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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| RAB AND RINGAN.
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| II. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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| VII. |
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| III. |
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| IV. |
 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
24
RAB AND RINGAN.
A TALE.
[_]
The following tale was recited by the Author at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, in a debate on the question—“Whether is Diffidence or the Allurements of Pleasure the greatest bar to Progress in Knowledge!”
INTRODUCTION.
Hech! but 'tis awfu'-like to rise up here,
Where sic a sight o' learn'd folks' pows appear!
Sae mony piercing een a' fix'd on ane,
Is maist enough to freeze me to a stane!
But 'tis a mercy—mony thanks to Fate,
Pedlars are poor, but unco seldom blate.
Where sic a sight o' learn'd folks' pows appear!
Sae mony piercing een a' fix'd on ane,
Is maist enough to freeze me to a stane!
But 'tis a mercy—mony thanks to Fate,
Pedlars are poor, but unco seldom blate.
(Speaking to the President.)
This question, Sir, has been right weel disputet,
And meikle, weel-a-wat's been said about it;
Chiels, that precisely to the point can speak,
And gallop o'er lang blauds of kittle Greek;
Ha'e sent frae ilka side their sharp opinion,
And peeled it up as ane wad peel an ingon.
And meikle, weel-a-wat's been said about it;
Chiels, that precisely to the point can speak,
And gallop o'er lang blauds of kittle Greek;
Ha'e sent frae ilka side their sharp opinion,
And peeled it up as ane wad peel an ingon.
I winna plague you lang wi' my poor spale,
But only crave your patience to a Tale;
By which ye'll ken on whatna side I'm stinnin',
As I perceive your hindmost minute's rinnin'.
But only crave your patience to a Tale;
By which ye'll ken on whatna side I'm stinnin',
As I perceive your hindmost minute's rinnin'.
THE TALE.
There liv'd in Fife, an auld, stout, warldly chiel,
Wha's stomach kend nae fare but milk and meal;
A wife he had, I think they ca'd her Bell,
And twa big sons, amaist as heigh's himsel':
Rab was a gleg, smart cock, with powder'd pash:
Ringan, a slow, fear'd, bashfu', simple hash.
Wha's stomach kend nae fare but milk and meal;
A wife he had, I think they ca'd her Bell,
And twa big sons, amaist as heigh's himsel':
Rab was a gleg, smart cock, with powder'd pash:
Ringan, a slow, fear'd, bashfu', simple hash.
25
Baith to the College gaed. At first spruce Rab,
At Greek and Latin, grew a very dab;
He beat a' round about him, fair and clean,
And ilk ane courted him to be their frien';
Frae house to house they harl'd him to dinner,
But curs'd poor Ringan for a hum-drum sinner.
At Greek and Latin, grew a very dab;
He beat a' round about him, fair and clean,
And ilk ane courted him to be their frien';
Frae house to house they harl'd him to dinner,
But curs'd poor Ringan for a hum-drum sinner.
Rab talkèd now in sic a lofty strain,
As tho' braid Scotland had been a' his ain;
He ca'd the Kirk the Church, the Yirth the Globe,
And chang'd his name, forsooth, frae Rab to Bob;
Whare'er ye met him, flourishing his rung,
The haill discourse was murder'd wi' his tongue;
On friends and faes wi' impudence he set,
And ramm'd his nose in ev'ry thing he met.
As tho' braid Scotland had been a' his ain;
He ca'd the Kirk the Church, the Yirth the Globe,
And chang'd his name, forsooth, frae Rab to Bob;
Whare'er ye met him, flourishing his rung,
The haill discourse was murder'd wi' his tongue;
On friends and faes wi' impudence he set,
And ramm'd his nose in ev'ry thing he met.
The College now, to Rab, grew douf and dull,
He scorn'd wi' books to stupify his skull;
But whirl'd to Plays and Balls, and sic like places,
And roar'd awa' at Fairs and Kintra Races;
Sent hame for siller frae his mother Bell,
And caft a horse, and rade a race himsel';
Drank night and day, and syne, when mortal fu',
Row'd on the floor, and snor'd like ony sow;
Lost a' his siller wi' some gambling sparks,
And pawn'd, for punch, his Bible and his sarks;
Till, driven at last to own he had eneugh,
Gaed hame a' rags to haud his father's pleugh.
He scorn'd wi' books to stupify his skull;
But whirl'd to Plays and Balls, and sic like places,
And roar'd awa' at Fairs and Kintra Races;
Sent hame for siller frae his mother Bell,
And caft a horse, and rade a race himsel';
Drank night and day, and syne, when mortal fu',
Row'd on the floor, and snor'd like ony sow;
Lost a' his siller wi' some gambling sparks,
And pawn'd, for punch, his Bible and his sarks;
Till, driven at last to own he had eneugh,
Gaed hame a' rags to haud his father's pleugh.
Poor hum-drum Ringan play'd anither part,
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor art;
Of mony a far-aff place he kent the gate;
Was deep, deep learn'd, but unco unco blate;
He kend how mony mile 'twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad lave the ocean toom;
Where a' the swallows gaed in time of snaw,
What gars the thunders roar, and tempests blaw;
Where lumps o' siller grow aneath the grun',
How a' this yirth rows round about the sun;
In short, on books sae meikle time he spent,
Ye cou'dna speak o' aught, but Ringan kent.
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor art;
Of mony a far-aff place he kent the gate;
Was deep, deep learn'd, but unco unco blate;
He kend how mony mile 'twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad lave the ocean toom;
26
What gars the thunders roar, and tempests blaw;
Where lumps o' siller grow aneath the grun',
How a' this yirth rows round about the sun;
In short, on books sae meikle time he spent,
Ye cou'dna speak o' aught, but Ringan kent.
Sae meikle learning wi' sae little pride,
Soon gain'd the love o' a' the kintra side;
And Death, at that time, happ'ning to nip aff
The Parish Minister—a poor dull ca'f,—
Ringan was sought; he cou'dna' say them Nay,
And there he's preaching at this very day.
Soon gain'd the love o' a' the kintra side;
And Death, at that time, happ'ning to nip aff
The Parish Minister—a poor dull ca'f,—
Ringan was sought; he cou'dna' say them Nay,
And there he's preaching at this very day.
MORAL.
Now, Mr. President, I think 'tis plain,
That youthfu' diffidence is certain gain;
Instead of blocking up the road to Knowledge,
It guides alike, in Commerce or at College;
Struggles the bursts of passion to controul;
Feeds all the finer feelings of the soul;
Defies the deep-laid stratagems of guile,
And gives even Innocence a sweeter smile;
Ennobles all the little worth we have,
And shields our virtue even to the grave.
That youthfu' diffidence is certain gain;
Instead of blocking up the road to Knowledge,
It guides alike, in Commerce or at College;
Struggles the bursts of passion to controul;
Feeds all the finer feelings of the soul;
Defies the deep-laid stratagems of guile,
And gives even Innocence a sweeter smile;
Ennobles all the little worth we have,
And shields our virtue even to the grave.
How vast the diff'rence, then, between the twain!
Since Pleasure ever is pursu'd by Pain.
Pleasure's a syren, with inviting arms,
Sweet is her voice, and powerful are her charms;
Lur'd by her call we tread her flow'ry ground,
Joy wings our steps and music warbles round;
Lull'd in her arms we lose the flying hours,
And lie embosom'd 'midst her blooming bow'rs,
Till—arm'd with death, she watches our undoing,
Stabs while she sings, and triumphs in our ruin.
Since Pleasure ever is pursu'd by Pain.
Pleasure's a syren, with inviting arms,
Sweet is her voice, and powerful are her charms;
Lur'd by her call we tread her flow'ry ground,
Joy wings our steps and music warbles round;
Lull'd in her arms we lose the flying hours,
And lie embosom'd 'midst her blooming bow'rs,
Till—arm'd with death, she watches our undoing,
Stabs while she sings, and triumphs in our ruin.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |