University of Virginia Library

My muse is almost fagged with writing,
From twelve at noon I've been inditing;
Further, four sheets of jack-screw packing,
So close, they look like daubs of blacking;
Two letters in a rhyming strain
To dearest sisters o'er the main;
You're at the fag-end of the feast,
But Willy has it—“last not least.”
I wrote you late a queer hotch-potch
Of English clipped and broken Scotch
But luckily I chanced to pass
While reading it, before the glass,
And saw my grunzie on the gape,
In such a damned ungainly shape,
So twirled and twisted, full and hollow,
In such a storm of sweat and swallow,
I stopped, betwixt a laugh and curse;
I swore, e'en though my rhymes were worse,
I'd have some pity on your mouth,
And clink the language of the South,

In all the future lines I send ye,
Which (patience to ye) will be plenty.
But, Fitz, I'll not be saying either,
I'll drop the Lowland altogether,
Only not haul it by the lugs,
As honest Swankie did his hogs,
When he advanced them from the byre
To grunt hog-Latin with the friar.
From Ribbleside to Irvine town
Each step has been on poets' groun';
Think how my rhyming soul was swelling
Within eyeshot of gray Helvelyn!
To mark from Skiddaw's mighty lap
The land of porringers and of pap,
With lakes that glittered bright between,
Like duckponds from a dunghill seen;
The varied beauties of the way,
Coal-works, gibbets, stacks of hay,
Canals and railways, freestone bridges,
Right-angled gardens, and clipped hedges;
And then to meet, how vastly pleasant,
A full-fed brute in every peasant!
And here, although across the border,
The men are of a different order;
The fient a sight your eyeball crosses
But whinstone hills and dark peat-mosses,
Braw bare-legged girls, auld smoky queans,
And filthy huts, and filthier weans.
But stop, Sir Poet, if you please,
We're o'er the Nith and past Dumfries,
And here, God bless the spot forever,
There's something like a Yankee river!
Though small and weak, its light waves swell;
My bonny Bronx, 'tis like yoursell,
And that's eno' to make me pour
A hearty blessing on your shore.
And now the misty sun's revealing
Scenes that would rouse a Dutchman's feeling.
Where'er the eye enraptured turns,
Some relique of her minstrel Burns
Shines on old Scotia's barren land,
Like the green spots on Afric's sand.

The bush that heard his first love-vow,
The field where last he held the plough,
The hill whose kindling sides along
First pealed the Bruce's battle-song;
The low thatch-roof where Coila stood,
The bowl that fired the poet's blood,
To sing how wi' his parting breath
A Scotchman gi'es the grip to death!
The burnie banks he oft has trod,
And now, alas! the silent sod
Where sleeps in his untimely cell
The master of the mighty spell.
Ah, Rob! my friend, for so you've been aye,
Save Shakespeare's self, the best of any,
Blithe wad I been if ye had known
To let strong drink and priests alone,
Or only used in moderation
These two grand curses of creation;
Then had ye shone the first in glory,
Not Campbell's self a foot before ye,
Nor died, like Basil's holy pigeon,
Martyr to whiskey and religion.
Westward away we take the air,
Just stop at Irvine's holy fair,
And then for Ayr's twa clavering brigs,
And green Tarbolton's barley rigs;
We passed poor Mailie's dike, the banks
Where honest Luath eased his shanks,
And wi' his stroanin' crony sat
An hour in philosophic chat;
We took our whiskey in the cot
Where ranter Rob was born and got;
Saw the old thorn, the stump of 't rather,
That stopped the gab of Mungo's mither,
And in the kirk's bedevilled tower
Stood in the rain a good half hour.
We found where Nannie in her dances
Exposed her legs to Satan's glances,
Until his wintling clumsy bones,
In amourous fidgets ground the stones.
We passed the brig (of brigs the wale),
Where Maggie warsled for her tail,
And coming back, the last of any,
Saw the wee house of Souter Johnny.

For Wallace, Fitz, I've had a damper;
My wits were on the up-hill scamper
To see where Scotland's genius rose
In triumph o'er her prostrate foes;
But Ayr's dull brutes, to scrape a farthing,
Have turned the proud Barns to a garden.
(Blasted be every blade that springs,
Unless the angry nettle flings
Her armed and bristly branches there,
To guard the hallowed Barns of Ayr.)
The tower is there, the clock, the spire,
Whence fifty feet perhaps, or higher,
Hurled by the English imps of hell,
From off the top the hero fell,
And almost broke his gallant bones
Against the damned hard-hearted stones;
And there's the stone, a wee Scotch pebble
(Ten men to lift it were unable)
Which Wallace skelpit o'er the house
As easy as you would a mouse.
Such sweating tales we have in plenty,
But what I've written will content ye;
To-morrow, or the next day comin',
Our party's off toward Loch Lomond,
And thence, o'er water, hill, and isle,
To Erne, Katrine, and Aberfoyle.
The sky is heavy, dull, o'ercast,
And, faith, I'm fearin' it will last;
And if it should, ye may divine
We'll find the Highlands unco' fine.
Gads me! my hat, by all that's cheerly,
The moon is up and shining clearly!
Hey! for an harlequinian antic,
I've been a month across th' Atlantic,
And this the first good glimpse mine eye
Has gotten of a Yankee sky;
And there's the star! ye west winds fan her!
That shines upon my country's banner.
She loves the West—she seldom flings
Her sparkle points on eyeless kings,
But keeps them for the gallant lads
Who wear her in their black cockades.
Here, where mist, cloud, and smoke unite
To stifle up each heavenly light,
Long may we watch each wind that blows
Before that glittering eye unclose.
Thus, to my country's sore dishonor,
Old England's fog lay long upon her,
Till roused at last, each spirit proud,
Her cannon-thunders burst the cloud,
And poured o'er Europe's hills afar
The glories of the Western star!
Lord! but she's gone! and here again
Our old acquaintance, mist and rain.
Ye vapourous jades! the red plague rid ye,
If ye'd not come until I bid ye,
Ye'd still be wearing, I've a notion,
Your white foam night-caps o'er the ocean;
And I'd have time mine eyes to feast
On my bright star an hour at least.
Yet, Hesper! though ye now must darkle,
Lord bless you for that pleasant sparkle.
I think ye must have known this even
A Yankee eye was turned toward heaven,
And shoved the surly clouds askance,
To give him just a friendly glance,
Mind him of home, help on his letter,
And make him sleep to-night the better.
Ah! Fitz, my lad, I'm thinking, aye,
How blithe and happy'll be the day
When we shall meet again together
I' the land of freedom and fine weather;
How we shall talk of all that's past
Since you and me forgathered last;
And, fecks! ye'll crack a dainty kernel
When ye get hold of Wully's journal.
I'd thought by this to send a sample,
But my scrimp paper's hardly ample
Eno' to hold another line,
Except, “Yours most” or “Ever thine.”