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. |
|
FIRST EPISTLE TO MR. WILLIAM MITCHELL. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
|
| III. |
|
| IV. |
 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
FIRST EPISTLE TO MR. WILLIAM MITCHELL.
Leadhills, April—
Hail! kind, free, honest-hearted swain,
My ne'er forgotten frien';
Wha aft has made me, since wi' pain
We parted, dight my e'en;
Ance mair frae aff a lanely plain,
Whare warlocks wauk at e'en,
An' witches dance; I'll raise my strain
Till to your bield bedeen
It sound this day.
My ne'er forgotten frien';
Wha aft has made me, since wi' pain
We parted, dight my e'en;
Ance mair frae aff a lanely plain,
Whare warlocks wauk at e'en,
An' witches dance; I'll raise my strain
Till to your bield bedeen
It sound this day.
Wide muirs that spread wi' purple sweep,
Beneath the sunny glowe;
Hills swell'd vast, here—there dark glens deep,
Whare brooks embosom'd rowe;
Cots hingin' owre the woody steep,
Bields reekin' frae the howe;
Wild scenes like these, a blissfu' heap,
Has driven't in my powe
To write this day.
Beneath the sunny glowe;
Hills swell'd vast, here—there dark glens deep,
Whare brooks embosom'd rowe;
92
Bields reekin' frae the howe;
Wild scenes like these, a blissfu' heap,
Has driven't in my powe
To write this day.
Be this thy last, my Muse, and swear
By a' that e'er thou sung,
'Till Mitchell's cheerfu' song thou hear,
To chain thy tuneless tongue—
It's sworn! I saw her frowning, rear
Her arm, an' while it hung
Aloft in air, glens that lay near,
An' rocks re-echoing rung
Consent this day.
By a' that e'er thou sung,
'Till Mitchell's cheerfu' song thou hear,
To chain thy tuneless tongue—
It's sworn! I saw her frowning, rear
Her arm, an' while it hung
Aloft in air, glens that lay near,
An' rocks re-echoing rung
Consent this day.
Yet wha can, daunerin' up thir braes,
No fin' his heart a' dancin';
While herdies sing wi' huggert taes,
An' wanton lam's are prancin';
Or down the spreadin' vale to gaze,
Whare glitt'rin' burns are glancin';
An' sleepin' lochs, owre whase smooth face
Wild fowl sport the expanse in,
Ilk bonny day.
No fin' his heart a' dancin';
While herdies sing wi' huggert taes,
An' wanton lam's are prancin';
Or down the spreadin' vale to gaze,
Whare glitt'rin' burns are glancin';
An' sleepin' lochs, owre whase smooth face
Wild fowl sport the expanse in,
Ilk bonny day.
Here mountains raise their heath'ry backs,
Rang'd huge aboon the lift;
In whase dark bowels, for lead tracts,
Swarm'd miners howk an' sift;
High owre my head the sheep in packs,
I see them mice-like skift;
The herd maist like ane's finger, wauks
Aboon yon fearfu' clift
Scarce seen this day.
Rang'd huge aboon the lift;
In whase dark bowels, for lead tracts,
Swarm'd miners howk an' sift;
High owre my head the sheep in packs,
I see them mice-like skift;
The herd maist like ane's finger, wauks
Aboon yon fearfu' clift
Scarce seen this day.
93
Here mills rin thrang, wi' whilk in speed
They melt to bars the ore in;
Nine score o' fathoms shanks down lead,
To let the hammerin' core in;
Whare hun'ers for a bit o' bread
Continually are borin';
Glowre down a pit, you'd think, wi' dread,
That gangs o' deils war roarin'
Frae hell that way.
They melt to bars the ore in;
Nine score o' fathoms shanks down lead,
To let the hammerin' core in;
Whare hun'ers for a bit o' bread
Continually are borin';
Glowre down a pit, you'd think, wi' dread,
That gangs o' deils war roarin'
Frae hell that way.
Alangst the mountain's barren side,
Wi' holes an' caverns digget;
In lanely raws, withouten pride,
Their bits o' huts are bigget;
Nae kecklin' hens about the door,
E'er glad their chearless Lucky;
They pick the pyles o' leaden ore,
Whilk to poor heedless chucky
Is death that day.
Wi' holes an' caverns digget;
In lanely raws, withouten pride,
Their bits o' huts are bigget;
Nae kecklin' hens about the door,
E'er glad their chearless Lucky;
They pick the pyles o' leaden ore,
Whilk to poor heedless chucky
Is death that day.
A wimplan burn atween the hills,
Thro' mony a glen rins trottin';
Amang the stanes an' sunny rills
Aft bits o' gowd are gotten;
Thought I “Three yeer thro' closs an' trance,
An' doors I've been decoy't;
Now Fortune's kussen me up a chance,
An' fegs I sal employ't
Right thrang this day.”
Thro' mony a glen rins trottin';
Amang the stanes an' sunny rills
Aft bits o' gowd are gotten;
Thought I “Three yeer thro' closs an' trance,
An' doors I've been decoy't;
Now Fortune's kussen me up a chance,
An' fegs I sal employ't
Right thrang this day.”
Sae up the burn wi' glee I gade,
An' down aboon some heather,
Saft on the brae my pack I laid,
Till twa-three lumps I'd gather;
But wae-be-till't, had I forseen
Things war to turn sae doolfu';
I ne'er had waded there sae keen,
Tho' sure to fin a shoolfu'
An' mair that day.
An' down aboon some heather,
Saft on the brae my pack I laid,
Till twa-three lumps I'd gather;
94
Things war to turn sae doolfu';
I ne'er had waded there sae keen,
Tho' sure to fin a shoolfu'
An' mair that day.
As thro' the stream, wi' loutin' back,
Thrang, stanes an' sand I threw out;
A toop, who won'ert at my pack,
Cam down to take a view o't;
A tether-length he back did gae,
An' cam wi' sic a dash,
That hale-sale hurlan' down the brae,
It blatter't wi' a blash
I' tho burn that day!
Thrang, stanes an' sand I threw out;
A toop, who won'ert at my pack,
Cam down to take a view o't;
A tether-length he back did gae,
An' cam wi' sic a dash,
That hale-sale hurlan' down the brae,
It blatter't wi' a blash
I' tho burn that day!
Tho' earthquakes, hail, an' thuner's blaze
Had a' at ance surroundet,
I wudna' glowr't wi' sic amaze,
Nor been ha'f sae confoundet!
Wi' waefu' heart, before it sank,
I haul't it out a' clashing;
And now they're bleaching on the bank,
A melancholy washing
To me this day.
Had a' at ance surroundet,
I wudna' glowr't wi' sic amaze,
Nor been ha'f sae confoundet!
Wi' waefu' heart, before it sank,
I haul't it out a' clashing;
And now they're bleaching on the bank,
A melancholy washing
To me this day.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |