The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
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 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
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.
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |