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

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.