Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] A New Edition with Illustrations by A. S. Boyd |
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Hughie Remonstrates with Davie—
a Dour Critic. |
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| I. |
| II. |
 | Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] |  |
96
Hughie Remonstrates with Davie— a Dour Critic.
“Si me lyricis vatibus inseres!”
—Car. i. 1.
—Car. i. 1.
Man, Davie, had I but the art
To pierce that stane ye ca' your heart
Wi' the clear dart o' poesie,
A prooder man there wadna be.
For weel it's kent thro' a' the toun
That nane can rise that ye ca' doun;
While him that by the haund ye tak'—
He'll neither fame nor fortune lack;
His ballants—thro' the touns they'll cry them,
An' weaver bodies rin to buy them.
To pierce that stane ye ca' your heart
Wi' the clear dart o' poesie,
A prooder man there wadna be.
For weel it's kent thro' a' the toun
That nane can rise that ye ca' doun;
While him that by the haund ye tak'—
He'll neither fame nor fortune lack;
His ballants—thro' the touns they'll cry them,
An' weaver bodies rin to buy them.
99
There's twa-three praise me, too, it's true,
But what are they when wantin' you?
There's Johnny o' the Windyknowe—
A blessin' on his auld beld pow!
Wi' kindly hail whene'er he meets me
He grips me by the haund, an' greets me.
“Shakspere!” says Johnnie, “gie's a swatch o't!
Weel dune, my bairn! ye hae the catch o't—
This dings the lave!” But that's nae test,
For aye wi' him the last's the best!
But what are they when wantin' you?
There's Johnny o' the Windyknowe—
A blessin' on his auld beld pow!
Wi' kindly hail whene'er he meets me
He grips me by the haund, an' greets me.
“Shakspere!” says Johnnie, “gie's a swatch o't!
Weel dune, my bairn! ye hae the catch o't—
This dings the lave!” But that's nae test,
For aye wi' him the last's the best!
There's Geordie, too, my second cousin—
His praise is waur to me than pousin;
He kens a stirk, but for a sang
He's never richt but when he's wrang!
His praise is waur to me than pousin;
He kens a stirk, but for a sang
He's never richt but when he's wrang!
There's a few mair that I could name,
There's Tam the farrier, an' Jame;
But Jame's my brither, an' for Tam—
Ye'll buy his judgment wi' a dram.
There's Tam the farrier, an' Jame;
But Jame's my brither, an' for Tam—
Ye'll buy his judgment wi' a dram.
100
Man, Davie! if ye wad but praise me,
Ye wad' as wi' a windlass raise me
Oot o' the slough o' doot I'm in,
An' set me on a road to rin!
Ye wad' as wi' a windlass raise me
Oot o' the slough o' doot I'm in,
An' set me on a road to rin!
Just cast your een abroad an' see
Hoo everybody's pleased but me;
They've a' some hobby to amuse them,
Folk to look on an' frien's to roose them,
An' weel contentit there they ride,
An' lauch, an' let the warld slide.
An' I ana' wad hae my treasure,
An' poetry wad be my pleasure,
If ye wad only bend your ee
An' blink approval ance on me!
Hoo everybody's pleased but me;
They've a' some hobby to amuse them,
Folk to look on an' frien's to roose them,
An' weel contentit there they ride,
An' lauch, an' let the warld slide.
An' I ana' wad hae my treasure,
An' poetry wad be my pleasure,
If ye wad only bend your ee
An' blink approval ance on me!
To be a bandsman pleases some,
To toot the horn or beat the drum;
Even little Jock that ca's the mangle—
Saturday comes, an' the triangle,
An' then sae manfu' as he strides
An' tingles on its yetlan' sides!
To toot the horn or beat the drum;
Even little Jock that ca's the mangle—
Saturday comes, an' the triangle,
An' then sae manfu' as he strides
An' tingles on its yetlan' sides!
101
An' weel ye ken that Pate Macdougal
Wad blaw his soul into a bugle;
That thrice thro' jealousy the wife
O' Dempster kickit Dempster's fife;
An' weel-a-wat the coonty kens
When Sandie Brand ca'd oot the brains
O' his black fiddle at the fair,
An' swore he ne'er wad fiddle mair,—
Altho' he “d—d if he was carin',”
Sober he sabbit like a bairn!
Wad blaw his soul into a bugle;
That thrice thro' jealousy the wife
O' Dempster kickit Dempster's fife;
An' weel-a-wat the coonty kens
When Sandie Brand ca'd oot the brains
O' his black fiddle at the fair,
An' swore he ne'er wad fiddle mair,—
Altho' he “d—d if he was carin',”
Sober he sabbit like a bairn!
Ithers again for weeks are chammber'd
Glowerin' wi' hawks' een on a damberd.
Glowerin' wi' hawks' een on a damberd.
Some at the gowfin' spend their leisure;
To some the rifle-range gie's pleasure;
Quoits or the puttin' stane has charms
For steady een an' sturdy arms.
O then to see oor noble smith
Tak' up the ball to prove his pith!
Hark hoo it whizzes thro' the air—
He's foremost by an ell or mair.
To some the rifle-range gie's pleasure;
Quoits or the puttin' stane has charms
For steady een an' sturdy arms.
O then to see oor noble smith
Tak' up the ball to prove his pith!
Hark hoo it whizzes thro' the air—
He's foremost by an ell or mair.
102
The slater, tae, we maunna slicht,—
He drave the pin clean oot o' sicht,
An' when wi' shools they howkit for 't,
Darkness cam' on, an' spoiled the sport.
Nane to this day can understand it—
They howkit, but they never fand it!
He drave the pin clean oot o' sicht,
An' when wi' shools they howkit for 't,
Darkness cam' on, an' spoiled the sport.
Nane to this day can understand it—
They howkit, but they never fand it!
For me—gin I had but the art
To pierce that whinstane o' your heart,
An' bring the sparkle to your ee—
A happier man there wadna be!
Noo, Davie, dinna crook your mou'—
A wird o' praise is sweet fra you!
To pierce that whinstane o' your heart,
An' bring the sparkle to your ee—
A happier man there wadna be!
Noo, Davie, dinna crook your mou'—
A wird o' praise is sweet fra you!
| Horace in Homespun by Hugh Haliburton [i.e. J. L. Robertson] | |