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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THIRD EPISTLE TO WILLIAM MITCHELL. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
THIRD EPISTLE TO WILLIAM MITCHELL.
Dear Willy, now I've ta'en the pen,
Wi' lightsome heart, to let you ken,
I'm livin' yet and weel;
Tho' cuft and dauded gayan sair,
Since last I left that luckless Ayr,
Thro' mony a moor an' fiel'.
Misfortunes, on ilk ithers' backs,
Come roaring whyles aroun' me;
For comfort to the blue I rax,
Or ablins they might drown me.
What sights man, what frights man,
Are pedlars doom'd to thole;
Aye chaunerin' an' daunerin'
In eager search for cole.
Wi' lightsome heart, to let you ken,
I'm livin' yet and weel;
Tho' cuft and dauded gayan sair,
Since last I left that luckless Ayr,
Thro' mony a moor an' fiel'.
Misfortunes, on ilk ithers' backs,
Come roaring whyles aroun' me;
For comfort to the blue I rax,
Or ablins they might drown me.
What sights man, what frights man,
Are pedlars doom'd to thole;
Aye chaunerin' an' daunerin'
In eager search for cole.
But let us cease this heartless sang,
An', gin ye binna unco thrang,
I'll here lay down my pack;
Tho' miles in scores atween us lie,
An' hills, an' seas, yet, haith we'll try
Out owre them a' to crack.
Dame Fortune, thou may hing thy brow,
An' girn wi' threat'nin' een;
I carena a' thy spite, since now,
At last, I've fun' a frien';
Let misers owre treasures,
O' goud an' siller croon;
A blessing like this ane,
Gangs never, never doon.
An', gin ye binna unco thrang,
I'll here lay down my pack;
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An' hills, an' seas, yet, haith we'll try
Out owre them a' to crack.
Dame Fortune, thou may hing thy brow,
An' girn wi' threat'nin' een;
I carena a' thy spite, since now,
At last, I've fun' a frien';
Let misers owre treasures,
O' goud an' siller croon;
A blessing like this ane,
Gangs never, never doon.
While youth and health inspires our blood,
In innocent and sprightly mood,
We'll cheat the cares of life;
By friendship sowthert into ane,
We'll be as firm, as stark again,
To stan' the warly strife;
An' when slee Love's endearing dart
Inflames our glowan veins;
We'll thowe the bonny lasses' heart
In saft complaining strains;
Nae sorrows, before us,
Sal drive us to despair;
Tho' carefu', yet chearfu',
We'll hug the smiling Fair.
In innocent and sprightly mood,
We'll cheat the cares of life;
By friendship sowthert into ane,
We'll be as firm, as stark again,
To stan' the warly strife;
An' when slee Love's endearing dart
Inflames our glowan veins;
We'll thowe the bonny lasses' heart
In saft complaining strains;
Nae sorrows, before us,
Sal drive us to despair;
Tho' carefu', yet chearfu',
We'll hug the smiling Fair.
But, if alas! it hap that e'er
A flaw in friendship shou'd appear,
Thro' passion or mistake;
Oh! never, never let us part,
Wi' hate or envy in our heart,
Curst, base revenge to take;
But strive, wi' kind relenting speech,
Upo' the very spot,
To men' the mournfu' luckless breach,
An' firm the slacken'd knot:
Then langer an' stranger,
Our friendship will remain;
Aye dowin' an' glowin'
Without a crack or stain.
A flaw in friendship shou'd appear,
Thro' passion or mistake;
Oh! never, never let us part,
Wi' hate or envy in our heart,
Curst, base revenge to take;
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Upo' the very spot,
To men' the mournfu' luckless breach,
An' firm the slacken'd knot:
Then langer an' stranger,
Our friendship will remain;
Aye dowin' an' glowin'
Without a crack or stain.
An' when frail eild—if e'er we see't—
Sal gie us stilts instead o' feet,
An' shake our hingan pows;
We'll hotch awa' wi' friendly grane,
And soss down on yon sinny stane
Amang the broomy knows;
An' soon's our hechs an' heys are by,
An' baith our rungs laid down;
An' we twa streekit, beekin lie,
Auld, runkly-fac'd, an' brown;
The sporting, the courting,
We had, when we war young;
An' wonders, in hunders,
Sal gallop frae our tongue.
Sal gie us stilts instead o' feet,
An' shake our hingan pows;
We'll hotch awa' wi' friendly grane,
And soss down on yon sinny stane
Amang the broomy knows;
An' soon's our hechs an' heys are by,
An' baith our rungs laid down;
An' we twa streekit, beekin lie,
Auld, runkly-fac'd, an' brown;
The sporting, the courting,
We had, when we war young;
An' wonders, in hunders,
Sal gallop frae our tongue.
Perhaps Rab G---y's auld gray pate,—
Of dark unfathom'd sense the seat,—
May join the social gab;
Nae common stilt maun fill his nieve,
But, by his honour's size an' leave,
I'd here propose a stab,
His vera height, an' on the hilt,
A gawsy mason's mell;
To puzzle fouk, whilk is the stilt,
Or whilk is Rab himsel':
The carle, I'm sure he'll
No hae his tale to seek;
Aye puffin', or stuffin',
Wi' ugsome chews, his cheek.
Of dark unfathom'd sense the seat,—
May join the social gab;
Nae common stilt maun fill his nieve,
But, by his honour's size an' leave,
I'd here propose a stab,
His vera height, an' on the hilt,
A gawsy mason's mell;
To puzzle fouk, whilk is the stilt,
Or whilk is Rab himsel':
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No hae his tale to seek;
Aye puffin', or stuffin',
Wi' ugsome chews, his cheek.
An epitaph I ance had made,
To put on Rab, whan he was dead;
But war't to do again,
His pardon begging, for sic fun,
This motto I'd hae neatly done,
Upon the waefu' stane:—
“Here lies a corpse: that ance could say,
What seldom carcase can,—
Tho' here I rot, pale stinking clay,
I ance contain'd a man;
Sae stern-ey'd, sae learnèd,
That Death's arm switherin' hung;
Till chance by, he lanc'd my
Hale saul frae out my tongue.”
To put on Rab, whan he was dead;
But war't to do again,
His pardon begging, for sic fun,
This motto I'd hae neatly done,
Upon the waefu' stane:—
“Here lies a corpse: that ance could say,
What seldom carcase can,—
Tho' here I rot, pale stinking clay,
I ance contain'd a man;
Sae stern-ey'd, sae learnèd,
That Death's arm switherin' hung;
Till chance by, he lanc'd my
Hale saul frae out my tongue.”
My frien', tho' Fortune, partial slut!
Still holds you in a toilsome hut;
Yet, if I don't mistake,
Your modest merit will you raise,
An' Fortune smile yet in your face,
Your tuneful pow'rs to wake.
How often hae I at yer feet,
In deepest silence lain;
While from the strings, harmonious, sweet,
You sent the warbling strain;
Ev'n now man, I vow man,
I think I hear you singing;
The ferly, sae rarely,
Sets baith my ears a-ringing.
Still holds you in a toilsome hut;
Yet, if I don't mistake,
Your modest merit will you raise,
An' Fortune smile yet in your face,
Your tuneful pow'rs to wake.
How often hae I at yer feet,
In deepest silence lain;
While from the strings, harmonious, sweet,
You sent the warbling strain;
Ev'n now man, I vow man,
I think I hear you singing;
The ferly, sae rarely,
Sets baith my ears a-ringing.
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Adieu, my kind, my wordy chield;
Lang may ye hae a cozie bield,
To screen frae Winter's cauld;
May time yet see ye wi' a wame
As fat as J---'s sonsy dame,
Till thretty year thrice tauld;
An' gin we live to see that date,
As, fegs, I hope we will;
Tho' ye to gang, hae tint the gate,
Yet we sal hae a gill.
Fu' cheary, I'll rear ye,
And 'neath my burden bend;
And show fouk, without joke,
What it's to hae a friend.
Lang may ye hae a cozie bield,
To screen frae Winter's cauld;
May time yet see ye wi' a wame
As fat as J---'s sonsy dame,
Till thretty year thrice tauld;
An' gin we live to see that date,
As, fegs, I hope we will;
Tho' ye to gang, hae tint the gate,
Yet we sal hae a gill.
Fu' cheary, I'll rear ye,
And 'neath my burden bend;
And show fouk, without joke,
What it's to hae a friend.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |