fricht!
The future!—man, there's joys in store,
An' joys ye little ken;
The warld has prov'd them sweet afore,
The warld will again!
The lasses, min! the dearest gift
An' treasure time can gie—
Here's to the love that lichts the lift
O' woman's witchin' ee!
An' vainly till that licht expire
Should storm or winter low'r—
It's sune aneuch to seek the fire
When simmer days are owre!
An' joys ye little ken;
The warld has prov'd them sweet afore,
The warld will again!
The lasses, min! the dearest gift
An' treasure time can gie—
Here's to the love that lichts the lift
O' woman's witchin' ee!
An' vainly till that licht expire
Should storm or winter low'r—
It's sune aneuch to seek the fire
When simmer days are owre!
[_]
Note.—Kinaskit, as its inhabitants pronounce Kinnesswood, is a small village at the foot of the Lomond Hill and not far from Lochleven. In its neighbourhood is a small peat-moss, from which the surrounding villages and farm-towns used to be supplied with fuel. To the student of English literature the village of Kinnesswood has other associations—those, namely, connected with Michael Bruce.
| Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] | |