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 |
 | I. |
|
THE PACK. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
|
| III. |
|
| IV. |
 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
30
THE PACK.
Hard Fate has this ordain't, that I
Maun dauner thro the warl',
The wants o' thousan's to supply,
An' heavy lades to harl;
Sae aft, whan E'ening brings the Night,
In lanely desolation,
I seek a corner, out o' sight,
To mourn my condemnation.
Maun dauner thro the warl',
The wants o' thousan's to supply,
An' heavy lades to harl;
Sae aft, whan E'ening brings the Night,
In lanely desolation,
I seek a corner, out o' sight,
To mourn my condemnation.
The western sun, bright to the eye,
Was sinking in the flood;
Adorn'd with robes of richest dye,
Gay crimson streak'd wi' blood;
The swallows twittert through the sky,
In jinking, sportive mood;
While, prest wi' care, poor hapless I,
Near yonder riv'let stood,
Thoughtful that day.
Was sinking in the flood;
Adorn'd with robes of richest dye,
Gay crimson streak'd wi' blood;
The swallows twittert through the sky,
In jinking, sportive mood;
While, prest wi' care, poor hapless I,
Near yonder riv'let stood,
Thoughtful that day.
My pond'rous Pack upo' the ground,
I carelessly had flung;
A wallet green, wi' straps fast bound,
And near't a hazel rung;
The vera sight my heart did wound,
My breast wi' grief was stung;
Fir'd wi' indignance I turn'd round,
An' basht wi' mony a fung
The Pack, that day.
I carelessly had flung;
A wallet green, wi' straps fast bound,
And near't a hazel rung;
The vera sight my heart did wound,
My breast wi' grief was stung;
Fir'd wi' indignance I turn'd round,
An' basht wi' mony a fung
The Pack, that day.
“Thou cursed, base, inglorious load!
(Enrag'd wi' grief I cry'd)
“Shall thou along the weary road
“Borne on my shouthers ride;
“While crusht beneath I groaning nod,
“An' travel far an' wide?
“Hence! frae my sight, or wi' this clod,
“I'll dash thy hated hide,
“This vera day.
(Enrag'd wi' grief I cry'd)
“Shall thou along the weary road
“Borne on my shouthers ride;
31
“An' travel far an' wide?
“Hence! frae my sight, or wi' this clod,
“I'll dash thy hated hide,
“This vera day.
“Nay, no excuse—I winna hear,
“I winna tak' a word in;
“What! was these shouthers form'd to bear
“Thee, vile, disgracefu' burden?
“My lugs to thole ilk taunt an' jeer,
“That pierce me like a sword in?
“Crouchin' to ev'ry wretch, to speer,
“‘Mem! will ye buy a bargain
“Right cheap, the day?’”
“I winna tak' a word in;
“What! was these shouthers form'd to bear
“Thee, vile, disgracefu' burden?
“My lugs to thole ilk taunt an' jeer,
“That pierce me like a sword in?
“Crouchin' to ev'ry wretch, to speer,
“‘Mem! will ye buy a bargain
“Right cheap, the day?’”
It fires, it boils my vera blude,
An' sweats me at ilk pore,
To think how aft I'm putten wud,
Whan drawin' near a door;
Out springs the mastiff, through the mud,
Wi' fell Cerberian roar,
An' growlin', as he really wou'd
Me instantly devore
Alive, that day.
An' sweats me at ilk pore,
To think how aft I'm putten wud,
Whan drawin' near a door;
Out springs the mastiff, through the mud,
Wi' fell Cerberian roar,
An' growlin', as he really wou'd
Me instantly devore
Alive, that day.
“Ye're come frae Glasco', lad, I true;
(The pert guidwife presumes;)
Ye'll be a malefactor too,
Ye'll hae yer horse and grooms;
What de'il brings siccan chaps like you,
To lea' your wabs an' looms?
Wi' beggars, packmen, an' sic crew,
Our door it never tooms,
The live-lang day.
(The pert guidwife presumes;)
Ye'll be a malefactor too,
Ye'll hae yer horse and grooms;
What de'il brings siccan chaps like you,
To lea' your wabs an' looms?
Wi' beggars, packmen, an' sic crew,
Our door it never tooms,
The live-lang day.
32
“Nae doubt ye'll e'en right hungry be,
I see your belly's clung;
I hae some parritch here to gi'e,
As soon's a sang ye've sung.
Come, lilt it up wi' blithsome glee;
Ye're supple, smart an' young;
An' gin ye please our John an' me,
Ye'se get the kirnan rung
To lick, this day.”
I see your belly's clung;
I hae some parritch here to gi'e,
As soon's a sang ye've sung.
Come, lilt it up wi' blithsome glee;
Ye're supple, smart an' young;
An' gin ye please our John an' me,
Ye'se get the kirnan rung
To lick, this day.”
What flesh an' blude could thole this jaw,
An' no start in a rage;
An' kick their heels up ane an' a',
E'en though he war a sage?
Aft hae I dar't them, grit an' sma',
Gin they durst but engage,
Their noses in their a—to thraw,
And screw't as firm's a wedge,
Right smart, that day.
An' no start in a rage;
An' kick their heels up ane an' a',
E'en though he war a sage?
Aft hae I dar't them, grit an' sma',
Gin they durst but engage,
Their noses in their a—to thraw,
And screw't as firm's a wedge,
Right smart, that day.
“O thou, who 'midst the Muses all,
Plays while they rapt'ring sing,
Attentive hear thy vot'ry's call,
An' view his drooping wing!
How mournfu', how forlorn I crawl,
Far frae Parnassian spring;
Oh! deign to stoop, an' from this thrall
Thy once-lov'd Bardie bring,
In haste, this day.”
Plays while they rapt'ring sing,
Attentive hear thy vot'ry's call,
An' view his drooping wing!
How mournfu', how forlorn I crawl,
Far frae Parnassian spring;
Oh! deign to stoop, an' from this thrall
Thy once-lov'd Bardie bring,
In haste, this day.”
I ceas'd—and to my huge amaze,
That bordert maist on fear;
Upon ae end the Wallet raise,
Tho' cram't wi' silken gear;
While I, wild glowrt, to see its ways,
An' stood a' een an' ear;
It solemn shook its verdant claes,
Syne in tones hoarse and queer,
Thus spoke, that day.
That bordert maist on fear;
Upon ae end the Wallet raise,
Tho' cram't wi' silken gear;
33
An' stood a' een an' ear;
It solemn shook its verdant claes,
Syne in tones hoarse and queer,
Thus spoke, that day.
“Ye proud, provokin', hair-braint ass!
Owre lang I've borne your bleth'ring;
I've lain a' frythin' on the grass,
To hear yer nonsense gath'ring.
Ye've brought me to a bonny pass,
Since your rhime-wings war feathering;
An' now, set up yer saucy jaws!
Earth! ye deserve a leath'ring,
Right snell, this day.”
Owre lang I've borne your bleth'ring;
I've lain a' frythin' on the grass,
To hear yer nonsense gath'ring.
Ye've brought me to a bonny pass,
Since your rhime-wings war feathering;
An' now, set up yer saucy jaws!
Earth! ye deserve a leath'ring,
Right snell, this day.”
“Ha'e ye sae soon forgot the gude
Whilk I ha'e aften doon you?
Had ye no ance aneath me stood,
John swore that he wad poon you;
Whan ye fell in the snawy flood,
I truntl't frae aboon you,
Or trouth ye'd soon been flesh an' blood,
For craws to pick, and spoon you
Wi' their nebs, that day.”
Whilk I ha'e aften doon you?
Had ye no ance aneath me stood,
John swore that he wad poon you;
Whan ye fell in the snawy flood,
I truntl't frae aboon you,
Or trouth ye'd soon been flesh an' blood,
For craws to pick, and spoon you
Wi' their nebs, that day.”
“Weel may ye mind, yon night sae black,
Whan fearfu' winds loud gurl'd,
An' mony a lum dang down an' stack,
Heigh i' the air up swirl'd,
Alangst yon brae, ye clam, an' stack,
Down whiles like to be whirl'd;
Had I no slippet aff yer back,
An' ere I stoppet, hurl'd
To the fit, that night.”
Whan fearfu' winds loud gurl'd,
An' mony a lum dang down an' stack,
Heigh i' the air up swirl'd,
Alangst yon brae, ye clam, an' stack,
Down whiles like to be whirl'd;
Had I no slippet aff yer back,
An' ere I stoppet, hurl'd
To the fit, that night.”
34
“No to relate how aft, in barns,
When night without did bluster,
On me ye've laid yer crazy harns,
An' fixt me for a bouster;
There wad ye lie, an' sit by turns,
An' rhyme e'en in that posture;
Or through the thack survey the starns,
Till glimm'rin' Night did foster
The new-born day.”
When night without did bluster,
On me ye've laid yer crazy harns,
An' fixt me for a bouster;
There wad ye lie, an' sit by turns,
An' rhyme e'en in that posture;
Or through the thack survey the starns,
Till glimm'rin' Night did foster
The new-born day.”
“For me, indeed (I scorn to wheese)
Ye've tholt some bits o' losses;
For me ye've waded to the knees,
Thro' gutters, bogs, an' mosses;
For me, adventur'd foamin' seas,
An' met wi' mony crosses;
For me, ye've tell't ten thousan' lies,
An' measurt stairs an' closses,
For mony a day.”
Ye've tholt some bits o' losses;
For me ye've waded to the knees,
Thro' gutters, bogs, an' mosses;
For me, adventur'd foamin' seas,
An' met wi' mony crosses;
For me, ye've tell't ten thousan' lies,
An' measurt stairs an' closses,
For mony a day.”
“But than, reflect what blissfu' gluts
O' parritch ye ha'e bury'd
Within the caverns o' yer guts,
While wi' me ye ha'e tarry'd;
What dawds o' cheese, frae out yer clauts,
Wi' fury ye ha'e worry'd;
How aft lain dozin out yer wits,
Disdaining to be hurry'd
By ought, that day.”
O' parritch ye ha'e bury'd
Within the caverns o' yer guts,
While wi' me ye ha'e tarry'd;
What dawds o' cheese, frae out yer clauts,
Wi' fury ye ha'e worry'd;
How aft lain dozin out yer wits,
Disdaining to be hurry'd
By ought, that day.”
“Guid guides!” (quo I), “thou's get the gree
O' Wallets, de'ils or witches;
A speakin' Pack's owre learnt for me
Or ane that steers an' fitches.
Wha kens, but thou may Master be,
An' haul me thro' the ditches;
Or may-be learn (preserves!) to flee,
An' lea' me in the clutches
O' rags, some day.”
O' Wallets, de'ils or witches;
A speakin' Pack's owre learnt for me
Or ane that steers an' fitches.
35
An' haul me thro' the ditches;
Or may-be learn (preserves!) to flee,
An' lea' me in the clutches
O' rags, some day.”
“Ungratefu' sinner! think how aft
I ve fillt yer pouch wi' catter—
For gudesake whist! we're baith gane daft,
It's nonsense a' this splutter.
Come to my shouthers, warp an' waft,
Nae mair we'll flyte an' chatter;”
Sae aff I trudg'd alang the craft,
An' ended a' the clatter,
In peace, that day.
I ve fillt yer pouch wi' catter—
For gudesake whist! we're baith gane daft,
It's nonsense a' this splutter.
Come to my shouthers, warp an' waft,
Nae mair we'll flyte an' chatter;”
Sae aff I trudg'd alang the craft,
An' ended a' the clatter,
In peace, that day.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |