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 |
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 | The works of Alexander Pennecuik |  |
Brave Sir, of late it was my lot to stray
Alongst a desart and a thorny way;
Where steepy rocks against the heavens did swell,
And dreadful gulphs, much like the abyss of hell,
Did promise nothing, in our toilsome path,
But wand'ring error and affrighting death.
O! here, like Ixion wrestling with his cloud,
O'ercharg'd with fear and grief, amaz'd we stood;
And, like distracted pilgrims from their way,
We knew not where to go, nor what to say;
Till heaven, in pity of our sad distress,
T'allay the anguish of our bitterness,
Convey'd us to thy home, and made us try
Thy gracious strains of hospitality.
O, then what found we! or what found we not,
That majesty and virtue would allot;
For though without thy harbour seem'd but homely,
Yet all within was handsome, neat, and comely;
Thy pavements were clean, thy fires were clear,
And for a preface to some better cheer,
Thou made each corner of thy house to look
Like Vulcan's furnace clean'd with Indian smoke.
As for our table, I dare say this much,
That brave Lucullus, in his richest touch,
Pompey's Apollo, or Ptolemy's girl ,
Who fed the consul with elixir pearl,
Could never say, in their unpampered strain,
Their diet was more sweet, more sovereign.
Nor were our cups inferior in their rank,
For, lo! the juice that decks Corinthus' bank,
Ran there in such a rapid course and strain,
That hoary Nilus in his proudest theme,
Fair Ganges, that beholds the sun new born,
And Ister that laughs Danube's streams to scorn,
The Po, the Rhone, the Rhine, the Thames, the Forth,
And all the currents from the south to north,
Might hing their heads, and be ashamed to see
So rich a cluster pressed and drank in thee.
Yet, lest thy nectar and ambrosia should
Complain as if their current were controul'd,
O what a concert and bewitching air,
Of well composed Doric mirth was there;
For there came Cupid, blind of both his eyes,
Sole mareshal of our festivities;
Who taking in his hand th'Amphisian harp,
With touches somewhat flat and somewhat sharp,
Tuned all his crotchets, quavers, semibrieves,
His longs, his large, his rounds, his squares by brieves,
In such a sort that, sure I am, the quire
Of nymphs which in Apollo's school appear,
Could ne'er so sweetly tune the descant string,
Amongst their harps delicious fingering.
And whilst he thus doth captivate our sense,
With well tuned notes of diapason tense.
Then Mercury and Mars , these roaring boys,
Not drunk with wine, but over drunk with joys,
Rose up and on their tiptoes danc'd a dance
That all the light-foot satyrs within France,
Could ne'er for all their documents of art,
Have play'd the like in whole or yet in part.
And while nothing defective was that might
Advance contentment, or procure delight,
Thy gracious lady made our feast complete,
By courteous welcome did us kindly treat.
But, oh! brave Sir, amidst this sport and play,
That looked like Janus' face on New-years-day,
I saw a fretting moth, a pricking thorn,
Which curbed the glory of the glistering morn,
For that thou made us drink a larger cup
Than giddy Bacchus when he went to sup,
Amidst his drunken orgies could contain,
Uncracked his belly, or uncrazed his brain.
Tell me, brave Sir, what glory may this be
To any man of mark or majesty,
When that thou thinks with welcome friend to crown me,
Instead of welcome, with a drink to drown me.
I grant it's but a light and venial sin,
When any friend or stranger shall come in,
To drink a cup or two in measure to him,
Which being drank in love, will ne'er undo him:
But if thou make thy friend at every potion,
Exhaust a cup that's deeper than the ocean,
I do not think but either he will tire,
Or quickly he will set his nose on fire;
Prevent, therefore, the hazard of this ill,
And keep not with thee such a rebel still,
Whose main design and chiefest aim's to felter
Thy best friends' feet, by drinking helter skelter.
I send thee here a sloop of which I'll boast,
That if the wind prove fair will scour the coast
Of Holland, Zealand, Dunkirk, France and Spain,
And send thee sure and sooner word again
Than any Dunkirk pirate sent to sea
Can travel to the wind, or luff to lee.
For though her bullet be not Dunkirk size,
Her frequent charge will make her free her prize.
Alongst a desart and a thorny way;
Where steepy rocks against the heavens did swell,
And dreadful gulphs, much like the abyss of hell,
Did promise nothing, in our toilsome path,
But wand'ring error and affrighting death.
O! here, like Ixion wrestling with his cloud,
O'ercharg'd with fear and grief, amaz'd we stood;
And, like distracted pilgrims from their way,
We knew not where to go, nor what to say;
Till heaven, in pity of our sad distress,
T'allay the anguish of our bitterness,
Convey'd us to thy home, and made us try
Thy gracious strains of hospitality.
O, then what found we! or what found we not,
That majesty and virtue would allot;
For though without thy harbour seem'd but homely,
Yet all within was handsome, neat, and comely;
Thy pavements were clean, thy fires were clear,
And for a preface to some better cheer,
Thou made each corner of thy house to look
Like Vulcan's furnace clean'd with Indian smoke.
As for our table, I dare say this much,
That brave Lucullus, in his richest touch,
Pompey's Apollo, or Ptolemy's girl ,
Who fed the consul with elixir pearl,
377
Their diet was more sweet, more sovereign.
Nor were our cups inferior in their rank,
For, lo! the juice that decks Corinthus' bank,
Ran there in such a rapid course and strain,
That hoary Nilus in his proudest theme,
Fair Ganges, that beholds the sun new born,
And Ister that laughs Danube's streams to scorn,
The Po, the Rhone, the Rhine, the Thames, the Forth,
And all the currents from the south to north,
Might hing their heads, and be ashamed to see
So rich a cluster pressed and drank in thee.
Yet, lest thy nectar and ambrosia should
Complain as if their current were controul'd,
O what a concert and bewitching air,
Of well composed Doric mirth was there;
For there came Cupid, blind of both his eyes,
Sole mareshal of our festivities;
Who taking in his hand th'Amphisian harp,
With touches somewhat flat and somewhat sharp,
Tuned all his crotchets, quavers, semibrieves,
His longs, his large, his rounds, his squares by brieves,
In such a sort that, sure I am, the quire
Of nymphs which in Apollo's school appear,
Could ne'er so sweetly tune the descant string,
Amongst their harps delicious fingering.
And whilst he thus doth captivate our sense,
With well tuned notes of diapason tense.
Then Mercury and Mars , these roaring boys,
Not drunk with wine, but over drunk with joys,
Rose up and on their tiptoes danc'd a dance
That all the light-foot satyrs within France,
Could ne'er for all their documents of art,
Have play'd the like in whole or yet in part.
378
Advance contentment, or procure delight,
Thy gracious lady made our feast complete,
By courteous welcome did us kindly treat.
But, oh! brave Sir, amidst this sport and play,
That looked like Janus' face on New-years-day,
I saw a fretting moth, a pricking thorn,
Which curbed the glory of the glistering morn,
For that thou made us drink a larger cup
Than giddy Bacchus when he went to sup,
Amidst his drunken orgies could contain,
Uncracked his belly, or uncrazed his brain.
Tell me, brave Sir, what glory may this be
To any man of mark or majesty,
When that thou thinks with welcome friend to crown me,
Instead of welcome, with a drink to drown me.
I grant it's but a light and venial sin,
When any friend or stranger shall come in,
To drink a cup or two in measure to him,
Which being drank in love, will ne'er undo him:
But if thou make thy friend at every potion,
Exhaust a cup that's deeper than the ocean,
I do not think but either he will tire,
Or quickly he will set his nose on fire;
Prevent, therefore, the hazard of this ill,
And keep not with thee such a rebel still,
Whose main design and chiefest aim's to felter
Thy best friends' feet, by drinking helter skelter.
I send thee here a sloop of which I'll boast,
That if the wind prove fair will scour the coast
Of Holland, Zealand, Dunkirk, France and Spain,
And send thee sure and sooner word again
Than any Dunkirk pirate sent to sea
Can travel to the wind, or luff to lee.
For though her bullet be not Dunkirk size,
Her frequent charge will make her free her prize.
| The works of Alexander Pennecuik | |