 | Peter Cornclips |  |
108
ODE,
Written for the Anniversary of the Birth of Robert Tannahill.
While certain parties in the state,
Meet yearly, to commemorate
The birth of their great “heaven-born” head,
Wha lang did Britain's councils lead;—
And, in the face of downright facts,
Launch forth in praise of certain acts,
As deeds of first-rate magnitude,
Performed a' for the public good,
By this rare pink o' politicians,
This matchless Prince o' state Physicians;
Whase greatest skill in bleeding lay,
Bleeding the state into decay:
For—studying the great Sangrado,—
There's little doubt, but he got haud o'
The secret o' that great man's art,
At which he soon grew most expert;
As his prescriptions, like his master's,
Still ran on lancets, mair than plasters:—
A proper mode, nae doubt, when nations,
Like men, are fash'd wi' inflammations;
But somewhat dangerous when the patient,
From being rather scrimptly rationt,
Has little blood to spare—and when,
(With all respect for learned men)
He has much less desire, to look,
To the Physician, than the Cook.
While thus they meet, and yearly dine,
And o'er their flowing cups o' wine,
By studied speech, or weel-timed toast,
Declare it is their greatest boast,
That they were friends o' that great Pilot,
Wha braved the storm, by his rare skill o't,
And brought the vessel fairly through,
Though mutinous were half the crew.
But then, these Pitt-adoring fellows,
Are careful to forget, to tell us,
That running foul o' some rude rock,
He gied the vessel such a shock,
As shattered a' her stately hull;
So that her owner, Mr. Bull,
So terrible a loss sustaining,
Has ever since been sair complaining:—
In fact, this once brave, stout, plump fellow,
With face, now of a sickly yellow,
A constitution, sadly shattered,
A frame wi' toil and sickness battered,
Wearing away by constant wasting,
Down to the grave seems fast a-hasting.
But yet, he vows, if he be spared,
He'll have her thoroughly repaired,
Nor weary out his gallant crew,
By toiling mair than men can do;
For now, it tak's them ceaseless pumping,
To keep the crazy hulk from swamping:
Na, trowth, they tell us nought like that,
They're no sae candid, weel I wat.
But getting a' quite pack thegither,
They bandy compliments at ither,
Sae thick and fast, that mutual flatteries,
Are playing off like bomb-shell batteries;
Or rather to come lower down,
For that's a simile too high flown,
It's somewhat like a boyish yoking,
At battle-door and shuttle-cocking;
For, soon as this ane gies his crack,
The next ane's ready to pay back
His fulsome compliments galiore;
And thus, is blarney's battle-door,
Applied to flattery's shuttle-cock,
Till ilk ane round gets stroke for stroke.
Meet yearly, to commemorate
The birth of their great “heaven-born” head,
Wha lang did Britain's councils lead;—
And, in the face of downright facts,
Launch forth in praise of certain acts,
As deeds of first-rate magnitude,
Performed a' for the public good,
By this rare pink o' politicians,
This matchless Prince o' state Physicians;
Whase greatest skill in bleeding lay,
Bleeding the state into decay:
For—studying the great Sangrado,—
There's little doubt, but he got haud o'
The secret o' that great man's art,
At which he soon grew most expert;
109
Still ran on lancets, mair than plasters:—
A proper mode, nae doubt, when nations,
Like men, are fash'd wi' inflammations;
But somewhat dangerous when the patient,
From being rather scrimptly rationt,
Has little blood to spare—and when,
(With all respect for learned men)
He has much less desire, to look,
To the Physician, than the Cook.
While thus they meet, and yearly dine,
And o'er their flowing cups o' wine,
By studied speech, or weel-timed toast,
Declare it is their greatest boast,
That they were friends o' that great Pilot,
Wha braved the storm, by his rare skill o't,
And brought the vessel fairly through,
Though mutinous were half the crew.
But then, these Pitt-adoring fellows,
Are careful to forget, to tell us,
That running foul o' some rude rock,
He gied the vessel such a shock,
110
So that her owner, Mr. Bull,
So terrible a loss sustaining,
Has ever since been sair complaining:—
In fact, this once brave, stout, plump fellow,
With face, now of a sickly yellow,
A constitution, sadly shattered,
A frame wi' toil and sickness battered,
Wearing away by constant wasting,
Down to the grave seems fast a-hasting.
But yet, he vows, if he be spared,
He'll have her thoroughly repaired,
Nor weary out his gallant crew,
By toiling mair than men can do;
For now, it tak's them ceaseless pumping,
To keep the crazy hulk from swamping:
Na, trowth, they tell us nought like that,
They're no sae candid, weel I wat.
But getting a' quite pack thegither,
They bandy compliments at ither,
Sae thick and fast, that mutual flatteries,
Are playing off like bomb-shell batteries;
111
For that's a simile too high flown,
It's somewhat like a boyish yoking,
At battle-door and shuttle-cocking;
For, soon as this ane gies his crack,
The next ane's ready to pay back
His fulsome compliments galiore;
And thus, is blarney's battle-door,
Applied to flattery's shuttle-cock,
Till ilk ane round gets stroke for stroke.
A different task is ours indeed,
We meet, to pay the grateful meed;—
The meed of just esteem sincere,
To ane, whase memory we hold dear;
To ane, whase name demands respect,
Although wi' nae court titles deckt;
To ane, wha never learned the gate,
Of fawning meanly on the great;
To ane, wha never turned his coat,
To mak' a sinfu' penny o't;
To ane, wha never speel'd to favour,
By turning mankind's chief enslaver;
To ane, wha never did aspire
To set, and keep the warld on fire;
To ane, wha ne'er, by mischief brewing,
Raised himsel' on his country's ruin;
But humbly glided on through life,
Remote from party jars and strife,
A quiet, inoffensive man,
As ever life's short race-course ran,
A simple, honest child of nature still,
In short, our ain dear minstrel—Tannahill.
We meet, to pay the grateful meed;—
The meed of just esteem sincere,
To ane, whase memory we hold dear;
To ane, whase name demands respect,
Although wi' nae court titles deckt;
To ane, wha never learned the gate,
Of fawning meanly on the great;
To ane, wha never turned his coat,
To mak' a sinfu' penny o't;
112
By turning mankind's chief enslaver;
To ane, wha never did aspire
To set, and keep the warld on fire;
To ane, wha ne'er, by mischief brewing,
Raised himsel' on his country's ruin;
But humbly glided on through life,
Remote from party jars and strife,
A quiet, inoffensive man,
As ever life's short race-course ran,
A simple, honest child of nature still,
In short, our ain dear minstrel—Tannahill.
O Tannahill! thou bard revered,
Thy name shall ever be endeared
To Scotia, thy loved land of song,
While her pure rivers glide along;
While her bleak rugged mountains high,
Point their rude summits to the sky;
While yellow harvests on her plains,
Reward her children's toils and pains;
And while her sons and daughters leal,
The inborn glow of freedom feel,
Her woods, her rocks, her hills and glens,
Shall echo thy delightful strains.
While “Jura's cliffs” are capt with snows;
While the “dark winding Carron” flows;
While high “Benlomond” rears his head;
To catch the sun's last radiance shed;
While sweet “Gleniffer's dewy dell”
Blooms wi' “the craw-flower's early bell;”
While smiles “Glenkilloch's sunny brae,”
Made classic by thy tender lay;
While waves the “wood of Craigielee,”
Where “Mary's heart was won by thee,”
Thy name—thy artless minstresley,
Sweet bard of nature, ne'er shall die;
But, thou wilt be remembered still,
Meek, unassuming Tannahill.
What, though with Burns thou could'st not vie,
In diving deep, or soaring high;
What, though thy genius did not blaze
Like his, to draw the public gaze;
Yet, thy sweet numbers, free from art,
Like his, can touch—can melt the heart.
Thy name shall ever be endeared
To Scotia, thy loved land of song,
While her pure rivers glide along;
While her bleak rugged mountains high,
Point their rude summits to the sky;
While yellow harvests on her plains,
Reward her children's toils and pains;
113
The inborn glow of freedom feel,
Her woods, her rocks, her hills and glens,
Shall echo thy delightful strains.
While “Jura's cliffs” are capt with snows;
While the “dark winding Carron” flows;
While high “Benlomond” rears his head;
To catch the sun's last radiance shed;
While sweet “Gleniffer's dewy dell”
Blooms wi' “the craw-flower's early bell;”
While smiles “Glenkilloch's sunny brae,”
Made classic by thy tender lay;
While waves the “wood of Craigielee,”
Where “Mary's heart was won by thee,”
Thy name—thy artless minstresley,
Sweet bard of nature, ne'er shall die;
But, thou wilt be remembered still,
Meek, unassuming Tannahill.
What, though with Burns thou could'st not vie,
In diving deep, or soaring high;
What, though thy genius did not blaze
Like his, to draw the public gaze;
114
Like his, can touch—can melt the heart.
The lav'rock may soar, till he's lost in the sky,
Yet the modest wee lintie that sings frae the tree,
Altho' he aspire not to regions so high,
His song is as sweet as the laverock's to me;
And O thy wild warblings are sweet, Tannahill,
Whatever thy theme be,—love, grief or despair,
The tones of thy lyre move our feelings at will,
For nature, all powerful, predominates there.
Yet the modest wee lintie that sings frae the tree,
Altho' he aspire not to regions so high,
His song is as sweet as the laverock's to me;
And O thy wild warblings are sweet, Tannahill,
Whatever thy theme be,—love, grief or despair,
The tones of thy lyre move our feelings at will,
For nature, all powerful, predominates there.
But, while the bard we eulogize,
Shall we the man neglect to prize?
No; perish every virtue first,
And every vice usurp its place,
With every ill let man be curst,
Ere we do aught so mean and base.
Shall bloody warriors fill the rolls of fame,
And niches in her lofty temple claim?—
Shall the unfeeling scourgers of mankind,
To mercy deaf, to their own interest blind?—
Shall the depopulators of the earth,
Without one particle of real worth—
Whose lives are one compounded mass of crime,
Be handed down by fame, to latest time,
The admiration of each future age,
They!—whose vile names are blots on every page?
And shall the child of virtue be forgot,
Because the inmate of a humble cot?
Shall he whose heart was open, warm, sincere,
Who gave to want his mite—to woe his tear;—
Whose friendship still, was steady, warm and sure,
Whose love was tender, constant, ardent, pure;—
Whose fine-toned feelings, generous and humane,
Were hurt to give the meanest reptile pain;—
Whose filial love for her who gave him birth,
Has seldom found a parallel on earth;—
Shall he, forgotten in oblivion lie?
Forbid it, every sacred Power on high;
Forbid it, every virtue here below.—
Shall such a precious gem lie buried?—no:—
Historians may neglect him, if they will,
But age will tell to age, the worth of Tannahill.
Shall we the man neglect to prize?
No; perish every virtue first,
And every vice usurp its place,
With every ill let man be curst,
Ere we do aught so mean and base.
Shall bloody warriors fill the rolls of fame,
And niches in her lofty temple claim?—
115
To mercy deaf, to their own interest blind?—
Shall the depopulators of the earth,
Without one particle of real worth—
Whose lives are one compounded mass of crime,
Be handed down by fame, to latest time,
The admiration of each future age,
They!—whose vile names are blots on every page?
And shall the child of virtue be forgot,
Because the inmate of a humble cot?
Shall he whose heart was open, warm, sincere,
Who gave to want his mite—to woe his tear;—
Whose friendship still, was steady, warm and sure,
Whose love was tender, constant, ardent, pure;—
Whose fine-toned feelings, generous and humane,
Were hurt to give the meanest reptile pain;—
Whose filial love for her who gave him birth,
Has seldom found a parallel on earth;—
Shall he, forgotten in oblivion lie?
Forbid it, every sacred Power on high;
116
Shall such a precious gem lie buried?—no:—
Historians may neglect him, if they will,
But age will tell to age, the worth of Tannahill.
When mighty conquerors shall be forgot,
When like themselves, their very names shall rot;
When even the story of their deeds is lost,
Or only heard with horror and disgust;—
When happy man, from tyranny set free,
Shall wonder if such things could really be;
And bless his stars that he was not on earth,
When such destructive monsters were brought forth;
When the whole human family shall be one,
In every clime below the circling sun,
And every man shall live secure and free,
Beneath his vine, beneath his own fig tree;
No savage hordes his dwelling to invade,
Nor plunderer daring to make him afraid;
When things are prized, not by their showy dress,
But by the solid worth which they possess;
Even then, our loved, our much lamented bard,
Those times shall venerate with deep regard;
His songs will charm, his virtues be revered,
And to his name shall monuments be reared.
When like themselves, their very names shall rot;
When even the story of their deeds is lost,
Or only heard with horror and disgust;—
When happy man, from tyranny set free,
Shall wonder if such things could really be;
And bless his stars that he was not on earth,
When such destructive monsters were brought forth;
When the whole human family shall be one,
In every clime below the circling sun,
117
Beneath his vine, beneath his own fig tree;
No savage hordes his dwelling to invade,
Nor plunderer daring to make him afraid;
When things are prized, not by their showy dress,
But by the solid worth which they possess;
Even then, our loved, our much lamented bard,
Those times shall venerate with deep regard;
His songs will charm, his virtues be revered,
And to his name shall monuments be reared.
[_]
It is well authenticated, that the rash act which terminated the career of the unfortunate Tannahill, was committed in a fit of mental distraction, arising from a circumstance, which the peculiar sensibility of his mind could not brook. The many amiable qualities of his disposition, which we have here endeavoured to depict, have ever been confirmed by his intimates, as well as by all who were in the least degree acquainted with him, so as justly to entitle him to the epithet “child of virtue.”
This may seem to many, perhaps, too harsh a term to apply to human beings; but, when we consider the atrocities and butcheries committed or sanctioned, by such characters as Nero, Caligula, Atilla and others, in what terms can we more properly designate such individuals, than “destructive monsters?”
| Peter Cornclips | |