The works of Alexander Pennecuik of New-Hall, M.D.; containing the description of Tweeddale, and miscellaneous poems. A new edition, with copious notes, forming a complete history of the county to the present time. To which are prefixed, memoirs of Dr Pennecuik, and a map of the shire of Peebles, or Tweeddale |
 |
 |
A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE SAME AUTHOR,
Care selve beate. |
|
 | The works of Alexander Pennecuik |  |
A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE SAME AUTHOR,
Care selve beate.
Welcome, dear happy groves, that make me glad,
And you still horrors of a lovely shade;
Soft peace and quiet here in triumph reign,
And banish care, with all its anxious train.
Oh! had the gods allow'd me for my share,
To live thus calmly how I list, and where
Your gentle shades such satisfaction yields,
I would not change them for Elysian fields,
Though crowds of demi-gods should there repair,
And hanging gardens should adorn the air;
For what, poor mortals, we do riches call,
If rightly understood, are none at all.
He who inherits most, has of them least,
And is not possessor but is possest;
To keep them safe, how are we rack'd with care,
Which to our native freedom is a snare.
What doth't avail to be call'd great and good,
In mortal veins to lock celestial blood;
To have rich fields of cattle, plenteous store,
T'excel in beauty, and abound in ore;
If yet for all the mind contentment lack,
And troubled thoughts our softest slumbers break.
Happy the shepherdess, secur'd from harms,
Adorn'd with nature's unaffected charms,
Who for her clothing hath some homely stuff,
Which for her body is made just enough.
Rich in herself, no pinching want doth know,
Nor wild distraction which from riches grow.
But full contentment doth find in that state,
In which her choice doth plant her, or her fate.
And you still horrors of a lovely shade;
Soft peace and quiet here in triumph reign,
And banish care, with all its anxious train.
Oh! had the gods allow'd me for my share,
To live thus calmly how I list, and where
Your gentle shades such satisfaction yields,
I would not change them for Elysian fields,
Though crowds of demi-gods should there repair,
And hanging gardens should adorn the air;
For what, poor mortals, we do riches call,
If rightly understood, are none at all.
He who inherits most, has of them least,
And is not possessor but is possest;
To keep them safe, how are we rack'd with care,
Which to our native freedom is a snare.
What doth't avail to be call'd great and good,
In mortal veins to lock celestial blood;
To have rich fields of cattle, plenteous store,
T'excel in beauty, and abound in ore;
373
And troubled thoughts our softest slumbers break.
Happy the shepherdess, secur'd from harms,
Adorn'd with nature's unaffected charms,
Who for her clothing hath some homely stuff,
Which for her body is made just enough.
Rich in herself, no pinching want doth know,
Nor wild distraction which from riches grow.
But full contentment doth find in that state,
In which her choice doth plant her, or her fate.
Poor but content,
Who for her mirror takes the neighbouring brook,
Which bathes her limbs, and serves therein to look:
Honey and milk do season her delight,
With milk she doth preserve her native white.
No dreadful comet, nor no blazing star,
No loud alarms of approaching war,
Molest her quiet, or disturb her mind,
Which in itself doth full contentment find.
Her shield and fortress is, that she is poor,
Yet rich enough, because she craves no more.
Who for her mirror takes the neighbouring brook,
Which bathes her limbs, and serves therein to look:
Honey and milk do season her delight,
With milk she doth preserve her native white.
No dreadful comet, nor no blazing star,
No loud alarms of approaching war,
Molest her quiet, or disturb her mind,
Which in itself doth full contentment find.
Her shield and fortress is, that she is poor,
Yet rich enough, because she craves no more.
Poor but content,
Her only care, (but that's a sweet one too)
That whilst some honest swain doth court and woo,
And by her keeps and feeds his master's sheep,
Doth on her gaze, meanwhile he them doth keep,
Who for her sighs and dies, but not in vain,
For she returns his glances back again.
It's such a shepherd, whom no gods above,
Nor cruel men, have destin'd her to love,
But such as her own choice hath made her like,
And for his sake all others can dislike;
Who in her breast no spark of love doth feel,
But to the shepherd dares the same reveal.
Her only care, (but that's a sweet one too)
That whilst some honest swain doth court and woo,
And by her keeps and feeds his master's sheep,
Doth on her gaze, meanwhile he them doth keep,
Who for her sighs and dies, but not in vain,
For she returns his glances back again.
It's such a shepherd, whom no gods above,
Nor cruel men, have destin'd her to love,
But such as her own choice hath made her like,
And for his sake all others can dislike;
Who in her breast no spark of love doth feel,
But to the shepherd dares the same reveal.
374
Poor but content,
This is true life, Oh! were it but my fate,
To live and die in such a peaceful state.
This is true life, Oh! were it but my fate,
To live and die in such a peaceful state.
| The works of Alexander Pennecuik | |