 | Poems, in English, Scotch, and Latin |  |
99
HORACE.
AD VIRGILIUM Ode 12. Book 4.
The westlin wind, the Springtime's crony,
Now skiffs alang the sea sae bonny,
And fills ilk sail. Now Crummie's cloots
Dent a' the lone: now to the coots
In meadow lawn, umquhile sae hard,
Ye'll sink, and ablins will be lair'd:
The burns, wi' snaw brie fill'd, nae mair
Rush, roarin like the Bars o' Ayr.
The Swallow now, puir singin sorner,
Clags up her nest i'th' winnock corner:
Welcome she is to ilka house,
Exceptin his, the blasted Louse ,
Wha rave her wark o' mony a day,
In vengeance 'cause she staw his strae.
The Shepherd, tether'd to the braes
O' black Lochaber, sweetly plays,
To his lean flock, a highland spring,
(Sic as auld Ossian ance did sing,)
Ilk han' by turns, wi' motion quick,
Now the fiddle, now the fiddle-stick.
Now skiffs alang the sea sae bonny,
And fills ilk sail. Now Crummie's cloots
Dent a' the lone: now to the coots
In meadow lawn, umquhile sae hard,
Ye'll sink, and ablins will be lair'd:
The burns, wi' snaw brie fill'd, nae mair
Rush, roarin like the Bars o' Ayr.
The Swallow now, puir singin sorner,
Clags up her nest i'th' winnock corner:
Welcome she is to ilka house,
Exceptin his, the blasted Louse ,
Wha rave her wark o' mony a day,
In vengeance 'cause she staw his strae.
101
O' black Lochaber, sweetly plays,
To his lean flock, a highland spring,
(Sic as auld Ossian ance did sing,)
Ilk han' by turns, wi' motion quick,
Now the fiddle, now the fiddle-stick.
This heat gies ane a drouth, my frien,
Sae gif to lay your lugs ye green
In lochs o' punch, tak tent to hae
Twa lemons in your pouch,—or mae:
A pouchfu's able to wyle out,
Frae th'awmry neuk, my graybeard stout
And sonsy, fitted weel to brew
In your sunk saul hope ever new:
For synin down, it's unco rare,
The bitter wagang o' ilk care.
Haste ye, and dinna switherin stan,
But linkin tak your fit i' your han;
And dinna in your haste forget
To bring the Uncos pipin het.
Tell us how our auld Frien's the ---
Stan' 'gainst the warl crouse and stainch,
And how the bonny Fernig foichals
Gie G------n thieves and slaves their dichals:
I'm no for letting ye, ye see,
(As I ware rich) gang lawin free.
Awa wi' teaglin, and the euk
O' stappin mair in your poke neuk:
And now forget, as lang's ye dow,
Memento mori, and Death's pow:
Season your wisdom, now and than,
W'a curn o' folly i' the pan:
Trust me wha'm growin auld and keisint,
That weeltimed daffin's unco pleasant.
Sae gif to lay your lugs ye green
In lochs o' punch, tak tent to hae
Twa lemons in your pouch,—or mae:
A pouchfu's able to wyle out,
Frae th'awmry neuk, my graybeard stout
And sonsy, fitted weel to brew
In your sunk saul hope ever new:
For synin down, it's unco rare,
The bitter wagang o' ilk care.
103
But linkin tak your fit i' your han;
And dinna in your haste forget
To bring the Uncos pipin het.
Tell us how our auld Frien's the ---
Stan' 'gainst the warl crouse and stainch,
And how the bonny Fernig foichals
Gie G------n thieves and slaves their dichals:
I'm no for letting ye, ye see,
(As I ware rich) gang lawin free.
Awa wi' teaglin, and the euk
O' stappin mair in your poke neuk:
And now forget, as lang's ye dow,
Memento mori, and Death's pow:
Season your wisdom, now and than,
W'a curn o' folly i' the pan:
Trust me wha'm growin auld and keisint,
That weeltimed daffin's unco pleasant.
| Poems, in English, Scotch, and Latin | |