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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FIRST EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES DOBIE. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
FIRST EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES DOBIE.
Clos'd in a garret spread wi' beuks,
Whare spider-wabs, in dozens
Hing mirk athort the winnock neuks,
Maist dark'ning up the lozens;
Thro' whilk the sin, wi' beams sae braw,
Ne'er shows his face discreetly,
Save whan out owre the Misty-Law,
He's flitherin' downward sweetly,
To close the day.
Whare spider-wabs, in dozens
Hing mirk athort the winnock neuks,
Maist dark'ning up the lozens;
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Ne'er shows his face discreetly,
Save whan out owre the Misty-Law,
He's flitherin' downward sweetly,
To close the day.
Here sits the bardie, sir, his lane,
Right glad to rest retir'd;
His griefs an' girnin' cares a' gane,
An' a' his fancy fir'd;
The Muses round him dancin' thrang,
Their skill fu' proud to show it;
In lively measure, thun'erin' lang,
To sing an' please the poet
O' Beith, this day.
Right glad to rest retir'd;
His griefs an' girnin' cares a' gane,
An' a' his fancy fir'd;
The Muses round him dancin' thrang,
Their skill fu' proud to show it;
In lively measure, thun'erin' lang,
To sing an' please the poet
O' Beith, this day.
O! how my heart exulting loups,
To meet a chiel like you;
Life's bitter horn aside it coups,
An' fill'st wi' chearing blue:
While chaunrin' critics grin an' growl,
An' curse whate'er they light on,
The honest, friendly, gen'rous soul,
Can check, inspire, and brighten,
Wi' ease each day.
To meet a chiel like you;
Life's bitter horn aside it coups,
An' fill'st wi' chearing blue:
While chaunrin' critics grin an' growl,
An' curse whate'er they light on,
The honest, friendly, gen'rous soul,
Can check, inspire, and brighten,
Wi' ease each day.
Yet some there are whase flinty hearts,
An' hollow heads (poor wretches!)
Despise the poet's glorious parts,
An' ca' them daudron bitches.
Tell them a plan o' cent per cent,
They'll glut yer words like hinee;
But mention poetry, they'll gaunt
An' gloom, as gin't were sinee,
Or salts, that day.
An' hollow heads (poor wretches!)
Despise the poet's glorious parts,
An' ca' them daudron bitches.
Tell them a plan o' cent per cent,
They'll glut yer words like hinee;
But mention poetry, they'll gaunt
An' gloom, as gin't were sinee,
Or salts, that day.
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Anither set comes in my view,
A' trampin' Heaven's way in;
See! how they shake their heads an' groo
At ought but grace an' prayin':
These godly fouks will tak' the qualms,
To hear a rhyme-repeater,
An' solemnly declare the 'Salms
To be the far best metre
On earth this day.
A' trampin' Heaven's way in;
See! how they shake their heads an' groo
At ought but grace an' prayin':
These godly fouks will tak' the qualms,
To hear a rhyme-repeater,
An' solemnly declare the 'Salms
To be the far best metre
On earth this day.
Poor brainless wights! they little ken
Its charms, its soaring fire;
In ev'ry age, the best of men
Have, raptur'd, tun'd the lyre:
'Tis this that breathes Job's mournful plaints,
Or aids him to adore;
And this the seraph's mouth, and saints,
Will fill when Time's no more,
But endless day.
Its charms, its soaring fire;
In ev'ry age, the best of men
Have, raptur'd, tun'd the lyre:
'Tis this that breathes Job's mournful plaints,
Or aids him to adore;
And this the seraph's mouth, and saints,
Will fill when Time's no more,
But endless day.
Whan bonny Spring adorns the year,
An' ilka herb is springing,
An' birds on blossom'd branches, clear
Wi' lightsome hearts are singing;
How sweet to rove at early morn,
Whare dewy flow'rs are ranket,
While they wha sic enjoyments scorn,
Lie snorin' in a blanket,
Till height o' day.
An' ilka herb is springing,
An' birds on blossom'd branches, clear
Wi' lightsome hearts are singing;
How sweet to rove at early morn,
Whare dewy flow'rs are ranket,
While they wha sic enjoyments scorn,
Lie snorin' in a blanket,
Till height o' day.
I ne'er was rich, nor ever will,
But ony time ye come
To our bit town, we'se hae a gill,
An' owr't we'se no sit dumb.
A gill, man, spreads the Muse's wing,
Sets ilka quill in order;
And gars her mount, an' soar, an' sing,
Till she maist gains the border
O' brightest day.
But ony time ye come
To our bit town, we'se hae a gill,
An' owr't we'se no sit dumb.
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Sets ilka quill in order;
And gars her mount, an' soar, an' sing,
Till she maist gains the border
O' brightest day.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |