 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
223
IMITATIONS OF THE SCOTTISH.
ADDRESS TO AN INFANT.
Wee, bonnie bud, how didst thou dare
To shoot amid this scene o' care;
Upon the shore o' time to stand
A' feeble frae thy Maker's hand;
Where thou maun tak' the dews that fa',
The frosts that chill, the blasts that blaw;
While mony a tint o' sun an' shade
Will on thy tender leaves be laid,
As they are openin' saft an' new,
A' spotless, to receive their hue?
To shoot amid this scene o' care;
Upon the shore o' time to stand
A' feeble frae thy Maker's hand;
Where thou maun tak' the dews that fa',
The frosts that chill, the blasts that blaw;
While mony a tint o' sun an' shade
Will on thy tender leaves be laid,
As they are openin' saft an' new,
A' spotless, to receive their hue?
Thou art a lovely, shinin' gem,
Alane upon thy parent stem;
Where Heaven permit thee lang to bide,
Its joy, its ornament an' pride!
An' may this warld o' vice and pain,
Withhaud frae thee its blight an' stain,
An' let thee catch unsullied dyes,
An' draw thine odors frae the skies!
Avert thee frae the noisome weed,
An' let thy heart nae canker feed;
But keep thy health an' strength secure—
Thy head erect—thy bosom pure;
That he, wha gied the blossom birth,
May hae the fruit mature frae earth!
Alane upon thy parent stem;
Where Heaven permit thee lang to bide,
Its joy, its ornament an' pride!
An' may this warld o' vice and pain,
Withhaud frae thee its blight an' stain,
An' let thee catch unsullied dyes,
An' draw thine odors frae the skies!
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An' let thy heart nae canker feed;
But keep thy health an' strength secure—
Thy head erect—thy bosom pure;
That he, wha gied the blossom birth,
May hae the fruit mature frae earth!
225
THE SILLER PEN.
I tell you what! twixt frien' an' frien',
I dinna like the siller pen.
An', sin' my reason ye wad ken,
Tho' odd enough, I'll gie it.
It is too perfect—ilka part
It does, is wi' sic care an' art,
There 's nae a particle o' heart
Or feelin' gangin wi' it!
I dinna like the siller pen.
An', sin' my reason ye wad ken,
Tho' odd enough, I'll gie it.
It is too perfect—ilka part
It does, is wi' sic care an' art,
There 's nae a particle o' heart
Or feelin' gangin wi' it!
'T is nae the siller I despise;
For poortith loud an' daily cries;
An', if I had but mair supplies,
I 'd then feel a' the better.
But, tho' 't wad truly glad my een
To see its bright an' cheerfu' sheen,
My purse's hollow sides between,
Ise shun it in the letter!
For poortith loud an' daily cries;
An', if I had but mair supplies,
I 'd then feel a' the better.
But, tho' 't wad truly glad my een
To see its bright an' cheerfu' sheen,
My purse's hollow sides between,
Ise shun it in the letter!
I wad na see the new-born thought,
Laid on the sheet, sae stiff an straught,
As if 't were dead, an' cauld; an' brought
Before me for interment.
I like the gracefu', yieldin nib,
To gang sae careless an' sae glib,
An' shoot my fancies, like a squib,
Just while they 're in the ferment!
Laid on the sheet, sae stiff an straught,
As if 't were dead, an' cauld; an' brought
Before me for interment.
I like the gracefu', yieldin nib,
To gang sae careless an' sae glib,
An' shoot my fancies, like a squib,
Just while they 're in the ferment!
226
An', whiles (ye 've, aiblins, felt the pain,)
I wait upon the tardy brain
For something I can ne'er obtain,
An' founder'd a' thegither;
I like, if I can do nae mair,
To hae the quill to scrape an' pare,
An' find the faut o' dullness there,
In honest Goosie's feather.
I wait upon the tardy brain
For something I can ne'er obtain,
An' founder'd a' thegither;
I like, if I can do nae mair,
To hae the quill to scrape an' pare,
An' find the faut o' dullness there,
In honest Goosie's feather.
For nature's laws maun be obey'd,
An' this is ane she strictly laid
On ilka saul she ever made,
Down frae our earliest mither:
“Be sel your first an' greatest care—
Frae a' reproach the darlin spare,
An' ony blame, that she should bear,
Pit off upon anither!”
