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175
TO COUNCILLOR WILSON,
GLASGOW.
February 23, 1863.
Dear Sir,—
Thanks for the printed speech ye sent me.
In ryme I fain would compliment ye,
But faith my muse has grown so lame
O' ryme, I scarce can mind the name,
And wi' a blush I e'en maun tell't,
I've clean forgot the way to spell't.
I ken an “h” should be in ryme,
For I hae written't mony a time,
But whether it should follow “y”
Or “r,” uncertain now am I.
But owre the thing I didna swither.
Quo' I, “I'll out wi't athegither—
What matter when I hae the soun'?”
And sae the “h”-less ryme gaed down.
When next I use't I'll make it right,
But I maun be excused to-night.
Thanks for the printed speech ye sent me.
In ryme I fain would compliment ye,
But faith my muse has grown so lame
O' ryme, I scarce can mind the name,
And wi' a blush I e'en maun tell't,
I've clean forgot the way to spell't.
I ken an “h” should be in ryme,
For I hae written't mony a time,
But whether it should follow “y”
Or “r,” uncertain now am I.
176
Quo' I, “I'll out wi't athegither—
What matter when I hae the soun'?”
And sae the “h”-less ryme gaed down.
When next I use't I'll make it right,
But I maun be excused to-night.
But yet, sir, I maun compliment ye:
It is a charmin' Bab ye've sent me;
Sae tastefully it's tied thegither,
But few could tie me sic anither.
On sic a Bab, and sic a string,
What muse could gaze wi' faulded wing?
For months I hae nae felt sic pleasure.
Oh! for an hour o' quiet leisure,
That I micht sit and let the fire
O' Burns's muse my soul inspire
Until (as aft before) I'd feel
As if I at his feet did kneel,
And felt his haun' upon my head,
And saw his mantle owre me spread—
His dark e'e kindly on me beam,
The star o' an eternal dream.
It is a charmin' Bab ye've sent me;
Sae tastefully it's tied thegither,
But few could tie me sic anither.
On sic a Bab, and sic a string,
What muse could gaze wi' faulded wing?
For months I hae nae felt sic pleasure.
Oh! for an hour o' quiet leisure,
That I micht sit and let the fire
O' Burns's muse my soul inspire
Until (as aft before) I'd feel
As if I at his feet did kneel,
And felt his haun' upon my head,
And saw his mantle owre me spread—
177
The star o' an eternal dream.
But, while I write, frae roof tae hallan's
Like bedlam wi' thae noisy callans:
O' a' the Deils wi' which we're curst,
The Printer's Deil's by far the worst;
But his allotted place he fills,
Like other necessary ills.
(Be't understood, dear sir, whate'er
I say o' him he maunna hear.
He needs be neither dumb nor blate
Wha meddles wi' the Fourth Estate,
And soon or late he'll sure sink under
Some weel-aimed bolt o' morning thunder.
Sae wi' the inky imp my plan
Is aye to praise him when I can.)
At times, when fancy lacks employment,
His din's a source o' true enjoyment;
But though he aften plagues me sair,
To wish him ill were hardly fair.
There is a kind o' fellow-feelin'
That owre my heart at times comes stealin':
I mind how I in youth was cuffed
Like him, when I my maister huffed,
And how, the less I would oppose,
The thicker cam' the ungenerous blows;
I sabbed, 'tis true, in piteous mood,
But he! it seems to dae him guid.
Like bedlam wi' thae noisy callans:
O' a' the Deils wi' which we're curst,
The Printer's Deil's by far the worst;
But his allotted place he fills,
Like other necessary ills.
(Be't understood, dear sir, whate'er
I say o' him he maunna hear.
He needs be neither dumb nor blate
Wha meddles wi' the Fourth Estate,
And soon or late he'll sure sink under
Some weel-aimed bolt o' morning thunder.
Sae wi' the inky imp my plan
Is aye to praise him when I can.)
At times, when fancy lacks employment,
His din's a source o' true enjoyment;
But though he aften plagues me sair,
To wish him ill were hardly fair.
178
That owre my heart at times comes stealin':
I mind how I in youth was cuffed
Like him, when I my maister huffed,
And how, the less I would oppose,
The thicker cam' the ungenerous blows;
I sabbed, 'tis true, in piteous mood,
But he! it seems to dae him guid.
There's no 'tween coal and printer's ink
Sae muckle odds as ane wad think;
Indeed, we may the difference split
Between the pressroom and the pit:
They hae the din, I had the damp;
They hae their gas, I had my lamp;
My toil the sunlicht never saw,
And theirs the sunlicht sleeps awa';
And though they're aye the earth aboon,
I had the Country, they the Toun.
Sae muckle odds as ane wad think;
Indeed, we may the difference split
Between the pressroom and the pit:
They hae the din, I had the damp;
They hae their gas, I had my lamp;
My toil the sunlicht never saw,
And theirs the sunlicht sleeps awa';
And though they're aye the earth aboon,
I had the Country, they the Toun.
I said we micht the difference split
Between the pressroom and the pit,
But as I on comparin' gang,
In sooth! I think the sayin' wrang;
A bairn o' mine, however dear,
I'd rather see him there than here.
O' “Life” he aiblins less micht learn,
But he wad langer be a bairn,
Micht leeve a life a thocht mair sainted,
His tongue wi' filthy slang less tainted.
Alas! to hear them ane wad think
The verra earth ashamed wad sink;
O' vilest deeds they tak' the credit,
And say wi' shameless front, “I did it;”
Remarks that they think only smart,
On wrinkled cheeks gar blushes start.
Sae learned in the affairs o' woman,
God help us! they appear scarce human.
The beardless rakes! O death! be kin',
And keep frae that ilk bairn o' mine.
Between the pressroom and the pit,
179
In sooth! I think the sayin' wrang;
A bairn o' mine, however dear,
I'd rather see him there than here.
O' “Life” he aiblins less micht learn,
But he wad langer be a bairn,
Micht leeve a life a thocht mair sainted,
His tongue wi' filthy slang less tainted.
Alas! to hear them ane wad think
The verra earth ashamed wad sink;
O' vilest deeds they tak' the credit,
And say wi' shameless front, “I did it;”
Remarks that they think only smart,
On wrinkled cheeks gar blushes start.
Sae learned in the affairs o' woman,
God help us! they appear scarce human.
The beardless rakes! O death! be kin',
And keep frae that ilk bairn o' mine.
And sae, sir (though I've far digressed),
What wi' their rampin' and unrest,
Their rattling, clattering, deaving din
(The devils a' wear wooden shoon),
A guid new thought that's worth rehearsin'
Can ne'er be putten decent verse in,
And ane in prose his say maun sum,
Or listen fretfu' and be dumb.
What wi' their rampin' and unrest,
180
(The devils a' wear wooden shoon),
A guid new thought that's worth rehearsin'
Can ne'er be putten decent verse in,
And ane in prose his say maun sum,
Or listen fretfu' and be dumb.
There was a time, it's no lang gane,
And owre't 'twere hardly wise to mane,
When I had but to say, I'll sing,
And straight my ready muse took wing.
Stiff was the theme! she rose the prouder!
Loud was the noise! she sang the louder!
Like prisoned laverock in the town,
That strives the causeway din to drown;
But now the Dame is grown sae taupit,
She maun be coaxed, and praised, and clappit,
And maunna be disturbed, or she
Will mute as winter blackbird be,
Else I in Burns's praise wad join
And tie a Bab to eke to thine.
And yet, dear sir, what can we say
That would be new? For mony a day
Enthusiasts in his praise hae sung,
And commentators sage hae wrung,
Frae every line its subtlest meaning:—
There's little left for future gleaning.
And owre't 'twere hardly wise to mane,
When I had but to say, I'll sing,
And straight my ready muse took wing.
Stiff was the theme! she rose the prouder!
Loud was the noise! she sang the louder!
Like prisoned laverock in the town,
That strives the causeway din to drown;
But now the Dame is grown sae taupit,
She maun be coaxed, and praised, and clappit,
And maunna be disturbed, or she
Will mute as winter blackbird be,
Else I in Burns's praise wad join
And tie a Bab to eke to thine.
181
That would be new? For mony a day
Enthusiasts in his praise hae sung,
And commentators sage hae wrung,
Frae every line its subtlest meaning:—
There's little left for future gleaning.
Ca' we him Scotland's ain—her best!
It is a truth by a' confest.
Great master o' the Doric reed!
It is a praise that's stale indeed.
The pride o' every honest man!
For sixty years the strain's sae ran:
Though sonnet follows sonnet fast,
Yet each but counterfeits the last,
And that which tells his praises best
Seems mair an echo than the rest.
It is a truth by a' confest.
Great master o' the Doric reed!
It is a praise that's stale indeed.
The pride o' every honest man!
For sixty years the strain's sae ran:
Though sonnet follows sonnet fast,
Yet each but counterfeits the last,
And that which tells his praises best
Seems mair an echo than the rest.
His memory lang within my heart
Has been a star that “dwelt apart;”
But of its ever-growing beams
To sing, to me irreverend seems.
I dare not to a theme aspire,
That seems too grand for human lyre.
Has been a star that “dwelt apart;”
But of its ever-growing beams
To sing, to me irreverend seems.
182
That seems too grand for human lyre.
Again, sir, let me compliment ye
On the rich paper ye hae sent me.
This random rhyme ('tis weel spelt noo)
Is but a puir return, 'tis true,
And doubtless it wad been far better
That I had still remained your debtor,
Than sic vile payment sent—but then,
As soon as I had ta'en my pen,
My thoughts in measured form cam' clinkin',
Wi' every thought a rhyme cam' linkin',
And sae I wrote awa, ne'er heedin'
If what I wrote was worth the readin',
Till decency I far owrestep't it,
But, sir, in lieu o' thanks accept it;
You see in rhyme I'm prone to sin yet,
Good-bye,
Your Servant,
David Wingate.
On the rich paper ye hae sent me.
This random rhyme ('tis weel spelt noo)
Is but a puir return, 'tis true,
And doubtless it wad been far better
That I had still remained your debtor,
Than sic vile payment sent—but then,
As soon as I had ta'en my pen,
My thoughts in measured form cam' clinkin',
Wi' every thought a rhyme cam' linkin',
And sae I wrote awa, ne'er heedin'
If what I wrote was worth the readin',
Till decency I far owrestep't it,
But, sir, in lieu o' thanks accept it;
You see in rhyme I'm prone to sin yet,
Good-bye,
Your Servant,
David Wingate.
W. Wilson, Esq.
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