 | [Poems by Drake in] The life and works of Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820) |  |
248
[Poetic Epistle to Fitz-Greene Halleck, May 1, 1818]
Dumfries, May 1, 1818.
Well, Fitz, I'm here, the mair's the pity,
I'll wad ye curse the vera city
From which I write a braid Scots ditty,
Afore I learn it;
But if ye canna mak it suit ye,
Ye ken ye'll burn it.
I'll wad ye curse the vera city
From which I write a braid Scots ditty,
Afore I learn it;
But if ye canna mak it suit ye,
Ye ken ye'll burn it.
My grunzie's gat a twist intill it,
Thae damned Scots airts sae stuff and fill it,
I doubt wi' a' my doctor's skill it
'll keep the gait—
Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet
And write it straight.
Thae damned Scots airts sae stuff and fill it,
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'll keep the gait—
Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet
And write it straight.
Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather
Wi' a hale sheet of muir and heather,
O' burns and braes and sic like blether
To you a feast—
But stop, ye will not light on either
This time at least.
Wi' a hale sheet of muir and heather,
O' burns and braes and sic like blether
To you a feast—
But stop, ye will not light on either
This time at least.
Now stir your bries a wee and ferlie,
Then drop your lip and glower surly;
Troth if you do, I'll tell ye fairly
Ye'll no' be right—
We've made our jaunt a bit too early
For sic a sight.
Then drop your lip and glower surly;
Troth if you do, I'll tell ye fairly
Ye'll no' be right—
We've made our jaunt a bit too early
For sic a sight.
What it may be when summer cleeds
Muir, shaw, and brae wi' bonnie weeds,
Sprinkling the gowan on the meads
And browsy knowes,
I dinna ken—but now the meads
Scarce keep the cows.
Muir, shaw, and brae wi' bonnie weeds,
Sprinkling the gowan on the meads
And browsy knowes,
I dinna ken—but now the meads
Scarce keep the cows.
For trees poor Scotia's sadly scanted;
A few bit pines and larches planted,
And thae wee, knurlie, blastit, stunted
As e'er thou sawest;
Row but a sma' turf fence anent it,
Heck! there's a forest.
A few bit pines and larches planted,
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As e'er thou sawest;
Row but a sma' turf fence anent it,
Heck! there's a forest.
For streams ye'll find a puny puddle,
That would'na float a skulebairn's coble;
A cripple still might near hand-hobble
Dry bauchled over;
Some whinstone crags to make it bubble,
And there's a river!
That would'na float a skulebairn's coble;
A cripple still might near hand-hobble
Dry bauchled over;
Some whinstone crags to make it bubble,
And there's a river!
And then their cauld and reekie skies,
They look ower dull to Yankee eyes;
The sun ye'd ken na of his rise
A'maist the day,
Just a noonblink that hardly dries
The dewy brae.
They look ower dull to Yankee eyes;
The sun ye'd ken na of his rise
A'maist the day,
Just a noonblink that hardly dries
The dewy brae.
Yet leese auld Scotland on her women,
Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman,
For luver's heart or blade of foeman
O'er baith victorious;
E'en common sense, that plant uncommon,
Grows bright and glorious.
Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman,
For luver's heart or blade of foeman
O'er baith victorious;
E'en common sense, that plant uncommon,
Grows bright and glorious.
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Fecks! but my pen has skelp'd along,
I've whistled out an unco' song
'Bout folk I ha' na been amang
Twa days as yet;
But faith, the farther that I gang,
The mair ye'll get.
I've whistled out an unco' song
'Bout folk I ha' na been amang
Twa days as yet;
But faith, the farther that I gang,
The mair ye'll get.
Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soon
I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon,
See Mungo's well, and set my shoon
Where i' the dark
Bauld Tammie keek'd the drunken loon
At cutty sark.
I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon,
See Mungo's well, and set my shoon
Where i' the dark
Bauld Tammie keek'd the drunken loon
At cutty sark.
And I shall tread the hallowed bourne
Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn
O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn.
What Yankee bluid
But feels its free pulse leap and burn
Where Wallace stood!
Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn
O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn.
What Yankee bluid
But feels its free pulse leap and burn
Where Wallace stood!
But pouk my pen—I find I'm droppin'
My braw Scots style to English loppin';
I fear a'maist that ye'll be hoppin'
I'd quit it quite;
If so, I e'en must think of stoppin',
And sae gude-night.
My braw Scots style to English loppin';
I fear a'maist that ye'll be hoppin'
I'd quit it quite;
If so, I e'en must think of stoppin',
And sae gude-night.
| [Poems by Drake in] The life and works of Joseph Rodman Drake (1795-1820) | |