The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
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| SIR ALBON. |
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 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
97
SIR ALBON.
INSCRIBED TO CAPTAIN MILLER,
IST GUARDS.
99
Enough of rain, of hail, and snow,
Has drench'd the regions here below,
The lark soars high, and sings in air;
The thrush begins her tender care;
The soft breeze whispers through the bough;
And busy crows pursue the plough.
When ev'ry songster strains its throat,
Shall silent be the minstrel's note?
High swells his soul, so swell his song,
And ev'ry rock the strain prolong.
Has drench'd the regions here below,
The lark soars high, and sings in air;
The thrush begins her tender care;
The soft breeze whispers through the bough;
And busy crows pursue the plough.
When ev'ry songster strains its throat,
Shall silent be the minstrel's note?
High swells his soul, so swell his song,
And ev'ry rock the strain prolong.
To thee, my M***r, shall I paint
With willing hand, but colours faint,
The joys that crowd our sylvan scene,
The rushing river, laurels green,
The time-worn bridge, romantic mill,
The rocks, and banks, and Lockhart-hill?—
Or shall I rouse the sportsman's shout,
When many a grawl, and many a trout,
By net resistless dragg'd to shore,
Adds to the well-filled larder's store?—
Or when the moorcock skims the heath
On rapid wing, more rapid death
O'ertakes the fugitive—he dies,
And the serf lifts the feathered prize?—
Or when September's new-born day
Gives partridges as legal prey,
Shall dogs and hackbuts pass unsung,
The steady point—the covey sprung—
Now right, now left, a brace are down,
With horse-shoe breast and scarlet crown?—
Or shall I mark on high Stairaird,
The hare steal off from Bauldy Baird,
Just when he meditates the feat,
To shoot her cow'ring in her seat?—
Or when the wintry wind bereaves
The copsewood of its wreck of leaves;
When men and dogs, a busy rout,
Try ev'ry holly-bush about;
When the moon's light conducts the flock,
And ev'ry bank can boast a cock?—
With spring elastic up he darts,
“Mark! mark!” they cry, then beat all hearts;
Like lightning (such the rapid view)
The sportsman pours the pellets through;
And as he falls to rise no more,
Curses th' inhospitable shore
Which dooms him far from Lapland's coast,
To stretch his limbs on—butter toast!
With willing hand, but colours faint,
The joys that crowd our sylvan scene,
The rushing river, laurels green,
The time-worn bridge, romantic mill,
The rocks, and banks, and Lockhart-hill?—
100
When many a grawl, and many a trout,
By net resistless dragg'd to shore,
Adds to the well-filled larder's store?—
Or when the moorcock skims the heath
On rapid wing, more rapid death
O'ertakes the fugitive—he dies,
And the serf lifts the feathered prize?—
Or when September's new-born day
Gives partridges as legal prey,
Shall dogs and hackbuts pass unsung,
The steady point—the covey sprung—
Now right, now left, a brace are down,
With horse-shoe breast and scarlet crown?—
Or shall I mark on high Stairaird,
The hare steal off from Bauldy Baird,
Just when he meditates the feat,
To shoot her cow'ring in her seat?—
Or when the wintry wind bereaves
The copsewood of its wreck of leaves;
When men and dogs, a busy rout,
Try ev'ry holly-bush about;
When the moon's light conducts the flock,
And ev'ry bank can boast a cock?—
With spring elastic up he darts,
“Mark! mark!” they cry, then beat all hearts;
Like lightning (such the rapid view)
The sportsman pours the pellets through;
101
Curses th' inhospitable shore
Which dooms him far from Lapland's coast,
To stretch his limbs on—butter toast!
And now, e'er drops my feeble wing,
My blessing take. Go, serve the king;
Forget the soft Sicilian fair,
The Mareschina's grace and air,
And set your heart on British stuff,
For surely they're quite good enough.
So—savoury be each well-cooked dish!
If aught avails the minstrel's wish.
My blessing take. Go, serve the king;
Forget the soft Sicilian fair,
The Mareschina's grace and air,
And set your heart on British stuff,
For surely they're quite good enough.
So—savoury be each well-cooked dish!
If aught avails the minstrel's wish.
L'Argument Prosaique.
The Camperdown coach stops to water the horses in a village, at M‘Lellan's door, publican and butcher— Sir Albon jumps out, mounts a hack—canters up the causeway—passes the door of the Clerk of the Roads —sees the light of Muirkirk Iron-works—passes Kinzencleugh and Ballochmyle, and arrives at the Howfoord. Distance, one mile—time, six minutes.
Sir Albon.
Swift o'er heaven's arch the streamers ran,
While slowly moved the caravan.
Sudden, unbid, the leaders stood
Before thy gate, O man of blood!
If aught did there the curb branch ply,
'Twas hand unseen by mortal eye;
If aught did esse and crochet strain,
'Twas hand unhallow'd drew the rein.
While slowly moved the caravan.
102
Before thy gate, O man of blood!
If aught did there the curb branch ply,
'Twas hand unseen by mortal eye;
If aught did esse and crochet strain,
'Twas hand unhallow'd drew the rein.
Swift to his steed Sir Albon sprung,
Beneath his feet the trap-stone rung;
For rapid was the courser's stroke,
And ev'ry wight whose sleep it broke,
By sudden start, on elbow raised,
Breathed a half-stifled “Gude be praised!”
Quicker than cloth-yard arrow's flight
De Wodrow's mansion pass'd Sir Knight,
And quicker than the drum-boy's ruff
His horse hoofs clatter'd hard and tough.—
De Wodrow! though it mar my tale,
To sing of thee can minstrel fail?
For clerk he was, if clerk there be,
Though little skilled in minstrelsy,
And less, I wot, in chivalry;
But I may say, in sooth, he knew
The magic powers of two and two,
And four the wonderful result;
And though in head no catapult
To batter logic's ramparts down,
Yet he might challenge fair renown;
For well he conn'd the mystic page
Of Cocker, and of Dilworth sage;
His cap could doff, his cap could don—
But to our tale—Sir Knight pricked on.
No light had he to cheer his way,
Fled were the sunny joys of day,
And not as yet the silv'ry moon
To way-worn pilgrim gave the boon;
Far in the east she linger'd still,
Behind Cairntable's pointed hill,
Or Tintoc brown, or Corsincone,
Whilst Albon dauntless rode alone.
No faintly glimm'ring aid, to mark
Each image in the poring dark,
Save when the well-wrought bars of steel,
Which clad his trusty horse's heel,
Drew from a stone the transient light,
Which brightest shines in darkest night;
For, like that emblematic form,
Which led to Salem's tow'rs the storm,
(And shall a Christian minstrel tell
The triumphs of an infidel?)
The horse-shoe, fitted to defend,
Like that bright moon in turn and bend,
Of shape and light both emulous,
Scatters its light most marvellous.
Beneath his feet the trap-stone rung;
For rapid was the courser's stroke,
And ev'ry wight whose sleep it broke,
By sudden start, on elbow raised,
Breathed a half-stifled “Gude be praised!”
Quicker than cloth-yard arrow's flight
De Wodrow's mansion pass'd Sir Knight,
And quicker than the drum-boy's ruff
His horse hoofs clatter'd hard and tough.—
De Wodrow! though it mar my tale,
To sing of thee can minstrel fail?
For clerk he was, if clerk there be,
Though little skilled in minstrelsy,
And less, I wot, in chivalry;
But I may say, in sooth, he knew
The magic powers of two and two,
And four the wonderful result;
103
To batter logic's ramparts down,
Yet he might challenge fair renown;
For well he conn'd the mystic page
Of Cocker, and of Dilworth sage;
His cap could doff, his cap could don—
But to our tale—Sir Knight pricked on.
No light had he to cheer his way,
Fled were the sunny joys of day,
And not as yet the silv'ry moon
To way-worn pilgrim gave the boon;
Far in the east she linger'd still,
Behind Cairntable's pointed hill,
Or Tintoc brown, or Corsincone,
Whilst Albon dauntless rode alone.
No faintly glimm'ring aid, to mark
Each image in the poring dark,
Save when the well-wrought bars of steel,
Which clad his trusty horse's heel,
Drew from a stone the transient light,
Which brightest shines in darkest night;
For, like that emblematic form,
Which led to Salem's tow'rs the storm,
(And shall a Christian minstrel tell
The triumphs of an infidel?)
The horse-shoe, fitted to defend,
Like that bright moon in turn and bend,
Of shape and light both emulous,
Scatters its light most marvellous.
104
Far on the circle of the sky
Sir Knight a gleaming light did spy;
So vivid was its meteor gleam,
That to some wights it well might seem
The moon herself should shortly rise.
Not so in brave Sir Albon's eyes;
For well he wist this lurid glare
Burst from the source of classic Ayr,
Where, 'midst the bleak and barren wild,
With Erebus' own hue defiled,
The sons of Vulcan at the forge
Their midnight massive hammers urge.
Sir Knight a gleaming light did spy;
So vivid was its meteor gleam,
That to some wights it well might seem
The moon herself should shortly rise.
Not so in brave Sir Albon's eyes;
For well he wist this lurid glare
Burst from the source of classic Ayr,
Where, 'midst the bleak and barren wild,
With Erebus' own hue defiled,
The sons of Vulcan at the forge
Their midnight massive hammers urge.
Fast and more fast his fleet horse flew,
When sudden darting on his view
A lonely light, that twinkled still,
The mansion mark'd of Dame M‘****
Its turrets mock'd his straining gaze;
But then he thought on ancient days,
When lady fair was in her prime,
Fit theme for youthful minstrel's rhyme;
Then bow'd to her on bended knee
The Laird of hazel-clad G ******
Long, long, are all her suitors fled,
Her beauty's fallen, wither'd, dead!
When sudden darting on his view
A lonely light, that twinkled still,
The mansion mark'd of Dame M‘****
Its turrets mock'd his straining gaze;
But then he thought on ancient days,
When lady fair was in her prime,
Fit theme for youthful minstrel's rhyme;
Then bow'd to her on bended knee
The Laird of hazel-clad G ******
Long, long, are all her suitors fled,
Her beauty's fallen, wither'd, dead!
On, on he spurr'd and pass'd the while
Old Kinzencleugh, and Ballochmyle
In song renown'd, and then anon
Was full in front of Willoxton.
On that proud rock a castle stood,
And frown'd upon the raging flood;
But how and when that castle fell
I may not think, I may not tell.
The flames bore ev'ry trace away;
But whence those flames I may not say.
Now on its shrivell'd stunted oak
Blood-sated ravens daily croak;
With gory beak and talons foul,
There nightly screams a howling owl.
Sir Albon pass'd the rock below;
He heard the river's sullen flow,
And high in air portentous sound
In undulations hover'd round—
But ever, as in time of need,
Sir Albon onward prick'd his steed.
Old Kinzencleugh, and Ballochmyle
105
Was full in front of Willoxton.
On that proud rock a castle stood,
And frown'd upon the raging flood;
But how and when that castle fell
I may not think, I may not tell.
The flames bore ev'ry trace away;
But whence those flames I may not say.
Now on its shrivell'd stunted oak
Blood-sated ravens daily croak;
With gory beak and talons foul,
There nightly screams a howling owl.
Sir Albon pass'd the rock below;
He heard the river's sullen flow,
And high in air portentous sound
In undulations hover'd round—
But ever, as in time of need,
Sir Albon onward prick'd his steed.
THE BENISON; OR P.P.C.
And now, why further swell my tome?Suffice it, Albon canter'd home.
What recks it in my simple tale,
That Albon supp'd and swallow'd ale;
Or, tired with travel and alone,
Placed on his pate a cotton cone,
And one of tin on candle's head,
106
But, reader, ere we part, adieu!
For I would part in peace with you.
Take my pot-luck, 'tis good hotch-potch,
A mess of Anglo-Gallic Scotch.
And if this sells, as sell it must,
I soon shall touch, again, your dust.
With wondrous speed, as I'm a sinner,
I'll knock you up another dinner;
For thoughts fall quick from fertile brain,
Like bright prismatic show'rs of rain—
And I can write with ready pen,
For gentle maids, and gentle men.
Though poor the measures from my reed,
Still poorer is your minstrel's meed:
I ask but half-a-crown a line—
The Song be your's, the Disk be mine.
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |