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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AN EPISTLE TO MR. EBENEZER PICKEN. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
85
AN EPISTLE TO MR. EBENEZER PICKEN.
O thou wha 'midst lang yellow ranks
O' gowans, on sweet Cartha's banks,
Row't in a skinklan plaid;
Souns loud the Scottish Muse's horn,
Aneath some spreadan eldren thorn,
An' maks the herdies glad;
While lads an' laughin' lasses free
Chirt in to hear thy sang;
Will Eben let a chiel like me
Join wi' the chearfu' thrang?
A wee while, in auld stile,
On Pegassus I'll scrive;
Sae tent me, an' canty
I soon sal tak my leave.
O' gowans, on sweet Cartha's banks,
Row't in a skinklan plaid;
Souns loud the Scottish Muse's horn,
Aneath some spreadan eldren thorn,
An' maks the herdies glad;
While lads an' laughin' lasses free
Chirt in to hear thy sang;
Will Eben let a chiel like me
Join wi' the chearfu' thrang?
A wee while, in auld stile,
On Pegassus I'll scrive;
Sae tent me, an' canty
I soon sal tak my leave.
This ha'f a year yer funny tales,
Owre mosses, mountains, seas an' dales,
I've carried i' my lingle;
An' scores o' times, in kintra tafts,
They've gart the fouk maist rive their chafts,
Whan owre a bra' peat ingle,
I loot them hear droll Symon's crack,
Wi' Hodge, twa curious cronies;
How the queer carles sae camsheugh spake,
'Bout pouther't cockernonies.
Young Jenny an' Nannie,
An' Meg wad laught thegither;
Sly sneeran an' swearan,
“Od, that's just like our father.”
Owre mosses, mountains, seas an' dales,
I've carried i' my lingle;
An' scores o' times, in kintra tafts,
They've gart the fouk maist rive their chafts,
Whan owre a bra' peat ingle,
I loot them hear droll Symon's crack,
Wi' Hodge, twa curious cronies;
How the queer carles sae camsheugh spake,
'Bout pouther't cockernonies.
Young Jenny an' Nannie,
An' Meg wad laught thegither;
Sly sneeran an' swearan,
“Od, that's just like our father.”
Whan “Aul' Joanna i' the Brae,”
Or “Bonny Bell,” and mony mae,
They hear me try to tout;
Or when poor “Brownie” tells his tale,
How he was maist kidnappèd hale,
Blude drappan frae his snout:
When “Yon Spat's” fearfu' fa' ye mourn,
In simple hammart croon;
Nae mair to get a needfu' turn
Aneath it's biggin' doon;
Lord help me! they yelp me,
Wi' laughin' near han' deaf;
While sweatin' an' greetin'
I turn the tither leaf.
Or “Bonny Bell,” and mony mae,
They hear me try to tout;
86
How he was maist kidnappèd hale,
Blude drappan frae his snout:
When “Yon Spat's” fearfu' fa' ye mourn,
In simple hammart croon;
Nae mair to get a needfu' turn
Aneath it's biggin' doon;
Lord help me! they yelp me,
Wi' laughin' near han' deaf;
While sweatin' an' greetin'
I turn the tither leaf.
“Preserves!” says Jean, an' stops her wheel,
“An' do you really ken the chiel!
An' whar-a'wa's his dwallin?”
“I'd gang,” quo' Meg, “a simmer day
To get ae glint o'm in my way,
Tho' I soud spen a shilling.”
Out granes auld grannie frae the neuk,
Whare at the rock she's rivan;
“Vow sirs! an' did he mak the beuk
Just out his ain contrivin!
Whare-e'er he's I'm sure he's
A minister, or mair;
Sic stories, sae curious,
Wad tak a man o' lear.”
“An' do you really ken the chiel!
An' whar-a'wa's his dwallin?”
“I'd gang,” quo' Meg, “a simmer day
To get ae glint o'm in my way,
Tho' I soud spen a shilling.”
Out granes auld grannie frae the neuk,
Whare at the rock she's rivan;
“Vow sirs! an' did he mak the beuk
Just out his ain contrivin!
Whare-e'er he's I'm sure he's
A minister, or mair;
Sic stories, sae curious,
Wad tak a man o' lear.”
But, Eben, thinkna this but clatter,
An' that I tell't for fau't o' matter,
To lengthen out a crack;
It's what I've heard a hun'er times
The fouk exclaim, wha read your rhymes,
Or may I burn my pack.
Wi' chiels o' taste an' genius baith,
I aften hae forgather't;
An' war I to relate their breath
O' you, ye'd say I blether't.
Wi' leisure an' pleasure,
I've seen them aft read owre,
While strokes o' wit, wi' ready hit,
Gart aft the reader glowre.
An' that I tell't for fau't o' matter,
To lengthen out a crack;
It's what I've heard a hun'er times
The fouk exclaim, wha read your rhymes,
Or may I burn my pack.
87
I aften hae forgather't;
An' war I to relate their breath
O' you, ye'd say I blether't.
Wi' leisure an' pleasure,
I've seen them aft read owre,
While strokes o' wit, wi' ready hit,
Gart aft the reader glowre.
For me, when I begin to read
About aul' honest Harry dead;
Beneath the yird laid stieve in;
Or at the bauld brooze o' wasps an' bees,
Whilk had set Allan in a bleeze,
Had the auld bard been livin';
Or that which scorns the bounds o' rhyme,
Fate, sung in lofty strains,
Owre whulk I've grutten mony a time,
An' blest ye for yer pains.
Whan these an' a thousan'
Mae beauties strike my e'e,
Inspirèd, I'm firèd
Wi' won'rous thoughts o' thee.
About aul' honest Harry dead;
Beneath the yird laid stieve in;
Or at the bauld brooze o' wasps an' bees,
Whilk had set Allan in a bleeze,
Had the auld bard been livin';
Or that which scorns the bounds o' rhyme,
Fate, sung in lofty strains,
Owre whulk I've grutten mony a time,
An' blest ye for yer pains.
Whan these an' a thousan'
Mae beauties strike my e'e,
Inspirèd, I'm firèd
Wi' won'rous thoughts o' thee.
Let senseless critics roun' ye squeel,
An' curl like ony empron eel,
Wi' want o' taste or spite;
Nane e'er gat fame in's native spat,—
The vera Haly Beuk says that,—
But let them girn an' flyte.
While I can douk in ink a quill,
An' blether rhyme or prose;
While spoons an' ladles help to fill
My kyte, wi' kail or brose;
Believe it, while I'm fit
The right frae left to know it;
I'll reverence, while blest wi' sense,
The poems and the poet.
An' curl like ony empron eel,
Wi' want o' taste or spite;
Nane e'er gat fame in's native spat,—
The vera Haly Beuk says that,—
But let them girn an' flyte.
While I can douk in ink a quill,
An' blether rhyme or prose;
While spoons an' ladles help to fill
My kyte, wi' kail or brose;
88
The right frae left to know it;
I'll reverence, while blest wi' sense,
The poems and the poet.
If ever fortune, thrawart bitch!
Should kick me in Misfortune's ditch,
Awhile to lie an' warsle;
Gif I yer sangs hae in my fab,
An' whiles a glass to heat my gab,
An' snuff to smart my girsle;
Tho' beagles, hornings, an' sic graith,
Glowre roun', they ne'er sal dread me:
I'll canty chaunt aul' Harry's death,
While up the stair they lead me;
I'll roar than, I'll soar than,
Out thro' the vera cluds;
Tho' hung roun', an' clung roun',
Wi' stenchers an' wi' duds.
Should kick me in Misfortune's ditch,
Awhile to lie an' warsle;
Gif I yer sangs hae in my fab,
An' whiles a glass to heat my gab,
An' snuff to smart my girsle;
Tho' beagles, hornings, an' sic graith,
Glowre roun', they ne'er sal dread me:
I'll canty chaunt aul' Harry's death,
While up the stair they lead me;
I'll roar than, I'll soar than,
Out thro' the vera cluds;
Tho' hung roun', an' clung roun',
Wi' stenchers an' wi' duds.
Owre Highlan' hills I've rov'd this whyle,
Far to the north, whare mony a mile
Ye'll naething see but heather;
An' now-an'-than a wee bit cot,
Bare, hunkerin' on some lanely spot,
Whare ither words they blether.
Last owk there on a winnock-sole,
I fan some aul' newspaper;
And tho' 'twas riv'n in mony a hole,
Yet, fegs, it made me caper;
When scanin't, I fan in't
Some rhyme I ne'er had seen,
How nature ilk creature
Maks canty, blythe, an' bien.
Far to the north, whare mony a mile
Ye'll naething see but heather;
An' now-an'-than a wee bit cot,
Bare, hunkerin' on some lanely spot,
Whare ither words they blether.
Last owk there on a winnock-sole,
I fan some aul' newspaper;
And tho' 'twas riv'n in mony a hole,
Yet, fegs, it made me caper;
When scanin't, I fan in't
Some rhyme I ne'er had seen,
How nature ilk creature
Maks canty, blythe, an' bien.
89
Ha, Eben! hae I catcht ye here,
Quoth I, in unco glee an' chear,
While their nainsels a' gapet,
And speer't right droll, gin she was mine,
An' whareabouts me did her tine?
(While aff the sang I clippet,)
Some bawbies bury't a' the plea,
Though they afore war sweer o't;
Sae aff I came in clever key,
Resolv'd to let you hear o't;
Now fareweel, my braw chiel,
Lang tune the reed wi' spirit;
Let asses spit clashes,
Fools canker aye at merit.
Quoth I, in unco glee an' chear,
While their nainsels a' gapet,
And speer't right droll, gin she was mine,
An' whareabouts me did her tine?
(While aff the sang I clippet,)
Some bawbies bury't a' the plea,
Though they afore war sweer o't;
Sae aff I came in clever key,
Resolv'd to let you hear o't;
Now fareweel, my braw chiel,
Lang tune the reed wi' spirit;
Let asses spit clashes,
Fools canker aye at merit.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |