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 Visits a Sick Friend. |
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| II. |
 | Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] |  |
52
Hughie Visits a Sick Friend.
“Ibimus, ibimus,
Utcumque præcedes supremum
Carpere iter comites parati.”
—Car. ii. 17.
Utcumque præcedes supremum
Carpere iter comites parati.”
—Car. ii. 17.
Davie, auld frien', ye've been a long time ailin',
Ye've suffer'd mony a weary week o' pain,
But dinna think, an' dinna say ye're failin';
Health an' your hopes may a' come back again.
Hoo aften hae we wuss'd, my frien', my brither,
Leadin' our flocks alang the lown hillside,
Thro' life, thro' death to wander on thegither,
Content to gang, yet weel content to bide!
Ye've suffer'd mony a weary week o' pain,
But dinna think, an' dinna say ye're failin';
Health an' your hopes may a' come back again.
Hoo aften hae we wuss'd, my frien', my brither,
Leadin' our flocks alang the lown hillside,
Thro' life, thro' death to wander on thegither,
Content to gang, yet weel content to bide!
Man! as I come in-ower fra the green meadow
Whaur late-born lambs are toddlin' i' the sun,
An' see ye lyin' here, a wastit shadow,
Weak as the least and latest life begun,
Without its hopes, tho' aiblins wi' a greater,
An' me sae hale an hearty lookin' on,
Pooerless to help—it's no' in human natur'
To leave thae life-lang dreams without a groan.
Whaur late-born lambs are toddlin' i' the sun,
An' see ye lyin' here, a wastit shadow,
Weak as the least and latest life begun,
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An' me sae hale an hearty lookin' on,
Pooerless to help—it's no' in human natur'
To leave thae life-lang dreams without a groan.
Davie, it canna be; ower muir an' mountain
Comes surgin' fra the south the tide o' Spring:
Licht to the lift, an' music to the fountain,
An' spray o' flooers a' gate its billows fling.
O' winter's snaw there's but a tate remainin',
Gowans and laverocks gladden sky an' lea,
An' maun ye, Moses-like, on this new Canaan
Cast but a glance, an' syne lie doun an' dee?
Comes surgin' fra the south the tide o' Spring:
Licht to the lift, an' music to the fountain,
An' spray o' flooers a' gate its billows fling.
O' winter's snaw there's but a tate remainin',
Gowans and laverocks gladden sky an' lea,
An' maun ye, Moses-like, on this new Canaan
Cast but a glance, an' syne lie doun an' dee?
What signifies the simmer's gowden splendour
O' days an' starry nichts to me my lane?
What breath o' balm, what timorous touch an' tender
O' wind could comfort me, an' Davie gane?
The year's melodious mirth on me were wastit,
In wuds an' watters hearin' but a wail;
Fra me the cup o' joy wad pass untastit,
An' a' the sweets o' life an' livin' fail.
O' days an' starry nichts to me my lane?
What breath o' balm, what timorous touch an' tender
O' wind could comfort me, an' Davie gane?
The year's melodious mirth on me were wastit,
In wuds an' watters hearin' but a wail;
Fra me the cup o' joy wad pass untastit,
An' a' the sweets o' life an' livin' fail.
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An' you,—whaure'er in fields abune ye dander'd,
Wha's mornin' prime endures the ages thro',
By whatna crystal wave unkent ye wander'd,
'Neth skies wi' ne'er a clud to blot their blue;
Tho' ne'er a glint fra hope ye bude to borrow,
Secure in calm, unkennin' cauld or care,—
My mournin', like a sough o' autumn sorrow,
Wad follow ye, an' fret ye even there!
Wha's mornin' prime endures the ages thro',
By whatna crystal wave unkent ye wander'd,
'Neth skies wi' ne'er a clud to blot their blue;
Tho' ne'er a glint fra hope ye bude to borrow,
Secure in calm, unkennin' cauld or care,—
My mournin', like a sough o' autumn sorrow,
Wad follow ye, an' fret ye even there!
Davie, it's no' the first time we hae fand it
A joyfu' truth that Providence is kind:
Let's warstle thro' the doots whaur noo we're landit,
An' face the future still wi' even mind.
The gate o' death, by which we a' maun enter—
By it we'll meet, tho' late an' lang it be:
Peace be wi' him whaever first maun enter,
But patience is a harder weird to dree!
A joyfu' truth that Providence is kind:
Let's warstle thro' the doots whaur noo we're landit,
An' face the future still wi' even mind.
The gate o' death, by which we a' maun enter—
By it we'll meet, tho' late an' lang it be:
Peace be wi' him whaever first maun enter,
But patience is a harder weird to dree!
| Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] | |