Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] A New Edition with Illustrations by A. S. Boyd |
 |
Autolycus in Glendevon: Hughie falls in
with Shakespeare. |
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| I. |
| II. |
 | Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] |  |
123
Autolycus in Glendevon: Hughie falls in with Shakespeare.
“Callidum, quidquid placuit, jocoso
Condere furto.”
—Car. i. 10.
—Car. i. 10.
A player 's come to Devon banks,
An' doun fornenst my door he clanks,
An' draws his buskins on;
Then up he loups: the gude be near's!
The warld at my door appears,
An' Devonside stands yon'!
Here stalks a king, there slinks a freer,
An' fra behint a buss
Keeks ane wi' sly todlowrie leer—
The loon Autolycus.
Deceivin', an' weavin'
His wiles wi' ready skill,
Yet rantin', an' chantin',—
I canna wuss him ill.
An' doun fornenst my door he clanks,
An' draws his buskins on;
Then up he loups: the gude be near's!
The warld at my door appears,
An' Devonside stands yon'!
Here stalks a king, there slinks a freer,
An' fra behint a buss
Keeks ane wi' sly todlowrie leer—
The loon Autolycus.
Deceivin', an' weavin'
His wiles wi' ready skill,
Yet rantin', an' chantin',—
I canna wuss him ill.
124
I pass for honest man mysel',
Wi' truth, as far as I can tell;
Yet see hoo things come roun',—
Some auld forgotten taint o' blude,
Some auld forbear's contempt o' gude,
Mak's me admire the loon.
An' I could hearken till his strain
When hawthorn buds appear
(Gin I could ca' my lugs my ain)
Whil' I had lugs to hear.
But deacons, an' beacons
O' haly reek and flame,
Surround me, an' bound me,
An' bid me bide at hame!
Wi' truth, as far as I can tell;
Yet see hoo things come roun',—
Some auld forgotten taint o' blude,
Some auld forbear's contempt o' gude,
Mak's me admire the loon.
An' I could hearken till his strain
When hawthorn buds appear
(Gin I could ca' my lugs my ain)
Whil' I had lugs to hear.
But deacons, an' beacons
O' haly reek and flame,
Surround me, an' bound me,
An' bid me bide at hame!
We're ower sair fash'd wi' righteousness!
The warld, I'm sure, wad do wi' less
O' that peculiar kind
That lies in visage lang an' sour,
Uncharitable heart, an' dour
An' narrow bigot mind;
That weaves a windin'-sheet for mirth,
That poisons bread wi' leaven,
That herds us fra the joys o' earth,
An' fain wad haud's fra heaven!
Misca's us, an' thraws us,
Hooever it seems fit:
We'll blink it, an' jink it,
An' tak' oor fling o't yet!
The warld, I'm sure, wad do wi' less
O' that peculiar kind
That lies in visage lang an' sour,
Uncharitable heart, an' dour
An' narrow bigot mind;
127
That poisons bread wi' leaven,
That herds us fra the joys o' earth,
An' fain wad haud's fra heaven!
Misca's us, an' thraws us,
Hooever it seems fit:
We'll blink it, an' jink it,
An' tak' oor fling o't yet!
| Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] | |