An' this is ane she strictly laid
On ilka saul she ever made,
Down frae our earliest mither:
“Be sel your first an' greatest care—
Frae a' reproach the darlin spare,
An' ony blame, that she should bear,
Pit off upon anither!”
Had nature ta'en a second thought,
A better precept she had taught;
An' guid instead o' evil wrought
By those the power possessin!
For, sel had been pit out o' sight,
The love o' ithers brought to light:
In short, the wrang had a' been right,
An' man to man a blessin!
A better precept she had taught;
An' guid instead o' evil wrought
By those the power possessin!
For, sel had been pit out o' sight,
The love o' ithers brought to light:
In short, the wrang had a' been right,
An' man to man a blessin!
227
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
The sun, my frien,' has reached the west,
And now the pensive gloamin,
Wi' thoughts o' a' I lo'e the best,
Is fast upon me comin;
Sae, now I tak my fitfu' pen,
Ere yet the stars are blinkin,
And set me down to let ye ken
On whom I maist am thinkin.
And now the pensive gloamin,
Wi' thoughts o' a' I lo'e the best,
Is fast upon me comin;
Sae, now I tak my fitfu' pen,
Ere yet the stars are blinkin,
And set me down to let ye ken
On whom I maist am thinkin.
Sin dearest friends maun often part,
He well deserved a blessin,
Wha taught the warld the scribblin art,
Sae richly worth possessin;
For when awa our lo'ed anes gang,
By this we proof can gie 'em,
That to our hearts, nae gate's sae lang
But they can gang it wi' 'em.
He well deserved a blessin,
Wha taught the warld the scribblin art,
Sae richly worth possessin;
For when awa our lo'ed anes gang,
By this we proof can gie 'em,
That to our hearts, nae gate's sae lang
But they can gang it wi' 'em.
My Musie 's coy, as ye maun see,
And mickle seeks to shun me;
But, Ise just keep her i' my e'e,
Tho, she may quite outrun me.
And should my verse be unco lame,
I hope ye'll na reject it,
But tak' it a' in friendship's name;
And, charity protect it!
And mickle seeks to shun me;
But, Ise just keep her i' my e'e,
Tho, she may quite outrun me.
And should my verse be unco lame,
I hope ye'll na reject it,
But tak' it a' in friendship's name;
And, charity protect it!
228
I hope ye 're well, an' braw, an' gay,
An' thinkin o' returnin—
That ye'll come hame as blithe as May,
And rosy as its mornin;
And when we get ye safely back,
A' fu' o' glee to find ye;
To see ye smile, an' hear ye crack,
'Bout things ye 've left behind ye.
An' thinkin o' returnin—
That ye'll come hame as blithe as May,
And rosy as its mornin;
And when we get ye safely back,
A' fu' o' glee to find ye;
To see ye smile, an' hear ye crack,
'Bout things ye 've left behind ye.
I fain wad think o' something new
Wi' us, that 's worth disclosin,
But havin sma' or nought to do,
Our warld has fa'en a dozin.
And life is like a standin pool,
Sae void o' sound an' motion,
Ye 'd think the betherel, wi' his shool,
Had paid us a' devotion.
Wi' us, that 's worth disclosin,
But havin sma' or nought to do,
Our warld has fa'en a dozin.
And life is like a standin pool,
Sae void o' sound an' motion,
Ye 'd think the betherel, wi' his shool,
Had paid us a' devotion.
Wi' mickle loss o' this warld's gear
The hand o' Gude has tried us,
And wealth an' commerce languish here,
And seem a' maist denied us.
Our dwellins, as ye've seen o' late,
Leuk waur for time an' weather;
They and their ainers ha'e ane gate
An' meet decay thegither.
The hand o' Gude has tried us,
And wealth an' commerce languish here,
And seem a' maist denied us.
Our dwellins, as ye've seen o' late,
Leuk waur for time an' weather;
They and their ainers ha'e ane gate
An' meet decay thegither.
But nature's warks are bright an' fair,
Tho' art's are gaun to ruin,
As if she 'd mak' some kind repair
Where poortith's haun's undoin.
For, greener grass was never prest
Aneath the foot o' Adam,
Nor sweeter flowers could e'er ha'e drest
The bosom o' his madam,
Tho' art's are gaun to ruin,
As if she 'd mak' some kind repair
Where poortith's haun's undoin.
229
Aneath the foot o' Adam,
Nor sweeter flowers could e'er ha'e drest
The bosom o' his madam,
Than those that spring an' bud an' blaw,
A beauteous garment throwin
O'er ilka chink an' broken wa',
To keep the gaps fra showin.
And clear our sparklin burnie glides,
While down to ocean gangin,
As if, along its shinin sides,
A' Eden's fruits were hangin.
A beauteous garment throwin
O'er ilka chink an' broken wa',
To keep the gaps fra showin.
And clear our sparklin burnie glides,
While down to ocean gangin,
As if, along its shinin sides,
A' Eden's fruits were hangin.
Our trees wi' shade our walks supply,
While scorchin heat oppresses;
And when the simmer sun 's gaen by,
They doff their coolin' dresses.
Our bonnie birds their boughs amang
Their artless sangs are singin,
And daily to their callow young
Some kind refreshment bringin.
While scorchin heat oppresses;
And when the simmer sun 's gaen by,
They doff their coolin' dresses.
Our bonnie birds their boughs amang
Their artless sangs are singin,
And daily to their callow young
Some kind refreshment bringin.
And, when as now, the night is seen
O'er a' creation closin,
Within their nest they close their een,
Their weary wings reposin.
And could I tell our birdies' dreams,
Perchance they might amuse ye,
But tho' sae sma' the favor seems,
'T is what I maun refuse ye.
O'er a' creation closin,
Within their nest they close their een,
Their weary wings reposin.
And could I tell our birdies' dreams,
Perchance they might amuse ye,
But tho' sae sma' the favor seems,
'T is what I maun refuse ye.
230
For 't is sae late, the siller moon
Has spread her shinin banner;
By her an' a' that 's bright aboon,
I'm still your constant Hannah.
P.S. My name was ne'er, I need nae tell,
A ward to sair the poet,
And, but for this, ye bear 't yoursel,
In verse I wad nae show it!
Has spread her shinin banner;
By her an' a' that 's bright aboon,
I'm still your constant Hannah.
P.S. My name was ne'er, I need nae tell,
A ward to sair the poet,
And, but for this, ye bear 't yoursel,
In verse I wad nae show it!
231
GREETIN MARY.
“Where are ye gaun sae lane an' late,
While fast the dew fa's o'er the lea?
Say, lassie, hae ye tint your gate,
That hangs sic pearls at either e'e?”
While fast the dew fa's o'er the lea?
Say, lassie, hae ye tint your gate,
That hangs sic pearls at either e'e?”
“Ah! no—my path I ken fu' weel,
For oft it feels my lanely feet;
At ilka gloamin hour I steal
To ane dear spot to sigh an' greet.
For oft it feels my lanely feet;
At ilka gloamin hour I steal
To ane dear spot to sigh an' greet.
“'T is there I haste these tears to drap
Among the tall, saft grass that sweeps
Alang the clods o' earth's hard lap,
Where, pale an' cauld, my Jemmie sleeps.
Among the tall, saft grass that sweeps
Alang the clods o' earth's hard lap,
Where, pale an' cauld, my Jemmie sleeps.
“The lee-lang day I wear a smile,
To hide the marks o' dool an' care;
But wish this achin heart, the while,
Wad bleed to death an' throb nae mair.
To hide the marks o' dool an' care;
But wish this achin heart, the while,
Wad bleed to death an' throb nae mair.
“But, when the e'enin shades draw near,
An' nane my dreary gate may tent,
When, why I roam, there 's nane to spier,
To yon green grave my steps are bent.
An' nane my dreary gate may tent,
When, why I roam, there 's nane to spier,
To yon green grave my steps are bent.
“An' there my Jemmie's ghaist I meet,
To talk o' joys forever fled;
I pour my sorrows forth like weet,
An' lang to mingle wi' the dead!
To talk o' joys forever fled;
232
An' lang to mingle wi' the dead!
“Ah! why does fate delight to break
The warmest hearts—the strongest ties?
Why will not earth my ashes tak'
An' let my saul to Jemmie rise?”
The warmest hearts—the strongest ties?
Why will not earth my ashes tak'
An' let my saul to Jemmie rise?”
233
THE BELLWORT.
Look up, look up, thou timid thing,
Nor let thy head sae pensive hing!
I am nae tyrant come to wring
Thee frae the earth.
Thou art the daughter o' a King—
O' royal birth!
Nor let thy head sae pensive hing!
I am nae tyrant come to wring
Thee frae the earth.
Thou art the daughter o' a King—
O' royal birth!
An' he wha fashioned me to think,
Maks suns to shine, an' starnies blink—
Gies ilka root in earth its drink
An' daily fare!
So, dinna fear he'll let thee sink
Below his care.
Maks suns to shine, an' starnies blink—
Gies ilka root in earth its drink
An' daily fare!
So, dinna fear he'll let thee sink
Below his care.
For, tho' he formed thy slender bell
To drap within the laighlie dell,
He kens an' lo'es thee just as well
As the tall tree,
That, proud as if it made itsel
Towers over thee.
To drap within the laighlie dell,
He kens an' lo'es thee just as well
As the tall tree,
That, proud as if it made itsel
Towers over thee.
An', wha that sees his finger move,
To turn the spheres that roll above,
Will need a word o' mine to prove
That, in his sight,
Thou an' the cedar o' the grove
Are like in height?
To turn the spheres that roll above,
Will need a word o' mine to prove
That, in his sight,
Thou an' the cedar o' the grove
Are like in height?
234
But then, he 'd hae thee be content
To live an' die where thou wert sent;
An' ne'er get a' unwisely bent
To quit the place
Whilk thy Creator ever meant
That thou should'st grace.
To live an' die where thou wert sent;
An' ne'er get a' unwisely bent
To quit the place
Whilk thy Creator ever meant
That thou should'st grace.
Like thee, should ilka virtuous mind,
Where fa's its lot, there be resign'd,
Tho' humble here, it soon will find
That in the sequel,
The haughtiest laird o' human kind
Is but its equal!
Where fa's its lot, there be resign'd,
Tho' humble here, it soon will find
That in the sequel,
The haughtiest laird o' human kind
Is but its equal!
235
TO AUTUMN.
By the sorrowfu' look o' the hill an' the glen,
A' stripp'd o' the pride o' the simmer again,
I ken ye hae come wi' your hoarse, rude breath,
And pit the green grass an' sweet flowers a' to death.
A' stripp'd o' the pride o' the simmer again,
I ken ye hae come wi' your hoarse, rude breath,
And pit the green grass an' sweet flowers a' to death.
Ye wad nae gie a drop o' bright glistenin dew
To soften the spot where the violet grew—
An' drooping an' pale, she has pillow'd her head
Mid your cauld, cauld frost, on her hard death-bed.
To soften the spot where the violet grew—
An' drooping an' pale, she has pillow'd her head
Mid your cauld, cauld frost, on her hard death-bed.
The bird wi' her sang, ye hae bidden to flee
Frae the comfortless branch o' the shiverin tree;
While, restless an' harmless, the yellow leaves fly
'Twixt the dool o' the earth and the scowl o' the sky!
Frae the comfortless branch o' the shiverin tree;
While, restless an' harmless, the yellow leaves fly
'Twixt the dool o' the earth and the scowl o' the sky!
Ye hae torn the fond tendrils, that closely wad twine
To haud up their parent, the languishin vine,
An', there 's nae a sweet thing the mild simmer could cherish,
But your sharp fingers nip, till ye ken it maun perish.
To haud up their parent, the languishin vine,
An', there 's nae a sweet thing the mild simmer could cherish,
But your sharp fingers nip, till ye ken it maun perish.
An', when ye hae finished your pitiless doins,
An' the fields are a' scattered wi' death an' wi' ruins,
Cauld winter will come, wi' his snaw an' his sleet,
To hide them frae sight wi' a white windin-sheet.
An' the fields are a' scattered wi' death an' wi' ruins,
Cauld winter will come, wi' his snaw an' his sleet,
To hide them frae sight wi' a white windin-sheet.
236
How mickle to man are misfortune an' grief,
Like yoursel to the earth, when ye part branch an' leaf!
For when the cauld blasts o' adversity blaw,
Every sweet flower o' joy frae his bosom maun fa'.
Like yoursel to the earth, when ye part branch an' leaf!
For when the cauld blasts o' adversity blaw,
Every sweet flower o' joy frae his bosom maun fa'.
Wi' care he is wasted, an' weary, an' worn—
The ties o' affection are loosened an' torn,
Till the spark o' his life, 'mid the ruins, will fail,
An' his ashes are gien to the clods o' the vale.
The ties o' affection are loosened an' torn,
Till the spark o' his life, 'mid the ruins, will fail,
An' his ashes are gien to the clods o' the vale.
Yet, he may go down in full hope o' the dawn,
Ayont the dark tomb, o' eternity's morn;
Where your stern chillin features nae mair will be seen,
An' the flowers are a' deathless—the fields ever green.
Ayont the dark tomb, o' eternity's morn;
Where your stern chillin features nae mair will be seen,
An' the flowers are a' deathless—the fields ever green.
237
THE SEALING WAX.
Bright guardian o' the thoughts o' men!
Sin I maun fasten up, an' sen'
To ither een, the things my pen
Has been about,
I wish ye, just for surety's sake,
To blaze an' rin, then stap an' take
My seal, to bind ye na to break,
An' let them out.
Sin I maun fasten up, an' sen'
To ither een, the things my pen
Has been about,
I wish ye, just for surety's sake,
To blaze an' rin, then stap an' take
My seal, to bind ye na to break,
An' let them out.
For, be my whimsies great or sma',
I wad na let them loose, to fa'
Where a' the idle wins that blaw,
To whirl the stoure,
May toss them round from mou to mou,
Wi' different nature, form an' hue,
To come frae ilk they 're hurried through,
An' a' ground o'er.
I wad na let them loose, to fa'
Where a' the idle wins that blaw,
To whirl the stoure,
May toss them round from mou to mou,
Wi' different nature, form an' hue,
To come frae ilk they 're hurried through,
An' a' ground o'er.
This warld 's a curious ane enough;
An', weel supplied wi' kindling-stuff,
It winna quench, while it can puff
The reekin flax.
An' what could pass through smoke an' flame,
An' like yoursel, come out the same,
In beauty, virtue, hue an' name,
My cannie wax?
An', weel supplied wi' kindling-stuff,
It winna quench, while it can puff
The reekin flax.
An' what could pass through smoke an' flame,
An' like yoursel, come out the same,
In beauty, virtue, hue an' name,
My cannie wax?
238
I wadna ca' the warld unfair,
Or wrang it in a single hair;
But, wha kens maist o't, kens the mair
How oft it slips,
For want o' rectitude or thought,
Sae far upon the side o' faut,
That truth is seldom pure or straught
Between its lips.
Or wrang it in a single hair;
But, wha kens maist o't, kens the mair
How oft it slips,
For want o' rectitude or thought,
Sae far upon the side o' faut,
That truth is seldom pure or straught
Between its lips.
I winna judge the warld's intent;
But then, its een are sae asklent,
The fairest things leuk foul an' bent,
The foulest, fair.
I canna, therefore, now foresee
What sort o' things my thoughts wad be,
If robbed o' their identity
By gettin' air.
But then, its een are sae asklent,
The fairest things leuk foul an' bent,
The foulest, fair.
I canna, therefore, now foresee
What sort o' things my thoughts wad be,
If robbed o' their identity
By gettin' air.
Gin folk wad kindly let alane
A neighbor's wark, to tent their ain,
Ye wad na hae to thus sustain
A martyr's fate,
By bein' burnt to prove how fast
Ye'll haud your virtue to the last,
Like precious gowd, until ye 're past
Your distant gate.
A neighbor's wark, to tent their ain,
Ye wad na hae to thus sustain
A martyr's fate,
By bein' burnt to prove how fast
Ye'll haud your virtue to the last,
Like precious gowd, until ye 're past
Your distant gate.
But, sin I hope the world will men',
We winna let it ever ken
What I hae whispered as a frien',
Tho' strictly true.
Gang now, an' guard these secrets weel!
May ane, who breaks ye, ca' ye “leal,”
For what, when broken, ye reveal!
Adieu! Adieu!
We winna let it ever ken
What I hae whispered as a frien',
Tho' strictly true.
239
May ane, who breaks ye, ca' ye “leal,”
For what, when broken, ye reveal!
Adieu! Adieu!
THE END.
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |