The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES KENNEDY. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES KENNEDY.
CRAIL, JANUARY.
Nae doubt ye'll glowre whane'er ye leuk,
An' see I'm maist at Scotland's neuk,
Whare owre the waves black swarms o' deuk
Soom far an' near;
And laden't ships to try their luck,
For Holland steer.
An' see I'm maist at Scotland's neuk,
Whare owre the waves black swarms o' deuk
Soom far an' near;
And laden't ships to try their luck,
For Holland steer.
And let them gang, for me—nae mair
My luck I'll try at selling ware;
I've sworn by a' aboon the air
To quat the pack;
Or deed I doubt baith me an' gear
Wad gang to wrack.
My luck I'll try at selling ware;
I've sworn by a' aboon the air
To quat the pack;
Or deed I doubt baith me an' gear
Wad gang to wrack.
103
Three years thro' mairs an' bogs I've squattert,
Wi' duddy claes an' huggars tatter't;
Sleepit in barns, an' lee't, an' clatter't,
Thrang sellin' claith;
An' now wi' storms I've maist been batter't
An' smoor't to death.
Wi' duddy claes an' huggars tatter't;
Sleepit in barns, an' lee't, an' clatter't,
Thrang sellin' claith;
An' now wi' storms I've maist been batter't
An' smoor't to death.
Nor think this droll, when sic a clash
O' snaw an' sleet, and sic caul' trash,
Ilk day I hae out thro' to plash,
Owre muir an' brae,
An' ablins whyles but little cash:
Whilk mak's ane wae.
O' snaw an' sleet, and sic caul' trash,
Ilk day I hae out thro' to plash,
Owre muir an' brae,
An' ablins whyles but little cash:
Whilk mak's ane wae.
'Twas just yestreen, as tir'd an' slaw
I waded hame through drifted snaw,
Nae livin' creature, house or ha',
Perceiv'd I cheary;
But muir an' mountain, glen an' shaw,
War sad an' dreary.
I waded hame through drifted snaw,
Nae livin' creature, house or ha',
Perceiv'd I cheary;
But muir an' mountain, glen an' shaw,
War sad an' dreary.
Mirk fell the night, an' frae the wast
Loud roar't the bitter-biting blast;
The blatterin' hail, right fell an' fast,
O'erscourg'd my face;
While owre the drifted heaps I past
Wi' weary pace.
Loud roar't the bitter-biting blast;
The blatterin' hail, right fell an' fast,
O'erscourg'd my face;
While owre the drifted heaps I past
Wi' weary pace.
As down a knowe my way I hel';
Nane wi' me but my lanely sel',
Whistlin' fu' blythe; trouth, sir, to tell
The mournfu' truth,
Down thro' a wreathe o' snaw I fell,
Maist to the mouth.
Nane wi' me but my lanely sel',
Whistlin' fu' blythe; trouth, sir, to tell
The mournfu' truth,
Down thro' a wreathe o' snaw I fell,
Maist to the mouth.
104
As soon's I fan' I yet was livin',
I rais'd my e'en wi' doolfu' grieving,
Gude fegs! I wish I'd yet been weavin';
For deed I doubt,
Sae deep I'm down, an' wedged sae stive in,
I'll ne'er win out.
I rais'd my e'en wi' doolfu' grieving,
Gude fegs! I wish I'd yet been weavin';
For deed I doubt,
Sae deep I'm down, an' wedged sae stive in,
I'll ne'er win out.
But out at last I maunt to speel,
Far mair than e'er I thought atweel;
Roun' for my pack I straight did feel,
But deil-be-licket
I fan' or saw,—quo' I, fareweel,
For death I'm pricket.
Far mair than e'er I thought atweel;
Roun' for my pack I straight did feel,
But deil-be-licket
I fan' or saw,—quo' I, fareweel,
For death I'm pricket.
This is the last, the snellest lick,
That I'll e'er get frae Fortune's stick;
Now she may lift a stane or brick
An' break my back;
Since her an' Cloots has plann'd this trick
To steal my pack!
That I'll e'er get frae Fortune's stick;
Now she may lift a stane or brick
An' break my back;
Since her an' Cloots has plann'd this trick
To steal my pack!
To keep you, sir, nae mair uneasy,
I'll tell ye what, mayhap, will please ye,
I gat my pack; quo' I, I'se heeze ye,
Frae out the snaw;
Nae deil in a' the pit sal seize ye,
Till I'm awa'.—
I'll tell ye what, mayhap, will please ye,
I gat my pack; quo' I, I'se heeze ye,
Frae out the snaw;
Nae deil in a' the pit sal seize ye,
Till I'm awa'.—
But I maun stop, for dull an' dozin',
The glimmerin' wintry evening flows in,
The short-liv'd day his reign is losin'
The scene to shift;
An' Nature's winnock-brods are closin'
Across the lift.
The glimmerin' wintry evening flows in,
The short-liv'd day his reign is losin'
The scene to shift;
An' Nature's winnock-brods are closin'
Across the lift.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |