 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
157
Hame Content. A Satire.
To all whom it may concern.
Some fock, like Bees, fu glegly rin
To bykes bang'd fu' o' strife and din,
And thieve and huddle crumb by crumb,
Till they have scrapt the dautit Plumb,
Then craw fell crously o' their wark,
Tell o'er their turners mark by mark,
Yet darna think to lowse the pose,
To aid their neighbours ails and woes.
To bykes bang'd fu' o' strife and din,
And thieve and huddle crumb by crumb,
Till they have scrapt the dautit Plumb,
Then craw fell crously o' their wark,
Tell o'er their turners mark by mark,
Yet darna think to lowse the pose,
To aid their neighbours ails and woes.
Gif Gowd can fetter thus the heart,
And gar us act sae base a part,
Shall Man, a niggard near-gawn elf!
Rin to the tether's end for pelf;
Learn ilka cunzied scoundrel's trick,
Whan a's done sell his saul to Nick:
I trow they've coft the purchase dear,
That gang sic lengths for warldly gear.
And gar us act sae base a part,
Shall Man, a niggard near-gawn elf!
Rin to the tether's end for pelf;
Learn ilka cunzied scoundrel's trick,
Whan a's done sell his saul to Nick:
I trow they've coft the purchase dear,
That gang sic lengths for warldly gear.
Now whan the Dog-day heats begin
To birsel and to peel the skin,
May I lie streekit at my ease,
Beneath the caller shady trees,
(Far frae the din o'Borrowstown,)
Whar water plays the haughs bedown,
To jouk the simmer's rigor there,
And breath a while the caller air
'Mang herds, an' honest cottar fock,
That till the farm and feed the flock;
Careless o' mair, wha never fash
To lade their kist wi' useless cash,
But thank the gods for what they've sent
O' health eneugh, and blyth content,
An' pith, that helps them to stravaig
Our ilka cleugh and ilka craig,
Unkend to a' the weary granes
That aft arise frae gentler banes,
On easy-chair that pamper'd lie,
Wi' banefu' viands gustit high,
And turn and fald their weary clay,
To rax and gaunt the live-lang day.
To birsel and to peel the skin,
May I lie streekit at my ease,
Beneath the caller shady trees,
(Far frae the din o'Borrowstown,)
Whar water plays the haughs bedown,
To jouk the simmer's rigor there,
And breath a while the caller air
'Mang herds, an' honest cottar fock,
That till the farm and feed the flock;
Careless o' mair, wha never fash
To lade their kist wi' useless cash,
But thank the gods for what they've sent
O' health eneugh, and blyth content,
158
Our ilka cleugh and ilka craig,
Unkend to a' the weary granes
That aft arise frae gentler banes,
On easy-chair that pamper'd lie,
Wi' banefu' viands gustit high,
And turn and fald their weary clay,
To rax and gaunt the live-lang day.
Ye sages, tell, was man e'er made
To dree this hatefu' sluggard trade?
Steekit frae Nature's beauties a'
That daily on his presence ca';
At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine
For fav'rite dishes, fav'rite wine:
Come then, shake off thir sluggish ties,
And wi' the bird o' dawning rise;
On ilka bauk the clouds hae spread
Wi' blobs o' dew a pearly bed;
Frae falds nae mair the owsen rout,
But to the fatt'ning clever lout,
Whare they may feed at heart's content,
Unyokit frae their winter's stent.
To dree this hatefu' sluggard trade?
Steekit frae Nature's beauties a'
That daily on his presence ca';
At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine
For fav'rite dishes, fav'rite wine:
Come then, shake off thir sluggish ties,
And wi' the bird o' dawning rise;
On ilka bauk the clouds hae spread
Wi' blobs o' dew a pearly bed;
Frae falds nae mair the owsen rout,
But to the fatt'ning clever lout,
Whare they may feed at heart's content,
Unyokit frae their winter's stent.
Unyoke then, man, an' binna sweer
To ding a hole in ill-haind gear;
O think that eild, wi' wyly fitt,
Is wearing nearer bit by bit;
Gin yence he claws you wi' his paw,
What's siller for? Fiend haet awa,
But gowden playfair, that may please
The second Sharger till he dies.
To ding a hole in ill-haind gear;
O think that eild, wi' wyly fitt,
Is wearing nearer bit by bit;
Gin yence he claws you wi' his paw,
What's siller for? Fiend haet awa,
But gowden playfair, that may please
The second Sharger till he dies.
Some daft chiel reads, and takes advice;
The chaise is yokit in a trice;
Awa drives he like huntit de'il,
And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel,
Till he's Lord kens how far away,
At Italy, or Well o' Spaw,
Or to Montpelier's safter air;
For far aff fowls hae feathers fair.
The chaise is yokit in a trice;
Awa drives he like huntit de'il,
And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel,
159
At Italy, or Well o' Spaw,
Or to Montpelier's safter air;
For far aff fowls hae feathers fair.
There rest him weel; for eith can we
Spare mony glakit gouks like he;
They'll tell whare Tibur's waters rise;
What sea receives the drumly prize,
That never wi' their feet hae mett
The marches o' their ain estate.
Spare mony glakit gouks like he;
They'll tell whare Tibur's waters rise;
What sea receives the drumly prize,
That never wi' their feet hae mett
The marches o' their ain estate.
The Arno and the Tibur lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang;
But, save the reverence of schools!
They're baith but lifeless dowy pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonny Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer-bead?
Or are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs or banks o' Tay?
Tho' there the herds can jink the show'rs
'Mang thriving vines an' myrtle bow'rs,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While echo's tongue commends their pains,
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple, saft, bewitching art.
On Leader haughs an' Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang;
But, save the reverence of schools!
They're baith but lifeless dowy pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonny Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer-bead?
Or are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs or banks o' Tay?
Tho' there the herds can jink the show'rs
'Mang thriving vines an' myrtle bow'rs,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While echo's tongue commends their pains,
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple, saft, bewitching art.
On Leader haughs an' Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.
Come, Fancy, come, and let us tread
The simmer's flow'ry velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightfu' lowse
On Tweeda's banks or Cowdenknows,
That, ta'en wi' thy inchanting sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang,
Sae pleas'd, they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain;
Soon will they guess ye only wear
The simple garb o' Nature here;
Mair comely far, an' fair to sight
Whan in her easy cleething dight,
Than in disguise ye was before
On Tibur's, or on Arno's shore.
The simmer's flow'ry velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightfu' lowse
On Tweeda's banks or Cowdenknows,
That, ta'en wi' thy inchanting sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang,
Sae pleas'd, they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain;
160
The simple garb o' Nature here;
Mair comely far, an' fair to sight
Whan in her easy cleething dight,
Than in disguise ye was before
On Tibur's, or on Arno's shore.
O Bangour! now the hills and dales
Nae mair gi'e back thy tender tales!
The birks on Yarrow now deplore
Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore:
Near what bright burn or chrystal spring
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The muse shall there, wi' wat'ry eie,
Gi'e the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowy dame!
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Wha mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.
Nae mair gi'e back thy tender tales!
The birks on Yarrow now deplore
Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore:
Near what bright burn or chrystal spring
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The muse shall there, wi' wat'ry eie,
Gi'e the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowy dame!
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Wha mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |