The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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THE TALE. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
THE TALE.
There liv'd in Fife, an auld, stout, warldly chiel,
Wha's stomach kend nae fare but milk and meal;
A wife he had, I think they ca'd her Bell,
And twa big sons, amaist as heigh's himsel':
Rab was a gleg, smart cock, with powder'd pash:
Ringan, a slow, fear'd, bashfu', simple hash.
Wha's stomach kend nae fare but milk and meal;
A wife he had, I think they ca'd her Bell,
And twa big sons, amaist as heigh's himsel':
Rab was a gleg, smart cock, with powder'd pash:
Ringan, a slow, fear'd, bashfu', simple hash.
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Baith to the College gaed. At first spruce Rab,
At Greek and Latin, grew a very dab;
He beat a' round about him, fair and clean,
And ilk ane courted him to be their frien';
Frae house to house they harl'd him to dinner,
But curs'd poor Ringan for a hum-drum sinner.
At Greek and Latin, grew a very dab;
He beat a' round about him, fair and clean,
And ilk ane courted him to be their frien';
Frae house to house they harl'd him to dinner,
But curs'd poor Ringan for a hum-drum sinner.
Rab talkèd now in sic a lofty strain,
As tho' braid Scotland had been a' his ain;
He ca'd the Kirk the Church, the Yirth the Globe,
And chang'd his name, forsooth, frae Rab to Bob;
Whare'er ye met him, flourishing his rung,
The haill discourse was murder'd wi' his tongue;
On friends and faes wi' impudence he set,
And ramm'd his nose in ev'ry thing he met.
As tho' braid Scotland had been a' his ain;
He ca'd the Kirk the Church, the Yirth the Globe,
And chang'd his name, forsooth, frae Rab to Bob;
Whare'er ye met him, flourishing his rung,
The haill discourse was murder'd wi' his tongue;
On friends and faes wi' impudence he set,
And ramm'd his nose in ev'ry thing he met.
The College now, to Rab, grew douf and dull,
He scorn'd wi' books to stupify his skull;
But whirl'd to Plays and Balls, and sic like places,
And roar'd awa' at Fairs and Kintra Races;
Sent hame for siller frae his mother Bell,
And caft a horse, and rade a race himsel';
Drank night and day, and syne, when mortal fu',
Row'd on the floor, and snor'd like ony sow;
Lost a' his siller wi' some gambling sparks,
And pawn'd, for punch, his Bible and his sarks;
Till, driven at last to own he had eneugh,
Gaed hame a' rags to haud his father's pleugh.
He scorn'd wi' books to stupify his skull;
But whirl'd to Plays and Balls, and sic like places,
And roar'd awa' at Fairs and Kintra Races;
Sent hame for siller frae his mother Bell,
And caft a horse, and rade a race himsel';
Drank night and day, and syne, when mortal fu',
Row'd on the floor, and snor'd like ony sow;
Lost a' his siller wi' some gambling sparks,
And pawn'd, for punch, his Bible and his sarks;
Till, driven at last to own he had eneugh,
Gaed hame a' rags to haud his father's pleugh.
Poor hum-drum Ringan play'd anither part,
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor art;
Of mony a far-aff place he kent the gate;
Was deep, deep learn'd, but unco unco blate;
He kend how mony mile 'twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad lave the ocean toom;
Where a' the swallows gaed in time of snaw,
What gars the thunders roar, and tempests blaw;
Where lumps o' siller grow aneath the grun',
How a' this yirth rows round about the sun;
In short, on books sae meikle time he spent,
Ye cou'dna speak o' aught, but Ringan kent.
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor art;
Of mony a far-aff place he kent the gate;
Was deep, deep learn'd, but unco unco blate;
He kend how mony mile 'twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad lave the ocean toom;
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What gars the thunders roar, and tempests blaw;
Where lumps o' siller grow aneath the grun',
How a' this yirth rows round about the sun;
In short, on books sae meikle time he spent,
Ye cou'dna speak o' aught, but Ringan kent.
Sae meikle learning wi' sae little pride,
Soon gain'd the love o' a' the kintra side;
And Death, at that time, happ'ning to nip aff
The Parish Minister—a poor dull ca'f,—
Ringan was sought; he cou'dna' say them Nay,
And there he's preaching at this very day.
Soon gain'd the love o' a' the kintra side;
And Death, at that time, happ'ning to nip aff
The Parish Minister—a poor dull ca'f,—
Ringan was sought; he cou'dna' say them Nay,
And there he's preaching at this very day.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |