Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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The Twalt' o' August.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
The Twalt' o' August.
Ye muirfowl wha did fernyear shun
The smedum o' the Sportman's gun,
For life's sake! cease, awhile, to won
Upon the heath;
Else, sprawling, bleedin', on the grun,
Ye'll meet your death.
The smedum o' the Sportman's gun,
For life's sake! cease, awhile, to won
Upon the heath;
Else, sprawling, bleedin', on the grun,
Ye'll meet your death.
The twalt' o' August now's come roun',
And, now! there is an unco soun'
O' pointers, fresh frae Glasgow toun,
Wi' noses gleg,
Wha'll snock ye out, baith up and down;
Sae, guidsake, leg!
And, now! there is an unco soun'
O' pointers, fresh frae Glasgow toun,
Wi' noses gleg,
Wha'll snock ye out, baith up and down;
Sae, guidsake, leg!
Wi' birr, haste, lea' the uplan' fells;
Nae back-look cast on heather-bells;
But shelter in our howms and dells
'Mong cornfields snug;
Then they may range the muirs themsel's,
And claw their lug.
Nae back-look cast on heather-bells;
But shelter in our howms and dells
'Mong cornfields snug;
Then they may range the muirs themsel's,
And claw their lug.
But, waesucks! nature has nae gi'en ye
Sic wiles as might frae danger screen ye;
And, though game-keepers aft befrien' ye
Frae poacher louns,
Their tyrant lords do sairly glean ye,
Wi' their platoons.
Sic wiles as might frae danger screen ye;
357
Frae poacher louns,
Their tyrant lords do sairly glean ye,
Wi' their platoons.
And there they come, devoid o' feelin',
In phaetons, chaises, coaches, reelin',
Wi' swarms o' flunkies, pechin', speelin'
The heather-braes;
While leesh-freed spaniels blithe are squeelin'—
Your deadly faes.
In phaetons, chaises, coaches, reelin',
Wi' swarms o' flunkies, pechin', speelin'
The heather-braes;
While leesh-freed spaniels blithe are squeelin'—
Your deadly faes.
Deed, lads! ye are nae thrang at hame;
I wonder that ye think na shame
To rise sic steer, pursuin' game
Through muirs and mosses;
Sic deeds will never raise your fame
'Boon downricht asses.
I wonder that ye think na shame
To rise sic steer, pursuin' game
Through muirs and mosses;
Sic deeds will never raise your fame
'Boon downricht asses.
E'en our auld crack-brain'd lustfu' knight,
Boost steer his course up to the heicht,
Resolved to won baith day and nicht,
In's house-like tent,
Though scarcely he, for want o' sicht,
Kens corn frae bent.
Boost steer his course up to the heicht,
Resolved to won baith day and nicht,
In's house-like tent,
Though scarcely he, for want o' sicht,
Kens corn frae bent.
Nane e'er could libel you wi' wyte,
Gin 'twere to fill a hungry kite;
But, faith, I dread, 'tis through delight
O' bloody fowlin',
At whilk poor dogs ye whauk and hyte,
And haud them yowlin'.
Gin 'twere to fill a hungry kite;
But, faith, I dread, 'tis through delight
O' bloody fowlin',
At whilk poor dogs ye whauk and hyte,
And haud them yowlin'.
Confound you and your cringin' valets,
Wha bear your blasted powther wallets;
Gae hame, among your pimps and callets,
In stews obscene,
Whare ye may row on hanty pallets,
In acts unclean.
Wha bear your blasted powther wallets;
Gae hame, among your pimps and callets,
In stews obscene,
Whare ye may row on hanty pallets,
In acts unclean.
Your vile contaminated blood
Boils, like the tempest-waken'd flood,
Throughout your veins, by riot rude,
Malignant, raised,
Whilk lea's ye aft in crankous mood,
Baith doilt and daised.
Boils, like the tempest-waken'd flood,
Throughout your veins, by riot rude,
Malignant, raised,
Whilk lea's ye aft in crankous mood,
Baith doilt and daised.
358
Syne, to recruit baith saul and body,
Ye lea' a-while the reekin' toddy,
And in some hackney, gig, or noddy
Ye tak the fiel',
While covies, frae their snug abode, aye
Before you reel.
Ye lea' a-while the reekin' toddy,
And in some hackney, gig, or noddy
Ye tak the fiel',
While covies, frae their snug abode, aye
Before you reel.
Plump, sonsie, harmless, toddlin' things,
Wha chirr amang the mountain springs,
Aft maun you pine, wi' gory wings,
Frae deadly guns;
But yet your state nae pity brings
Frae thae base Huns.
Wha chirr amang the mountain springs,
Aft maun you pine, wi' gory wings,
Frae deadly guns;
But yet your state nae pity brings
Frae thae base Huns.
Ye paitriks too, though now ye hide
'Mang yellow corn-fields wavin' wide,
The persecution's blast maun bide,
Fell, fell indeed;
And, dyin', welter side-by-side,
Through their cursed greed.
'Mang yellow corn-fields wavin' wide,
The persecution's blast maun bide,
Fell, fell indeed;
And, dyin', welter side-by-side,
Through their cursed greed.
And you, ye hiddlins whiddin' hares,
Whan winter's breath wi' rancour rairs,
Will taste the poacher's wily snares,
'Bout kail-yard dykes,
And sloungin grews, aft unawares,
Vile worryin' tykes.
Whan winter's breath wi' rancour rairs,
Will taste the poacher's wily snares,
'Bout kail-yard dykes,
And sloungin grews, aft unawares,
Vile worryin' tykes.
Though I could view wi' tearless e'e,
By hunter's han's, tod-lowrie dee,
Yet suff'rin' innocence to me
Brings grief, I vow;
Withouten bluster, brag, or lee,
As truth 'tis true.
By hunter's han's, tod-lowrie dee,
Yet suff'rin' innocence to me
Brings grief, I vow;
Withouten bluster, brag, or lee,
As truth 'tis true.
My malison upon you a'!
Wha stifle feeling's glorious law;
This trade I canna brook ava,
Sae, while I've breath,
My cauldest love to you I'll shaw,
And hettest wraith.
Wha stifle feeling's glorious law;
This trade I canna brook ava,
Sae, while I've breath,
My cauldest love to you I'll shaw,
And hettest wraith.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |