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 Appraisement of the Ochils. |
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 | Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] |  |
69
Hughie's Appraisement of the Ochils.
“Aurum irrepertum et sic melius situm,
Quum terra celat, spernere fortior
Quam cogere, humanos in usus
Omne sacrum rapiente dextra.”
—Car. iii. 3.
Quum terra celat, spernere fortior
Quam cogere, humanos in usus
Omne sacrum rapiente dextra.”
—Car. iii. 3.
Wi' couthie farms an' faulds adorn'd,
An' hirsels without number;
Wi' hummelt kye an' kyloes horn'd,
Red, yellow, black, and umber;
And, abune a', wi' bannet lairds,
The cocks o' the creation—
Heaven spare their patriarchal beards,
An' speed their generation!
What hills are like the Ochil hills,
Unless it be the Lomon'?
And whaur on earth are sweeter rills
To daunder by i' gloamin'?
An' hirsels without number;
Wi' hummelt kye an' kyloes horn'd,
Red, yellow, black, and umber;
And, abune a', wi' bannet lairds,
The cocks o' the creation—
Heaven spare their patriarchal beards,
An' speed their generation!
What hills are like the Ochil hills,
Unless it be the Lomon'?
And whaur on earth are sweeter rills
To daunder by i' gloamin'?
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Their caller side the Allan cools,
Their sunny side the Devon,
Wi' dusky plumms an' crystal pools,
Reflecting hill and heaven.
Hoo sweet their waters to the ee,
Or round the ankles playin',
Or mairried to the barley-bree,
The fisher's thirst allayin'!
Gang freely, fishers, by their banks,
Baith foreign loons an' locals,
An' fling your flees, an' breathe your thanks,
That Nature made the Ochils!
Their sunny side the Devon,
Wi' dusky plumms an' crystal pools,
Reflecting hill and heaven.
Hoo sweet their waters to the ee,
Or round the ankles playin',
Or mairried to the barley-bree,
The fisher's thirst allayin'!
Gang freely, fishers, by their banks,
Baith foreign loons an' locals,
An' fling your flees, an' breathe your thanks,
That Nature made the Ochils!
Wha wadna keep this rampart free,
That rises green amang us?
What ither haunt or howff hae we
When warld's cares owregang us?
It's something to escape the stoor
The fecht wi' fortune raises,
An' rin a laddie for an hoor
Barefit amang the daisies.
But here-streek oot your shanks at lairge;
There's no' a buird to stay ye;
Nor menace o' a trespass chairge,
Nor upstart to nay-say ye.
There's no' a biggin' wi' a ruif,
But mak's ye welcome hither;
There's no a farmer wi' a luif,
But grips ye like a brither.
There's no' a tyke that has a tail
But waves 'd aloft to greet ye;
The very fanners and the flail
Are whirlin' mad to meet ye!
That rises green amang us?
What ither haunt or howff hae we
When warld's cares owregang us?
It's something to escape the stoor
The fecht wi' fortune raises,
An' rin a laddie for an hoor
Barefit amang the daisies.
71
There's no' a buird to stay ye;
Nor menace o' a trespass chairge,
Nor upstart to nay-say ye.
There's no' a biggin' wi' a ruif,
But mak's ye welcome hither;
There's no a farmer wi' a luif,
But grips ye like a brither.
There's no' a tyke that has a tail
But waves 'd aloft to greet ye;
The very fanners and the flail
Are whirlin' mad to meet ye!
Heaven keep the Ochil rampart free,
That rises green amang us!
What better randyvoo could be,
If fate or folly dang us?
May never tunnel pierce its hert,
Nor mill nor mine disturb it,
But Nature flourish here, and Airt
Keep in her Lowland orbit.
Ae moodiewart there was that socht
To mine an' mak' a gain o't;
Thank Heaven! his howkin' cam' to nocht,
He'd naething but the pain o't.
But had that limmer ha'en the power—
We ken what bizz'd in he's caip!
He'd whummled the haill Ochils ower
As I would cowp a beeskep!
But what does impious Folly care
For happy habitations?
She'd overturn a palace fair
To seize on the foundations.
That rises green amang us!
What better randyvoo could be,
If fate or folly dang us?
May never tunnel pierce its hert,
Nor mill nor mine disturb it,
But Nature flourish here, and Airt
Keep in her Lowland orbit.
72
To mine an' mak' a gain o't;
Thank Heaven! his howkin' cam' to nocht,
He'd naething but the pain o't.
But had that limmer ha'en the power—
We ken what bizz'd in he's caip!
He'd whummled the haill Ochils ower
As I would cowp a beeskep!
But what does impious Folly care
For happy habitations?
She'd overturn a palace fair
To seize on the foundations.
| Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] | |