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. WILLIAM MITCHELL. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. WILLIAM MITCHELL.
While ye nod on the weaver's thronie,
Porin' wi' sharp inspection,
Or in a freak wi' lasses bonny,
Skip round in supple action;
Or maybe wi' a bosom crony,
Kick up a funny faction;
Accept this as a testimony
Of my sincere affection
For you this day.
Porin' wi' sharp inspection,
Or in a freak wi' lasses bonny,
Skip round in supple action;
95
Kick up a funny faction;
Accept this as a testimony
Of my sincere affection
For you this day.
In fact, my frien', I wad hae writ,
Lang ere this time wi' pleasure;
But something touch'd aye on my fit,
An' bade me tak' my leisure.
Yon callan's sic a pawky wit,
Gif he but mak' a seizure
O' ae daft word, ye'll get a skit
Will wring your head, as bees war
In't thick this day.
Lang ere this time wi' pleasure;
But something touch'd aye on my fit,
An' bade me tak' my leisure.
Yon callan's sic a pawky wit,
Gif he but mak' a seizure
O' ae daft word, ye'll get a skit
Will wring your head, as bees war
In't thick this day.
Sae aft the pen I laid aside,
Wi' this bugbear reflection;
As aft my heart wad fairly chide
Me for the harsh objection;
Till just the day, within I staid,
And band wi' baul affection,
Tho' ye sud cut an' ga' my hide
Wi' critical dissection,
I'd write this day.
Wi' this bugbear reflection;
As aft my heart wad fairly chide
Me for the harsh objection;
Till just the day, within I staid,
And band wi' baul affection,
Tho' ye sud cut an' ga' my hide
Wi' critical dissection,
I'd write this day.
Sae paper, pen, an' ink I got,
An' down to wark I set me;
And soon a lengthen'd sang I wrote,
For mirth the lines did mete me.
I sey'd ance to cast off my coat,
The thoughts o't hae sae het me;
But, as my brain was on the trot,
The hurry wadna let me
Tak time this day.
An' down to wark I set me;
And soon a lengthen'd sang I wrote,
For mirth the lines did mete me.
I sey'd ance to cast off my coat,
The thoughts o't hae sae het me;
But, as my brain was on the trot,
The hurry wadna let me
Tak time this day.
96
Aweel, whane'er I got it doon,
I took a canny view o't;
Where notes raise tow'rin' to the moon,
That, troth, I scarcely knew it.
'Twas set to sic a skirlin' tune,
I heartily did rue it;
And least ye sud e'en laugh owre soon,
Dash i' the fire I threw it,
Wi' rage that day.
I took a canny view o't;
Where notes raise tow'rin' to the moon,
That, troth, I scarcely knew it.
'Twas set to sic a skirlin' tune,
I heartily did rue it;
And least ye sud e'en laugh owre soon,
Dash i' the fire I threw it,
Wi' rage that day.
Yet still resolv'd something to sen',
I didna stan' to swither,
But duket i' the ink my pen,
An' so began anither;
Nae poetry, but just the ken
O' Scotland, my auld mither;
In hopes I wadna you offen',
By jinglin' it thegither
In rhyme this day.
I didna stan' to swither,
But duket i' the ink my pen,
An' so began anither;
Nae poetry, but just the ken
O' Scotland, my auld mither;
In hopes I wadna you offen',
By jinglin' it thegither
In rhyme this day.
Ye ken ye sung auld Harry's fate,
An' deed it was e'en curious,
Whan at the fire he hunker't late,
An' croon'd a prayer spurious;
As “Lord sen' us aye garse an' meat,
Till ance Thou skin an' bury us;”
Syne turn'd his fish, or sent a sklate
Out thro' the winnock, furious,
At chiels that night.
An' deed it was e'en curious,
Whan at the fire he hunker't late,
An' croon'd a prayer spurious;
As “Lord sen' us aye garse an' meat,
Till ance Thou skin an' bury us;”
Syne turn'd his fish, or sent a sklate
Out thro' the winnock, furious,
At chiels that night.
I ne'er cou'd gab prodigious pert,
An' flatterin' phrazing gi'e you;
An' laugh, an' sing, an' crack sae smart,
Syne wi' dame Fortune lea' you.
But cou'd you peep into this heart,
That jumps aye when I see you;
Ye'd fin' a saul could gladly part
It's hinmaist bannock wi' ye
On ony day.
An' flatterin' phrazing gi'e you;
An' laugh, an' sing, an' crack sae smart,
Syne wi' dame Fortune lea' you.
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That jumps aye when I see you;
Ye'd fin' a saul could gladly part
It's hinmaist bannock wi' ye
On ony day.
Blyth wad I be to shake your han',
Gif matters wad allow me;
But Fortune's ta'en a slippery stan',
An' leuks right sullen to me.
Yet aftentimes the morning's dawn,
Hangs cloudy, dull and gloomy;
Till Sol dispels the misty ban',
An' shines bright, warm an' roomy,
A bonny day.
Gif matters wad allow me;
But Fortune's ta'en a slippery stan',
An' leuks right sullen to me.
Yet aftentimes the morning's dawn,
Hangs cloudy, dull and gloomy;
Till Sol dispels the misty ban',
An' shines bright, warm an' roomy,
A bonny day.
My compliments I'll hope ye'll gie
To garrulous Rab G---y;
Tell him, I trust he bears the gree,
Aye dadlin' poor an' hearty;
Altho' I fear the barley bree,
An' roving blades sae quirty;
May gar him speed his wings an' flee,
An' lea' his nest right dirty,
Like mae yon day.
To garrulous Rab G---y;
Tell him, I trust he bears the gree,
Aye dadlin' poor an' hearty;
Altho' I fear the barley bree,
An' roving blades sae quirty;
May gar him speed his wings an' flee,
An' lea' his nest right dirty,
Like mae yon day.
Now gi'es yer hand, and fare-ye-weel,
Kind, honest-hearted Willy!
Aye whan I meet a canty chiel,
It minds me o' the billy,
Wha aften us'd, wi' heart fu' leel,
To show his wondrous skillie;
An' made our vera hearts to reel,
Whan owre a pint or gillie,
For joy that day.
Kind, honest-hearted Willy!
Aye whan I meet a canty chiel,
It minds me o' the billy,
Wha aften us'd, wi' heart fu' leel,
To show his wondrous skillie;
An' made our vera hearts to reel,
Whan owre a pint or gillie,
For joy that day.
98
Lang may thou weather't out-an'-in
Without a drog or plaister;
An' may thou tune the violin,
Aye sweeter an' aye faster;
An' swell an' sink the notes sae keen
Wi' gracefu' air an' gesture,
Till An'rew lift his hands an' een,
An' own that Will's his master
By night or day.
Without a drog or plaister;
An' may thou tune the violin,
Aye sweeter an' aye faster;
An' swell an' sink the notes sae keen
Wi' gracefu' air an' gesture,
Till An'rew lift his hands an' een,
An' own that Will's his master
By night or day.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |