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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SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES DOBIE. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. JAMES DOBIE.
Edinburgh—
While rains are blattrin' frae the south,
An' down the lozens seepin';
An' hens in mony a caul' closs-mouth,
Wi' hingin' tails are dreepin';
The Muse an' me,
Wi' frien'ly glee,
Hae laid our heads thegither,
Some rhyme to pen,
Syne bauldly sen'
To you, the jinglin' blether.
An' down the lozens seepin';
An' hens in mony a caul' closs-mouth,
Wi' hingin' tails are dreepin';
The Muse an' me,
Wi' frien'ly glee,
Hae laid our heads thegither,
Some rhyme to pen,
Syne bauldly sen'
To you, the jinglin' blether.
Auld Reekie for this month an' mair,
Has held me in her bosom;
Her streets a' streamin' like a Fair,
Wi' mony a beauteous blossom;
Their bosoms, whilk
Seen through the silk,
Heav'd up sae blest uneven,
Maist gars me swear,
To tempt us here,
Jove drapt them down frae Heav'n.
Has held me in her bosom;
Her streets a' streamin' like a Fair,
Wi' mony a beauteous blossom;
Their bosoms, whilk
Seen through the silk,
Heav'd up sae blest uneven,
Maist gars me swear,
To tempt us here,
Jove drapt them down frae Heav'n.
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Here strutting wi' their glitt'rin' boots,
An' flutterin' a' wi' ruffles,
The coxcomb keen, to rax his koots,
Alang the planestanes shuffles:
Wi' sweet perfumes,
Like apple blooms,
He fills the air aroun';
His hale employ,
How to enjoy
The pleasures of the town.
An' flutterin' a' wi' ruffles,
The coxcomb keen, to rax his koots,
Alang the planestanes shuffles:
Wi' sweet perfumes,
Like apple blooms,
He fills the air aroun';
His hale employ,
How to enjoy
The pleasures of the town.
Fair as the gay enrapt'ring Nine,
That tread the fam'd Parnassus;
And rang'd in mony a glorious line,
Appear the bouncin' lasses;
Whase shape, adzooks
An' killing looks,
An' claes like e'ening cluds;
Wad hermits fire
Wi' fond desire,
To leave their caves an' woods.
That tread the fam'd Parnassus;
And rang'd in mony a glorious line,
Appear the bouncin' lasses;
Whase shape, adzooks
An' killing looks,
An' claes like e'ening cluds;
Wad hermits fire
Wi' fond desire,
To leave their caves an' woods.
Here mony a wight, frae mony a place,
At mony an occupation,
Exhibits mony a groosome face,
In hurrying consternation;
Some shakin' bells,
Some hammerin' stells,
Some coblin' shoon in cloysters;
Here coaches whirlin',
There fish-wives skirlin'
“Wha'll buy my cauler oysters?”
At mony an occupation,
Exhibits mony a groosome face,
In hurrying consternation;
Some shakin' bells,
Some hammerin' stells,
Some coblin' shoon in cloysters;
Here coaches whirlin',
There fish-wives skirlin'
“Wha'll buy my cauler oysters?”
But, see! yon dismal form that louts,
Black crawlin' owre a midding,
Thrang scartin' cin'ers up, an' clouts,
That i' the awse lie hidden;
While round her lugs,
Poor starvin' dogs,
Glowre fierce wi' hungry gurle;
She wi' a clash
O' dirt or awse,
Begins a horrid quarrel.
Black crawlin' owre a midding,
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That i' the awse lie hidden;
While round her lugs,
Poor starvin' dogs,
Glowre fierce wi' hungry gurle;
She wi' a clash
O' dirt or awse,
Begins a horrid quarrel.
Sic creatures dauner auld an' clung,
Whan morning rises gawsey;
An' mony a hutch o' human dung
Lies skinklin' owre the cawsey:
Out-through't wat shod,
I've aften trod,
Wi' heart maist like to scunner;
Oblidg't to rin,
Least, like a lin,
Some tubfu' down might thun'er.
Whan morning rises gawsey;
An' mony a hutch o' human dung
Lies skinklin' owre the cawsey:
Out-through't wat shod,
I've aften trod,
Wi' heart maist like to scunner;
Oblidg't to rin,
Least, like a lin,
Some tubfu' down might thun'er.
O shocking theme! but, sir, to you
I leave the moralizing;
Ye hae the pictures in your view
Mair orthodox than pleasing.
Farewell a wee;
Lang may ye be
Wi' fortune blest in season,
Within your arms
To clasp the charms
That kings wad joy to gaze on.
I leave the moralizing;
Ye hae the pictures in your view
Mair orthodox than pleasing.
Farewell a wee;
Lang may ye be
Wi' fortune blest in season,
Within your arms
To clasp the charms
That kings wad joy to gaze on.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |