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. ANDREW CLARK. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
105
SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. ANDREW CLARK.
Tir'd wi' tramping moors an' mosses,
Speeling stairs, an' lifting snecks;
Daunering down through lanes an' closses,
Buskin' braw the bonny sex.
Speeling stairs, an' lifting snecks;
Daunering down through lanes an' closses,
Buskin' braw the bonny sex.
Hame, at e'ening, late I scuded,
Whare Auld Reekie's turrets tow'r;
Mirk, the lift was, drousy cluded,
An' the starns begoud to glow'r;
Whare Auld Reekie's turrets tow'r;
Mirk, the lift was, drousy cluded,
An' the starns begoud to glow'r;
In my nieve, my honest Lucky,
Soon's I reek't her ingle cheek,
Ram't yer lines; as daft's a bucky
Was I when I heard you speak.
Soon's I reek't her ingle cheek,
Ram't yer lines; as daft's a bucky
Was I when I heard you speak.
Ben the room I ran wi' hurry,
Clos'd the door wi' unco glee;
Read, an' leugh, maist like to worry,
Till my pow grew haflins ree.
Clos'd the door wi' unco glee;
Read, an' leugh, maist like to worry,
Till my pow grew haflins ree.
Sonsy fa' your Muse, my laddie!
She's a wench can mount fu' heigh;
Tho' her phraizing (far owre gaudie),
Gars me cock my tap fu' skeigh.
She's a wench can mount fu' heigh;
Tho' her phraizing (far owre gaudie),
Gars me cock my tap fu' skeigh.
Cartha's banks wi' flow'rets hinging,
Warbling birds, wi' tow'ring wing;
Rocks and hills wi' music ringing,
Weel I like to hear you sing.
Warbling birds, wi' tow'ring wing;
Rocks and hills wi' music ringing,
Weel I like to hear you sing.
These are scenes of health an' quiet,
Innocence and rural bliss;
Solitude, tho' others fly it,
Towns to me are dull with this.
Innocence and rural bliss;
Solitude, tho' others fly it,
Towns to me are dull with this.
106
Distant far frae ony living,
Deep in lanely woodings lost;
Oft my Muse, wi' ardour heaving,
Sung her woes, by fortune crost.
Deep in lanely woodings lost;
Oft my Muse, wi' ardour heaving,
Sung her woes, by fortune crost.
Stretch'd beside the bubbling burnie
Aften musing wou'd I lie;
While glad Phœbus, on his journey,
Stream'd wi' gowd the eastern sky,
Aften musing wou'd I lie;
While glad Phœbus, on his journey,
Stream'd wi' gowd the eastern sky,
This, man, sets our brains a' bizzing,
This can soothe our sorrowing breasts;
Want and Care set afward whizzing,
'Till our jaded hobby reests.
This can soothe our sorrowing breasts;
Want and Care set afward whizzing,
'Till our jaded hobby reests.
While ye spoke of notes enchanting,
Dying o'er the distant plain,
All my soul, tumultuous panting,
Sprung to meet the friendly swain.
Dying o'er the distant plain,
All my soul, tumultuous panting,
Sprung to meet the friendly swain.
Oh! prolong the sweet description,
Bid the Muse new-prune her wing;
Sylvan gods shall at thy diction,
Dance around in airy ring.
Bid the Muse new-prune her wing;
Sylvan gods shall at thy diction,
Dance around in airy ring.
Shall the youth whose pow'rs surpassing,
Melt our souls to sweet delight,
All the soul of song arising
Thro' the silent list'ning night:
Melt our souls to sweet delight,
All the soul of song arising
Thro' the silent list'ning night:
Shall he, doom'd to dark oblivion,
Languish, lost to joy or fame;
Not a swain to soothe his grieving,
Not a Muse to sing his name?
Languish, lost to joy or fame;
Not a swain to soothe his grieving,
Not a Muse to sing his name?
Gods forbid! for yet he'll blossom,
In thy verses now he lives;
Gladly could I paint his bosom,
Gen'rous as the song he gives.
In thy verses now he lives;
Gladly could I paint his bosom,
Gen'rous as the song he gives.
107
But the cluds are black'ning dreary,
Night is drawing owre her screen;
Bodies hame are daunering weary,
Dews are dribbling owre the green.
Night is drawing owre her screen;
Bodies hame are daunering weary,
Dews are dribbling owre the green.
Trust me, tho' closèd in a cellar,
Wantin' huggars, breeks, or sark;
Prest wi' debt, or blest wi' siller.
I'm a frien' to An'rew Clark.
Wantin' huggars, breeks, or sark;
Prest wi' debt, or blest wi' siller.
I'm a frien' to An'rew Clark.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |